Battle of Hearts and Minds – Marto Copperkettle – 24.02.2022
Mar 1, 2022 19:02:55 GMT
Velania Kalugina, Andy D, and 1 more like this
Post by Marto Copperkettle on Mar 1, 2022 19:02:55 GMT
The Feylight Garden Theatre was a beacon of beauty and light. It was built under the combined efforts of the denizens of the Court of Harmony and those who lived in Daring Heights, but it’s design was entirely fey. It had walls and windows, doorways, archways, pillars and staircases – everything a building would of it’s kind would be made of. But what made it different, what made it unique beyond the beauty and light everywhere Marto looked, were the trees. They had been built around and incorporated into the architecture. It was entirely understandable patrons would think they were still outside when they were, in fact not.
The young knight was known to the staff of the theatre, having helped build it but also as the brother of the young queen who brought this space to the city, so he was not stopped as he made his way through the lobby to a set of stairs that led to a landing with a half bust sculpture of an elderly tiefling man growing out of a tree that’s base was surrounded by forget-me-not flowers. His features were kind, framed by short curling horns growing from the side of his bald head, his lower face covered with a full beard surrounding softly smiling lips. His sculpted eyes follow the line of his left hand pointing towards a shifting crystal pane of magical glass that reflects the same, clear blue sky as outside with small wispy white clouds. As Marto glances up he sees the clouds swirl and begin to form letters, which become words, which become a phrase.
Everyone can be redeemed, no one deserves punishment for eternity.
The affirmation makes Marto stand a bit straighter, remembering a conversation he had with someone else recently. His determined stride takes Marto into his sister’s apartments and the secret door behind the statue closes without anyone the wiser.
The other clever thing about this place was how it was two theatres – or rather a theatre and a concert hall – stacked on top of each other, with Merla’s apartments nestled between the two like a grace note in a bar of music. Filled with the green from the trees worked into the structure, despite it being sandwiched between the two halves everywhere was graced with light. It was warm, inviting, homey – whilst still being enchanting like any fey abode.
“Marto!”
Merla flies into him, wrapping her arms around Marto in a tight embrace as she shrinks down to be her true size. He laughs, hugging her back, really glad to see her, not realising how much he had missed her, or anyone from his family, until this moment.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she continued, pulling back. Merla guides him through a vine draped doorway into a kitchen that looks reminiscent of their familial home., but with her very distinct twist as Marto takes off his winter gloves and fur lined cloak. He hasn’t had a chance to take off his armour yet either but that can wait for a little bit. Kruxeral, her satyr paramour, was in the midst of making some tea. He doesn’t see any other staff members around but he has no doubt that a small retainer of guards are nearby.
“Greetings young Marto. You’re looking well,” says the Master of Revelries. “Care for some tea? You look a little run off your feet.”
“Some tea would be wonderful actually, yes,” he says, placing his battleaxe and shield off to the side. He begins to unbuckle some of the straps of his splint armour as he continues, “I’m doing alright though, as I hope you all are too. Sorry I didn’t come sooner, I was busy helping a bunch of people find new places to live with one of my friends, Zola. She’s from the Witching Court, a really beautiful half-drow woman – someone I think you’d really like Merla,” he turns to smile at his sister, “But yeah, a bunch of people had nowhere to go and I wanted to help them find new places to live- Oh! Hello May, Cay,” Marto starts, suddenly seeing the pixie and sprite duo on his shoulder.
They give him a little wave.
“El-o Mar-o!” May says around a mouth full of scones. Cay shakes his head rolling his eyes until the little pixie starts choking. He rushes over to help her, flying her over to the island so as to get the pesky bit of baked goods dislodged from her throat.
“ACK! Ugh…” the pixie coughs a little more, collapsing over.
Cay continues to fuss over her. “That’s why you gotta chew your food, silly…”
“But it tastes so good…”
Kruxeral carefully places the teapot in the middle of the island. “Helping people already! How noble for a young knight,” he praises. “Soon you’ll be slaying dragons and rescuing princes and princesses!”
Marto gives a small laugh but his smile dies fast as he remembers the Flayed Saviour’s taunting words.
“Run! Run! Judgement will come to you soon enough!”
His face is sombre as he undoes the final strap of his splint armour. “A true knight wouldn’t have had to flee like we did…”
“What happened to their home?” Merla asks beside him. Her forget-me-not eyes study him a bit closer as she helps him put his armour down carefully. “Does it have anything to do with the red cloud over the Angelbark Forest?”
“Yeah, it is actually. I think… Oh gosh, where do I even start?” Marto sighs, running a hand through his hair.
He looks down and sees Merla’s softly glowing hand take his, giving it a gentle squeeze. When he looks up, the gold ring in her eyes is pulsing with a calming light. “Start where you think is best and we’ll see where it goes from there.”
Another pot of tea had to be made before Marto finished telling Merla and Kruxeral everything that had happened at the monastery to the Flayed Saviour.
It had been easy to talk about the people they had met – Cheela and her delicious bread; Arjhan and his patience; Max and his well placed pride in his leatherworking skills; Kaltana and her zeal for wanting to paint on skin; Mox and her quiet silence; Graash’s dedication to peace even in the face of a horrible threat; and Father Markus’ kindness. Some of the conversations had gone better than others. Zola’s goal had not been to cause a confrontation, certainly not against a being who thought or claimed he had the word of a god pouring into his ear directly from the Upper Spheres – although Tayz’s anathema at seeing all the followers of the Saviour suffering despite their ability to heal, and even Ren’s choice words that nearly saw one or two of the flock get riled up to the point of near confrontation – there was no way they could have known what the Flayed Saviour was going to do.
“Prophets – or Chosen if you will – of the gods are not unheard of,” Kruxeral says. He has his horned head resting in his hand as he looks at Marto. “There haven’t been such types often because the gods tend to keep in their lane these days.”
“You’re talking about the Time of Troubles aren’t you?” Marto asks.
“Hmm, yes and no. That’s a little different.” Kruxeral sits up. “What I refer to is more like being blessed with divine favour, though they may not be clerics or priests.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Merla says, remembering now. She looks at Marto. “Sunday, an adventurer who used to be here, became a Chosen of Corellon I believe. She even had the ability to summon them once to help her in her most dire hour of need.”
“And look how well that turned out,” Kruxeral grumbles.
“What does that mean?” Marto asks, intrigued. “Did this Sunday suddenly get extreme divine powers?”
“No, she didn’t,” Merla replies hesitantly. “Summoning Corellon to the First took its toll on them and it’s been an underlying cause for much of the strife in the Faen Realms as of late.”
“Oh. I see.”
“But you mentioned the Saviour was looking to finally ‘do something’,” Merla prompts.
“Yes. Apparently two other groups of adventurers had visited before, questioning how their sect’s practice of Ilmater’s ways was actually helping anyone. In a way, I get what they were asking. I get why they questioned it. Even the others, Ren and Tayz, repeatedly questioned how the folks at the monastery’s pain could help fix things. How could their suffering balance the scales? We were told time and time again that things cannot be fixed with a wave of a magical hand. Such extreme reluctance to have magic help solve problems, like it doesn’t actually do any good, was baffling to me.”
“What absolute nonsense,” Kruxeral mutters dismissively. “To say that magic isn’t its own kind of skill displays a huge ignorance to how it works.”
Marto nods. “Trust me, I know. But I have also seen how gods can work changes through the power of belief.”
He catches Merla’s eye and the two share a look. She knows exactly what he is talking about.
Craobh de Shruth Fala. The Tree of Bloodlines.
“What happened when you came face to face with this Saviour before things took a turn?” Merla asks quietly.
“Well, Zola warned us that within a certain distance of the Saviour their connection to Eilistraee would become severed, that she couldn’t feel her. It was Ren pointing out earlier that the gods are everywhere, that I began to think about it some more.” Marto pauses and looks between the two fey. “The presence of powerful entities often can and does deflect the minor influences of others… and that counts for those from the Upper and Lower Planes.”
Kruxeral’s gaze flicks over to Merla but her brow is furrowed under her circlet of gold and cyclamen flowers.
“Go on Marto,” she says, as the satyr takes her hand in his.
“My magic is arcane, through the studies we’ve been working on, though it is small compared to what Zola or Tayz could do. I cast a basic protection spell on me and though I don’t think it did a lot to help, I didn’t feel it’s protection vanish when we came to the cave the Saviour was in.”
“Why would you risk seeing such a being?” Kruxeral asks.
Marto sighs, wondering how best to explain it.
“After talking to everyone we knew we had to see the Saviour. Part of it was curiosity, but another possibly larger part was to witness for ourselves just how divine this person was who claims to be a conduit for one of the more powerful gods. You see, Ilmater isn’t a bad god, he’s actually one of the ‘good guys’. He is buddies with Tyr and Torm.”
Merla perks up at that. “That’s good to know, actually. Might be something Varis can use to help calm this situation down.”
Kruxeral’s features grow a little dark but Merla doesn’t seem to notice. Marto does though and wonders what the satyr is so worried about.
“Yeah… Anyways, so, we were talking with Graash because some of the others mentioned he has to go on a special pilgrimage, but Zola could tell something was off. Apparently the Saviour was going to send him to Daring Heights to recruit people.”
Merla frowns. “But you said, they weren’t the type of group to actively recruit members.”
“Exactly! Graash said the belief of Ilmater had changed, that there are far too many huts in this land and not enough of them to fix it.”
“Guess the adventurers who went before finally got to him, huh?” Kruxeral asks, his grin a little more fey.
Marto nods. “Graash was concerned that if he went to recruit, the people who’d say yes wouldn’t fully understand what they were getting into. He explained that some of them watch the adventurers galavanting around, which can make the average towns person feel as if they aren’t strong enough.” He shakes his head. “That they won’t know or understand what they are getting themselves into when asked to come.”
“It’s interesting that this ‘Saviour’ became so easily swayed. You’d think the convictions of his belief would not crumble so easily,” Merla muses.
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Merla. These people… they all claimed to have had a vision from Ilmater, and I’m inclined to believe them. This vision showed them a path, one they chose to walk it but…” Marto sighs, a feeling of creeping exhaustion seeping into his bones. “…but somewhere along the way the Saviour became too encased in his belief of what he is doing is right, that he is now thinking there is no other way. Hence the-” he gestures to the north, the direction of the Angelbark Forest.
Merla goes quiet and nods. “Yes. I am aware of the pattern you speak of.”
She turns to look at Kruxeral, who is now doing his best to put on a face of indifferent amusement. But Marto thinks he sees a worry to the satyr’s brow that hasn’t gone away since they started talking.
“If this is as serious as Marto says then-”
“Then you must do what you always do, arael’salif,” Kruxeral starts, softly interrupting her. He brushes a hand across her cheek, the simple gesture both a sign of love and tenderness, but also worry. “Go set things to right.”
Marto looks away, feeling guilty that he brought this problem to his sister’s door. A thought suddenly occurs to him and the expression the Master of Revelries made earlier makes a lot more sense.
“I should probably get out of your hair,” he starts but Merla reaches for his hand, anchoring him in place.
“You’re exhausted Marto. Please, stay here the night.” Kruxeral nods, agreeing. He then gets up, points a finger at May and Cay and the two suddenly bolt awake, look around confused, before flying up from the island to follow him out of the room. The satyr looks back at Merla saying something in Sylvan Marto doesn’t understand, but it makes his sister smile and nod, which in turn makes him relax a little before he gives a small bow to Marto and leaves.
“Is everything alright between you two?” he asks in halfling.
“Yes,” she reassures him. “Kruxeral is just worried. The last time I helped with something happening in the Dawnlands I was gone for longer than either of us expected.”
“Oh. Right.”
“But you have done nothing wrong in telling me, Marto. I hope you know that. I’m glad you did.” Merla smiles at him and Marto feels himself relaxing too. “You know you can come to me about anything, right? I’m here for you, and not just because Mama and Papa asked me to keep an eye on you. You’re my brother, my family… I want to make sure you know I am here for you.”
Marto suddenly thinks of a dream he had, a midnight visit from a devil, and a mark that is freezing cold to the touch. He could tell her. He could let his sister know and he’s sure she would make sure he wouldn’t face whatever the consequences are of that alone. But something holds him back. Guilt? Pride? Shame?
“Yeah, I know.”
The young knight was known to the staff of the theatre, having helped build it but also as the brother of the young queen who brought this space to the city, so he was not stopped as he made his way through the lobby to a set of stairs that led to a landing with a half bust sculpture of an elderly tiefling man growing out of a tree that’s base was surrounded by forget-me-not flowers. His features were kind, framed by short curling horns growing from the side of his bald head, his lower face covered with a full beard surrounding softly smiling lips. His sculpted eyes follow the line of his left hand pointing towards a shifting crystal pane of magical glass that reflects the same, clear blue sky as outside with small wispy white clouds. As Marto glances up he sees the clouds swirl and begin to form letters, which become words, which become a phrase.
Everyone can be redeemed, no one deserves punishment for eternity.
The affirmation makes Marto stand a bit straighter, remembering a conversation he had with someone else recently. His determined stride takes Marto into his sister’s apartments and the secret door behind the statue closes without anyone the wiser.
The other clever thing about this place was how it was two theatres – or rather a theatre and a concert hall – stacked on top of each other, with Merla’s apartments nestled between the two like a grace note in a bar of music. Filled with the green from the trees worked into the structure, despite it being sandwiched between the two halves everywhere was graced with light. It was warm, inviting, homey – whilst still being enchanting like any fey abode.
“Marto!”
Merla flies into him, wrapping her arms around Marto in a tight embrace as she shrinks down to be her true size. He laughs, hugging her back, really glad to see her, not realising how much he had missed her, or anyone from his family, until this moment.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she continued, pulling back. Merla guides him through a vine draped doorway into a kitchen that looks reminiscent of their familial home., but with her very distinct twist as Marto takes off his winter gloves and fur lined cloak. He hasn’t had a chance to take off his armour yet either but that can wait for a little bit. Kruxeral, her satyr paramour, was in the midst of making some tea. He doesn’t see any other staff members around but he has no doubt that a small retainer of guards are nearby.
“Greetings young Marto. You’re looking well,” says the Master of Revelries. “Care for some tea? You look a little run off your feet.”
“Some tea would be wonderful actually, yes,” he says, placing his battleaxe and shield off to the side. He begins to unbuckle some of the straps of his splint armour as he continues, “I’m doing alright though, as I hope you all are too. Sorry I didn’t come sooner, I was busy helping a bunch of people find new places to live with one of my friends, Zola. She’s from the Witching Court, a really beautiful half-drow woman – someone I think you’d really like Merla,” he turns to smile at his sister, “But yeah, a bunch of people had nowhere to go and I wanted to help them find new places to live- Oh! Hello May, Cay,” Marto starts, suddenly seeing the pixie and sprite duo on his shoulder.
They give him a little wave.
“El-o Mar-o!” May says around a mouth full of scones. Cay shakes his head rolling his eyes until the little pixie starts choking. He rushes over to help her, flying her over to the island so as to get the pesky bit of baked goods dislodged from her throat.
“ACK! Ugh…” the pixie coughs a little more, collapsing over.
Cay continues to fuss over her. “That’s why you gotta chew your food, silly…”
“But it tastes so good…”
Kruxeral carefully places the teapot in the middle of the island. “Helping people already! How noble for a young knight,” he praises. “Soon you’ll be slaying dragons and rescuing princes and princesses!”
Marto gives a small laugh but his smile dies fast as he remembers the Flayed Saviour’s taunting words.
“Run! Run! Judgement will come to you soon enough!”
His face is sombre as he undoes the final strap of his splint armour. “A true knight wouldn’t have had to flee like we did…”
“What happened to their home?” Merla asks beside him. Her forget-me-not eyes study him a bit closer as she helps him put his armour down carefully. “Does it have anything to do with the red cloud over the Angelbark Forest?”
“Yeah, it is actually. I think… Oh gosh, where do I even start?” Marto sighs, running a hand through his hair.
He looks down and sees Merla’s softly glowing hand take his, giving it a gentle squeeze. When he looks up, the gold ring in her eyes is pulsing with a calming light. “Start where you think is best and we’ll see where it goes from there.”
Another pot of tea had to be made before Marto finished telling Merla and Kruxeral everything that had happened at the monastery to the Flayed Saviour.
It had been easy to talk about the people they had met – Cheela and her delicious bread; Arjhan and his patience; Max and his well placed pride in his leatherworking skills; Kaltana and her zeal for wanting to paint on skin; Mox and her quiet silence; Graash’s dedication to peace even in the face of a horrible threat; and Father Markus’ kindness. Some of the conversations had gone better than others. Zola’s goal had not been to cause a confrontation, certainly not against a being who thought or claimed he had the word of a god pouring into his ear directly from the Upper Spheres – although Tayz’s anathema at seeing all the followers of the Saviour suffering despite their ability to heal, and even Ren’s choice words that nearly saw one or two of the flock get riled up to the point of near confrontation – there was no way they could have known what the Flayed Saviour was going to do.
“Prophets – or Chosen if you will – of the gods are not unheard of,” Kruxeral says. He has his horned head resting in his hand as he looks at Marto. “There haven’t been such types often because the gods tend to keep in their lane these days.”
“You’re talking about the Time of Troubles aren’t you?” Marto asks.
“Hmm, yes and no. That’s a little different.” Kruxeral sits up. “What I refer to is more like being blessed with divine favour, though they may not be clerics or priests.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Merla says, remembering now. She looks at Marto. “Sunday, an adventurer who used to be here, became a Chosen of Corellon I believe. She even had the ability to summon them once to help her in her most dire hour of need.”
“And look how well that turned out,” Kruxeral grumbles.
“What does that mean?” Marto asks, intrigued. “Did this Sunday suddenly get extreme divine powers?”
“No, she didn’t,” Merla replies hesitantly. “Summoning Corellon to the First took its toll on them and it’s been an underlying cause for much of the strife in the Faen Realms as of late.”
“Oh. I see.”
“But you mentioned the Saviour was looking to finally ‘do something’,” Merla prompts.
“Yes. Apparently two other groups of adventurers had visited before, questioning how their sect’s practice of Ilmater’s ways was actually helping anyone. In a way, I get what they were asking. I get why they questioned it. Even the others, Ren and Tayz, repeatedly questioned how the folks at the monastery’s pain could help fix things. How could their suffering balance the scales? We were told time and time again that things cannot be fixed with a wave of a magical hand. Such extreme reluctance to have magic help solve problems, like it doesn’t actually do any good, was baffling to me.”
“What absolute nonsense,” Kruxeral mutters dismissively. “To say that magic isn’t its own kind of skill displays a huge ignorance to how it works.”
Marto nods. “Trust me, I know. But I have also seen how gods can work changes through the power of belief.”
He catches Merla’s eye and the two share a look. She knows exactly what he is talking about.
Craobh de Shruth Fala. The Tree of Bloodlines.
“What happened when you came face to face with this Saviour before things took a turn?” Merla asks quietly.
“Well, Zola warned us that within a certain distance of the Saviour their connection to Eilistraee would become severed, that she couldn’t feel her. It was Ren pointing out earlier that the gods are everywhere, that I began to think about it some more.” Marto pauses and looks between the two fey. “The presence of powerful entities often can and does deflect the minor influences of others… and that counts for those from the Upper and Lower Planes.”
Kruxeral’s gaze flicks over to Merla but her brow is furrowed under her circlet of gold and cyclamen flowers.
“Go on Marto,” she says, as the satyr takes her hand in his.
“My magic is arcane, through the studies we’ve been working on, though it is small compared to what Zola or Tayz could do. I cast a basic protection spell on me and though I don’t think it did a lot to help, I didn’t feel it’s protection vanish when we came to the cave the Saviour was in.”
“Why would you risk seeing such a being?” Kruxeral asks.
Marto sighs, wondering how best to explain it.
“After talking to everyone we knew we had to see the Saviour. Part of it was curiosity, but another possibly larger part was to witness for ourselves just how divine this person was who claims to be a conduit for one of the more powerful gods. You see, Ilmater isn’t a bad god, he’s actually one of the ‘good guys’. He is buddies with Tyr and Torm.”
Merla perks up at that. “That’s good to know, actually. Might be something Varis can use to help calm this situation down.”
Kruxeral’s features grow a little dark but Merla doesn’t seem to notice. Marto does though and wonders what the satyr is so worried about.
“Yeah… Anyways, so, we were talking with Graash because some of the others mentioned he has to go on a special pilgrimage, but Zola could tell something was off. Apparently the Saviour was going to send him to Daring Heights to recruit people.”
Merla frowns. “But you said, they weren’t the type of group to actively recruit members.”
“Exactly! Graash said the belief of Ilmater had changed, that there are far too many huts in this land and not enough of them to fix it.”
“Guess the adventurers who went before finally got to him, huh?” Kruxeral asks, his grin a little more fey.
Marto nods. “Graash was concerned that if he went to recruit, the people who’d say yes wouldn’t fully understand what they were getting into. He explained that some of them watch the adventurers galavanting around, which can make the average towns person feel as if they aren’t strong enough.” He shakes his head. “That they won’t know or understand what they are getting themselves into when asked to come.”
“It’s interesting that this ‘Saviour’ became so easily swayed. You’d think the convictions of his belief would not crumble so easily,” Merla muses.
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Merla. These people… they all claimed to have had a vision from Ilmater, and I’m inclined to believe them. This vision showed them a path, one they chose to walk it but…” Marto sighs, a feeling of creeping exhaustion seeping into his bones. “…but somewhere along the way the Saviour became too encased in his belief of what he is doing is right, that he is now thinking there is no other way. Hence the-” he gestures to the north, the direction of the Angelbark Forest.
Merla goes quiet and nods. “Yes. I am aware of the pattern you speak of.”
She turns to look at Kruxeral, who is now doing his best to put on a face of indifferent amusement. But Marto thinks he sees a worry to the satyr’s brow that hasn’t gone away since they started talking.
“If this is as serious as Marto says then-”
“Then you must do what you always do, arael’salif,” Kruxeral starts, softly interrupting her. He brushes a hand across her cheek, the simple gesture both a sign of love and tenderness, but also worry. “Go set things to right.”
Marto looks away, feeling guilty that he brought this problem to his sister’s door. A thought suddenly occurs to him and the expression the Master of Revelries made earlier makes a lot more sense.
“I should probably get out of your hair,” he starts but Merla reaches for his hand, anchoring him in place.
“You’re exhausted Marto. Please, stay here the night.” Kruxeral nods, agreeing. He then gets up, points a finger at May and Cay and the two suddenly bolt awake, look around confused, before flying up from the island to follow him out of the room. The satyr looks back at Merla saying something in Sylvan Marto doesn’t understand, but it makes his sister smile and nod, which in turn makes him relax a little before he gives a small bow to Marto and leaves.
“Is everything alright between you two?” he asks in halfling.
“Yes,” she reassures him. “Kruxeral is just worried. The last time I helped with something happening in the Dawnlands I was gone for longer than either of us expected.”
“Oh. Right.”
“But you have done nothing wrong in telling me, Marto. I hope you know that. I’m glad you did.” Merla smiles at him and Marto feels himself relaxing too. “You know you can come to me about anything, right? I’m here for you, and not just because Mama and Papa asked me to keep an eye on you. You’re my brother, my family… I want to make sure you know I am here for you.”
Marto suddenly thinks of a dream he had, a midnight visit from a devil, and a mark that is freezing cold to the touch. He could tell her. He could let his sister know and he’s sure she would make sure he wouldn’t face whatever the consequences are of that alone. But something holds him back. Guilt? Pride? Shame?
“Yeah, I know.”