Session Fifty-Six - April 12, 2008

[Matt]

Azura 13, 731

Three hooded figures, leaning into heavy, slantwise morning rainfall. Doggedly crossing the muddy streets of Burzyn, wind-driven, they achieve the threshold of The Southron’s Rest thoroughly chilled and soaked through. Stamping their boots and shaking icy water from their cloaks, they glance around the hazy glow of the common room as the heavy oaken door clatters shut behind them. A slow rumble of distant thunder, ominous somewhere in the west.

Slack, incurious glances take them in as the trio surveys the denizens of Burzyn’s less-respectable establishment: various local merchants, a couple of burghers, and a few persons who appear far less reputable than that, all arrayed amongst three large tables and seated upon well-worn benches. Two guttering, ill-attended fireplaces stand opposite each other across the long room, while three smaller tables ringed with chairs remain empty. The clashing of coarse cutlery, the desultory murmur of voices in conversation. A bar along the eastern wall lined with high stools, just where you would expect them, and a corridor leading to the kitchen along the southern wall, with a worn staircase up to the rooms above. Havard of Clan Terrika, thoughtfully chewing a thick strand of his sodden beard as he scrutinizes the room with bright eyes, nods curtly in the direction of an occupied table by the far fireplace. Sir Ewen of Ravinargh’s gaze has already found the table, however, and he steps easily forward, the girl Cekiya lithe as a cat by his side.

The large-boned frame of Gwyn, sprawled upon a groaning bench, straightens and inclines toward a sturdily-built man of middle years who is seated erect before the table. The eyes of the massive soldier professionally appraise the approaching three as he quietly speaks a word to his master regarding the visitors. The seated man, clearly a knight by his carriage, nods slowly. A third, smaller man, slight, slope-shouldered and dark-haired, perhaps in his mid-30s, hunches over the table beside them both, scribbling something into a small notebook. Sir Ewen walks up, introduces himself, and expresses hopes that he is not unduly imposing upon Sir Jorn’s breakfast. Sir Jorn, jaw clenching, impassive, waves him to a seat. Sir Ewen explains, unsmiling, that the account of Havard and Cekiya’s interview with Gwyn the evening before had been of interest to him.

Sir Jorn proves to be brusque and business-like: he represents the Lord Chancellor of Kaldor, and is seeking a Sir Baris Tyrestal, a miscreant who has stolen royal documents. Sir Ewen, eyebrow arching, replies that he, too, is assisting the Lord Chancellor in the matter of the very same documents. Sir Jorn asks to see his writ. Sir Ewen demurs, indicating somewhat stiffly that his very word is his writ, but is interested to see the credentials carried by Sir Jorn. Toris the scribe ceases his scrivening at a gesture from his master, digs beneath the table, and produces a rolled parchment which Sir Ewen examines, determining it to have been duly signed and sealed, albeit not by Tyrnal Dariune himself. Sir Ewen observes as much, and then remarks to Sir Jorn that the Kaldoric knight appears to have misconstrued the circumstances of the stolen documents’ disappearance. He adds that he himself has pursued the actual thief here to Chybisa. Sir Jorn is having none of this however, professing to be singularly uninterested in how Sir Ewen’s account of the documents’ disappearance might vary from his own account. He repeats stolidly that he is charged with returning Sir Baris Tyrestal to Kaldor, where justice will no doubt be served. Sir Jorn indicates that the investigation of the crime was completed some time ago back in Tashal, and that he himself arrived just the day before yesterday in Burzyn. He gruffly states that, should Sir Ewen consider interfering with his assignment, he will find himself placed under arrest.

Taking this in, Sir Ewen leans indolently back in his chair, considering the older knight with cold precision. Havard the dwarf stands silently to the right and rear, massive arms crossed and eyes narrowed, while slender Cekiya waits poised and silent to the other side. Sir Ewen smiles thinly, cocks his head, and quietly accuses Sir Jorn of bluffing, noting acerbically that the knight and his two retainers have no practicable means of detaining Sir Ewen and Sir Baris together and then returning them both to Kaldor. Reddening a bit, jaw muscles working, Sir Jorn stares at the younger man for a beat, and then gruffly admits that this much is true. Through gritted teeth he demands that Sir Ewen take him to Sir Baris Tyrestal, else he will report the knight’s perfidy upon his return to Kaldor and Sir Ewen will find himself welcome in that kingdom never again. Sir Ewen shrugs and suggests frigidly that he should perhaps waste no more of Sir Jorn’s valuable time. Both men rise in unison, glaring across the table at each other, the tension palpable in the air.

Sir Ewen frowns.

A stricken look contorting his face, Sir Jorn topples backward like a felled tree. Crashing heavily over his bench and down to the floor, he lays there inert, limbs splayed awkwardly, eyes wide and unseeing. Gwyn unfolds from his seat in astonishment and goes to the fallen knight, bending over him, while Toris the scribe yelps and scrambles backward in shock, dropping his pen in fright. A brief pall of awful silence; a peal of thunder rolls distantly. Cekiya, a beatific smile spreading across her face, peers curiously over the bench. “He’s dead,” she remarks in singsong finality, unnoticed as a commotion begins to spread through the common room as other patrons take note of the disruption. Aghast, Gwyn looks up as Sir Ewen comes around the table, solicitous and concerned. “He’s dead,” he breathes, confirming Cekiya’s assessment, voice hoarse with disbelief, as Sir Ewen bends over the corpse. Havard stomps over, looks down, and nudges the fresh cadaver with his booted foot. He harrumphs, satisfied, and then turns away.

By now the locals have intruded as well, and some burly types hoist the dead knight up and carry him over to a table. Sir Ewen wonders aloud about the quality of the breakfast fare, drawing a panicky look from the innkeeper. Shaking his head in condolence, hand upon Gwyn’s shoulder, Sir Ewen admits that he almost feels responsible. Gwyn grunts, shaken, and suggests that the older knight had probably gotten his blood up during the encounter. “Probably better it didn’t come to blows,” he decides in resignation. Taking stock of the situation, still a little dazed, Gwyn concludes aloud that he clearly doesn’t have the authority to pursue Sir Jorn’s mission himself, and must now attend to the exigencies of returning the knight’s corpse to his homeland. Sir Ewen offers funds to assist Gwyn in making the arrangements, but the large man shakes his head, thanking Sir Ewen absently, assuring him that Sir Jorn certainly possessed “coin enough to plant him.” Cekiya, forgotten in the general confusion, knocks over a tankard of ale on the table, feigns innocent dismay, and hastily mops the spill up with the scribe’s carefully written notes. Too late, poor Toris rushes forward to find his notebook reduced to a pulpy, ink-smeared mess.

Back at Blue Horse Inn, Sir Baris is briefed upon his late notoriety as he returns from an invigorating morning of riding in the rainstorm. Taking the update in stride, he excuses himself and attends to cleaning up, word having been received from the Baron of Caermel that he and Kaelyn are to be received in the late afternoon. Kaelyn picks up the map she had commissioned from the cartographer, and then she and Sir Baris proceed over to the Rythal townhouse at the appointed time. In through the outer gates of the castle, where they find themselves generally unimpeded because, evidently, they are not wanted for arrest by the Chybisan authorities, at least, and moreover bear a letter of introduction. Two light footmen on guard at the house wear the Baron’s livery, the arms being party per chevron sanguine and gold, three bugle horns countercharged.

Within, the Baron proves to be a youngish man in his mid-twenties, six foot in height and medium of build, with brown hair and a pleasant appearance. The steward announces Sir Baris Tyrestal.

“Sir Baris, we have not been acquainted.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Sir Baris bowed.

“Yes. You are not a Chybisan, Sir Baris.”

“No, my lord. I hail from Tharda, by way of Kaldor.”

Caermel frowned. “Hmm. And you asked for this meeting.”

“Yes, my lord. I am traveling into Pagaelin lands, and have been told you are an expert on them.”

Kaelyn (standing on tip-toes, peering around Sir Baris): “Your kinsman Lerdin, my lord, a most helpful scribe at the College of Heralds.”

Baris coughs. “I thought you might have … um, the lay of the land, my lord.”

The Baron sighs. “I must have a talk with my distant relation, the herald … I am no expert, Sir Baris. I kill them. They raid my lands to the north and west, and I kill them.”

“May I ask the size of their raiding parties, my lord?”

“Never less than twenty. For a small hunting party, fifty to one hundred. They raid my manors …”

Sir Baris tried a new tack. “I hear there is a new religion among the barbarians, people called augurs?”

“Well, yes, Sir Baris. They arrived maybe thirty or forty years ago. Before my day, you understand. They trade with the Pagaelin, although I don’t know what they trade. Hallucinogens are involved, I believe. They keep the Pagaelin enslaved with pyrotechnics and tricks and such. The barbarians are not sophisticated, and so the augurs manage to control them. There are no more than fifty lodges, more likely around twenty. One augur per lodge, with Pagaelin assistants detached from the tribes, called Raunir, who act as helpers, apprentices, and the like. The augurs look non-barbarian, by the way, and no one has ever captured or killed an augur. They commit suicide first. Few of them have ever actually been seen by outsiders, you see. They take their life with their own knife. I am assuming that they will ultimately unite the Pagaelin and raid extensively, either to the north or the south. I hope it will be north, of course, but in truth I think it will probably be south. Frankly, I don’t know if Chybisa can withstand them, once that comes to pass …”

“So an abundance of caution says they’ll raid south, and ...”

“Not an abundance of caution, Sir Baris: common sense. To the west is the Shava forest, the “devils in the forest” to the Pagaelin, so they’ll not go there. And not a summer has gone by with no raiding of our lands ...”

“I propose to go into the Pagaelin lands myself, my lord,” allowed Sir Baris.

“It would be foolish to do so.”

“You oppose?”

“No,” replied the Baron. “I recommend not, but why oppose? Outside of Chybisa I have no authority … (shakes his head) They await the coming of Walker on the Heath, Sir Baris. I don’t know why they are waiting for him, or what makes him divine. The Pagaelin use ritual, cups of ale laced with Alanal, which makes them susceptible to visions, and the augurs use pyrotechnics, as I said. I don’t know what hierarchy exists amongst them, but I imagine there must be one. They engage in human sacrifice at times, Sir Baris, although usually they use animal sacrifice. And the Pagaelin have slaves, thirty to forty per tribe, maybe as many as one hundred. No, I don’t oppose, Sir Baris. I just recommend not.”

(Baris nodding, making to rise): “Well, I am sorry to have taken your time, my lord.”

“Yes,” interjected Kaelyn. “Well perhaps you can return the favor, Sir Baris. News from Kaldor would be most welcome …”

And so Sir Baris and Kaelyn depart after a mundane exchange of news, satisfying their end of the quid pro quo. They return to the Blue Horse, where Sir Baris briefs the others in detail. Cekiya, attentive, smiles enigmatically: the Walking Leavers, she recites. Frowning, Kaelyn asks where she has heard of them, and Cekiya indicates that this is her take on the name given them by the Busy Bees, using her idiosyncratic label for the Navehans in Tashal. After some prodding, she explains that the Walking Leavers call themselves the Cult of Aedlad the Imprisoned, and adds that they departed the temple in Tashal after a schism in 664, purportedly seeking Bejist. The group discusses this, wondering whether Shamus’ departure from Tashal is related, but Cekiya indicates that she remembers no one matching Shamus description in the temple when she was young, adding that she in fact recalls no one leaving during her lifetime. Imarë, silent and introspective during this exchange, softly indicates that she knows Bejist, which she somberly describes as a ruined town near the Shava Forest, across the bay on the Setha Heath. It once was a port many years ago, but is located inland now as the coastline has slowly shifted over time. She says that the Battle of Sorrows took place near that location, and the last Sindarin King of Harn, Daelda, was killed there. After that battle, she intones sadly, there was never again a King of Harn.

Azura 14, 731

Departing by horse in the morning, they achieve Lerenil in late afternoon, riding all the way through warm rain under overcast, sweltering skies. Kaelyn approves the new map along the way, pronouncing it accurate. Back at the River’s End, Imarë changes into her most revealing dress, tosses her hair at the smirks of her companions, and heads toward the seamen’s hostel as evening falls.

Imarë tentatively takes up her station near some coarse trollops who are posturing outlandishly for the passing rivermen, all bare shoulders, heaving bosoms, and flashing ankles. Slender and only marginally endowed, the elf attracts attention principally from a pair of these same ladies, who scoff at the newcomer and suggest that she doesn’t have what it takes. Imarë finds herself noting in dejection that two of the other women have scored seamen in just the last half hour when another sailor approaches out of the darkness. Imarë gets his attention, drops her price, and is finally escorted into the hostel. She takes a quick glance at the noisy common room, with beds along one wall, tables, a curtained-off area, a doorway to the right, before following her customer up the staircase to a landing. Imarë accompanies her man to one of the rooms, where in due time she makes him very happy indeed. Down below again after a decent interval, she finds gaming going on in the common room and quickly identifies Shamus from Cekiya’s description. Imarë approaches him and talks herself up, but Shamus is brusque and dismissive, scowling and waving her away. A plump young woman comes in through the back door, bringing Shamus some food on a tray, and the two go into his office, with only the girl emerging a few moments later. Persisting, Imarë tries to wend her way toward the office door but the woman intercepts her, demanding to know what she is doing, but moves on when the elf suggests she just wants to see if Shamus desires any company. She raps at the door, identifying herself as “Karlina”, but Shamus angrily calls for her to go away. Imarë pauses, and then calls in, “I thought you might want a little a dessert with that pie.”

Silence, and then the sound of a chair scraping across floorboards, and then footsteps. Shamus yanks the door open, leans indolently against the door jamb for a moment, and frankly looks Imarë up and down. Snaking an arm around her waist, he pulls her uncomfortably close, his cold eyes boring deep into hers. He grins toothily as he runs his free hand all over Imarë’s body, his fetid breath filling her nostrils, his muscular arm caging her securely, and he deftly produces a dagger from the folds of her dress, eyes wide with mock alarm. “You won’t be needing this,” he snarls, and his backhand cracks hard across her chin, snapping her head around. Reeling, her jaw a tracery of fire, Imarë slumps limply in his arms, eyes closed, pretending to swoon.

Shamus hoists the slumping elf over his shoulder and carries her through the boisterous common room, climbing upstairs to the coarse hoots and hollers of the seamen below. Dumped unceremoniously onto a rank bed, Imarë struggles to keep her breathing shallow as he taps her a few times upon the cheek. She holds still, heart beating wildly as she attempts to concentrate on a spell to render Shamus unconscious, but then the bulk of his weight is thrust abruptly upon her, driving her down on the thin mattress, his rough hands rucking her dress up to her hips as his thighs force her wide, the heaving mass of him pinning her down. A wet, unshaven chin rasps against her neck as his hot grunting breath assails her, hands fumbling crudely below. Hauling up, he tears her dress away completely in his haste, struggling above her, and then is on her again, naked now himself. Imarë attempts to rush the spell, but resigns herself as concentration shatters in the wake of his assault, the rhythm of his effort stoking only a hot hatred in her mind. She clamps her jaw and awaits her opportunity, resigned to laying there inert. She thinks of the Shava Forest.

And then it is over, with Shamus clambering from the bed and stumbling toward the door in the darkened room as Imarë lets her head loll slowly to one side, the slits of her eyes considering his silhouette coldly. He staggers as the spell hits him, shakes his head, stunned, one hand groping forward, finding the door jamb. He turns back to the bed, sucking a ragged breath inward. “You bitch,” he hisses as she tries again. Uncoiling, he charges the bed.

She slips off the mattress and lashes out at him low as he comes in, but he twists adroitly out of her way, snatching smoothly at her ankle, getting in behind her. She drives an elbow back toward him and he attempts to grab it in the frantic scramble, but both of them miss as she twists around and away. In a flash his foot arcs toward her head as she pivots, but she ducks and drives a punch toward his midsection, takes him by surprise as the blow staggers him. Maintaining his footing in the crepuscular light, Shamus shows his teeth. “You’re not what you seem, honey.” He steps forward. Hemmed in by the furniture, Imarë attempts to sidestep as he closes on her again, but he anticipates this and manages to wrap strong arms around her waist and shoulder, slinging her easily across the length of the room. She smashes heavily into a corner by the window, a chair splintering beneath her, the full impact wrenching her shoulder. Struggling to her feet, Imarë reaches the window just one stride before him, and flings the shutters wide.

Down below, five observers crane their necks upward at the sound of a muffled crash. Shutters are thrown noisily open. They briefly behold the form of Imarë Taërsi, hair wildly askew, naked torso limned in diffuse moonlight, framed like some imperiled damsel upon a tawdry stage balcony. Then the blow from behind detonates somewhere out of view, crumpling her, and the window is suddenly empty again. Without a word, like some fragment detached from the darker shades of night, Cekiya swarms straight up the side of the building. Sir Ewen gives a curt word, but Sir Baris is already leading the rest of the party around the building to the gate, where one seaman backpedals in the wake of his gleaming, flashing axe. A further step forward from Sir Baris sends him scampering away, and the party erupts into the common room, rushing the stairway as men rise as one, indignant, from their tables.

Above, Shamus stalks a gasping Imarë through the wreckage of the room, failing to note the slight figure silhouetted for an instant in the window behind him, dark hair falling across her face like a raven’s wing. The figure slips into the room, a dagger appearing easily in her small hand as if produced from nowhere. And so Shamus lunges toward a sidestepping Imarë while Cekiya glides in behind, blade flashing like a sudden massive snakebite to plunge deep into the meat of his right thigh and out. He whirls, spitting, and twists away from the vicious follow-through kick while the elf scrambles gratefully out of his range, finally spared his attention. Face shining with sweat, his wiry naked body unflexing in the dim light, Shamus grins wildly at the small form of a crouching Cekiya. “I knew you and I would go head to head,” he drawls slowly, his voice honeyed with venom. Cekiya doesn’t respond, watching instead the blood blossom like some black flower on his white thigh. He begins to circle her warily, glancing around the room, taking note of the relevant obstacles: two chests, the bed, the splintered chair. Imarë, forgotten against the far wall, begins to cast.

And then Cekiya whirls in at him, the lightening blur of her leg sweep unhinging his footing, staggering the balance of his weight, her follow-through sweeping her in close where he twists to grapple her slender form into the iron cage of his arms. Slithering from the trap, surrendering her own momentum to gravity, she drops deadweight from his arms straight to the floor, dagger locked beneath her in a rigid downward plunge. The cold blade, driven by her body’s weight, slices easily through the thin bones and sinews of his foot to lodge deep within the wooden floorboards as Cekiya rolls clear. Chin tilted upward, considering him from below, she smiles sweetly at him. “Is this how you thought it would be?” His eyes roll backward, all bloodshot whites, and he crashes heavily, leg twisting cruelly as he goes down, foot nailed implausibly to the floor. Imarë drops her arms, foregoing the spell as she leans back against the wall, and surveys the ransacked room.

The pounding of footsteps, and Sir Ewen of Ravinargh slams the door in and pauses, considering the tableau before him for a moment, Sir Baris and Havard covering the landing to his rear. Imarë rummages in annoyance for her dress to the left of the bed, while Cekiya stands over her victim, tilting her head in ironic indication to the unconscious form of Shamus, wound in his right thigh bleeding lightly, pinioned to floor with her dagger. “He’s alive,” she announces with a shrug of bland indifference. Sir Ewen nods and kneels, placing a hand on Shamus’ forehead, and becomes very still.

Plunged into a roiling chaos of dream-thought, he begins to sift and dredge the thoughts and impressions from Shamus’ mind, snatching at filaments of concepts, attempting to trace ideas and knowledge through gossamer threads of vivid impression. Shamus is a Navehan priest, a member of the sect which preaches of the Walker of the Heath. Shamus is familiar with most of the augurs and with the Temple at Bejist. The augurs appear to their flock robed and masked, but Shamus knows what some of them look like. Shamus is stationed in Lerenil to discourage any who wish to enter the Pagaelin range and trouble the augurs. He comes from the Temple at Kaldor originally, knows Bejist to have a full complement of Masters, and generally more priests than Tashal does. Unused to navigating through a mind, Ewen can find no knowledge of the Sword of Calsten or Merren’s treasure, but learns that there is treasure in this very room. Bejist is comprised of a large two-winged building, orchards to one side, gardens to another, and a ruined town beyond. On a hilltop escarpment, ruins of a castle stand. To the south lie the silted-up remnants of a bay, with wharves in profound decay, while southwest on high ground is a building, roughly octagonal, the second storey with a tower, composed of an odd stone with a pinkish hue. The temple itself is large, perhaps three hundred feet across, but Shamus’ knowledge is blurred and chaotic, numerous disparate rooms, a dining hall, a hall of ritual with many columns, a large skull at the altar, braziers, a place where he witnessed the sacrifice of a Pagaelin warrior. Memories of another Navehan named Glabus, the augur whom Shamus visited once a month on the thirtieth, north of the river, outside of Chybisa, barely within Pagaelin territory. Shamus himself visits Bejist once a year on Navek thirty, throwing a party in Lerenil before he makes the trip. He travels to Bejist partially by land, and partially by sea. Has a network among the sailors and river-rats, feels a special affinity for them. Initiation into the cult problematic, they can’t gain enough converts. One former contact in Tashal who is now dead, killed by the high priest of the Tashal temple. Knows who Escalus is and avoided him. Suspected Cekiya, important to him that she not interfere with the augurs. Walker on the Heath. He once saw the scroll of Taurin Halfhand. Ewen delves deeper, grasping at this …

“We were eight, sent from the place most holy to this island. Eight skilled in the holy arts and suited to the appointed task. We sailed with a savage people bent on conquest and landed among the pagans in a region called Anadel. For five years we labored, O my brothers, doing holy work among the unbelievers, and oft did it seem our efforts be futile.

“It passed that the folk we dwelled among grew weary of peace and crossed the Ulmerien to do battle with the Sindar devils and their Jarin slaves. A great and terrible battle raged back and forth. We eight watched in dismay, O my brothers, as the everliving broke our folk and went amongst them slaying and rending. We eight gathered our strength and exerted our sacred arts and summoned forth the one called Aedlad, the beast soul of the Sindar King. And he came among us, O my brothers, with aspect fell and might beyond measure. And he looked down on the field of battle and beheld the Sindar King and made way towards him, slaying all that stood between. His very glance was death and his touch dissolution.

“Aedlad and the Sindar lord met upon that bloody plain, and they did smite each other with fell blows that echoed from the hills. And Aedlad slew the Sindar, and possessed his very body.

“But even as we triumphed, O my brothers, the kin of the Elven Lord captured Aedlad. And having taken him they knew us and came upon us in their wrath and slew all save I.

“They bound Aedlad and carried him from the field. I followed the Sindar to their fortress on the heath. Long did I seek to release Aedlad until the Master visited upon me these words:

“The time is yet unripe, and generations of unborn shall pass before Aedlad walks among the unbelievers. Your brethren to come shall know the time, for tumult shall shake the kingdoms of men and kin shall slay kin. Go, and bear the word.”

Apparently, when an acolyte named Ryiku found Taurin Halfhand’s scroll in the temple in Tashal in 651, he read it and believed that it meant that Aedlad needed to be rescued. The temple masters gave no credence to this, so Ryiku bided his time and by 663 assassinated his father, the master of archives. Ryiku was sentenced by the temple masters to a Herth Akan, the ritual in which one is hunted by three. He survived. He and twenty followers escaped the temple, killing three masters, and took what they needed and left for the Setha Heath …

Thus in 664, due to this internal schism in the church of Naveh in Tashal, an outcast sect of Navehan priests fled south into the Pagaelin range. This sect called themselves the Cult of Aedlad the imprisoned, the name derives from an ancient Navehan legend regarding Bejist. Priests of the sect had argued unsuccessfully for open proselytizing by the church and for seeking the legendary ruins of Bejist.

The Navehans allowed themselves to be found by the Pagaelin. The Navehan high priest, performing a religious ceremony at the time, warned the tribesmen they must not interrupt the rites honoring the ‘Walker on the Heath’ on pain of death. The tribal chieftain ignored the warning and burst through the circle. The high priest pointed at him saying:

“Come you, hunter of rats, doubter of the Last Illusion. Look upon death this day and despair, for I am the vessel of the Walker on the Heath and mighty is his wisdom and fulsome his wrath. Perish, profane one.”

With that, the Navehan lightly touched the warrior who much to the consternation and awe of his comrades, instantly fell dead. The Pagaelin, always quick to recognize superior power, prostrated themselves, begging for mercy. The high priest answered them:

“For this time your unshriven corpses are spared, but harken, and hear of the Walker on the Heath, and worship him and his servants. Soon will come among you wielders of fell power, even as the power you have seen this day. Heed them, for they will make you strong, deny them and suffer a death beyond imagining.”

Ryiku died in 676, not having found what he sought in Bejist. The group has never found the prison of Aedlad, and Shamus’ concept of the belief suggests to Ewen more a symbolic ritual than a concrete goal of the cult at this point. Ewen weaves his way out of the tangle of Shamus’ mind, pausing to rifle his knowledge of the bedroom they are in: two chests, one locked, a key in the pile of his clothing. Ewen withdraws, and kills him with a thought.

The group tosses the room, finding four bags of coins, three containing a pound’s worth of silver each and one partially laden with an amount around 175d. A dagger of finely chased blackened steel, four golden candlesticks, one small bag with jewelry in it (four gold rings, a golden bracelet, two silver necklaces, one gold necklace set with what appears to be garnets – three small and one large). Cekiya departs out the window, while Sir Ewen ostentatiously leads the party down the stairs, sheltering a mistreated fair maiden of an elf, as Havard and Sir Baris brandish weapons indignantly. A spokesman for the sailors downstairs objects to the group stealing away a loose female from their den, and Sir Ewen laughs and tosses him the lightest of the bags of silver.

Practiced fingers pry open the drawstring, a quick glance at the coinage within. The spokesman looks up, eyes alive with interest, and winks. “Well, he had it comin’ then, guv’nor, didn’t he?”

Post-Session

Azura 15, 731

A few more coins scattered about yields a nivik for hire, a different one than before, which is willing to transport the company and their horses for 120d. Called the “Star of Lerenil,” the party boards immediately, leaving just before dawn, and slowly making way down the Ulmerien River. By the end of the day, the Star passes Ulmerien’s Tongue and turns northwest towards the Belna Strait. The ship anchors after a while, as the pilot is unfamiliar with these waters, and unwilling to sail them after dark.

Azura 16, 731

Just before dawn, the Star weighs anchor, and travels but a few leagues in a northwesterly direction before the pilot says this is where they should disembark. Imarë, not wanting to get too close to Bejist anyway, agrees. The company, their horses, and all their belongings are deposited in the strand. Inland lies a lowland heath, covered with heather and gorse, giving rise to small, undulating hills in the distance.

In accordance with the plan the party made aboard ship, Imarë sets out alone to scout Bejist. They briefly watch as the elf heads northwards, and then make camp to await her return.