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Post by Stix on Sept 20, 2009 13:05:40 GMT -5
Argent cues the beast to pull the wagon on its way before recounting his experience with the bebilith. "We'd just forded a river, and as we were climbing the far bank the wagon was stuck in the mud. We all tried for a few hours to get moving again, but nothing worked. Then we saw the bebilith charging straight for us, and we thought we were dead for certain. But when it came up the bank behind us, it leaned into the wagon and pushed us out of the mud. Then it disappeared." He shrugs. "Not much more to tell, I'm afraid."
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Post by Stix on Sept 25, 2009 7:59:52 GMT -5
(Moving this along a little to catch everybody up.)
The wagon stays to the low ground, rounding the hills and revealing the monastery: Conclave Fidelis, the religious center of Principality, sits at a fork in the river where two tributaries meet to feed into the distant Lake Aonia. The monastery sits on a low, gently-sloping hill, surrounded by pastoral land lit even in the late night with brilliant globes of light overhead. Grain fields and vineyards stretch all the way to the footbridge.
The closer the group draws to the monastery, the better able they are to hear a chant echoing from within: "Li aruth halá," the voices drone in perfect pitch.
A dirt path leads the growing group through low, cultivated fields: rice, fed by simple irrigation from the river, plus wheat, flax, oats, rye and barley. At the inviting archway halfway up the hill (which passes for the monastery's gate... not that it could keep anyone out, being unattached to a wall and having no door) stands a middle-aged aasimar with tonsured silver hair, dressed in a sackcloth robe with a simple white vestment and rope belt. He holds an unflickering bullseye lantern aloft, lighting the way with a salutatory wave.
The aasimar silently beckons for the group to follow. He leads the way into a large, simple building, padding barefoot over its tile floor and past simple painted frescoes, their saintly characters displayed with outstretched hands and faces turned to the heavens. Sconces line the walls, but no torches light the passages, leaving the silent monk's lantern the only illumination.
The repetitive droning of the chanting monks is very audible in the halls, gentle and relaxing. The aasimar monk opens a door off of a long hallway into a great square room, leading everyone into the monastery's hospice wing. Dozens of cots line the room, made up with clean sheets; many are occupied with sleeping pilgrims. With a sweeping gesture, the monk instructs everyone to make themselves at home.
(Chapter III should be visible for everybody; please continue there with the morning.)
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