|NOTE: This event takes place when the party is next able to take an extended rest after the 4/26/09 session. Depending on how things go over the next session or two, it may be a while before the game actually catches up to this. I may come back to this post and modify it to reflect stuff that happens in-game between now and then. ~ FemmeLegion|
Ceilidh props up the spear she found in the armory. She then glances around, takes her best guess at which direction is west, then sits on her heels in such a way that she can face west and look at the spear.
She cannot help but think of Mother Patrice and the hour-long lecture that accompanied the day when she and the other acolytes were given holy symbols and formally inducted into the Raven Queen’s service. These are only things, the matriarch had said. They will crumble and rot as inevitably as your bodies will decay after your death. They are not the source of our power. The Lady Who Mourns is. These are tools, reminders for your mind and heart; nothing more. The words were sound, practical advice – and yet Ceilidh is certain that Mother Patrice hadn’t had this weapon in mind when she spoke them. The spear’s shaft is wrapped in strips of black leather, off which hang metal charms stamped with symbology that is unquestionably tied to the Raven Queen, but which Ceilidh has never seen outside the temple in Kellwood. And there is no denying the power which flowed from the spear through Ceilidh this day.
“Lady of Winter Harvests,” she begins, then pauses, grimacing. “Winter Harvest” is a term used by the folk in her hometown of Orchard, referring to the pragmatic slaughtering of beasts. The term seems both entirely appropriate and horrific in light of the fighting which has transpired recently.
”...whose love is immortality,” Ceilidh finally continues, “I thank and honor you for your presence in my life, and for the gifts you have given me that I may serve as you see fit. I pray that you will be with me through the night and the next new day.”
It is rare for the fledgling priestess to do the bare minimum of evening prayers, but Ceilidh’s heart is troubled. She sits quietly gazing at the spear for a minute or two, then speaks again, very softly.
“I’m so scared. I’m scared of Joram, and I’m scared of this thing, and if this is supposed to be some joke, that it’s a spear, the same weapon they used, it’s not funny.
“Forgive me for failing Joram. I know that’s what you were thinking when you healed him yourself. I just…can’t. I know he’s a paladin, of Bahamut no less, and I know that this Thad guy picked him to go along with this quest just like he picked me, so I should help him like I would Rosie or Miasaki. But I can’t stop watching him, waiting for the moment he’s going to try and eat me.”
“I wish I understood. I wish I knew why it was me on this quest – me, who’s scared of dragonborn and scared of spears, and easily able to think of a couple dozen people who’d have been more competent than I’ve been so far.” She shifts to a more comfortable seated position. “I mean, I know. Ever since I went to Kellwood and saw the world was bigger than home, I wanted to be part of that big world. But this…this is like coming home from a day of picking, all hot and sweaty, and then jumping with both feet into the creek. It’s too big of a change – it hurts. I don’t think I can do it.”