A BioHazard® 5.0 play-by-post adventure run by bh5ogm
"Son, remember what I've told you," Brinthas Galewood speaks with his ever-present air of disapproval and superiority. "Remember... just remember." Brinthas tries to break a smile but his attitude will not allow it. This may be the last time he sees his son. Young Pafnuty looks up at his aging father, a much taller and more physical man.
"Do you have all your things, young Pafnuty?"
"Yes, Father."
"How does it fit you?" Brinthas says, tugging the shoulder straps of Pafnuty's leather armor. On the chest is a crafted blue and green metal emblem, the insignia of the Galewood family. It was imported from far north, as was the armor itself.
Pafnuty responds weakly, "It chafes."
Ignoring his son's admittance of pain, Brinthas tightens the shoulder greaves. The youth has much to learn. Hopefully he will live to do so.
"Your boots?"
"Tight."
"They need to be broken in. They're freshly made by Roarn in The City of The Four Hills."
"That far north?" Pafnuty pipes.
"Son... being a Galewood has its advantages." Brinthas rotates his son around to look at his back, and to avoid a look in the eyes. "Have you been practicing with the boltcaster?" Brinthas tightens the straps on Pafnuty's custom-made crossbow and quiver of 30 stone-tipped bolts.
"Of course, Father."
"Lose any bolts?"
"None."
A lump begins to swell in Brinthas' throat, piercing his air flow.
"Would you like to check my codpiece as well, father?" Pafnuty says with a mock seriousness whose sarcasm is well hidden.
"Watch your tongue, youth. Your mother's side unfortunately shows through too much, but you have yet to return. One more word like that and I'll test this armor of yours."
"It is fine armor, Father," Pafnuty says, turning around and looking his father in the eye.
The lump throbs. Brinthas feigns a cough and bends over, looking down and away. He hopes the maid in the next room will not comment on an illness of his.
"Have you got your bloodpatch pack?"
"Yes, sir."
"And your other equipment?"
"Of course."
"All of it?"
"All, sir."
Avoiding his son's eyes, and pretending to examine the armor one last time, Brinthas takes a deep breath, fighting that damned burning sensation.
"Are you ready son?"
"No, sir."
"No one ever is. Especially you. Go on. Good luck, and fair waters."
"Fair waters, sir," Pafnuty replies back with the ultimate sign of the bourgeois; it is a parting reply only a wealthy and well-traveled man would give. The Galewoods are one of the few clans to boast that privilege of speech.
Piercing his father's stare one last time, Pafnuty purses his chin and turns to leave. Heaving aside the heavy leather doorhanging, the finest in the village, he tramps out without hesitation.
Sitting down, Brinthas explodes in tears.
The mud is always warm in Arlktn. The intentional impact of heavy mud boots makes a loud squishing sound that echoes in the swamp. "I dare you, swamp. What? Nothing? Coward."
Young Palis Hazard just turned 18, the ritual age of adulthood. In preparation for his trial, Palis changed his name to Heil, and as all his lineage before him, divorced himself from his family to live in the swamps on the outskirts of town, a week’s hardening before the journey.
Heil is a Hazard, one of the poorest, least prestigious family clans in Arlktn. It is no secret. The Hazards are proud of their heritage. Despite their rough nature, table manners, and slurred, metaphor-ridden speech, they are hard workers, courageous wanderers, and swamp-smart survivors. Hazard knows the swamp well, he knows the creatures, the plants. He can move quietly in the knee-deep waters, see movement in the water around him, feel the warmth or lack thereof in the faint swamp tide. He is overall a very quiet person in the swamp, where he feels at home. The tight confines of the family yurts made him uncomfortable. Lately he refused to sleep inside them unless it were raining, or the Jepperds howling. His thick mud boots and heavy black rogskin pants keep him for the most part dry in the swamp, and also help to lessen the pain of Elenep attacks.
Heil is not looking forward to the trial. He has yet to find out where he will be heading, but the most uncomfortable part will be the travel. Ritual journeys go in groups, and only once per year, usually when the swamptide is low. Who knows what upper-class filth he may be forced to travel with, or fight with, or sleep near, or eat with. He has a difficult time abating fights and arguments with his seven brothers, all older, much less the damned "royalty" of Arlktn.
It is almost time. The red sun burns off the swamp’s morning haze. The town’s bell will be ringing soon. Heil slides his two daggers back into their hip scabbards and crosses his arms. He almost finished carving a tall, slender Siepres tree stump into the shape of a five-inch tall man. The man stands tall, his legs spread confidently, his right arm firmly on his hip. Heil has yet to whittle the left side.
Turning to go, he pauses, takes out his dagger again and shaves one last piece off the arm, cocking his head with artistic fashion.
"I’ll be back to finish you off."
With a loud, arrogant splash, Heil turns and slogs off to higher ground and the village.
"I insist, Brinthas," Grover says.
"It is not our custom to send out adults on the Ritual Journey."
"I have been instructed by my guild. I cannot live without convincing you to let me go," he persists.
Brinthas sighs. "Why must you torment me so, old friend? I am the administrator of enforcement, not the creator of new rules."
"I tell you that Coryatt has good reason."
"My son is an embarrassment."
"Your son is a prodigy," Grover counters. "Would we be standing here right now in this windowless room, but in the light, had he not repaired the very lamp that shines above our heads?"
"I am a warrior," Brinthas spits through clenched teeth.
"And a father. You have sent him out with your blessing, haven’t you? Knowing very well that his immense abilities may be eaten by a swamp beast?"
"It is a chance all youth must take," Brinthas replies mechanically. He doesn't seem too sure.
"It is a chance we cannot afford to get the bad end of!" Grover lets his voice get too loud, and gains control of his wit. "I have traveled far, Brinthas. I am not one to waste weary steps on the proclamations of fools."
Brinthas looks at Grover with squinted, aged, hardened eyes. "You are a stubborn old man," Brinthas says, giving in to the white-haired young man before him.
"As you are too, old ass."
The two men smile congenially.
"Very well. I will see that you can join the journey." Brinthas tucks in and adjusts his tunic, one he wears only on special occasions. "You are to protect my son, but you are not to disclose your true age or reason for the trip."
"Agreed."
Pausing, and looking admonishingly at Grover: "The mystic’s beard must go. No man in this village has had white hair before his thirtieth year."
Grover smiles, cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. His long white goatee barely touches the bottom of his neck. Brinthas sighs again.
"You are a stubborn old man, Grover."
"As you are too, old ass."
All three of you gather in the town square. The villagers surround the perimeter as several of the swamp village's honored and elders make their way up a small stage.
Looking each other over, each of you immediately notices the flaws of the other two. Pafnuty dislikes Grover's strange, peasant-like features and Heil's lower-class walk, speech, dress... even smell. Grover notices Pafnuty's discomfort with his armor, and his permanent air of superiority. Heil to him looks like an unkempt savage. Heil immediately shoots Pafnuty a smirk, and looks Grover up and down, wondering just how old the funny-looking man is.
The elders are gathering. The quest will be explained and started soon.
As Pafnuty and Heil look him over, Grover smiles and nods, but says nothing. He knows his part in these youngsters' quest and he keeps quiet about his true involvement---for now. As the elders gather, Grover tightens the chin strap on his sun hat and wiggles his toes patiently.
Wriggling his shoulders to settle the weight of his uncomfortable leather armor more evenly, Pafnuty also discreetly examines his comrades for the quest. Not only does he notice their failings, but his keen senses note their strengths:
The swamp rat (as his socio-economic stratum labels him) exudes confidence in his body language, and his hands rest on the pommels of his twin daggers like the weapons were natural extensions of his arms. He would be good in a fight, and particularly one in close quarters.
The other man did not quite fit the mold of the stereotypical quester. His expression was calm and assured as if he knew he had no need to prove his worth. He already knew it. So why was he here? And those eyes! The inherent wisdom in his dark, deep-set orbs belied the apparent youthfulness of his frame. This man was hiding something.
"Ah well, they may be peasants," he thinks, "but my life will doubtless come to depend on them." Pafnuty struggles to see past his many prejudices, and interestingly enough, has an easier go at it than most members of his elite class, on account of his being a failure to his powerful warrior-clan, particularly his father. But frak, does that swamp rat stink like fewmets or what!?
"Know your friends as you would your enemies," Brinthas told him once. This from the same man who repeatedly calls him "useless." He often wondered if his mother would have allowed that subtle abuse had she stuck around. Maybe it was too much for her. It was a question whose answer the swamps had swallowed long ago. "Fair waters, my Galewood ass," he mumbles.
His mood darkening, Pafnuty broods about the life he is leaving. He will not miss his father's poorly hidden disappointment, but his ever-protective presence, sometimes overly much so, will be notably absent out there. He overheard the expensive family doctor telling Brinthas that he only survived to 19 on account of his father's protectiveness. "In the swamps, your son should have died long ago." The doctor's summary judgement is etched into Pafnuty's soul.
He reminds himself that his aim on this journey is to display his mettle on his own. He tries to buoy his spirits. "Gotta prove that presumptuous doctor wrong!" Or die trying; the darkness just won't lift.
"And you better not come back dead," Brinthas' warning bubbles up in his mind.
I study the two in silent anticipation. I easily prejudge them in my mind, but ultimately I will let their actions dictate how I react to them.
It seems like an odd pairing. Pafnuty reminds me of a hirsute jacket I once owned (stiff and rigid). As for Grover, well I have never seen anyone quite like him. I consider him unique, maybe a bit old for this Rite of Ascendance.
I can't help but let a few chuckles slip out as I eye the pair. I like being challenged by new things. Other than the few chuckles I say nothing.
Several grizzled but time-honored elders gather on the wooden platform in the village circle, the highest ground in the swamp village. A host of townspeople, of all social classes, huddle around the perimeter, still yards away from you. Brinthas is one of the last to walk up the few small steps and take his place among the other respected elders, standing in a semicircle. None are markedly older, in fact, in many other parts of Meriga, these men would still be considered a decade away from "elder" status. But the harsh reality and hazards of the swamp have a way of reducing a man's life expectancy. The youngest of the elders is 57.
Soon the crowd is joined by a page, a youth who will be in the circle's center in a few years to mark the start of his own journey. He carries on his back a pack of things that obviously have great importance. As the crowd quiets, all the eyes of the village are on the small boy as he makes his way swiftly up and to the center of the platform and sets his pack down. He then bows and walks to the back of the stage.
"Youths of the village," one of the eldest says, breaking the silence, "you are about to embark upon a quest of utmost importance. It will long be that this village will see again a more significant Rite journey. You will soon understand more."
Another elder takes up the page's backpack and begins to hand the contents to the other elders.
"You will journey to the southeast. There you will look for a newly-discovered remnant of ancient architecture in the swamp. Fearless traders and merchants have spoken of it recently. It is far into the swamp, and dangerous, but nevertheless is has been chosen as your task."
Pafnuty looks at his father, who stands solid and upright but does not look at his son. Rather, Brinthas looks at a point in space, above and beyond his son.
"You will find a ladder there, and will then descend into the depths below. Within those depths there is rumored, nay, proven, the existence of this Holy Water." The elder produces a vial filled with a thick opaque black liquid.
"He who returns from those depths with a vial of this Holy Water shall have completed his quest." There is a pause, as the page comes forward, grabs three cloth-wrapped packages, descends the stairs and walks towards you. "Now for your equipment. You will each be provided with two of these vials, empty. You need only return with one full vial to complete the quest---we have given you an extra because these vials have a tendency to break with heavy use. Also given you will be a memento of the occassion."
Unwrapping the cloth, Heil, who was handed his package first, finds the two empty vials, each with a tight rubber cork at the top, and also finds a long metal cylinder with glass at either end. "The Ancients referred to the device as a telescope. It uses lenses to magnify the distance, enabling you to focus on things far from you." Unwrapping his, Pafnuty gives an internal smirk. He knows of these devices, and even drew up designs for creating his own, were he to come across the proper materials.
"May it be both useful and a symbol." The elder pauses, clears his throat and takes a great breath. "Always keep in mind the future, sons, with one eye; but keep your other in the present and your thoughts on the past, that you may remember the lessons you have learned and be ready to apply them to today."
Grover smiles inwardly, repeating the last speech to himself as he hears it. So the elder did read the Coryatt book that Grover gave him. Took that sage quote right out of Coryatt's mouth. Old hack. Grover chuckles to himself silently, and makes a note to himself to get back at the elder for such heinous plagiarism.
Re-wrapping tightly your precious vials and telescopes, and placing them in your already full packs, you prepare to be off at last.
Another elder speaks up loudly, "Prepared ye well, young journeyers?"
All three of you respond with a resounding "We are."
"Ready your feet and mind for the journey ahead?"
"We are."
"Then may the swamp be kind to your souls. Be off."
Where an outsider might expect a tremendous roar from the crowd, throwing of confetti, cheering and good tidings for departure, there is absolute silence.
You turn and head out of the town circle to the southeast. The crowd, their faces straight but hopeful, silently parts to let you pass.
I stow the items away in my pack and then look at my fellow traveling mates. "If'n ya don't know my name, it's Heil Hazard. You two can call me Heil. I suppose with that fancy armor you'll be leading us through the swamp, eh?" I motion to Pafnuty. Of course I suspect I should be the one leading them through the swamp, but I don't say it.
An expression of surprise and embarassment from being singled out washes over Pafnuty's face. He shakes his head vigorously and shoots a reflexive glance at Brinthas (who is still avoiding him) and then glances briefly at the third quester. He gestures with a quick sweeping motion of his open hand to Heil. In a high-pitched squeaky voice, quickly lowered, he declares, successfully suppressing a stutter, "I am Pafnuty Galewood. I am unskilled in the swamps. Why don't you lead?"
The muffled chatter from the crowd is palpable. Has a member of the Galewood clan just deferred to a swamp rat? Brinthas' head hangs low, and he walks off the stage, and away from the crowd. Pafnuty sighs and tries to recover by gruffly addressing Heil, "Frak, let's get on with it then, rat!" The words come out harsher than he intends, and he winces internally. But he maintains his straight-backed stance and upheld chin for effect as the three questers make their way into the agitated crowd.
"Wise choice Pafnuty Galewood. I'll lead then. If'n ya call me rat again, Pafnuty, you'll be looking up at me from the ground. Heil's the name... learn it!" I say, turning the sharpened walking stick in my hand and caring little for what the crowd thinks.
If we are allowed (or finished here) we leave together.
"My name is Grover, and I will watch your backs," Grover says to his two charges as he packs his telescope and vials into his pack. "It is, of course, quite nice to meet you!" Grover offers his hand to Heil and Pafnuty for an old-fashioned hand shake. Introductions in the past, the pure strain human claps his hands together with a metal clang as his gauntlets connect, holding his bardiche between them. "Let us be gone, then!" With that, he ushers them toward the swamp with a wave of his pole-arm.
Departing from the southeast corner of the city, Heil takes point, followed by Pafnuty and Grover in the rear. Staying on the highest ground possible, your boots nevertheless quickly become wet and muddy. The clouds slowly part and a burning day is well at hand. The swamp is motionless as always, but alive with the roar of insects and distant animal noises. Your hairs stand on end as the distant cry of a Jepperd pierces the swamp.
The swamp waters are becoming deeper as you venture off into the vast muddy wasteland. Heil tries to keep the party's path out of knee-deep quagmires, but at times the party has to wade into thigh-deep waters and try to keep their packs dry.
You travel as far as you can, not stopping at all. Heil has barely broken a sweat in the scorching humidity, Pafnuty is sweating profusely, and Grover, unaccustomed to the brutal conditions, is not feeling well. Frequent swigs of water from his canteen have staved off nausea and dizziness for now.
It is nearing dusk. Mist rises off the still warm waters.
Suddenly Heil stops, looks around and makes a beeline for the nearest dry spot or tree stump. Alarmed, Pafnuty looks around at what could have happened.
Heil secures a dry hill only large enough for one foot to get a hold on, the other in the shallow water, and clinches his staff aggressively. "Eleneps, you fools! Fly to high ground!"
What do you do?
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