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Script Wrecked:
When Naldin had first discerned the nature of living in Fort Vehl, he had been quite taken aback. Whereas his home in Taur'en was a refuge of support and mutual assistance in a wilderness of potential predators, it seemed Vehl itself was an arena for that very predation to take place. And what was prey in one circumstance became predator in another. Naldin did not understand how a community could seek to prosper in an atmosphere of such vested self interest.

So, when he found there was a temple of the Lord Protector in the very town itself, he had been filled with hope. The great Gold Dragon was the very remedy to the sickness of the "me first" attitude that afflicted these people.

Naldin thought that extending the presence of the Lord Protector onto the mean streets with patrols of liveried temple guard would be enough to affect change. Establishing a zone of order would naturally draw people to the protection it afforded. Seeing the benefits, they would be inclined to adopt the teachings of the Great Gold. Slowly but surely, things would begin to change for the betterment of all.

With this in mind, Naldin [THREAD=283473]approached[/THREAD] the Temple with his idea.

Script Wrecked:
Naldin wiped his hands on a cloth, looking at his handiwork with no small sense of accomplishment. The vial looked innocuous enough as it rested in the rack, despite holding the venom of the small spider.

He uncorked the vial, and tentatively dabbed his finger into its contents.

Nothing adverse so far.

He took a breath, then dabbed the finger onto.. the end.. of his.. tongue...

Argh. His tongue burnt, his mouth soured, and he started salivating great mouthfuls of spit.

Well, that was stupid, he thought as he reached for water to relieve his discomfort.

When he regained some level of composure, he eyed the vial suspiciously. Now, he was going to have to find some means of safely ingesting the stuff.

Script Wrecked:
Naldin stood at the quayside of Fort Vehl, watching the world go by. There had still been no response to his [POST=1723035]proposal[/POST] from the Temple. He pondered what it might be about the Vehlians that dissuaded the Temple from making progress into this society.

Sure, Naldin had walked amongst them, but he could sense he was treated as an outsider. From what he had observed, the Vehlians seemed quite.. tribal, even amongst the different groups. The place where this barrier seemed to come down somewhat was at the local taverns, the watering holes. They were a bit more accepting, or perhaps, relaxed, then.

Sure, brawls still erupted amongst the different groups, and, Naldin had noticed, were prone to be more spiteful than similar dwarven punch-ons. Whereas dwarves were content to pummel each other and break chairs across the odd back, all too often knives were drawn.

Somehow, a closer look would be required.

Script Wrecked:
They had been engaged to collect some taxes on behalf of a tax agent from the Madasi Bruche clan of the Dragon Isles. En route, they were attacked by and had slain the clan's sacred bear.

The reactions by Maxamilian and Samantha when the tribe had found them in breach of the clan law caught Naldin off guard. Perhaps they had been affronted by the suggestion that they could break any law, whether knowingly or not. Or perhaps that this was some sort of plot, by enemies of Rofirein, to trap two of his servants using the net of the very law itself. Whatever the case may have been, they both began arguing semantics with the clan, whether, as tax agents they had diplomatic immunity, whether as servants of Rofirein were subject to clan law rather than the Common Law, what the jurisdiction was, where any trial should be held.

It all seemed to make a mountain out of a molehill as far as Naldin was concerned. Surely the honourable thing was to offer the tribe some sort of recompense for the loss of their bear; it was an accident, but the tribe were entitled to some sort of material reimbursement, or render of services.

Of course, if the tribe had wanted death, or something out of all proportion, that would have been different.

In the end, the tribe had required trial by ordeal, which they all submitted to, and passed.

Script Wrecked:
Of late, each time Naldin had been in a crafting hall he had availed himself of the alchemical workbench to find how to dilute the spider venom. Drawing on the skills he had learnt potion making, he had tried all sorts of liquids: water, various pressed oils, wine, beer, spirits, melted butter and lard, even sea water; searching for the one with which the venom would mix without altering it. After much effort, he had found the best one(1).

He added a drop of venom to a bottle of the liquid, and gave it a good shake. Mashing up some hardtack into a bowl with a few slurps from the bottle, he created a sort of gruel. Tentatively, he took a spoonful. The resultant slurry was hardly pleasant, but nonetheless palatable.

And so Naldin completed the first of many such meals which were to become a staple for the foreseeable future.

(1) whichever one that might be


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