1
The Feathered Serpent wasn't hard to find; it was on Rum Street, not far from the brewery and just to the left of the south bridge leading into town. Unlike most shops, it was still open despite the rumors flying about. The proprietor was a strange man - energetic and garrulous, Vorvashali Voon's skin was an exotic bronze, contrasting with his bright blue eyes, and he wore his flaming red hair long - if he hadn't been human-sized, one could almost think he was a gnome. His shop was no less strange, being cramped and cluttered with strange relics, statues and monument fragments along with more recognizable items. The entire shop smelled of incense, spice, and dust.
Voon seemed excited to see them and hear their tale, and oohed and aahed over their finds, offering to identify them at a very reasonable price, seeing as they were the Heroes of Sandpoint. He couldn't tell them more than Bergi had about the tattered book, but suggested they try the Curious Goblin bookstore. He examined the silver tiara and ruined miniature silk dress with interest, and plucked the iron dagger away from Quickfoot, peering at it closely and muttering to himself before revealing that it had the power to return to its owner when thrown.
I'Daiin attempted to make his broad bulk smaller in the claustrophobia-inducing curio shop with little success, bumping into crystals and swatting at dangling fetishes and bottles of unknown liquid. After stifling a sneeze from a close brush with what appeared to be a feather duster made of harpy feathers and baby roc down, he found a stool somewhat free of items and retreated to it, looking completely out of place and also like a carven statue of a wild man, albeit one somewhat uncomfortable and miserable and crouching on furniture made for an altogether smaller humanoid. Scratching at a mirrored charm, he grunted to the group. "Er...what do we kill next? After sealing up the pool, of course. ...Quickfoot, the dagger; do you want it or shall I use it to make holes in things? I would be happy to share in the distance-killing if you feel fit with the bow."
With the treasure identified (and two gold poorer for the effort), Quickfoot took counsel with his companions back at the Rusty Dragon Inn over mugs of ale. He kept his voice low, for once uninterested in starting new rumors amongst to townsfolk of Sandpoint. "Well friends, and I like to think we are all that now, it seems to me that we have some decisions to make. There are still those corpses in those pits down under the Glassworks, and those Fountains, best not to forget about those. I wonder if we can figure out a way to keep anyone else from stumbling into those." Quickfoot looked Tsuto's journal, and the demonic treatise discovered in the dungeon below. "Maybe there's some sort of connection between these books..." he mused. "I should probably read them over."
"Still though" and this time, his voice dropped to a whisper, "Tsuto wrote that the last raid was only the beginning. There are more goblins on Thistletop, wherever that is, and gods know what else lurking out there waiting to come boiling into town. It might be better to take the fight to them, quietly though... A quiet, unexpected blade if we can find the right place to bury it."
The elf trailed off, clearly mulling over a nasty bit of thought.
I'Daiin wiped a bit of foam from his lip with one giant hand and glanced at each of the companions in turn. "We should not let the clean out of that den of evil go unfinished. Whether it is our own sword or a party formed of the people of Sandpoint, the unlife and the other foul inhabitants should be removed entirely. A growth like that can come back, unless it is cauterized with fire." He poked at the wick of one of the candles at their table to no ill effect, as an oblique point of emphasis.
"However--Quickfoot, goblins, you say? The Glassworks can be sealed up for a time and we can address the other threat. I relish the idea of 'gods know what else'." The barbarian grinned fearsomely and returned to draining his mug. "And I can be quiet!" He half exclaimed and half eructated, coming up for air none too quietly.
Quickfoot hummed as he flipped through Tstuto's journal. "Hmmm, I don't know what a Ripnugget is, maybe a goblin, but I suppose Bruthazmus is a Bugbear. I don't know who Tsuto's love is, but it sounds like she worships Lamashtu and has some kind of new hand. That's probably not good, especially since that Quasit we killed was wearing one of Lamashtu's unholy symbols. Celestial taint... I wonder what that's all about. And who is Tobyn and why would they need his casket? And this Malfeshnekor... Too many questions and not enough answers. Maybe we should ask around town, see who Tobyn was, and if anyone had any sort of celestial connection here. As for the bugbears and goblins, maybe someone who knows the wilds and hinterlands could be of help to us." He closed the book shut with finality. "No matter. One thing is clear. Tsuto and the goblins were planning another raid on the town. We've found the passage from the Glassworks to the shore. We need to seal it for everyone's safety. From there, well, the best defense is a good offense, right?"
"Hm? What is that parchment?" The barbarian took the scrap of writing none too gently from the elf, his coordination somewhat hampered by a small ocean of ale. He spent some time puzzling over the words, muttering to himself in Shoanti and scratching his jaw at less than familiar words. Finally, he looked up, with the triumphant certainty reserved for the divinely inspired and the inebriated, of which he was the latter.
"Yes, this is a goblin and a bugbear, no doubt. And this--" he stabbed the paper with a finger "--is a plan of attack. The arrow, see? Perhaps they will alter it with the quasit dead--and is this Tsuto as well?" His eyes lingered on the lascivious drawing, then snapped up again. "And this woman, she is his beloved. She seeks to transform herself to some greater evil. Much infernal force seeps up from the Cinderlands; we know of this. Her father was of some Sky Clan of the heavens; she will dishonor his blood and purge it from him. She burnt his remains, but did not eat of his ash--disrespectful in the lowest form. She fractures her own fate. As for this 'Ma'la'fesh-Ne'kor', we will either kill her, or kill it and her--it matter little whatever devil-dog she pulls out of the darkness. I can only hope it is large and a worthy kill." I'Daiin grinned at the thought, then focused again.
"So yes. We follow the arrow back to the bow that would release it, and take the raid to them." His fingers looked like they could drive the journal right into the table, but somehow the manuscript held.
The halfling used her dextrous fingers to slide said piece of freakish literature aside. That journal was evidence, after all, and perhaps something she wanted to show to her children's children, assuming she was graced long enough to have them.
"I both get you and abet you," Bergi agreed, he accent thick for a few seconds. "But are you sure you want to stay, Master Shoanti? Most of the other heroes have left...,"
and the only one who stayed overlong was killed... a shoanti at that...
Her eyes unfocused and then regained clarity quickly.
"If we're going to face that big thing... Nalfeshnekwhatsit, we need to make sure we have a sufficiently-sized group and a large enough lunch."
She hushed her tone.
"And Quickfoot,we'd best keep the legend at the proportions it currently has. It can't be much worse than that clockwork demon army of yours, you know... though if it is, no one can say they weren't warned."
"A Shoanti, eh? Which Quah? Did he or she die a hero's death? If so, I salute them. And as for heroes, pah. It would seem that you, Amismara and Quickfoot have remained when others have left. That is heroic. Why should I not stay as well? I owe you a life-debt still, and there appears to be the prospect of more glory. I could not walk away from that. We have legends to make here, Bergi the Bard. And lunch! Lunch indeed! I appear to have quenched my thirst." He tapped against the nearest of the small thicket of ale mugs and whistled for a server.
Bergi bit her lip and looked down. That was a better response that she was expecting… Maybe the Shoanti had more optimistic views about Pharasma’s judgment than most?
“Heroic, yes… But I’m not… not ready to make that into a legend until we’ve finished this chapter… so his death doesn’t seem so,” she gulped, looking at Amismara squarely. “-sudden and vain. “
She returned to building a pyramid of I’Daiin’s empty ale mugs.
“Thank you, regardless. I love this place and everyone in it. I can’t stand to think about Sandpoint and a burnt-out husk.”
With a quick tap of his fingers to his forehead, Quickfoot's eyes and ears perked up and his easy grin quickly replaced the small frown he usually wore when puzzling something over. "Of course! Father Ezakien Tobyn! Really Bergi, you know everyone in town, you should have recognized that name. I mean, certainly, the old priest fed me a time or two, and gave me a bed when I needed one, and probably some clothes, although there were more lectures than were strictly necessary I'm sure, but you definitely should have known who he was the second you heard his name. Anyway, didn't he have a daughter? Nualia? They said she was touched by Desna I think. Maybe that's a celestial taint? But, didn't she die in the fire with father Tobyn?"
“So we thought… and I’m sorry, Quickfoot, I assumed you would have read and understood immediately. It’s not…. It’s not something we like to talk about, you know.”
Bergi sighed heavily. “That picture is definitely of Nualia… but… I still don’t know how. Or how she could think being touched by Desna is a “taint”.”
Quick as a summer storm, the elf's grin reverted back to the puzzled frown. He dipped his finger in a small puddle of spilled ale and languidly drew a strange curling design on the worn wooden tabletop, probably a bastardized version of something he'd seen in his mother's journal.
"Too many questions" he concluded. "And not enough answers. And Tsutso is probably in the best position to give us the truth, although I doubt he ever would. As for goblins and bugbears, well Daviren Hosk certainly hates the gobbos enough to take their ears whenever he can. Maybe we could ask him about Thistletop."
She rubbed her temples as she was wont to do. “Hosk seems like the best place to start, yeah… and I’m about ready to go out again.”
2
What townsfolk there were that weren't barricaded in their homes flocked to the party, demanding to know if the pit fiend below Sandpoint had been banished.
Although it wasn’t imperative, Bergi preferred to tell the truth. She looked to Quickfoot a couple times and blinked. She didn’t want to infringe on his plan with the best of intentions, but too much fear would mean there would be no town left to protect.
“There _was_ a demon.” She admitted, “-a little tiny one, and a couple of other things besides, but it has been dealt with by these heroes of Sandpoint. No pit fiends, though, thank the first tiller…”
She motioned to her companions, keeping the credit away from herself as halfling culture warranted. “Nothing will emerge from there now to hunt you in the night to my knowledge, but please keep away from there anyway until we get a scholar to help us look something over. Oh, and maybe a contractor to fix some broken planks and things of the like. Mundane hazards, you know?”
She smiled without confidence, seeking approval yet again before continuing.
“I can stress again that your midst is demon free unless they’ve hidden very well in a barrel somewhere, which doesn’t sound very demonish, right?”
That was supposed to be a joke.
Gods knew how the townspeople would take it in their current frazzled state.
At first the townsfolk muttered uncertainly, but as Bergi continued, they seemed to relax and they even smiled.
"If Bergi is lying, this would be the first time," Rip Charg pointed out, trying to sheathe his guardsman's shortsword inconspicuously. Paltero Banngar shouted, "Hear hear!" and even bent down over his leather-armored beer-belly to pat Bergi on the back, though he had to puff a bit to rise back up again.
The guardsmen's acceptance of Bergi's statement seemed to break a wall, and the townsfolk descended on the party, cheering and slapping them on their backs and hugging them. After a bit they dispersed, running off to tell their families and friends and neighbors the good news.
3
Daviren Hosk was one of the few who, like Ameiko next door, had kept his business open through the storm of rumors flying about town. He smiled when he saw the party (especially at Amismara) and welcomed them into the horse and hay-smelling stables where he was keeping an eye on the stablehands' work. Above, the beams of the stable were festooned with goblin ears, each one bearing a name. Horses whickered and neighed to each other as the busy stablehands trotted back and forth with barrows of oats, hay and manure.
"I hope your friend what took out of here in such a hurry is feeling better," the aging man told Bergi kindly, and offered his hand in greeting to I'Daiin.
The bard, aware of the consequences of the disease, started to pale at this reminder despite the intentions behind it. After all, if that poor martial artist hadn’t made it to Magnimar… they might have an epidemic on their hands. Too add insult to injury, it would be at least partially her own fault.
Eyeing them all, Hosk added in a more serious tone, "I don't put much faith in the rumor mill, but I'm a plain-spoken man, and while I know how gossip can get out of hand, I reckon there's a grain of truth at the bottom of most of it. Now, I don't know what's gone on between you and Master Vinder, and it ain't my business to know. But he's a good man, and a lot of us in town are hearing things that put you in a bad light. Now, I ain't seen anything of the sort from you myself, though I'll admit you're a tad late paying for stabling your animals. But people are talking, and we'd all rest easier knowing Master Vinder is wrong about you all."
Hosk harrumphed, sticking his rough hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "That's just to let you know what's what," he said gruffly. "Myself, I'm sure you found something down under our town - the trouble smells like goblins to me - and I'll wager you dealt with it right and proper. Don't think we ain't grateful for that. But... well, people talk. It ain't everybody as discerning as me when it comes to what they believe."
He looked at the party curiously. "So, what did you find down there? Can't have been much worse than goblins, or we'd have all been et in our beds by now," he chuckled.
“A small but persistent winged menace, some monstrous bipeds with slavering jaws for which I’ve coined pet name, a horrific glob, a dog that had it out for our dear Amismara, an astoundingly freakish flying head and members of the walking dead.” She looked to Quickfoot, hoping he’d jump in with anything she’d left out.
“No pit fiends or clockworks, though.”
She cocked her head to the side in regards to the more commercial aspect of the conversation.
“Did I not pay up? I’m sorry, I’m still not used to having a pony.”
Hosk blinked, mouth open in astonishment at Bergi's matter-of-fact listing of horrors. When she brought the conversation back around to more mundane matters, he seemed to lag behind a bit. "Oh? Er. Pony, yes. And the horses. Did you say the walking dead?" For the first time the solid old hostler seemed a bit shaken.
The Shoanti was content to cross his burly arms and nod as Bergi narrated their tale. When she concluded, he looked at the rest of the party with an arched brow and spoke in a low rumble. "Pit Fiend? Well then. Now we know who Malfesh--I shall not say the remainder of his name--is."
He glanced at Hosk, then back at the group. "...will we be traveling to this Thistletop area on horseback? I do not have a steed." I'Daiin looked faintly embarrassed.
"You're headed to Thistletop? That's goblin country, for right sure," Hosk said, tearing his gaze from Bergi. His face was still pale, but when he spoke the word 'goblin' there was enough vitriol in it to choke one of his horses. "It ain't far out of town, about six miles up the Lost Coast Road as the crow flies. You reach the bridge over the Thistle River and you turn north. But between the island and the road is the Nettlewood. That's a miserable tangle of poison ivy, stinging nettles and briar patches with thorns as long as my thumb even without goblins jumping out to snap at your heels every time you turn around. I've killed a few goblins in my day, I don't mind telling you, but I learned early on to stay out of the Nettlewood, and I wouldn't take a horse in if I could avoid it. What do you want out there?"
A grin resembling that of a predatory animal grew slowly on the Shoanti's face.
"We want their skulls crushed beneath our boots."
A grin matching that of I'Daiin's grew on Hosk's face as well. "Well then, I wish you well." He chuckled. "If you ever want to see what became of the Bonegrinder tribe, you're welcome to step into my office, my friend."
The discomfort on Bergi’s face indicated that she’d perhaps already done so… and found the results unpleasant. She could never understand the act of putting something dead on display when words or a drawing would be sufficient. Though, she supposed, some people would refuse to believe a tale without proof.
The elf swallowed a bit nervously at I'Daiin's bloodthirsty tone, even though privately he agreed that a skull-crushing was probably a fine solution to the threat of goblin incursion.
"Ah, that is to say, Master Hosk, that we want to make sure those goblins never trouble Sandpoint again. As for the stabling, well, I don't have a horse here, but we've had some good fortune in the catacombs below, and we should all be able to settle our various tabs. Now," he adds with a pointed look, "what sort of tales are getting spread around by my good friend Venn Vinder?" He nodded, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I'd be very interested to hear all about that, indeed I would."
Hosk harrumphed uncomfortably. "Well now, I ain't one to go spreading tales and gossip... but I suppose it's only right you know. Master Vinder says you've been defending a man who took advantage of his daughter, and that you," he pointed at Quickfoot, "were rude and threatening to him in his own shop, and that after he gave you something of your mother's that he'd been traded long ago, without asking a coin in return. Now, I know Master Vinder has a temper when it comes to his daughters, but if he's lying it'd be a first, and people know it. It just ain't what people expect of their Heroes... well, what's left of you, beggin' your pardon." He shrugged apologetically at Amismara, who bent her head, leaning on her glaive with her eyes squeezed shut.
Bergi reached out and touched Amismara’s side in a comforting motion.
“People tend to believe one thing or another, don’t they? Absolutes, but a foot isn’t all toes.” She dug her foot into the floor haphazardly. “I take it my apology wasn’t enough. If the damage is too thorough, what can we do? We have to go back down there, and we have to go to Thistletop, and we’re at a loss without Master Vinder’s help. The perpetrator of what he undoubtedly believes to be the greater ill is no longer with us. I… I don’t know what else I can do here.”
She pulled out her coinpurse, vexed but not destroyed. “Let’s square this away and, I beg your pardon, but I need my path owin’ to the fix of the lower. Father Zantus, wouldn’t you know?”
As if that was all the explanation needed, Bergi counted out the necessary funds and made her way towards the door. “If anyone can scare the reanimus it’s probably Zantus. He might know about the fountain, too. The disgusting water has to be dealt with.”
She ducked partially out before peering her head back into the stable.
“Quickfoot, you can lead I’Daiin to the scholarly places, right?”
The Shoanti's eager expression to see goblin bits at Hosk's place was doused at the mention of 'scholarly places'. He looked at Bergi, confused and faintly horrified. "Foot...toes...eh? Yes, I'm sure that the fountain and such will be taken care of. Erm, Quickfoot, lead on, but let us not take too many handspans of the sun before we proceed."
"Scholarly places?" Quickfoot made a face. "Those usually aren't much fun, but I suppose you're right Bergi. We need to figure out what to do about that fountain, and make sure those pit-corpses don't come shambling up into town. That would really spoil the song and dance."
He paused for a moment, clearly thinking, before turning back to the Ostler. "You know master Horsk, you're right. Venn is lots of things, and could usually stand to be taken down a peg or two I don't mind saying, but I've treated him poorly, and it wouldn't be very heroic to leave him worse off now that I've come into some luck myself. I owe him an apology, and as mother used to say, sooner begun, sooner done. Bergi, I'Daiin, is it all right with you two if I go make my amends to master Vinder? You can come along if you'd like, or I can meet you two at the cathedral once I'm done. Oh, and we can see if any of the things we put on consignment sold."
Quickfoot clearly would have preferred the latter option from the upbeat tone he ended on.
"After that though, well I'Daiin, you're right. We have some business to attend to on Thistletop. I just hope we're enough to see it through. Personally, I wouldn't mind having a quiet look about before we go charging in there and crushing skulls."
"If this Vinder is someone you need to repair relations with, I am not certain that bringing me along will be of help," said the Shoanti, aware of his bulk and recalling his last visit to a Sandpoint shop. Bergi, I can join you and Amismara if you are off to Zantus, as long as you don't hurt my head with more riddles. And then, by the Light and Life, we'd best be grinding goblin bones. My swords are eager." His hands gripped various deadly weapons for emphasis.
Hosk looked a bit confused by Bergi's speech, but he seemed to realize that I'Daiin wouldn't be admiring his trophies anytime soon, for he gave a disappointed sigh. "I thank ye, Bergi, Amismara. Your animals are safe enough here."
4
Father Zantus proved willing to aid the party in laying the dead to rest - just not right away. "Tomorrow is a day of rest and worship, not toil. That means I have to do my preparations for the services today," he told them with a smile. "From what you tell me, those poor lost souls won't be going anywhere before next week. If you would take me there then, I will do what I can to aid you."
I'Daiin had been in Varisian society long enough to have learned not to spit at priests, whose practices were clearly inferior to the shamans of the Storval Plateau, being so removed, in his Shoanti view, from the divine. Nor did he roll his eyes nor gnash his teeth at the Father's seemingly blasé timetable, as one would in a council meeting. "We thank you for the healing, O Holy One. I rather think we will be preventing a goblin invasion at this time next week. If I may suggest that we and the good people of Sandpoint seal all entrances to the tunnels in the meantime, and then we can address the catacombs upon our return." Warriors are patient, he reminded himself. Patience, son of Idana. You recall what trouble you brewed up in the Kaltesh-Sklar when meddling with the order of things. He put on his best civilized smile, showing a bit too much tooth.
The priest paled. "Oh! Er, yes, of course. Though to have the Glassworks sealed, you'll have to speak with the Mayor. I hope you understand that I must tend to my flock, especially in such dire times." He wasn't lying - the new cathedral was packed already with worried people; Father Zantus had been forced to see the party in his private chambers, which were rather austere.
"I will calm them, with the grace of the Gods, but it will take effort and time. If you would speak to them during service tomorrow, Amismara, it would go a long way toward easing their minds. We will also be holding a funeral service for those who died in the Glassworks. If any of you would care to say a few words for Andok...?"
At the mention of 'Andok', I'Daiin's eyes narrowed. "An'-dok. That is Shoanti-na-Quah-nehmek, a Shoanti warrior name, and one used in the Sklar-Quah and Skoan-Quah besides." He turned to his companions. "So, this is one of your former allies. Bergi, you mentioned you fought beside several of my kinspeople. If he was slain, his body should have been taken whole back to the Cinderlands, to the fire, so that his spirit may return to the Great Sky and the Lifebringer, and his kin can taste of his ashes and rejoice."
In a smooth motion, the huge barbarian knelt before Zantus, lowering his head and touching his sun tattoos in a sacred pattern. "O Holy Father. My heart cries out that this Shoanti was taken back to our homeland. Would that someone tell me it is so. His funeral rites are elsewhere. But this is Varisia, and so I will represent him at your ceremony. Tell me what I should do." I'Daiin silently awaited an answer after his speech, motionless, seeming for all the world to be a statue of sun scorched rock. All thoughts of goblin killing, it seemed, had momentarily halted.
"I will be more than happy to address the town folk, though they will most likely take more solace in your words than mine dear Father." Amismara said as she stood calmly with those gathered. "I'Daiin's words have merit. I am unfamiliar with the customs of Andok's tribe and think that I'Daiin is the best qualified to say any words, though I too would wish to say a few words in his honor." Putting her finger to her lips in thought, the Shelynite added "If someone here in Sandpoint is capable, I would like to find a way to get a message to the Shoanti of his tribe. I am certain that the others and myself would be willing and able to pay for the costs of such a service." Turning to their Shoanti teammate, Amismara asked, "I understand that it is probably difficult for a courier to locate and deliver a message to a Shoanti tribe, especially one of the Cinderlands. What would be the best way of contacting them so that I'Daiin can have proper funeral rites?" Though discussing such things was a saddening thing, there was beauty to be found in respecting the culture of others, so if it was possible to get Andok back to his tribe, Amismara would work to see it done.
Father Zantus smiled at Amismara, and placed a hand on I'Daiin's shoulder. "The Shoanti are truly an honorable people. Andok was indeed returned to his tribe by another of your people, Gronk. He was truly a Hero of Sandpoint, who gave his life defending this town from the goblins that have plagued it this past week. I know you did not know him, but if you would speak of him as a Shoanti would have wished it, I believe you would honor him, and aid us in doing the same." The priest cleared his throat. "Ahem... but perhaps you should leave out mention of your people's funeral rites."
He turned to Amismara to answer her question. "I'm afraid I don't know much about traversing the wilderness - Shalelu would probably have been of more help, were she in town. But I believe that sending a Shoanti to find the Shoanti, as you did with Gronk, is the best way to go about it. But do not dwell on what may not come to pass." He clasped her hands comfortingly, and lowered his voice, as though there were others who might hear in his little room. "I know the danger is not past, but do not be fearful. Have faith."
The barbarian nodded. "I shall do as you say, O Zantus. I am not sure if An'dok was of my Quah, but the name Gronk"--he pronounced it more like 'Kroenk'--"is certainly of the Sklar clan. I am satisfied that my Quah has honored its dead and will speak of this at the funeral."
Being that Andok’s brutal death was the first of such she had ever witnessed firsthand, Bergi took some time to master the conversation enough to say anything at all. She had such high hopes for all of the heroes of Sandpoint… and had joined them, but too late, it seemed. Some just left, including her idolized Hrolfr, and Andok, poor, poor, Andok... There was nothing left there, either. At least someone had come to help fill the gaps… but they were so few now.
“I did not know him well, but I will offer my voice.” She said quietly, looking up only long enough to communicate before facing the floor again, her eyes shining with tears on the verge of being shed.
“Thank you, Father, for everything.” Her voice was small, but only for a moment. “I can help with the people outside, I think, if you’ll let me, at least.”
Father Zantus knelt and put a comforting hand on Bergi's shoulder. "Do not be too sad, little one. Know that your friend has gone on to his final reward, and..." He eyed I'Daiin, "...and dwells forever among his people, and in your hearts." He smiled at Bergi kindly. "Take some time to compose yourself, Miss Kauflebaum. When you are ready, the town will hear you."
The halfling broke into a half-smile, looking at the priest with something just short of blind adoration. "I didn't mean anything so grandiose. I just know that we like to raise a bustling in these parts, and I find music often settles things down."
She became sober again. "The words for tomorrow are something else entirely."
With that, Bergi moved into the main chapel and summoned her fiddle, as was her perogative, and began to pull together the chords of a song played not too long ago at the Swallowtail Festival, when she had just been one performer in a sea of faces.
It was nothing too hard; simply a repeating set of chords that set the pace for a Flutter-round, or the action of singing in turn with room for innovation and improvvisation. From its inception, the Flutter-round was touted as a form of prayerful creation. However, almost anyone could hum to the accompanyment, and it had snuck into the homes of many as a simple wordless lullaby.
5
Vinder was on the porch outside his shop, opening the shutters that had been tied shut during the scare. His face darkened when he saw Quickfoot approaching, and he paused his work to glower at the elf.
Llanothen ignored Vinder's scowl and fixed a cheery grin on his own face. "Ah, Venn! Glad I found you!" Quickfoot, stayed on the street below the porch, keeping the railing between himself and the quick-tempered shopkeeper. "First of all sir, I want to apologize to you, and square things up between us if you'll allow it. You've been more than kind and helpful to me ever since my parents passed on, and I've treated you poorly in return, I can't deny it. In monetary terms, you gave me money to live on in exchange for my mother's diary, and I put you in a bad spot in front of many townsfolk. Please sir, name your price so I can make financial restoration to you."
Quickfoot pulled out his purse, which hung on a thong around his neck, and made ready to pay the man his due.
"Second sir, if you'll allow it, I have to be honest, I don't know what transpired between you and that forester. It's not my business, but I should have been more careful in my associations, and I hope you can forgive me my bad judgment. As for any dealings he may have had with your family, I've always known you and your kin to be good, wholesome people, and if anyone wants to say otherwise within earshot of me, well sir, it's your side I'll be taking. I know this may not mean much, but I love this town, and it's people. You all have taken me in, and though I wasn't appreciative in the past, well, I'm trying to do better sir. That's all I have to say. But if you've anything to say to me, I'd gladly hear it."
Vinder's face had clouded further when Quickfoot began his speech, but as the elf wound down, his look of anger was replaced by a thoughtful stare. Finally, he harrumphed and ran a hand over his beard. "Well, I suppose you aren't responsible for what that knave the Rover did," he said grudgingly, squinting in the direction of the Rusty Dragon. "And I reckon he's learned his lesson, since I hear he's moved on. At least you're man enough to come apologize."
Wiping his hands on a dustcloth in his shopkeep's apron, he stepped down off the porch and solemnly offered Quickfoot his hand. "You keep your money, lad," he said gruffly. A small smile made the corners of his eyes wrinkle. "I only kept that old thing because I knew you'd want it someday. Just be more careful about your company in the future, and you'll be a happier man for it. And stay away from my daughters," he added. He was still smiling, but his grasp was just a bit more firm before he released Quickfoot's hand.
From a window above the shop, Shayliss Vinder (who Quickfoot knew was gaining a reputation among the other young men in town) waved at Quickfoot coyly before vanishing from view.
The elf gladly took the man's proffered hand, and shook it thoroughly, though he did wince a bit as the shopkeep warned him away from his daughters. Thinking it wise avoid leaning too heavily on a newly mended fence, he studiously avoided Shayliss' attention-seeking, although had circumstances been different he certainly would have been intrigued by the prospect, as any who wished to ward themselves from Calistria's ire would be. He made his farewells with a bow and a promise to return and do business as soon as the opportunity presented itself. "Still," he thought to himself as he made his way toward the cathedral, "Venn's only human, and certain to pass on in a few more decades. Shayliss may very well have a daughter by then. Who knows what can happen with these humans?"
Llanothen then slipped into the cathedral as unobtrusively as possible, seeking a secluded nook where he could observe, and be unobserved.
6
The party's meeting with Mayor Deverin went well. She was naturally concerned by what they had found, but accepted their assurances that most of the danger had been dealt with. "I'll see to it that the Carpenter's Guild blocks the door to the tunnel, and I'll have the Sheriff post some guards there for good measure."
She rubbed her face wearily when they told her of the Thistletop threat, leaning her elbows on her desk. "This town has never been in such danger before, not even during... well, the Late Unpleasantness. A horde of goblins of that size could wipe us off the map. Even the small bands have had the town in a tizzy... for good reason." She sat back, looking at each member of the party in turn. "I'm glad you'll be at the funerals. It will give people comfort. And we're all deeply grateful that you're here to protect us, despite the losses you've suffered. Thank you, from all of us. It seems Sandpoint has a new crop of Heroes."
The halfling let a smile form on her face at that. If nothing else, Sandpoint could count on those remaining.
7
The next day, the somber tones of the cathedral's bells drew the townsfolk, all clad in their Sunday best for the funeral service. Some people, those who had lost friends or family at the Glassworks, wept as they entered the magnificent structure and found a place to sit; others grieved more quietly. The tension the town had been feeling over the last few days was gone, leaving only this sense of tired grief.
The caskets of the Glassworks workers were closed, as the party knew was for good reason. Gathering what was left of the poor townsfolk after the goblins had had their fun wasn't an enviable job. Wreaths of flowers were placed upon them, and the loud tolling of the bell competed with the talk of those assembled. There were familiar faces in the crowd, not just for Bergi and Quickfoot, but for Amismara and I'Daiin as well: A red-eyed but composed Ameiko, quietly speaking to the bereaved; Daviren Hosk, taking a quick drink from his pocket flask when he thought no one was looking; the Mayor was there, of course, and the dour Sheriff, Vinder and his family, the foul-mouthed and foul-tempered smith, and many others, some of whom they only recognized by face, not by name.
Finally the bells stilled, and Father Zantus approached the pulpit with a priest of Pharasma at his side. Due to the unusual layout of the church, and the many who had come to pay their respects, he could not address everyone from the open-air central courtyard with its standing stones as was his wont. Instead, the caskets lay on the walkway between the shrines to Erastil and Abadar, whom most of the workers had worshipped, and Father Zantus and his companion walked between them, swinging a censor of incense, while the townsfolk crowded the open area behind and the pews below.
Father Zantus somberly acknowledged each of the fallen, remembering details of their lives that brought smiles to their grief-stricken families. He prayed that their gods would look kindly upon their souls; then he introduced the man who accompanied him as Durriken, a cleric of Pharasma, who would see that the proper rites were observed while the new Heroes of Sandpoint spoke, and offer the final words of the service.
The halfling's wide eyes immediately darted to the newcomer. They searched for patterns and any sign of familiarity, but not for long. Her mind was on other things.
The cathedral hushed, with only the quiet fussing of a baby or two to disturb the expectant silence as all eyes turned to the party. Bergi's parents sat near the front of the pews, holding each other and watching their daughter proudly.
The halfling hoped she wouldn't disappoint, but she was more concerned about the smearing of Andok's deserved heroic image than anything else. Still, the practice with public speech and her experience speaking at her own brother's funeral helped.
She stepped forward, eyes dry thanks to the removal of all emotional efluvium before the fact. Only the puffyness showed she hadn't overcome the grief yet. She didn't clear her throat. It wasn't necessary.
"Andok was a really good person." She said the line matter-of-factly. "I know that this is a phrase used at every funeral, but in this case I doubt anyone here would argue." She let the line stay as was for a moment before continuing.
"He honestly cared about us, though he had no reason to form an attachment of that magnitude. He fought for us when we were too afraid to defend ourselves, and without asking for anything in return which wasn't returned to us manyfold.
He provided a positive role model to our children and all the support one could ask a friend. Indeed, I speak of him now as little more than an aqcuaintance... I cannot imagine what this loss would feel like had I known him as more than a hero and less-than-talkative horseman."
She tilted her head. "We should be happy, then, that his life is being celebrated now by those who did... just as we acknowledge our own fallen, which we all know are too many."
She pursed her lips together. "However, the most impressive feats of every race on Golarion are born from hardship. I know we don't want to think about that right now, if you and I are of a like mind-," she swallowed. "We want to let our thoughts linger on the fallen here. We want to be sad, because to forge on without these people feels wrong."
She almost got lost for a second in the implications of her words, but she continued after a few honest deep breaths.
"We are allowed to feel that way, but we also have to think about what they would want. And unless I'm very wrong in every joint of my assumption, they would want us to remain strong. To survive. Right now, that means making use of our greatest strengths, both as individuals and as parts of a social machine."
She closed her eyes. "In the great journey, some obstacles can only be overcome together. On that light, I await the words of my tallers."
She moved back, eyes down on the ground respectfully, but she couldn't keep the formality up long, again letting her gaze wander to take in the bereft scene.
Waiting for the Father to que them to speak, Amismara stood. Dressed for a service, the cleric was garbed in a simple blue and grey outfit without her armor or gear. Looking out to the crowd, Amismara did her best to remain calm as as she said, "A town is defined by its history, shaped by its pain and molded by its tears. While it is easy to remember this truth, it is difficult to convince ourselves of another truth. A town...and its people, are also shaped, molded and defined by its ability to endure and willingness to give honor to those who are victims to such tragedy. Sandpoint has seen its share of tragedy, from the Late Unpleasantness to the tragic events that have unfolded during these past few days. However, like the with the Late Unpleasantness, Sandpoint will never forget but can endure.
"Andok was a man of action, a warrior by birth, and a true Shoanti. In truth, I did not know much about he and his kin until shortly after arriving here in Sandpoint. But spending time with the man has shone me that while there can be danger to be found in the unknown, there is also beauty. For all of his flaws, he will still be missed and I pray to Shelyn that his soul has found piece...wherever it now lays." Taking a moment to compose herself before continuing, Amismara concluded with, "I am not one to presume that I can speak for the others who have perished in these past few days, but I ask that you all remember them and reflect on the joy they have brought to this world for while the memory of their deaths might seem a dark pain, the memories of their life are a true beauty that are best cherished. As for those who have endured the trails of these past few days...I have a promise that I make to you all. Whatever my comrades may decide, I will not stop until I find who has brought such ugliness to this beautiful town and I will make sure that they can never do it again." Determination and sadness shone in Amismara's eyes as he concluded her address, stepping down from the pulpit, she looked to her comrades to see if any of them would be willing to speak any words.
Durriken stood at the side of Father Zantus as the companions of some of the fallen heroes of Sandpoint shared their grief and consoling words with the townsfolk. Though he had only been in town for a day or so, already he could tell that it was a tight-knit community brought closer together out of a sense of loss. As Bergi played her fiddle, Durriken closed his eyes and allowed the music to calm him mind and commune with his goddess.
He opened his eyes when the music stopped and listened patiently. His hands were stuffed into the large sleeves of his black funeral robes and his long brown hair was pulled back and tied simply with a leather cord. The graying around his temples was more prominent with his hair worn this way but it was tradition to ensure the face was not obscured during funeral rites.
As Amismara moved to speak Durriken nodded courteously but listened dispassionately. The life a priest of Pharasma was filled with the sorrow of others but the Lady of Graves did not yield to emotion. She saw souls into the world and she escorted them out without emotion. When the souls arrived at her boneyard would her judgement be given. Durriken prayed that Pharasma would look kindly upon the fallen in Sandpoint; that their sacrifices would earn them escape from the boneyard and to a higher reward.
The hulking Shoanti, his head gleaming and freshly shaven, moved to stand before the assembly. His armor shone and his greatsword had no doubt kissed the whetstone that morning. Obscuring some of his sun and nature tattoos, and giving him something of a masked look, was a delicate pattern of white ash in dots and swirls over his face, neck, and upper chest. He stood motionless before the people of Sandpoint for several breaths, and then began to speak in a deep sonorous voice.
"People of Sandpoint, I am I'Daiin, of the Kaltesh Sklar-Quah. I owe the Heroes of Sandpoint a life-debt, and have joined their ranks as a warrior should, in the tide of battle. When I met them, Andok had already fallen, but they did not mourn, as there was no time. Now is that time, but do not let your hearts fall into shadow unduly. Andok has gone to my people, to be cleansed by fire and taken to the Great Sky to join the Light-Bringer. In honoring him, you give honor to yourselves. 'Ke te Kitsashamek ke to Shoant' ik pa'chedi'. 'Between the lowlander and the Shoanti there may be one heart.' You have shown that heart today."
At this I'Daiin shot a piercing look at the crowd. "I will sing for Andok." It was not a question.
Andok's Funerary Song - Translated from the Shoanti
'A hundred thousand years have passed
A hundred thousand bones have ground to ash
And yet I hear the drums of my mothers before me.
My fathers' words are tied to the great mountains
My peoples' spirits are lifted to the Great Sky.
I know not if my voice can reach you, O spirits
I know not if the Life-Giver will hear as I pray
But let my voice be a light to make a road for you,
So that you may cross over and join the other hunters.
Let my words reach you, even as the world passes away.
Let me join you, as I bow before the sun,
And so we shall all live a hundred thousand years.'
After the last notes had died away, the Shoanti said simply, "Now he knows we are here and will not be lonely." He walked back to take his seat.
Quickfoot shared the raised dais of the Cathedral with the other heroes, but stayed toward the back, appreciating the words of the others, and not much inclined toward adding any himself, public speaking not being one of his talents, recent public apologies notwithstanding. He listened appreciatively to the words of Amismara, Bergi, and I'Daiin, and did his best to nod along at the appropriate parts, although the arrival of the new priest was honestly more interesting to him. *These humans, they pass along so quickly,* he thought to himself. *You'd think they wouldn't make such a fuss over death, it happens so often, still, it's sad when they pass, like butterflies after the first frost, or flowers in a brazier of burning coals. Oh, they're standing up again, I guess I'd best do the same. I wonder where I'Daiin got the ash for his face. He did mention that his people burn their dead... I wonder...*
"The song actually goes on for half a day, or longer, along with...the other parts of our rituals. I omitted the letting of blood as well," said I'Daiin in a low murmur to his companions. "I do not think Andok will mind," he continued with a grin. "Anyhow, these dead are best honored with a great heaping pile of goblin skulls." He glanced at Zantus and Durriken guiltily and resumed a respectful silence.
Durriken waited for all the speakers finished and then, with a nod to Father Zantus, he stepped forward to conclude the ceremony. Moving to each body, Durriken placed a small scarab on each near the chest before he returned to stand on the dias and addressed the assembled crowd.
Surveying the crowd, he began to speak softly, "All races and religions view life and death differently. Time and experience have a way of tempering those views. Despite the time we are given, many move on to the beyond unprepared or leaving things unfinished or with regrets."
Raising his hands he motioned to the bodies before them, "Each of these fallen go now to meet the Lady of Graves; their lives laid before her for judgment. Know that the sacrifices they made will ensure their greater reward. Blessed be the departed for they shall rest and wait for their loved ones in the ever after."
Looking into the crowd he paused taking the time to look at each person. When the uncomfortable silence was almost too much, he continued. "As we commit these vessels to earth and fire commit yourselves to ensuring your place in the great reward. Otherwise, you shall find your souls rotting in the Lady's boneyard. The choice is yours, my friends. Honour the sacrifices of the fallen. Make your lives mean something. "
Returning to the bodies once more, Durriken performs the funeral ritual over each before returning to his place next to Father Zantus. He then awaits for the service to conclude.
The town listened respectfully to each of the speakers among the Heroes (though by the looks on their faces, they weren't quite sure what to make of I'Daiin's Shoanti song), and to the Pharasman who ended the service. Pallbearers came to remove the coffins, and people began to file out into the adjacent graveyard to attend the final laying to rest of their loved ones. Many stopped by the Heroes to offer them a heartfelt thanks for their efforts on behalf of the workers and the rest of Sandpoint. Father Zantus quietly thanked them, and Durriken, for their words, then went out to see to the burials.
8
As the churchgoers dispersed, Quickfoot leaned against the wall of the new temple and idly flipped his mother's journal open once again, searching for meaning within the creamy vellum of its pages. He shifted to grip it one handed as he bent down and tossed an errant ball back to a small clamor of children when he felt something give in the spine. A small, golden ring fell to the earth from where it had been secreted in the tome. The elf picked it up, with a strange, quizzical look on his face and slipped it onto his left ring finger. No momentous crash shook the heavens, and the earth did not quake, so he returned to his idle reading when his eyebrows shot up, and clutching the book to his chest, he raced through the streets, dodging passerby, and nearly toppling townsfolk with every pace until he reached the Rusty Dragon.
He sequestered himself in the rented room for over an hour, until he emerged, bouncing in the balls if his feet, hair in disarray, and a wild look in his eyes. He skipped down the steps, and twirled a barmaid to hummed trills of pastoral bent. Every few steps, which seemed more of a dance than a means of conveyance, he stopped to peer around him, at the dagger in his boot, the ring on his finger, Tsuto's puzzle ring, the scroll and wand recovered from the catacombs beneath the glassworks, seemingly everywhere he looked, he scrutinized. More often than not, he turned away, but always, he looked again, and muttered to himself, "The colors... I had no idea..." in tones of hushed reverence.
9
Bergi paused to watch others file out, and nodded to her parents to let them know to go on whilst the halfling approached the newcomer in the group. Her expression was thoroughly puzzled. Usually, there were enough people in the town to deal with their own tragedies, though this level of bloodshed, much like had happened with the last set of horrific murders, merited extra attention.
She waited at Durriken´s feet for a moment, making sure she wasn´t interrupting anything.
Durriken continued to shake hands and offer comfort to the townspeople as they left for the burial site. He had informed Father Zantus of his plan to remain behind. That particular part of the process was best done by the priest who administered to the flock daily instead of an outsider. Instead he had planned to talk with the heroes about their plans. It was at this point that he felt the presence of someone next to him. Looking down he saw Bergi waiting patiently, "Ah, yes. Bergi..is it? Can I be of assistance?" He gave her a reassuring smile and stepped back a bit so that he wasn't towering over her as they talked.
"I don't mean this at all abruptly.. but there hasn't been a priest of Pharasma in official regalia here for... some time." She looked up at him, obviously appreciative of the space. "People do not often come here without family, either... Did you know any of these people? Why are you here...?"
The tone was curious rather than accusatory, but her facade of cheerfulness fell flat.
Durriken smiled at the young lady as she inquired of his reasons for being in Sandpoint. "Well, I don't have any family to speak of, but I do know Father Zantus who requested I speak at the service since it was such a significant loss to the community. Pharasma pays particular attention when so much death is concerned. It is best to usher those to her care with some assurances to their loved ones."
Walking away from the receiving line and waiting for Bergi to join him, he continues, "As for my reason for being here, truth is, I am but an old temple priest looking to start life anew as a field cleric. I have done some training and had some work with caravans but would rather work with other like minded people. Spreading the will of Pharasma has its rewards in the temple but I am looking for something different."
Durriken looks off for a second then back at Bergi with a smile, "I suppose some might say I am having a mid-life crisis."
The Shoanti had been standing silently while diminutive bard and tall priest conversed, but he then gave the Pharasman a strong look. "Join us, then. You know that my people follow the Lady of Ash--or Graves, as you say, and from her teachings we have our great distaste for the Unlife. We have found many such unliving beneath the Glassworks, and they need to be destroyed. I have no doubt, Durriken, that there will be many more as we move against the plots arrayed against us. Take up arms. Consider this to be...missionary work." I'Daiin's grim visage of ash-spotted designs split horizontally to reveal a grinning set of teeth.
Durriken's brow furrowed at the mention of undead in the Glassworks, "Undead abominations are a scourge to be eliminated and should be done as soon as possible," he said with a firm voice. "However, someone raised them to unlife and unless they are stopped, more will arise. We must ferret out the cause before we deal with the symptoms."
Looking at both Bergi and I'Daiin he said, "I would be glad to join your company if your group will have me. Perhaps I could speak with them as well to ensure I am a good fit?"
The mischievous elf happened to be rushing by at just that moment, on his way to one place or another, but he paused briefly and backtracked to stand with the others. With a cheerful grin, and the faint aroma of liquor on his breath he happily piped up "Oh, if Bergi and I'Daiin think you should come along, then by all means, be welcome!" Almost immediately thereafter though, his face fell, and his voiced dropped to an exaggeratedly conspiratorial stage whisper, clearly audible to anyone within ten yards. "They did tell you about the clockwork-demon army though, right? Absolute zero chance of survival, and our souls will most likely be held in eternal torment after our painful deaths." He grins and winks at the cleric before rushing off again, calling over his shoulder, "But by all means, come along!"
"Quickfoot, did you quaff brews without me? This is no way to treat a comrade-at-arms," complained I'Daiin to the retreating elven shadow. " Durriken--and that name has a whisper of Shoanti, you know--they didn't bother to ask me to join them, nor I them; we merely took up blades together against the Bities. Er, long story. And blast you, elf, I don't believe I've heard of these clockwork-demons!" The last bit was a shout to the since-departed Quickfoot, after which the barbarian threw back his head and roared with laughter. "The goblins to keep our blades lubricated, and then, Pharasman, we can get to the snuffing out of Unlife, which, by my every sinew, I shall do with great glee, and then onward to the dismantling of clockwork demons. Come! Let us drink to the dead and the dead to come. The Lady of Ashes lets you drink, does she not? If not, no matter; I'll make up for it!"
Durriken looked at the two comrades with bemusement and replied. "The Lady does not forbid drinking however, I think I shall leave the race to inebriation to the two of you. But, as you have welcomed me to your group, present company at any rate, I would be delighted to share an ale with you. We must be mindful of the tone of the townsfolk. Some wish to make merriment to usher their loved ones on to the afterlife with happiness and thoughts that their loved ones are okay. Others prefer a more stoic grieving process. We should follow the tone of the town."
“That might be hard. We’re diverse… but expect tears either way.” Bergi had stood, definitely more somber than the other two, waiting for the conversation to wind down. “I’m happy you didn’t take the clockwork demon threat too seriously… However, riding with us is completely optional. I don’t want you to feel forced into this.”
She closed her eyes, and then exited, ready to offer up her voice or violin for the internments if they were called for.
10
Quickfoot made several stops the next morning, visiting Hayliss at the Boutique, Venn at the General Store, and Savah at the armory, as well as Voon at the Feathered Serpent, the orphans of Turandarok Academy, and the local jeweler, Maver Kesk, and everywhere looking long and hard at what he saw in a giddy daze.
Vinder exclaimed when Quickfoot presented him with the flask of wine the party had found under Sandpoint. "A fine vintage! Where did you come across this?" He seemed much less stiff with Quickfoot after that, even clapping the elf's shoulder as Quickfoot left the General Store with sweets for the orphans across the road.
The orphans, of course, were thrilled that Quickfoot had come to see them, and doubly thrilled that he came with candy! After many breathless stories about the Sandpoint Devil living in the Headmaster's basement room and queries about the dragon living under Sandpoint and bragging about goblins they'd beat up when they were older and crying when little Suzie got a sweet stuck in her hair, Quickfoot managed to tear himself loose of the children and get away before they attached themselves to his hip permanently.
Maver Kesk was a wild-haired man who worked in the midst of a small crowd of toughs. He made Quickfoot an offer for the earrings and gold and silver dust. Quickfoot got the feeling the earrings were for his wife, who was currently berating him for leaving the vault door open yet again.
Kesk seemed distracted by his wife's complaints, merely nodding when Quickfoot said he needed time to think the man's offer over. "You come back if you all decide to sell," he smiled, running his hands through his already messy hair absently and hurrying after his wife (after making doubly sure the vault was locked). The toughs he employed grinned at Quickfoot and shrugged, but watched him closely as he left the jeweler's shop.
Hosk dusted his hands off on his trousers and accepted the liquor that Quickfoot had bought for him with a broad grin. "Aye, that'll put out some thirst," he said, examining the label happily. "I always knew you were a fellow of quality, lad. Come in and have a bit, won't you?"
"With pleasure!" Quickfoot gladly joined Hosk in a quick nip, enjoying the warmth and snaky tendrils as the liquor went down smoothly. He stopped at one though, not wanting to cloud his wits, and more excited by the thrill of his new-found knowledge than any that could be provided by strong drink.
Chask Haladan leapt at the opportunity to study the beastly beast book, even going so far as to beg off tea with Veznutt Parooh, the old gnome who ran The Way North near the cathedral. Parooh, of course, was instantly fascinated by the book that had his friend so excited, and the two made a constant backdrop of gasps and quiet commentary as they read the book at the front of the shop, leaving Quickfoot in the back where he could scribe spells into his newfound spellbook in relative peace.
Scribing took a good chunk of the day, at the end of which Haladan offered to buy the book from the party.
On their way back to the Rusty Dragon, the party encountered the frustrated Sheriff Hemlock returning from Magnimar at the head of a handful of obviously green recruits. Hearing briefly of their plans, he wished them godspeed and marched his inadequate defense toward the garrison.
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