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Celia, feeling a bit more... jovial than before, jokes to Zalika: "Let's stray from physical violence, if we can? Perhaps lean towards glowering. Good job. Good glower. The finest I've seen all day." Bringing a horse to Gorvio's uncle, Celia pats her former steed on the head. Of course, Shannon's words are... she can sense a sharpness to them, and the blonde-- Thesing-- responds in kind. Celia all but pulls up a chair. She parks herself beside Gorvio's uncle, waiting with bated breath for Shannon's response to Thesing's half-veiled insults.
What do we think about taking a minute to steal some heavy armor off of the hellknights? 30 seconds per if Zalika and Celia work together to yoink it. I'm assuming they're all wearing scale mail or chainmail. I'm also assuming we can hawk it at a reasonable price, considering that it's all hellknighted up. Would some of the people at the church buy it from us for materials?
Hooking her longsword on her belt and her shield across her back, Celia makes the symbol of the Inheritor and lets her senses cascade across the hellknights and the carriage-- she seeks magic of any kind, knowing that magical goods would be worth more than mundane ones, and they have no time to dawdle. "Quickly, now. Those men on horseback should be returning at any moment."
... apparently that doesn't apply to combat maneuvers.
Celia quickly moves around the Asmodean priest, battering him with her sword from the other side.
Round 4! Celia helps Zalika to her feet with a pull-- not that the foaming half-orc notices, lost in her fury. Noticing that the priest seems to have taken a vicarious beating from the two she put on his allies, Celia's confusion is plain until the hellknight slashes Zalika. With a look of consternation, she advances on him. She brings her shield up, slamming the hellknight in the shoulder, and then turning to bludgeon him in the exposed collarbone with her sheathed sword.
"My goddess is with me!" she laughs, but then her features harden again-- it's dishonorable to mock those whom fall in combat, by sheathed sword or not.
Celia sidesteps the blow, parrying with her sword still in its sheathe. "Asmodean dogs," she growls. "Your god blesses you by making us bow before you; My goddess blesses me by making you fall before me." To punctuate her words, she spins and hammer strikes a second hellknight with the pommel of her sword.
In the chaos, she offers a hand to Zalika to stand up. "C'mon!"
Round 3! Celia brings her sword around, pummeling the Hellknight in the helment ineffectually to mask her long, sideways slam with her still-sheathed sword. She aims for the temple, intending to rattle his brain and send the man into blissful unconsciousness.
Still asping from the wash of negative energy, Celia tries to step towards one of Zalika's targets, attempting to give her the edge through distraction.
"Nonlethal," Celia muses. "I like that. Best option, really." She looks to the others-- "The forest or the bridge? I'll pray for guidance if necessary, but we should decide quickly. The forest may be best if we want to outrun their riders by cutting through the woods-- or, we could devise a ruse with the integrity of the bridge."
Celia wakes, stretched across a pew, the hardcover Acts of Iomedae weighing down her chest. Groggily, she struggles with consciousness until Fiosa brings her clothes-- balking, yet still accepting them, Celia changes without an argument. Wearing her longsword on her hip and still carrying the Acts, Celia nods at Janiven as she greets her. "Good morning. If you've got a plan, let's hear it," she says, getting comfortable on a wall. Being here was like a dream-- it felt so unreal. One moment she was going to be heading home, the next, chased by Hellknights through an underground road...
Shannon's diatribe gets little recognization from Celia besides a nod and an affirmative, but it lingers in the forefront of her thoughts for a time afterwards. The regime was making people complacent through art... she'd never knew. The Parego Dospera was so far away from the culture of Cheliax, mired so deeply in poverty, that Celia had never even seen a play performed live on stage in her life. The description of it, the themes and twists and turns fascinated her and she considered it for a long time afterward. She'd have to try to tick Shannon's ire again in the future to hear more stories, because just asking would prove that she was a fool. That somewhere in the world, on stage right now, a person was enacting the rape of a woman by a devil and that somehow, in some way, the people watching and the people performing it believed it to be the most morally upright result sickened Celia to her core. Yet the story, the fantasy of a magic mirror and a devil's trick... shouldn't that play end differently? With an affirmation of life, or the death of the man? "Of course! We can't have a church without religious texts, and Arael's procured a few. Of course, none of the texts of Aroden have been preserved this long, not in such an out-of-the-way temple. Perhaps if you traveled to a great library you could find one, but what we have here are a few copies of The Acts of Iomedae." picking up the shield and going back to the common room, he continues. "Would you like to read it? We have plenty of time before the sun comes up." Handsome. It was hard for her to look past the novelty his skin, which was rare but not unknown in Westcrown, to see that he was, in fact, handsome. Celia follows him, nodding. "Really? That would be... that would be amazing. It'd be the first time in my life that I'd have the real holy book in my hands." "To be honest, I'm not a very good priestess of the goddess, having never read the holy book myself. I... memorized a lot of it, from spoken scripture, from the person who taught me. I'm... not exactly a master at reading." She hadn't had time in her life for reading until after the event, where her mother couldn't bare to take her to the riverside to wash clothing because of the dress they would wear and how it so keenly showed the scars, burns and gouges left behind after her tenure at the Hellknights' hands. It was lucky that she'd taken it up recently. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have been able to read Janiven's letter.
"You can't see it, but I'm sure you remember it well. The tattoo on my face covers a burn mark from the blade of a Hellknight inquisitor's sword. It's not the only one-- there's a reason I wear sleeves and long breeches. My experiences in the Citadel make me pale when considering a career choice among my torturers." She rises from the water, wrapping herself in a towel. "And in given the choice between the dottari and this resistance? I'd rather be finally guilty of the crimes they accused me of than simply fall in line." The tall woman pauses; the sound of clothing rustling and buttons clicking into place comes from the other side of the room. "My faith is secondary to that, but equally important. And to keep it fair, quid pro quo; Why are you here? Why here, and not, for example... some performance or lavish party in the Rego Corna?" -------------- Celia shakes Sclavo's hand demurely. "Of course. I'd thought I was the only one," she jokes. Celia looks at the church around them wide-eyed. "I never heard of this place before or I think I might have stumbled upon your little cadre earlier. It's beautiful. Were any of the holy relics or religious texts saved?"
Celia cracks a smile to Addie-- things were looking up, and she could see it. "Thanks for the touch up," she says, and makes headway to the bath. Shannon bathing behind her isn't too inappropriate, and she lets him know as much; "Just don't look, or I'll make your face as red as mine-- hear?" But really, Celia didn't mind. Space was limited, after all, and she slips into the water heavily. Finally able to cleanse herself of the smell of sweat, sewer and ale, she washes her short hair quickly and doesn't linger long-- climbing out and redressing, leaving her armor hanging in the church proper. Stalking back out, she takes stock of the others, introducing herself and hopefully being introduced to in turn until she knows the others as best as she can-- there's few moments until they're back into the breach, and to meet other worshippers of the Inheritor is a blessing in itself.
Celia's brow furrows. Janiven likes to talk-- a lot. She chews on the half-elf's words and then, with an expression of clarity, nods. "I considered it, and I'll help. Anything to give it to the hellknights, really. If you can carve out a plan, I'll help. The Light of the Sword brought me here, it seems." Taking long strides into the church, she raises her longsword. The orange torchlight off of the blade illuminates the people in the dark. She takes a look amongst them, counting the sword-symbols and turns around wearing a new expression-- excitement. "Show me to the baths, then. Sounds like we have little time."
Having not yet drawn her shield, Celia instead decides to throw herself into combat hard and fast. Lunging and running forward, she charges towards the goblins. Swinging the light-imbued sword at the nearest target, it's easy to see that perhaps despite her appearance she has little formal training-- relying on instinct and what strength she has to get the 'point' across.
Hissing, she says "Quickly, before someone hears!"
Taking the potions, Celia slips them into the satchel at the end of her bandolier. "Thanks." Looking about, the sunrod illuminating the room, she smirks. "This place seems to be accustomed to me; I already follow the sword," she says, and takes the sunrod. Fingers outstretched, the sunrod's light wanes as her longsword suddenly illuminates as brightly as a torch. She hands the sunrod back to Janiven. "And I'm already carrying the light." Turning, she holds out her sword to get a better look at things. "I'll lead the way, then? Let's be swift. No telling when the Hellknights will find that passage, and then we're dead." She begins taking steps forward, swift yet cautious.
Displeased by Jess's quick and simple deconstruction of her lie, Celia grumps while eating. Finishing up, she slips her gauntlets back on while watching the witch lay out cards. All she catches is the snake-lady with the bouquet, and raises an eyebrow at it. But who's she to judge? They were both praying, just to different ideals. "Wise words," she says, and tips her mug to Addie. Now was the time for drinking.
Celia looks at the witch with the black veil over her face and the honestly unnerving cat, the drunkard and then at her own reflection in her spoon-- the burn marks layered with a red tattoo that ran the length of her face. "Well, if we're talking about us, you're the one that talks to people without scaring them."
"Jess," she repeats, and commits it to memory-- Jessnen Daersic. "Addie," she says, and then to her cat: "His Lordship; Ser signoria." A witch? Interesting that she would call herself that. Celia stares strangely at the feminine man for a moment before nodding along blankly. She gets the feeling that she should have heard of him-- and she remembers why. Not him-- a her. An executed opera singer. Even she knew that. "Ser Rhys-- My deepest condolences," she says, and bows her head for a moment. She doesn't want to tread any further, so she becomes quiet for a moment before changing the subject. "In the Parego Dospera, I'm a washer woman. No fancy titles or family history to share, I'm afraid. I'm aspiring to be a hand of the Inheritor. If you have an issue with that, best say so now." She handles the open challenge with disparate aloofness, like it was every day news. It was, almost-- in Cheliax, other religions were hardly tolerated. She'd earned a few meaningful threats in the days when she wore her holy symbol, and she'd earned double that now with a sword, the mark of Iomedae, tattooed on her face. Celia comes from a part of town that is, by all means, completely ruined and utterly ransacked. Slave markets and back-alley illegal deals happen daily. She was as far from Ser Rhys's opera as one person could get.
"Well, fine and suit yourself," Celia says, a bit offended at being brushed off. Hunger outweighs her pride and she takes off her gauntlets, laying them across her lap. Thin yet calloused fingers pick at the chicken set out in front of her. "Training. Praying. Working. It's hard to take a woman seriously in this town, apparently. Perhaps you feel that, like I do." Celia didn't want to reveal too much, but maybe that was what was hamstringing the conversation. "I see the looks you're giving me and I'll put you at rest by saying I'm not a dottari. The holy symbol of Iomedae is on the other side of this tabard; you don't have to be afraid of me." She eats politely. "And if you all don't mind, names perhaps? I'm Celia."
"You're Janiven? Evening's greetings." She watches the armored woman cut food like a trained barmaid and simply waits, studying the woman over with the scrutiny of the dottari she was sure all of these people thought she was. Celia receives the ale, smells it and sets it aside. "No. Whoever ghosted me is skilled, though." "So," she says, and palms the letter flat onto the table. "Explain?"
Celia gives her an odd look before walking further inside, taking stock of her surroundings. "Guess you're both here for the same reason I am then." She folds the letter and sticks it back into the neck of her armor. Celia sees the black cat sitting on the table in front of the Varisian girl and approaches it, smiling. "Afternoon, signore." She looks to the girl and the deck. "Nice to meet you. Name's Celia. You've got a gorgeous cat." Nodding the same greeting to the disheveled drunken man, she's at a lack of words to find anything complimentary about him so she simply gives him a curt smile. The pretty woman with the massive sword tattoo her face sits down at the table across from the pretty Varisian girl with the veil across her face. "By the deck, you're a... fortune teller?"
- Heading far south from the northern part of Westcrown, from the Rego Crua to the Rego Sacero, Celia finds herself at the front of the tavern staring up at the boards and empty windows. She sighs and almost turns around, berating herself for her idiocy when she sees that the door is open-- and voices are coming from inside. Making her way to the interior, Celia glances around, staying on point to minimize the chance someone had to, perhaps, kidnap her here and now. She unashamedly draws her sword just before she enters. She's met with a nice looking tavern, a peasant Varisian girl and a washed-up drunk. Celia eyes both of them warily for signs of... she didn't know, aggression? before putting away her sword with a leathery sound. "Which one of you is Janiven?" she says, holding up the letter in one hand.
Celia stares at the letter, open in her hands. She reads the name.
"Who?" Going back and re-reading the letter, Celia's facial expression transforms from confused to consternation to horror. "Idealists?" she thinks in a huff, and throws the letter to the ground. Slick with sweat and angry from her brush with old memories, Celia empties a small decanter of water over her arms and head, her short brown hair thickening under the stream. The water passes over old scars and knots in her skin, rippling before pattering against the dirt floor beneath her. Sliding her gauntlet from her hand is painful-- her hands are brilliant red, welted over from her overzealous assault on her imaginary hellknight. She curses under her breath and undoes the thick leaden apron hanging around her neck and across her shoulders, heavy like a dead-weight drunk. It was important to mimic the weight of armor when practicing with a sword or else you'd be thrown off balance during the real act. Was she going to wear her scale mail while sweating away beating a dummy? Of course not. It was important to have rules, to keep yourself cleanly and presentable. To walk from battle a hundred times worse than this straight into a meeting with the devil himself, standing tall and strong, implacable like a symphony of angels. She was starting to sermonize herself, now. That's where she was. Celia's head hurt and she regretted ever memorizing scripture for a moment before she felt... heavy. She dropped on the floor, tumbling down into a sit. After what she'd did, her heart was still pounding in her ears, and she sat there for a moment, panting. It was her and the letter, side by side, and eventually curiosity won out. This time she'd read it-- and really read it. Irian had given her a boon by allowing her to use this training room when the other members of the dottari weren't. Perhaps this was her fate-- to slowly ingratiate herself to the city guard until they had accepted her as one of their own and took her in like a ragged dog, to pity and protect. This letter seemed to suggest otherwise. It was pithy idealism, exactly what they declared. These people would be hanging from the gallows by the end of the week. Forced to swallow water until their confessions sang through the Citadel. Burned on the side of the face by a sword... Who'd want to have that happen again? She rethought it again after upending the vase over herself in the private garden. The freezing deluge interrupted her. The chill of the water combined with the nagging fear that someone could see her, half-naked in the yard of an abandoned barracks, made her skin crawl. Parego Dospera teemed with life and the sounds of the city all around her, people calling out in Infernal and in Taldane up and down the street. Only a thin and crumbling brick wall stood between her shame and a street full of peddlers. Dressing quickly, her mind wandered back to the letter for the fourth time. How many times would it take for her to finally summon up the willpower to simply banish the thought from her mind? She wasn't going. She wasn't going. She was going to go home and sleep and think about what she wanted to eat in the morning and have a distant conversation with her eldest brother where he would try his hardest not to look at her face... She was going. Dressing in her scale mail, Celia sheathes her sword on her hip and hangs a red cloth tabard over her armor. One day, Westcrown would be free-- one day, Celia could flip the tabard and reveal the holy symbol of Iomedae, and no one in the city would say a damn thing. Perhaps this was the first step towards that day. Preparing mentally to run for her life if this was a trap, Celia set out towards Vizio's Tavern.
The only thing I use take 10 for is climbing anyways, so it should be a harrowing post when we come across a ladder. :P Oh, and disable device, which is essentially written around take 10 take 20 but we don't have that skill in the party so moving on. All of your house rules and such sound fine. I'm unavailable for the rest of the day but I will check in around 8 or so to see what's up and try for a quick post. If there's more necessary, later tonight. It's my all-day face to face game day. |
