A Matter of Faith

Gently rolling fields welcome you as you emerge from the thinning woodland. Low stone walls and wooden fences divide the land into neat, carefully cultivated plots. Tall poles topped with fluttering rags make for crude scarecrows, stand watch among the crops. In the distant horizon, you spot the silhouettes of farmhouses, barns, and grain silos of the nearby farmlands.

It’s early afternoon, and the day’s work is all but over. Farmers, behind their ox-drawn plows, begin the slow walk back toward home. A few goats and pigs roam near the dirt road, and off to the side, a small boy busy herding a flock of geese, stops to curiously stare once he notices you walking out of the woods.

The broad avenue bends past the Thyatian Church—a proud stone building fronted with a high bell‑tower. And that is where the easy bustle of the city suddenly sours. There is a crowd of townsfolk, all Traladaran, blocking the roadway in front of the church's gates. Dozens of men brandishing pitchforks, cudgels, and lit torches. They are angry and shout curses at the men inside. Many more people hurry in from the side alleys, swelling the crowd by the minute.

A few knights in armor, and swords already drawn, stand ready on the steps of the church, beyond the steel gate. They shield a handful of white-faced clerics behind them, and the panicked parishioners inside the church

Before you can get any closer, one of the city guard strides across the street:
"Hold up, travelers," his voice is low but urgent "Best take Cypress Lane round the block. Temple Square’s turning ugly. Go on. This way." He gestures you toward a side street flanked by tall warehouses, keeping his eyes on the crowd the entire time, as if expecting the first spark at any moment.

"They blame one of the holy men for the murder of a young boy" the guard says gruffly "The sheriff already has him in custody, but that's not enough for them" the clamoring of the crowd for 'justice' seems to corroborate his words "Best be on your way. The Sheriff is already on his way with reinforcements. You don't want to be here for long, in case things get ugly"

"It's Gunther" the guard tells Boudica without mentioning his last name, as if he expects her to know who the priest was "I don't recall the name of the child. Now - please move along" the guard decides it is best to prevent even MORE people from joining the mob, but there are so few of them, and people are coming out of the nearby streets in droves.

The streets are quiet by the time you make your way to the inn. The familiar scent of smoke and roasting meat hangs faintly in the air, but the usual chorus of laughter and raised mugs is conspicuously absent. There are only a handful of patrons inside. Most of the Traladaran regulars, it seemed, have chosen not to gather tonight.

The innkeeper is happy to see you, and even gives you rooms in a discounted price (no use in letting them stay empty for the night). Moryana, who enjoyed sampling new unfamiliar dishes during dinner, is visibly relieved to have a warm bed to sleep in. She was starting to worry they might abandon her, and her anxiety disappeared as soon as you stepped into the inn.

The streets are rather quiet the next morning. People talk between themselves in hushed tones, save for the children running up and down the street. The ‘town criers’ have been tasked with announcing the Baron’s new edicts – curfew at sundown. Everyone must stay indoors once the sun has set, to keep the peace.

You can spot the signs of the previous night’s unrest once you reach the church. There is a bit of blood staining the cobblestones in the main square. Shattered glass, discarded rocks, and broken pitchforks.

Several town guards stand at attention near the church gates, clad in chain and tabards bearing the baron’s sigil. They glance at you when you approach, and one of them, a tall man with a deep scar across his cheek, steps forward and holds up his hand:

"Hold. By order of the Baron, no armed or armoured persons may enter the grounds. Given the situation, we can’t risk any provocations" he looks at you, almost appologeticly. He knows you don’t look like members of a mob, but orders are orders. "You will need to leave your weapons and armor here if you want to speak with anyone inside"

You line up by the gate and surrender your weapons. The guards take them off your hands and place them carefully on a nearby bench. But when the guard reaches to take Will's massive bronze sword, he pauses as soon as the blade is laid in his hands. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, it looks like he forgets himself.

The shine of the bronze, which gleams as if it were forged only yesterday, and the deep, warm hue of the blade grip his attention
He turns it slowly, transfixed, and mutters under his breath

"This is… this is no ordinary blade" there is a moment where it seems like he might insist it be left behind, like the other blades, but something holds him back. He looks up at Will, then down again at the sword, and shakes his head "I can't be responsible for a relic like this" he finally says, and hands the blade back to Will, with reverence. "Take it. Just—just keep it sheathed while inside."

16th of Fyrmont, Gromdain

These are the final days of summer. The weather is getting cooler now; low clouds hang in the skies, occasionally shedding a light drizzle, and the light breeze is replaced by an occasional gust strong enough to cause ripples in the water. You’ve been following the Duke’s road along the Windrush river for the last three days. The road to Lav (Kelvin) still stretches before you, and it can easily be another week before you reach your destination.

It's near the end of the day that you reach Verge; a new stone castle strategically built on a gentile hill overlooking the River. A modest settlement began to grow beneath it, next to the riverbank; a cluster of fishing shacks and lean-tos that were already showing signs of permanence. There is smoke curling from the chimneys, and a few fishing boats tied up between the reeds.

You’ve been on the road for three days, it's getting dark, and this is the first settlement you’ve encountered since you left Threshold.
What do you do?

You are shown to the guest quarters - a couple of private rooms along the western wing of the keep. They are plainly decorated, but bright and clean, and fresh linens are already laid across the beds. There are hot baths ready for you, and the servant girls even suggest taking your clothes to be cleaned and dried for tomorrow.

It is nice to relax, after a few days on the road. But you've barely finished drying off and dressing again when a knock comes at the door, and you're invited to join the Lord and the Lady for dinner. After a quick trip through the central corridors, you are eventually led to the dining hall; a cozy rectangular chamber with a long wooden table running down the center, already set with ceramic plates, a few goblets, and a pair of brass candlesticks. There are a few old portraits hanging on the walls, and a rug covering parts of the stone floor - on top of which lies a massive black hound, too sleepy to lift its head up when you enter the room.

*********


20th of Fyrmont, Loshdain


Three days pass on the road. The rain falls steadily throughout your travel. The water drips steadily from your hoods, soaking your bags, and forcing you to keep your gear wrapped in oiled leather, especially spellbooks, maps, or books, to keep them from getting damp. Luckily, the duke’s road is paved, else you would have to track through the mud, but veer off the road, and you will find your journey a lot less pleasant.

It is noon when you reach Highwater. A small, squat castle built on a small island bulging on the Windrush River. The keep sits only a mere twenty feet above the surrounding waterline, which defends it from all three sides with only a narrow bridge as an access point – a perfect choke point for any would-be attackers.

The castle isn't directly in your way, but as you follow the bend in the road, a patrol steps into view ahead. Five men in chain shirts, cloaks pulled tight over their heads. They move along each other, boots squishing on the wet ground, and one of them raises a gloved hand as they approach:

"Morning, adventurers!" he calls over the rain "A moment of your time"

The guard let out a long sigh, water dripping from his nose onto his chainmail. It doesn't look like he's enjoying himself either
"We've got a logging camp not far from the road down south. There've been some...odd occurrences lately. They have half a mind to pack up and leave" he looks between the rest of his men, then back at you "We’re stretched thin, but if truth be told, we’re not equipped for whatever’s out there. If you lot are willing, maybe you can do some good."

"A couple of hours' walk down south. Then two or three more once you veer from the Duke's road into the dirt path" or 'mud' path, if the guard was to be more precise. Describing the trouble, however, is a bit more complicated for him to do "Something about....rabid animals. Best you ask them about it when you get there"

You make your way off the main road and down the muddy track into the edgd of the woods. The rain continues to falls steadily, even harder as the sun begins to set above you. As you approach the camp, the forest presses in on all sides; tall pine and dense undergrowth so thick you can see past the first rows of trees.

The logging camp ahead is in a complete state of disarray. What was once a rough but orderly worksite now looks as though something massive tore through it. Tents lie flattened or half-shredded, a wagon has been upended, and tools are scattered across the ground.

The shaken, tried loggers, all men, move through the wreckage, shoulders hunched and soaked to the bone. They work in silence or mutter curses under their breath, lifting tarps, righting barrels, salvaging what they can.

Two figures lie beneath a crude tent fashioned from oilcloth. One is unmistakably dead; his chest collapsed, legs twisted, eyes staring glassily at the sky. The other groans, clutching his side where a jagged wound seeps blood through layers of soaked fabric. His face is pale, and his breathing is shallow. It looks like he isn't long for the world, despite the attempts of a third man kneeling beside him to presses down with a shaking hand to stop the bleeding

Boudica kneels beside the wounded man, murmuring a quiet prayer to Petra. A gentle warmth spreads from her hands, and the bleeding stops almost immediately, the torn flesh knitting itself closed. The man stirs for a moment, looking at you with quiet awe, before he slips back into unconsciousness.

You make your way beneath the dripping trees, the rain still falling around you. The sounds of the camp fade behind, replaced by the soft patter of rain on leaves and the squelch of boots in wet soil. After a short walk, you come upon the clearing where the loggers had been working.

Axes, saws, and iron wedges are scattered across the muddy ground, between the felled trees and chopped logs. It’s not hard to spot the trail. There are animal tracks everywhere, cutting through the underbush in a very wide path of broken branches and trampled shrubs. But something is strange; the trail doesn’t just lead away from the camp. It leads back.

Multiple tracks go both directions, back and forth through the same passage. If this was truly a stampede, a panicked flight from danger… why did the animals return? It doesn't make sense that they would double back toward whatever sent them fleeing in the first place.

A few minutes more of walking along the tracks, and you spot it. A small, wrinkled-skin grey mouse, hops though the mud ahead of you. It is oddly focused, stopping every few feet to sniff the earth, its whiskers twitching before it dashes forward again, running around the big puddles as it continues along the animal trail.

It hasn’t noticed you yet, you think. It’s small and quick, but if you hurry, you might just catch up to it; assuming it doesn’t vanish into the forest once it realizes you're pursuing it.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Will can hear a palm slapping against a forehead

26th of Fyrmont, Nytdain

Kelvin, known in elder times as Lav, is one of the oldest cities in all of Karameikos. Standing where three mighty rivers meet (the Highreach, Windrush, and Hillfollow*), it was a major trading hub long before the Thyatians ever set foot in Traladara. In fact, The Song of Halav names it as the birthplace of the hero king himself, Ha-Lav, and the ancient stonework at the city centre stands as a monument to the time when Lav was the beating heart of a nascent civilization, before it descended into a millennia-long Dark Age.

Today, it is a different city - renamed for Baron Kelvin, the Thyatian noble who took stewardship under the Duke’s charter. With a population nearing twenty thousand, Kelvin is second only to Specularum in size and significance. It is a military stronghold, a center of trade, and; perhaps most importantly to some; a spiritual capital. The Church of Thyatis has its strongest presence here outside the capital.

Baron Desmond Kelvin is also devout servant of the Church; a ranking member of the Crystal Order, that austere brotherhood of warrior-priests sworn to defend the faith. He has shaped the city in the Church’s image; Tall new spires pierce the skyline, while Shrines to Halav, Petra, and Zirchev still exist, but they are few and growing fewer. New ones are not permitted, and old ones are allowed to fall into disrepair. The baron actively incentivizes conversion to the Church of Thyathis: those who convert enjoy reduced taxes, and much greater chance of finding employment in the city’s bureaucracy. In the eyes of many Thyatians, Kelvin is a model of progress: ordered, devout, and just. To the Traladarans, especially those who remember Lav as it once was, it can feel like something else entirely; a city forgetting its own name.


You reach the outskirts of the city in the early afternoon, the road winding gently down toward the river plains. The rain has eased some this further south from Threshold, but with Fall soon approaching, you can expect more bad weather for the months to come. You pass through the farmsteads stretching miles in all directions, and several fishing communities on your way, with the traffic on the Duke’s road becoming thicker and thicker as you approach the Kelvin.

The church spires and ringing bells welcome you to Kelvin long before you pass through the outer gates (together with groups of merchants, and pilgrims (both Traldaran and Thyatians)), just before they shut them down for the evening.

What do you do?


*the Highreach, Windrush, and Hillfollow are commonly referred to as Wufwolde, Shutturga and Volaga by the Traladarans.

You follow Will’s memories/visions through the streets of Kelvin, making your way to the old city – what was once called ‘Lav’. The broad avenues turn into narrower streets the deeper you go, unfit for carriages. The architecture shifts as well—tall, narrow buildings press up against one another, rising two or three stories high, their façades draped in green vines and marked by arched windows that face the street—sometimes so close you could leap from one side to the other. Cords stretch between the windows above your head, with colourful cloth hanging over them, paper charms, or just leftover laundry. The small balconies are overflowing with potted plants, mostly herbs, though strings of drying red peppers are a common sight as well.

You push through the narrow streets, squeezing past barefooted children running home for dinner, merchants coming back from their shops, and a few young couples holding hands. Eventually, you reach the stone shrine Will dreamed about, only to find it....not there.

Quite fitting – there is a Thyatian tavern in its place, or more likely, it was built right on top of it? It is certainly much newer, with a fresh coat of paint and a cheerful sign above the door that reads: The Three Rivers. The chalkboard propped outside lists ‘cold beer, roasted boar, and live music tonight! Only 5 silver cover charge!’, and judging by the sound of laughter and the flute playing, it delivers on its promise for a good time.

What do you do?

You descend the stone steps, carrying your lanterns in your hands, to find yourself in a small chamber. At its center stands a flawless statue made of white marble, completely untouched by time, without a speck of dust clinging to the polished surface. The woman is carved wearing a long flowing robe that drapes around in perfect folds around her body and feet.

Each detail is carefully defined; from the hair rolling down her shoulders. her calm and lifelike face - with full lips and eyes so precise that they even hold carved pupils and fine eyelashes! The gentle outline of her muscles beneath the smooth marbled skin, the curve of her breasts. Even her robe is similarly detailed: you can actually see the 'seams' in the fabric, the thin cord tied around the waist all rendered in exact stonework.

The only thing that isn't stone is a polished wooden staff the statue is holding, looking as new as the day it was placed there.

The chamber is eerily quiet, so much so that you can't hear anything from the tavern above your head. There is a single corridor leading away, into deeper darkness, but it seems less well-maintained than the chamber you are standing in.

What do you do?

The Petra-statue doesn't move at Will's/Halav's appeal. It remains just as it was - an unblinking, ageless block of marble. It doesn't move even after Boudica kneels before it. But when it reaches out to the staff, she could almost imagine Petra's fingers subtly shifting. Or maybe it was just her imagination, but the perfect grip around the staff seemed to have loosened somewhat. Enough so she could easily slide it out of the statue's hand.

Will feels a warmth spread through his body, and the next time he swallows doesn't feel like he's chugging a mug of puke. The staff feels right in Boudica's hands, but the prayer to Petra doesn't aid her in uncovering its secrets.

The question remains what to do next. You don't have much time before Karl will check up on you, and there is no way you can keep the statue a secret from him. With the zealot Kelvin ruling the city, there is a high probability that he will take an interest in your findings. And not the good type of interest...

The spirit won't tell you whether you should bolt or not; it can't see the future. All you have is a sense that the corridor leads to the underground ruins of old Lav. It's likely many of the old avenues are walled off or collapsed.

The sun has set by the time you put everything in place (more or less) and settle the tab with Karl. He insists on taking 50 gold from your collateral, for the wooden floor you had to took apart, and you get the sense he is quite happy to see you leave, and soon turns his attention to his guests, who have already started flooding his renowned tavern.

What do you do?