Road Trip to the Dragon Isles - Khuri-Khan
14 Newkolt 349 AC
Arthur looks around. "Where should we set up our tent after we speak with them? Also how are you holding up, Davva?"
"There isn't really anyone to speak with, sir. Most people just pass through, bound for Khuri-Khan." As Davaa leads the group around to the east side of town, he points toward a cleared area. "We should be able to set up just west of the caravan grounds. Anyway, I'm better than I would have been if those dragonnes had had their way, that's for sure!" Davaa quips, but it is obvious that he is still in quite a bit of pain following his ordeal.
Altan remains silent for his part. While it is obvious the he is happy for his friend's continued survival, Agnes' use of healing magic and the conversation they had afterwards has plunged him into a bit of an existential crisis. Had humanity turned from the gods instead of the other way around? The Khurs, for the most part, were not a very devout people but the stories that Altan had grown up with blamed the gods, not mortals, for the Cataclysm and the floods that swept in to drown so much of his own country after Ishtar had been struck with the fiery mountain.
Agnes watches the young horseman carefully, aware of what he must be going through. "It can be a lot to take in," she tells him softly. "To learn that everything you had ever been taught is...incorrect. I was crushed when I was first told the truth. It gets easier, but you have to be able to find someone to talk about it with. I am here if you need me." Her words are gentle, her tone is patient, like a teacher on a child's first day of lessons.
Arthur hops down and starts to set up the tents so Davva can rest and so Altan can speak with Agnes about whats going on. He hums a soft tune from his homeland as he works one that use to help him relax. Once the tents are set up Arthur takes off his armor and looks over his wounds to see how bad they are (definitely have been worse - he'll probably be fine in a day or three). Once satisfied he put on clothes and a cloak and heads out to the others.
Agnes sits next to Altan, telling him stories about the time before the Cataclysm. She explains the Dragonwar that resulted in Takhisis' banishment from the mortal plane and the rise of the Kingpriest of Istar and how he made demands on the gods and was smote for his arrogance. She ends her story by explaining that when the evil dragons withdrew with Takhisis, the good dragons exiled themselves to maintain the balance in the world.
Dinner is a simple affair, stir fry noodles, some vegetables, and milk tea. Nobody is up for much else considering the aches, pains, and remaining wounds from the day's battle. Once everyone is asleep, Agnes rises as silently as she can and casts two more healing spells on Davaa and the rest of her daily limit on Arthur before returning to bed.
Arthur rolls over and sleeps soundly with her beside him. In the morning he wakes early and starts cooking breakfast for everyone giving himself time to think about the past few days. Once everyone is awake, he starts serving food. "Good morning, I hope you all slept well."
Agnes rises and kisses Arthur on the cheek. "Thank you for this."
Davaa sits up and laughs, "I thank you as well, but don't go expecting a kiss from me!"
Altan chuckles at his friend's jest. As soon as everything is eaten and packed away, the group is on its way.
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| Altan (left) and Davaa (right) |
"If all goes well, we should make it to Khuri-Khan by nightfall!" Davaa proclaims. "Have to tread a bit more carefully while we are there. The Khur clan run the city. They're allies with the Mayakur but it's best to not push our luck too hard, you hear? But, hey, we can visit the great bazaar while we are there and maybe trade the horses for fresh ones."
"As long as we can buy some potions, and maybe some spare clothes and boots I'll be happy." Arthur keeps an eye out the best he can. "Since its a larger city will they take gold? Or do they prefer gemstones as well? Also, those gems we got from the gnolls, what kind are they?"
Davaa tells Arthur, "Coin, gems, barter, pretty much anything will do in the bazaar as long as the seller and buyer agree. As far as potions go, I guess it depends on what you are looking for. I have to tell you, I don't know much about gems."
Agnes chuckles softly, "Those are moonstones, average quality, could probably get fifty gold for each them if you know how to haggle."
The four travelers pass dozens of people coming to and leaving from the city throughout the day. Mounted patrols of Green Dragonarmy soldiers ride up and down the trail, checking carts and wagons. They stop anyone traveling alone, thoroughly inspecting their packs, their weapons, and checking for contraband before letting them move on. Most of these soldiers behave professionally, although not a single one shows a single shred of compassion or concern for any of the people they stop. And none are openly soliciting bribes as they wave Arthur and the others through the gate to the city.
Green Dragon banners fly from every tower, every flagpole, hang from every official building. The wyrms themselves can be seen basking atop the city wall and the roof of the palace. In the span of a few seconds, Arthur counts a dozen greens of varying sizes.
"Let's find lodging for the night and then I would like to go do some shopping if that alright with you three."
The bazaar is packed with hundreds of people with a carinval-like atmosphere. Multicolored pennants mark individual carts, hawkers call out to people in the crowd, trying to find buyers for their goods. Hundreds of scents compete for attention - perfumes, food, incense, pipe tobacco, spices. Song and music intertwine with the shouts of people haggling over goods and money changing hands.
People from all walks of life intermingle in the bazaar. Khurs, Abanasinians, Dwarves, Goblins, Draconians, Gnomes, all rub elbows and make deals in the market while soldiers patrol the crowd.
Everywhere, everything is for sale. From fine woolen scarves to elaborate knotted rugs, handmade leather saddles, jewelry, silver snuff boxes, tools, horses, fiddles and flutes, and food... dumplings, noodles, fried meat pastries that Altan calls "khuushuur", salted milk tea, airag, arkhi, beer, mead, and wine are all available.
Arthur and his companions go from stall to stall, speaking with vendors. The paladin is able to find several potions to expand his combat options, some clothing better suited to the weather, and loads up on enough food to last the next few days. Instead of swapping horses, Altan suggests just buying a pack horse to carry the additional gear, allowing the group's current mounts to take it "easy" in comparison.
In the main bazaar, another one of those yellow-robed men preaches aloud, as shoppers pass by. A handful have gathered, some just listening, others nodding, as the man speaks. Though his message is the same, his delivery is far more flamboyant and theatrical, his voice rising and falling with the cadence of a trained performer.
Step closer—yes, you with the doubt in your eyes. Doubt is good. Doubt means you’re still alive… for now.
You’ve been told death is natural. Necessary. Inevitable.
Funny thing is, everything inevitable has always turned out to be wrong once the right person came along.
(That person, by the way, is me.)
Now I’m not here to sell you fear. Oh no. Fear is free. You already own plenty.
What I’m offering is relief.
What I’m offering is forever.
You see this little bottle? Don’t look at the bottle—any fool can sell glass. Look at the idea.
Inside isn’t medicine. Inside is recognition.
Chemosh — listening, paying attention.
The other gods? Left the world behind after smashing it like a child with a broken toy.
This one? This one wants you.
Your name. Your breath. Your continued participation in existence.
Accept Him, and time loosens its grip.
Your bones forget how to fail.
Your name stops being a deadline.
And listen—listen carefully—I’m not saying you’ll never die.
I’m saying you’ll never have to.
No knives. No cliffs. No rituals under a bad moon.
Just belief. Consent. A signature written in the soft ink of faith.
People will laugh. They always do.
They laughed at fire. They laughed at the wheel and the axle and the wagon.
But laughter doesn’t last.
You could.
So step right up.
Kneel, stand, whisper, shout—I’m flexible.
Accept Chemosh, and walk away knowing that when the end comes for everyone else…
It will politely pass you by.
Now—who wants eternity, or are you all in a hurry to rot?"
Arthur walks ignoring the man preaching and mutters to himself, "Damn necromancers." He goes and buys some fresh fruit to share with the others as well. Once back at the lodge he sets the fruit down and starts to organize his new equipment. "I saw another one of those yellow-robed men."
Davaa spits on the ground. "They're popping up everywhere lately. 'Soul Traders,' they call themselves."
"People are afraid, they don't want to die in the war. They want to make sure they stay around to take care of their families. It's twisted and wrong, but at the same time, I can understand what they're thinking." Altan's whole body shudders briefly. "Like what would have happened if those beasts had killed you, Davaa? You have three sons. Who would take care of them? Me? I wouldn't even know where to start."
Agnes frowns, "Well, I, for one, will be glad to leave them far behind. Undeath is an affront to the gods."
"I just hope they don't become a problem for us in the future, fighting undead, liches, and anything else to do with necromancers... just horrible." He shudders, "Anyways, we should probably start planning for tomorrow."
Davaa nods, "We head out early, follow the road around the south end of the Sierra Khur Mountains and make for Alek-Khan. If the road is good and the weather holds, we should make it there by the end of the third day."
"Perfect, let's eat, relax, and enjoy the night." After they've talked for awhile, Arthur reads the book Agnes gave him until she comes to take him to bed.
15 Newkolt 349 AC
Arthur stops and looks at the young woman "What seems to be the problem, miss?" He looks her up and down try to guess what she does but is unfamiliar with her manner of dress. Agnes slides out of her saddle and swiftly walks to the girl, "What is wrong, Sister?"
The girl, Arthur guesses she must be some sort of priestess given the way Agnes addressed her, looks to them, "My mistress at the temple, she has fallen into some sort of trance and I cannot wake her! She needs help! Please, come!"
"Altan, Davva," he tosses coins to them, "We are going to be delayed for one more day I fear. Find us lodging. We will find you soon." Arthur offers his hand to the girl, "Point us in the way we need to go." He makes haste to the temple with Agnes and the woman.
Altan shakes his head, "I am coming with you. If what Agnes says about the gods not leaving is true, then I wish to help the priestess as well."
Agnes nods, "Thank you, Altan."
Davaa stops. "If Altan is going with you, then I shall as well. What is your name, girl?"
"My name is Chimeg, an acolyte of Elir-Sana," the girl replies.
Chimeg leads the small group through the streets of Khuri-Khan to an old abbey dedicated to the Elir-Sana, a goddess of peace and healing. The temple, once a grand structure made of red sandstone, has fallen into disrepair but the front steps have been cleared of snow and ice. Two older women out front ladle soup into the bowls of a dozen or so children who are gathered out front.
Chimeg leads the group inside, through the sanctuary, and into a long hallway with dozens of doors lining the walls and stops in front of one at the far end. "She's through here, in her quarters."
She opens the door to reveal an older woman, sitting in the lotus position on the floor. Her eyes are closed, hands forming a bowl in her lap, her long graying hair tied in braids on either side of her head.
"Mother Gerel? Can you hear me? Mother Gerel?" Chimeg asks. The older priestess, if she heard the girl's words, does not respond. "She's been like this for nearly two days."
"I need to touch her. I promise to be respectful." Arthur makes his way over to her and places two fingers to her neck and feels for her pulse.
As soon as he makes contact, Mother Gerel's eyes pop open, glowing with white light. Altan lets out a small gasp and drops to his hands and knees, bowing his head. Davaa takes a step back, his hand dropping to the hilt of his saber.
Arthur looks to see if she's still breathing, then he steps back. "White Lady from the Khalkist Mountains. How far off the track is that?" He looks the the others, "Any idea?"
Davaa opens the door to one of the small cells and looks out the window. He points at a "nearby" mountain range. "Those are the Khalkists. That's where we'll find the White Lady. Question is, where in the mountains?"
Chimeg says, "We could check the library? Maybe there will be a map or journal with the answer."
"Is there any holy lands in the mountains range? A place where people would do rituals or offerings? And yes, we should go to the library, maybe gather some of the elders of the temple, maybe they will know."
Chimeg leads the group to the library. They tell the lorekeeper what Mother Gerel said and the sage nods and wanders off. She returns with a rolled scroll a few minutes later. "Before the Cataclysm, there was a temple to Elir-Sana in the foothills of the Khalkists. It was carved into the face of a steep cliff. A great evil rose up and the sisters of old, bound it within the temple and the White Lady remained behind to watch over it. This map will show you the way."
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