Silanon
Four Thousand Club
"Not much to find, I'd assume, just an underling. Still, the bravest one of the bunch, thought I'd try to leave him in a more presentable state." In fact, it does not seem like she searches the body - instead, her hands only try to cover up the lethal wound he took, to little avail. It takes a moment before she finally gives up, cleaning her hands on her own robe.
"And of course it's Queen Ixtenixil - my apologies. Her Majesty has always been a quiet, yet highly respected neighbor - I meant no offense." Perhaps, the response is genuine; perhaps just a formality, said while she ponders over your tribe's troubles. "We noticed the skirmishes a while ago, but did not consider them more than a reckless, and pointless struggle. Your people have held the mountains ever since the dwarven defeat, after all. A dragon that escaped our attention changes the situation, of course; I will send the word that contact should be made, perhaps beneficial arrangements can be negotiated. You ought to be very familiar with the situation, champion of Clan Arauthrax - perhaps a meeting under better circumstances might be wise as well. The Old Man likes to be prepared for important negotiations, and your queen would likely approve if a few of the more trivial questions are answered beforehand as well. Maybe there'll be an opportunity to sit down together in the days to come - if things are desperate enough for House Talbert to intervene, then I will be at the Bastion for a while, at the very least."
As the priest of Calistria approaches the double doors of the temple, one of the wings moves just an inch inwards, barely enough to allow for a glimpse into a well-lit chamber beyond. And, perhaps more importantly, enough for a voice to come through, deep and loud, yet tired from decades of struggles. "Zylia from the north, we'll meet in due time. There won't be fresh blood in my church, tonight. And what you meant to ask will be answered soon, without the need of my recommendations. As for the others - come in if you wish, and hurry. There are fewer answers than I'd like to offer myself, and still too little time to discuss them."
The emissary's gaze is hard to read - there's anger somewhere, but it does not take over. Instead a simple nod, and a step away from the doors. "We can talk later, then. I'll stay for a while." She points out the second, run-down building; it should offer enough shelter for a while. As she walks over, only stopping if one of you wishes to address her further, Mordeth eyes her cautiously; it does not take much to see that the dragon-like creature does not approve of her presence, though there's a hint of curiosity as well.
For those who enter the chapel: You see a single, large room, well-lit through the large windows. In the middle, underneath the dome, there is a massive altar, surrounded by a dozen wooden benches. Further in the back, you see the statue of a woman, a newborn child in one arm and an hourglasss in the other. To its left, you see a fireplace, surrounded by baskets filled with herbs and supplies. To the right, dark curtains separate an area roughly of the size of a decent room. On both sides, beds wait for weary travellers - this place is as much shelter as church. In fact, the entire place looks less ceremonious than one might expect. Close to the door, on your left as you enter, stands a tall man in simple, black robes, eyeing the happenings outside in thought. His long, raven-black hair shows strands of silvery grey, and forms a ponytail. "Welcome", he says, "you come from far away. It seems that at last, the world remembers this place once more."
"And of course it's Queen Ixtenixil - my apologies. Her Majesty has always been a quiet, yet highly respected neighbor - I meant no offense." Perhaps, the response is genuine; perhaps just a formality, said while she ponders over your tribe's troubles. "We noticed the skirmishes a while ago, but did not consider them more than a reckless, and pointless struggle. Your people have held the mountains ever since the dwarven defeat, after all. A dragon that escaped our attention changes the situation, of course; I will send the word that contact should be made, perhaps beneficial arrangements can be negotiated. You ought to be very familiar with the situation, champion of Clan Arauthrax - perhaps a meeting under better circumstances might be wise as well. The Old Man likes to be prepared for important negotiations, and your queen would likely approve if a few of the more trivial questions are answered beforehand as well. Maybe there'll be an opportunity to sit down together in the days to come - if things are desperate enough for House Talbert to intervene, then I will be at the Bastion for a while, at the very least."
As the priest of Calistria approaches the double doors of the temple, one of the wings moves just an inch inwards, barely enough to allow for a glimpse into a well-lit chamber beyond. And, perhaps more importantly, enough for a voice to come through, deep and loud, yet tired from decades of struggles. "Zylia from the north, we'll meet in due time. There won't be fresh blood in my church, tonight. And what you meant to ask will be answered soon, without the need of my recommendations. As for the others - come in if you wish, and hurry. There are fewer answers than I'd like to offer myself, and still too little time to discuss them."
The emissary's gaze is hard to read - there's anger somewhere, but it does not take over. Instead a simple nod, and a step away from the doors. "We can talk later, then. I'll stay for a while." She points out the second, run-down building; it should offer enough shelter for a while. As she walks over, only stopping if one of you wishes to address her further, Mordeth eyes her cautiously; it does not take much to see that the dragon-like creature does not approve of her presence, though there's a hint of curiosity as well.
For those who enter the chapel: You see a single, large room, well-lit through the large windows. In the middle, underneath the dome, there is a massive altar, surrounded by a dozen wooden benches. Further in the back, you see the statue of a woman, a newborn child in one arm and an hourglasss in the other. To its left, you see a fireplace, surrounded by baskets filled with herbs and supplies. To the right, dark curtains separate an area roughly of the size of a decent room. On both sides, beds wait for weary travellers - this place is as much shelter as church. In fact, the entire place looks less ceremonious than one might expect. Close to the door, on your left as you enter, stands a tall man in simple, black robes, eyeing the happenings outside in thought. His long, raven-black hair shows strands of silvery grey, and forms a ponytail. "Welcome", he says, "you come from far away. It seems that at last, the world remembers this place once more."
