Ilsig - session diary 5

Previously: The Drums from the Deep - session diary 4

I know that travelling in TTRPGs is hard. Hard to make it interesting. I’ve prepared an event or three for the journey, meant to fill an hour or two - instead, we spent the whole weekend just on the trip itself. Actual play time was shorter, but our young Erik was interrupting his parents quite a lot. At least I already have the next session prepared, right?

The cover for this post is just a mobile shot of a piece of our isle map. Sure, I’ve marked a few locations from this and previous sessions. Still, it remains mostly empty so far — I had bigger plans, but similar to 2023, the tendons in my right hand got inflamed again, and I already have enough pain just from writing on a keyboard, so I’m in no condition to paint right now.

Klio woke wanting to be already gone — before anything else could happen, before anything else could delay her. Then came the shame of wanting it, of wishing herself away from her own parents.
A month ago, she was just a simple novice, living happily with her parents, and would never have thought about leaving; they had everything they could want. Since then, so much has changed, mostly her, she assumed. She started to see the world with different eyes.

When she got to the common room of the house, she wasn’t sure she would get away today. Kalaste, the potter’s wife, was sitting there, waiting. Was she hearing the drums again? No, she answered herself; she looked well rested. On a table in front of Kalaste lay a piece of dirty cloth.
Before Klio had time to react properly, the woman rose, slightly bowed, and greeted her.
“May Óó brighten your day! This is yours.” And before confusion reached Klio’s face, she continued, “Oh my, that must have sounded weird. I picked up the cloth from the beach this morning. I wanted to burn it. It’s the rags the statue was packed in, but there is something else there too, and I think that’s yours.” Then she moved the rags over the table, as far from herself as she could.
“Wh, what, I… " but Klio reached for it anyway. There, in the rags laid pearls, black pearls. She never had any; what does this mean? She might have been confused, but her subconsciousness wasn’t, and in her mind’s eye she saw yesterday’s scene. The walking fish-man knelt in front of the statue, its arms spread wide, slowly reaching toward it and gently brushing against the rags in which she had been wrapped just a moment ago. Something fell from those webbed hands before they firmly grasped the statue.
Klio looked at the older woman; maybe she would like to keep those pearls. But from her stance it was obvious she would rather be anywhere else than here, close to the pearls.
“Thank you, Kalaste.”
“It isn’t ours, and it certainly doesn’t belong to Nikomedes. It must be yours,” Kalaste pushed from herself with such high speed it was barely understandable. Then, more calmly continued, “Also, as everybody in Batra knows, you’ll be leaving for Heliopolis; I’ve heard it’s an expensive place.” As if that was enough to explain everything, she added, “I need to go home, prepare breakfast for my husband.”
“You can stay for breakfast with us here, and your husband can join us.”
“Nah, he’s quite picky about his habits and food, thank you very much, but I must go.” Not waiting to reply, she started towards the entrance where Dorian had emerged, leading her outside.

Turning back to the table, Klio noticed her parents quietly watching the whole exchange, smiling.
“She trusts you, and she feels in debt towards you,” Dafne pointed out. “Shall we have breakfast now?”
Without waiting for instructions, Dorian brought breakfast and began setting it out on the table.
“Dorian, why don’t you join us for breakfast? You’ll be walking with me to Heliopolis, and we’ll be eating together daily.” Klio asked.
The silence that fell into the room was almost physical. Her parents froze. Dorian, a slave sitting with them at one table, wasn’t something their minds were able to process.
It was Dorian who broke the silence “I’m sorry, lady, but I have other duties. I need to instruct Nikomedes in his new duties while I’ll be escorting you to Heliopolis.” But didn’t move until Dafne nodded him away. With Dorian outside, the tension vanished.

Afterwards, it was just usual breakfast, no more distractions. They talked about the Klios trip to the High Temple school and about the family she would eventually meet in Heliopolis. Then Dafne’s tone shifted. “Be careful in front of your aunt Halendra. Be careful what you tell her.” She paused, choosing her words. “She is one of those who believe Óó didn’t die, or that his strength failed. She believes he chose to leave — that we sinned, and he turned his back on us out of spite, and won’t return until we’ve earned it back. Everyone carries that guilt, in her eyes — maybe even you.” Dafne’s eyes held Klio’s. “Your uncle Talasor is steadier — if you need something, go to him instead.”

Both Teofil and Dafne were accompanying Klio and Dorian to the eastern edge of Batra. Various villagers greeted their priests as they walked among the villagers’ houses. The one they weren’t expecting was a new carpenter apprentice, Georgios, running towards Klio.
“I wanted to thank you once again, before you leave. I would be lost without you bringing me here,” he said instead of greeting any of them and hugged Klio.
“I was just doing what everyone would”, she said, returning his embrace.
“I’ve brought you something for your journey. Antidote, you might need it. I’ve made them for you. From those spiders that tried to kill us.”
“You made these yourself? For me?”
“It’s one of the useful skills I already got when we met.” He hesitated, glancing back towards the carpenter’s shop. “I need to go back — the other apprentice is looking for a reason to slander me to our master. Good luck, Klio.” He hugged her once more, like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance, then ran back before she could answer.

“You’re making friends fast; that’s good. It’s useful for a priest,” commented Teofil “It’s time for you to make more friends on your journey. But before you leave, we both want your hug, daughter,” he said, eyeing his wife.
With a broad smile, Klio reached for them both. They all knew it would take months, if not longer, to see each other again.

Klio, accompanied by her protector, Dorian, left the coastal village of Batra. Hills rose ahead of them, then steep climbs where the ground seemed to turn to stone simply out of stubbornness. They found a nice cliff to sleep under. Dorian didn’t speak the whole day, not more than he needed to. Klio offered him a game of three pebbles, hoping to make him more relaxed. He played, but it changed nothing; he didn’t start to speak. Didn’t open. As if he never expected anyone would ever see him as equal — which Klio wanted to — he was still just a slave serving his owners.

In the morning, they realised they hadn’t found a cliff to sleep under; it was just part of a rock face in their way. There was no other way than to walk along it and look for a way to get up there.

Two hours later they came to a strip of land, as black as tar. A stream ran through the middle of it, no wider than a hand’s span, starting somewhere above them on the cliff and running down the hill, crossing their path. The strip itself was four meters wide, dead ground bordering that thin trickle of water — every tree, every patch of moss, every bush inside it stripped bare and grey, though nothing looked burned. Just past its edge, the forest was alive and loud — birdsong, insects, wind in the leaves — the ordinary noise of the world stopping dead at an invisible line. It didn’t look safe.
“We go around,” Klio said, and Dorian nodded, already scanning the treeline for another way. But the corridor stretched too far in both directions to see its end. She found a fallen trunk nearby instead, and they chopped off the smaller branches and started rolling it toward the black soil to bridge it. The moment she and Dorian stepped near the blackened soil, the ground moved.
Black vines erupted from the earth, thorned, whipping at them with a violence that made no sense for a plant. It caught Dorian’s arm, causing barely more than a scratch. The second struck Klio hard enough to stagger her. Dorian went rigid, then began to scream — a raw, primal sound Klio had never heard from him. Not once, in all the years he’d been in her parents’ house — present every ordinary day of her life, and still she realised in that moment how little she actually knew of him. He grabbed the vine in both hands and tore it apart with his bare strength, hurled it to the ground, and stamped it into the dirt as if it might still be alive. Another vine coiled around his ankle, dragging him toward the stream; he bent down and ripped it out of the soil by the root, snarling the whole time. Klio, half a step back, healed the gash on her own arm.

Then it was over. The vines laid still, blackened, dead. Dorian stood over them, breathing like he’d run for miles, staring at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger.
“This—” he started, then stopped. “It didn’t happen to me in years. I hoped it was gone.” He said it quietly, almost to himself, not looking at her. Lifted one end of the tree trunk and let it fall across the dead land. Then he picked up the pack he’d dropped before the tree, and crossed the black scar, stopping on the far side to wait, still not looking back at her.
Klio crossed after him, watching him the whole way. She had never seen Dorian raise his voice, not once — and now this. Was this what had cost him his freedom, whatever it was? She wanted to ask. She didn’t.

Soon, a trail leading up the cliff showed up; it was narrow, but they just fit. Up on the terrace was an unmaintained path; it took them east, along another cliff towering above them.

An hour later, the narrow path widened, and in the rock face beside them they saw a cave that someone had bricked up and fitted with a door. It was clearly a long time ago.
“Hello, is anyone there?” Klio got close to the door, knocking. The door almost fell from its hinges when she knocked, but didn’t.
No reaction.
She opened them and peered in. It was an old cellar, once filled with food, oil and wine. The old, broken kegs and boxes were everywhere, all empty. There was nothing useful to be seen there, just a place that everyone had forgotten.
When she came back out, she noticed someone hiding in the bush on the opposite side of the pathway.
“Hello, I didn’t want to scare you. I’ve asked if anyone is around,” Klio shouted towards the bush “Don’t be afraid, there is no need to hide from us.”
“How — did you — find me?” the man replied, partially sidestepping from the bush, but not getting closer. If those dirty rags were a man, she was not sure. “What do you want?” Turning his face and looking somewhere behind Klio, he asked again, “What do they want from me?”
Klio raised her hands in a peaceful gesture, showing she had no weapons; a ray of sunlight reflected off the Óó symbol fastened on her shoulder.
Instantly, the man’s face turned into a grimace. His hands, faster than an attacking snake, reached towards his belt and grabbed a knife. His hands put the point of the knife on his own throat. “I’m not going back, you can’t make me!” The first drops of blood started to appear on his skin.
Klio quickly guessed what happened—she covered the symbol with one hand, taking it off while still showing her other empty hand towards the man. “Don’t do it, we’re not here because of Óó. Not in His name!”
“Drop it!” Klio reached for her powers and commanded him — and he obeyed. Dorian, who was slowly, sneakily moving in an arc towards the man, jumped. The stranger was taller than Dorian; once he must have been much wider and stronger than him, but not today. It was mostly skin hanging on once-massive frame. Dorian twisted his arms behind his back.
The stranger slowly collapsed in Dorian’s arms, sobbing, shaking, “I’m not going back! No, nononono! Never going back!” Once again looking somewhere behind Klio, he complained, “You told me I’ll be safe here, you’ve kept me safe.”
Klio turned, but there was nothing. Who was the man talking to? He wasn’t even talking towards the cave. It was as if he was talking to the cliff face — strange.
When she turned back, Dorian wasn’t holding the man anymore. Instead, he was covering him with his own blanket. Still sobbing, he accepted the water skin that Dorian was offering him next; his lips attached themselves to it, and he was swallowing until the skin was almost empty.
When the water skin left his hands, it became obvious to Klio that it wasn’t water — the man was drunk; Dorian gave him wine. He stopped sobbing and started blabbering to himself instead. Slowly got to all fours and crawled towards the cave, still covered with Dorian’s blanket.
They let him.
Today they’ve slept in front of the cave; Klio had the first watch. When she was sure Dorian was deeply asleep, she turned in the direction where Axios mesa was.
“Anax? Anax, whom did he talk to? Was it you, or something else?”
No reply.
Then she moved towards the rock face the stranger was talking to and put her hands on it. It felt warm. “We don’t want to harm him. We’re not here to take him anywhere.”
Again, no reply.

Thud — the sound of a body hitting the ground, and immediately after, cackling. Sounds made Klio open her eyes, ready for anything, but not this.
Dorian was lying on the ground, laughing. The old man was squatting next to him, “Now you.”
They both rose and started to wrestle together, Dorian grappling the once-massive, now-lean man. It should be easy for him, but he didn’t have the skill and experience the older man did. Even after he grappled him, it wasn’t easy to make him lose his balance, lift and throw him behind himself.
Klio was watching the friendly sparring and probably a lesson for more than ten minutes before they noticed.
“Ilsig is teaching me some nice tricks,” Dorian proudly announced.
She didn’t see so much enthusiasm in his eyes — well, probably never.
“Ilsig, is it? Would you join us for breakfast?” Klio asked with a smile.
“I’m sorry, but we’ve already eaten. I gave him my breakfast,” replied Dorian, “and he shared his with me.” Then, apologising, he added, “And I gave him one of the axes I’ve taken from your parents.” Then turned to Ilsig with a question, “Can we show her?”
“Come with me,” Ilsig said to them as he entered his cave. They followed.

Ilsig went to the end of his cave, where water seeped from the wall — did she miss that last evening? He gathered some of it in a small cup and offered it to Klio. “Let me share the gifts of the mountain with you,” Ilsig offered.
It was like nothing else she had ever drunk; it was so full of taste, she wasn’t able to identify what it tasted like, but it was so pleasant. What’s more, just a few sips and her belly felt warm and full as if she had a proper breakfast at home — not a tiny cup of water from a cave.
“Thank you! But how? What is this?” she was full of questions and didn’t know where to start.
“Mountain provides,” replied the old man with a smile and left the cave. With him leaving the cave, the temperature inside changed; suddenly, it was cold, as it had been when she inspected it last evening. Also, the water stopped seeping. This wasn’t possible; how could that be? She ran after him, as if she was chasing a mirage, not sure he would be waiting outside. But he did.

Ilsig was sitting on the ground, his back against the rock face, quietly talking to himself.
“Who are you? How long have you been hiding here? How does the mountain provide? Please tell me, I’m confused. I know that we don’t know each other, but let’s change that.” Klio was pleading with Ilsig.
“Dorian is a good lad. He and the mountain are telling me that I can trust you, even when you wear the symbol of Óó — which is hard to believe, but the mountain never lied to me. Sit down, it will take a while.”

Ilsig remembered Óó shining on Pungit, but he also remembered how the temple showed their true colour after Óó died. Vain, greed, control — doing whatever they could to keep people in line, thinking about their own comfort and power, not about the people as they should have. Many of the marvels stopped functioning; illnesses and hunger soon followed.
Ilsig stole bread to feed his sister’s hungry children, but was caught and sentenced to ten years of slave labour in the fields, growing the very grain whose price had driven him to steal.
He escaped the following year when both field guards and many slaves died of mysterious illness. Fled into the mountains and threw himself on the mercy of nature — which provided for him; the mountain provided. The mountain led him to an abandoned underground winter storage, still stocked with food and wine. And later provided more.
He had spent thirty years on the run, alone in the forest, occasionally stealing a knife or a piece of clothing from loggers in the forest near the lake. For all that time, he spoke only to the mountain, avoiding any human contact.

Klio explained how the world changed. That in many places the church lost most of its power, but it’s still a place to learn. That nobody is looking for him, as he’s probably assumed dead, like many others who fell to the illness. She also tried to convince him to return to civilisation, and gave him some coins so he wouldn’t need to steal anymore.
Something in him broke or released, and Ilsig cried. Not a dignified cry; he cried as someone who lost hope in people, not expecting kindness from anyone but the mountain and forest. He agreed to meet some more people again, but not just yet. The last few hours were more contact than he had in thirty years.

Noon was approaching, and Klio, with Dorian, wanted to leave, again offering Ilsig the chance to join them. But he wasn’t ready to meet people yet.
“Remember to avoid the singing ladies on the cliff top; they’re dangerous. And there is a dead stream; the plants there are dangerous, avoid those too, but you’ve probably seen that already.”
“We did, yesterday. I wonder how come,” replied Klio.
“The spring is ill; the mountain doesn’t know how to heal it,” the old man replied sadly.
“Maybe we can try to do something about it. Can you lead us to the spring?” she asked.
“I can, but I don’t want you to be harmed, or me. It’s not safe there.”
“Please show us the place. I have an idea.” Klio asked.
Ilsig turned toward the mountain. It still looked weird to Dorian and Klio, a man talking to a mountain in his head and getting not only answers but help.
“It says that you can try, and I should take you there.”

Ilsig stopped when they saw the dead scar on the land. He trusted them, but probably not enough to stand beside them at the water’s edge. Klio and Dorian, on the other hand, went on.
The pond where the stream was pouring from lay in the middle of dead ground, feeding a black river. This time, they expected the vines to strike at them, and they were right. As soon as Klio called to her powers of healing and her staff touched the blackened water surface, the shrubs attacked. It wasn’t the vines as before; this time it was thorny brambles, but they also were black and looked dead.
Two of them grabbed for Klio’s hand, as if they knew that she and the staff were their biggest enemy; they hit hard, almost tearing the staff from her hands in the process. In the same moment Dorian was throwing his axe at the shrubbery, a primal screech was already leaving his mouth.
Through the pain, Klio still saw the water start to clear up from the point where her staff touched it. She was determined and called on her powers once more, ignoring the pain.
Empty-handed, Dorian tore the blackened roots of the plants that attacked Klio from the soil, ignoring the vines that tried to drag his hands and legs down into the dead earth. They weren’t strong enough for his fury.
Already freed, Klio saw that the water was clean; small bubbles were emerging from the sand at the bottom of the pond. But the soil was still dark and dead; she pulled her staff from the water and touched the soil, trying to do the same for it, but to no avail.
Dorian had already destroyed most of the vile shrubs; only the last one was holding his hand, pulling him to the ground. Its thorny branch cut into the meat of his hand. Klio cut into the fibre stretched between the roots and his hand, loosening it a little.
It was enough for Dorian to get better footing and put his whole weight against it, pulling it from the ground and then tearing it in two, killing it for good. Just in that moment, Ilsig arrived, bearing one of Dorian’s axes, which he was gifted in the morning. When he saw them being attacked, he wanted to repay their kindness and decided to join the fight. Seeing no enemy, he jumped into the pond and started to throw out all the dead wood lying in it.
Dorian and Klio joined him without a moment’s hesitation. The water was clean and was slowly spreading from the spring, but the soil was still dead; there was hope.

When they finished cleaning, Klio offered Ilsig some soap. Not trying to offend him, but to provide him with a piece of civilisation that was unavailable to him for years. He accepted the offer, but felt uncomfortable washing himself in front of them. Klio and Dorian understood and moved a few dozen feet away, waiting for Ilsig to clean himself.

“How did you do it? How did you cleanse the spring?” asked Dorian.
“I guess the mountain helped. The wounds those shrubs gave you are also healed, as I can see.”
Dorian froze at first, then started to check his hands and legs. There were no cuts, no torn skin. His eyes were wide. “But how?”
“One day we’ll figure it out,” she replied, smiling. He didn’t need to know that she cast a healing spell on him when they were inside the pond.

Ilsig didn’t just wash himself; he also cut most of his hair and beard with the axe Dorian had given him; he looked quite different.

It was time to leave for the village of Midus, the birthplace of Dorian, but mainly the closest settlement to the place where her future teacher should be buried.
Ilsig went with them for a few hours, showing them the right forest trail that led in the right direction.
“Remember to avoid the singing ladies on the mountain. If you hear a song, run away from it as fast as you can,” he reminded them.
“Thank you, Ilsig, you’re a good man,” Klio replied.
“Thank you, you two showed me that I’m free. That I’m not being hunted anymore.” his eyes were wet with tears.
“Can we do anything else for you? Maybe deliver a message to your sister?”
“I don’t know if she still lives! And I can’t write anyway.”
“I can write it for you, just tell me what to write. And if she lives, or her kids, they will know that you’re alive and one day might see you again.”

They spent the next night sleeping under a huge oak, eating a hare that Dorian killed with his throwing axe. They were so tired they didn’t even hold watch; they knew they wouldn’t manage anyway.

It took them the whole day to climb the next mountain, and with the sun setting, they finally saw the few warm lights reflecting in the Lake Pridoana, lights from the Midus, Dorian’s birthplace.