Of Wolves and Witches (WHF Wizard Quest)

In your dreams, you see a mountain. No true peak has ever been so grand or imposing, so glorious in its natural beauty and might, but such things mean less than nothing in this place. The mountain exists, and the dappled white and grey of its flanks bring tears of wonder to your eyes, while the cold chill of its air is sweeter on the lips than the finest wine. You climb, hands and feet aching and scrambling against unyielding stone, drawn on by the promise of the shining world that awaits you at the summit.

You do not climb alone, of course; anyone who sees the mountain is compelled to at least attempt the ascent, and all around you rise friends and lovers, rivals and foes, easily recognisable faces picked out from amongst the shapeless multitude. Some fall away at each ridge and plateau, unable to match the challenges found there or unwilling to make the attempt, and you pity them. They will never know the true splendour of the heights, as you will.

Only one other climbs as you do, matching you step for step, ever at your side. A wolf, eight hands high at the shoulder, with fur the colour of a winter sky. The air frosts when it breathes, and when it speaks it is with the growling chorus of a battle cry.

"Why do you climb?"

The words make no sense. Why? What else is there? There is a mountain in your way, a glorious reward awaiting at the summit, a chance to grow and develop and improve yourself in body and soul. How could you do anything less than aspire to the peak, to climb until the summit rests within your grasp?

"Look at your hands."

You obey, but you do not understand. Your hands are much as they have ever been; blackened and bleeding, fractured and groaning from the strain of hauling yourself up the mountain one span at a time. Perhaps the damage extends further up your arms than you remember, but what of it? If your hands fall away and your arms become bloody fragments you will crawl, and if your knees turn to powder you will crawl on your belly like a snake. The climb is all that matters.

"Fool."

The wolf insults you, but it does not leave. It will never leave your side, not until you part ways of your own accord, or you see at last what it is that the beast considers so important. You have given up on understanding why, content to accept its presence for the blessing that it is. Even the least companionable of escorts is better than making the ascent alone.

You climb.

-/-

Awareness returns by degrees, the dream and the waking world slowly flowing into one another as your mind struggles to make sense of either. There is no pain, which does not help; typically you could guess that the world where some part of your body is screaming in agony is more likely to be real, but in both you are on your back and floating through a haze of almost narcotic pleasure. It is only after several minutes that you realise that the one without the mountain is the truth.

There are hands on your skin, and when you open your eyes it is to the sight of a young woman in a pure white robe bent over your reclining form, chewing on a strand of her own night-black hair in silent concentration. You want to brush a hand against her delicate jaw, but your body feels like it has been replaced with a sack of lead, and so it is all you can do to speak.

"Hello, beautiful." That's what you mean to say, but judging by the strangled groan that comes out of your mouth you don't have as much control of your words as you might have wished. The young woman smiles for a moment, straightening up to look at you, and then yelps in fearful surprise and physically leaps backwards.

"Your eyes…" she whispers, before suddenly her hands snap up to cover her mouth in shock and self recrimination. From this angle you can see the golden heart emblazoned on the front of her robes, picked out in yellow thread. A Sister of Shallya, then, which explains the lack of pain.

"Sorry," you grunt, making sure to pronounce the word carefully and with as much clarity as you can muster. Your jaw isn't moving like you want it to, which… oh, right, you got kicked by a daemon. It probably got fractured. Alright, a vocabulary of single words delivered in a heavily slurred tone it is, at least for the immediate future.

"No, please… if anyone should apologise, it is I," the Sister says in a quiet voice, dropping her hands to smooth down her robes and regain some composure, "Shallya would not want me to abandon my duties just because I was caught off guard. Please, if you don't mind?"

You nod, as best you can with what feels like several inches of fabric bandages wrapped around your jaw, and the priestess moves in to resume her duties. The two of you are alone, it seems, hidden in some annex or back room of… wherever it is that you have wound up, precisely.

"This is the Temple of Our Merciful Lady, in Dieterschafen," the sister says, perhaps picking up on your confusion even as she checks your bandages, "I am Sister Marie. Your crewmates brought you in yesterday, still unconscious, and we have been tending to you since then. How do you feel?"

Honestly you are feeling shockingly good, all things considered, which probably means that they forced some kind of pain-killing draught down your throat while you were too senseless to object. Or perhaps it might be relief of a more supernatural kind; you've heard that Shallya blesses the particularly devout among her priestesses with the ability to take pain with a touch and cure wounds with a tear. In the end, you just sort of shrug, which seems to convey the impression well enough.

"Yes, I expect you must have been rather heavily sedated," Marie says with a soft smile, her dark eyes filled with compassion as she runs a hand over your stomach. The touch sends butterflies through your innards, but the priestess doesn't seem to notice. "Your wounds were rather severe, and they seem to be resisting our efforts to ensure a clean recovery. They must have been delivered by something rather dangerous."

"Daemons," you grunt, overcoming the leaden feeling in your arm to make a vague gesture that you can only hope encompasses what you mean, "Six."

"Oh my," Marie blinks in shock, shivering in momentary fear that you are too weak to properly comfort her over, "A… truly? On the coastline? Then it is fortunate you made it here… though it does explain why the crew were so insistent you be treated. And… these other wounds, they seem somewhat older…"

She touches the small puckered mark on your stomach where Dieter shot you, tracing the line of torn flesh that it left in its wake. "Pistol. Vampire."

"Blessed Shallya," the priestess whispers, and there is more than just sorrowful compassion in her voice as she takes your hand in her own. If anything, you think she might be impressed. "And… the fingers?"

"Sword. Was… burning."

On and on it goes, with the pretty little dark-haired priestess picking out each of your scars in turn. Many of them you don't even remember receiving, and while your station means you always received the finest kinds of medical care, there is no escaping the fact that your skin is increasingly scarred and broken by a life of unrelenting violence.

"Rapier," you say with a voice rough from more than pain, when she touches the pale mark on your breast, "Honour duel."

You might feel ashamed, accounting for such things before a pacifist who may have saved your life, but… well, Sister Marie is a very pretty woman, and you are currently laying helpless before her probing fingers, your modesty preserved only by a few shreds of fabric and blessed bandages. It doesn't help that she has stopped moving her hands, instead leaving them where they rest while she looks at you with an expression somewhere between sorrow and intrigue, and eventually you have to clear your throat and give her a meaningful look.

"Oh!" Marie blurts out, her face turning bright red as she steps back, flustered and off balance, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't…"

"Don't," you say, and smiling is a bit beyond you right now but you try anyway, "Was nice."

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as with a panicked stream of apologies Sister Marie gathers up her tools and flees the room in haste. You watch her go in vague bemusement, then relax back on your simple cot and close your eyes again.

You need your strength, if you are to find your father anytime soon.

-/-

It takes you close to a week before you are recovered enough to walk under your own power, and that only with the aid of crutches and some kind of anaesthetic medicine. Your back is a frozen slab of ice, the muscles paralysed by the sisters to prevent you over-exerting them by mistake, and you manage to do little more than hobble awkwardly down the street with the tattered shreds of your dignity wrapped tight around your shoulders.

Dieterschafen is an old town, clinging to the Nordland coast like a barnacle of wood and stone and lashed by cold winds and frequent rain off the Sea of Claws. You have neither the time nor patience to explore it in depth, hobbled as you are, but fortunately even the most clipped of questions is enough to get directions to the local Temple of Ulric. It sits near the centre of town, a fortress-monolith of unmarked stone clearly built with an eye towards defence, and though you get a few odd looks as you hobble your way up the steps no-one dreams of challenging you.

Inside you find an open space filled with wooden benches, all arrayed in circular pattern around a central pit and the large fire that blazes within. No sermon is being given at present, so there is nobody to stop you from taking a seat on one of the frontmost rows and basking in the glow. The flame is mundane, a purely natural fire fuelled by wood from the forests and kept lit by the ministrations of priests and acolytes, but it has been burning for centuries on end at least, and by now Aqshy has soaked the temple to its roots. The comforting warmth of the fire, the sense of community and continuity it carries with it… it is a source of strength, and one you feel no shame in enjoying silently with eyes closed in private contemplation.

Eventually, one of the priests decides that you are clearly here for a reason, and makes his approach. He is a big man, with the broad shoulders and barrel chest of a lifelong warrior, and his grey beard and missing eye both speak to decades of unflinching service and experience. Predictably for a Priest of Ulric, he wastes no time in coming straight to the point.

"Those are some nasty injuries, faithful," he says, settling himself into the pew at your side and adjusting his wolf-fur cloak for comfort, "what manner of foe delivered them?"

"Daemons," you say, and though your words are slow and careful to compensate for your injured jaw he does not hurry you, "four of them. Six, really. Fimir attacked the boat."

"You fought six daemons and lived? Were you victorious?" The priest asks, and when you nod his face splits into an enormous grin, "Excellent! Would that we all could stand against the darkness in such direct and triumphant fashion!"

You smile, as best you can. It has been many years since you were able to speak to a genuine Priest of Ulric, for they are not all that common in the south, and the blunt support and reassurance you have been offered here despite your obvious nature and the marks of the arcane upon your flesh is… heartening. You know better than to expect all Ulricans to be so accepting, but this one is, and that is all you need right now.

"Did you come here just to pray?" The priest asks, nodding towards the ever-burning flame at the temple's heart, "Or for something more specific?"

"Looking for someone," you say, slowly, "A man. A priest. Name is Kurt, looked after… a village, in Nordland. Twenty years ago. Might be there still, might not."

"Not much to go on, if it dragged you all the way up here," the priest chuckles, "Why this man in particular?"

For a moment you hesitate. How can you explain what the man called Kurt means to you, the potentially one-sided bond between the two of you, the history that you share? Doubtless you could if you had the time, but… no, this isn't the time to share everything. There's only one thing that really matters here.

"He's my father."

The priest is silent for a time. You wonder what he is thinking, what explanations he is cooking up behind that single glittering eye for such a short and simple statement. Are you some bastard byblow seeking their heritage, an abandoned burden seeking vengeance, a loving daughter parted by the whims of fate? Why would you know nothing more of the man than his name and where he was two decades past? In the end, only one thing matters.

"Do you mean him harm?"

You shake your head. "He saved me. Did right by me. I want… to thank him."

"Hmm," the old man rubs his chin for a moment, then nods, "Very well. I will check the archives here, and if necessary send a rider to Salzenmund to consult the central archives. You must know, however - it is a common name. It could take weeks to gather the information you seek, and years to search every village it names."

"Not going anywhere," you say with a vague shrug, "Got time. It's important."

The College will get antsy if you look like you're wasting years of your life chasing down ghosts and rumours in Nordland, but honestly, you can't bring yourself to care. You'll find paying work to sustain yourself and fend off their questions, if needs be, and you'll keep going until you find the man… one way or another. You're not blind to the possibility that he might be dead, after all. It's been twenty years, and priests of the war-god are often first into any kind of danger that might threaten their flock.

That's fine, though. You'll visit his grave, say what you need to there. Then you'll take vengeance. One way or another, you're not leaving until this business is done. No matter the cost.

Article:

The Sisters of Shallya are a charitable organisation; they provide food, shelter and medical care to all who require it, asking not a single pfenning in return. There is a cultural expectation, however, that those with the capability to support them make sure to do so, especially after receiving care.

Erika presently has twenty three gold crowns to her name; a single crown would pay for about three weeks worth of groceries for a single person. What kind of donation should she make?
[ ] Five Crowns. A small donation, but enough to fulfill her social obligations. Will likely be added to the temple's ongoing budget.
[ ] Ten Crowns. A more substantial donation, but one that leaves her with plenty. Will likely be used to fund a specific outreach program or event, such as a major public banquet for the needy.
[ ] Twenty Crowns. A very generous donation, one that leaves Erika with just enough to cover her own needs. Will likely be used to expand the Shallyan's capabilities in some long term fashion.

It will take Erika approximately three weeks to recover from her injuries. How does she choose to spend her time? Choose TWO.

[ ] Assist the Shallyans. Though Erika is not a doctor or a devotee of the faith, the Sisters of Shallya will not turn down honest offers of help. They can doubtless find some use to put her to.

[ ] Consulting. Dieterschafen is a major town, and there will always be merchants in such places willing to pay a Magister for her time. Earn some coin and make some connections in the process.

[ ] Spell Research. With reference to the spell list in this post, Erika attempts to learn a new arcane spell to expand her repertoire. Each time this option is chosen will grant one Lore (Magic) roll - the Bookish talent allows you to reverse the dice roll if desired, and adds +1SL.
- [ ] Specify spell (Write in)

[ ] Visit the Temple of Ulric. Attending religious services at the temple on a regular basis provides no direct mechanical or financial gain; it is an act of faith, and while it may draw notice or approval from others, Erika will not seek such things out.

[ ] Write in.