Hunting a Ghoul

Trystan kept his thoughts to himself while he and Ysolt ate in the dining hall with the rest of the initiates and acolytes of the gods. Thanks to the farming efforts of those who paid tribute to the goddess Maka, they were able to enjoy a savory beet and squash stew that included thick cubes of ham, roasted melons, apples, and pears, and a hearty pork pie, which several traveling priests took extra of to store away with their travel rations. He continued to keep his thoughts to himself the short two or three hours they spent resting in the communal dorms before their evening excursion. The time of rest was anything but restful for him. The wayfarer’s mind was swimming with how they were going to deal with the ghoul, why Nagil would allow such experimentation to begin with, for to defy death in such a manner disrupted the balance with life and nature, and how did he end up agreeing to deal with this mess?! He didn’t agree to deal with it. That manipulative priestess did. Was this seriously the chore she had in mind when offering him a free place to rest and feast? Honestly, he would have been content with mopping the halls, dusting the marble, or washing the windows! And nobody liked washing windows! Especially those Nagil wardens, probably because clean windows let in too much sunlight! That would totally disrupt the atmosphere of their creepy décor!

The storm had subsided by the time night fell, and left behind a fine mist of fog in the air. Ysolt helped Trystan prepare for their outing. She sharpened his sword while he inspected his arrows, though he doubted they’d be of much use against an undead. It was not until they had departed from the House of Priests and were making their way through the winding alleys of the city that the young man finally voiced his concerns.

“How are we expected to find a ghoul? Do you know how to dispose of such things? How are you an acolyte of Maka? I thought your ilk tended to the farms and diseased, not hunting the undead!” Trystan had rambled on in such a hushed yet hasty manner for several blocks before the priestess finally pulled him around a dark corner and covered his mouth with the palm of her hand. “Who said wayfarers be cold and silent?” Ysolt asked harshly before shushing him when he tried to respond. Cold and silent?! Silent, sure! He was trained to be stealthy so as not to startle or attract attention from the wildlife. But cold?! Who told this woman that trackers and scouts were cold?! Calculating, sure! Perceptive, definitely! Wait. He actually wasn’t being so quiet or perceptive in that moment, was he? Too much noise would attract unwanted civilian attention as much as possible ghoulish attention. Trystan’s shoulders sagged, and he gazed at the priestess with an apologetic expression.

She removed her hand from his lips and gave him a small smile of forgiveness. “Let Mistress Maka assist,” Ysolt suggested quietly before she clapped her hands together and started chanting to the goddess. She tapped her hands rhythmically as she continued her incantation, her feet eventually joining in a light padded tempo.

MAGIC DIFFICULTY – 10

 

Ysolt’s Magic Score: 3 + 2 + 4 = 9 – FAILED!

As the priestess continued with her meager ritual, Trystan kept an eye out for anyone who might find her act disturbing. There were few people out on the streets, chatting amongst themselves, supporting a drunken friend, or propositioning another who was looking to make an extra coin; no one dared to look down the alley where he and Ysolt had paused.

She did grow quiet after a while, and when the young man looked over his shoulder to make sure the dark-skinned woman was alright, she opened her eyes and nodded to him. “Mistress Maka declare you. You find ghoul,” the priestess said without apprehension as she patted Trystan square on the chest. His green eyes narrowed in frustration. This was a major city, not a forest or wooded glen. He looked back out onto the street, sprawling with people heading home, heading to the taverns, or with other agendas altogether.

“The warden said that rumors were spreading,” Trystan murmured as he tried to remember the conversation. “So, our best bet would be to figure out who heard what,” he determined, the young woman beside him nodding in agreement with his logic. “Start at taverns,” she suggested with a sly smile. “Drink loose tongues,” her raspy voice cackled, slapping her hand against the back of his shoulder before leaving the alley for the nearest tavern. The wayfarer feared this would get expensive.

SCOUTING DIFFICULTY – 12

 

Trystan’s Scouting Score: 6 + 4 + 1 = 11 – FAILED!

The duo’s endeavors to find the ghoul were fruitless. The priestess had managed to talk their way out of ordering or paying for any drinks, but the patrons at every tavern they visited did not or could not share any news about some shambling undead attacking anyone during the previous nights. In the end, they returned to the House of Priests tired. By the time the next meal was served in the dining hall, news was spreading about how a traveling priestess of Tyrnai had beheaded the creature and collected the reward. Ysolt could tell that Trystan was not pleased.

The Warden of Nagil

“How can you be so certain that ‘we’ll find a way’?” Trystan asked in a hushed yet frantic tone after they left the chief administrator’s office. The young priestess didn’t immediately answer him as she looked up toward the plaques above the doorways. She read their inscriptions rather quickly before taking a turn beneath a black marble archway that read Temple of Nagil. Her companion stopped before he passed through after her, reading the inscription before his face went pale. Why was she heading toward that temple? “Ysolt?” What could she possibly want with the wardens of Nagil and their god of death? Before he lost sight of her, the young man gulped before hoofing in after her.

As they sat at another official’s desk, the grim-looking warden before them was looking over Ysolt’s credentials while she leaned in toward Trystan. Raising her hand to cover the movements of her lips, she whispered, “Wardens offer best rewards.” The wayfarer turned to stare at the priestess as his brain processed what she could mean by that. Not immortality, that went against the very nature of Death. Surely she meant there would be a financial reward for whatever job they were about to pick up. What exactly was about to be asked of them?

“Your timing is impeccable,” the warden grumbled in a bored tone as he rolled up the scroll and passed it back to the young woman. His skin was pasty pale; what remained of his hair was thin and braided back to keep it from bothering his neck. The exposed dome of his head gleamed in the candlelight, which cast deep shadows across the black, gothic décor of the room. “Below the temple is a crypt where we occasionally experiment with the corpses left in our charge,” he began to explain as he folded his hands before him; long, bony fingers crisscrossing with rhythmic practice. “What do you mean by experiment?” Trystan asked hesitantly while the priestess of Maka leaned in with a look of interest and curiosity in her teal eyes.

“We honor and revere the rituals of an underappreciated aspect of Nagil here,” the warden continued, giving the wayfarer a look of disdain for questioning him before he was finished proposing the job he needed completed. “A ghoul has escaped, and rumors have started spreading throughout the metropolis of its existence. It terrorizes the city at night, and we would greatly appreciate it if the militia did not get involved,” he said as Ysolt nodded in agreement. “Militia means paperwork,” she clarified to the lad next to her. “In triplicate,” the warden sighed to confirm her statement. “Destroy the body and return the head to me, and you will be rewarded handsomely,” he added in a dull tone. Pearly white teeth gleamed in the candlelight as Ysolt grinned with reassurance, “We accept.” 

The House of Priests

 Trystan, albeit a proficient navigator of the woods and forests, found it difficult to keep track of the streets, buildings, and directions they went as Ysolt wove them through the districts of the metropolis. It wasn’t until the throngs of citizens thinned and she slowed their pace that he was finally able to take in the details of at least one building.

It was a roundhouse built of multicolored bricks, designed to instill unease in the casual passerby. The colorful bricks imbued it with a radiance unlike anything the wayfarer had ever seen in the wooded regions he was used to. The clothes of the woman next to him barely stood out against them, as if they had been designed to blend in with the auspicious building. “What is this place?” Trystan asked quietly as they slowly approached its main entrance. “House of Priests,” she responded as her chest puffed out with a sense of pride. Vibrant green eyes looked down to meet with her deep teal hues. “Like an administrative building for the more official disciples of the gods?” Ysolt grinned broadly at his deduction and nodded. “Yes. Offices. Dorms. Dining hall,” she added for clarification. She brought them to a place where they could rest and wait out the approaching storm. He was unsure if they would allow the young wayfarer to take up one of their beds, as he was not devoted to any one god. Bordering the building, he could see the different temples dedicated to the pantheon of deities, some of which he recognized immediately. The most prominent being that of Elnir, Nagil, Sig, and the twin gods Alvir and Valmir.

Elnir he understood to be the god of the sky, the high ruler of the full pantheon. Nagil ruled over the underworld all souls passed through upon their demise. Sig was beloved by musicians and tricksters. Alvir and her brother Valmir shared responsibilities over the oceans and seas. The fact that Ysolt was not leading Trystan to either of these shrines likely meant that she was not an acolyte of these gods, but rather worshipped another whose shrine held little sway in Marlock City.

Two warrior priests of Tyrnai, the god of war, stood guard at the tall entrance of the House of Priests. With spears in hand, they blocked the priestess and her companion from passing through. One of the grizzled warriors who looked as though he could have been a former gladiator asked, “What is your business here?” Ysolt pulled a scroll case from one of her belt pouches and unfurled a long sheet of parchment from it. “Summons. Ysolt Ynys. Priestess of Maka,” she declared and held the scroll high for the two men to skim over. The second guard sized Trystan up; his beady eyes examining the wayfarer’s attire and gear. He noted the sword, bow, and quiver of arrows; suspected he was not a priest unless he gave offerings to Lacuna, the wild moon goddess of the hunt. The guard promptly asked, “And you?”

Before the young man with the wide rim hat could respond, the priestess chimed in. “Escort. Guardian. Dutiful. Always my side.” The guards exchanged glances, one of them snorting as a smirk played on his lips. Always by her side, huh? The spears uncrossed, and both guards stepped aside so the duo could step through. As they walked through the main hall of the House of Priests, Trystan leaned to whisper in Ysolt’s ear. “We only just met today. Why did you lie to them like that? What if the gods find out?” There was a subtle sense of panic over how easily that worked. The priestess of Maka paused in her steps and giggled quietly.

“You need shelter. Free shelter here,” she explained before raising her free hand to rub her fingers in a gesture for payment. “Inns demand shard. Costly. House demand work. Clean, quest, protect. Not costly. Free. Gods no mind. Gods benevolent.” All Trystan needed to do was assist with any chore requested of him. The House of Priests would shelter and feed him so long as he helped out when asked. Most inns didn’t charge more than a shard for a room, but the rain might outlast how much coinage he had. Ysolt had also been summoned, which meant she was extending whatever accommodations she would receive to him. Helping him again, in exchange for his assistance.

The young man looked at the oak staff he had been entrusted to deliver to the Willow Druid. He would need to venture north soon to accomplish that task. “I have someplace to be,” he admitted, though that did not seem to bother the colorful priestess of Maka. “We all do,” she said, as if his statement didn’t take her by surprise. Her response was an admittance that their acquaintance would only be temporary. The offer to stay for free still stood. Judging by the pitter-pattering sounds that echoed from the dome above, it finally started to rain. “Ok,” Trystan said, agreeing to the momentary arrangement.

The duo was directed to the chief administrator’s office further down the hall. After formal introductions were made and Ysolt produced the scroll of summons, the priest of Elnir gestured for the pair to glance through the crystal ball stationed by his desk. He was an elderly man, with well-groomed grey whiskers and slouched shoulders from years of writing and filing documents. The bags under his eyes would tell a story of sleepless nights and worries beyond his control, yet he still held himself with an air of dignity.

Through the crystal ball, Trystan and Ysolt were granted an aerial view of the fortified metropolis. The wayfarer’s eyes could not help but marvel at the walls surrounding the bustling city, for it was believed that they were built over a thousand years ago by the olden empire known as the Shadar. Their craftsmanship was a sight to behold. The young priestess, however, could not help but notice how the rain clouds looked peculiar. Nothing like what she expected to see. The clouds’ shapes morphed into demonic-looking creatures that reached down to rake at the city. Ysolt gave the chief administrator a concerned look. “What these?”

“What you are seeing is the world above from the realm of spirits,” he explained gravely. “You cannot see them without the aid of this crystal ball. Those are storm demons who are determined to destroy our magnificent city.” It was only after the words registered in his mind that Trystan finally noticed the way the storm demons roiled with electric anger and mischief. Raising his gaze to meet with the older priest, he said, “I always thought that the gods maintained some sense of balance. That they kept the demons and other supernatural beings at bay so that we would not need to worry about these matters.” The administrator nodded in agreement. “That is usually the case. But these are unprecedented times we live in, young man,” he said before gesturing for the duo to take a seat across from him at his desk. “Our divine Ruler of the Sky, Elnir, tasked his son Sul Veneris, the Lord of Thunder, with keeping these storm demons under control. We were always under the impression that the sound of the thunder we hear was him smiting such creatures,” he explained further, just before a crack of thunder was heard from outside. “We recently learned this is not always the case,” he continued regretfully. “The storm demons have found a way to enchant Sul Veneris to sleep.”

“What create thunder now?” Ysolt inquired, leaning forward in her seat after another muffled roar of thunder resounded. The administrator shook his head. The best explanation he could give was that it was somehow tied to the storm demons, but he didn’t specifically know how. “I have summoned many adventuring priests such as yourself to look into the matter. Sul Veneris sleeps atop the Devil’s Peak to the north, just before the Forest of Larun. It is several days' travel, but none whom we have sent prior have yet to return. The crystal ball reveals that he still sleeps, which means none have been successful in finding or waking him,” the older priest said as he leaned back in his chair, his body nearly deflating with stress.

“I have heard stories of Devil’s Peak,” Trystan said as he pulled out the map to get a clear look at where it was. “That is a sheer climb, a nearly straight pillar of volcanic rock. There’s no way anyone could climb it without the proper gear. It’s no wonder no one has been able to wake him!” The younger man was appalled by what the priest was suggesting, without even offering to cover any of the expenses for such a venture. Ysolt sensed that her companion was about to fly off the handle over such trivial details, and quickly reached over to grip his shoulder. “We find way,” she said in an earthy, reassuring tone before she repeated herself to the chief priest. “We find way. Will wake Sul Veneris.” Determination graced her expression, though Trystan’s face still betrayed the bewilderment he felt about the situation.

Our Second Character

 Name: Ysolt Ynys

Profession: Priestess
God: Maka
Rank: 1
Defense: 4
Charisma: 4
Combat: 2
Magic: 3
Sanctity: 6
Scouting: 4
Thievery: 2
Stamina: Max – 9/Current – 9
Money: 16 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Staff, Padded Robes ( Defense +1 )
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: Maka’s Blessing - Immunity to Disease and Poison – Ignore 1 instance of being poisoned or diseased.
Description: Long, unruly ebony hair, dark teal eyes, sun-kissed, deep mocha skin, roughly five and a quarter feet tall. Her face has been ritualistically scarred and pierced with tiny gems, a tradition from the Temple of Maka, where she was raised and trained since childhood. Generally wears vibrantly colored robes with gold and black accents, made of comfortable, hand-dyed fabrics, and some gold jewelry she inherited from her mother. Is proficient with a staff, herbalism, and botany. She knows when to listen to the land and how to distinguish between a poison and a disease. She is currently on missionary work, not to initiate new recruits for the Temple of Maka. Many of the other temples have needed outside assistance with various problems. She wishes to assist wherever she can, a show of how Maka is both benevolent and cruel.

Trystan Meets Ysolt

 The pale light of an overcast sky greeted Trystan’s blurred vision. His ears rang, drowning out the muffled yells of the fuzzy people all around him. He stumbled forward, stopping himself from falling over with the oak staff he held firm in his hands. He was unable to figure out where he was or how to communicate his confusion. A large, dark, flat shape looked as though it were swinging to his side. Then, he felt a hard yank on his rucksack, dragging him back and away as his vision began to sharpen. Heavily armored soldiers rode out on their equally armored mounts from behind a large set of gate doors. And the first clear sound he heard was the husky, earthy pitch of a foreign woman murmuring in his ear. “Careful,” she said with a tone of concern. “Lest you trampled.”

The wayfarer froze, his tan skin becoming pale as he looked over his shoulder to find himself face to face with a darker-skinned woman with brilliant teal eyes. Her skin was marred by ritualistic scarring and a semi-precious stone set into her brow. Much of her unruly, ebony hair was held back and away from her face by a combination of tight braids and a brightly patterned scarf. Its remaining lengths cascaded down her back. She smiled as she helped Trystan regain his footing and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Better now?” The question left him dazed until the words finally registered. “Yes,” he nodded before asking, “Where are we?” Pearlescent, ivory teeth were exposed as the woman, draped in colorful robes, grinned at his inquiry. She could see that a magical aura lingered around him, though it was quickly fading. He didn’t come by here on foot, cart, or horse. However, she wouldn’t voice her suspicions.

Instead, she answered teasingly, “You forget? City of Mighty Marlock!” She gestured toward the open gate with a wide sweep of her staff, the top of which was carved to look like a pair of leaves unfurling from a thick stem, cradling a cup of petals. The troupe of militiamen that had been riding out came to an end, leaving the gate open enough for the pair and an approaching merchant cart to pass through at their leisure. Trystan continued to look stunned, disbelieving that he managed to find himself exactly where he had hoped to be. But what became of the wolf and the villagers at the Trade Post?

A low rumble of thunder could be heard from the distant horizon. He looked up to the sky to find that the sun had been masked by rain clouds. The woman beside him looked past the swinging corpses at the gates to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “We find shelter before rain fall,” she recommended with a squeeze of his shoulder. “Come. Come,” she insisted, hooking her arm with Tyrstan’s to help coax him to pass through the eagle-headed gate into the fortified metropolis.

He had only caught a glimpse of the decaying forms that were hung as a warning to all who entered the city. Looking to the darker woman next to him as she led him through the sprawling streets, the wayfarer asked, “Were those criminals hanging out there?” The woman glanced back over her shoulder before answering the question quietly, “Rebels.” He mouthed the word with shock and concern. She nodded and quickly assumed that Trystan was not from these parts and that the news likely had not reached his home. “Mighty General Grieve Marlock led revolt against Corrupt King Corin VII. Rename capital after self. Use of former name unlawful,” she explained as she leaned in close to keep the conversation quiet and private while her eyes searched for the signs that would tell them where they were heading or any place they might want to look for.

Though her use of the common language was not fully structured, Trystan could tell that she was not only well-educated but also well-informed about current events. He understood everything that she was implying. There had been a revolution in this kingdom recently, and by the looks of the swinging bodies outside the city walls, there were those who were not content with the new regime. The fact that he wasn’t aware of the capital’s previous name meant he was safe from breaking at least one law. But it also meant that he would need to be careful as to whom to trust. He returned his attention to the woman who tenderly clung to his arm, leading him through the unfamiliar streets.

She saved him from being trampled by the militiamen. For now, he would trust her. When introductions were finally made, he learned her name was Ysolt Ynys.

Passing through the Trade Post

 Trystan’s Scouting Score: 6 + 3 + 6 = 15 – PASSED!

Thanks to the druids’ guidance, the young wayfarer had little difficulty finding his way back to the coast. From there, he followed along the shore until he caught sight of a small bay. Within its tranquil, foamy teal waters were a pair of ships anchored not far from a small settlement. By the sounds of hammers echoing off the water and the movement around the edge of the bay, it appeared as though several people were building a dock. As the Trystan drew closer to the scene, he saw that crew members of one ship were raising crates up from rowboats that struggled to remain steady on the waves. He continued to approach the settlement, his green eyes ever watchful for anything that felt out of the ordinary. At first, he expected pirates. Yet pirates wouldn’t build a dock to their secret lairs, he suspected.


As he drew closer to the docks, the young man walked up from the beach to the small village. There were humble cottages and huts circling around a small square where a handful of kiosks stood for tradesmen to sell their wares. The sound of clanging pierced the air as a blacksmith worked at his meager forge beneath a small pavilion. It also looked as though one of the cottages was being expanded on, from which a portly-looking fellow walked as soon as he spied an unfamiliar face wandering by the blacksmith.

“You! There! No, not you! The younger fellow!” The Mayor said, waving his hand in a dismissive manner toward an old woman who was returning home from the market. Trystan paused in his tracks and looked at the rotund man who wore a rather fine-looking sash with a handful of official-looking medals pinned to it. Between that and the jeweled rings that cluttered his fingers, the Mayor stood out as the leader of the Trade Post. “Welcome to the Trading Post,” the man huffed and puffed once he caught up with the wayfarer. “Th-thank y-” Trystan attempted to be polite, but found himself being talked over by the excitable gentleman. Finding a pudgy hand grasping his shoulder, the young man was taken by surprise as he was pulled in close while the Mayor introduced himself. “I am Medraut Masnach, Mayor here of the Trade Post, though I do hope to give it a more official-sounding name later on,” he declared triumphantly, preferably naming the town after him as his family legacy. Naturally. “Mayor Medraut Masn-” Trystan attempted to repeat the alliteration, only to be interrupted once more. “Masnach, yes,” the town official stated, as if correcting the lad’s pronunciation. “Me and several entrepreneurs have built this town with our own bare hands.” Medraut’s hands didn’t look as though they had held a tool in his life, though it was hard to tell with the way he was waving at least one of them around as he directed Trystan’s attention to a small number of landmarks around the small town.

“For now we export furs, the finest found off the mainland,” he explained as they walked past the tanner’s tent. “We hope to expand into the lumber trade once the expansion of my mansion is completed. Just you wait and see, the Trading Post will be a thriving town before long!” Mayor Masnach said with a shriek of glee, clenching Trystan even closer and causing the younger fellow to stumble and trip over his own feet. The poor lad’s face grew red from embarrassment, and he wanted nothing more than to pry himself away and regain some proper footing. “Come, stay at the Green Man Inn and enjoy an ale or two before your ship leaves,” the mayor insisted before Trystan finally bowed his way out from within his grasp. His hat fell to the ground briefly, which he quickly scooped up and replaced atop his dark, shaggy hair. “Speaking of the ships,” he thought to ask, taking a couple of steps back before the mayor could latch onto him again. “Are either one of them heading back to the mainland? How soon will they be leaving?” The jovial nature of the mayor’s expression faltered with disappointment for a brief second. It was clear that this newcomer wanted nothing more than to get away.

“Eager to head home, I see,” he finally responded as a fake smile graced his features. Turning toward the quayside, Mayor Masnach squinted at the two ships to determine what was going on. “Neither of the ships is taking on passengers, but you can hire a fisherman to take you to Yellowport in the morning,” he suggested albeit dismissively, hoping to at least bring in a little bit of business from the visitor who seemed too eager to leave. Trystan felt a little inconvenienced, but he forced a smile and nodded in understanding. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a bow of his head. Just then, the sound of wood clattering caught the good mayor’s attention. The robust man quickly returned to the construction site of his cotta-er-mansion. “Goodness gracious! The heat of the sun is not so unbearable that you cannot properly lift a wooden plank,” he fussed as he scurried away.

It was indeed hot, but Trystan was not looking forward to spending the rest of the day at the inn. Instead, he decided to investigate a hilltop that overlooked the town. When he thought about it, he honestly thought that the mayor would have wanted to build his supposed mansion on the hill. As a way of lording over the rest of the town. Following along the slender pathway, what could not be seen from the settlement was a series of three obsidian pillars. These pillars were topped in a way that made them look like three gates. The wayfarer’s brow furrowed with concern. What were these? Were the townsfolk aware of them? Approaching one of the pillars, he placed a gloved hand against it and felt an unnatural vibration pulsing through the stone.

Piercing green eyes examined the black stone's smooth sheen more closely and realized there were runes carved into its surface. His fingers traced the runic engravings upward until he could no longer reach. His neck craned when he learned that the carvings continued over the headstones, so he took a few steps back. Only then was he able to see that letters were carved on the tops. “Yellowport, Marlock City, Wishport,” he read out loud as he circled around the archways. Wait.

Where did he recognize those names from? Pulling out the waxed leather tube secured to his belt, he pulled out the map that the druids gave him. Yellowport was the name of the city that the mayor mentioned, but Marlock City and Wishport were on the map! This was great! If these were portals to wherever they were labeled, then Trystan wouldn’t need to wait and hire a fisherman to take him to Yellowport. According to the map, he could just as easily pass through Marlock City and head northward to the forest!

In his excitement, he missed the sounds of something rustling through the nearby bushes. It wasn’t until a low, bestial growl rumbled through the air that he looked up from the map in his hands. His green eyes were met with the yellow orbs of a snarling wolf. Wolves were not known to attack without reason. Starvation or perhaps protecting a den of cubs were the usual reasons. But why was there only one and not a pack of them? Why here of all places? Someone should warn the townsfolk of the possible danger.

Without thinking about the stone archways being magical, Trystan bolted to run through them and back toward town. Which specific gate he ran through, he had not paid attention to. All that could be said was that the enchantments were triggered. The wolf witnessed the runic carvings glow with a blazing light, and cowered from the pulse of magic that radiated through the air. Static electricity coursed through the man’s body, causing his skin to prickle as his hair stood up on end. He was engulfed by a blue-and-white force of crackling energy. He covered his eyes with his arms when flashes of lightning and claps of thunder overwhelmed his sight and hearing. Darkness enveloped him, and for a moment he could not see or hear anything.

Waking in the City of Trees

 Trystan’s Charisma Score: 2 + 4 + 2 + Wayfarer Bonus 3 = 11 – PASSED!

And if Trystan’s plea for food needed any amount of accentuating, his stomach released a roar of discontentment over the lack of food it had been offered since before the shipwreck. The man’s tan face grew pale from a mix of embarrassment and fatigue as his knees began to buckle beneath him. The ancient oak tree’s eyes went wide with bewilderment before it released a cackle that disturbed the birds that had nested in the nearby trees. “You are indeed hungry, young one!” The tree noticed the human start to sway, hinting he might fall. With a long, low branch, it swept in to gently break his fall and lift him from the ground. “You are a blessed child, young man,” the tree gently chuckled, cradling the human who passed out on his branch. “You shall be safe and cared for this night,” the oak cooed sympathetically as it uprooted from the spot between the bushes and used the call of the woods to summon someone from within the City of Trees.

The twittering of birds roused the young wayfarer from his deep slumber. He swallowed hard, his throat still parched with thirst. The blinding colors of white, gold, and red, while his eyes were closed, warned him of the brilliant presence of sunlight. Trystan groaned and rolled over, and was surprised to feel a plushness of a feathered mattress beneath him and a soft fabric blanketed over his skin. All of his skin. In a way he didn’t expect a blanket or sheet to feel if he were wearing a leather jerkin, pants, and boots.

His eyes shot open, then slammed shut when the golden light of the sun filling the room caused his sight a sharp streak of unexpected pain. No, he should have expected that. Anxiety fooled him into opening his eyes under such hazardous conditions. A low, mirthful chuckle tumbled into his ears from the far side of the room. Someone must have noticed that he was awake. “Where am I?” Trystan muttered, groaning with soreness as he sat up in the bed and rubbed his eyes. “In the City of Trees, young friend,” an elderly voice responded, made deep with time and wizened with experience. That definitely didn’t sound like the old oak tree Trystan last remembered speaking with. The City of Trees strangely made sense when he thought about the tall thorn bushes with the ancient, rooted guardian. He smiled and released a raspy chuckle, but couldn’t voice his thoughts just then. “You’re parched. Our guardian explained your situation to us,” the elderly man stated as much and gestured toward the bedside table. “Drink. The mulberry and gooseberry tea will soothe your throat and replenish your appetite,” he offered with a tender, welcoming tone.

Did Trystan’s appetite need replenishing? It was an odd thing to think about, considering he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Opening his green eyes, blinking briefly to ease their transition to the sunlight, the young man looked about his surroundings. The room was simple yet not small. It was made of wood, and based on the curvature of one wall, was built up against the trunk of a massive tree. A large opening in the ceiling let natural daylight pour in, though it seemed it could be easily closed with a simple, heavy shutter to keep out the rain. Beside the bed was another window, through which he glanced to find that he was nowhere near the ground level, but high up among the branches of the tree. “Drink up, before you lose your constitution,” the elderly voice suggested when he noticed Trystan’s face grow ever paler.

Dark, shaggy hair flapped about his face and neck as the wayfarer whipped his head around to meet the gaze of the elderly man sitting nearby. “City. Of. Trees,” Trystan repeated, reminding himself before asking why or even how they managed to get up so high above the ground. “Correct,” the other man agreed with another warm chortle. He then gestured to the cup of juice on the bedside table. As if finally realizing his cue, the young man reached for the cup and noticed that his muscular, tan arm was bare. His long, calloused fingers gripped the wooden cup while his green eyes strayed to confirm that there was nothing more than a sheet covering his otherwise naked form.

Trystan was not a prude. However, finding himself in the company of a complete stranger without an article of clothing he would find comfortingly familiar made him feel a little uneasy. Before the other man could repeat himself, the younger fellow brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply of the honey-blended tea. The berry beverage's sweetened tartness was unexpectedly soothing and reminded him of home. The anxiety eased from his chest for the moment as his gaze finally settled on the old man sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair. His face was wrinkled and worn like cracked leather, his hair snow-white, his long beard woven with numerous small downy feathers and young sapling leaves, and his eyes were pale with blindness. This startled Trystan some, as it made him wonder how the older fellow managed to realize that he had stirred awake. “My hearing has become better, with the loss of my sight,” the elder responded, as if able to hear the thoughts in the lad’s mind. “I-” The younger man was instantly cut off when the elder raised his gnarled hand. “There is no need to apologize, young friend,” he sighed, smiling kindly. “I am known as the Oak Druid, the leader here in the City of the Trees,” he explained as Trystan noted the heavy, woven robes that were layered over the man’s thin yet sturdy form. Beside him, against the wall, rested an oak staff.

“Our guardian explained your situation as you were ushered through the gates. We have tended to your sores and bruises, we are repairing your clothes and gear, and we will make sure you do not leave here hungry or without provisions,” he promised in a reassuring tone that made Trystan think of his grandfather. Checking himself as he lifted the sheet covering his figure, he silently marveled at how clean and healthy his skin looked. Even the bruises around his wrists and ankles were gone. “Thank you,” Trystan croaked in appreciative embarrassment over how much of a burden he must have been while he slept. “You’re welcome, young friend,” the Oak Druid responded sincerely.

Trystan spent three days recuperating from the trauma of being abducted by bandits and the most recent shipwreck. At least, that was what he admittedly assumed, as the memories of those events remained unconfirmed. The Oak Druid and the citizens of the City of Trees understood that he needed time to process what he believed had happened and how he had managed to survive. He was thankful for the assistance they offered him, and did his best not to take it for granted.

The City of Trees itself was a marvel in his eyes. The druids had not only created a community and settlement but had also built sturdy, reliable dwellings high in the branches of strong oak trees. Trees that were unbelievably larger than anything the wayfarer had ever witnessed before. As blind as he was, their leader did not seem at all hesitant or wary of the rope bridges and ladders used to travel from tree to tree, or return to the ground level to assist with the farming. What would have been deemed a disability offered the Oak Druid greater strengths that were a marvel to the abled-bodied youth. The druid also had an undeniable trust in his community. When he requested assistance for anything at all, someone stepped in without hesitation or a negative retort. One might think Trystan had fallen into a utopian society, though the Oak Druid denied such accusations. They strived to find balance with nature and civilization, but it was a struggle.

The young man did what he could to show his gratitude toward the Oak Druid and his community. They had fed him, clothed him, and, on the morning of his departure, ensured he would not leave without the gear and provisions needed to leave not just the forest but the island as well. This included a finely crafted bow and a quiver of arrows, a pair of gloves, a rucksack, bedroll, and several days' worth of trail rations. There was also a world map that would surely come in handy. “I don’t have much coin,” Trystan said as he and the Oak Druid strolled through the small market of vendors who had set up near the gate leaving the hedged community. “Only the vendors here would accept such an offering,” the older man said with a delighted chuckle as he used the oak staff to determine how clear the path was for him. “How can I repay you?”

The elderly man smiled kindly as they stopped at the gate. He stopped leaning on the oak staff and held it out toward the young man with the dark hair and green eyes. The pole of wood was gnarled toward the top, but straightened out into a subtle wave of curves toward the bottom.  Intricate runes in a language the younger fellow did not recognize traced along the natural grain of the wood, swirling in complex patterns around the knots.    

“Deliver this to the Willow Druid for me,” he said, his pale eyes eerily looking into those of Trystan’s emerald hues. There was an expression of disbelief and confusion on the young man’s face as he asked, “There’s a Willow Druid? Where or how can I find him?” There was a chortle as the Oak Druid gently shook his head. The man was so young and had yet to see the world. “That map will help you. She,” he said poignantly, “can be found in the Forest of Larun. You found your way to us even when you weren't looking. I have no doubts you will find her sacred grove with as much ease.” He was confident in the lad’s skills and determination. “She will take this oak staff in trade for something. Whatever that might be, you must return here to me. Then, your debt will be paid.”

Was it truly as simple as that? Trystan had to have faith that it would be. He took the staff from the old man. “Very well,” he said with a bow of his head. “Until I return, then.” With that, the ancient, sentient oak tree opened the gate for the young wayfarer. While the Oak Druid waved and wished him farewell, Trystan returned to the forest to find his way to the Trading Post he was given directions to.

SCOUTING DIFFICULTY - 10



Name: Trystan Afon
Profession: Wayfarer
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 7
Charisma: 2
Combat: 5
Magic: 2
Sanctity: 3
Scouting: 6
Thievery: 4
Stamina: Max – 9/Current - 9
Money: 16 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Sword, Leather Jerkin ( Defense +1 ), Bow/Quiver of Arrows, Map, Oak Staff
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-
Description: Dark, shaggy hair, vibrant green eyes, ruddy, caramel-hued and freckled skin, over five and a half feet tall. His facial hair is in a state of perpetual stubble. Generally wears muted earth tones, made of worn leather and comfortable fabrics. Is proficient with a bow, handy with a sword, and fairly skilled at hunting, tracking, and general survival in the wilderness. The last thing he recalls before waking up on the shores of the Isle of Druids is encountering a band of brigands while tracking a boar. His likely capture, enslavement, and becoming cargo on a ship isn’t as clear in his memory.