<"So, you must tell me of this feast that is being provided for us...">Four hours later…
As the luscious moon swept over the Tepui that night, the four companions realized that this was the highest they had ever been.
(That is to say, this was the highest elevation they had ever spent a night upon.)
The villagers, pious though they were to their Watching Egg god, knew how to throw a party. By sundown, antelopes had begun spinning on spits over flames and wild-pigs had been buried in charcoal fire-pits. Wild atrioc-root liquor, a clear but potent substance, was imbibed liberally and offered freely to the companions.
The men and women all took turns dancing beneath the stars in wild frenzies and in various states of undress. Musicians played instruments the companions had never seen or heard before. And then there were the drums Somnak noted, his head nodding to the beat despite himself. Six energetic young men pounded the skins of their drums with bamboo rods, each drum the size of a beer barrel.
Only the one-eyed Seneschal seemed grim and unhappy. He stalked the outer edges of the celebratory fires, watching the strangers and frowning. He also seemed to be looking into the mirror at the end of his staff a lot. Surely, this grotesque being could not have been vain. Finally, ignoring the festivities entirely, the Cyclops stalked off, his white robes flurrying in the night breeze, behind him.
Melior and Meleana conversed deep into the night. Who could blame them, elves were rare enough. The wizard was nearly besotted with his jungle counterpart. Who could know of what they spoke? What whispers pass between those who live half-a-thousand years? And who cares anyway
, Thorgir thought, belching loudly and looking away from Meleana's gauze tent, where she was entertaining Melior and apparently a squadron of suitors. Her python was hypnotically swaying to the drum beat, casting a primordial shadow on the tent wall.Would Qullan have villages?
Thorgir pondered, slightly inebriated, as he quaffed the local spirit happily. Drunkenness heals all wounds, his grandmother had always said. Or were they nomadic?
His thoughts were interrupted by two nubile young women who had sidled up on each side of him by the fire and grinned dumbly, desiring to share his company. They spoke not a word of common. One extended a large sea-shell to him, which was filled with a milky substance. The other indicated with her hands, that by drinking it, his wounds would heal quicker.(ooc: home-brew healing “potion.” Thorgir recovers 15 HPs, +6 for 3 nights of rest)
Lumori sat and stared at the licking flames, his eyes reflecting the dancing fire. He was lost in his thoughts, and paid little attention to the festivities around him. Finally, becoming restless, he got up and wandered the village aimlessly, eventually nearing the palisade on the opposite side from where the companions had earlier entered. He meandered towards the gate and climbed the ramparts to get a view of the moonlit night. Far, far ahead, he could make out what looked like a purplish, throbbing, light, somewhere in the deep jungle.
“Intruder!” someone shouted then and suddenly drunken spear-men began mobilizing.
“What is it?” Lumori asked a youth.
“An obsidian-skinned, white-haired demon!!” came his answer.
The guard looked mystified, even as he said it.
At that moment, Brin had finally reached the palisade. It was near midnight now, but the obese moon and the light coming from inside the village walls, illuminated the darkness.
Men ducked down from the ramparts as they looked upon her. Spears appeared above the wooden walls.
She stood there, looking up, and listening to the pounding of the drums and celebration.