Meredith craned her head to see the entire edifice, " Its larger than the Pashas Palace back home.......how many books are in there?"
Blueschist answers after a moment of thought, “I’ve heard it said that each tower holds one thousand tomes. I’ve also heard, a thousand thousand tomes. Perhaps even the Avowed do not know.”
The carriage is left at well-appointed stables not far from the narrow causeway leading up to the castle gates, and the five of you, with your packs and offerings, ascend to the entrance as waves crash and roar below. Blueschist follows, carrying a valise.
The keep's enormous double gates stand three times the height of a human. The doors are forged from a strange black metal and feature the Candlekeep sigil embossed upon each enormous plate. One door is open just wide enough for a person to comfortably walk between it and its mate.
A small distance outside the doors stands a sturdy tent of white waxed canvas, strung firmly to spikes in the wall and ground. You are asked your business by a clerk at the tent’s entry flap, a woman with long feathered hair and a sour frown, just as a runner — a harengon wearing a beard, and around their waist, a short skirt over pantaloons — bounds out of the castle door. Seeing you, they collect themselves, then with all formality, excuse themselves as they walk around you into the tent.
The clerk, tossing her hair, sighs, bored, and nods each of you inside upon seeing your offering in hand. Except for Blueschist. After the rest of you have entered, the dwarf exchanges a few quiet words with the clerk about “business,” and “works of the avowed,” and soon follows you in.
Inside the tent, a few furnishings present a large sort of sitting room or office protected from the elements. Several persons sit at a small chess table. Priests of Deneir, you assume, if their purple vestments are any clue. They look up as the harengon approaches. Two more priests move from comfortable chairs to join those at the chessboard in a tet-a-tet with the harengon.
Also in the tent, his back turned, ostensibly studying the back cover of a book he has picked up, though it is upside down in his hands, is a huge gnome, almost four feet tall and quite rotund. Noticing the harengon’s entrance, he turns and you see his eyes now dart nervously back and forth among the priests as the harengon whispers to them and they whisper among themselves. A few moments later, the five priests and the runner break the huddle to stand in a line.
“Mr. Silverstar,” the head priest addresses the gnome, who now stands straight as a board. At first, for he slowly tilts to one side in an agonized slow motion attempt to physically dodge the priest’s words.
“We are sorry to inform you that your donation, though appreciated, and though the Avowed do not carry it in the Great Stacks, does not possess standing and is not accepted. We hope you continue your studies and you are welcome to apply for entry once again at a later date. Deneir’s pen drips with the heavy ink of knowledge of the ages. Perfection!”
The other priests, and the gnome too, who wears a brooch with the sigil of Deneir, repeat, mechanically, “Perfection!,” and the youngest priest, wincing as he silently mouths the word ‘sorry,’ then hands the gnome what looks like a slim, leather-bound journal. He takes it, sighs mournfully, then turns and, muttering, leaves the tent.
You now have the priests’ attention, as the harengon bounces — with poise, if that is possible — to a corner seat where they pick up a book from a small table and begin to read while quietly gnawing at an apple.
Bell rummages in her backpack and brings out a wrapped and bound bundle. Whispering a phrase, the cord drops away and the bundle spreads open to display a small, simple tome.
"I have travelled many miles from my family's land outside Carradoon.* I was directed by our local mage, Belisarius, to seek out entrance to Candlekeep so I might learn how best to hone my skills and serve the world." She gives a half bow, half curtsy as she held out the book in both hands. "This was a book handed down by my great grandfather through the family line and now I offer it to Candlekeep."
Presented is a plain, leather bound book with an almost greenish brown patina showing it has been well read and loved in it's excellent condition. "Pointy End First -- A guide to Martial Combat for the Mystically Competent"by Marian W. Baker
+ + + + +
* Carradoon is a shipwrights' town on the southern shore of Impresk Lake, southeast of the Snowflake Mountains.
Erudisia demurely disagrees that Master Blueschist can possess only talent with the blade, whether cutting with a sword or a quill. She gives the example of her father Sir Odewright, Bard-Laureate, a fighter and painter and singer and storyteller. She does not give much more than the most brief of explanations, before being distracted by the diving sandpipers, and abandoning her current sketch to capture their likeness.
Barely has she captured the shapes of their inquisitive faces, and the arc of their swift wings, before she abandons this sketch too.
Candlekeep is greater than all the pictures she has seen and all the descriptions she has read. The experience of it, its squat body and the elegant and numerous candle thin towers and their pennants, it is a sight she hopes never leaves her mind.
She smells the salt of the sea-spray in the air. She feels the chill slap of the wind as it drops and swirls to strike out in eddies. Even from here she can see the great blocks that form the keep, and appreciate just how large the— Barely has she turned to the next page of her sketchbook, before she is caught by Master Blueschist’s answer.
”The Avowed?” she asks. “I know of the sages and scholars of the great Candlekeep, but who are the avowed?”
—
When they make their way into the white waxed tent canvas, she sniffs. The air is stuffy and humid here, trapping water as it does, and she fears she may smell more of the Priests of Deneir in their heavy vestments than she would wish.
She watches as the applicant before their party is turned away, not unkindly. However, their disappointment is palpable, almost like a wobbling blancmange, a mystifying blend of undirected motion and unedifying flavours, dejected as they walk back towards the causeway. Embarrassingly, Erudisia’s stomach rumbles, as she inspects the scene.
She retreats to the back wall of the tent to watch the reaction to Bell’s offering, before joining with her own. She stays standing, prim and proper, avoiding chairs and even the suggestion of leaning against the canvas behind her.
If standing in this tent means something less academic than she believes she dares not even hint that she cannot stand on her own two feet.
The youngest priest respectfully takes the offering from Bell and hands it to the oldest priest. The others peek over the oldest priest’s shoulder as he carefully opens the volume, checking the title page against what Bell just stated — reading it aloud softly, nodding gravely, and also then noting aloud its dimensions, estimated number of pages, and a few other particulars. He turns back and carefully reads the first paragraph for the others to hear, nodding sagely.
”Good condition,” he finishes, then exchanges a look of several seconds with each of the priests, each one of whom scratches their beard or head or taps their fingers, studying the tent’s ceiling before nodding very slightly.
”Welcome, seeker,” he says to Bell, “You may wait there,” he points to the area near the harengon, “until we have assessed, erm, all applicants.”
Erudisia demurely disagrees that Master Blueschist can possess only talent with the blade, whether cutting with a sword or a quill. She gives the example of her father Sir Odewright, Bard-Laureate, a fighter and painter and singer and storyteller.
Erudisia: ”The Avowed?” she asks. “I know of the sages and scholars of the great Candlekeep, but who are the avowed?”
“Who are the avowed...,” Blueschist repeats slowly, as if the answer -- or at least, his take on it -- might not be simple. “Well. You’ll know in great detail soon enough. Those who gain entry to Candlekeep discover a cloistered community of over three hundred avowed scholars milling around within the walls. The avowed are Candlekeep’s caretakers — in particular, caretakers of the prophecies of Alaundo the Seer. Those ancient scrolls comprise the very first pieces of the collection, the basis and foundation for the very construction and continued existence of the fortress. You’ll meet five of the avowed at the gates, priests on duty to assess the donated offerings for entrance. Indeed most everyone you encounter will be avowed, from lowly clerk to Great Reader." (OOC: at this moment in the conversation, you have reached the tent.)
Rogi keeps his expression carefully neutral as they approach the keep. Too much was riding on gaining access to the knowledge there, but as far as he was concerned everything about this place was offensive. The prison for knowledge, the literal gatekeepers, the outrageous custom of only allowing the chosen few entrance, and access to the knowledge. And their criteria for such access? Not a test of character, personality or even intelligence. A bribe, in essence. He imagined, again, his masterwork: an obsidian tablet, easier on the eye than the white page, words scrolling across it with a simple gesture. And accessible by anyone, from anywhere in the world. Some day, he would see it realized, though it take his entire life.
What if anyone could create magical flame, to cook their food - how many fewer trees, so difficult to replace - would need to be cut down? What if it could be used to boil great canisters of water, to produce steam, to turn a fan which created electricity - all without costly fuel? He had made a few trinkets using such principles as an apprentice, on a tiny scale, so it was possible. A crossbow could be viewed as a great equalizer, allowing one to defend themselves against those stronger than them. What if anyone could cast a fire bolt at any time, without having to carry - and loan and ready - a crossbow? People who do not misuse crossbows, would also not misuse such magic.
When it came his turn, he pulled out the tome and presented it. "I came across this book. I'm no wizard so I don't know its relevance, but it seems to be a scholarly rebuttal. Apparently some illusionist gave a speech suggesting that the school of Evocation should be rolled into the school of Transmutation - I can't really follow it in depth. Perhaps you could make use of it?"
Meredith gave Bell the thumbs up as her offering was apparently accepted then lined up behind Rogi with the hefty tome her employer had placed in her keeping. She had no idea what the text said but she knew the book was ancient and that it had come originally from Halruaa.
(OOC: Rogi, let us see how convincing your “baloney” is, at least on a surface level. Kindly roll Arcana at advantage. As for the prayer book you wrote it into, please roll Deception, also at advantage, to hide some important facts about it. Finally, to pull off lying directly to the avowed, please roll Deception again, with no advantage. You may use Guidance to aid the first two rolls, but not the last one.)
When Rogi announces his offering, two priests twerk their eyebrows, while one cocks their head ever so slightly while observing Rogi over their glasses. Again, the youngest priest is the one who now respectfully takes the offering from Rogi, and hands it to the oldest priest, whose features remain utterly unreadable.
The other priests peek over the oldest priest’s shoulder as he carefully opens the slim volume, checking the title page against what Rogi just stated by reading it aloud softly, and also then noting aloud a “missing prefatory page, contents unknown” — the one that had been printed with the words, “This Prayer Book Belongs To ________,” which Rogi had carefully torn out.
The oldest priest turns the page, then slowly reads the first paragraph, enunciating the verbiage with complete clarity for the others to hear, then makes a face. The others make faces too. The oldest priest then eyes the binding quizzically for a time, sniffs it, then leafs quickly through the pages, testing their weight with a thumb. Vrrrp. Leafs through it again. Vrrrrp. He and the eyebrow-quirking priests exchange glances.
Meredith gave Bell the thumbs up as her offering was apparently accepted then lined up behind Rogi with the hefty tome her employer had placed in her keeping. She had no idea what the text said but she knew the book was ancient and that it had come originally from Halruaa.
Bell held her hands clasped tight as she walked to the 'waiting area'; giving Meredith a huge smile as Bell blinked tears of relief from her eyes.
They were suspicious, which he expected, but the question still caught him somewhat off guard. He answered truthfully. "At the general store in Beregost." That was where he bought the blank book. He continued, trying to get them to move on from that line of thinking. "It seems to be a recent publication. I'm not familiar with either the author or the one credited with the speech. The speech itself is not duplicated but referenced several times by the author. Apparently, the illusionist Berevar Bero argued that since Transmutation deals with changing reality in general, and Evocation deals with changing it in a specific way, therefore the latter should be viewed as a subset of the former. Malviser's rebuttal goes into some detail on the complexities of the Evocation spells and the school's ethos as distinct from that of Transmutation." He shrugged modestly, hoping to appeal to their arrogance. "I'm not qualified to opine on the merits of either position, but I thought it may be a useful text for apprentices."
The oldest priest listens to Rogi, pauses for a long moment, looks back over his shoulder at the other priests. They say nothing but all shrug in various almost imperceptible ways. One pair of eyes creeps very slowly over to Rogi then darts back to the oldest priest when he finds Rogi looking back. The oldest priest faces forward once again, inhales contemplatively, and then puts Rogi’s book to one side, tapping it with a shallow smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Shad,” he calls quietly to the harengon, who is in mid-bite, “I will need you. When you have finished your apple.” Turning to Rogi, he says, “Would you please wait for just a few minutes. The author and original thesis are both… unfamiliar. We will have to run a… courtesy inquiry. Please…,” he gestures politely to the area the gnome had been standing when you arrived, “if you would wait there.”
(ooc: I'm flavoring Guidance as a capsule he takes. In case there are further checks :) )
One hurdle cleared but seemingly more ahead. Rogi thanked the priest and moved toward the indicated area. He seethed. None of this should be necessary. If they were concerned that fragile books and scrolls within might be damaged or stolen, it would be one thing. There were ways of ensuring that. But he should not have to go through all this just to enter.
He forced it from his mind since it wasn't a train of thought which would help him in dealing with them. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a capsule he'd made a while back with an alchemical concoction to help him relax a bit and hopefully be more social, more glib. He popped it into his mouth, then tried to engage in small talk with the others. "So... what sort of things are you trying to find here?"
Erudisia follows the exchange between Rogi and the priests. As he comes to stand near her, she reads the obvious frustration on his face.
“What a fortunate find with your offering. It sounds fascinating. I am sure they are trying to find if they have a copy of the original postulate. Imagine seeing the theory to which is it a reply, at long last.” she reassures.
When he answers with a question of her own, she hesitates. “I had a number of ideas before I came, but now I am near the assessment of my donation, I find my heart is beating faster and my mind is blank but also racing but also so slow. Does that make sense? I should warm up.”
She begins to perform some gentle stretches, first a Tendu to each side, then Arabesques and some Attitudes for fun. There is no bar in this tent, sadly, so she will have to improvise if she is to demonstrate suitable agility. “Errr… Rogi?”
If Rogi allows she uses his shoulder as a bar to place one foot at a time and stretch her legs before her performance.
She hopes her preparations allow her to give her donation recital her all. She’ll go after whomever goes next.
The youngest priest respectfully takes the offering from Meredith, as he had done with the previous donated texts, and hands it to the oldest priest, who reads the title aloud — despite its being written in Calimshan script— and then turns the page and continues reading the prefatory notes aloud. The other priests, as before, peer over his shoulder. All but one of the other priests, that is.
The tallest of them seems to be repeating the name that Meredith stated, repeating it to himself quietly over and again, staring into the near distance as the oldest priest continues his examination.
This is suddenly interrupted a few moments later when the tall priest suddenly shouts, his eyes round with recognition, “Kamal el Kitaeb!” The others look around to him. Bowing somewhat to make his head level with the others, he leads a hurried exchange of whispers among the priests, until the oldest priest turns again to Meredith.
With his usual blank expression, he states, ”Welcome, seeker, you may wait there,” pointing to the area near Bell and the harengon while handing the heavy tome to the tallest priest, who carries it from the tent without a word.
Erudisia breathes out slowly. She places her satchel on the floor at the rear of the tent, leaving her sketch book and her Primordial guide to etiquette within, withdrawing only a slender book, taller than wide, twice as long as her hand but only just equal to her palm’s width.
Standing tall, she walks towards the purple priests. She holds out the book in both hands, bowing from the waist to present it.
“Sagacious scholars; faithful clergy of all-knowing Deneir, may I present Perspicacity and Passion, a poem that documents the rise from humble circumstances to a position of great power by virtue of song, scholarship and strength of arms, the Bard-Laureate of the present holder of that office in the Moonshae lands of the Ffolke.”
”On the leftward pages lies the Elvish poetry, in traditional Aulë-ëtrésséian — which is metrons in growing line-meter until reset by the turn of the page.”
”On the opposite pages lie the Common translation of the passages. To best maintain clarity of meaning, the translation is not entirely literal, but seeks to represent the same information and emotion to Common readers. The first act of the poem is in iambic trimeter, the second in tetrameter, and the conclusion in pentameter.”
Erudisia swallows. She looks up to see any clue as to their reception of her offering in the faces of the wise men in front of her.
“Human tradition is for epic poetry in the style of ancestors to be sung. Elven tradition is for Aulë-ëtrésséian to be seen in the Aulë, together: that is in a communal dance, while read.”
”This effort therefore was designed to combine both the subject and the performance — for it be sung and danced at once, in either language.
”If it is your wish, I would oblige.”
She hesitates. Of course, both the Common and the Elvish begin with an invocation to the Seldarin goddess the Moonbow, to the god of secrets and mysteries Labelas Enoreth, and to Cenalil of Romance, seeking to beseech their blessing and bestowal of their favour as muses for the teller of the tale.
Is it blasphemy for Avowed clergy of Deneir to call on her gods if they read this introduction as they have the others?
The youngest priest takes the volume from Erudisia, and hands it to the oldest priest, as with the other offerings. The oldest priest starts his examination as before, at first seeming to ignore Erudisia, or to dismiss her continuing description of the text, but finds it impossible to do so as she continues to speak.
When she offers to sing and dance the work, the oldest priest holds up a hand quickly, signaling for Erudisia to stop.
“Now just a moment. If I understand correctly, this poem,” glancing at the papers before him, “a history of the Bard-Laureate in the Moonshae lands of the Ffolke, was written by… you…?,” He checks the title page, reading the author’s name with a sour expression and perfect pronunciation: “Erudisia Odewright?”
It is when one of the other priests speaks aloud for the first time that you thereby learn that the priest is indeed a priestess, for she cuts in, in a milky contralto, “…of House Odewright? Of Caer Callidyrr, across the Sea of Swords…?,” causing the oldest priest to look questioningly over his shoulder at her before turning back to Erudisia, then emphatically raising an eyebrow, beckoning a response.
Blueschist answers after a moment of thought, “I’ve heard it said that each tower holds one thousand tomes. I’ve also heard, a thousand thousand tomes. Perhaps even the Avowed do not know.”
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
The carriage is left at well-appointed stables not far from the narrow causeway leading up to the castle gates, and the five of you, with your packs and offerings, ascend to the entrance as waves crash and roar below. Blueschist follows, carrying a valise.
The keep's enormous double gates stand three times the height of a human. The doors are forged from a strange black metal and feature the Candlekeep sigil embossed upon each enormous plate. One door is open just wide enough for a person to comfortably walk between it and its mate.
A small distance outside the doors stands a sturdy tent of white waxed canvas, strung firmly to spikes in the wall and ground. You are asked your business by a clerk at the tent’s entry flap, a woman with long feathered hair and a sour frown, just as a runner — a harengon wearing a beard, and around their waist, a short skirt over pantaloons — bounds out of the castle door. Seeing you, they collect themselves, then with all formality, excuse themselves as they walk around you into the tent.
The clerk, tossing her hair, sighs, bored, and nods each of you inside upon seeing your offering in hand. Except for Blueschist. After the rest of you have entered, the dwarf exchanges a few quiet words with the clerk about “business,” and “works of the avowed,” and soon follows you in.
Inside the tent, a few furnishings present a large sort of sitting room or office protected from the elements. Several persons sit at a small chess table. Priests of Deneir, you assume, if their purple vestments are any clue. They look up as the harengon approaches. Two more priests move from comfortable chairs to join those at the chessboard in a tet-a-tet with the harengon.
Also in the tent, his back turned, ostensibly studying the back cover of a book he has picked up, though it is upside down in his hands, is a huge gnome, almost four feet tall and quite rotund. Noticing the harengon’s entrance, he turns and you see his eyes now dart nervously back and forth among the priests as the harengon whispers to them and they whisper among themselves. A few moments later, the five priests and the runner break the huddle to stand in a line.
“Mr. Silverstar,” the head priest addresses the gnome, who now stands straight as a board. At first, for he slowly tilts to one side in an agonized slow motion attempt to physically dodge the priest’s words.
“We are sorry to inform you that your donation, though appreciated, and though the Avowed do not carry it in the Great Stacks, does not possess standing and is not accepted. We hope you continue your studies and you are welcome to apply for entry once again at a later date. Deneir’s pen drips with the heavy ink of knowledge of the ages. Perfection!”
The other priests, and the gnome too, who wears a brooch with the sigil of Deneir, repeat, mechanically, “Perfection!,” and the youngest priest, wincing as he silently mouths the word ‘sorry,’ then hands the gnome what looks like a slim, leather-bound journal. He takes it, sighs mournfully, then turns and, muttering, leaves the tent.
You now have the priests’ attention, as the harengon bounces — with poise, if that is possible — to a corner seat where they pick up a book from a small table and begin to read while quietly gnawing at an apple.
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
Bell rummages in her backpack and brings out a wrapped and bound bundle. Whispering a phrase, the cord drops away and the bundle spreads open to display a small, simple tome.
"I have travelled many miles from my family's land outside Carradoon.* I was directed by our local mage, Belisarius, to seek out entrance to Candlekeep so I might learn how best to hone my skills and serve the world." She gives a half bow, half curtsy as she held out the book in both hands. "This was a book handed down by my great grandfather through the family line and now I offer it to Candlekeep."
Presented is a plain, leather bound book with an almost greenish brown patina showing it has been well read and loved in it's excellent condition.
"Pointy End First -- A guide to Martial Combat for the Mystically Competent" by Marian W. Baker
+ + + + +
* Carradoon is a shipwrights' town on the southern shore of Impresk Lake, southeast of the Snowflake Mountains.
Erudisia demurely disagrees that Master Blueschist can possess only talent with the blade, whether cutting with a sword or a quill. She gives the example of her father Sir Odewright, Bard-Laureate, a fighter and painter and singer and storyteller. She does not give much more than the most brief of explanations, before being distracted by the diving sandpipers, and abandoning her current sketch to capture their likeness.
Barely has she captured the shapes of their inquisitive faces, and the arc of their swift wings, before she abandons this sketch too.
Candlekeep is greater than all the pictures she has seen and all the descriptions she has read. The experience of it, its squat body and the elegant and numerous candle thin towers and their pennants, it is a sight she hopes never leaves her mind.
She smells the salt of the sea-spray in the air. She feels the chill slap of the wind as it drops and swirls to strike out in eddies. Even from here she can see the great blocks that form the keep, and appreciate just how large the— Barely has she turned to the next page of her sketchbook, before she is caught by Master Blueschist’s answer.
”The Avowed?” she asks. “I know of the sages and scholars of the great Candlekeep, but who are the avowed?”
—
When they make their way into the white waxed tent canvas, she sniffs. The air is stuffy and humid here, trapping water as it does, and she fears she may smell more of the Priests of Deneir in their heavy vestments than she would wish.
She watches as the applicant before their party is turned away, not unkindly. However, their disappointment is palpable, almost like a wobbling blancmange, a mystifying blend of undirected motion and unedifying flavours, dejected as they walk back towards the causeway. Embarrassingly, Erudisia’s stomach rumbles, as she inspects the scene.
She retreats to the back wall of the tent to watch the reaction to Bell’s offering, before joining with her own. She stays standing, prim and proper, avoiding chairs and even the suggestion of leaning against the canvas behind her.
If standing in this tent means something less academic than she believes she dares not even hint that she cannot stand on her own two feet.
The youngest priest respectfully takes the offering from Bell and hands it to the oldest priest. The others peek over the oldest priest’s shoulder as he carefully opens the volume, checking the title page against what Bell just stated — reading it aloud softly, nodding gravely, and also then noting aloud its dimensions, estimated number of pages, and a few other particulars. He turns back and carefully reads the first paragraph for the others to hear, nodding sagely.
”Good condition,” he finishes, then exchanges a look of several seconds with each of the priests, each one of whom scratches their beard or head or taps their fingers, studying the tent’s ceiling before nodding very slightly.
”Welcome, seeker,” he says to Bell, “You may wait there,” he points to the area near the harengon, “until we have assessed, erm, all applicants.”
“Next.”
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
Blueschist smiles, listening with interest.
“Who are the avowed...,” Blueschist repeats slowly, as if the answer -- or at least, his take on it -- might not be simple. “Well. You’ll know in great detail soon enough. Those who gain entry to Candlekeep discover a cloistered community of over three hundred avowed scholars milling around within the walls. The avowed are Candlekeep’s caretakers — in particular, caretakers of the prophecies of Alaundo the Seer. Those ancient scrolls comprise the very first pieces of the collection, the basis and foundation for the very construction and continued existence of the fortress. You’ll meet five of the avowed at the gates, priests on duty to assess the donated offerings for entrance. Indeed most everyone you encounter will be avowed, from lowly clerk to Great Reader." (OOC: at this moment in the conversation, you have reached the tent.)
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
Rogi keeps his expression carefully neutral as they approach the keep. Too much was riding on gaining access to the knowledge there, but as far as he was concerned everything about this place was offensive. The prison for knowledge, the literal gatekeepers, the outrageous custom of only allowing the chosen few entrance, and access to the knowledge. And their criteria for such access? Not a test of character, personality or even intelligence. A bribe, in essence. He imagined, again, his masterwork: an obsidian tablet, easier on the eye than the white page, words scrolling across it with a simple gesture. And accessible by anyone, from anywhere in the world. Some day, he would see it realized, though it take his entire life.
What if anyone could create magical flame, to cook their food - how many fewer trees, so difficult to replace - would need to be cut down? What if it could be used to boil great canisters of water, to produce steam, to turn a fan which created electricity - all without costly fuel? He had made a few trinkets using such principles as an apprentice, on a tiny scale, so it was possible. A crossbow could be viewed as a great equalizer, allowing one to defend themselves against those stronger than them. What if anyone could cast a fire bolt at any time, without having to carry - and loan and ready - a crossbow? People who do not misuse crossbows, would also not misuse such magic.
When it came his turn, he pulled out the tome and presented it. "I came across this book. I'm no wizard so I don't know its relevance, but it seems to be a scholarly rebuttal. Apparently some illusionist gave a speech suggesting that the school of Evocation should be rolled into the school of Transmutation - I can't really follow it in depth. Perhaps you could make use of it?"
Meredith gave Bell the thumbs up as her offering was apparently accepted then lined up behind Rogi with the hefty tome her employer had placed in her keeping. She had no idea what the text said but she knew the book was ancient and that it had come originally from Halruaa.
(OOC: Rogi, let us see how convincing your “baloney” is, at least on a surface level. Kindly roll Arcana at advantage. As for the prayer book you wrote it into, please roll Deception, also at advantage, to hide some important facts about it. Finally, to pull off lying directly to the avowed, please roll Deception again, with no advantage. You may use Guidance to aid the first two rolls, but not the last one.)
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
22 Arcana, 1 guidance
9 deception, 1 guidance
5 deception
When Rogi announces his offering, two priests twerk their eyebrows, while one cocks their head ever so slightly while observing Rogi over their glasses. Again, the youngest priest is the one who now respectfully takes the offering from Rogi, and hands it to the oldest priest, whose features remain utterly unreadable.
The other priests peek over the oldest priest’s shoulder as he carefully opens the slim volume, checking the title page against what Rogi just stated by reading it aloud softly, and also then noting aloud a “missing prefatory page, contents unknown” — the one that had been printed with the words, “This Prayer Book Belongs To ________,” which Rogi had carefully torn out.
The oldest priest turns the page, then slowly reads the first paragraph, enunciating the verbiage with complete clarity for the others to hear, then makes a face. The others make faces too. The oldest priest then eyes the binding quizzically for a time, sniffs it, then leafs quickly through the pages, testing their weight with a thumb. Vrrrp. Leafs through it again. Vrrrrp. He and the eyebrow-quirking priests exchange glances.
With exaggerated slowness, he turns back to Rogi.
“Where did you find this?”
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
Bell held her hands clasped tight as she walked to the 'waiting area'; giving Meredith a huge smile as Bell blinked tears of relief from her eyes.
They were suspicious, which he expected, but the question still caught him somewhat off guard. He answered truthfully. "At the general store in Beregost." That was where he bought the blank book. He continued, trying to get them to move on from that line of thinking. "It seems to be a recent publication. I'm not familiar with either the author or the one credited with the speech. The speech itself is not duplicated but referenced several times by the author. Apparently, the illusionist Berevar Bero argued that since Transmutation deals with changing reality in general, and Evocation deals with changing it in a specific way, therefore the latter should be viewed as a subset of the former. Malviser's rebuttal goes into some detail on the complexities of the Evocation spells and the school's ethos as distinct from that of Transmutation." He shrugged modestly, hoping to appeal to their arrogance. "I'm not qualified to opine on the merits of either position, but I thought it may be a useful text for apprentices."
The oldest priest listens to Rogi, pauses for a long moment, looks back over his shoulder at the other priests. They say nothing but all shrug in various almost imperceptible ways. One pair of eyes creeps very slowly over to Rogi then darts back to the oldest priest when he finds Rogi looking back. The oldest priest faces forward once again, inhales contemplatively, and then puts Rogi’s book to one side, tapping it with a shallow smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Shad,” he calls quietly to the harengon, who is in mid-bite, “I will need you. When you have finished your apple.” Turning to Rogi, he says, “Would you please wait for just a few minutes. The author and original thesis are both… unfamiliar. We will have to run a… courtesy inquiry. Please…,” he gestures politely to the area the gnome had been standing when you arrived, “if you would wait there.”
“Next, please.”
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
(ooc: I'm flavoring Guidance as a capsule he takes. In case there are further checks :) )
One hurdle cleared but seemingly more ahead. Rogi thanked the priest and moved toward the indicated area. He seethed. None of this should be necessary. If they were concerned that fragile books and scrolls within might be damaged or stolen, it would be one thing. There were ways of ensuring that. But he should not have to go through all this just to enter.
He forced it from his mind since it wasn't a train of thought which would help him in dealing with them. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a capsule he'd made a while back with an alchemical concoction to help him relax a bit and hopefully be more social, more glib. He popped it into his mouth, then tried to engage in small talk with the others. "So... what sort of things are you trying to find here?"
Erudisia follows the exchange between Rogi and the priests. As he comes to stand near her, she reads the obvious frustration on his face.
“What a fortunate find with your offering. It sounds fascinating. I am sure they are trying to find if they have a copy of the original postulate. Imagine seeing the theory to which is it a reply, at long last.” she reassures.
When he answers with a question of her own, she hesitates. “I had a number of ideas before I came, but now I am near the assessment of my donation, I find my heart is beating faster and my mind is blank but also racing but also so slow. Does that make sense? I should warm up.”
She begins to perform some gentle stretches, first a Tendu to each side, then Arabesques and some Attitudes for fun. There is no bar in this tent, sadly, so she will have to improvise if she is to demonstrate suitable agility. “Errr… Rogi?”
If Rogi allows she uses his shoulder as a bar to place one foot at a time and stretch her legs before her performance.
She hopes her preparations allow her to give her donation recital her all. She’ll go after whomever goes next.
Meredith moved eagerly up and held the heavy old book out for whoever wanted to take it.
" This was given to me to bring here by my former employer in Calimport, Kamal el Kitaeb."
The youngest priest respectfully takes the offering from Meredith, as he had done with the previous donated texts, and hands it to the oldest priest, who reads the title aloud — despite its being written in Calimshan script— and then turns the page and continues reading the prefatory notes aloud. The other priests, as before, peer over his shoulder. All but one of the other priests, that is.
The tallest of them seems to be repeating the name that Meredith stated, repeating it to himself quietly over and again, staring into the near distance as the oldest priest continues his examination.
This is suddenly interrupted a few moments later when the tall priest suddenly shouts, his eyes round with recognition, “Kamal el Kitaeb!” The others look around to him. Bowing somewhat to make his head level with the others, he leads a hurried exchange of whispers among the priests, until the oldest priest turns again to Meredith.
With his usual blank expression, he states, ”Welcome, seeker, you may wait there,” pointing to the area near Bell and the harengon while handing the heavy tome to the tallest priest, who carries it from the tent without a word.
“Next,” the oldest priest says.
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer
Erudisia breathes out slowly. She places her satchel on the floor at the rear of the tent, leaving her sketch book and her Primordial guide to etiquette within, withdrawing only a slender book, taller than wide, twice as long as her hand but only just equal to her palm’s width.
Standing tall, she walks towards the purple priests. She holds out the book in both hands, bowing from the waist to present it.
“Sagacious scholars; faithful clergy of all-knowing Deneir, may I present Perspicacity and Passion, a poem that documents the rise from humble circumstances to a position of great power by virtue of song, scholarship and strength of arms, the Bard-Laureate of the present holder of that office in the Moonshae lands of the Ffolke.”
”On the leftward pages lies the Elvish poetry, in traditional Aulë-ëtrésséian — which is metrons in growing line-meter until reset by the turn of the page.”
”On the opposite pages lie the Common translation of the passages. To best maintain clarity of meaning, the translation is not entirely literal, but seeks to represent the same information and emotion to Common readers. The first act of the poem is in iambic trimeter, the second in tetrameter, and the conclusion in pentameter.”
Erudisia swallows. She looks up to see any clue as to their reception of her offering in the faces of the wise men in front of her.
“Human tradition is for epic poetry in the style of ancestors to be sung. Elven tradition is for Aulë-ëtrésséian to be seen in the Aulë, together: that is in a communal dance, while read.”
”This effort therefore was designed to combine both the subject and the performance — for it be sung and danced at once, in either language.
”If it is your wish, I would oblige.”
She hesitates. Of course, both the Common and the Elvish begin with an invocation to the Seldarin goddess the Moonbow, to the god of secrets and mysteries Labelas Enoreth, and to Cenalil of Romance, seeking to beseech their blessing and bestowal of their favour as muses for the teller of the tale.
Is it blasphemy for Avowed clergy of Deneir to call on her gods if they read this introduction as they have the others?
The youngest priest takes the volume from Erudisia, and hands it to the oldest priest, as with the other offerings. The oldest priest starts his examination as before, at first seeming to ignore Erudisia, or to dismiss her continuing description of the text, but finds it impossible to do so as she continues to speak.
When she offers to sing and dance the work, the oldest priest holds up a hand quickly, signaling for Erudisia to stop.
“Now just a moment. If I understand correctly, this poem,” glancing at the papers before him, “a history of the Bard-Laureate in the Moonshae lands of the Ffolke, was written by… you…?,” He checks the title page, reading the author’s name with a sour expression and perfect pronunciation: “Erudisia Odewright?”
It is when one of the other priests speaks aloud for the first time that you thereby learn that the priest is indeed a priestess, for she cuts in, in a milky contralto, “…of House Odewright? Of Caer Callidyrr, across the Sea of Swords…?,” causing the oldest priest to look questioningly over his shoulder at her before turning back to Erudisia, then emphatically raising an eyebrow, beckoning a response.
DM for Candlekeep Mysteries // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Eclipse Faraway in Gallows Dancer