|
|
Post by andycd on Jun 26, 2022 21:07:32 GMT
The streets of Daring Heights were mostly empty now. The evacuations had been efficient and orderly, some citizens portalling back to Faerun, some travelling to Kundar, others still to various locations in K’ul Goran. That had been an easy one to sign off at least – the Dawnlands had cared for the Gorani refugees in the Giant War only a few years ago after all.
Commander Cordelia Jadefist stood on the battlements of Fort Daring and stared west, listening to the deafening silence of the city as she watched their impending doom slowly loom out of the shadows of pre-dawn before her. Gadenthor, a flying bloody city of bloody githyanki and their thrice-damned dragons, an ever-growing shadow on the horizon as it descended from the mountains into the Dawnlands itself.
The first Fort Daring had been a little further north west – a hastily erected construction Aurelia had pulled out of the ground to defend Daring Heights against a massive conjunction of orc clans from the Sunset Spine. Commander Jadefist was the leader of a band of mercenaries hired for that battle, and it had been a massacre. She’d lost most of her forces, the survivors had all been captured, including herself, and Daring Heights had been sacked and pillaged. And that was just orcs. The Second Battle of Daring Heights had to go differently. She would not lose this city again. This was the chance she’d been waiting for to prove her worth.
The shadow of Gadenthor in the distance became brighter. The fires had begun. Dragon raiders over farmland – the Council had known this was an inevitability – an unavoidable loss. As the dawn broke over the Dawnlands, the sun revealed a land on fire.
Cordelia’s silent vigil was broken when she realised she wasn’t alone. A number of other soldiers were standing along the wall as well, staring at inevitability. That wouldn’t do. “Get back to your posts!” she barked at them, snapping them back to reality. “Focus on what we can do – those farms are long-since evacuated. Or they’d better be.”
Soldiers scattering to their tasks, and Cordelia descended the steps to begin the process of taking a final inventory.
It was an impressive list, all told. The adventuring community had put a phenomenal amount of effort into aiding the preparations. Citizens who might otherwise have been foolish enough to stay had been convinced to evacuate. Others had been persuaded to enlist instead – her lieutenants were training the newbies up on the basics as she strode past. Supplies had been gathered – defensive, medical, and more. Barricades had been built, walls strengthened – she’d even heard there was some wild machine patrolling the streets of Port Ffirst. From what she’d heard, Cordelia was glad it was over there and not in Daring Heights itself.
Commander, we are ready for escort. How long do you need?
Aurelia’s eternally calm voice spoke quietly in her mind. Cordelia put out a hand to stop the scribe reciting the inventory and closed her eyes to respond.
Ready now, Archmage. I’ll have your escort at the Town Hall in 15 minutes. We’ll get the package to Fort Ettin, don’t worry.
Commander Jadefist led fifty soldiers to the Town Hall at a light trot. No need to waste time marching through the eerie streets. Forming up outside, they waited just a few moments before the door opened and Aurelia came out, looking more drawn and weary than the dwarf had seen her in a long time, leading Coll by the arm. Or not Coll, apparently. The barkeep was looking around rapidly as they came outside, seeming to take in every detail they could as quickly as possible.
“Xeron,” Aurelia said. “This is Commander Jadefist. She will be escorting you to Fort Ettin, where you’ll be safe until Gadenthor comes into range. As you’ve told us, the Githyanki can track you now, so they’ll know to go to the Fort directly.”
When Coll spoke, it was definitely not his voice that emerged. “We understand, Councillor. You will deliver Gadenthor to us, and then deliver us to Gadenthor. We shall reassert administrative control and disperse these people who have stolen us.”
Cordelia took a moment to translate that in her mind. Wait until Gadenthor is closer to Fort Ettin, and then sneak ‘Xeron’ aboard the city. Give them back control of Gadenthor and Xeron will get rid of the rest of the Githyanki.
“All we need to do is hold out until then,” Cordelia said, flatly.
“Precisely, Commander. Given our calculations, they should arrive at the Fort during the night a few days from now. So we shall just have to survive that night.” Aurelia confirmed.
"Well let’s not waste any time. All right squad; form up on Xeron here! They are now mission critical. Our lives before theirs. We march to Fort Ettin.”
As clanking feet shuffled into formation, Cordelia nodded to Aurelia. “We’ll be back this evening. Stay safe.”
“You too, Commander.”
The march was, unsurprisingly, uneventful. Aurelia didn’t want to risk sending the delicate balance that was Coll/Xeron’s brain through a portal, and the Gith were still far enough away. As they arrived at the Fort, there were a few whistles from the soldiers. The adventurers had been busy.
There was a moat around the fort now, and a trench on top of that. They still hadn't bothered to install a door yet, but it was progress. Multiple ballistae armed the walls of the fortress, and the place was a veritable hive of activity – a far cry from the desolate streets of Daring.
In the chaos it was easy to miss even an entire squadron of soldiers marching through the middle of the fort, walking up to Jenna, and handing over custody of Xeron to her. Jenna told Xeron to wait in Coll’s room, which Xeron complied with immediately, probably sensing that anything else would just be getting in the way – multiple people staring in confusion at Coll’s body walking around stiffly without any of its customary joviality.
The march back was quiet, but Jadefist could see one thing clearly: the adventurers were gearing up to give the Gith one hell of a fight. She would ensure that Daring’s First gave nothing less in defense of the city. They would not lose this town again.
|
|
|
|
Post by Jaezred Vandree on Jun 27, 2022 13:43:58 GMT
Standing apart from two silent soldiers guarding a ballista, Jaezred peeks through a gap between the battlements of the tower to scan the nighttime horizon, illuminated faintly in orange by fading sunlight. Despite the radically different ambience of the surface world, this simple act gives him such a powerful sense of déjà vu. He was in the very position of those soldiers once, a hundred-twenty-something years-old and stationed on the walls of Menzoberranzan, having been caught up in a patriotic fervour to defend his homeland from duergar and demon invaders. Military propaganda to a young mind is like water to a dry sponge; of course, nobody ever told him anything about what it felt like to be doused in stonefire or starve in a year-long siege.
He's now twice as old as he was then. How strange it is to be in this same place again.
And just 15 years ago, the shoe was on the other foot — he was in the position that the githyanki currently occupy: the invading force. Lolth's devoted crusaders, clad in black and red, marched out of their subterranean city and across Northern Faerûn under a sky of dark clouds. Many of them had been to the surface world at least once before, but they were still unprepared for the cold northern winds. And so they burned every village on the way to keep warm.
Once, he witnessed Tiago Baenre ride Arauthator the white dragon as the two of them rained icy devastation on Nesmé. Now, the dragons are vomiting fire on his head. Is this simply a symptom of the cyclical and relentlessly repetitive nature of everything? The Selûnites probably have something wise to say about that, but he wouldn't count on it.
Jaezred shrugs, taking his pipe and a box of rose-scented tobacco out of a pocket, and turns to offer the soldiers a smoke.
|
|
|
|
Post by Velania Kalugina on Jun 27, 2022 14:44:15 GMT
"What, the barman?"
"That bartender? What's he got to do with this?"
"Just that chap from the Fort."
Velania's fists are clenched so hard they tremble. He could still be "just a barman" and it would not matter to her one bit. But he is so much more. He is the face of the people. He is the warm welcome to every traveller seeking to make the Dawnlands their home. He serves on the Council alongside his closest friends, luminaries such as Rholor Vuzhek, Aurelia Archselon, Cordelia Jadefist – the more famous, more reknowned legends in their respective fields. He talks to everyone; he knows everybody; he is the centre of the community. If he were able, he would be leading the preparations for this invasion. He is handsome, he is smart, he is kind, he is witty. He could be anything he liked. She would love him all the same. Caring for him has not been easy. Hearing the artificial voice of Xeron coming from his body was heartbreaking. Seeing him kidnapped and fall from the sky, too awful to talk about. Keeping her visits to his bedside secret from her closest friends has been an unexpected burden. She has hated being unable to share. Keeping her love and her loyalty to him hidden away, lest it put him in danger. Come what may, that time seems to be over. But her anxiety over what is to come weighs her down, heavy as lead. Dragons, pirates, warriors, espionage, raids, defences, preparations – she is new to war. The approaching invasion terrifies her. Whispering in Celestial, the language of her ancestors, she says one final prayer: Guide me and let my judgement not be clouded by my feelings, Selûne. I ask not for anything of you, but whatever your divine plan for me entails, know this:
I shall never give up on Coll.
Never.
Her jaw is set. She exhales wearily. Tired but alive with nervous energy, Velania picks up her belongings and leaves the Temple of Selûne in Daring Heights. She closes the temple doors and looks across the desolate square in a quiet, nervous city. It is a long walk to Fort Ettin. But she will get there before Gadenthor arrives. She will be waiting. Continues in Ex-Astris – The East Wall
|
|
|
|
Post by Merla, the Daughter of Summer on Jun 27, 2022 17:04:21 GMT
“Why are you here, Ulorian?” Merla asks, tightening the strap of her intricate studded leather breastplate. “I was bored and I wanted to see what my favourite little monarch is up to,” the River king says, taking a sip from the piña colada that magically appears in his hand. “I don’t have time for our weekly banter, King of Cowards. I have places to be, dragons to slay-” “-and princes to rescue! Speaking of,” Ulorian chasse’s up next to Merla, looking at himself in her mirror primping his hair as she straps on her blade belt, “I heard about you and the Master of Revelries finally chose each other for the Marfachrei.” He gives a little golf clap. Merla rolls her eyes. “Now there’s no escaping it. Even Titania knows you two are together, tied by fate, one might say!” She brushes past him, grabbing her harp and heading out the door. “If congratulations were truly your aim you would have sent a water lily bouquet. Perhaps one of your favourites – the drowning embrace,” Merla says over her shoulder, hearing Ulorian follow her out. She glances back and sees him about to touch a seedling plant she has growing in the Summer Sun, not liking the look in his eyes. “Such a delicate little-” Ulorian stops. Merla has placed a firm hand on his arm. He turns to look at her with a mercurial smile. “-flower. Too much sun and it might wither away.” He wiggles his fingers and there’s a small showering of fresh, clear water that falls into its pot. A few of the purplish buds wiggle before blooming, a puff of sweet lilac-like scent rising up between the two archfey. “Why are you here, Ulorian?” Merla asks again, her tone so much like her Mother’s. “Tsk.” The River King pulls his arm back, rubbing it a little, the glow of a golden handprint lingering on his skin. “You’re no fun when you’re like this. You’re not Her, no matter how much you wish you could be.” Merla tilts her head. “Advice is it? That’s what you came to give?” “I told you. I was bored.” They shrug. “Now, I’m less so.”
“Go be bored in your own Court, River King. I have somewhere I need to be.” With that, the Queen of Virtue and Virtuosity walked out of her rooms where a magnificent winged unicorn stood waiting for her. “I could always kick him for you, again,” Astra offers. “Don’t tempt me,” Merla says. The two walk out together, through the palace grounds and towards an archway of trees. The River King follows them leisurely, a fresh piña colada in their hand. With a shake of her head, Merla takes the Material Plane tuning fork from her belt, strikes it against her harp, then plane shifts to Daring Heights. They arrive just outside of Fort Daring. It is golden hour, the cobblestones still hot from the day’s sun. “Halt!” The shout comes from above. Merla holds up her hand. “Peace. I have come to help Daring Heights against the githyanki invasion. I am-” “I know who you are, your… feyness. But I also know who that is.” Merla and Astra turn around. Brushing a bit of imaginary dust from his shirt, leaning against the wall, piña colada in hand, a bored expression on their face but mischief in their eyes stands King Ulorian of the Wandering Court. He gives a half-hearted wave up to the soldier. “Hello. I’m with Miss Virtuosity over here,” the River King says dismissively. The soldier is shouting for someone to find Commander Jadefist. “Why are you here, Ulorian?” Merla asks for the third time, her voice low, the Sylvan words, clipped. Ulorian drains the rest of his drink and tosses the glass over his shoulder. As it hits the cobbled street it shatters into a million drops of water. He slowly saunters over, running a hand through his short, light blue hair. “I’m just here for the light show. I hear it’s going to get ‘lit’ tonight.”She doesn’t need Truesight to see the ulterior motive a mile away, and Ulorian laughs, knowing full well that she knows his game. Yet it doesn’t matter. In the end, they both know that the River King’s help, though unwelcome, may well be needed when the dragons rain down fiery death upon this place she loves.
|
|
|
|
Post by Beets The Beetle (Feenix) on Jun 27, 2022 21:36:04 GMT
The watchful moon flew high over the rose pink fort as the little fairy began her work. Bowls of paste lay out ready on roof tiles before her, a mixture ground beetle horn in one, a paste of powdered moon rock in the other. Both set either side of a bowl water, her determined face resolute in its silvery surface. With the streaks of the beetle she remembered the hardships she had faced. The pain and sorrows that had stung deep and had left their marks. The anger and fear that had many a time consumed her. The lost of her home. The death of her father. The rejection from her own kind. Yet with all darkness, there comes time when the light will always break through. Friendship and laughter. Adventure and wonder. Love and acceptance. As she applied the final touches of her paint, the fairy took in her reflection. A body of contrast. A mind of fleeting nature. Yet she knew in her tiny heart what she must do. She had already lost one home to an unbridled force. There was no buggin’way she was about to lose another! 
|
|
|
|
Post by Gerhard on Jun 28, 2022 1:30:14 GMT
"If you need us, give us a Call" The wanderer Calls, and the Staircase answers. The now-familiar sound of ripping, of tearing, of the pulling apart of reality fills the air outside the gate of Fort Ettin as the light of the moon fills the field. The pit fiend steps through, the door closing behind him. A whispered thank you from the wanderer to the door; a tight embrace from the fiend to the wanderer. It is good to see you, Gerhard! And you, Copernicus. The fiend wears a grin, his apron gone and replaced with armour; his cooking utensils with the instruments of war. The wanderer wears a sheepish grin, reassuring the other adventurers that no, it's okay, he's with us. The fiend is interested in the Fort - in the moat, hastily dug; in the battlements, manned by hardened adventurers; in the quiet moments shared in dark corners between those that are afraid that this is their last night. The wanderer greets his friends as they come by, introducing them to another Traveller. Another Chosen of the Infinite Staircase. Does he feel it too, the wanderer wonders? Does this fiend who towers over his comrades feel the fog in the air, smell the smoke on the wind? Does he hold himself close in the quiet moments, his thoughts cast out to another? Kavel's Corner, the goliath's training ground. The Great Hall, the adventurer's resting place. Will they be here a night from now? Will any of us? They sit, their backs to the wall and their eyes west, towards the setting of the sun. Towards the fires that erupt from the sky, scorching the earth. The wanderer plucks a bow string, the silver shining in the last light of the day. The fiend sharpens a dagger. They look to the sky, their gaze catching the few stars that have begun to come out. The fiend nudges the wanderer, pointing to the sky. Look at how many places I have left to see! The wanderer smiles, a shrug. Once this is over, you will have to show me. |
|
Laurel Shortstride
Full Member
Pacifist healer with their awakened giant goat friend, Poppy
Posts: 126
|
Post by Laurel Shortstride on Jun 28, 2022 8:49:12 GMT
“…and once you’ve finished that step, simply leave it to heal. Alright, that’s it for today. If you need reminders in the moment how to treat burns I wrote a few pamphlets, help yourself.”
The small group by the medical tent wander away, leaving Laurel standing amongst the pile of medical supplies that a multitude of adventurers had managed to create recently. Looking around the Fort walls they see a bustle of activity, arranging guard postings, checking traps and a group being taught how to use a ballista. They sigh.
Why must it always be a fight? It causes so much needless pain.
Their eyes settle on the small pool under one tower. The shrine to Eldath that literally sprang into existence when they arrived here nearly a year ago. In stark contrast to the rest of the occupants, they gently sit themself on the ground next to it, fingers lazily dipping into the water, and close their eyes. A calm washes over them, a reassuring sense that no matter how others choose to approach this, they can continue to lessen the pain and help find a quieter solution. If Xeron can get onboard Gadenthor and Coll can be restored to his body, there is no fight needed after all.
But what about Daring Heights? The residents may have been evacuated but so many have their roots there and so much that can be lost. Poppy is still there too, and strangely that is a helpful thought. Since she was awakened she had picked up some medical knowledge, and although she may not have the hands to apply dressings she can help explain the methods to others who do.
Their eyes gently open, and they feel a bit restored and focussed. There is other work they can do to help here, they had seen Dwirihan dashing around with buckets and filling them with water. That seems a very good idea to them, and they head onto the walls to join in the effort. If fires are to come, they must be extinguished before they cause pain.
|
|
|
|
Post by Derthaad on Jun 28, 2022 15:39:17 GMT
"Dammit!" - comes from the roof of Fort Ettin, as a blue dragonborn flips through the last page of a book he's been reading, or, more like the last remaining page as he realises that the last chapter is missing. He got this book from an Elder Brain when he helped Ambel strike a deal with it. The book, though without a title, is about a hero's journey, about how he rose to glory but then fell into his own darkness.
Will the hero rise from the depths of his own abyss and claim redemption, will he succumb to madness and forever be forgotten... or will he be burned by a dragon and then the rest of the chapter would be about the author going on as to how much life sucks - thinks the dragonborn as he releases a sigh of frustration, knowing that if he survives this, the missing final chapter of this book will gnaw at him. Or maybe that's a good thing. Maybe the final chapter is for him to discover. He sighs in frustration, knowing full well how he relates to the hero of this book, how he too has risen and fallen. But now... now he will have to see. Now he will try and write the final chapter of this book.
He looks west from his vantage point, seeing the dark looming shape of Gadenthor, smelling the burned grass and wood in the air, foretelling of the hell that is to come. He giggles a bit, finding it hilarious how it seems that hell is never far away. He helped in stopping a layer of hell from coming forth while others of his companions went to hell to do the same thing. And now, it shall be a different hell that approaches.
"Well Steve, this is it, I guess" he says seemingly to himself, until a small lump on the dragonborn's head, similar in color to him, suddenly shifts, small mouth yawning, two golden eyes of the same color as the dragonborn - a small blue gecko familiar rests on his head, basking in the sunlight, in this surreal calm.
He's not afraid of the fight that is to come. He's been conditioned out of the fear of battle long ago. And the fear of death? He's been conditioned out of that as well, for it is not his death that he has feared.
He rests before the battle, taking in the strange calm and rhythm of the commotion bellow, as people keep preparing themselves for the inferno. He came up here to escape said commotion. He has done his part these last tendays, he only hopes it was enough. He rests, for one need to be rested of both body and mind when a battle of epic proportions approaches.
He stands up, takes one final bird's eye view of the fort and the fields around it, seeing all who have come to this monumental event, those he knows, and those he does not. Many allies were made in the past months and, thankfully, many of said allies have lent their strength and cunning for the upcoming fight. "Hmh, I wonder where Ormund is. Can't see the old dracolich anywhere. I hope he's having fun collecting new dragon skeletons wherever he is."
"Come on, Steve" said the dragonborn taking one final deep breath of smoke-tinted air. "We've dallied enough" as the dragonborn casually walks off the ledge of the fort's roof.
Which would have been a problem is said dragonborn did not have a spell to slow his descent.
|
|
|
|
Post by Marto Copperkettle on Jun 28, 2022 16:39:31 GMT
There is no visible scar, no mark left on his side, and yet Marto feels an ache in his ribs. This feeling, he noticed, preceded the rain. He doesn’t see any clouds over Daring Heights, but to the east and slightly north, in the direction of Fort Ettin, the weather was looking rather stormy.
He had debated going over there, joining his friends, standing side by side with his comrades. But he told himself he wasn’t ready to see them all again — wasn’t ready to see her. He knew that when he did, there would be questions, things he couldn’t quite put into words just yet. He was still processing things, working through what had happened, what he had done. Who he had loved… and how that nearly destroyed him.
The ache suddenly becomes a painful chill. It darts around the cage of his ribs then up the core of his spine and into his head. Marto winces and shakes himself, the clink of his smouldering armour ringing gently in the courtyard / beer garden / patio area of the fiore popolare.
This wasn’t the first time he’d felt the ghost of Adhyël’s touch, of his mark, do this. He was 95% sure it was all in his head. A psychosomatic expression of trauma. It always happened when he lingered too long on thoughts best kept undisturbed behind the ironwood forest in his mind. Whenever his thoughts wandered too close this happened. It was distracting, annoying, and something he shouldn’t be focusing on right now.
“Okay, I’ve got this batch of tonics ready!” Leona Autumn comes dashing outside, carrying a case of glass bottles. “Can you get these to the Town Hall? I need to finish up this last batch and then get them over to Fort Daring.”
“The Fort is closer to here than the Town Hall,” Marto starts, taking the small crate. “I’ll run these over to the Fort and by the time I come back, we can both get that second batch over to the Town Hall. Sound good?”
“Well-” She stops and turns around, hearing something Marto cannot. Leona frowns, her lower lip sticking out a little, but her look becomes thoughtful before, determined.
“You’re right. Here-”
She reaches out and touches Marto’s shoulder. He feels an invigorating breeze of blow through his mind and through his body as Leona gives him the ability of longer strides.
“-That will help you be swift.”
Marto nods. “See you soon,” he says, and sets off, exiting out the back gate.
|
|
|
|
Post by Wixspartan on Jun 28, 2022 17:06:35 GMT
In the chaos of troop movements and rugged adventurers preparing for what may be the most important battle of the past few years a small silver fox darts and weaves, a note in its mouth bound desperately for one woman..."My dearest To
For the wonderful
Sorrel, I have not known you for as long as I would wish, but I have known you for as long as I have stepped foot in these lands, and I have come to love you almost as fast. This is my home now, as much as I can call anywhere a home after the past 8 years of my life but more importantly you are my true home. I will fight to defend this land because it is mine, and because it is right, but also because I hope that you see it as I do, as ours. I caught sight of you with another unit, preparing, beautiful and terrifying as ever. I just pray you stay safe in the coming fight, that you stay alive. When this is all done we can return to Daring Heights, you can check the temple and I can put a hearty meal on. How does that sound my love? But first we must finish this, may you go in the grace of the Moon Maiden and the Morning Lord. Good fucking luck. Yours, always and no matter what, Silvia"
|
|
|
|
Post by Andy D on Jun 28, 2022 17:08:37 GMT
On the western rooftop Kavel has found a spot to warm-up, sit down and play the waiting game. Horrible a thought it may be, but the goliath wished it would start already to put an end to the wait.
"Kavel old chum! It's me Mendal! I'm using the Sending spell! Has it started yet?! Where are your Bros?!"
"Oh! Hi Mendal. No not yet. Bros stayed to support. You good?"
"I'm good. Good luck, comrade!"
"Thanks. Stay safe! I'll see you for catch-up sometime"
...
|
|
|
|
Post by Leonida on Jun 28, 2022 17:56:52 GMT
"How do you like their chances?"
"None too much. They're a right bloody mess."
"Aye, no coordination whatso-fucking-ever."
"I heard some of them were digging a moat in the town. Against an air raid?"
"They cannot possibly be the same lot who beat the Archduke of—"
"Quiet."
They fall silent. The nine of them are stood outside the low wooden fence that marks the boundaries of New Hillborrow, which now lies empty and deserted. With their hauberks, splint, and sheathed weapons, one might mistake them for a band of mercenaries.
Leonida passes the spyglass to a tall cowled figure, pointing at a black dot in the horizon. The flying city approaches.
"Now it begins," he rasps.
"Now it begins," she echoes.
|
|
Florian Abeia
Junior Member
Genderqueer Softpunk Druid Lad 🌱🌻🌊⚡
Posts: 51
|
Post by Florian Abeia on Jul 6, 2022 10:59:00 GMT
There’s only a rough estimation of when Gadenthor would actually arrive and when the fighting would truly begin, but it’s accurate enough that there’s a Eve of Battle to be had. Fort Ettin is quiet and tense, and the soft knock on Toothy’s door may as well have been a crash of thunder.
He opens it to find Florian standing there with Gigi -in her preferred possum form - on his shoulder and a clay pot with a paintbrush in his hand.
“Hi! Hello. Hi. It’s me. Florian. As you can see. Because you have eyes. Hi. I was hoping I could uuuh - there’s a thing” gestures with the clay pot, “but only if you - I mean. Are you busy? Is this a bad time?”
There's a wide smile from the drow himbo in the doorway at the sight of Florian.
"Hi, this is a nice surprise! And you definitely have a thing there. But I'm not busy and it's never a bad time if you're concerned."
He gives Gigi a quick chin scritch if she allows it before gesturing back to his room.
"Do you want to come in and talk about this... thing?" And he gives a slight amused look.
Gigi preens at the scritches. Florian blushes. But he does go inside and sets out a couple of small jars and starts fussing with the lids. They seem to contain various oil based paints in dark blue, red, green and burnt orange. He lays them out and puts the paintbrush next to them before turning back to toothy. He blushes again.
Toothy's attention is definitely drawn by the pigments that Florian brings in initially, mind wandering at the sight of the lovely colours. But his focus does snap to Florian when he starts talking.
“So. I am like, totally fine with life and death and stuff, and hunting and fighting and killing and all that. I’m down with it. It’s part of life. I'm ready for it. And I’m not trying to insult your skill or anything or imply that you need help but I- I think that… ifyoudiedfightingthegiththatwouldsuck so I was hoping I could… bless you. Like I did in the woods? And maybe some of the gods who are into this stuff would like… keep an extra eye on you. If you want.”
"I... why would I take your concern as an insult?” Toothy asks. “It would really suck if I died, I mean, it would suck if you died too. But yeah I'm flattered, I, uh- had a lot of fun with your ritual in the woods."
But then he hastily adds, "Not that I'm trying to reduce the whole thing down to just 'fun'. I think the whole way you conduct the rituals is really interesting and I really like that you call to all the gods, see if they want to join in and stuff." Now he blushes slightly himself.
Florian cracks a relieved smile at that and starts fussing with the paint pots again.
“Oh, ok! Yeah, I dunno, some people are like “I don’t need the help of the gods” or like “You think I’m not good at fighting so you wanna give me a boost” when it’s just a matter of invoking a being who in its essence is the thing you’re trying to do.”
As he starts talking about his faith and sees that Toothy seems genuinely interested he visibly relaxes a bit, clearly back on solid ground.
“They are the very fabric that everything is woven of and it’s about.. paying tribute. Showing them that you do it - whatever it is - with your whole heart. Y’know?”
He looks down at the pots again, but this time considering something instead of just avoiding looking at Toothy.
“Is there a particular god you hold to? Or someone you don’t vibe with? I was thinking Malar. Tempus. The Raven Queen. And maybe..”
He trails off, eyes narrowing as he tries to choose the most appropriate gods for the occasion.
“Tyr,” he says, decisively. “Torm. Tymora.Lots of good ones beginning with T.”
He adds, “There’s always Bhaal as well, but not a lot of people like him.”
Toothy thinks about it for a bit.
"If I'm honest I don't really worship any particular deity, I'm more of a spirits of the land kinda person. I do know that Loviator doesn't like me at all, she even gave me some scars when I was younger."
He slowly sweeps back his hair from his forehead to show the several small faint crescent shapes that frame his hairline.
"And apparently Lliira really likes me. But I'm kinda neutral on all of them really, good and bad is such a grey area sometimes anyway. So I'll trust your judgement on this. It is your ritual after all."
Florian listens intently, a small frown of concentration on his face that smooths out when toothy mentions good and bad. He’s quiet for a moment before nodding, and then picks up the pots with red and orange paint.
“Ok. You have a totem, right? Like I do?” He nods to the possum on his shoulder. “Like Gigi?”
Toothy nods.
"Yeah I do, the bear." He holds out the bear tooth braided with coloured thread in his hair. "But I draw strength from all the animal spirits I encounter really."
Florian steps forward, nodding again, sort of to himself.
“Malar,” he says. “The hunter. The claw.” He smiles a little. “The bear. And something older, perhaps.”
Perhaps the seriousness of the situation finally got to him but he doesn’t blush when he says,
“Shirt.”
And with the serious tone, Toothy certainly doesn't hesitate to divulge his shirt quickly. He keeps nice and still so as not to disturb Florian's flow, and the druid solemnly gets to work.
He paints a bear paw in the centre of toothy’s chest, right over his heart, in orange. Then he traces the veins from his heart in dark red out over his shoulders and down his arms. On his back he paints ravens wings fanning out across his shoulder blades and along his spine he paints an oak tree.
Silence and the odd flicker of firelight weaves around them as Florian paints in silence, communing with forces greater than either of them understand, seeking their guidance and protection.
He finishes the painting and quietly packs up his paints and brush, watching as Toothy reveres the paintwork. The drow gives a very quiet thanks, reluctant to disturb the quiet.
Florian nods and makes for the door, stopping only to squeeze Toothy’s hand on his way out.
Toothy holds on for just an extra second, looking like he's considering something, before he lets him go.
“May your hunt be a blessing.”
|
|
