The Trials - Group Thread

It was pretty late in the evening when Akiros arrived in town. After losing most of his possessions back by Numeria --it was almost his own fault. He'd left the caravan, and he hadn't gone back. Still, there are things more important than money and materials-- he had done a few small jobs as hired security and mercenary work to make his way... somewhere. He hadn't really known for sure where he was going. But he knew he was going somewhere. It was one of his employers who had mentioned the Pathfinders to him back in the beginning. It made sense. Since he didn't have a destination, the Pathfinders would give him the means to walk his own roads. He had spent the last of his money getting here. If this didn't work out... well, he'd hate to think of the consequences.

He had nowhere to stay. He managed to find a cheap inn where the barkeep took enough pity on him to let him sleep in the corner (not near the fire, mind you!) in exchange for doing a little cleaning. He really must have looked like a priest of Gorum last night, but that was out of circumstance. Not devout worship. A shield for a pillow, his chainmail was his blanket. He clutched his sword tightly to guard against its theft. The shoddy wooden symbol of Gorum's sword lay beside him, not something he cares enough for to safeguard it while he sleeps. Despite the conditions, it was a one-night stay. He still has enough food in his pouch for a couple more days, and he's got some water. But he needs work if he's going to survive now.

In the morning, he starts making his way to Skyreach. Hunger grips his stomach, but he knows that he must ration what little food he has left. Passing the buildings, he does his utmost to keep his eyes fixed on his goal. He pays little attention to the things going on around him in the streets. As he approaches the crowd, he gets his share of looks. Perhaps its the heavy chainmail. Maybe the sword, shield, and symbol of Gorum. But most likely, it's the longing in his eyes that tells people why he's there. To him, the Pathfinders isn't about prestige or honor. It's a ship that will carry him wherever he must go to find what he's searching for. It's the doorway that leads to a world of pure freedom. And most importantly, it's the spell that will shatter his curse.

As he arrives, he hears the tail end of Rogar's spiel about luck. Stepping forward, he answers the question before Erol has a chance. "I can't think of anything better -or worse- than the favor of the gods. To some, it's a great blessing. To others, it's just a burden. But either way, there's no denying that it leads to glory unimagined. My name is Akiros. I come from Issia in Brevoy."

The half-elf wears his armor to its full, but keeps both sword and shield on his back. On his waist are two pouches, one of them stuffed with something lumpy, and the other is clearly filled with liquid. The only other thing he brings with him is the shoddy wooden symbol depicting Gorum's sword.

"We give to them what is theirs. They give to us what they will. Thus is has always been, and thus it will always be."

Fallim waited on the edge of the crowd. The full warmth of the day was still some hours off; he wasn't the only one with a hood up. Some of the candidates had armour far flashier than the stiffened leather at his wrists and shins, and under his coat. He wasn't the only one in the crowd with a pack, either, not with all those peddlers about. He thought about buying a souvenir, something he could send his mother, just to show he'd made it. But habit kept his coin where it was-- what he didn't spend now he could save for later.

Saving. It felt like he'd been saving all his life for something like this.

Not just the coin. He'd been working at the prison, under his mother's warding glare, for as long as he'd been big enough to carry around the bucket and the water dipper-- although most of that money just went to keeping a roof over their heads. Once he'd figured out the radiance cantrip, he'd stayed up late, yawning with the other boys, until the wealthy stumbled out of their gambling halls, so they could be swarmed with offers to light their paths home. He'd gotten up early, too, to pull weeds and run errands and do mending charms for Mistress Levya, and her sisters, and her cousins, and their aunts, and their daughters. A couple of years back, he'd gone down to the Cormorant and bought a mug of the crappy wine they had there-- nobody went to the Cormorant for wine, at least not more than once-- and proceeded to lift toast after toast to his late father, who'd died keeping the place from burning down after a brawl had gotten out of hand. Somewhere in the second hour, old Guff had yanked the long-empty mug out of Fallim's hands and traded him a few shifts behind the bar, instead. On slow nights. Every other week. "No holiday crowds either; your mother'd gut me like a fish."

And all the time, while Fallim had been keeping his head down, and nodding politely, and saying thank you, he'd been storing away not just coins, but scraps of the world outside-- the world outside the prison quarter, outside Korvosa, beyond Varisia. Every rumour, every tall tale, every shouted boast, every whispered scandal, every offhand description of a place where 'half-elf' didn't mean 'half-citizen.' Where pointed ears weren't the strangest thing you'd see on the streets, not even the strangest thing you'd see in the first five minutes-- a world chock full of astounding sights and lost marvels, scattered over distant horizons under wide blue skies, skies no iron bars could ration, no dull grey crumbling wall could hold back.

He'd been saving up coin, and knowledge. And life, the feeling of being alive. He'd felt the ache of it returning to his limbs when he hugged his mother the last time before boarding the ship. And he'd felt the rush of it, when they'd cleared Conqueror's Bay and he'd been surrounded by ocean for the first time; and those times when the master of sail had let him up into the rigging.

And now he was here! And (unlike most of everything else about which they'd laughed and lied blatantly) the pinnacle of Skyreach was everything the sailors had said it would be.

Sure, people were people everywhere you went. Nobody in Absolom was much inclined to grant anyone else the right of way. Gray Robes over there hadn't said two words in the last twenty minutes. And some of these fellows seemed to think pretty highly of themselves. But an old campaigner his mother knew in Westgate, on the strength of six weeks' acquaintance thirty years in the past, had given Fallim a clean warm bed of his own the night before, and a good breakfast before he'd left for the Lodge this morning.

And the sun had just cleared the walls. And he was alive, and free, and here.

It was time to find out what that meant.

Lars snatched a quick glance at the outstretched hand of the priest, before returning his steady gaze to the wizard. He didn't return the man's handshake as doing that would mean loosening his grip on his poleaxe - a potentially fatal mistake when faced with a wielder of foul sorcery.

Instead he offers the briefest of nods and replies 'if by exciting you mean sleeping with one eye open lest the likes of *this*', his lip curled in disdain as he indicated the robed man, 'doesn't try to lay a curse on you, then it's an experience I'll happily do without. I'd be praying hard to that god of yours that you aren't first when his evil is unleashed...as it surely will be'. He punctuated his point by hawking and spitting a gob of phlegm on the cobbled square.

Brim's eyes narrowed at the continued display of threats "Careful. Boy." Brim spats slowly "The road you are setting your eyes upon is perilous" accentuating his words by snapping his fingers twice which produces bright flashing sparks similar to steel striking flint.

Keeping a level head and crossing his arms again "I hope you manage to get past the front gate so that you might get a chance to backup your words at a later time, but I am guessing that your misplaced fear of the arcane will get you nowhere withing 'the society'. Get ready to go back crawling to the godforsaken lands that spat you out"

Rogar nods solemnly in agreement with the wizard. "I'm afraid he's right friend. The Pathfinders take all sorts, including those who use arcane magic. If you're unable to work with them, I don't think you'll get far. Why the prejudice, anyways? Did a wizard kill your family or something?"

"Saying magic is evil is like saying swords are evil. The tool makes no decisions. It lies within each person's heart to do good or evil." The half-elf warrior begins. "Distrust will protect you, but so will faith in good people. And one of these two will not isolate you from others.

There are those who look down on me, because I wear the symbol of a god who has no concern for moral codes or ethical conduct. He revels in the slaughter on the battlefield. So long as people kill one another, Gorum is happy. But you judge a person for his clothes before you judge me for my faith in a god who has no concern for mortal life? I can only wonder what sort of soul you have. I suppose time will tell. And for your own sake, I hope it is a strong one. If it is, take the blessings of Gorum with you. You will need them if you have no allies."

On the morning of the test, Jin Wei woke early, even earlier than he would usually wake. Of Minkai ancestry, his yellowish skin, short black hair and slanted eyes made him stand out even in a city like Absalom. His skin bronzed from several years at sea and the sun, Jin was clearly in excellent shape and his hands are calloused from a lot of physical work, as well as the bottoms of his feet. As he became fully awake, a smile broke out on his clean shaven face. Anticipation sang in his blood and he was eager for the events of the day to play out. Years of work had gotten Jin to this point and it all came down to today’s final test. He arose and went through his daily morning exercises, both to warm up and to cool his eagerness. Once down with that, he double-checked his gear, making sure that he had everything he thought he’d need, and then got dressed.

After leaving a note for his parents, Jin left his family home and made his way to the Foreign Quarter and to the Grand Lodge of the Pathfinder Society. As he approached his destination, he could see the gathered crowd at its gates and slowed his pace. Looking up at the towering spires of the Lodge, he reminisced on everything he had had to do to get here and what he still had yet to do. Silently sending a prayer to Desna for luck, he hoped that his quest would not end in failure. Reaching the edge of the crowd, he deftly maneuvered his way through it, apologizing politely to those he passed close to, until he reached the front gates. Seeing a small group gathered there, a large smile broke out on his face and he strode up to them. Though the group was in the middle of a spirited discussion, he called out his greeting. “Good morning. I am Jin Wei. Do I have the honor of addressing fellow applicants to the Society?”

The young man standing in front of the gate sneers as he listens to the banter. Finally, as if he has had all that he can take, he bursts out laughing. "Pathfinders!? You rotten lot think yer gonna be Pathfinders? That's a riot! My granny could wipe her arse with the lot of you. The sewer-cleaner over there has done more delving in the last two days, than the lot of you have done in all your lives." He sneers, shrugging one shoulder. "I don't make the rules here, more's the shame. Alright, give me your passes." He sticks out an expectant hand.

OOC: You were given no pass.

Jin's smile widens as he walks up to the young man. "And what would such a pass look like? One gets many passes as he goes about his business. Especially if one is charming and handsome." Though he knows that the Society doesn't have any outward badges or symbols that signify membership, Jin looks over the young man to see if he is legitimate.

The man purses his lips, looking Jin over, looking him up and down. He laughs derisively, "Charming... right. Eh, about this big, got a big stamp on it. You know." He describes a square in the air with his finger.