Beshaba, the goddess of bad luck, misfortune, accidents, and random mischief, is a spiteful, petty, and malicious goddess. While feared by most, she is almost always invited and welcomed formally to ceremonies and special occasions such as coronations, weddings, sporting contests and tournaments, and namings of children. To abstain from such invitations is likely to cause offense and draw her ire, a bestowment of terrible misfortune upon those involved being the consequence.
Lady Doom’s ethos is straight-forward. Bad things happen to all people - the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, the righteous and unrighteous, the young and the old. Only by appeasing the goddess may a soul be spared the worst of misfortunes. But while homage can lessen the degree and frequency of bad luck, one is never entirely spared lest a soul be improperly filled with boastful hubris amidst Beshaba’s whims.
Ceremonies and Holy Days
The proper and standard means of appeasing Beshaba is through sacrifice, specifically an offering of something deemed valuable to the petitioner that is held in flames until it is at the very least partially consumed. The name of the goddess must be called out and prayers of praise and supplication made while down upon one’s knees. It is also said that the Maid of Misrule looks with more favor upon those who also permit their fingers to be burned while making the offering.
Beshaba's clergy are obligated to make their offering daily, specifically setting fire to brandy, wine, or spirits and dipping a black antler tine into the mixture. Prayers and uttering the Lady's name accompany the rite as well, similar to the expectations of the laity. The ordained must also perform a second prayer under the night sky which bears a more personal touch, a petition for particular guidance which the goddess often answers through nighttime visions.
In regards to holy days, much of the calendar is ignored by Beshabans save for Midsummer and Shieldmeet. Both are celebrated with wild and wanton revelry as well as exuberant indulgence in food, drink, and other pleasures to honor the goddess’s capricious nature and to celebrate having endured a year of misfortune.
*** This thread is open to any and all partaking in Beshaban roleplay ***
While the posts in this thread would not be considered widely public knowledge, it provides opportunity for individuals to sate their Beshy-curiosity, either up-close or from afar!
The Beshaban priest secures the wooden drawbar across the door, prohibiting any entry into the modest shrine from the outside. In one corner lay humble provisions for an extended vigil: a simple bedroll, a few filled waterskins, and several loaves of crusted bread. He then proceeds to methodically prepare all necessary components for the ritual including broken mirror shards, strips of ivory, and charcoal braziers. Though initially hesitant, he manages to steel himself, burning sacred incense within the braziers which swiftly permeates the enclosure whilst invoking the Maid of Misrule.
Chants escape the priest’s lips, soft at first but gradually building as they echo within the chamber. With deep inhales through his nose, the Beshaban draws the incense smoke into his lungs. His rigid posture softens with each breath, tension dissolving into a loose receptivity. His eyes begin to dilate, black pupils swallowing hazel irises as the priest fixes his gaze upon the broken shards. There he remains for his vigil, waiting and watching for whatever revelations may come from Lady Doom’s capricious whims.
The priest sits upon the cobbled stone floor of the shrine, his back against the corner wall. Round about him lays a maelstrom of debris - strewn chairs, shattered bottles, toppled candelabras, torn parchment, and an array of broken fetishes and scattered bones. Amidst the wreckage, only the modest altar remains pristine, the black antlered rack serving as the centerpiece stands unblemished in the dim candlelight. The tawny man's chest rises and falls in heavy breaths, his head lolled weakly to one side, hazel gaze fixed intently upon the symbol.
“I ever serve you,” he rasps, his voice raw from vitriolic shouts and curses, “and I’ll walk whatever path you will for me. But… damnit… please don’t make me walk this one. Place another before me. Any other. Please...”
Silence then reigns over the chamber, the cleric's soft and shaky breath the only disturbance to the stillness. There he sits with eyes set pleadingly upon Lady Doom’s sacred symbol, in his fist clenched tightly a small pendant upon a leather cord. Finally, after long moments passing by, his gaze lowers accompanied by a faint sigh.
The door swings open with a subtle creak before the priest steps inside the modest shrine. With little delay, his hazel vision is directed to the corner, set upon a masked figure standing motionless near the wooden chairs. A devoted pilgrim seeking counsel? An assassin lying in wait? Perhaps merely a curious soul? Only time would tell.
“I assume you are the one who Sent for me?”
The query is answered in the affirmative as the visitor removes the donned mask, revealing a face the priest recognizes, though not one known well.
“You have my curiosity. For what did you wish to meet?”
As the petitioner divulges purpose, the corners of the priest’s lips curl to make manifest a small grin.
“I do perform curses of a wide variety, great and small alike. Curses of clumsiness or generic bad luck can be performed easily enough. But if you want something a little more poetic or thematic, perhaps you could share details of these individuals? How they’ve wronged you and your friends?”
Discourse surrounding curses continues within the sanctuary dedicated to the Maid of Misrule - elaborations, possibilities, requirements, payments, and logistics mused upon within the dimly lit shrine. Before long, clergy and laity reach an accord.
“I shall compose a fitting rite for such a curse and ensure to keep all necessary components in reserve for whenever you acquire your part and wish for it to be set in motion.”
Guided by prudence, a second discussion follows, sealed with payment of precious stones in exchange for offerings to be made to Lady Doom on the layperson's behalf. With all business concluded, the mask is donned once again in preparation for departure.
“May you avoid the Lady’s gaze until our paths cross again.”
Hazel orbs remain fixed upon the closed door after the priest is left in solitude, teeth lightly clenching the side of his tongue as thoughts churn within his mind. Though the musings prove short-lived as the Sembian turns, a hand habitually moving aside strands of hair as he approaches the altar. The hour grew late, and the goddess was due Her offertory rites.
Torchlight illuminates the Beshaban sanctuary in a soft glow as a lone priest, garbed in religious vestments, stands before the altar. An array of ceremonial implements lies carefully arranged upon the altar including a small circular mirror lying flat and encircled by three black candles. A recently desecrated symbol of Tymora fastened to a metal chain hangs from one of the tines of the altar’s antlered centerpiece.
A slow, deep breath is drawn in through his nose, stilling mind and body before beginning the petitioned rite. With hand reaching out, he grabs hold of a wooden effigy resting upon the left side of the altar. The figurine is roughly palm-sized, its shape in generic likeness of a humanoid, and adorned with a bound lock of hair. With a steady hand, the priest gingerly places the object upon the mirror.
“Lady Doom,” the Sembian utters, his tone solemn, “She Who Twists Fortune, Mistress of Broken Roads, Queen of Mischance, hear the plea of your faithful. Luck has smiled too long upon one who deserves only ruin. Turn your gaze towards them. Let every blessing become burden. Let every comfort become torment. Let every certainty become despair.”
Taking in hand a long, thin wooden stick, the priest extends it towards one of the torch’s flames, setting its tip alight. The three black candles surrounding the mirror and effigy are lit one by one, the name of the unfortunate victim whispered harshly as each wick ignites.
“Your name is spoken. Your likeness is fashioned. Name bound to hair, hair bound to flesh, flesh bound to Fate. Neither cavern nor kingdom, neither mountain nor sea, neither light nor darkness shall shield you from the Maid of Misrule. Her gaze pierces all.”
The Sembian leans forward with forearms resting upon the altar’s edge, the wooden effigy grasped once again in his left palm, lips nigh a breath away from the object as he chants the specifics of this particular curse, divine energies surging forth amidst his invocations. Then, in a sudden motion, the figurine is raised high and violently slammed down upon the mirror, cracking its face.
“Fortune is broken. Shelter is broken. Mercy is broken. Beshaba provides!”
He lowers himself to his knees, hands gripping the altar’s edge and head bowed deeply in reverence. A bundle of bells hanging from his hip are given a single deliberate shake, their discordant rings echoing within the confined stone structure until slowly fading, one lingering note at a time, into still silence.
The tawny-skinned man’s hazel vision sets upon a peculiar sight. Red robes and an ill-fitting wig of white gliding through the revelrous crowds. An attire well familiar though not seen for a number of years. Once could be dismissed as a trick of the eye, but a second glance leaves no room for doubt. A Wormluck.
Anxiety and curiosity mingle together as teeth lightly chew upon his lower lip. This was no mere happenstance. The Maid of Misrule delighted in nudging lives together for Her purposes - every unlikely crossing of paths carrying the weight of intent. Perhaps all the more, even, when it concerns two members of the clergy.
Calloused fingers absently brush the emblem hanging from his neck as he softly mutters, “If this is Your design, Lady, let me not be blind to it.”
Then does he close the distance and approach the fellow itinerant, introducing himself and welcoming her to the celebration. It becomes immediately apparent that the priestess has little inclination towards revelry or pleasant chatter. Her demeanor remains dour and gloomy throughout the brief conversation, though such has always been the Sembian’s experience with these particular members of the Church.
“I'll leave you now,” the Wormluck concluded after their brief bout of small talk. “I need to check the result of your work here today. See what these townsfolk are feeling after today's… festivities. I will find this shrine you have erected. Expect it."
“As you say,” he replies with a small bow of his head. “I will anticipate your visit. Until our paths cross again, may you avoid the Lady’s gaze.”
“Beshaba provides.”
With that, she departs with little fanfare, the Sembian's hazel vision still set upon her and his head in subtle cant as wonderings dance in his head. What does she intend to accomplish here? How long will she be in the region? But more importantly - Why has Lady Doom arranged her to cross his path today, upon Her holiest festival?
The priest steps off of the caravan, adjusting the red cloak draped over his shoulder as his hazel eyes sweep over Nashkel, the so-called Sloping City of Amn. He hates this place. Not for its altitude or weather. Not for the culture of its peoples. Not for some political or theological ideal. It is strictly personal. Memories of offenses committed that still remain fresh in the mind and very well may never fade. But Fate offers no consideration for feelings or preferences. The simple reality is that he has been called here, and a call from the Lady is not one that can simply be ignored.
Nigh the entire day is spent speaking with and questioning many of the town’s inhabitants, though the Sembian native makes deliberate effort to avoid the Inquisition and governing bodies.
Each soul is unique. Each has its own experience. Its own story. Discover it. Understand it. Use it.
These words were among the many lessons impressed upon him by his mentor time and time again, and he makes sure to put them into practice this day. All methods are given their opportunity to shine as the priest questions various townsfolk. Some receive friendly conversation and smooth persuasion, some are subject to coercion and veiled threats, and still some others are proven more susceptible to carefully placed lies and subtle manipulation. The priest adapts his approach to each individual, searching for whatever weakness, fear, vanity, or desire might loosen the tongue.
By the time the sun has set upon the mountain town, the Beshaban has finally acquired that which he seeks. A rough sketch of the location known as The Hollow rendered by his own hand through the testimony of a lecherous, but well-travelled, old man. Yet the day of questioning has brought additional revelations. He is not the only interested party in this peculiar site. Others have come before him seeking the same information. Travellers garbed in blue or donning blue ribbons - devotees of the Homely Twin. And while they may have a head start and believe that fortune smiles upon them, the priest will not permit these Tymorans to interfere with his purpose nor thwart the will of the Lady Herself. Should they try to stand in his way, they will surely learn an unpleasant truth.
