The slaves are happily buzzing, as Sorala leaves. Clearly having something productive to do, chosen by them is quite the intoxicating cocktail after years of living under Sooraj's presumably unwelcome rule. It is the freedom, not the labor, that was onerous.
There is a lesson here but Sorala's mind can't quite tackle it. Not yet.
Instead she leaves the stripped bakery and begins walking the streets of, what she now knows is Crescent Harbor. For once the White Squire is not in a hurry or following the orders of a impatient master so she...takes her time. In a rather novel experience she simply wanders the twisting streets with no defined goal in mind, except a gradual movement toward the ice flow.
But Sorala is not idle. She keeps her eyes and ears open, her mind awake. She wants to understand this strange place, to learn about this city. The Irrisen woman has a feeling she will be spending a great deal of time here and something about this tropical enclave....excites her. So she walks.
And sweats. The first thing she discovers is how hot it is. Early afternoon in Port Peril is, quite literally, the hottest Sorala has ever been. The blazing tropical sun beats down like an angry forge-god, rays of sunlight turning the air into a sizzling saucepan. Sorala can see, before her disbelieving eyes, hot air dancing off rocks, like the space above an oven. Her pale skin tingles painfully, hot to the touch. Sunburn? How did people live here?
She pulls up her hood, drinks more water from her canteen, and keeps walking Sticking to the shade of the ramshackle buildings whenever possible. She is helped by the fact that the buildings are packed closely together, leaning on each other like friendly, helpful drunks. The wide, gabled roofs cover most of the muddy streets even at high noon. While this keeps the heat at bay (and protects her feet from scorching) it does mean most of the paths are slimy, fungus-laden tracks.
Around her the city is still quiet, shell-shocked from the day before. Sorala can still smell ash and blood on the air, and a few house fires are still smoldering, sending circles of smoke into the bright blue sky. A few allies are still clogged with debris and dead animals, victims of the haphazard invasion. A few times she spots a body, half-hidden in a dark doorway or submerged in a flooded gutter.
Still, the destruction is very uneven with some street corners looking like a warzone while across the street, the buildings are the same as ever. With a careful eye, Sorala can see life starting to return. People hanging out laundry, children running between buildings, a few shops cautiously open for business. There are no open bazaars or markets, nothing so organized but Sorala has the sense of an animal sniffing the air, wary of danger yet still emerging from its hole.
In most places Sorala is ignored, just another wandering figure in a city turned upside down and shaken. Barefoot, smeared with blood and mud and wearing a sword, few want to get in her way. But on a few streets, someone puts the clues together. The cut of her clothes, a glimpse of pale skin, the frequent gulps of water. They all shout 'Irrisen' to the careful eye.
Even on these streets no one actually says anything. No shouts or jeers, no thrown stones or fruit. Not even angry stares. The memory of the invasion is too fresh, the danger she poses too unknown. The violence still present. And yet....and yet Sorala detects a sullenness to them, a sort of subdued outrage that she dares strides down the street, alone. A challenge they yearn to take up, but do not dare.
Not yet.
Sorala wonders how long they will stay shaken and subdued and what might happen when it wears off.
She focuses on the geography and layout of the town. This is difficukt because, as far as Sorala can tell, the streets follow no rhyme or reason. They twist and swoop, with wide streets suddenly ending in squalid alleys or corners hooking out into straggling plazas. Several times she gets lost, turned around and is confronted with the harbor shoreline. Annoyed, the White Squire realizes she needs some high ground. A way to see above the swaybacked warehouses and rooftops, and out of the rich mud.
She is wary of just entering a random building however, even if it seems abandoned or dilapidated. For one thing, Port Peril home improvement seems to be lacking and more then one teetering construction that would be judged a ruin by any architect is happily inhabited by several large families. Second, who is to say she wouldn't wander into a smuggler's den or criminal hideout? The last she wanted was to run into trouble.
Then she spots it. A tower of crumbling stone right along the quay. About three stories tall, it is higher then most of the other buildings but while looking abandoned also sturdy enough to not crumble under her boots.
Approaching it, she isn't sure what it is for. Round and slender, it doesn't seem designed for storage and it is poorly placed to act as a crane or strong-point for block and tackle. What was it? Sorala couldn't even tell what kind of stone it was made from, irregular and crumbly, like wet sand pressed together and left to dry.
In any case, the tower was open and unguarded. Inside was a single spiraling staircase that lead upwards into the seemingly empty shell. Curious.
Sorala climbed it and, after picking her way through the obvious signs of vagrants and squatters, found herself at the top. The top of the tower was a wide empty space covered with a low slate roof. The round room was totally empty, scrounged and scavenged long ago. Plants grow in nooks and crannies, vines tangling down from the roof. A colorful bird breaks for the sky at her arrival, squawking loudly. In the center of the floor were black scorch marks, burned right into the stone, signs of a long and hot fire. Interesting.
But whatever the reason for the old tower, it offered a stunning view of the city and harbor.
The White Squire quickly realizes why it is called Crescent Harbor. The entire habitable part of the city is a half-moon shaped wedge stuck between high jungle-clad mountains to the west and the curving arc of blue sea to the east. To the north the city dwindled against the final spine of the mountains that marched to the sea but to the south she saw a open space filled with ordered trees and plants. A farm of some kind? Beyond it a large and rambling building rises, with several large stone wings. She wonders what it is for it lacks walls or defenses of any kind. A temple?
Dead ahead of her lies the ocean, where Elysia's ice flow floats like a giant sea-monster, a wreath of steam rising from it, clouding her vision. Past it, is another bigger city. It is hard to see any details from this range but she can spots miles of wharves, acres of houses and entire strongholds. Port Peril proper.
After seeing everything there is to see, she climbs down the strange tower and steps, once again, onto the muddy streets. Her stomach rumbles and her throat is parched. The waterskin at her belt is empty, and the sun above is still relentless.
Sorala is reflecting on this when she spots a large-ish building ahead, with more signs of life then most. The doors are flung open and the sounds of music and laughter float out, and Sorala glimpses people inside sitting and drinking. A tavern?
Could be good...if she didn't start a riot by walking in. Maybe she should keep going.
The air of the small basement corridor grows visibly colder, traceries of frost crawling along the ceiling above her. Sorala's heavy breath forms a thick cloud in front of her face, churning with her exertions. The White Squire ignores that as she puts the full force of her entire body into Eitleán 's swing.
The blade fairly sings as it cuts through the suddenly chilly air and into the gelatinous blood pudding. Razor steel makes short work of it, slicing through as easily as a butcher trimming the fat. Even as the rimeblade rends a huge slash through the creature, the bloody plasma crackles and freezes. The return stroke is even more savage, nearly slicing the entire pudding into two quivering, frost-burned halves.
When Sorala takes up a protective stance, a moment of silence fills the little chamber. From above she can hear shouts and the thudding of boots. Clearly Vennik's screams and her bellows of command have attracted attention. Still, she ignores it for now and focuses on the blood pudding, still judging it to be the main threat.
She need not worried.
With a wet sigh, the pudding deflates like a punctured bladder, spreading weakly across the floor. A final sheet of sickly sweet liquid rolls out, shimmering wetly in the dim light. It laps at Sorala's boots, sticky and slimy at the same time.
Vennik falls against the wall and shakes his head, "Hen's teeth, woman." he says, obviously shaken by Sorala's potent display of both arcane and martial power. "Remind me not to get in your way." The bandit shudders and averts his eyes from the ice-clad rimeblade.
Many things happened at once, in a blink of an eye.
With a motion she has used a thousand times (and a thousands times more after that under Alastia's watchful eye) the White Squire slashes with the blade. A full body action, energy from her legs, hips, shoulders and arms turn the ice-coated blade into a whirring, blurred strip of steel. It catches the goat-man on the shoulder, the razor edge slicing through clothing, skin, flesh and bone with equal ease. There is a flash of arcane power and a net of binding, crackling ice explodes from the impact as well.
The rakshasa's arm hits the ground first with a heavy thud on the flour-strewn floor. It is followed shortly after by the writhing, screaming baker, trapped under a net of freezing ice so cold, it condenses the air around him into a frigid mist.
Around Sorala, a whirlwind of violence breaks out as Vennik's men drop the bags of bread and reach for weapons. They only have a second faster reactions then the bully boys, but it is enough. Most of Sooraj 's men die before even managing to get a hand on a weapon. A few put up a longer fight, but in the tight confines of the bakery, there is no room for much maneuvering. A few are taken alive, falling to the ground in thrashing heaps of curses.
Behind the slaves swarm in panic, doing their best to get out of the way despite being literally chained to the floor. Tables are upturned, bread goes flying, the fire flare at the sudden onrush of wind.
Sooraj Divedi writhes loudly at her feet for a moment and then, in an eyeblink, vanishes. The racket of the fight, the slaves and the roaring fires goes on around her. All that is left is an oozing, frost-bitten arm.
As soon as she ends her prayer, Rudabeh feels something. Something very faint, in her gut. Not physical but something...else. Something far deeper then the mere pain that is still rippling through her body.
Something...divine? a reply to her heartful prayer? Was Alseta herself listening or, more likely, perhaps some servitor? A tremor of fear passes through the undine? Had she said something wrong? Was she still so prideful she imagined that a issue of faith such as this deserved divine attention? She closed her eyes and waited for the warm embrace of the Welcomerer's aura. It did not come.
Instead she heard...felt...a rhythmic throbbing. A gentle but insistent pulse that filled her mind and the air around her. A insistent tattoo that seemed to sing in her soul, that touched something in the very core of her being. Once, during her travels, she had seen a young bard take center stage at a musical festival. To everyone's confusion, he had held not an instrument but a wineglass in hand. Then he had sung a perfect note, a ringing, piercing note. It had made the wineglass shake and then the bard had increased the intensity, somehow growing louder and louder. The wineglass had shuddered, shook and finally shattered.
Rudabeh felt like that wineglass, the strange noise resonating with her. What was it? Was it the roar of the sea on a distant shore? No, or was it her heartbeat, magnified a hundred times? Or the lost song of a creature in the deep?
Then Rudabeh felt it. That strange link all Outsears had with their god and their protector. A primordial bond that ran at a level deeper then blood, below the mind, that reached into the very being of all that dwelt in the salty sea. One who could see through all the countless generations, back to when undine and others had been formed out of the sea and wind itself, for whom the endless leagues of Outsea was no distance at all.
Danglosa was calling. Her gauntlets went out, snuffed like a candle dunked in ink. A greater power had entered this place, or at least, a power much closer.
Danglosa was calling.
Bizarre flashes of emotion thrummed through Rudabeh's body, coming and going as quickly as a fish darting through coral. Excitement. Fear. Rage. Euphoria. Lust.
Danglosa was calling.
The dark cavern throbbed with the sound and then, to Rudabeh's amazement, she saw movement. The water and slime on the floor began to quiver, like a glass of water near a heavy footfall. It shimmered and shifted in the dark, roiling and flowing over the uneven floor. Slowly it started to glow with a blue-white light, softly at first but growing. Soon it was bright enough to cast shadows on the dimly glittering walls, dancing as the thin pool of water at Rudabeh's feet moved.
It twisted into strange shapes and runes, unknwon but just on the edge of understanding like something she should know. An old friend or childhood home. The water glistened with living, glowing light, coiling and uncoiling, a great snake of divine power.
Come
It was not a word, it was not a thought but a feeling. A tidal pull as deep and strong as the sea, as innate as migration, as rich as whalesong.
The light went out, the water fell flat and all was still. All except Rudabeh's body which still pulsed with the thrill of the god's touch.
Norintha considers the question silently for a moment, as they both stand in the shade of a ramshackle warehouses. To Sorala the air is rich in strange and exotic scents, heavy with salt. The street was once paved with wood, she guesses, but has long been churned to mud the boards returning to the stuff from which trees are made. Here and there, in nooks and crannies, the flotsam and jetsam of the maritime world are piled. broken crates, coils of frayed rope, the rinds of fruits Sorala does not recognize.
The halfling suddenly shivers, "It's so cold." She steps out into the sunlight.
Cold? To Sorala it felt like she was standing in a sauna, except the fire was above inside of below. The boiling sun was slipping from noon to the west now, still strong and bright.
In the bright light, Sorala takes a long look at her erstwhile guide. She was older then Sorala had thought, probably reaching middle age. Shoulders bent slightly with hard labors, and callused hands, yet she was proud and tall for all that. Life may have been hard on her, but she remained strong and whole. A free woman. What a strange concept.
"I was going to start a fight." Norintha finally said, voice quiet in the empty street. Just around the corner the Irrisen force was talking and marching, but it seemly oddly distant for the moment.
"Between you and the slaver. It was a bad plan but I hoped perhaps you would kill each other and the slaves could escape in the confusion." The stout halfling shrugged, "It was the best I could come up with."
A long moment and then, "You said I can ask more? I have one more question. You said why your liege is here, your master." This last word is said with obvious disdain. "But why are you here? What are you looking for, so far from your home?"
Lady Elysia’s eyes harden at Sorala remark and it is clear her subtle hunt about the chain of command in House Morgannan has not been missed. Sorala knew such a reminder risked irritating Elysia and the danger therein, none better, but the squire also knew something many in the Irriseni court never learned. That not holding your ground was even more dangerous. There was an old Irriseni saying, dating back to Ulfen days.
"When one lets the wolf nip, one lets the wolf feed."
Obsequious behavior and loyal service would not save you from Lady Elysia, or her ilk. They would reward lifelong obedience with the same cruelty they would to a confirmed traitor, as remorseless as a rock rolling down a hillside or a lighting bolt striking a plowing farmer.
"I am sure she will be here soon enough, once word reaches her of our success." Lady Elysia says smoothly. She reckoned herself a power in the court, and she was, but Lady Riina not one to be challenged, not even by her daughter. Perhaps especially by her daughter.
Her voice grows colder when Sorala dares to ask for more information. She idlily swirled her glass, watching the bright red wine create a tiny whirlpool behind the crystal. The servants froze still, standing so immobile Sorala wondered if they were still breathing. Perhaps not. Finally the Jadwiga noblewoman sighed, her breath as delicate and lady-like as new lace.
"I am unsure. Things are moved rapidly since our invasion. My captains assure me this is normal, when things go so well." A tiny sip of the wine as he blue eyes look Sorala over, "Vasim is currently leading that particular attack."
Not good. Vasim was a werewolf, one of the many House bully boys used to terrify peasent and keep trouble makers in line. A strongly built man even without his shape change he was a terror when the bloodlust innate to his curse was upon him. House Morgannan gave him plenty of outlets for such a behavior. The man was violent enough for an assault, but violence did not always breed military success.
Fear was, despite Jadwiga beliefs, not always a guarantee. The blood mad enforcer was probably hurling (literally) men and women at sheer walls as they spoke. How had Halga allowed this? Or had she been overruled?
"As for the foe, what does it matter? We have swept all before us, even with their infernal ships and cannons." Lady Elysia says, the last word obviously very unfamiliar. "I am told it is a matter of a few hundreds, Squire. Surely that is within your capabilities? Gods know, you have trained enough. Perhaps you are squeamish about exercising your talents?" Her tone indicated that had better not be the case.
"Also," she carelessly added, "I gather they are not locals. Travelers or merchants or some such."
This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy.
No one ever talked about the smell of teleportation.
The bards and legends always talked about flashes of blinding light, the rush of warmth or cold on the skin and even the sizzling sounds of raw arcane magic. But never, in all her years of hearing heroic and exotic stories, of which Sorala sought out as many as she dared, had one ever mentioned smell. Which was odd when you thought about it.
You experienced a flash of light every time you closed and opened your eyes. The sensation of heat or cold was taken for granted even if a warm fire after a winter’s breeze was a more mundane cause than the freezing cold between the stars. And what child had not encountered a loud noise in a dark room and felt surrounded by it? No, all of these were commonplace to the point of prosaic, unworthy of even the most casual passing remark.
But smell….even before Sorala opened her eyes, the white squire knew she was in a different world. Gone was that ever present, if rarely noticed, universe of scents that made up her mental and physical landscape. The resinous pitch of distant pine trees. The smoke of wood fires. The crisp, clear scent of a winter’s breeze fresh off a snowfield. They had been the uncelebrated background notes to her existence.
In their place was quite a different kaleidoscope, with an onset so rapid and jarring it made her head hurt. Tangy salt resting on her tongue. Wet sand and sodden wood. Exotic spices that made her stomach growl. Overripe fruit rotting on the vine. And over it all, the rank scent of verdant plant life. The smell of life, hot and wild.
Sorala opened her eyes. Then reclosed them. The sun overheard, which her entire life had been a rather wan thing near the horizon was suddenly an angry fiery orb directly overhead. Heat smote down on her like a blacksmith raining blows with a heated hammer. Sorala was already sweating, her woolen clothes sticking to her suddenly sodden skin. Squinting, she reopened her eyes. The distant skyline of Algidheart and the elaborate stone ring Lady Morgannan had housed the portal in were no more. In its place was an expanse of blue-white ice, glittering dazzlingly in the tropical sun. It was slightly wet underfoot and rocking gently as if she were standing on a massive ship in Glacier Lake, one of the mighty timber haulers bringing firewood for the city. To her surprise, as her eyes adjust to the glare, the Ulfen finds she is not entirely wrong.
She is standing at the center of an enormous ice floe in the middle of a busy harbor. Directly ahead of her, past the rolling ice and over the choppy ocean waves, she can see a port city, almost toy-like at this distance. Wooden wharves stick out into the water, behind which crouch stone and wooden warehouses, shops, homes and other buildings. Hills rise behind it, also dotted with structures of all sorts, mingled with tropical trees and brush. Ships of all sorts are tied up at the dockside, ranging from tiny whaleboats small enough to be rowed by a single man to immense ocean men of war that boggle the mind and eye.
The city is burning. Thick palls of smoke rise from raging fires, which are busily devouring whole districts. She is too far to make out little else but her imagination can fill in the rest. The screams of panicked people, the laughter and shouts of attacking soldiers. The smell of blood and smoke in the air. The howl of the hunting werewolf…..
”Sorala. So good of you to finally join us. Welcome to Port Peril.” A aristocratic voice drawled, dragging Sorala back to the here and now. The white squire jerked her eyes away from the burning city back to her immediate surroundings. Around her were the uneven tumbles of ice and snow that made up the surface of the surely magical iceberg. Some of it was heaped quite high, tall as a city wall, in a jumbled pile of natural-seeming ice blocks. At the base of such a cliff, only a few feet away, is a knot of humanity.
In the center, of course, is the owner of the voice. A voice Sorala knows all too well. Lady Elysia Morgannan. Heir to House Morgannan as fair and cruel as a winter blizzard. She was dressed in light blue, trimmed with startling white ermine fur. Blond hair, arranged in naturally appearing curls, tumbled down to her waist. Her clear, pale skin shone like fresh snow on a dangerous mountain peak. She was lounging at ease in a roughly hewn ‘throne’ made of solid ice. Such a seat would be painful after only a few minutes but Jadwiga had magical talents to eliminate any such petty discomforts.
Around her clustered a group of the obligatory servants, guards and assorted hangers-on. The heir to House Morgannan would not be allowed to be unattended, even in the middle of a battlefield. It was unthinkable, like asking when spring in Irrisen would come or when the fey would settle down and buy sensible shoes. Most would spend their entire lives as such, at constant beck and call from the flower of youth to the ruin of old age, and that was if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, Lady Elysia had many ways of making her displeasure known.
The Jadwiga noble had a delicate crystal glass in her hand, filled with blood red wine. At her side a servant held the rest of the bottle, ready to pour more at even the hint of her Mistress’s need.
”You have nearly missed all the fun, Sorala.” The noblewoman said easily, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the White Squire. ”I hope it was with good reason? The city has nearly already fallen, or so my captains assure me.” A purr of displeasure entered the cultured voice. Her mother, Lady Riina, was a harsh mistress but it took a very brave man indeed to report anything but good news to Elysia. Sorala wondered if anyone had dared to do so during this campaign.
”All is well from home, I trust?” The noblewoman asked, her attention wandering away from the White Squire to the icy landscape around them. When she spoke again her voice was distant, obviously addressed to herself and not the lowly squire or even lower servants. ”A stronghold built here could be useful. Carved out of the ice itself.” A task that would surely claim many lives but where were the lives of serfs? ”May be a useful way to strengthen our hold….”
She waves a manicured hand in negligent fashion. Instantly a servant steps forward and tops up the glass with red liquid, bright against the snowy backdrop. The Jadwiga noble takes a genteel sip and then goes on, ”I am told there is a convoy of ships, at anchor, that still resists us. It is one of the last knots of resistance in the city.” Another dainty wave indicates some area behind them, hidden by the towering crumble of ice. Sorala is not fooled by her gentle actions. The white squire had seen those delicate hands become steel talons, quite capable of removing an eye, or a heart, with bird-like speed.
”You are assigned to take care of it, squire. It is not an order I wish to give twice.”
A Jadwiga order if Sorala had ever heard one. Long on expectations and short of useful details. Was she being given troops or were they already in place? Was she in command or did she have to report to others? Was she supposed to hang or impale every resistor or were they taking prisoners? Parole? And who was this convoy? Civilians? Soldiers? Angels from another dimension? Gods, where to even start?
Ractus steps out on deck, having jumped down into the hold, and glances from Rudabeh's livid face to Ostend's sullen one. His purple eyes sweep over to the offending barge and he grins.
"Shall I gather up a boarding party?" the elf says, "They look rich but not too well defended. Maybe give them a real taste of the River Kingdoms?"
"Genius!" Irovetti says, returning from whatever he did at the stern among his servants and followers. "Encouraging the right sort of people to come and visit the city. Your homeland is progressive, Rudabeh!" The former king says with obvious enthusiasm, a mug of some lightly steaming drink in his hands. "I was doing the same in Pitax of course, with the jousts and such. " He lets out a sad sigh for an era long past. "It really has no downside. Money comes in with the sightseers, as well as influence and prestige. The guests get treated to a grand time, see the amazing sights and then go home and talk about your home. Tremendous." A speculative look twinkles in his expressive brown eyes. "I wonder how they are handling lodging and promotion...perhaps it is something we can look into.."
Irovetti the tour guide.
Meanwhile the sightseeing barge ignores all of them, even Rudabeh's heated shouts. Well, a few of the passengers regard Rudabeh with unfeigned interest, like someone spotting an interesting if annoying sort of bird. The guide at the front recaptures their attention by saying, "Please, turn your attention back to shore, you don't want to miss this."
Rudabeh can't help but glance at the shore and then she is distracted by what she sees The guide droned on, voice worn by rote repetition.
"As you can see, this grand stone archway dates back to before the founding of Outsea itself. Legend holds it was a temple to long forgotten gods, worshipped by the old human inhabitants of the region. By modern times, it was merely stacked stones, ready to fall apart."
"However, only a decade ago, it was the sight of a verified divine miracle." A few of the passengers perk up and look harder. " A local mystic prayed in front of the arch for seven days and seven nights, to abjure her sinful past. For an entire week she stayed here, dressed in rags and begged the gods, any god, to forgive her. People came and laughed at her foolishness, for no one believed a god would answer her."
"Then, at noon on the seventh day, just as the mystic was going give up and retreat to the wilderness, the arch began to glow. The cracks began to fill, the old vines torn away, gold filigree swarming over the old archway. Perhaps Alseta herself was visible, at least as an image. The legend goes, that the mystic was so overcome by this divine presence she was suddenly blinded and overcome with her past, cast herself into the Well and was never seen again."
The guide pauses and there is a spattering of applause and murmured conversation from the onlookers as the barge slowly makes its way past the Old Arch.
"The place is now a public park and place of quiet meditation and contemplation. Religious men and women from all over the River Kingdoms come in pilgrimage."
The Arch itself is not quite how Rudabeh remembered it. The lay of the land has been changed since her time here, the docks added to with backfill and roads moved. There is a small park around it now, where before it had merely been tumbled stones and twisted trees. Now bright banks of flowers surround the structure, carefully tended.
A statue of Alseta stands off to the side, worked out of native coral. It is a stunning piece, three times human sized depicting The Welcomer beckoning to the sky, as if gesturing to t e world to come and follow her. And yet, as the barge goes, it reveals the reverse side, by some trick, also depicts her front. This time however her face is stern and judgmental, and she holds a heavy key in her hands, a gesture of negation. A riot of colors flows across the entire statue, like threads of fabric woven into stone, creating a cascade of vermilion, gamboge and glaucous shades. Yet, somehow, it did not clash into a mess but highlighted the statue as a whole. A tiny ripple of red became suggestive lips, while a trickle of black became a band of iron. It was mesmerizing, stupendous and overawing.
And Rudabeh had a feeling she knew who had created it.
At her side Irovetti is actually speechless, mouth slightly agape. To her surprise she spots a tears forming in his eyes. "That statue...." He gestures toward it, like a beggar reflexively reaching for a steaming ham yet aware he can never touch it. "It is...." Then his voice stiffens, "Rudabeh, stop the boat. I must see it close up." There is iron in his voice, the first glimpse to his old royal days, when his word could send a man to the gallows. A man not to be trifled with. "I insist."
The solider squints a bit at Rudabeh's Aquan, clearly understanding it fine but struggles to phrase his own reply. She has encountered this before with some new recruits, especially those not native to Outsea. Aquan was the lingua franca among the Outsea military but many understood it better then they spoke it.
He is still formulating his verb tenses when a new, crisp voice cuts through the fog. "Let them in, private." Perfect Aquan. The solider hesitates (which Rudabeh finds to be proof of his lack of training) and then turns and gives the skum officer a smart salute. He barks, in Common, "Aye, aye sir."
Then, turning slightly tot he side, says in slow Aquan, "Kreel. Drain!"
A moment of silence and then the looming rock near the canal moves.
"Desna's eyes, what's that?" Silvui curses at the same time Senqhi remarks in Rudabeh's mind, It's alive!
Alive, indeed.
What had seemed a rock is actually a towering chull. Over eight feet tall, with four legs and crab-claw arms. Formidable fighters, the carapace clad chuuls were Outsea's finest shock troops, if rare. Their distinctive growth cycle was a bit of a mystery, even to the rest of the inhabitants. They did have a seat on the Council however.
Kreel lumbered forward, hard claws clattering on paving stones. The creature reached a heavy capstan, grabbed a worn metal bar and began to push. The wheel slowly creaked to life, wood grinding on metal. There was a clunking, gugrling sound from somewhere under the barge.
"Flat bottom, right?" The human soldier asks Ostend casually, clearly not much impressed by the huge monster-like chuul.
Ostend dumbly nods, eyes fixed on the turning capstan. The human nods, "Good. We don't have to fuss with nets and all that. Just rest on the bottom."
"The bottom?" Ostend says, shaken out of his wonder by the words. "The bottom of what?"
There is a sudden rushing sound and a flood bubbles in the canal. Instantly the barge starts to rock as if caught in a slight breeze. Perceptibly the barge settles lower, as if sinking in the bubbles. But no, the barge is not sinking, the water is draining. Like water flowing out of a holed barrel, the dark river water of the channel flows away, and the barge sinks down. In only a few moments the barge is sitting at the base of a sudden hole, and everyone can see a metal grate makes up the base of the what, apparently, is a lock.
What about the fish and the frogs? Senqhi asks in a worried tone.
"Kreel. Fill!" The young man shouts in his stilted Aquan. The chuul grunts, grabs the bar in a different way and starts to push again. There is a clatter of chains and the thunk of wood all around them.
"Why drain it?" Aurelia asks, still shivering in her borrowed fur cloak. "Why do they want water? There is plenty of it."
Then, without warning, water bubbles up out of the grates, like a dozen springs bursting to life at once. Except this time the water is rich with that salty, briny tang. It is all Rudabeh can do to not jump in the clear seawater. The water level rises quickly, lifting the barge in a gentle, smooth motion.
Amazing, in a only a few minutes the barge is soon floating on an entirely different stream, this time of clear saltwater, instead of silty river.
'Kreel. Open!" The chuul lumbers away from the capstan, grabs a heavy chain so far unseen, which draws away the wooden wall ahead. There is a slight rush as more seawater enters the little canal, and the barge pitches every so slightly. They are now in Outsea proper if one judges Outsea by the world of salt it has created.
Meanwhile the skum officer has walked up, with that weird slightly limped gait of his kind, to the side of the canal.
"Captain," he says in perfect Common, "Welcome to Oustea. I apologize for the confusion. May I borrow your sergeant for a few moments?"
A rough gangplank is thrown to the barge.
Assuming you go
The skum leads Rudabeh a few steps away from the canal for privacy. The flowing mist cloaks them, but her sharp eyes can see the sun is burning bright above and is already melting the fog away. Rudabeh has had little dealing with the skum. The quasi-immortal fishmen kept to themselves, often in defacto retirement for generations before one would emerge, master a new field or craft and then vanish in obscurity again. She did not recognize this officer but his ensigna marks him as a captain.
"Welcome home, Sergeant." He says in Aquan, and hearing that language again is like stepping into a warm bath for the paladin. "How are the Drylands?" That term for the rest of the world being horribly archaic.
The skum reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small flask, "And may I also offer you a suitable apology for my soldier's over eagerness?" He shakes the flask slightly and is rewarded with a slight slosh. 'Real greenwater. I can imagine it has been some time?"
Greenwater was a liquor made from fermented kelp found only in Outsea. It was a drink few landlubbers had ever heard of, let alone offered in their taverns.
The skum goes on, "I thought it might interest you that I was told to expect you. Apparently your arrival is of import to someone high enough on the food chain to order me around." A pause as the skum surveyed the barge for a moment and added, "What brings you back? Anything more then a desire for decent caviar and greenwater?"
The rest of the day passes in busy and heavy work. The barge is battered and needs extensive repairs, made worse due to the fact that most of the supplies stored on deck was washed away in the flood. The sailors do the best they can but there is only so much you can do with hope, spit and river mud.
Happily, Rudabeh has a pool of labor at her disposal. Gangs of soldiers are organized and sent out to gather items from the nearby forests with a sailor or two leading them. The work was arduous and with despite being a new bride, Marsh pushed the men to their limit. Deadfalls are cut up and old branches gathered. Fire pits are dug and soon, Rudabeh has a small charcoal and tar work under her command. The scent of pine smoke fills the air, mixing with the scent of rain. Other soldiers are put to work cutting down live trees, roughly planing down trunks for spare spars and beams. Yet more are put to work shaping nails and braces. A few even make impromptu ropes from vines and hanging plants. Ostend strains every ounce of his creativity to make the barge river worthy again. Rudabeh notes however, the half-elf works with a smile and a will all day, not at all like his grumpy self.
Others are sent to organize the campsite and get together what they can. The flood also swept away much of the Company's heavy baggage, which is a heavy blow. Food, supplies, even some weapons were washed downriver, not to mention Irovetti's spices. Some men sift and note what is left while others are sent downstream to find what they can. Rudabeh has few hopes, but even a few crates found will be worth the effort. Ractus takes charge of these scavenging patrols, leading the men over the washed and sodden landscape.
For her part, Rudabeh leads a gang of men and women back up toward the gnome village. Their goal is simple, harvesting the clams. To her partial relief the gnomes are nowhere to be seen, although she wonders if this is guilt for nearly drowning her entire company or just gnomes being weird. Still, things will go smoother without her help.
They tackle the clam on land first, which is enough of a job. The meat inside is mostly spoiled sadly, even for Rudabeh's strong stomach. Still, it is littered with mother of pearl, encrusted all along the top. Removing it is more like mining then skinning an animal. The soldiers use hammers and crowbars to pry it loose but the sight of all that shiny whiteness eggs them on. The clams under the lake pose more of a problem. For one thing she has to do it alone and second, she needs a way to bring it to the surface. After pondering this, they retreat, heading back for ideas from the others, carrying the mother of pearl with them.
The work for all three sets continues late into the night and they keep Aurelia busy providing light at the various work sites. Finally though, around midnight tiredness and Aurelia's flagging arcane power calls an end to a very productive day. Even Rudabeh, with her high standards, is satisfied. The barge has been repaired effectively, even if she is a bit of an eyesore. She has no holes, no leaks and will make ways upstream is tended carefully. Ractus's scavenge parties have found some of their lost supplies, which helps morale. It would be a problem if they were going on campaign but Rudabeh hopes resupply will be easy in Outsea. Food is not much of a shortage although the Company might have to learn to enjoy fish.
The next morning dawns cloudy but dry, wispy clouds chased by a stiff breeze. There is no sign of the gnomes as they make ready to restart their interrupted journey. Rudabeh also reflects the flood did one other thing, besides rearranging the landscape. It washed away all the gnome's flyers away, leaving not a trace. Rudabeh wonders what the landlubber reactions will be when a city downstream is suddenly, quite literally, awash in gnomish propaganda.
The Company is ordered on board the still rock steady barge and they all wait. Rudabeh watches the sun and does her best to estimate the time. The alien stillness of the vessel makes her stomach churn, like a reverse seasickness. Then, without warning, the barge shifts in the current, stretching her ramshackle vine moorings and rising with the water's currents. A cheer goes up from all hands.
"We are free!" Ostend shouts and begins ordering the hands about. "Let's get out of here. Push off and head for deeper water!" With that, the barge is heaved out of the rocky shallows and into the main stream. And the Company is, again, on their way.
They head upriver, through the shattered remains of the dam. The gnome village passes on their right, and Rudabeh notes gnomes busy at work there. A few have the gall to wave to the barge, as if nothing is amiss. A few of the Company grumble and shake their fists but no one wants to stay here a moment longer, not even to exact revenge. Soon they come to where the former lake was, the expanse of water now much shallower. Mudflats extend on all sides, revealing just how much water had been released. Rudabeh drops off the side of the barge and heads down to the clam. Her swim is much shorter this time, with so much less water. The riverbed is brighter then she remembered, sunlight playing in dazzling columns around her. To her relief the clamshell is just where she left it, untouched by the siphoning water. The paladin watches warily but sees no sign of predators or scavengers. This surprised her until she recalls this entire area just underwent very traumatic changes in the last day. The flood probably scared off most big animals.
Then she gets to work. She does her best to slice away as much meat as possible, so they aren't towing a literal buffet along with them. The predators might be absent for now but the River Kingdoms abound with creatures that would consider a giant clam a tasty treat. Then, using Sixth Peak she severs the muscular connection between the two halves. And then...she has a problem. The clam shell will not float. Her first idea to simply winch it up and float it like a boat, was shot down last night. Ostend said that the curved sides might keep it afloat for awhile, waves and shifting wind would eventually sink it. It was simply not seaworthy. The problem had stumped them for hours, as everyone in the Company discussed the engineering problem. Not surprisingly it was Irovetti who had come up with a solution.
Now to see if it worked. The first part of the former king's plan was the same as hers. A spool of their precious rope (real rope) was lowered into the water, which Rudabeh attached to the clam. Then with much sweat, cursing and effort, the shell was slowly winched to the surface. Granted it was lighter then it might have been on land, but it was still hundreds of pounds. As it breached the surface, Rudabeh followed along, watching the water well around it like a rising whale. And then, came Irovetti's genius innovation. They flipped it over and caught a bubble of air under the curved shell. The shell shifted and settled as everyone watched with baited breath.
And floated.
A cheer went out at the sight of the floating clam. It wasn't the most elegant affair and it might sink eventually, but there was no reason it would not be refloated, an easier task in shallower water. The cheers are followed by groans when Ractus gives the orders to man the ropes for the second half. Still, Rudabeh promised clerics, cooks and uniforms with the proceeds so everyone works at it. In short order they have two clam halves trailing after them like docile puppies. Ostend shrugs, more amicable then usual and they set off upstream.
The days pass without incident, everyone falling back into their usual rhythms. Rudabeh practicing her swordplay at dawn, sometimes with Ractus watching. Silvui and Litta spending time together at the stern, Draze fishing enough to feed half the Company (more important then ever due to low food stocks). Irovetti does his best to fight boredom by planning their grand arrival at Oustea where he, apparently plans to hire several bands and at least three acting troupes. The former king seems mesmerized by the idea of a party in three dimensions.
The weather is good, at least by Rudabeh's standards who enjoys rainy days and cool foggy mornings. The nights tend to be clear and muggy however, full of the night sounds of the river. Splashing frogs, calling birds and fluttering bats.
It is one of these nights, with everyone oddly still and silent when Dannagu calls out, "Rudabeh! We are going to your homeland, yes? Outsea, where you are from?"
A few others look at the big man, who is more a suggestion then anything else in the gloom. "We should know more of it. Tell us a tale of your home. A myth or mighty legend! Come, I like to know stories of places I go." A few others take up the call singing out, "Story, story!"
Cremation ceremonies are part of the mercenary life, and Rudabeh attended plenty of them during her time with the Bastard Brigade and even one or two during her time with the Outsea militia. The fact that these five people get a full funeral is a luxury in a way, for many times an army has no time or energy for such affairs. A quick brush fire or hole in the ground is an all too common way for a sellsword to end their career. The face's of the men and women of her Company are somber but not overwrought. Death is expected, part of the price they pay. The close friends (or lovers) of the dead will carry heavy burdens but the real tears will flow in private sessions with a tight knit circle. Public mourning is not military practice.
Rudabeh's true account of what happened during the chaotic night is received with mixed reviews. For once he golden reputation works against her. While everyone in that crowd knows Rudabeh tells the truth they also know she is quite keen on making peaceful amends with the gnomes. Clearly more then a few assumed she slanted the story to make Braxis look good and create Zuatuan as a scapegoat.
Ah well, at least she tried.
There is a murmur of interest when Rudabeh remarks their names will be 'retired' from the Company. It is greeted with nods and general agreement, and the paladin can already see the idea turning into part of the Company legend. It will help cement these early losses in people's minds and preserve their memory. She does note a quick grin from a set of men who already share the same name. Davin and Davin. Nicknames....
When she calls for items, a few people shuffle forward. The Company is not a cohesive whole yet, but most joined as part of small groups of friends. Despite the bard's tales, few sellswords are strict loners with nothing but a blade and a name. Ractus and Draze are proof that real mercenaries are social creatures.
Despite that, it is still a rather pathetic ritual in the drizzling rain. Sap is left a small sewing kit (although Rudabeh suspects the valuable contents have been emptied, to be used by the living), because they apparently did his squad's clothing repairs. Gemeye, the dwarf, has a bag of rattling glass marbles dropped in his grave. Rudabeh recalls he enjoyed making them as a hobby and giving them away to children in the little towns they floated through. The paladin hopes Torag is paying attention.
A young man ties two hair ribbons around branches near Peach, a tear mixing with the rain. A battered old coin on a string is left with Filch. Little Snake is given no mementos.
At her gesture Dannagu starts to beat the drum to a solemn, steady beat. The rain keeps falling, oddly keeping time with the man's skilled hands, lightly thrumming the hide of his instrument. Aurelia whispers a word and the pyre suddenly ignites in roiling yellow flame. Unlike the slow greasy burn of the hag, this is a hot, sudden fire that mercifully hides all the bodies at once behind a cleansing sheet of fire.
Rudabeh sends a prayer aloft and is, to her surprise , graced with a reply. The sodden, muddy earth of the grave trembles slightly and then collapses inward. It fills it evenly and fully, even mounding up slightly, against all the laws of nature. Rudabeh feels the slightest feeling of warmth and approval from the Key, but it is enough. Alseta (and perhaps Torag) approves.
The fire crackles, and the rain continues to fall. All is quiet for a moment and then a voice raises in song. It is a clear and fine mezzo-soprano, untrained but pure tinged with emotion. Rudabeh notes, to her surprise, it is Litta. All listen to her and then Silvui joins in, his voice a strong tenor. Clearly the Varsisian has some musical training as he matches Litta note for note.
Others start to join in. Most are simply the rough best attempts of men used to marching and work songs. Humble, gravelly but on the beat. Aurelia's voice is a cracking soprano while Ractus is a ringing bass. It doesn't sound bad actually, the chorus of voices rising over the drum, fire and rain.
There is a mixture of cheers and jeers from the crowd as Awenasa launches herself into the air, foot extended. Her kick lands with an audible thump on the man's chest, nearly knocking the Wanderer man over. She moving, Awenasa follows up with twin strikes to his neck, hoping to daze and stun him.
Her blows are a blur of motion, faster then the eye can follow.
Calo Fort Save:1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
The side of Awenasa's open plan slams into his neck hard enough to make onlookers wince in sympathetic pain. It is more then just a simple strike however.
Shoanti warriors were not simple brawlers, relying on speed and strength to bring down their foes. Awenasa had been well-trained in how to strike effectively, efficiently how to wear down her opponents with simple, considered strikes. she knew that her chop had struck a critical nerve and Calo would be dazed, slightly, for the next few seconds.
And clearly, Calo knew it to. He weaved slightly, his stance uncertain for the first time. His eyes flicked from Awenasa to Bescia and back. Then, without a moment's warning, he hurled himself at Awenasa flying into a full body tackle.
Grapple!:1d20 + 10 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 10 + 2 = 32
Calo hits Awenasa like a runaway cart, slamming into her. Before she can react, he has her arms wrenched and her body locked up. Now they are wrestling and Calo has the upper hand. Up close Awenasa can see the arm is hurt, considerably, by her repeated blows. His skin is torn here and there, bleeding freely and nasty welts are visible on his neck and chest. Even his breathing is shaky, hampered by battered ribs, but his grip is like iron, unwavering. Even seriously injured, the man is formidable.
"Besica wanted me," Calo grunts in her ear, soft as a mother's lullaby. "Wanted me to 'slip up and snap your neck. I won't, but be careful. He has it out for you."
You are grappled. Consult the Flowchart if you like. I know I I do.
Not for the first time, Rudabeh thought how strange humans were about the weather. It wasn't that they disliked the rain or fog, the undine was used to that and it made sense. They simply weren't adapted to it, like she was. For them, rain chilled their skin and blurred their vision. No, it wasn't that.
It was how much they complained about it. They seemed to grouse at each individual raindrop or wisp of fog. Rudabeh didn't care for dry, hot days but you didn't see her cursing about it. So strange. Didn't they realize the weather didn't care?
Still, even Rudabeh had to admit, the morning drizzle and fog hadn't slowed down her Company much. Even now, standing on the edge of the wharf, she could see the barge was mostly filled with the crates and piles of gear, heaped by her mercenaries. They had done the work with speed, if not particular efficiency or care. It helped that Irovetti was leaving some of his precious creature comforts behind in a townhouse he had somehow acquired here in the city. They no longer needed to make room for a four-poster bed.
The men had taken the news of their destination well, with many remarking they had never been to Outsea. Rudabeh knew many mercenaries and sellswords chose this lifestyle with the hope to see exotic, new destination, she had been no different. And places didn't get much more exotic then Rudabeh's old homeland. She had frowned when one female archer had groused they would need to load up on 'real food' before reaching the city though, since 'all you can find there are bugs and fish'. As if that was a downside. Rudabeh's stomach growled at the mere thought of her mother's fried clams.
Ractus strode up out of the filmy fog that blanketed the docks. Overhead the sun was starting to burn it off, but they still probably had a few hours of low visibility. It made the usual hectic dockside seem quiet and intimate, as if the hanging clouds softened it. It seemed to carry smells though, and her nose was filled with both the scents of river and city, mingled as they always were at the docks. Muffled, a bell sounded the hour.
"All loaded, sir." The elf said, nodding toward the vessel. "Ostend played hard to get, but he agreed to take us in the end. " he paused and then said, "So, Outsea. Your home, right? I have never been actually, always seemed to miss it. Supposed to be stunning, the art and buildings and all that." He lowered his voice, "A hard place to fight a street battle with this lot."
The old woman peered down from her rocky seat, cocking her aged head slightly. Suddenly she looked for all the world like an bird, bright-eyed in the dark, investigating some potential item of interest on the sandy ground. Then she cackled, her voice sounded as dry and worn as leather left in the sun for years uncounted.
"Purpose!" She snorted dismissively, "You children worry overmuch about it! Life is what you choose, not what fate decrees! Too many people set their lives by the shaman's fortellings, as if they are clear or accurate." This is close to attacking the entire Shoanti faith structure by Dawnlight seems unconcerned.
At Awenasa's mention of spirits, She-Who-Upsets-The-Water frowns and jabs her walking stick at the younger woman's head in a surprisingly nimble movement. It just misses her ear, and Awenasa's wonders if that was by design or chance.
"Do not try to understand the spirits! Fate goes ever as it must, as the wise say. Pondering them merely leads to sleepless nights and confused dreams. Do not dwell on them."
Dawnlight leans back on her stone, sighing with relief as the rock takes her weight. She is a dim outline in the gloom, a mere shape set against the endless stars.
"You sister has gone to the next journey. It is sad, for she had much to do here, and her people miss her. It is right and proper to mourn, but not to be defeated." Her voice becomes gruff, "For you have no changed, or your purpose. Do you not walk and talk, breathe and eat? The living must focus on the living, not the shades of those who go before us. Listen to your elders, for they are wise."
Softer she adds, "I declare you are not beaten, and I am not wrong. So you do not need a beaten path, either in dust or in your mind. You need a new way, a new purpose." Her smile was like old bones in the desert.
Looking sly she added, voice casual, "What do you know of Eivind of the Heavy Hand and his companions?"
Awenasa's head snapped up at the abrupt change of topic. Eivind the Heavy Hand? What didn't she know? He had been...was, the greatest Ulfen warrior in a century, or maybe more. His fame had reached to every corner of the north, and even in Awenasa's small isolated Quah, his exploits were told around the campfire. The fact that he was one of the hated foe only seemed to burnish his legend.
What tale was her favorite? Him personally ending the Jarl civil war by slaying three rival chieftains in single combat, on the same night? His supposed journey into the First World, the land of fey and spirits? When he treked into the frozen Crown of the World alone to tame a savage Blood Lion? Or was it when he had defeated the Black Necromancer of the Glacier in a battle lasting three days on the high ice? And who could forget his brutal struggle with the Bane of the White, a frigid linnorm who had been a scourge of Ulfen lands for generations? Eivind had tracked it into the very lair, where he slew it with his bare hands and teeth.
As child Awenasas had spent hours listening to such stories, and adding her own bits when the tales were unclear, filling in the details. When she was very young, she had even fantasized meeting the Ulfen hero on the wild plains of her home, seeing him striding across the Stroval Plateau. His legendary axe, Skæbne, would flash in the sun and he would greet Awenasa as a fellow warrior. And perhaps, just perhaps, peace would be gained not by a fight but by finding what they had in common.
But that had been many years ago. Awenasa had not imagined such for many years. Besides, The old woman peered down from her rocky seat, cocking her aged head slightly. Suddenly she looked for all the world like an bird, bright-eyed in the dark, investigating some potential item of interest on the sandy ground. Then she cackled, her voice sounded as dry and worn as leather left in the sun for years uncounted.
"Purpose!" She snorted dismissively, "You children worry overmuch about it! Life is what you choose, not what fate decrees! Too many people set their lives by the shaman's fortellings, as if they are clear or accurate." This is close to attacking the entire Shoanti faith structure by Dawnlight seems unconcerned.
At Awenasa's mention of spirits, She-Who-Upsets-The-Water frowns and jabs her walking stick at the younger woman's head in a surprisingly nimble movement. It just misses her ear, and Awenasa's wonders if that was by design or chance.
"Do not try to understand the spirits! Fate goes ever as it must, as the wise say. Pondering them merely leads to sleepless nights and confused dreams. Do not dwell on them."
Dawnlight leans back on her stone, sighing with relief as the rock takes her weight. She is a dim outline in the gloom, a mere shape set against the endless stars.
"You sister has gone to the next journey. It is sad, for she had much to do here, and her people miss her. It is right and proper to mourn, but not to be defeated." Her voice becomes gruff, "For you have no changed, or your purpose. Do you not walk and talk, breathe and eat? The living must focus on the living, not the shades of those who go before us. Listen to your elders, for they are wise."
Softer she adds, "I declare you are not beaten, and I am not wrong. So you do not need a beaten path, either in dust or in your mind. You need a new way, a new purpose." Her smile was like old bones in the desert.
Looking sly she added, voice casual, "What do you know of Eivind and his companions?"
Awenasa's head snapped up at the abrupt change of topic. Eivind? What didn't she know? He had been...was, the greatest Ulfen warrior in a century, or maybe more. His fame had reached to every corner of the north, and even in Awenasa's small isolated Quah, his exploits were told around the campfire. The fact that he was one of the hated foe only seemed to burnish his legend.
What tale was her favorite? Him personally ending the Jarl civil war by slaying three rival chieftains in single combat, on the same night? His supposed journey into the First World, the land of fey and spirits? When he treked into the frozen Crown of the World alone to tame a savage Blood Lion? Or was it when he had defeated the Black Necromancer of the Glacier in a battle lasting three days on the high ice? And who could forget his brutal struggle with the Bane of the White, a frigid linnorm who had been a scourge of Ulfen lands for generations? Eivind had tracked it into the very lair, where he slew it with his bare hands and teeth.
As child Awenasa had spent hours listening to such stories, and adding her own bits when the tales were unclear, filling in the details. When she was very young, she had even fantasized meeting the Ulfen hero on the wild plains of her home, seeing him striding across the Stroval Plateau. His legendary axe, Skæbne, would flash in the sun and he would greet Awenasa as a fellow warrior. And perhaps, just perhaps, peace would be gained not by a fight but by finding what they had in common.
But that had been many years ago. Awenasa had not imagined such for many years. Besides, Eivind's story was over. He and his most trusted companions had vanished long ago, both from the world of legend and song and from the real world under the sun. No one had seen him for a decade, not since he left the Ulfen Court, weighed down by honors and praise.
She-Who-Upsets-The-Water saw Awenasa's surprise, and smiled knowingly. "Old eyes see well in the dark, and old ears hear much. I know two things of Eivind. First, when he left the cold lands, he took with him a gift. A final honor, given to him by a people desperate to lay claim to him." She grinned, as if in admiration of someone else's cunning, "That he could ask the King of the Ulfen for anything he wished, and it would be given. Regardless of cost or claim."
Awenasa barely controlled rolling her eyes. She already knew that, it was one of her favorite stories. How Sveinn Blood-Eagle, King os Kalsgard and all of the Linnorm Lands, had laid a sacred necklace around Eivind's throat, which gave him a claim beyond all price. And then Eivind, without words, simply bowed and left the great hall.
"And I know where he went." Dawnlight added, eyes dancing in the starlight.
[i]Where he went[i]? But no one knew where Eivind the Heavy Hand had gone, after leaving the court. That was part of his legend. Sure, people guessed, but not event he boldest tale-teller pretended to know. Some said he went to distant southern lands, where no legends go. Other maintained he jumped into the sea, to conquer them as well. A few even contested he rose into the heavens, among the stars to take his place alongside the spirits and gods.
But no one knew.
Seeing her face, She-Who-Upsets-The-Water cackled again. "The Mordant Spire."
The name meant nothing to Awenasas and it seemed obvious to the village elder. She shrugged, pointing west. "I do not know other then this. It is far west, beyond the green lowlands and the bitter sea, where our people once dwelled. Far beyond where the sun goes to rest. West beyond west."
"You must go." This last was said with a finality that sounded harder and colder then the stones she sat on.
Rudabeh's vision cleared after mere moments, but her returned sight did not reveal the dim underground vault of the Bole. Instead, to her confusion, the paladin was greeted with an entirely unfamiliar shadowy room. Before she could focus on her surroundings though, a sense of...unreality and strangeness overtook her.
It was like being a dream, in a way. Rudabeh did not feel like herself, she did not feel like she was wholly present in this place. This was nothing like her visions of the Plane of Fire, which had felt so real and tangible (if muted). Here, Rudabeh couldn't feel her own body. No weight of her armor, no need for breathing, not even her heartbeat. The undine seemed to have no physical form, was merely a disembodied bundle of senses. Indeed, the paladin couldn't even turn her gaze this way or that. Her vision was fixed, as if someone else was telling a story and she could only witness what was told.
With few other options, Rudabeh took in the scene around her. It was a very strange space. The walls fluttered seemingly at random, with dim lights passing through them. Papers covered the interior, rustling like the leaves of a dry forest. A bits of furniture and chests were pressed against the walls, except for one light table directly in the center. The floor was heavily trampled grass, covered here and there with thick, worn carpets.
Grass? Moving walls?
When Rudabeh realized it, she would have laughed if she was able. This was no inter-planar waiting room or exotic location. This was a tent! And judging by the size of it, and the maps pinned to the walls, a military campaign tent. While the paladin had little direct experience with such things (she had never served in an army, and few mercenary groups in the River Kingdoms were large enough to bother with such things), she certainly knew a tent when she saw one.
To her sudden surprise the tent is not empty. Seated at the table, lost in the billowing shadows, is a human figure wrapped in a dark cloak. The hood is pulled up, and the figure slouches forward, either in weariness or despair. Gloved hands rest on the folding table, clasped tightly together. The face is entirely hidden, obscured by the poor lighting and folds of the cloak.
Then the flap of the tent opens, momentarily letting giving Rudabeh glimpse of the outside. It is a gloomy day outside, the sky filled with twisting thunderclouds and gusting wind. While not raining yet, it seems inevitable. A figure steps in and lets the tent flap close again, banishing the sky. A quick glance and Rudabeh realizes she knows this latest visitor to the tent.
It is Veleda.
Although it is not Veleda as Rudabeh knows her. This woman is young and strong, in the prime of life. Her hair is not a steel gray, but a soft yellow, long enough to reach past her waist. Her skin is tanned and smooth, showing no wrinkles or blemishes. She wears the simple robes of the Alseta priesthood, but wears a wooden circlet on her head and bears a wooden staff in one hand. Her bearing is stern and hard, back ramrod straight and stride strong. She reminds Rudabeh not of a kindly old woman or even a venerable stateswoman but of a bold commander, a veteran campaigner. And yet her eyes, those green eyes.....those Rudabeh knows.
Those eyes lock on the seated figure with a cold contempt that makes Rudabeh wince.
"I wonder what would happen if I told them it was you, in here?" She finally said, voice low but strong with a singer's effortless control.
The slumped figure at the table shifted, resting back in the camp chair. With a sibilant slither, the hood fell back revealing a masked face. But it was not the simple, smiling mask of Rudabeh's church. Instead it was the ornate mask of Razmir, ivory and ebony, and studded with gleaming jewels.
The masked figure shrugged, "Then they would come, and many would die." His voice, for it was a man's voice, is rich and rolling, resonant in a way Rudabeh has never heard. Wisdom and power filled it. It made you want to trust the voice, to listen....to obey.
"Including yourself?" Veleda says, but the remark turns to a question as if despite herself.
"Perhaps." The figure says, standing. The cloak falls away, revealing a strong man of medium height, clad in golden armor that shimmered like ripples in a pool of molten gold. "But I think it is best they assume I am merely am emissary."
"Perhaps." Veleda says, throwing his own words back at him. She sighs, and an edge of weariness enters her strong stance. "So, the Watch said you wish to surrender? I can scarcely believe it."
"You leave me little other choice, Veleda. My armies routed, my supplies plundered, my outer fortresses captured. This little war seems to have been going entirely in your favor." Despite his seeming despair of a few moments ago, his tone is light and conversational, like a gamester comparing the results of a well-fought chess game. "The other Gods seem to favor you."
"Other Gods." Veleda says dismissively. "Even here, even now, you cling to that?"
The man steps to the side of the table, shrugging, "You mean the defeat? Even Gods must sometimes face defeat. It happens in all the stories. In defeating me, you have done nothing that a dozen other heros have not done in legend and song." A short pause and then, with only the barest hint of reluctance, "But yes, surrender. To end this conflict."
"What terms?" Veleda says, voice hard but Rudabeh can see a new expression in her bright eyes. Hope. Such a desperate, pure desire to end this conflict that it makes Rudabeh nearly weep.
"The usual." The masked figure says easily, "Withdrawal from the few areas my troops still hold, abandonment of a few outer forts, return of captured prisoners, various forms of monetary reparations." Eyes glitter through the mask, "And of course, a solemn vow to never interfere with the internal affairs of the River Kingdom again."
Veleda lest out a heavy sigh of relief, tinged with wry sarcasm. "That last, at least, is a lie."
"But a necessary one." The Razmirian says. "Upon such lies is peace founded. Hence why I find it so detestable. However, I will admit, your way is better."
"My way?" Veleda says cautiously.
"Yes, your way." The figure says, touching the edge of his mask as if to adjust it slightly. "Do not pretend. I know of your plans to turn this war to your advantage. Of what you plan to declare afterwards, now that you have an entire army at your back. This precious little Pact you dream of. Clever really, I didn't know you had it in you."
Veleda takes a step back as if struck, but recovers instantly, "You are a monster, and your words are hateful lies, twisted in vile rags. Leave aside your preaching. Those are the terms of surrender?" Veleda smiles ferally then, and Rudabeh recoils from the bright white teeth. "You do not offer your head?"
The robed figure laughed darkly, a rich laugh that yet felt sharp and cruel. "Is that what they are demanding? My head on a pike?"
"Some of them." Veleda admits, "Can you blame them? You have invaded their homes, sold their fellow countrymen into slavery and burned entire villages to the ground. In all honesty, I cannot help but admit seeing you dead would satisfy me as well."
"Would it?" The masked figure says in a low voice, "Truly? If my head was offered, would you take it?" He takes two long strides toward Veleda, standing just next to her, voice now a smooth whisper of oil on silk. "You may play the dogged commander with the rabble outside, Veleda. Maybe you have fooled them. Indeed, maybe you have fooled yourself, but I know you. And I know you would never kill me. Could never."
"Kill me?" The figure repeats with a seductive laugh.
The hidden eyes flash, as a gloved hand reaches up and pulls aside the ornate mask. Revealed is a stern yet beautiful face, high cheekbones and strong chin. Locks of gold hair reaching down to his shoulders, ending in elegant ringlets. No stubble mars the smooth line of his face, and the eyes are a rich green.
Green.
With horror Rudabeh realizes the truth even as the Razmiran speaks it. "Your own brother?"
The paladin's mind reels from the revelation. This, surely was Razmir himself, was it not? The wizard who claimed godhood, a brutal tyrant who ruled over an entire kingdom of men and women turned to slaves of his will? The same enemy the River Kingdoms had strove for decades against. He was Veleda's brother, of flesh and blood? Her guiding light and mentor was relative to that monster?
"Try it." Razmir whispered in Veleda's ear. "You wouldn't even have to do it yourself. No need to match me, spell for spell. Just raise your voice, shout an alarm. I know they are out there, your intrepid commanders, eager to come to your aid and slay the emissary of the hated Razmir."[b]
[b]"Do it, I will not stop you."
Veleda wavers, leaning on her staff like a drowning man clutching a floating spar. Her shoulders quiver and her move moves to open, drawing in a breath. Razmir's eyes dance in amusement, and he adds, "That's it, just a little scream..."
Then Veleda slumps in defeat, the breath leaving her in a silent sigh as he eyes close.
"As I suspected." The blonde man says derisively, taking a step back. "Of course. Weak, again. And due to your weakness, it does not end here. There will be more war, more bloodshed, more endless maneuvering behind the scenes. You may claim victory today, and announce your 'peace." The last word is hurled like a curse, freighted with hate. "But everything you build after this moment is built on your failure, on your weakness. Like a palace built on sand, it means nothing and stands for nothing."
Razmir replaces his mask with a flourish, "Am emissary will reach your outer pickets within the hour, to begin the peace talks. As always, it was a pleasure visiting with you, sister. Good bye."
There is a flash of golden light and the man is gone. Veleda stares at the empty space in the tent, alone. The patter of rain fills the tent, and a distant roll of deep thunder as the storm outside breaks. The tent flaps in a sudden gust of wind, ropes stretching taut under the pressure. All of it ignored, as Veleda falls to her knees, weeping like a child.
Rudabeh's vision fades again, like a veil drawn before her, hiding the shame of the sobbing woman.
Then she comes back to herself. Like a shock of icy water, her body returns and Rudabeh is once again leaning against the altar. Musty air fills her lungs, the taste of earth heavy on her tongue.Her armor scrapes loudly in her ears, its weight familiar and yet novel. Without conscious choice, Rudabeh touches her face, and feels her cheek whole and sound under her fingers. She opens both eyes, reveling in the field of view.
Veleda is standing at her side, face drawn. She looks so old now, compared to the young and vibrant woman. Hunched and withered, like an old tree barely clinging to the earth with ragged roots. She searches Rudabeh's face and sees what she fears. It is like a death blow to the woman, and Veleda visibly winces and turns away with a shuttering breath.
"Alseta is cruel." She mutters, barely audible. "To show you my greatest failure."
Veleda seems to relax at Rudabeh's words, like a woman having bent her shoulder to a heavy load only to find it light as a feather. Her shoulders lower, brow clearing. The old woman lets out a small sigh, chest easing. That weariness seems to depart from her frame.
"Yes, perhaps that is best." She says, starting to sit down behind her desk. Then she pauses for a long moment, body bent slightly. As Rudabeh watches, the old woman starts to grimace shaking her head. Finally she re-straightens, looking Rudabeh in the eye.
"No." Is all she says at first and Rudabeh has no idea what she means. Seeing her confusion Veleda shakes her head again, "No. We will not take the easy path, whatever I desire. You know, as well as I, that sometimes the flat and easy path is the most dangerous."
Doubt fills Veleda's face, an expression so unlike her, Rudabeh is startled. What could make the old druid unsure? What waters was she swimming in? Slowly, with great effort, Veleda seems to conquer that anxiety, rising above it like a kite harnessing strong winds. Finally she says, voice quiet but growing in strengh, "You speak of trusting the gods, and that is right. This is not about you, or I, but about Alseta and her will. Where the human will is frail, the Welcomer is strong."
"Please, Rudabeh, take my hand." The old woman offers up her hand to the undine, the small wrinkled palm vanishing into Rudabeh's gauntled fist.
"Do you remember when I told you above the Grove, how it symbolized the harmony of a community?" She says, leading Rudabeh over to one of the living walls of the office. "That is all true, but there were other, more...practical reasons."
With that Veleda stepped into the solid wood of the tree-trunks, like a child stepping through the veil of a waterfall. Nearly in a dream-state, Rudabeh followed after, hand still clutching that of her mentor and master.
There is a rushing moment of bizarre sensations, as the paladin enters The Grove. It is a heady wild feeling as pure, raw life courses through her veins. A sense of growing of struggle toward a distant sun, of roots sinking in good, deep earth. A surging primal feeling of endurance and power filled her mind and soul. She was blind of course, lost in earthy darkness and yet, in her mind, she saw a hundred sunrises and sunsets flicker past in an instant.
Then it ends and Rudabeh is stumbling forward on a earth floor, surrounded by darkness. Slowly Rudabeh's vision adjust, the pitch blackness no barrier to the undine. She is standing in a low, earthen vault just high enough for her to stand erect. The roof is made of inter-twining roots locked together like a net, while the floor is nothing but simple earth, dry and smooth. The scent of wood and earth fills Rudabeh's nose, wholesome and alive.
Veleda lets go of Rudabeh's hand and says, "A little light, please."
For a moment nothing happens, then slowly, a dim light starts to grow along the walls. Dozens of mushrooms begin to glow with a soft blue light, casting the faintest of shadows. Outlined by the light, Rudabeh can just make out an ornate door in the earthen wall ahead.
Veleda nods to the door, face solemn "Welcome to the Bole. It is what passes for a treasure room in the Grove."
"It is where I keep those things too dangerous, too tempting or simply too valuable to leave out for the causal eye or hand. They are quite safe here, under the watch of my most trusted friends." Veleda reaches out and pats a dirty root with casual familiarity. Despite her casual manner though, Rudabeh sens hesitation behind the old woman's green eyes, twinkling like stars in the gloom.
Then leader of the Pact of Years, perhaps the most holy woman in the River Kingdoms lets down her guard, just for a moment. The aged, wrinkled face discards the carefully assembled mask and shows the true emotions beneath.
Anguish is there, and a sense of self-doubt so deep as to make Rudabeh gasp. Of utter fear and concern like a rising tide. Into that vulnerability Veleda whispers, like a child.
"What would you forgive me, Rudabeh? Strong, loyal Rudabeh. Will even you forgive me this?"
The words hang in the air, obviously aimed at Veleda herself and not the paladin.
Then slowly Veleda gestures to the door sunk into the black, rich earth. "Shall you open it? I believe you have the Key."
When Rudabeh had lived in Taldor, most of the local landlords had kept small herds of cattle and sheep, tended by tenant farmers. Despite over grinding poverty, the people took pride in their tasks and often specialized in one small aspect of husbandry. Every area had the 'best' weaver or blacksmith, the local expert. One old man, who had stuck in the paladin's memory ever since, had been Facinus. His treasured skill was being able to put down any beast, ox, pig, sheep, with a single blow to the head. It was not about strength, he had told the strapping young paladin once, after finishing off a restive bull that had injured one two many farmers. It was about technique.
Rudabeh was sure Facinus would have smiled when she knocked over the sitting Ractus as neatly as any pole-axed cow. The mercenary hit the stained, grimy tavern floor hard, even bouncing slightly. A look of puzzlement seem plastered on unmoving his face, clearly surprised at Rudabeh's abrupt action.
Dryw watches without blinking, although she does add, "He will be lucky to have a mind left, if you hit him like that a few more times." She looks up with interest when Rudabeh mentions the fortune teller and says, "An accurate prophecy is a rare thing indeed, although judging by his reaction, perhaps the Gods were wise to take it from us."
There is a clatter of steel as Rudabeh bends over and lifts Ractus onto her shoulders. The elf isn't a small man, and his dead form is ungainly at best but Rudabeh is a strong woman, long used to such toil. In moment she has the mercenary balanced on her shoulders as neatly as a farmboy carrying a bale of hay. Although, the paladin notes, the sodden elf smells far worse then freshly mown fodder.
Outside the presumed owner of the tavern steps forward, looking aghast at the broken bottles littering the floor. "I....That was expensive! Who is going to pay for this?"
Dryw cuts in, "I am sure Rudabeh will be happy to reimburse you for your troubles, Master Keeper. The Pact stands behind her. Submit a bill to the Grove's municipality office."
The druid sweeps past the man quickly, gesturing Rudabeh to do the same. As they leave the dim confines of the tavern and step back out in the busy, brightly lit street Dryw says, "So this is the type-" The priestess nods toward Ractus, "That you intend to turn into paladins of our faith and the Pact?"
There is a edge to her tone that tells Rudabeh much. There has long been a divide in the fragmented and decentralized Alseta faith weather the Welcomer should even have paladins. Many seemed to think Veleda's example as a druid indicated that path was the most correct and that martial leanings indicated a certain worldliness. For Rudabeh's side of the argument, didn't the fact that paladins gained divine blessings prove Alseta approved? She could hardly be a paladin without divine approval, after all. Still, it was a prickly issues among some, and clearly Dryw was one of them.
Whatever Rudabeh might imply about her chances of success, the young woman smiles at the paladin's hint of paying for a reading. Rudabeh had never met a fortune-teller yet that turned down a quick coin. "A chance to predict your future would be interesting but I am surprised you want it."
Her blue eyes lock with Rudabeh's, "The rumor on the street suggests your path is fixed in stone."
Rudabeh's future? Certain? What in the name of the gods were they saying out there?
The woman sets the cards down and pulls out the stub of a small candle, which she carefully lights with a match. The wick catches instantly, burning with a weird, green glow. A scent that reminds Rudabeh of almonds fills the air, layering over the stinks of the alley. The woman mouths a silent prayer, before putting away the matches and taking up the cards. Ractus watches this with obvious amusement and a knowing grin.
Quietly, politely he says, "Ah, you are one of those."
The woman pauses, ivory deck in hand, and glances at the elf. "One of which?"
Ractus, still smug, "All fortune-tellers seem to fall into two groups. The first are the happy ones, the ones that want to be your friend. A quick smile, a swipe of the cards and your bright future is laid out for you. You'll die peacefully at the age of 150, in your own bed surrounded by hordes of great-grandchildren, that'll be a few gold please."
A faint tone of bitterness enters Ractus's voice as he goes on, 'The other kind goes for a more mysterious, exotic approach. Chanting unknown tongues, weird tattoos and vague predictions. Nothing outright negative of course, no one wants a dark future, but things like 'And you shall meet a hooded stranger on a dark road'." He nods toward the small, merrily burning green flame, "The candle is a nice touch, I've never seen it before."
Again the fortune-teller seems unbothered by Ractus's growing rudeness. "My grandmother always lit a candle before a communing with the Else, and I light it in memory of her. Shall we begin?"
Ractus puts back his mocking smile, glances knowingly toward Rudabeh and then nods.
The young woman shuffles the cards one more time, the musical clatter reminding Rudabeh of something but unable to quite put her finger on it. Something from her childhood?
The fortune-teller fans the cards, face-down on the table and then begins picking them up, placing them in a circle, still face-down.
For the first time Ractus frowns and says, "You do not use Tapestry?"
The young fortune-teller's smile falters, for an instant, as she says slowly in obvious surprise, "You know the Harrow?"
The elf grunts, obviously lost in thought. His voice, when he answers, is oddly thick and uncertain. "I know enough, woman. Do you know how many peddlers and shysters descend on any army before battle? promising this fake healing amulet or this fake reading? Telling every solider 'Of course you will not die, my friend' and predicting victory for a coin. I've seen many a men throw his life away, convinced he was protected by fate. Fate predicted by a liar and faker, who is quickly off to pluck the next soon to be corpse!" The mercenary suddenly pauses, as if remembering when he is, and sits up straighter, visibly controlling himself. There is a gleam in one eye...a tear? It is gone in a moment and when he speaks again, his voice is cold and mocking.
"Oh, maybe a few had a spark or two of talent, some connection. But most of it is tricks and nonsense, I'm afraid. A way to separate the foolish and their money."
This is so rude Rudabeh is about to say something but the fortune-teller waves her hand and says, her tone oddly gentle, "Tricks and nonsense? Perhaps...perhaps. Shall we see your hooded stranger?"
Ractus, neck tight, nods.
With a flourish the pretty woman flips the circle of cards face-up, the soft click cutting through the alley noises like a sharp knife through a man's flesh.
The woman rests a single, pale finger on the card at one o'clock. "A long life indeed, many signs in your past. Powerful omens." She glances up at Rudabeh and whispers, "The reading is of three, past, present and future."
"Go on." Ractus says, his mocking tone replaced with something like dread. The scent of almonds seems to grow heavy in the air, cloying on Rudabeh's lips.
"The Bear, strength and power, unyielding fury." The fortune-teller says, touching each card as she names the first three. "The Twins, unsurety of purpose." Softly she adds, "And The Crows, of personal loss."
Ractus, stone-still, says nothing but the woman goes on, moving toward the bottom of the circle, "The Beating, of an attack from all sides, outward and inwards. The Juggler, the gods who play with the fates of others. And...the Eclipse. The loss of faith and bringer of doubt." A a pause and then, 'Do you wish a deeper reading of the present-"
"Read on, witch!" Ractus says, voice cruel as a whip.
She nods gracefully, smooth skin glowing in the gloom. "The future then....The Marriage, the joining of strange things, for both good and bad. The Cyclone, pure destruction of the works of men. And finally, the Tangled Briar, influence on history."
Then she frowns, and looks at yet another card, still in the circle and unnamed. "I counted wrong? How-"
She looks at the card more closely then glances up at Ractus. The elf abruptly stands up, knocking the barrel aside with a loud clatter. Without a word the mercenary smashes a mighty fist down on the wooden counter shattering it and sending the ivory cards cascading into the slimy mud. Still silent, he glares down at the scrambling woman, and raises his fist again, pauses, then turns away, stumping back up the alley toward the distant sounds of life and laughter, his limp heavy and painful.
Before Rudabeh can even breathe the young woman, still kneeling, lifts a cracked square of ivory out of the muck. Squinting past the gloom and the mud, Rudabeh can see the card bears the image of a battered pine tree, clinging to a great rock against storms.
Dannagu was silent for so long part of Rudabeh wondered if the man had turned to stone, black against black. Then, slowly, face still hidden he said, ”My people had many legends about the stars.” He pointed a shillotued hand toward the heavens above. ”Would you like to hear one?”
The big man stood, using his strange spear weapon like a cane, as if he was old and weary. Taking his feet, he began to sway as he spoke, the words rolling out as deep and strong as a mighty river.
”It is said that once on a time long ago in the winter, at the beginning of the season of snow after the first fall of snow, three men went on a hunt for game early on a morning. Upon a hillside into a place where the bush was thick a bear they trailed. One of the men went in following the trail of the bear. And then he started it up running. "Towards the place whence comes the cold is he speeding away!" he said to his companions.
He that headed off on the side which lay towards the source of the cold, "In the direction of the place of the noonday sky is he running!" he said.
Back and forth amongst themselves they kept the bear fleeing. They say that after a while he that was coming up behind chanced to look down at the ground. Behold, green was the surface of the earth lying face up! Now of a truth up into the sky were they conveyed by the bear! When round about the bush they were chasing it then truly was the time that up into the sky they went. And then he that came up behind cried out to him that was next ahead: "O River-that-joins-Another, let us go back! We are being carried up into the sky!" Thus said he to River-that-joins-Another. But by him was he not heeded.
Now River-that-joins-Another was he who ran in between the two, and a little puppy Hold-Tight he had for a pet.
In the autumn they overtook the bear, then they slew it. After they had slain it, then boughs of the oak they cut, likewise boughs of the sumac, then laying the bear on top of the leaves they flayed and cut up the bear; after they had flayed and cut it up, then they began slinging and scattering the meat in every direction. Towards the place of the coming of the morning they flung the head; in the winter-time when the morning is about to appear some stars usually rise; it is said that they came from the head of the bear. And also his backbone, towards the place of the morning they flung it too. They too are commonly seen in the winter-time; they are stars that lie huddled close together; it is said that they came from the backbone.
And they say that these four stars in the lead were the bear, and the three stars at the rear were they who were chasing after the bear. In between two of them is a tiny little star, it hangs near by another; they say that it was the puppy, the pet Hold-Tight of River-that-joins-Another.
Every autumn the oaks and sumacs redden in the leaf because it is then that the hunters lay the bear on top of the leaves and flay and cut it up; then red with blood become the leaves. Such is the reason why every autumn red become the leaves of the oaks and sumacs.”
A moment of silence then Irovetti said, ”Strange names, for the hunters. 'River-that-joins-Another' , what kind of name is that?”
Before Rudabeh has a chance to comment on the former King's blatant disregard for cultural traditions Dannagu laughs softly and says, ”Those are...were, the names of my people. I too have such a name, buried deep. Maybe one day you will know it.”
The next few days pass in a haze of work and organization. Rudabeh finds herself helping prepare not only her own mercenary company to head downriver but an entire 'royal' flotilla of nobles, admirals, pet artists and other hanger-ons. Ships need refloated, supplies repackaged, chains of command laid out, all done with people who barely knew how to tie their own shoes. Luckily Faro proves to be indefatigable about the entire affair, clearly happy to pass any 'noble problems' onto Rudabeh for adjudication. To her surprise Irovetti also takes an active hand, being quick to throw his weight around in order to speed process. The paladin has the feeling the former king has no desire to waste time squabbling on the banks of a muddy river when Daggermark beckons.
It takes a few weeks but due to the strong backs of mercenaries, Faro's seamanship and Rudabeh's own efforts, they are soon moving again. The stop in Touvette is a dangerous one, considering the town's well known aversion to outsiders but Rudabeh's group is so large (and armed) they have little trouble on their short visit. Still, Rudabeh keeps everyone under a close eye and only allows the bare minimum of shore leave with Ractus's battered frame literally creating a barrier on the gangplank between the mercenaries and all the possible troubles of the shore.
Voluse is a different matter. While technically under the rule of Touvette, the smaller town is considerably more liberal and open then the brooding capital, and a frequent stopping point for river traffic. Rudabeh's fleet takes up much of the local docks, and her tents create a small rival town on the far shore. At first the citizens are wary of the fleet, it not being unheard of for wandering bands to virtually loot a town for supplies or even carry off the local unattached women (who usually escape a few days later, but still). Rudabeh enforces strict discipline however and pays in good silver for what they need, so the town soon warms to the influx. Besides, Irovetti treats the entire thing as a noble visit and actually orgainzes a formal parade of both the troops and the nobles in all their regalia. Rudabeh figures this will be a legend in the town for years to come.
To her delight she finds a huge tumbledown hall on the edge of town, a long neglected temple of Cayden Caliean which looks much like an Ulfen war lodge out of legend. She has her troops patch the leaking roof, repair a few tottering pillars, scrub the moss-covered floor and in a few hours she has a hall fit to feast nearly the entire group. The paladin buys every drink in town, the locals rolling the barrels to the temple with a will. Rudabeh can't help but think the Lucky Drunk would approve of the labor and her men wave toward his old holy symbol on the wall, freshly scrubbed for the occasion.
The night is a long one, filled with toasts, stories and games of all sorts. While Rudabeh doesn't get drunk, she does enjoy more then a few tankards of a rich yellow mead that is the local specialty. The hall is soon a spectacle of song and ribald of laughter, as men dance on tables, laugh at jokes or compare outrageous tall-tales. Contests of all types break out, arm-wrestling, foot races or even poetry slams. Rudabeh makes sure things don't progress to broken arms or missing teeth but everyone is in too good a mood for anything to really escalate anyway.
Just as night truly sets in, the door slams open, driving even the drunkest mercenary to silence. Men totter on unsteady legs, squinting through wavering eyes. In the doorway stands Irovetti, dressed in his usual clashing of styles, a bright green brocade cloak thrown over a pin-striped shirt of frosty blue. The fancy red hat of his rescue night is cocked jauntily on his head, while his staff sits in one hand. His gaze sweeps the room, face unreadable.
Then without warning, he flips his wrist and a jet of blue flame leaps into the air, crackling loudly. Then he sweeps the other one and a matching streak of red flame does the same. They whirl above his head like flying snakes, shooting bright sparks this way and that as they narrowly avoiding slamming into each other. After a moment they vanish with a crack loud enough to topple a few of the drunkest off their chairs, leaving nothing but pungent smoke. In the stunned silence Irovetti smiles, bows and doffs the hat to the assembled men.
”To the brave men and women of the River Company!” With a magicians flair he pulls a tankard out of mid-air and raises it high. ”I salute you!” And he drowns the frothing beer in a single gulp to thunderous applause.
The rest of the night goes much as you would expect.
The next few weeks is slow going as Ostend (who constantly threatens to leave them all at the nearest town at least every other day) guides the flotilla down the river toward Riverton and Kallas Lake. Rudabeh doesn't waste the time and drills the troops relentlessly. She pulls on every memory of the Bastard Birdgae she can, and trains the men on everything from shooting volleys or arrows to making a cavalry square (this last one is moved to dry land after Ostend quite nearly sheds actual tears at the state of his deck). Rudabeh is pleased to find most to he soldiers are capable, having long ago learned the trade of the blade. They have the skills, she just needs to make them move and act as one. The paladin knows, from long experience, that it is that quality that separates the common rabble of sellswords and bully-boys from the real mercenary companies like the one she grew up in. It is a hard lesson to learn but Rudabeh sets herself to it, and uses the time wisely.
Aurelia learns to swim in the deep and still waters of Kallas Lake, under Rudabeh's watchful eye. To the paladin's astonishment, there are more then a few of her new recruits who also have no idea how to even tread water. Out of the group, Silvui seems the most comfortable in the water and takes to diving into the deepest pools from tall trees and cliffs, often to applause. Rudabeh spends several days giving instruction and breaking up splash fights, before she is satisfied that at least no one will drown if they get pulled overboard by a feisty trout.
Soon they are heading north again, upriver this time, sometimes poling the barges, other times rowing. The miles creep by, just like the towns. Novoboro, Wilkesmont, Solanos. Day by day they move closer to Daggermark, the center of the Pact of Years and soon the weight of what lies ahead begins to weigh on the paladin. What will she find at the Grove? How much of what had happened in Pitax had already reached the city, and how many lies were tangled up in it? Rumor traveled fast down the rivers, but it was always topped with a thick layer of confusion, guesswork and outright lies. Considering how outrageous the events actually had been, Gods only knew what gossip had made of it.
She distracts herself by talking to the two souls trapped in her still battered armor. The paladin quickly learns that it seems to be random chance if that morning Teken will be present in her head or Senqhi. To her utter frustration however, neither soul will talk about the other. Teken clearly knows who Senqhi is but loftily says she is beneath his notice while Senqhi practically boils over into rage at his mere mention. Despite that setback however, her efforts do earn her more familiarity with Gezzerbial's armor itself and she learns several new facts. For one thing, the armor has different abilities depending on which soul is ''present' that day. With Teken she gains the jagged spikes in a grapple as well as a single spell. With Senqhi however, the armor gains the ability to shrug off certain spells and effects as well as a single spell.
With Teken the armor has the Grinding ability and gives you the spell They Know once a day.
Another part of her routine is breakfast with Ractus at the prow of the barge every morning. Their lack of a chef is quickly reminded by Irovetti who reveals, among the endless staff of the noble vessels, a chef of considerable skill. He keeps to himself however and Rudabeh is still left wondering if he is an actual wizard or not. Still, his morning crepes are delicious and she enjoys watching the sun rise with the mercenary captain whose mood seems to sour as the day progresses. Draze is also often nearby, trolling the muddy current for catfish or other bottom feeders. In those cool, misty morning they speak of many things, of shoes (Ractus likes light leather boots) and ships (the elf doesn't know a keel from a keel-hauling) and sealing-wax (every warrior has his own trusted weapon oil), of cabbages (Ractus enjoys cabbage stew), and kings (a single glance toward Irovetti's royal yatcht is enough for this topic).
But they also talk of more serious things and Rudabeh speaks of her worries about how the Pact may react to her actions in Pitax, how Veleda will react and the pressures of being a ordained heir. For his part the elf is more reticent, but she learns much about his past travels and jobs, all over this part of Avistan, ranging from the weird horrors of Ustalav to the exotic dangers of Numeria.
The day they rounded the last bend in the river was a hot one, without a single cloud to block the blazing sun, a true foretaste of summer. Sunlight gleamed off the water, making the river look like beaten bronze. Rudabeh stood in the prow of the first vessel, the rest of the small fleet ranging behind her. At her side stood Irovetti, who seemed increasingly nervous as they ventured closer to their final estimation. He was constantly shifting this way and that, adjusting a small bit of clothing and changing handkerchiefs or the angle of his hat. He had gone for a rather overblown ensemble consisting of a currant colored robe, an ebony shirt and turquoise pants, all capped with a gold circlet that looked suspiciously royal.
At first they passed the acres of farms surrounding the city, much of it water-logged fields of rice or taro, traditional staples of the River Kingdoms, but Rudabeh saw plenty of drier acres of wheat and barely. Daggermark attracted many outsiders and clearly farmers were adapting to their tastes. She even saw herds of cattle at pasture, something nearly unheard of. Even in Pitax, which had been fairly urban and prosperous, didn't have a dairy industry. Not for the first time Rudabeh reflected on the fact that the largest city in the River Kingdoms and the beating heart of it's fragile peace, was the city least like the hinterlands.
Next they pass residential areas, entire districts of quiet housing for farmers and townspeople alike. Colorful markets dot this area, some of them busy and active, others quiet waiting for their own market days. Clearly there is some sort of schedule to avoid over-crowding. Child run this way and that across the wide boulevards. This part of the city was new and had only been built after the Pact located here and Veleda's time in power. The streets were clean, the houses painted and the air clear.
Next they came to the Old City and the docks. Miles of haphazard quays stretched out into the muddy water, surrounded by complicated networks of streets, cranes and wharehouses. People bustled everywhere, unloading vessels or loading wagons, goods of all sorts making their way to market or being shipped farther afield. Dozens of barges sat at anchor, with many more in the river itself. Irovetti seemed to pale a bit at her side saying, ”The city has grown since the last I was here.” His voice is a bit weak, and Rudabeh can tell he is comparing Daggermark to Pitax, and finding it an uneven contest.
Around them the Old City spread like a fungus farm, littered with tottering buildings, waterstained tenements and dozens of crabbed, narrow allies. Here and there, like a clearing in a fores,t a bit of new development would flourish, a small square with a fountain or a park, but most was the old Daggermark, a city of grime and knives. Change came slow in the River Kingdoms and the old character of the city of assassins died hard.
As Rudabeh puzzles out the answer, she notes the door seems tense, almost quivering with anticipation. Waiting for her to get the right answer, or the wrong one?
Seqhi remains silent, clearly considering it cheating if she helped with the riddle.
When the paladin replies with her answer the door seems to consider it for a moment, eyebrows knitting together with a soft clink that reminds Rudabeh of two copper coins rustling in a coin purse.
Then it smiles again and says, "Fairly spoken. Enter then, but recall your oaths and promises."
The door grinds open, steel grating on unseen hinges until it stands fully ajar.
"Welcome."
What first hits her, quite literally, is the heat. It is like the blast of a freshly opened oven, a wave of dry heat that makes Rudabeh's eyes water with the intensify. The cool damp air of the swamp behind her is blown away entirely, replaced with the same dry wind the paladin recalled Gezzerbial seemed to prefer.
Next is blazing light, enough to make the undine nictitating eyelids close protectively. After the starlight darkness outside, the harsh red-yellow light is an almost sickening contrast. Slowly, her eyes adjust allowing her to take in the interior of the iron hut. It is a most unusual sight.
The entire room is made of metal, from floor to ceiling and the walls. The floor underfoot is solid steel, interwoven with threads of red and gold, seemingly worked into the very metal. The same follows up the walls, creating an illusions of a vast fiery landscape of shifting pillars of flame, and making the hut feel much larger then it was. Hanging from the ceiling is a massive chandelier-like bronze brazier, the metal glowing a deep red, the nearly molten metal giving off light instead of a fire within.
There is little furniture in the space, a few metal writing desks pushed against the wall and an ornate fireplace (shaped like the gaping mouth of a cobra) along the back wall. In a corner, an iron cage sits, empty with the door hanging open.
In the center of the room is a golden table, simple but polished to a mirrored shine. Around it sit four figures, perched on wrought-iron chairs that look hideously uncomfortable.
Two of the figures are short, squat figures that Rudabeh at first mistake for dwarfs, complete with beards. After a moment though Rudabeh can see the beards trail not to wispy ends of hair, but
tiny licking flames, as if they were caught on fire. Their skin is flesh but with a dull bronze sheen, greasy as with sweat or oil.
The third is a taller, much more powerfully built figure, sitting on the chair with the rock-like stolidity and reserve Rudabeh usually thought the department of judges or high priests. He, and if is surely a high, with square jaw, massive shoulders and a bare chest of rippling muscles, is taller even then Rudabeh and more strongly built. The harsh firelight plays off crimson skin, smoldering eyes, and small black horns. Smoke rises in curls from its flesh, ignored by the being. Two powerful legs sit planted on the floor, iron-shod.
And the fourth figure is one Rudabeh knows quite well. It is Irovetti, sitting at ease, with his shirt front opened, revealing a thin sweaty chest. His clothes are rumpled but clean, and his hair not even mussed. The short man's feet do not reach the ground from his own chair, dangling like a child. Heavy chains are wrapped around him, but do not seem to bother the (former?) king.
All four figures are leaning forward, thin slabs of metals in their hands, held close. Small piles of gems sit in front of them, assembled rubies, garnets and diamonds. It takes Rudabeh a moment to put it together.
They are playing cards!
Then Irovetti breaks the silence, lying down his metal 'cards' with a resounding clang on the gold table. "And that is whist, gentleman!" He says triumphantly.
The two squat figures groan loudly, throwing their metal slices onto the table. One pushes a pile of rubies as big as robin's eggs toward the man while muttering, "He must be cheating! That's four times in a row!"
Irovetti merely chuckles, carefully sweeping the offered jewels to his large pile (Rudabeh notes he uses a hankerchief to avoid touching both the cards or the jewels), chains clinking lightly with his movements.
"Just good luck, I think." The man says, smiling. "Whose deal?"
Seqhi ignores her first question about the iron hut, clearly still stung that Rudabeh deigned to harm such a beautiful and exotic creature as a mobogo. Part of the paladin wonders if this would be a re-occurring problem. While Rudabeh didn't kill creatures for her amusement, the River Kingdoms had a very active ecosystem that often tried to.....engage travelers.
Seqhi takes a long moment to respond to the second question but then says, Your name, rank and purpose is traditional, the Fire Plane is an orderly place. We do not set much store by unexpected visitors. The one faux pas is to open the door yourself, which is tantamount to an insult. It is up to the master of the home to open the door. At least, it was so in my day. Doors and passing through them is an important ritual, or so our customs hold. In my grandfather's time, it was even more formal, with the answering of many questions and oaths.
A pause and then she added, Knocking is very gauche.
So Rudabeh avoided knocking and did as she intended to do anyway, clearly stated her name and purpose.
There was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by dim noises voice floating to her ears from a nearby window. Several voices...arguing? Quarreling? It was hard to tell.
Then Rudabeh was distracted as the door....shifted. The smooth (if aged) metal seemed to twist and curve, forming a old looking face, complete with shining metal eyes and a curling beard, all engraved out of solid steel. It gleamed dully in the dim starlight.
With the aged creak of a door that needed oil, the mouth opened and spoke, "Izvo zvakanaka kuti uone imwe sumo yakakodzera uye maitiro kuitira shanduko?"
A moment passes as Rudabeh tries to parse the strange language, which sounds like oil spitting on a hot stove. Ignan, surely?
In her head, all signs of surliness gone, Senqhi says, 'That is Ignan, and a very old style of it. Rudabeh wonders what 'very old' means to an ifrit several thousand years out of date. How old was this door?
There is a pause as the iron servant's face stares at her, a slight frown wrinkling the metallic features. Then it speaks again, voice that same grating squeak, "Forgive me. Thast been some time since I has't hath used this language, tis not much used in other lands." It is Common but of such archaic patterns Rudabeh has a hard time following it. When had this door learned Common, before Starfall?
"Thee desire entry?" It goes on, seeming unaware of Rudabeh's confusion at the old speech patterns, "Art thee prapr'd to speaketh the passwords, oaths and answer the do'r riddle?"
Door riddles! Senqhi says, her voice edged with laughter. This is an old servant, the Fire Plane has not used door riddles for passage, even for temples, for many ages.
Rudabeh's boots, weighted with the heavy steel sabtons, churns the mud as she charges forward. Flecks of grime splash on her armor, dulling the usual mirror shine finish. Despite the uneven ground the paladin moves fast and soon overtakes the writhing tongue and sorcerer and plants herself between Aurelia and the mobogo. The scent of burned plants mingles with the soft ooze of decomposing muck in Rudabeh's nose, the competing smells hanging thick in the air..
The weird frog-like creature seems to frown at this intrusions, seeing Rudabeh and her flaming sword, for the first time. It opens the mouth slightly, feet planting in the mud for another spell when their is a flash of color in mid-air, hurtling toward the beast. There is a wet thwack as an arrow hits home, finding purchase in the rolls of greasy, slimy flesh. In an instant it is followed by another, the burst of colored feathers whipping through the air.
RUdabeh tracks the flight backward, peering above the piled greenery. After a moment she spots Litta, crouching in the shadow of a massive gnarled mangrove branch, perched high above the plants. Her bow is in her hands, reaching for another arrow.
Rudabeh sees no signs of the others, but hears shouts of confusion. Hopefully soon, they can overcome the plants, and fight as a ground.
Aurelai feebly struggles against the sticky mass of the tounge, the bruise-colored flesh unyielding.
Aurelia, Break Grapple:1d20 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3
Next round
The mobogo ignores the two flecthed arrows in it's side, the two pinpricks of dark carime arrows. The bulging mass of flesh heaves, coils of fat rolling and unrolling, revealing huge wrinkles of bistre skin, mottled with sickly viridian blotches. As the mogobo moves, the sac-like throat seems to swell in size, skin stretching tighter, and streaks of dark citrine appear, clearly a sign of anger and annoyance for the massive beast.
Like a bubble it swells, and Rudabeh has a feeling she knows what is coming. The mogobo opens its huge mouth and lets out a deafening croak, louder then a roll of thunder. Trees crack at the noise, and the roiling grasses flatten out, as if caught in a windstorm. Rudabeh's head rings, her vision going glassy for a moment and her limbs sag.
Rudabeh Will Save:1d20 + 9 ⇒ (14) + 9 = 23
But Rudabeh is born of combat, and a will to match, not to mention protected by Alseta herself. In a moment she has re-mastered herself, vision clearing. However, which of her friends had fallen to the strange supernatural sound? Clearly it was meant to stun and confuse the mobogo's enemies.
People had the wrong idea about walking around in heavy armor. It was difficult, but not for the reasons people suspected. It wasn't so much the weight of all that steel. Granted, it was heavy but Rudabeh was experienced and knew how to handle it, feeling for sound footing with a second nature that didn't slow her down. It also wasn't mobility. Even the most awkwardly made full plate was surprisingly flexible and Gezzerbial's joints were almost supernaturally free and loose. The paladin could move just fine.
No, it was the field of view. Even with the visor up, the helmet restricted her vision, not much but enough that she constantly found hidden tree roots and low hanging branches with her body, instead of her eyes. The occasional clank of wood on steel was not only jarring but it was embarrassing, being the loudest person through the swamp.
Not that the swamp was quiet itself. All around her, the world was filled to bursting with life. Most of the landscape was dominated by massive mangroves, whose huge twisting roots created a living forest floor. The sweeping roots created pools of water as well as pockets of dry land, an intricate network that plenty of animals and plants too advantage of. Already they had seen countless snakes, frogs, and turtles, along with any number of their predators such as muskrats, foxes and herons. It was a full time job replying to Senqhi's inquisitive answers about names, habits and uses.
Above, the arcing branches created a leafy canopy that blocked out most of the sun, for which Rudabeh was grateful. The swamp was hot and muggy, but at least she didn't have the harsh rays of the sun directly heating her armor, like a blast forge. Among the greenery above countless birds sang, squawked and flitted about. Entire flocks of crows watched from their rookeries, cawing raucously after they passed, while one massive tree was filled with nothing but huge colony of white egrets.
Rudabeh's team, even including her clanging steel, made little extra noise in the din. The paladin brought up the rear, moving the slowest under the circumstances. Jerrad had placed her here with a slight grin, probably relishing in the ability to place the Alseta follower last but Rudabeh knew better. How many stories had she heard from adventuring parties who had put wizards or other casters in the back, only to be attacked by some nameless thing following in the dark? No, a strong rearguard was good tactical sense, even if the head of Pitax's guards had done it by mistake.
In front of here was Silvui and Dannagu. The Varsisian duelist looked quite out of place in the swamps, but he moved with determined strides, head down. Dannagu moved easily through the brackish water but Rudabeh heard him curse more then a few times, wishing for open plains and clear country. Rudabeh wondered what sort of landscape he was used to.
Ahead of them ranged the rest of the party in near real order, sorted by happenstance and the variges of local terrain. At the head of the little column was Jerrad and his other Pitax ally, a blocky man who looked more like a bouncer (or leg-breaker) then a solider.
Out of the murky, like a ghost, Litta appeared at Rudabeh's side. The woman's step was silent and sure, seeming to find any trace of dry earth without effort, her green eyes sweeping the swamp around them like a cat expecting mice...or dogs. The bow in her hand was strung but held loosely.
"Rudabeh," She said quietly, voice a hushed whisper, "Tell Jerrad to let me take point. I can do the scouting, find the best path forward. I asked but he...said no."
Faro makes a face and says, "I doubt any of them will join you. Most of them are either nobles, or guards. The former are generally useless cowards and the latter will wait to see who is buttering their bread. But I'll ask and see if there is any useful gear. Anything in mind you want me to search for?"
With that said, Rudabeh finds a hatchway leading down. It is like looking into the shaft of a coal mine, the water blacker then midnight. Aurelia, standing on dry deck looks down and shivers, "Stay safe."
For Rudabeh however, this holds little danger and no fear. What was the concern, if one could breathe water and see in the dark? Without preamble she plunges into the shaft, making the calm water lap up onto the deck.
In an instant Rudabeh is a stygian maze of the sunken belowdecks of the ship. Her eyes quickly adjust, the strange colorless darkvision taking over. Everything is shades of gray, silver, or smoke, but she can easily find her way downwards toward Irovetti's room. It is eerie though, walking through flooded hallways, pushing the odd bit of floating rope or wood out of her way. Doors open noiselessly in the water, adding to the already dream-like feeling. Even the tread of her heavy boots is muted on the water-logged wood of the ship.
She finds her first body after only a few minutes. A sailor, pinned to the deck by a heavy barrel of pitch. Rudabeh shakes her head when she notes the round object hadn't even been tied down, a basic requirement for any vessel. The sailor, a young man without even a beard, stares up sightlessly, short hair wafting in the still water, skin pallid with watery death. Maybe not a dream, but a nightmare.
Identifying which of the rooms was Irovetti's wasn't hard. It was the one that glittered. The huge stateroom was larger then many fishing vessels Rudbaeh had traveled on, with fine thick rugs on the floors and actual tapestries lining the walls. Both, of course, were covered with Irvoetti's own face and grand deeds, rendered in woven thread. Dressers and chests lay along every wall, many of them jostled and thrown about by the shipwreck, drawers hanging open revealing everything from sodden books to silvery combs. Fallen bits of art crowd the room, including entire statues, enameled snuffboxes and bits of stained glass.
In the center of the room was a massive four-poster bed, looking pristine despite the shipwreck. Rudabeh notes the bed is actually fastened to the deck with iron rings, strong enough to hold it in place no matter the weather. Beds secure but the tar barrels not..... Billowing curtains surround the bed, drifting like the arms of a gray jellyfish.
For the first time Rudabeh was glad darkvision robbed art of its pigments, for she could only image the colored assault the room might have been otherwise.
She starts to sift through the boxes and dressers in the room, looking for items of value. The paladin is not art expert but soon has a small pile of the most transportable and expensive items. She finds no money, which leads her to believe Irovetti must had hidden it rather cannily.
Faro glances back toward the shipwrecks for a few moments, eyes only temporarily defeated by the dazzling sunlight over the water. After only a few moments he points to the 'flagship' Rudabeh already recognized.
"That one, same one he traveled on. I have a feeling your King didn't like to have his jewels far away. From what I saw it was more...items, then coins. Sculptures and metal-work mostly, should survive a bit of a swim all right. Might be work to get it to the surface, it'll be the heaviest ship and had the most damage." Then he looks at Rudabeh and smiles, "Ah, I forget. Going down and heaving up some art wouldn't be much work for you, would it? I have to say, I'm a good swimmer but I have a feeling you'd make me look like a snail."
His very choice of metaphor shows how even the most water-loving human is still hopelessly land oriented. Snails didn't swim.
Soon both of them are heading back toward Ostend's barge, walking along the over-grown bank. The ground is uneven and choked with growth, and the effort soon has Rudabeh sweating and hot. Her armor also weighs her down, making each step a gamble of how deep she would sink in the soft, muddy ground or if she would trip on an exposed tree root. A quick glance over the enticing river shows her the other bank is worse, much worse. Just getting to Irovetti was going to be difficult.
As they walk Seqhi 'returns' from her stunned silence following Rudabeh's comments.
I...I am sorry. It was just very shocking news, thousands of years... A pause as the ifrit gathers herself. You asked about the Ignan, on the plate. If you pull it out, I can check translate.
Rudabeh offers the still hot metal sheet, Faro giving her an odd look as she does so.
Language has changed Seqhi says, curious despite herself. For an official document, they have certainly dispensed with much of the formalities you used to have. Even so, I can make most of it it out. Tree root! She says abruptly and Rudabeh narrowly avoids face-planting in a silty pool of riverwater.
The wording is much the same, although more legalistic and binding, using Fire Plane expression. The time is given in candles of course, while the debt is enumerated in our coinage. A short pause, Unless exchange rates have altered a great deal, your friend owes a considerable sum.
In short order, despite the rough terrain, they reach the barge. Most of the mercenaries are on the bank already, carving out a small base of operations. Brush is cleared, trees felled, a few small cookfires started. The work is done well but very haphazardly and Rudabeh winces at the roughness of the camp. Finn had never been a stickler for camp regulations but Zaih Clor had been a nut on the subject. It wasn't until she left her old tutors she realized most mercenary bands didn't measure out their paths or calculate the best configuration of tents for any given space.
Ostend is at the rail and calls out as Rudabeh and Faro enter the muddy area. "Ah, Faro! Good to see you alive. I feared the worst at the sight of the wrecks. They said you were in charge. Did Irovetti steer you onto some rocks?" His tone is friendly but tinged with shared annoyance at over-rich passengers.
The halfling at Rudabeh's side nods back and says, "You could say that. Rudabeh will tell the tale."
The boat was fairly large, if not as big as the hulking barge with her company. It would be heavy and the wood probably water-logged by now, but still Rudabeh was strong and loads were not nearly as heavy underwater. Bracing her feet firmly on the gravel river bed, she planted her spear point under the wooden rim of the upturned craft and started to pry it free. The mud was sucking and was reluctant to give way, forcing Rudabeh to heave with all of her might to make the boat shift even a few inches. But slowly her straining exertions were rewarded not just with a cloud of mud wafting in the breeze-like current, but with a growing gap between stream-bed and boat edge. Using the current like wind in a sail, she would soon have it turned over entirely-
Seqhi suddenly broke off a rattling monologue about fiery beasts of burden with 'What is that scent? Taste? Whatever you call it in water. It seems familiar...'
Rudabeh opens her mouth, exploring the feel of the water, both taste and scent. It seems the same, that clear freshwater that spoke of health and spring rains. there was a taste of fresh mud of course from unearthing the boat but nothing...wait, what was that? A faint oily scent. Something shifted in the muddy gloom of the boat and Rudabeh froze, looking at the vague outline.
Then something exploded out of the darkness under the boat, a dark shape slamming into her like a runaway cart. It knocked the armored paladin aside and shoved itself into the gap under the boat. For a moment it struggled there as the watercraft began to sink back down, no longer held up by Rudabeh's spear. Mud churned, blocking Rudabeh's view of the creature as it struggled to release itself from the prison of the upturned ship.
'That scent...' Seqhi repeated, in curious tones. 'I know it...but why.' The thick oily presence in the water was unmistakable now, hot and sharp, totally alien to Rudabeh's experience. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't native.
There was a sound of tearing wood and suddenly the dark shape darted forward, apparently free of the crushing weight. It soared out of the mud cloud and circled around, and Rudabeh got her first good look at the thing. It was...a shark?
'Oil shark' Seqhi says, breathless, that child-like wonder coming back into her voice. 'Some sages suggested they could live in water but we were never able to test it.....Fascinating!'
Rudabeh could see how the creature got it's name. It looked like an immense, eyeless shark over 10 feet long feet with blackish-blue, metallic scales gleam with bubbling iridescent oil. The sleek fins, powerful tail and gaping maw are all sheathed in a thin, barely visible bubble of steam. It aimed a pointed nose at Rudabeh and dove like a barracuda on a tuna.
With a single powerful thrust of its tail the fish-like creature barrels toward Rudabeh. Instead of opening the mighty jaws though, it keeps it's mouth close and simply tries to slam into the paladin like a battering ram, apparently trying to crush her against another sunken hulk.
Bull Rush:1d20 + 18 ⇒ (1) + 18 = 19
oh ho!
It narrowly misses the paladin, instead crashing into the boat with enough force to splinter wood and throw up another cloud of mud. Rudabeh is shook just by the passage of the churning water but for now is unharmed.
The noonday sun leeches all the color out of the world, bathing everything is tones of yellow and orange. Even from inside her helmet Rudabeh has to shade her eyes against the harsh rays to gaze out at the sunken vessels ahead.
There is a loud clatter as mercenaries (new and old) hastily grab equipment, the memory of the flame drake strong enough to hurry up even the most lazy. The chaos is only slightly controlled and Rudabeh winces at how often the men and women step on each others toes, both figuratively and literally.
Ractus and Ostend meet her at the prow, both looking up at the sad, water-logged remains of the Royal Armada. They listen quietly as Rudabeh speaks, sharing her thoughts, hunches and initial worries.
In her head Seqhi comments, 'Flame Drake? You have Flame Drakes in this land? Impressive creatures but I would not assume they would care for rivers and forests.'
Ractus, obviously not hearing that side conversation ponders Rudabeh's concerns about fireballs and packed ranks of mercenaries. He rubs his chin with his hand, and the paladin notes stubble there, when the elf usually went clean shaven.
"My first thought is we head for shore first, and unload everyone." The mercenary captain says finally, "Leave the sailors on board, wait for nightfall, and have the boat hurry past while we follow on foot. I don't want to have another fight in the water."
"And leave us unprotected?" Ostend says, raising an eyebrow. "That seems rather cowardly."
Ractus shrugs, "My men would be mostly useless on a ship anyway. If you stay close enough to the bank, we can help while standing on firm ground."
Ostend shakes his head, not voicing his obvious concerns.
Ractus speaks again, looking over the water with sharp eyes, "Some have to have survived. Even in Irovetti's entourage there would be survivors. The guards could swim, at least. They might be hiding out in the trees. Which bank is more likely, Captain?"
Ostend peers at the river for a moment and points, "The right bank. See how the current shifts inward slightly and the sand banks there? Anyone jumping overboard would naturally be pushed to the right bank." Then the half-elf sniffs the air and says, "Besides, the left bank is a swamp. Do you really want to unload your men in that muck?"
Ostend points to the other side of the river which looks the same to Rudabeh.
The barge captain turns to Rudabeh, "Sunken boats make me uneasy, Rudabeh. Especially if I don't know what caused it."
Shalina thinks the undead are wights, a generic form of humanoid undead often caused by evil magic, but not sure of anything more specific then that.
Still, she imagines her glaive will injure them, so she goes to work. Planting her feet firmly on the uneven stone below the water, she begins hacking away at the headless undead with the careful measured attacks of an experienced swordswoman.
Both her blows land, although the wiry undead almost dodges the second thrust. The blinding torch-like glaive cuts through the slimy flesh with ease, although no blood comes forth. Tekk joins her, slashing the other undead with his sword, which bursts into holy light. It seems to do more damage then her glaive but his undead is still upright as well.
Her Chelish prisoners reel back, splashing loudly shouting. Out of the corner of her eye Shalina watches Gerrik jump back and then...vanish. He slips below the surface with a yelp, clearly having stepped into a hole or other depression, below the surface. He does not reappear. Her guide was in danger!
Round Two
Meanwhile the undead attack again. Changing tactics, the figure attacks in a blizzard of quick jobs and blows to the bard's head.
Shalina blocks the first two blows, using the handle of her glaive to spar with the undead. But the third blow sneaks through her defenses, hitting on the side of the head.
Damage:1d8 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6
The blow is not hard, not for Shalina's rather hard head but the impact leaves a cold, painful sensation that sends a shiver down her spine and sinks into her limbs. Also some of the damage on the undead repairs slightly, dead flesh knitting together somewhat.
You just gained a negative level
Negative Level:
For each negative level a creature has, it takes a cumulative –1 penalty on all ability checks, attack rolls, combat maneuver checks, Combat Maneuver Defense, saving throws, and skill checks. In addition, the creature reduces its current and total hit points by 5 for each negative level it possesses. The creature is also treated as one level lower for the purpose of level-dependent variables (such as spellcasting) for each negative level possessed. Spellcasters do not lose any prepared spells or slots as a result of negative levels. If a creature’s negative levels equal or exceed its total Hit Dice, it dies.
The tailor sighs and says, "I heard someone say your father was a merchant? Well, daughter like father. I've had easier times with the river pilots, and they skin me alive. Very well, sixty gold pieces and my shop is one step closer to closing. Maybe I can go beg on a street corner."
She shakes Rudabeh's hand firmly and deliberately ignores the coins as well.
"I wish you and your friends well. Safe travels, Rudabeh of Outsea and may the eyepatch serve you well." A pause and then, "May the changes in your life be of your timing and choosing." An unusual but rote Alseta prayer or benediction. Clearly the tailor went to temple at some point in her life. One of Hiram's flock, perhaps?
Hua's casual (but carefully calibrated) remark earns her a few titters and approving nods from the small crowd of on-lookers at the mouth of the alley. The limp conman hardly looks like a dire danger to the streets of Goka, even less so compared to the uniformed men carrying him. Zhenya's voice is brittle as he says, "Second Echelon, Lady Jiang. Forgive my correction, but accuracy is important in such matters."
The officer and troops go one way, while Hua makes he way back to the waiting area, the crowd dissipating around her like colored smoke in a carnival tent. She passes the stone stoop where the old man had sat, that had started this entire affair.
As she passes by, the noblewoman notes a small scrap of paper there, sitting neatly on the steps. Reflexively she picks it up and notes writing on it. In fact, the message is so short and clear she can't help but read it entirely.
I prepared explosive runes today
It says, in a hand Hua does not recognize (and won't win any penmanship awards), 'Leave before the Third Act'
Still pondering this enigmatic note, Hua wanders into the lush garden zone in front of the theater. Pipesmoke wreathes her, Hua's common approach to logical problems. What did the note mean and why had it been left? Had it been left for her in particular? Or had it been a mistake?
Hua is still deep in thought when she hears, "Lady Jiang!"
Turning she sees Yinming Coyi of the Imperial Sub-Ministry of Procurement and Supply standing there, still wearing her official Imperial work uniform robes edged with deep blue. Her only conceit to fashion is a red sash and the minimum of make-up required. Lisheng would have been both outraged and delighted at such scandalous disregard for expected levels of dress in Goka, doubly so for a social event like this play.
"Are you well?" Yin says, frowning at the smoke, "You seem to be distracted. Did it have something to do with that man I saw them hauling up the street? The criminal?"
@Phntm888- I'm open to them from players. Mechanics aren't vital so feel free to submit without them and we are re-work those rule changes once you are selected. Trust me, how good you can tackle won't effect you being selected or not (But it can make the game more fun!).
I Let no man be beholden to a god. II Suffer not the divine. III The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. IV Truth stands alone. V An educated mind is a defended mind
Azir, capital of the atheistic nation of Rahadoum has been admired and despised for over one thousand years. Admired as a bustling metropolis and one of the cleanest, best educated and richest cities in the Inner Sea. Despised because it is the birthplace and keystone of the Law of Man, the atheistic edicts that ban all divine interference and activity. A major trading hub, the city has long been nicknamed ‘Port Godless’ in varying tones of wonder and derision by outsiders. The Pure Legion, the organization dedicated to keeping divine influence at bay and only answerable to the Laws of Man has kept the city safe for centuries, despite many covert attempts by the varied faiths of Golarion.
However, a new challenge is rising. Rumors of a crusade are spreading throughout the Inner Sea like wildfire, whispers of a grand coalition of religious forces to finally end this sad and dangerous experiment to an end. No longer content to merely watch and wait, many now seek to destroy the very city itself and purge the Laws of Man entirely, root and branch. Where piety and conversion have failed, coercion and force may prevail. Can the city stand against the tides of the divine and uphold their own traditions against the so-called will of the Gods themselves?
Welcome to the Recruitment for How To Defend A Walled City, a PF1 Solo Game.
For a long time now I have wanted to run a game that is smaller in scale (but not in stakes), with a tactical angle both in regards to combat and character choices. A pressure cooker of a game in a fixed geographic area with rising stages in both combat and social environment. What fits this better than a city under siege? A situation that will call not only on your brawn but also your wits, leadership skills and luck to defeat a dangerous and cunning foe!
If that sounds of interest to you, read on!
Game Themes, Expectations:
Themes: sort of a mix of Crusades, Siege of Constantinople, with a dash of ancient, heroic Greece. Bright colors, daring deeds, and dueling stratagems.
-War: Yes, this means violence. Obviously assume the same PG-13 standards of the site (I’m not big into ‘shocking gore’ in any case) but people will get hurt, by your actions or inactions. If you want to always win and save the day (and the NPCs) this might not be the one for you.
-Priorities: Shifting goals and aims will be major part of the game, both for you and NPCs. Do you try to relieve an isolated garrison or save the lives of your troops? How do you handle food rationing? Is it more important to wholly trust every ally or do you use ‘any port in a storm’? Often, many circumstances will have several valid but competing answers!
-Heavy Encounters: Most of your tasks will probably involve violence, so expect lots of encounters. That isn’t to say a cerebral character won’t do well (Nothing wrong with hiring/having some meatshields!) just keep the fact you’ll be in combat a fair deal, in mind.
-Religion: Obviously!
Character Creation:
Levels: Starting level is 5, and you will level fairly regularly
Stats: 25 point buy, no stat can be lower than 8 before racial modifications.
Classes: All Pazio. Unchained for all classes.
Races: All Core races are allowed without restriction, along with tiefling and asaimars. Ask about others, Azir is mostly human but room for others.
Alignment: Any alignment is permitted, but I don’t see much role for a CE character.
Traits: Two traits of your choice, which must come from sources other than Adventure Paths.
Hit Points: Hit points will be gained at each level equal to ½ class HD +1. You will receive maximum HP for first level.
Starting Gold: Standard WBL
Skills: We will be using the Background skills system. You will be on your own so use these extra skills wisely!
What I expect:
-A fully finished statblock (you can hold off on minor gear if you wish). An alias is not required but if you want to make one, it won't hurt your chances.
- I look forward to hearing about some driven characters with strong motivations. What drives your character?
-Why do they wish to defend Azir? Is it about defending a land of free of divine meddling? Is it merely home? A desire for power during and after the fighting? Other reasons?
-A sentence on your views (hopes, wishes, doubts, thoughts) of a solo game would be very interesting.[/spoilers]
[spoiler=Optional Rules]
These are some optional rules this campaign will be using! Ask if you don’t know what these are or how to use them.
Background Skills
Automatic Bonus Progression
Solo game:
This is a solo game, so just you and me. That means the pace should be easy to maintain, and avoid the major pitfall of PBPs. I have found the format to be a very good fit for PBP, as it allows one character to get all the attention. It will be a game for and solely about YOUR character. All the limelight and none of the guilt. I plan on posting at least once a day, probably more, so I hope you are too!
About Me:
I am a librarian from PA (which is EST timezone). I have GM'd a number of PBP games and a few live games. I’ve had a great experience with PBP Solo games on this site (several have passed the three year mark). Many of my other players say they greatly enjoy the Solo games and my GM style. Please check out those games, if you want to see what one of these looks like!
I am big on communication both IC and OOC so expect lots of posts in both Discussion and Gameplay!
Ok, that is everything! A lot of information, I know, but it should help you apply with the best character possible and eliminate surprises. If you have any questions, comments and such, please ask below. I will be following this thread closely, and feedback should be swift.
Avin looks a little crestfallen when Rudabeh suggest the salamander's tools are probably just pilfered items from the royal armory and not magical implements from the Plane of Fire. Then again, he did manage to smuggle in this jewel so maybe Gezzerbial did bring a magical hammer or two?
At Rudabeh's wondering about measurements Avin shrugs, doing most of the talking, "I had a few notes from when I did your repairs, which is my practice. But Gezzerbial did most of the work, no idea how."
The salamander hisses, watching them assemble the armor carefully. He doesn't actually help the process but seems content to watch Silvui and Avin encase Rudabeh is hardened steel. "Not hard, long training. Warrior in my homeland do not stand for measurements. Must learn quickly." Rudabeh wonders, not for the first time, how truly hellish Gezzerbial's time as a slave in his homeland must have been. The paladin knew little of other planes but the City of Brass did not sound like a very welcoming place, either in the stories or in the salamander's remarks.
Finally she stands apart, clutching the key tightly in her gauntleted fist. Avin and Silvui steps away, clearly awed at the shining armor, which reflects the forge fires back one hundred fold. Inside she is sweating not only from the stifling heat and steel armor but because of the nearly physical anticipation in the room. Everyone's else slide from Rudabeh to the stone in Gezzerbial's hand, which seems to pulse, as if it were a slowly beating heart.
The fiery smith moves closer, steps not the usual quick skitter but a steady stride, like someone moving in a procession. His clawed feet are loud on the stone floor, scraping sounds clearly audible over the crackling fires all around them. His alien eyes are stranger then ever, twin slits of dark yellow, lit by dancing flames. Gezzerbial holds out the stone in front of him, like a worshiper offering a sacrifice to a mighty god, but that deity is not Rudabeh but the gemstone itself.
Finally he reaches Rudabeh, the short walk seeming yo take an age. The outsider holds the jewel over the seashell shape recess, hesitating for a moment. Then he hisses something in Igan that sounds an awful lot like a desperate prayer and slides the jewel into the small recess. There is a quiet but very audible click as it sets into place. Gezzerbial scurries back but nothing happens.
A long moment of silence fills the room. Had something gone wrong? Was the armor, despite its seeming perfection, somehow insufficient? Was there some ritual Gezzerbial did not know? Was the defect with Rudabeh herself, was she not worthy?
Then, without warning every fire in the room from torches and candles to the cherry-red forges, leaps toward the ceiling with a rushing roar. The paladin feels a strange warm feeling in her chest, not painful but very strong.
Beside her Silvui says over the howling flames, voice somewhere between wonder and a curse "Mother Moon....Rudabeh, look at your arm!"
The paladin holds it out but sees nothing except silvered steel reflecting the racing fire. In her chest the warmth seems to spread, moving outward toward her appendages, a gentle but inevitable force. Then she can see it, what Silvui is in wonder over. Along those tiny channels, a bright red light is flowing, like tree sap coursing up a living tree. The fiery tracery is so bright it hurts Rudabeh's eye and casts a shadow on the far walls, despite the blazing infernos all around. That warm feeling she feels matches the flowing red on the outside, clearly linked. It reminds Rudabeh of nothing else but sinking into very hot mud. Not painful but almost soothing, a deep heat set into her very bones and muscles.
The feeling spreads soon working past her shoulder sand down her biceps. Her thighs too are soon encased in bright red light, flowing down her legs. It seems to linger where her injuries are worst, hesitating at the scarred and battered muscles. It doesn't seem to heal the paladin, but the deep-tissue heat is a relaxing at least.
"How do you feel?" Silvui shouts over the noise. "Are you all right?"
The tide of red totally covers her hands and feet, a feeling of radiant heat pulsing through hr entire body. Then it starts to climb her neck, swirling upward, a rushing sound filling her ears, mingling with the crackling, leaping flames. Just as all noise is lost she can hear Gezzerbial shouting, "Remember yourself..."
Then her vision goes a blinding red and the world seems to spin. No she is tumbling through the red-hot universe, spinning head over heels. Her stomach churns with no sense of direction and, without warning a blinding headache erupts in her skull. It is the worst pain Rudabeh has ever experienced, the fireball on the wall a stubbed toe in comparison. It feels as if she is being ripped in two, like Rudabeh is caught between two ravening beasts, each worrying her to bits. She screams but hears no sound and feels no movement. Just the endless tearing pain that fills her entire being, her soul, surely she is about to be torn in two......
Then the key in her hand, which she has mindlessly clutched pulses, letting out a clear calm tone that cuts through the infinite roaring flames. The tension flickers and then recedes.
Her vision clears slowly. Still shaken, Rudabeh realizes she is standing, still encased in her armor. To the undine relief the key is still clutched in her hand and Sixth Peak a comforting weight on her back. There is no pain, no lasting damaged from the bewildering and terrifying fall. In fact she feels good...too good. Her injuries are gone, and her muscles strong and sure without a single trace of her fall and the explosion. Then, to her amazement she realizes her field of view is full.....her eye is back! Her face, unblemished and unharmed.
Dazed the paladin makes to ask what happened but finds she is no longer in the armory in Pitax. In fact she doesn't seem to be in the River Kingdoms at all. Instead she is on a dim, re-lit street but a very strange one.
For one thing everything is shadowy, dancing on the edge of her vision, as if everything was made of very solid smoke. The street, the buildings, the sky itself seemed hazy and indistinct, colros faded and washed out. Was her vision damaged? Rudabeh shook her head but everything remained unchanged.
Second, the street itself was odd. The road under her boots is heavy iron, dimly ringing from her armored heels. The buildings are tall but featureless, with few windows and no artwork. Just flat faced brick with heavy iron doors facing her. Even the sky overhead is a strange, dull red, featureless and bland. The air tastes of soot and coal, with a harsh tang of sulfur.
Where was she? What was this place? How had she gotten here?
Then all the whirling thoughts flicker out as a guttural bellow slams into her ears. That sound meant only one thing no matter where she was. Danger.
Instantly she pulls Sixth Peak into her hands, noting the thin orange stripe down the center of the blade. The paladin takes a defensive stance, knees bent, arms loose, head low. her armor quietly scrapes into place, an unfamiliar weight but a welcome one when she catches sight of the figure pounding down the street.
It is a tall creature with a rough bright orange and yellow hide, covered in ragged burnt-looking leather. Its over-sized hands end in worn claws, and its bestial face has a hideous, tusked underbite. It has red stringy hair and seems to possess great agility loping up the street, iron slamming under hoary feet.
Behind it, flowing at chest height is small humanoid creature with thin, leathery wings, small horns, and a mischievous smile. Ting flames flicker over the thin-looking skin.
While their colors are still somewhat muted and shapes indistinct they seem more solid, more present then the shadowy, flickering background of street and buildings. They seem very, very real.
Both are heading right toward Rudabeh, clearly intent on her.
Gezzerbial makes a strange face and then an angry hiss. Rudabeh wonders what is wrong, and then the outside smith says, with obvious agitation, "You win, Friend Avin. She wishes padding."
The burly man, sweating and soot stained rolls his eyes and says to Rudabeh in explanation, "I asked about the quilting, since I didn't see any. He looked at me like I had three heads! After some back and forth, apparently they don't pad armor in his homeland. Everyone has a hide like his, I guess. Anyway, he bet me that a 'true warrior' wouldn't ask about padding."
He grins as Gezzerbial who is still hissing, clawed fist clenching and unclenching in petty anger. Avin turns and whispers to Rudabeh, "Thank you for saying something, I just won one of his hammers."
For a few moments he busies himself adjusting the straps and armor on the table. Rudabeh worries that, despite the bet, they were going to attempt to put this metal on her without a stitch of fabric.
Raising his voice the blacksmith says, "Luckily, I gave a thought to comfort, Rudabeh. I had to look for hours to find something but look..." He grabs the plackart and angles it so Rudabeh can see inside.
Lining the armor is.....
Silvui breaks out laughing, "The wonders never cease!"
Inside the slivery metal breastplate, Avin has attached pads of brightlt colored cloth which appear to be very expensive cotton curtains, richly decorated and embroidered in the usual lurid Pitax fashion.
The man colors slightly and says, defensively, "There was barely a stitch of cloth left in the Palace! The King must have taken it all. This was the best I could find last night. I'm no tailor but it'll do to keep it from rubbing your skin off until you find someone with more talent."
Silvui laughs uproariously but they begin the laborious process of putting on the armor. It is good that Avin, a real expert, was present for the process, for Rudabeh's first time. While she had seen such armor before (generally hanging in some rich home or shrine) she knew little about actually wearing it. Silvui too, was clearly guessing at which piece did what. Avin however seemed to know what every strap, every bit and every hinge went and how it worked. His thick fingers are like magic, never fumbling, never hesitating.
The strongly built man explains his master had made two such sets in his youth for a very rich mercenary company. It had effected the old man so much he had taught every aspect of it to his later apprentices, in the hopes they could gain such a contract. Avin had not, and mostly did simple blacksmith work for the city although he had helped make some of the parade armor Rudabeh had seen the day of the joust. But the man had a good memory (and a stern teacher) and makes short work of it with Silvui and Rudabeh's help. For her part the paladin commits it to memory, knowing she may well be explaining how to do this to any number of people throughout the years.
Would she need a squire?
To her surprise (and relief) the curtains, while unorthodox to say the least, are quite effective and protecting her still tender skin from abrasion. Clearly Irovetti had high standards even from his window dressings. The undine wonders what the man will think if she reveals the ignoble end of his curtains, soaking up a paladin's sweat.
Soon Rudabeh stands upright, fully covered in the new armor. It is heavy but not as heavy as it looks, or as Rudabeh secretly feared. The metal is well-worked without excess and evenly disturbed over her entire body. She feels, once she gets back to condition, she can run, roll and even jump in this. Wryly she thinks of few faster ways to get her wind back then to train in full plate armor.
Gezzerbial holds up the ruby to her chest and says, "Are you ready?"
Litta, silently, slips the iron key into Rudabeh's armored fist before stepping back.
There is a moment of silence filled only by the crackling flames, the sizzling of hot steel and the steady breath of everyone in the smithy. The salamander unexpectedly straightens, moving away from the armor. Silvui and Litta who had crowded in, take a step back as if preparing to defend themselves.
Gezzerbial ignores them saying, "Then it becomes the armor again. Still good armor, very good armor. As for the life....I think...the jewel holds it. Keeps it." He shrugs, still holding the bright red ruby. "But I do not know much for sure..."
"Do you wish to try? If so, first you must put armor on. As normal, then we add jewel. The jewel." The salamander pauses, obviously debating weather to say something then plunges on, "First time....very difficult, I have heard. For the warrior. Strange feeling, at first. Be careful, Rudabeh, be careful and keep yourself."
Avin stands up, "Can I help you, Rudabeh? It would be an honor to handle this stuff, I'll never get the chance again."
Silvui eyes it, and apparently having the personality that needs to break up solemn acts with a joke says, "We will have a devil of a time if you fall overboard dressed in this Rudabeh."
"Would have attacked him?" Avin says, laughing, "I did attack him, hit him over the head with a four pound hammer. Lucky, he has a hide like iron and it bounced off. Gave me a nasty burn too." The man rolls up a sleeve to show a massive forearm covered with scars and burns of gathered from a lifetime of working hot metal. A fresh one glistens near his wrist, dark and glittering.
"Still, worth it simply to watch him work. I have learned more in the last few days then a year of apprenticeship. You should open a school, Gezzerbial." The salamander hisses violently at the more thought.
When Rudabeh asks what is next, Avin silently smiles, bows and backs away, like an actor yielding the stage to the star of the show.
Gezzerbial takes a step forward, his gait still strange and crab-like. "I find sword and repair. This is good, for the blade is very fine and worthy of you. But that is not enough, not enough to repay for freeing me. Even if you brought me to this very cold, vert wet place, it is a thing beyond price. Besides, swords are not my.....what is word?" The salamander pauses and then brightens, "Not my specialty. No, my specialty is, like friend Avin, armor."
He turns and with a dramatic motion that surprises Rudabeh whips off the canvas cover from the work table. What lies beneath makes Rudabeh's heart stop.
"Desna's Eyes!" Silvui curses in wonder, staring at the table.
On the table is a complete set of full plate armor, laid out with perfect precision, as if it were a diagram from a armor's textbook. From the low hard comb on the helm to the curved breastplate to the scaled sabatons, everything was a perfect ideal of what armor should be. There were no rough spots, no ill-fitted hinges or ugly rivets. It all gleamed with freshly oiled and honed perfection.
Then Rudabeh notices the color of the plates. While it first appears to be simple steel, finely worked and finished, it is not so. There is a faint shine about it, a reflective quality that no amount of spit and polish could even bring out no matter how hard you worked on it. What was giving it that subtle luster?
"Is that...silversheen?" Silvui says, taking a step closer, eyes wide.
"Aye." Avin says, deep voice edged with child-like excitement. He steps forward, obviously trying to contain himself and let Gezzerbial talk but equally obviously unable to. "He had a small chunk of it in his trunk, worked it in when he was puddling the steel in the furnace. By hand, I tell you. Just a small brick for the whole set, flakes at time. Amazing."
"That is all that is needed, in the right hands." Gezzerbial says, "An armor that rusts is no armor at all. Would never make armor without mirror-silver."
Still reeling, Rudabeh's eyes automatically gather in more details. There is something else odd about the full plate, a strange tracery on it, sets of tiny grooves barely visible to the naked eye. Not enough to weaken the metal, almost like miniature canals. Rudabeh has never seen anything like it. Then, right in the middle of the breastplate there is a shallow indentation, shaped like a sea-shell.
Gezzerbial, seeing her notice hisses in delight, "Ah, you notice, you notice!"
The fiery creature reaches into a pocket and pulls out, with obvious reverence a dull red jewel the size of a child's fist. "This is from heart of....what is word." Then he smiles showing all of his long, pointed teeth, "Heart of fire whale. Great creature of my land, of Fire Plane. Very valuable."
He walks over to the armor and holds it over the indentation in the chest. Rudabeh can see it matches the recess perfectly, obviously intended to affix there.
"This is very special, very rare even for my homeland." Gezzerbial says, "I have never used it. This jewel...give armor life."
That is a set of masterwork, +2 Full plate silversheen armor. Took us 1,000 posts but good things comes to those who wait. And Gods only know what the jewel does
Almost instantly Rudabeh feels something, a pulling force, as if a small but very warm child was tugging at the key. Rudabeh's eyes snap open but see nothing around them, just that same gentle pressure on the object in her grasp.
"Is it working?" Silvui says, looking hard at the unremarkable key. "Does it glow or anything?" The young man sounds interested and leans in close, reaching out to touch the divine symbol.
Litta shakes her head, "No. My mother used to use this spell, she said it always felt like a fish hook pulling her."
It certainly doesn't feel like that to Rudabeh, just a benign tug, a careful indicator to a direction. To her surprise she sees it directs her toward the First Palace, through the pockmarked and stained wall in front of her. Assuming the spell was working properly, The Sixth Peak was inside? A trophy by some civil servant? Scooped up and added to a new armory? Or maybe just a memento of a important historical event by some moth-eaten archivist.
I assume you follow it
Like being led by a warm current of water, Rudabeh lets the gentle spell guide her. Litta and Silvui follow at her heels, eyes peeled for danger or a glimpse of the blade. The guards at the door merely nod to them, Rudabeh being well known by this point.
The trio ignore the various servants or officials wandering through the cavernous foyer, now empty of tables and chairs. Clearly Samuel would find new accommodations for such assemblies, with yesterday being a fluke. Where did they store all the table and chairs, the paladin wondered idly. Or had Samuel simply looted every house in town to find the furniture they had needed? Rudabeh had never thought to ask.
The spell leads them deeper into the tangled warren of the Palace, that maze of corridors that Rudabeh had wandered so often. Despite this experience, Rubabeh has a hard time getting to where she is going for the spell ignores doors and hallways, just a general feeling of one direction. It is much like wandering around a room blindfolded, guided by a bit of string attached to the far door. You knew where to go but not how to get there. For the first time the undine wonders just how many rooms the First Palace has. Dozens? Hundreds? Would this search take them all day? A week?
Slowly they make their way, heading downward on ramps and staircases, Litta and Silvui following closely. Unlike her they don't seem to feel winded at all, each step firm as the last. Rudabeh however is only a day or so out of her sickbed (or perhaps deathbed is more accurate) and is soon struggling with the long quest. Still, the prospect of finding her blade is enough to keep the paladin on her feet. There would be time for rest soon enough.
Soon, Rudabeh finds herself in a familiar corridor, down past the armories and storerooms. It is the hallway that leads to the smithy, where she last left Gezzerbial and his poorly spelled sign. That door is open now, the sign removed and the echoing sounds of roaring fires, hammered steel and human laughter echo up the otherwise deserted passage.
Assume you go in?
Rudabeh rounds the heavy iron door, followed by her two....guards? Friends? Employees? Inside, she sees, to her surprise, two figures both known to her.
One is Gezzerbial, the red-orange salamander feeding a coal fire, stoking it intensely, making the flames jump and twist. His eyes reflect the hell-like inferno making the already strange man look altogether alien. His scales glitter like those of a dragon, dancing with firelight.
The other is the smith Rudabeh met soon after her arrival in Pitax, the man willing to work during the Festival. He is sitting on a massive worktable, legs dangling down like a child. A look of sheer joy and wonder is on his bearded face, despite the sweat and grime on his skin. In his hands he holds The Sixth Peak looking bright and shiny as the day is was forged. Next to him a large uneven shape is covered by a rough tarp.
The human smith glances up and spots Rudabeh. In an instant he hops down and bows, "Rudabeh." Behind him Gezzerbial turns and smiles a very strange, very toothy grin.
"Ah, you come. Told you she would come." The reptile-like man says chidingly to the human, his accent bad but better then last Rudabeh heard. His words are stronger too, more confident. Gezzerbial eyes are knowing, "She would come for sword."
"the sword." the smith corrects absently, not glancing at the salamander. His words have the weary but patient tone of a somewhat aggrieved but proud teacher.
"Do you know him?" Silvui says, leaning forward eyes on Gezzerbial's weird form. [b]"Or is it an 'it'?"[/i]
Ractus laughs when Rudabeh calls him out on making up stories about elves. It is a painful, wet sound but genuine at the least. "You'd be surprised at how many people believe it, Rudabeh. But I have been a mercenary for many years and can go without sleep when I need to." A pause and the mirth seems to fade away, "I have a great deal to think about." He hesitates for a moment, words on the tip of his tongue, then he shakes his head. Ractus grins instead adding, "You put a lot on yourself Rudabeh. I have a feeling this will not be my last injury in your service. I will take you up on your offer however. As wonderful as all the attention is, I miss being able to use a fork and knife."
Then, slowly, he eases himself back onto the pillows. Clearly, despite the bravado, the injuries have taken a toll on the big man. The female healer clucks her tongue and shakes her head. She does the same as Rudabeh stands up but says, "My father said you were to be allowed to do as you wished, even if it meant hurting yourself by refusing to rest." She focuses her intelligent eyes on Rudabeh's lone orb for a moment and says, "I'd order you strapped down to the bed, myself, but apparently that would be a sin or something."
She smiles as she says it though and adds, "My name is Bella. After the old bell in the church where you saved us."
Both Ractus and Bella wish Rudabeh luck as she heads for the door. Her steps are stronger then yesterday, or so she tells herself. At the least she makes it to the street on her own power.
Do you want your mercenaries today? They are in a ring around the sickhouse, you may ask them to help you but I wasn't sure if you wanted armed men of your own at a governmental drafting session?
Outside, even her short walk to the First Palace reveals the streets returning to normal. Small markets are reappearing on corners, selling any manner of goods. Hustlers, street performers, artists and speakers throng alongside wagons bearing heavy loads and fisherman displaying the day's catch. Men and women haggle over prices, as children dart through the press. There are still signs of the recent trouble, with some building showing fire damage and some of the shopkeepers displaying much depleted wares but there is hope here, a sense of a return to normalcy. For once in her life, Rudabeh manages to avoid attention, moving along slowly and quietly.
The main gates of the First Palace are busy, with men and women going to and fro with great speed among busy conversations. The door itself is guarded by two people, one dressed in the painted robes of Samuel's supporters and the other one of Lady Lorenza's fighters. The raven haired woman has a garland of green leaves in her hair, glossy and lively in the bright sunshine. Both wave her inside, bowing their heads in a gesture of respect.
Inside, the immense foyer has again be re-worked. Great banners have been hung from the ceiling, each with a rainbow of colors. Along the walls imposing statuary has been arranged, probably scavenged from all over the city. The marble shapes loom over a very busy room.
Someone has drawn up dozens of tables and laid them end to end, curving in a great half-circle, arcing away from the door. The tables are surrounded by chairs and filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of people. At the peak of the arc, the 'head of the table' Rudabeh spots Samuel Cauditanus sitting, looking imposing and refined in shimmering robes matching the draped hangings above. To his left sits Zaria, resplendent in her own only slightly less colorful robes, the new leader of the House of the Public. At his right...Rudabeh does a double take. Was her remaining eye damaged? No, it was true. Magistrate Dior, the sour looking man who had spoke in Tolmara's favor. Surely [he could not be Samuel's pick to run the House of Lords?
However, after the shocked moment passes, Rudabeh starts to see the wisdom. Clearly Dior had been a lackey or some ind to Irovetti. The old king would not have allowed an 'unreliable' man to be a judge. Picking the irascible old man as his representative sent a message to the old guard, the pro-Druxan and Irovetti loyalists. One that said, I have not forgotten you. Business will go as usual, even with myself at the helm.. A bold move...and Rudabeh marvels at how no faction was being ignored, every viewpoint brought together. How it would end was anyone's guess but for now, a natural balance was forming, based on compromise and diversity of opinion. Even if Samuel would have preferred it otherwise. Rudabeh almost laughs.
Suddenly everyone seems to notice the injured undine paladin standing in the doorframe, silhouetted by bright morning light. She is not as imposing as she might have been, lacking armor, blade and covered in bandages. But she is unbowed, unbroken and her single eye blazes with purpose and duty. Silence fills the vast room, still every tongue and drawing every eye.
Slowly, Samuel rises formally, chair scraping against the tiled, mosaic floor. Then, without preamble he begins to clap, callused hands ringing loud in the space. In an instant everyone else is standing, applauding Rudabeh, a roar of approval filling her worn ears. The sound cascades off the warm stone, making the hanging banners shake from the noise. Across the distance and over the clapping crowd, Rudabeh can see Samuel inclines his head gracefully, yielding the floor to the paladin, if she wished.
Hax pauses his meal at Novox's words, watching the young waitress flee the table, nearly in tears.
"You have a way with people, Novox. I stand in awe of your brilliance. But as for talk, well....my father always told me food and talk don't mix. 'Do one and then other' was his motto. " he swallows a bit of bloody meat, the fighter having not turned down a thing.
"But fair enough." When the talk turns to devil's however, his face becomes guarded, wary. That look of calculation fills his face, of judging his words carefully, watching Novox's reactions.
His words themselves however, seem casual enough saying, "Did they tell you where I am from, when they assigned me? No? Well, I am from Rahadoum. I was taken off a ship in the Inner Sea by Chelish slavers and sold into the fighting camps."
Rahadoum, the strange land of atheists and unbelievers. That would explain it, a place that despised and distrusted the gods would have little patience for beings so closely linked to the great Asmodeus himself. As for the fighting camps, Hax clearly meant the great gladiatorial games that many cities in Cheliax prided themselves on. Usually gory and brutal spectacles with hundreds being killed by the sword, by claw or devilish spell to thunderous applause, they did occasionally produce fine fighters. They were famous for being inventive, tenacious and underhanded, often greatly sought after as bodyguards. A Rahadoumi gladiator in the land of devils, how curious. How interesting.
The big man shrugs his mighty shoulders, leathers creaking, "Devils? I would not trust an agent who whispers to the ears of a God. Would you use a man who spoke all your secrets to a mighty yet capricious king?" Hax cuts another bit of the steak, "But I am no zealot, like some in my land. I would not have such a creature on my shoulder, I would not trust it, but you use what tools suit you best. After all, I cannot understand the arcane either and yet you use it to great effect."
Hax says little else on the matter but Novox senses the man has not told the whole truth of the matter.
Later
As for the door, with rolls like that you'll get whatever you want. But you might not be happy with the results
Door Damage:2d10 + 12 ⇒ (9, 7) + 12 = 28
Uh oh. Your life just became much more complicated.
The door explodes out into the hallway, a blizzard of flying wood and iron. Novox sees some dark shape caught up in the cloud and flung against the far stone wall with great force, wood clattering around it. The shape slumps to the ground as Bill strides into the hallway, teeth and claws. Novox is behind, eyes searching, becoming accustomed to the darkness.
His nose catches a strange, chemical smell, puzzling the wizard for a moment. Then he sees it, on the floor smashed to bits by the weaponized door, is a bucket of green paint and a crude brush.
His eyes track to the dark figure and sees it is a man, no a mere boy, perhaps of teenage years. The damage dealt by Bill's attack is complete. The boy's head is a bloody ruin, smashed in like an egg dropped onto an anvil. His limbs are a broken tangle of bone and torn sinew, resting in a pile of seeping blood. A boy, Novox had killed a mere boy whose only crime had been...graffiti perhaps?
Suddenly Hax's door is thrown open, the big man standing in it, naked steel in his hand. He is shirtless, taunt muscles gleaming in the dim light, a body criss-crossed with old scars. "What's the matter?" He barks harshly, the easy manner of the road forgotten. Then he spots the boy, the ruined door and the new form Bill has taken.
Downstairs both of them can hear voices, the tramping of feet.
"Damn," Hax curses, eyeing the pathetic body. "Can you get rid of this in a hurry? I'd rather not have to fight our way out of this town but I'll be damned if I face the rope for some kid." His voice is rough now, bright eyes avoiding the corpse, instead looking down the corridor toward the advancing sound.
Dim shifting lights, a slow pattern. Rudabeh's brain feels foggy, distant, as if disconnected from her body. The lights rippled all around her. Was she swimming? Had Ondev and her gone off again, heading to the deep blue waters around Cataokerp? No, that wasn't right....Andoran? Rudabeh's mind blurred, it was hard to focus.
Her lungs hurt, each breath racked with pain. Had she dived too deep? She did that sometimes, either on her own to test herself or under Finn's sometimes overly direct tutelage. Gods, it hurt so much, was she actually hurt? The light seemed to shimmer around her, the pain mounting.....Her body is aflame, as if she had been bent over one of Gezerbial's anvils and hammered for hours. Searing spikes of pain, the feeling of brokenness deep inside. Something was very wrong, something far worse then diving too long and too deep. She was...she was dying?
Not yet
A distant voice, like the ringing of a soft but vast bell. The pain recedes, not disappearing but banished for a time. As if locked, temporarily, behind a door.
The shimmering light fades, replaced by a velvet blackness. Not the abyss of unseeing, but the soft black of midnight. Even as Rudabeh watches, stars appear, slowly fading into sight. More and more come into her field of view, more stars then she has even seen, even in the darkest nights at sea. Vast constellations, glittering with pinpoints of white, blue and red. Strange orders she did not recognize, dotted with swirling clouds of dust that seemed small but made her mind reel.
Then she sees figures, huge shapes outlined against the spangled heavens. Three of them, Rudabeh's eyes adjusting to the strange twilight. One was all in shadow, a mere outline, a suggestion of features. There is a vague sense of...transparency here, as if it not quite solid. More of potential then present.
The next figure is nothing of the sort. It was not a human, but a vast water rat nestled among the swirling clouds of dust, as if riding the waves of a flowing river. It's fur was gleaming black, shimmering with iridescent color as if dipped in oil. The claws were cragged and sharp as obsidian, black as ebony. A thick sinewy tail led of into the midnight sky, like a trail of blood. A pair of eyes, so bright and sharp it hurt Rudabeh's soul just to glance at them, were focused down, away from her. This was a relief for she felt if it turned its full weight of attention on her, she would shrivel away, sliced into tiny bits for careful inspection.
Her gaze passed to the next figure, again very different from the others. A human woman, just as vast and monumental as the others but yet, at the same time more present, more in the moment. As if the grand sense of scale has been cloaked, hidden behind a comfortable veneer of normality. The woman wears simple gray homespun, hair in practical braids, a gentle smile on her face. She stands under an archway of bright, fresh stone, set carefully together. Images of turtles are carved into it, swimming peacefully. It is all suffused in a soft golden light, reminding Rudabeh of fall leaves, the passage of seasons. Then, she glimpses a mask on the back of the woman's head, a smiling mask....
Alseta herself. Her goddess......the woman glances as if seeing Rudabeh, eyes as warm as a summers day. Then the figure , to Rudabh's bewilderment, gives her a gentle wink, a secret gesture unseen by the other potentates. Then the woman looks away, glancing downward.
Rudabeh's perspective changes again, rotating downwards, facing the same way. Sheets of billowing dust part before her gaze, a vast canopy too immense to imagine. below it lies....Golarion. The entire globe, spinning against the blackness of space. Entire oceans, continents all laid out for her to see, like a map hanging on a wall. Steaming jungles, rushing rivers, silent caverns, an entire world. And all of it crawling with people. People living in great cities, in traveling caravans, deep below the surface of the seas or high on distant mountains. People among the sand dunes or struggling through muddy swamps. The variety makes Rudabeh's mind spin but she feels a pressure, a will far, far greater then her own, pressing down, pushing her toward the planet and some of those teeming masses.
The vision changes and she down among the people, seeing the world with blurring speed. The great will behind her drives her, drives the visions. Only sometimes does it slow enough for Rudabeh to see clearly.
There seems to be little rhyme of reason. Most seem to be normal people, in a normal life. An elderly shopkeeper tending a stall full of vegetables, a sailor tying down sails in a squall, a woman washing clothes in a city square. They flicker by so fast, mere images, blurred color.
A ranger in a dusty town, contemplating a bandit raid. A Tian business woman, surveying lines of marching soldiers. A muscle bound bard, struggling to stay afloat in a river jammed with tumbling logs. A half-orc woman standing...upside down on the ceiling? A pirate, looking out over a crowded harbor of ships, expecting an attack at any moment. A well dressed man standing in a fiery smithy, planning machinations with a sneer. All so quick. Too quick.
hehe
But some...some seem to last longer.
The image of a dark crypt, walls stained with trickling water. Lit by flickering torch, held in the hand of a white robed man. There is a solid stone coffin in the center of the room, cracked with age. The man watches it, trembling...not it is the coffin that shakes, ever so carefully......
Another imagine, an airy room with noon sun pouring in the windows. A room made of living wood, bursting with life...familiar...Rudabeh has been here. Veleda's office! And there is the woman herself, standing at a window, looking older then the paladin remember. She leans against the window frame, looking out over the bright shining river, looking past it, north toward some unknown sight.
With uncaring speed the sight flickers again. A peasant tilling his field, a hunter sighting his bow, a man bowed over heaps of books, a thief counting his coins, a man preaching to a crowd set on a grassy lawn. There was a sense of spiraling inward, of these lives being drawn to a single point, a great chance......
She sees herself. Rudabeh as she was, as she had been. Younger, skin slightly pale...skinnier. Before her shoulders were used to carrying heavy loads and her skin rougher by years above ground. All around her were the people of Outsea, staring at a looming, ancient arch. Ah, it was that day. The day that had made her what she was, a paladin of Alseta, that had started her on the path. There is no sound in the vision, but she could see 'herself' open her mouth and recite the oaths. Silently, mentally, Rudabeh said them along with the undine, a sure in her words as she had been then. More, maybe. Then as the archway starts to glow, the people jumping up in shock, the air itself shimmering.......
Her sight fades.
Enough. It is too much already Says another distant voice, different from the first, deep and compassionate as the river.
Very well Says the first voice.
Rudabeh's vision fades to black.
Time passes, and yet does not pass.
Rudabeh's eyes open. She is staring up at a stone ceiling, crossed with heavy timbers of hewn wood. Daylight is playing across her face, the harsh bright of noon. On the edge of her limited field of view there is the top of someone's head, a mop of black hair, face out of sight.
Out of sight?
Something was wrong, half of her field of view was gone. Not black, as if blocked but simply...gone.
"Be still, Rudabeh." a voice urges, familiar but no name floats to her mind. Someone she has met recently? "Do not panic, the bandages are all that is holding you together."
Ractus takes half a step, a set of keys in his hands, moving toward the actor. Zadie was still close the edge, watching the crowd below with joyful expression tinged with something else...disappointment? Was he upset he did not get a chance to be the ultimate spectacle? The man had quailed before Rudabeh's blade last night but clearly the idea of martyrdom appealed to the man. Another disappointment in Pitax, added to the pile.
Out of the corner of her Rudabeh spotted movement and turned to see Samuel striding forward toward the parapet. His gold eyes seemed momentarily blank, fixed on some middle distance past Rudabeh's head. Did the artist wish to address the assembled crowd? Did he see something? It was that momentary doubt, that critical instant of indecision that stilled her honed reflexes, that dulled a lifetime of painfully earned muscle memory.
Samuel picked up speed, not heading for the edge of the battlement...but directly for her. Ractus notices, but is too late, a few steps behind the now running revolutionary leader. The gold eyes are fixed on Rudabeh now, an almost maniac determination. The undine has no time to do anything except wonder, silently in her mind, why? What had happened? Then Samuel slams into her, shoulder against her center of gravity.
Rudabeh is not a light person, tall, strong and covered in steel plates, not to mention her gear and martial training. More then one enemy had tried and failed to leverage the paladin off her feet. But Samuel's blow was well aimed, focused just above her stomach and delivered with considerable force.
Rudabeh reeled with the blow, the momentum pushing both of them back. Her feet rang off the stone ledge and then felt..nothing but empty air. She had reached the edge! The paladin's arms windmilled out, grasping for anything to steady herself, to catch her balance. Samuel was still at her gut, head tucked low, driving hard. There is a sense of heat, a glittering aura around Samuel and suddenly Rudabeh realizes. Flames, the man is surround in a fine halo of fire!
With a sickening lurch, Rudabeh can feel herself toppling over the stone lip, toward the still watching the crowd. She can see Ractus running toward them, hands outstretched, but too far, much too far.
Then both of them are falling backward, Samuel now grappling her, arms struggling to wrap around her chest. Face to face, Rudabeh can see the flames growing, fully igniting into a fireball. The pain is intense, her skin blistering from head to foot from the heat he gives off. To her horror, Samuel is burning too. Hair shriveling away, clothes vanishing into burned rags as they fall. Even his face is a mass of flames, scorching his once-fair features into blackend ruin.
Then, to her astonishment and revulsion the face...burns away, like paper thrown into a fireplace. It peels away, a mere husked of burnt refuse, tossed on the wind. Underneath is...another face. That of Haxiel, Dagen's mercenary. His eyes are alight in a mixture of rage, pain and fear. They are still falling, the wind whipping the flames into long arcing streaks of orange.
Behind and below them, Rudabeh can hear the shouts and screams of the crowd, but can see nothing but the burning image of the mercenaries' face and the blurred image of stone wall rushing past. Somewhere, below, the ground is rising to meet them, hard stone flagstones....Her attention is diverted as Haxiel's mouth opens.
"Nooooo..." Haxiel says, eyes widening as if realizing something, a sudden betrayal. "They said..." Then a flash of heat and pain engulfs Rudabeh, a blinding explosion of white light which feels her entire vision and mind.
