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Alliria;
Outer District, West Port
Kiros Rahnel Roland Grayson
Alliria;
The Shallows, Meerkin's Barber Shop.
Dominic Valentino Marta Martigan Theodore Zurim
Outer District, West Port
Kiros Rahnel Roland Grayson
An altercation avoided - for now - the tent full of guards and priests settle back down into uneasy rest.
"My name is Pahgorim," the orcish shaman introduced himself, as he sat back down on his crate. He motioned to the sheepish human woman, the Celestialist. "And this is Lisetta. She is from from the local Celestial temple, I am an emissary from Bhathairk. We both volunteered for service, but it seems you did not, priest of the Annunaki. My apologies."
Pahgorim shook his head when the mercenary standing in the corner asked of their tasks.
"I can answer that question," came a voice from just outside. A woman entered the tent, neither short nor tall. Her hair was dark and stringy, wet from the rain outside. She did not have the build of a mercenary nor the uniform of an officer. She wore no merchant's emblem, and the dusty green of her coat did not look like noble's finery.
Even so, she strode to the center of the tent with authority, and stood before the odd collection of souls. A large cart, its contents covered up by thick canvas, was wheeled in by two guards. The woman wasted no time in tugging the canvas cover off. Lisette, the young Celestialist, squeaked in surprise at the sight within.
"This cycle, the Syzygy is different. This time, a curse has come with the darkness."
There lay the emaciated figure of a sailor, hunched against one corner of the cage. He wore the bright gold and silver tassels of an Allirian captain, but his clothes were ragged, crusted with salt and torn in places. From the rips in his coat sprouted barnacled growths, white hardened shells that scaled up his arms and neck.
"The creature within this cage was once an Allirian naval officer. Some days ago, his ship disappeared on a routine patrol. It returned to us this morning, and he was found aboard like this. The rest of the crew, still missing."
The man's face was muzzled with an iron mask, and his hands and feet were bound in shackles. A rabid look glinted in his watery blue eyes.
"He died aboard that ship - what you see now is a state of undeath. The cause is unknown. Conventional treatments against necromancy, both magical and mundane, have proven ineffective. Now, we turn to the divine. This is where you come in. Use whatever methods available to you - prayer, purification, prostration. At this point, I will accept any cure that proves reliable."
"And the reward?" The shaman Pahgorim spoke up. "Everyone keeps saying we will be 'sufficiently compensated'. What is the price of our work?"
"The people of Alliria will know which god saved them from this ailment, I will make sure of it. For a city that recognizes no official religion, I'm sure you can imagine the kind of boon a public endorsement would be."
Before she could say more, the woman was caught suddenly by a fit of coughing. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and covered up the worst of it.
One of the guards who had wheeled the cage in went now to her side, and let a concerned hand wrap round her shoulders. "Ma'am, you should get some rest," he said softly.
The woman regained her composure. She folded the handkerchief back up and shrugged off the man's worry with a dismissive wave. She stepped forward to address the collected priests once more: "This is contracted work - there is no punishment for failure, and you will be given every resource you need to succeed. I hope the terms are found to be agreeable."
"My name is Pahgorim," the orcish shaman introduced himself, as he sat back down on his crate. He motioned to the sheepish human woman, the Celestialist. "And this is Lisetta. She is from from the local Celestial temple, I am an emissary from Bhathairk. We both volunteered for service, but it seems you did not, priest of the Annunaki. My apologies."
Pahgorim shook his head when the mercenary standing in the corner asked of their tasks.
"I can answer that question," came a voice from just outside. A woman entered the tent, neither short nor tall. Her hair was dark and stringy, wet from the rain outside. She did not have the build of a mercenary nor the uniform of an officer. She wore no merchant's emblem, and the dusty green of her coat did not look like noble's finery.
Even so, she strode to the center of the tent with authority, and stood before the odd collection of souls. A large cart, its contents covered up by thick canvas, was wheeled in by two guards. The woman wasted no time in tugging the canvas cover off. Lisette, the young Celestialist, squeaked in surprise at the sight within.
"This cycle, the Syzygy is different. This time, a curse has come with the darkness."
There lay the emaciated figure of a sailor, hunched against one corner of the cage. He wore the bright gold and silver tassels of an Allirian captain, but his clothes were ragged, crusted with salt and torn in places. From the rips in his coat sprouted barnacled growths, white hardened shells that scaled up his arms and neck.
"The creature within this cage was once an Allirian naval officer. Some days ago, his ship disappeared on a routine patrol. It returned to us this morning, and he was found aboard like this. The rest of the crew, still missing."
The man's face was muzzled with an iron mask, and his hands and feet were bound in shackles. A rabid look glinted in his watery blue eyes.
"He died aboard that ship - what you see now is a state of undeath. The cause is unknown. Conventional treatments against necromancy, both magical and mundane, have proven ineffective. Now, we turn to the divine. This is where you come in. Use whatever methods available to you - prayer, purification, prostration. At this point, I will accept any cure that proves reliable."
"And the reward?" The shaman Pahgorim spoke up. "Everyone keeps saying we will be 'sufficiently compensated'. What is the price of our work?"
"The people of Alliria will know which god saved them from this ailment, I will make sure of it. For a city that recognizes no official religion, I'm sure you can imagine the kind of boon a public endorsement would be."
Before she could say more, the woman was caught suddenly by a fit of coughing. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and covered up the worst of it.
One of the guards who had wheeled the cage in went now to her side, and let a concerned hand wrap round her shoulders. "Ma'am, you should get some rest," he said softly.
The woman regained her composure. She folded the handkerchief back up and shrugged off the man's worry with a dismissive wave. She stepped forward to address the collected priests once more: "This is contracted work - there is no punishment for failure, and you will be given every resource you need to succeed. I hope the terms are found to be agreeable."
Alliria;
The Shallows, Meerkin's Barber Shop.
Dominic Valentino Marta Martigan Theodore Zurim
The old bird's narrow barber shop was starting to get crowded. First the four guards piled in, their shoulders broad and their chests full of breathy chagrin. Then the sleek and familiar form of a particular Otternali. Meerkin nodded to the king of the Jungle as he entered, an old and earned respect gleaming in the bird's red-brown eyes.
"We won't be harassing nobody if they're actually sick," retorted the guard when he was confronted by Dom. "Bradek here's got a special talent - he can sniff out an injury like nobody's business."
A guardsman with a nose that gave Meerkin's beak a run for its money stepped deeper into the shop. He must have been Bradek, because his nostrils flared out in a sharp inhale when his name was mentioned.
The first guard chuckled premptively at his own joke. "Even through the stink of you beasties."
Through the door at the far end of the shop, was the infirmary. Twin rows of beds lined each wall, a dozen in total. Every bed was occupied, and a few more patients still were propped up in chairs or laid out between beds on piles of blankets upon the floor.
Bradek, the strange and quiet guardsman with the keen nose, slipped into the infirmary without much fuss. He stopped at the foot of the foxkin woman's bed. The fox tossed and turned, twisting her bedclothes up around her form.
"I can hear them, I hear it..." she muttered, eyes wide but unseeing. "The echoes in the deep..."
Recoiling, Bradek covered his nose with a gloved hand. "This one already smells dead," he whispered in horror.
"We won't be harassing nobody if they're actually sick," retorted the guard when he was confronted by Dom. "Bradek here's got a special talent - he can sniff out an injury like nobody's business."
A guardsman with a nose that gave Meerkin's beak a run for its money stepped deeper into the shop. He must have been Bradek, because his nostrils flared out in a sharp inhale when his name was mentioned.
The first guard chuckled premptively at his own joke. "Even through the stink of you beasties."
Through the door at the far end of the shop, was the infirmary. Twin rows of beds lined each wall, a dozen in total. Every bed was occupied, and a few more patients still were propped up in chairs or laid out between beds on piles of blankets upon the floor.
Bradek, the strange and quiet guardsman with the keen nose, slipped into the infirmary without much fuss. He stopped at the foot of the foxkin woman's bed. The fox tossed and turned, twisting her bedclothes up around her form.
"I can hear them, I hear it..." she muttered, eyes wide but unseeing. "The echoes in the deep..."
Recoiling, Bradek covered his nose with a gloved hand. "This one already smells dead," he whispered in horror.
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