Fireside reverie was conducted away from the gaming table and on the campaign's Facebook group. Moderated by myself the write up I wrote was edited by the DM- Dangerous Brian. All player's speech/writings were kept true as much as possible in the edit whilst giving priority to the game setting and the DMs decision as he wasn't present of the actual play itself. It is set after the end of session 6. The party and their new found companions felt it safer to make camp outwith the cave for the night before another day trying to complete it's clear out for the home-less troglodytes.
~ o 0 o ~
The moon rides high her silvery disc shining like a new coin. Ha, money! What use is it here, on an island out of time or place? Inhabited by strange and foul creatures. Even the island itself seems bent on killing those newly stranded there.
Some of it's newest inhabitants sit huddled round a roaring camp fire for the precious warmth it provides. Some speak, some merely gaze as though lost in thoughts of happier times. The ground and land outside of the roaring glare is ridden with shadows and forms too dark to make out or understand. The shifting dark is the place where nightmares are born, only to fade when another dawn rises.
The party hope for the dawn to come soon. Sleeping out in the open is a restless past time. It would be nice to sleep soundly again without the worry of darts and daggers. That kind of thinking breeds fear, suspicion and discontent.
Bare chested and huge in scale, Boagris stands near the slender fire-haired Thoht. He speaks: "Can you believe we are marooned on this stupid island surrounded by lizard men, and the God’s know what else, because some ‘God’ took a dislike to us?” The big ex-gladiator laughs, drinking some water from his flask.
“The Gods have no patience with us! I say screw the Gods! All of them! They seem no more different than I. Piss me off and I’ll maroon everyone of the guilty to places they can never come back from." Boagris continues laughing at his own bravado, a bit more aggressively now, patting Thoht on his shoulder.
Boagris changes the focus of his attention, "Laugh Shadowdancer! I want to see a smile out of that face! Smile! Or am I not funny enough for you?" he growls staring towards a corner where he last thinks he saw Shadowdancer.
Looking back at Thoht, Boagris continues: "Creepy little thing that one. I should have smacked him harder the first time, so he knows I mean business. I don’t like him, I don’t like the other sneaks, and I damn as hell don’t like that slaver.” He growls again, glaring in the direction of the slaver in question, Xenos.
Grinning now Boagris speaks with a little less mirth, “Don’t worry Thoht, I didn’t forget you. You I despise the most: always praying to your Gods, that one or the other one. What good did the Gods do when I was in need of them? We're all alone I tell you! Forget them and learn how to use a sword, you bloody priest."
At that Boagris leaves the campfire to stand on his own, looking up to the stars and back to a small object he holds in his paw-like hand... a toy made out of cloth.
Thoht mutters quietly to himself in Elvish, shaking his head. "Poor dumb brute, had he only the wit to know how much stronger he would be did he only believe in the Gods?”
Euthalia looks up from her fire-gazing. She wishes she could be doing something more useful just now. She cannot get out of her mind the image of Glykeria's mangled body. Grey clammy skin, torn gaping shoulder and the putrid black pile of maggots that was once her fair arm.
A vision no one should have to see.
That had been the first time she had not been able to save someone with her gift. To feel the rush of power channeled from on high and to see it dissipate like so much smoke into air. Even worse that she could do no more afterwords than a simple prayer for a departed soul. To leave a fellow priestesses remains to the creatures of decay in a cave did not sit well with her. Even knowing as she did that there had been no-way to bring the body back through that narrow, twisting shaft.
Hot tears well in Euthalia's eyes, flowing freely down her cheeks. She wipes them away quickly when the bulky shadow of Boagris passes over.
Euthalia sighs and gathers her chiton around her closely to guard against the night chill. She walks to his side. It seems she is not the only one who may be in need of comfort. She sees he is fumbling something carefully in his great hands. Holding it so gently, lovingly.
Being such a tiny female, especially in comparison to a man so large, she cranes her neck to look up to him. "Boagris?”, she touches her hand to his elbow, hoping not to startle him with her icy little fingers.
"What troubles your mind, friend?"
Shadowdancer observes Euthalia from the concealing veil of deep shadows, noting her distress and presuming its cause to be the fall of Glykeria.
He shrugs slightly. Glykeria had been reasonably useful to them all, had seemed level-headed enough, but then she given into a moment of stupidity and greed...and died.
He hoped the message was not lost on the others. He was well aware that they held him in little regard and in truth he held them in even greater contempt. To his eyes they were like children playing at being wise. If they chose to ignore his words and hold the wisdom her offered in contempt then so be it. It mattered little to him, beyond the increase in his own prospect of survival that their presence offered, and there were times he felt that their sheer folly made them more a detriment than aid.
His eyes glittered with vague amusement while they followed Euthalia's graceless – by Shidhe terms, at any rate- movement towards the hulking and scarred gladiator, Boagris. Wondering if perhaps she sought more than the comfort of a friend from the male. The young priestess seemed the sort to give into the attraction his looming form offered in the dire fate they all shared.
'Best not to get too close Euthalia' he thought to himself. Though Boagrius obviously had his uses in a fight, and there seemed likely to be many of those in their future, Ailil had still not forgiven him for striking him down when he had merely sought to arm himself with one of the many weapons Alexis had been fortunate to gather from the wreck.
That day neither Boagris nor Alexis had been able to look beyond the petty humans concerns of property and ownership to see that survival was their greatest challenge. Some day there would be a reckoning for their insult.
Boagris looks down at the slender form whose hand rests upon his elbow. But only for a moment. His gaze returns to to the small cloth toy dwarfed by the cage of his mighty fingers. After a moment, the gladiator speaks:
"It has been long since I had time to think. Most of the last 10 years I've spent fighting. You priests are lucky. You read and learn. I sat for years in a cell, then traveled for years more in a cage. I didn’t know where I was, or how I got there. They would always mask me. After some time I stopped caring. I tried to escape but it was the lash when they caught me”.
The big warrior laughs. “Now we are marooned here. My master is no longer in business. Odd, is it not? I lost all I had. My home... " He turns to fully look at the priestess, "Don’t pray for me girl! The Gods don’t know me." With that Boagris returns to the fire where his bedroll awaits. His eyes linger on the flames, his hands still fumbling with the little doll.
A mocking smile plays on Shadowdancer’s lips; Boagrius’s dismissive words to Euthalia drifting to him through the night. A blatant rejection to her subtle advances and an insult to her beliefs and her Gods too! As good as a slap in the face, though he doubted the plain spoken gladiator saw it that way. No doubt the fool felt he had likely never been closer to - and revealed more deep heartfelt to- anyone in years.
The shihde shook his head softly from side to side, as if disbelieving the eccentricities and foibles of humans, once again reminded of how like children they were. Unaware of the subtleties and nuances hidden in all things. Even their own actions.
Watching Boagris lie down and roll over, apparently intending to sleep, Shadowdancer quelled the rising Unseelie urge to simply glide across the camp the moment Euthalia's back was turned and slit the man's throat. Instead he let his gaze slide back to Euthalia, waiting to catch a glimpse of her reaction so that he could glean more about which way the wind blew between her and Boagris, and indeed discern greater insight into her character.
Close by, Andros too gazes up at the night sky. Hoping to at least see a star, a beacon of some hope. After gleaning much from the short interactions between Boagris and Euthalia, she needs to take her mind off events. Everyone has a story. Everyone has hopes. And everyone stranded upon this isle has a life awaiting their return. The blacksmith sighs, receiving no love from the sky. She asks the Goddess why she has been punished? Punished from the very moment she was pulled squalling from her Mother's womb. She could easily imagine her father's disappointment at the knowledge his wife had delivered to him yet another daughter. She could not help being born a woman, but dammit, she was born a brilliant blacksmith also!
Andros fumbles in the darkness for her blacksmiths bag. Withdrawing a square of cloth, she absently begins cleaning her blade, still tainted with the rotting, fungal pus of slain plant-men. The lingering smell making her gag even now, after many such cleanings. Absently, she wonders what price she would not pay for a simple bath. A proper one. In a hot tub of beaten copper filled with fresh water from the well. The muscled yet still feminine woman smiles weakly to herself in the darkness, imagining if her sister Vasilias could hear her now! She would laugh and remark, "You? Bathe? You would sleep in the ashes and soot of father's forge and think it better even than a king's bed!" The smile fades quickly at the thought of her sister. At the sudden pangs of longing. She thought again of the practice fights they shared with father's sword. Andros rarely won. Vasilias was a champion of the blade in her own right. But Andros had learned more from her -improved more- each time they had crossed blades.
Leaving her reverie behind for a moment, the blacksmith directs her gaze towards Boagris, wondering if he is asleep. She could hear the sadness and anger in his voice. So much hate. She wishes that he could find peace. Mostly, she wishes he has the sense not to direct his rage at any of their companions.
Euthalia listened to the troubles of the gladiator without a word, reflecting upon the teachings of the ancients. The wise tell us that the Gods gave us two ears, two eyes and one mouth. It is the way of things that we should watch and listen twice as much as we speak and act.
She allows the big man to say his piece and remained where she stood when he returned to his place by the fire. Such a huge man, blessed with the shoulders of a giant and, it seems, the weight of the world to settle upon them. Yet lying as he does, curled and vulnerable, he seems to her in that moment little more than an ailing child. Poor creature.
In a gentle and even voice she turns to address the gladiators broad back.
“I will pray for whom I wish, though it is kind that you bid me not waste my efforts upon you. You say the Gods do not know you. The Gods know everyone. Haestia knew you before you arrived screaming forth from your mothers womb. Just as a parent must let a child go forth and experience the ills and trials of life so that they might grow into manhood, so the Gods must allow we mortals to experience what we must in order to become the people we are fated to be. It is possible that you ignored the help offered to you by the old ones in your ignorance. Just as you shun my simple act of friendship. I feel your pain and wish you a peaceful rest.”
Without waiting for a reply she strides back to fire, bedding down for the night. Perhaps sleep would help ease the pain of her loss.
Thoht watches quietly while Euthalia attempts to ease the troubled Boagris, to little avail. Despite the harsh words the gladiator directed towards him, Thoht knows that he must find common ground with such ex-slaves and dregs as he finds himself among if they are all to survive. His thoughts turn darkly to the recent loss of his fellow priestess, Glykeria. such senseless waste of one so blessed by Far Seeing Miranda.
Why did not Ki & the elf prevent her from such a reckless act? Damn them both! Worse still, the cleric considered darkly, the others seem intent on ignoring my own wisdom - and even that of the Haestian Priestess! Are they fools? I must pray for guidance and hope that the Lady Of Oracles grants me understanding of their brutish ways. Still, I may not belong here, but I shall place my faith in the knowledge that the Gods have placed me here for good reason. I must only determine what that reason is...
The cleric of Miranda moves to sit at the edge of the light cast by the fire. Reverie comes slowly and the restless movements and grumbles of those by the fire are a constant background to his thoughts. Thoughts of the elf, Shadowdancer, impinge briefly upon his reverie.
I must watch that one. For good or ill, the Lady grant me the sight to see our fates.’
Shadowdancer, having held by a derisive snort on over-hearing Euthalia's cutting reply to Boagris -cold words veiled behind a kindly voice- switches his gaze to Andros. The elf notes that she watches the interaction as intently as he himself, but the blacksmith seems somewhat lost in recollections of her own. Idly, he wonders what secrets lurk there in her thoughts.
'It is possible that you ignored the help offered to you by the old ones,' He mouths silently through a wry smile, mocking Euthalia's words.“What would any of you monkey's do if you knew the truth?”
[OOC: Shadowdancer is old. Very old. Old enough, in fact, to remember the forms the God's re-shaped to produce the race of man.]
He muses upon his esoteric knowledge in a soft whisper, his first words spoken out loud in the fragile, false lull from danger that is the campfire they all share.
Boagris’s neck-hairs are aquiver, the familiar sensation of being watched learned from long, brutal nights in the slave pens. His eyes slowly roam around that portion of the camp visible from his bedroll. He relaxes somewhat when his eyes settle upon his observer. Just the blacksmith. It occurs to the warrior that no one is sleeping well this night. He beckons Andros to come closer.
Andros glances around the campfire, as if unsure to whom the gladiator beckons. Sighing, unsure what the gladiator could possibly have to say to her, she approaches him. Sword and rag still in hand.
Boagris looks at his reflection mirrored in the polished blade of her weapon. His gaze moves to study the striking figure of the female blacksmith standing before him. He wonders at her story. Why was she aboard a trade ship carrying envoys to the mighty city of Zama? Feeling the unfamiliar desire for conversation, he struggles to form his questions. Settling instead for the simplest of questions. One he has already asked himself. "What's your tale blacksmith?”
He shifts himself, lifting his muscled, scarred frame out of his bedroll to sit upon the cold stone, his legs crossed before him.
Not distant, a single elfin brow lifts with jaded curiosity. Shadowdancer watches as Andros stalks over in apparent response to Boagrius's summons. The unspoken words of 'This had better be good' seeming to hang in the air as she very deliberately slaps the blade of her sword into the palm of her left hand.
The elf could not help but feel there was an outside chance that Boagrius might boldly invite her to share his blankets. The fallout from that might prove to be deliciously amusing indeed.
Folding his long-cloak closer around him, ward off the night's chill, he settles against the rock that guards his back and waits to see how events play out. A soft blue glow of delight at imminent mischief radiates from the shifting constellations of stars that glisten in his fae eyes.
Curled up tightly in her canvas blankets, sails rescued from the wreck of their ship, Euthalia finds sleep to be a reluctant bed-mate tonight. Her mind is sore and roiling from the remembered images of a pale face and clouded eyes. A dead stare that seems to her full of recrimination. Desperate to find at least some rest this night -for her prayers will not doubt be needed on the morrow – she decides upon quiet meditation as a means to settle her mind.
Eyes closed, the cleric attempts to block out all noise of the activity around her. The fire flickers as it should. Mortals speak, and cough, and move, and breathe as they must. She breaths herself. Slowly. In and out. Trying to still the waves of sound and focus on the inner silence. Distractions fade away beyond the tightening circle of her awareness. A point of light in her inner eye becomes all, she knows that light. The sacred-hearth. It is the gentle blessing of the Goddess Haestia, whom she serves.
“My story?” Andros clearly could not be more surprised! This man, this brute whose arms seem wide and brutal enough to snap the likes of Shadowdancer in twain; wants to hear her story? She stares at him, perplexed for a moment and, her sword still ready at a hand and wearing a face that promises trouble at the slightest hint of any lascivious intent on the gladiators part, she sits by him and tells the story of her father, Vasilliakos Tsiminis, a great warrior in his time. The gladiators slow, respectful nod tells her that Boagrius knows of whom she speaks. She tells on of how the great Vasilliakos had always felt sure he was fated to have two sons. One to become a warrior like himself and the other, to adopt his second passion: that of the forge. And yet, his wife bore no sons. Only daughters. Andros and Vasilias. Both women. Both cursed to bear the names of men all their days.
After a moment more, Boagrius asks, "What of your sister?"
"Oh, she is intent on winning fame as the greatest warrior of Mysos.” replies the blacksmith, shrugging carelessly.
Boagrius frowns for a moment. Thinking, he admits, "I knew your father, you know. I fought alongside him once. In the Arena. At Mysos. He seemed a happy enough man. Not the sort to find fault in his family."
The gladiator glances upon the sword and then at the darkness, looking for the being he thought of as the ‘creeping one’. "He would happily kill me that one.” Boagrius states, not feeling any need to explain whom he means. Sure that the blacksmith will know. “But he needs me. As we need him. One day I will save his skin and neither he, nor I, will like it.”
“Speak. Tell me more. I have time to spare." Boagrius turns his cold eyes back to the fire.
Deep within her meditations, a voice reaches out towards Euthalia, from the darkness.
“Euthalia. Do you hear me? There is much that has been left unsaid. I must speak through you to the others.” Though she knows her body sits in warmth, by the fire, within herself she feels the cold grasp of hands upon her shoulders. Icy chills make her shudder, a motion so sudden and violent that it captures the attention of all those still awake within the confines of the camp.
Though her mouth opens in a pained gasp, a familiar acerbic tone issues from her mouth- the voice of Glykeria.
“Listen to these words I tell!”
Euthalia shivers with the chill of channeling a presence from beyond the grave. Understanding at least the theory behind the strange events that have befallen her, Euthalia squeezes her eyes tightly closed with the effort to maintain the link.
Shadowdancer surges to his feet, a move so fluid and quick that a single flickering blink and the human eye would miss it.
“Release your hold on her, shade of Glykeria! It is unseemly for the dead to possess the living so!”, the elf calls out while striding angrily from the shadows.
“If you have come to speak of some warning or insight then do so quickly, the strain you place on Euthalia's frail human body is great indeed. Many lives depend on her strength.”
Euthalia hears the voice from outside her link, but it is distant. Faint. Almost as though she wear hearing a conversation mumbled through wadded cloth. A strange fierce blue light like that of the frozen moon enters her mind. With barely a twitch from her body. The other-wordly voice erupts from her mouth once again.
“Oh for the sake of.... do you really think, oh high-and-mighty lord, that I would endanger her? The only reason I can speak through her voice at all is because she allows me to do so. And because she got so very near at the time of my soul's passing. Not to mention close to perhaps becoming my friend. I do her quite an honor by using her as my vessel. Although she is not presently aware of events in the mortal realm any more than mortals are aware of events in the Summerlands.”
“I do agree with you however. I cannot pass on much knowledge of what fate has been chosen for you. Yet you are correct in that you will need her aide. More than hers alone actually. I am doing what is possible, but even having passed so recently, it is difficult to influence events on the mortal realm directly.”
“You met your fate through your own folly shade of Glykeria,” comes Shadowdancer's growling retort, “do not expect me to credit you with gaining much in the way wisdom in the few hours since your passing.” As if to emphasis his glaring disapproval, the elf leans back, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the shade which has bound itself in the body of another.
Glykeria's half-cackle echoes eerily from a place not quite inside the body of Euthalia.
“Of every being in the presence of my voice, I expect YOU to comprehend the afterlife the least. But time is wasting. Chastising you is not a priority.”
My second gift is to offer answers where I can.” Euthalia's head jerkily glances at the moon's progress through flickering lashes. “And while I can! Be quick! Ask your questions!”
The strange and otherworldly conversation has finally caught the attention of more than those involved. Andros looks on mouth agape while Boagrius dashes desperately to Euthalia’s side.
“Glykeria! Is that you?” the gladiator calls, “What of my wife? My child? Are they with you in the Summerlands?”
Euthalia’s body shakes a little at the startling new voice and presence barging it's way into her awareness . A thought crosses her mind, this one feels red and warm. Like a bale fire.
The thought disappears, there is a pause where her face freezes a moment. "Your wife... I cannot reveal to any mortal what lies beyond the paths of the dead. There is no comfort I can offer you, mighty Boagrius. Only in death may mortal man learn such secrets.”
Quietly watching and listening to all that transpires, Thoht keeps his own council, knowing that his past is not for the likes of these to know or hear. He will observe and no more.
Overhead the Goddess Tanith reaches the peak of her nightly patrol of the heavens. Euthalia's body takes on a faint glow.
Euthalia speaks, “My time is up and over. Know you have at least one voice beseeching the Gods on your behalf. Hold fast to your hope, worse is yet to come....” Her voice fades out a little, and with a faint pop the glow dissipates. Euthalia's sense slowly return to her body, leaving her weak and tired as a day old kitten.
Suddenly, she inhales with explosive sharpness, her eyes thrown wildly open. Her eyes frantically searching for some sign, some landmark with which to once again anchor her perceptions in this reality. She slumps to the side, numb from the sudden emptiness of feeling. She closes her eyes against the confusing visions that swirl within her still. Fatigue overcomes her at last, and she descends into a dreamless sleep.
Thoht lets out a muffled and somewhat enigmatic chuckle at the specter’s visitation before slipping into reverie once more.
"En-lil lugal kurkurra ab-ba dingir reneke inim ginanita dninĝirsu dšarabi ki ene sur." Ki Oman takes out his lyre and plays a low slow melody, singing softly in a strange language. The bard’s voice and music comforting all those who wish to listen. Food for the hopeless soul on a dark night.
Boagris settles back down to sleep, a different man from the one who stood earlier, gazing down upon the doll that once belonged to his lost daughter. When last they had walked the world together she had been only four. At his leaving, she had presented him with her fondest toy. Saying: “Take it daddy, will keep you safe on your travels.”
How little she had known of the evils that walk the earth in the guise of men. After the battle, he had returned home to find his wife dead upon the floor of their coastal home. But she had given him one last glimmer of hope. His daughter had run from the men who had defiled their mother. She had escaped and was free. Somehow, he would find her. He knew it in his mighty heart. For it must be so.
