Kalig nodded in thanks at the young woman with the rainbow scarf. "Thank you, Miss... " She leaves time if the woman wants to supply her name.
Perhaps surprisingly, the woman provided nothing to the half-orc’s pause. Wilfully withholding one’s name like this could almost be considered a deliberate snub, yet the placid smile showed no ill will. Instead she let Kalig introduce herself and simply wished her a swift recovery, natural or divine.
The druid wished for little more herself at the moment, and so rejoined the others to tell them of this so-called shrine. The group was torn on what took precedence, debriefing the Lady or ridding themselves of the rat born plague, but Niccan cast an emphatic vote for the latter. The noblewoman herself took no offense at being made to wait. ”Of course,” she said, almost offhandedly. Her thoughts were obviously still fixated on those revelations they had shared so far. ”Please, see to your own ills first. Supper can wait. Join me and Arnholde as soon as you are able.”
A relieved sigh puffed its way through Khavel’s beard. Star let out something closer to a groan.
---
It was rather nice, this Shrine of the Seven Roses. As the woman with the scarf had promised, it was only a short walk from the Witch Tower ruin, but then in a village like Belhaim nothing was more than a stroll away. “Follow the smell of everything good,” she had said. It was true; it was too late – early? – in the day for the neighbouring bakery to emit its so-very-inviting goodness, but the air carried a certain fragrance, a cleanliness almost, from the nearby soapmaker. It mingled well with the smell of the surrounding garden: summer might have passed, but the rose bushes were still in bloom. None among the group could resist taking a deep breath. Heavens, it was like a perfumed bath after the fetid swamp of the dungeon.
These rose bushes, immaculately maintained, encircled a large, handsome building. It was a thatched roof affair, to look at more so a village venue or dance hall than a proper church. But then the local Abadaran shine had a dual purpose as well, as was so often the case in small towns. Such were the necessities that came with only having so many houses. It was painted an off-white, almost cream colour which made the eaves and corners, all painted in bands of alternating rainbow hues, stand out that much more vividly. This chromatic spectrum didn’t stop at the building either. The nearest trees had multi-coloured bits of cloth fluttering from every branch, rather like the young acolyte’s scarf. The eye could not help but be drawn to them.
As was the ear. For also hanging from these branches were bird feeders, quite a lot of them. They accounted for the numerous avians occupying the surrounding trees, all currently in concert, a full chirping orchestra warming up for the recital due. They looked to the sun as if it was their conductor, waiting for it to set and their performance to begin. ”Something for the nose, something for the eye, something for the ear…” Star mused.
Kalig in particular took note of how these birds appeared unusually docile, not flinching at the ex-caravanner’s approach. Yet it was not the only song on the air. The group could hear someone humming somewhere in the garden. Walking around the building, they soon came upon a disparate pair.
”Gorgeous, Albin. Simply gorgeous,” a melodious voice praised. ”Her song guides you in ways my ears are deaf to. Ironic, of course, given the contrast between our ears!” The laugh that followed was no less melodious; like pearls cascading down a stairwell. ”Please, tell me how I may help. Guide me, maestro! This bush here, does it need fertilizing? I will fetch whatever you need!”
The man who answered did so in a small, meek manner. ”Please, master… Don’t use that tone with me, it isn’t right… You embarrass me…”
They could hardly be more different. One was as unassuming as his voice, a podgy little creature, short, balding and with a nervous brow. He held a pair of garden clippers and appeared to be tending the rose bushes. The gardening gear did not lessen the impression that he should be wilting behind a dusty office desk somewhere. The other man, however… He was tall, very tall at that. His waist was slim as any willow, the cut of his well-tailored clothes complimenting and highlighting his trim form. His hair was thick and nut brown, pooling at his shoulders in gleaming tresses. And despite his flawless fair skin, he was assuredly older than the human beside him. The group had come upon an elf, the first they had seen in Belhaim.
”Ah, the caravanners,” he smiled, looking up at their approach. The other man – this Albin – looked rather put upon, giving an awkward nod in greeting. ”I am so very glad to see you find your way here. Welcome to the Shrine of the Seven Roses.” The elf bowed deeply, almost theatrically, a gesture that seemed to practically pain the gardener behind him. ”I understand your brief time in our lovely community has been eventful. How may I help you?”
Kalig asks the woman's name directly since she does not pick up on the prompt but isn't seeming snobbish or secretive. Kalig's own survival had often been dependent on learning to read body language, but in case it wasn't obvious, she certainly prefers the direct approach to what she saw as often pointless social niceties. Indeed, the way in which she had prompted the woman was a hope--in vain apparently--to have as short a conversation as possible. The only reason Kalig cared about her name at all was so she could let the shrine know who had referred her. Certainly focusing on the acolyte's state of mind was a waste of time for them both, as far as she was concerned.
And speaking of not wasting time, she leaves once the woman tells her her name with a curt "Thanks."
After the caravanners are ready, she heads on with haste to the Shrine with the others. To the priests she replies,
"[Insert Woman's Name Here] referred us. I am Kalig and this is Khavel. The Devy woman had us investigate the tower collapse. We all were attacked by rat swarms, as you might smell. I am trained in basic healing arts, but Khavel and I got bit enough we've been infected by the rats, and I don't have any antiplague tinctures. I am looking for a quiet, clean place we can recover, away from inns whose guests might fear we were spreading plague. Can you help?"
Offering a stiff, semi-formal slight bow Quintus introduces himself, "Greetings I am Quintus Galerius Trachalus of Oppara. As my colleague here indicated we are in need of healing services. And you two are?"
”Vala sent you our way? I’m impressed!” The priest’s smile revealed perfect teeth, white as snow in moonlight. Why he should be so pleased at hearing how the young woman had referred the group to him might be puzzling, but given what Kalig had inferred from her, a successful interaction might be an achievement. ”I must remember to thank her. Albin!” The stocky fellow flinched. ”You’ll remind me to thank Vala should I forget, won’t you?”
”W-well, of course, master,” he replied, awkward yet clearly eager to please.
”Thank you, Albin.”
He was a bit odd in his mannerisms, this priest. Odder still that it wasn’t immediately clear what led to this impression. He was cheery and yet there was something about the grin. He was welcoming and yet there was something about his greeting. He was attractive and yet there… Ah. There it was. Alien as elves could be, few would deny the natural grace and beauty bestowed them. The lustrous hair and porcelain skin that so many others strove for seemed theirs by birthright, so much so that many elves recognized no beauty but natural beauty; beyond special occasions, they did little to augment their features. And here this cleric differed. He wore makeup. Quite a lot of it, actually. The iridescent green eyes were made all the more striking against their background of dark eye shadow. The high cheek bones were framed and accentuated through careful contouring. The elf was beautiful. But his was a deliberate beauty.
Deliberate. That was the oddity so difficult to put a word to. The priest’s demeanor felt deliberate.
”Quintus Galerius Trachalus,” he echoed the Opparan, slowly as if tasting the syllables. ”Oh, but that is a grand name. Ritzy, even! Don’t you think it’s a grand name, Albin?”
”Er…”
”Yes, it really is! I’m sure people remark on it all the time, don’t they, Quintus? Very grand. The sort of name that would fit a title like mother-of-pearl fits an oyster. Sir Trachalus, doesn’t that have a certain verve to it? It really does. It makes my own appellation feel poor in comparison!” Oddity though the elf was, compliments from the beautiful had a way of worming their way through even the most cynical of cynics. ”But to answer your query…”
The elf reached one long, slender arm about the dusty-looking man. It gave the impression of a swan embracing a half-plucked hen. ”This is one of our promising acolytes, Albin. Albin is a genius.”
The supposed genius stammered something, red-faced and incredibly uncomfortable yet unable to hide a very pleased grin indeed. The priest merely smiled. ”Albin has taken on the duty of gardener here. She sends him visions, you know. In his dreams he walks Her divine realm, Blossomheart, and its perfect gardens. Using these visions, he tries to recreate their beauty here on our all too fallible coil, giving us a glimpse of the immaculate. Aren’t his roses gorgeous? I tell you, they’ve never looked better!”
The ex-caravanners were hesitant to reach for any so excessive superlatives, but the rose bushes were undeniably… nice? Yes, ‘nice’ seemed a fair assessment. Poor Albin meanwhile looked likely to keel over if any more of his blood flowed to his head. Although embarrassed, the man was clearly delighted at his master’s praise. Fortunately, the priest released his slight shoulders with a little pat.
”As for myself, I delight in the name given me, being Chief Impresario Nillendos, head of this choir devoted fair Shelyn. Please, call me Nilos."
A shrine to the goddess of love and beauty, just as Kalig had suspected. As for her brusque request:
"Yes!"
Yes? It was fair to say that every member of the group was familiar with the hardships of life. Whether through prejudice, circumstance or complicated family relations, all had struggled to reach where they now were, toiled to earn what little they could call their own. That had all learned the truth of that all-too-common adage of there being no such thing as a free meal. Everything came at a price. Somewhat surprising then, when the elf readily affirmed that he would help.
”Of course. If it is in my power to help, then help I shall. To deny you aid would be to deny the power She has seen fit to bless me with.” Just like that? For free? The group had to ask, knowing that any magic, divine or arcane, usually came at a premium. The priest’s grin turned into a lopsided smirk. ”Should you wish to make a donation towards the maintenance of our venue at a later time, then it would be much appreciated. But for now, I understand that you have accepted helping ‘the Devy woman’ as you put it. I greatly admire Lady Devy. Even when we differ, I know she only wants the best for Belhaim. And Belhaim is very precious to me. For your heroics at the Witch Tower today, for aiding Belhaim – I say you’ve earned some relief in return.”
For a moment the elfin smile feels entirely genuine. ”However, I regret to inform you that I am but mortal. I can only channel so much of Her grace before my cup overfills. As such, I fear I may only attempt to cure one of you. So. Which one shall it be?”
Khavel was so quick one would think he’d been expecting this. ”Her,” he croaked, pointing to the druid. ”Don’t you protest,” he hurried on. ”You’ve been fussing over me ever since those blasted rats took their morsels out o’ us. Like the man said, you’ve earned this relief. Besides, it’s the sensible choice too. I know you’ve got that wretched green blood – no offense – and have inherited some of the orcs’ hardiness, but I’m a dwarf. Dwarfs don’t succumb to illness, everyone knows that! You’ll see, I’ll be right as rain first thing in the morning. So just take the bleedin’ miracle, you hear?”
Even green in the cheeks as he was, Khavel almost managed to make the bravado sound convincing. Almost. ”We will happily provide a bed and care for whichever of you goes without,” Nillendos chimed in, looking just a bit amused.
Niccan watches and listens, curious about what he is hearing until he hears Shelyn. He almost interrupts but doesn't want to be disrespectful. When they reached a slight break though, "Shelyn! Of course. But we didn't know. We were introduced to the Abadarans, likely because of our own Brother Danton. This place is beautiful, of course. And how well do you work together with the Abadarans? I mean no disrespect of course. I'm just curious...." He forces himself to stop babbling and gives a rat-faced smile. "Sorry for babbling. And thank you so much for your help."
Quintus chuckles, "Thank you for the appraisal of how well my name would match a title but I have not yet earned any such honors. Yet. It's nice to meet you Chief Impresario Nillendos and you too Albin."
Addressing the smaller man he says, "The Chief Impresario is correct about your gardening skills Albin; a garden of this quality would easily pass inspection in Oppara."
He turns back to Nillendos, "Thank you for your gracious offer of healing. Rest assured we will certainly donate to the Shrine of the Seven Roses when we are able. Sadly our former employer didn't pay our wages so we're in what our Underwriter would describe as 'a cash flow problem' otherwise we would do so now."
One of Kalig's eyebrows raises higher and higher as he rants at her. Once she's sure he's finished, she simply nods at him and says, "Okay."
She's not sure where he got the idea she was fussy; she was just providing standard care for infection and fever the same as anyone taught field medicine would do. If it makes him feel better by giving up dibs on the healing spell, she is certainly not going to complain.
At an opportune moment, she too compliments Albin on the roses. "They clearly appreciate your attentions." She gives him a rare, approving nod. "I have always appreciated roses as a sign of nature's force and favor. Beautiful, resilient, and will tear the skin off your hand if you're not careful." She says this with what one might call a reverent humor, though her regard is absolutely serious.
"Alright then!" nodded Khavel, clearly pleased he had gotten the better over the druid on this occasion. It was a point of pride, really. This bit of self-sacrifice soothed his dwarven ego. It evened the scales what with being out of it since the rats and even getting cared for by Kalig - a half-orc at that!
But if the dwarf was content with this imagined victory of his, it was as nothing compared to Albin. The group's compliments hit their mark. While Khavel's cheeks were turning progressively more green, the unassuming man's blushed as bright as any of his roses. He stammered something unintelligible - a weak protest, you think - whilst unable to meet anyone's gaze. It was endearing, in its way: a stodgy middle-ager blushing like a lad of fifteen. And it was sad, again in its way. Because Albin obviously wasn't used to praise.
The so-called Chief Impresario said nothing, though the pleased twinkle in the green eyes was telling.
"We were introduced to the Abadarans, likely because of our own Brother Danton. This place is beautiful, of course. And how well do you work together with the Abadarans? I mean no disrespect of course. I'm just curious..."
Yet while the elf's good humor had appeared as permanent a fixture on him as the long ears, Niccan's innocent query saw it snuffed. The smile faded like paper in sunlight - its lettering still there, but drained of all color. "We..." he began in a new, slower voice, "... both serve Belhaim and her people in our way. The Gold-Fisted's children offer their services as scribes and bookkeepers to the local record hall, barrister, money changer and Lady Devy, and do so freely. This is good of them. For this, they deserve our admiration."
The group were inclined to look for a chair because they felt a 'but' coming. "My own flock does not sit idle. For one, we organize every holiday, celebration or event in the village, our shrine acting as venue." His elegant fingers - well manicured - fanned out across the beautiful garden with its festive banners and dance hall-like center. A momentary grin broke the gloom that had overtaken the elf. "It is a point of pleasure and privilege that the majority of couples in town have been wed by myself. This is to say that both the Abadarans and us Shelynites serve Belhaim in varied and multifarious ways, all invaluable. But..." There it was. "I fear - no, I know - that if they got their way, my colleague the High Enumerator and his congregation would be the end of Belhaim."
This dire verdict was delivered with the melancholy of the shepherd forced to cast away a sick sheep lest it infect the flock. "Let us speak no more of this. It pains me to speak ill of those who mean to do good." Enumerator Targas a threat to the village? The ex-caravanners impression of him had been rather favorable.
Nillendos did not allow them to linger on the subject. Instead he donned the practiced smile again and beckoned for the half-orc. "Better to see to the malady you came here to remove and bless dear Kalig. Come." The elf reached for her. Understanding that this magic required contact, the druid stepped closer. But the priest's fingers did not search for her hands. Instead they gently cupped her face. He held her like this for moment, the two standing face to face and eye to eye, his own emerald orbs searching the comparatively smaller black pools of the half-orc's. Their position held a certain intimacy, one the druid wasn't convinced was entirely necessary, but then the different faiths held to different customs.
"Do you know," he said through that easy smile of his, "I can see Her shining through you. Yours may not be what some call conventional beauty - whatever that is - but do we not call the storm, the mountain beautiful?" The query required no answer. The elf launched into a litany.
"Eternal Rose, we sing as one
A choir small to reach your realm so great
We find a flower fair defiled
Let grace restore her to Your image
For Your love is in all our souls
As Your beauty is in all our forms
So it is
So let it be."
A reverent Albin echoed 'so let it be' while the priest finished by touching his lips to Kalig's forehead. From this chaste kiss she felt a force travel through her, settling in her stomach. No, not settling; redoubling. Rather than its usual wont of rising in the east, it felt like the sun was dawning somewhere behind her intestines.
The sensation passed. And that wasn't all that passed. Kalig felt her temperature drop to a more comfortable level. The queasiness that had followed her like an unwelcome stench faded too. She was cured. Nillendos withdrew his hands. He looked his pleased self.
Quintus tries to mask his surprise at the Chief Impresario's opinion that High Enumerator Targas was some kind of threat, an 'end to Belhaim.' Having spent his childhood at the Kith, and the constant plotting and backstabbing of students, professors, and benefactors, it's not like he was unaccustomed to high-stakes power struggles.
He just didn't expect it between two churches who served good-aligned deities.
Watching the Chief Impresario heal Kalig, Quintus tried to study the magic. Even though it wasn't anything he could do he still had that craving to learn:
Niccan watches as the spell is successfully cast, glad to see the usual color and vitality on Kalig's face.
Kalig, absolutely not taking the free (relatively speaking) offer of healing for granted, does her best to stay silent and still during the Shelynite's ritual. But she involuntarily snorts--loudly--at the rather generous description of "not a conventional beauty." Kalig is by any standards significantly homely, at least purely on a physical level. Not so much mountain or storm, but more algae on bubbling swamp mud. She is sort of proud of this. She likes her too wide jaw and too close eyes and jutting crooked teeth and black eyes and sun-spotted grey flesh. She knows she will be remembered.
But she recognizes the priest seeing her as a part of a force of nature, which she certainly accepts. As such she does her best to regain her composure. She is too amused, however, to take note of the specifics of his spellcraft--or perhaps it just looks too different from her druidic practics to make sense of it.
The kiss on the forehead is a bit much, particularly given that a true goddess of love or her servant would confirm enthusiastic consent to receive affection.
A mischievous part of her wants to ask the elf if he'd like to cuddle now he was done, but she manages instead, "Thank you. You might want to wash your face, though; I have been literally covered in rat shit all day." She allows that to sink in, and adds. "I will repay you as soon as I am able." She nods to the others. "Thanks for your patience. Perhaps a bath before we go to the noblewoman's house for dinner?"
Danton is able to appreciate the garden and the Sheylnite temple. For whatever reason there was this stigma that those who worship Abadar don't appreciate art and beauty. It wasn't true of course, it was just that those things were much lower on a list of priorities than others.
All in all he keeps his mouth shut and his demeanor somewhat pleasant. He didn't like this place, it was too bright, too capricious. Every moment felt like there was some new patch of colour or sound that was out of place and it kept him off centered.
When the elf starts with the platitudes about the High Enumerator and how his congregation would be the one to save this city, Danton excuses himself.
"I'm sorry, I remembered I have some work to do before we meet with the Lady tonight." He gives a polite nod and leaves, a coldness trailing him.
Once he was out of sight he dropped the meager facade he held as a guest. Unbelievable hubris. He left the garden quickly and in disgust, nearly knocking over a couple of gardners in the process.
Eventually he made it outside the grounds and focused. Recounting values of trade and standard currency conversions. He came to the conclusion that the Sheylnites were full of nonsense, feelings without logic. However he remembered his training, he needed to not give in to those same feelings and look at this objectively despite their insulting claim.
What could he have meant though? There must be some truth to scare them into saying something so preposterous. An Underwriter was responsible for these types of matters so if there truly was an issue he would figure it out. This place seems to be full of mystery.
Niccan watches the back and forth between the big people.... Some of it is confusing, but he does understand the differences between different Deities. He finds the statement, "if they got their way, my colleague the High Enumerator and his congregation would be the end of Belhaim." odd. Perhaps he had heard something wrong? Surely the Abadaran temple wasn't working toward the destruction of the town?
"We do need to clean this filth off of us before we go to Lady Devy's. I hate the idea of taking this to the inn. Maybe we should just wash in the river and let the filth go downstream?"
Nodding with Niccan, "If that's the best choice available I'm all for it. Although cold and wet I think it would be preferable to the...aroma...we've picked up today."
To the Chief Impresario Quintus adds, "Please don't mind our Underwriter Danton, Chief Impresario. He's much more comfortable in a mercantile setting."
Hoping to smooth things over a bit it's the best Quintus can offer.