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| Chapter 2 Gathering |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 11-01-2024, 07:36 PM - Forum: Off-Topic
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7/30/24
*Note: I have changed the name of one of my characters. While I have done my best to make that change in here I cannot guarantee that I caught all the changes needed. Lishana is the old name of the character, her name has been changed to Leachelle. If you come across the old name realized that Lishana and Leachelle are the same person.
The Gathering
Ch2
Is it considered a rumor or a legend, this story about the school house? Gilserand pondered. Students had asked before, but Miss Hollobrand was not from this neighborhood originally; she did not know. Had this been a little church for one of the Lords of Light at one time? The school room was wide open, thirty desks fit perfectly out of easy arms reach of each other. The teachers desk sat on the only division point in the room, a raised dais area with a partial wall behind her separating off the schools shallow coat room with all the little coat hangers. Gilserand had counted those hooks when he had been much younger. One hundred coat hooks with twenty eight little cupboards in two rows above them; those cupboards held books and materials for the various class subjects.
Three four foot tall, three foot wide windows lined the walls to the north and south, while two three by two foot windows bracketed the west facing door. The floor above was always locked, but Miss Hollobrand, and Misses Aubrect before her, had always called that mysterious space storage. A steep set of stairs on the north side of the room lead straight up to that locked aperture, the top step barely wider than those below; not much of a landing.
“Hey Gil, are you working for anyone tonight?” Gurick asked from behind him. Considering the school houses provenance had just been a time killing mental exercise, those thoughts evaporated like water on a hot griddle as Gil turned in his desk seat. Just as his own shirt, Gurick’s inner garb was more beige than white. The dark blue of his friends vest did not quit match the dark brown of his knee length pants; a dark blue coat was draped over the back of Gurick’s seat. Neither boy’s hosen matched their clothes; the price of being poor.
Gurick had grown a lot in the year and a few months since they had become friends. They could look each other eye to eye while standing, though Gurick had just turned twelve two months ago. Before I turned thirteen, we used to get together before and after school. Now I have to do volunteer work for a guild after class lets out. Too bad about what happened with the letter blocks last week, I doubt if the printer’s guild will take me now.
“Yea, the guards need me to finish cleaning the upper floor of the west barbican barracks. I don’t have much left to do there, so I might have some free time afterwords.” He thought the other boy would pounce on the opportunity they might have this afternoon, because the summer just seemed to be flying by. Gurick had other thoughts on his agile mind.
“You work for those guys a lot, Gil. That might be a mistake. Next year I’m planning on working for at least five different shops.”
Gilserand raised a questioning eyebrow at Gurick, seeking an explanation for his statement. “I think that putting myself out there will increase my chances of someone choosing me at my Gathering. I think you are making a mistake by focusing most of your attention on the guards, you said it yourself, they only Gather kids they think will make good officers.” He didn’t need to vocalize his offended feelings, Gil just let one eyebrow drop and his mouth take on a sour note. For his part, Gurick leaned back raising his hands placatingly; his laugh was disarming. “I didn’t mean it like that….” The apology was interrupted by Miss Hollobrand sweeping from the back room too her big desk. Her lovely oval face was set in severe lines, blue eyes occluded by her small spectacles. Only a fool would ignore the seriousness she was presenting as she slapped papers onto her desk.
Long straight blond waist length hair swayed as she marched around to the front of her desk.
“Yesterday’s homework was meant to see how much you retained of last weeks lesson plan. Only a few of you were able to give me the names that the Gachtler and Faelora have given the Raider Wars. Please, can anyone tell me what the Faelora have named those two centuries of conflict?” Gurick snorted when Gil’s hand shot up, almost faster than a few other children. Today Miss Hollobrand’s slender figure was dressed in a smart beige bell skirt and shirt, her contrasting mini vest was pale brown as had been the small bowler hat she had worn on her way to this school, the tiny hat’s bows a plum color that had contrasted nicely.
Only a small amount of paisley embroidery adorned her shirt cuffs and dress hem, embellishments that none of her students could afford. Gilserand’s appreciation for his teacher’s form seemed to grow every day, and he was jealous of the young man she had recently become engaged to. As Miss Hollobrand scanned the students wanting to be picked, she passed over Gil with her finger poised to make a selection. That finger stabbed out to indicate Yanna Hilbrekt, a girl Gilserand’s age. Hands dropped as Yanna rose. Yanna wore a floral one piece dress that had been in vogue when they had been eight years old, the blue and red flower pattern only slightly belled out from the tiered skirt.
“Miss Hollobrand, the Faelora called that time the War of Ten Thousand Skirmishes. They lost most of their territories in those wars, which helped their empire collapse.”
Losing some of the displeasure her face had held, the teacher nodded so show that Yanna had given the correct answer. As the girl resumed her seat, Miss Hollobrand shot out another query.
“What do the Gachtler name this period in history?” Gilserand’s hand shot up again. Behind him Gurick suppressed a laugh just enough to let Gil know the boy was mocking his crush on the older woman. I should never have admitted that I thought Miss Hollobrand was beautiful, now Gurick teases me mercilessly. Though his friend hazed him, there was no malice behind it; Gurick had even admitted he liked the teacher too. This time the teacher’s finger seemed to point straight at Gil’s heart. He rose dutifully watching Miss Hollobrand study his face.
“Since the Gachtler took back the cities they had once built, they call those years the Great Reclamation.”
Her nod both indicated that he was correct, and at the same time dismissed him to return to his seat. Gurick made faint kissing noises behind Gil, trying to make the older boy crack up in class. Laughing out loud was not permitted, it was a distraction that was sure to draw Miss Hollobrand’s ire. Mollified by the fact her class knew the material, despite the bad papers she had graded, the teacher leaned back to half sit half lean on her desk.
“Okay, this question is for some of the younger students. What were the three secret cities we Humans established during the Raider Wars?” Only a couple of hands shot up followed by a trickle of more tentative students. Miss Hollobrand pointed out a girl of eight years wearing a hooped dress that had clashing patches at key points of the fabric.
“Trutore, Lansee, and our capitol Bolloren.”
Now almost smiling, the teacher continued to fire off more questions.
“This is for all of you. We Humans had been enslaved by both the Faelora and the Gachtler prior to this war. They had empires with cities, and the few of us not in chains did not. How did we overcome the advantages the elder races had over us?” Yanna and Gilserand were the only two who vied to be picked. A few appendages wavered on the point of going up, but the teacher had already indicated Yanna by the time those students tried to commit.
“We had horses which made us hard to catch,” the girl declared smartly, the braid of straw colored hair over her shoulder supplied Yanna’s hands a place to grip. She turned slightly to give Gil a Ha-I-beat-you smile. That superior look cratered a second later.
“That is true, Yanna, but your answer is only partially right. Gilserand, can you do better?”
Gilserand, on the point of bristling at his fellow students challenge, saw the crestfallen look on Yanna’s girlish face; his ire fell away when her certainty shattered. I don’t know why Yanna doesn’t like me, but I don’t have to fall into that trap. It’s not like she takes things beyond our rivalry here in class.
“Yanna was right about our speed thing… our mobility,” he said, fishing for that last word. Yanna’s eyes bugged a little when Gil supported her proposition.
“The elder races always came to take slaves and loot, which slowed them down. We Humans only raided to free slaves, and when we got good at it, we started hitting their raiders before they got home, freeing our people before they reached any elder city. The Faelora elk cavalry couldn’t match our horses.” Gilserand wondered where he went wrong when Miss Hollobrand frowned while gesturing for him to be seated.
Taking in the whole class before she spoke, the teacher pointed out how he had displeased her.
“While your answer was correct, your grammar was atrocious, Gilserand. You should have said ‘… and when we became accomplished in raiding, we started striking the elder races raiding caravans before they reached safety’. ‘We got good at it’ is a very lazy way to speak. Now, can anyone tell me how the Raider Wars ended?” This time almost every hand shot up, except Gil’s. Not only did his heart hurt from Miss Hollobrand’s rebuke, but he was bemused by the smile Yanna had shot him. It had lacked malice or superiority. There had been no sign of the competitor taking advantage of an opponent’s low point in that quick glance and grin; it had almost seemed friendly.
Is this how madness reveals itself? Gilserand asked himself. Gurick had been the lucky lad Miss Hollobrand picked. His friend’s numerous hesitations stemmed from attempting exact diction.
“They, uh, the Faelora and Gachtler made an alliance against us, uh, Humans. Uh, this was after they noticed our, uh, wandering camps were clumped... no, uh, concentrated here in the south. They, uh, the Gachtler and Faelora, formed two humongous… er, no, two huge armies to root us out. We formed our own army to mess with, uh, to distract their armies. Before any fighting happened, the, uh, Osserjuka came,” Gurick rushed at the end. Miss Hollobrand had not been the only one wincing at the halting presentation.
After having Gurick resume his seat, it seemed like the teacher had to take a moment to collect her own thought, as though the previous recitation had scattered what was in her head. Gil chanced another glance at Yanna, who was two rows to the left and one seat up. In that moment Yanna glanced back at him. She dipped her smile behind her shoulder as though pleased to see him looking her way; coyly she turned away. Have the Burning Spirits taken my wits? We always fight for the teacher’s attention. Why is she suddenly looking at me like that?
Gilserand almost felt he was falling into an ambush, like those the Starling brother’s had used to set in the old days.
“Yes the alien Osserjuka gated into our world in force. Now take notes, we are going to cover how the hordes of Osserjuka ravaged the three races thus forcing Human, Faelora, and Gachtler into cooperating with one another just to survive. We are going to write a paper, due next week, on how the Osserjuka’s advent into our world accelerated the fall of the elder race’s empires and stimulated the creation of our current political system of independent city states. As soon as Carlin or Jersen hands you a history book, open that book up to page two hundred forty three.”
As the two boys named marched into the coat room with Miss Hollobrand to grab stacks of history books from a cupboard, Gil noticed the braided girl glance his way again just before Yanna leaned over and whispered something to Hilney, her best friend. Soon both girls where glancing at Gilserand, one smiling, the friend speculating while she restructured her brown haired braid. Tapping him on his right shoulder, Gurick leaned in to give a whisper; the younger boys breath stirring the short hairs on Gil’s neck; hair that was considerably darker than it had been a year ago. Gil leaned back to hear better, turning in his seat could turn into a detention.
“You may have struck out with the teacher, but it looks like Yanna wants you to dance with her after the Gathering.”
“What?” Gilserand had not meant to shout, but surprise made his voice loud. He whirled about in his seat looking at his friend, chancing the punishment because of that ludicrous statement. Smiling knowingly, Gurick just inclined his head in Yanna’s direction, even as Miss Hollobrand called out a warning for the class to be silent.
He turned back in time to catch another smile from the blond girl, again veiled behind a raised shoulder. Hilney began to giggle as the two girl’s heads came back together, which seemed to spur Yanna into her own giggle fit.
“A lot of us older boys have been talking about asking Yanna to the dance after the Gathering. It looks like she would say yes if you asked.” No, he’s gotta be kidding me? Gil thought, shocked that Gurick would think this funny. Gurick stopped being mean to me a long time ago, how could…. Thinking that cruelty was behind his friends words, he chanced another glance at Yanna. This was pleasing to the girl for some reason. He is not teasing me…. At first Gil felt stunned, but when he glanced over at the girls yet again, he chanced a little smile of his own. The way Yanna’s smile broadened before Hilney and she put their heads together in a whisper session seemed to indicate Gurick had been right.
I wonder if the Gatherings being held out in the city are as intense as the one here in the palace? Leachelle thought, trying to straighten her form fit magenta jacket. This new fashion of wearing full size jackets instead of a mini vest and half jacket made a whole lot more sense to the thirteen year old girl. She was only fidgeting because her turn to present herself was coming up. Leachelle was three steps down from the third floor balcony. Behind her, the remaining sons and daughters of nobles and relic wielders awaited their turn to descend to the king’s ball room. Only two people preceded her on the stairs; they also fidgeted casting nervous glances back too her or beyond to the kids waiting to take to the steps.
Her jacket and hooped dress were both magenta, but her shirt and ribbon bound bowler were both plum colored; it was only the ruffled lace of her bodice peeking out of the ‘V’ of her jacket front, and the lace at her wrists that actually showed the color of her shirt. Embroidery in lightening patterns adorned her ensemble, the periwinkle threads a nice contrasting color that also tied everything together. All the hues of purple looked good too Leachelle, ever since she had been little she had been drawn to the whole spectra….
“The scion of Magister Humpher Milk, Undannu Milk!” Below her, the boy called jumped as though a monster had lunged at him.
After a moments hesitation the young man began to step down, working his head around in his collar as though the lace chaffed. The girl in front of Leachelle took one step down. She herself felt a dread of filling the space in front of her, but a snicker behind her was like a push without contact. They tell me I look like my mother, but my ears are too big, and my lips aren’t as full, Leachelle thought to herself. She wanted to clutch the fluffy braid of her long brown, slightly wavy hair, but this was not the usual braid she wore. Her hair had been styled to have three different types of braids, making five strands, that were pulled to a single point. Her hair felt loose near her scalp, but tight near her waist. It was meant to hang straight down her back, pulling it over either of her shoulders, even for momentary security, would ruin the aesthetic born from hours of hard work.
Her mother had been beautiful, her mother had made an impact in court even before she had married Leachelle’s father; and even after Leachelle herself had been born. She, herself, had large slightly down turned eyes of metallic gray, the color of her father’s though shaped as her mother’s blue orbs had been. Leachelle’s stylist said she had a diamond shaped face, but she herself couldn’t distinguish between diamond and oval face shapes. Leachelle had a tall refined nose as her mother had also had, but her cheek bones were set higher and set under her eyes rather than to the outer corners. A feature she had received from her father, who now had gained enough weight to hide any cheek bones at all.
Her lips would also never compare to her mothers full plump bottomed lip smile; no Leachelle had smooth lips that had an even contour. Neither of her parents sported such featureless lips as she judged herself to have. Her narrow chin was the only thing that kept her lips from truly standing out to her critics, a chevron of flesh was just under her bottom lip, formed by the slight thrust of her chin. What did stand out were her ears. She had been told that her ears were narrow, but they seemed as tall as her entire head; especially when Leachelle had to have her hair put up, which seemed to be the lingering fashion for hairstyles these last few years. In her eyes, her earlobes just would not quit.
More titters came from the balcony behind her, and Leachelle was certain the low murmurs she heard were unkind comments about her. Taleen Haughten, all in cream colors with silver crashing wave embroidery to her dress and jacket, and her malicious friends were back there. That platinum blond demoness never missed a chance to lash out at anyone outside of the little clique she headed. As if thinking of the girl summoned her, Taleen’s voice rose a bit.
“...has to have weights put into her shoes, otherwise a breeze would whisk her away.” That declaration elicited mean chuckles, a sound not unlike that of hyenas cackling over a kill. Lishana clenched her teeth together, suspecting strongly that she was the target of those words; yet again. Fortunately those hate filled voices dropped back into the whisper range.
This is supposed to be a day when you show people courtesy. Dreams are being made or broken all over the Human world, at this moment. Exceptional children are stepping into their adulthood for the early apprenticeships that will guarantee their success at the top of the guild taking them in. She could not even think how the evil thoughts and words of the kids above her were even tolerated by the usher, especially on this day of days….
“Lady Helene Kaithar, daughter of Lord Trayson Kaithar!” a deep voice called from below. Had ten minutes passed already? Also jumping upon hearing her name, the girl one step down from Lishana hesitated, shooting a look back and up at her. Fear and uncertainty filled brown young eyes.
Touched, Leachelle found herself whispering to the young lady.
“It is alright. You are going to do just fine.” Why had her impulse been to reassure this stranger in front of her, why had she not fed into the reflection of her own inner turmoil seen in another person’s eyes? Somehow, in some way, the young woman before her took heart at Leachelle’s words. That brown eyes gaze seemed to sharpen, her shoulders firming as she straightened, and after gathering the middle hoop of her belled out dress, began a stately descent down the spiral marble stairs. Leachelle herself just wanted to turn and run, go back and hide in her rooms. I am the daughter of a magister. My father wields the Wild Rose of Bolloren, a great talisman of magic! She thought trying to take courage into herself just to take the next step down.
Taleen Haughten’s taunting voice wafted down like a foul stench.
“Looks like the Skinny Princess is next.” Leachelle hated that nick name. That was another departure she had from her mother’s legendary beauty; Leachelle was much more slender than most of the other thirteen year old girls in the palace. Tall and awkward with pronounced thin limbs. Outright snickering and barely stifled guffaws began to break the decorum of the moment. Phinder Tugg, the son of a relic level magister called out next, his voice a sing song.
“Skinny, skinny, skinny!” At once Leachelle was tossed into a storm of confusion. There was the impulse to tear out Taleen’s wintery hair, and that was at odds with her wish to hide under her blankets within the safety of her chamber.
Why, on this day do they have to hurt me? Leachelle mourned in her mind, fury or tears waiting for one to win out in the ongoing conflict in her heart. Unbidden the memory of a conversation with her father rose up in her, from a time when he still had color in his hair and had been fit and slender. A lot had changed in the year since her mother had died.
“I play with rough people all the time, my Leaping Lilac Lilly,” he had said once, using his pet name for her. Red silks with roses embroidered had always been his motif. “I fight the enemies of our king, and there is one thing that is certain. The people that call me names are the ones who have no power to hurt me. Their words, can not cut me or you, they can’t even cause a bruise. No true hurt is taken from mean words.” All this time Leachelle had thought her dad had been too old to understand her world, that he had never had to deal with bullies in his life.
Like light dawning through a window, she understood that he had not given her false words to try and comfort her with. He had fought battles, real battles where the consequences were brutally final, where the weapons were not made of words. This isn’t even close to a real war, one of her inner voices observed; a calm part of herself that did not usually speak seemed to be offering her a choice other than tears or rage.
“I bet the only guild that will take Leachelle is the cleaning lady guild. She looks like a cleaning lady,” Taleen called out again. The kids not in her clique were beginning to look upon the taunting with less than cordial expressions on their faces, Leachelle observed when she turned to look up.
Of course Taleen’s cronies were almost outright laughing, smirking from behind the balustrade.
“You know they are watching us with magic right now, don’t you?” she heard herself challenge in an even tone, not even knowing where this idea had come from. “Mean girls are the ones who go without any guild at all.” Serenely, Leachelle turned back, the cessation of laughter a sign her fib had hit its mark. Smiling to herself she listened as Taleen’s group of friends whispered furiously, uncertain about the truth, or lack thereof, of her words. When her name was called, Leachelle stepped forward with confidence; her skirts held up perfectly so the lower hoop did not hang up on a step. It was almost as if she rode a carpet of affirmation to the second story balcony. That is where Leachelle’s confidence began to wane again, tension of her upcoming Gathering returned with a vengeance.
Below her, the spacious dimly lit room was filled with grown ups, all of whom were wearing black featureless masks; scores of void like faces were aimed her way. In the middle of the circle of adults was a clear space. The event herald was the only individual not masked, but he was also set apart from the circle; he was also the only person not in embroidered silk. He awaited her at the end of the steps she had yet to descend, his hand already held out to usher her into the bullseye of faceless scrutiny. At first she swayed like a willow, afraid to continue on. Father is down there, he is one of the people in the masks, Leachelle realized scanning before picking out his famous red attire. She probably knew, or knew of, all the people forming that Human circle.
Armed with that knowledge she was able to wrap herself around with serenity once again; her steps were stately as she moved to the ground floor of the ball room. Her mother had once walked with this kind of poise. The sea of black hosen covered faces parted before her, seeming to lure her into their insidious corral. Figures with no faces made Leachelle think of ghost like undead spirit creatures, minions of the Burning Spirits. The unnatural aspect of the onlookers was dashed when a portly lady, wearing a necklace with hundreds of tiger eye stones, clutched her hands before her ample bosom as though touched by Leachelle’s steady gait. They are people, just people. No one is an Osserjuka assassin waiting to do me in, Leachelle reassured herself while gliding into the central point of the ball room, her stomach still flopped like a grounded fish though. A male figure that was not far removed from being fit stepped before her.
She recognized the voice when she heard the faceless man speak.
“In this past year you were to have volunteered with various guilds of Bolloren. Tell me Leachelle Gueardan, daughter of Ovellam Gueardan, which Guilds did you present yourself too?” King Uldarnan intoned, sounding pleased to be part of this age old ritual. Rumor had it that he kept his nobles and magisters in the palace with him so that he could be near their children; for many kids, Leachelle included, the king had almost seemed to be a favored uncle. I think this is one occasion that he would not like us to disregard courtliness though. Propriety was in total observance at this time.
“Master of Cerimonies, I presented myself to the Relic Hunter Guild, I presented myself to the Equestrian Trainers Guild, and I presented myself to the Magister’s Guild.” She stated clearly after clearing her throat.
The king nodded before stepping back into the encircling host of people surrounding Leachelle. He held his hands up and intoned the next part of the ritual.
“There are masters of guilds among us, it is they who choose. Remember this, being overlooked is not the same as being repudiated. Not being chosen on this day does not mean that you will not rise in life to make Bolloren proud. Are there any masters who wish to claim this child?” The king’s voice echoed into a silence, and at first Leachelle felt her spirits fall. The hush seemed to weigh, to linger over long.... Wood striking marble sounded from without the circle of anonymous onlookers. In the direction of the double doors that lead to the king’s feast hall, the adults parted to reveal a hunch backed creature concealed in a hood; it held a crooked staff that looked like a denuded branch taken off an equally twisted tree.
Primordial trepidation flared at looking at the hag like figure, a childhood bogeyman that would have made Leachelle run at an earlier age in life. The figure raised its staff then struck the marble floor again. Blue sparks began to shoot out of the staff’s top.
“Tell me, girl, what is it that you see?” The voice was creaky with age, cagey with hidden mockery. A total stranger. Leachelle swallowed hard as uncertainty of the being in front of her tried to take control. Forcing her voice to remain bold almost eluded her.
“I see a figure with a twisted back before me, hidden in a hood, who holds a staff throwing blue sparks.” Please Lords of Light, let not my words be taken as unkind, she prayed, using the formal address found in the holy books.
Some in the audience of black masks gasped, which made Leachelle wish she could go back in time to amend her choice of words. The staff cracked marble once again and the figure began to twist like smoke in a breeze. Growing, straightening, the hood and rags becoming blond hair and red and gold silk adorning a muscular middle age man. Even the staff changed, but it lost length, and at one point any definition whatsoever; not until it revealed itself as a dangling locket with an eye of energy at its core. That eye bled tears of blue light that did not pool at the tall man’s feet. Her father’s boss, the High Magister of Bolloren, Uludin Hughwold stood before her.
“She has the Sight! She has the Feel!” Master Uludin called in his real voice. “We of the Magister’s Guild would welcome Leachelle Gueardan as one of our own.” Is this for real? Reality felt… skewed.
Disoriented by the masked almost spectral people, and the display of illusory magic, Leachelle felt the need to pinch herself. Yet she dared not, not at this moment anyway, because the onlookers erupted into wild applause. Some black faced specters even called out joyously, Leachelle’s father one of the loudest and most inarticulate. Dark hose covered faces seemed to contract in upon her, the split closing upon the High Magister, excluding the man who would be her boss. At the moment that Leachelle feared that talon tipped hands would begin to reach out for her, the king stepped out again; his blue crushed velvet suit straining about his growing midriff as he raised a hand that stopped the ghoulish crush.
“Congratulation, Leachelle!” he cried, sounding just as proud as if he were her father. Leachelle could imagine Kig Uldarnan’s eyes crinkling with his merry smile. “In one weeks time you will attend your new guild to begin your apprenticeship, but tonight… tonight there will be a feast to celebrate this year’s Gathering.”
Adult voices swelled as gloved hands smashed together, even these seeming dead spirits liked the sound of a party. For his part, King Uldarnan urged them on, repeatedly sweeping his arms up to encourage greater volume. After what seemed like an eternity, the king gestured for silence; which came reluctantly at first. “Retire, young lady, and prepare yourself for the festivities, for food and dancing will be your lot tonight. Before then…,” he had to pause as several people thought that had been an applause line. Though quickly quelled, the noise had been enough that the sovereign would have been drowned out. “Before then, we have to see if any other of Bolloren’s youth have risen to a point of prominence this night.” Once again the circle of adults split eastward to show the herald of ceremonies waiting to guide her once again.
This time as she passed through, the faceless people did reached out to her. Those black hosen covered visages became disconcerting again as stranger’s hands brushed at her slender shoulders, her arms, and even her braids in passing; the nameless figures behind seemed to paw the air straining to touch her. They seemed like dark spirits reaching for the spark of her life. I would not be so disquieted if their faces were revealed to me, Leachelle told herself, trying to shake the supernatural imagery. The herald, a lean man with rosy cheeks beaming at her, was a welcome face after the harrowing emotional ride of Leachelle’s Gathering. He guided her to a door under the stairs, a servants entrance. Just being with a person not concealing their features helped Leachelle begin to realize what had happened. I did it! I did it, Mother, I am a magister just like father!
“Are you still upset that the guards didn’t apprentice you? That was weeks ago.” Randera the Widow asked. Today the woman who had raised him was just wearing an old dress with tiered skirts; yellow with red rose patterns over the bodice, butterflies and roses on the skirts. She perched on a chair near the washing basin where Gilserand labored over the dishes. Naturally she sat near the ofenherd, soaking in the heat as their house was cool year round; an old porcelain tea kettle full of water sat just off the cooking surface waiting for the moment her tea mug would be washed. Her deft hands were plying needle and thread, darning socks, patching worn knees and elbows on shirts and pants, or stitching torn seams. All the cheap easy jobs that brought in copper kippers. Randera insisted those small coins added up, just never fast enough for Gil.
What should I say? Gilserand thought, scrubbing at black spots that had been food at one point. The cast Iron skillet had three remaining coin sized spots that resisted his scrub brush, wash rag, and fingernails. Being Ungathered is why Yanna broke up with me, but I also didn’t tell The Widow that I’d had a girlfriend for almost a fortnight. Randera the Widow was seated near him, only doing the low end work just so they could converse before Gil took off to hang out with Gurick and some other friends. At this moment she began to frown worriedly as Gil had let his silence stretch a little too long. Maybe I should tell her, he pondered fearing ridicule or worse. What if she thinks I’m still too young to date a girl?
Her worry grew to the point that she paused mid draw on a thread when Gilserand looked at her. His hands had stopped scrubbing though still immersed in the flesh pruning soap suds.
“Why don’t girls like a fatherless orphan? Why doesn’t knowing where and who I come from make me lesser in their eyes?” Once he had began speaking, his rent heart seemed to take off with his mouth. Now gaping helplessly, The Widow remained frozen with hand and needle poised in mid air. Her face crumpled in misery when she did lower her arm, and for several moments Gil did not know how Randera would respond.
“Gil, my beautiful boy, what happened? Is this about that girl you spent all that time with at the Gathering End feast?”
When Gilserand had been younger, letting his feelings spill out in tears would have moved The Widow to take him into her arms, where all fears, all pain would be eased. Except…. Except a hug would not solve the confusion now reigning within. Randera the Widow’s loving touch could not really bring solace, just the semblance thereof. Swallowing the lump of his sorrows away seemed harder than anything he had ever done in his entire young life. For her part, this woman before him swayed in her chair as though tempted to bring him that once necessary embrace. Her eyes swam with sympathetic waters.
“Yanna! I was her boyfriend since the Gathering!” Gil started, finding that shouting momentarily eased his turmoil…, for only as long as he was yelling that is.
Why do I fall back on anger when all I want to do is cry? His aggression made The Widow lean away from him, her sympathetic look changing to something narrow eyed and watchful. I scared her, I scared Randera the Widow in her own home. Gil, get a grip on yourself! Yet another thing to feel bad about. “I asked Yanna to be my girlfriend at the feast, and she said yes,” Gilserand started again, fighting his inner tempest. A hopeless brawl he did not feel he was winning. “I liked dancing with her, and I always stopped myself from kissing her. So I just held her hand a lot.” Now that he was rushing to the part where he had been dumped, the emotions wanted to run away again. The fight within needed his words to pause, otherwise he would have started shouting again; that or begin crying. Those were both very bad options.
Relieved that the boy she was raising was doing his best to tell her his woes, Randera broke eye contact and began stitching again; slow and measured unlike her normal lightening fast work pace.
“Ah!” she said to fill the space. “Why do you think she stopped liking you because you’re an orphan?” Gilserand’s answer exploded out of him again, he had to wrestle himself down to calmer tones.
“She said that we weren’t going anywhere! That I was Ungathered, and she was Gathered…!” He paused to gain equilibrium. “When was the last time you ever heard of a bastard orphan being Gathered? I have never heard of it. Yanna started her apprenticeship the other day, and said she doesn’t have time for me anymore.”
Nodding slowly while her needle creeped along, The Widow contemplated her work as she formulated an answer.
“Girls have a funny way of never telling a boy what they truly want, and we have a hard time outgrowing that,” she started, speaking slowly as though she was unsure where her own words would lead. “We get confused and point out minor things that are not related to our real disquiet. The closest this Yanna came to the truth was when she said you weren’t going anywhere.” Hurt flared in Gilserand and he started a stuttered defense. “Hush! Listen!” she cut in before he gained steam. Both The Widow’s outburst and the alarming insect wing buzz in his ear made Gil flinch; a tiny black body weaved by his nose on its way to land on the wall over the basin.
Scowling at both the fly and his inability to defend himself, Gilserand contemplated slamming the bug with the skillet. Cleaning that mess up would be added to his chores and scuttle earlier laid plans. Reading his foul features, Randera the Widow continued on. “Didn’t you say you never kissed her?” This was not at all where Gil had thought this conversation would go.
“Kissing is how it starts for boys. We start kissing girls and we forget how to be gentlemen; we get all lecherous and stuff,” Gilserand said, quoting the gist of what his guard friends had told him on this subject; proud that he had paid attention to their advice. Laughter erupted out of Randera the Widow, yet another act that made him feel disjointed from reality. She began to tie off the completed seam she had been working on.
“’Lecherous and stuff,’” she chortled tossing the mended mini vest towards the pile of her completed work. “Kissing is how it starts for girls too, Gil. Your Yanna wanted you to kiss her, she wanted to know you were attracted to her. That attraction is important to us ladies.”
At last one patch of burned on charred food stuff flaked off the dish he was washing. Taking off from its perch on the wall, the insect vanished before a full heartbeat in the way only flies knew how to do. Discombobulation replaced the hurt of stung pride he had been nurturing; this conversation was taking a turn he had never suspected he would ever have to expect.
“Well why didn’t she just say that?” was his first question, but he didn’t let Randera the Widow have time before shooting another query at her. “Why would she want me to kiss her knowing I would lose control and… and… uh, you know?”
The Widow’s smile grew so deep that Gil knew she was holding back more laughter.
“If a girl has to ask for a kiss, then the attraction isn’t real. For a girl, or a woman, a spontaneous kiss means the man’s interest is real.” This idea was so alien that it made Gil feel disoriented, as though he had spun around and around too long and too fast.
“But that is how guys get slapped and lose the girl.”
Threading her next needle was interrupted by her mirth spilling over, that and a banzai charge at his left eye by the reappearing fly.
“Getting slapped only happens if the girl doesn’t want to be kissed, and that could be because she doesn’t like you, or you picked the wrong time or place,” she forced out through her levity. Who wrote these rules? I don’t think I like this game! Gilserand began to fume; it seemed the woman who raised him was mocking him, making fun of his ignorance. And even though Yanna was not there, he felt her ridicule too.
The second of the three burn patches flaked away. Miffed at the mockery and the pestiferous bug, Gilserand shook water off his right hand to swat the insect when it buzzed him again. Of course the fly vanished from sight and sound, as if knowing his intent. Where did that flame cursed thing land? Come on, I want to kill you, he thought at the missing bug. Randera soon stole away with his attention again.
“By the way, kissing does not make you lose control. Sure it leads to… uh, amorous thoughts and feelings, but it does not make you lose your wits with desirous impulses,” she said using words he had never expected her to use. “Yes, eventually kissing leads to… amorous feelings, but it does not, and should not lead you to lose control of yourself. That is what makes kissing so delicious,” she said, smiling as though at a fond thought. “Riding that edge of emotion is intoxicating, Gilserand, and not taking it too far is also a sweet ride in the heart and head. A good man will stop when his desire flares too wildly. A good girl will ask you to stop when she reaches that point of losing control, and you listen to her! Do you hear me on that, Gilserand? You will be a good man!”
Randera the Widows had been riding on fond memories through her dissertation, and Gilserand had been near to feeling embarrassed by the whole talk; never mind that he was also thoroughly enthralled. When the snap entered her voice, and her eyes took on steely sternness, he was caught completely by surprise. Wide eyed, Gil dropped his poised hand, and he halfway stepped around the basin to interpose it between himself and The Widow. She was wearing that face she got when an answer was expected, eyes sharp and lips down turned. I didn’t do anything, was his first defensive thought. Oh, this is for what I could do wrong. Man this kissing stuff is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. In truth Gilserand’s head felt cottony, as if stuffed with too many conflicting concepts.
Nodding sharply in assent, he watched Randera the Widow’s eyes warily to see if his response was the correct one. Holding her expression for several more moments to enforce her lesson, Randera only slowly let the fierceness abate until Gilserand felt it safe to ask questions again.
“If it is so dangerous, why kiss at all?” He had not meant to sound so sullen as he stepped back before the dishes, but he also felt relieved to break eye contact and feel alone in his own brain. The fly did a loop in front of his face, almost ticking his nose with it’s little black body. She began darning the toe section of an aged pair of socks, only the richer folks near the center of Alren could replace clothing when it became stained or sagged with too much wear.
“There are few things in life that bring joy into a person’s life. Kissing is one of those beautiful things that you can share with one other person, but there is more to it.” Gil’s scrubbing slowed down, his ears straining to absorb this lore.
In seconds Randera the widow had put new life in the light brown stockings, she had to pause while tying her stitching off. “Kissing is a lot of fun, and it is different each time you do it, but…. There is a feeling, a... a magical feeling when you’re kissing someone you are meant to love. There is weakness and strength inside at the same time, fluttering in the belly and your head reels with giddy feelings, but your thoughts seem so clear; and that person… the idea of that person is branded in your soul when you find yourself kissing them.” Her expression changed as she talked, her eyes far away in memories of her own. Gilserand thought her smile was wistful before it faded altogether. A thing that looked like a wince flitted over her fine features for the briefest of moments, leaving an after trail of sadness in its wake. “That magic is how I chose my husband.”
Blinking away her yesteryears, she looked at Gil to see if he had accepted her lesson. This time without pressure, he gave Randera the Widow another nod. None of that sounds fun to me, it doesn’t even sound appealing anymore, Gil complained in his thoughts as he began to scrub the dishes again. He was sure she had been waiting patiently for him to begin cleaning her thick walled mug, proof came when her eyes flicked to the object in his lather encased hands. At first he strained to get his rag wrapped fingers into the vessel, but when success came so to did the fly; it landed on his left cheek. Shaking his head dislodged the pest for half a second. Staying on his face as if it had the right was too much for Gilserand, he tried to mash it in place with a slap but all he accomplished was to spay the wall and himself with not so fresh water and soap. The Widow frowned at the water dripping down the plaster of the house, while he worked to prevent stinging soap from getting into his orbs.
Then he had to gently dab the wall dry to prevent paint from coming off, Gil winced an apologetic look at the woman who had raised him. Seeing that he was taking proper precautions with the house, Randera rose and set her tea kettle over the heating surface of the ofenherd, but only after tossing the second darned sock on the table next to its misshapen mate. Acting with haste, he dipped the mug in the rinsing bucket then began drying it. Receiving a pleased smile for his alacrity, The Widow accepted her treasured mug. She began to fill her tea infuser, stuffing dried leaf crumbs into the wire mesh contraption, its chain gently clinking like an off key chime. Burning Spirits take you! Gil raged as the fly tried for his face again, he only had a few more dishes left to clean and all he wanted was peace.
Usually their house did not suffer these pests for long, bugs usually liked warmer environs. Wanting to digest all the curious information he had just gotten, Gil did not need to deal with a pestiferous bug at this moment; every few seconds those swiftly beating wings made a cacophonous disruption in his ears and thoughts.
“Did you know that I was Ungathered when I was young?” Randera the Widow unexpectedly asked. Disbelief informed the way Gilserand tilted his head as he made hasty eye contact, Randera the Widow read correctly that he was attentive.
After finding the right cream colored thread for the ladies undergarment she had to re-seam, Randera the Widow followed up. “I was crushed of course, because I thought I deserved to be declared a master after my volunteer work had gone so well. My young pride and vanity at work. It took my mother showing me patterns that I had never seen before, and my dad taking me to the market to show me stitching I had never known, before I realized how little I really knew about my craft. They encouraged me to continue learning how to sew for the next two years, practice that served me well when I turned fifteen. I earned my apprentice guild crest within weeks after applying for sewing work.” At this point she had to pause her tale to tie off one of two split seams on her current project.
Choosing this moment to comment, Gilserand shook his head in denial and to scare off the buzzing pest that was making another attempted landing.
“I thought you were a guild master, how else could you be practicing sewing from our home?” His question seemed to produce a slight smile from The Widow, as she flicked a glance his way; her eyes shifted to the tea pot afterword, seeking to see if there were vestiges of steam sputtering out of the spout. The water had not been heating long enough to even have become warm, so she returned to tacking the last frayed seam down with pins.
“The top two tiers of journeyman ranked guild members are often allowed to establish their own shops. But you are right, Gil, I did become a master clothier.”
Alighting again on the same spot on Gilserand’s cheek, the bug haunting him continued to taunt the boy; vanishing again the second he dried his hands to begin swatting at it. Trying to trick the pest, he pretended to start washing again holding his hands just within the basin. Vexingly, the fly refused to show itself; until he did actually return to work. His foster mother chose that moment to continue her story. “I was pregnant the first time I tried for my guild master crest. Those tests are tough.” she said with a frown. Those down turned lips seemed to droop further as she continued. “Each master devises a series of tests for darning, patching, stitching, and even making a unique pattern for a complete garment.”
She was trying to maintain a light voice, but there was a hidden strain that highlighted the falsity in her attempt. “Then the vats burst in the brewery and Guy was killed. I was granted a stay by the guild, of course, but I let the time go by after the baby died just one week later. I didn’t even try to contact the guild masters because all I wanted to do was die, I wanted to listen to the Burning Spirits whispering in my head, telling me to follow them into death….” Her voice rose in pitch, as though a scream was still trapped inside Randera the Widow’s soul. Her pain made Gilserand erupt in denials
“What? No!” His gaping face made Randera think twice about her revelation. That milk would not be going back into the tipped bucket though.
Too forestall any more outbursts, to allay the fear in her boy’s eyes, Randera held her hand up.
“I was a mess at the time, very confused… and hurt by all my sudden losses. When those wood cutters showed up with you, and handed you over, it was like those revelations they talk about in the scripture books. I knew, I just knew I had to live on, and do my best in this strange old world of ours. I earned my master’s crest by the time you were four years old, not that it made us rich.” Gilserand tried to imagine his life without Randera the Widow in it. He couldn’t bring himself to construct that imagery too long, there was too much fear in the concept. What will happen to The Widow if something happened to me? Would she want to kill herself again? I don’t know about all this stuff I’m learning today, he thought. How am I supposed to know when and where to try and kiss a girl?
None of this was sitting well, his brain felt like it had indigestion. Gilserand needed something to distract him, give him time to think. Without knowing it, Randera the Widow had given him that out; she had opened a door on a subject he knew she had not given him all the details on when he had asked in the past.
“You’ve told me some woodcutters brought me to you, how did that happen? Am I the son of a woodcutter who didn’t want me?” At first The Widow smiled at the question as if she too were eager for the change of subject, then the smile began to melt off her features as she studied Gilserand. Of course he had asked this question before, but this time even she knew from his face that there was a difference in this query.
Dish held unheeded under the water, Gilserand studied her face waiting for her answer. He did not want her to gloss over the details as she had when he had been younger, and she was sensing this change. She actually swallowed before answering. The damn fly corkscrewed at his face, causing Gil to shy away from another landing. He tried to track its flight again as Randera composed her answer. Sounds were coming from within the tea pot as the water reached its boiling point; pressure was building in the vessel and in the two people.
“I didn’t ask where you came from when that soldier and two woodcutters showed up with you, Gil. Not at first. You have to remember I was in a dark place at the time. Only after holding you and feeling as if the Lords of Light and Life still had a purpose for me, did I think to ask about you,” she started, staring at her work as if she were being evasive.
Gilserand felt his eyes narrowing as suspicion began to take hold, but Randera the Widow glanced up and stared into his blue orbs. “That took a couple of weeks. The woodcutters had gone back into Oldbeard by then and couldn’t be found, so the only person I could question was the guard. He told me that the woodcutters had found you in the forest next to your mother who had died giving birth to you. Of course I asked why they had brought you to me. Guard Kinnert said that when the woodcutters showed up at the barbican, no one knew what to do with you. His officer was one of my ex lovers, a man who still thought fondly of me. That officer ordered Kinnert to bring you to my door, hoping that I would take you in.”
My real mother is dead? His stunned thoughts managed to formulate as this expanded bit of personal history sank in. Of course the fact that Randera the Widow had lovers before and after her husband was not a shock to Gilserand, she had never been shy about bragging at the number of men who had sought her favor. Why was this woman in the forest? That is not a safe place for a pregnant woman, even Alren’s woodcutters have to go armed and have a squad of guards at each camp. Dunking the new washed ladle in the clean water bucket, it was Gilserand’s turn to realize the worry on Randera’s mien. She was studying him as if searching for cracks. No wonder she’s worried, I’ve had my head packed full of a lot of stuff today. I’ve got a lot of things to get right with, especially the guards lying to me about kissing girls, and The Widow wanting to kill herself back in the day….
His contemplation was broken when Randera the Widow suddenly burst out, attempting to reassure her young charge; the boy she loved as her own. “Just because you’re an orphan doesn’t mean you are less than anyone else Gilserand! I love you so much because you are a good boy, and I see you growing up to be a good man….” Though his smile was marred by the creases between his brows, it was enough to make The Widow realized she had not struck anything tender in Gil’s psyche. Trying to defend and comfort him was not where her attentions were needed.
“Guard Kinnert? That wouldn’t be Captain Kinnert now would it?” he queried rubbing the ladle with the drying towel.
At that moment the tea kettle began to sing like a bard seeking coin, pent up steam venting out over the ofenherd. Randera rose to take the pot off the heating surface, all the while studying Gil as if he were a stranger. She seemed really unsure about the determined look on his face as well as the unexpected direction his question had taken. Not at all the actions of the boy she had raised. That boyhood was falling away in the same way trees shed their leaves when the season called for it. He could tell she was searching her feelings in the face of the changes she was witnessing, she did not respond to his question as she turned to pour water over the infuser.
Gilserand was reaching to hang the ladle with the other cooking utensils on the far side of the ofenherd when the fly buzzed by his head. His swing was savage, the ladle extending his reach. Yet the insect was looping away even as his tool cut the air with a whoosh, and Gil knew he would miss. Amethyst light seared the backs of his eyeballs, leaving a magenta afterimage that occluded the entire room. It was as if he had stared at a purple sun for too long of a moment. Though he could not see clearly, Gil thought a tiny waft of smoke wavered in the air a few feet in front of him. It was gone after he blinked to clear his sight, seeming to never have really existed at all.
Spinning about he wanted to see how The Widow was reacting to that bright flare. Her back still to him, she was swirling the infuser by its tiny chain intent on how she wanted to answer his question; as though there had been no interrupting flash of light. Gaping at her back, Gilserand felt uprooted by her lack of reaction. His eyes still had the flash burn memory that made their house seem dark and dim, though the noon time sun was beaming through the windows.
“Yes, I believe Kinnert is a captain now. Why do you ask?” Lords of Light and Life, what just happened to me? Am I dying, is this a sign that I have some sickness? Bemused by his fear filled thoughts and the inordinate amount of time it had taken Randera the Widow to answer his question, Gilserand still wiped his expression clean when she turned to face him. How can I explain this without sounding insane? It is insane!
Expectation adorned her fine features, though her eyes wore a wariness she was trying to mask behind her own question to him. Gilserand cocked his head as he studied The Widow. Worry flared in her eyes before she raised her cup to sip at tea too hot for consumption. Steam stopped her efforts, making her shy back from the heated rim of the cup and the burned lip that could have happened. Why is she so worried?
“I know him,” he stated before he began to declare his intentions. “I’ve been curious my whole life, but now knowing where I come from feels really important. Did you ever see those woodcutters again? Did you find out what they saw out there?” Her gray eyes became evasive as she blew over the rim of her brown mug, she hovered between the table and the chair still holding her sewing projects, unsure of where she wanted to be.
Not taking her seat to resume her work was a tell that her spirit was disquieted.
“No, I never saw those men again,” she said turning to study the row of seven unused mannequins east of the ofenherd, anything to avoid his gaze. Did she really not see that light? Oh, by the Flaming Spirits, does she think I don’t need her anymore… that I’m seeking a replacement? That question knocked the strange event clean out of his head; now he only had worry for her concerns.
“Listen, I have a lot of questions about the people I came from, but there is one thing that will always be true to you and me,” he started. His words made her eyes flit in his direction. His blue orbs caught and held hers, the earnestness on his face compelling. “You will always be my mom, you will always be the one I love the most,” he reassured.
Though the tower still went by the name Seat of Power, it also had been called the Spear Imperius when it had been the administrative building for the disbanded Faelora empire. It was a narrow seeming spire centered in a growing spiral of outer towers, stepping stair like in height around the main tower shaft. This tower’s point could be seen from ninety miles distance. Not only was it the tallest building in Estanabril, it was the tallest creation made by intelligent hands on the continent of Tanabror. Relic magic had been used to raise this massive building, that and stone laying techniques that had never been learned by the lesser species of the world. Not even by the stone wise Gachtler.
The twelfth floor had been, and always would be, the throne room, chosen for the number of major constellations in the night sky. The father of the Lords of Light and Life was known by the twelfth constellation, and songs of prayer were made to him before every audience or judgment; a call for guidance. Even now the priests and priestesses voices rose, calling upon the wisdom of those deities; the interplay of male and female voices like clarion
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| Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1 |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 09-28-2024, 04:36 PM - Forum: Off-Topic
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Once again the writing bug has taken a nip from me. I love having a story begin to seep from me, gaining shape and taking character on the page; the unexpected turns as the tale takes on a life of its own. After crafting a series of scenes one has to begin editing and refining the words and sentence structures, but there comes a time when the writeres eye refuses to see prose that limps or crawls inelegantly. New sets of eyes are required to point out the flubs and stillborn scrawlings. I have removed the information dump scene, parcing out KIng Lorinlil"s memories while making this racist character somewhat of a sympthetic character. Still, I need other eyes to point out the flaws my mind does not currently see.
Gilserand
Old Beard forest seemed a never ending mass of dark green stretching to the northern, southern, and western horizon. The interior seemed imposingly dark, a place where the sun dare not shine. The deciduous trees, mostly oaks and maples, standing at the forest margins all had the seeming of grizzled veterans standing as defiant guardians over the foggy interior of their domain. Each tree sported some form of moss on trunk and branch, mostly a pale green dangling moss reminiscent of swamp growths. The deeper one traveled into this imposing forest the more mosses and lichens adorned the brooding sentinels.
East of the forest marching thigh high grasses waved to the caress of the breeze, swaying in a unity no other life form could achieve. An abundance of flowers shared the gentle hills with the grass, though a person had to be on top of them to notice they were there. Equally, the odd bush was not tall enough to challenge the waving stems; only a few trees were able to do that, but they were so distantly spaced from one another that their infringement was negligible. Closer to Rularic Creek than to the hoary forest, a few human farmsteads had been carved into the grass kingdom; oddly spaced in the league of grasslands before the little city. Walls and lookout towers around their homes showed that these people were more watchful of the fogbound forest than in tending their fields.
Wheat and hay easily blended with the grasslands, especially this early in spring. The smaller vegetable plots were closer to the houses than any other crop, which meant they were there more to subsidize the farmers diet rather than be used to sell in nearby Alren. Chickens made up the predominate species of livestock, though random goats or pigs were kept on some farms. The more numerous farms east of Alren had a greater variety of both crops and animals, but they did not farm the highly desirable wheat and hay the western farms specialized in; they were also not as threatend by the wild races and monsters of the world. Paths from the farms converged to form a dirt road that ran spear straight at Alren, at the Western Bridge that road became paved with flat topped stones that had the semblance of having been planed before being set into the dirt and gravel. Ruts in the western dirt track showed how often farmer’s wagons became mired in the overlong rainy season, while the rock and gravel just had slight rut lines.
Rularic Creek flowed leisurely by the Town of Alren, taking a break from the rapids north west in the forest; preparing itself for the swifter race it made in the Alren Falls many miles to the south east. The Western Bridge’s brown rails stood over the dirt and stone road grade, the dark brown paint recently applied and thus crisp. The span itself could have been drawn with a compass it was such a perfect half circle over the water. How that pristine arch could have been crafted from cement and torso sized stones stymied many of Alren’s residents and the farmers around the town. A mated pair of crows sat atop the thick wood of the guard rail’s planks, resting from their instinctive drive to build this years nest.
Restively they napped for a few moments at a time, reflexively popping their eyes open to check the area around their painted brown perch; the human youth gently snoring under a cottonwood tree a score of yards away receiving most of the bird’s intermittent scrutiny. This person was in that indeterminate stage of life where they were taking on the aspects of a man, but still thought of themselves as a boy. Sandy hair, bushier over the brow, capped an oval face. Ears, slightly too large at this stage of maturation, sat at each side of his face. His nose was almost tall with narrow nostrils, and a smattering of freckles spread from cheek to slightly chubby cheek bridging that nose as though a painter had flicked a brush to add this feature.
The slight lines around the mouth and eyes seemed to hint at the quick changes of expression this boy had, and if his blue eyes had been opened one would note a clever intellect. Those mercurial expressions his face implied, would be by design and not by the whimsy of emotion. A slight snore was broken as thin lips parted in a sleeping sigh, those lips remained parted through several breaths before closing to allow the purr loud snore to resume. A bronze vest laid open, sprawled out like the man/boy, revealing a once white blousy shirt that covered his torso; open laces exposed some skin from throat to sternum. Though the bronze did not match the almost bright vest, the boy’s breeches were subdued as though dusty; an off or burned bronze. They were grass stained at the knees. White hosen continued on where the pants ended at the upper calf, running down the lower leg until covered by cheap brown leather shoes.
A stick spooled with thin line lay half fallen from the youth’s right hand, a couple of loops around his index finger kept the stick from falling completely out of his palm. Hidden by the grass, that string ran from his finger down through the river grasses along Rularic’s bank and into the water. That finger jerked, pulled by an outside force on the far end of that line. Gilserand’s eyes flew wide as both his hands spasmed closed, his right clutching the string wrapped stick; the loop of string had come off his finger. Again there was a tug on the line, stronger than that which had awakened him. With the speed of a man swatting at bugs, Gil set the hook by sweeping his arm until it was parallel to his shoulder. And the fight was on. The line cut through the water heading upstream as the pre-teen sat up, trying to bring his arm to his sternum, while the fish strained for the far shore; a place Gilserand knew hid large line cutting rocks.
It’s too early in the season for trout or salmon, Gil thought surprised by the fight he was receiving. This early in spring he was angling for the yellow perch journeying back to the lakes in Old Beard Forest, but perch did not have the power this fish was exhibiting. He forestalled the beast’s headlong drive for the submerged rocks by grasping the hand line with his left hand, cocking that hand so the broader surface of his palm was braced against the string. Slowly but deliberately he turned the fishes head, not wanting to apply too much tension this soon. That was a sure way to break the thin but sturdy cotton and horsehair braid. Vexed, the fish took too the air, hinging back and forth in its furious flight. Bass! That is a big old bass! The youth exalted as he recognized his piscine foe.
After splashing side first into the stream the line seemed to go slack. For a second Gil thought the worst had happened, the fish had cut the string or had spit the hook; then he remembered how these fish liked to run at the angler to create slack. Gilserand’s arms worked like pistons as he grabbed his line and pulled it in, right, left, right over and over until he felt the fish’s weight against his hand. Outsmarted again, the bass began to pull downstream. Knowing that trying to pull that fish in now would likely break his braided string, Gilserand let the fish run pulling back some of the line gathered in his lap. As the stretchy filament sped between his thumb and forefinger, he occasionally gently pinched down to apply pressure to make the fish work.
Another jump turned into another run upstream for those rocks. Again he turned the bass’ head, gathering enough line to bring it up short. The next time it ran, it ran upstream toward the bridge that the crows had abandoned when the splashing had begun. Gil let it take line as he cunningly applied his finger brakes to tire the fish, he was prepared when the fish turned and began to dash back his way. This time as he gathered line, Gilserand was able to keep continuous pressure on the bass so that he did not have to race. For the first time he had the fish on his side of the wide stream. With a powerful turn the bass ran for the far shore, forcing the boy to let it take line. He turned it’s head downstream long before it came close to those pool hidden rocks.
Trying to run downstream again, Gilserand noticed that his finger braking did not meet as much aggression as before. His prey was tiring! This time, when he turned the fish’s head, he began to pile line in his lap in earnest. It tried to run three more times, but Gil did not let it get too far, keeping his fingers braking through the whole run, then turning the head as the bass lost steam. Rolling up to his knees, Gilserand felt more trepidation at this moment than through the entire fight. Pulling the fish into the shallows where the river grasses did not grow, he worried that the bass had one great burst of fight left in it. The line’s tension was different than when the creature was in the deeper waters, it could spit the hook with just the right flip of its tail. Though the bass did flap, it did not kick itself up into the air and free itself as many others had before.
Gilserand did not remember getting to his feet, but in a flash he was at the stream’s edge hooking his fingers into the large mouth bass’ maw and hoisting it up out of the mud. Flapping furiously, the forearm long fish discovered the energy reserves it had not expended to this point. Mud droplets spattered the boys attire unheeded. Try as it might, it was now in Gil’s element and in his grasp, the young lad’s arms were jerked about a bit though; a testament to the power of the caught fish. Holding it aloft like the prize it was, he looked the fish over. Black goggle eyes studied him back, as fin and fluke alike was held extended, their spiky edges ready to impale Gil’s flesh. All the healthy green collars, darker along the back and becoming paler along its flanks, all drew Gil’s appreciation. Green/black chevron shaped hash marks formed patches on the flanks and those ran from gill to tail; the bass’s lateral line.
While admiring the healthy tones of the fishes scales, Gilserand had began walking upstream angling away from the water briefly on his way towards his wicker fish basket that lay submerged in a small stand of cattails. The thought of his basket brought him up short. Not only was this fish larger than the container, if the bass struggled it might shake the whole thing apart. Turning back about he carried the trophy fish back to the shade of the tree where he had his palm sized bashing rock stored in a root catch. Though the idea of eating this monster appealed to him mightily Gil did not like the act he was forced to perform; the way the creature’s fins and tailed spasmed tore at his soul. He could not move fast enough to hide his deed in the wicker basket, dropping the lid down so the fishes rock mangled head was was no longer visible.
To stave off the guilt of killing the bass he tried to imagine the Widow’s reaction to having such a fine meal. She will be able to save money for the next couple of nights for not having to buy food, Gilserand thought. The woman who had raised him stitched and sewed for the coin that supported both of them. All Gil’s life had been spent watching Randera the Widow in near desperation trying to make ends meet. She is going to be so happy, he imagined as he looked to the sun to gauge the time. Just that fast, Gilserand ceased believing he had done a good deed. By the burning spirts, how long did I sleep? Moron! I’m supposed to be in school now!
His eyes darted for the north western wall’s towers seemingly at the far extreme of Alren. The stacked flint wall and wooden palisade on top curved toward the north east from there so the squared off wooden towers blocked Gil’s vision of the true north west region of the town. Behind those walls, where the turn began, was where he was supposed to be this moment. For a second he saw both Randera the Widow and Miss Hollobrand glaring at him, the small beauty mark quivering over the right bow of The Widow’s lip as she restrained baring her teeth, while the teacher’s narrowed blue eyes sparkled with the promise of scourges of ice and fire. Though a decade separated the women’s ages, they both knew how to cut a lad with their looks of disappointment; which would come after the cutting words he would receive.
Tying the basket as best he could with the bass’ tail hanging out, Gilserand’s first instinct was to cross the road, parallel the Rularic on the foot path, and enter the town through the sally port near the little school house that served the poor quarter. He even took three or four running steps before he pulled up short. Let’s think about this, he began calculating, his mind in a furious turmoil. He would just face Miss Hollobrand’s brand of anger and guilt tactics early because half the class time had elapsed. Later, he would have to face Randera the Widow’s wrath and worry after Miss Hollobrand stopped at the house to tell on him. I’ll get it from both women then. That is like three punishments.
Now if I take my time going home then I face them both at once, so only two punishments which will only feel like one because of the timing. Deep down he knew he was trying to game the system, but Gilserand, through experience, knew that it paid off for him more often than not. Bending his steps more eastward Gilserand quickly found himself climbing the shallow grade to the stone road, it bent a little south east heading for the great stone gate towers and barbican. I’ll wander around the market until the next bell, he plotted.
Like the bridge, the wall was made of the regions flint boulders, but these were cut and stacked in uniform rectangles. Swooping up like a wave cut off at the top, the stonework was thicker on the bottom and thinned as it rose to its ten foot height, the top was twenty feet deep and twice that at its foot. Atop the wall was a log palisade that added another fifteen feet to the wall’s height. Each of the town’s five gates were flanked by round stone towers and barbicans sporting portcullis that were rarely closed. At fifty foot intervals were square wooden towers looking like the poor provincial cousins to the gate’s protections. The few professional soldiers from the capitol existed in the towers and along the wall only allowing the town’s militia in their domain during the monthly mandatory training drills.
No sooner did Gilserand reach the stone road as it followed the outside wall, than a wagon trundled out of the barbican’s aperture heading his way. Even from where he was he could see residual loose hay shake free of the vehicle’s gray wooden bed. Quickly crossing the road, Gil took to the grass just off the stone and gravel. Bawling what sounded like a complaint, the ox flicked it’s ears as it trudged. The beast sounded as though hauling the empty four wheel cart was just as onerous as pulling it fully loaded. Hidden under his wide brimmed hat, the farmer just flicked the reigns and sat like a fixture in the raised seat.
Just as gray as the old wagon, the farmer ignored Gilserands greeting as they passed, but the boy did see the craggy and grizzled features of a very immobile face before the man was behind him. Most of the people that lived between Alren and the Oldbeard were less than friendly. That frowning forest hid a lot of raiding creatures, and the western farmers were always the first to suffer from the attacks that issued from under those dark limbs. Dangers that rarely reached the town at all. Gil was unable to determine the farmers true age from his glance at the man. He could have been young under the dirt and whiskers, or he could have been as old as the boards of his ride.
After the farmer was clear Gil returned to the road, it provided easier travel compared to the uneven grass along the route. He followed the stone road south until it turned east into Alren, directly into the shaded mouth of the west barbican. Above Gil the front set of barbed spikes from the portcullis seemed like sparse teeth ready to fall and devour. Forty some odd feet away, the inner portcullis was hidden in the perpetual shade of the barbican. Coming in from the outside, Gilserand would not be able to see the murder holes above him until he was almost to the far side of the inner gate house. Professional soldiers would be able to see him while he would be shade blinded.
These musing jolted to a halt in his head with a shout from a familiar voice.
“Dilburd, I caught one of ‘em! I caught me a genuine Trumage spy tryin’ to sneak in!” A slight short man stepped from the shadow with a brandished halberd, an easy sneer marring his face. As the farmer he had passed, this man also needed to shave.
“Graeseed, I see you did. A right ugly spy with some vile burning spirit device meant to maim and kill,” a taller stockier man responded, lowering his halberd to point at Gilserand as he too stepped out of the shadows. Despite the threatening steel aimed at him, and the accusation of belonging to an all but dead seditious movement, Gil let his grin free.
“Ahhh! He ain’t gonna pee his breeches,” the guard named Graeseed complained. Both men raised their weapons, and Gil noticed something that might have been respect flitter over tall Dilburd’s mien. These two men had always been friendly to the boy, though their jokes were rough and seemingly violent at times.
That humor had taken Gilserand years to get used to, despite those times when he had earned a clout upside the head for the many violations he had been caught doing by this pair of men. Their stern features made it hard to tell when they were serious or just playing.
“What do you have there, Gil?” Dilburd asked from his over six foot height, pointing at the fish tail sticking out of the basket.
Both guards were armored in chain mail that was hidden under long dark green and black half and half tabards, only the coif buffering their helms showed the chain links to the world. Graeseed was half a foot taller than Gilserand with a round face marred by a chin scar, he seemed too short to be one of the professional soldiers protecting Alren. His best friend Sergeant Dilburd looked more like a guard, tall and sturdy with rectangular features and deep dimples in cheeks that always sported a five o’clock shadow. Their every gesture was punctuated by rattling chain, or clanking plate; those noises were part of the men’s charm to Gilserand.
Before Gilserand could answer he was interrupted while raising his basket.
“Ain’t ya supposed to be in school or somethin’?” Graeseed queried, easy suspicion clouding his features. The boy could not quell the guilt that question raised up, but he tried to appear as world wise as his two older friends.
“I, uh, fell asleep while fishing and missed class,” he began. A prolonged moment passed as he pulled the monster bass out of the little basket. “This bad boy woke me up when I caught him stealing my grasshopper.” Gil could not help but feel pride in himself at the enlarged eyes of the two men, they were easily impressed at the goggle eyed specimen he held by the lip.
Graeseed swore then whistled his appreciation. Avarice crossed tall Dilburd’s face, his attention glued to the fish.
“Now that is a tasty looking monster. The missus would be right pleased if I brought that home. Gil, my boy, I’ll buy that off of you for a real silver coin.”
Gilserand was not the only one who felt surprised by this sudden turn, even Graeseed peered at his chum in confusion. He lowered the fish staring hard at the tall man. Gilserand had seen smaller fish than this bring a pentamark of silver at the market. Offering a single silver was an insult. Seeing Gil’s expression, and the dawning disapproval on his fellow guard’s face, Dilburd grimaced then changed his offer. “Alright, alright. That is a prize fish,” he conceded. “How about eight silver, a pentamark and three singles?”
Oh my Lords of Light and Life, Gil thought awestruck, his mind trying to do sums and figures. Randera the Widow might earn that much coin with her sewing in a good week if she were lucky, and here he was being offered that much coin for one fortunate caste into the stream. For some reason Dilburd was allowing a grin to grow on his face, as Gil pondered this new problem. The Widow and he could eat well for two nights in a row off of the two fillets he would get from this fish. On the other hand, he and the woman who had raised him could get three or four meals from the coin being offered; though the fare might not be as tasty. He hesitated unsure of what to do, fortunately neither man pressured him, granting him time to reason out what could be the best decision in this stretched out moment.
As though sent by the Burning Spirits, a selfish thought passed through Gilserand’s mind. Maybe I can make him up his offer. If he really wants it he would pay ten silver for this fish. The lure of real money, two pentamarks, in the pocket made him ponder taking this route. Then he looked at Dilburd. Even before Graeseed had become a guard Dilburd had looked out for Gil in his rough way. Dilburd had established the tradition of saving him from the various bullies he knew, as well as other kids he had angered in one fashion or another. No, I can’t do that, Gil concluded. As though he read the passing of greed from the lad’s thoughts, Dilburd settled back on his heels with the expression of a man about to make a deal.
Holding the commodity aloft he nodded at the guard.
“I like your second offer, sergeant.” Dilburd had always preferred people address his rank while he was on duty, rather than being familiar and use his name. He held the fish up as though to pass it off, but the guardsman instead fished out a dark red leather money pouch by reaching through the side slit of his tabard. Instead of pouring the contents of the purse into his palm and then selecting the right coins, Dilburd instead rummaged through the bag; a lot of copper coins were produced then shoved back into the drawstring guarded purse mouth.
“I thought you might have been insulted when I just offered one coin, Gil. I apologize for that. I forgot who I was talking too.”
That admission struck Gilserand, and his guilt reared up.
“I, uh… for a moment I thought about trying to gouge you.” Gil instinctively leaned away expecting a flare of anger at his confession. Instead the two guards exchanged grins with each other.
“A lot of these Alren jackasses woulda tried,” Graeseed growled, his face turning sour just to enforce his statement. Gilserand was glad that anger was not directed his way.
“Sad truth is that a lot of us guards, especially those not born in Alren, misuse their authority on these people first. The thing about you, Gil, is that you’ve always been a straight shooter. My first offer was messed up, and you knew it, but when I gave you a real proper bit of dickering you only hesitated a second before agreeing. We saw that little moment of greed come and go. I appreciate that you didn’t act on it, Gil, and I thank you for this fish.”
As the tall guard beamed proprietary delight at the bass Gilserand found himself thinking furiously. They saw what I was thinking? How did they do that, I was trying to be as…. What is that word Missus Hollobrand used...? Oh yea, stoic. I was trying to be as stoic as these guys are. I can rarely tell what they’re thinking. Sergeant Dilburd offered the four coins, the larger pentamark seemed to dominate the man’s palm. He offered the fish again as he accepted the coins with his other hand. The guard made no move to take the trophy. “I, uh, could I borrow your wicker basket to get it home in?” Gilserand drew back for a moment.
Through the years they had always had a friendly relationship, but he had never been asked to surrender a valuable possession before. Not by either man, not even for a temporary amount of time. Did he know and trust these men enough to let his fishing basket go?
“How would I get it back?” he asked trying to think of some way to deny the request without looking distrustful.
“We got street patrol the next couple a days, in the textile districts,” Graeseed stated, seemingly offering a non-sequitur into the conversation. The taller guard nodded as though this information was important.
The taller man mused for a few moments looking within himself.
“We will have gate duty again three days from now. I can return your basket then. Just pop by this barbican and look for us.” Now that the older man had come up with a solution, Gilserand realized that his trepidation had evaporated.
“That sounds good. I won’t be fishing again for a while after today. Missing school has gotten me in between a rock and a hard place with two women who are going to gang up on me.” Guards loved to talk about women, tales where they either gave the women a tickle or got chased with a broom. Ignoring Gilserand’s effort to start interesting banter, Graeseed instead studied him for a moment; his hawkish gaze becoming intense.
“Maybe we can start having Gil here running us some errands on that day?”
That query made Dilburd snap his attention on the shorter soldier. Gilserand did not understand what was going on with these two men, and this summoned forth a nervousness in the lad. There was an energy, an intensity being exchanged by the two men that was going over Gilserand’s head. The taller guard turned an assessing eye on Gil, the boy wondering if this was how pigs and cows felt when the butcher was considering where to start cutting.
“Really? He’s a year or two away from Gathering age?” Dilburd started, still measuring Gilserand. The Gathering was a kind of right of passage that happened with some boys and girls when they turned thirteen. A lucky few kids would be taken on as apprentices by various artisans and trades folk at that age. Those kids usually grew up to be bosses in their respective fields while the children not chosen would be stuck with menial jobs when they turned fifteen.
Why were these soldiers taking such an interest in him, and what did it have to do with the Gathering? Gilserand was a year and a few weeks away from his thirteenth year, and he was already certain that he, as a bastard orphan, would be overlooked for an early apprenticeship. “He’s too young and he might remain a scrawny runt.” For some reason this assessment hurt Gil’s feelings; Graeseed was not fond of the sergeant’s words either.
“It aint a man’s size that counts, it’s his guts and smarts that makes him somethin’. This boy’s got man sized balls, I know you see it.” The way the smaller man seemed to bare his teeth at his larger friend totally bemused Gil; for a moment he thought Graeseed would launch himself at Dilburd, the heat in his eyes seemed to come from some inner fury.
Is he mad because he is small for a guard? Are they talking about making me a guard? I thought all the guards came from the capitol? Dilburd held up his hands as he shook his head showing he was unwilling to let this conversation become a fight.
“I see what your saying, but it’s too soon for the boy. He’d be marked out by other guards wanting to sponsor, plus any bully who saw him working for us. Let’s see how he comes along in the next year or so.” These words seemed to take the steam out of short Graeseed’s agression; both men continued to look at each other. More silent communication going on between them. Curiosity had it’s hold on Gilserand, but he knew deep down that important somethings were passing between his two older friends.
“Do you guards take apprentices? Is that what you’re talking about?”
Though they held each other’s stares for a moment more, it seemed as if Gilserand’s questions had cut off the silent dialogue.
“Anyone tough enough to survive the training can join,” Graeseed started. The way Dilburd finished the other man’s thoughts made Gil almost double take.
“Most of our noncoms and all of our officers are recruited on Gathering days, though.” Odd how these two men synchronized each others sentences sometimes.
They glanced at each other again before the shorter soldier made his face stony for Gilserand.
“You don’t need to worry about it though, a kid that skips school doesn’t get Gathered.” He almost bought it, then he remembered the hard sense of humor these two had. They are only pretending to be mean to me again, the boy realized.
“You sold your fish, you got your money, why the hell are you still bothering us?” Dilburd asked, his face full of false disdain.
Though their faces showed him negative impressions, the sparkle in their eyes implied joy in their game. Gilserand wanted to grin at the retort that jumped into his head. Throwing up his hands he began to move into the gatehouse.
“Alright, alright, I’m going. It was only the smell of the fish that made you guys tolerable.” Graeseed started laughing immediately, pleased by the insult. Dilburd feigned outrage, he lowered his halberd and advanced on Gilserand as though to spit him. The steel spear point over the ax and spike was aimed at his heart, which did cause him to scamper back a few steps; then the sergeant stopped and joined his friend in laughter. Grinning at the exchange, Gil waved then turned and marched for the light at the end of the barbican.
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| To Do, Game Hooks, and Loose Ends... |
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Posted by: Ravenblade - 06-23-2024, 05:24 PM - Forum: Erath 5e Background
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Personal Hooks
Enkili:
*Break evil Efreet's curse barring him from his homeland
*Return the Skull of Al'marihm to the Sacred Oasis
*Bring the Sainted Sword to Al Madii and restore his family name.
Jolrael:
*Discover the secret behind his brand (Tattoo) and reveal his foe. "The Whispers of the Pale Lady," found in the Wizard's Peak Library, may reveal such knowledge
*Seek out magical formula to construct non-detection item. Once successful, Gorvenal Commons will introduce Jolrael to the Artificer to construct the item.
Riardon:
*Someone who knows of his crimes has been arrested on an unrelated matter
*Needs to produce guild dues before defaulting.
Leiya:
*Rescue Miria (and other Rusty Bedpan folk) from the slavers
Party Hooks
Decode the Slaver's Documents:
*Scholar/Sage: Portent - specializes in cryptography, translations, and (personal) interest methods divination. Not a practitioner of magic.
*Eye of Liral (Minor Relic) which is said to grant true sight for the bearer
*Find the Cipher Crystal in Darsta.
*Access the book, "Whispers of the Pale Lady"
Eradicate the Chained Wings and disrupt the Slavers Guild operations:
*Reveal the slave trade routes
*Explore the ruins of Darsta
*Drive out the hags from the Darkwater Lighthouse
*Explore Lyral, the lost temple of Eyah
*Lord Bercel is looking for adventurers willing to inflitrate the Slavers of Nemsh
Loose Ends
*Ethorm Mourgan, father of the slain Baredal Mourgan, had fled to Norack... but has sworn revenge!
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Leiya (and Riardon) level-up information |
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Posted by: Xura - 06-22-2024, 05:54 PM - Forum: Level-Up Information
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Leiya
Cleric, Level 10
Hit Points: just apply the average, please.
The rest of it: as per the PHB for standard Cleric.
Actions, plans, ideas, wishes, etc.:
Use Sending to report to Solare temple and check for news, or if they have any requests or orders for her; etc.
Use a Sending each day to try to contact Miria.
Check through her spell-component needs and invest where appropriate -- diamonds for Revivify spells, for example, if the party wants to consider that.
Leiya is quite concerned about the news of the plague in Brant, but is still deeply invested in the Chained Wings and the fate of Miria and the Rusty Bedpan children (including Hubert's young ladyfriend). She would probably opt to keep pursuing that, unless her temple orders otherwise, or the party wants to do something different.
Riardon
The following are only suggestions -- the character's creator of course gets final say. If player has already submitted his leveling, please disregard all of the below.
Level up as: Arcane Trickster
New Cantrip: Mind Sliver (if allowed; this is from Tasha's Cauldron). He could, I think, consider and acquire this spell due to his intelligence, keen concentration/people-watching, and discussions with Leiya (who has the Telepathic feat) and Blaylocke (Dissonant Whispers and other spells).
Alternative Cantrips: Blade Ward (from PHB); Infestation (Xanathar's); Poison Spray (PHB); Toll the Dead (Xanathar's).
New 2nd-level Spell suggestions: Crown of Madness (PHB); Mirror Image (PHB); Phantasmal Force (PHB); Tasha's Mind Whip (Tasha's Cauldron).
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| Enkili Level 10 |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 06-10-2024, 09:15 PM - Forum: Level-Up Information
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Character/ Class Archetype: Enkili / Battle Master
Hit Points gained= Hit Point Total average 6+3=9 (90 hp?)
Proficiency Bonus= +4
Features: Archetype Bonus- 2 maneuvers- 7) Trip Attack, when I hit a creature with a weapon attack, I can expend one superiority die to attempt to knock the target down. I add the superiority die to the attacks damage roll, and if the target is large or smaller, it must make a strength saving throw. On a failed save I knock the target prone.
8) Riposte Attack, When a creature misses me with a melee attack, I can use my reaction and expend one superiority die to make a melee weapon attack against the creature. If I hit, I add the superiority die to the attack’s damage roll.
Improved Combat Superiority-Improved Combat Superiority (d10)PHB p73
At 10th level, your superiority dice turn into d10s.
6d10’s.
Enkili will also purchase a crowbar (2gp, 5#), 50' silk rope (10gp, 5#), and a new grapnel hook (2gp, 4#).
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| The Slavers Guild - Hubert's Report |
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Posted by: Ravenblade - 09-15-2023, 12:00 PM - Forum: Erath 5e Background
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As the party settled into their seats at the table, Hubert’s grim expression became apparent to the adventurers. “I’m afraid I have poor news regarding the Chained Wings and the slavers,” he started, “The report of the winter location was a ruse. Thankfully, we got word to you in time.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Hubert continued, “Unfortunately, Bercel sent a number of his people to reconnoiter the fort, and the slavers struck in their absence. Most of us were able to fend off the attacks. However, a number of establishments were sacked, including a Melanian temple and a druidic grove not far from Freehold.”
“Never before have the slavers given such a show of force and brutality… so many taken…” Pausing momentarily to compose himself, Hubert resumed his report, “We’ve known for some time that the Chained Wings were acting as agents of the Slavers Guild. It has now become obvious that the Slave Lords themselves have taken a keen interest in our efforts to undermine their wretched commerce.”
“Please, there’s more!” said Hubert as he waved away the sudden burst of questions and exclamations from the party, “Our mole sent word of a remote island off the coast of Yri that appears to have been long-used by the slavers. They had made a waypoint along their slave route and base some of their operations in an old temple there.”
“Lord Bercel is currently in ongoing engagements with the local lords, but they appear to be cowed by the attacks. The regional Sedarin Magistrate is also too busy quelling unrest in the slum quarter to spare aid, if that is their intent.”
Hubert leaned forward conspiratorially, “Lord Bercel says he has a ship and captain insane enough to make the journey. He asks if you are too.”
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| Anstarre Nights |
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Posted by: frenzied67 - 06-25-2023, 06:10 PM - Forum: Erath Miscellany
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After delivering Diera to her uncle and aunt, Calen and Badeen Preath, the party wanted to spend a few days doing various things. Also the DM needs a reminder to calculate the experience points the party has earned through this story arch, we seemed to have reached a milemark moment as well as finishing the story arch itself.
Blaylocke Anvilarm stated he wanted to seek a place where bards gather lore, poems, songs, and bad reputations.
Enkili Seeks the bards knowledge on his sword, specifically on this fragment he found: "...with a coin made from stone, a song stolen from dirt, and a knife from under the hills, Malaq wove his most powerful spells into the sword….” The Malaq mentioned is a Djinn. The maker of the Sainted Sword was an Efreet (Haquim) who used materials taken from the elemental plane of earth and fire taken from the elemental plane of fire to forge the weapon. He also wants to poll the party to see if they should include the Preath's in their campaign against the slavers. They may wish to participate in some small way especially since their family has suffered at slaver hands. Enkili will assist anyone wanting to do research.
Anyone else who wants to accomplish things during this downtime, they can post it here.
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