The younger of the two monks, who looks to be perhaps sixty years old, looks nervous.  "A Zadasthan?" he says, with a slight catch in his voice.

The older man is more relaxed, "Calm yourself Brother, does not Oghma teach that all peoples have their own poetry, and knowledge thrives best when it is passed on to others?"

Then he turns to Eilieen, with a genuine smile, "The road to the east is safe enough, all the way to Derindin, and beyond, to the coast of the Great Sea.  It is when one sets foot off the beaten path that trouble is more likely to be found.  To the north of the road, and a little east of here, lays the site of a great battle.  The field is haunted by fell creatures who came to feast upon the dead.  Further east, and south of the road the unwary may wander into the lands claimed by the Dungeon of Graves.¤

"But the road is well patrolled, and travellers are, by and large, safe when they walk upon it."

"Of course, the flesh pots of Derindin present their own dangers, especially to the purses of travellers."

Not to be outdone, Aarnr returns the merchant's smile.  His lie about the safety of the camp was only to be expected, just part of the game they're playing, as is his own seeming acceptance of that obvious falsehood.

Yet the priest can see no reason to doubt the man's tale of the haunted battlefield and does not have to feign the interest he shows in the gory details.

"The weapons would be froggin' rusted by now, anyway," Aarnr muses.  What few iron blades can be found in the fens of his homeland are easy prey to the ravages of rust, so he assumes that the inconstant rains in these parts would treat the weapons no better.

"I'd still like to see the gleepin' place," his grin broadens and he looks to Colwyn, expecting similar enthusiasm at the prospect.

Erista hops down from the wagon, holding one of the books to her chest as she hurries over to Eileen.  She doesn't even notice immediately that she has company, until she gets there just at the end of the conversation.  She draws up short, and then shrugs, and goes to Eileen anyway.  "I don't know about flesh pots," she allows, "But this book has recipes for regular kinds of pots.  Some of them look really good.  Most of them, actually."

Nodding, oblivious to his peril, the merchant continues, "If you are heading east, then the road passes less than a dozen miles from the fringe of the battlefield.  The point of closest approach is marked by a cairn crowned by three ancient swords.  The folk of Derindin built the cairn by way of a warning that there are ghouls nearby, and tarrying too long upon the road there would be foolish."

"I should warn you too of the curse - any that touch the three swords, or even one of them, will be hunted and slain by the ghosts of those who bore the weapons in life."

Colwyn laughs nervously.  "We isn't goin' ter be touchin' no strange swords." he assures the man, then a quick change of subject seems to calm his nerves.  "I's thinkin' as 'ow we's 'avin enough supplies fer a bit.  We should be 'eadin' back fer a spot of dinner."

The friendlier of the two monks smiles at Erista.  "Ahah!  A bearer of knowledge!" he says, and bows to the halfling.  "A good recipe can cheer even the weariest of wayfarers, therefore it is valuable knowledge indeed.  And so a great treasure has been entrusted to you."

His companion sighs, "You will have to forgive Brother Caedric.  He thinks more with his stomach than his mind sometimes."

Eilieen nods along with the explanation, mildly amused at the 'younger' monk's concern.  She's not about to eat him, or anything of the sort.  "My thanks, good sir.  The knowledge is, as always, appreciated."  Oghma's ways are helpful, to be sure.  Her eyebrows rise at the 'fleshpots' comment; for once, it's not direct her way, which Eilieen appreciates.  "I'll be certain to avoid those," she murmurs.

"I'll need to peruse that book," Eilieen continues after Erista's explanation.  "And provide better meals, for all of you  Including, perhaps, these two?"  A small bow is tendered to the two men.  "I am Eilieen; this is Erista.  If Brother Caedric's stomach is in need, we have enough food for you to join us."

Erista looks at the two, nodding appreciatively to Brother Caedric.  "A lot of people don't," she notes.  "But that's where life starts.  Your stomach is worth listening to," she says approvingly.  "And whatever she says, Eilieen makes great dinners.  You should stay a bit!" she encourages.

The younger monk nods his head to Eilieen and Erista in turn, "I am named Simeon, after the Saint, Simeon Longstride, who brought the word of Oghma to the savages of the Vastness, and was martyred when they misunderstood his teachings."

Caedric smiles sadly, "Please forgive us, but we cannot partake in whatever feast you prepare.  We are on a pilgrimage.  We started our journey at the Monastery in Darnagal, walked the Coast Road to Freegate, then turned inland to Derindin, where Brother Simeon was, sadly, robbed while begging for alms not far from a house of ill repute."

"Now we are bound for Bard's Gate, and beyond to Reme and Tsar.  After that we shall take the North Way, past Mayfurrow to Palmer's Field, and thence to Darnagal, where we shall rejoin our brethren at the monastery."

"Unfortunately, we are fasting this week, since the Equinox falls in but two days, and that is our holiest of holy days.  In three days we hope to be in Bard's Gate, where will eat and drink copiously to celebrate the end of our fast."

A strange gleam comes into Aarnr's eyes as the itinerant shop-keep speaks of the curse upon the three blades ... much the same look as Colwyn gets when he espies unattended gold.

Indeed, it's all the priest can do to keep his tongue firmly gated behind his teeth, for he is sorely tempted to abandon his subterfuge and declare his intentions before men and god.  But he does not, and smiles smugly at that not insignificant victory.

The thanks he proffers to the vagrant vendor as they pair take their leave is surprisingly genuine, and if it's for what he has learned rather than what was sold to them, the hedgepig will never know.

Hefting the sack of pepper with casual ease, Aarnr gestures for the rogue to precede him as they return to their companions.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:53, Sat 29 June 2019.

Aarnr and Colwyn, bearing their purchases make their way back to the carts, where they find Eilieen and Erista discussing religion, food, and how wet the early autumn has been so far, with two men who look to be wandering monks.

The horse and the oxen stand nearby, wearing bored expressions, and seemingly determined to eat all the grass between here and Derindin.  The oxen glance briefly at Aarnr - a look that says, "We know you, an we don't care." - before returning to their lush green supper.

Arkan is still sat in the new cart, excitedly studying one of the books in the fading light, with much cross-referencing with another of the tomes...

"Ah, well," Eilieen sadly agrees.  "I completely understand.  And but two days to the Equinox?"  She shakes her head, sadly.  "I have lost track."  Fortunately, the Equinox is of less import to the Zadasthans, who prefer high summer and winter, but there are certain rites she should carry out...

"In any case, I am pleased you only lost coin to those brigands, Brother Simeon."  The priestess shakes her head.  "Many have proven most bloodthirsty when they set upon me."  There has been more than one occasion, indeed.  The priestess hunts in her money pouch, searching for gold and finding it.  "Some replacement...please, I would support your pilgrimage."

And then further friends return to the fire.

"Aarnr, Colwyn - we have guests, pilgrims of Oghma, Brothers Simeon and Caedric!"  Turning to Caedric, she continues.  "Colwyn is another friend, and Aarnr a priest of Bowbe."

Caedric's face lights up at the mention of Aarnr's god.  "A follower of Bowbe, eh?  I hope the crook-pated, urchin-snouted reeky bull's pizzle serves you well, Sir, or at least does you little disservice."

Simeon, meanwhile, accepts Eilieen's generous donation with a small bow.  "May all the knowledge you discover be truth."  He seems distracted though, watching Aarnr with a certain amount of suspicion writ large upon his face.  "Bowbe is a god of the Vastness, is he not?"

Colwyn eyes the two monks suspiciously.  They look poor, and in his experience, poor people are generally looking to steal from the rich and give to the tavernkeeper.  It always starts off small of course, with a plea for alms, or for a farthing to buy turnips, and increases subtly to become a request for "All yer stuff, or I'll slit yer bleedin' throat."  Followed most frequently by the slitting of throats, even if all the stuff is handed over.

Successful thieves don't leave witnesses...

These two certainly look the sort. even if they appear somewhat older than usual.  Still, the harmless seeming ones are always the most dangerous.

And one of them, despite his attempt to appear holy, curses like a drunken soldier when his money has run out, and he still has three days more drinking to pay for.

More interesting though, they don't respond to any of Colwyn's hand signals.  So they're either not really thieves, or (and this is more likely) thieves in this part of the world are an unfriendly shower of backstabbing sons of witches...

"We've got ... food ?" Aarnr announces to his companions, easily lifting the heavy sack he carries high in the air, though he looks to Colwyn for confirmation, even as he eyes the two newcomers with suspicion.

Monks he cares not for ... but a mere minute of hopeful consideration allows him to correctly place Oghma on the scale of friend or foe.  Though they know it not, this pair owe a great debt to Aramil and Oswald, for the priest was fond of both minstrels and blood-brother to the halfling besides, so these pilgrims do well by association.

Though even if not for that, the dreadful curse that Caedric utters is much appreciated and would have assured their place at the campfire.

Aarnr grins broadly.  "The jarrin' beetle-headed pignut stirs himself to provide what meagre froggin' pittance he can be bothered to," he assures the codpiece almost amiably.

Turning to the other, the priest turns his question over in his mind.

"No," he corrects the lout, "anyone with a blade and the elfin will to use it can demand the the pukin' fly-bitten puttock stir himself from his ale-sozzled stupor."

"There's a lot of us in the fens who fobbin' do so," Aarnr allows.

"Oh, well-done Aarnr!  That should do us for some time."  But Eilieen's eyebrows rise as Caedric greets Aarnr.  Clearly the man is familiar with the rough priest's god and the ways of his worship.  She glances toward Simeon with some amusement; it's clear which of these two has more experience on the trail.  "Well, I shall allow Aarnr to answer that question myself.  Or perhaps you might inquire of Caedric, as he seems to be conversant."

More than little, in fact.

Back to stirring the food.  "The way you travel is dangerous," she continues.  "Do you have a caravan, so as to not do so alone?"   She throws Colwyn a quick glance from the corner of her eyes; the man seems ready to put a knife into the two monks, for some reason.

Caedric nods, smiling.  "I believe Bowbe is worshipped in the Vastness, yes, along with a number of other deities who... "  He stops talking and the smile vanishes as he sees the look on Simeon's face.

"Ah... given the time-span involved, Brother Simeon, I think it is unlikely that anybody in present company was responsible for the holy martyrdom of your sainted namesake in the cold Vastness.  After all, it was four hundred years ago - little more than an eye-blink for an immortal, but several lifetimes for common mortals, like ourselves and our hosts."

He spreads his hands, attempting to placate the other monk.  "Our goal, remember, is the spreading of knowledge.  Not the perpetuation of ancient grudges."

Simeon seems unimpressed...

Oh dear.  They seem to have stumbled into a bit of a religious pit.  With a sigh, Eilieen turns back to her cooking.  She can't very well tell Simeon he's not right to feel something; the man has a true calling, and something terrible that happened years ago clearly is part of that calling.

But she should say something.

"I'm sorry," the priestess quietly states.  "Sorry that the followers of our gods have quarrelled, fought, and even killed in the past.  Sorry that it likely still goes on in some parts of our world.  Sorry that we may never get past our petty mortal ways to stand as one against evil."  Carefully, she scrapes the bottom of the pot to avoid burning the stew.  "I'm sorry for your church's loss, specifically."

Setting down the ladle, she faces Simeon directly.  "If you wish to speak of this, I will hear your words.  They will, I believe, carry a lesson I should hear."

That his ancestors slew those of Simeon bothers Aarnr not at all.  Indeed, it does sounds like the basis of a good feud, the sort of grudge his own tribe embrace wholeheartedly, nurture, polish and bring out when whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Generally at feasts when the ale flows free and the blood does too.

The puttock does seem overly upset by it though.

"My people don't like froggin' strangers," he explains to the pilgrim.  "Or each other, much."

"There's a lot of fightin' and killin in the fens'," he recalls fondly.

"Simeon Longstride" says Brother Simeon, eliciting a sigh from Brother Caedric, "was not there to fight or to kill though.  He was there to teach, and to learn."

"Aye, that he was.  And I'd have to say that he learned a valuable lesson." Caedric says, somewhat testily, "That being that only a fool would try to teach a wolf to read."

"Please forgive Simeon's lack of manners, my friends.  He tends to forget that his namesake. Simeon Longstride, was the sort of person who would put his head into a crocodile's mouth to count its teeth."

Now it's Simeon's turn to sigh...

Aarnr can neither read nor count, though having learned the tongue of civilised folk by dint of much pain and effort (on the part of the unfortunate slave he tasked to teach him) by the standards of his kinsmen he's a towering intellectual, not that any would dare say such to his face.

Nor should putting one's head in the mouth of a crocodile or any toothy beast be regarded as either brave or necessarily stupid ... though in that regard the priest does not consider any scenario other than having first killed the creature.

Venturing into the fens and not wanting to fight or kill is certainly very strange behaviour.  Still this pair are ... guests ?  And if they don't want to fight it behooves Aarnr, in keeping with the cunning subterfuge, to feign polite interest.

"So how many froggin' teeth does a crocodile have ?"

Eilieen listens with some dismay as Caedric speaks cuttingly of the erstwhile Brother Simeon’s fate.  She shoots a commiserating glance to his namesake, and echoes his sigh.  Back to the pot, the priestess continues to stir, considering her words.  “But people are not wolves,” she finally states.  “Nor are they crocodiles.  One might hope for something different from people, despite our long history of murder and rapine.  One might hope for something better.”

Her smile, she offers to Simeon.  “I cannot fault your namesake’s attempt; it was a worthy effort, in keeping with his calling.  I would be a hypocrite to do so, besides, as we travel to Rappan Athuk.  Certainly the odds are not in our favour; we are, in fact, the ones counting the crocodile’s teeth.”

“I only ask that those about the fire set aside their enmity against lands and peoples; here, we are all bringers of light, no matter where we come from…whether we travel to seek and dispense knowledge, or battle against the dark.”  A gesture toward Aarnr follows.  “Aarnr, here, being one of the latter.”

Then, of course, crocodiles.

Eilieen's brow furrows for a moment as she struggles to parse the not-quite-non-sequitur. Yes, the query does make sense, as it happens.  "No idea," she cheerfully replies.  "Probably a lot, though."

"More than enough." Caedric confirms with a wry smile.  "Indeed, if you are bound for that accursed place, then you may have the opportunity to confirm that for yourselves.  There are marshes not too far from the dungeon which are rumoured to be the home of crocodiles, snakes, and a particularly unpleasant variety of frog whose nocturnal calls can drive a man insane."

He bows his head to Eilieen.  "Simeon and I both accept your terms.  We will bring no strife to your fire."  Simeon does not appear pleased, but gives a begrudging assent.

Then the younger monk raises his head, "I would caution you though, in the realms through which you will travel after this evening, the shadow of the Dungeon of Graves looms large and spawns much fear.  To speak the name of Rappan Athuk in Derindin, and the lands further east, is considered to be tantamount to cursing those who hear it, and it might provoke hostility.  It would be wise to be careful where, and in what company, you speak of that place from now on."

Erista gets a thoughtful look, and trots back over to the wagon, climbing back up and pulling out one of the books.

"Pheasants," Aarnr agrees, nodding sagely.  Wolves, crocodiles, frogs and snakes are all very well, but his sights are set higher.

His question regarding the counting of teeth provides no definitive answer, but Caedric's promise that they'll be able to count them for themselves is welcome.  Colwyn would be best for that task, having shown an interest in teeth before now ... which in turn reminds the priest of the horn taken from the dragon and his need for a leather thong from which to hang it.  Perhaps in this Derindin one might be purchased from a shopkeep, with Erista's skill and cunning, for he has not the time to cure the hide of a beast himself.

Speaking the name of the Dungeon of Graves as a curse appeals mightily to the priest, though he has no doubt of Eilieen's opinion on opening hostilities in a built-up area.  That the peoples of these lands prefer to forget about the horror that might at any moment swallow them whole, well that is not unheard of - indeed what else could explain Simeon's ancestor entering the fens in the hope of teaching anything other than what the insides of a fool looked like ?

... which is undoubtedly not a question that would find favour with either their guests or the priestess of Zadastha.  Aarnr's brow furrows as he tries to think of some conversational gambit that might do, though such is difficult as these men do not seem to share his own interests.  Unless ...

"Do ye sing ?" he asks hopefully.  "Or tell tales ?"  Both might be expected of Oghma's followers and Aarnr enjoys a good battle-song or recounting of bloody battles fought long ago.

"Alas... " Caedric says wistfully, "I was considered quite the singer in my younger days, but no longer.  I am too old, and my lungs are too weak to sustain a note.  I can, however, still recite many sagas, and even a number of epic poems."

Simeon adds his own, "I can sing, though my voice is not the best, and I don't have an instrument with me."

His own singing being more noted for volume and enthusiasm, Aarnr munificently brushes aside the men's apologies, his beady eyes lighting up at the mention of 'sagas'.

"Do ye pumpions know the fobbin' tale of the sacking of the filth-crusted temple of that toad-knocking pud Orcus ?" the priest demands, hopefully.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:28, Sat 20 July 2019.