Charles stretches his back and arms regularly to keep them from cramping up inordinately. He is grateful for the food, despite its quality, and expresses his thanks back to the kitchen. Though after prompting, he does have to affirm that he is not being sarcastic. The days work seems to have take its toll on him, though he is visibly trying to maintain his good-spirited nature.
"Roger can certainly explore a bit, but I'm not sure how much he'll be able to communicate to us about what we would want to know. Though he may be able to sneak in and retrieve a bit of stale bread for us." He shrugs his shoulders a bit, "But if spotted though, he would easily be tied back to me. So the risks may outweigh the benefit."
"Jia does not seem to be the same as the rest of the acolytes we've seen here. She seems to handle Krant well and be more... enlightened than the others."
It’s foul in the messy stables, and the southern heat doesn’t help with that, or with inspiring Jia to settle on a way of mitigating the unpleasantness, but eventually, despite the risk of overheating, she finds a kerchief she can tie into a makeshift mask to keep the worst of the pong out.
With that, the task is rather more bearable, and the shaman settles in with as much good humour as she can muster. When the task's finally done, she shrugs apologetically to Garen, without whose help... Anyway. "Ugh, not a brilliant first impression, I can imagine. Why they hadn't set someone to this before today, I don't know. Fear of the High Priestess? Someone important passed through a few days ago on their way to the lake, but I wasn't close enough to catch the details beyond a glimpse of the hubbub as they gathered some assistants for the trip. At least with no new horses to replace theirs, it wasn't a nastier job than it was."
"Still, I'm surprised that the higher-ups still need to have it explained about honey and vinegar," Jia muses, wondering just how these louts have been trained. Even in the hardscrabble lands she passed through to get here, most priests she's met have, if nothing else, a shrewder sense of what laypeople are willing to put up with.
It's a troubling thought, but after an exhausting day, once she gets a bit of time to herself after the evening meal, Jia spends rather more time in silent prayer and meditation with her own gods and spirits than chasing a charitable interpretation of Razmir's catechism. After all, the former have the prior claim - and, she suspects, rather the better - to her devotion, and what the more eager masked acolytes don't know won't hurt them, at least as far as what she gets up to goes.
Eventually, with a last sleepy thought in the direction of whatever spirit looks after even a place like the Living God's temple, Jia settles in for the night.
|
"Yes, I saw the signs of the well treated horses. As to the treatment of new acolytes. I'd say it is standard to engender a desire to get higher rank so you can be the one giving orders instead of taking them." Garen suggests.
Regarding Roger...
"You're right, not worth it then. We need to make a good impression for a few days and learn what we can from basic observation before we start snooping around." Garen says.
|
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Garen sees nothing else to be gained this evening and they all need rest. He turns in and rises early. After his morning ministrations and a brief workout he heads down to breakfast. There, he tries to get information out of the others at breakfast. Who came through on horseback, when did they come through, have there been any special missions outside the temple, how do you qualify for such an honor?
Early is in the eye of the beholder. At Seven Bells, a racket arises in the barracks as Krant kicks open the door and begins slamming a metal spoon on a pot. "Rise and shine, recruits!" he bellows. "The Living God needs you up and moving. Up, up, come on."
Breakfast is a simple affair. The same bread as the two meals the day before is accompanied not by anything like coffee, juice, or tea, but mere water. Well, mere water might have been nice. This has an unpleasant grittiness to it, as though it had been dredged from a riverbank with no attempt to filter it. This morning the new additions to the meal are a soupy, white gruel and...fruit! But to the dismay of those hoping for more, the fruit is not fresh. Mealy apples, oranges with thick rinds revealing dry, bitter segments, and wrinkly plums with more pit than fruit.
Garen's inquiries mostly draw uncomfortable looks from other acolytes at breakfast, half of whom seem bleary-eyed from whatever labor kept them up the night before. No one seems particularly talkative this morning.
About half an hour after breakfast has begun, Krant bursts into the dining hall once more, beating his spoon on pot and telling people to wrap it up. A bevy of tasks are assigned this morning. Splitting timber, unloading deliveries for the kitchen, and weapon and armor maintenance.
It has become apparent once more that Razmir’s followers are shameful uninterested in availing themselves of the bounty of southern climes, Jia muses glumly over the morning meal. She’s getting fair desperate for a bit of good butter, or something sweet, and if that means breaking into the kitchen, storming the priests’ quarters, or both – well.
A fair bit of asceticism is all well and good back home, but there are limits, and this strange cult is pushing at the limits of her curiosity. Over breakfast and preparing for another day of unrewarding work, she keeps eyes and ears open for any particularly obsequious acolytes, in case she can glean any hint of how to get the attention of the higher-ups other than Krant, or how to get around both.
Since there doesn't seem to be much interest in using her actual skills, she decides to see if she can help with looking after the initiates' robes. Surely there's always spinning, weaving, and sewing to be done that could benefit from her nimble elven fingers?
Unfortunately, the stuff she has to work with is much, much lighter than the winter-weight materials she's used to, and she'll need much more practice to get up to her usual speed while keeping her stitches neat enough for anyone else's standards, let alone her own.
As she hesitates between needle and spindle, neither of which seem to be cooperating today, the elf shaman tries to entertain the other spinsters and seamstresses with some comical stories, but since those that spring to mind involve a fair bit of wordplay and cultural assumptions that she has to translate on the fly - all while not sewing herself into her own work - it is not a success. After all that, she appears pitifully stumble-fingered, and has done nothing to assuage the fears that her finding religion is the only thing keeping her from indulging in weird, cannibalistic demonic rites. As freaky snow elves do.
"Let me see if I can work a bit of magic on this food," Charles says with a wink as they sit down at the table with the other acolytes. Casting Prestidigitation, he warms the water and gives it a light sassafrass flavor, making a decent tea where the texture of the water is more difficult to notice. If anyone requests, he would certainly offer to chill the water as well. He even helps the gruel adding in a bit of onion and bacon flavoring.
"Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do for the fruit. It'd take a priest with major healing to make that taste any better," he says with a smile. When done, he offers to collect up the plates and quickly uses his magic to clean the dishes before taking them back to the kitchen.
-----
After being directed back to the yard for work, he eyes splitting logs again, but isn't sure how his back would hold up 2 days in a row so looks around and sees some areas of fence that need repair. He uses his Mending spell on some of the smaller pieces to repair some of the visible damage, but has to do most of the work by hand. He gets to work on those repairs and then looks for where else he can help.
Whether it's a lack of familiarity with Garen (while the Silk Violet is a relatively better-known entity), curiosity about the elven woman, or a little bit of excitement at having an acolyte who already knows a bit of magic and is using it for the common good, the spirits of those in the dining room raise over the course of breakfast. The topic might start about how to impress whom, but quickly devolves into gossip about who the worst higher-ups are. A few people look nervous as the conversation veers in this direction, trying to get the talkative acolytes to cut it out, but no one seems keen on disagreeing. Instead, claims revolve more around who is worse and why.
"Don't get me started on Krant," a blonde human woman says. "He's the dumbest sack of shit I've ever met."
"Smells like one, too," the Garundi man from the day before chimes in, waving his hand in front of his face.
"I have no idea how he got to be in charge of all of us, or how he stays in charge. Near any of the priests would be better."
"Seniority, maybe?" a half-orc says. I hear Razmir hand-picked him for this position four years ago."
"No..."
"I mean, you know, grain of salt and all. But you ever listened to his accent. Bit of Sarkorian Kellid in there, eh?"
"Since when do you know anything about accents, Craig?"
"You don't know what I know, Lars."
Craig and Lars begin sniping at each other before the woman who started the conversation interjects to move on from the tiff. "So seniority gets him in charge of the priests here even though he doesn't show any of Razmir's blessings."
This gets Craig and Lars to stop their argument. "Wait, with you either?"
There is a general murmur around the room as several people realize that Krant has never displayed Razmir's blessings.
Craig (the half-orc) pounds his fist on the table. "That's bullshit. If he can't do it, how are we supposed to learn? How are we supposed to become priests?"
Lars shrugs. "Pray, I guess. Read. Transcribe. Pray you get placed with a priest who knows what they're doing and has reason to use Razmir's blessings."
The woman raises a finger and waggles it back and forth. "Can't be that," she says. "Or haven't you all been paying attention to your studies?" Craig and Lars look at her inquisitively. She looks almost smug as she continues. "It's the money. 'Tithing to the faith is a holy responsibility,' right? Krant probably donated a lot of money, and he's just too incompetent to take advantage of what lessons he unlocked."
Craig and Lars seem unconvinced that it's the amount of money donated is all it takes to advance up the Steps and the ranking within the Church. There is some more round-about discussion about how to actually climb the ranks (skill? money? something else?) and how a "dimwitted brute" like Krant managed to do it.
But conversation eventually circles back to the food and how much Krant's cooking sucks. The woman sighs. "Okay, but why is he also in charge of the kitchen?"
"Why, Regina, are you offering?"
Regina sticks her tongue out at Lars while Craig shrugs and answers. "I hear he killed the last cook before I got here. Choked him to death with his bare hands for calling him fat. I think kitchen duty is the High Priestess' punishment for him."
Lars and Regina blanch at this revelation, with Lars looking angrier as he thinks more about it. "So because he can't keep his temper, we have to suffer?"
"I mean, grain of salt and all," Craig responds. "Master Egarthis probably knows better than to try to whip Krant for stepping out of line."
Regina winces at that. "Don't remind me. My back is still smarting from my last lashing by Master Egarthis three weeks back."
Craig nods sympathetically. "Four weeks."
Lars adds his own. "Two and a half."
Regina turns the conversation. "He's impossible to please. I had armor maintenance duty three weeks back and he found one smudge on a suit of armor and gave me five lashes. Five!"
Lars huffs. "Got three for dropping a box. I think he just enjoys inflicting pain." He leans in conspiratorially. "But you wouldn't believe what was in there. Good wine. Tobacco. Pesh."
"What I wouldn't give for a smoke," Craig moans.
"The Heralds are living it up," Regina cries.
"At least since the High Priestess left on that mission, yeah," Lars responds. "I doubt she'd let them get away with too much if she were here."
Regina shudders. "That woman scares me."
The other two nod, though none elaborate. Whatever they're thinking of, they're keen to avoid discussing out loud.
---
Out in the yard, Garen gets to work chopping wood. Charles seems keen to do some fence repair, but gets redirected towards a job with more movement: accepting deliveries of boxes at the gate and taking them where he's directed. A few of the boxes seem destined for the second floor, but Charles is stopped before he's able to ascend. A black-robed herald (anyone's guess which one) takes the boxes and disappears back upstairs. Jia, eager to sew, is disappointed to find that the robes are each individual member's responsibility. But the armor isn't all metal, and so maintenance does involve stitching up some cuts in leather. It's a bit less nimble of work, and the elf unfortunately manages to cut herself as she works.
They do not catch sight of Sledge during any of their chores. Although to be fair, would they recognize him amidst the sea of other white-robed, iron-masked acolytes? Would they recognize each other? The uniformity of the congregation on the first floor makes it almost impossible to tell anyone apart. Even accounting for different body sizes, the robes mask a person's body type and gait as much as the masks and hoods prevent recognition by hair or skin color. All are One in the Body of Razmir.
After three-and-a-half hours of fatiguing labor, Krant (the only priest easy to tell apart from anyone else) calls all of the acolytes into the temple at Eleven Bells. The sanctuary is a sea of white robes, suggesting that the gray-robed priests have other responsibilities at this time of the day. With pomp and circumstance, one of the black-robed heralds descends from the second floor and leads an hour-long Razmiran service, replete with hymns, prayer, and teaching--both reading from Razmir's holy text (The Thirty One Steps) and an effusive sermon about Razmir's mighty deeds, his generous gifts, and his incredible power. The speaker is confoundingly enrapturing in his conviction.
Following the service, the group is permitted to go back downstairs for a half hour lunch before afternoon labor. Sandwiches and soup are once again the order of the day, though the food preparation and ingredient quality has not miraculously improved over the last few hours.
It is here at lunch that Charles and Garen realize that they don't see Silvio...
Thwarted in her quest for easy needlework, Jia finds armour repair even less to her liking, and her wandering thoughts lead to an unfortunate accident. She binds the wound where her awl slipped as quickly as she can, but…
She keeps getting distracted by the morning’s revelations. The punishing schedule for the acolytes, and her own blindspots as to what’s normal (coming from a culture where magic is viewed as one of the highest arts, to which it would be more surprising to find someone not aspiring), mean that she hasn’t really noticed the lack of spells being tossed around. Subconsciously, she supposes, she might have registered something, and held herself back too, not least because she had to do some talking to convince the powers that be of her sincere interest, as someone wearing her connection to the spirits on her sleeve.
The absent high priestess sounds like the most reasonable of the bunch, if alarmingly short-sighted if the rumour about Krant’s demotion is true, which is an uncomfortable thought. As for Egarthis… well, there are already gods, and other things, that would be a better fit for someone with those inclinations, Jia thinks, wryly.
A tentative plan starts to form in her mind, pieces spinning around like so many of Vinyo’s orbiting stones. The situation with Krant calls for intervention, and maybe that can serve as a springboard to get to talk to the other priests. The obedience to the those on higher Steps is a problem, but … ‘Through anonymity comes solidarity’, and acting as one. And anyone behind the mask, they say, ‘can speak the will of Razmir without fear of rebuke.’
Still, the slight elf shaman is becoming all too aware of the limits of her physicality. Maybe the other new arrivals could help? They certainly seem to have a strong sense of justice. So, at lunch time, she keeps an ear out for their voices among the sea of masks coming on and off.
“I hope your morning’s been better than mine,” she says, po-faced, when she finds them, with a wave of her bandaged arm. “And tomorrow should look up, anyway. You should be passed probation then, so they’ll give you back your things, and perhaps, finally, once they see all of us, they’ll realize we’re better suited for other things than sweeping and stacking.”
|
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Garen moves to help Jia with her hand but sees she has the wound well in hand and so he heads back to the wood.
At lunch...
"Is your hand ok? I saw you cut it earlier. Looks like a great bandage job though. As to the morning, nothing good per se, just chopped wood. The conversation from breakfast was interesting though. Any idea what mission the Priestess left on? Say speaking of leaving, has anyone seen Silvio?"
"I've not seen him today," Charles muses. "Though it is definitely difficult to differentiate one from another with the masks on. Not sure why he isn't here to eat. I could certainly see him staying after temple service and asking questions."
Charles once again uses his minor cantrips to season the food, chill the water, and clean up afterwards. On the whole, he is in good spirits and enjoys lifting the overall mood of the dining hall though he doesn't engage in deep conversation at this point while working to make the dining experience better for everyone. He may also be missing Roger a bit, though he can still feel his presence nearby.
"I haven't seen Silvio, no," Jia says. "Maybe he slipped out to check on his wolf? I didn't see him when we were looking after the stables yesterday, but then everything was all over the place while we were tidying."
"Which brings us back to the high priestess: she left just after I arrived, more or less, so I didn't get a chance to meet her. She took a dozen people with her onto a boat, so I imagine it's something important. Reporting back across the water? An important tithe levy?"
She murmurs a prayer in Elven as she casts her thoughts back to last week and tries to remember what was going on.
The acolytes are grateful once again for the extra flavor, and a pair of young, eager-looking types try to pull Charles to the side. "Do you think you can show us how to do that? I want to learn Razmir's blessings."
That grinds lunch conversation to a halt.
Regina sits down with her plate of food and kicks Garen lightly in the shin, shaking her head.
These masks certainly are handy things, Jia thinks, as the quirked brow that betrays her curiosity is safely concealed when Garen’s none-too-idle suggestion provokes an interesting response, of faces of the diners and masks of those already done with their meal briefly flickering to the man but without holding his gaze.
Either she’s terrifying, or competition to catch her eye is, the shaman hypothesizes, Or the people who have been here for a while know something about the trip that I don’t. But if that’s what has them scared…
“Or if we could see His very Stairs across the water in Thronestep ourselves, even without the guidance of one so wise as her!” Jia adds, angling to confirm or exclude at least one possible destination for the high priestess’ expedition. “Maybe once we’ve ascended a Step or two here first?”
Regina turns her gaze from Garen to Jia and kicks her shin under the table as well. "A little too ambitious," she hisses through her teeth.
Charles assures the eager acolytes that with these abilities are not tied to the blessings of Razmir, but instead practice and discipline of the arcane arts. "Anyone is able to learn a bit of practical magic to make life a bit easier, but it takes time and study to do so," he assures them. He does demonstrate the words and simple gestures for them, indicating the importance of the the intonation and focus that is necessary. "It is necessary to hold the words as a focus in your mind. I actually have a special book that I typically study each morning that contains the arcane runes of several spells written in magical ink."
----------------
Hearing the discussion at the table, Charles comes over to take plates and asks, "Ah, so I take it competition is pretty stiff for ascending the steps? Do the priests look for particular traits in those who ascend?"
A few people look disappointed to learn that what Charles was showing them was from study of the arcane rather of devotion to and worship of Razmir, and seem overall less interested. But a handful of the more curious types stick around to gawk at the demonstration and fumble through the gestures. It's clear that very few if any of them have a sense of magic. They are as babes to the topic: books waiting for their blank pages to be filled.
"What's the difference between arcane and divine magic?" someone asks.
"Is there one?" asks another.
---
Charles' question seems to cause less unease among the other acolytes, who have by this point mostly returned to their own quiet chatter. It recalls the conversation from the night before between Craig, Lars, and Regina where they offered theories on how to earn their ascension. A fourth person nearby, one with scars crossing his face, joins the conversation now. "I wish I knew. Money. Knowledge. Power. Your guess is as good as mine." The man thinks for a moment and then brings up a thought. "But I know they got magic. I seen 'em split in two. And one time they didn't like what I said and when they hit me and...it was like I couldn't talk right. It was weird." He reaches for and rubs his throat, but nods as he considers the experience further. "That's gotta be useful for silencing heretics, though. Razmir's got lots of enemies, you know."
---
At this point, lunch is nearing an end and people are taking their plates to the kitchen. Conversations are going to need to be wrapped up or left unfinished before afternoon labor divides people up once more into the anonymous sea.
Ow! Jia thinks, ruefully, though taking the hint. Fortunately Charles steers the conversation to safer waters, and the matter of magical mysteries is one she can warm to just as happily.
A few people look disappointed to learn that what Charles was showing them was from study of the arcane rather of devotion to and worship of Razmir, and seem overall less interested. But a handful of the more curious types stick around to gawk at the demonstration and fumble through the gestures. It's clear that very few if any of them have a sense of magic. They are as babes to the topic: books waiting for their blank pages to be filled.
"What's the difference between arcane and divine magic?" someone asks.
"Is there one?" asks another.
"Ah, now isn't that a question?" she chimes in cheerfully, slipping into a bit more of the role of the friendly village wise woman. "They can often do similar things. In some ways it's a matter of temperament, whether - as I'm sure our friend here could tell you - one develops one's skill through very precise study, or as something a bit more like a creative art, or by opening oneself to, well, a higher power, shall we say. And of course everyone can have different aptitudes for those different ways, depending on the gifts the spir-"
"-er, Razmir, sees fit to offer each of us," Jia says, catching herself mostly in time to avoid straying from the party line.
The door slams open and there stands Krant. By this point, one might be wondering what sort of face he is hiding behind his rusty mask. Is he smiling mad with power? Perpetually scowling? Some crazed mix in between? Or is he truly a passive block of stone?
"Cleaning time," Krant says, pointing his thumb backwards.
Jia recalls this part of the day. All of the newest acolytes are taken up to the first floor of the temple, masks worn obviously, and made to clean the entire floor. The brushes in use are small and the soap harsh, making the skin itch after too long.
While out scrubbing the floors, Charles does take the occasional opportunity to cast Detect Magic and glance around to see if he can spot anything unusual or out of place? Based upon what he's seen, the high level priests don't worry too much about the acolytes doing their job, but he hopes to see if he can pick up on any scrying sensors or secrets nearby.
He scrubs the floors as well as he can while using his Prestidigitation to assist, hopefully multiplying his efforts. He is anxious to begin doing a bit more exploration around this area and wondering how long this type of initiation will last. While he wasn't quite sure what he was expecting, manual labor for several hours a day with poor food was certainly not it.
Jia resigns herself to another shift of tedious labour, though now, with the prospect of new acolytes with rather more drive and curiosity soon to have all their tools returned to them, the idea of sneaking around and finding some answers is becoming more and more appealing. If enough of them revolt - offering at least the vague threat of an embarrassing public rejection of the secretive faith - that might offer some more negotiating power.
It would be a shame that the lead she was pursuing had turned into a dead end, and now she really does want to know if there's anything more to this Razmir business than a veneer of respectability to petty tyranny and all-too-human frailty.
It's rather cold - and Jia knows cold very well - and spiteful comfort, but as she scoots about with her wretched brush and an unpleasant caustic froth foaming over her hands, it gives her something to think about instead of trying to let her mind go blank.
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Garen gets him a brush and a pail of water. Starting in an area near the other two he begins to scrub at the floor in general and looking for actual soiled areas. If you were going to do a job, you might as well do it right. He put his arms into it while he pondered their options. They definitely needed to poke around a bit. If everyone was up to it this evening, it might be a good time for it. He was concerned someone else may get hauled off like Silvio or Sledge.
The tiresome floor cleaning begins in the temple's sanctuary, which is by far the largest room in the whole of the Temple. In that room, Charles' cantrip pings wherever he turns to view one of the iron masks of Razmir behind which torches crackling with green flame are set.
These green-flamed iron masks are mounted to the walls in every single room, with the greatest number in the sanctuary.
Other notable rooms include the vestibule, a meeting chamber, and the armory.
In the vestibule that connects that sanctuary to the courtyard, grand tapestries depicting the might and power of Razmir hang from the walls, and a richly embroidered carpet runs down the center. Opposite the large doors leading outside is a pair of tall, slender doors, with a gigantic silver mask emblazoned on the front. A pair of smaller doors is set into the north and south walls. A flickering green light plays throughout this chamber from masked sconces that run along the walls. A pair of acolytes not currently on cleaning duty are stationed in the room.
The meeting chamber is, second to the granduer of the sanctuary, the nicest room that you have been in so far. Plush, gilded chairs, a fine table made from highly polished Andoren darkwood, and a painting on each wall—each depicting the Living God as he battles all manner of foul beasts and bends them to his will—adorn this well-appointed room. A simple but elegant silk curtain covers a staircase leading back down to the lower level of the temple.
Timing things to get a good look when no one else is in a position to do so and accuse her of idling is a bit tricky, but a risk worth taking, Jia thinks, given that most everyone ought to be keeping their heads down scrubbing, or won’t want to get their toes wet and risk a pratfall on the slick stone.
So, as she works her way around the meeting room, the shaman pauses every now and then – with a show of relaxing a tense muscle for cover – to assess the décor on the walls.
Hmm, interesting, Jia concludes after getting what she can out of all of the paintings and the tapestry. It's all the more frustrating after seeing this room decorated that she couldn't put her talents to use to liven up the acolytes' quarters too on temple time, if only for a bit of a daub, beginner as she is. More importantly, though, she notices...
Garen is very focused on his cleaning efforts, which he finds are actually needed. If this was something that the acolytes supposedly did every day, then either they weren't doing a very good job or there was a lot of grime generated each day. The paladin-in-hiding finds all sorts of messes, especially lingering in corners. This includes brown flakes that he recognizes as dried blood rather than dirt.
Jia had spent nearly two weeks studying the paintings in the sanctuary, but only now puts a few observations together. The murals are well done pieces, showcasing the beats of the story of Razmir's ascension in panels stretching around every wall in the sanctuary. And this was either the work of a single artist or a very well-trained team with near-identical technique. It was the sort of detail that the average viewer wouldn't pick up on, or even think to consider.
But a trained eye knew that a painting was not merely an artistic depiction but contained stories about the artist and their relation to the subject. Maybe more. In this case, there was much more. The murals universally seem to portray Razmir as a powerful but merciful deity, but was the artist convinced of this? Some of the murals show ordinary villagers looking upon Razmir with fear and terror. Those that do show happy, nay complacent villagers, have a barely noticeable additional layer or two of paint with a subtly different technique from the strokes around them. It looks to Jia like someone came in after the original artist and made some subtle alterations. But the censorial work remains unfinished.
Looking a bit closer, Jia sees that the murals have been signed "Othallan."
---
Charles appreciates the aesthetics behind having the iron masks as continual light sources. Though he wonders if anyone actually wears those. Knowing the flames to be harmless, he wonders the effect it would have on others seeing it as well as how the magical flames would contribute towards the sight of the wearer.
He takes a very close look at the murals and tapestries to see if he can identify the story they are designed to tell.
Overall, despite having to clean the floor, he is grateful for the opportunity to be in such a grand chamber that is so spendidly decorated. It was of course, far more than he was used to in Erastil's temple, but he couldn't deny the beauty and effectiveness of the decor.
Murals depicting the life and ascension of Razmir decorate the walls of this chamber. These murals start on the north wall and go around the room. The first of them illustrates him as a young, ambitious man, garnering great riches and power while helping the poor and the weak and encouraging them to flock to his banner. The next set of murals shows him entering the Starstone Cathedral in Absalom to undertake the test to become a god. Those following show him emerging victorious, with a mask shrouding his face, so that all could worship him without fear of looking upon his ascended countenance. Finally, he is seen founding the nation of Razmiran and spreading his faith all around the world; the last sequence represents events not yet come to pass, but certainly in motion from the rumors you have heard.
Although Charles might not have the knowledge of painting techniques that his new elven fellow acolyte (and potential ally) clearly does, he does pick up on the vibe that this Othallan who apparently painted these was not a true believer. The depictions of Razmir are indeed those of a powerful god, and someone inclined to believe in the notions of his justice and mercy will see them. But the artist has left doubt in the faces of fearful villagers.
---
As cleaning comes to an end, about half an hour past the third afternoon bell, the doors to the sanctuary swing open wide to invite in the masked congregation. Every acolyte is present, and at least half of the gray-robed priests are here as well. A black-robed herald, one whose voice you haven't heard before, leads the service. As with the morning service, there are litanies and psalms to the living god, repeated "All hail!" calls, and a few hymns. The sermon is full of pomp and circumstance, or perhaps more pomposity than pomp.
“Hmm,” Jia muses aloud when the weary work is done, bending her arm up to rest her brush on her shoulder triumphantly on the way to put back the cleaning supplies before the afternoon prayers. “Othallan did quite well with the paintings, I must say. I wonder if the team that must have worked together on them are still around? It would be interesting to talk to them, I’m sure.”
She lets her voice carry among the other acolytes, looking for any special reaction, or at least signs of recognition.
Following anything up will have to wait until after prayers, which are, it turns out, to be enlivened by a new leader, at least.
Or so she thought, only to be disappointed as cruelly as at mealtimes. They really do need a more adventurous liturgist, Jia decides, stifling a yawn as her attention wanders, and then catching herself abruptly as her head nods and her body threatens to follow.
It takes a lot to put an elf to sleep, so this fellow ought to take pride in coming so close to managing that. Through her exhausting boredom, Jia is tiredly relieved to see that she's not the only to droop under the unimaginative harangue, and that doesn't exclude a Herald or two.
Seeing Jia's interest in the tapestries as well, he approaches her at an opportune time, and quietly. "Indeed, this Othallan is quite the artist, whether singular or plural. But I find it odd to be used in such a prominent place as this main temple. Despite the beauty of the depiction of the individual pericope it seems to introduce a bit of... doubt... that I've not seen reflected in any of the teachings that I've heard so far. Very curious."
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Despite his fatigue from the days work, Charles is exceptionally attentive to the lesson today, hoping to see through a bit more of the curtain and intrigued at the proposition that some of those within the highest ranks may have doubts about Razmir. He is also thrilled at the possibility that Jia may be having some of the same questions as he and others who are here to investigate.
He pays very close attention to the liturgy and sermon, hoping to find something said out of pomp that may not fully align with the teachings Krant has espoused. It would give him an opportunity to engage the grey, or possibly black, robed priests in conversation that may elevate Charles and his companions out of Krant's domain and allow them to find answers to the questions they came here searching for.
Although Garen and Jia manage to just stay awake during the droll proceedings, Charles takes the opportunity to pay close attention. There are, within the teachings, what can generously be described as contradictions. There seems to be a suggestion that Razmir's followers will be rewarded with glory and riches, while those who do not shall have neither. And yet the acolytes here are universally denied their lives of plenty and pleasure--they are instead the ones suffering and toiling. There are others outside the Temple, of course, who also suffer and toil, but there seems to be no direct correlation between those who follow the Steps and those who prosper. Indeed, one of the tenets of the faith is that nonbelievers' wealth is ill-gotten. But then how does the Church of Razmir gain its wealth? Tithing? From people who have nothing to begin with and are not laboring outside the Temple?
And then there's the question of who speaks with the will of Razmir. Is it those who have ascended the steps? How many steps? Or is it all of his followers? The notion of hierarchy seems simultaneously enforced and dashed with the desire of anonymity and uniformity.
Given this, and the concerns espoused by some of the acolytes, Charles thinks that it's possible that the acolytes are given one set of dogma, but that this might not be the full, or even true, nature of the faith. Perhaps the priests, heralds, and even higher Steps are inducted with new orthodoxy. It wouldn't be the only, or even the first, faith to mete out teachings gradually to initiates.
But if Charles could intuit the structure of the faith beyond the acolytes, it more clearly resembles the Asmodean dogma: that the strong should rightfully govern the weak, and that the weak owe their masters unwavering obedience.
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A few acolytes are plucked out of the crowd as the afternoon prayer ends--all of whom had been snoring or otherwise clearly not paying attention--and taken to a separate area. Meanwhile, Charles, Evlar, Garen, and Jia are taken out into the courtyard for pre-dinner training. They had witnessed (and Jia had already participated in) this sort of training previously. Perhaps to their surprised, a halfling-sized, white-robed figure joins them: almost certainly Silvio! He is notably limping when he joins them, but anyone who tries to surreptitiously ask him anything is castigated by Krant.
The majority of the training focuses on interacting with the public. Krant begins by pointing out how each person has different walking patterns that can be used to identify them. This was a liability when speaking with people near the Temple. If the Guards believed that they knew who was whom, they might try to influence individuals. Keeping the populace uncertain, ensuring that all members of the Church were treated the same, was the best way to protect everyone.
In an unusual display of understanding, Krant makes it clear that he doesn't expect everyone to change their step patterns instantly (especially with Silvio limping). But there is almost an hour and a half of walking instruction, with Krant verbally berating everyone in the group at least once (and often hitting their legs with a stick) to begin getting them to walk differently.
Krant also mocks Silvio, who is far and away the smallest member of the clergy. "It's about time we get one of the smallfolk, but you're going to be instantly recognized the moment you get on the street. Your first responsibility is gonna be gettin' more smallfolk in our doors. Elsewise you're as good as dead to us."
Charles thoughtfully ponders his observations on the vast discrepancies between the Razmiran teaching and practice. He considers going up to discuss it with one of the higher priests but believes that his understanding may allow him to progress a bit with some careful planning.
Being escorted outside, Charles finds it more challenging than he'd anticipated to change his gait to match the others. He nearly stumbles over his own feet at one point, drawing a whack to his knee from Krant that doesn't help him modify his step either.
But he also decides to watch Krant as the large man's build and over-confident stride make him easy to identify within the walls.
At this point, Silvio wanted one thing and one thing only--to make Krant pay for all of the abuse he had endured. Sure, perhaps he had broken some stupid, inane rule of Razmir. But to be punished, called out for being a smallfolk, and then forced to endure "walking instruction" on top of that . . . oh, there would come a day, he promised himself. Nursing his thoughts of vengeance allowed him to keep going.
It seemed to him pretty impossible to "blend in" when he was about half the size of everyone else. Was he supposed to learn to walk on stilts?
Garen almost doesn't need to open his trained senses to consider what he will see when he regards Krant. But as the Inheritor allows him to see into the man's soul, Garen finds roiling rot, compassionless corruption, and unctuous ugliness. There must certainly be worse people, but ever pore of this priest proliferates profound profanity. He seems to relish in the power he holds in this place.
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The visions of vileness covering Krant are bad enough but with his senses open Garen feels the oiliness of the man's soul and smells the rot of his personality. Regardless of how this endeavor goes, Garen will remove this stain from the prime plane of existence. With a grimace and a shake of his head, Garen moves back into trying to match the others' stride.
"Walking instruction" is a weird one: part of Jia appreciates it, the idea of coming together in sync and moving like music in space rather than in sound... And it's nice to see Silvio again! That said, the circumstances are not ideal, once she notices his limp and how Krant seems to have it in for him.
So that's on her mind too, but as far as the exercise itself goes, it's the walking side of it that rankles, to say the least. Moving elegantly together, fine - absolutely! - but trying to erase all sense of individuality, well. Who's watching that closely, and what exactly would she be expected to do if she ascended the ranks that she would want to blend in among all the acolytes anyway?
She gets bored, and it really, really shows, to anyone with any inclination to stealth. And to make things worse, she's a trained dancer, and so she's unable to resist.
She makes a show of trying to blend in, as if she were performing the role of a villain sneaking around in some sort of ballet, but to anyone unfamiliar with Ilverani habits, it's actually rather unclear if she's doing her honest best or not.
Krant seems partially satisfied, or at least not entirely displeased, with most of the group. Until Jia's dancing outburst, he has pointed out good things about each person's performance at some point during training. All except for Evlar.
Although Jia seemed to be pathologically incapable of completely concealing her presence for more than a few minutes at a time, Evlar seemed to struggle with the basic instructions of the task. He spends his time trying to carefully watch his new companions and struggling horribly to do anything approaching mirroring their strides or approaching something like a happy medium.
Before the dance break, it looks like Evlar might get the next burst of anger from Krant. And then the large moon turns his attention to Jia. He strides up to her, towering over her and blocking out the last vestiges of the sun before it dips below the horizon. "This ain't dance practice, elf-girl," he says. "And Razmir says you'll wear the mask of shame next you step out of line."
His just-exposed eyes bore down to hers for a tense few seconds before he whirls around and walks away with the bearing of a drill sergeant. "Before you earn your dinner tonight, there's one more thing to practice. When we go to the streets of Tamran, we talk to lots of people. And we need to add to Razmir's coffers so he has the resources to fight against his enemies. Razmir's got a lot of enemies. So we need to part people from their gold. How do we do that? We tell them about how much better Razmir is than their god."
He turns back around to each of them. "I don't give a rat's ass what god you followed before you saw Razmir's light. But you know enough about 'em. So here's what I want you to do. All of you except pretty boy here," he points to Evlar, who stiffens, "Pair off. Find out what god the other one used to worship and then mock 'em. And when they're done, give 'em feedback. Be specific; dig into their beliefs; hit 'em where it hurts. I'll be back with pretty boy after he learns to do better."
Evlar shudders and walks in front of Krant to get inside the Temple. There are a few other groups of acolytes in training with different priests elsewhere in the courtyard. But you are, for the moment, not being supervised directly.
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This is not Garen's thing. He really would like to just step out, armor up and then come back to clean out this viper's nest but there is a purpose. With the opportunity to talk he asks, "Jia, just so we can show we did talk, did you venerate a god before coming to Razmir? I am an adherent of Iomedae." He flinches after making that last comment but says nothing and waits for a response.
With walking instruction over, Silvio finds a rag and works to wrap his injured foot. . With some bandaging, he seems to be much better.
Silvio decides he ought to try and make a friend. Or so he hoped. He tries to pick someone who seems like an ally against Krant.
"I worshipped Erastil," he says. Still did, but he leaves that part out. "What about you?"
He's not sure he could really bring himself to insult the gods, but he did know a thing or two to say.
Well, that’s something else, Jia thinks, something uncomfortable curdling in her stomach that isn’t just terrible Razmiran cooking at Krant’s latest command. It’s a cruel thing to ask, though the part of her that an Asmodean would approve of can see the horrible logic behind it.
Seeing that they’re being left to their own devices for a moment, and that a bit more candour seems to be emerging, she starts to open up a bit more about specifics herself.
“Only a fool would be careless around the spirits in general, and the gods are the greatest of them all,” she begins judiciously. “And of those, I’ve always been closest to those best known to my people, but if I really had to pick one, I suppose I would say Findeladlara. A bit like your southern Shelyn, to whom my ancestral traditions also have a connection – but like I said, if there’s one above all, the Guiding Hand is very dear to most of us Ilverani.”
She looks around the room before meeting the others’ gazes again. “While we have a moment, so that it doesn’t look like we’re obviously keeping secrets – <Do we share any other languages? The tongue of angels? Of the fey? I would hardly expect my own, whether from my deepest roots or, more recently, Tien.>”
As she switches between each of said languages in turn to name them, Jia keeps an eye out for signs of recognition among the others, eventually settling on Celestial. <“If they let us work together, I don’t see any need for us to disparage each other’s gods. When they send us out this evening, especially if we’re supposed to be all anonymous, we can ask for alms for those for whom even the suppers they serve here are better than the alternative, and then, once you get all your things back – or to get them back – correct me if I’m wrong, but I presume I’m not the only one with questions for the gentlemen upstairs.>”