1629, Fire Season, Fertility Week, Fireday
Context
Varanis is still in Wilmskirk, helping to deal with the aftermath of the Wolf Pirate attack Session S.5-W-12.
Events
On Windsday, Thenaya arrived in Wilmskirk, and had a conversation with Silor Cracksrock, who looked determined to do better afterwards. On Fireday she left through the North Gate, and came back a few hours later with Yamia, Venlar, and Tamakt. Yamia went to the Temple of Humakt, a tiny building standing out in this town for its sparse decoration.
It is almost Wildday Eve. Tomorrow is the festival of Chalana Arroy, much needed in this battered city of late. Yamia is in the courtyard of Silor’s house as if waiting. Tamakt is with her, kneeling in the dust in an attitude of calm meditation. She stands like a lioness guarding her cub, nearby.
Varanis approaches softly, so as not to disturb the child. She is dressed in a dark blue tunic, Vingan trews, and her inherited bronze vambraces and greaves. Her only jewelry is Kallyr’s arm ring. Dezar, of course, is at her hip.
She takes up position near Yamia, though avoids crowding the Humakti.
Yamia turns her head, and today she is more human, less predatory than normal. “Will father be joining us?” she asks lightly, like Varanis will have checked.
Tamakt glances up briefly, and then stands with the gravity of a tiny person doing something very important.
… And there‘s a question. Silor, when asked, winced slightly, and said, “I will be doing so privately, later.” He sounded almost like his brother when he did.1Varanis passes an INT*3 to indicate she would have thought to ask.
“He will be worshipping on his own,” Varanis replies.
Yamia’s expression says little, although her eyes dip for a moment. “Then it is just us.” She reaches out a hand to Tamakt, who takes it with a smile. She has left her sword hand free. “What are you expecting at the shrine?” asks Yamia, almost casually.
“To offer my prayers to Humakt and his Hero, Lord Eril,” Varanis says. “I did not have the time to procure an appropriate sacrifice and Wilmskirk is short on supplies anyway. So, I will offer up my own power as that is all I have to give today.” Varanis almost shrugs, but relaxes her shoulders. “If any wish to speak about Lord Eril’s worship, I will say what I am able and after things are completed in Whitewall, I can offer to return, though it would be better if it was Berra.”
Yamia considers that, as she ushers Tamakt towards the gates. “I have found juniper sprigs, and red wine. The chicken was donated, and the Temple will supply it to you. I will not take part in my uncle’s rites, but there are three survivors of the attack, and several lay members will be attending.”
Varanis blinks. “You… oh. Thank you. I should have tried harder, clearly.” Her cheeks turn pink in the evening sun. The Vingan has been running around like a chicken just after sacrifice, hunting stray pirates, dealing with her prisoner, carrying messages, assisting at the Air Temple, and even helping with the mess at Silor’s house. Yet she is embarrassed about not having prepared better for this evening.
Yamia’s compressed smile is, of course, hard to read into. “You may be interested to meet the man who made the donation. He knows the Wyter Priest, of old.”
“I would like that, yes. And thank you, Yamia. I appreciate you.”
Yamia looks puzzled now, but decides against words, and a moment later her brow clears. She walks to the Temple in silence.
The little one-room building is squashed between a tenement house of some kind, and a warehouse. It is almost exactly where the better side of town meets the mud patches of the less salubrious areas. With Wilmskirk being barely a stone’s throw across, it is possible to see the gate that leads down to Duck Point from here.
Yamia leads the way in, and gestures Tamakt over to a tiny bedroll in the front half of the room. A woven screen sits behind a small stone altar, and experience says that behind it is another altar, and the screen moves to cover the door when there is a ceremony on.
There are already a couple of men here, obviously locals, obviously not warriors.
While she must look out of place, so obviously a Wind Lord and Daughter of Vinga, Varanis does not hesitate to enter the Temple. She automatically greets the altar on display, hand on her hilt as she bows to it. She nods to the men as she takes in the space.
Tiny. Poor. There are iron greaves on the altar, donated by Farinst after Varanis and Serala found them, and a bronze broadsword lies over them. There is little else of value in the room.
“Thane Varaena, this is Ardr, whose family name means Son of Fazzur, but is not related to him. His companion is Ridgarth.” Yamia gives them both a nod. “Ardr, the thane is a personal friend of the Wyter Priest, as I mentioned.”
“It is a pleasure, Ardr, Ridgarth,” Varanis says greeting them both in turn. Her eyes travel over faces and exposed skin, seeking out runes or other markings.
Ardr is certainly Orlanthi, possibly also Ernaldan. Air, Earth, Fertility. He might well worship the plough god Barntar, son and sometimes husband of Ernalda. Ridgarth is a bit more of a puzzle, for Illusion and Movement and Truth are all on him.
Ardr looks nervous, with Ridgarth looking like he is waiting to say something.
Varanis arches a brow at Ridgarth. “Go ahead,” she encourages.
“No, it’s Ardr who wants to talk.” The man grins. “He wants to ask about his girlfriend.”
Ardr raises an index finger at him in a sharp jab. A rude gesture.
A smile teases the corners of Varanis’ mouth, but she manages to restrain herself. She turns her attention to Ard.
“We’re hoping that the lady Berra’s well,” he says. “She once threw her drink on me.”
At this, Varanis does laugh, the sound out of place in Humakt’s sacred space. She stifles it quickly.
“My apologies. You caught me off guard. Of course she did. That is very Berra. It has been a while since I last saw her, but she was well enough. Becoming a Wyter Priest has not changed her temperment much.”
Ardr looks daggers at Ridgarth. “We’re here for worship, anyhow.”
“Which is why he brought a chicken along,” Ridgarth says smoothly. “For the Temple. Not to get anyone’s attention.”
“I shall be sure to let her know that you provided the offering, Ard. It is truly appreciated given the scarcity of resources after the attack on the city.” Her words are an echo of what she said to Yamia on the way over. While Varanis has become more fluent in Heortling, she definitely finds phrases that work for her and takes advantage. Scarce resources is likely something she heard in one of her many meetings lately.
Ardr stands a little straighter. Ridgarth eyeballs him for a moment, and then says, “It’s nearly dark. Best time for worshipping Humakti.”
Ardr rolls his eyes. “It was years ago.”
“She sometimes still drops in to talk to him.”
Ignoring their jibes at each other, Varanis turns to Yamia. “You mentioned others. Will they arrive soon? Is there a basin and wash water?”
“Ridgarth.” Yamia puts a touch of sharpness into her tone. “Go fetch what is needed. We usually assemble at darkness, here.” This is of course her home shrine, even if she lives elsewhere now.
Yamia makes herself ready for leading the main service, but given that tomorrow will bring another festival, and it is a holy day of a healer, she intends to make it short. Varanis can have the floor first.
The Vingan begins her preparation by unwrapping the small sword amulet she carries for her own worship of the Hero. Folding her legs beneath her, she drops into a kneeling position with the amulet held cupped in her palms. She begins to meditate.
People come into the room, including three who are obviously Humakti, and a handful who are not. Yamia seals the door with her own blood, letting Tamakt point to where it should be, and then adding a little more just to be sure – and to make sure that the doorway is sealed rather than decorated. The screen is moved to hide the room and reveal the second altar, and other than Yamia, people’s attention moves to Varanis. For once it is obvious that Yamia arranged that, for Ridgarth points it out. “Oh, this is when we have to show willing for her uncle, right?” Now that the Temple is its own space, he seems just as cocky and confident as before.
Varanis rises from her meditation and gives Ridgarth a quelling look (but not an intimidating one), before she turns her gaze on the group.
“The Swordsister has given me time to speak of a Hero – one who is possibly well known to you. Eril Linebreaker, High Sword of the Boldhome Regiment, hero of Whitewall (etc – I forget), and companion of Prince Kallyr was revealed to be a Hero at the Battle of Heroes.” She retells the story of Lord Eril that she shared in Whitewall, partially learned from Adnew with details contributed by Silor too. As before, she finishes by talking about the emergence of his cult under the leadership of Berra, the Wyter Priest.
There is a lot of local pride here. This was his home Temple once, and thus it was where a Hero was made.
When Varanis is done, she tells them that while she is not a priest, she will be worshipping and welcomes any who wish to join.
The altar has been prepared with the soaked juniper branches and the wine sits ready. Ardr’s chicken is… where is the chicken?
Just there, in a cage. It is a hen with patches of iridescent feathers amongst the brown. There are three warriors and four lay members, yet they seem to fill the huge, dark space. The Temple echoes with snatches of battle songs.
Varanis sets the juniper twigs alight and as they spit and crackle, she collects the hen. She makes the sacrifice both swift and dispassionate, much like Lord Eril is known to be. The blood and wine mix in the stone basin.
The warriors and the farmers line up together, their outlines blurring slightly as if armour is on them all. Some seem to understand this, others do not. Both Ardr and his friend are quiet. In fact, everything is. As the blood and wine mix the silence thickens and becomes almost audible, an absence of sound that waits to be filled.
As she speaks the words to invoke the Hero Eril and Lord Raven, Varanis pours her own power into the worship.
Her hands move separately to her spirit now. She can observe herself dipping her fingers into blood and wine, anointing each worshipper in turn. She can also feel a community, distant and close, stronger than ever. Everything channels through an intellect with a form, a stand-out among spirits, a fragment of a man who needed to be shed to let a Hero emerge. Lord Raven notices Varanis, and just for a moment she can feel some human part of him, swiftly smothered2Passed Insight (Human).. He acknowledges the presence of priests and warriors, fyrd farmers and exalted members of nobility, and she feels many presences beside her.
She can’t help herself. Her solemn expression turns feral. Sartar’s Heroes rise and not so long ago, Jar-eel was torn apart. There is hope for the world and that hope lies at least partially in the community around her. She mentally reaches out to Lord Raven with very un-Humakti thoughts of love, joy, worry, vengeance, and pride. She is Orlanthi to the core.
All of this is seized, and held desperately. Even as he takes what she gives, and passes it on to a cold, calculating, separate power beyond him, Lord Raven has emotions. Revealed by Varanis reaching out, they are exposed for a few moments, as concepts. Brother, lover, Hero, Priestess, Prince, Danger… For a brief moment the young man who left home with hope and ambition is there, proud and strong and not yet touched by care.
Concern for… (her friend? Can a Wyter be a friend?) Lord Raven causes her to reach out again. She shares with him her feelings of calm, strength, and determination, gathered through meditation before the ritual.
There are people beside her, personalities she can feel. Yamia keeps the door, cut off from the crowd, but keeping it safe. Three bronze swords and four spears are on the altar before her, three shields and four javelins make a battle line.
And Lord Raven briefly comes into sharp focus3Special on POWx3, a defined being, controlling and guiding everyone, greeting them all, letting them know about the Regiment of spirits. Varanis brings three warriors and four fyrd, and they join a line of at least fifty, under Raven’s… not command. Adjutancy. He holds a banner with a sword on it, and signs in a language that Varanis cannot read. All are as one. This is a secret of Humakt; Separation bring a new form of kin; chosen kin. The cult, and the brothers and sisters there.
And, at the same time, Lord Raven is saying to Varanis, in a voice so distant it is almost a whisper, How is Wilmskirk?
Recovering, she returns softly. Injured, but recovering. Silor is troubled. I worry, but have offered what support I can. And Berra?
A reaction. Lord Raven has opinions, and those opinions lead two ways; out into the darkness, where he thinks – not particularly fondly right now – of the ill-educated peasant priest who so surprised Eril… and that is the other direction. The Hero, concentrating on ritual, protected by Lord Raven from the distractions of being worshipped, a keen blade that dances, and a keen intellect that slices. What Varanis can sense of him is concerned4Passed POWx1, and then he notices a distraction and Varanis goes fluttering away5Failed Spirit Combat. The Wyter becomes once more a conduit that will allow offerings without the clamour of personalities.
The room around Varanis is full of people beginning to come out of their own magical trances.
She offers her final thanks to Humakt, his Hero, and the Wyter, before turning her gaze on the congregation. She looks drained but triumphant. Satisfied that all are well, she clears the way for Yamia.
—-
Silor’s house, when she returns in the early hours, has a faint smell of juniper to it, and something sweet that is not red wine.6Pass Scan
Varanis smiles, tired but content. Good. He needs his brother.
- 1Varanis passes an INT*3 to indicate she would have thought to ask.
- 2Passed Insight (Human).
- 3Special on POWx3
- 4Passed POWx1
- 5Failed Spirit Combat
- 6Pass Scan
