Age of Ice and Blood: A Pathfinder System Heroic Fantasy Quest

[DragonParadox]

Purple Path ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

How does one treat with a lord who is no lord? How does one seek peace when one is not at war? That is the question you ask as you consider the Purple and your conflict with them. On the one hand their lord Kefele Akumu cannot afford to seem weak before someone who had given succor to his foes, on the other you had slain that foe in the end. Zaia suggests rather bluntly that you use that, that you lie about your reason for slaying the strange traveler. It would certainly make the Lord of the Purples more willing to sit down and settle your differences. On the other hand.

"The man is a thug," Esha delicately sips her wine as she speaks. "Not a subtle sort of thug, not the sort that hires minstrels to weave fine verse around his bloody deeds, the kind that gets called Kneebreaker when one is being polite."

"Dare I ask what he is called when one is not being polite?"

"Livereater," she laughs darkly. "I am almost sure that's slander by his newly minted rivals in the Circle of Captains, but one never knows. People can do unusual things if you get them all riled up in a crowd."

"Heard that one," Tom cuts in gruffly. "It was a famine they were shoutin' over wasn't it?"

"I doubt the mob would have eaten the magistrate's liver because they were hungry, maybe as a symbol, though again if the Old Houses wanted to present the rioters as savages putting it around that they ate his liver would be a very creative way to do it. In any case it says something about Kefefe that he did not fight the rumor, nor did he ever go to the temple of Ikomi seeking ritual purification."

"Purification?" you frown. Something like that you had been offered at the temple of Ashinu?

"Not that you are thinking of, something a good bit less... entertaining." Esha's smile is knowing enough that you can feel a flush warm your cheeks. "The Engur folk believe that to kill without the blessing of Olweje is a sin that demands purification and one that must be done by she who governs endings. Everyone knows that the Purples used to be cutthroats so there was a certain expectation that when they sought to be recognized as a House in their own right they would seek purification, a literal clean start. They did not."

"So if we were to claim that we dealt with the stranger to appease them...?"

"Then the wind of rumor that has been blowing in our favor so far might turn, we could easily end up being painted with the same brush and lose a lot more custom than we would gain," she finishes.

On the one hand you are less worried about custom than you are about not making a enemy when you do not have to. Perhaps you could approach the Purples subtly and share the flattery and lies in secret, doubly distasteful as that may be to you.

What do you do?

[] Approach the Purples openly claiming that you dealt with the thief to end the bad blood between you

[] Approach the Purple in secret so as not to damage your reputation with the other houses

[] Write in

OOC: The bit about a mob eating someone's liver... that is history being wilder and grosser than fiction.

 

[DragonParadox]

Humble Streets and Haughty Halls ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

"You sure this is the place milord?" Tom looks up uncomfortably at the windowless façade the complex gives to the River Kine. Given that the banks of said river are also a midden for the local goats and pigs with the hearty odor one would expect of such a place you cannot blame them for the lack of window placement too much, true in moderation the leavings of beasts are less offensive to the nose than that of the city's human inhabitants, but moderation is nowhere to be seen in the narrow strip of land between the brownish waters and the cobbled roads.

"I'm sure," you nod. There is a reason the Purple have held power in Farshore for all these years since the riots, and it is not simply that they rule with rod and whip. Oh there is plenty of that, would be rivals vanished into the night only to be found floating face down in the river or left with what Antonio gruesomely called 'a second smile' for their necks, but there is also the incontestable fact that the stability of a single significant power among the narrow streets and one which can demand some recognition from the Old Blood and the Circle of Captains allows for things that would before have been wholly out of reach, things like communal pasturing, however narrow the field, without fear that the beasts would be spirited into the night.

With this much bleating and snuffling wealth on the hoof it makes sense to maintain a constant presence and anyone posted here would have to posses some authority. At least that was the idea...

As the shaven headed fellow swaggers over, holding a hefty wooden club loosely at his side you seriously start to wonder if you should have gone with Esha's idea of seeking out the 'herbalists' who are little more than poisoners, whim you had been given the names of at least in the hope that Zaia might have wished to cooperate with them back when such cooperation seemed more likely. But you had not been able to bring yourself to trust a poisoner.

Spoiler: Purple Thug

"Wot ye want?" the man asks, his think almost impenetrable accent adding to the impression of a dim brute, though a closet look in his eyes under the forehead marked with a fractal symbol inked in purple ink makes you revise it. Not a fool and not just a a thug either, though he may play the part when it suits him.

You motion for Wanderer to be at ease, at least as much as a child of the deep wooded vales can be in a 'wilderness' so different from the one he was used to.

"I wish to have words with Kefele Akumu to clear some misunderstandings...." you start, but he cuts you off.

"Wot you clearing it up with?"

It takes you a moment to realize he is asking for tribute, for a sign of submission before you are even in the company of his master. On the one hand this is not entirely beyond the pale to expect, the time and the ear of the mighty is precious itself and many bring gifts to earn it, but a gift brought to impress is not the same as a price which is weighed as it you were a merchant selling a gutted fish at the market before it has the chance to go off in the sun.

What do you reply?

[] My word, that should be enough to fix the misunderstanding

[] That is no concern of yours
-[] Write in some kind of gift for the master of the Purples

[] Write in

OOC: Took me a while to find the pic, but for once it's a good fit.

 

[DragonParadox]

Fool's Choice ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

"My word alone should be enough to clear up any misunderstanding," you answer looking the man dead in the eye even as the tip of his cudgel begins to sway in the air as though moved by some unseen wind in the heavy still sun-backed air. "Rest assured then when the time comes for me to speak to Kefele Akumu I shall mark well who made that path easy or hard."

"Well ain't you proud as a Horned Lark in Elnu-tide, coming here with a hand up your ass just because you have a fancy sword and old armor you looted outa some grave. Well we ain't dead men here, but as my name's Arram yer about to be."

At least now you have a name, you think and mark it well. Mean what you say and say what you mean your father had told you when you were a boy and while the wide world had taught you that you could not always afford to live by it you still try to do so more often than not. The thug's master will hear that he had gotten in your way when you were merely...

The whistling of an arrow pierces your thoughts as sure as it does the dirt at your feet. Only then do you realize the the swirling of the club had not been simple bravura, it had been a signal to men on the roof.

Two more arrows fly harmlessly over Wanderer and Tom's heads, then a weighted net flies from the roof of the windowless hall and Snares Wanderer even as he roars with fury and draws his club from its rough sling on his back. You do not need to speak the tongue of the Knikut to know that the warrior plan to tear Arram and his fellows limb from limb.

For his part the purple-faced thug is more than happy to oblige. Shouting obscene encouragement to his fellows he charges as two more of his like follow him out of the narrow door. Copper-bound oak sparks off your shield, once, twice in a blind flurry that would doubtless have overwhelmed one not armored in body or will, but to you he seems much like a fool who misjudged the foe and would soon pay with his life for it.

So much for peace, you think as you turn the second blow aside. If you were to slaughter more of the Purples' thugs and yet the thought of fleeing before such a craven attack burns in your gut like acid. You had come here to end a feud not start one and yet the only reason none of your blood is on the cobbles is that the archers are poor shots.

Shouts and cries arise from the riverbank as the herders realize this is something much more serious than the odd scuffle or mugging. Go or stay you need to end this quickly.

What do you do?

[] Try to end the fight as quickly as you can, kill if you have to. The cowards deserve no less
-[] Write in plan

[] Try to incapacitate, perhaps you can still salvage this somehow
-[] Write in plan

-[] Write in

OOC: Welp, you tried intimidation and... this happened.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Crack in the Facade ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

"Don't kill the bastards!" you shout, hoping that Wanderer can still hear you, or for that matter still cares in the depths of his rage. Then, setting tour eyes on the foe you the motto of your House and hook your shield under Arram's arm in the hope of pushing him off balance and into Silver's hooves.

Tom rushes to tear apart the net on wanderer, but a spear however blessed makes for a poor knife and so without hesitation he drops it and draws the cold iron sword in a flash of cold light. Alas the motion draw the eye of the archers above, arrow after arrow flying down from the roof, the first lands wide again and the second glances off his armor as you call out a warning, but the third finds its mark, sinking into his upper arm just under the boiled leather cauldron of his chain shirt.

Tom takes 8 Damage

Left arm, not the right, you tell yourself and even as anger coils in your chest you turn the sword to strike not with the edge, but with the flat of the blade, to break bons not slice flesh. alas you are not used to fighting thus and so the blow does wide as the thug backs up swinging at you wildly. The weapon rings against your chest trying to force you back as you reach out with the gauntlet of crushing metal meant to unmake far mightier works and snap the weapon in two.

"Give it up you son of a whore!" you spit out in French, forgetting yourself.

Two things happen then one after the other, first something heavy crashes down from the roof missing you by inches and shatters on the hard earth and secondly Wanderer, freed of the net charges Arram from behind and deals s crushing below against his back. It comes with a crack like a bundle of firewood snapping and a scream that echoed louder still.

So much for not hurting them too much. You curse the folly that had lead them here under your breath. The arrows keep coming and from the river you can hear people calling out in fear. Warnings yes, but warnings that are sure to get to the ears of others of the Purple soon enough.

Then one voice above others rises, young and strong "Get 'em, down with the Broke Knuckles, down with the killers."

Unlike the crowd outside the Old City which fellow had not chosen his audience well as a scuffle begins by the riverside, the goat and pig herders striking out with fists and clubs in... defense of their herds from the sounds of it. It sounds like someone had taken the chance on the distraction you unwittingly caused to attack the herders. And now it's sure as hell not going to sound like a coincidence when it gets back to the higher ups among the purples... and the only person who could really gainsay that notion is now bleeding at your feet.

What do you do?

[] Try to heal Arram so that you have some proof that you did not start this with the intention to steal anyone's pigs

[] Try to deal with the thieves attacking the herders yourself, they do not deserve to be mixed up in this

[] Write in

OOC Arram is at -8 HP and he has a broken spine, so while you can get him conscious he will never walk again without the kind of magic that is very rare in this world

 

[DragonParadox]

Old Bold Thief ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

It was not that Imrik was a thief by the plain light of his soul, or that he had any love of pigs and goats, but the chance to turn from watcher to rustler was just too good to pass off. After all it was not every day you saw men with armor and bright swords this tide of the Kime, never-mind saw them fighting. It was just three warriors, but it was three who bore the rain of arrows from on high as a man of the hills bears the autumn rains, surely the fight would carry them through the swine guards while Imrik and his mates could deal with the swine themselves.

Already one herder lay in a puddle of blood, struck about the head and shoulders, another groaned holding his ribs... and then a sword of fire fell. When or how the warlock who was atatcking the Purple with his demon sword had turned to protecting their clients Imrik would never know. All he felt was the bite of the blade, hot as forge-fire, sharp as a dragon's tooth. Then the blood and the impossible cold growing from his midsection

***​

Old Blackthumbs didn't like fights and he certainly didn't like being faced with a raging Knikut hill-man practically bursting out of his furs looking to kill, he would have run along with Eze and the Brokewind, but he wasn't as fast as he used to be winters past as so soon as he became clear that trying to go against bloody sky armor with honest wood and stone was like a squirrel chewing rock he gave himself up, gave himself up to the fellow with the spear mid you, he wasn't no fool to try to give up on a blood-crazed wild man...

And that was when the purple's folk finally came to the 'rescue' beating their own spears against hide shields and making enough of as ruckus as to scare the crows and dogs, but not making a lick of a difference when it came to sellswords. That... that was his chance to make a run for it, Blackthumbs was sure.

And that was when he saw it....

The thing was hiding behind one of the low mounds along the river where he wanted to sneak past, blood red and flying, a single hideous red eye staring out of a maw with way too many teeth. It was looking right at where the man with the flaming sword was talking to the Purples.

"That won't do, won't do at all will it," the thing muttered to itself and it began to puke something onto the barren earth, writhing like white and purple worms it started to form some kind of magic mark.

Now at that point the sensible thing to do would have been to run like hell, but the old man remembered that a stranger had told Imrik that this would be 'his lucky day' and 'a rustler's dream'. There had been eight of them at the start, eight and now he was the last one and all because some kind of monster wanted to get the knight to fight the thieves.

Hitting it with a stick while it was busy messing with the shit it had puked out definitely wasn't the sensible thing to do, but he did it anyway shouting about demons.

The thing bit into his flesh, ripping and tearing and Blackthumbs shouted again.

Hearing the shouts and seeing from afar a glimpse of daemonic red what do you do?

[] Try to get the Purple reinforcements to try to help you capture the daemon

[] Keep your sword sheathed, you managed to keep them from fighting you so far, that is the most important thing

[] Go after the daemon at once

[] Write in

OOC: You guys dealt with the attackers really well, killing their leader, but then the last person to manage to make it out alive from among them stumbled onto... something a lot worse than the odd thug. Daemons hold grudges.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Muddled Trail ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

"There, there's the son of a bitch!" Not you will admit the most encouraging start to your attempts at negotiations... and neither are inventive comparisons of your lineage to a goat. If you were five years younger odds are you would have run the fellow in the lead through. As is you motion with your sword to the narrow gap between the bud-brick houses where the lone of the rustlers had run though.

"There the true enemy monsters among us!" you shout and there indeed the daemon was trying to write some foul spell in its bile.

Whether it be the sight of the flaming blade or the word 'gukhra', which means something like 'monster' and something like 'plague on man', you do not know, but the lead thug looks at the thing and calls out to his fellows that you spoke truth.

Alas the demon too has heard, though you can see no ear upon its loathsome form. With a hiss like an air filled sheep's bladder being punctured the thing whirls towards you, tongue playing among its jagged teeth... and with a ripple in the air it is gone.

As you curse it Silver's eyes glow soft green and he calls out from beneath you: "It's not gone, but veiled. Strike when I say!"

So your friend bears you into battle, shield on one side, sword outstretched, guided by the insight he had gained in dreams of power. "Raise your hand... up... up left, horizontal strike." Then he turns abruptly with such force as might almost throw you from your saddle to surprise the foe and calls out with the full power of his deep lungs behind it. "Now!"

Durendal flies, an arc of fire in its wake, an arc of demon's blood frothing and foul upon the air. You hear it scream and then by the trail of ichor you mark its flight, for none of you have wings to follow where it goes, up and up, into the clear blue skies of summertime to wreak to wreak who knows what evil upon the world of man.

A hush falls on the company that had so recently been drawn in mortal battle, the sight of a demon fleeing, the sound of a talking horse more than enough to cool the blood even as it bewildered the mind.

The man at the forefront of the Purple reinforcements bears their colors, or perhaps it is better to say bore them. What must once have been a vivid purple sash, of the kind only the highborn are known to lightly bear had been stained with dirt and blood, with other less recognizable substances until it was more of a dull grayish-brown with just enough of the old color to stand out.

"Well ain't that the shit!" the man spits over his shoulder, a kind of warding, or call to his gods perhaps to bring good fortune. "D'you bring that thing here sell sword?"

Odds are it had been more interested in you than in the goats, but you are not about to say so now that you finally have a chance to talk top one of his ilk who is not minded to rob you or fight you.

"That sort do not come at the behest of men, but only on their own foul errands. None but fools think they are the masters of the Neverborn," you reply instead. "I come to bring word to your leader than there is much evil and confusion between us, the mark of one who has stolen from his coffers and almost cost me a dear friend."

"You call one of the Highborn friend man of the sword?" the thug asks as more of his fellows come closer, but though these are no less rough company, clay-footed, some in the city call them, those who walk barefoot in the mud of the Kime.

"I call Odorin Koire that yes," you reply, sheathing Durendal. For his part Tom does not look the least pleased to be lowering his spear and as for Wanderer... well you are just glad Tom managed to get him to fight the thieves when you did

"Heard of that." He looks around at his men and then chooses a boy, no more than fourteen if you were to guess and twitchy with it. "Broke Tooth, go get Arram and see what the hell's going on..."

***​

As it happened you were right about Arram's back being broken from the blow, though the fellow who had summoned him does not seem that torn up about the fact. So it is with less surprise than he perhaps expected that you greet the belated introduction of: "Kefele Akumu, now what's this about you and I sharing a foe and where in the hells did that Neverborn came from? You talked like a priest about 'em, but that don't answer my questions?"

The rough speech belies the hall you had been invited into, thick with the aroma of mint tea, flat bread and soft cheese set before you with a side of dates. The curtains, actually purple and much cleaner than some of the clothes your interlocutor was wearing dance in the evening breeze. There is a kind of swagger in the grime and the blood you now realize, like a veteran knight might count a dented shield more precious than one freshly painted.

What do you reply?

[] Admit that the Neverborn might have something to do with you

[] Claim ignorance, for all you know those thieves might have been under the hand of someone mad enough to deal with their ilk

[] Write in

OOC: Tying to do both things at once guaranteed that the cacodaemon would be able to go invisible, but luckily for you Silver has magesight and even more luckily... this. You wounded the thing enough to make it clear it was there, but of course you have no wings

 

[DragonParadox]

With Bloody Hands ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

"I could not guess at what Hell those creatures might have crawled out of, but they're here now, active in the world of man and acting to sow discord and conflict wherever they appear." Truth be told you could make too good a guess at, but you do not want to give the impression that you know more of magic and demons than you do, for one that might cause Kefele to ask advice and for another it might breed suspicion. From the northern wastes to the barren southern coasts you never know how one might act at the mention of dark spirits.

As it happens the way he reacts is with a stone faced nod that sends the shadows of the room chasing each other across his craggy features. The curtains are drawn. Foul deeds are best done by darkness, you remember the old priest at Verley saying when you were a boy and you have no doubt this man has done plenty such deeds. For the first time you wonder if the thing had actually been here looking for you, or if instead the Purples had drawn dark eyes in their own manner.

And there I go with the same suspicion I wished to avoid, you laugh inwardly, though there is little true mirth in the thought. "We have personally witnessed them working to bring war to the allied clans of the far north, on the edge of the Whitelands, and a group of them even managed to possess the princes of Korman and seize the kingdom for themselves, at least for a short time. In both cases, the Fellowship of Saint Nicholas played some small part in fighting the Neverborn. We also have word from trusted allies that similar Neverborn plots are active far to the south in the vicinity of the Inaura Empire," you recount instead.

"Well now, you're mighty well traveled ain't you and your friends even more so..." Kefefe rubs his chin thoughtfully, his eyes cold. "So you say you dealt with the two faced thieving bitch and that she was more than just another witch, like the hunters, but less afraid to get some clay under your fingernails?"

Is he asking you if you are willing to be killers for hire, something the Hunters never lowered themselves even in the worst days after the fall of the Priest Kings, or is he asking you if you are willing to work for him? Asking too bluntly might raise his ire.

"Dirt yes, worse things as well," you look the gang boss turned nobleman straight in the eye. "No blood, not here."

"If not here were?" he asks motioning expansively to the window, though which waft the less that pleasing smells of a hot summer day in amongst the multitude of peoples. "I love this place, love the winesinks and the mince-carts, the blind telling tales and the deaf weaving prayer knots, but gods be my witness there's scarce a place with more sons of bitches worth stabbing."

"A stranger would be ill equipped to judge that," you try to a jest of it but to judge from his expression it falls flat.

"You cost me a good man, a loyal man," Kefefe says, the good cheer sliding off him like oil off polished stone. "He's lame now, I'll have to see he's taken care of..." and I'll see you taken care of as well if you push your luck, his tone seems to say. "Find out who send that fiend and give me word about and we'll call the last three months even and start again."

What do you reply?

[] Take the deal, it's not like you are going to ignore a sighting of the Neverborn

[] Do not take the deal, you owe Kefefe nothing for his client's folly

[] Offer alternative terms
-[] Write in

[] Write in

OOC: You got one mediocre roll and one bad one, but on the other hand the range of negative outcomes was not that bad since you managed to thread the needle so far.

 

[DragonParadox]

Stepping on Air ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

It stings to admit fault for another's folly, but still better to do so now that argue with the lord of the Purple in his own house, he seems the sort of man who would take ill of any seeming disrespect when the blood of his leal, if slow-witted, underling still stains the earth. You've hunted things that walk in darkness before, you will do it again. "This is a foe we have faced before, we will bring it at bay."

"Good," the lord in ragged garb says. "Go 'round Dyer's Ditch and talk to Alurk, bring a pin if your nose's too fair for the place," he adds cryptically, though from the look on Tom's face it's some kind of paring shot.

Once you are out of earshot of Kefele he explains that Dyer's Ditch is famed for using fermented piss and Atum Salt to make the cheaper sort of purple dye that is cheaper that the sort that you can get out of snails. "Some of the noble folk I heard wear jeweled pins on their noses to keep the smell out, so they say round the winesinks and meadhalls at least."

"You seen a lot of winesinks since we've been here Tom?" you ask half in jest.

"More than I would have back home m'lord," he answers, gravely, the setting sun casts deep shadows in his craggy face. "D'you think we'll ever be rid of 'em?"

"What the Neverborn?" you ask, about to give him some lukewarm reassurance, but the words catch in your throat, ringing false even in your own head. "Probably not, but then back home we never thought we would be rid of wicked men and yet we didn't fall to despair did we? Things are just a little more clear in this world, the truth of the world a bit closer to the surface."

"Only you my lord would say that a world with so many tricks of the mind is more truthful," Tom laughs and shakes his head.

"Comes from wanting to take the enchantress to your furs," Wanderer offers sagely.

You open your mouth to reprimand him, realize that would be no more truthful that the reassurance you had cast aside and instead just point towards the end of the street: "What in the Devil is that?"

The buildings here were a touch taller than in other parts of Farshore, but sun-beaten wood and mud brick would only take you so high, three stories, still squat and unlovely along street that meandered like the path of a drunken goat, yet narrow as the path may have been you would not have wanted to walk across it with nothing but a narrow grey rope between you and the deadly fall to the beaten earth where a crowd of dozens gawked like... well you expect like you as the acrobat seemed to dance across the space, light as a feather on her feet.

In dress and manner the woman was far darker of complexion than most of the people of Orinilu and she wore leaf green garb far finer than the hardscrabble inhabitants of Farshore could afford to buy. Not that you could mistake her for one of the highborn with their flowing robes, instead they fit her like a quiver fit arrows, clearly meant for... whatever she was doing.

Spoiler: Acrobat

Curious you walk up to an older fellow at the back of the crowd and ask who she is and what she's doing. The gaffer is more than happy to explain. It seems the lady in question is an acrobat from Humbai, she had been invited to perform at the wedding of one of the most wealthy of the merchant houses, House Orel, but then she got into some kind of a row with one of the heirs of the house and was promptly banished from the festivities and, adding injury to insult, she was forbidden from taking on a contract with any of the other ruling houses... though by ancient law only the Regency Council itself could banish her from the city outright... so in what one can only think of as a remarkable act of spite she's decided to perform out here for the commoners of Farshore.

You would have walked on, smiling a touch more mayhap at the odd happenstance if you did not also happen to hear the name of the noblemen who had made the scene... Bragi, the fellow who had been a sore loser over a game of semin last year. It looks like you share if not an enemy with the lady than at least an annoyance and you do know what it is like to be a stranger in a strange land. On the other hand being too hospitable has cost you not so long ago.

What do you do?

[] Invite the acrobat to stay in Wayfarer's Rest

[] Carry on
-[] Search for hunters to try to catch the neverborn's trail
-[] Move on to one of your other actions, the dark spirit will not be easily caught (Write in which)

[] Write in

OOC: Well that was an unexpected random encounter to get right off the bat.

 

[DragonParadox]

Of Riders and Steeds ​

Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

Clapping along with the crowd you watch in rapt attention as the woman, twists and turns, like a reed in the wind, like a feather in the air until at last she leaps backwards landing on her hands on the platform of the house behind her and descends the narrow stair to walk among the chattering crowd and to take possession of something rather more solid than mere cheers. It is only now that you notice the short shaven headed man with a brass eye in his scarred face, a clay bowl at his feet waiting for the clink and thump of various offerings. Not that one would find any golden Icari here, worth more than a year's work for even one of the well-off folk of Farshore and even bronze and copper are present more often in tale than in fact. For the most part the bowl fills with bits of dry meat and fruit, polished stone beads and shells dredged up from the river.

So when you do flip a half-icari into the pot the man looks at you with a gimlet eye and the woman is no slower to turn towards you, though the bright smile she flashes you has the seeming of someone accustomed to making a show of good cheer and gratitude as much as of her dancing. Far be it from me to find fault with another's craft, you think and with a smile of your own offer. "Hail and well met my lady, fair is the day and fair the company." It is only when the words are out of your mouth that you realize that they might be taken as flirting and add. "And fair it is to meet one, tho is not afraid ta deal bluntly with those with more hair than whit."

Thus you fall into explaining your own circumstances meeting Bragi as well as something of your history, a sellsword yes, but one who has laid down roots and had strong walls about his hearth. As to what interest you might have in a dancer from Humbai who entertains the nobility you confess that you are curious about the city, having heard of it from two priests of the Living Flame, but know little of its people beyond that.

"An honest soldier is better company than a slick-skimmed noble," the dancer Amara says, though you notice her companion look less than convinced, perhaps at the very notion of an 'honest soldier' existing

Added Amara the Dervish Dancer invited to stay in Wayfarer's Respite for until the end of next turn

***​

Thirteenth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)

So it is that as evening falls on the next day you come home with strange visitors and ponder your steps. Even with Neverborn on the loose in the city and walls to raise and roofs to put up within the span of the keep wild horses will not wait, or to be more exact the wild horses will wait fine, but Hengo Peryswill not., You promised the merchant a chance to breed your own uncanny stock with some of the local wild steeds in the hope of making a more robust beast that can stand up to the horned mounts of the Yayar in battle.

Alas the Yayar are likely to be a more immediate danger than that. According to what Zaia had been hearing it is not just Orinilu that suffered from poor crops last spring, the herds of the tribes grow lean with stronger bands driving out the weak from their grazing grounds to break against the walls of the coastal cities. Quite apart from you killing one of their chieftains there is plenty of reason to think you will not get out of this without some kind of confrontations with the wandering tribes. But should you wager for a peaceful one or prepare for blood

Zaia would likely be the most skilled in dealing with them at least in the abstract and Swift Pebble should be a understandable enough companion, one of the Speakers among the beasts of the land, but Esha.... as Hengo explains it to you bringing one 'half dead' against the riders is likely as not to raise their ire or terrify them into flight, with little room between.

Who do you bring on your horse taming expedition?

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OOC: Gah... this was a struggle to get through, hope it works.

 

[DragonParadox]

Yayar, the Wild Lords ​

-From the Notes of Zaia of Alexandria​

I write these lines by light that does not waver like candle's flame, but even and eternal, the power of the ether and yet I doubt myself and my sources for these are not the accounts of my travels seen with mine own eyes, but of the people who would speak to me in the bustling markets of Orinilu where a tale is as much merchandise as a sack of winter wheat or a amphora of olive oil.

They say the Yarar are savages who hold not to any god but Olweje, that war is their father and they suckle blood not milk at their mothers' breast, that the wild lords love their elk more than their sons and yet they eat their elk in lean times. What mercy then could be afforded to us? The question is often asked eliciting a shiver from the listeners comfortably bundled up in goatskin shawls and finely woven blankets. Yet is one asks the merchants who often trade with the clans of the wide plains north and east of here in the short days of high summer they will speak of a people who holds guest law even as they have no roofs to guard, who will share a fire with a stranger rather than risk the nukipi, the spirits of the wild turning on them.

From that little I understand of their superstitions, shared with such outsiders as make their way among the clans the Yarar are distinct from other Wyrdoki in that they do not believe man can ever own the land and master it, that even the place where one is born and where the bones of your ancestors lie belongs first to the spirits and they take ill of mortal men who linger too long there. According to the lore of the clans the spirit of Yayar is born from the breath of heaven rushing through the valleys of the Giants Causeway where dwell their kinsmen the Yarduk. Thus those who are born of the wind must wander like the wind if they are to live in peace and plenty alongside their herds

Animal spirits and guides are common among the tribes with many a tale of beasts which speak like man common in their tales. I have seen far too much of this world to doubt them, but still the list of beasts which they honor is odd. Wolf, Fox and Aurochs are common enough beasts on the planes and white Crow and Raven seem to me birds of ill omen to ride under I know that men skilled in battle might not think so... but a shark-skin banner? That seems to have more in common with the pirates of the Southern Blue Sea than with the men of the plains. Perhaps the tinker to sold me the tale had been taken in, though I did not see in his eye the vacuousness of a fool and more genuine terror at the thought of 'warriors who rip the flesh off your bones like sharks' and so I shall consign it here

Moving on from the matter of their religion the Yayar seem to hold that men and women hold property jointly when they are wed, though no young Yayar may posses more than fits atop his or her personal mount beforehand leading to many seeking their fortunes with other tribes. Thus among the settled peoples of the coast many count the men vagabonds and the women little more than camp followers, though such sentiments are not given voice to too loudly. It seems to me most likely that in the absence of fields to till and walls to guard the yayyar have less need to rigorously follow the lines of descent and blood.

The question of how their chiefs are chosen is not one they speak of to outsiders often. I think though that we can safely exclude the notion that they are chosen 'by the spirits'. Having encountered several of the landwards of the western islands I think they would be even worse at choosing leaders among men than either a show of support or the vagaries of birth would allow.

OOC: Vote's still tied so have an informational post, not as well informed as others, but should give you some idea about these people.