While the priestess of Maka attempted to persuade the chief administrator for an advance on the reward for the rescue of the Lord of Thunder, Trystan spent the better part of the day cleaning and cooking around the dining hall. The cloister life within the walls of the major city put him on edge, and he felt like he was wasting time waiting for a means of completing a quest he had not originally sought out. Not that he went looking for the quest of delivering a staff, but it was a task given to him that he intended to complete as a show of good faith to the druidic community that came to his aid.
Refusing to linger any longer, he completed the chores assigned to him and
gathered up his gear. To avoid being seen without Ysolt by the warrior priests
who originally questioned his validity, Trystan snuck out of the Elnir Temple
entrance and made his way toward the north gate of the city. He passed through
the Entertainment Square and paused to marvel at the intricate details of the
carved puppets that were on display for an afternoon play. Children of
wealthier families giggled at the show as their guardians chatted about the
daily gossip heard in the market.
From the alley behind him, the wayfarer’s sensitive ears picked up the sound of
what could be described as a snake or feline hissing. This caused him concern,
so he quickly turned to find a greasy-looking man beckoning him to follow.
First a foreign priestess, now a crook? Where was Trystan’s luck going? He had
too few coins to be worth robbing, but if this other fellow meant to cause
problems, then perhaps the young man could stop him before he harmed anyone
else.
He was led away from the square. Keeping a wary ear out for any ambushes, he
followed the snake-like man around many corners and alleys before they stopped
at a flight of stairs leading down to a basement doorway. “Care to try
your luck? Tis only five shards,” the greasy man said as he nodded
down to the Gambler’s Den that was being guarded by a bouncer dressed as a
mercenary. “Seriously?” Trystan asked with a glance of
annoyance. His luck had been terrible since he met the priestess. Sure, she
offered him a place to stay, but all of her attempts to make any extra coin had
left them with nothing more than what they started with. “What else do
I have to lose?” He rolled his eyes, trotted down the stairs, and paid
the fee.
The first thing that Trystan was greeted with was a combination of tobacco,
cannabis, and opium smoke. All likely from different sources, based on the
variety of card and dice games that were offered. Dealers shuffled cards with
dexterous fingers, prompters quickly recited how to make a bet on the table
before allowing anyone to roll the dice. The sound of a marble hopping along a
roulette wheel was the sharpest sound among the din of jokes made in poor taste
and idle threats over cheaters and bad hands.
The wayfarer felt out of place; the smoke gave him a terrible headache. His
eyes scanned over the games, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of what the
odds were. Nothing about gambling made much sense to him. On a whim, he placed
five shards down on the roulette table.
Roll 2 Dice
Score: 6 – Lose Your Bet.
Of course. Trystan wasn’t even surprised by the loss. The metropolis was
nothing more than poor luck and decisions for the young man who belonged out in
the forest. Just as he was about to leave, the shrill sound of rejoicing caught
his attention. “PRAISE THE THREE FORTUNES!” A delicate-looking
scholar beamed with excitement from one of the card tables, gathering a
substantial crowd of onlookers who were a mix of jealous and devious. That was
where all of the luck had gone, and the scholar was clearly ready to celebrate
his winning streak. Even though the wayfarer preferred traversing without much
company, he could tell by the way eyes shifted, and mouths murmured near
listening ears, the scholar wouldn’t be celebrating for long.
Trystan removed the hat that made him stand out among the crowd and filtered
through the throng of onlookers. He kept an eye on the scholar and watched how
his fortune increased with each card trick. Eventually, the fellow decided it
was time to depart before his luck ran out, his coin purse bulging from the
weight of excess shards. It looked as though the threads were threatening to
tear. As the young man endeavored to follow, he noticed that two
brutish-looking men headed out the exit as well.
A wayfarer is quiet and calculating. As was Trystan as he paced himself at a
safe distance behind the ruffians, placing his hat back atop his head while
their backs were turned toward him. Before the scholar reached the main road,
the bandits immediately nabbed him. He yelped for help, but his mouth was
clamped over by a gloved hand, his arm twisted behind him as the other thug
punched him hard in the gut. With the sturdy oak staff in hand, the young man
rushed forward and whacked one man across the head, and the other was jabbed in
the shoulder. Dazed and startled by the sudden ambush, they dropped their
victim and ran off. The scholar huddled fearfully on the ground, groaning from
the pain he felt from the beating he took.
Trystan removed his hat and crouched down next to the cowering man. “Hey,
it’s ok. They’re gone now,” the younger fellow said with a gentle
smile to show he meant no harm. The scholar lifted his bruised face to him and
nodded meagerly. “Thank you,” he murmured hoarsely, taking the
hand that Trystan offered to help him up. “It doesn’t look like they
broke anything,” he mentioned, causing the battered and bruised fellow
to nod in agreement. “No, I’m fine,” he responded
shakily. “Let me escort you back, just in case anyone else got it in
their head to follow you,” Trystan offered, and the other man agreed
rather gratefully.
They walked around the more populated streets, staying away from the dark
alleyways until they reached the university. It seemed the scholar was an
archeologist lecturing about his recent expedition. Before he headed inside, he
pulled a vial of yellow dust from his pocket. “Here. Please, take
this,” he insisted as he passed the flask to the wayfarer. “I
found this in the last site I studied. There are no records of what it might
be, but the bards suggest miraculous things happen to such powder when tossed
into the holy waters of the Blessed Springs. Perhaps this will be an even
greater fortune than what I managed to win today.”
Trystan gazed momentarily at the vial and its contents. He asked where the
Blessed Springs could be found, and the scholar pointed them out on the map the
druids had given him. From there, they parted ways, and the wayfarer continued
toward the northern city gate.
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: 6 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Sword, Leather Jerkin ( Defense +1 ), Bow/Quiver of Arrows, Map, Oak Staff, Vial of Yellow Powder
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.
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