RP:Undivine Intervention: Part Three
This is a Devout's Guild RP.
Summary:Sargaso and Mathollak actually work together to save one of Rothik's priests from Aramoth's zealot! (Parts 1 and 2 can be found here and here)
The Swamp, Gualon
Sargaso isn’t sure he needs a hound given Wrinkles’s phenomenal 100% fail rate. But he does need new leads, so without saying another word, he falls into step beside Mattie. On the small hike to and through the swamp, Sarge asks, “So why’d you call that orc Papa? He a mentor in your church or something?” He eyes Mathollak’s attire and accessories. “Not many followers of Delisha down here, I thought. Do many orcs follow her?”
Mathollak is grateful. And his mood instantly changes. "Yes! We're going to have such an excellent banquet! I'm so excited." It's a mild trek that begins on a trail, but soon they find their way off it. Since he is in Gualon, he doesn't dress as flashy as he would like. But he keeps his crimson boots. Sarge shoots a casual probe his way, "No he's my dad. He and his brother worship Rothik. And they think I do too...so don't say anything about Delisha." The silence that follows this seems oppressive. "You seem very far out of your way. What's your story?" They're wandering almost aimlessly for a while until suddenly the leash grows taut and Mathollak's yanked to a halt. "Wrinkles! Yes, you're such a good boy." Wrinkles has his snout buried in the muck of the swamp. "Okay we're getting closer. We're looking for a catoblepas. Heard of it? Well known for the horrid stench of its breath." He ties Wrinkles to a tree and unhooks Thrug's axe from behind his back. "Just follow your nose," he whispers as he takes small inhales in a few different directions. "This way."
Sargaso idly scratches a scab from an old cut on the back of his hand as Mathollak explains his (evidently adoptive) father is an orc. He nods at Mathollak’s request that Sarge keep his secret. “Rothik, huh. They need to be careful. This murderer is targeting followers of Rothik.” The conversation turns its attention on Sarge and he repeats what he told Ms. Bugsel. “I wasn’t lying. I’m from Cenril, follow Selene, part of the Devout Guild. They told me to look into this, so I am.” These facts, while true, are presented with a heroic bent the sailor has never quite earned. Amy’s face flashes in his mind and he pushes thoughts of her aside as quickly as they arose. “Why do you follow Delisha in secret? Why not be honest?” Mathollak explains they’re close to their quarry, some foul-smelling beast. “Never heard of a catoblepas, but if it smells so strongly, why do we need a hound?” Once again he eyes Mattie like he’s soft in the head. Maybe the schooling isn’t too good down here in Gualon, poor fellow. Sarge gets a whiff of some stomach-churning musk. He recoils from the stench. “That’s it,” he says. “Got to be. How big are these things?” He looks along the ground for something small enough to fit in a hound’s jaws, assumingSargasohoing that Wrinkles actually serves some purpose here. Imagine his surprise when he sees in the distance a six-foot tall, oxen-silhouette shrouded by flies with a neck as long as Sargaso’s body. “What the hell is that. That is?” he hisses at Mathollak as he crouches behind a thicket. “Are you kidding me? I’m no monster hunter, bruh.”
Mathollak adds an extra sense of urgency to his gait when Sargaso explains the murderer's target. His strides lengthen, he grabs tree branches to pull himself faster out of the muck. "Why would they send you here? You'd think the Devout's guild would send someone more familiar with this area. Why wouldn't they send you to Rynvale? And it isn't like Cenril doesn't have its own problems you could've resolved." Mathollak hesitated to say why he worships Delisha in secret. "Because they wouldn't approve. They think I should worship Rothik as well. They think I -do- worship Rothik." The smell gets stronger, and it becomes easy to think the smell must diffuse the entire world. "I just had to know I was on the right track. We could've wandered this swampland forever without ever catching a whiff. At least Wrinkles pointed us in the right direction." The catoblepas grazes on some poisonous flora, still absent to their existence. Or maybe it doesn't care. Hard to imagine it having something like a predator. Who would want to eat it? "Neither am I," Mathollak says before turning his wild gaze toward Sargaso, "We're maniac wranglers!" Then he charges. He quickly covers ground toward the Catoblepas, and heaves his axe into the dull creature's shoulder. It wedges deep into its hide, and congealed blood oozes out of the fresh wound. As Mathollak yanks his weapon out of the horrid beasts muscle, its massive horned head swings like a tether ball and crushes into his chest. The epicenter of stench and force send Mathollak rolling in the muck and as soon as he takes a breath, he exhales vomit.
Sargaso bites his tongue as Mathollak second guesses the Devout Guild’s leadership decisions. Sarge knows why they sent him here instead of someone else - he asked to be posted as far away from Cenril and Rynvale as possible to escape an angry ex. Mattie doesn’t need to know all that and unfortunately the fine folk at the Devout Guild headquarters are having their reputation tarnished a little by Sargaso’s cowardice in relationships. Ah well. Then Mathollak charges at the catoblepas at full speed to carry out an attack that Sargaso can already see will fail. Mathollak just does not have the heft to knock over something as big as a catoblepas - it isn’t even close. How the heck is it that Mathollak doesn’t know that? How is he so dumb? Sarge closes half the distance between himself and Mathollak and dips his hand into the calf-deep swamp water. He whispers a spell and a current of aquamarine blessing flows in a wide, salty current through the swamp water towards Mathollak, then seeps into his skin. The bloodknight should suddenly feel as strong and powerful as a whale’s tail, with plenty of strength to flick the catoblepas over with a shoulder shove. “Get up, Mattie! Let Selene’s power wash over you like the ebb and flow of the sea!”
Mathollak spits and wipes his mouth, and lets Selene's magic brine clean him and fill him with strength. He rises up to his feet, apparently determined to charge again. The catoblepas is still angry, and already charging after him, ready to batter him flat with another blow from its giant smelly head. Like a wrecking ball it slams into Mathollak. But he catches it! With the strength of a humpback he absorbs the impact of the blow into his hand and wraps his fingers around its looping horn. He steps back and cranks the horn like a giant lever, turning the monster's face into the swamp water. Then he lets it go. His hands find the handle of Thrug's axe hammer. The angry beast snaps its head up out of the grime with a sucking smack, and angrily flails its horns at him again. Mathollak's ready. He plants his feet, spins his hips, and launches his arms across his body, pulling the hammer side of his weapon against the stinker's head in a homerun swing. It's gone! The creature's head sinks lifeless into the mud, but it stays standing. And stays stinking. He approaches the body cautiously, axe at the ready. He jabs it in the ribs. No response. So it is truly dead? Mathollak confirms again when he crashes his axe into its shoulder again, and again. He returns to Sargaso dragging the entire leg by the hoof. "Okay we're almost done now."
Sargaso is breathing through his mouth, and his eyes are still watering. He can taste the stench in his mouth. When Mathollak drags the corpse closer, the sailor doubles over and finally retches this morning’s pork-beans-and-swamp-rice breakfast from The Grogshop. He scoops up a handful of dirty swamp water which purifies under a quick spell. He splashes his face with the now-clean water then falls into step alongside Swole Mathollak. “Oh yea? What’s next?”
Mathollak squints through the stinging stench the creatures exposed wound releases. "We have to-" he covers his mouth with a hand. "-we have to cook it." He drags the creature's monstrous limb back toward Gualon. Even before they see Wrinkles, they hear his whimpering. Then it turns to growling and barking. He warns them with viciousness as they come into view. "Wrinkles! Calm down it's just us!" Wrinkles chews through his leash and sprints back home as fast as he can. "Dramatic, no?" They find the path again, then almost as soon as they do, they leave it. "We can't take this back to town. But I have a special place." He leads Sarge to a wooden cottage, built into the side of a massive tree, with smoke coming out of a small chimney out of a thatched roof. Now the horrid smell of the catoblepas is mingled with warm cinnamon, nutmeg, and warm apples. But still, the apple pie's savory aroma is overwhelmed. Mathollak knocks on the door of the small cottage and a hunched old woman answers. Her face is shrouded in the shadow of a dark hood, except occassionally for two massive buck teeth. Its impossible to tell what race she might be judging from her voice, but she is humanoid. "Mathollak, you've brought a friend for dinner!" Mathollak corrects her by saying he brought a catoblepas leg. She understands what this is. "Why do you think you'll be successful this time? Oh, and leave that outside for now please." She says to him. She leads them into a kitchen that seems much too massive for a cottage this size, and its equipped with a massive cauldron. "Okay," Mathollak says, addressing Sargaso. "We're going to need a lot of saltwater, and a lot of seaweed. Obviously this is no problem for you! Haha that's like, your thing." Mathollak begins adding wood to the small fire burning under the cauldron.
Sargaso once again doubts the wisdom in continuing to bring Mathollak along for this ride. He’s about to abandon Mathollak to the catoblepas dinner when he realizes this is the best lead he’s got - and it isn’t even much of a lead. As Mathollak introduces him to the strange witch, Sarge realizes that somewhere in this short-lived journey with Mathollak, the power dynamic reversed and it’s Mathollak bringing Sarge along. How the heck did that happen? He sucks on his teeth as Mathollak explains the situation. Once inside the hut, he circles the perimeter of the dwelling as the witch prepares the cauldron. “You a follower of Delisha too?” he asks the witch. When asked to create saltwater and seaweed, Sargaso asks for potable water and via a simple spell it converts to saltwater as it pours into the cauldron. Then he takes bark from the tree outside and transmutes that into seaweed via another spell, though it takes him several tries to get this one right. Making seaweed isn’t exactly something he regularly practices. He wishes he had the ability to augur or scry or whatever this is. Several priests of Selene do, but he never learned how. His mother was right: he’s a bad student, no discipline, no head for books. He sucks his teeth again and widens his stance to look the part of the man in charge, though he feels increasingly like he’s lost control of this thing. “So where is she, Mattie?”
Mathollak drags the heavy catoblepas haunch in from outside, and his eyes barely even water from the horrid stench! He drags it up some stairs to the mezzanine and heaves it into the cauldron. While he douses it in a seemingly random combination of herbs and spices, the witch hobbles over to him, pulling herself forward on a tall gnarled stick. Even when she gets quite close to his face, hers is still shrouded in darkness. Except for two massive tombstone-like teeth. "If you knew what I knew, sweetums, you would follow her too." Even though he can't see past her shroud, Sargaso could probably feel her gaze searching through him. Seeing something eyes couldn't. Mathollak finishes preparing the meat, apparently, without stripping it of fur or hoof. "Where's the brine and garnish? Sarge?" Mathollak claps at him, urging him along. "Don't get distracted, people could be dying!" He mutters something under his breath about how Wrinkles would've made a much better sou chef. "No sense of urgency, I swear..." When Sargaso's finally done his part and filled the cauldron with seaweed and seawater, the witch hands Mathollak her walking stick. As he stirs the pot, he recites a rhyme. "Oh Dark Mother of Great Great Taste, Don't let this grand meal go to waste. We slayed the beast who's breath stinks like no other! So we could share a meal with you, our Mother. In return for this gift of beef and broth, would you bless it, make it good, and show us the fool following Aramoth?" Then he bows his head, clasps his hands together, and closes his eyes. Nothing happens. "Okay! Its almost done. Godmother if you would?" The old thing creeks up the stairs to the Mezzanine where Mathollak loops his hands under her arms and lifts her up off her feet. He suspends her over the cauldron and she dips one foot in. Mathollak sets her down on the side. Now something happens. The cauldron comes rapidly to a roiling boil, steam billows rapidly out of the tiny hut through the chimney built directly over the cauldron. The whole thing starts rocking. Violently! "Sargaso! Don't let it tip over!" Mathollak leaps down off the mezzanine as the giant bowl of iron ricochets off its sturdy setting, off the walls of the cottage. He presses his hands into the burning iron. Of course they burn and he pulls them off, then he turns around and slams his back into it, pressing against the floor to hold the cauldron in place. Assuming they could find a way to steady it, the storm inside the cauldron would subside. Everything would settle and be calm again. With the ancient witch's stick, Mathollak would draw two bowls of soup from the cauldron. That was all that remained. The rest apparently, had evaporated. He offered one to Sargaso and waited for him to take the first bite. It was a courteous thing to do!
Sargaso glares at Mathollak’s condescension but doesn’t take the bait any further than that. Weak-willed clowns (like Mathollak) must bluster their way to having dignity. Sarge once read that, or a version of that, carved into an outhouse wall. It struck him at the time as deeply profound. Still does. He grins at Mathollak’s little ditty in spite of himself, then watches as godmother’s foot is the secret ingredient that makes the brew bubble, boil, and bring about trouble. The hot iron cauldron buckles and rolls, and Sargaso rips off his own shirt and bunches the fabric in his palms to use the fabric like a makeshift oven mitt. He braces the cauldron from the side opposite Mathollak, and still feels the heat through the balled-up shirt. Sweat pours down his brow, neck and back. It beads on his forehead and lip. Finally the cauldron stops as suddenly as it started. Sarge catches his breath and puts his shirt back on as Mathollak pours him a bowl. He smacks the spoon handle in the bowl away from his face. “No way. I’m not taking the first sip.” He scowls and his voice rises. “I’m not taking any sip. Where’s the murderer, Mattie? I’m not here for lunch! Get me the girl’s location, or buzz off!”
Mathollak was overjoyed when Sargaso refused his offering. "Okay, no changing your mind!" In seconds, he swallowed probably a pound of soup. Without a spoon! He caught a tiny droplet rolling down his chin with a finger and placed it on his tongue with a sucking noise. He ended his meal with a satisfied sigh. "Okay." Mathollak left the cottage, left the hunched cretin without a thank you, or offering to do dishes. They were in a rush! Outside, the steam from the soup apparently didn't dissipate into the air like it should've. It coagulated into a poofy coal-colored thunderhead that occasionally rippled with orange lightning. As they watched, the cloud drifted high into the sky and began moving inexplicably against the wind. Through other clouds! It was easy to track. "Thanks for all your help, Sarge," he said and belched, "I can take it from here." He walked off feeling especially potent after that meal. His hands were still sore, but even before his eyes, he could see the red bubbling burns begin to recede and normalize.
Sargaso takes in a deep breath as the thunder cloud lurched south towards Gualon. It’s actually working (he hopes/assume/it better be working of he lost a whole day to nonsense). Delisha’s magic and domain confuses Sargaso, but then again he never really did pay attention in the temple when the priests discussed any gods that weren’t Selene or the big three. Mathollak sprints after the cloud, and Sargaso sprints after Mathollak. The setting sun in the west casts an ominous bloody hue on the already sinister cloud. Curiously, the cloud sticks to the west of the city, and suddenly an epiphany hits Sargaso like the jolt of an electric eel. “The Parsonage,” he gasps. Of course! He should have guessed. Where better to kill clergymen than in their home? The cloud moves slower than Sargaso’s top speed, so he sprints past the bloodknight and the cloud, leaving Mathollak in his wake as he makes a beeline for the parsonage. He feels a little stupid for not having guessed this sooner. Though he has no way to prove that’s where he’ll find the killer, his mind and heart are calm, suggesting Selene is not dissuasing her paladin from this course of action. Either the killer is there, or something Selene wants him to see if there. After 10 minutes of running, Sargaso arrives. He takes a moment to catch his breath then bangs on the door loudly. An orc priest opens the door meekly. “Yes?” “Sir, I am Sargaso Mar, a member of the Devout Guild. I’ll be forthright with you, and quick. We have reason to believe a zealot of Aramoth is in Gualon and targeting members of the clergy of Rothik. We believe this person means to do you harm, and I suspect they’re here or near this home already. Have you entertained any foreign guests recently?”
Mathollak doesn't come to the same conclusion as Sargaso, and assumes Sargaso abandoned him in a pouty rage. Mathollak knew he was ready to at any moment, and this seemed to be his best opportunity. "I hope I really can take it from here then..." At the parsonage, the orc wearing a long billowy robe is insistent. "If they mean to do me harm," she begins, "Then let them try. I fear no one. Thank you for the alert though!" Then she would close the door on him. The cloud arrived seconds before Mathollak. As soon as he arrived at the door of the parsonage, the cloud banged loudly above them, and jagged streaks of bright orange lightning slammed into the dirt surrounding the parsonage. No one was hurt, but the cottage was circled. "You're here? How did you know? What are you waiting for?"
Sargaso bristles as the priest slams the door in his face. He jogs down a short flight of steps and is about to circle the building and check the alleys when Mathollak arrives asking a dumb question. Sarge taps his temple. “I thought about it for a second, and it was so obvious. I can’t believe it took you this long.” Truth be told, Sarge is relieved to see the cloud and Mathollak here, it confirms his hunch was right, but he doesn’t let that relief show for a second. He walks through both alleys and finds nothing. The thunderhead crackles loudly above and Sargaso finally gets it. (The epiphanies are a little slow today.) He hops onto the first floor window sill and effortlessly scales the side of the building and lands on the roof. There she is, the Zealot of Aramoth. “You there!” he shouts. “You’re surrounded. My, uh, colleagues are down below, 8 of us. You’ve nowhere to go. Surrender and this doesn’t need to get ugly.” Sarge advances slowly, unarmed, his hands visible. “I’m coming over there and tying your hands, alright?” He’s got a coil of rope tucked into his waistband.
Mathollak honestly wonders why he didn't think of this. It -was- obvious-. When Sargaso climbs the stairs, Mathollak unshackles Papa Thrug's axe-hammer and slams it into the door, knocking it down in two whacks. The scene before him is worse than he could've expected. Blood everywhere. The priest dead on the ground. His wife too. He follows bloody boot prints up the stairs where he finds the priest's discarded robe. The steps lead him to a hallway and then suddenly disappear by the side of an open window. Mathollak leans his torso out with his back facing the ground, and wedges his axe against a roof timber, and pulls himself up. "No Sarge, you're wrong. It -does- need to get ugly." He cranks his axe out of the roof and holds it in two hands. "You're dead, follower of Aramoth." Being flanked, Ushat did the only sane thing. She ran to the side of the roof furthest away from them both, and jumped off. The tree she landed in cushioned her fall while she crashed through branches. Mathollak, followed, but, recklessly. He jumped off the side of the roof and landed on an ankle, dusting the bone. Yet there was no howl of anguish, and he ran forward on his broken bones as if he couldn't tell the difference. Ushat wouldn't get away this time.
Sargaso doesn’t have time to react to Mathollak’s dramatic entrance. As Ushat flies off the edge of the roof, the agile sailor jumps off the side while gripping the edge of the roof as a pivot point. He drops onto a window sill, then the porch roof, then drops onto the porch and sprints down the stairs and lands on the sidewalk around the same time as Mathollak, except Sarge doesn’t have any broken bones. He doesn’t stop to see if Mathollak’s alright. He chases after Ushat and he’s very fast and light for a human. He whispers a quick spell and with each stride he lifts a little off the ground and flies forward, his back buffeted by wind like a sea breeze in sails. He lands between strides and leaps again until he’s completely caught up to Ushat and brings a fist down on her ugly orc mug as he lands from a wind-blown leap. The first punch is followed by a second and a third and a knee to the diaphragm to knock the breath out her lungs. He’s intent on subduing her, not killing her. Justice can’t be meted out on the dead.
Mathollak hobbles because whether or not he can feel it, running on a broken ankle will slow you down. Lucky for him it doesn't stay broken for long, and Delisha was so happy with the meal he gifted her, she heals his ankle. He catches up to Sargaso and Ushat where they're having a brawl. Sargaso can subdue her all he wants, he's just making Mathollaks job easier. By the time he catches up, Mathollak's already a monster. Coarse black hair grew on his suddenly crimson-skinned arms, along with long black fingernails. His veins all bulged and glowed a swampy green. "MOVE," he said to Sargaso as he shoved him in preparation for his execution blow. He lifted his axe over his head, and slammed it down with all his might. Yet Ushat deflected it! The zealot of Aramoth pushed the flat of her blade bracing against Mathollak's axe, and his heavy blade was guided into the ground. Mathollak didn't stop however, and it was clear after one look into his soulless eyes that he wouldn't. Or couldn't. His axe wedged into the ground and he swung his heavy red fist into her. This too she seemed to anticipate, stopping the club-fist by moving her own hand behind his while she ducked her head back and out of range. She used his weight against him and pushed him away, where he stumbled. Aramoth was guiding her fury now, turning her into a master of combat with perfect strength and speed.
Sargaso // As Mathollak and Ushat engage in combat, Sargaso looks for a water source. He looks around the street for water and finds a street food vendor with a cart of dill pickles floating in vinegar water. Close enough. “I commandeer this cart in service of the Devout’s Guild!” he shouts as he steals the cart and pushes it towards Ushat and Mathollak. Ushat was easily parrying Mathollak’s axe and delivering her own attacks between Mathollak’s sluggish moves. Once Sarge is in range, he dips both handles in the pickle water and recites a sea shanty he had uttered already earlier today in the Gualon Botanical Gardens - a spell to summon a watery net. He flings the watery net at Ushat. Mathollak’s distraction proves effective and the zealot falls under the mystical weight and strength of Selene’s briney net. “Mattie, don’t kill her! I’m taking her in!” The choice really is Mathollak. While the net will keep Ushat pinned down, it won’t protect her from axes.
Mathollak didn't -actually- have a choice. And he only grunted in response. Or was it a growl? When he recovered from his little stumble (and he -did- have to recover ,he put a lot of weight behind that punch, he couldn't simply pull it back), his enemy was trapped under a net. Underr Delisha's enchantment, Mathollak thought this was his most hated enemy, his greatest nemesis, and he was burning with hatred.He'd given himself to Delisha, and she wouldn't let him stop, just like she wouldn't let him arrive in time to save the war priest of Rothik. He lumbered over to where she was trapped on the ground, lifted his axe over his head one more time, and brought it down into Ushat's neck. She was dead, unless her head and shoulders could survive this type of long distance relationship. Yet, Mathollak didnt seem satisfied. He turned his gaze to Sargaso, and was there even sentience in his eyes? "You didn't wait. You didn't tell me. Could've saved the priest." He stepped over the watery net toward Sargaso.
Sargaso makes a weak effort to stop Mathollak from killing Ushat. Truth be told, his heart wasn’t into it. The blood from her throat mixes with the watery dill pickle net and Sarge is thinking about what he’ll tell the Guild. The truth, sure, but what parts will he emphasize? How mad will they be that he failed to bring her in alive? He doubts anyone would care. Ushat’s killed a lot of good people, and while Sargaso would prefer his own hand bring Ushat to justice before a court, he doesn’t mind when a gruffer hand than his decides to take on the role of judge and executioner, and raise up the gavel in the form of an axe. But then that executioner turns on the sailor, and Sarge finds himself taking a couple steps back from Mathollak. “Whoa, I didn’t know the priest was gone. That death is a damn shame, and I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time. Wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d told you about the parsonage when I knew, knowing when I did changed nothing either. So just settle down, you hear?” If Mathollak can’t settle down, Sargaso will reach for the skipper knife on his belt and arm himself in defense of Delisha’s enraged lunatic.