Tilverton Coals

[Rumple C]

The air of the City of the Dead was cold and crisp and still and misting in front of him. It was suitably… suitable for the location, stinging on warm nasal passages as Tilverton Coals inhaled. Despite the ominous surrounds, despite the general stresses he was being exposed to at the font, and despite how cold his toes were becoming Tilvy, ahem, Seeker Coals was feeling good.

Really good.

Like, really, really, good.

Better than he ever had, really.

It was a combination of two things. No, combination was the wrong word. It was more than the sum of its parts. It was like a synergy… no. A Duet. He was finally out of the monastery, and he was finally living. He was doing. He was a human being, being human.

Who and what he was being is and was another thing. The euphoria from that night with Clarianna Gardner, ahem, Seeker Gardner was still there. Wait. Phrasing. The euphoria from the night with Seeker Gardner when he had been bitten by the rat was still there. He felt invigorated. Agile. Powerful.

Dangerous…

A door opened in front of him. He whirled. There was no one around. No thing and no one and no body. Tilvy waited, his heart racing, his breath whipping in and out, stinging his throat now. Still nothing. The sensible thing to do would have been to close the door and leave. He wasn’t feeling sensible though. He was feeling like a Seeker of Knowledge. A euphoric one at that. His slowly moved forward, one hand out in front as though both warding but welcoming whatever excitement was soon to come.

Steps.

Darkness.

Torches.

Bones.

Animation.

…Dear Deneir these bones were animating, rattling softly as they did so. Fear froze the breath in his lungs, but training pushed him forward. This one had a sword. This one was too slow, for Tilvy who stepped into its personal space, grabbing it by the upper arm… bones. He kicked the skeletons feet out from under it while wrenching at its arms, twisting hard.

Pop.

Whatever was holding the skeleton together stopped holding it together. Everything, including the sword clattered to the stone floor.

Clang….

Seeker Coals was left holding two bones and nothing else. As quietly as he could he lay them down on top of the other bones, then moved the sword out of reach of the bones, just in case. It was quiet again… aside from the soft sound of something dragging its feet as it came his way.

So this was a zombie?

Well, if that was a zombie, this was the kick he had practised a thousand times under the Carmendines. The kick known as “Second Chance”. Second Chance hit the zombie squarely in the chest sending it sprawling back down the corridor. It didn’t get up. Wise. Wiser than he was, perhaps.

It was at that point that things became a little more intense. Something wooden whizzed past him and splintered on the wall behind him. Tilvy stepped back around the corner. Clickity clickity, the sound of what he now knew was another skeleton coming towards him… and only one from the sound of it. Running, even. Timing was everything here.

Close, closer, CLOSE

Tilvy had once been to a travelling carnival where they showed staged theatrical fights in a large tent. One of the entertainers used a running lariat to hilarious effect, making the other fellow spin a full rotation before landing heavily on his back. Seeker Coals was not running, but he knew someone who was.

The lariat caught the skeleton under the chin, lifting its head off. It’s body kept running down the corridor before finding the wall and crashing into a heap of unmoving parts.

It was even more comical than the travelling carnival. Tilvy was elated. His heart was racing, and he was feeling FREE. FREE from consequences, FREE not to pull back as he always had to in training, FREE to strike without seeing pain.

He moved on freely.

The next was different again. It looked like a zombie but moved like a lizard. This fight was different, this was a fight for his life against an intelligence. In training Zealot Coals fought against his fellow Carmendines. They practiced striking, they practiced wrestling. If not for this training he would have died when they both fell to the floor, entwined like lovers but fighting like lovers scorned. There was two problems Zealot Coals was having right now. The first was that the ghoul was cheating, and not respecting the rules that normally governed civilized wrestling. The other was that he was not able to choke the life from it.

In the end he simply bashed its head against the floor until it stopped moving while it clawed at his arms. The horrid thunking noise was replaying itself in his memory.

Zealot Coals was a devout man, all things considered, and did not offer his prayers only to Deneir. He acknowledged many gods and tried to stay in their good graces. He felt blessed this night, by many but did not want to test the patience further of Tymora. So, it was at this point, that he drank a potion of healing, lifted a blacked trophy from the ghoul and stepped by out into the air of Waterdeep, the city in which he was feeling alive.

[Rumple C]

The research of the Deneir Zealots is not one of breakthroughs and moments of inspiration. No, it is one of academia, of learning from those who have gone before, and of making incremental gains in facts. Tomes and manuscripts from the following Zealots were piled upon his desk.

Zealot Abrahms whom had written "The origins and rise to power of Bane"
Zealot Camden whom had written "Rot & Renewal, a study on Moander & Finder Wyvernspur"
Zealot Dole whom had written "An Almanac of Divinity"
Zealot Dovin whom had written "What is time and whose controls it?"
Zealot Ebb whom had written "Powers from the Planes"
Zealot Francois whom had written "Creation stories"
Zealot Jacquil whom had written "Worshipping the earth"
Zealot Manir-Reel whom had written "So called gods from the primitives"
Zealot Sopple whom had written "Nether, the fall"
Zealot Twined whom had written "Magical tattoos"
Zealot Underhill whom had written "Gods help us"

Zealot of the Written Word Tiverton Coals wrote in his journal without needing to think about the names of Deities deceased and Powers past, for they were as rote to him as buttoning his shirt.

Amaunator, Auppenser, Bhaal, Chronos, Eshowdow, Ibrandul, Iyachtu Xvim, Jazirian, Kalzareinad, Karsus, Kiputytto, Kukul, Leira, Moander, Murdane, Myrkul, Mystra, Mystryl, Othea, Ra, Camnod the Unseen, Borem of the Lake of Boiling Mud, Haask, the Voice of Hargut, Maram of the Great Spear, Tyranthraxus the Flamed One, Tyche, Valigan Thirdborn.

Tilverton Coals did something very un-Zealot like and wrote a hypothesis underneath the names of all the dead gods, that could possibly have been right.

The original gods were emanations of the same divine source.
therefore
current and living deities whom have absorbed/usurped/inherited/stolen the portfolios and powers of dead deities are simple new vessels for that divine source.
therefore
we are all worshipping different aspects of the same divine source.
therefore... we are all the same.

And with that Tilvy propped up his parchment into a position where he could read it easily, while he tilted the chair back upon two legs, and waited. Waiting for either for the enlightenment of the meta-text to show itself, or for High Seeker Clarianna Gardner to return from her mission against the vampires. Whichever came first.