A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC

Ser Richard at your side, you leave the temple of Trios resolved to your course to arrange a meeting between Yss' vessel and the ancient construct, and in the meantime offer no other support for the Messenger's purpose for all that you sincerely approve of it. Your steps do not take you far, across the vast square in the heart of the city, the rough outlines of dozens of gods, some familiar and others strange and lost beneath your tread.

Not many of the locals are out at this early hour and those that are present give you a wide breath with a few falling to their knees to prostrate themselves to your quiet horror. Likely as not former slaves who do not yet grasp that they are free, or perhaps do not know how to act as freemen. At least the legionaries assigned to keep the square clear have enough of a grasp of your character to quietly help them to their feet and quickly usher them away.

Thus it is that by the time you come at last to the Fountain of the Drunken God you are far enough from any onlookers to be practically alone, save of course for the familiar figure of the silver-haired boy leaning lazily on the side of the fountain. "Doesn't look like much, does it?" Maelor asks, skipping a stone off the surface of the water to strike the statue at its center.

The god is depicted as a heavyset muscled man garbed in a simple smock belted at the waist with a rope. He bears two faces, one one side a smiling visage, his hair and beard sprouting grapevines, and on the other a snarling panther's head. The water spills from an amphora under one arm. "It does not seem to be filled with heady wine and wild dreams either," you note.

"I asked around, that's only for festivals," the boy replies. "Wouldn't touch in on a bet. Just thinking about how many birds must shit in it makes my skin crawl."

That earns an amused snort from Ser Richard. "Pour enough wine into a man and he won't care what else he's drinking."

"And not just drinking," Maelor agrees, a brief shadow passing over his features before he visibly shakes the thought away and continues his explanation. "Far as I was able to tell there aren't any proper priests of the Drunken God..." he trails off. "Do you suppose they call him that because most of the time people who call out to him are too drunk to remember his name?"

"A distinct possibility," you answer in turn. "If there are no priests then who conducts rituals in Zagreus' name?"

"The head celebrant I guess you would call them. They are chosen for each gathering in his name large or small. Since most of the sacrifices involve stuffing your face and other... indulgences it works out alright I hear."

"Any notion how widespread his worship is?" you ask without much hope.

The boy shakes his head. "I even looked in the tax records, no luck beyond the notion that they have big damn feasts with loads of wine and thousands of people at least. Most of what I did find were records of damages requested and paid."

"Great job," you say in all sincerity. The boy had lost none of this nonchalant attitude, but he had been taking up more responsibilities of his own initiative of late, likely to prove that his desire to become a ruler is no mere whim.

What do you do about the Drunken God?

[] Outlaw his worship
-[] Write in proclamation

[] Leave be for now

[] Write in

OOC: As I was finishing this I realized I forgot to close the previous vote. Fortunately things look to be unanimous.