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    Default [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    Beneath the Delirious Moon

    Chapter 1: Autumn



    Through open passageways
    I felt my breath grow shallow
    Lend me a voice, oh God
    To scream and shout and bellow.

    –All Them Witches: “Open Passageways”, Dying Surfer Meets His Maker (2015)


    ‘Then it is agreed. May you be animated by Wit’s light—go forth, with our blessing.’ So began your errand; expeditionary into the Fringe of Bás. As furious THROM tore himself into being, your company burst forth from the Council’s Gate, striven by your great purpose and the Council’s confidence. Your task is simple at its face—appraise this land. The Highest Council desires to learn whether this apportion has become a meritorious addition to the League; whether the investment shall see full return. Moreover, you stand to be rewarded handsomely upon completion of this effort. You are expected back to the Council’s chambers in one year’s time, with report ready to be issued.

    The moon has grown fat and then starved himself into near-nothingness upon the night sky before your company arrives to the Fringe’s periphery. On the westward road you toured Primrose, homeland of Lord Crofte, the chief of your expeditionary council—there you supped plentifully and rested well. Similarly, you enjoyed the hospitality of Torre, neighbor of the Fringe and home-country of Lord Adelric de Torre of your number. Now though, the countryside has turned unkind.

    The roads are ill-worn; encroached upon by weeds and errant stones. Wagons risk their wheels and horses need be led by hand to stave off any fatal stumbles. Without fail there is a stream the trickles beside or flow directly over the footpath, making a dry passage impossible. The slopes beyond are severe, topped by dense tangles of bracken and the odd gnarled tree. The clouds billow overhead, threatening with rain.


    * * *

    As had been promised, messengers were sent ahead to herald your coming. Your first stop was at Stathes’ Crossing, wherein you met one of five nobles: Lord Randolf Tawic. Commanding the entrance to this frontier, his holding bridges the Auth at its widest and most tumultuous point locally with a thin stone passageway—the roads are more bearable leading into this place; a hub of travel to and fro. Here you glean a clear view of the Fringe’s settlers: rugged Shambryfolk mostly, with the odd Chaun or Pug making up the difference.

    Lord Tawic is a doughty man himself, eager to welcome and please. He bears a drooping mustache, and his scalp is mostly bereft of hair. Though not tall he is powerfully built, evidence of a lifetime of hard labor. His dress is plain, barring the golden torqs wound about either arm—symbols of honor to the Wallapug people. He smells of water-rotted wood.

    You spend a brief day in his company before progressing onwards to your destination: the Abbey of Dom Doren. From there you shall conduct your operations within the region, with agreement already in place to assemble the resident lords in three days’ time for council. You pass through Gristing on your way; a bustling milling town of prodigious wealth and even stone-cobbled streets, much unlike the prior hamlets that dot the roadside. If he knew of your coming, Lord Helwy Mull did not make it apparent: neither he nor any of his servants were present to greet your arrival through his lands, forcing your train to lodge in a mere roadhouse.

    The prosperity of Gristing spreads to Dom Doren, evident at your arrival by the following sundown—substantial resources have been poured into the project: a stone edifice many spans tall, circled by a wall double high as a man. Oddly, you notice the wall has no gatehouse, instead culminating in two roundels through which any might walk freely. Among the many outbuildings, throughout the vineyards and across the pastures bustle monks at their work making ready for the harvest.

    As you ride the final distance forth to the passage through, a rotund man shuffles forward to greet you, waving enthusiastically. He is of rosy complexion, with bushy eyebrows that jut from beneath his tonsure. “Good eve, dear Lords! Good eve!” his loud voice booms resoundingly, ill-practiced at quiet. “I am Abbot Aerer Caleah! Welcome to our humble house of worship! Pray your travels have been well?”


    NOTE: Having been a poor horseman in his youth and now advanced in age, Lord Crofte took to riding among the baggage. He spent much of the journey seated throughout the four carts bearing your various supplies and provisions. Currently he is at the end of the train, among the footmen.
    Last edited by Boethius Junior; 2019-04-29 at 03:08 PM. Reason: Added note

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    Faust slows his steed, a slight smile on his face as he looks upon a thriving place of Wit's light. Upon the Abbot's appearance, he halts and, still smiling, responds, "Hail Abbot Caleah! Aside from the poor roads of the outer Fringe, our travels have gone well, thank Wit; though none have greeted us so warmly as you."
    Faust is trying to make a good first impression here, by being as earnest and polite as the Abbot.
    Last edited by The Void Dragon; 2019-03-02 at 10:20 PM.

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    The Abbot's smile widens at Faust's kind words. "You humble this old fool, your grace. I am but a simple servant of Wit, who knows we need good cheer and gladness. Please, allow my brothers to tend your steeds." At his gesture a trio of monks shuffle forth to take your reins, while the Abbot bids you follow him through the passageway.

    He continues to speak idly, but once past the walls his tone shifts to a confidential whisper - though his resounding voice surely undoes any attempt at subtlety. "I surmise that Lord Mull neglected to acknowledge your passing? You must forgive him your graces; he does have his troubles, I assure you. Do not let this misfortune mar your judgement, lest the summit be endangered."

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    Lord Adalric di Torre arrives on a powerfully-built black stallion, a beast befitting the ruler of an Estate and recently inherited along with the land. Even his less elaborate travelling clothes are a brilliant white contrasted by violet trim and a red sash. A pendant bearing a golden image of the noonday sun - a local symbol of Wit - dangles from his neck. His status as an Arch-Prelate could not be more obvious to anyone with a basic education. As he grows closer to the Abbey, a genuine smile grows on his face as he perceives an echo of the familiar churches back home.

    "Hail Abbot," he says in an unquestionably superior tone, though with genuine warmth in his voice. "Adalric di Torre, Arch-Prelate of Canticles of the Torre Estate, pleased to make your acquaintance." He doesn't bow of course, that wouldn't be proper, but he does offer a friendly nod. "The journey I'm afraid has not always sat the best with me, but where Wit and duty call, who are men but to go?"
    "All generalizations are false."
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    The lord of Torre's striking presence seems to cow the Abbot, who ceases his conspiratorial tone. "Lord Adalric di Torre, welcome. I recognize your name; a dear neighbor. I am glad the Council has seen fit to send a countryman, and one who holds stake our continued well-being at that!" With sudden realization, he offers a sheepish apology to the Chaun and Wallapug of your party: "Of course meaning no offense to your graces from beyond."

    He pauses, rubbing his hands nervously, and bids you follow. Now within the confines of the wall you are greeted by rows of bustling gardens tended incessantly by further teams of monks - the air is sweet with pollen and rich herbal scents. The Abbot chatters as you walk, describing the grounds and their yield; pointing out flowers native to the Fringe and fruits of particular worth. He seems to have already forgotten his hushed words from before, leading you on towards the primary cloister.

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    “Good day, Abbot Caleah” Krasimir greets their host. His mood has been somewhat sour since Lord Mull’s neglect of hospitality and Abbot’s words don’t fully dispel his concern. Krasimir lingers a bit to direct servants and followers in unpacking and transporting their mission’s luggage. Then he quickly catches up with the rest of the group, following Abbot through the gardens. His eyes study the garden and he listens with curiosity about the local bounties of the land. Though his interest lies with local plants, he does ask Abbot Caleah “Your gardens are rich and well-tended. But I notice your walls have no gate? Why is that?”

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    "Greetings good Abbot Caleah," says Iald evenly. "I am Iald Brigson from the Heralds." As he is dressed in his travelling clothes with his hood, he is obviously not a noble, although his feather necklace does hang out. He dismounts with ease and gives the reins to the attendant who looks the most competent.
    For Iald, the journey has been incredibly slow, having been used to riding at speed. He has received far better hospitality than he usually expected delivering messages though, Lord Mull nonwithstanding. He is certainly impressed by the Abbey and its bounty, which seems incrediby prosperous.

    As they journey onwards, Iald does take some note of what the Abbot says, though some of it does go over his head. Iald says: "If I may ask, how many monks serve at this abbey?"
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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    The Abbot is delighted at Krasimir's interest in the gardens, eagerly noting the Abbey's success with grafts and the health of their apiary. "Our wines and mead might even challenge that of decadent Primrose, you know!" he titters with excitement. "You really must try them - after we sup I shall have the cellar-master select us a fine vintage."

    He continues jovially on, only finally giving pause when you ask of the missing gatehouse "Oh, that? A request of our lords', who assisted in the Abbey's construction. They asked that they never be turned away from Wit's holy house - silly, isn't it? Yet I've grown rather fond of it, myself. As we say: 'All are welcome!'"

    He spends another moment in thought at Iald's query, then answers: "Somewhere just above a dozen score, I should think. I haven't given the rosters much consideration lately, what with the harvest nearing and your coming, but we never lack for hands in Dom Doren."

    By now your party has reached the cloister; the primary structure of the Abbey, built of dun sandstone. You enter behind the Abbot through a small wooden door, emerging into a long hall of worship rowed with wooden benches. The windows are indeed glass, yet are small and emit little - despite dusk being still far off, the chamber is illuminated mostly by the flicker of candlelight. You are led on, through narrow passages and up a revolving stair until you reach the pinnacle - a tower; one of two that emerge from above the cloister. The space is cramped and dusty, yet you are provided an excellent view of the country beyond. "The other is our belfry, which I imagined would be an uncomfortable office. What's more our barracks are full, so I'm afraid this is the best we can offer. Well, I'll be leaving your graces to get settled then, unless there's anything more I can do?"
    Last edited by Boethius Junior; 2019-03-03 at 11:50 PM. Reason: Formatting

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    "I have heard the rumors, but I would know it from your own lips, Abbot." Adalric slips off his horse as his knights and retains begin unpacking around him. "How fares our faith in this land? How many truly heed the word of Wit?"
    "All generalizations are false."
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    "All proper Shambryfolk give due worship to Wit, your grace. See how many serve? We have built this Abbey as a testament to our faith; the stronghold of Witticism in the Fringe!"

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    To keep things running smoothly, I am assuming Adalric's question is answered on the way to your staging area, the tower.

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    Brysen Mock had been intrigued and excited the entire journey to the Abbey. He had never sailed this arm of the Mighty Mother Auth and was eager to see what lay in these lands. He knew one thing for certain, wherever the Auth touched, Pug-Luck grew where Wit would will them. He noted Lord Tawe's Pug armbands and filed away the detail to return to later; a potential ally, a countryman in truth or did he understand the importance of the torcs he wore?

    These were questions as he left four of his staff behind as a skeleton crew to watch the Magpie, his trusted cog in Stathes' Crossing's dock. He warns them, as always and congenially, that if anything happens to his boat, he will have them buried at the bottom of the Auth, Wit be damned.

    Lord Mull's absence and impoliteness he registers later, instructing some of his staff to go drink in the alehouses and inspect the mill. An absent Lord could either mean nothing or something, but he would learn what he could learn in any case.

    Upon reaching the Abbey, Brysen takes in the land and the edifice with an appreciative eye. Upon meeting the Abbot, Brysen sketches a comfortable bow, touching his forehead after kissing his fist in a makeshift prayer of his personal theology, a blend of the Old Ways and Wit. He hops down from the wagon Abbot Caleah, thank you for your hospitality. Wit works through you to bring these lands such ripeness. I look forward to trying the fruits of such a garden as I'm sure many others in the League would.

    Later on at their rooms, Mock nods appreciatively. A stout roof and a solid deck, what more can we ask he asks genially. Turning to his fellow travelling companions, he asks Would any of you fine men care to explore the grounds? To the Abbot, he finishes If that is acceptable, of course, Abbot Caleah, I would so enjoy hearing more about this holy place's construction, the stone for one, local? He continues to make easy small talk, ingratiating himself smoothly with their host through genuine interest.
    Last edited by atlastrembles; 2019-03-04 at 08:19 PM.

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    "Local enough, good sir," the Abbot responds, obviously pleased by the inquiry. "Quarried from Olcet, in fact, and hauled to this site at Lord Mull's expense. When the earliest Shambrymen came to the Fringe they thought those rough hills too foreboding to penetrate. Yet sure enough they held a worthy bounty in ore and stone! Many Idh wander there, curiously - sometimes they amble their way through a village; a good omen. It is said that they carved ancient roads, hidden in the deepest wilds, paths that lead the lost back home."

    A bell tolls distantly, breaking the Abbot's train of thought. He hurriedly makes ready to leave, calling back over his shoulder, "I must go, I am needed for Lectio! Feel welcome to survey the grounds your graces; the brothers have been instructed to attend your needs. The next bell shall toll for Vespers, then supper shortly thereafter." Unless you catch him in the stairwell, you are now alone in the tower.

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    "Fare thee well, Abbot," Adalric smiles as the older man vanishes from view. Once he is gone, a slightly more serious and businesslike expression takes over, and he begins the process of setting up his own quarters by performing a brief blessing on them while his retainers begin to unpack their things. Unless someone else raises an objection, his men set up in several rooms side by side in the tower, the well-armed knights taking the closest spots to their lord.

    Once the initial phase of the unpacking is over, if left to his own devices Adalric opts to wander the grounds with two of his most trusted knights in tow. He'll be observing the religious orders and rites in this wild land to see how they compare to those back home, while occasionally asking his bodyguards just how peaceful this place truly looks. He loves temples to Wit, but the Arch-Prelate has heard too many disturbing rumors about less than orthodox religious practices on the fringe of civilization to feel entirely at ease in Dom Doren just yet.
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    Iald gives a slight nod. "I would be happy to join you good sir," he says to Brysen. "It would be wise to get an idea of the grounds seeing as we are here for a few days." If nothing else, Iald thinks, he could at least talk with his companions.
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    Krasimir follows Iald, observing the grounds and nearby lands. He ends his inspection at the missing gatehouse, uttering a disapproving "harrumph". Likely the local lords saw some profit in denying monks gatehouse and dressed their ploy in the clothes of piety. What’s the purpose of wall, if there’s no gate? Tis like plowed field, without seeding, good work wasted.

    He continues to the vineyards, there’s no doubt that they would be in an excellent shape, for certainly Abbey was built on the best land and monks are all hard working, disciplined men. It’s how well the land gives elsewhere and how hardworking and honest folk outside of the abbey, what would make Krasimir’s mind. Still, it’s important to see the quality of land and how well sun nurtures the grapes here. A feeling of joy and contentment seeps into the expression of gardner, as his fingers run through the soft soil.
    Last edited by Kessler; 2019-03-05 at 05:42 AM.

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    With the chambers prepared to satisfaction your party returns to the Abbey grounds, passing back through the cloister. As you walk a low rumble reaches your ear - that of many voices raised in song, vibrating through the stone passages as breath through the body. Those among you of religious authority recognize their words as being cruthic, an old tongue which is said to predate the settlement of the Wüvd; spoken by the very first of pilgrims. Though modern teachings of Witticism do not strictly mandate its use for the reciting of canticles, neither is it considered an impropriety. Most deem it merely an outdated orthodoxy.

    You emerge from the edifice into the warmth of the late afternoon sun, and find the gardens empty of their previous bustle. Scant few monks remain but to walk the walls or tend necessary tasks, the majority evidentially retreating within for prayer. If you press them, they answer your questions with deference - they respond with proper scripture to any theological matters, though you who are of knowledge recognize their positions as generally antiquated.

    Krasimir's appraisal of the Abbey's soil finds it to be of excellent quality, and that due diligence has been given to the arrangement of their pastures. Of the twelve crofts that immediately surround the Abbey's wall, one-third have been left to fallow while barley, wheat, and vegetables occupy the remainder. Orchards of apple and pear, plus an extensive vineyard, have all been impeccably tended.

    Meanwhile Brysen finds some of the information he seeks within the stables. There a dozen oxen, at least forty goats, and many hogs are kept. The stablemaster explains that their foodstuffs, and especially their drink, are the monks' greatest exports, trade in return for smithing and other labors which cannot be managed by the Abbey alone. He claims they produce written works secondarily, providing manuscripts and records upon demand. Furthermore, he states that the entirety of their harvest is milled at Gristing - "As are the grains of nearly all the Fringe, your grace." He directs you back to the Abbot should you wish to know more.

    The afternoon passes lazily in this way, until you hear the final bell tolling for supper. The weather has inspired an outdoor meal, and you return to find rows of tables being lain in the garden. Above the clattering of the crowd, you hear your names being called - Lord Crofte and the Abbot beside him are seated at a round table, beckoning you to join them. You are offered an aperitif of spiced wine, of which your dining partners are currently enjoying.

    "My dear fellows, are you well? I feel as though I have said not a word to each of you all day long!" gushes Lord Crofte, genuine concern showing in his voice. "I was just speaking with this good friar, who tells me you are all smart as whips - all ready to drive straight for business. Surely there is time enough to smell the roses? This wine makes me feel as though I am back home!"

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    After a lazy afternoon revealed nothing of great interest and no heretical conspiracies, the young nobleman shows up for supper in a markedly improved mood. Adalric accepts the spiced wine graciously. "No one like roses better than I my good Lord Crofte." he takes a sip of the wine, silently comparing it to the vintages back home and tasting the similarities. "And I cannot speak for my companions. But as for myself, I would not leave my Estate alone for too long. There are roses enough for me there, I think." Adalric sighs a little and takes another drink. "But I'm sure you don't want me to bring down your cheer with homesickness, so by all means let's hear about the roses. I'm eager to hear tales of beauty and joy, they might just take my mind off the saddle sores." He smiles a little self-depreciatingly.
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    Faust joins the table, a pleasant grin on his face. "To be honest, Lord Crofte, I haven't done anything but 'smell the roses' since we've arrived. It's nice to be surrounded by Wit's ordered growth after having spent so much time in the wilderness, myself. I could stand to hear some more." After some more casual conversation with Lord Crofte, Faust turns to the Abbott; "Good Abbot Caleah, would you mind if I attended one of your services tomorrow? It has been some time since I last heard a proper sermon, even if you don't include the Prophet in your teachings." The grin becomes a little more awkward at that realization.

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    Lord Crofte chuckles at Adalric's quip, gently teasing: "You should have joined me in the wagons, my lord. A much more pleasant way to journey, I've always thought." He pauses to take a deep draught from his glass, then holds it aloft to inspect the drink within. "Perhaps not a rose," he sighs, "but a very fine specimen all the same." The talk becomes plain for a short while thereafter; conversation civil yet utterly inane. The dinner procession bring welcome relief to the formality. While your men are served hardy stew and bread, the Abbey has prepared pickled game-hen, marmalade, and savory custards for your table - along with more of their wine.

    When Faust addresses the Abbot, he is stricken by a visible unease. "The Prophet, eh? Yet does Wit teach charity. You shall allow your presence among the enclave at Prote, though I do ask you remain quiet during song."

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    Iald gives a very slight bow of defference to Lord Croft. "The way it seems for me, as long as we are in a garden, we are able to do both at once." With that said, he takes a sip of wine, and sits down.
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    Meanwhile Brysen finds some of the information he seeks within the stables. There a dozen oxen, at least forty goats, and many hogs are kept. The stablemaster explains that their foodstuffs, and especially their drink, are the monks' greatest exports, trade in return for smithing and other labors which cannot be managed by the Abbey alone. He claims they produce written works secondarily, providing manuscripts and records upon demand. Furthermore, he states that the entirety of their harvest is milled at Gristing - "As are the grains of nearly all the Fringe, your grace." He directs you back to the Abbot should you wish to know more.
    Brysen makes a mental note of the inventory and the circular trade relationship between the Abbey and Gristing. Nothing surprising in the flow of agricultural goods in return for raw materials and skilled labour. However, his interest is piqued about the Abbey's services around manuscripts and records on demand. He would dearly love to know more about the kind of writing coming out of such a unique place, perhaps there was a market for such specialty goods back in the League proper. Nobles and the other educated classes were always eager for novelty and the work of a fringe monastery in a dangerous and unexplored corner of the Wuvd would be novel indeed! He thanks the stablemaster and flips him a coin for his trouble; as always, an investment that might pay off in the future.

    Quote Originally Posted by Boethius Junior View Post
    The afternoon passes lazily in this way, until you hear the final bell tolling for supper. The weather has inspired an outdoor meal, and you return to find rows of tables being lain in the garden. Above the clattering of the crowd, you hear your names being called - Lord Crofte and the Abbot beside him are seated at a round table, beckoning you to join them. You are offered an aperitif of spiced wine, of which your dining partners are currently enjoying.

    "My dear fellows, are you well? I feel as though I have said not a word to each of you all day long!" gushes Lord Crofte, genuine concern showing in his voice. "I was just speaking with this good friar, who tells me you are all smart as whips - all ready to drive straight for business. Surely there is time enough to smell the roses? This wine makes me feel as though I am back home!"
    Very well indeed Lord Crofte! We have been occupied exploring the Abbey and its bounty, which you have so astutely begun to sample while we laggards have naught to show but dusty boots and sweaty tunics! The time is absolutely right to be smelling the roses, and this wine I dare say! Brysen appreciatively takes a sniff and then a deep drink from his spiced wine. He savours the rich taste - so much more nuanced than the burning grog he had grown up drinking on the Auth. As they eat, he turns to address both the Abbot and Lord Crofte So, my Lord, Abbot, I am surprised Lord Mull was not present to greet us in Gristing. Surely all is well with him?
    Last edited by atlastrembles; 2019-03-07 at 10:44 AM.

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    If Faust's request fouled the Abbot's mood, the atmosphere surely fares no better as Brysen diverts the topic to Lord Mull. In fact, the talkative Abbot seems nearly at a lose for words; making several false starts before finally clearing his throat and beginning once again. "We have...much to owe Lord Mull, and I mean that truly. Yet the others, and Wit forgive me for saying so, do not share my opinion - they consider him the most feeble of their number. I admit he has his flaws, as can be seen by his treatment of your graces..." Here becomes firm: "Nonetheless, his knowledge of quarrying and milling is invaluable to the Fringe."

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    Faust tips his glass towards Abbot Caleah, saying"Food and shelter often are. Still, could you tell us the nature of his troubles? It wouldn't do to look shocked upon meeting him at the summit; better to clear any surprises now." He then tilts the glass back into his mouth, clearly enjoying the vintage.

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    "Yes," Adalric agrees, holding his wine delicately between three fingers but no longer drinking. "Since the nature of our enterprise will entail serious labor, let us get it all in the open before we're all too inebriated to understand it properly." He smiles slightly. "What do you know of Lord Mull? And for that matter, the other Lords we are to meet with? It is always better to be prepared."
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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    Krasimir shows a good appetite at the table, minding his manners and speaking few words, so as not to commit a faux pas. Eventually he asks Abbot about geography of Fringe of Bas. “From the maps I’ve studied before our departure, the land seems to be split in the middle by mountains. One must cross Affers Bridge and what I assume to be a mountain pass to cross from Gristing to the towns north. Or go around them to Udwold or fork in the road at Stathis Crossing. Do you know, how is travel in Fringes of Bas? Are roads safe and passable in all seasons?”

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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    Abbot Caleah frowns, his aggravation at odds with his usually blithe demeanor. "I cannot break the sanctity of confession, your graces - I have been entrusted by Lord Mull to keep my word, a confidence that has been endowed by Wit. What I can tell you is that his lordship in Gristing is the only man to whom the mysteries of stone-carving have been so thoroughly unraveled. He is a miller par excellence, and there are none beside throughout the whole Fringe. All who grow must pay for his services, or tender crops that do not need them."

    Here he turns to answer Krasimir's call: "You are correct sir - the pass of which you speak is named Lilde's Slip, which links Unwald to Affers' Bridge, and is the gate to Gristing in the east. Unless one wishes to pay the tolls of Wodengard, that is. Lord Shawe rules there; he possesses the greatest strength of arms among the lordship, and would not have them forget it - though his parcel of land is least among them. His charter was granted with the belief that the south was needing of combat with axe and fire, to rid us of wicked forests. Toady, this battle has long been won."

    "Thus access of Udwald and Scawic to trade with the Fringe's southern bound has been stifled by distance and cost. I can tell you this: Lords Zarboch and Croom, respectively, do not take kindly to their treatment of late." He sighs, and slumps back in his seat. "Yet am I merely a servant of god - I know not how to address these matters."

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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    Iald has been enjoying the wine and food greatly while the others had begun asking the Abbot. Finishing a mouthful he chimes in: "That reminds me, where are the trades dispersed? If Lord Mull knows of Stone-carving, do other Lords have such singular knowledge of trades?"
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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    A dispute over tolls and trade is seldom an easy affair.” Krasimir glances at his companions as he sips wine, enjoying it's taste. "Well, if this wine flows freely at the summit, we may find a way to understanding and common ground, that much easier." He smiles at Lord Crofte and Abbot.

    Krasimir continues conversation “I’m heartened to hear that wildness has been tamed in the south of Fringe, for nothing is more beautiful, then land civilized with love and care.“ Still, he certainly would wish to ascertain whether land is truly tamed with his own eyes. “What of the folk? Are children plentiful and healthy? Are there many men arriving to find their fortune here?

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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    The Abbot continues to fidget and stumble through his answers, as though taken by a sudden weariness. "The nobles are not themselves of singular purpose, though their charters have all been signed thusly. Their mottos tell as much - the House of Tawic, 'Astride Thy Fury'. You see? Someone surely had a laugh at that." Lord Crofte chuckles softly at the remark.

    "As for fortune and family, we have our plenty. Near to the Abbey you will find few who are wanting; you see how the lords' generosity has built this house for Wit. Those who lack are well cared for."

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    Default Re: [The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

    Quote Originally Posted by Boethius Junior View Post
    The Abbot continues to fidget and stumble through his answers, as though taken by a sudden weariness. "The nobles are not themselves of singular purpose, though their charters have all been signed thusly. Their mottos tell as much - the House of Tawic, 'Astride Thy Fury'. You see? Someone surely had a laugh at that." Lord Crofte chuckles softly at the remark.

    "As for fortune and family, we have our plenty. Near to the Abbey you will find few who are wanting; you see how the lords' generosity has built this house for Wit. Those who lack are well cared for."
    We don't doubt it, Abbot, for the truth of your words is in the very wine and food we enjoy tonight. Yet it is all too clear that among the Lords, pride comes before cooperation all too often. Wit would have us all strive for our own elevation, yet storms and shadows wash over us all, rich and poor alike. We must weather such tribulations together, rather than apart, for their are dissonant forces in the wilds that threaten our Harmony.

    Brysen turns to his fellows with a pointed look and clears his throat diplomatically. But come, comrades, our thirst for gossip and intrigue after many days on the road threatens the conviviality of this gathering. Let us enjoy our food and wine and the blessing of company and pester not the Abbot further. We test his grace with such questions. A toast, to Wit, the Abbot, and the wonder that is Dom Doren in the Fringe. Brysen holds up his wineglass and toasts the host.

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