It has been a busy day in Sandpoint. The reconsecration of the new temple started off with all the hubbub of a busy market, with hawkers, many from out of town, selling their wares and revellers enjoying the sights, sounds and tastes on offer. Acolytes processed, blowing rams’ horns and clashing cymbals, while litters bearing the images of six main deities worshipped in Sandpoint, garlanded with leaves and bearing the fruits of the fields, forests and seas of the locality, were borne through the streets with as much reverence as could be mustered amongst the festivities. A few red-faced locals, having overindulged in the cider, beer and mead on offer, scuffled briefly or grappled amorously before being hauled off by the forces of Sheriff Hemlock to cool off in the jailhouse.
Under the noonday sun, the first mists of autumn long since burned away, High Priest Zantus told the story of how the goddess Desna fell to earth and was nursed to health by a blind child. “And in her gratitude, Desna transformed the child into an immortal butterfly for her kindness and selflessness!” boomed Zantus at the climax of the tale. As he did so, a huge cloud of butterflies was released from underneath the litter bearing Desna’s graven idol to whoops and gasps from the crowd and renewed musical accompaniment from the priesthood.
The day draws on to early evening, and the town’s populace gradually begins to congregate in front of the new temple, one of the few stone-built buildings in Sandpoint, its shining limestone walls reddened by the sun as it sets beyond the horizon out to sea. The crowd falls into a respectful silence, as the day’s climax, the recitation of the Seven Prayers of Dreaming, is about to commence.
At the front, on a small podium, stand various of the great and good of Sandpoint: Mayor Deverin, a small but determined-looking woman with red hair; Sheriff Hemlock, a brooding Shoanti; Cyrdak Drokkus, foppish impressario of the Sandpoint Theatre; Lonjiku Kaijitsu, the owner of the glassworks with a reputation for tough bargaining; Titus Scarnetti, owner of the sawmill and would-be protector of the town’s morals; and Etram Valdemar, patriarch and shipbuilder. They watch Zantus as he rises up the steps of the main entrance and turns to address the crowd. Beside him, an acolyte strikes a large bronze bell that hangs from a wooden frame, its dolorous note echoing across the square.
I mill about the crowd, near the main podium. The drunkards and the the pickpockets have been rounded up throughout the day, so my erstwhile security purpose has basically faded, instead I stay near my cousin and occasional employer in case someone desires to cause real trouble...
A Shoanti immediately slaps Hudak on the back of the head. "You are Shoanti!" he booms, "Be dour!" Before Hudak can reply, the stranger is swept away by the movement of the crowd and lost.
"Hmm....the mosquitoes are big here at Sandpoint."
Larken wanders the crowd, waiting for things to get more interesting. Should an open, welcoming purse make itself available, he'll indulge it and acquire a bit of coin.
Mostly though, he's just wasting time until he figures out where to go do some treasure-hunting.
-Sounding of a bronze bell initiates the final phase of the ritual.
-High Priest ascends to podium to begin the ceremony's conclusion.
Vethran had been keeping diligent notes on the activities transpiring before him, feeling that there was likely some mystical significance to the various presentations and ostentatious displays of the ceremony. It was not often that Vethran found a chance to study the vagaries of religion or, more specifically, religious ritual and magic, so now was as good a time as any to jot down a few points to ponder later.
He finished scribbling the notes onto the page and raised his head again with an eager smile, waiting to hear the ceremonial climax.
A Shoanti immediately slaps Hudak on the back of the head. "You are Shoanti!" he booms, "Be dour!" Before Hudak can reply, the stranger is swept away by the movement of the crowd and lost.
"Weirdo. The southern sun must have boiled his brains." Alwyn is hanging around with Hudak; his interest in the celebration is twofold. Not only is he keen on seeing which gods are worshipped in this town and what the adherents look like, but he's also on the lookout for free food and drink. Also, as the two of them just got off the boat, he's making sure nobody tries to pilfer their (rather meager) belongings, which they are carrying in their backpacks.
"Brother, do you see the man who makes runes on the treeskins? How does he harness them AND tattoo them so quickly without ripping a hole in the sky? Is the skin enchanted beforehand?
I ask you because you whisper to the gods and they murmur back things you seem to understand."
I am nearer to the front of congregation(so I can see over the longshanks) watching the ceremony with some interest and sadness, my sister spoke of Desna often and used to feel that her dreams were blessing from the Goddess. The pain quickly turns to a slightly seething anger.
"That dwarf there...up front...he's garbed as a woodsman, I'd sooth.
I thought they all mined, or beat swords of steel.
Strange folk dwell this far south."
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Elisile had not expected Sandpoint to be this … active. Not that she expected to find it serene and majestic like Arsmeril – or even quietly industrious and busy like Crying Leaf, perhaps the closest analogue she had to this place. No, she had expected to find it quiet and boring in a sullen, brooding, suspicious sort of way.
Not all this – festivity. The noise, colour and smell of the town’s markets had confronted her soon after disembarking from the cog at the docks. The people in this market seemed to be enjoying themselves far more than at similar venues in Riddleport, but she kept her purse – and her blade – as close here as she had there. Freedom of expression and celebration were Rights, and even humans and their ilk should pursue and enjoy them – but did they have to pack so close, shout so loudly (heedless of her sensitive ears), and – apparently – bathe so infrequently. Her own Right to solitude and space was being seriously impinged, and there was little she could do except to push past and attempt to find a quieter spot to wait out the hubbub before pursuing her journey.
Thankfully she had become somewhat used to this foreign concept of crowds during her brief (but oh, it had seemed long) time in Riddleport, and even to some extent in the crowded confines of the Abadar’s Favour on the way here. She managed to find a relatively quiet tavernesi, where the price of a small meal and a glass of wine brought her several hours of relative solitude, as the market outside gave way to a parade and increasingly noisy festivities, - until the inn began to fill up enough that others sought to join her small table and she left.
Most of the people in this place were human, although there were a smattering of various other foreign races – including a few elves spotted here and there through the crowd. She did not approach theses anymore than she would the humans – they were foreign, or more likely Forlorn, and she would not know how to speak to them. How to speak to a sister or brother who had never known the embrace of family, the shade of the White Barks, the induction to the Mysteries?
She did spot a few semi familiar faces in the crowd – at least she thought so, as she was still having some trouble differentiating one human from the next. But these two were sailors – or more likely mercenary guards – aboard the ship from Riddleport. Of the Shoanti barbarian tribes she thought, although not quite like the ones who sometimes foolishly raided the borders Mierani – one of them was far too hairy, and the other did not have his skin adorned with the cuts and inks typical of many of the humans she had seen.
She wondered if the pair of Shoanti would recognise her – she had stayed as much as possible to herself on the journey, but had stood alongside several other martially minded passengers and crew with blade and bow on one day when a pirate vessel had approached closely several days out from Riddleport. The encounter had come to naught but a brief exchange of ballista and bow fire before the pirate thought better of a mark that fought back. But she had seen one of the Shoanti nudge his fellow and nod in her direction as she bent her bow ready for combat; in respect or derision she could not tell. For now the question remained unanswered as the two walked on, apparently not seeing her.
As the day wore on, she found herself – despite her aversion – giving in to curiosity and following the parades, listening to the unfamiliar accents of the priest and taking in the subtly different depictions of the gods.
It had been with some surprise that she had discovered the gods worshipped amongst the humans were the same as those known by her people, although only one who was a focus of this festival today – Desna – was privately revered by herself in the dark spaces of the night. Although she understands the language, Elisile is in fact a little lost as to what the exact subject of today’s festival is. It certainly has something to do with the gods – six of them, Desna prominent amongst them. Perhaps the completion or consecration of the temple building that the parade winds it’s way towards?
By late afternoon, Elisile finds herself lurking at the outer edge of the crowd gathered in front of the building – in fact, beyond the crowd as much as is possible. She watches the crowd warily for any danger to herself, but is increasingly interested in the purpose – and apparent focus – of the festival. Perhaps the evening – or the morrow – will bring some clarity as to the resumption of her journey.
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Gurney, the dog, sits loyally by my side, undistracted by the large crowd. The ten-foot leather cord being used as a leash isn't really necessary, but there to keep the populace calm given Gurney's size, and the leather armor he wears.
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"Brother, do you see the man who makes runes on the treeskins? How does he harness them AND tattoo them so quickly without ripping a hole in the sky? Is the skin enchanted beforehand?
I ask you because you whisper to the gods and they murmur back things you seem to understand."
"Heh heh. The gods do whisper to me, that's true. However, I doubt that the gods have much to do with it - rather, I guess that the bark has been treated with something in order to make it supple and durable. Also, note that he does not slash his notes into the bark, but rather writes on its surface. Having said all of that, while it seems mundane, it is a most valuable thing to be able to write as quickly and accurately as he does. As wondrous as the stone tablets and wooden carvings of our elders are, one must admit that this is a bit more... practical. I suspect that we'll see much such practicality here, and not much tradition or ritual, and that is one of the reasons we should pay close attention to what's going on today - it will show us something out of the ordinary. Now excuse me for a second."
Alwyn wanders over to the nearby elf, addressing her in Elvish. "Excuse me, miss, but you came in on our boat, right? You're as far away from home as we are - could I perhaps inquire about what you're doing here? How 'bout this - you tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine?"
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Alwyn wanders over to the nearby elf, addressing her in Elvish. "Excuse me, miss, but you came in on our boat, right? You're as far away from home as we are - could I perhaps inquire about what you're doing here? How 'bout this - you tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine?"
There were the two barbarians again, standing, like her, slightly apart from the crowd, but watching it – as well as the ceremony at its focus. As she watched them, the hairier of the two turned his head in her direction, and a look of recognition crossed his face. Elisile hurriedly looked away, but it was too late, the man was already striding towards her.
She quickly scanned her mind for the appropriate human greeting in their Common tongue, when the man took her off guard by addressing her in Elven – quite passable Elven too – blunt and low on nuance, but grammatically excellent. Despite his blunt approach – lacking in introduction and word-play – she realised that the human was making an effort to be friendly.
“Pleasant approach to twilight, traveller far from home,” she begins, bowing her head slightly. “I am called Elisile Starbrow, lately of Crying Leaf. I am in this place seeking a beginning to a Journey, it’s end unknown; although my current purpose lies in understanding this Festival before us.”
"I'm pleased to finally properly meet you, Elisile of Crying Leaf. My father named me Alwyn - the shorn one is my brother Hudak; we both hail from the Shundar-Quah lands on the western banks of the great Chavali River. Like you, we are travellers without a known destination; also, like you, we are quite uncertain about what this festival is all about." Alwyn grins sheepishly. "I am unfamiliar with the gods of the Chelaxians - the only symbol I recognise is that of the Great Thunder Spirit, and that is only one of six. Could it be some kind of township anniversary? In any case, the town must have been unusually fortunate over the years to be able to afford building such an impressive temple. So perhaps they wish to thank the gods for their sustained favour and bountiful crops? "
Elisile nods politely. “The gods they speak of are known to my people, but the stories are different. I had supposed that they are consecrating this building before which those six stand, as a place where their gods can be known.”
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Meanwhile, Dravite's memories wander to unpleasant times. His hand strays to the handle of the weapon at his side, the cruel hook used to kill his sister, and begins to unconciously wring the grip as if to twist and squeeze the remembrance from his head with a physical act...
He starts to gain a bit of solace in this habit of his, and the rage starts to fade to a dull smoldering resolve. No giants will be left to harm others if Dravite has any hand in the matter. "Gorum give me the strength to carry my purpose through to the end and guide my hand in battle..." He mutters under his breath with a slight dampness in his eye.
I notice one of the stout dwarvenfolk standing near the front of the congregation, growing concerned as I see his hand stray towards a vicious looking weapon, an 'ogre hook' if memory served. His actions and features betray an inner anguish, and I grow concerned.
Striding over, calmly but confidently, "Hail, traveler. I am Lo'j, helping keep the peace today. I couldn't help but notice the way your handling your weapon. Is something the matter?"
[pant, pant, pant, beg, beg, scratch, beg]
In Dog: {Master not tell me kill you, so can me have treat?}
Hudak moves closer to Vethran. He is very curious about the writings. He wants to watch, to see how it's done. He's almost childlike in his mesmerism by it; makes no move to cover up what he's doing.
No cause for concern, unless your blood is mingled with that of giantish descent. Wait, I see something....
Unaware (or possibly just unconcerned) about the looming figure reading his notations, the young mage listens intently to the presentation while his eyes wander over the crowd.
"Hello," he greets the mage, "what are those runes ye make?" Then he adds, not wanting to sound confrontational and magicparanoid, "I'm sorry, sorry to be rude. Always the curious monkey I am."
Vethran blinked and turned to regard the one who addressed him, looking up at the man from his seated position and smiled.
"Ah... well... they're letters. Words. In the Varisian tongue. I'm taking notes on the presentation so that I can look them over later. I'm curious to learn whether or not there is any mystic significance to the arrangement of certain ritual details or if this is indeed just a simple celebration. Religious rituals are something I haven't often gotten a chance to analyze... so I figured this was as good a place as any to start."
The mage smiled again, seemingly amazed that someone actually cared what he was doing. He set down the quill he was using and offered the man a handshake, not bothering to stand from his seat. "I'm Vethran."
"I am Hudak. Can I try your rune staver on the treeskins? It looks icy. Icy means good."
As the notes from the bells ides away, a stray dog that has crawled under a nearby wagon to sleep starts awake, and the buzz of two dozen conversations quickly hushes as all heads turn toward the temple, where a beaming Father Zantus stands on the temple steps. He clears his throat, takes a breath to speak, and suddenly a woman’s scream slices through the air. A few moments later, another scream rises, then another. Beyond them, a sudden surge of strange new voices rises — high-pitched, tittering shrieks that sound not quite human. The crowd parts and something low to the ground races by, giggling with disturbing glee as the stray dog gives a pained yelp and then collapses with a gurgle, its throat cut open from ear to ear. As blood pools around its head, the raucous sound of a strange song begins, chanted from shrill, scratchy voices.
"Goblins chew and goblins bite.
"Goblins cut and goblins fight.
"Stab the dog and cut the horse,
"Goblins eat and take by force!
"Goblins race and goblins jump.
"Goblins slash and goblins bump.
"Burn the skin and mash the head,
"Goblins here and you be dead!
"Chase the baby, catch the pup.
"Bonk the head to shut it up.
"Bones be cracked, flesh be stewed,
"We be goblins! You be food!"
Meanwhile, more of the shrieking horrors charge through the crowd. One yells and points at Elisile, and three hurtle toward where the two Shoanti brothers, the elven ranger and the Varisian mage are standing.
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"If you'll excuse me."
"ABLE MEN! STAND AND DEFEND THE TOWN! SURROUND THESE FECAL SPAWNED WORMS AND BRING THEM DOWN!"
"You to boy, Attack!"
I unlimber my shield from my back, finding comfort in the worn leather grip. This is the way it should be, dark is dark, steel is steel, and I know who to protect.
Initiative:
-L'oj = 12+1=13
-Gurney = 9+3=12
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Startled by the shrieking, Vethran stands quickly, his carefully annotated page falling to the floor next to him.
"What the..." the mage's sentence is cut short as he sees the goblins approaching. With a scowl, he reaches into his component pouch. "Goblins. Wretched little things," he looks at the two Shoanti nearby and the elf behind him. "Try to keep them close together. No sense in making this difficult..."
"What's that abominable singing? Is it part of... GOBLIN!" Alwyn starts struggling with the peace-bonds on his greatsword. Dammit! Who would have thought I'd have to drag out the blade on a day like this?
I shield up, pull bastard sword, and move toward the goblins charging at me. If I can, I cut one down. How far the foe?
If I get to go before the goblins then I will partial charge one, freeing my Ogrehook as I bear down on the little beastie.
"Citizens!! Stay back! I will handle these foul abominations! GUARDS! TO THE TEMPLE! GOBLINS ATTACKING!"
I shield up, pull bastard sword, and move toward the goblins charging at me. If I can, I cut one down. How far the foe?
That's what I'll do then.
With a scowl, he reaches into his component pouch. "Goblins. Wretched little things," he looks at the two Shoanti nearby and the elf behind him. "Try to keep them close together. No sense in making this difficult..."
"OK? I'm all for keeping things simple. Do you have any... special talents we should know about?"
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"OK? I'm all for keeping things simple. Do you have any... special talents we should know about?"
Vethran simply smirked, rolling up his left sleeve to reveal an intricate tattoo of a red dragon covered in all manner of arcane sigils wrapping it's way up the entirety of his arm.
"I'm a mage."
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Alwyn's face splits into a predatory grin. "Nice! Between us, these goblins should pose no major problem, then." This ought to be fun...
"Hah! I told you it was magic writing," yells Hudak as he moves toward the incoming goblins.
As the screaming starts, Larken considers fading into the crowd, and disappearing with the rest of the screaming masses. Then he sees some of those people, a bare few, really, draw weapons and ready themselves to defend the rest. As he stands, torn by indecision, a little girl, dark-haired and dark-eyed like his sister, runs by - straight for a group of blood-thirsty little monsters.
He catches her by the shoulder, and sends her in a safer direction saying, "Now now, brave little tiger, you can't go that way. Those goblins are mine. Wait a few years, then you can fight all the goblins you want."
The girl saved, he draws his rapier and dagger, and glides toward to goblins.
Goblins! The Watchers here allow vermin like that to slip by them undetected?
Seeing that a group of the creatures are running towards her, Elisile mutters a minor incantation that will help fortitude her against the coming battle.