Eilieen studies her hands.  They've roughened, she suspects, though she'd be hard-pressed to spot exactly how.  Travel does that, the woman dolorously considers.  Travel, violence, and too much sun - they will, she knows, make a mess of her pale complextion, her unlined features, her pretty travel gown.  Well.  Had she wanted to stay perfect, she should have remained at the Church.

But the orgies...

Ugh.

Erista seems to have the matter of diplomacy well in-hand, complete with an offered threat.  Disgusted by Corian's lie, Eilieen decides to leave it without any kind of reassurance; normally, she would have to step in and offer a counterbalance to the ugly suggestion.  Corian, however, deserves a little bit of uncertainty.

She raises the hem of her gown - the thread has begun to fray.  Already.  The accursed tailor had promised her at least a month of travel, and this, after only twenty days...and the mud.  Oh, the mud.

Eilieen sighs.  Doing good is a laudable goal, she decides.  If only it wasn't so accursed messy....
This message was last edited by the player at 23:31, Mon 25 July 2011.

Fate had put them all on the same path, and with similar enough goals, to complete at least a small part of the journey through this world together.  While nothing lasts forever there was always comfort to be found in the here and now, when pleasant, or at least not completely unpleasant, company was to be had.

-----------------

And so it was, that later, as the employer told his tale that her face, at first just ghostly, turned an inscrutable look at him.

"No matter how strong the wind, the rain can never rejoin the cloud."

She resumes her trance-like state where she sits in a lotus position, face lifted towards the sky.  Her scant outfit shows more of her toned physique than not as she slowly breathes in and out.  She looks as comfortable meditating here as she did back in the tavern when they first met.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:37, Tue 26 July 2011.

The journey had been miserable enough, with the weather turning the road into an endless expanse of mud, but at least the lure of gold had warmed the heart of Colwyn Akbar as he had trudged along the Tradeway tightly bundled in his cloak.

Now it seemed that the dandy had lied about that.

Colwyn snarls, "Ye gods and blue-arsed monkeys!" and rolls away from the fire into the gloom beyond the flickering circle of warmth and light.  There is a glint of steel as he comes up into a crouch.

"If we's ambushed by bandits ternight, Corian, I'll see that your'n is the first gullet ter be slit.  An' I'll do a right messy job of it."

Corian looks askance at Erista as she leans against him.  "No, no, you misunderstand." he starts to explain, only to be interrupted by the babble of protests, complaints and threats from some of the others."

He tries again, "Oh, dear, I'm making a frightful hash of this, aren't I?"  A deep breath to calm his nerves, and then, "I didn't mislead anybody  because I thought the truth would discourage interest in my real venture.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  I didn't want to tell the truth because I thought it might attract the wrong sort of people.  Enemies, to be blunt."

"Excuse me." he carefully pushes Erista away, to a respectable distance, and continues, "I suppose I should start at the beginning."

"I am an apprentice to a mage, Dasidar, who lives in a hamlet a little north of Reme, and a thankless position it is, or rather was, since my master has now released me from service.  Some months ago we were visiting the library of another mage, Feriblan, in the city.  My master went there often to consult with Feriblan, who is an unpleasant man, usually surrounded by the stench of boiled cabbage and cheap spirits, and prone to hysterical gibbering."

"Unpleasant though he is, Feriblan is not as unpleasant as his own apprentice, Vortigern, who is a nasty individual, a violent bully who likes to taunt and intimidate the apprentices of visiting mages.  I'm sure that if Feriblan were not quite, quite mad, he would have dismissed Vortigern long ago, since the man has certainly progressed far beyond the skills of a mere apprentice."

Corian looks down at his hands for a moment, marshalling his thoughts, "Whenever we went to visit Feriblan, I would always endeavour to avoid Vortigern, and this most recent occasion was no exception.  I found a small room, off to one side of the main library, and contented myself with perusing the various volumes contained within.  As I read, I ran my fingers over a carved detail on the reading stand, and was surprised when a hidden compartment sprang open.  Inside was a small box with a piece of paper attached which identified it as belonging to one Eralion of Fairhill."

"Curious, as I had heard of Eralion, and knew that he had died decades ago, I opened the box.  Inside it I found a peculiar amulet and a scrap of parchment, a letter to Feriblan.  In it, Eralion explained to Feriblan that he intended to attempt a most difficult ritual, which would grant him immortality, as a form of lich."

"This goin' ter take much longer?" Colwyn demands out of the shadows, "Only I's waitin' fer yer ter finish, so's I can be 'avin' me dinner, see?"

With a sigh, Corian gets to his feet and starts to pace as he continues his tale, "Very well, to cut a fascinating tale indecently short, I decided to learn more of Eralion.  After Dasidar dismissed me, saying I had learned all that he was prepared to teach me, I risked another visit to mad, foul old Feriblan and questioned him directly regarding Eralion.  He told me, amid interminable ramblings concerning the properties of various cheeses, that Eralion had not had sufficient magical might to become a lich, and that it was his belief that his old friend had, in actuality, been the victim of a cruel deceit perpetrated by the demon Orcus."

"He did, however, confirm for me the location of Eralion's keep, just off the Tradeway, not far from the village of Fairhill.  And that, my friends, is where we are going.  While I seek only a certain staff, and some tomes of occult lore, you may take you pick of any other items we find in the wizard's tower."

"I apologise that I could not speak of this openly in Reme, but I could not risk that vile ne'er-do-well Vortigern learning of my intended destination."

"Now that I have explained my actions, shall we eat?"

Eilieen sighs again.  "Corian, the truth would have been far preferable.  If you thought us willing, you should have told us back in town."  She plucks at a loose thread despondantly.  "Back..before all this rain, wind, weather."  Abruptly she blinks her sapphire-blue eyes, almost as if awakening.  "But of course I understand your reasoning.  Hurt feelings aside, frustration aside, you had to protect yourself and your knowledge."

Standing, as is her wont when growing more seriously, Eilieen begins to pace, her hands gesturing eloquently as she speaks.  "Of course I will assist.  It does sound dangerous, and those willing to risk entry may require healing and protection against the darkness."  Her lip twitches for an instant.  "Despoiling ruins is not the most...noble cause, but perhaps something good will come of it, and I would rather disaster not strike any of those here.  If my presence can assist, so be it."

A firm nod follows.  "Yes.  I will go with you."  Her solid stance weakens a touch as she studies the 'food'.  "And...eat," Eilieen finishes with another heavy sigh.

Oh, to be back in the temple, with servings of chilled wine, a myriad of delicate cheeses, and the finest fruits and sauces, all at her whim...of course, she muses, it was difficult to enjoy said sauces when she knew exactly how the other priests and priestesses employed the thick chocolate syrup.

"Hmm..."  Erista shifts over to sit by Fergus, instead, then, looking for somebody with a little more body heat to block some of the rain.  Her head shifts back and forth as she watches Eilieen pace.  "At least you're probably telling the truth now," she offers.  "Or most of it, anyway; I'd bet you're still holding a little back."

"What I'm not sure I'd bet on - or at least, not as high a bet as you're asking, no offense, but that's lives and not copper - is that there's going to be so much we'd want besides that staff; or that this...tyrimancer of yours was right that he couldn't have done it.  There could be a lich waiting for us in this keep.  Even if he failed, if really was a trick, that doesn't necessarily mean he's just dead.  As the Dark Gods go, I don't think that one's inclined to...ground pepper on the cricket legs.  There could be something even worse."  She nods to Eilieen.  "Which might sound like good news to you, but I think the rest of us'd like a little more...guarantee.  Supposing we go, and supposing we survive, what if your Eralion turns out not to be the type to keep much more than cheese and pickles?"

She pauses, brushing a stray bit of wet hair back.  "Mm.  Wish we had some cheese here," she notes, unknowingly half-mirroring Eilieen's thoughts.

Ozzy sets his lute carefully aside as dinner is served, happily enjoying both the meal and the story - until Colwyn demands the short version.
He scowls at the rogue, but quickly focuses on the ending, allowing what remains of the tale to be told.

"Subterfuge is always entertaining." he says, pausing to lick the back of his spoon, "I usually like to be told about my part in it ahead of time, but I can understand your desire for discretion. So a little side adventure to a mean old wizards tower? THAT definitely sounds entertaining. You are forgiven." he says to their patron, knowing he would turn a profit out of this one way or another, even if it was just a mournful ballad of a small group of heroes dying.

Fergus seems a little shocked at Oswald's reaction and Corian's (Erista's threats, on the other hand, were subtle enough that Fergus completely missed her intent).  It was disappointing that Colwyn had lied, yes, but there was no need to be mean about it.

The big man listens with interest as Colwyn explains, though he has trouble with some of the big words.  He accepts Erista's presence with patient goodwill, shifting slightly to screen the halfling from the worst of the wind and rain.  She reminded Fergus of his three-year old niece, but somehow he always seemed to get in trouble when he mentioned that to Erista.

Fergus would really prefer to be getting on with the job at hand.  Rappan Athuk was his quest and he didn't see the need to get side-tracked.  But Eilieen, Erista and Oswald had already agreed.  Fergus takes his time to think it through, brow furrowing in concentration.

"It'll be like practice," he decides, "So we can do the job right when we get to Rappan Athuk."

Listening to all the comment after Corian describes both his real purpose and the reason for his reluctance to talk back in Reme. Smiling, Aramil gets his meal and then sits down as the others slowly make their feelings known. Aramil is unsurprised to find himself agreeing with the singer again. Though from the little he has got to know Ozwald they seem cut from a similar mould.

Turning to their employer Aramil speaks quietly but with firm voice "The subterfuge, borrowing other's word, is understandable. And from my position not a fault but a good trait. This tower could be a nice side adventure, or as Erista pointed out more than we wish to bite off." Aramil nods both at Qswald and then Erista. He continues But still nothing ventured nothing gained as the proverb states. I will also join you, but there is a catch! Now that you are alone in the miserable place with us I'd suggest you tell us anything else that we might need to know. Otherwise some of us might not be willing to go along with your plans later as we seem now."

Enemies.  Good.  Something about books and letters which he dismisses as unimportant.  Liches though, now that does make his blood boil. That any man with any sense in his body at all would willingly allow himself to be raised as undead.  He'd cut off this Eralion's head for free for that alone.  Vortigern too if he's in on it.  And anyone who gets in his way.

So Corian wants just a staff which isn't a proper weapon anyway - and some froggin' tomes.  Stuff he'd not bother to pick up anyway.

Food !  Finally.  First sensible thing the puttock had said in a goodly while.

"Could be a lich there," Aarnr mumbles as he tears a strip of meat with his teeth, agreeing wholeheartedly with Erista.  Bit of a surprise that.  He'd thought her the cautious sort.  But Fergus had the right idea.  Never turn down the opportunity for a froggin' good fight, just to keep in practice.

"So are we goin to froggin' Bard's Gate or not ?" he demands of Corian.  "Afterwards ..." the big priest adds with a scowl, just in case anyone thought he wasn't paying attention.

It seems everyone has decided to go, save for the mysterious monk.  Maybe.  Hard to tell, really.  Eilieen heaves a mighty sigh of relief, closing her eyes beneath the hood of her cloak.  It gives her a moment's relief from the sight of rain, rain, and more rain.  Not from the cold, the damp, the vile flavour of rations, the knowledge that her gown has begun to unravel...oh, the list could go on for days.  Best to focus on the sweet darkness before her eyes, yes.  Keep positive, Eilieen.  Sadly, she has to open them again, and does.

If only Erista hadn't mentioned cheese.

"Well then, Corian!"  She rubs her hands together, once again seating herself at the feeble fire.  "You have your people's agreement, sans one...or not.  Is there aught more you can say about this place?  Histories, rumors, legends..."  It seems wise to gather as much infomation as she can.  It also keeps her mind from cold.  And brie.  Mmm, brie.  How wonderful, especially when melted into a proper fondue of mixed cheeses.  Of course, then she had snuck into the kitchen for another helping late at night and found the cook and the high priestess ahead of her...naked...she had always blamed being half-asleep for not hearing their enthusiasm from outside the door...

Eilieen makes a sour face, her longing for brie abruptly dead and buried.

"When the frog croaks the dragonfly does not ask why."

An eye cracks open and peers at Aarnr, a smile on the opposite side of the face.  Untangling herself easily from the lotus position the monk arises in a fluid motion.

Tossing her head to one side she sends her currently braided hair around to her backside and glances over towards Eilieen, smiling gently, with both sides now.  "Unless you plan on heading out tonight, there is little need to rush anywhere.  Relax and enjoy the food we are blessed with."

She moves over closer to the fire to check on the food, catlike and gentle.

Aarnr can never tell if his nameless companion is very wise, or merely taking the froggin' piss.  His eyes narrow at her remarks (frogs indeed ! Tsathogga's Get !) but not wanting to seem stupid he makes no comment, just continues to chew, albeit slowly and agressively.

Eileen looks like she could use a good feed, but in the short time he's known her seems almost disgusted by every morsel put before her. "Fro ..." no, that'll not fly on the heels of the monk's words ... "Just eat up," he encourages her.  The priest doesn't believe in abstinence himself, and will be damned if he'll tolerate it in others.

Colwyn rises from his crouch, sheathing his blade as he does so, and steps back into the circle of light.  "Aye, well, I'll still see ter it that yer the first ter go if I's thinkin' yer've crossed us, but yer can live fer now."

Taking his place close to the fire again, he glances at Eilieen, "If'n yer don't want yer scram, yer can chuck it over 'ere, gal, I's bloody starvin'.  Me bleedin' belly reckons me gullet's been slit."

"Good questions, and fairly asked." Corian pronounces, sitting down again a decent distance from Erista, "For my part, I can't say, with any certitude, whether or not I'll be carrying on to Bard's Gate.  You are all, however, free to continue with your journey, and you will all be paid the agreed sum, after we have searched Eralion's keep, no matter what I chose to do afterward."

"One of the reasons I selected Bard's Gate as my spurious destination was, in fact, that Fairhill lays along the road to that fair city.  For anybody who truly had reason to go to Bard's Gate, Fairhill represents a minimal diversion and as little inconvenience as possible.  This seemed better, to my mind, than recruiting people who might believe they were going to be travelling to Tsar, for example, and might be somewhat put out to find themselves taking the road in entirely the wrong direction."

The young man sits in thought for a moment, "I believe that's everything.  I can't think of any part of my plans that I haven't told you.  Let's see now... go to Fairhill and investigate Eralion's former home...  No, that is everything, Master Aramil."

Eilieen pauses a moment at the Nameless One's words, unused to making sense of them so quickly.  "Eat?  Leave?  Now?"  She turns in a circle, studying the growing darkness and the drizzle.  "Oh, no, no indeed.  Of course, honored monk."  She shoots an appraising look at Aarnr, startled by his lack of crudity - it seems it's a moment to remember, between the two surprises - then offers a slow bow of the head in reply.

"You are wise, both of you.  I will..."  She looks down at the bag of rations.  "...partake."

More threats from Colwyn, followed by a request.  Brushing out her abused skirts, Eilieen seats herself.  "Apologies, dearest Colwyn, but our friends are most correct.  I must eat this...food...to keep up my strength.  It will be needed, I suppose," she mumurs, considering the time ahead.  A thrust of the hand into the bag liberates nuts, dried fruit, and possibly grains, she isn't certain.  With the proper spices, it might be a light snack in the temple.

Without, and after many full meals of the same, it's torture.

Chewing is agony, swallowing worse, but she chokes it down, following up with a watered wine from her skin.  Too sharp, too bitter, and the aftertaste of leather is best left undescribed.  Oh, how her tongue longs for the light, fruity vintages of her temple, complete with shavings of ice to cool them in the hot season...

Ice.  Oh, she had to go and remember the ice, didn't she?  The ice, the arch-abbess and her new boy-toy...errr, young apprentice...  Eilieen stuffs another handful into her mouth, the awful torment of eating thankfully wiping the images from her thoughts.

"Good enough for me," she chokes out to Corian.  "Aarnr, has mighty Bowbe seen fit to grace you with any intuitions?"  Privately she doubts it - Bowbe has always seemed the sort to let his followers walk straight into danger, grinning at their plight - but seems worthwhile to ask the enormous priest.  She might not trust his god, and she certainly doesn't trust his tongue, but Eilieen feels solid in trusting him.  Like the rest of those around the fire.

"That fen-sucked nut-hook wouldn't grace a froggin blind man with a straight path !" the priest carefully explains religion to Eileen. "The gods don't give ... least not willingingly. Thou hast to froggin' demand what you want of them and curse them till they yield to ye !"

Having provided helpful pointers on that score, Aarnr is loathe to display his ignorance, all but chewing on his beard in an effort to still his tongue ... but curiosity gets the better of him.

"What's intuitions anyway ?  I'm good with a sword ..."

And, the more things change...

Mind, Eilieen doesn't roll her eyes at Aarnr's foulness.  Her own temple had its own, far more disruptive methods of worship, so it's very difficult to maintain any sort of moral high ground for judging.  Were she actually interested in so doing.

His devotion is, in its own appalling way, truly inspiring, and he certainly gets the point across.

Washing down another mouthful of the...one hesitated to call it food...with the wine (an equally nebulous naming), Eilieen leans forward for some instruction of her own.  "Intuition.  Consider the crawling a swordsman feels on the back of his neck a moment before he is attacked from behind, or sudden realization our own Colwyn might have that warns him of a hidden trap.  It might be cues so small one does not realize they have been seen, a presentiment of things to come, or even the whisper from one's god in one's ear."  Oh dear.  He'll make something horrid of that, no doubt.

She smiles, teeth shining in the dim light.  "I think of it as the voice of my heart."

"Whispers ?  Bowbe doesn't do froggin' whispers !" but Eilieen's remarks about a warrior's instincts strike a chord of understanding - enough at least that Aarnr feels he can ignore presentiment, anyway - and he nods to show that he has grapsed the sense of it.

"I heard a few tales of Rappan Athuk," the priest ventures.  It's possible that the god sent him to those taverns for just such a purpose, though privately he doubts it, "but naught of this puking Lich-keep."

"So," Erista says, grinning mischievously, "`Intuition' is the word for the sound `Ba-thumpa'?"

She gestures towards the campfire, and one of the roasting rabbits pulls itself off the spit and floats over to her waiting hand.  She pulls out her dagger, and starts cutting it to bits, soon offering roughly half to Fergus.

"That was awfully thoughtful of you," she agrees.  "And I do think that answers all of our questions except, `what if it's full of dust and a Lich?'  But that's well enough; I have my own answer for that, and I don't think you're likely to have one I'll like better."

The monk merely smiles gently at Eilieen, lips not parted, expression cryptic.  She returns to where she was seated before to indulge herself with the meal where she eats methodically, in silence, and cleans the plate of food to the best of her ability.

"What are we but dust blowing through the echoes of a morrow that never comes?" she says to Erista and tilts her head, "Perhaps the Lich is in need of a duster then?"

"Or perhaps a dusting?  Or do you suspect a dustup?" she muses into the night, setting the plate down next to her.  After a few moments she chortles and looks around, "If we take turns we can allow our cautious employer to rest all night.  Who will stand guard with me, and when?"

Fergus is content to sit and watch the others talk.  He is confident that, with the decision made, the details will be settled without his help; that's how these things usually work anyway.

If nothing else, the discussion about food seems entirely unnecessary.  It was food, if you had any, you ate it.  Indeed Fergus had been pleased to find that the adventuring life involved better meals than farming, certainly you got to eat more meat (he thinks, as he accepts a serving of rabbit from Erista with a muttered thanks).  He had made a concerted effort to eat sparingly and, as a result, he only went through trail rations about twice as fast as most of the others.

Part of Corian 's explanation belatedly registers with Fergus.  He swallows a mouthful and says, "I can't go into Fairhill."  The admission might seem more serious if Fergus' hands and chin weren't dripping with grease from the rabbit.

Fergus doesn't respond to the monk's questions.  She confuses him.  Fergus thinks she's pretty but she doesn't behave like the girls he grew up with and he doesn't understand most of what she says.

"Fergus, why can you not go into Fairhill?" the monk asks him gently, resisting the urge to go over and wipe clean his chin, while awaiting answers or offers to share the guard duty.  She did not know much about him, yet, and the best way to find out was, usually, to ask.

Colwyn, not pausing in his eating, doesn't even look up from his dinner, "I'll 'ave the middle watch.  I's awake more at night any'ows.  Good thing in my work."

When Fergus announces that he can't go to Fairhill, that does give the rogue pause, and a broad grin spreads over his face, "Lookin' at the size of 'im, the most likely thing'd be 'e can't go back 'cause 'e ett all the bleedin' grub in the town.  That it, Fergus, yer's ett everythin' they 'ad?"

He chuckles and pats Fergus on the back, "Jus' kiddin' lad."

Ozzy pipes up, his small stature working against him yet again as he is nearly lost in the conversation of the larger people. He waves his hand eagerly and says, "Dibs on first watch! I hate being woken up halfway through the night." he volunteers, then squats down in the dirt near Fergus. Leaning forward with his hands crossed, Ozzy looks to be the gossip collector of the group as he goads, "Yes Fergus, do tell us why you can't go into Fairhill. Are you a wanted criminal? A travelling gigolo? A gambler who welches on his debts? A family man who ran out on his kids?" the possibilities are endless, but the halfling falls quiet waiting for an answer.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:54, Sat 30 July 2011.