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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
4/18/2011 2:14:08 AM
PostID: 397278
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OOC-Critias, Sergeant Critias to many in his early years fighting for the Aqualonia Empire throughout the Mare Nostrum and now, Captain Critias of the Sea Griffon's mercenary troop, came to Nijmegin to help take the city from Duke Hugarn and his mage/priest allies. Once they entered the city, all hell literally opened up and came for them. He and the Griffons managed to survive and defeat foe after foe only to find some of the people who employed them were their worst foes. Critias and his loyal men went to meet these men, prepared for the worst, they thought and right off the bat Crit knew trouble by the smell and look of all the magecraft happening around them. He remembers stepping into the pavilion and the eyes of a woman, eyes that seemed to hook his soul...
IC-Unquenchable heat roils around him, his own armor burns his skin. His mouth is so dry his lips cracked and stopped bleeding days ago. All his sweat is gone and his mouth is full of grit and black sand flies. He rolls and rolls and rolls and everywhere he looks he sees nothing but sun scorched sand and blind scorpions scuttling in search of food. He wakes, blinking his eyes to the same again and again and again. And always he sees the eyes of the woman looking at him. No matter how he turns or runs or walks or closes his eyes, the sand and heat and eyes are always there, glaring down shriveling him to nothing but a dried, frightened sweatless man. Crit curses and rails and curses all mage kind again and again and again to little avail until he has no more words, no more voice, no more.....
Crit startles awake, maybe awake, he is uncertain and suspicious. His tired, blood shot eyes look around in the dimness of...he had no idea. The only good thing was he no longer felt hot, he was actually kind of chilled. Crit shudders when he notices the bodies on either side of him are dead, as are the bodies next to them and so on down a line of cots. A thin film of snow lies around the borders of the large pavilion he lays in. He can feel the cold of winter winds pushing against the outside of the tent. It is just as cold inside except for a single brazier of hot coals giving off some small heat entirely inadequate for the size of the pavilion. Crit doesn't sit up, not wanting to attract any attention just yet. He rolls his head, looking around at all the dead that surround him until he sees the only other living man, or man that looks living in the tent. He is dressed in a plain gray robe of wool that has seen better days and he is wearing sandals. He is only about 5-4, with a stocky build and dark hair full of short curls. He looks old, how old Critias is not sure, but he is wearing the robes of a priest. He does not notice Critias. He is checking other men, giving some absolution and leaving others alone.
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Critias
(Gibbon)
4/19/2011 2:40:58 AM
PostID: 397376
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Critias shivers and gulps for air, breathing heavily and erratically as he recalls the nightmare. His fist clenches and unclenches repeatedly as tears roll down his face, but he does not notice. Vaguely he realises he does not know where he is or how he got here, but even that does not really register. The searing heat of the dream-desert is still uppermost in his mind.
The dreams have always been of the desert, but never this vivid before. His worst hell, the place of his shame all those years ago. It will never leave him. Despite all the bluster, inside him still lurks the terrified legionary who deserted his duty in the Palmyrian sands. He buries it deeply, but Crit lives in constant turmoil. The fear that one day it could happen again haunts him, always.
This is why he hates mages. They have the power to unman him with a flick of their fingers, a murmured word of power. Only in his armour does he feel safe from them.
Ironically, the thing Critias fears most is fear itself.
My armour...where is my damn armour...
He tries to rise, but he is too weak. Or perhaps his body doesn't want him to move. It feels heavy, leaden, and somehow wrong, as if it is something apart from him, just meat and bone. He manages to lift his head, but even that small effort exhausts him. The world spins and he sinks back down on to the bed with a groan. Suddenly he realises that he has a raging thirst.
"Water...." he croaks. "Give me water..."
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
5/3/2011 9:31:35 PM
PostID: 398292
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Critias' voice sounds large and hollow in the corpse filled tent. The short, stocky priest looks in his direction. The priest holds a finger up to his mouth and purses his lips, admonishing Critias to silence. Suddenly Critias feels a warm shadow cast over him and he looks up to see a tall, gaunt man with broad shoulders and thick white hair staring down at him. The other man, the priest, now stands on the other side of the cot and the two men stare at Critias without speaking for some time. Critias notices the tall man is also wearing sandals and the same kind of plain, gray wool as the short man. Critias is not sure he is another priest or what.Do you think he is ready for water? The tall man's voice is whisper soft and smooth as cool water. The short priest scowls at him, rubbing his chin and considering Critias and the tall man's question. Finally, after several agonizing moments that seem like hours to Critias, the short priest nods his head,Yes, I think he is ready for a bit of water, but only a bit, too much and he will go into the dry heaves again. The two talk like Critias can't here them, like he too is a corpse. The tall man moves quietly out of Critias sight then returns with a stone mug only half full of water. He bends down to help Critias drink the cup down a few sips at a time. The other man, the priest, touches Critias' stomach, kidneys, painfully pokes his liver and upper groin before sitting down and wiping his hands on his robe.If you can hear me Critias, nod your head or answer quietly. I am Father Camdar of the White Friars. You are laying among the dead to hide you from your enemies. It was your son Hector's idea. Soon ships will come to take us to safety. Can you stay calm and play dead until then?
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Critias
(Gibbon)
5/8/2011 9:27:53 AM
PostID: 398565
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Can he stay calm and play dead? Crit can, but...
"The hell with that" he growls as he struggles to sit up. "I'm not leaving until I've spilled Jurada's guts on his feet, damn him."
The room spins and he is forced to sink back down again with a groan. Camdar, Camdar. The name sounds familiar, but Critias can't place it. The White Friars are holy men, though. He remembers being lectured by a priest who claimed to be one of their Order once. The priest told him that Orion blesses those who embrace cleanliness and sanitation in their lives. Crit just laughed at him. Bathing once a year was good enough for Amra the Lion, so it's good enough for him.
That priest should have gone to Nijmegin, muses Crit. He'd have had his work cut out there.
The room stops spinning, but Crit doesn't feel like trying to sit up again. He just feels dizzy.
"Hector's not my son" he mutters. "Not even sure he's got a father, if he did he's probably killed him by now. More likely some devil spawned him. Where is he, and where's Nulfi and the rest of the Griffons?"
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
5/14/2011 10:20:54 AM
PostID: 398863
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Camdar and the tall priest listen to Critias with a sort of bemused concern on both their faces. The tall man sits next to Critias and feels his pulse. The man's hands are worn and smooth with heavy callouses. He looks up from Critias' wrist,Temper is a good sign. He also knows Hector lied to us and has some idea of Hector's true nature. He is talking to Camdar, once again ignoring Critias. Finally he looks at Critias and gently feels his forehead while speaking in a quiet, pebbly like voice, I am Vinmir of the White Friars. A sivanti witch tried to steal your soul. She is dead now, along with Count Jurado and most of his court. You and your Sea Griffons did good work. We are uncertain if you are yet whole, if all of you has returned or just part. Who is this Nulfi you speak of? Do you remember anything else?
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Critias
(Gibbon)
5/15/2011 3:08:28 PM
PostID: 398931
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"Nulfi's the Griffons' corporal. Short. Beard. Carries a crossbow bigger than he is. Stinks of dead dog." The White Friars should go and see Nulfi for sure. If there was ever anyone in need of a lecture on taking a bath it's the dwarf, although now he thinks on it Critias does start to recall something about a curse.
He casts his mind back, trying to remember. The Griffons were in the shed that had been assigned to them. Razzul had spelled it against scrying and they were discussing the next move. That duchess they'd rescued was already getting in the way. There was some damn axe that Nulfi wanted to add to his collection of weapons, as if he didn't have enough already. Critias, Taylon and a few other Griffons went to Jurada's tent, ostensibly to report in. Jurada's lackey - Vadros - tried to wind Crit up, get him to do something careless. But Crit let it go.
"We went to Jurada's pavilion - Taylon and I, Catwig, Llassar, couple others. Jurada was supposed to be commanding the Green Griffons, least that's what we were told" he says to the priests. "But it smelled...wrong. Knew there was going to be trouble."
Then, inside the tent - the woman. He didn't see Jurada. Maybe he was there, maybe he wasn't. All Crit could see was her. She was beautiful. Her eyes drew him in, enticing him with the promise of unbounded pleasures. Everything else was forgotten. She was to be his reward for surviving Nijmegin. Orion knows he'd earned it.
Except that she was no woman, he realises that now. She was...not human. Evil, a demon of the Otherworld.
And then, suddenly, the desert. Searing heat, pain - the agony was worse than when he lost his eye. She was watching him constantly, gazing down at him, enjoying his torment. She could make it stop, but he knew she wouldn't. Ever.
Critias shudders involuntarily.
"I remember...a woman. In the tent. She...cast a spell on me. Then nothing, until I woke up here. Just bad dreams."
There is no way in hell Critias is going to share the torment he experienced with these friars, whoever they are. Crit has a feeling that this Vinmir is no monastery-bound priest, and the fact that he is here treating the wounded in the middle of a war speaks something of his character. But the only priest Crit will discuss his nightmare with is Taylon. The grim Judicator understands these things.
"I need to speak to Taylon. Father Taylon Maignart. And I need my sword."
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
5/26/2011 7:56:07 PM
PostID: 400012
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The two priests intently listen to Critias, judging him by how he speaks as much as by what he says. Father Camdar sits on the cot across him, not mindful of the corpse at all. Vinmir continues to stand and stare down at him. Camdar asks,Would you like some more water? Your gear, armor, swords, javelins, blankets and all are gone. The Griffons took them when they left. You have to remember Critias, you are dead, what need have the dead of weapons? I do have a gray shift and robe for you to wear and some leather shoes. Unless you prefer to stay naked. Your Corporal Nulfi is now a sergeant I think. I don't know if that will last long though. Can you read? If not, I'll read this for you. It's something you should know. Camdar holds out what looks like a fancy pamphlet. Critias can tell from the fine paper and decorative writing it's from the Church.
"Decet Avignon"
Preamble
Through the power given him from God and the Avignon Pontiff, Arch-Bshop Remus has been appointed to administer spiritual and temporal punishments as each case severally deserves. The purpose of this is the repression of the wicked designs of misguided men, who have been so captivated by the debased impulse of their evil purposes as to forget the fear of the Lord, to set aside with contempt canonical decrees and commandments, and to dare to formulate mistrust, rebellion and false dogmas and to introduce the evil of schism into the Church.
Hence it befits the Pontiff, lest the vessel of the Church appear to sail without pilot or oarsman, to take severe measures against such men and their followers, and by multiplying punitive measures and by other suitable remedies to see to it that these same overbearing men, devoted as they are to purposes of evil, along with their adherents, should not deceive the multitude of the simple by their lies and their deceitful devices, nor drag them along to share their own error and ruination, contaminating them with what amounts to a contagious disease. It also befits the Pontiff, through the Arch-Bishop having condemned the schismatics, to ensure their still greater confounding by publicly showing and openly declaring to all faithful followers of the Church of the West how formidable are the censures and punishments to which such guilt can lead; to the end that by such public declaration they themselves may return, in confusion and remorse, to their true selves, making an unqualified withdrawal from the prohibited conversation, fellowship and (above all) obedience to such accursed excommunicates; by this means they may escape divine vengeance and any degree of participation in their damnation.
The Following persons have been judged and henceforth will be referred to as the Knaves of Nijmegen.
Sir Rosseen, Elberich, Nulfi Deepcarver, Razzul Blackhand, Damal, Critias, Nemela Ravenstrand, Friar Gorham, Gabriel, and Larn Saxa
1) The Knaves of Nijmegen have now been declared a heretic; and so also others, whatever their authority and rank, who have cared nought of their own salvation but publicly and in all men's eyes become followers of the Knaves pernicious and heretical sect, and given him openly and publicly their help, counsel and favour, encouraging him in their midst in his disobedience and obstinacy, or hindering the publication of our said missive: such men have incurred the punishments set out in that missive, and are to be treated rightfully as heretics and avoided by all faithful followers.
2) Our purpose is that such men should rightfully be ranked with the Knaves and other accursed heretics and excommunicates, and that even as they have ranged themselves with the obstinacy in sinning of the said Knaves, they shall likewise share his punishments and his name. On all these we decree the sentences of excommunication, of anathema, of our perpetual condemnation and interdict; of privation of dignities, honours and property on them and their descendants, and of declared unfitness for such possessions; of the confiscation of their goods and of the crime of treason; and these and the other sentences, censures and punishments which are inflicted by canon law on heretics and are set out in our aforesaid missive, we decree to have fallen on all these men to their damnation.
3) We would make known to all the small store that the Knaves, their followers and the other rebels have set on the Arch-Bishop and his Church by their obstinate and shameless temerity. We would protect the herd from one infectious animal, lest its infection spread to the healthy ones. Hence we lay the following injunction on each and every bishop, on the prelates of patriarchal, metropolitan, cathedral and collegiate churches, and on the religious of every Order-even the mendicants-privileged or unprivileged, wherever they may be stationed in the Arch-Bishopric: that in the strength of their vow of obedience and on pain of the sentence of excommunication, they shall, if so required in the execution of these presents, publicly announce and cause to be announced by others in their churches, that these same Knaves of Nijmegen and the rest are excommunicate, accursed, condemned, heretics, hardened, interdicted, deprived of possessions and incapable of owning them, and so listed in the enforcement of these presents. Three days will be given: we pronounce canonical warning and allow one day's notice on the first, another on the second, but on the third peremptory and final execution of our order. This shall take place on a Sunday or some other festival, when a large congregation assembles for worship. The banner of the cross shall be raised, the bells rung, the candles lit and after a time extinguished, cast on the ground and trampled under foot, and the stones shall be cast forth three times, and the other ceremonies observed which are usual in such cases. The faithful Christians, one and all, shall be enjoined strictly to shun these men.
4) No obstacle is afforded to our wishes by the constitutions and orders, or by anything in our aforesaid earlier missive which we do not wish to stand in the way, or by any other pronouncements to the contrary. All agents of the Church are charged with immediate apprehension of the Knaves of Nijmegen.
Signed
Arch-Bishop Remus
Witnessed by Duke Hugarn
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Critias
(Gibbon)
6/5/2011 1:43:42 PM
PostID: 401169
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Critias accepts the water with a grunt of thanks.
"I can read" he mutters. "Comes as a surprise to some, that's for sure, especially when they're waving orders from on high at me, telling me to do this and do that, and they find out I can see exactly what's been written on the parchment. High-and-mighty Lords don't like that, they don't. What's this, then."
He takes the paper and reads it through. When he has finished, he hands it back without a word. His expression doesn't change, but there is a new hardness in his one remaining eye.
For doing the Church's work, this is the reward. Excommunication. And although the order doesn't explicitly say so, in Crit's view excommunication will mean death, if he is caught. He doesn't recognise all the names, but all the Sea Griffons leaders are there, except one. Taylon's absence means that either he has turned on the Griffons, or he is already dead.
The Church wants to be rid of the Sea Griffons, once and for all.
Critias fixes Camdar with a level stare.
"So that's it, is it. Heretic. And you two are Church men. So why are you helping me? You just condemned yourselves, too. Or were you planning to turn me over once you're sure who I am?"
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
6/5/2011 2:54:40 PM
PostID: 401172
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Father Camdar's voice is smooth and sure and suprisingly confident,We have no intention of turning you, or anyone else for that matter, over to Lotan or Remus. He lets out a deep sigh and Critias can see the old priest relaxing some, letting his shoulders sink as he settles into his seat,It's not the first time I have suffereed excommunication. I do hope though, that it will be the last. Helping those in need, those who are sick or suffering from broken bones or bleeding wounds is what we do. We are Friars, White Friars now, once Gray. We take oaths to help those in need and those less fortunate. That would be you right now. That's not the only reason, to claim so would make me a liar, and that I won't do. You are a fine soldier Critias. If we are to reform our Church, we will need men like you. You are not in fighting shape. You won't be for some time as you heal and recover not just your soul, but your natural vigor as well. During this time I hope that you choose to travel with us, in the guise of a Friar. I won't force that decision on you. Once you can walk, you are free to travel as you please. We are headed to Zutphen for Yule and then to Breda and the many villages of the Frost March. There is no rush, you have time to make your decision. I'll look into finding Vicar Taylon for you. I was told he died fighting alongside you and several other Griffons in Jurada's tent. We haven't yet found his body to confirm that though. Tis most strange many claim the Judicator is dead, yet have no body for proof. Where do you think Taylon would go? Where might he be now? We could certainly use him in our Reformation.
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Critias
(Gibbon)
6/12/2011 4:26:35 AM
PostID: 401791
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We'll see who's in fighting shape and who's not, thinks Crit.
"If he's not with the rest of the Griffons, he's dead" he grunts in reply to the White Friar's question, pushing aside the implications of Taylon being dead for the moment. "And this is the first time I've been excommunicated, but I don't give a damn about it. It's worthless anyway. The Church is twisted and corrupt. The only priests who haven't been turned, die."
A conversation briefly resurfaces in his mind.
"...and you best get real clear on the idea that yer God and yer Church are two different things."
"Nulfi has the right of it, Crit. The Church is much like a mighty oak rising proudly. It may look healthy from a distance, but up close you can tell its roots are rotten from disease and parasites."
Crit had ignored them at the time - a dwarf and a mage, both unbelievers. What would they know about it.
More than him, it seems.
"I'm ready to get out of this dump. I've been here far too long. All I've seen is corruption. The Templars are corrupt, the Church leaders are corrupt, all the way up to the Holy Father. If even Lotan consorts with demons, then the game's lost already. Let them all fight it out amongst themselves, and the Nine Hells take them all."
Critias struggles to sit up.
"But my place is with the Griffons. If they've left Nijmegen, then like as not they'll head back to Zutphen. If we still hold it, that is. So I thank you for your aid, and I'll come with you to Zutphen."
This post last edited on 6/12/2011 4:28:59 AM
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
6/17/2011 2:54:57 PM
PostID: 402389
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Camdar sits back looking sadly at Crit. His voice grows stern and almost angry as he exclaims,I'm not dead! and I have no plans of dying anytime soon. You are not dead either and you haven't given up all hope, though you have seen worse than many others. Your faith is weak Critias, but not gone, and neither is our Church. You and the Church are much the same. If you believe there is still hope for you, then there is hope for the Church as well. I have confidence in both. Now, rest a little while I get you some soup. We'll think about leaving in the morning. While Camdar talks to him, Critias notices a young man come into the tent. He has a rather serious look for one so young. He is also wearing a white surcoat over a suit of chainmail with a breastplate. He is not carrying ay weapons though, but instead a large tankard of steaming tea in one hand and a letter in another. He hand the letter to Camdar and watches the old priest leave the tent before turning to Critias,Hello Sergeant, or is it Captain. My name is Lodwyn. I do my best to protect the White Friars, though they often make that rather difficult. Lodwyn is lean with a rangy, rawboned look to him. Critias can see the boy is as serious as he looks and probably much wiser than his youthful looks would indicate.When you are feeling better, we should start weapons training again. Nothing like a good sweat to speed the healing process.
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Critias
(Gibbon)
6/18/2011 2:16:07 PM
PostID: 402497
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Critias eyes the new arrival speculatively.
"You can call me Critias. Unless you're planning on signing up with the Griffons when we find them, in which case you can call me Sergeant."
Protector or not, Lodwyn doesn't have the look of a soldier about him, Critias decides. He can't be much older than Hector, but Crit doesn't see anything of the young Griffon in him. Hector kills without hesitation, not thinking twice about it. Critias wonders if Lodwyn has the same hardness in him.
Deliberately misunderstanding the young friar's last words, he grunts "Well, if you want some weapons training, you'd better find me a sword before we leave tomorrow. Find yourself one while you're at it."
He holds up his hand.
"Not just any old Uruk meat cleaver, you hear me? Make sure it's got some balance. And how about you get me some ale, too. Not going to recover on water and bloody soup, am I."
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
6/25/2011 2:46:49 PM
PostID: 403251
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Lodwyn's face colors slightly with embarrassment, clearly not used to gruffness, something that doesn't bode well for his discipline.Critias it is then. I have some steamed goat's milk, would that do for you? Not much else to eat around here since Duke Hugarn has taken over and conscripted just about everything worth eating. It should get better once we leave. I'll see what I can do about getting us some proper weapons and swords. The Duke has taken most of those as well and what he hasn't taken, the mercenaries have.
Lodwyn leaves and Critias is left alone in the tent for the next few hours. Sitting there surrounded by corpses he realizes they are all washed and cleaned and smell better than the sewers of Nijmegin. He also reconizes two of them and possibly a third badly burned corpse that could be Damal. He remembers the fireball hitting them, remembers Maath protecting others with his body, taking the full force of the blast on himself. He doesn't see Maath's body anywhere in the tent. Lassar's corpse though is only a few cots away. The archer's skin paper thin and green from the poison that killed him. A couple cots over from him is the once young Brother Sinise, looking fully at peace now. He was never officially a Griffon, but he fought for them.
Critias, how do these look? It is Lodwyn. He is carrying two large steaming bowls with one arm and two broad bladed short swords in the other. Lodwyn has no trouble carrying them all over to Critias and setting them down on the cot next to him. The young monk is also not the least bit troubled by the corpses. Father Camdar made us some stew, it's got eels and fish and onions and turnips all mixed together. Why did you become a soldier?How long have you been doing this kind of work?
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Critias
(Gibbon)
6/29/2011 3:20:41 PM
PostID: 403849
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Steamed goat's milk...Critias doesn't bother to reply, just giving Lodwyn a look that should leave the young friar in no doubt as to what he thinks of that proposal.
Lying on his own after Lodwyn leaves, Crit glances over at the corpses. Damal especially he will miss. Not least of all because the violent Jute was an easy mark when it came to dice - after many years together, Crit knew all Damal's tells. That, and the fact that they were friends.
A lot of Griffons died in Nijmegen, and he's not sure for what. Did they make a difference? Probably not. Most likely Gavyn had the right idea all along, getting out at the right time. The Welshman's probably tending his forest in Wales now, Crit thinks. He shrugs. No point in reflecting on decisions made. What's done is done, and the dead are dead. Fact of life for a mercenary.
Another is grabbing sleep when you can, so he takes the opportunity to rest for a few hours.
Crit wakes when Lodwyn returns. He takes a bowl of fish stew, sniffs it suspiciously and then takes a mouthful. Next thing he is shovelling it down his throat as quickly as he can. He's ravenous.
He waves at the swords between mouthfuls of stew.
"Too short, do I look like a bloody gnome? Go and get some proper swords. No, wait, wait, give me that."
He swings his legs over the side of the bed so that he is sitting rather than lying, then hefts one of the swords experimentally - more to see how he feels, than to examine the weight and balance of the sword.
[ooc: I'm assuming Crit's in good enough shape to do this; let me know if not and I'll edit]
"S'alright" he mumbles around a chunk of eel. "It'll do. Not like a bunch of monks are going to get into a fight anyway, is it. You not eating that?"
Without waiting for an answer, Crit takes the second bowl of stew and starts devouring it.
"Why did I become a soldier? Same reason as everyone else. Make some money, see the world, get a regular meal. Harvests had failed in Apulia for three years in succession. No food to be had, all of it shipped up to Ravenna and Genoa. Third Legion was supposed to be going to Carthage, and they were looking for volunteers. Carthage, where the rivers flowed with wine, the harvests were plentiful and the women were available - well, that's what they said. So I signed up. 'Cept I didn't go to Carthage, did I. No, I got Tyre, then Antioch. Nothing but sand, scorpions and Saracens."
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
7/4/2011 1:42:32 PM
PostID: 404324
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Lodwyn lets Critias take his bowl without a word. The young man sits back, listening to Critias with a kind of morbid fascination. Lodwyn's face blushes when Critias mentions women, something the kid probably knows nothing about and shows a keen interest about Antioch and scorpions. Lodwyn wants to know more and waits on Critias, getting him all the fish stew, eels and goat's milk Critias can handle. Lodwyn quickly makes a connection between scorpions and followers of Set and wants to know if Critias has fought any of them before. Lodwyn has, he killed two in combat and another he shot while the man was changing into some of kind river lizard(crocodile). Lodwyn has also seen Jamie, Tybalt and Didier kill a number of Set's followers. He also wants to know if Critias thinks it true that Rakshasa eat children as a delicacy.
It's late afternoon, early evening when Father Camder interrupts Lodwyn and Critias' chat. He wears a heavy wool cloak and has several more over one arm. His face is solemn and he keeps his voice low, We have to go now. Hugorn and Bishop Weslik are coming to check your corpse. I suspect they may try to speak to your 'departed' soul or animate you in some way to gain access and trust among our allies. You'll want to bundle up, the wind blows hard and cold from the north. I've managed to grab this armor for you. It's not much, but it's the best I could do. Lodwyn, help the Sgt into his armor like Carillo taught you. I'll be outside preparing the mules. Father Camdar slips the heavy cloaks off revealing two suits of worn chainmail. The two suits have been freshly scrubbed with sand and then oiled with goat grease. The chain fits loose around Critias, but will fit fine once he gets back to fighting weight. Lodwyn proves a capable squire and he and Critias are soon ready for travel and possible combat.
OOC-Critias feels weak and slow, he fights at about 3rd or 4th level right now.
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Critias
(Gibbon)
7/8/2011 2:30:52 PM
PostID: 404777
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Critias talks with Lodwyn at length. Speaking to the young friar relieves the boredom of waiting, and Lodwyn actually sounds interested in what the Aquitanian mercenary has to say. Also, for the first time in years Critias has just himself to think about. He feels relaxed, the weight of leading the Griffons off his shoulders.
During their talk, Crit tells Lodwyn of the temple the Griffons assaulted, and the followers of Set and the rakshasa that they found inside.
"Those futatrices are tricky bastards" he says, using a derogatory Aquitanian term for Aegyptians. "They'd fooled a paladin and a priest of Dinadain into following them when we ran into them. Used some sort of sorcery, I guess. Tricky bastards, but at least they die when you put two foot of steel in them. That cat-daemon - what did you call it, rakshasa - that was a different story. Got it in the end, but it didn't go down easy. Eat children? Who knows. Maybe - it's a demon, isn't it. Wouldn't surprise me."
When Camdar returns later in the day, Critias takes the chainmail from him and has to suppress a grimace as he almost drops it. It feels bulky, much heavier than it ought to. As he shrugs it on and it falls on his shoulders, he staggers under its weight. He glances around, hoping his weakness wasn't noticed. He quickly throws the wool cloak over the chainmail, making sure both the armour and the shortsword he has underneath are hidden from view.
"Let's go" he says to Lodwyn, heading for the exit Father Camdar just went through.
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
7/10/2011 10:21:30 PM
PostID: 405074
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Critias steps through the tent flaps into a blowing, icy wet snow coming out of the north. Father Camdar stands there looking up at the cloud ridden sky, ignoring Critias and Lodwyn for several moments before saying,You are in charge of the pack train,and then walking off, expecting them to follow. Lodwyn does without hesitation.
The 'pack train,' as Father Camdar called it, consists of two mangy long haired mules, an old, knobby kneed white mare that looked weaker than Critias felt and two, rather ugly, feral looking horses with nasty, intelligent dark eyes, that watch Crit with speculative anger. Both these horses have grayish white coats and blend in well against the snow. They also don't seem to mind it in the least. Father's Camdar and Vinmir are wearing simple sandals and the same cloaks and vestments Crit has always seen them wear. Lodwyn and four other friars all wear heavy cloaks and boots of thin, worn leather. The last person in their band is a woman of some age, Crit can't really tell, but she is not young. He can see wisps of iron gray hair sticking out from the cowl of her heavy gray cloak and can't help but notice the pagan symbol of a sword wreathed in flame she wears around her neck.
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Critias
(Gibbon)
7/16/2011 5:25:11 AM
PostID: 405606
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Crit looks over at the pack train with sour amusement as the icy wind buffets him. After many years fighting in the north, he's become used to the cold winters up here, or so he thought. Tonight he feels the chill and it reminds him of his weakness. He wraps the cloak around him in an attempt to keep out the wind as he heads over towards the train, giving a brief nod to his companions on the way.
He checks over the train, quickly examining hooves for stones and that the saddlebags are fastened tightly as he prepares to get the train moving. Normally this would involve a combination of cajoling and cursing, but just in time Crit remembers he is supposed to be a friar and confines himself to the cajoling.
Travelling with a group of friars is going to be hard, he thinks, as he favours one of the gray horses with a hard stare and a slap to the rump in an attempt to get it moving. He'll have to watch his swearing. Still, he'll save it all up for Nulfi later - leaving him behind in Nijmegen with nothing but a bunch of priests.
Secure Rolls:
Handle Animal 1d20(7)+6 = 13
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Game Master
(Rasgorn)
7/24/2011 3:44:31 PM
PostID: 406516
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IC-The two feral horses watch Crit with speculative looks, calmly swishing their tales. The mules and mare stand silent and patiently while Crit examines them, giving him no trouble at all. The mare in particular likes Crit and keeps rubbing against him and nosing in his pockets for an apple or salt or some other treat.
When he moves towards the two gray horses, they stare at him with dark, curious eyes. After he slaps one on the rump, they move away from him, stop and stare, and move again, just staying out of his reach. The old mare has followed him the whole time, licking the back of his neck and head and generally getting in the way.
Fool of a friar! he hears a cackling like voice and turns to see the gray haired woman smiling derisively at him. Both the grey horses walk farther away and Crit gets the definite sense this old woman has more than a little to do with their behavior. Gytha! enough! leave Father Critias to his work. Camdar's voice sounds sharp and exasperated. The old woman shrugs her shoulders and turns, but not before winking at Critias and cackling quietly to herself.
Once she turns away, both grey horses trot over and allow Crit to examine them. They are hard muscled and as intelligent as he expected, probably smarter than some of the men he commanded in the Griffons. He doesn't have any trouble with them or the mule. The mare though, keeps following him around like a love sick puppy.
The old woman, Githa, as Camdar called her, keeps to herself the whole day and the next and the next. She won't even eat with them. Considering the quality of Camdar's cooking, Crit can't really blame her. He has tasted better sewer water than the stuff Camdar calls soup.
Besides himself and Lodwyn, Githa is the only other armed person in the party. She is also a spell caster of some kind. Of that, Crit is certain. He believes he has seen her talking to ravens and drawing symbols in the snow, which she quickly covers up whenever he walks close.
They take a slow pace, like the Friars are not truly interested in getting anywhere and they stop several times each day to help people with ailments or to give confessions or blessings. Just before nightfall on the second day, they stopped in one village for over two hours and then rather than stay, left, heading into the dark and cold of an increasingly bitter chill. The only thing good about it all is the wind was gone and the sky was clear blue with no chance of snow, at least as far as Critias could tell. Camdar comes to walk alongside him,We are coming to Rhine soon, probably by tomorrow noon if not sooner. Do you know of any good crossings? Should we stay away from Schwanburg, keep to the west side of the river and cross later or do you want to risk running into patrols from Schwanburg? Staying on the West, we could run into patrols from Arnhem, which I know are friendly to Remus. What do you think we should do?
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Critias
(Gibbon)
7/31/2011 11:34:57 AM
PostID: 407218
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Critias glances over at Gytha as Camdar speaks to him. What Crit thinks they should do is drown the old witch in the Rhine at their earliest opportunity, but he figures that's unlikely to be what Camdar had in mind when he posed the question.
He shrugs.
"Arnhem, Schwanburg - not much in it, if you ask me" he replies to Camdar. "I don't know this area. We came to Nijmegen by boat, and before that we took a route round the north to avoid Schwanburg, going near Apeldoorn. There are crossings at Ede and Bennekom that we used before, but they're too far away. I say we cross the river at the first chance we get and take our chances with Schwanburg. It's changed hands so many times over the last few years I don't know who's got it now, or whose side they're on. Or whether it even matters. Maybe we can pick up a boat after we get past Schwanburg to get us upriver to Zutphen."
He lowers his voice.
"Who's that old woman? She smells of sorcery to me, and she's spooking the horses. Wizards can't be trusted - they just bring trouble. I'd get rid of her if I were you."
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