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 Online Recap 29.08.2018

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GM of Awesomeness

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Online Recap 29.08.2018 Empty
PostSubject: Online Recap 29.08.2018   Online Recap 29.08.2018 I_icon_minitimeWed 29 Aug 2018, 19:35

Tylendel follows a captain of the Prophet's Host into the Ironheart Tower. Nine hours left of the ultimatum Tylendel gave the man with the tattooed chalice. It's evening, light fading from that hole in the black sky.

“I forgot my manners the last time we spoke,” the captain says as they walk up the stairs. “Was the damned mule kept distracting me. I am Captain Calareth of the 4th company. From Ossantia, if that’s familiar to you.” Seeing that Tylendel frowns, he adds, “It’s a small town far west in Murúvia. I miss waking up and seeing the Westrise Mountains loom over the lake. You’re not from this province either, are ye?” Tylendel confirms this and the captain says he was confused because Tylendel speaks the Barosían dialect. They pass a guard crew (including the soldier with a tattered Imlia cloak) and are then let in to a grand chamber. The table is crowded with familiar and unfamiliar faces. Syr Dostan stands by a window, watching the light dwindle from that hole in the sky; Black Jaquan too, on the other side of him.

“I admit I long for the sunset on the bay back home, myself,” Gombald says as they enter. “But our work here is not yet done.”
“No, it isn’t,” Syr Dostan replies calmly, voice soft. “It may have just begun.”
Gombald continues, “But for now they’re all like damn pupies and the Dimsilver is the bone thrown at them.”
The man with the birthmark says, “Yes, we can pick up this discussion tomorrow. Or at the House of Martial Holies, in the morning.”
Syr Kajin asks one of the unfamiliar men at the table, “Captain Renbert, who proceeds the investigation of the lower chambers?”
The captain clears his throat. “Haven’t found anything as of yet, my lord. But the scullions keep complaining. There is something…”
Syr Dostan says, “This too, can wait. But keep the doors down there well guarded. The ceremony is soon to begin. I believe we have two brave boys to say farewell to?”
Captain Calareth interrupts. “I’ve got a squad down there, my lords.”
The lords and captains at the table now see Calareth and Tylendel having appeared. Tylendel excuses the intrusion, but Syr Dostan says that he is always welcome.

The group breaks up. The captains Tylendel aren’t familiar with each come to greet him. The first one says he is honored to meet him. The others are also honored, and give him their names - Captain Mátus, Captain Harrian, and Captain Renbert.
Tylendel asks if he can speak with Syr Dostan alone. Syr Dostan sends the rest out of the room, asks if the guards should leave too, and Tylendel says that would be best. Syr Dostan pours a cup of wine for Tylendel, then they sit down to talk.

Tylendel asks, "Are there any priests who wear red masks?"
"Yes, there are red-masked priests,” Syr Dostan replies. “Those who achieve the highest ranks at Eveninghall wear masks.”
“I had a dream, and in it the Mad Spearman wore a red mask."
“And those of lower ranks? Do they wear silver penchants?”
“I suppose so? Believers would display their faith proudly on their chests, no? Are you suggesting the Mad Spearman was a High Priest of Eveninghall? Strange…”
“Stranger yet,
” Tylendel says, “He’s on the Salt Coast now.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know, but…why? He must be so old by now. I mean, he was old already back then. But then again, I was young.."
“You looked very young,”
Tylendel says, with a smile.
“Strange things are getting stranger in this world,” Syr Dostan muses.
“And even more strange,” Tylendel says, “I took away Doreá Duskborn’s mother’s pain. Stopped her bleeding.”
“Like a healer out of the legends. Have the saints or the Lost God gifted you with more powers?”
“I summoned the Creeping God…fire, light…stone melting…”
“Not a vision, not a dream? You did see him..”
“When I travel to the Between, it’s like I send my spirit to another realm. What happens there…I bring back.”
“Things that endanger us?”
“I hope not.”

Tylendel speaks about the approaching army of the Deserter. Dostan says that must be discussed in earnest at "tomorrow's council".
“I’m not sure what’s happening to me,” Tylendel says.
“It’s the will of the God, my friend.”
“I’d appreciate if he told me.”
“What if he can’t?”

Dostan goes to pick up his wolfskin cloak, slung over a chest. When he comes back to the table Tylendel asks how Haskent is. Dostan says he's still sleeping but that they have discussed moving him to Ironheart Tower. "But the medics are at the infirmary, and the place is holy, as you said. Wait, could you help him? After what happened with that mother?”
“I feel drained,”
Tylendel says. “But I can try.”
"Thanks. One uncertainty though, could we be interrupting something we shouldn't interrupt?"
"I don't know. His spirit is in the Between as well."
"Could you talk to him...there?"
"When I saw him there, he was sleeping there too. I suspect the Lost God took him there."

Tylendel explains that he's waiting for the Chalice men. Dostan wonders if they would tell him anything. "Remember his words. Beware all that slithers and crawls."
"I've been told their leader doesn't appreciate sarcasm."
"Well that goes well with a cocky fellow. Cocky, tired but also persuasive. I'm sure you can handle them."

Dostan offers assistance. "We could set up guards, hidden in the shadows, to ensure your safety."
"I think I'll manage."

Tylendel leans his head back and laughs. "Thank you. I needed that."
"Any vice can be turned to a virtue under the right circumstances. Your cockiness brought you this far."
"I think you're right."
"You've come a long way since you wore diapers."
"You're the only one alive who's seen me wear them."
"And the old man on the Salt Coast. Do you think he is hiding?"
"I think he's up to no good...What if there was a parallel cult in the west, working on behalf of the Lost God?"
"Those are interesting notions. Cults do have a tendency stay out of sight. But it doesn't even need to be a cult, it could be the priesthood of Eveninghall."

Tylendel reveals his true identity to Syr Dostan. He is taken aback, but not shocked.
"I...I...then you have a claim to the Holy Throne itself."
"I suspect the Holy Swords would have a word about that. But yes, I believe I'm the last in the line of the God-kings."
"The last on the father's side..."
Dostan is stunned, takes him time speaking. "I believe the boy's mother has family. But your claim would be stronger."
"Unless they descended from the God-kings of old. If not, the bloodline ends with me. The power is in the blood."
"The blood of Ruís."
"It does make me wonder if Highlord Ionathan would have sent me east if my brother had been killed earlier. He knows."
"The Holy Sword knows?"
Syr Dostan asks.
Tylendel frowns. "Oh, buckets of blood, I'm so stupid. He knows.... and he told me to go east and face the Creeping God. I wouldn't be surprised if he knows a certain Spearman. I wouldn't be surprised at all...if the man who raised him had contact with him as well. The Holy Sword...is in on it. Part of it! It makes sense..."
"But does it? Why would he send one man to fight a god? Did he expect you... to create this bastion?"
"Duke Ingham was given me by the Mad Spearman on Drowned Knight's Island...and he had powerful allies in the west. He wanted to strengthen the ties between Borka and the Holy Throne...to resist Kobian. Oh, Ionathan, we need to have a talk when next we meet. I'm going to tell you where to put that holy sword of yours."
"Well, at least cocky Tylendel is back."
"I like to think I've learned some humility as well."
"I cannot be the judge of that. But we must go my friend."

Tylendel empties his wine. "The feast."

They go outside, see that people are gathering in the Everspring Gardens, from tents and pavilions and fortifications along the outer walls. Syr Gylian Urunmyst and Syr Dalibor Deepford stand on a provisory wooden stand made of barrels and planks and table surfaces.

Syr Dalibor announces that tonight, they shall honor Saint Udolf, for he is after all 'Our Lord of Hope and Solace'. Many straw dolls wrapped in cloth have been made for the feast, as well as a long, rectangular funeral pyre - the row of the recently fallen. "Tonight we shall take farewell with the victims of the night, but Saint Udolf brings us hope: For with the coming of Dimsilver, those who were about to fall regained their strength." The last bags holding corpses are placed on the pyre, and soldiers stand attention, creating walkways between them. Torches are lit everywhere. Thousands gather on the Holy Hill. Soldiers, captains, lieutenants, barons, counts, dukes, peasants, licepickers, everyone still alive.

Syr Dalibor reads the list of recently fallen. For each name, someone close to that person walks forth and is given a torch by Syr Gylian. They throw a doll atop the victim, then put the torch to them ceremoniously.

"Patrick Vomir, the honorable herald of the Arganhold. Syr Justin of Dust Creek, one of the greatest knights of the province, of the Rísh Rytír." At the mention of Justin, Tylendel overhears people whispering "A graceful knight", "He lived a long life", "He squired for the Grey Heron himself, did you know?", "I wonder who'll wield his blade. 'Dirge', he named it - how appropriate."

Dalibor continues. "Syr Gabryn Hyther, a knight of Wickmark" (at this people wonder who the man was; one even wonders "what a Wickmark is"); "We have lost the heir of one of our greatest lords. We have lost the Duke of Osk, Ámall, who was known as the eagle"; "The last of the hill's great priests, Erik the Rose" ('He did so much for those who ended up at Summergate').

People weep. Women bury their heads against men's shoulders. Less empathic men are licking their lips as they gaze upon the women in their midst.

"Syr Besarth, Prior of the Holy Hill. Syr Dakov, the Knight o Bródford." ('Good thing he found his faith ere it was too late' - 'No wonder he lost his faith. His whole hometown burned to the ground.')"

"Syr Mergrim, Warden Captain of Tamolyn." ('That's the one saw his parents die right before 'is eyes, aye? The squire who murdered 'is master?' - 'Old stories, my friend. Syr Mergrim was noble and faithful. Come on, he was a Warden.')

"Adony of the Nosk Holdfast, the herald of Bohumíl Camrey." Camrey walks forward, sobbing, grabs the torch and sets alight his former lover. Whispers buzz through the crowd. ('I believe they met at a tourney,' 'He was adopted by a baron in the Lowlands somewhere, wasn't he?', 'He was always so impatient,' 'Everyone knows they were fucking, get over it'.)

"Syr Aarlen, master of High Oak manor." ('Now, that was a true knight. He held the codes of chivalry above all else.')

"Syr Allandes Hroby." His friends Rudyart and Pétár Oak come forth, both weeping, and accept the torch. Syr Dostan comments to Tylendel, "He called himself the Night Hunter, and now Night has hunted him down."

"Syr Basill of Glanmar Hearth, staunch bannerman to the Uberts." ('That man was made of iron.')

And the list continues - Syr Bede, the Knight of Willowhold, Syr Kyrvel of the Witchwater, bannerman of the dukes of Bosholm ('He was such a charming man,' 'He had a winning smile. Bet you he's smiling even now.') Costell Horvath, heir to the Arganhold by Duke Harmond's brother Harman; Marcon Horvath, Ionel Horvath, Austyn Karklin, second son of Duke Maron; Sandon Silverkarklin, the Count of Red Meadows, who fought bravely at Black Wings Hill; Baron Prister Torrister; and last, Orlos Imlia Camrey, son of the Lady Ester Camrey by the late Aron Imlia. Lady Ester, accompanied by Stribogh who needs to hold her up, steps forward, shaking and weeping.

After this, Syr Gylian Urunmyst tells the massive crowd that tonight they will also honor other young fallen ones - the squires that have succumbed to darkness.

"Aron White, son of Syr Andor White and Lady Claris Imlia White, squire to Syr Antun Comton, the Knight of Orlath; Davon, son of Radek and Tamara, squire to Syr Perron Branral; Erik Astigar, son of Count Marling Astigar and Countess Tyrila, squire to Syr Rumos Brysk (someone cries, 'He was such a beautiful boy'); Kennek Nightwood, son of Ellart Nightwood and Nella, squire to Syr Filian Torrister; Edvin, son of Casmir and Hana, squire to Syr Dalibor of Deepford; Rados, son of Antonich and Fiála of Littleshore Motte; squire to Syr Kyrvel of the Witchwater; Rubert, son of Alas, the castellan of Cerkant, squire to Syr Neffir Witherwillow; Daryck Hanth, son of Syr Husten Hanth and Lady Samuela Imlia, squire to Syr Haxley Hosswort, the Knight of Glittergrey; Ard, an orphan taken in by the Holy Hill, squire to Syr Mergrim; Bonastian, son of Syr Wisaw of Kirnish Keep in distant Menessa, squire to Syr Gombald Nobry of the Prophet’s host; and Arishril, son of Maksimíl, the High Priest of Osset, in distant Osbria, squire to Syr Kajin of the Prophet’s host."

Now, the squires are burned on their pyres as those who have wielded torches step forward to stand in a row. Syr Dalibor tells people they can read the lists for those who were not named this night; then Syr Gombald begins, with a low, deep voice, to sing an old dirge Tylendel recognizes as Barosían, called 'Farewell'.

Why are we born when the snow is falling
Why are we born when the birds are calling
Why are we born when the leaves descend
Why are we born to witness an end.
Why do we die when the lambs are cropping
Why do we die when the apples are dropping
Why do we die when the leaves turn green
Why do we die after all that we’ve been.
After all that we’ve seen.
The winds go sighing for the sweet things dying.
Farewell, farewell, farewell.

Syr Dalibor announces the names of five squires who have lost their masters. Hopefully they can find someone new to squire for. They are Orban, who served Syr Allandes; Alfan, who served Syr Justin; Havel, who served Syr Bede; Wilhon, who served Syr Gabryn; and Rhómir, who served Syr Besarth.

After this, the ceremony itself is over and people begin to move about. Some admiring the growth in the gardens, others drinking from fountains or receiving fruits from the stand guarded by the leaders of the Prophet's host. A wagon has been brought to the area as well, laden with flasks of blaze-brew. Wilmar Wick is distributing and experiencing its potency.

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