Tamin can't help but notice the temple seems more like a fortress than a place that invites others to come worship at it. He's been to Erastilian temples that were open to the air; Iomedans that retained a certain military aura; and Abadar's vault-shrines certainly do have guards, but...
There is something unnerving about the identically-faced temple denizens making their patrols. What needs such formidable guarding? Surely not the stores of food they are freely passing out.
It's an imposing structure. The fact that it was built so quickly testifies to not merely wealth, but Wealth; a structure such as this could take a decade if not much longer to complete. But the Razmirans did it much quicker. That takes extra coin, and lots of it.
Still, Tamin is prepared to write his surveillance off as mostly a wash, and tosses the last of his apple cores to a rat lurking in the alleyway... when a gathering crowd catches his eye. He frowns, then moves closer to the crowd, though staying on the periphery.... trying to hear, or catch a glimpse, for the gathering's reason.
Senrin watches the group of masked priests walk out to 'feed the people'. If the fortress-temple being built so quick wasn't curious, the groups freely feeding the masses just seemed.... strange. Where was the church getting the money? And what was the end game? They couldn't prove it but the Razmiran's had to be doing something evil!
He spots Tamin moving toward the crowd and decides to join him. He tosses the couple of small bones from his meal down the alley. They'd be consumed within minutes once the critters in the shadows realized that he was walking away. Assuming the posture of a luckless petitioner he slowly walks toward the group, angling his path to come within a few feet of his new companion.
He watches and listens to the masked priests, trying to pick out the leader(s), likely any not in the white robes. He also watches to see if any of the masks are not iron.
The druidic shrine is impressive in a different way than the Forest Bounty. Where the latter looks--both inside and outside--like a regular building with obvious arboreal accents, the druidic shrine is entirely constructed of living trees coaxed to intertwine and form a complete structure. Knobby roots make traversing the hall difficult. But the air in here is sweet and cool, with a natural canopy providing shade from the late morning sun.
A few people drift throughout the shrine, carrying gardening tools and pruning equipment. At Bohrs' question, one of the figures silently points towards a trellis of flowering vines near the center illuminated by a beam of sunlight from an opening in the canopy above. Bohrs walks within--there is nowhere to knock--and sees another half-elf (this city seemed to be filled with them), this one with verdant hair. She is covered with intricate sky-blue tattoos. She sits in a bed of flowers that seems to oscillate slowly with her breathing.
"Good morning," the woman says, her voice resonating with an almost otherworldly calm. She opens her eyes--so blue as to be nearly translucent--and smiles at Bohrs. "What do you seek of the grasping vine?"
---
Senrin and Tamin find each other near the edge of the crowd, waiting and watching. After a few minutes, a group of seven masked cultists exit from between two large, ornate doors in the barbican and walk down towards the crowd in a "V" formation. Four are dressed in white robes, two in gray robes, and one--in the center--in black robes. All wear identical iron masks.
The six in white or gray break off from the one in black and begin moving through the crowd. The figure in black robes raises their hands. The street noise and murmuring ceases almost immediately, with only the distant sounds of seagulls and work several blocks away providing a low accompanying thrum to the herald's sermon.
The person in the black robes speaks in a bright, baritone voice "Good people of Tamran: good afternoon. I bring you good tidings of the power and glory of Razmir. All hail the Living God!"
The half dozen masked and robed figures moving into the crowd chant in one echoed voice. "All hail the Living God!" Tamin and Senrin notice that some of the people in the crowd also chant along with the herald, including a man with an injured leg, itching at a suppurating wound.
"You, the good people of Tamran, have many needs in this life. Bread. Water. Shelter. Wisdom. Salvation. The power to lift yourselves up and throw off your oppressors to the South. The Molthuni who would enslave you and take your hard-earned gold, offering nothing in return. Razmir knows of your needs and he wishes to aid you in your liberation. But the Living God is a jealous god. He knows that there are yet those who doubt him in Tamran--in all of Nirmathas. There are not merely those who do not know of him, but those who do and still choose to worship the distant gods. The lesser gods. He cannot--nay, he will not--offer aid to those who refuse his call so openly."
One of the Razmirans in white robes nears the back of the crowd where Senrin and Tamin are. They hold their hand out and a half-elf with an eyepatch fumbles around before depositing a few coins in the priest's outstretched hand. Two others nearby--a matronly human woman cradling an infant and a gnome that looks to be rapidly on their way to the Bleaching--also fish out a few coins for the priest.
"Enlightenment is a long journey: one that may take the rest of your lives. Not all can become gods, yet all can achieve enlightenment. It took our god Razmir merely 31 steps to pass the Test of the Starstone. He returned from his ordeal to bring his message directly to the people of Golarion rather than making his home on another plane of existence. What power, what glory, could he have attained if he had chosen to become distant? And yet he eschews this so-called glory to help us mere mortals on our path to enlightenment. He chooses to share his wisdom and his might to lead us to true salvation. He chooses to look past the doubts and heresy of the nations of this world and offer a fraction of his power. All hail the Living God!"
One of the white-robed priests now approaches Tamin and Senrin with an outstretched hand. "All hail the Living God!" he echoes in a dull bass, holding out his hand.
"What other god lives among his people? What other god so richly rewards those who follow him? What other god can lead you to true salvation? None of them! Only Razmzir can offer you the power, the fortune, and the glory that you desire. The power to declare your freedom! The fortune to keep your soldiers fed! The glory of liberation! But more than that--so much more--the understanding that you are the masters of your own destiny! Truths held captive by the distant gods because they fear what you would do if you knew them!"
A few people in the crowd seem riled up by this remark, but they are shushed by the others around them. The man with the bum leg offers several gold coins to the passing priest.
The herald draws his arms in to himself. "I am merely a humble servant of Razmir: a Herald of the Eighth Step. Eighth! And yet, with my faith, justified not blindly on the promises of ancient tomes purporting to give the words of distant gods, but with open eyes as a result of seeing Razmir's miracles firsthand, I am able to work wonders! Come, you who are weak and weary, and witness firsthand what I--a mere herald--can work through Razmir."
Several people stumble forward, including several of those you have seen giving donations to the priests wandering throughout the crowd. As they approach, the black-robed figure reaches up and touches his mask. A wave of energy ripples around the mask before channeling out through the crowd. Several people gasp. There are some cries of surprise--or perhaps joy. People embrace and laugh. Murmurs cascade through the crowd, crescendoing into a fever pitch of excitement.
The man in black robes raises his arms once more and the noise falters. "All are welcome to pursue Enlightenment. The path will not be easy. You must give up your old life. But if you are willing and you show yourself worthy, then Razmir will accept you and will raise you up. All hail the Living God!"
"All hail the Living God!"
Tamin gives a slightly startled nod when Senrin appears beside him, his attention having been wholly focused on trying to observe the gathering. But there's little time to chat or share what they've learned-- the priests are soliciting donations and preaching how wonderful Razmir is.
Tamin's gray eyes narrow slightly as he watches several in the crowd hand over wealth they surely can't afford to easily part with. But beyond that, his expression remains impassive. When the masked acolyte approaches, hands reaching out, he plasters a hesitant look on his face, then digs into his belt pouch as he had for the coins that he used to pay for apples and roast fish. Somehow, he thinks they'll want rather more money. He draws out five silvers in the end, and presses them into the priest's greedy hands, then flicks a sidelong glance at Senrin to see what he'll do.
Seeing the outstretched hand, like that of any other street beggar, Senrin grits his teeth and pretends to smile. He digs in his pouch for the few coins there and pulls out three silver. Dropping them into the hand he smiles and says "All hail the Living God. Would that I hadn't been robbed I'd have more to give. Perhaps Razmir can help me seek justice! All hail the Living God."
The masked priest nods, accepting the coin, but pauses before moving on. "Who robbed you, brother?"
Senrin is surprised that the masked priest listened, let alone responded. He has no problem adding an angered tone to his voice as he grits his teeth together and replies, "Molthuni scum."
The priest pauses and puts a hand on Senrin's shoulder. "Would that those brigands to the south would hear the Living God's message and repent from their ways. Please join us tonight at the Ranger's Lament."
Senrin looks directly in the masked priest's eyes. "Thank you brother. If the Living God allows I'll pay them back.... unless they accept His message. Can I bring a friend?"
"Any willing to begin the path towards enlightenment are welcome."
"Helloooo My Lady," Bohrs says with a smile, a tone of appreciation in his voice as he draws out the first word of his greeting.
"I am a priest of Cayden Cailean, and I am in need of a tattoo consecrated to the Drunken Hero. I was told I would find someone at this temple called Emerald Bough who could provide such a service. Would you be she?"
Russiet will fall in quietly behind Bohrs. "I think we should go back to the inn after this." she explains, "I want to take some time to think out our backstories. If you would be for it." Before they enter the temple she quietly dons her mask. Flanking him quietly in her fine clothes.
"I am and I can," the druidic priestess intones. "I deal with only natural pigments here. You seek Cayden's Tankard, yes? Where shall I place his mark on you?"
After a moment, Emerald looks at Russiet. "And does your friend want to add to...their collection?"
"I was thinking the back of one of my hands...the left, I think. That way I can brandish it and hold a weapon in my right, if necessary. That seems sensible," Bohrs replies, talking to himself as much as to the druid. "I was also hoping you could surround it with other designs that would obscure it from casual view; make it part of a half-sleeve from my hand to my elbow. Would that be possible?"
Russiet waves her hand, angling her wrist around as Bob apparates. The tattoo flaking away like chipping paint, turning to dust, and then solidifying into his normal form. "I've been thinking of filling it out a bit more. What can you offer?" she asks softly while trying to keep her amusement hidden.
Emerald considers, asking Bohrs to either roll up his sleeve or take off his shirt (per his comfort) to get a better look at her canvas. "To properly function as a holy symbol, it shouldn't be too obscured. But yes, I can work that in. Here." She snaps her fingers. "Bring me those binders, won't you?"
Two leather-bound books of vellum lift from a table several feet away and wander through the air towards Emerald. These she hands to Bohrs and Russiet respectively. "Feel free to peruse designs."
"Maybe incorporate it into an overall scene, like a sultry pirate lass throwing the tankard, as if in a bar brawl, and the tankard shown flying through the air, so it isn't touching any other part of the tattoo?"
The woman considers for a moment, and then flips through several different drawings in the book at Bohrs' lap, showing different potential elements of the scene: a stylized tankard, a few different pirates, different facial expressions, a whole tavern, and much more. "Something like that might take a few sessions to complete, and I might not have time to work on your friend. But if that's your interest, we can get things started."
”How about something like a skull with an eyepatch, a pile of coins, and the tankard as a single image with the tankard unobstructed? Could that be done in one session?”
Tamin watches intently as Senrin sets up the prelude to his cover tonight. It's well done, and under different circumstances he'd give the elf an approving nod, but of course just now that wouldn't fly.
He has to give the Razmirans grudging credit, of a sort: they are doing a good job with the populace-- with the garnering of goodwill, with the effective one-two punch of gifts followed by the call for those who are worthy to make a sacrifice. There is something in mankind that responds to that latter, Tamin knows: oh, mankind grumbles, quite often, about sacrifices-- and yet, how many young men and women have been recruited to fight the Whispering Tyrant, or the demon hordes at the Worldwound, with a rhetoric that isn't a million miles away from what the Razmirans put forth?
For a nobler purpose, of course, Tamin amends mentally. For a truly righteous purpose. But none of those who heed the call to go to the Worldwound really imagine it will be easy or fun (even if they can't conceive of how terrible it will be). No, they send themselves forth to hardship, to pain, to the possibility of death, because something in their soul responds to statements like Prove yourself, endure suffering to win glory...
Westiron tears himself from the pensive musings. He watches Senrin a bit longer, but is conscious of the sun's slow progression, and of all that he must yet do before nightfall. If the acolytes seem to have little else to say to Senrin, he will start edging his way out.
Emerald gives an exaggerated salute to Bohrs, taking on mock seriousness in her face. "Aye aye, matey!" She giggles and flips to a few more pages to show Bohrs some reference images, and then gets started. "And if you want to finish the rest of the scene, you can come back when it finishes healing."
---
With the sermon at an end, the herald turns to leave. The remaining Razmirans similarly withdraw from the crowd and begin walking back up the steps. While most people turn away and begin going about their daily business, Tamin notices another person who had been watching Senrin's interaction with the white-robed priest. And he's still staring.
The man is a bit gaunt in the cheeks and has circles under his eyes, but his facial structure is the stereotypical shape of Chelaxian nobles. His clothing looks a bit bedraggled, like maybe it hasn't been properly laundered in some time. The slight point of his ears, mostly hidden by shaggy hair, reveals him as a likely half-elf. He glares at Senrin, takes a long drag from a cigarette, and then tosses the cigarette on the ground, grinding the remnant underneath his booted heel.
Senrin watches as the crowd breaks up and the priests return to the temple. That was another strange thing in his eyes. None for the masked priests were ever allowed through those doors. What were they hiding?
Noticing the bedraggled man still standing he glances just in time to see the unfriendly glare, and the slight point to his ears. So a half-elf that had a strong dislike of full elves. He probably didn't understand the difference between the various sub-races of elves, unless like too many he saw the slightly dark skin and thought Drow? Senrin considered trying to talk with him, but knew that his social skills wouldn't help.
Turning away from the man he waits until he gets a glance from Tamin and hides a point at the man, then strides over to the Ranger's Lament. If the place is open he walks in to find a comfortable seat in a corner if possible.
Tamin notes the half-elf (another half-elf. Tamren seems to be nothing but half-elves at some points, he's thought in the last year he's been here. On some level it makes sense-- it's a city of people at ease in the woods, foresters and trappers and rangers and hunters, men and women all too happy to disappear into the forest when Molthune comes marching about... it makes sense that elves have found the Nirmathans interesting... and yet it also seems a bit of a mockery, in its way. A city with a half-elf seemingly everywhere he looks-- just not the half-elf he wants to see). He takes in the man's worse-for-wear looks, his venomous stare at Senrin-- Tamin's new colleague.
He also notes Senrin's little point, but doesn't acknowledge it; it would only link them in the glarer's eyes, he believes.
He waits til Senrin has left the square, giving it as much time as he can before the young (or seemingly young) man also looks to be about to leave, then moves to intercept him-- not aggressively, just positioning himself as if they are walking the same direction.
"What'd you think of all that, then?" he asks, aiming for casual and off-hand. "I have to say, they've got a compelling speech. Might be nice to have a god who gives a damn. You aiming to join up?"
The man seems surprised by Tamin's approach and question, looking him over with something resembling paranoia in his eyes. But he recovers from the visible display and shrugs. "Maybe. What's it to you?"
Tamin spreads his gloved hands to show they're empty, in what is meant to be a reassuring gesture. "Not looking for any trouble, friend. Just seeing if anyone else is thinking what I'm thinking, about their recruitment. I've heard the things they have you do to prove your faith can be a bit rough. Still... rewards might be worth it."
He looks back at the towering walls of the temple, rather than staring at the paranoid man, and gives another deliberate shrug. "Seems like once you're in, once you've proven yourself, you get a lot of benefits. High walls, protection. A brotherhood of the others to watch your back. I'm not a young man anymore, I wouldn't mind having some security set up for my later years. And they seem strong."
Tamin pitches his voice calm and easy, letting the words flow in what he hopes passes for 'talkative but harmless'. There's little point in pushing people who are already suspecting attacks from every angle, he's found. It's more like... befriending cats. Act like you're not too interested-- and let them come to you...
So he gives another nonchalant shrug, like it's all the same to him, and turns to walk away. "See you among the faithful of Razmir, perhaps. Or not."
Russiet sighs and looks through the book while Bohrs is sorting out his tattoo. Though she would ultimately pass on getting any ink done. She carefully keeps an eye out as things progress, worried that someone from the cult might be watching them even here.
The younger man seems to look around warily as Tamin addresses him but stays relatively still and calm as Lastwaller speaks his piece. "Yeah. Maybe," he responds.
---
Sitting in the shadow of the Temple to Razmir, the Ranger’s Lament is a simple establishment. Made from solid wood timbers, the one-story building is comprised primarily of a large common room, with a bar and a kitchen off to one side. Although open for business, there's only one person inside at the moment: the bartender. Then again, it's still the middle of the afternoon, after lunch rush and before many people get off work.
A short man with thick arms, a dark black mustache, and a bald crown filled with sunspots stands behind the bar. "Welcome to the Ranger's Lament," he says to Senrin. "You can sit anywhere, including at the bar."
---
Russiet sees nothing out of the ordinary as she waits for Bohrs' session to finish.
Bohrs finds that the tattooing process certainly stings. He's felt worse, of course, though it usually wasn't intentional like this.
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Westiron merely nods in answer to the skittish man, though he does glance around a bit to see if anyone else seems to be watching the half-elf, to justify his wariness.
If he sees nothing of note, he lengthens his stride on the way out of the square. The sun is moving on, and he still has much to do...
With a little sigh, he starts to mix powder and paste from a small kit on his desk, to match his skin tone as best he can.
The blue-black of the shield on his left palm is shortly swallowed by the thick paste he daubs over it. He spreads it around with his right thumb, smearing the clay-like substance into the creases and calluses of his left palm, until the shield is wholly hidden from view.
It must dry, now. He settles his hand so it is exposed to the room’s air, wipes his thumb off on a spare handkerchief, and then picks up a quill pen with his right hand, so that he may occupy himself during the time necessary for the concealer to dry by writing a letter.
It is a short note, composed in the Elven tongue (though most elves would find his penmanship terrible). But he writes slowly, hesitating often, lifting his head to stare out the room’s single window many times during its composition. By the time he sets down his quill, his left palm has fully dried.
To my clever, clever shadow:
If you are reading this I take joy that you are alive even as I give you the news that I myself am most likely not. I came looking for you. You would say it was stupid of me. You would be right, as you (almost) always are. I am only human, and thus, less patient than you, my north-star. Our superior can tell you more of why I left and what I went to see, as can the Speaker of the Heart in Tamran; what matters in this note is not the details and the when and the how; what matters only is that my life was the brighter for you, and the darker when you were absent, and thus, I came.
I remain most faithfully yours, in this life or in what may wait beyond it.
-T.
The veteran soldier inspects the work on his left hand with experimental poking. Satisfied that it has set, he reaches for the jar again, to apply the same treatment to his right hand, to hide the sword. One more glance out the window-- this one less pensive, more practical. He judges the position of the sun, considering the hours that remain to him until he must be at the Ranger’s Lament. The decorations of his armor and its shiny shiny appearance must be altered-- fortunately, the decorations are mostly paste, and the sheen of metal is actually cunning lacquer-work. It's all smoke and mirrors, to present himself as a knight of a certain mold... and now he sheds that set of mirrors for another one.
By the time he leaves his quarters again, he looks a different sort of man-- scruffier, dingier, more the mercenary than the knight.
At the Lament, a grey-haired human man enters carrying a suitable number of weapons-- a crossbow, a dagger, a sap, and a shortsword are all visible on his person, as is a gold-painted key of Abadar around his neck. The armor that recalls Lastwall iconography now looks much more scuffed and non-descript-- generic armor, such as might be issued to any military grunt. Gone too is the prominent scar on his face. Without those things, he looks much less distinctive and less like a man of any rank. The clothes make the man, they say.
He nods to the bartender and approaches to trade a few coppers for a drink-- "Encarthan Lakewater, thanks--" and then makes an unhurried way over to Senrin, wherever the elf has taken up position.
"Seems we're early," he deadpans to the other man as he settles next to him.
When he enters Senrin notices that the place is empty. Well, he is early. Taking a seat at the bar for convenience he considers his options. He isn't carrying much money, but he just ate and wasn't hungry. He would be later though.... He pulls out a single silver, "I might be hungry later, but for now I need to kill some time. Waiting for the folk from the temple." He grins and shrugs. No doubt the bar tender has seen lots of people waiting to join. "I probably shouldn't get drunk though. Can I get something with a little flavor to sip on until my friends get here?"
When Tamin arrives he nods to the man. "Early is better than late, I think." He glances around the room. "I figured staying at the bar was fine for now. But once more start arriving we might want to take a table. Those two other guys might join us. How did it go with that half-elf? I didn't want to prejudice things with him. Some people, especially elf-kind that don't know see my skin and think I might be a light-skinned Drow. Evil of course. I'd like to say that I'm used to it, but...."
The bartender gets busy mixing drinks--with or without alcohol as per expressed preference. When it seems like Tamin and Senrin are entering into a more private conversation, he walks to the other end of the bar, humming and keeping himself busy.
"Aye, better to be early and to able to get a feel for the place, and the people," Westiron agrees. He takes his ale when it's ready, sliding another copper to the barkeep as thanks, and has a sip before saying anything further. He matches Senrin's quieter tones, and slips into the Elven tongue in addition.
Tamin has another slow mouthful of his ale, rolling it around in his mouth and gazing at the bottles on the barback, before adding on, "He might also just hate elves, regardless of their color. He wouldn't be the first half-elven to do so."
Senrin also switches to elven. He knows that it's a fairly well known language other than common, but anything might help.
"Good point. Sadly I could understand that hate easier. Not from me of course. With my background I don't treat anyone different because of race. But.... I know there are elves that espouse racial purity and nonsense like that. They seem to think that half-elves somehow degrade a 'pure' elf. Most of them also think that 'sub' races of elf, like me, are at least as bad as a 'half'. I don't even try to understand them, just avoid them!"
He takes another sip, watching the door. "Well, I'll try to avoid him unless I see a chance to help. They say that a helping hand, with no request of compensation sometimes overcomes a little bit of racism. If I get a chance I guess I'll see if there's any truth to it."
Between swallows of his drink, and gazing around the still-quiet tavern, Tamin continues to talk softly with Senrin.
"I'm old enough to have seen much of the worst we can all do to each other in the name of the stupidest bigotries... even though in years lived, I'm sure you have many more than me," Tamin says with a wry half-smile. "And what is your story, then? I've never met a 'dusk elf' before."
Bohrs drinks away the pain of the needle, his right arm uninhibited by the work being done on his left. He looks to Russiet and says, "It might take a bit for her to finish this. Is there anything you want to talk about, or is there some other errand you need to run while I'm getting this done?"
Bohrs leaves it up to Russiet. It's not like he himself is going anywhere at the moment.
"This is a safe space," Emerald says as she injects a bit of ochre into Bohrs' skin. "I assure you that there are no scrying sensors in place here. I'd know."
Senrin grins at Tamin's question and motions to the bartender to refresh his mug before answering. "It's an interesting story, more suited to a bard than me but I'll try. Keep in mind that much of any historical records were lost by Earthfall and the Age of Darkness. My mother told me that most elves left Golarion by means of something called elf gates. Of course not all left, the miserable creatures that stayed being forced underground and turning into Drow. Dark skinned, light sensitive, but powerful in other ways the drow hated their light skinned cousins when they returned millennia later."
He takes a drink before continuing. "The hatred made sense really. The Drow were abandoned but keeping pure to their race became powerful enough to be rulers over their domain. They consider all other races to be lesser. This attitude eventually led to war. Not all surface elves wanted to participate in the war, so many split off. Some elves were raised in human lands, losing some of the elven ways, seeing life with a melancholy outlook. They have come to be known among the original elves as the Forlorn. I've met one here in Tamran. He didn't like me much."
"As to the Dusk elves, they fled the war and were looked down on by both sides. Some say that they left to the shadow plane. Others? Well, I certainly don't know. I do know that many people feel that Dusk elves, like Drow, are evil. We do have similar light sensitivity and the ability to see in darkness. And I have a minor ability to manipulate shadow, making a weapon from it. Maybe many, or most are evil. I think it depends on how they are raised. Being raised by a Priestess of Desna.... I find it hard to even understand evil."
"So, myth and legend, and I'm not a trained Bard. Hopefully my telling isn't too bad? It's as true as I know."
Russiet looked to Emerald with a curious expression, her lips carefully pursed. But at the mention that they were safe from scrying, and thinking the woman of faith fairly trustworthy as far as their cause went, she relented and nodded to Bohrs.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to talk here." she explained, "I thought about what disguise we could work out together. I was thinking of passing myself off as a failed sorceress. One who has received visions of Razmir and has desperately traveled here to join his cult. Believing he is my only hope to come into my power. You could be a traveler who helped me along the way that also wanted to join. One who helped me at sea."
As she spoke she carefully watched the tattoo being made, leaning in close to the both of them.
Westiron listens solemnly to Senrin's tale, though his gaze remains on entrances and exits rather than on the elf.
"Bard or not, you tell it well enough. Strange, isn't it? Various disputes on where this or that group came from... but nobody seems to question the existence of humans." He snorts a little into his ale.
"Well, we have time to pass until events unfold it seems. Are you a man given to cards? Or dice?"
Senrin openly laughs at Tamin's comment about humans. "Ha! If there's one constant in the world it would be that humans will be there. If the Abyss is ever crushed and closed it will be humans that do it. And when Pharasma gathers the last soul from the river it will be one from a human!" He takes another sip and smiles, "And from my experience with various races, I'm glad for it. I face far more discrimination from all of the other races than I do from humans. Most just seem to shrug and think that what I am or may be doesn't really matter in their lives. Mirrors my feelings too!"
"As for my telling, I mostly just tell what I remember of what my parents told me. There may be some glaring errors, fabrications or exaggerations. I suppose some day I should go to a university that has historical records and see what's recorded. If I'm still alive in another few decades maybe I will. I've heard some wild tales about a city called Absalom. Maybe they've got a university."
"Cards or dice? As in gambling? I don't really know any of the games. The soldiers that I've served with threw dice to pass time, but I stayed back from the games. Saw too many guys that turned over their pay to the winners of those games. But, to pass the time I'd be willing to listen to an explanation of either. I'm usually pretty good at learning rules. Some day I need to learn how to 'read' people. I know that is also part of the game...."
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to talk here." she explained, "I thought about what disguise we could work out together. I was thinking of passing myself off as a failed sorceress. One who has received visions of Razmir and has desperately traveled here to join his cult. Believing he is my only hope to come into my power. You could be a traveler who helped me along the way that also wanted to join. One who helped me at sea."
Bohrs chuckles. "I think I can pass as a rough-edged workin' lad. I'm no sailor, but I'm pretty sure I can weave a yarn that'll meet expectations. Maybe I was fairly new to the sea-life, and found it not as much to my liking as I'd hoped, or...oh...I was press-ganged, and I jumped ship!"
He scratches his beard with his right hand in consideration of the idea.
... "Cards or dice? As in gambling? I don't really know any of the games. The soldiers that I've served with threw dice to pass time, but I stayed back from the games. Saw too many guys that turned over their pay to the winners of those games. But, to pass the time I'd be willing to listen to an explanation of either. I'm usually pretty good at learning rules. Some day I need to learn how to 'read' people. I know that is also part of the game...."
A brief smile flickers over the soldier's weathered face. "As in gambling, yes. What else will you while away the centuries granted to you by your lineage if you don't know the pleasure of a game of chance?"
He reaches into his belt pouch-- pats around-- then looks rather wry. "--I seem to have divested myself of my cards. Well, let me see if the barkeep has a deck, or a set, and I will teach you a few simple games. And in a century's time you can play them and think of a long-gone comrade."
A brief detour to the bar and he returns with some borrowed dice as well as a refill of his stein. "Now, half of gambling is merely mathematics-- being able to calculate the odds, you see..."
There are certainly worse ways to pass the time before a dangerous mission, Tamin thinks, as he explains the rules of odds to the other man.
Senrin listens to the explanation of the rules. The odds for the dice are fairly simple math and he absorbs that pretty quick. "Calculate the odds, I see. Simple math as you state. But you also say that's only half? What is the other half? I understood that with cards there was a matter of 'reading' the players to guess if they were bluffing when they bet. Or possibly bluffing about bluffing. I'm not really good at reading people which is the reason I avoided those games."
"Some games lean more heavily into the bluffing, or the 'reading' of others as you put it, and some games lean less," Westiron says with a shrug, switching back to the Common tongue since nothing they are discussing is damning, and it's perhaps less memorable than a human speaking Elvish.
"Liar's Dice, Whipsting, Seven Veils-- those are games you might want to avoid until you've got greater practice at reading people, as they hinge heavily on pretending you've a better hand than you do, and concealing the truth of what hand or value you do have, and trying to determine if the other is doing the same to you. Bluffing, as you say. But..."
The soldier picks up the bone dice and rolls them around in his palm briefly (glancing down to double-check the concealer is holding) as he continues to speak. "Others are simpler, and if you've a good head for odds-- and a good memory for the card games-- you can get by mostly on logic. And some are simply luck, which nobody can teach, lest it be Desna herself. Now, Ship of Fools: I get three rolls of the dice to try and obtain, in order, a ship-- a six-- a captain-- a five-- and a crew-- a four. Whatever I have left is the value of my cargo, to be considered in my final score against other players-- but every player must complete the first three to score at all. So..."
"Damn, no six to be seen. So I must throw again-- I cannot take the five and four til I have the ship, you see--" The five dice clatter again to the table.
Westiron barks a short laugh. "Two ships! But I can only use the one, and now there's no captain to be seen at all. Well, last throw."
He sets one of the sixes to the side, and scoops up the remaining four to try again.
"A horde of captains! Well, a ship and a captain, but nary a crew nor any cargo, accordingly." Tamin shrugs and slides the dice to Senrin. "Can you do better? No bluffing in this one, merely Desna's fortune or displeasure."
He almost mentions Bohrs, and how he had gambled with the man on first meeting him-- but remembers they are undercover after a fashion, and keeps his peace.
Senrin gathers the dice as he considers the game. "So this game would be pure luck, unless the dice were weighted or you could somehow control the roll. Weighted dice would help all players though...." He rolls the first attempt.
"I seem to have matches your luck on the first roll, no ship!" He gathers the dice for the second throw.
"Still no six for a ship? I've crew to spare, but! This is discouraging!" Gather again for a final roll....
"Well, I matched you for ship and captain. But I guess we're both stuck in port with no crew or cargo! Simple but interesting game."
Russiet chuckles at Bohrs enthusiasm for his newfound story. "I like it." she admits, "Perhaps you were freed from those pirates we took in. It could certainly explain you not having many belongings on you when we show up."
She considers a comment that one of their new companions made and gives the cleric a wry smile. "Should I try and disguise myself as a woman?" she asked, "It would be a lark to see the look on Senrin's face."
Senrin and Tamin get to know each other at the bar, their glasses never empty and a steady supply of salty snacks on offer to whet their whistles. As the hours wear on, the Ranger's Lament doesn't seem to get any more business other than the two at the bar playing dice. Two halflings waltz in, drink a trio of shots each, and then leave almost as soon as they had entered. Were other nearby watering holes this empty? Neither Senrin nor Tamin know for certain, though it does strike Senrin as odd for the time of day and location in town.
The tavern's door swings open and another person walks in. It's the person that was staring at Senrin earlier, whom Tamin had engaged in a brief conversation.
"Welcome to the Ranger's Lament," the bartender says. "Sit anywhere you like. Special tonight's boiled cabbage and ground lamb."
The new arrival acknowledges the bartender, but then sees the two sitting at the bar and sits as far away from the bar as possible, near a stage in the corner where a band might play on some nights. "I'll be right over," the bartender says, refilling Senrin and Tamin's drinks before gliding across the floor to the new arrival.
Russiet chuckles at Bohrs enthusiasm for his newfound story. "I like it." she admits, "Perhaps you were freed from those pirates we took in. It could certainly explain you not having many belongings on you when we show up."
She considers a comment that one of their new companions made and gives the cleric a wry smile. "Should I try and disguise myself as a woman?" she asked, "It would be a lark to see the look on Senrin's face."
To Calaithes or Nicolette it would have just seemed another flippant joke from Russiet, but Bohrs had been more discerning into trying to get a handle on his true nature. In this moment he would sense there was more to the joke. Some genuine amusement coming to the effeminate and handsome lad. Something beyond just the thought of cross dressing. As if there was a deeper layer of humor there.
When they get back to the inn Russiet will question the bartender/inkeeper. "If the rooms haven't been made up for the next guest, could we make use of them for a while? For coin of course." Russiet asked, "We have need of another moment of private conversation. Also, I'm sorry if I am being too direct here after you were so kind earlier, but could we secure some of our belongings for a while?"
Russiet finds Puglas Tamall back at the Gar's Last Meal more or less how she left him in the morning. She is, of course, significantly more sober than how she had left. "The rooms are yours. Good paying customers need answer no questions," the man says. He stretches his hand out for the promised coin.