In early 1354 by Dale Reckoning, otherworldly inspiration entered the minds of three disparate minstrels. Words flowed like molten metal, pure, and like an energized catalyst, until what was formed was few in line, a simple rhyme, yet an image of a thing was presented, that would seem to affect or propel an unknown group, forward, as well go on to define it, that was to be gathered in the regions—both above and below—the lands of Sword Coast.
It was by some design that each of these three minstrels would find themselves simultaneously playing this song, without understanding of that which they would send into motion....
It is said that this inspiration formed into song, was heard performed in such far reaching rooms as the corner of the infamous The Gloura's Wings of the dark city Sshamath, the Winding Way tavern of Soubar and the Risen Phoenix of Beregost, to the entertainment—or confusion—of the persons found within each:
Forged of lightning
Shining like as seas
Hardened as battlers train
Held in the palm by thee
That which is sold
Must have a cost
The battle shall be won, yet...
How many 'crowns will be lost?
Take what is given
Liberate what was found
Realize there be others
Either above or below ground
What shall you purchase?
Be it freedom or be it strife
It is said such sovereigns of no market value
Are instead weighted with that of life
Friends...or nay, enemies
Courage, against conflict
Such ends that may result...
...are impossible to predict....
Such songs can live or die by the memory and discovery found within the words chose, between the lines of meaning...and the song can be carried far and wide...to other towns, perhaps...should it be given importance by those that find meaning within it.
Last edited by Steve on Thu Jan 25, 2018 7:19 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Slowly the the tip of the short sword finds passage between the ribs. One edge scrapping the breast bone sending shivers through the prone dwarf's skeleton. "Stop! No!" The duergar's mind screams, but his mouth wont heed the call. A cough. A blood filled cough. The orc pulls his tusked face close to the smaller duergar slowing the decent of the blade before it reaches the vital organ, "Sorry old friend. This is how it must end for you."
"Ye arenae listenin'!!" A duergar exclaims loudly, drawing the attentions of every patron in a meager pub near the Mist Lake docks. "Ah am guid fur it thes time. Ah teel ye." The drow barkeep continues to try and ignore the grey dwarf and the patrons quickly go back to their own buisness. Without eye contact the drow depresses the duergar's plea, "naut hwuen dos yaith dosst bill." The dwarf huffs and kicks his oversized ruck at his dangling feet. His eyes scan all the patrons. One by one and with every pull they take from their beverage the duergar becomes more and more desperate. More frustrated. More agitated. "Mah freedom fur a bevvy." The dwarf exclaims aloud. This finally draws the gaze of the barkeeper as he lifts his chin and a lead eyebrow slowly and concurrently toward the grey dwarf. The duergar's eyes quickly dart to the drow's hand that prominently shows the mark of a slaver. "Tak' it easy. It is jist a sayin'.." Reeling back a bit from the now approaching drow barkeep, "But noo 'at Ah hae yer attention." The drow grins and lets the duergar continue, "Ah hae somethin' haur 'at guarantees mah claims." The dwarf reaches deep into his ruck. The clanging of metal and scratching of edges over the canvas pile on top of each other like children wrestling. The grunts of the dwarf in search of something specific in all that clutter sound like it too. The expressions on the duergar's face with a far away stare giving the only indication of how his search is going. He bites his lip while searching. Opens his mouth agape when he doesn't know what he is touching. Cringes when he grabs something sharp. Finally purses his lips when he gets what he was looking for. From out of the bag the duergar pulls forth a piece of paper. Tattered and old and rolled up with a ribbon. Holding it right next to his face, his knowing grin directed at the drow. "Mah guarantee." The drow doesn't even look at parchment, eyes still directed at the dwarf, "nindel 'udtila naut lor saph plak'la ulu uns'aa" The dwarf's knowing grin turns quickly to astounded, "It be better than gauld ye divit." The duergar leans in close and looks to his left and right. In a lowered voice the gray dwarf whispers, "It be a treasure map." Looking again left and right the dwarf lowers himself back to his stool. The drow laughs loudly. His belly laugh purposely directed at the dwarf before him. Bellowing in laughter and trying to speak the drow spouts loudly, "natha iiyola mapat'drachim" and again now mocking the dwarf's exact words, "A treasure map." The loud drow draws the attention of the patrons for but a second, but enough to make the duergar squirm nervously. "Jal dos have found is an invitation to being lost in the tunnels." The drow continues, "Get out. Get out of here until you have real gold." The dwarf stuffs the rolled up parchment back into his ruck and hops off his stool. He then picks up his over stuffed ruck and heads toward a newly unoccupied table. The drow then yells out again, "Get out dwen'del." And the drow gives a silent hand signal to two grey orc bouncers that were standing ready near the door to the humble tavern. Grabbing the empty tankards from the table and letting the last sips dribble into his mouth. With his head still up, the dwarf notices the two bouncers coming toward him. The duergar sets the empty clay mug back on the table and wipes his long beard more out of habit than to clear it away of any spilled ale. He puts a hand up to the large orc bouncer, "Ah am leavin', ah am leavin'." The orc bouncers wait for the dwarf to pass. Before the duergar leaves, he grabs another empty stein from a table and announces back to the drow barkeep, "Yoo'll see. aam gonna come back haur an' buy up th' jobby." He then pitches the empty stein back to let the drips rain into his gaping mouth before slamming it down in exclamation and storming out the double doors to the tavern.
The two bouncers look at the drow as the dwarf exits the pub. The drow gives a silent signal and the two bouncers follow after the dwarf out of the tavern.
Bur-Zuum sits at another nameless tavern in another nameless port along the large Mist Lake. Another nameless duergar causing a fit over ale and coin. Another nameless drow configuring a way to rid this nuisance from his establishment. Another group of nameless orcs acting as bouncers due to their size and reputation over actual skill. He sips not from a served glass, but his own wineskin. He does this because trust like that is as common as sunlight in this dark world of tunnels and treachery. Bur-Zuum has seen the light of the surface. Painful and imposing in the same way that being submerged in water takes your air. A return trip is not on Bur-Zuum's long list of things to do anytime soon. Half listening to the dwarf and half pondering his next job. What will it be? Perhaps another deck hand position. The pay for labor on a ship is better than the pay to use his divine gifts. Bur-Zuum is still young for an orc. This and his orcish heritage lends itself easily to both occupations. Perhaps he can find some tasks inside the city. "What city am I in?" He silently asks himself looking around for clues. It doesn't matter. It is usually the same tasks by roughly the same people. Bodyguard this 'Yathrin'. Deliver this 'secret' message to this 'secret' ally. Spy on this 'secret' adversary. Send back false information from this 'secret' adversary to whom I am supposed to be spying for. It is usually all the same. Considering these options brings a yawn to the cowled orc. "Is this what I want to be doing in five years?" His tusked mouth slams shut in irritation on thinking about this. "I don't want to do this tomorrow." Bur-Zuum takes another swig from his wineskin hoping to wash away these thoughts.
"A treasure map" The drow barkeeper taunts the upset duergar between over-dramatic laughs. This should not have grabbed Bur-Zuum's interest. But it did. Bur-Zuum waits. He wants the treasure map. He could likely buy the map from the desperate dwarf, but really doubts that thirty-something silver pieces are gonna sway the dwarf's interest. So Bur-Zuum will need to find an opening. He doesn't know what this opening will be or when. But he knows he will need to jump when that opening shows itself. Bur-Zuum watches again the confrontation between the duergar and drow. It looks as though the drow will be rid of his foe and the dwarf will leave without a drink. "I'll follow this dwarf." The cowled orc thinks to himself. "I will find my opportunity then." Bur-Zuum tries quietly and without notice to gather his belongings. The dwarf with the map meanders his way out of the tavern. The duergar subdues any thought of pride, taunting the drow and making a mockery of both himself and the establishment before taking his leave. Bur-Zuum almost begins to get up to follow the map carrier, but notices the two bouncers follow shortly behind the duergar. Bur-Zuum looks around under his deep hood. He waits. Waits for everyone to go about their business again. Waits for the drow barkeeper to feint disinterest in what is going on at the steps of the tavern. Once all the boxes are checked, Bur-Zuum quickly but with little notice moves for the exit.
"Ye arenae huir uv a braw at thes ur ye?" The dwarf's overstuffed ruck now scattered at his feet. The two orc bouncers stand between Bur-Zuum and the map holding duergar. The orcs have not shown to have noticed Bur-Zuum's exit from the tavern and so the shrouded orc slips behind a nearby hanger rack. "Now dworf peyz tab." The smaller of the two bouncers barks loudly while pointing a think finger at the duergar. The bigger orc clinches his fist at the dwarf and adds, "Enn Blud." The two orcs are very proud of the their tough talk, but while they posture, the dwarf quickly puts on his heavy metal gauntlets before donning a steel helmet. The orcs unbuckle oversized clubs from their waist belt and charge the dwarf.
The dwarf rolls out of the way of the first downward strike. Just before the second smaller orc can land his heavy and gnarled club on his skull, the dwarf pulls up his shield. The duergar is barely able to deflect the powerful attack with both hands holding the shield at the sides. The powerful blow pushes the dwarf to his seat, but his shield comes up again to block another overhead swing. The knotted club deflects to the side and smashes into the dwarf's left hand fingers. The duergar barks in pain, but it would have been a lot worse had he not donned his gauntlets. The larger of the two bouncers slowly paces the cordon of the fight looking outward to make sure nobody thinks twice about helping the victim of this beating. His huge spiked club and intimidating gait doing all the talking. The smaller bouncer lifts his club up high again to smash into the dwarf and his shield. He knows that this dwarf's shield will wear out long before the muscular orc will. The dwarf uses the long blows to scoot on his but backwards before turtling up against the heavy smash. Again the blow squarely impacts the shield, but this time the duergar secures his shield on his forearm. The shield comes up again to counter the overhand blow. These blows are softening up the dwarf. Every blow rings through his body like a bell at the shipyard. And the rings are getting louder. The orc can sense that the dwarf is softening and this dwarf will soon be just a smear of blood and viscera on the street. The bigger orc, still circling the fight, doesn't even need to look to know what is taking place.
From the shadows Bur-Zuum watches the fight unfold. The circling bouncer, carrying a huge spiked club on his shoulder, turns to Bur-Zuum's direction. The capistrated orc turns away from the bouncer to further still himself in the shadows. "Run dwarf." Bur-Zuum thinks to himself as he listens to the one-sided beating. "Run... If you can."
The gnarled club again comes up to drive back down onto the scrabbling dwarf. Once the orc commits to the swing, the duergar quickly rolls to his right barley escaping the heavy blow. The dwarf then sits up and spins on a knee to drive a now held war hammer into knee of the orc in a forehand swing. The orc, surprised by the attack and off balance, drops his broken knee to the ground. Momentum complete stopped by the impact with the orc's thick knee, the duergar spins the opposite direction. Thrusting his shield arm around to generate momentum, the dwarf lifts to his feet and delivers a backhanded smash to the now kneeling bouncer's face with the heavy hammer. The orc's face explodes as his nose takes a one way trip to the back of his head.
"So yoo gotzum fyt en ya." The larger and spiked club bouncer announces to the duergar. The dwarf spins the hammer in his hand while bracing himself on sturdy legs. "Mair than ye can handle." Expecting a charge from the orc bouncer, the dwarf peeks from behind his battered shield. The orc grunts and charges. The duergar hunkers down to withstand the force.
Bar-Zuum looks back toward the fight. Surprised, he sees one of the bouncers already down. His head resembling more an under-mixed and under-cooked pancake than any sort of humanoid head. And if the pancake were deep red. "If he makes it out of this alive. Taking the map with force is not looking like a good idea." Bur-Zuum thinks as he watches the two square off.
The duergar leans in as the expected charge nears. Shield up. Shoulders up. Forehead tilted down. Knees bent to drive back against the large orc charge. But the orc plants and uses the momentum generated in the charge to swing the huge spiked club in a wide arc. "Technique? Technique!" The duergar quickly surmises upon seeing the feinted charge. Quickly the dwarf analyzes the swing for an escape route. "Too low to duck. Too deep to parry. Too wide to side step." He finally comes to the only conclusion, "This is gonna hurt." The duergar drives his shield into the club. The force of the blow should have sent the duergar flying off his feet. He would have too had one of the spikes on the club not penetrated the shield and penetrated his arm in the process. Jerking side to side and back and forth, the orc tries to free the duergar from his weapon to finish him off. Every tug sends a wave of pain through the dwarf's arm. Each wave of extreme pain nearly pushing him into unconsciousness before the next wave jolts him back awake. The dwarf is no longer fighting the orc. All the fight is gone from the terrible wound that tortures him. The hammer that felled the first bouncer now lays harmless on the avenue floor. The duergar's focus in now only on the wounded arm. The dwarf's free hand grabs the shield to brace the twisting. Grabs the club to counter the pulling and pushing. Grabs the spike to push it back out. The large bouncer doesn't fear a counter and places his foot on the dwarfs shield to try and free his weapon from the blocker to finish this fight. The dwarf quickly unbuckles his arm from the shield and allows the orcs push to free him from the spike and the shield. The orc stumbles back as the pull gave easier than expected. The duergar also staggers back, but he does so in delirium and shaky legs. The orc bouncer looks at the new ornament attached to his spiked club with a grim sense of satisfaction. The only thing that would be more satisfying would be if the dwarf's arm was still attached as well. The improved club swings in wide again toward the defenseless duergar. This time the dwarf is taken off his feet and sent tumbling back into a large stack of fish baskets. The attached shield saving the dwarf one last time from being impaled by the spiked club. Seeing the deadly spikes being muted by the mangled ornament, the orc forcefully rips the shield away freeing it from the lethal spikes. Tossing aside the now useless sheet of steel that once was a functional shield, The orc walks toward the dwarf to finish this fight.
Bur-Zuum grabs his arm as sympathy pain pulses in his uninjured arm. The cowled orc watches and sees the fight has taken an incredible turn for the worse for the map carrying dwarf. His only consideration is getting his hands on that map, so quickly Bur-Zuum analyzes what would occur if the dwarf dies right here. "He would likely have his head removed as proof of the kill and the rest would be tossed in the lake. Tossed in the lake along with his map. Gone for good."
The large orc bouncer lifts the huge spiked club. The dwarf tightropes a thin line of alive and dead. Oblivious to his incoming death. With the club up high, a stream of warm blood covers the face of the duergar. The dwarf finds his sight in the blackness. Opens his eyes as two white orbs peer forth from a mask of red blood. Opens his eyes to see the bringer of his death drop in front of him on limp legs. The spiked club that should have delivered his finishing blow tumble helplessly to the ground while the arms that held it high and firm fall like wet rope to the orc's side. The bouncer's eyes dart left and right and his mouth opens and closes slightly slowly in a shallow attempt to cough. The tip of a sword pushes further and further through the orc's throat letting out a flow of blood no longer propelled by a fully functioning heart. Behind the dying bouncer a masked face appears. The bouncer falls into the lap of the duergar when the sword is pulled free of it's latest victim. The silhouette of a large masked figure stands over the two. Unmoving with motivations unknown. The duergar looks up at the figure and slides into blackness.
Last edited by aaron22 on Tue Feb 13, 2018 4:06 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Run.
That word is all she can think about. She has to run.
She can already hear them behind her, the pad of footsteps on the stone floor of the massive cave as she ducks and weaves through the streets. Its voice was still in her ear, just as it had sounded as it slithered from that jagged maw of his beneath that enormous, bulbous eye as he shouted after her.
"You'll never get out alive, whelp!"
She can still smell its breath on the nape of her neck, her hair rising on end. She'd still had her hand elbow deep in a bag brimming with coin... and all she'd managed to grab was one measly platinum piece. A platinum piece she wasn't even sure was actually worth anything.
"Stupid," she tells herself, maroon eyes flitting for a place to hide. "So stupid!"
She can hear them again as she rounds a corner, the sounds of water lapping against rock and stone reaching her ear. She's near the docks. A ship!
She makes her way toward the sound, diving behind a barrel as one of the guild thieves bursts into the alleyway, dagger drawn. He doesn't know what she's done, and she knows he doesn't care. All he cares about is the fact that his boss'll be less likely to eat him if he brings her back, dead or alive.
She closes her eyes, forcing herself to take calm, soft breaths through her nose. They can't hear you. If they do you're dead.
Another sound farther down the alleyway is her saving grace, distracting her former guildmate long enough for her to make a break for it. She can see the pier, smell the salt in the air.
"This way!" comes a cry from not far off, and she knows that it's now or never.
The girl spies another cluster of barrels, a few with their lids still undone, and a couple of sailors snoring just a few yards away. Perfect.
She slips in, spilling brine and eels onto the rough stone floor of the cavern's makeshift dockside. She grabs a lid and lowers herself down, hoping to Mask that she can stomach the stench long enough to find somewhere better to hide once she's been loaded on the ship... provided she isn't found out first.
It feels like hours go by until she can feel the barrel jar, then before she knows it she can feel herself and her container being lifted, the muttering of something just outside of the sealed wood. Grunts. Curses. The sound of things being dropped onto a hard surface. A bell chimes somewhere close and then more shouting.
"Weigh anchor!" comes a muffled cry, and she can feel relief wash over her at last.
"So long, Skullport," she mutters under her breath.
A caravan arrives in the front door of a house which seems to be unusually out in the middle of nowhere. An elderly elf steps out of the front door along with a young drow.
"Before you leave, I would like you to receive this gift, I hope it may serve some purpose on your long journey ahead. Remember, you can always call this place home."
The elf hugs the young drow and sees him off as he joined the caravan parked near the front porch.
The young drow arrives Sshamath, the City of Dark Weavings. He gazes in awe at the sight of the city from above. He felt amused, yet saddened of the thought of leaving his home behind. He headed towards Gloura's Wings to stay for the night to recover from his long journey.
The next day, he met a drow named "Keeshe" at the bar. He asks Keeshe if he knows anything about the "coin" that he received as a gift. Keeshe inspects the coin and apparently, the coin is very unique...that he does not know anything about it. The young drow takes back the coin and keeps it away from open sight. He heads outside and buys a few things from the market and approaches the bulletin board.
He posts the following in the Bulletin Board:
"I am currently seeking an individual with exceptional talent in magic and vast knowledge of History. If you are able to help me, I will pay you a very large reward."
The young drow then ventures out to slay a few slaves for the guards and rest at Sshamath.
The young drow encounters a monk from the Blackened Fist and a female drow from the House of Illystyn that dwells in Menzoberranzan. The three departed to raid the nearby goblin caverns.
After the skirmish, the young drow asked both individuals and showed them the coin. According to the female drow, the coin bears an engravement that is written in surface dialect. Now, the young drow is deciding whether to seek help from the nearby mercenary guild "Bregan D'earthe" or wait if an arcane specialist will be able to aid his plight.
After searching for help for long periods of cycles, the young drow was not able to find it in Sshamath. Feeling discouraged, he left Sshamath and he was later ambushed and killed by some goodly paladins.
//OOC: Gonna pull out from this RP. There's no way for me to pretty much level with the neutral alignments with the new game mechanics restriction in place in the surface. Good luck to whoever wants to continue and I would love to check out the rest of their stories.
Last edited by adobongmanok on Wed Mar 21, 2018 11:07 pm, edited 5 times in total.
R'ju - Main, Retired Trader, Member of Bregan D'aerthe
Ledger and Journal Entries: viewtopic.php?f=20&t=65232
Reiju - Ebon Blades Mercenary (PM Me if you need me to login)
A Tiefling girl, a homeless, starving, orphaned street urchin on the mean streets of the city Mulmaster, located south east of the Moon Sea.
One day while laying low in a back alley she came across a grizzled old beggar who seemingly had fallen asleep and had left his begging cup unguarded. She got close to the cup and reached in with her small hand grasping the contents, while at the same time noticing a dagger sticking out of the old beggars chest.
Also at that very incriminating moment, the girl could hear someone begin screaming bloody murder.
A growing angry mob raged through the city, screaming for tiefling blood, while a pitiful wretch, running for her life, sought sanctuary at a temple of Ilmater. Showing mercy, a couple monks smuggled her out of the city and took her to, of all places the Monastery of The Yellow Rose, also known as the Temple of the White Wyrm, located way up in the Earthspur Mountains.
Cut to a couple years later, the newest initiate of The Order of the Yellow Rose and one of the youngest initiates to ride the White Wyrm, has been ordered to leave her place of salvation, her sanctuary, her home. She is to travel across the entire Moon Sea and all the way west to the coast, to the city of Baldur's Gate. She has been ordered train with some Broken One monks there at the temple of Ilmater, and as well, to simply prepare herself for her destiny.
This destiny, she fears, is somehow linked to the contents of that dead beggar's cup. The same destiny that will lead her away from her beloved Order, and take her down the same dark path of her childhood.
Her last words to her fellow Brothers and Sisters at the Monastery, was a simple promise of her return.
A promise she has no way of knowing she will be able to keep.
A violent bump and lurch of the carriage jolts to consciousness the young Visari son, who seconds before, was by all accounts enjoying a deep dream of courtier conquest and future wealth, as he would say befitted his position. Alas, the reality of wagon travel in a new yet foreign land to a destination unknown, would pause his dreams...for a time.
And how Stipan needed some rest, at this moment in travel, as the carriage made its way northward up the Trade way road. Two recent nights spent lodging at the Risen Phoenix in Beregost, while wooden wheels were mended, had turned into a furious gambling endeavor, involving wine, woman and the wile to overcome all intimidation behind a hand of cards, to overcome a grim half-orc with a healthy desire to win. Stipan prevailed through risk and charm and luck...now, in the carriage, he let his hand fall to his side, and grasp at the newly acquired coin pouch, and hold it slightly aloft, thinking of just what fair he may purchase at his final destination—Baldur's Gate.
Would his siblings welcome his arrival? His accursed older brother was surely to be annoyed. His sister...perhaps she would be more concerned with her prayers than anything, like normal. Even his cousin would soon arrive, according to what Father had said.... "Ah, yes, Father...." spoke Stipan just under the breath, with a tone of sarcastic reverence. The young Visari though of his father and his position as head of the House, and how much time the old man wasted on pushing his "children" into positions he felt best for their skills. This is why Stipan himself was set upon a journey north to the Gate, after being just recently sent on a journey to Athkatla to finish his studies in the martial swordplay so demanded in all Visari—Stipan was ordered to give his older siblings the support they would need, in order to establish a foothold, make inroads and diplomatic overtures..."talk, diplomacy, graces...and some grovel, pleading, cajoling...." spoke aloud Stipan, rolling his eyes a few circles in parallel to rolling around the pouch of coin he still held aloft. Still...one needed monies in order to enjoy life properly, though the young Visari, and Stipan reflected on how Father was adamant that the children of the House earn their own, else they become lax...something Stipan himself had been accused of over and over and over again. "I did not ask to be this intellectually gifted...and one of my many talents should not unduly waste his energies..." spoke Stipan aloud, in a manner of almost reciting a promise or code, something said many times in the past, as in a defense.
It was in this moment of historical reflection, and still eyeing this newly acquired purse, that Stipan now remembered the previous night of gambling and will, and...of course, there was that minstrel that did sing such a curious song, something that seemed to touch Stipan deeply, be it the mystery, or maybe just the odd feeling Stipan received when, looking up from his hand of Knights and Queens, he met eyes directly with the minstrel and felt so certain that what was being sung was being sung directly for him, personally. It was both like a chill and a heat, and not even the copious amount of drink thereafter could wipe away that deep almost scarring moment in experience.
It was then, at that moment in reflection, that the carriage again hit another rough point in the road of the Tradeway, causing a violent lurch forward and shock through the frame of the carriage, so much so that Stipan lost grip of the coin purse, and watched with growing frustration as it descended to the floorboards, its mouth opening, and the collective contents of various coins of the Realm in various metals, spilling about in complete chaos.
Bending over, Stipan's eye caught an oddity among all that rolled and spun to stillness upon the worn wood. Larger all the rest, a silvery disc with odd writings along the edge and a mirrored side, sat there atop the greater pile in disarray. Curiosity pulling Stipan closer, the young man placed thumb into the groove on one side of the disc, admiring the near-perfect fit to his finger pad.
"Now this is something I have never seen, before..." commented the young Visari. "Where do you come from, little treasure?" he asked of the object, itself.
It was still at least a days worth of road until the Gate, and Stipan Visari sat contemplating the odd Tricrown now in his possession...and considering if what the minstrel sung, was in any way, related.
Last edited by Steve on Thu Jan 25, 2018 7:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
For nearly the last week, the young Visari has led an altogether prosaic life—taking to the streets, walking, letting the cobblestones unfold without conscious direction, letting chance take him from district to district of Baldur's Gate. In a way, it becomes the best method for a good familiarization of the city, being at first completely foreign, now, becoming a bit more familiar with every wander.
Though he walks during the daylight hours, and though it is generally cold weather in the season of winter, it would not be strange to encounter him with a hand in the pocket of his vest, to keep the chill off a bare hand. But the reality of the time is that one hand, in particular, stays always locked inside his vest pocket, even if Stipan himself is not aware of this patterned behavior, it does begin to lock into an unwavering habit.
For the days that he walks and observes, viewing the city as it rambles on in its own way, this one hand that lays hidden in the pocket, also continually fondles the odd coin that he has recently acquired. To Stipan, it is almost as the forged metal disc radiates a heat, or at least a comfort sensation, that keeps his hand well gripped upon it, though at times, in a hidden manner, slowly and repeatedly flipping the coin over and over with his fingers, until he would relax the coin in his palm, and then place a thumb in the grove, or indent, that sits upon one side.
In his near week of putting foot to stone, Stipan Visari makes a small inquiry here and there, in order to attempt to locate his older brother and sister, who he believes are situated in the Gate, though, this idea is only in his head as a expectation based on the commands of Father, directing his moves...for the moment.
Some of these interactions with a local of the Gate lead to offers of tasks, small quests as some refer to them, and for the sake of making good impression and possible inroads with merchants, captains and mages of note, he accepts...though should any see Stipan's facial expression as he turns away from the task-giver, they would probably witness an expression quite opposite the smile and kind countenance offered in the taking.
Still, there "errands" are completed, in turn, though without hurry.
And then a particular interaction occurs, where Stipan finds a quite difficult old soldier type, standing out front an impressive edifice in the Harbor District. Though Stipan takes it upon himself to diplomatically work around the irritable speak of the Sergeant, he pauses in the task itself, to again admire the building, until he cannot hold himself back, and enters the place.
Inside, the young Visari finds a hall of fine interior architecture, populated by a few guards and a secretary; all whom he speaks with, in a friendly manner, and takes account of their professed purpose.
"Lord's Alliance, I see...." he comments, after the talk with the secretary. "I do admire your building, very much, good Sir...quite fitting for a Lord."
Learning from the Secretary that the Lord's Alliance is always eager to hire mercenaries or other skilled persons, Stipan is also offered a quill and paper, to submit his desires and skills to the Alliance, should he wish further...involvement.
Taking the devices, though it is unsure what he shall write, if he shall write, Stipan takes a full action to lay himself in the pleasurable and high-quality sofa, that offers itself to all, within the hall. Placing the quill and paper down on the nearby table, Stipan relaxes deep into the sofa, placing his arms up and his hands behind his head, eyes admiring the interior, once again.
"Quite fitting for a Lord, indeed..." he utters lowly, a small grin growing on his lips.
I have successfully reached the port city of Baldurs Gate and now serve at the temple of Ilmater here in the city, just as you instructed. You were right, the clerics of the temple took me in without a second thought. In fact, they where honored to have a Disciple of St. Sollars come and serve with them and so have treated me like one of their own. They are indeed very devout and live for the purpose of easing the suffering of others. It is I, who is honored to serve with them
The two pilgrims who delivered this message to you are Broken Ones. They were at the temple when I first arrived to the city. They have shown me much of their ways, their training and of what knowledge they have of the Sword Coast. If this message reached you, then it means they they have successfully traveled the Dalelands, crossed the Moonsea and passed through the Glacier of the White Wyrm, to deliver it. All they ask in return is to learn more of our way.
I have seen another coin!
My first day outside the walls of the city. It was worn about the neck of another Tiefling!
She disappeared before I could speak with her, and her trail has now gone cold. I have since searched every corner of every district in Baldurs Gate and have not found anything related these coins.
But it is a sign. I know I should be here.
I want you to know that I am doing fine. I do not forget the training I have learned as a Disciple of the Yellow Rose, but I am not walking the same path that my brothers and sisters walk. I have to accept that the alleyways of the this city are my path now. I want nothing more than to return to the Monastery to complete my training, but there is just so much I have to learn here first.
The young Visari quickly stood up from his chair outside the Elfsong, after hearing the voice call to him, then turning to see a countenance full of traits, lines and shapes, as familiar as familiar can get. Family. Finally. Maria stood there radiant as ever before, both regal and stern. Stipan's body moved towards her, his cousin, with an appearance of eagerness to embrace her in greeting...but, he halted, of course, before making to forward of a mistake—personal space was controlled, by her, always...and it had been enough time that he would not know how far her powers had come, and he had no desire to visceral receive rejection, at this moment.
But he was pleased, so pleased, and it shown from his words of greeting, the offer to sit and speak of what was the reason they cam together, within this City. For hours they spoke, imbibing and observing each other, taking stock of what their experiences so far, within Baldur's Gate had been.
As night began to fall, the lady made move to leave and return to the north-west part of the city.
Stipan lingered at the Elfsong, in thought, for a time. His hand continually nestled inside his breastcoat pocket, preoccupied.
