Description
The man before has broad shoulders and a level gaze, and his armors have
been hand-painted with golden stars clustered in patterns of thirteen on
his left breast and embroidered on the cuffs of his sleeves. His boots
are worn and bear the dust and mud of several lands, and a weathered
belt supports a large number of small pouches dangling from it, some stained
obviously by ink that has escaped from an unstoppered bottle, and others
by some other more dubious substance.
His beard is neatly trimmed and showing the first touches of grey, and slung
upon his back is a spare shield marked with the same triskaidecagon of stars.
Role
The Source of the Donations
Added Mon Jan 25 16:14:55 2021 at level 5:
Thunder puzzled the clear sky, echoing deeply into the boy's bones.
As the thunder grew louder, shadows crawled out of the river and
into the treeline, swallowing the world in impenetrable darkness.
"For the last time, open up. I will not say it again." The voice was
thickly accented with perfectly-structured consonants. A high born,
from Hamsah Mu'tazz.
"Hold on, hold on. Give a prayer for the poor porter." The boy opened
his eyes and watched the old man, still in his cups, unbolt the door.
Three men in fine riding cloaks and fur-trimmed cuffs pushed past the
porter, who dragged the sleeve of one arm across his face as he smoothed
the wild white whisps onto his scalp with the other.
The leader strode across the wooden floor and grabbed the boy by the hair.
"Is this your dancing boy, Lefi? He has nice full lips." His breath was
unpleasantly warm in the boy's face.
"I like a fleshy wench, milord. I doan take up with scrawny catamites,
even on the coldest of nights." The boy stared into brown, cruel eyes
and felt his bowels loosen.
The smell hit the lord's nose, and his face wrinkled in disgust. A blurring
strike sent the boy reeling away, and he crumpled to the floor as the
accompanying men sneered. The leader faced the porter, his disgust
evident in his tone. "We will not be taking a room tonight, it seems,
but I have business for you. There is a singer here, a half-elf that
has a room. I want you to rescind your protection, and put him out."
"That'n ain cause no trouble. What for do I got to put him out?"
The lord dipped his hand into a pocket and retrieved a full leather pouch.
It clinked heavily when he dropped it into the porter's hand. "Because,"
said the dark lord, "I am a patron of the arts, and I thinks he should sing
for me, or sing for no one at all."
"For the good of art, then," said the porter. "You can find the singer
upstairs, third door on the lef."
Down There
Added Mon Jan 25 16:16:51 2021 at level 5:
A clean pair of trousers and a warm meal later found the boy
feeling somewhat better from his ordeal, but he could no longer
stay in Galadon. He was scared and without direction in a world
that did not value life or art for itself. And he, too weak
and unlearned to defend himself, let alone either of them.
North he walked, ducking off the road whenever he heard hoofclops
or the crunch of gravel beneath a hard boot. He had been apprenticed
to Isadora Hathaway, but she was just the face of the operation. She
had put the boy in Daubin's care, and it was from him the boy learned
the dark reality of Hathaway's business.
At a crossroads he tossed a handful of grass into the air, and the wind
bore it gently west. He followed it, wandering past fields and forests
until he came upon a path leading south into the hills and what looked
like the entrance to a mining camp. As he entered the encampment, two
svirfneblin guards challenged his approach.
"I am Hanrelagon Dela Fonteneau," he said. "I thought this was a mining camp,
and that I might find work in tavern or training as its guard."
"Welcome to Cragstone, Oversider." The guard had eyebrows that rivaled its
prodigous mustache under its cucumber nose, and those eyebrows narrowed
the rose in surprise as the guard studied the boy. "You'ree in luck,
laddie, but you missed your turn. Go back some, an pay your respects to"
your Lord Whiysdan."
"Where?"
He pointed down the hall with his polearm. "Down there."
The Cavern of Possibility
Added Wed Jan 27 23:06:02 2021 at level 16:
The hidden passage was illumined with a preternatural purple light
emitted by veins of crystal and rocky growth containing smokeless
candles. Evident everywhere the numerical obsession.
Thirteen candles, thirteen tapestries, thirteen murals, thirteen texts.
Paintings, potted plants, peccadillos and probities depicted in perfect
triskaidecagons or triskaidecagrams. "Why?" was not a question to be asked,
but a pool in which to dive.
Wisdom, courage, or passion?
Passion.
What is your passion?
This poor paladin ponders, preferring to puzzle over pooled persons than to
pick a particular from the preponderance of possibilities. Put perfunctorily,
I will be pleased to pen the profundities of each people's practices.
I will start by studying...orcs.
Journal Entry:The First Appeal
Added Sat Jan 30 13:40:21 2021 at level 30:
I am in luck. I have written a letter and sent copies to three prominent orcs
whose names have reached my ears. Two have responded already!
. Burzbog -- returned my scroll by way of a haggard dwarf. The scroll is
. covered with blood and feces.
. Nhulga -- sent, "Your messenger was tasty,"
. and later again asking for a token of my faith
. and my bones buried under his altar.
The fact they even acknowledge my request is a good sign, and even if they tell
me no more, I can infer a few details. Burzbog communicates that he is strong
enough to break even the will of a dwarf. Blood suggests that his is a culture
steeped in war, and that he covered in scat surely is a sign of the horrific
poverty and hygeine of the orc encampment. Whether he can read or not remains
to be determined.
Nhulga knows his letters, and his crude written response reveals something of
orc cuisine, an acknowledgment of other cultures, and that he embraces a religion
of his own.
So promising!
There is Hope
Added Sat Jan 30 13:42:17 2021 at level 30:
The young man known as Hanrelagon Dela Fonteneau was sitting in
the brightly lit but cramped confines of the Voralian Guild, his
shield across his lap and numerous crumpled pieces of paper scattered
about him. More paper for Burzbog's toilet, he thought.
A tingling at the base of his skull caused him to look out at the night
sky, and his eyes saw the fleeting dance of stars forming a constellation
of a chalice, bejeweled with glittering stones. Whiysdan!
He hastily cleaned up his mess and pulled on his boots for a quick journey
to his lord's temple, where the attendants pushed "libations" into his
hands and into the temple of Passion.
In the distance, the diminutive voice boomed its greeting, and in short
order Whiysdan himself appeared and alcohol flowed in earnest.
A day and a half later, Hanrelagon woke in a room filled with high oak rafters,
stained with centuries of soot-black from candles, lanterns, and improperly
managed flues. The smell of stale alcohol filled his nose, and a few quick
sniffs revealed that his clothes were the source of the rank, not the inn
whose floor he had awoken upon.
The blurry face of a wood-elf loomed over him--Virren!--and beside him stood
Whisdan.
"Yep, he'll live. Show him about, tell him the rules, and make sure he bathes."
And with that the god vanished with a puff of smoke, leaving only a clattering
shot glass in his wake.
Journal: Nulgha responds
Added Mon Feb 1 17:26:16 2021 at level 35:
It is hard to view Chief Zodslag's silence in a positive light.
I could read it as a disregard for me or this project, open hostility, or what I have
come to be as distrust. This word seems to key in understanding orcs.
Nulgha came and spoke to me in the bar, and I gave him a drinking
container of whiskey from Whiysdan's own brewery. With that, he agreed to answer three questions.
When asked who and what was important in the history of the Grinning Skull village, he said
"Whatever Zodslag say." When asked what orcs do to commemorate important events,
Nulgha revealed that orcs don't get together to do anything other than kill, eat, and drink blood.
When I probed him a bit further, he explained that things like marriage and births were
not important, as orcs don't live long enough to care about those things. They might
get together to acknowledge a new chief, maybe smear blood on their armor, but their lives
were about war. He did show me what passed for music by pulling out two skulls, one
human and one elven, and by patting on them with his fingers he drummed out
different pitches, but he stated he was no singer, and knew of no orc skjalds in
contemporary times.
When I look at Nulgha's answers to my questions through the murky glass of distrust,
I see a world in which orc behaviors make sense. Orcs are used frequently by the Empire, Scions, and sometimes
even the Tribunal as brutally-efficient mercenaries. They have warred with dwarves and elves
for resources, and even their social hierarchy is one of brute strength and cunning. I have even
heard that the chief, who is traditionally determined through some sort of ritual duel
and I hear that the chief can actually strip other orcs of many of their 'adaptations'
through some sort of punitive blood magic.
The existence of so many external enemies, and the fear of showing weakness among their
own kind, sows a level of distrust wherein any weakness, any non-martial orientation, would
lead to abuse and victimization at best and death at the worst. No wonder there is so little
that passes as culture among the orcs.
What a miserable existence.
PK Deaths
Feb 10, 2021|Lv 51|The Pass|vs 1: [51] Kira (100%, shocking bite)
Mar 1, 2021 |Lv 51|Voralian City|vs 1: [50] Omugug (100%, defilement)