Tag: Chiaroscuro

Lightholder Tavern <Palace District>

It is said – primarily by the proprietor, a jovial merchant-classer named Solas Creek – that all roads in Fastheld lead to the Lightholder Tavern. On any given night, it’s not hard to see why he might justify such a claim.

The pub, which started centuries ago as a small refreshment wagon for laborers building Fastheld Keep atop Caryas Hill, sees boisterous crowds filling its rafters with laughter and pipe smoke at all hours of the day and night as travelers make their way through the realm.

About three dozen tables are arranged among the polished wooden columns on which hang the wrought-iron lanterns that help give the tavern its name. Solas or one of his assistants can usually be found working behind a wide C-shaped counter, serving mugs of keg-tapped ale to thirsty patrons who stand at the bar.

The floor is strewn with amber rushes, except in a circle of about twenty feet in diameter, where the stone fireplace and chimney rise toward the ceiling.

Solas Creek is behind the counter, pouring another mug of ale from a wooden keg. He slides the battered cup across the counter to the waiting customer.

Ezirith enters the tavern, looking around. Ezi seems to be going to lengths to stay out of the way of anyone who’s higher class than her…which is pretty much everyone within eyesight and then some.

Into the tavern march a couple of the Emperor’s Blades, accompanied by a fist-faced man – a scowling man whose features all seem to squeeze in toward his blunt nose – wearing a simple brown cloak and bearing the signature wooden staff of a priest in the Church of True Light.

Ezirith cringes back from both the Blades and the priest – although since she’s a peasant, she probably has good reason for trying to avoid the Blades at least; peasants don’t get trials.

The crowd hushes and parts like the high grass before a surging wildcat as the priest and his escorts approach the counter. They pay little heed to the peasant girl. The priest gets to the counter and scowls at the bear-like barkeep: “Solas, we have heard that one touched with the Shadow was seen at the crossroads this day. Did you bear witness?”

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That time on Chiaroscuro when Arkady wouldn’t give his blessing… 

Residence <Silkfield>

The spiraling stone stairs lead from the receiving hall to this cavernous, chill chamber of torch-lit stone shadows. The walls are festooned with the twisted visages of sneering, leering and snarling gargoyles with horns and fangs and wildling claws, gazing down on those who inhabit the residence as if prepared to pounce.

Jamot Seamel, first master of the Brooding Keep, carved the exquisite sculptures from gray marble taken from a quarry in the River District and, in the third year of marriage to Anae Nillu, had his vassals install the sculptures as a ward against the Shadow’s Touch. In the fourth year of their marriage, shortly after Anae celebrated her nineteenth birthday, one of the sculpted gargoyles cracked and fell from its stone perch as she strolled beneath it.

The blunt force of the marble form did considerable damage to her head, but the blow was not instantly fatal. She lingered for six weeks while the healers ministered to her, and while Jamot struggled to keep hope and faith against the misery of realizing that what had been meant to protect his beloved, created by his own hand, had felled her.

A gap exists in the circle of gargoyles – the fallen sculpture never got replaced in this chamber that became known as the Sorrow Vault.

Arkady yells, “Fat Arkady! The Shadow take you, keep your bloody hands off that gargoyle!”

Standing near the top of the stairs, the stout form of Arkady waggles a beefy finger at a particularly obese younger version of himself, who is trying to grab at a gargoyle perched on a pedestal. Other boys, ranging in age from toddler to teen, move among the gargoyles. Some boys are tall. Some are short. Some are skinny. A couple are fat. Some are hairy. Some are hairless. All seem to be just a step away from getting into deep trouble with the older man. “Now, I mean it! Hands off the sculptures! This is why we have nothing nice, lads!”

Chamber doors fling open and out staggers Jafron. Barefoot and with mussy hair, the noble frantically buttons his silken shirt before spotting his new guests. His face is crimson in an instant and he freezes mid-button. An instinct from deep within suggests to the soldier that if he should remain perfectly still, and make not so much as a whimper, he shall go unnoticed.

Arkadia brushes her unbound hair back over her shoulders as she hurriedly steps out of the suite *right* behind Jafron, almost running right into him. She tugs at her clothing and tries to cast a quick, reassuring smile toward the nobleman, but her own face is rosy with heat. There’s a glimmer of mischievous merriment twinkling in the girl’s green eyes, however. “Papa! What are -you- doing here? And with the -boys-!”

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That time on Chiaroscuro when Orell Mikin accidentally trampled a tower guard…

Watchtower <Palace District>

A squared-off wooden tower with window openings on all four sides, giving shift watchmen an unimpeded view of the Imperial Thoroughfare and the surrounding territory. A ladder leads about fifteen feet down toward street level.

The watchtower creaks under the weight of Sprinter, who whinnies in fear, his hooves sliding on the floorboards as they sway beneath the unaccustomed weight. The horses head snaps about wildly.

Two Bladesmen in the watchtower turn to see the horse and its rider trotting into the cramped base of the watchtower. “Light keep us…what *are* you doing, sir?”

From Sprinter’s saddle, Orell Mikin looks down from his horse, at the bladesmen, “Quick, men, help me hold the horse steady, ” as he pulls steadily back on the reins to hold his horse steady.

As he pulls back on the reigns, the horse whinnies again, its teeth closing around the bit. The beast’s eyes roll back in its head as a sound comes from deep within its broad chest, and its front hooves fly up, pawing at the air and starting the approaching guardsmen.

Holding on tightly to the horse’s neck, Orell Mikin manages to stay on the horse. He shakes his head, as he grits his teeth and steadily tugs on Sprinter’s reins as he whispers in its ears, “Come on, boy, easy…. Relax.”

One brave bladesman dodges to try to get past the flailing hooves, but one iron shod hoof hits him squarely in the chest. The bladesman crumbles to the ground and the horse balances on his rear hooves, bucking wildly, then drops and bucks the rear hooves, now with the bit in his teeth, trying to throw the rider and bolt for the door.

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