VEYL: First Campaign Thread

Aubrik lets the warlord's heavy words settle over him. The abstract philosophy bouncing between the warlord and the tiefling starts to drift right over his head. Forges of desire, chains of disruption. A lot of fine talk to sweeten the real message.

Dirty hands. Enduring hatred.

It is more evidence that here is a leader willing to step over bodies to build his new world. It's a bitter, dangerous taste, but the Flow has put them on this path for a reason.

With the soldier's knock still echoing in his mind, he knows the time for talk is bleeding away. There is a tribunal waiting, and the fire is already lit under the kettle.

He doesn't interrupt the heavy silence Kaelor left hanging over the tiefling. Instead, he slowly shifts his weight, his thumbs now tucked into his leather belt and his dark eyes moving from Kaelor's scarred face to Toil. He remains perfectly still, waiting to see if the preacher is going to choke on the warlord's challenge, or if he's actually ready to drink the brew he stirred up.

Toil seems impressed at the fact there seems to be an irritation at the general being called 'general' by his underlings, an irritation that is recognised and behaviour corrected because of.

Toil listens, sure he likes the sound of his own voice and long monologues are a disarming method for the most part, but it is rare that Toil gets to listen to another person participate in the act. Especially one with so many followers. The smile never cracks, never slips from Toil's face, it has been a while since he got a specifically verbal dressing down and he revels in the opportunity, taking the carefully crafted jabs and stabs with the ease of a fencer ready to counter. As he does Toil's voice also remains very calm. A hint of amusement tickling his throat as he speaks and that unwavering smile still stuck there. He speaks like a man jestingly berating a dear friend at the tavern. It is an odd display to say the least.

"You are an animal... We all are, the base instincts in you are what drive you, you can coat it in whatever you like but altruism? true altruism, is a damned myth and you know it. 

There are benefits to being a leader of course, be it the riches, power, and respect on one side, or the admiration and feeling of pride in doing good on the other. It is the excuses that you seem to lean on. It is understood that any amount of brutality can be reasoned away and excused when there's somebody to save, right? How many terrible things, unintended consequences have you and yours not answered for in the name of saving someone else? But that's the trick, there's always going to be some one to save, always! And sure a perfect world is something to strive for, but it is an unattainable ideal, a banner to get behind for those who have lost enough to blindly bind themselves to it, to you.

You insinuate my hypocrisy, that I have bound myself in labels of distributor and agitator. But these are names given to me by others, I freely do what I want when I want, I revel in it, and should that make me butt heads with one person or another then I face those consequences. Like everyone should. Is that admirable? Is that selfish? That's not for me to say, that is a perspective of others that I do not force upon them, but I am free, and if your wants truly are what you say they are then I accept that, But it is odd to me that you laden yourself with your will like it is burden. Are you not free? Are you not revelling in life?

You have, however, piqued my interest. I do very much want to see what comes next, and I do very much want to know what turned you into this, but I'll be going along your little mission for my own interests, not yours. I'm sure you understand." Toil chuckles, a deep rolling chuckle that seems to echo through the mostly unfurnished room, when he says he enjoys his life he really seems to wear that fact upon his sleeve.

“Anyway…” Rory steps closer to the map, leaning forward, putting his fists on the table.  “You said we would have a cart drawn by two warhorses, carrying cargo, and that we shouldn’t steal from the cart.  What exactly would we be carrying?  Of course we wouldn’t “steal” from the cart, but I’d like to know what we are to convey across this pass.  Will we be given horses to help our speed?  And lastly… unless there are other questions about motives, how our mommy raised us, and what not… where are the pockets of resistance that you might anticipate?  Our endpoint and contact there would be the last piece of information.  Unless… there are other questions here from my fellow warriors?”  Rory turns and looks at everyone with a twinkle in his eye.  

"A warrior can be anything", Aubrik agrees softly, gesturing toward Harper and his scribbling. "Even a warrior of the pen, fighting to keep the truth from being swallowed by the dark".

He looks back to Rory, a faint, respectful tilt of his head. "I have no more questions about motives. Let's hear what we're hauling".

Orvyr looks between the Tiefling and the High Elf. He is unsure what to do to help with the tension. Should he say something? Some of the concepts they are talking about have gone over his head, but it seems like the Tiefling (Toil?) is agitating their host. Is there a good idiom for this? ... New leaf? ... Forest through the trees? ... No, those aren't right for this situation.  

Orvyr is glad when the others changed the subject to the matter at hand. He starts to look at the map, pulling out a ruler and measuring some things. "I have a question. Do you have a more detailed map of the mountain range? Or maybe the area leading up to it? It might give us hints as to where the pass could be. A path big enough to allow a cart to pass through, there must be signs of it somewhere." Orvyr starts to measure some of the other maps as well. 

The anger slowly dissipates as Kaelor ignores the goblin and she watches as the conversation continues, especially building tension between Toil and the warlord.  As Toil builds upon the discussion and ends in a loud chuckle, Cork rolls her eyes.  She's seen this way too many times before and it quickly bores her.

She turns attention to the others, the halfling that hasn't said much, the softspoken woman, the hardened man who is obviously ready to go.. ooh good question on the mounts!, the orc who started the questioning and now the dragonborn next to her who had an interesting scent.

Then he actually pulls a ruler out of his pack.  All other thoughts drop out of her head as she leans in closer towards Orvyr's pack, "What else you got in there?" if it is close enough, she'll stick her nose in, but she isn't going to leave her stool, not yet. 

Harper's charcoal stopped moving. He looked up at Aubrik, but just for a moment. Something crossed his face that he didn't quite manage to put away before anyone saw it. Then he looked back down at the page and finished the sentence he was on. He then tapped the charcoal twice against the journal in that small unconscious habit and closed the water stained journal.

"I write things down so they aren't forgotten." He pauses briefly. "Three journals full of dead people telling me I'm doing that wrong too."

He tucked the journal away.
"But I'm in."
He opened the journal again and went back to writing.

Quote from kqstark >> 

Then he actually pulls a ruler out of his pack.  All other thoughts drop out of her head as she leans in closer towards Orvyr's pack, "What else you got in there?" if it is close enough, she'll stick her nose in, but she isn't going to leave her stool, not yet. 

 Orvyr is engrossed in looking over the maps, he doesn't register the question at first. He turns right before Cork can reach his bag. "Hmm. Ahh. Just normal things, mostly. I'm an amateur map maker myself, here take a look." He takes out the case the ruler came from and shows the rest of the cartographer tools. "A map makes a good souvenir for the places I've been. Ahh, no, no touching." He says, closing the case and putting it away. "Sorry, what was your name again? I'm Orvyr. Nice to meet you." He goes to shake the goblin's hand as gently as possible.

The goblin's eyes focus on everything the dragonborn pulls out.  She doesn't try to reach for it, just take it all in.  It's the calmest you've seen her since arriving.  "Good souvenir, yes, helpful for those that come after, also yes."

She shakes the man's hand as well, looking him over as she does.  "My name is Cork.  Are you going to join in this task?  I think my friend is hooked, I don't have a choice." she says with a bit of a smirk.

Kaelor watches Toil through the answer, through the smile, through the laughter that rolls strangely through the half-empty chamber.  For a moment, he says nothing.

“Of course I understand.” He says.  There is no offense in his voice. No wounded pride. If anything, there is something almost like recognition.  “You go for your reasons. I send you for mine. Somewhere between the two, the road still gets walked.”

His gaze lingers on the Tiefling a moment longer.

“As for what turned me into this...” His eyes lower briefly to the map, and for the first time since you entered, the softness in his face does not look patient. It looks old. 

Then Rory steps in, and Kaelor lets him. The shift from philosophy to particulars seems almost to settle something in him. The strange weight in the room does not vanish, but it changes shape. The warlord emerges again, replacing the aged Elf.

“Yes,” he says to Rory. “You should know what you are carrying.”

He reaches to the side of the map and pulls a folded inventory from beneath a small brass weight. He does not hand it over immediately. Instead, he unfolds it and reads with the matter-of-fact tone of a man reciting numbers he has already memorized.

“Dried grain. Salted meat. Powdered milk. Clean linen. Fever-bark. Wound salve. Bone needles. Surgical wire. Lamp oil. Flint. Water purification tablets. Gold enough to purchase local cooperation if cooperation can be purchased.”

His finger slides lower on the page.

“There will also be two sealed packets of correspondence and three signet tokens. Those are for my agents south of the Crownspires. None of your cargo is for you to open.”

He looks up.

“There are a few short blades and crossbow parts in the lower crate. Defensive provisions for people who may need them.”

A pause.

“And before anyone asks, yes, that does make the cart more than a cart. It is relief. It is payment. It is a message. It is proof that a route through the Crownspires can carry more than rumors.”

He folds the inventory once and sets it on the table where the others can see it.

“To answer your second question: no, I will not be sending a full string of mounts. Horses tell the enemy that those they're looking at are well supplied, and that indicates supporting patrons.”

His eyes shift to Orvyr.

“You will have the maps we have. They are not good enough. If they were, I would not need you.”

There is no insult in it. If anything, it sounds like respect. He reaches for another roll of parchment, bound in red cord, and places it near the Dragonborn.

“This is the best survey available of the northern approach. Old quarry roads. Dry streambeds. Shepherd trails. Two abandoned watch posts here and here.” He marks them with two fingers. “The southern side is worse. Older. Less certain. If there was once a road through the range, it has either been swallowed, hidden, or deliberately forgotten.”

His gaze moves to Cork for half a breath at that last word, then away again.

“The pass, if it exists, likely begins somewhere along this broken shelf west of the red marker. The wyverns have been sighted farther east, near the cliffs. Marauders favor the lower roads because starving men rarely climb unless there is profit in it. Highwaymen are a concern until you leave the settled approach. After that, the greater danger is terrain, weather, and whatever has made men avoid a route that should have been useful for generations.”

He straightens.

“Your endpoint is a ruined waystation called Saint Orasyn’s Rest. South face of the Crownspires, two days down from the suspected pass if the descent is clear. There is an old pilgrim bell there. Cracked. Green with age. If you reach it, ring it twice at dusk, then once again after ten breaths.”

He taps the map.

“A woman named Maeren Vosk will meet you if she is able. Grey cloak. Burn scar along the left side of her jaw. She will answer to the phrase, ‘Roads remember feet.’ You will answer, ‘And feet remember home.’ If anyone gives you only half of that exchange, you leave.”

His eyes move across them, one by one.

“Pockets of resistance are harder to name. Ashvault loyalists fled south and east when the Keep fell. Some will be frightened men with stolen helmets. Some will be former soldiers looking for a banner. Some may be agents of the Meridian watching to see whether I am foolish enough to overreach.”

A faint, tired line crosses his face. It is not quite a smile.

“I am many things. I try not to be foolish.”

Then he looks toward Harper.

“Write this down, if you haven’t already. If you are captured, you are not mine. If you are questioned, you are Ashvault Resistance, moving south to regroup and resupply. If the cargo is lost or captured, try to save the correspondence. Let them take the cart rather than your lives.  If the horses break, cut them free. If one of you falls and cannot be moved, the rest decide whether they are soldiers or warriors.”

The words are gentle. 

From beyond the door, somewhere deeper in the Keep, voices rise and fall. The tribunal has not begun without him, but it is waiting. Everyone in the room can feel it now: another fire, another judgment, another piece of the new world Kaelor is trying to hammer into shape.

Kaelor reaches for the thorned crown again, but does not put it on.  His fingers smudge the remnants of ash residue left there from the volcanoes of the smaller north-western continent.  The crown is old bronze, tarnished by untold time of wear and neglect.  

“Last questions,” he says. “Then you either take the road, or you don’t.”

Toil thinks, his jaw slacks as he looks to the ceiling as if to read his thoughts up there, but even slack jawed the corners of his mouth are curled into that trademark smile, then a thought does come, and he's back! "Ooh! we have free reign, and sanctified permission by yourself to defend ourselves and kill if necessary I assume? But does that land on our conscience or yours? Oh! and I hope if any of us perish that it weighs upon you heavily, that is very much the mark of a good commander in chief, right?" Toil gives a thumbs up, and a wink before adding. "But of course you aren't our commander in chief, we are resistance! Nudge, nudge, wink wink," more thumbs up and over the top winking from Toil. "If we forget anything I'm sure our bookkeeper has us covered." He gestures over to Harper 

Without looking up from the journal: “Bookkeeper. Fine by me.” He tapped the charcoal twice. “I’m riding in the cart.”