Artorian ~ 20!

~ Twenty ~

Tibbins waited in front of the Head Cleric’s tent, ready with the report of the first week. What a week it had been. In fact, Tibbins was convinced that this was entirely the reason why he was being made to wait so long. The heavy cloth flap of the tent swung away, and Keeper Irene hurriedly passed him. The Acolyte snapped to a salute. He still firmly believed that the entire ‘saluting’ affair was awkward for one following the path of the priest, but as this expedition was classed under ‘military.’ He had to abide by the rank and file rules. 

“Enter.” Tarrean faced away from the opening, nimble fingers closing the last few buttons on the top of his uniform. It used to be odd to see him out of the ornate armor that was ever so boasted about, but it had received a prime spot against the tent wall; fully fitted on an armor rack meant for human-like display. The mood in the tent fell before Tarrean ever turned to face the Acolyte, “Tell me you have some… sane news, for a change?” 

Tarrean cringed as he could feel the flat lipped reply plastered on the Acolyte’s face without glancing. There had been a week of this, but based on the old man’s condition, it likely would only last for a few weeks more. “No, Sir.” 

Finally, the Head Cleric turned, and sat down on his comfy new stool. He picked up the deteriorated mug with the world Elder on it, observing it as one would a polished skull. “Do you know what I saw yesterday. Tibbins?” 

The Acolyte closed his eyes, and drew a needed breath. “I have a suspicion of it, Sir.” 

“Take a seat, Acolyte.” Tarrean put the cup down, and folded his hands. 

“Yesterday. The camp was roused not to the morning routine, but to the clamor of an old man running about with only his pants on. Pulling fluff and feathers out from a pillow, throwing it into the air, and baying ‘it worked, it worked!’ Then he bent over backwards to madly cackle.” 

“When one of the guards returned from hunting the raiders, he approached Artorian to assist. The guard was taken by the lapels as the old man beamed the biggest smile he’d ever seen, and ecstatically exclaimed ‘it fits inside. See? It fits inside! The fluff can compress. It can compress!’ while wildly waving the pillow around and stuffing the feathers back into the torn cloth… with what I can only describe as manic glee.” 

He paused to let Tibbins sweat. “Well, yes Sir, but I’m sure it’s under control now.” 

“Is it Tibbins? Is it?” Tarrean spoke, voice volume rising. “Then certainly you can explain what happened during prayer today?” 

The Head Clerics leer bored into the Acolyte, who thought it was getting rather warm. “Well. It wasn’t so bad Sir. None were harmed. He merely walked up in the middle of our chant, and...” 

*Bampf* Tarrean filled in with a fist slam to the table, “Threw. Off. His. Robe.” 

“He disrobed in the middle of our congregation. Prayer was halted because everyone was choking on their words. Not even mentioning that arms-up pose he did like he was about to hug the abyss-blessed sun!” 

Tibbins quickly tried to salvage this. “He did seem… happy about the praising, Sir.”

The Head Cleric just about threw his papers. “I’m sure he was, Acolyte! The smile was huge, and everyone for leagues saw those awful scars. I had to assure the congregation that I would personally tend to those egregious wounds. I was going to slam down brimstone scripture on that old fool’s head, but for reasons beyond my abyss-confounded control, my troops ‘like’ the man.”

Tarrean was fuming, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “They are sneaking him food, I know they are. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how he ended up with three dozen of our pillows! I went to the medical tent this morning and an entire corner next to the only window flap–which might I mention is open against protocol–is covered port to stern in pillows.” 

“Several containers of water stand nearby, and chairs from the longhouse have mysteriously made their way over to the medical tent. Which is now no longer the medical tent, as the majority of occupants have recovered, and the herbal medicines moved. It is now the tent my troops go to on their time off!” Tarrean was strangling his arm bracer out of confounded vexation. “I see them entering with sour, downtrodden looks. I hear the laughter, and then they leave filled with merriment. I am dying to kick that old man out of the tent, and out of my camp, but I can’t do so without losing face with my entire expedition squad. What do they do in there?”

Tibbins did his best to keep his tone neutral as the corners of his mouth lifted. He could not afford to laugh. Not here. Not now. “They... tell him what’s bothering them. Sir.” 

The Head Cleric looked like he was about to have an aneurism. “They can come to me! I am their superior!” 

Tarrean flopped down onto his seat, needing to rub his forehead. “You are, Sir. However, you are also busy all the time, and it’s well-known you dislike being disturbed. There’s also a punishment for entering your tent unannounced.” 

“About the chairs and pillows…” Tibbins got the ‘move on’ motion, and so he did. “You did say to get the man what he asked for, Sir.” 

Tarrean squeezed the bridge of his nose again, recalling that rather late, and only because his subordinate had mentioned it. “Just… give me your report, Acolyte.”

Tibbins unfurled some vellum. “As of the return of the hunting party, Jiivra has provided her report.” 

It didn’t take more than a glance at the painfully thin stack of vellums to know what the news was going to be. “While she found the tracks, and the caravan belonging to it. It had been emptied and abandoned by a fishing outpost, at the closest point one could reach a river. The raiders did away with the fishing crews, and likely took all the boats. No raiders were captured. No goods or gold were recovered. Tracks were found, and they do include small sized feet. We have confirmation the children from the village are alive. Since it seems unlikely they would be kept for ransom, we expect they are being kept for more… nefarious purposes. The boats went upriver.” 

The Head Cleric stopped him. “Up river?” 

Tibbins nodded. “Yes Sir, we expect someone with some intelligence is part of the captured group. Jiivra found ripped apart flowers littering the bank of the river in a rather odd pattern. She described it as flowers being ripped apart and thrown on the bank, in ever decreasing quantities. We think someone gathered flowers on the way, and left them for any possible pursuers to find. Which, by itself, is odd. I don’t know why some of the captives were expecting that we would come. We never had a chance to interact with them, but it’s in the report.” 

Tarrean rubbed the side of his head. “I believe it’s good for the captives to have faith. In who, or what, isn’t important until their rescue by the church. Their devout thanks will fall on sanctified ear every noon.” 

Tibbins said nothing, his superior was assured of the facts he’d stated, and chose to continue his report. “We suffered no casualties, just more tired troops. They’re all resting and performing expected duties per your wishes on the growth of the forwards base. Anything useful found in nearby wreckage goes to the effort, otherwise a logging camp is planned to be established near the closest forest.” 

“We cannot find the logging site the village had, and the Elder does not know. The other old person that we found a week ago is still catatonic, and neither moves nor speaks. She simply eats when directed and we have some junior priests practicing hospice care on her. While usually the expedition group would ask for follow-up orders, the entire camp is suffering symptoms of severe exhaustion and mental fatigue.”

Tarrean sighed in defeat. “Leave it is then, though I don’t know to what or where. There’s nothing to do here, nowhere to shop, no money to gain or spend, and gambling is forbidden. I will set expected tasks to the minimal work required, and everyone may have the rest of the time as leave. I know the Fringe can be taxing, away from everything they know. One week, Acolyte.” 

The superior exhaled the order and re-folded his hands. Seeing Tibbins was at the bottom of his list, he decided it was time to press the personal matter. “I take it our guest is uncooperative per my… request?” 

Tibbins put the vellum down. “Artorian spends the majority of his time bedridden Sir. He has perhaps an hour or two per day where he can get up and move, and anytime I’ve seen him lately that isn’t during visiting hours, he is sickened or exhausted.”

The Acolyte stiffened as he relayed the next bit of news. “Any time that he does get up… well… he does strange things. Putting mud and water in a cup, and spending an entire hour stirring it only to pour it out and do it again. Hitting the flat of his palm on still water just to watch the ripples. Laying in the grass with only his pants on in various parts of the village at various times of the day and night. Randomly stopping and standing there. You know he’s gone mentally as he looks off in the distance. Or he visits a home, and breaks down in tears as he weeps for a lost villager.”

Tibbins closed his eyes and shook his head. “I assume he must have had a great amount of family here. We’ve caught him talking to himself on multiple occasions, and there’s an actual report of him crumpled at the village lumber storage site, sobbing that he was sorry. We don’t know for what, or why. Nobody has the heart to ask him. He’s a man being eaten by his regrets.” 

The Acolyte began to furl his vellum back up. “A priestess tried getting him to open up once, but he got up, had a fierce expression on his face and just told her that ‘he was going to do it, for them’. With such strength of character that she lost her voice for a moment.”

Tibbins quietly kept to himself that the priestess had then sat down with him, and had been the person to break down in tears while getting grief off her chest. That it was the Initiate being consoled and supported, and had as thanks started the pillow smuggling operation. He doubted his superior wanted any words of that. “I do have one spot of good news per your specific request, Sir.” 

Tarrean raised an eyebrow. “Go on?”

Tibbins straightened himself, picking his words carefully. “He wants an item that is… a little too expensive to just write off. However, he mentioned he’d be willing to barter for it.” 

Tarrean’s eyes began to hungrily glint, his posture warming up as he finally got something to work with. “Go on.”

“He said it might be too much, and it might be too late. However, if possible, he wants to buy or barter for a Memory Stone containing a simple cultivation technique.” Tibbins buried his face into his hands from frustration. “I’ve tried to talk him out of it. He’s nothing but corruption. It roils inside of him like nausea manifested. Looking at it makes me physically ill. I’ve already told him a Beast Core would just kill him, but he doesn’t relent. A cultivation technique is only going to give him hope, and then… then he’s going to expire when he tries to use it. All that Corruption will be forced…” 

Tibbins silenced himself at the sickening thoughts. Tarrean remained all business and mentally compared costs to benefits. “Those are expensive indeed, Acolyte. Bring him in. I’ll see if I can’t barter something of value with the man. I see no reason to deny him life’s last little pleasures, or any hope he wants to gratuitously pay for. If Artorian believes that some knowledge of a cultivation spiral will make him feel better, before the poor old man slumbers to his end. Then, why, Tibbins… we ought to take care of him.”

Tibbins felt frozen solid to his chair. He so hated this side of his slick superior. Always looking out for number one. The Acolyte gabbed just to feel better. “He seems plenty happy spending his days with many of the recruits. Initiate Yvessa, and several others that were injured in the tent at the time he was there, may as well be called his personal attendants. Oddly enough. Those same Initiates have gotten their hands on food we didn’t know was available in the village. Certain secrets are being shared with them, and they’re silently reaping the benefits.” 

He mentioned it purely to dig something unpleasant into his superior’s kidney. “I’ll fetch him for you, Sir. You’re far more skilled at negotiation than I.” 

With a respectful salute, he left the Head Cleric to simmer. Tarrean spat, “Dismissed.” 

Tibbins exclaimed with jumped surprise as he left the tent flap. “Oh, Artorian!”

A broad smile warmly greeted the weary Acolyte. “Tibbins, my boy! I’ve been looking for you.”

Artorian’s smile grew even further. “I have news.”