The Feral Dog Adrift - Chapter 5: Devour & Duty

Early morning, the rainstorm continuing on.
Moon of Hanging Lichen
Cross-Hall of the Hoof-Bridge Temple.

“Aye, he's well enough. Starved and covered in the sorts of bruises that come from bein' vomited up by the sea. But his vital essence is strong, he'll recuperate.” The three of them huddle in the hallway just before the common area, watching the significantly-less-raggedy man at the long table that served as the common eating area of the temple. Even for a small and self-funded temple such as this, the Cross-Hall reaches high; Its rafters and ventilation slats over fifteen feet high and the peak of the reed-thatched roof reaching even higher.

“Thank you for aiding me on such short notice,” Grauld grumbles out as he matches those piercing, glowing orange eyes with his own. “I would have tended to him immediately, but the needs of the festival ceremony were-.”

“Ut-ut-ut-ut,” tuts the elderly crone, fiercely-clawed hands waving away Grauld's gratitude. “This place needs Moose's warding, and I would have done it without payment regardless. Your washed-up dog there let me confirm several things while asleep, and after pretending to be asleep.”

“Now. Remind me, Marm Ildred.” Pipes in the concerned voice of Oake, the leading priest of the temple. “And to tell Grauld the same thing you told me. You believe he's of the same nature as Garrom?” Grauld's back stiffens at Oake's words, and he throws a dark glare at the old woman. But then his eyes go back to looking at their guest, brows furrowing in concern.

Crone Ildred, medicine woman and Animist-in-retirement, groans and rolls her cat-like eyes in exasperation. “Yes, I did say that. And I stand by it, well as anything. He's got all the same marks that set Garrom apart from us, even if he looks more human than Isle-Ruiner ever did.”

Grauld's eyes would hold on the orange-haired man as Ildred spoke. He's sitting at the common table of the temple's cross-hall: In front of him, a bowl of mushroom-and-goat's-milk stew with chunks of scattered fish and chunked gubberling, three small loaves of nutbread, and an urn and small cup of freshwater. At the head of the cross-hall, over the warming firepit, a cauldron of yet more of the same stew is bubbling away, its steam and smoke wafting up to the rafters. For the last ten minutes, that man has been devouring equal measure of stew and bread: Grauld remembers there being six loaves, and he doesn't appear to be stopping any time soon.

“That would also explain his inability to understand our tongue.” Oake ponders quickly, rubbing at his lengthy nose in thought. “And I don't get the impression he's from Conthas, or the Belasarian Empire.”

“That fire-like hair had me thinkin' one of the Delsumites. But under all those markings, his skin is close to ours. He's not green or blue, and he bears no tusks.” Grauld muses with his priestly friend. Ildred rolls her glowing eyes, and chuffs out an exasperated sigh.

“I have a spare slate. And a chunk of seafoam rock.” Oake finally concludes, briefly stepping away. “We can attempt some simple symbols. Get a rough story from there.”

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He hadn't realized it, walking with the bald man and the horrifying old lady. But he smells that great iron cauldron, and he sees the toasted brown bricks studded with nuts, and Liam remembers. When was the last time he ate? A lifetime ago, it felt like, and could have been.

The cauldron's mixture is a slop of grey and white, with a multitude of chunks. Chunks of what? He tastes and feels the flakes of fish, fresh fish at that, although what kind of fish he can't recognize. Spongy cubes of some kind of chewy, fleshy thing bounce off of his teeth until forcibly chewed; Some of the cubes take some chewing to break down, while others explode into meaty strings. Is this a chowder? He remembers a chowder like this, long ago in a shite tavern in Dundee. But this is savory, thick, and sloughs down to his gut like warm mortar; The only thing that other chowder had tasted of was water and dead rat.

The nut-bricks were, on biting down into one, more of a small loaf of bread. If a loaf of bread were studded with so many nuts and seeds it could bludgeon someone senseless. Some of these seeds taste and feel familiar as he crunches through them, with a strange and alien aftertaste. But after so many years of maggot-ridden, tooth-chipping ship's biscuits, there was no complaint.

The water. Cool and fresh, the first time he's tasted genuine and clean water in decades, and it chills him to the core as he gulps. Already, he can feel the slight burn from drinking too much at once, and there's a painful tightness in his chest. Fresh fish and fresh water, how lucky these people had it.

So focused on slaking a painful hunger and thirst, he doesn't notice that others have sat at the table until he hears a loud cough. He looks up from his current bowl, facial hair flecked with that thick soup. The tall, bald man in a priest's garb is seated directly across from him, with a flat board of something directly in front of him, and a white stone positioned next to it. The old woman with the haunting predatory eyes lurks nearby, back to one of the columns of the tall building.

And seated next to the priestly fellow is an immense bear of a man, skin stained and flecked with remnants of red paint, his lengthy white beard braided and adorned with charms and beads. Those icy blue eyes roam, and Liam feels a chill run over his skin. He can't meet that man's gaze, he feels in the back of his head. To do so would let him see too much – He feels like a mouse trapped in a glass jar. He keeps eye contact with the priest, whose dark brown eyes have a comforting air about them. The only pair of truly human eyes, out of the three looking at him.

The man in dark robes takes the white stone, and begins scraping it against board. No, he remembers this from schooling. Was that lime? Chalk? He's scraping it against the dark slate, and it's leaving powdery lines on its surface. Liam quickly runs his hand over his soup-stained facial hair, wiping off the mess on his other sleeve.

He finishes. Briefly, the priest-looking man has a rueful look on his face as he scratches at the back of his head. The white-bearded bear says something gruffly in their tongue, before uttering a low chuckle and slapping him on the shoulder. The evil-eyed crone rolls her eyes in the back.

The dark slate has four rough figures etched, grouped up. Okay, clearly meant to resemble the four of them now. Two symbols are carefully drawn, although their importance is unclear to his eyes. Two lines arc from one symbol to two of the drawn figures, and the second symbol only connects to one. 

The tall priest points at that particular figure, and gestures at himself, before pointing at the other two figures and gesturing at the old man and lady in turn. Is he the leader, and these two his servants? No, their demeanor is nothing like that. He's too normal, too much like one of the townies of a port.

Carefully, the bald priest pushes the dark slate and white stone away from him. He taps the one lone figure, and points across the table.

Liam grabs the chalk-like stone. Right, let's take a look here. He looks up and squints at the darkly-tanned man directly across from him. Right there, on the collar of the light-cream tunic under his robe. Same symbol marked on the slate. At its most basic, it's that shape with six sides to it. He can't remember, he was never that good with his shapes or math. It's split into six triangles, each with a circle at their center. Two lines underneath it. Clearly important to this man somehow.

But that other shape, denoting the other two figures staring him down. Some kind of... swirling cloud? He tilts his head, and the bear of a man says something in that tongue. Christ, it sounds so familiar, and he doesn't even bother chiding himself for using that name. Like the elder ferrymen back in Tay. He can almost understand these people, but there's just some tick to their tongue that keeps it out of his reach.

Liam starts a simple back-and-forth. He sketches a symbol that he remembers being under, at some point or another, and gestures at it to see if the three before him understand. Flag of the British Royal Navy? They don't recognize it. The French, would they recognize a former privateer of France? No, that doesn't get through. In a brief fit, he draws a rough sketch of his former Jolly Rogger: A hound's head holding a cutlass in its jaws. That one raises an eyebrow, but other than that it's another round of shaking heads.

Shaking his head with a sigh of frustration, so close yet so far, Liam rubs away the previous symbols. Then, he starts scribbling down something. Something to explain his presence. Anything.

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“So regardless of where he's from, that kind of flag doesn't indicate a savory fellow.” Grauld muses as the orange-haired fellow starts sketching out something in further detail on the slate.

“We don't know the custom, good man. Maybe t'is a sign of some great feat he undertook? Hence why he also wears it on his chest?” Oake offers. By this point, their storm-tossed guest has sketched out the rough shape of a ship. Waves, clouds, and jagged lines – A vicious storm. Another icon, this time of the ship sinking, and vague lines indicating some kind of fire onboard.

“Could be. If it's similar to the Delsum raiders, is likely a raider in a form or other.” Marm Ildred quips. “Although his story there do line up. Ship sinking after a storm? Would explain why he washed up. But I still get the feeling he's not bein' entirely honest.” A slight bit of an eastern islands accent slips into Ildred's voice, prompting a quirked eyebrow from the other animist in the hall.

And why wouldn't she have reason to doubt? Even with the broken and blotchy patterns on this stranger's skin, all of the tattoos that remain are quite obvious. Maybe not in intent, but in shape and symbol. Over his shoulderblades, two ocean birds reminiscent of the diving flocks in Ggynma's Strait, to the north; Across his chest, the same symbol he just etched with the seafoam, the snarling dog with a cutlass in its teeth; Wrapped around his arms, lengths of ship's rope and chains; on the hand not colored like wax and lacquer, he had strange characters written across the knuckles, and a t-shape with a jagged black line crossing it on his palm. Across his skin was a canvas of now disjointed ink.

And this man, covered in the markings of what was obviously a hard life, has just gone back to inhaling another bowl of soup.

“Right. Well, I think we've gotten all we can. I genuinely am not sure if we can just take him to the Conthas enclave.” Grauld says with a very, very resigned air about his person as he stands up from the cross-hall's long table.

“Don't forget, Ice Bear. You discovered one with Animistic potential. It's your-” Ildred croaks out as she begins to make her own way out of Hoof-Bridge Temple.

“I am aware of the law, Ildred.” Grauld comes to a halt. The air of the Temple grows chill, colder than the rains that still pour downwards. The flame under the soup cauldron extinguishes with a soft puff.

Oake, Honorable Priest of the Temple, knows better than to get involved. Taking up the chunk of seafoam rock, and the flat piece of slate, the composed patriarch swiftly exits. Their guest, a bewildered look on his face at the sudden exchange, stares at both Animists with wary eyes, his hackles raised.

“I am aware of my duties as an Animist of Art Lendosk, and as Ritual Pillar of Five Pines.” The massive, white-haired old man growls out. “And last I checked,” he says as his silhouette disappears in a whoosh of air, before materializing in front of Ildred's smug, mirthful gaze. “Your duties included the seclusion and keeping of knowledge. Not sharing it with those who cannot know the ruin it will bring.”

“Oh?” The cat-like crone mews out with a hoarse laugh. “Not-so-trusting of dear Oake, all of a sudden?”

“The Honorable Priest is aware of the role he plays. He does not need more than that. Nor should he want it.”

“Fine. Fine.” His fellow Animist simply acquiesces, before jabbing a gnarled finger at Grauld's chest. “You have your duties, then. I will go back to mine.” She bustles past him, black robes swishing through the chilly air. Before she moves to the temple's entry hall, she pauses, and looks back over her shoulder: “Just remember. You get to be the one to bury him if The Stampede repeats itself. Don't want to be like the one who first took Garrom under their wing.”

The large man lets out a deep sigh as his counterpart leaves with a mocking laugh, and he casts an icy-blue eye over his storm-tossed guest. Those half-crazed hazel eyes, wide with confusion, swiftly looked down to the floor, refusing to meet his soul-piercing stare. Another exasperated sigh comes out like an overworked bellows, as the air slowly warms back to the realm of 'tolerable.' Alas, the cauldron flame remains doused.

The rainstorm begins to fade, and the sky seeps through.