Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Jan 31, 2022 14:09:58 GMT
CW: Brief description of self-harm
It is not known to many, but there is a chapel dedicated to Eilistraee well-hidden within the Witching Court. It is plain, humble, and bare — a few rows of pews, a dais, an effigy of Eilistraee, a light orb that imitates the moon, a small, circular space for dancing, and that’s about it. There are several ways to enter and exit (because having multiple exits is important for the clergy of the Dark Maiden), and the better known one is via a rather boisterous tavern in the Mountain Palace called The Moon and Web.
When Zola stumbles in, flicking a chicken bone out of her wavy hair and carrying a sack in one hand, outfitted in a simple, sleeveless, white dress and walking barefoot, the chapel is empty save for one young, dark elven man, who appears to be putting things away following the end of a service.
“Ah… Did I miss it?”
Sarin Aleannder, her childhood friend and priest of Eilistraee, looks up. As usual, he is almost naked, only wearing a loincloth since he prefers to show off his beautiful dancer’s body to the world, after the manner of Eilistraee herself. Fully show it off. His silvery-white hair, tied in a loose ponytail, reaches down to his waist and his reddish-violet eyes glimmer in the faux moonlight. There seems to be a thin sheen of sweat covering his dark skin, likely because he had just finished preaching and dancing.
“Ah, Zola! Yes, I’m afraid… But I always have time for you. Come, sit.” He gestures to the nearest pew.
“Sorry for being late. Again.” She sits and puts the sack down next to her. It makes a heavy, metallic clunk sound. “How was the service? How have you been, abbil*?”
A warm smile spreads across his youthful face as he takes a seat next to her. It makes the butterflies in her stomach flutter. “Very good! You are a breath of fresh air, abbil, a welcome change from the rowdy patrons of the bar. Our congregation is still smaller than I’d like but the Maiden will bring us more, I’m sure. Now tell me, how may I help you? What have you brought here?” he asks, indicating to the sack.
“Oh yes, about that. It’s related to what I came to speak to you about,” she says, the smile on her face shrinking a little, as if she is recalling an unpleasant memory. “I’ve been adventuring in the Dawnlands for a short while now. I’ve met a lot of wonderful people, seen several wonderful sights, but I’ve found something there recently that…troubles me.
“I should start from the beginning. I was in the marketplace in Daring Heights — you’ve been to Daring Heights, right? — and this dwarven man hired me for a job. Other than me, there was also a human berserker named Ivan, a half-orc warrior named Kalta, and a firbolg priest of Silvanus named Carnán. Oh, Carnán calls himself the ‘last guardian of the autumn grove’, and I’m not entirely sure what that means, but he has an autumnal bonsai tree growing out of his shoulder and a dire wolf companion named Ulfr. They’re all very lovely!” She beams, then suddenly remembers what she came here to talk about. “Oh, sorry, got distracted again. Anyway, this dwarven man says there’s been some suspicious-looking people moving in and out of the forest near his village, scaring the children and all that. He paid us to take care of the problem. I accepted, thinking it was probably just a simple misunderstanding that could be smoothed over with words…”
He listens attentively as she speaks, looking slightly bemused at the mention of this firbolg who has a tree growing on him but otherwise quite happy to hear about how much fun Zola has been having.
“We camped overnight in the Angelbark Forest. It was a half moon that night. But come morning, we encountered a middle-aged man in a cowl. His name was Father Markus, and he had…” She paused and frowned. “He had these cuffs with spikes on the inside, digging into his flesh. I asked who did this to him, and he said he was doing it to himself.”
Sarin’s expression turns a little mortified. “To himself? To what end?”
“He belongs to this…sect…of the human god Ilmater. It’s small, there are only slightly over a dozen of them, living in a monastery in the forest glade. Their leader is someone they call ‘the Flayed Saviour’, and it was he who told them that hurting themselves and one another would reduce the amount of suffering in the world. ‘Taking on the pain of the world’ was how they put it.” Zola shakes her head.
“Ah. I’ve heard of some circles that practice such ways. I can’t say I like the idea much myself, truth be told… And they have the front to moan at me for being proud of my body!”
She smiles at him. “And it’s a body to be proud of! But anyway, have you heard of this Flayed Saviour?”
“I can’t say I have, I’m afraid. You mentioned it was a sect of Ilmater? I suppose I’m not wholly surprised by the practice if that’s the case. Still…” He glances down at his wrists and shudders.
“That’s not where the horror ends, unfortunately,” she says, the frown returning to her face. “The Flayed Saviour lives in a cave by their monastery and we demanded to see him. I thought that he must be some kind of trickster who's fooled all these poor souls into following his every word, but…when I walked into that cave, Sarin…it’s… Damn it, it’s hard to describe, but it is as if Eilistraee could not enter with me. I felt her light leave my body. And then I was almost overwhelmed by this sheer divine presence.”
His eyes go wide. “Truly? Did anyone else notice this?”
“Yes… In fact, Carnán and Kalta both fell unconscious in the cave. Ivan couldn’t get angry. This person, this Saviour… He is an actual prophet.”
Sarin appears to be almost stunned. “…What…? Well, what happened then? And what is this?” He points at the sack again.
“I got into an argument with him. Well, I was yelling at a metal coffin suspended in mid-air by chains and he was speaking in my head, it was certainly odd. He said he hurts himself and his followers hurt themselves to tip the scales of fate. He said that all the pain they put themselves through could prevent ships from sinking in a storm, prevent wars from happening, and so on. It was such a load of nonsense I lost my temper whilst speaking to him. He had the gall to argue that they are doing as much as or even more than people who are actually on the ground enacting change! And that only his followers are strong enough to walk this path! How arrogant. As if their mad practices could’ve stopped my parents from being murdered, or stop anything the priestesses of Lolth are doing.”
Sarin puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. He knows that story well.
“Anyway, when I went to wake up Carnán and Kalta, a couple of the monks drove long spikes into the coffin and his blood poured down onto the ground, and suddenly they awoke. And then we all got into an argument with Father Markus. At the end of it all, Markus felt a little bad that we came up there to their monastery and had nothing but arguments, so he gave us this.”
She takes a big, heavy flail with patterned holes carved into the ball out of the sack. A Devotee’s Censer.
“I see, so no harm came to anyone, beyond that which was self-inflicted, I mean?” Sarin remarks. “Curious he should be willing to give this to you as penance for arguing, though.”
“They’re certainly a curious lot. He said they weren’t using it anymore and it was just lying around. Well, it’s not quite my style but it’s a pretty nice item. Look.” Zola rises to her feet and saunters up to the front of the dais. She holds the flail out in such a way that the ball is swinging like a pendulum.
“Stink!” she exclaims, and a pale smoke starts wafting out of the holes on the ball as she walks down the aisle. He chuckles at the choice of activation word. The fragrant scent of incense soon spreads through the small chapel. “Not bad, right? It could help you get rid of the Spider’s smell in here…” She wrinkles her nose. “Although, I have not noticed it again as of late.”
“Spider smell? Oh yes, you came in shortly after the Chosen of Lolth paid me a visit. Interesting one… Not much of a talker, though. A little intense. Yes, he hasn’t been back since. I’m sure the incense could help cover the stale beer and chicken wing smell though?”
Right on cue, there is a muffled roar faintly coming through from the bar area, followed by the faint tinkle of glass breaking somewhere.
Zola giggles as she continues to round the chapel. “I think that may be a lost cause, abbil! And well, I suspected that was the case, with the Chosen, I mean. I’m surprised he didn't destroy the place though. Or hurt Lady Imryll since I smelled it on her too. He didn’t hurt you, right?”
The priest waves off her worry. “He made a few threats but I wasn’t worried. He is scared of his predicament and, well…more stubborn than most lost sheep who wander in. We actually had a rather pleasant tea together. Well, I thought so, at any rate. I believe he is actually the paramour of our dear Lady Imryll though, so I doubt he has done her any harm. Not that she needs our support in defending herself, of course. Certainly an interesting pairing.”
She stops in her tracks. “Paramour? You don’t say… The Spider can’t be happy with that.”
“Not likely. But I believe he is being tempted by the light of the Maiden. Otherwise why would he come to see me again? He certainly is confused but we will have to see how that unravels in time, I’m afraid.”
With one minute up, the incense smoke stops billowing out of the flail. Zola shakes it slightly to get more of it out. “Sarin, it would be amazing if you could turn a Favoured away from the darkness,” she says, slapping the ball to get a liiiittle more incense out. “But wait. I feel as if I got distracted again. Oh yes!”
She tucks the flail under her arm and trots back towards Sarin, putting a knee on the pew in front of him. “I came here to ask for advice on what to do next about this sect. I…I think they draw in vulnerable people who feel guilty about something, or want to make a difference in the world. My problem is that none of them, even the Saviour, would defend themselves if attacked. This is not a battle that can be won by fighting.”
Sarin leans back against the pew and stares thoughtfully at the effigy of Elistraee, frozen in a dancer’s pose, on the dais across the room. “Well now, Zola, it strikes me that this bears some similarity to the situation with that of the Chosen of Lolth who was here with the Lady Imryll. These people are driven, for better or worse, by faith… And aggression against them may only be deemed as a test of that faith. I know the Chosen, and even those of Lolth who aren’t chosen, tend to retaliate by gripping to their mistress all the tighter if we push too much. Instead, I trust in the Dark Maiden and offer them a hand and support, let them come into the light of the moon on their own terms. It is a tiresome dance, but our fair goddess does not pressure them into the light, as you well know. Those lost sheep must embrace her willingly.
“Perhaps you would be better in trying to understand the faith of these flagellants. See how and why they have come to be where they are now. You must admit, were they to come to you and start saying you should believe in Ilmater instead, you would hardly be willing to just listen and embrace their word, now would you?”
“Yes, you’re right,” she says, resting her chin on her hands as she contemplates his suggestion. “My only issue with that is I’m not sure how to persuade them to stop torturing themselves. To their credit though, they do allow people to leave. Carnán helped their gardener tend to the flowers and she left to become his druid disciple. Hmm, maybe that is the solution. Show them a better way.”
“That is truly a good thing to hear. The freedom to choose is important and, if they are free to leave, then it suggests they are not held against their will. However, we may only help those who wish to be helped, Zola. Speak with them, listen to what they have to say. Engage with them and show the way of the Dark Maiden…”
He stands and steps forward towards her. “And may her light guide you as you lead them into the light.”
He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead. She grins and blushes a little.
“Thank you, Sarin. I knew I came to the right place. There is a reason after all why I’m the sword dancer and you’re the priest.”
“Ah, well… My usual attire is not well suited to carrying weaponry, I’m afraid.”
“Speaking of weaponry.” She holds up the Devotee’s Censer. “Do you want to keep this thing? If the Chosen comes around again, you could show him who's boss,” she jokes.
He smiles at Zola, a kind of a warm, affable smile combined with the look of someone resisting chiding a friend for making an obviously out-of-character suggestion for him. “I think you shall find better use or a better home for that elsewhere, abbil. If the Chosen does return, he shall instead have to endure my loving embrace… Even if I must don that irritating poncho to convince him.”
“Now, now, Sarin, we’ve talked about hugging people in the nude!”
She turns towards the effigy behind the dais, muttering a short prayer and doing a little curtsy before turning back to her friend again. “Alright, I shan’t hold you from your duties any longer. Farewell Sarin, until next time.”
“Mind the curtain on the way out, Zola. A handsy kobold has been hanging around the last few days trying to surprise me. I wouldn’t want you to hurt him.”
“Oh dear, let’s hope he doesn’t end up grabbing the wrong type of ball.” She wiggles the flail a little and laughs.
*Drowic word for “friend” or “comrade”.
Thank you to Anthony for roleplaying Sarin!
It is not known to many, but there is a chapel dedicated to Eilistraee well-hidden within the Witching Court. It is plain, humble, and bare — a few rows of pews, a dais, an effigy of Eilistraee, a light orb that imitates the moon, a small, circular space for dancing, and that’s about it. There are several ways to enter and exit (because having multiple exits is important for the clergy of the Dark Maiden), and the better known one is via a rather boisterous tavern in the Mountain Palace called The Moon and Web.
When Zola stumbles in, flicking a chicken bone out of her wavy hair and carrying a sack in one hand, outfitted in a simple, sleeveless, white dress and walking barefoot, the chapel is empty save for one young, dark elven man, who appears to be putting things away following the end of a service.
“Ah… Did I miss it?”
Sarin Aleannder, her childhood friend and priest of Eilistraee, looks up. As usual, he is almost naked, only wearing a loincloth since he prefers to show off his beautiful dancer’s body to the world, after the manner of Eilistraee herself. Fully show it off. His silvery-white hair, tied in a loose ponytail, reaches down to his waist and his reddish-violet eyes glimmer in the faux moonlight. There seems to be a thin sheen of sweat covering his dark skin, likely because he had just finished preaching and dancing.
“Ah, Zola! Yes, I’m afraid… But I always have time for you. Come, sit.” He gestures to the nearest pew.
“Sorry for being late. Again.” She sits and puts the sack down next to her. It makes a heavy, metallic clunk sound. “How was the service? How have you been, abbil*?”
A warm smile spreads across his youthful face as he takes a seat next to her. It makes the butterflies in her stomach flutter. “Very good! You are a breath of fresh air, abbil, a welcome change from the rowdy patrons of the bar. Our congregation is still smaller than I’d like but the Maiden will bring us more, I’m sure. Now tell me, how may I help you? What have you brought here?” he asks, indicating to the sack.
“Oh yes, about that. It’s related to what I came to speak to you about,” she says, the smile on her face shrinking a little, as if she is recalling an unpleasant memory. “I’ve been adventuring in the Dawnlands for a short while now. I’ve met a lot of wonderful people, seen several wonderful sights, but I’ve found something there recently that…troubles me.
“I should start from the beginning. I was in the marketplace in Daring Heights — you’ve been to Daring Heights, right? — and this dwarven man hired me for a job. Other than me, there was also a human berserker named Ivan, a half-orc warrior named Kalta, and a firbolg priest of Silvanus named Carnán. Oh, Carnán calls himself the ‘last guardian of the autumn grove’, and I’m not entirely sure what that means, but he has an autumnal bonsai tree growing out of his shoulder and a dire wolf companion named Ulfr. They’re all very lovely!” She beams, then suddenly remembers what she came here to talk about. “Oh, sorry, got distracted again. Anyway, this dwarven man says there’s been some suspicious-looking people moving in and out of the forest near his village, scaring the children and all that. He paid us to take care of the problem. I accepted, thinking it was probably just a simple misunderstanding that could be smoothed over with words…”
He listens attentively as she speaks, looking slightly bemused at the mention of this firbolg who has a tree growing on him but otherwise quite happy to hear about how much fun Zola has been having.
“We camped overnight in the Angelbark Forest. It was a half moon that night. But come morning, we encountered a middle-aged man in a cowl. His name was Father Markus, and he had…” She paused and frowned. “He had these cuffs with spikes on the inside, digging into his flesh. I asked who did this to him, and he said he was doing it to himself.”
Sarin’s expression turns a little mortified. “To himself? To what end?”
“He belongs to this…sect…of the human god Ilmater. It’s small, there are only slightly over a dozen of them, living in a monastery in the forest glade. Their leader is someone they call ‘the Flayed Saviour’, and it was he who told them that hurting themselves and one another would reduce the amount of suffering in the world. ‘Taking on the pain of the world’ was how they put it.” Zola shakes her head.
“Ah. I’ve heard of some circles that practice such ways. I can’t say I like the idea much myself, truth be told… And they have the front to moan at me for being proud of my body!”
She smiles at him. “And it’s a body to be proud of! But anyway, have you heard of this Flayed Saviour?”
“I can’t say I have, I’m afraid. You mentioned it was a sect of Ilmater? I suppose I’m not wholly surprised by the practice if that’s the case. Still…” He glances down at his wrists and shudders.
“That’s not where the horror ends, unfortunately,” she says, the frown returning to her face. “The Flayed Saviour lives in a cave by their monastery and we demanded to see him. I thought that he must be some kind of trickster who's fooled all these poor souls into following his every word, but…when I walked into that cave, Sarin…it’s… Damn it, it’s hard to describe, but it is as if Eilistraee could not enter with me. I felt her light leave my body. And then I was almost overwhelmed by this sheer divine presence.”
His eyes go wide. “Truly? Did anyone else notice this?”
“Yes… In fact, Carnán and Kalta both fell unconscious in the cave. Ivan couldn’t get angry. This person, this Saviour… He is an actual prophet.”
Sarin appears to be almost stunned. “…What…? Well, what happened then? And what is this?” He points at the sack again.
“I got into an argument with him. Well, I was yelling at a metal coffin suspended in mid-air by chains and he was speaking in my head, it was certainly odd. He said he hurts himself and his followers hurt themselves to tip the scales of fate. He said that all the pain they put themselves through could prevent ships from sinking in a storm, prevent wars from happening, and so on. It was such a load of nonsense I lost my temper whilst speaking to him. He had the gall to argue that they are doing as much as or even more than people who are actually on the ground enacting change! And that only his followers are strong enough to walk this path! How arrogant. As if their mad practices could’ve stopped my parents from being murdered, or stop anything the priestesses of Lolth are doing.”
Sarin puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. He knows that story well.
“Anyway, when I went to wake up Carnán and Kalta, a couple of the monks drove long spikes into the coffin and his blood poured down onto the ground, and suddenly they awoke. And then we all got into an argument with Father Markus. At the end of it all, Markus felt a little bad that we came up there to their monastery and had nothing but arguments, so he gave us this.”
She takes a big, heavy flail with patterned holes carved into the ball out of the sack. A Devotee’s Censer.
“I see, so no harm came to anyone, beyond that which was self-inflicted, I mean?” Sarin remarks. “Curious he should be willing to give this to you as penance for arguing, though.”
“They’re certainly a curious lot. He said they weren’t using it anymore and it was just lying around. Well, it’s not quite my style but it’s a pretty nice item. Look.” Zola rises to her feet and saunters up to the front of the dais. She holds the flail out in such a way that the ball is swinging like a pendulum.
“Stink!” she exclaims, and a pale smoke starts wafting out of the holes on the ball as she walks down the aisle. He chuckles at the choice of activation word. The fragrant scent of incense soon spreads through the small chapel. “Not bad, right? It could help you get rid of the Spider’s smell in here…” She wrinkles her nose. “Although, I have not noticed it again as of late.”
“Spider smell? Oh yes, you came in shortly after the Chosen of Lolth paid me a visit. Interesting one… Not much of a talker, though. A little intense. Yes, he hasn’t been back since. I’m sure the incense could help cover the stale beer and chicken wing smell though?”
Right on cue, there is a muffled roar faintly coming through from the bar area, followed by the faint tinkle of glass breaking somewhere.
Zola giggles as she continues to round the chapel. “I think that may be a lost cause, abbil! And well, I suspected that was the case, with the Chosen, I mean. I’m surprised he didn't destroy the place though. Or hurt Lady Imryll since I smelled it on her too. He didn’t hurt you, right?”
The priest waves off her worry. “He made a few threats but I wasn’t worried. He is scared of his predicament and, well…more stubborn than most lost sheep who wander in. We actually had a rather pleasant tea together. Well, I thought so, at any rate. I believe he is actually the paramour of our dear Lady Imryll though, so I doubt he has done her any harm. Not that she needs our support in defending herself, of course. Certainly an interesting pairing.”
She stops in her tracks. “Paramour? You don’t say… The Spider can’t be happy with that.”
“Not likely. But I believe he is being tempted by the light of the Maiden. Otherwise why would he come to see me again? He certainly is confused but we will have to see how that unravels in time, I’m afraid.”
With one minute up, the incense smoke stops billowing out of the flail. Zola shakes it slightly to get more of it out. “Sarin, it would be amazing if you could turn a Favoured away from the darkness,” she says, slapping the ball to get a liiiittle more incense out. “But wait. I feel as if I got distracted again. Oh yes!”
She tucks the flail under her arm and trots back towards Sarin, putting a knee on the pew in front of him. “I came here to ask for advice on what to do next about this sect. I…I think they draw in vulnerable people who feel guilty about something, or want to make a difference in the world. My problem is that none of them, even the Saviour, would defend themselves if attacked. This is not a battle that can be won by fighting.”
Sarin leans back against the pew and stares thoughtfully at the effigy of Elistraee, frozen in a dancer’s pose, on the dais across the room. “Well now, Zola, it strikes me that this bears some similarity to the situation with that of the Chosen of Lolth who was here with the Lady Imryll. These people are driven, for better or worse, by faith… And aggression against them may only be deemed as a test of that faith. I know the Chosen, and even those of Lolth who aren’t chosen, tend to retaliate by gripping to their mistress all the tighter if we push too much. Instead, I trust in the Dark Maiden and offer them a hand and support, let them come into the light of the moon on their own terms. It is a tiresome dance, but our fair goddess does not pressure them into the light, as you well know. Those lost sheep must embrace her willingly.
“Perhaps you would be better in trying to understand the faith of these flagellants. See how and why they have come to be where they are now. You must admit, were they to come to you and start saying you should believe in Ilmater instead, you would hardly be willing to just listen and embrace their word, now would you?”
“Yes, you’re right,” she says, resting her chin on her hands as she contemplates his suggestion. “My only issue with that is I’m not sure how to persuade them to stop torturing themselves. To their credit though, they do allow people to leave. Carnán helped their gardener tend to the flowers and she left to become his druid disciple. Hmm, maybe that is the solution. Show them a better way.”
“That is truly a good thing to hear. The freedom to choose is important and, if they are free to leave, then it suggests they are not held against their will. However, we may only help those who wish to be helped, Zola. Speak with them, listen to what they have to say. Engage with them and show the way of the Dark Maiden…”
He stands and steps forward towards her. “And may her light guide you as you lead them into the light.”
He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead. She grins and blushes a little.
“Thank you, Sarin. I knew I came to the right place. There is a reason after all why I’m the sword dancer and you’re the priest.”
“Ah, well… My usual attire is not well suited to carrying weaponry, I’m afraid.”
“Speaking of weaponry.” She holds up the Devotee’s Censer. “Do you want to keep this thing? If the Chosen comes around again, you could show him who's boss,” she jokes.
He smiles at Zola, a kind of a warm, affable smile combined with the look of someone resisting chiding a friend for making an obviously out-of-character suggestion for him. “I think you shall find better use or a better home for that elsewhere, abbil. If the Chosen does return, he shall instead have to endure my loving embrace… Even if I must don that irritating poncho to convince him.”
“Now, now, Sarin, we’ve talked about hugging people in the nude!”
She turns towards the effigy behind the dais, muttering a short prayer and doing a little curtsy before turning back to her friend again. “Alright, I shan’t hold you from your duties any longer. Farewell Sarin, until next time.”
“Mind the curtain on the way out, Zola. A handsy kobold has been hanging around the last few days trying to surprise me. I wouldn’t want you to hurt him.”
“Oh dear, let’s hope he doesn’t end up grabbing the wrong type of ball.” She wiggles the flail a little and laughs.
*Drowic word for “friend” or “comrade”.
Thank you to Anthony for roleplaying Sarin!
