Bonds and Duties

[Chiangtao]

Two sad figures march down the road, their silhouettes juxtaposing one another. They hang their heads sorrowfully, sharing silence and sadness, but nothing else. One is a tall, burly, elderly man. He dons the years on his face, a mask of experience and regrets. He is a man of the woods and of worry. He seems to bear the weight of the world, as they say; yet he does not seem worldly. The other silhouette is a skinny, youthful girl. She is marked by sadness today, but her stride gives away her carefree life. She is fresh, full of life and sass. She has been to more places than she can remember, yet the wisdom she has taken from these experiences is negligible. The two are the most unlikely of pairs. The only thing they seem to share is this sadness, a silent bond evinced only by their hung heads and matching strides.

This is the story of the implausible friendship between Vurk and Carmella.

[Chiangtao]

?Forty-three days before they cross the Gate of the Sunderer?



Two men approached from the East on foot. They walked with big strides, the gait used by hardy, nomadic people. The clothes betrayed them further, the tatters and rips telling much about the length they?ve walked to arrive here, just miles from the Gate of the Sunderer.

One man was tall, stocky and grey. He was an old man, tough and gnarled. He was clad in hard leathers, aged and cracked from years of wear and weathering. The color was faded from the skins, dulled into a grayish-brown. The fur he wore as a cloak was splotchy, missing tufts of hair in random places. On his shoulder rested a sharp, untested battleaxe; on his hip, a traveler?s satchel.

?I dun know why ya carry that thar thing,? said the other man. This second man was skinny and young, dressed in the manner of a humble monk. His robe was once white with light blue trim, but now, tan and muddy. He had a limp in his stride from some injury that never healed. In his left hand, he held a gnarled walking stick, nearly as tall as he himself is. His hair was blonde and his manner was easy. He wore a smile as easily as the old man next to him wore his worry.

The skinny monk tapped the old man?s axe with his staff. ?You kin barely swing that thar thing! It?s mar fit fer fellin trees than orcs,? he claimed.

The old man took the jab in stride. He knew the young man well enough to know this was a simple attempt to get a rise out of him. They had traveled hundreds of miles, all the way from Vaasa. The trek was entirely on foot, a long, often boring journey. Arguments were the only excitement they had on some days.

?Doona warry,? said the old man, ?I?ll be sure ta make me a Baird-skin cloak afore the day ends. That?ll put a notch or two in this here axe.?

Baird, the skinny man, smirked. So did the old man. This kind of back-and-forth was a custom of theirs, a way to pass the hours in their long, cold expedition.

?I?ll be sure ta take a bath at noon then,? quipped Baird.

The teasing continued for a good hour. It was mid-morning, that precious hour in the day when there is so much to look forward to, when time is a luxury, not a burden.

Just before noon, they came across a farmers? market. This was the kind of bazaars that seemed to spring up when there were too many farmers and not enough towns. The market had no real buildings, but was lined with about fifteen tents. Hastily-constructed stands stood along the road. The smell of meat and desperation hung in the air.

They were not quite to Sundren, but this was good enough. The two nodded to each other. They would start here.

[billoran8]

...Forty-one days before they cross the Gate of the Sunderer...

Countless minarets extended above an unmistakably Calishite skyline. Imposing to be sure, though somehow elegant in their simplistic, yet unyielding forms.

The city is an unending symphony of both humanity and inhumanity, of history both alive and dead. There is a broad expanse of vibrant color, barely muted by the dust and dirt of ages.

One such building stood within earshot of the consistent palette of tones only capable of being expressed through water slapping rhythmically across stone. It was not the tallest or most majestic structure in the ward, but the scalloped dome that crowned it was unable to be truly appreciated unless seen from a higher vantage point.

Three large archways embraced the walls, each one connecting the building's upper floors to those of others, dozens of meters away, while gracing the structure with its only doors; wide open arches whose spaciousness was a mere echo of the room within. While the building was peppered dutifully with all manner of ornate windows and balconies, their number and density decreased as their proximity to the ground floor increased.

Inside the building, seated at one of the many brightly colored and heavily-painted tables, sat a young woman. Her frame was slight, and hunched over the table with a series of angles and curves that replicated the deep and vivid hues and tones brought together by the assortment of the contorted tiles in the room.

She sat in place, staring at nothing in particular, as countless others in the room buzzed about; intermingling happily and busily, drinking merrily. As she sighed both wistfully and contentedly, she was overshadowed by the pompous architecture of the chamber, its dignified accents and highlights far more remarkable than her features.

[Chiangtao]

Thirty-seven days before they cross the Gate of the Sunderer?



Street preaching doesn?t work very well when there isn?t anyone in the street. Without an audience, a preacher is little more than a tree falling un-witnessed in the woods. So while the gods? wrath was best witnessed at the height of a storm, Baird picked his moments of sermon in the hours before and after.

Vurk and Baird had set camp in the wilderness. They preferred the privacy of their own campfire and shelter to that of a stuffy inn room. But, when the skies gave a hint of grey, and the pressure dropped, yielding that first hint of quickened anxiousness that comes before a storm, they both grabbed their things and headed to the market square.

Often the pair would arrive just as the customers were retreating to the tavern and the merchants were packing up their goods. Mothers scrambled for their children and dogs barked in the chaos. Shopkeepers through open their doors, hoping to profit from those seeking shelter as the skies darkened. The streets were filled with all manner of people, all with something to do. They rarely turned an eye to the duo, the only people in the crowd that were unpacking.

Baird did not have much to set up: a simple podium made of wood, a white cloth with blue trim to toss over the podium, a matching robe, and a stepping stool. Vurk usually carried the bigger items, laying them out for his cohort. It wasn?t a measure of servitude, but a calculated visual display of respect. Baird was the man of the people, not Vurk. Small steps like these ensured Baird received a bit more reverence from those who stayed to listen.

Getting the people to listen often proved the challenge. No one likes to be preached at?a lesson preachers know all-to-well. Getting someone to pay attention requires a good lead-in, much like the opening sentence of a novel. Once they were ready, Baird would often wait, poised and silent, until just the right moment to speak.

*KABOOM!*

Talos rarely failed to deliver for Baird. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, and Baird would begin his story.

?Hear me people! Th?Lards? call, and you seek shelter! What comes o?er these mountains, the darkened skies of fury, you canna? avoid! Do ya think wooden doors will keep th?Lards at bay? Do ya think canvas will shield ya from thar wrath??

He would pause, or repeat this line of questioning, waiting for the second bolt to strike.

*KABOOM!*

?No!,? cried Baird, ?that be folly! If th?Lards? come a-callin? fer ya, nothin? will stay thar hands! No mortal shields kin keep ya safe from th?fury in th?sky! Th?lightnin? strikes down even th?largest of men! The blizzards claim even th?warmest of souls! Gods doo?na pause and take heed of wood an? canvas!

?But they do listen! They always listen, they hear yer prayers, yer penance, and yer offerin?s! They know which of ya pay them service an? do them right here on th?earth, an? they know which a ya don?t!?

Baird would pause again, arcing his hand across what small crowd would pay him heed. Few folk enjoy being lectured, but he knew no other way. His message was not meant to be candy-coated. The Deities of Fury, which he was careful to never mention by name openly, did not come with open, loving hands.

Baird pointed back at the sky. ?What comes fer ya comes! If it comes fer you, or fer yer loved ones, thar be no stoppin? it! Ya canna? stay the hands of th?Lards, not even fer the little children ya coddle so closely!?

?Pray with me now, make yer offerin?s! Give yer thanks an? yer respect to th?Lards before it?s too late! Ya can?t stop what comes, but ya kin beg them ta be spared! Save yerselves now, save yer families, before th?storm comes and ya leave this earth Give yer prayers an? yer offerin?s now, lest ya spend an eternity in th?Wall of the Faithless!?

And Baird would go on as such, gathering what offerings he could and giving blessings to those who turned to care. Vurk stood by, the faithful altar boy at twice Baird?s age, collecting the donations and keeping an eye out for trouble.

Truth-be-told, Vurk hated this part. He was not a man of the people or for them. His place was in the wild, where fury and wrath were trappings of humanity. These were terms that had no meaning in nature. The mountain lion did not rip the rabbit?s throat for revenge: he did so to eat. The violence and death that occurred in nature? well, that was just nature itself.

Death was part of the cycle of life. It was certainly not something to be avoided and dodged through gold and prayer. The weak die to feed the strong. The tough will endure the storms. In the grand scheme of things, death made the living stronger. It was law and an unavoidable certainty.

But, among humans, gold was another certainty. Vurk knew the message needed to be delivered to make his own people strong. And so, he stood by faithfully and collected what he could from the sea of weak before him. Taking gold from these frail commoners only lessened their chances of surviving the winter to come, and that was what was best for these people.

[billoran8]

...Thirty-five days before they cross the Gate of the Sunderer...

The young woman seated herself at the vibrantly colored table; her plain features once again fading into the background as the majestic architecture forced itself into becoming the room's highlight. She sighed as she stared off into the distance at an invisible object.

Her name was Carmella Brendt; her two middle-class parents had been inspired by the color of her skin, hoping that bestowing such a name upon their first daughter would grace her with the sweetness and malleability of caramel.

It seemed to have the opposite effect. Instead, Carmella was sour and sharp, preferring a witty jab to a caring touch, preferring a heated argument to a calm agreement.

And yet, despite her love of wisecracking Carmella had found herself idly staring off into the distance, at some unseeable, unknowable object, clearly lost in thought.

"Hey, hey? Snap out of it. Get back to work."

And like most other days dominated by her dainty daydreaming, she was brought back to attention, by her short, rotund superior, angrily instructing her to return to her countertop as a barista.

"Get back to the counter. I don't want one lazy worker to soil the reputation of the Ninth Bell, especially for our celebratory gathering tonight. You hear me? You mess up once, just once, and you're done."

"Sheesh, I can't get a five-minute break every now and then?" Carmella hastily snapped back. Though her personality was particularly far removed from what could be considered to be caramel-like, her voice was not. She had a lilting tongue, choosing words and phrases that rolled out of her mouth, as flavorful as the sweet candy, and commonly gave each word an exaggerated gesture.

Her boss had not been swayed by her words, and instead spat back. "Cut the crap. You've had forty. Now get behind that counter." He pointed angrily to the countertop on the far corner of the immaculately designed room.

Carmella sulked back to her the countertop and began entertaining herself with the stories told by the parched men and women who frequented the establishment. The building's efficiently placed position - in the middle of the docks district, serving as the joining point to three seperate and popular drudachs, while simultaneously remaining out of reach of the peasants - had given it a reputation for being a wonderful drinking hole. Its proximity to the various villas, stellar view of the docks, and exceptional architectural design had earned it the attention of the many wealthy traders; though the short, heavyset and constantly-angrivated owner was planning on throwing a party to attract an even larger crowd.

Carmella, however, was not at all enthused about being required to work that night. Most other Calishites would have been overjoyed at the opportunity to hobknob with wealthier tradesmen than themselves, but Carmella had felt that the majority of them were all superficial. They were not interesting, and the only things they did to fill in the gaps between awkward silences were repeat oft-practiced, generic phrases to one another.

She washed a dirtied glass as the wealthy middle-class sat at her bar, remaining stiffly silent, despite their close proximity.