Illogical Jim

Hope for a Dying World

Six men crouched tensely behind a wide boulder in the gathering twilight, occasionally daring quick glances over the upper edge of the stone. They watched as a distant wagon rattled along the road in the company of two riders. Most of them were in a rough way, and looked it. Bleary eyes looked out from gaunt faces obscured by scars and thick stubble. Odd scraps of mismatched, dented mail and plate were laid over the rags they called clothing. Even their weapons, the tools of their trade, were rusted and notched. Young and old, all were bent of back and broken of spirit; all but one, and it was to him that the others turned expectantly.

“What do ye think, m'laird?” asked one of the old-timers, shaking head and adjusting his battered straw hat, “Ah cannae ken it, meself.”

The lord nodded thoughtfully and the high, arcing crest atop his open-faced helm bobbed slightly. Though he, too, looked the worse for wear, it was clear from a glance that he fared far better than his underlings. His armor lacked polish, but the silk lacing was tight and even, each and every one of its many plates hanging straight. He was well into middle age, but his body was strong and his eyes were vital.

“They came down from the mountains, of course.” he said, “They certainly didn't come from one of the strongholds. For one thing they're going the wrong way, and look: they have no banner that I can see. They're outlanders for sure.”

There was some muttering at these observations. A banner denoting allegiance to a warlord was a necessity for traveling with even a modicum of safety in Watshire. Only fools or foreigners would dare to do without one. As fools lacking such a token themselves, they all knew well how dangerous that was.

“I expect they'll have food and supplies,” he went on, “how long has it been since we've eaten? One day? Two? I've lost track.”

“We ett that palie hind just yestreen,” said the old-timer, “wisna much tae him, tho.”

“Hellfire! I'm so hungry,” complained one of the younger men, unslinging his bow from his back, “let's rush 'em now, before anyone else shows up.”

This suggestion was met with general approval, and most of the others drew their own weapons in anticipation of a charge. None dared to leave the safety of their concealment without leave, however excited they may have been.

“No!” the lord said, laying a menacing hand on the hilt of the fine sword at his belt, “We must be patient and wait for nightfall. There can't be many of them, but either bravery or madness brought them here, and the mad can prove as dangerous as the brave.” he paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “That beside, I want to make sure we take at least one of them alive. I know some strange mischief let that knight escape us on the road. If we can wring the truth out of some skulking mountain-folk, Daeron might rethink this whole exile business.”

The young man, abashed, returned his bow with a quick nod. “Well you say, lord. All those thralls would set us up nice. I hear them demons is paying good for 'em, now. Naught but fresh beef and good bread for us then.”

The lord smirked. “Don't be greedy, lad. One will be enough, though we might bag two or three if they're careless enough. We'll kill the rest to be safe; just take care not to hurt the horses. I'm sick to death of walking in this armor, and riding back to Gumbleston is style will be a nice reversal of our fortunes.”

So the men watched their distant prey, biding their time. But they were not alone.

---

Osric frowned at Revna's complaint. In truth he had no great love for the song, nor for the prince whose fate it lamented. The only reason he knew it at all was because Brother Hamish was constantly singing it under his breath in the infirmary; always, as if it were a prayer. Whether he was making poultices, grinding herbs, or even performing surgery, if he was there the song was, too. But it never quite made sense to Osric. If the last Pendish heir really had died with all his remaining followers, hunted and forsaken, how could anyone have so memorialized him? Surely demons and their servants were not so sentimental.

Still, the complaint rankled. All he had interrupted was an uncomfortable silence. The woman's contemptuous reference to 'those boring hymns' put him in a mind to grace her with the full text of the Te Deam, of course sung in the slow, traditional plainchant. But the sight of her opening a wound with a dagger drove the thought right out of his head, and his frown gave way to a look of concern.

“I wish you had mentioned your injury, and I pray you let me examine it when we stop. I am the best healer in the Order, and should be able to set it right quickly enough.” he paused, thoughtfully, “Well, perhaps I am the second best healer. But you will find my bedside manner much more agreeable than you would Father Waleran's.”

Osric wasn't bragging, merely stating a fact generally acknowledged in the Monastery. He was very good, and well he should be; he had studied the healing arts with a single-mindedness that bordered on the obsessive, and at the expense of almost every other magical field. He could barely manage wards, was hopeless with offensive spells, and knew only enough of illusion to conjure dubious light-shows and unconvincing phantom-sounds.

He returned his attention to Katrina when she spoke. He drove the wagon as she directed, more thankful than ever for her guidance. He knew only the broad strokes of military strategy, but he certainly knew an advantageous position when he saw one. It provided shelter from the elements, easy access to fuel should they wish to risk a fire, and a much more defensible campsite than the open roadside would have provided. Glancing up, he saw dark clouds in the western sky. A good way off, yet, but they appeared to be moving in their direction. With luck, avoiding a soaking would be their most serious concern tonight.

“Wonderful!” he said, and he meant it. Strange, that such a grim, forbidding place should make him feel better. But it did. He had already nearly forgotten the fretful, anxious hours of the day's journey, and the unpleasant daydreams of a short while ago.

Osric watched as Andrew hustled off to gather firewood. The lad had been quiet on the road, no doubt on account of his nerves. It was heartening to see him so eager to be busy, now. Saint Antonia had said that honest work was a form of prayer, and, having lived most of his life by her Rule, the monk was inclined to agree. That food was in the offing had nothing to do with it.

“I expect we are all interested in dinner, lad,” he said, smiling thinly, “thank you.”

Sage had also been quiet, and Osric wondered what unspoken thoughts remained locked in her head. He was beginning to regret the loss of their former closeness. They had been almost like siblings, once, and he very much still thought of her like a younger sister. So it hurt a little that she had not sought to confide in him on the road, but he knew that was unfair. He had done just the same thing. It seemed that he would have to move first to bridge the gap between them, but he had work of his own to do yet.

Without further delay he approached Revna. “I think it best I attend to your wound before we eat. I can work quickly, and we will both be hungrier afterward.” Insistent, but polite. Rudeness to a woman that could doubtless tear his arms off was, of course, out of the question.

Hope for a Dying World

Osric laughed aloud as the novice started from his slumber, and the mention of Father Keiler jogged his memory; of course this was Andrew, the lad who was always getting himself into trouble. He wondered briefly why Keiler would be willing to send a half-trained neophyte off to join what might very well prove to be a suicide mission, but quickly came to the conclusion that it must have been because he saw no further use for him. There was a certain logic in that, but it struck Osric as terribly cold. Monstrous, almost. Could there have been something else to it?

His train of thought was interrupted by the rather absurd form of address the novice chose for him. He couldn't help but smile at being called your Grace.

“I am grateful for your additions to the supplies, Brother,” he said, suppressing chuckles, “most of what we have already is rather less palatable. Dried meat, hardtack, and other such things. But I am no King. Brother Osric will do just fine.”

He returned to his previously intended task of loading the wagon, but he paused, eyebrows raised, when he saw the prayer book drop from Andrew's pocket.

“Well, no harm done, I should think,” he said, “you can always return it when we come back.” Of course, there was no need to mention the fact that, should they not come back, it would make little difference whether or not the little book was in its proper place. The Order would have far more pressing matters to attend to then. The end of the world, for example.

Osric was surprised when Katrina appeared, and doubly so when she began to help them with loading the wagon. Then she went further, offering practical advice for the road ahead and the suggestion of a camping spot for the coming evening. Astounding! Naturally, he chose to interpret these entirely practical actions as an apology for the unconscionable rudeness she had earlier displayed. So of course he readily agreed with her assertions.

“A wonderful idea. Your first-hand experience will no doubt prove a boundless blessing in our endeavor.” he said, nodding amicably.

By the time the wagon was fully loaded and his horse, Miracle, was properly harnessed to pull it, Osric realized just how much daylight they had wasted already. The morning was passing quickly, and that was ill news if the road was dangerous after nightfall.

“If we are all quite prepared,” he called as he mounted the wagon and took the reins, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the whole group, “then let us make haste!”

Checking one last time to be sure he hadn't misplaced the precious leather case – which, indeed, was still hanging from the strap on his shoulder – he bumped the reins. Miracle set off toward Lastbridge at a steady gait. Osric only wished he had thought to prepare a speech. A quest this important really demanded a good speech.

No matter. Perhaps he could give one when they made camp for the evening.

---

The King's Road, near Moonhorn Ridge

The day was grown old by the time the soaring heights of the Silverpeak Mountains were behind them for good. Nightfall was not far away, so Osric worked the reins and urged Miracle to make haste. The blighted land that lay ahead only increased his agitation. Katrina had not exaggerated; there was little sign of life here. Even the grass seemed to give way as the wagon rumbled on down the King's Road toward Moonhorn Ridge.

He wanted to pray again, but he had been praying under his breath a great deal since they had passed the Barrier. He wondered if anyone else had felt it. He couldn't bring himself to ask them, chiefly because he couldn't find the words to describe the feeling. It was like jumping into a frigid stream too early in the year... No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like standing in a warm, inviting room filled with friendly conversation, before stepping out into the wordless, biting cold of a winter's night.

Perhaps he had imagined it. Perhaps his nerves were just getting the better of him.

Osric knew he should have been pleased. Nothing had gone wrong yet, and the group seemed to be getting along for the most part. Yet he couldn't escape the unease he felt, and his weary mind wandered down strange and crooked paths. Far too often these led him back to Sister Maire: He recalled her teasing, swaying walk; the mischievous smile so often on her delicate face; hair like black silk peeking out from under her headscarf. And the dark habit sliding from off her shoulders, the hands drawing him toward her shapely, unclad body.

Desperate to drive out these invasive memories, Osric briefly considered screaming at the top of his lungs. He decided against that course of action, reasoning that it might worry his companions. Instead, of all things, he softly sang:

“On hills that are by right his ain
he roams a lonely stranger.
On ilka side he’s press’d by want,
on ilka side by danger.
Yestreen I met him in a glen,
my heart near bursted fairly:
For sadly changed indeed was he,
O wae’s me for Prince Charlie.

Dark nicht cam on, the tempest roared,
loud o’er the hills and valleys;
and where was’t that your Prince lay doon,
whose hame should be a palace?
He row’d him in a heelan plaid
that covered him but sparely,
and slept beneath a bush o’ broom.
O wae’s me for Prince Charlie.”

His tenor voice was pleasant, if not melodious, and his ear for pitch was keen from long practice in the choir. The song was a well-known lament for the last scion of the Pendish royal clan, rendered in the odd dialect once spoken in the lands they were currently passing through. Was that why he had thought to sing it, rather than the scores of hymns he knew by rote? Whatever the case, it did break Osric's unpleasant reverie. He glanced about at the others, suddenly embarrassed by his seemingly-unprovoked outburst.

”Hmm, Katrina?” he asked sheepishly, “Do you suppose we're near the site you mentioned?”

Hope for a Dying World

Okay, Andrew looks pretty good. There's just one thing that confuses me: What does "His first native station was a veil in a do not see me prayer that happened when he was stealing food from the Monastery" mean, exactly? I've read it a few times and I'm still not sure I understand it.

That aside, accepted! Go ahead and put him in the CS tab. Just edit in a connection whenever you come up with one.

Hope for a Dying World

A great weight was lifted from Osric's mind at Sage's words, and he suddenly felt as if nothing had ever come between them, as if their friendship had continued to that very morning without any interruption. But the relief was short-lived. His easy-going smile faded into a frown, his brow furrowing.

This Katrina woman certainly had a great deal of nerve, to treat him as if he were a cocksure fool. Did she imagine he planned to lead them in an assault on the nearest infernal fortress, some sort of suicide mission? Nothing had been further from his mind; indeed, the daggers were more of an emergency safeguard, a knave to be played against a surprise attack. Well, now was it a knave, or was it an ace that trumped in cards? The monk knew little of such things. Gambling was sinful, after all.

Her mention of Lord Omida was particularly galling. Osric was beginning to suspect that Katrina was somewhat less than pious, that she would name a god so flippantly. Before he could think of a sufficiently stern admonition, he saw the big woman approach.

Revna was impossible to miss, and similarly difficult to forget. Their paths had not crossed often before, as he was seldom picked for shrine-duty, and when he was she was rarely among the congregants. But that was between her and the gods. She had been willing to stand before the General Assembly and volunteer, and that was more than enough for Osric. If she was even half as dangerous as she looked with that halberd, the Cup of Woe was as good as returned to Aldren Priory. If he could only teach her how to pronounce his name properly, then all would be well. He didn't even complain when she took a dagger from the saddle-bag without asking; he had intended to pass them out anyway.

“The Mother Above bless you also, Revna,” he said, returning her greeting, “I am pleased you have come.”

Osric sheathed the blade he had held up for demonstration and thrust it through his own belt, before taking another from the bag and holding it out for Katrina. Her snide query about their small numbers set him over the edge, however; he tossed the proffered weapon at her feet in a huff.

“I should think that so august a vagabond as yourself would agree that there is safety in stealth upon the road ahead, and that such subterfuge is more easily managed by a party of small size? Do you not think so?” he exhaled sharply through his nose, “But if you should prefer to join a larger expedition you may, should one ever set off. No oath binds you to this one.”

He frowned, trying to rein in his anger. His hands, obscured by his sleeves, were balled into fists so tightly that their nails bit flesh, and his voice sounded shrill in his own ears. He was not accustomed to losing his temper so easily. Something about Katrina just seemed to rub him the wrong way. After a brief moment he sighed, bowing his head.

“I apologize for speaking harshly.” he said softly, gesturing at the glittering steel on the ground, “Please accept yon dagger as a gift from myself and my Order. If you will excuse me, I should fetch our wagon from the stable across the road.”

With that said, he untied his horse from the crooked post and quickly led away it to the stable. He hoped a moment of busy solitude would set his nerves aright. And it began well; he was pleased to find that the wagon was actually inside. His order to requisition one had been made at the last minute, and Sister Charlotte had worried that she might not be able to secure one while the harvest was still coming in. But there it was, thankfully. How embarrassing it would have been to announce the existence of a wagon where there was none.

It was a decent wagon, Osric supposed. It had a large bed with high sidewalls, and posts at each corner where a cover could be attached to keep the interior dry. The seat on the front was long enough for two people to sit comfortably; three, if they squeezed a little closer. Yes, it was a very decent wagon.

He began to untie the bags and sacks from his horse's pack-saddle, intending to move them into the wagon. He stopped short, however, as he heard slow breathing coming from inside the vehicle. The walls were too high to see within from where he stood, but it sounded as if someone were sleeping. He hoped it wasn't one of the stable-girls; he didn't feel up to scolding another woman that morning.

Laying down his burdens, he walked around to the rear and peered in curiously. He saw a young man, or maybe a boy, sleeping peacefully. He was short and lightly-built, and aside from the brown hair rather reminded Osric of a younger version of himself. He looked familiar, too; but where did he know him from?

The Monastery, of course! This must be one of the novices, though Osric couldn't for the life of him remember this one's name. He seldom dealt with them since leaving the novices' quarters himself, except to train small groups in the healing arts, and he wasn't sure this young man had ever worked under him.

Unsure what the novice was actually doing here, he decided to handle this development as he supposed Father Robert might. he took up his walking stick and rapped loudly on the frame of the wagon.

"Up, lad!" He cried, making no effort to hide his amusement, "You've missed the bell for morning prayers!"

Hope for a Dying World

-snip-

@Meleck the Grey

Andrew is definitely an interesting character, but I do notice a few issues with your sheet.

First off, it is a bit bare-bones in places. The strengths and weaknesses could probably use a little more description; they're not much to go on. And, while it's not a really big deal, the fact that you left some of my prompts in makes it look a little untidy.

Then there's the matter of the Order. Anyone pressed into service would have been made a novice (and thus bound by the Monastic Rule) as soon as they had been given basic religious instruction, and this would be a prerequisite for any advanced work with magic. They would only fully join the ranks of the Order as monks/nuns after making their solemn vows, usually between the ages of 15-20. If Andrew is a particularly bad candidate, as it seems he might be, then it's quite probable he wouldn't have been given the opportunity to make the solemn vow.

I probably should have been more specific about how monastic life in the Order works, so sorry if that was unclear. I guess I didn't originally expect anyone to want to play a monk/novice.

As to Andrew's Master, you can just make up a name for him/her. I assume there's several master mages in the Order, but I didn't bother coming up with names for any of them.

The only other note I have is related to connections. Take a look at the other character sheets posted in the CS tab and see if any of them would make a likely friend/associate/enemy/whatever of your character. Feel free to reach out via PM to anyone you might want to work out a connection with.

Oh, and feel free to ask me if you have any other questions, either here or via PM.

Hope for a Dying World

-snip-

@Quest Abandoner

Looks good to me. Post Revna in the CS tab whenever you're finished with her.

Hope for a Dying World

One more bump, for good measure.

Please see the OOC thread for more information.

Hope for a Dying World

"You were the only person that had ever shown me compassion and care. I guess there was a part of me that wouldn't have been able to handle your rejection. The order was your calling, your world. You separated yourself from your own family to go into service. I knew it would be hard to understand why I couldn't. I'm sorry I wasn't better to you even so Osric. I should have told you I was alive at least. The risk of getting caught kept me silent."

@Smystar99

Lord Omida said: The man of knowledge speaks, while the man of wisdom listens.

So Osric sat quietly as his old friend told her tale, fiddling idly with the strand of prayer beads that hung from his belt. Hearing it did bring much to clear the matter in his mind; but he found his heart was still confused. Though he could now understand why he had been left uninformed of her flight, the memory of it was still bitter. And the matter of abandoning the Order, that was harder still. But she was here now, and intended to help in accomplishing a holy quest. Was that not a worthy thing?

Osric remained silent for a long space after Sage had finished, considering his words carefully.

“You should know that I came to hate you, after you left,” he said at last, “but there is no fire like hatred – Lord Omida said that, though I expect you remember your catechism – and I did not wish to be consumed by it. Just as well, I never could stay angry at you for very long.”

He sighed, softly, and reached out to lay a hand on Sage's shoulder.

“For all it is worth, I forgive you, and I pray you forgive my own bitterness toward you.”

He wondered how she might take a lecture on repentance and forgiveness at that moment. Though she had abandoned the Order, nothing she had said seemed to indicate a total break from the Faith. In such a case the Seven Virtues and the Three Jewels would be worth mentioning, certainly; or perhaps the Parable of the Roofless Castle? He would have to pick something, and couldn't drone on forever. That never won anyone over.

Before he could decide on a topic his train of thought was interrupted.

"What in Heaven's damned name is there a kid on this pilgrimage of yours for?" She asked, as she made her presence properly known. "Heard about your plan to take that cup to the priory. I've been that way before, and you damn sure aren't surviving between the two of you. Name's Katrina. Came to keep you from getting yourself killed past the barrier." Her arms were crossed, and she had something of a resting bitch face going on. Not a particularly soft atmosphere to give off for first impressions.

@Blizz

Osric grit his teeth at the flagrant blasphemy, but rose to his feet with the aid of his walking stick for a better look at the woman. Her red eyes struck him at once. They were surprising, though unfortunately not unknown to him. He had seen many children with them in his early days as a monk, as those that had them were often in and out of the infirmary. Such strange malformations often occurred alongside others that were more dangerous.

Despite her small frame, she also had something of a dangerous air about her. This effect was heightened, perhaps, by her low speech and her dismissive attitude. People in the Seven Villages simply did not address monks with such blatant contempt. For his part, Osric was too curious to mind the disrespect.

“You have really been as far as Aldren Priory?” he asked, taking a few steps toward his pack horse, “I praise Heaven that we have so well-traveled a volunteer. But I do not think we are so helpless as you believe.”

Opening one of the bags on the horse's back he pulled out a long dagger, nearly a foot long, with both handle and sheath inlaid with shining jewels. Smiling thinly, he drew the blade forth. Anyone sensitive to magic would be able to feel its power as it flashed out into the sunlight.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, turning toward Katrina before answering his own question, “It is a tool for demon-slaying, forged long ago before Lord Omida first closed the gates of Hell. If you can get close enough to a demon, you can kill it with this as easily as you might dispatch a rabbit. In elder days it would have been worth a small fortune in gold, but now it is beyond price; we have several of them, more than enough for everyone.”

Osric laughed softly. “I have heard that demon-lords actually seek these out to dispose of rivals. The blades would burn them just as holy water does, or perhaps worse. I suppose the handles must not be dangerous to them.” He paused, dipping his head in a shallow bow.

“I am sorry, but I seem to have forgotten my manners. This kid, as you call her, is Sage Magus; I assume you already know that I am Brother Osric Saint-Remigius.”

Hope for a Dying World

@Blizz

Might be a good idea. I'll make one real quick.

Hope for a Dying World

A sigh left her lips to relieve tension as she waited for him to awaken from his slumber.

@Smystar99

Osric was in the scriptorium, pen in hand, working steadily on a new copy of The Sins of Lady Gisela. This was odd because, as far as he knew, the Monastery didn't make copies of books like that. It was erotic smut masquerading as a religious polemic; he had read it once out of curiosity, but ended up returning it to the shelf red-faced, only having made it a quarter of the way through its lurid story. So why was he copying it now? Wouldn't Brother Alaric be angry at such a flagrant waste of good parchment?

Before he could question his own actions further he heard someone breathing behind him, as if they stood just over his shoulder. He turned with such violent suddenness to see who it was that he spilled ink all over the page, blotting out a whole paragraph's worth of depraved acts. What he saw frightened him far more than Brother Alaric's stern countenance ever could have: It was a demon, ten feel tall and monstrously-formed, leaning down to look him squarely in the face.

Fortunately for Osric, he was only dreaming.

Consciousness came like a thunderbolt. His right arm tightened around the precious case he carried, and his left fumbled vainly for the walking stick he had dropped on the grass. His eyes shot open and he nearly shouted in surprise: There was a woman – a young one, perhaps of an age with himself – right next to him! His mind was still foggy with sleep, but within a brief moment he began to understand the situation.

This woman was armed, after all, but had neither drawn a weapon nor attempted to rob him. They were both at the very spot he had chosen for the meeting place, and upon the appointed day. Of course! This woman must be the anonymous volunteer, the author of the mysterious note in his pocket. His tense, defensive bearing relaxed at once, and he smiled sheepishly at her.

“I am terribly sorry,” he said, bringing up one hand to rub the weariness from his eyes, “I must have fallen...”

Wait.

Osric trailed off, his earlier line of thought returning to mind: The anonymous volunteer was most likely a former novice of the Order of Holy Wisdom. And did she not look familiar? The red hair, the face, that look of consternation. Yes, it all reminded him of someone. But Sage was just a little girl; this was a grown woman. Of course, he hadn't seen her in years. Could she really have changed so much?

No, he was quite certain of it now. This woman was Sage. The realization struck him like a blow to the head. He had no idea how to feel about this turn of events, and, even worse, he had no idea what to say to her. Rather, he had no idea how to say any of the many things he would have liked to say at that moment. If only he had pieced it all together before opening his mouth in the first place. He could have pretended he was still asleep. That would have bought him some time to think, at least.

Osric knew he was staring slack-jawed. The fading memory of his dream was beginning to make him uncomfortable, juxtaposed as it was against the presence of a a childhood friend. So he closed his mouth and bowed his head in what he hoped would be taken as a polite greeting. Politeness was all his addled mind could manage, at the moment.

“Well, this is certainly a pleasant surprise,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “I hope you have been well. I – I have often prayed for that.”