D&D 5e: Arcana of the Ancients (IC)

[Amaril]

Calen Damora
Human Wizard 3
AC: 10 HP: 17/17
Conditions: Exhausted 1
Concentration: none

As the goblin's eyes snap open, Calen's widen with shock. Immediately, he turns back to the prisoner. "Hello? Hey, can you--"

Crack.

The wizard flinches. For a long moment, he stays there, staring at the spot where the goblin was before he collapsed. Slowly, he lets out the breath he was holding, and rises. "I've got a room at the Split Shield," he says to Yusha, voice bone-weary. "You're welcome to share if you need a place." He doesn't wait for a reply. "'F'anyone needs me...."

He's hardly aware of the walk through town, as if in a dream. More visions swim before his eyes. Lights, tunnels stretching downward farther than the eye can see, towers scraping the heavens. The straw mattress rises up to meet him, but he's already out by the time he hits it.

The next thing he hears is the rooster's crow. His eyes snap open; he immediately feels surprisingly alert. Probably slept the sleep of the dead. He hardly has time to appreciate it, though, before he becomes aware of the soreness. Gods, it seems every muscle in his body is determined to exact revenge.

Grumbling, Calen pushes himself upright on the edge of the mattress. "Kip?"

"Yes?" The construct doesn't sound the least bit tired, as ever.

"Did I dream that the town was attacked by sleepwalking goblins last night?"

"No such luck, I'm afraid."

Calen heaves a sigh. "S***."

Head in his hands, he notices for the first time the state of the clothes he slept in--what little is left of them. Of course, the acid. Damn, he must've been about an inch of fabric away from a very embarrassing display last night. The edges of his cloak are ragged, eaten away, the remainder bleached in several spots. With a mental note to finally learn some mending charms once this is all over, Calen sheds the tattered remains, exchanging them for the spare outfit in his pack. Thank gods he hadn't been wearing that when he'd switched on the machine.

Decent once more, he picks up the mirror. "Can you bring up my journal?" Kip's screen lights up, the text in the common tongue this time. Calen's fingers become a blur again as he sets to writing, trying to recall as much detail as he can from yesterday--the fair, Umeli's house, the machine, the visions, the attack. His new companions--they might be next to strangers, but already he can't help but think of them that way.

Greck. Calen remembers seeing other warriors in Tyran livery around the fairgrounds. No temple in Caracara that he knows of, though; mercenaries, maybe? Greck seems to be in command, or at least of high rank. If not for the heraldry, Calen never would've pegged him as a holy man...but then again, Tyr's clergy aren't exactly known for being cloistered monks. Calen's never been all that comfortable around soldiers, but this sort of thing is what they do. Follow Greck's lead, then.

Ar-Raaqis. Untrustworthy, almost blatantly so. The mask, of course, but she didn't hesitate for a second before executing unconscious prisoners either, and didn't seem the least bit shaken. Those artifacts, though...she's clearly no wizard, but just as clearly commands power. Does it all come from the mask and lantern? Some instinct tells Calen they might be far more powerful even than Kip.

Yusha. From what he's seen so far, Calen's glad to have him around. Seems to understand that not everything has to be solved with bloodshed. Calen doesn't know all that much about the inner workings of the Abadari priesthood, but there are certainly people he can imagine being worse to have at his back.

Shalar...Calen's fingers pause above the letters. Dangerous, obviously, maybe even more than Ar-Raaqis. Clearly respects her version of strength, which means he probably ranks as less than nothing to her...for some reason, that thought makes his chest hurt. Why? Impressing some blood-crazed barbarian who probably eats people is the last thing he'd usually want, even if she's--

...Oh. Oh, well that's just dandy, isn't it? That machine must've done worse to him than he'd realized; he's clearly taken leave of his senses. Besides, it's not like he'd ever in a thousand years be her type....

He scribbles down some extremely impersonal notes about her observed capabilities before closing the journal window. "Local Weft readings, please."

Preparing spells always helps him calm down. After giving some thought to yesterday, he decides attack will be a better investment than combative defense; he'll be traveling in the company of some very capable fighters, after all. Hopefully, they can handle things up close...if it comes to that.

The knock on the door comes just as he's finishing up. As soon as the boy mentions breakfast, his stomach growls loudly.

Hunger overcomes table manners, and he wolfs into his food. He almost manages to forget what awaits them all, but the innkeeper brings him right back. "I would've hoped to bring the prisoner back with us," he admits, a little despondent. "Something to get us in the door. Since they know we're coming anyway, should we go under a flag of truce?" Without a bargaining chip, the hope of solving this peacefully seems a little fainter...but then, there's no telling whether this Safeguard would even value the life of one of its servants. From what happened last night, in fact, it seems more likely the answer is no.