The temple to Aeremas (although any
worshipper of The Wanderer will tell you, they're called Foot Stools
in their vernacular or Travel Lodge to the unbelievers) was a modest
building made of white oak, with rock elm logs for joists. This was
one of two places of worship built within Tamith. Many of the
religiously inclined farmers and shepherds surrounding Tamith built
their own small altars to Shaanavishea in their fields and pastures,
but there was yet to be any organized effort to build a temple proper
to the Goddess of the Wood and Herdsmen.
The current priest (again, to those who
serve Aeremas, he/she is called Footman or Traveller, depending on
rank) of The Wanderer was an elderly man named Aled Tew. Aled was
part of the village council, but more importantly, a sympathetic ear
to Nefydd and Grijolhd. Neither of them could guess Aled's age, and
both felt it inappropriate to ask.
Aled sat in a chair in the main hall, a
board atop his knees, earnestly at work carving a figurine out of a
branch of black walnut. A small pile of wood chips coated his
breeches and was starting to pile on the oak flooring. He didn't
even glance upwards as the doors opened, his special carving knives
delicately scraping and etching the wood, forearms never touching the
board.
The main hall of the temple was only 20
paces long and ten wide. Near the entrance were 6 benches, each set
aside to form a narrow aisle up to the podium, where Aled currently
sat, carving in earnest. Behind him was a large, colorful curtain
that spanned the entire eastern edge of the hall depicting Aeremas
arguing with the archaic sphinx Atalzyx to gain entry into the plane
of Fovikklen.
Nefydd and Grijolhd approached the
closet bench to Aled on the left side of the aisle and quietly sat
down, maintaining a respectful silence. Time passed, Aled carved.
Nefydd cleared his throat. “Greetings Traveller, peace be on your
path, and fleetness to your feet.”
Aled looked up. “Nefydd, let's
dispense with the sanctimonious crap for once shall we? What trouble
have you two gotten yourselves into?”
“Traveller, um sir. First, I'm deeply
hurt that you think we have ambitions towards mischief... And well,
second, there's a bulette hunting around the western pasture lands.”
“A what?” Aled got up, placing the
board on the podium.
“A bulette.”
Aled grabbed a rag from his vest,
wiping his hands. “Shitballs.”
“Well sir, actually, when the bulette
defecates, it's feces-”
“I don't need a lesson on the
critter's excretory system Nefydd. Both of you follow me. I think we
all need a drink.”
Aled drew the curtain back to the
right, revealing oak panneling and a door. This led to his living
quarters. The room contained a bed to the north with a desk and a
bookshelf parallel to the bed along the wall. The fireplace dominated
the wall to the east along with various kettles, cauldrons and a
metal tripod. To the south was a wooden tub, a cabinet, a table and 3
chairs. Just beyond the tub was a secret door, which Aled graciously
allowed Nefydd and Grijolhd access to during times where their
presence was to be discreet (which was almost all the time). Aled
opened the cabinet, took out a jug and three mugs and began pouring.
“Hard cider my marshals. Good for the
soul in oh so many ways. Seat yourselves.”
Nefydd and Grijhold sat down. Aled slid
them each a mug.
“All right gentlemen.” Aled raised
his mug. “My Our Restless Father bless your endeavors in this
village at the ass end of nowhere. But as we all know, even nowhere
leads somewhere. Although, somewhere can take us nowhere, in essence,
a vicious bloody circle. May our paths always be straight and may our
paces always move us forward.”
“Here here,” Nefydd and Grijolhd
chimed in. All three companions took a large swig of the cider.
Aled looked at both of them, placing
his mug on the table. “Did you tell the Sheriff?”
Both man and dwarf gave the elder
priest a grimace, rolling their eyes.
“Well, I'm certainly overjoyed that
you two do not hold me with such contempt. So, who knows then?”
Grijhold took another swallow of his
cider. “As of right now sir, you, me and Nef here.”
“There's more sir,” Nefydd added, “
We think something is actually, well, scaring the bulette.”
Grijhold took a deep breath. “Some
ground near the Oded's pasture lands collapsed. Eight paces by four
paces. It descended forty. Nef noticed the claw marks near the side
of the northeastern edge along the bottom. We found a lamb down
there, completely untouched, and very dead.”
“And,” Nefydd added again, “
There's a tomb or ruins of some kind on the eastern edge at the
bottom. We encouraged elder Obed and his son to stay as far from the
hole as possible.”
Aled pushed his mug away and ran his
hands through his greying hairs. “You need to get back there as
soon as you can and make sure nobody goes near that hole. The
shepherds are sensible folk, but it's their children I'm worried
about.”
Nefydd nodded in agreement. “Traveller
Tew, if I may, I'd like to borrow one of your pigeons, send a message
to the Ranger House at Anthin.”
“Nefydd, I'm not a helpless old fart,
I can do that myself. I need to ask, are you sure you don't want to
involve the Sheriff?”
“Well,” Grijolhd let out a deep
belch, sighing, “Nobody's died yet.”
Aled gave the dwarf a deadpan look. “I
thank you both for trusting me and bringing this matter to my
attention. You two need to go back to that hole, and be careful. I
need to do a little reading and I'll have to come up with some excuse
to join you without attracting undue attention. May your wits be as
fleet as your feet.”
Nefydd and Grijolhd gave curt bows to
Aled. The old man gave a dismissive wave, “You know how to show
yourselves out. Gather your gear and be off.”
The two marshals quietly slipped out
the secret door behind the temple. They looked around. The temple was
situated on the very eastern edge of the village proper. It was dusk.
Nefydd pulled out a sunrod from his shoulder sack. He nodded to the
west, whispering, “We need to move quietly until we get past the
mill and the Vuoti's house, then I can use this.”
“Aye lad, let's hope the Sheriff and
his boys are still drinking at the inn.”
Walking quietly, maintaining a
nonchalant pace, the two slowly made to the western edge of the
village, staying off the main road. There were only two more houses
before the two story home of Vuoti's and the mill came into view.
“Good thing we stashed our gear out
of town,” Grijhold whispered, “ Though inconvenient, I'd rather
not have to deal with those slackers at the inn.”
“Let's hope nobody found the stash,”
Nefydd replied. “Our luck has been a bit lopsided lately.”
“Well, I thought Sheriff Dudok made
it abundantly clear that you two were to remain on extended patrol in
the pasture lands,” said a voice from their left.
Suddenly everything turned bright.
Coming from between the houses, staff alight with magical brilliance,
walked a man, his head shaved except for a ring of black hair just
above the ears. His goatee was waxed. He was garbed in the priestly
robes; white and gold, with sunbursts throughout. Cornelius Aggett,
priest of Polaris, a man both Nefydd and Grijolhd despised almost as
much as the Sheriff (with the mayor coming in a close third). Behind
Cornelius was a woman neither had seen before, dressed in fighting
leathers and knee high boots of chocolate brown, her black hair tied
in a ponytail. With the magefire from the staff, the woman's eyes
shined like golden monarchs.
Grijolhd almost spat, but restrained
himself. “You were saying something about luck Nef.”
Glossary-
Fovikklen- one of the planes of
existence outside of the Prime Material Plane; some call it The
Hidden Plane, legends have it that the only way to access the plane
itself is to defeat an Archaic sphinx in a game of mental challenges
followed by a duel with magics (most times of the nonlethal sort).
Monarch- one of the currencies of
Anfekor, a gold coin
