Fight the Real Enemy!
	Into the Forum

It is not long after the time of meeting arrives when the otherwise nervously genteel gathering of adventurers and merchants is intruded upon by a pair who under different circumstances might have been unremarkable. An older man, clearly in his sixties, balding, clean-shaven, with a white ponytail and flattened travelling hat, steps directionlessly foward, his head bowed forward, and then up, and then down again that he might make a note on a piece of parchment clutched not undelicately in one gnarled hand. His boots are soft leather, dirty but not worn overmuch; his leggings are cloth, brown like burlap, baggy but not unkempt; his tunic mustard yellow, unbuttoned slightly, showing a white crewnecked undershirt beneath; his cloak dark red, folded lengthwise and wrapped around his waist like a skirt. The cloak... a red sheen in the light? A depiction of sorts, but then it's gone. A clever touch of a master weaver if ever there was one. Ah, and the mystery is solved, as the insignia of the Weaver's Guild of Palermo can be seen, folded but visible, embroidered in his flattened hat. The other is young, a boy of 17. In travelling clothes similar to his master's but baggier, he flits around the older man with seemingly neverending energy, and patience. "Master," he starts, stepping in front of his master to get his attention, walking backwards, "we are nearly there. We must..." The older fellow makes no reply, nor reaction, but plods ahead, absorbed. "Master!" the boy cries again, then steps foward and bends to shout into the old one's ear. "Master Guiseppe!" he cries, loud enough for the whole square to hear. Guiseppe looks up, not in surprise but in mild annoyance at being disturbed. His thick brows forrow. "Yes yes, what is it boy?" he says quietly, and scribbles a little more on his sheet. "We reach our destination, Master," the boy fairly yells, stepping toward his ear once more, "and perhaps you would like to..." "I hear you, boy, there's no need to shout," Guiseppe replies. "Are we there already, then? Very well. With whom do we speak. Your idea it was to drag me to Florence on this fool-brained mission; now find us the functionary in charge, Pinocchio, so you can do your thing and we can go home." The boy throws up his hands and rolls his eyes. "Yours too, Master; yours mostly, I might say. To hear you talk, at least." He looks at his teacher, who obviously has heard not a word. He sighs and stands on tiptoe to have a look around. His eyes brighten. "There!" He points. Guiseppe follows the arm and finger to the dignitary to whom everyone seems to be deferring. He looks displeased. He lowers his spectacles on his nose so as to have an unaffected view. "That robe is disturbingly mauve," he remarks. "Let's go," says Pinocchio, and tugs gently on his master's arm toward the line, where they prepare to wait patiently. Engrossed in her conversations with the tall gladiator Ullar and the young shaman of the 'Urk-ste-khalid-kor' -- she whispers the unfamiliar words under her breath, committing them to memory -- Marika does not at first notice the newest subject of Sam's curiosity. As the line before her dwindles, though, and her turn to face the functionary is nearly at hand, she casts a last nervous glance around the courtyard. Following Sam's gaze, she spots for the first time a young black-clad girl, just dusting herself off after a collision with a tall bronze-skinned man. Her eyes rivet on the book that the girl is carrying, but before she can approach the stranger to see what she is reading, Marika is startled to realize that her turn has come to enter. With some effort, she masters the fear that wells up in her mind, and after a surprisingly brief exchange of words with the functionary, she is inside the auditorium. Teague fidgeted as she grew closer to the door. She eyed the tall man again, making sure he didn't step on her or anything. The man size her up, noting that she is not particularly attractive, though graceful. He speaks to her briefly, seemingly not paying much attention as he sees she is nearly at the end of the line, followed only by a few stragglers. "Er, Teague Nightwind." replies Teague softly. The man clutches his chest, looks at her curiously, shrugs and waves toward the door. Rhune looks down at the Functionary and smiles at him as she approached the table. Though she is not flirting with him she has discovered that in some situations a smile works wonders. She notes his expression of her as he leers at her. It is not until he waves her in that she breathes a sigh of relief and then that is when she realizes that she had been holding her breath. She passes the two black men and heads towards the door. Once inside she takes a look around adjusting to the dimmer light and after locating Silus and Sam heads towards them. She sits down next to Silus and looking up at him, "It seems that we have made it inside." she whispers to him in a low voice. Silus smiles warmly at the elf: "Indeed," he replies. "We should give praise to the Lord that he answered my prayers that I offered to him that he should offer us two safe passage past the Inquisitors at the door." "He has truly listened to my prayers by allowing us to continue onwards together." Rhune smiles at him. She likes this human with the funny sayings. Silus notices her chuckling and gives her another friendly wink back in response. Rhune winks back. Guiseppe and Pinnochio (?!?) fall in at the end of the line just in time to see the last of the group pass through the double doors. The functionary brings the old man forward, aks him his name, then gestures toward the boy, "I am afraid there are no children allowed in the meeting. He will have to wait outside." Pinocchio is indignant. He puts his fists to his hips, spilling the small open vial of ink he was holding all down his leggings. He opens his mouth, then closes it and blinks. "Children?! I... I'm no..." Guiseppe puts a hand on his protege's arm and smiles at the functionary. "Pinocchio, don't worry, it may be a loud meeting, but I'm sure it won't hurt your ears." He pats the boy's shoulder. "Come." The old fellow starts to shuffle past, but the boy resists as the functionary interposes. Annoyed, Guiseppe turns to see that the man is clearly not going to allow the boy admittance. His eyes flare briefly, as he draws himself up indignantly just as Pinocchio did, but with a sharp exhalation of breath and a flar of his nostrils, he deflates and nods. "Pinocchio, it looks like you will have to wait out here." He glares at the functionary. "But they might have told us in a civilized manner to start with, instead of being rude about it," he growls. The functionary looks at the old man with impatient indifference, saying nothing. "I will pick you up after. And tell you everything I hear." Pinocchio snorts loudly in a mixture of amusement and frustration. He turns, flailing his arms and casting his head down. He stalks over to the wall 20 feet away and slumps to the ground to wait. Guiseppe smirks, and heads into the motley throng, standing in back with the rest, taking in the scene with bright eyes. He crosses his arms and seems content to stand. Once it looks like everyone is inside, Rhune looks around at the people in the auditorium. She is very curious about what is going to happen and who all these people are. She looks at the people that are sitting on both sides of her. She smiles at each one in turn. The inside of the auditorium is brightly lit, with large braziers casting a hot white light onto the marble walls, which curve upward into the dome overhead. While beautiful in an austere fashion, the forum seems more suited to purpose than to pleasure. Perhaps three hundred people are seated within the cavernous hall, and all the fine marble benches are oriented toward the eastern side of the chamber. There is a constant chatter as the attendees sit uneasily, equally curious to you lot as to what will take place. Surprisingly, there are no guards in attendance that you can see, other than those above. The great double doors are closed soon after Guiseppi makes his entrance, and all those who took up station outside have apparently remained there. What the benches are focused on, most of you have never seen, even those who have grown used to the city life in Italia. A marble tier extends from an opening in the wall some twenty feet above your heads. The edges of this platform are gilded with some shiny substance, though you are too far away to discern it properly. Toward the rear, where all of you are seated, the benches gradually have risen until you are almost parrallel with the speaking dais, for that is what this obviously is. A very nasty looking fellow some seven feet high stands upon the platform. Though you are some distance away, you can easily make out that his head is that of some type of dog or hyena. He carries a massive staff topped with a similar head, though this one appears to be a skull. Behind him, the Genoese crossbowmen that you saw earlier on the catwalk can be glimpsed, scurrying back and forth, in and out of the opening. Your conversations are allowed to continue for just a bit before any interrruption from the podium.

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	Benjamin Lomax

This page was last updated on 20 January 2001