to the High Priest Vorlan Ironstone
I am Harlan Greystone, elder of Dournish in the Faraway reaches. I write with a heavy hand and a heavier heart, for I fear something odd has befallen my flock, though I cannot rightly name what it is.
The women here—every one of childbearing years—are bearing children at a rate no mortal should. Not one or two, as the seasons and the Mother’s grace have always given, but three, four, even five at a time. The births come swift and strong, yet almost never a boy child among them. The cradles fill with daughters, and the men grow fewer in number, though those that do remain grow fewer and fewer. The lads what fathered ‘em look hollowed out after, shuffling ‘round with blank stares, forgetting their own names some days. Ain’t no sickness I recognize—no fever, no wasting—just a quiet drain, like life's leaking out slow.
Some mornings we find an empty place at table or hearth, and none can say where the man went, only that he was there the night before.
The village has grown quiet. Folk speak less, and when they do speak, their words come slow, as though they listen for something behind them. Children stare longer than children ought, and the dogs no longer bark at dusk. I have caught wives watching their husbands sleep with eyes that do not blink. I do not know what it means, Reverend. I only know it is wrong.
I have prayed at the Bountiful Harvest until my voice gave out. I have asked the Mother for a sign, and the only answer is silence.
Send someone, anyone, who might understand what I cannot. Send someone who can look upon this strangeness and give it a name, before whatever it is finishes whatever it has begun.
May Chauntea keep you,
Harlan Greystone
The seagulls mocking cry drew your attention to the large window that dominated the northeasterly wall of the Harvestmaster's lodgings in Alaghon. It stands upon the stone railing that protected the unobservant from falling the 100 feet down to the salt stained jagged rocks and boulders that stand unmoving to the Sea of Falling Star's aquatic assault. The gull cackles a second, third and more. Laughing and mocking, it caws loudly, filling the room.
A small stone zips out, smacking into the birds chest. The cackle is cut off mid tone as the bird falls down off the banister.
damn birds. The dwarf rumbles, rubbing his hands together. it's not so much the birds i dont like, just those Seagulls.
you look back at your host, a shockingly muscular dwarf with thick red hair. He picks up a walnut and, pinching between finger and thumb, easily crushing the shell. The dwarf picks at the contents, retrieving the meat from the shells and tossing them into his mouth.
Please, please, help yourself. he mutters with his mouthful.
(You would, but the lack of nut cracker makes it difficult to crack nuts)
Vorlan Ironstone, Harvestmaster of the church of Chauntea for Turmish, was an imposing figure, even though he stands only four feet tall. While only standing up to a man's chest, his arms, legs, and body are bound over with thick strands of muscle. Thighs as thick as the largest oak trees, the girth of his arms equal to a man's waist, and a chest as broad as a large wine barrel. A long beard hangs from his face, reaching down to his keens, yet woven in an intricate braid made of more braids. Set into this beard, his holy symbol. A red rose, recently blossomed, surrounded by a wreath of golden grain freshly harvested. Hanging from the wall, set with prominence upon the wall, a shrine to these devices of harvest, a pair of sickles, a meat cleaver and a large scythe. The sickles glow with a soft yellow light, while the meat cleaver glows with a cold blue. The Scythe does not glow, but is of such masterwork craftmanship that one cannot help but think that it is also magical in some way. On either side of the display, two large planters hang from the wall. Two berry trees grow up from the planters, heavy with bounty. several red and blue berries lay upon the floor.
Zashier. again, thanks for coming. your reputation precedes you another nut cracks loudly within the room. I have heard about how you managed to cleanse the town of Reddansyr. threatening to put all the children under the age of 16 to the cleansing fire to find the witches coven, Brilliant! he claps his hands together once, and the crack is so loud it makes your ears ring momentarily.
Now, i am sure you already have plans to move on to some other location, and i do appreciate you stopping here to talk to me about this...
Vorlan hands Zashier a letter. i received this letter from Harvestman Greystone. A nice man, very down to earth. Knows his theology very well, and has a kind heart. Even three score and ten years of age, perhaps more, and he still helps out his flock come harvest time. And his blessings! That man can lay out the blessings on the harvest faster than any of them. he wields his aspergillum as a knight wields a horsemans mace. a true sight to see
Vorlan takes a sip of wine. More importantly, he is smart enough to know when he doesnt know something. he takes another drink of wine I would ask some other priests of Chauntea to look into this, but it is high harvest time. And, from initial reports, it is a true harvest to be thankful for.
Another seagull lands on the banister, and Vorlan throws a stone at the bird, causing it to fall out of sight. The last eight years, the harvest has been rather lacking. A severe drought has wrecked Turmish. Cant grow anything without rain. Numerous small creeks and rivers have dried up. the ponds that dot the landscape of Turmish, the smaller ones have dried up. the deeper ponds grow stagnant. he leans back in his chair, drinking. and now this... a strangeness with children. men missing. This is not good for the harvest.
Aiwin was dressed in her usual very provocative clothing. Showing all her curves, lithe build, the cloth cut at just the right angles. Her skin pale as the snow. Her green and blue eyes a bright contrast to the stark white attire she usually wears, the rest of her face hidden behind a rabbit motif mask. Sleek black hair combed down her back, not a hair out of place. In her arm, a large winter Hare. Eyes dark, darker than it should be, a glint of alien intelligence glinting as it watched the room. If you look at him, it feels like he has been staring at you for the whole time
She gives a very audible yawn as she listens. Her eyes slowly going over the surroundings. She made it very obvious she didn't want to be here and IS here out of... Obligation. Her mixed eyes cold and very uncaring.
At the mention of the few happenstance, she does give a slight smirk
"Too bad those threats were just that, would have liked to have listened to the lamentations of the parents. Maybe now I can, little boys being stolen and replaced with girls. Maybe some of them will receive the blessings I did. What do you say Zash? Duel eyed little girls running around hexing everyone? Doesn't that sound like a blast?"
In a corner, on the shadows, a dark figure seems to loom. The tall, muscular, green skinned, and somewhat scarred half-orc with short black hair has an immense blade tied to her back, shining a bit dirty against the dark gray armor - a mix of leather and metal, heavy and crude, with a painted holy symbol resembling a fire-winged, angry archangel.
As the witch speaks, she just takes a last drag in a small cigar and throws it aside. She doesn't say a word or roll her eyes - she stays with the same blase attitude, nonchalant, silently hearing the Dwarf and its cracking nuts.
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The half-elf known as Cressid Brightstar watches the dwarf with amusement. He isn't fond of the arbitrary shooting down of birds, but even he can't deny that Vorlan has been a reliable host. In all his travels, those weren't as common as one would like.
He reads the letter himself as Alwin the witch spill her usual callous comment. Surprisingly, it seems that Cressid has heard every word, as he replies "Hexing what? Seems like that town is already in trouble. We should really go take a look. This would at least be a nice leg stretch. You'd like that, wouldn't you witch?"
He is a bit more worried than he's letting show. Such news were usually a bad omen, and he didn't even believe omens. Mostly.
"Not what, whom. The people. Each other. Little witches need to practise their art if they wish to become stronger." her duel coloured eyes smile coldly at Cressid "And yes, I won't mind stretching my legs, the people in such villages are oh so gullible after all. Need to win their hearts and bodies eventually." she put her one finger to her chin, smiling innocently "It's not my fault their spouses get jealous"
Grigori stood, swirling the wine as he listened. The tall man wore his top hat on the glossy raven hair held back in a low ponytail. he took a sip, the white lace of his cuffs a stark contrast to his ebon coat.
"Let her talk, her words do nothing more than to get a rise out of us" came the rumbling bass of this man. His words were a bit cracked and dry, to which the cool liquid of the wine would fix.
Pallid as death, the man wore clothes of nobility, but always in the fashion of a mourner. Only a purple scarf tied at the neck and tucked in the collar of his vest showed any color. Be it in the man or his attire.
"Alwin, I no doubt you'd engage in your own debaucery and chaos. THat is not why we are here, " came his voice, almost flat and void of emotion. The tall man looked up from the glass in his hand, his deep socketed eyes of steel latched onto the Witch, his haunted, hallowed things more befitting a corpse than man, took in her visage before returning to his glass.
"For a so called learned man, you seem to forget how to pronounce a very basic name, but I guess your mind is sloshed by all the alcohol you consume it can't be helped. And another mistake, YOU are here for being 'helpful' I on the other hand will partake in as much debauchery as I can. Indulgence and all that. I need something to warm my poor little cold heart" she half cackles as she laughs "I may be forced to do certain things, but I am in no way obligated to be a mere puppet. And most of you in the group are such sticks in the mud. I'd be more than happy to have a warm night in the cold air if just asked. Oh well" she shrugs, petting the head of Sir Longears, his unblinking eyes just filling the void
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Cressid tilts his head and says "Oh, don't be crass.... You're capable of so much more! Your heart can get so warm with just a few laughs, I'm sure you remember. Maybe if we get some wine in you, you'll dance with the innkeeper again!" It isn't clear if the half-elf is retelling an event or if he's hoping nobody will search their memories too hard.
"I can dance alright, just not the way you think. And I haven't had a complaint once. Wine and song does add some much needed warmth, that I can agree to too. Are you proposing something my dear Cress?" her last few words drip with suggestions and hints
Gregory sighed. Silence as a grave was a way to be. Though not accurate. The dead spoke of you chose to hear. Unlike the brazen witch, whom he cared less if she were free or not, just knew no matter what deserved a proper burial. All those sentient deserved a proper burial.
Undead deserved death. Even rhe mummified servants of his God. He though showed restraint. He too used undead but mostly to move the body to a proper place so he can properly observe and record last rights.
He sipped the wine again and looked to the Wotch."A fury of a blizzard incarnate, at night under the stars. Stealing what little heat this decaying body doth have. Oh riding rhe tempestous storm to a heightened crescendo would be ever so poetic." He looked at Cress.
" If you choose to do so, I shall make sure your name is recorded and your body laid to rest. Alwin would eat when a night soul like yours for a snack." He says dryly. Very much the dour mortician, clinical and distant.
She waves Grigori off
"I expect drama from Cress. Not you. I'd never kill the poor man. Someone needs to tell or even sing of my exploits. He's much too valuable." she traces a cold finger down Cress arm, then looks at Grigori
"Zash is too much of a work-a-holic and Aleranna, I think she's too angry to want to be comforted. And you, youre so dull even the dead want to stay dead. Cress here... I think he's a man of talent. In more ways than one. I'd never bed and dead him. Not that I've never done that, you're rhyme does ring true. I've been to a few houses and left a hurricane disaster in my wake. But that's the thrill of it, right? Need to get my blood pumping some how"
Grigori smiles. " To think someone so cold, makes my belly warm with birth."
He chuckles. A disquietingnsound of crackling dry paperwork a damp dry sand blow through it. So alien and dead at once before he takes another sip of wine.
" He is quiet talented. As for you and him. May do you both some good.Alerenna isnt that bad. Very soft features to the trained eye. Also more a thiugher nut to Crack than a frosty crust you have. Though I do love your familiar. Very soft and comforting." He smiles. What should be a soft smile but seemingly twisted into something profane.
" And no Cressid should I require such, I shall seek it elsewhere. And No other is not with a corpse. Thiugh I am sure the bard would have been scathing" He chuckled again, same unearthed undead sound. Which stops once more with a drink.
A grey-white wolf strolls languidly through the scene, mouth open and tongue hanging in what looks suspiciously like amusement. Walking past Aiwin, he turns and sits down on the floor, looking between the various speakers.
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Silviradrith let out a soft, huffed laugh and pushed himself off the wall with fluid grace.
"Careful, Cressid," Silviradrith interjected, his voice a smooth, melodic chime. "If you actually managed to lure our dear Winter Witch into a dance, I would spend the entire night making sure Grigori doesn’t start measuring the floorboards for your final arrangements. I would prefer a quiet evening without the sound of 'heightened crescendos' echoing through the inn."
He offered Aiwin a playful, mock-deferential bow, his eyes bright with amusement.
"Besides," he added lightly, straightening, "if the rumors in that letter are even half true, the village we are headed toward already has enough strange births and missing men. I would hate for us to arrive only to discover we had contributed to the problem."
Zash reads the letter, then reads it again, just to be sure. It was, strange, to say the least. Having one's prayers not answered usually meant something had gone very wrong. Either with the person praying or the deity being prayed to. He says as much to Vorlan. "Have any of your prayers likewise gone unanswered? It is most unusual for a high ranking priest such as Harvestmaster Greystone to be ignored, but if yours are as well, that could be most problematic."
He smiles faintly at the banter between Aiwin and the others. While she does her best to constantly vex him, and has caused him no end of headache and problems, she also amuses him quite often. Like, right now, pestering poor Grigori. "Grig, why do you let Aiwin get to you like that? You should heed your own advice, since she is very much getting a rise out of you."
Turning to the winter witch, he replies to her earlier comment. "It doesn't sound like the little boys are being replaced with girls. It sounds like the mothers are only having girls. And in more numbers than are normal. Twins alone are rather rare, but triplets, quadruplets, and quintuplets? Almost unheard of for one mother to have, let alone so many in a single town."
" Oh, I find the banter stimulating. Aiwinn is quite an entertaining companion. I know she will want the full burial treatment of all worshippers of the Frostmaiden. To be left in the cold, letting the embrace of winter keep and preserve her. Simple and yet elegant." Grigori says with a smile. Eerie, as he rarely smiled. Joked and jested but earnestly smiled, no. He was more like an intelligent corpse than a man.
Vorlan quirks an eyebrow at everyone in the room as they banter amongst themselves.
He remains silent until everyone quiets. the dwarf looks at Zashier. you allow your pet to speak so... freely? I can summon a Scold's bridle to silence her for our chat...
he lets the offer hang in the air a moment, and then answers zashier. he lets out a sigh Honestly, i havent had much time to pray these last few weeks. It's harvest time. Harvest from the fields, from the ocean. Even though we've had a drought and near-famine, it seems this harvest has been bountiful! he waves his hands at his berry trees. For the last 8 years, those two trees have barely formed fruit, and yet now, this year, they bequeath me several large baskets full. Some of the berries are even now being brewed into melomel, and others turned into jam. he pats a stack of books on his desk from what i have gathered talking to the dock workers and the farmers that immediately surround Alaghon, they are reporting an incredible bounty!
he breaks several more nuts with his fingers, and eats the meat.
"Perhaps we should first see if it fits your large head before you bring such a contraption close me ?" she smiles politely at the dwarf
Then to Grigori "That sounds marvellous. Blanket of snow" she closes her eyes as she wraps her arms around herself "Simply marvellous"
When pets speaking freely are mentioned, Liam suddenly says "Yes, he does." in Common. If anyone looks at him, he cocks his head and wags his tail a couple of times.
"Well, for starters, Aiwin's not my pet. She's...she's complicated, to say the least. It's also not worth tryin to silence her. All that will do is make my life worse later on. Plus, I don't think you'd fair too well attempting to force a bridle on her." Zashier replies, offering a fair warning to Volran.
He arches a questioning eyebrow at the dwarf. "Would not the harvest be among the most appropriate times to honor and pray to the Earthmother? Even if to just give her thanks?"
"The Reaping." Grigori says, taking another cup of the beverage." All those sparks snuffed out with one stroke of the reaper's blade. A chorus of cries unheard by human ears." He takes a drink and then sighs.
"Apologies, but Zashier is right, this would be much in line with contacting the Earthmother. Chauntea's children were celebrating the bounty her bosom brought. Yet you don't? Interesting?" Grigori looks to his other compatriots and then back to Vorian.
Aleranna crosses her arms, still silently, focusing in hearing the conversation. She has little use for the details of the dwarf's prayers, though the rich bounty of the workers around Alaghon sounds interesting. The half-orc limits herself to scratch her chin when Vorlan mentions Aiwin - Zashier may have his reasons to drag her around, and she wouldn't question him. "Whatever.", is mostly her attitude.
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The bard sees the dwarf be questioned about his customs and says "Oh, people deal with this in very different ways around the world. I've heard songs about a small Cormyr town that worships Mielikki but has no customs to honor her. I got curious and eventually found the place. It turns out, a lot of the things they do on their day to day are things of worship, and they do pray to her. They just do it so often and mundanely that they don't really consider it proper worship and service, whatever that means."
Coming back to the present, he says "I'm sure you all saw all the roses downstairs. They're all blooming over a few grain seeds. That should tell you that Chauntea's worship is often refreshed here."
Finding it a bit dull to question the dwarf on his customs, the half-elf adds "I'd much rather move on to Turmish to look at this a bit closer."
"If you ask me, and even if you don't, my suggestion is keep things as they are. A few extra girls, and a few less men could do the town good. Let the men rot away. A whole village of woman. Now that sounds like a good place to spend your time" she laughs
"I just find the lack of communion with Chauntea intriguing. I had to learn a lot about the Gods and their religions. My masters were intent on my knowledge of such things, so I knew how to properly respect the body of the departed." He paused to take another drink of coffee.
" For my master, it's mummification. The delicate removal of the organs, draining the blood, and wrapping of my flesh in cloth that is sanctified with holy water and sacred script. Favored priests often become mummies themselves. I will not get that pleasure as I am..." he stopped and drank.
"...A village of women is interesting. Though would die in a generation or two without the other sex to help replenish their numbers, though keeping men as chattle for labor and breeding would work. If done correctly." Grigori says as he gestures to Cressid.
" That's intriguing. Though more about the divine supplicants or priests not communing. That strikes me as odd. Though I bet our host here is too stressed with the Harvest and these issues to fully open themselves to properly commune. " Grigori nods to Vorian.
"Did I say no men allowed, ever? Use em then boot em. Or you know, eat them, lock them up, bury them, lots of ways to repopulate without the lingering man stench around" she shrugs
"I wouldn't recommend eating them. Not good for a woman's overall health. I have things that could aid in such an endeavor. Though I doubt Zashier would approve." Grigori continued to drink on his tea, seemingly unfazed by the idea of blatant cannibalism or slaughter. He, though, wasn't really concerned with what others do.
"You just haven't done it the right way yet" even if Grigori was unphased, she knew that at least Vorlan wasn't. And that made all this so more delicious to discuss
"True, I haven't read all the Treatises and Works containing the cooking of sentient beings. I may try to procure some and read. I suspect the lower planes may have a few." He says having a polite conversation." Though I have read something about an Iced Cream. Cold yet sweet. We can add fruit, cocoa, tea, coffee, and more."
"Fattened meat. Brothed or cooked over night. I can assure you. You don't need books. Just ask" she gives him a smile that could freeze an Ifreeti
Vondal simply looks at Aiwin I have broken greater evils than you could ever comprehend, little squirrel
he waves his hand, dismissing the witch. he looks at Zashier and snaps
of course we give thanks the Bountiful Mother during harvest! His jaw clamps shut and heaves a heavy sigh. My apologies. I dont mean to be short... I forget at times that not everyone prays to the Harvest Maiden. He snaps a few more nuts with his fingers. It's not that we dont pray to her. we do. Every bushel of corn harvested, the villagers and priests give praise. every basket of apples is celebrated. each and every calf, foal, chick, ox, pup, kitten, all of it is praised.
he sips his wine It is simple prayers that the priests and farmers do, more so a ritual.
but you asked if my prayers had gone unanswered to the Harvest Mother. For my faith, there is prayers you do during harvest, and then there are prayers he emphasizes his last word. These prayers, ones that get the direct attention of the Great Mother and receive an answer for, those we conduct at specific times of the year. First bud on the trees, first green in the planted fields, first new lamb of the year. and Now, first bountiful rainfall of the year. During those times, we devote serious prayers to the Fertile Matron. Now, with the harvest in full swing, i give praise to the fertility reports, but will not conduct a devotional to Chauntea until the last report has landed on my desk. Then, i will seek solitude and conduct my prayers of thankfulness for Bounty receive the warmth of the Earthmother.
Grigori smiles. " Aiwin I think our good priest thinks you are cute and fluffy like a squirrel."[/b]
" How do you stop the shakes? The brain of cannibals are fascinating like a wormy apple" He continues to drink and talk as if at some sortee with noble ladies
She takes of her mask and looks at it than at Grigori "I'm pretty sure this is a rather accurate depiction of the Rabbit prince? Not sure where this one sees a squirrel. But then again, perhaps his eye-sight is going. Can't blame him, he sees evil everywhere. It may be going into his eyes." in taking of her mask, one can see her face seems very young, almost perfectly preserved youth in her state. Seems the cold is preserving her skin from showing her ageing, her twin coloured eyes showing signs of bemusement
" It is a Rabbit Prince. The Evil Everywhere debate is contextual as to its definition. Personally, it's often exhausting." Grigori takes another drink as he ponders the mask. He himself has a mask, but not like the rabbit's. Grigoris was a crow or raven, depending on the observer. It was a reflection of his soul.
She picks up the very large sized rabbit that had been lazily enjoying the indoors, and snuggles his fur "That's right, it's still The Rabbit Prince Sir Longears, that meanie simply was trying to make you angry"
Liam yawns toothily when the talk of eating men is mentioned. You get the impression he was showing off his fine set of teeth, not tired. Eating humans isn't cannibalism if you aren't one, after all.
you cant help but make second, third, and fourth glances at the sickles and the scythe hanging upon Vorlan's wall.
"Easy Vorlan, that's not what I meant. I know enough about Chauntea's faith to know how you give thanks to her for all the bounty she provides. That's not what I'm worried about. Harvestmaster Greystone has sought answers from The Earthmother, and he has been met with silence. You Harvestmasters hold the highest favor with The Golden Goddess, so for one of you to not receive answers from her is most worrisome indeed. "