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Chapter IV: Journey to Lepidstadt
The Department of Antiquities, Lepidstadt University, Lepidstadt Goopin was the best cleaner in the University. You wouldn't know by looking at him. Gnomes may yell and dance and be flamboyant, but those words never seemed to resonate with Goopin. His hair was turning whiter by the year—a sign of racial decay, he had been told, but at this point, he wasn't exactly encouraged to keep the lust for life his breed of Mortal typically was known for. Goopin Lark: custodian extraordinaire. The second in command, but the best in quality: accept no substitutes. So he told himself, anyway. It was another slow day polishing the floor near the storage rooms. Nothing but classes to clean up after, even those had been sparse of litter and muck, but Goopin did not slack off. Broom, mop, and rolling wooden bucket of muck, Goopin was diligent. He was proud of himself. He took pride in little else but seeing his own reflection in the worked marble, the cobbled floor, and the waxed wooden bits. Today, it was the wooden floor near the museum, the storage closet almost demanding his attention, but he needed special permission to go into there. A problem with theft a few years ago. What was that Professor's idol from Mwangi that was stolen? Lorrimor's golden pesh statue? A good fellow, that one: he missed him, sometimes. They were both gruff and rugged, but Goopin appreciated him for his kindness. Normally he hummed, but tonight, there appeared to be some kind of ruckus outside, echoing in through the open window, offering him a feel for what spring evenings might feel like. The moon was high, a... waning? Waning gibbous? He couldn't remember the term, not much of a thinker, despite being a Gnome. But the banging concerned him. First he thought it a drum circle, some students doing something odd, perhaps a Kellid dance circle or some pagan Ulfen or Jadwiga festivities. He knew of none, but people didn't really need an excuse to celebrate. But the banging was less rhythmic, he realized, as it came closer. As the pots next to some of the cases, here in the Department of Antiquities, shook. It wasn't rhythmic at first. And then, it was. A bang. A bang. Another bang. Like footsteps. Sometimes the bangs were accompanied by crashes, first distant, then echoing through the halls. It was the growl that inspired him to throw the broom aside and head for the storage room. Long, loud, guttural, Goopin felt it in his stomach, his ears, his nose: the growl was so much larger than he could ever pretend to be with a weapon like a broom. He was gruff, but he wasn't stubborn enough to get himself killed. Something was coming, and he wanted no part of that. Fumbling with the keys, a shadow appeared coming from the western corridor. It was humanoid, sure, some kind of monster. His mind raced as he almost dropped the keys, his tiny pink hands shaking now. It was coming. The steps were getting faster, and closer, and shaking more. A pot fell over behind him; he shrieked, threw the right key into the ancient keyhole, turned it and bounded inward, just as the shadow took form, saying something in a growling, grumbling, bitter roar. "EFFIGY!" The storage room was shelf after shelf, box after crate, of materials, with a few exhibits still in-tact after having been taken down. He had to hide behind one of the boxes, he knew, and duck. He had no time to push something in front of the door; what good would that do with a creature of that size? It was at least ten feet tall. Twelve maybe? Fifteen? Too tall. Taller than any Mortal he'd tango with. The creature roared again as the Department behind him, the Exhibition Hall, was quickly destroyed. The creature destroyed exhibit after exhibit, row after row of ancient Thassilonian artifacts, visiting from Magnimar with that daft Elf, Dr. Felosseniel what-chu-call'em. She would go ballistic, if she didn't just start hurling fireballs like them wizard folk were prone to. Another row, and more words. "WHERE!?" Another set of voices responded: "Try the storage room, there." Goopin felt his stomach almost fall out from beneath him, but he clenched hard when the wall where the door once stood exploded into dust, stone, and wood, as a gray-blue fist, easily the size of Goopin's body above the waste, appeared, with stitches down the wrist. The skin on either side of the stitching did not match the other side. The creature that walked through was Humanoid, certainly. A collection of parts, stitched together, not all of it was Humanoid: the right hand looked more like a tentacle than a hand, and neither shoulder looked like the other, one humanoid, the other just fleshy, the face, chest, and feet were certainly once Humanoid, perhaps even Human. It wore only pants, with a belt, with black hair that fell down the other side of its face. Slopper dripped from its mouth, its teeth uneven rows of incisors and canines and premolars that were visible. What stood out was the eyes: they glowed an eerie red, lightning dancing within them, making them almost a faint pink. The nostrils failed as the creature looked about, then shoved its fist into an armor set of Tien scaled armor, sending it into ruinous ascension against the ceiling and walls. The animal went to work, destroying almost everything until a voice behind it spoke. "Wait." The beast stopped, as if by command. "There, do you see it?" The voice was feminine, he realized, perhaps a little raspy: the loudest whisper he had ever heard. Holding his knees, covered in dust, Goopin only saw the creature; he did not see the woman who spoke. "The Effigy is there. Disturb only the Effigy, not the other... artifacts." "DO NOT ORDER ME." "Those were his orders. You may be in charge this operation, but he was clear. Your foolishness in Canterwall betrays us all." "Excellent. Where are we to meet you, sir?" "THE APPOINTED LOCATION. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE." The creature stepped forward, moving to where Goopin assumed the figure was. Goopin realized she carried with her a scythe of some sort, taller than she was; the beast handed her the Effigy, and she turned, leaving. "Let us be gone, before any sort of authority stands between us." The beast followed after her, but then, suddenly, there was a crash, a thunderous thud that shook everything; Goopin though that the wall was going to come down on top of him. After the echoes of the thud faded, he heard the faint sound of heels against wood, and then, marble. It was almost ten minutes before he remembered to breathe, and thought to even move. When he stood, he saw the ruin that was once the store room: utterly destroyed, artifacts and ruins were wasted, so very little worth saving. Moving over the crate, every step was a myriad of troubles, Goopin trying to avoid destroying more than he had to to get out. The wooden floor was ruined where the creature had stepped, each footstep destroying the floor. Dust moved about the room, causing a faint white fog that caked him. Moving out of the room in an attempt to get more air, he realized it was more coming from outside than inside: the creature had done must as much damage in the Department of Antiquities showroom than anywhere. But what struck him most was that the creature itself had not felt with the others. The gigantic thud had been the creature falling to the ground, its mouth open, drooling openly on the floor, occasionally shaking as if being shocked by something. Its eyes, still faintly red, faded to a milky color, a cloud of gray-blue therein that inspired more questions than answers. He barely looked alive. And he was laying on top of Goopin's broom. Just before he could touch the creature, more footsteps, these running: the constabulary entered, a group of men and women with their swords and crossbows at the ready. What they found shocked them as badly as Goopin felt. Jaws on the floor, Goopin had to get them moving. He pointed at the creature. "He did it."
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he/him\his
In Repose |
#2
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31 Pharast, 4711 AR
The Road North of Courtaud, County Vieland "Are we there yet?" Jamir was bored already, half done with a book on power of Taldane monarchs and their magic, a bit of light reading compared to the gauntlet of the last few weeks. He knew well that they had been on the road for exactly three hours, had entered Vieland from Lozeri almost two hours ago, and that by nightfall, they should be in Lepidstadt by nightfall. The last day of the three day trek. He sighed, sitting in the carriage, the windows down as the late morning fog rolled by on the glens just below the moors of Vieland began. It was Ustalav's northernmost county, part of the Palatinates, the somewhat democratically-ruled counties that included Canterwall and Lozeri as well as Vieland. The last day had been spent almost exclusively in Lozeri, a point that had made Andrzej a very nervous man, or at least, edgy. Jamir had noted that, and pondered it openly. Kendra, by comparison, sat across from Jamir on the inside, having sat the entirety of yesterday outside with Samovar as he held the reins. He was a rough driver, but today he was not alone with potential drivers. She, too, read, but what she read as the journals of her esteemed father, the man for which they had spent the last month together for. That Kendra was here went against his wishes, the lone exception. The will was completed, that much was obvious: only one part remained. Delivery of a tome, and a few items of the Professor's, to a colleague or two in Lepidstadt, the university town which he taught at during his time as a professor. Try as they might, they never did really get into any of the books, even with the Professor's extensive notes. Petros Lorrimor noted all over all of his books, and apparently some of those he borrowed as well. But the major part of the will recently fulfilled was watching over Kendra and making sure she transitioned well to a life without her father. She had, but she had also outgrown Ravengro in the meantime. Ravengro welcomed the group like a family in the days and weeks after the ending of the Haunts at Harrowstone. The two funerals, for Belladora Raskell and Malo Artlesal, were a grim mark, but soon, the town was living again as the winter turned to spring. It never rose above a chilly temperature for the first two weeks, but by the time Mara was performing in the newly-reopened Outward Inn, it began to warm considerably, spring alive at long last. Love was likewise in the air: while the town had much to talk about with Torsten Pike and Mirta Straelock, there was another budding romance on the horizon: Benjan Caeller finally had the stones to ask for Jominda Fallenbridge for a date. This came as a shock, most of all to Jominda, who assumed Benjan thought her a drug dealer, due to how much time he spent outside of her shop. It turned out that love was simply not enough to keep him from being too shy for his own good. She accepted; how that went was anyone's guess, but since he spends more time inside of her Apothecary shop than he does skulking about it, one can assume only the best. Szeska Riff married. She's already expecting. Pevrin Elkarid, by summer's end, was going to go to start apprenticing with Father Grimburrow. A strange state of events, but given the death of his sweetheart, a juvenile focus on death (and an heir to the Temple doors) might be in order. Minor gossip occurred when Runahildr and Kaljen went to Lastwall, to seek out her order, and when she returned, it was alone; Kaljen has not been seen or heard from since, though Runa had a reason, given to her companions privately. Small town life goes on and on and on. It never seems to stop. It was never the life Kendra wanted for herself. A week before their departure, Kendra made an announcement at a public dinner held in Straelock's home: she was leaving Ravengro for a time, to travel to Lepidstadt, then Caliphas in order to better understand her father. Hrani, of all people, had inspired her to consider the tales of her father more carefully. Similarly brought on by an unhealthy (according to some) love of Ailson Kindlder, the retired adventurer, Pathfinder, and now novelist, Kendra had decided to fictionalize the life of her father, based on his journals. While she has little skill at writing gothic romance, she can certainly spin a tale all her own, and has been known to turn a phrase in conversation. So, she was to leave with them. She would return, and Mirta and Shanda, along with Jominda, offered to watch the Lorrimor Estate for her for a time. Kendra packed quickly, even if Samovar grumbled. Soon, they would all be going their separate ways. It was always going to end this way. That much was always true, but it made it hurt none the less. The early morning of 28 Pharast was cold, colder than it had been, reminding them of the warmer days of the Haunting. With no snow falling, Kendra, who had the carriage repaired in the meantime and bought enough horses for everyone to ride when the carriage (which held 4 inside, 3 outside) was not enough for them. After all, they had far too much to carry on their own, hoping to sell the goods found in Harrowstone and in Lorrimor's Estate (those not given to the Sheriffs, that is) for a pretty penny. The travel northward took them past Lake Lias, the Great Blue Dot, until they arrived at the outskirts of Castle Andachi. Jamir and Kendra, together, explained its lore, Kamir advocating for an exploration of it, Kendra demanding they not go anywhere near it; for not even Petros Lorrimor would go in there, she said. "Count Andachi saw Orcs encroaching on his land year by year, and the counts of Ustalav would offer no assistance against Belkzen. So, when Desna betrayed him, Andachi prayed to Zon-Kuthon, who answered with the arrival of Kazavon, his servant. A mercenary Blue Dragon, Kazavon remade Andachi's army and subjugated the Orcs and their Dragon overlords... only to subjugate Andachi thereafter, betraying him after Andachi attempted to overthrow his general. Thereafter began the wars of Kazavon and Lastwall, Ustalav, and Iomedae. Andachi was captured, tortured, and executed for attempting to override his general. I really do not understand why we can't go in." "Because people who go in have a nasty habit of not coming out, Jamir. It's not hard." Samovar agreed from the front. "I'm not draggin' your ass out, Halfling." Jamir, defeated said no more. They arrived in Tamrivena, the capital of Canterwall, a place Samovar knew well. Kendra paying for the room, they kept to themselves that night and heard only lonely strings playing in the tavern, the Hands of Fate. Run by a simple man named Milton Manos, the rates were fair, but the prices for magic items were obviously propped on stilts. They rose quickly the next day, and made across the river, out of County Canterwall and into Lozeri. It was here that Andrzej, bitter and brooding, changed into a different creature altogether. The landscape shifted from the open moors of Canterwall into the forested hills of Lozeri, though no where near as wooded as the central forests of the County, which is the largest forest in the country. Perhaps Andrzej dislikes forests. The wildlife changes, too. Canterwall was sparse, the large moors being wide and open. Here, creatures are much more plentiful. Red foxes, shedding their winter coats, dart between trees. Flocks of birds move suddenly, as if disturbed, from the depths of the forests. Insects, freed of winter's hold, crawl on the branches, gigantic caterpillars like fuzzy fingers on branches, looking for budding signs of life: leaves sprout, new and verdant and green. But not all is fair in the forest, dark in its depths. All throughout the trip, the noises coming from within the wooded areas make them nervous. Even when the woods become sparse and instead small settlements can be seen, there is no sign of Mortals. The houses look practically abandoned, and Samovar does not advise for stopping at any of them: they can make Courtaud by nightfall. He is right, but just barely. The hills of Lozeri are treacherous. More than once, the forested hills threaten to throw the carriage and horses from its slippery slopes. Once they are free of the hills, they see small Courtaud, the largest of the western towns of Lozeri, lit up at an early dusk. They hear the wolves, rustling through the woods and running up and down the hills too. They never see them, not their bodies. Just their eyes, yellow and moving in the smoky dusk, reflecting lights from the torch clever Carlo held, illuminated by magic. From there, Samovar rode the horses like a hound from Hell, ragged and desperate. More than once, Pike thought he saw one, taller than a horse. More than once, Mara thought she heard someone say something from the wood, in a deep guttural growl. More than once, Runa prepared her weapon and Kendra prepared to cast more than a few spells. They reached the edge of town, marked by a small stone bridge, and with that, the pursuit of the wolf pack ended. But the eyes stayed on the perimeter. Courtaud proved more jovial than Tamrivena, inviting them into the local inn and tavern, the North Star's Way, manned by a mad bartendress, Arianna Yorington. The group became quickly familiar with the locals, who warned them of the mysterious Devil in Gray, a demonic wolf that has long terrorized the town. That seems very likely, Samovar and Jamir are quick to share. They get a discounted room for their troubles with the wolves, and the next morn, a free breakfast of egg, flanks of bacon, buttered toast, and dried citrus, alongside a fresh Garundi crop known as coffee. It is delicious. That was three hours ago. Traveling across yet another river (convenient borders in a wild land), the last county of their journey, wolf-free, is Vieland. While to the north and west, as they follow the road that goes northeast along the river, there are moors like Canterwall, the area surrounding the rivers is marked by glens and little creeks that empty into the river itself, the Lesser Mourtray River, on which rests Lepidstadt. A series of marshes stretch between it and the home of their former Count, Schloss Caromarc, for here, like some other parts of the Palatinates, there was a bloodless revolution against the tyranny of aristocrats. Bloodless, as in Caromarc was allowed to live: Kendra is keen on this fact. "Lepidstadt is an enlightened town, full of scholars and mages and all manner of good folk. I remember it poorly, but fondly. Its former Count, though old, is a recluse, and lives with his family in Schloss Caromarc. They say he was a scientist of some repute, but he became caught up in some crusade and was never heard from again. Occasionally servants appeared, but... I wonder if he's still alive. All the same, I look forward to being there again." Smaller hamlets dot the marshlands around Lepidstadt, and it is a center of worship for Pharasma, which is unsurprising. In Ustalav, death is a big deal. It's tied to the land, to the history, to the people. Jovial though the ride is, it is near noon when they come across a curiosity in the road ahead: a series of carts and carriages, all of them extremely gaudy-looking, pulled over by the side of the road. "Trouble ahead," notes Samovar, as if inviting an answer. Beyond the carts, a fire burns, and people stand around a fire. Tears can be heard, as can shouting; a group of people sit beyond, unawares of the oncoming traffic. Ride ahead, or investigate? Kendra looks from Mara to Pike, Jamir to Carlo and Hrani, and Samovar to Runa and Andrzej. Is it their business?
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In Repose Last edited by Sassafrass; Oct 14th, 2016 at 05:20 PM. |
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Father of proud children. Expect the next 18+ years to be erratic and/or chaotic.
Last edited by Thorsten; Oct 16th, 2016 at 02:28 AM. |
#4
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Hrani rode alongside the carriage, as he had been doing for most of the last few days. Most of the others preferred the warmer places inside, but by the standards of his home this was summer. He was also worried about someone being able to get close enough to stick a knife in his ribs in the cramped confines of the wagon, without him being any the wiser to it. Out here, he would notice anyone getting close, and he wasn't reliant on someone else to maneuver him out of harms way if things went to hell. On the flip side, the magus wasn't exactly comfortable on a horse. His natural agility and elven grace would go a long way to carry him, but if he actually got involved in a fight while on horseback his plan was to jump off, blast everything to hell, and hope his or his attacker's horse were alive and free for the taking in the aftermath. He didn't exactly fancy walking the rest of the way.
Between Runa on the left side, and Hrani on the right side, the carriage was flanked and well warded against any potential attacks...at least as long as the road was wide enough to actually allow that formation. Quite often it was not, and they were forced to instead ride in single-file. It was during these long times that the pale elf was on particularly high alert, and the long hours of being ready to cast a spell at a moments notice were starting to wear on him. Of course, he was also not getting as much peace and quiet and privacy in the evenings and nights as he would have wished. More time spent in private meditation, conversing with Orenmir, would likely have done him well. On the other hand, his black blade was not particularly happy with him at the moment. The Scimitar was still furious about Hrani's reckless trust in the others when he turned his back on them in the battle with the Splatterman, and the sword let him know so every time they spoke. Initially, Orenmir had tried the silent treatment, doing its best to ignore its master, but the ancient weapon loved giving its opinion on things way too much for it to keep that up for very long. In particular in those hours the magus had spent talking to Kendra at the Lorimor estate, the blade's curiosity had gotten the best of it. The same negative energy that had intrigued Hrani had also piqued Orenmir's interest, and whenever the elf was talking to the late professor's daughter, the black sword tried to get him to push for more information. When it turned out she was simply some form of spellcaster beneath Hrani's own abilities, the sword lost interest nearly immediately. While the pale elf continued to find the woman herself intriguing for other reasons, the time he spent to her talking about her father was disturbed by relentless comments in his head that he was wasting his time and that he should put it to better use. The pairs attention shifted to the Splatterman's spellbook, which much to Orenmir's chagrin turned out, at this point, to just be a regular spellbook. Some things were copied out before it was sold, and it was a neat little addition to Hrani's arsenal, but it was far from the item of power that it could perhaps have been before its burning in that fateful battle. His black blade, it seemed, had had big plans for what its master was supposed to do with the newfound power the artifact held, and now it was little more than something that any regular wizard could own. Again, Orenmir quickly lost interest. And so, as the month had worn on and they had watched over Kendra, Hrani spent more and more time in his room at her estate, in silent meditation and in conversation with his weapon, giving the Scimitar hours upon hours to whisper into the elf's mind. Aside from meals, the others did not see a lot from him after the Splatterman's spellbook became uninteresting, and more than once he turned down their invitations to share a drink and stories with them after dinner. When he did hang around, it was usually Kendra he sat next to, filling in gaps in her father's stories, and hearing more of his recent tales in return. But always, after a while, he retreated back to his room. Meditating. Preparing for what was to come. The others had finally filled him in on some of the details of where they were going and why, and the men who were responsible for the events of Harrowstone. Personally, he wasn't too fond of the idea of waiting around before trying to track them down, but he had always been patient, and in his meditation he found more patience and calm. Now though, on the road with the others, there were less escapes for him. Most of his time was spent with the others, and it was starting to put him on edge. He was patient, but Jamir's repeated asking whether they had reached their destination yet when it was clear they hadn't and couldn't even possibly have was starting to wear on him. But he never said anything, forcing himself to take a deep breath and letting someone else, usually Kendra, answer the question. The non-elven way of thinking and its lack of logic would always remain a mystery to him. And, as Orenmir was happy to point out, what good would come of him understanding these inferior thought processes anyway? As their merry group travelled on, the others seemed to go through varying degrees of comfort and uneasiness, apparently associated with the differences in the lands they were passing through. At least so they claimed. For the most part, Hrani couldn't detect much of a difference. Maybe a few more trees or less trees, and some muddier ground? It was all foreign to him, so different from his home far in the north. 'Well, here you have it, Professor. You're getting your wish and I'm out and seeing the world. Not sure I'm impressed, so far, but I guess you are right that it has helped me learn some things...' Samovar's call pulls Hrani from his thoughts, making him look up at the road. Cursing inwardly at having lost his focus and not keeping an eye on his surroundings like he had meant to, the magus quickly takes in everything before him. 'People in trouble? Or a trap?' - 'Or both?' Orenmir counters. Runa suggests investigating, and Hrani nods at the woman. She is so much smaller than she was when he first saw her under the effect of that spell, physically. But over the course of knowing her, Hrani has come to realize and respect that her personality is still a force to be reckoned with, just as big as her oversized body was. "It would be foolish to ignore any information they might have about what lies ahead, especially if it is something that spells danger. But be careful, we cannot rule out that this is a trap, designed to get us to stop our carriage. Be prepared, and keep your eyes open." He then rides after Runa and her horse, which from what he has gathered appears to have a name for some strange reason, likewise drawing his blade. The magus is perfectly willing to let her do the talking, of course, it is clear that she is better suited to the task. But he isn't going to let her ride up ahead on her own and not hear what she says. This could, after all, also be a trap for him. Gods know, with Runa being gone most of a month, she certainly would have had enough time to set something up. And Kaljen's conveniently explained absence also means that one of their numbers is presently unaccounted for and could be lurking somewhere in the darkness, ready to stab him in the back. Couldn't have that. And perhaps there was more. Perhaps he was also slightly unwilling to let Runa ride up ahead on her own in case this was a trap that would spring on her. He might not fully trust his companions, but it seemed he was developing a slight attachment to them nonetheless. Orenmir huffs indignantly in Hrani's head... |
#5
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Nothing heals the deepest wounds like time. And they had plenty of it as they wait out the days ordained in the will. Truthfully, Carlo didn’t have anywhere else he’d rather be. He’d ruined these friendships once already, but unlike what had happened with the mob and with the professors at university, he’d somehow managed to regain some pieces of what he’d lost. That was enough to make him want to stick around. Eventually the others began to see more of his personality, and perhaps understand it a bit better. Carlo’s quirks and peculiarities were sometimes beyond infuriating, but sometimes beyond his control as the others soon learned. It was as if there were no filter between his thoughts and his words at times. But at other times everything he did seemed to be a front to keep the world at bay. These aspects of his personality were two sides of the same coin. It was a constant struggle to behave acceptably, but when he became comfortable the filters came off, which of course met with hostility and the cycle repeated itself. The cycle played out several times over the course of that month: infuriating for sure, but somehow the others put up with it. Somehow maybe they began to understand Carlo a bit more, though completely understanding him was not ever going to be likely. Some cultures would have called him a madman, others an idiot-savante or a heretic. The truth was Carlo’s brain was wired differently than that of anybody else: obsessed with the minutiae of certain symbols such as those that covered his cards, yet incapable of comprehending the social mores of the rest of reality.
Carlo didn’t even realize some of the wounds he had from Olga until they started to fade. He holds his own wounds with the same resoluteness that he holds his Harrow cards: they must be pulled from his white-knuckled hands slowly and patiently. Ironically enough it is Mara more than anyone else that aids him the most. Not that she does anything in particular to help other than simply existing in his proximity. The presence of another woman who is more than she seems is beneficial to Carlo simply because it shows how safe the most unsafe parts of his experiences can actually be. Instead of transforming into a creature who will eat him alive, she transforms into a fish. He realizes she can speak one of those weird languages he uses for his occult practices, and suddenly they are making jokes at the Inn that nobody else gets. Though, sometimes Mara doesn’t get them either, but it seems that she humors him anyways: it is nice to have something sort of secret to share with her. She seems almost like a sister to him in some ways, or at the very least a close cousin. The feeling is likely not mutual, though Carlo is oblivious to this. Pike had also been beneficial to Carlo’s healing during this time. The dwarf always had a few words of wisdom that Carlo would spend all day trying to get his mind around. He didn’t always figure it out, and he tried not to let on that he even wanted the advice, but he did and was glad the dwarf had the patience to give it so gently. He often wished that Pike wasn’t spending so much time with Mirta, but he would never have said so. Instead he found himself pushing the limits of their new found celebrity with his old mate Andrezj in their nightly revelry. Perhaps a few stern looks from Benjan, but no more lockups. Andrezj had seemed different, though, in Harrowstone. Carlo was grateful for being taken back, but didn’t know what to make of his countryman’s darker side. Some might have called his use of the cards sacrilegious as he ambled back and forth from the serious divinations to the more profane games of chance. But none who truly knew Carlo could ever doubt how seriously he took the Harrow. And any who saw him sitting alone at the bar swaying back and forth as he looked at those cards could tell that he was as tuned to them as any worthy fighter was to his sword. And so the days turned to weeks. He found himself loosening up a bit. Thinking less and less of Olga. He didn’t go to the funerals: didn’t trust himself to be appropriate. Or perhaps he just didn’t trust the memories of the last funeral to not come back. He thought there had been closure, but it still felt like there was a hole somewhere inside that wouldn’t ever be filled. He did go to the wedding: had a helluva time. Even found himself flirting half-heartedly with someone’s cousin. Nothing came of it, but it was good to care about matters of the heart once again, if ever so briefly. Maybe someday he could trust again. And then they were off towards Lepistadt, and each bend of the road reminded him of that time. This was the road he’d taken with Olga when they’d set off so long ago. Each lonely tree, each dilapidated farmhouse on the side of the road was a heartbreaking memory of what was but never really was. He rode alone on his horse towards the back, not speaking to the others. On the second day they were in fresh territory, but the memories remained. Carlo became as obstinate as ever and may have gotten himself kicked out once more if it weren’t for the fact that he was transporting much of the loot from Harrowstone in his magical messenger bag. He spoke to none of them about the reason for his foul mood, and when he wasn’t moping he was sharpening his sardonic tongue on whoever got in the way. But today was the third day. And today he’d drawn the Rabbit Prince from his Harrow Deck. For some reason this put him in a bit of a better mood. But he also knew it was going to be one of those days, he could just tell…
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On hiatus while I figure out my gender. Checkout my games at itchio. my mailbox is full, but you can reach me on twitter: @goatmealery |
#6
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For the last three days, Mara has huddled miserably in a corner of the carriage, her face a ghastly white, paler than any ghost in Harrowstone. For someone used to the smooth rocking of ocean waves, the constant jolts of the uneven road are jarring and unnatural. Yes, she had somehow endured the long journey from Caliphas to Ravengro, but the prior experience does little to lessen her landsickness. Moreover, that ride was with a skilled driver and a comfortable carriage—Kendra’s wheeled conveyance, though newly repaired, is merely adequate, and Samovar seems determined to hit every bump and pothole on the way to Lepidstadt, as if the road had personally insulted his mother. How she wishes she had stayed behind in Ravengro.
In contrast to the present ordeal, the past few weeks were relatively pleasant ones for the songstress. After the cleansing of Harrowstone there was an initial uncertainty and anxiety about those privy to her secret; she was confused by her companions’ seeming indifference to her curse, as if her race and disfigurement did not matter a whit. In a strange way, she almost would have preferred outright rejection—at least that would be expected, and she would know how to react. As it was, she retreated into the familiar and focused on her music, training and practicing closely with Sarianna Vai, and, to a lesser extent, with Jamir, whenever he could spare the time away from his precious books. Only after many days did she become accustomed to the idea that her friends would not betray her—that their acceptance is genuine. Mara gradually relaxed into a spot of serendipity—on one particularly peaceful day, while singing unworriedly in her native tongue, she discovered that Carlo, of all people, could understand Aquan. It was lovely to finally converse in a civilized tongue—if only the discourse were as civilized. Such a pity that it was Carlo who shared the tongue of the sea; why could it not be someone more discreet and socially conscious, like Jamir? Still, despite his lack of caution and of etiquette, the singer has grown closer to the sorcerer; more often than not, she looks forward to their private chats together, even if his surface dweller’s accent is pronounced and his malapropisms need constant correcting. The weather reflected the town, warming at last. Condolences for the families of Belladora and Malo turned into gossip with Shanda and the Elkarids; renovations and rehearsals at the Outward Inn blossomed into some particularly fine performances, even if the soprano scoffed at such claims with false humility; and, most surprisingly, with her vow to eschew magic firmly in place, her nightmares have evaporated like the darkness before the dawn. It is as if the Dark Powers have yielded, cowed by her resolve. Or so she thinks. The quest to find those responsible for spiriting away Warden Hawkran is short-lived, ending almost before it begins. The singer is no detective, and the trail is already cold—it takes less than a day for her to abandon the search for the Whispering Way as utterly hopeless. Her visits to comfort Vesorianna take longer to taper off, but eventually she realizes that their conversations are essentially pointless—they are all the same, variations on a theme, the repetitive subject of a fugue. The ghost is trapped by the past, unable to move on, and Mara’s well-meaning words bring no true healing. No, the only remaining bond to this place is her promise to fulfill the Professor’s last wish. Once his books are delivered, she will return to Caliphas and her burgeoning career, free of ghosts, free of magic, and free of the despair of false hopes. But first Mara must survive the nauseating judder of the road. At least they are past the rough hills of Lozeri, where Andrzej had seemed as ill at ease as herself. Andrzej. Now there is an enigma. She had repaid his earlier confidence with a late night visit of her own, initiated out of both a sense of gratitude and indebtedness. As he had shared his history, Andrzej now knows the background from her app.she had done the same; there is a palpable connection … and yet, the Varisian remains elusive and unpredictable. Like dappled sunlight at the bottom of a shallow lake, Andrzej is forever in flux, a shifting mixture of darkness and light. At Samovar’s words, she peers out the window, looking beyond the carts at the gathered crowd, and for some reason is reminded of their welcome to the Restlands of Ravengro. Fire. Why is it always fire? She lets the curtain fall and releases the elaborate long suffering sigh of a martyr. What is it about humans and their obsession with fire?
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Last edited by Quarterpound; Oct 18th, 2016 at 02:16 PM. |
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They should avoid it at all costs, if possible. Mara notes the similarities to a month ago. Why is it always fire? Well, with temperatures like these, it's a wonder anyone doesn't just live underwater. Summer will come soon enough. This lukewarm weather has to end. Andrzej seems to recognize something, a kind of memory. Not an exact copy, but he recognizes the entourage's style. This stop is not your average caravan, no. It is something more communal, and yet, not made of blood, like a Varisian caravan. No, this spirit is one made of bond. He alone sees it. The carriage and horses stop beside the caravan, seeing parts of people but not wholes. Runa is the first to leave and head forward; Samovar stays behind, watching, but Kendra heads in, following her. Jamir can't help himself. Runa, and those who followed, find themselves in a strange kind of menagerie. Goblin dogs bark, sounding somewhere between rats squeaking and Varisian silver hounds howling. A gigantic toad, in a glass-and-steel contraption built upon a wheeled cart, stares out at her; the toad could easily devour her, if it were free. Stepping through it all, she passes a cage with dark eyes staring at her from the shadows; as Kendra walks by, an arm reaches out to get her, clawed and green. Fortunately it is much too small to get her, and the creature, howling in some infernal gibberish-tongue, looks like it would be better suited underground, and quickly slinks back into the darkness, mumbling. The howling, however, is completely Humanoid, as Runa, Kendra, and the others soon learn as they step into the center of the circle. Andrzej, near the back, notes a flag, poorly stitched, that reads simply: THE CROOKED KID-BENT, NOT BROKEN. A freak show. "What if it gets us too!?" states a man in a faded white tunic, his face distorted and oblong, but not inhumanly so. He is short, just barely taller than Pike, and wears brown overalls, with boots not unlike those of an old Galtan clown. "Whatever's out there, it got her, and we can't do anything to save her! Only thing we can do is save our own skins!" The man to whom he speaks is perhaps the most hideous thing Runa has ever seen, at least on living flesh; he is almost nearly the tallest at eight feet. Bald and scarred on one side, the Ulfen man has one eyebrow above a bulging eye, the other hidden in a knobby head, having no hair on his mouth but plenty of blond flaxen Ulfen hair on his chest and arms; tattoos of thunder gods and world serpents mark his shoulders and arms, and he wears no shirt on his muscular torso, instead wearing only pants, a wolfskin waistcoast wrapped at his hips. "She's one of us. We've got to find her, you milk-drinker." His Skald accent is heavy. The man beside him, shorter than Jamir but only because of his lack of arms or legs, sits on a wheeled cart, a level at tooth level. He is Mwangi, handsome despite his deformities, and he sighs. "Insults help no one, Trollblood! But you are right. We must find her. If we do not defend one another, what good are we?" In the center of it all is a boy, covered in fur but absolutely Human despite this, wearing a collar and howling, weeping. The howling is convincing, to be sure; Andrzej was certain he was back in the Shudderwood. Holding his leash are two women, identical, with bizarre faces. Their noses large, their brains are much too small on the back of their heads. Coarse, brunette hair runs down their necks, tied into poor braids, and they wear dresses that are identical except for the colors, white stripes with either green or blue trim. They both weep loudly and say something inaudible in their grief, looking out at the fens, the long stretch of marsh land beyond the hill on which the caravan sits. Comforting them is an exotic, olive-skinned woman with four arms, whispering in a thick accent that even Andrzej doesn't recognize, and a tall woman, taller than Runa, with a thick red beard that runs almost down to her waist; Pike is certainly he has died and gone to Dwarf heaven with a beard like that. "Sssh, dear, sssh, Aleece will come back to us. She's just lost, she'll—" Then they realize they are in mixed company. The sisters do not mind; their comforters do not move. The three men, arguing, turn almost instantly, looking quite unfriendly, and the wolf child growls. From one of the carts, a man pushes back a curtain and emerges, the most normal-looking of them all. With a gigantic red red top hat that contrasts with his milk-white skin, his eyes a bright red to match: he is an albino. His coat fine but shabby, crimson in complexion but trimmed in unfaded gold, his pants, patched and torn, are bizarre in how they puff out his thighs, his boots a strange purple. A scar on his right eye makes him look sinister, and his smile does not help. He quickly steps forward as Runa speaks. Behind him, three men follow: one has three legs, and the other two have three arms, none of them looking all that similar save for their extra limbs. "Indeed, indeed, Miss," says the man in the top hat, a charming quality coming over Imagine Tom Waits, if you will his gravelly voice. "Excuse us, we are the Crooked Kin, the finest consortium of freaks and friends in Avistan and dare I say, Golarion. Our grief is our own, but we are mourning the missing of one of our dear sisters. Our Pinheads' sister Aleece has gone missing in the fens, and it's been some time. We were supposed to be off hours ago: we're to make Lepidstadt by night fall. Can't miss the festivities, now can we?" The Mwangi man, using his teeth, manages to move his cart forward and stops it before Runa, looking up. He is quite handsome, beyond the naturally-rounded rubs. "Kaleb, perhaps they can help us—?" The man in the top hat grabs his knobby chin and strokes it. "Mayhaps indeed, Zar. Let me introduce our entourage. This is Prince Zar, the Human Catepillar; S'jeer, the Vudrani Princess," He indicates the multi-armed woman. He goes through them each: the three multi-limbed men are the Clowns, Gerik, Josef, and Tam, the Wolf Child simply going by that name; the giant is Trollblood, the bearded woman Lidia Gerod, and the tiny man Hap Tarvin, the Flea Man. "And I am your host, Kaleb Hesse!" He bows, as if this were a show. Lidia, annoyed with the showmanship, stands, dwarfing all but Trollblood. "We have to do something, Kaleb. Zar and Trollblood are right. She's one of us. And we can't just let Lettie and Poppy lose their pretty little heads over this." Sincerity reeks from every word; she is a woman of thick emotion, otherwise only thick in her tallness that fills her out. If only Pike was not attached. "Be that as it may, Lidia, I do not impose on outsiders; they are not like us, and I do not want to make a show of this." Silence falls at the comment. The Wolf Child sneezes. One of the three clowns, Tam, notices something. As soon as he does, so does Andrzej. The man pushes past Runa, past Kendra, and goes for Andrzej. The other two follow, Kaleb trying to speak up to stop them but utterly confused. He stops, closer than any would like, but Andrzej in particular. He looks at the man, up and down, before spitting at Andrzej's feet. "Well well. Adnrzej Zaituc. Not lickin' Barrabas's boot anymore, I see; found new masters for that leash yet? The knot looks a little loose; mind if I tighten it for you?" He almost goes for Andrzej with all three arms (the third tiny and seemingly vestigial, still moving none the less) but is held back by Gerik and Josef, the latter using his third leg to hold Tam back. There is suddenly a look of confusion across the face of everyone as Gerik and Josef pull back the struggling Tam, Trollblood crossing his arms. "WE DON'T WANT NOTHIN' TO DO THEM WITH, HESSE! NOT WITH HIM HERE! HE'S ONE OF THEM!" Kaleb thinks for a moment, then comes to a conclusion. "One of 'Them,' huh? Well, now that is interesting." He grins, looking somehow more sinister now. "A scion of Barrabas', eh? You wanna explain yourself, boy?" Kendra looks to Andrzej, very, very confused and very, very concerned. "What's going on, Andrzej?" Jamir, looking up to Trollblood, sees anger in the Ulfen's bulging eye. Each of them is now angry. Oh good.
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In Repose Last edited by Sassafrass; Oct 22nd, 2016 at 06:02 PM. |
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Last edited by Quarterpound; Oct 22nd, 2016 at 07:44 PM. |
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Pike is intrigued There's a story here to be found he thinks to himself as he climbs from the wagon, leaving the crossbow behind but grabbing his club, which doubles as a thick walking stick to most. He makes his way to the ensemble, offering Andrzej a somewhat supporting smile as he passes him by. He takes a moment to taste the scene, his eyes not hiding the quiet curiosity bubbling in the background "Good eve." he says with a deep bow, his hat in his hands as he makes a show of his gesture.
He can easily discern the tension and the fact that there is a history between the group and his friend, but there is more What can it be? "I am Torsten Pike and a friend to Andrzej, as are the rest of the people travelling with him." he says, his voice smooth and without any tension "Now, before we go any further I'd like everyone to calm down so we might talk, can we do that?" he nods at Hesse, looking for assurance, then he eyes the three clowns before settling on the large Ulfen man Peace, we are all but friends here."Friður, við erum vinir hér." he says in the harsh Ulfen tongue before turning his attention to the leader again "We are on our way to Lepidstadt and we have no use for quarrel, Andrzej is his own master and his matters are his own, but you spoke of someone being lost, in trouble mayhaps?" he offers the man a nod, acknowledging his own words "If so, perhaps we can be of assistance, but - and this is important - so listen well; do not try to lie to us and do not for the life of you try and threaten us. Tell us, what has happened to this Aleece, why has she become lost and where?" he keeps his smile while he speaks yet his voice is one of authority, of someone taking charge of this mess while his keen eyes look for a reaction, for a clue. |
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Carlo hears the threats towards Andrezj and spurs his horse forward to see what is the matter. But not before making a few brief gestures from his place in the back hidden by the fog. Silhouettes surround him: the fog-shrouded figures of Samovar sized men on horseback with weapons bristling from scabbards on their backs. They move forward a few steps behind him until he emerges completely from the fog. They stand there in the distance as barely seen sentinels guarding the foolish words he is about to speak. When Carlo emerges from the fog he sees Andrezj turning his heel to walk away and Pike saying something so sensible it goes in one ear and out the other.
“Lay another hand on him and the lot of you will wish you were lost in the fens yourselves. bluff: Dice Roll:
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On hiatus while I figure out my gender. Checkout my games at itchio. my mailbox is full, but you can reach me on twitter: @goatmealery |
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The stop is a welcome one. Eager to be free of her lurching prison, Mara gladly follows Kendra and Jamir out of the carriage and into a crowd of the
Dice Sense Motive:
Her musings are interrupted by the altercation with Andrzej, and its ensuing repercussions. Still irritable from the long, bumpy journey, the singer rolls her eyes. “Carlo, please.” Over the past few weeks she has become accustomed to the sorcerer’s penchant for trickery, and though his illusions still seem perfectly real to her—how in the world did he summon so many reinforcements so quickly?—she knows better now. No longer will she be duped by fake ghosts in haunted prisons—if something strange and inexplicable occurs, she knows to blame it on Carlo. “The last thing anybody wants is a fight. Right?” She smiles encouragingly at the so-called Crooked Kin, hoping to defuse the situation. “I must say,” the soprano focuses her attention on Tam, “I can’t entirely blame you for your welcome; frankly, Andrzej has been miserable company for the past week.” She flicks a dark glance at the retreating Varisian—she had tried hard to be patient and understanding with him, but to no avail. Of course, the arduous ride has also made her less than charitable. “But Dice Diplomacy:
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Father of proud children. Expect the next 18+ years to be erratic and/or chaotic.
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Pike can sense much distress here. Everyone is worried. Even the seemingly stoic ringleader, this red albino, is concerned about their missing comrade. The Pinheads, unconcerned for the cruelty of the name surrounding their condition, weep without care for Andrzej's appearance. The Wolf Child is still beside them, still in a form of mourning himself. The three Clowns, dragged away, are genuinely in a state of rage. What did Andrzej do to them? What deserves such rancid hatred? For her part, Runa can detect the anger herself, and knows that it is dangerous, and tied to one name: Barrabas.
Carlo defends his friend, and his status amongst the Sczarni seems fairly evident: he is a factional creature, willing to defend his kindred to the death for whatever it is they've done. Family is family. Kendra's lips purse, and the Crooked Kin seem very intimidated by the imperial Varisian on horseback. Andrzej slinking off, Pike inquires as to the nature of the situation. The Crooked Kin say nothing to this, initially, both terrified and now, angry: Carlo is not the only tribal creature here, the Kin taking up for their own. Mara speaks, and then Runa. Their words resonate. Lidia, for her part, is the first to break rank away from the Kin, speaking for her kindred. "The Clowns... they used to belong to a show run by this Barrabas. Now I've never met him, but he's said to be the meanest, cruelest sort of man you never want to meet. He even tried to convince the brothers to get their arms removed, or find a way to get more arms attached. This... Andrzej, it seems, worked for him. They've mentioned him, a few times. Something about a darkness in him that not even Barrabas could muster. Barrabas was cruel, but this Andrzej is something else. How well do you know your friend?" Jamir looks back, wondering if Andrzej has anymore secrets hidden in that dark soul he needs to release. If Andrzej was this Barrabas' lapdog, why did he truly leave his show? The Wolf Child howls. Kaleb takes it as an aside point. "That don't matter now, I guess. You all seem like you're willing to lend a hand and we're in a bind. We parked here this morning. We travel by night, as not to... disturb the peace in towns. That Courtaud's something, hm? Well, we all drifted off, and when we awoke, Aleece, who was on watch with Tam, had wandered off. We looked and hunted, but we've found no trace of her, save footsteps that disappear into the fens. Now we're business folk and entertainers, and we believe in our kinship, but we're not stupid, see?" He smiles, laughing, as if to imply this lot is stupid, in fact. Lidia sighs and rolls her eyes. "We would be indebted to you." She glares at Kaleb, who rolls his eyes. Prince Zar sighs. "I can show you where the trail leaves off, if you're willing." Back at the carriage, Samovar snorts as Andrzej marches towards it. "Well aren't you just a ball of sunshine?"
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In Repose |
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