"So no blood drinking." Moz says with a tiny hint of disappointment. Looking at the bowl in Angus's hands. " Then what? Do we pass the bowl around mark ourselves as a member of the pack?"
Outside Cat-Sith lies curled up, his wings wrapped around him. His half close eyes on the child. As Valanthe leaves the longhouse and checks on El and the baby. Cat-Sith gets up, satisfied that child has enough protection turns and sips in between the legs of Rivyreas she exits. The Sphinx slips into the longhouse. Sliding into the shadows his amethyst eyes lock on Moz.
Looking at the beat skull for moment he pauses for a moment. "How interesting."Looking at the blade and the bowl. He then looks up at Angus and clearly gives him a long apprising look. The dagger tapping in his hand as he weighed up the noble barbarian. " I apologize for the orge comment it was uncalled for."He says suddenly gesturing with the dagger.
Looking to Alorin, he gives him a wink. Turning back toAngus. " It would be an honor to join the pack of the Silver Steward. I will swear no oath to Kormac, lets us swear to our own respective gods." He holds the blade to his hand " We shall know each other truths and keep each others secrets" he says solemnly.
“Truly the gift that keeps on giving,”Alorin wryly mutters under his breath. “I wish I could walk out as well, but given that I’ve committed to this path, for whatever reason that was, I must see this through.”Moz’s antics soon manage to snap him out of this melancholy, but then Angus’s description of what the ritual entails and is intended to mean neatly threatens to make his head hurt with the complexity of the religious and political machinations that are now laid out in plain sight. As Angus pulls out the bear skull, Alorin places his arms around the shoulders of his old friends and nods in agreement, “We are our own pack, not of theirs.”
"Shall we?" Angus gestures to the blades in eithers hands while unraveling the bandages on his own. His blood pools into the bear skull. He thinks to himself as his blood drains once more. A bear, truly a ferocious beast. But only when protecting its own does a bear reach its height. This was likely why it was killed. More blood for Kromac, and all it cost was a family. Does a beast as feral as Kromac understand love, or is he blind to all but bloodshed? Are his warriors? Are bonds and loyalty simply a means to an end? If Kromac could glut himself on all the blood that the world could possibly bleed without his followers, would he?
Sascha departs along with Rivyre and Valanthe, her fist is clenched. As she steps out of the room she produces her signate. A reminder of home and family and duty. She looks down at it, wordlessly. She doesn't so much as look at her companions in this moment, simply following behind Rivyre and Valanthe. She thought on this. The Achtungwald province was a long way from the shores of Westemaar. her family wasn't likely to fall victim to whatever the warriors of Clan Mac Lochlann did, if indeed they did act against the mainland. However, those along the coast were also people of Westemaar. Weary of war and contending with horror enough. Her mind wanders to noble sir Lorn, who in his zeal to destroy an evil thing had caused such strife. She had reflected on her own mercy, toward a Druid who seemed incapable of returning her compassion. She didn't know the Blytheway warriors well, but she knew they had their own clan to defend, and that based on Martyn Mac Lochlann's confidence, they were outmatched.
The buck had to stop with her, with accountability. She had to be the one to take a stand for her people, for the right thing. She had to object. To prevent this pointless, cruel murder. Lorn wouldn't be harmed while she had anything to say about it. Without a word still, she walked to Solis. and gently she stroked her friend's mane. She didn't knowhow the others would recieve her new resolution. She didn't know if she could ask them to stand against an entire clan of warriors.
"This isn't right." was all Sascha said in the end. She was speaking to Solis, a way to clear her head, to externalise those thoughts, but her voice was clear, and full of conviction.
Angusextends the skull towards his companions, and their blood fills the skull. He begins uttering tales and myths of his gods; his words are small, somber, and stern. He coats his fingers in the ichor of life, drawing symbols and shapes. Depictions of celestial bodies interwoven with bone. Bloody wounds and silvered runes. Tools once used by the divine; tools that will be used once more. Upon his own he draws ancestral symbols of war. The paint coalescing into the shape of a blade embedded into his chest. His arms bear runes, mirroring the etchings of his divine charge, the Silver Blade. When the blood has been spilled, and the markings applied, Angusraises the skull and dons it. He rises and lets the remaining ichor pour over him.
"Now, for the others," silver bowl in hand, Angusturns to his kinsmen. He symbols for the pack to follow.
As Alorin's blood flows into the bear skull, there is a momentary glimmer to it, as if starlight is shining down upon it, and a vague incorporeality, as if there is a purple mist within the red blood. But then his blood mixes into the blood of his companions - his pack - and as the group blinks, the differences are gone, and the bear skull is simply filled with blood.
As the group begins to use the blood to draw upon themselves, he begins to remove his gloves. The hands that are now revealed are pale, and almost gaunt. Using each hand, Alorin draws upon the other, one image on each palm, and another on the back of each hand. On the left, he draws a wolf's fangs on the outside, and a small, lit candle on the inside. On the right, he draws a crescent moon and stars on the outside, and a shield adorned with what looks a lot like a crest on the inside. Done with the markings, he uses one last drop of the blood to place a singular visible spot on his throat - visible, but easily covered with the high collars of his coat if need be. Then, he pulls his gloves back on, and looks back up to the two by his side.
Quickly slashing the knife across his palm, he extends his hand over the bear skull. Squeezing his fist a steady trickle of blood drips into the skull. " I Moz Crowthorn, Harlequin of the Court of He Who Laughs First, give this blood freely."As he speaks the words, his fist begins to shimmmer as the illusions encasing him begin to recede.
The complexation of the clenched fist begins to darken till it becomes a dull emerald green. As Angus watches Moz's traveling leathers begin to warp and shift, almost as if alive. The brown leathers become an eye dizzying myriad of colors and patterns that seem to be constantly shifting and changing before his eyes. As the receding shimmer reaches his head, the once tanned and weathered face of a gnome is replaced by a large pointed nose, a mouth of small sharp teeth, red eyes and the emerald skin of a goblin.
Angus's eyes widen slightly as the illusions recede. "Hmmmm.... a jester and a goblin." Smiling slightly "An odd fellow indeed, the Great Trickster might find you favorable." He says as he stirs the trio's blood together. Mozgives the Barbarian a wink " Everyone needs a lucky charm."
Dipping his fingers into the blood, he draws a triangle over each eye and the another pointed down under each eye. Finally taking his bloody fingers he traces them around his mouth, giving himself an exaggerated smile. " May the will and favor of Shergorach, He Who Laughs First, grant us eternal luck." Licking the remaining blood from his fingers, he looks to Angus. " Now that we are bound as a pack, I ask that you keep my secert till I choose to reveal it to the others, brother."With that he utters an arcane word and he is once again encased in illusions of a gnome in traveling leathers.
Rivyre takes a seat on the sled & waits for the rest of the group to come out of the longhouse w/ whatever ritual they are partaking in, she cannot help but contemplate this mess she has found herself in. All she wanted to do was find her family, reconcile & spend some time w/ them, then proceed to Drakkenheim to help others as the Flame had helped her. Discovering her home isle shrouded in an evil that no man dares to venture to w/out being ripped apart by monsters. The thought of her family even having a chance of surviving such horror..., she doesn't want to think about it. But, now even worse is that all of Skye is on the brink of holy crusade in 1 weeks time if the debt to the Northfolk clans is not settled. Some of Sir Lorn's words still linger in her mind when he departed to warn Enniskillen, "It is not easy to walk between worlds. The way of the Flame can be followed, even in the most arduous of circumstances, surrounded by the most hostile folk." Those words do have some monicum of truth..., but now really hard to follow w/ all that has transpired. She does not begrudge Sir Lorn for destroying the deleroum crystal. It absolutely had to be done to prevent catastrophe, but now that action has war brewing & Sir Lorn's actions threaten all life on Skye anyway.
Of all that she knows..., of all that she beleives: Sir Lorn has followed the Hearth showing compassion to the Druid of Kromac. He followed the Lantern revealing the truth to the Druid even though he sharply rebuked him. He upheld the Torch not abiding when evil stirred & fighting for the cause of justice, & he followed the Candle offering mercy sparing the Druids life in Kromac's Clearing. The only unanswered question remains w/ regards to the Torch: 'callousness & indifference permit selfishness, greed, & hate to multiply'.What will he do when he hears war is threatening all life on Skye even though the delerium threat is mostly dealt with? Will he give his testimony in Darryl & then submit to death for his crime? Rivyre believes he should surrender himself despite his good actions..., but she knows most followers of the Flame will not see it her way. Is this what a crisis of faith feels like? Rivyre feels so lost now..., she cannot decide what to do.
Rivyre gets up off the sled, sits down on both of her knees her arms outstretched, looks to the sun, & prays out loud, "Divine Flame, I pray to you in a difficult time. I am at the crossroads of a treacherous decision, but I don't know how to choose. My mind is clouded by uncertainty, & only you can remove this fog. Flame, I ask you to rid my heart of hesitation so that I can make the just & right choice. Please..., heed my call & grant me w/ your wisdom."
As Angus'sgestures to follow him to the circle of warriors and Druid, Mozlooks at the blade in his hand and then at the Druid. Briefly, the image of the knife buried in the Druid'seye dances across his mind. Suppressing a giggle, he pushes the thought out of his mind. He promised Alorin he would behave, and he could feel Cat-Sith's eyes on him, but he is keeping the knife.... I mean they gave it to him.
"Sorry Angus, I am happy to join in a pact with you and Alorin, but I am not participating in a rite to the Great Leg Humper in the Sky. I hope you understand."Giving Angus a grin and a bow, as he bows, he slips the blade up his sleeve. In his mind, he hears Cat-Sith, " The pommel is sticking out, Fool." Grimacing slightly, Moz tucks it further up his sleeve. (Slight of Hand:10+4=14. Cat-Sith uses Burst of Ingenuity: +2 to ability check/saving throw. 14+2=16)
Turning on a heel he heads out to the door. Stopping just before the entry he stops and uttering an arcane word, he modifies his Gnomish illusion to include a colorful face painting of a wolf, like the kind a kid gets at a fair. Stepping out of the longhouse, Cat-Sith, following behind.
Seeing Sascha talking to her horse, Rivyreseated deep in thought by the sled and Neris standing over by El and the baby. Walking over to her he holds his hands up, his fingers curled like claws. "Grrrrrrr! I'm a wolf! Grrrrr" He growls too her. " Alorin, Angus and I are a wolfpack now."he says with a grin. Looking up towards the sky he lets loose a howl " Awwwwoooooo"
The beating of the drums and the chanting intensifies as Angus, Alorin, and Mozcomplete their rite. Although most of the warriors rock back and forth in the oblivion of their fever of altered consciousness, the Druidis unwavered, and his eyes bore into the three of them the entire time they complete their own separate rite. He watches Moz's transformation, and as Angus turns towards the warriors with the silver bowl, and Mozslips the sacrificial dagger up his sleeve and slips towards the door, the Druidstands, raising his hand in a sudden, abrupt gesture. The drumming and chanting stops. The thick silence and smoke suddenly chokes the air in the longhouse.
"A consulate of the Fairy Lords walks among us, and seeks to steal the homage we bring to Kromac," he says, in a grave voice. All of the warriors turn to Mozin the doorway, even as the goblin's illusion shifts back into place.
Outside the longhouse, the sweet, cold, streaming sunshine is an unexpected balm to the troubled hearts of Sascha and Rivyre. It illuminates a world that seems completely set apart from the smoky bloodlust drumming in the darkness inside. The serene, snow-dusted landscape embraces the beautiful, if frozen vista of the village and the bay spread out below. Smoke pours from chimneys in homes, workshops, and forges, teams of fur-clad men with saws and axes walk alongside long-furred oxen dragging log sleds into the forest. Captain Birdstone's ship with its proud and boldly painted blue sails is gone, only the undulating waves of the cold sea greet their eyes far across in the bay. The docks instead are clustered with Lochlann longships. No merchant ships are in port right now--few venture this way in the cold of winter.
But the village is alive and bustling, the fog and fear of the Vague having dissipated with the morning sun even as its cold clear light rises towards noon. Saschaand Rivyrefeel a light in their own hearts as they contemplate the difficulty and suffering of their situation. Yes, their way is thorny and beset with opposition. But each comes to a convinction within, a truth in their heart, that they know the right way, for themselves at least. Solis nuzzles Sascha's hand affectionately, unconcerned in his animal way about any of the political machinations of the Isle. He knows only duty and loyalty and she knows from experience that no matter what she decides, or whose side she fought on, he was her brave companion and never questioned her.
The sun reminds Rivyreof the light Hearth, the Lantern, the Torch, the Candle. In her sorrow at the evil around her she knows which one she must hold aloft now. She expects that Sir Lorn will hold it aloft right at her side, if he is a true follower of the Flame. The warm glow in her heart seems not to come from the sun, but from the supernatural purifying force of the Flame that it, and all other symbols of fire, only represent.
As the eyes of the warriors eyes fall on Moz, Cat-Sithstrolls up to Moz. The Sphinx's amethyst eyes staring down the warriors. " You must show these dogs you are not prey. You are their better, that you do not fear them." The Familiar's voice rings in his mind.
Turning to look at the Druid, he gives him a big grin " Steal!? Me? I am offended."Standing tall he looks the warriors and the Druid in the eyes. Plucking the dagger from his sleeve and idly turning the blade over in his hand. Looking at as if for the first time. " This old thing? I believed it to be an offering to the Lord of Luck, so he would look favorably on your little war."Looking at it more closely. " It is a poor offering. Looks like it has bite marks on it."Tossing the blade, contemptuously at the feet of Druid and staring definitely at the Druidand his warriors. "So unless you have something more worthy to offer my Lord, then I shall take my leave and leave you too sniffing each others butts." He then turns on his heels and quickly exits the Longhouse to find Neris. (So unless someone is stopping him he is going outside and finding Neris.)
"Thank you." Sascha murmurs to Solis. The horse's devotion means the world to her in this moment. It wasn't a quality she had an easy time matching, but time and time again she had found a way. She would need to do so one more time, it seemed. Sascha makes her way back toward Rivyre now.
"Rivyre." Sascha said, addressing the spiritual leader not by rank, but instead by name, as a comrade and a friend. "I mean to ride to after Sir Lorn. It won't be easy, but even if we fail to catch him on the road, we still need to warn of the coming attack. I hope I can count on you to stand with me in this?"
In this moment, Sascha felt a sense of noblisse oblige. It had guided her to spare the Druid's life to begin with - she hadn't wanted to leave a community without its spiritual leadership, but now she understood that leader to be a danger to others, and she resolved to take the side of those who wereiin danger. Enniskillen was at risk due to her actions. Their warriors, the monastery, and every innocent with nothing to do with this. It was her duty to be responsible in this moment, though these were not her people.
As Rivyre finishes her prayer she sees the clouds part & feels the warmth of the sun on her face, it reminds her of all she is & how the Flame forged her into the beleifs she holds dear. The Flame guides all, even those who do not, or do not yet believe. It is that supernatural hope that brings confidence back to her, & hope that Sir Lorn will feel the same when he learns the truth of his actions to hold the Flame aloft. She relaxes herself from her position of prayer when suddenly the drumming & chanting coming from the longhouse abuptly ceases! There is a short errie silence before she can faintly make out the words of Druid from outside & not in the most pleasnt of tone, "A consulate of the Fairy Lords walks among us, & seeks to steal the homage we bring to Kromac."Then she sees Moz standing in the flapping furred doorway. As usual for one who does not seem to understand tact proceeds to provoke & insult the Lochlaan Druid & warriors, & cliaming innocnce of not stealing. But..., something he says in that flurry of words catches her ear,"The Lord of Luck" along w/ what she barely made out what the Druid said earlier. The Lord of Luck, consulate of the Fairy Lords, his eccentric, provoking behavior, & his strange spirit companions. Rivyre knows that gnomes are considered distant relatives to the Fey, but she cannot remember much of their religion or culture. Gnomes aren't common among the peoples of Westemar & seldom when she encounters them. More & more she's coming to relaization something isn't adding up about him. She begins to think on that"Lord of Luck", when Sascha comes up & interreupts her thoughts.
Rivyre blusters a bit, shakes her head, & clears her throat looking up at her, "Sorry..., Ms. Syndow, forgive me I was deep in thought. Yes... (she pauses, coughs a bit), yes, you are most right. We need to find him & warn Enniskillen as soon as possible. He needs to know what has transpired & I must speak w/ him as well. Of course I can't stand idly by while innocents are in danger!" She stands up shaking the dirt off her robes. "What of the others? We should find out what they wish to do." "We should check on Valnathe too. Excuse me for a moment." Rivyre walks over to Valanthe to check on her remembering she looked as uncomfortable as the rest of us. She gently places her hand on her shoulder & comfortingly slides it down to the middle of her back as she comes around to her side. "Valanthe, my dear. Are you alright?"
Outside, Valanthe looks around for the best tree to climb. Pine trees are less than ideal when it comes to climbing: their branches are generally weaker than those of deciduous trees but more numerous, which limits space in the interior of the tree for a frustrated elf.
“Even the trees here are stupid”, she mutters to herself as she turns to look towards the village instead.
Rivyre approaches.
“Yes, although I wonder how the world can still exist with such pig-headed stupidity in it”, she replies to Rivyre’s enquiry. “I might go into the village - this is Darryl, right? It’s where I was heading before all this started.” She calls out to Sascha: “Did you see which boat the druid came in on?” And then back to Rivyre, “Maybe we could go and ask some questions about where they sailed from, to at least find out where they got the delirium from. Maybe they stole it, or it was just lying around.
But I’m not comfortable bringing any back here though - I’m sure it must have something to do with the elfgates acting up - but the more I know about it, the more I can protect my people from it, right? I don't care what that druid says: he only wants war no matter what anyone else does."
An idea strikes Sascha as she hears the question directed at her, and she nods. Wanting to respond before she diverges into her own train of thought. "I did see it, I didn't catch a name for the vessel, but I imagine we could ask around. Surely someone will know. I believe they'd come from somewhere in Ash Bay, although that's just a suspicion. That stone's more common there than most coastal places, but at this point it's spread in trade. While we're in Daryl though... We could look into ship's passage. If anyone is sailing to Enniskillen, then they'll be able to bare us there much faster - from there we can deliver our warnings, and ride to meet Lorn after the fact - or wait for him there. It won't be the cheapest option, but we'll surely travel faster by sea."
Sascha seems to relax upon voicing this idea. There were options that remained to them. Ways they could take action.
"These were raiders. I doubt they'd have just picked it up off the beach, although who knows, I suppose. And you're right. We can't let any more of it reach Skye"
“Agreed. Anything is better than standing here.” Valanthe looks back towards the longhouse “I don’t know what they’re doing in there but it makes me want to vomit. If they’re trying to appease the Druid, they’ll fail. I’m happy to leave now, if you two are?”
Rivyre thinks on she should reply to Valanthe's opinions, but there is no easy way to say it. "It's certainly problematic. I don't deny that & unfortunately every race is a capable of stubbourn, bull-headed behavior. It's not something we can rid this world of in any of lifetimes. Best not to dwell on it..., even w/ the diffcult task we have before us."
She pauses & thinks on where the Druid sailed from. She seems to remember him recalling the tale when he was a "guest" of the group @ Lorchan's home. "I beleive the Druid told his story on how he & his raiders came into possession of the crystal while we were trying to reason w/ him @ Lorchan's home. They had just returned from a raid in Drannsmund, from the "days of old" as he called it.It's a port city some 500 miles southwest of Altbrucke where I preached. He spoke of mutated monters that choked the estuary preventing them from landing on the mainland, & only recovered 1 stone off a ship before they burned them in port. Of course he believed it as a curse from Nodens seeking to drown the mainlands blasphemy, but we know the actual truth. The delerium smuggling & tarde is out of control & now seems these tainted crystals have infected the ocean life as well. It's no surprise to me how far this curse & sickness has spread.
Rivyre turns to Sascha: "Yes, we could investigate the port, & then turn back to find boats to sail upriver to the lake, or around the east side of the island, the hoof it the rest of the way to Enniskillen. Assuming there's a safe place to beach our boats. I didn't think of that. Either course is probably significantly less unpredicatbale than taking the Fairy Roads, & doesn't involve the weird time jump which was going to be my suggestion."
The Druid smiles crookedly, a cold smile. "How very like Shegorach, to try and steal the homage of Kromac. Perhaps we will make an example of the Lord of Luck's own servant, then! Let him laugh at that!" The Druid raises a hand, and two of his warriors stand up, one taking the silver bowl from Angus, and another picking up the fallen ceremonial blade. Two more move in front of the longhouse door to grab hold of Moz. The Druid begins to mutter something, waving his hands...
Moz the Magnificent
"So no blood drinking." Moz says with a tiny hint of disappointment. Looking at the bowl in Angus's hands. " Then what? Do we pass the bowl around mark ourselves as a member of the pack?"
Outside Cat-Sith lies curled up, his wings wrapped around him. His half close eyes on the child. As Valanthe leaves the longhouse and checks on El and the baby. Cat-Sith gets up, satisfied that child has enough protection turns and sips in between the legs of Rivyre as she exits. The Sphinx slips into the longhouse. Sliding into the shadows his amethyst eyes lock on Moz.
Looking at the beat skull for moment he pauses for a moment. "How interesting." Looking at the blade and the bowl. He then looks up at Angus and clearly gives him a long apprising look. The dagger tapping in his hand as he weighed up the noble barbarian. " I apologize for the orge comment it was uncalled for." He says suddenly gesturing with the dagger.
Looking to Alorin, he gives him a wink. Turning back to Angus. " It would be an honor to join the pack of the Silver Steward. I will swear no oath to Kormac, lets us swear to our own respective gods." He holds the blade to his hand " We shall know each other truths and keep each others secrets" he says solemnly.
Alorin
“Truly the gift that keeps on giving,” Alorin wryly mutters under his breath. “I wish I could walk out as well, but given that I’ve committed to this path, for whatever reason that was, I must see this through.” Moz’s antics soon manage to snap him out of this melancholy, but then Angus’s description of what the ritual entails and is intended to mean neatly threatens to make his head hurt with the complexity of the religious and political machinations that are now laid out in plain sight. As Angus pulls out the bear skull, Alorin places his arms around the shoulders of his old friends and nods in agreement, “We are our own pack, not of theirs.”
"Shall we?" Angus gestures to the blades in eithers hands while unraveling the bandages on his own. His blood pools into the bear skull. He thinks to himself as his blood drains once more.
A bear, truly a ferocious beast. But only when protecting its own does a bear reach its height. This was likely why it was killed. More blood for Kromac, and all it cost was a family. Does a beast as feral as Kromac understand love, or is he blind to all but bloodshed? Are his warriors? Are bonds and loyalty simply a means to an end? If Kromac could glut himself on all the blood that the world could possibly bleed without his followers, would he?
Sascha departs along with Rivyre and Valanthe, her fist is clenched. As she steps out of the room she produces her signate. A reminder of home and family and duty. She looks down at it, wordlessly. She doesn't so much as look at her companions in this moment, simply following behind Rivyre and Valanthe. She thought on this. The Achtungwald province was a long way from the shores of Westemaar. her family wasn't likely to fall victim to whatever the warriors of Clan Mac Lochlann did, if indeed they did act against the mainland. However, those along the coast were also people of Westemaar. Weary of war and contending with horror enough. Her mind wanders to noble sir Lorn, who in his zeal to destroy an evil thing had caused such strife. She had reflected on her own mercy, toward a Druid who seemed incapable of returning her compassion. She didn't know the Blytheway warriors well, but she knew they had their own clan to defend, and that based on Martyn Mac Lochlann's confidence, they were outmatched.
The buck had to stop with her, with accountability. She had to be the one to take a stand for her people, for the right thing. She had to object. To prevent this pointless, cruel murder. Lorn wouldn't be harmed while she had anything to say about it. Without a word still, she walked to Solis. and gently she stroked her friend's mane. She didn't knowhow the others would recieve her new resolution. She didn't know if she could ask them to stand against an entire clan of warriors.
"This isn't right." was all Sascha said in the end. She was speaking to Solis, a way to clear her head, to externalise those thoughts, but her voice was clear, and full of conviction.
Angus extends the skull towards his companions, and their blood fills the skull. He begins uttering tales and myths of his gods; his words are small, somber, and stern. He coats his fingers in the ichor of life, drawing symbols and shapes. Depictions of celestial bodies interwoven with bone. Bloody wounds and silvered runes. Tools once used by the divine; tools that will be used once more. Upon his own he draws ancestral symbols of war. The paint coalescing into the shape of a blade embedded into his chest. His arms bear runes, mirroring the etchings of his divine charge, the Silver Blade.
When the blood has been spilled, and the markings applied, Angus raises the skull and dons it. He rises and lets the remaining ichor pour over him.
"Now, for the others," silver bowl in hand, Angus turns to his kinsmen. He symbols for the pack to follow.
Alorin
As Alorin's blood flows into the bear skull, there is a momentary glimmer to it, as if starlight is shining down upon it, and a vague incorporeality, as if there is a purple mist within the red blood. But then his blood mixes into the blood of his companions - his pack - and as the group blinks, the differences are gone, and the bear skull is simply filled with blood.
As the group begins to use the blood to draw upon themselves, he begins to remove his gloves. The hands that are now revealed are pale, and almost gaunt. Using each hand, Alorin draws upon the other, one image on each palm, and another on the back of each hand. On the left, he draws a wolf's fangs on the outside, and a small, lit candle on the inside. On the right, he draws a crescent moon and stars on the outside, and a shield adorned with what looks a lot like a crest on the inside. Done with the markings, he uses one last drop of the blood to place a singular visible spot on his throat - visible, but easily covered with the high collars of his coat if need be. Then, he pulls his gloves back on, and looks back up to the two by his side.
Moz the Magnificent
Quickly slashing the knife across his palm, he extends his hand over the bear skull. Squeezing his fist a steady trickle of blood drips into the skull. " I Moz Crowthorn, Harlequin of the Court of He Who Laughs First, give this blood freely." As he speaks the words, his fist begins to shimmmer as the illusions encasing him begin to recede.
The complexation of the clenched fist begins to darken till it becomes a dull emerald green. As Angus watches Moz's traveling leathers begin to warp and shift, almost as if alive. The brown leathers become an eye dizzying myriad of colors and patterns that seem to be constantly shifting and changing before his eyes. As the receding shimmer reaches his head, the once tanned and weathered face of a gnome is replaced by a large pointed nose, a mouth of small sharp teeth, red eyes and the emerald skin of a goblin.
Angus's eyes widen slightly as the illusions recede. "Hmmmm.... a jester and a goblin." Smiling slightly "An odd fellow indeed, the Great Trickster might find you favorable." He says as he stirs the trio's blood together. Moz gives the Barbarian a wink " Everyone needs a lucky charm."
Dipping his fingers into the blood, he draws a triangle over each eye and the another pointed down under each eye. Finally taking his bloody fingers he traces them around his mouth, giving himself an exaggerated smile. " May the will and favor of Shergorach, He Who Laughs First, grant us eternal luck." Licking the remaining blood from his fingers, he looks to Angus. " Now that we are bound as a pack, I ask that you keep my secert till I choose to reveal it to the others, brother." With that he utters an arcane word and he is once again encased in illusions of a gnome in traveling leathers.
Rivyre takes a seat on the sled & waits for the rest of the group to come out of the longhouse w/ whatever ritual they are partaking in, she cannot help but contemplate this mess she has found herself in. All she wanted to do was find her family, reconcile & spend some time w/ them, then proceed to Drakkenheim to help others as the Flame had helped her. Discovering her home isle shrouded in an evil that no man dares to venture to w/out being ripped apart by monsters. The thought of her family even having a chance of surviving such horror..., she doesn't want to think about it. But, now even worse is that all of Skye is on the brink of holy crusade in 1 weeks time if the debt to the Northfolk clans is not settled. Some of Sir Lorn's words still linger in her mind when he departed to warn Enniskillen, "It is not easy to walk between worlds. The way of the Flame can be followed, even in the most arduous of circumstances, surrounded by the most hostile folk." Those words do have some monicum of truth..., but now really hard to follow w/ all that has transpired. She does not begrudge Sir Lorn for destroying the deleroum crystal. It absolutely had to be done to prevent catastrophe, but now that action has war brewing & Sir Lorn's actions threaten all life on Skye anyway.
Of all that she knows..., of all that she beleives:
Sir Lorn has followed the Hearth showing compassion to the Druid of Kromac. He followed the Lantern revealing the truth to the Druid even though he sharply rebuked him. He upheld the Torch not abiding when evil stirred & fighting for the cause of justice, & he followed the Candle offering mercy sparing the Druids life in Kromac's Clearing.
The only unanswered question remains w/ regards to the Torch: 'callousness & indifference permit selfishness, greed, & hate to multiply'. What will he do when he hears war is threatening all life on Skye even though the delerium threat is mostly dealt with? Will he give his testimony in Darryl & then submit to death for his crime?
Rivyre believes he should surrender himself despite his good actions..., but she knows most followers of the Flame will not see it her way.
Is this what a crisis of faith feels like? Rivyre feels so lost now..., she cannot decide what to do.
Rivyre gets up off the sled, sits down on both of her knees her arms outstretched, looks to the sun, & prays out loud, "Divine Flame, I pray to you in a difficult time. I am at the crossroads of a treacherous decision, but I don't know how to choose. My mind is clouded by uncertainty, & only you can remove this fog. Flame, I ask you to rid my heart of hesitation so that I can make the just & right choice. Please..., heed my call & grant me w/ your wisdom."
Moz the Magnificent
As Angus's gestures to follow him to the circle of warriors and Druid, Moz looks at the blade in his hand and then at the Druid. Briefly, the image of the knife buried in the Druid's eye dances across his mind. Suppressing a giggle, he pushes the thought out of his mind. He promised Alorin he would behave, and he could feel Cat-Sith's eyes on him, but he is keeping the knife.... I mean they gave it to him.
"Sorry Angus, I am happy to join in a pact with you and Alorin, but I am not participating in a rite to the Great Leg Humper in the Sky. I hope you understand." Giving Angus a grin and a bow, as he bows, he slips the blade up his sleeve. In his mind, he hears Cat-Sith, " The pommel is sticking out, Fool." Grimacing slightly, Moz tucks it further up his sleeve. (Slight of Hand:10+4=14. Cat-Sith uses Burst of Ingenuity: +2 to ability check/saving throw. 14+2=16)
Turning on a heel he heads out to the door. Stopping just before the entry he stops and uttering an arcane word, he modifies his Gnomish illusion to include a colorful face painting of a wolf, like the kind a kid gets at a fair. Stepping out of the longhouse, Cat-Sith, following behind.
Seeing Sascha talking to her horse, Rivyre seated deep in thought by the sled and Neris standing over by El and the baby. Walking over to her he holds his hands up, his fingers curled like claws. "Grrrrrrr! I'm a wolf! Grrrrr" He growls too her. " Alorin, Angus and I are a wolfpack now." he says with a grin. Looking up towards the sky he lets loose a howl " Awwwwoooooo"
The beating of the drums and the chanting intensifies as Angus, Alorin, and Moz complete their rite. Although most of the warriors rock back and forth in the oblivion of their fever of altered consciousness, the Druid is unwavered, and his eyes bore into the three of them the entire time they complete their own separate rite. He watches Moz's transformation, and as Angus turns towards the warriors with the silver bowl, and Moz slips the sacrificial dagger up his sleeve and slips towards the door, the Druid stands, raising his hand in a sudden, abrupt gesture. The drumming and chanting stops. The thick silence and smoke suddenly chokes the air in the longhouse.
"A consulate of the Fairy Lords walks among us, and seeks to steal the homage we bring to Kromac," he says, in a grave voice. All of the warriors turn to Moz in the doorway, even as the goblin's illusion shifts back into place.
Outside the longhouse, the sweet, cold, streaming sunshine is an unexpected balm to the troubled hearts of Sascha and Rivyre. It illuminates a world that seems completely set apart from the smoky bloodlust drumming in the darkness inside. The serene, snow-dusted landscape embraces the beautiful, if frozen vista of the village and the bay spread out below. Smoke pours from chimneys in homes, workshops, and forges, teams of fur-clad men with saws and axes walk alongside long-furred oxen dragging log sleds into the forest. Captain Birdstone's ship with its proud and boldly painted blue sails is gone, only the undulating waves of the cold sea greet their eyes far across in the bay. The docks instead are clustered with Lochlann longships. No merchant ships are in port right now--few venture this way in the cold of winter.
But the village is alive and bustling, the fog and fear of the Vague having dissipated with the morning sun even as its cold clear light rises towards noon. Sascha and Rivyre feel a light in their own hearts as they contemplate the difficulty and suffering of their situation. Yes, their way is thorny and beset with opposition. But each comes to a convinction within, a truth in their heart, that they know the right way, for themselves at least. Solis nuzzles Sascha's hand affectionately, unconcerned in his animal way about any of the political machinations of the Isle. He knows only duty and loyalty and she knows from experience that no matter what she decides, or whose side she fought on, he was her brave companion and never questioned her.
The sun reminds Rivyre of the light Hearth, the Lantern, the Torch, the Candle. In her sorrow at the evil around her she knows which one she must hold aloft now. She expects that Sir Lorn will hold it aloft right at her side, if he is a true follower of the Flame. The warm glow in her heart seems not to come from the sun, but from the supernatural purifying force of the Flame that it, and all other symbols of fire, only represent.
Moz the Magnificent
As the eyes of the warriors eyes fall on Moz, Cat-Sith strolls up to Moz. The Sphinx's amethyst eyes staring down the warriors. " You must show these dogs you are not prey. You are their better, that you do not fear them." The Familiar's voice rings in his mind.
Turning to look at the Druid, he gives him a big grin " Steal!? Me? I am offended." Standing tall he looks the warriors and the Druid in the eyes. Plucking the dagger from his sleeve and idly turning the blade over in his hand. Looking at as if for the first time. " This old thing? I believed it to be an offering to the Lord of Luck, so he would look favorably on your little war." Looking at it more closely. " It is a poor offering. Looks like it has bite marks on it." Tossing the blade, contemptuously at the feet of Druid and staring definitely at the Druid and his warriors. "So unless you have something more worthy to offer my Lord, then I shall take my leave and leave you too sniffing each others butts." He then turns on his heels and quickly exits the Longhouse to find Neris. (So unless someone is stopping him he is going outside and finding Neris.)
"Thank you." Sascha murmurs to Solis. The horse's devotion means the world to her in this moment. It wasn't a quality she had an easy time matching, but time and time again she had found a way. She would need to do so one more time, it seemed. Sascha makes her way back toward Rivyre now.
"Rivyre." Sascha said, addressing the spiritual leader not by rank, but instead by name, as a comrade and a friend. "I mean to ride to after Sir Lorn. It won't be easy, but even if we fail to catch him on the road, we still need to warn of the coming attack. I hope I can count on you to stand with me in this?"
In this moment, Sascha felt a sense of noblisse oblige. It had guided her to spare the Druid's life to begin with - she hadn't wanted to leave a community without its spiritual leadership, but now she understood that leader to be a danger to others, and she resolved to take the side of those who wereiin danger. Enniskillen was at risk due to her actions. Their warriors, the monastery, and every innocent with nothing to do with this. It was her duty to be responsible in this moment, though these were not her people.
As Rivyre finishes her prayer she sees the clouds part & feels the warmth of the sun on her face, it reminds her of all she is & how the Flame forged her into the beleifs she holds dear. The Flame guides all, even those who do not, or do not yet believe. It is that supernatural hope that brings confidence back to her, & hope that Sir Lorn will feel the same when he learns the truth of his actions to hold the Flame aloft. She relaxes herself from her position of prayer when suddenly the drumming & chanting coming from the longhouse abuptly ceases! There is a short errie silence before she can faintly make out the words of Druid from outside & not in the most pleasnt of tone,
"A consulate of the Fairy Lords walks among us, & seeks to steal the homage we bring to Kromac." Then she sees Moz standing in the flapping furred doorway. As usual for one who does not seem to understand tact proceeds to provoke & insult the Lochlaan Druid & warriors, & cliaming innocnce of not stealing. But..., something he says in that flurry of words catches her ear,"The Lord of Luck" along w/ what she barely made out what the Druid said earlier. The Lord of Luck, consulate of the Fairy Lords, his eccentric, provoking behavior, & his strange spirit companions. Rivyre knows that gnomes are considered distant relatives to the Fey, but she cannot remember much of their religion or culture. Gnomes aren't common among the peoples of Westemar & seldom when she encounters them. More & more she's coming to relaization something isn't adding up about him. She begins to think on that"Lord of Luck", when Sascha comes up & interreupts her thoughts.
Rivyre blusters a bit, shakes her head, & clears her throat looking up at her, "Sorry..., Ms. Syndow, forgive me I was deep in thought. Yes... (she pauses, coughs a bit), yes, you are most right. We need to find him & warn Enniskillen as soon as possible. He needs to know what has transpired & I must speak w/ him as well. Of course I can't stand idly by while innocents are in danger!" She stands up shaking the dirt off her robes. "What of the others? We should find out what they wish to do."
"We should check on Valnathe too. Excuse me for a moment." Rivyre walks over to Valanthe to check on her remembering she looked as uncomfortable as the rest of us. She gently places her hand on her shoulder & comfortingly slides it down to the middle of her back as she comes around to her side. "Valanthe, my dear. Are you alright?"
Outside, Valanthe looks around for the best tree to climb. Pine trees are less than ideal when it comes to climbing: their branches are generally weaker than those of deciduous trees but more numerous, which limits space in the interior of the tree for a frustrated elf.
“Even the trees here are stupid”, she mutters to herself as she turns to look towards the village instead.
Rivyre approaches.
“Yes, although I wonder how the world can still exist with such pig-headed stupidity in it”, she replies to Rivyre’s enquiry. “I might go into the village - this is Darryl, right? It’s where I was heading before all this started.”
She calls out to Sascha: “Did you see which boat the druid came in on?” And then back to Rivyre, “Maybe we could go and ask some questions about where they sailed from, to at least find out where they got the delirium from. Maybe they stole it, or it was just lying around.
But I’m not comfortable bringing any back here though - I’m sure it must have something to do with the elfgates acting up - but the more I know about it, the more I can protect my people from it, right? I don't care what that druid says: he only wants war no matter what anyone else does."
An idea strikes Sascha as she hears the question directed at her, and she nods. Wanting to respond before she diverges into her own train of thought. "I did see it, I didn't catch a name for the vessel, but I imagine we could ask around. Surely someone will know. I believe they'd come from somewhere in Ash Bay, although that's just a suspicion. That stone's more common there than most coastal places, but at this point it's spread in trade. While we're in Daryl though... We could look into ship's passage. If anyone is sailing to Enniskillen, then they'll be able to bare us there much faster - from there we can deliver our warnings, and ride to meet Lorn after the fact - or wait for him there. It won't be the cheapest option, but we'll surely travel faster by sea."
Sascha seems to relax upon voicing this idea. There were options that remained to them. Ways they could take action.
"These were raiders. I doubt they'd have just picked it up off the beach, although who knows, I suppose. And you're right. We can't let any more of it reach Skye"
“Agreed. Anything is better than standing here.” Valanthe looks back towards the longhouse “I don’t know what they’re doing in there but it makes me want to vomit. If they’re trying to appease the Druid, they’ll fail. I’m happy to leave now, if you two are?”
Rivyre thinks on she should reply to Valanthe's opinions, but there is no easy way to say it. "It's certainly problematic. I don't deny that & unfortunately every race is a capable of stubbourn, bull-headed behavior. It's not something we can rid this world of in any of lifetimes. Best not to dwell on it..., even w/ the diffcult task we have before us."
She pauses & thinks on where the Druid sailed from. She seems to remember him recalling the tale when he was a "guest" of the group @ Lorchan's home. "I beleive the Druid told his story on how he & his raiders came into possession of the crystal while we were trying to reason w/ him @ Lorchan's home. They had just returned from a raid in Drannsmund, from the "days of old" as he called it. It's a port city some 500 miles southwest of Altbrucke where I preached. He spoke of mutated monters that choked the estuary preventing them from landing on the mainland, & only recovered 1 stone off a ship before they burned them in port. Of course he believed it as a curse from Nodens seeking to drown the mainlands blasphemy, but we know the actual truth. The delerium smuggling & tarde is out of control & now seems these tainted crystals have infected the ocean life as well. It's no surprise to me how far this curse & sickness has spread.
Rivyre turns to Sascha: "Yes, we could investigate the port, & then turn back to find boats to sail upriver to the lake, or around the east side of the island, the hoof it the rest of the way to Enniskillen. Assuming there's a safe place to beach our boats. I didn't think of that. Either course is probably significantly less unpredicatbale than taking the Fairy Roads, & doesn't involve the weird time jump which was going to be my suggestion."
The Druid smiles crookedly, a cold smile. "How very like Shegorach, to try and steal the homage of Kromac. Perhaps we will make an example of the Lord of Luck's own servant, then! Let him laugh at that!" The Druid raises a hand, and two of his warriors stand up, one taking the silver bowl from Angus, and another picking up the fallen ceremonial blade. Two more move in front of the longhouse door to grab hold of Moz. The Druid begins to mutter something, waving his hands...
Alorin