A Matter of Faith
Patriarch Olliver Jowett

"Father Diadane; please see to the preparations for travel. I’d like to leave as soon as we can"
Bishop Norbert Diadane

Baudry Diggle

Patriarch Olliver Jowett

"You did right to speak, Master Diggle. The suffering of your people will not be ignored." he turns again to Father Diadane "See that this matter is brought to the Duke's attention the next time he comes to pray. Make him understand it is a matter close to my heart."
Bishop Norbert Diadane


Although the 8 coins in his pocket says that he will not be doing it as a richer man. And since he hasn't had time to hunt and such, he has no furs that he can trade in for coin. So, anything major is off the board as well as much of any new purchases.
He awaits to hear more about needed preparations for the travels. He knows that he has a meager weeks' worth of iron rations still. He asks curiously, "If we aren't leaving the city just yet. Is there a fine place to stay?" One must always consider one's tummy.
He hopes the Duke can aid Baudry Diggle. Bishop Norbert has been quiet moving. He always has a soft spot for religious types anyway.
I suppose I’ll use my Longsword, he says. Funny…I have less devotion to that weapon now, and I’m more drawn to the two-hander. I really need to get it identified, the two-handed I mean. But…I also don’t want to draw too much…well, undue attention.
"Ser Henry Ashworth!"
The crowd cheered from the wooden bleachers when the herald called the name of Will’s next opponent. From your position behind the gate, you can see him stepping into the arena, a tall and imposing figure in gleaming silver plate with gold enamelled trims. Not one for theatrics, he ignores the crowd and walks right into the center of the ring, lowering the visor of his helmet and lifting his kite shield up, already positioning it between him and his opponent.
You already fought four bouts today, and each has taken their mark. The duels are fought with wooden weapons, but that doesn’t mean you can escape completely unscathed. Your shield arm aches, and you have more than a couple of bruises from where the blows slipped past your guard in the previous match. But now you are in the final four. One more victory, and you would earn your place in the finals.
"- and his opponent" the crier raises his voice over the crowd’s "Will Winter!"
Herald

Miyana:
The archery competition was held at the edge of the fairgrounds, far away from the melee ring, in a long open field cordoned off by ropes and banners. The targets stood fifty feet downrange; round straw bull’s eyes with painted circles in blue, red, and gold.
A wooden stand had been erected for the nobility, but the commoners were forced to crowd along the sidelines. There were far fewer spectators than at the melee, and quieter too. More respectful. No one dared to break one of the archer’s concentration by cheering or clapping.
And also unlike the melee, the archery field had drawn many common folk to compete (a bow was simpler to come by than a full suit of armor), but as the final round began only one commoner remained; Miyana, which also made her the only Traladaran.
"Archers! Take position!"
One by one, the remaining competitors took their place behind the firing line after being called by the herald.
"Three arrows per round. Highest scorers advance."
He blew his horn, then stepped back behind the firing line
"Loose them when ready!"
Bertram

Boudica found herself sitting in a small room lined with bookshelves. The small polished table between her and the man she paid to see was neatly organized, with a couple of stacked books, a few blank parchments, and an inkwell with a quill pen in it.
The scholar was older, a bit stooped, with a neatly groomed, graying beard. He gave her a quick look as he stepped into the room, surprised to find a young woman waiting for him. But after adjusting his robe, he lowered himself into the opposite chair, and offered her a polite, inquisitive smile.
"Good afternoon. I'm Bertram Page, Scholar Emeritus of the Archaeological Society. How may I be of assistance?"
Barns finds himself within the walls of the Magicians’ Guild compound in Specularum, a sprawling enclave granted by the Duke himself. After checking his sigil and admitting him inside, he is free to walk around the paved paths wrapping around the towers, domed study halls, and dormitories. Several young teens in their dark robes quickly walk past him, some excited about being done with the day's lesson, while others carry their tomes close to their chest, obviously stressed out over their studies. He can spot some of the older wizards around, some in deep discussion with their peers, or just lost in thought on their way back from their labs.
You make your way toward the grand library, where rows of bookshelves stretch across multiple levels, all carefully preserved by magical enchantments. You take a moment to browse, eventually settling on a volume of basic enchantments to read, but barely half an hour goes by before you are interrupted by a voice:
"Excuse me, are you Barns?" the young apprentice can’t be older than fifteen. The boy glances at him only briefly, already certain of the answer. "Wizard Edmund Bryson has requested to see you in his office"

Barns thanks the lad, and he returns the tome he was interested in before he leaves with him for guidance to Wizard Edmund Bryson. "Yes. I am Wizard Barns." He throws in a title to make him appear more impressive. He is after all going to see a real important Wizard. Although he doesn't look like a wizard for sure with his simple clothing and arms but that has always been the intention.
Rolls
Archery competition - (1d20+2, 1d20+2, 1d20+2)
1d20+2 : (8) + 2 = 10
1d20+2 : (20) + 2 = 22
1d20+2 : (9) + 2 = 11
Edmund Bryson

The office itself is modest, with little more than a desk, and a couple of two pale blue crystals resting on a small brass tray, both of them emitting a barely audiable hum. When Barns enter, Edmund rises and without a word tap each of the crystal with his wand. The glow and the humming both stop instantly
"Journeyman Barns. Thank you for coming. I appreciate your time. Please, have a seat"
He motions with his wand at one of the chair, before tucking it back into his belt
"How long has it been since you completed your studies? I hope the last few years have found you well?
Bertram

Bertram sinks into quite contemplation as he thinks how to start to address her questions. She can notice the spark of excitement in his eyes; history is obviously a passion of his, and he is happy to share it with anyone who would seek it.
"Well. There’s not much that can be said of Petra with any real certainty. We’re dealing with tales at least a millennium old. The Traldarans kept no written records of that era. What we know comes from oral tradition" He reaches to one side and checks the notes on his scroll, one of the foundations for the new book he is authoring about the ancient history of Karameikos.
"The Archaeological Society have compiled no fewer than twenty-seven distinct versions of the Song of Halav. Most differ only in minor phrasing or emphasis. But some include entire verses others omit, or invent new ones entirely. It is fascinating, really; my next study tries to correlate the versions with the geographical areas in which they were found. By careful examination of the subtle differences between the versions, and their evolution, I hope to find where the Song originated," he notices he was rambling, and with a tight smile goes back to topic of her questions.
"At any rate, across these variants, a few threads usually remain consistent. Petra is described as a queen, or at least the leader, of Karakatos, a settlement believed to have stood somewhere in what is now the Old City of Specularum. But," he adds with a slight shrug "who’s to say whether she ever truly lived? These stories may be no more than legend, shaped and reshaped across generations"
He pauses. He didn’t miss that she was a Traladaran, and her faith was likely important to her. But he was a scholar first, and the truth mattered to him more than the risk of offending her
"Even the true names of these 'heroes' have been lost to time. ‘Halav,’ for example, simply means ‘man of Lav’. And ‘Petra’? Linguistically, it’s a word that can be traced to the ancient Kheptahr tongue. It literally means ‘Rock’, likely a description of her steadfast, enduring personality"
He nods gently at her "Perhaps Petra wasn’t Traladaran at all. Perhaps she was a heroine among the primitive Kheptahr peoples, who later migrated here and merged with the local tribes. Her name and deeds may have been absorbed into the Traladaran mythos, altered, idealized, and finally canonized as faith."
The other archers around Miyana release their arrows one by one. All of them are focused as she is, and once they are all done and lower their bows, the referees spring into action, rushing to inspect the targets and award the points to each contender.
Rolls
Archery: rolling for the other contenders - (9d20)
(3815151258144) = 84