As they walk out of the small and simple temple they are met by another one of Hadriel’s servants. This one is slightly less radiant than the former one and doesn’t seem to have his wings anymore.
“What kind of angels are they exactly?”, Oslando asks. He observes the man and he looks very similar to the being that came down a few days ago. How could he ever forget that strike of blue lightning?
“They are far descendants of the Thrones, beings in charge of the heavenly armies after the Seraphim and the Cherubim. While I, as a descendant of the Seraphim, was a direct product of a simple recreation, the descendants of the Thrones have been, how do I put this… They’ve undergone a bit too much of trial-and-error procedures. They are partially broken, have a short lifespan and are only usable for simple tasks, sadly.”
He looks at the azure being, just standing there, restlessly shifting its weight between his left and right foot, waiting for a command, any command. This one hasn’t been blindfolded, but the empty gaze stares right through them, as if his eyes are no longer functional.
“He will guide you to Bleakwight for as far as he can. It takes about an hour to walk there and it’s fairly simple to find, but I wouldn’t be a good employer - so to speak - if I would let you just wander about.”
They keep staring at Hadriel and the other being, until Lyssa interrupts the endless gaping. “Alright, mateys, off we go then! But first, does one of you have something to drink? Red wine, perhaps?”
They shake their heads, the cleric more excessively. It becomes clear to him he has to deal with an alcoholic, one that’s supposed to have his back.
“Hadriel? Could you possibly turns this into wine? It sharpens my senses for your quest, you see.”
The angel doesn’t move. “I can’t turn the water in your flask into wine”, he says, slightly agitated. “That would be stupid.”
The siren sighs. “Well, so much for the miracle worker”, she whispers to herself. “Let’s go!”
As the blue servant walks - faltering would be a better term - the five adventurers follow, easily keeping up with the tedious slow pace of their guide.
“Maybe an introduction would be appropriate, right?”, says Merodius, switching his head from left to right and back again to see how his fellow travelers respond. “Might be nice to know who we all are if we are going to run into combat together?”
The half-elf visibly agrees, just a bit milder than the head banging yes of the satyr.
“Well, I’ll start then”, the puppet says, “I am Merodius Darvantigo, but you can all just call me Mero. I don’t really know what to tell you besides this, because I have no memory of my life before this life.”
With a naive innocence he tells them about how some halflings - pesky dog-sized humans - summoned his soul into this doll and then treated him like a failed experiment.
“So, what’s up with the mask?”, Bruq asks, intrigued by the similarities it shares with the burial mask on his chain.
“Ah, yes. I have no real face. See?” He removes the pale disguise and reveals hundreds of yellowish straws, all bound together with two dark orange strings of thick rope and hidden away beneath leather patches.
“The mask is enchanted with illusion magic to mimic facial expressions, blink, move my mouth and so on, but it is fairly basic. Does scare less children, though.” Dargothoth chuckles.
“And you’re a sorcerer? Always a good thing to have some kind of wizard on the team.” The expression of the mask shows anger and looks insulted by Lyssa’s words.
“I am no wizard, siren. Wizards learn magic from books, sorcerers are born with magic. Big difference. Huge difference.”
Lyssa holds her hands up, as if someone was forcing her to surrender.
“You’re quite the fiery type, aren’t you? You could set your own skin on fire. I like you, though. Magic with a temper.” She laughs playfully, while Mero stays silent.
(Investigation 23)
“And you are a pirate, I presume? The captain of your own ship?”
The siren looks pleasantly surprised at Oslando, blushing at her cheeks.
“Well, yes, I am. The name is Lyssa Kaklamanis, but captain Lyssa will suffice. What gave it away? I am curious of nature, I’m told.”
The half-elf reveals a small smile of satisfaction on his stoic face.
“You have a piece of dried seaweed on your left boot, together some salt residue, probably from your nautical adventures. You have a spyglass on the right side of your belt, a cutlass at the left side and let’s not ignore the obvious blunderbuss strapped to your back.”
She hides the fact she’s impressed, although she doubts he wouldn’t immediately see this as well.
“So, I’m a pirate. What gave the captain-part away?” The others look at her as well, trying to see what clue rests in her outfit.
“You’re a siren, captain Kaklamanis. Ever seen a siren working for men instead of the other way around? Would be a first.” She nods heavily.
“I am known for my charming voice, so I would stay on my good side”, she jokingly threatens him. “Next time you may guess the meaning of my accordion.”
Oslando shakes his head. “No guessing involved, just logics.”
“Oslando”, he answers, after being told it would only be polite to introduce one’s self after forcing someone else to do it. “Not much to tell, actually. I’m decent fighter with some interest in magic. Not born with it, but getting the hang of it as my learning process progresses.”
He looks down, peaking at the corner of his eye, seeing the expression change of the sorcerer. Where he expected the same despise as he expressed before, he spots shame.
“No need to look so down, Mero.” The puppet shakes his head with vigor.
“Not my intention to insult you, Sir, I’m sorry.”
The half-elf lays his hand on his shoulder, stooping a little to reach him.
“No offense taken. Everyone has their own story. You probably have your reasons to say what you said. And don’t call me “Sir”, please. I am not your master. You are your own master.” Merodius smiles - or at least his mask does - and he feels appreciated and respected, something he hasn’t experienced in a long time, if he has ever experienced it in the first place.
“My story leads me here, trying to do what’s best for everything and everyone around me. I try to find ways to improve myself. Never stop growing.”
“And how about you, my horny friend?”
The satyr looks at Lyssa and they both burst into laughter.
“Did you just call me “horny”, siren? Have we really sunken to this level of humour, just after our first encounter?” He wipes a tear from his good eye, unintentionally putting the attention on the other one.
“Care to share your story?”, Oslando asks, pointing at the hairless, pinkish part of his face, ignoring the slightly childish conversation. “Burned?”
Bruq shakes his head. “No, corrosion. Without all too many details, I was hunting an acid breathing cockatrice-looking abomination and it hit me in the face. I should have seen it coming.”
The obviously quiet priest chuckles again. “Well, seeing might be part of the problem now.” Bruq ignores him for now as his one white eye eagerly wants to turn black.
“Do you play pan flute?”, Lyssa asks, excited. “We can make music together.” He raises his bushy eyebrows.
“Just because I’m a satyr I’m supposed to play the flute? That’s a stereotype”, he bluntly says, as he pulls an instrument out of his bag. “And you’re absolutely right.” And, once again, their laughter exceeds the silence.
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