Aeith, King Maker

Sometimes the best way out of trouble is to buy your way out.

Deep under Wyvernskeep lies an immense treasure in a vault marked "Aeith." The treasure is the collected holdings of the Temple of Aeith, and although the reputation of the church is as a center of wealth, the staggering scope of it is mostly not even suspected by the public.

The center of Aeith's worship is in Wyvernskeep, and the temple there is a lavishly decorated spectacle.  From the outside, the temple building appears dainty, but architecturally unadorned. Deceptively thick, plain walls house ornate stained glass windows in a region predominated with buildings holding no glass at all. Finely woven and expensively dyed banners bedeck the exterior, and the overall effect is that of a skinny man wearing expensive clothes and jewelry.

To those who know little of Aeith, he is the god of wealth, and the power wealth grants. His clergy wear robes of ivory and gold. For the young acolytes, this means white and yellow linens, but for the senior clergy it's quite literal. Robes with spun ivory dentine and gold filament embroidery are his vestments, and are never given, but rather sold, to his most faithful.

Inside, the temple is a pageant of ostentation and displays of abundance.  To his worshipers, wealth is proof of Aeith's favor and buying his favor is faith itself.  From the front door, the temple is unadorned. No rugs, no art works, no furniture. Bare stone walls, floors and ceilings. This narthex is a small portion of the temple to be sure, but austere, and intentionally blunt about it.

To those who know him, and respect his teachings, Aeith is called "The King Maker" as often as he is called by his name. His commandments revolve around the responsibility wealth provides, and councils on the most effective and intelligent ways to invest, increase, and part with money. Aeith wants his followers to be as rich as he is, and ultimately his advice is sound. His faithful say that "wealth is security against misfortune, but that wise gifts are security against ill will."  Many of the city's orphanages are run by Aeith's faithful, as are most of the poor houses and soup kitchens.

After the narthex, the semi-circular nave begins.  Entrance to the nave is through a main aisle, which proceeds directly to the chancel in the center of the circle, three steps up, a large cathedra atop. On either side of the aisle sit bowls for offerings at regular thirty foot intervals, granting closer and closer approach to the center. The faithful call them "the gates" and each offering is successively more costly. Passing the gates grants the faithful petitioner greater access to the clergy and to more comfort and accommodation. Offerings are required each visit, and the regular congregation makes note when one of its members begins passing a deeper gate regularly, or no longer does.

If one wishes to enter the priesthood of Aeith, the first step is simple: Give the temple everything you own.  Everything.  Not just money, or land. Every sentimental letter your lover ever gave you, every stitch of clothing you own, shave your hair, we want that too. This is a one time requirement, not a vow of poverty. You see, they say, if you're faithful, if you really serve Aeith, you're going to get it all back and then some. A zone of truth spell and formulated line of questioning is used to determine if truly all has been offered.

At the first gate two plain, wooden bowls stand atop simple wooden spindles.  The bowls are for the temple's faithful to place an offering of a copper coin, and grants access to the pews. The pews are plain, wooden benches, and lack cushions.  No one aids the faithful that worship in this ring, and they sit too far away from the center to ever be heard.

Newly minted acolytes, called "attendees," are tasked with everything you would imagine; cleaning, cooking, mucking the chamber pots, etc. The backbone of any organization, and hungry for coin. Admonished to listen to elder members when they offer financial advice, but seldom able to actually follow through on that advice for lack of funds, these fresh juniors often play a kind of "fantasy merchant guild" game with each other, tracking how much they could have made with this investment, or how much they would have lost on that.

At the second gate, two iron bowls sit upon their wrought iron bases, and are filled with offerings of silver coins. A young member of the clergy will be stationed here, to instruct or remind those entering that the "gates must be appeased" before access is to be granted, but will make no effort to stop anyone determined to enter without permission. The pews here are still simple, but at least have backs. The occasional attendee will walk among the worshipers here, aiding with prayer, or offering a ladle of water from a shared bucket.

Seasoned acolytes are often asked to join local trade guilds as corespondents and scribes, or are offered "on loan" to local noble houses as advisors. Their titles vary, but are usually some form of their position in and out of the temple, such as "Acolyte Scribe" or "Acolyte Advisor." They teach that a well timed gift to the commonfolk or withdrawal from a risky venture can save face and capital in the long run. No other group in the Conclave has a structure of valued and accurate advice like the holy word of Aeith. That the temple is compensated for this advice is a net benefit for all.

The third gate has offering bowls of silver. A gold coin is the expected offering. An adult member of the clergy stands at the ready here, and admonishes anyone with the temerity to ignore the gate offerings, insisting that tradition be kept, lest Aeith's favor be lost to those violating his edicts. The pews here are pleasantly shaped, and cushioned, while the Acolyte Advisors talk with the worshipers, and offer bread and milk.

Senior clergy see to the administration of the temple, its financial ventures, and evaluate both parishioners and candidates for priesthood for their merit, mathematical ability, and faith. Their duties have them return to the temple, as their lay-world knowledge is now deemed sufficient. Official titles are in line with their duties again, most being "Faithful Broker" and "Faithful Accountant," though some others do exist. Being able to cast the Zone of Truth spell is considered another minimum requirement for senior duties, and they will cast it often. Aeith is a lawful deity, and requires that the clergy inform others when this spell is being used, but contends that honest people have nothing to hide.

The fourth gate has offering bowls of marble, the offering bowl and its stand carved from a single block. Gems or other items of at least 10 gp value are required for the petitioner to pass. An armed, but unarmored temple guard stands watch here, and will not allow faithless skinflints to proceed. In this area the pews have been replaced with comfortable chairs and tables. Faithful Brokers attend the congregation here, praying for them, listening to their pleas and promising to take the concerns to their superiors for guidance.

Seven members of the senior clergy are called the "High Advisers." Note the spelling change from the lower ranked "Acolyte Advisors." It's an important distinction to the church, as "advisors" help make financial decisions for people and organizations, but the "advisers" work with kings and dignitaries to drive policy and far reaching agreements between powerful parties. Yes, they're both pronounced the same. These advisers are also aware that the church has far, far more wealth than most know, as they see all of the temples books together, not just the individual reports being made by the lower ranks. They may ask the High Priest for special dispensations if needed. For example, during a disaster requesting in order to feed and clothe the distraught for the common good, or perhaps as a gift to a diplomat, to ensure his good will during negotiations.

The fifth gate has solid gold offering bowls. 100 gp is required here. A fully armed and armored temple guard stands watch here, but will not speak. His or her only command is to stop the faithless from proceeding. Conversation is left to the prior gates. This is the last gate to offer seating or accommodation in the nave, and it is fine indeed.  Plush, well upholstered lounge chairs and sofas are gathered into cozy, intimate groups. small tables around the seating are stacked with fresh fruits, cheeses, and wines, regularly refilled by meek child acolytes, while at least one Adviser is usually present, in order to hold deep and personal conversations with the flock in this ring.

The sixth gate lies at the edge of the nave, and after passing through it, you will cross the thirty feet of space reserved for approaching the chancel. This gate has no bowls, but instead an acolyte of the faith stands at the ready, holding a basket, and quietly asks for an offering of 1,000 gp value. No one congregates in this area. As in the narthex, the floors lie bare, but this time they are made of gem inlaid marble, intricate golden patterns painstakingly crafted into the floor.

Ontas Kirk is the head priest. He is snide, and prone to sarcasm, but does mean well. An excellent orator regardless, Ontas performs the daily sermons of faith. He is adviser to the King of Wyvernskeep, and his business prowess is so astute, even the High Advisers seek his council on occasion. In contradiction to anticipation, he wears simple linen robes, similar to those of the newest acolytes. If you ask, he will tell you that it is an effort to remain humble, which he openly claims difficult. This is partly true. It is also because he understands that he is a figurehead, and does not make final arbitration for the church. He may someday, if he outlives the keyholder.

The seventh gate lies at the bottom of the chancel, but petitioners never pass the gate. Upon offering 10,000 a petitioner is allowed to stand at the bottom of the three steps of the chancel, and speak to the high priest upon his cathedra. The cathedra is a simple high backed chair, finely made, but simple in its design.

Aleksandr is the keyholder of Aeith.  It is a secret position, reveled only to the high priest upon receiving the office, in the journals only he may read. In those journals, the nature of Aeith is revealed, and the nature of the organization he now figureheads is made clear.  Only the keyholder and the high priest know the location of Aeith's vault, and only the Keyholder may ever visit it.

Aeith is a treasure horde of almost incalculable size. He is sapient and is truly deific, but possesses no body beyond that of his accumulated wealth. His temples are a means of gathering as much coin and gem as possible, for Aeith finds that his powers grow as his resources do.

From the movie National Treasure

Lady Margarite Peaceriver

The Lady Margarite Peaceriver is a silk elf noble living in Second Breakfast.  She has recently arrived in town, and having been taken with it's charms, decided to settle in, and experience all the active coastal town has to offer.  Her vast reservoir of wealth has quickly ingratiated her with the aristocracy, as well as confounding them as to her sources. Hadn't she arrived with little more than the silks she was wearing?

By day she may entertain visitors in her small home, apologizing for having the blinds drawn, offering by way of reason that the sunlight hurts her eyes. She does keep sufficient, if somewhat dim light available for her guests. Permanently lit magical orbs softly bobbing overhead, drifting in the air currents. Most of these daytime meetings are between her and potential entrepreneurs seeking funding for this trade deal, or for that business opportunity. So far, her instincts have been more right than wrong, and the occasional failure has not stopped her from continuing to be bold in her selections.

By night, Margarite attends the social events of her newly found noblelady friends. Her adept social maneuvering has quickly lead her to have both a clique of loyal friends and the antagonism of those she finds boorish.  She puts falsehood to the common claim that all silk elves are long-winded storytellers, instead offering cutting criticism, quick retorts, and gleeful wit. Many parties are jeweled in the laughter she sparks late into the night.

Margarite doesn't remember what her name used to be, but she thinks this one might be close.  It's good enough for her purposes, which for the moment are, in order: maintain her cover as a silk elf, gain in power and wealth, and feed when necessary.

Her cover as a silk elf is, she believes, a necessity given her condition. She has no name to attach to what has happened to her, no does she remember how it has come to be.  Her skin and all her soft tissue are made of solid silver. Her hair is of pure gold.  But it wasn't so even seven weeks ago.

When this unnamed woman awoke in the fields near Gnoshing, she was wounded, her head bleeding, a dull roar in the back of her skull.  Had she been beaten?  Where were her clothes? Had she been assaulted? She could not recall. Surrounding her were the bodies of several halfling farmers, men and women.  How were they involved and what had sealed their fate?

Stumbling in the darkness of a full moon, and unsure of what direction to travel, it was hours before she came upon a road. Dawn was approaching, but rather than relieve her, it brought her dread.  She did not want to be found on the road naked and alone, but it seemed a better fate than dying of exposure on a cold Frostthaw morning. She picked a direction on the road and began to walk.

The next passerby on the road was a caravan of silk elves heading for home, and seeing her state, rushed to help her.  They quickly realized this woman had no memory of self, and knew nothing of where she was, or where she belonged.  She was wrapped in blankets, herded onto a wagon, and offered food. That was when things went poorly for them.

The smell of the food turned her stomach, and as she retched, she retched liquid silver.  Aghast and unsure of what was happening, one of the elves attempted to steady the woman, one hand on her shoulder, one to hold back her hair.  The gaping wound beneath her hair was apparent, and the elf drew back a wet, silver slick hand.  Her scalp fell from her skull, revealing a gleaming silver dome.  Her wounds, and the empty pit of her stomach pushed her from scared, vulnerable woman into an instinct driven animal. Thirteen died. Merchants, wives, and warriors, none survived to flee. Most were eaten, digested by acids pouring from her wounds.

French Silver Leaf over Gesso Sculpture of a Mother and Child- A. Godard

Regaining her composure after the attack, she gathered some of their clothes, and disguised herself.  She left, traveling in the direction they had come from, which she now knew to be north. Over the next days her skin fell away, always revealing silver bones and flesh beneath.  Eventually her skin grew back, but it was now the same silver. After weeks, her hair grew back in, at first silver, and then later, in gold.

Now, Margarite knows that it is not the appearance of these metals, but the actual metals. At first, and in a gambit, she offered to pay for her home with a solid nugget of gold, which she had collected by cutting her hair and melting it into a single piece. Although she was amazed when the merchant proved the metal pure, she immediately saw the opportunity.

When needed, Margarite cuts her hair, or scrapes her skin, or in one case, lopped off the end of her finger, at the first joint.  Though her hunger nearly overtook her, she recovered and the finger grew back.  She's discovered that she only hungers when wounded, and the life of a minor noble affords her the privilege of being relatively safe from harm.

What Margarite does not remember is that her name was Margo Stillwater, and that she is the wife of Gnoshing's mayor, Ismail Stillwater.  

Ismail was a doting husband, and when Margot fell sick, he arranged for the most expensive doctor he could afford.  He would have been better served by arranging for the BEST doctor.  The charlatan that answered the call was named Snively. Snively promised Ismail the sun and moon, and all of the newest and most expensive treatments possible. 

From the beginning, Snively had little idea of what to do. He made a great show of drawing humors, and comparing them to the colors of flowers and wild animal fin, fur, and feather. He mixed herbal poultices and wrapped them to Margot's head, though the complaint lie in her chest.  With the money he was grafting, Snively purchased a number of tomes of medical and magical remedies, most of suspect authenticity.  He even penned a few himself.

For years Snively secured money and made arrangements in secret, and his reputation grew in Ismail's estimation. He was named town vasir, a position Ismail hadn't previously been aware he needed to have filled. But it says right here in the town's bylaws...

Despite Snively's "ministrations" Margot's condition predictably worsened and Snively convinced Ismail that Margot needed to be moved to Second Breakfast, in order to have his "associates" tend to her care. In reality, Snively had Margot moved to his dungeon under the town hall.

One of the books Snively bought was, against the odds, real.  The dark practices, alchemical reagents, and magical potions within its covers had had their effect upon Margot's body, and Snively's mind.  He had begun seeking a cure for mortality, and was convinced that liquid mercury was the key.  His handling of the material had made him lose his grip on reality, and there were days he sent requests to the Raven's Guild to investigate his own doings, and to kill the undead he was trying to raise.

On Margot's end, things went differently.  She kept her mind sharp, remembering riddles and puzzles, chanting prayers to all the deities she could, chanting her mantra to herself "Margot means pearl, Stillwaters are calm, I will endure."  When her body could take no more, and the potions and illness killed her, her mind also broke. The injures were many, over many years, and compounded by quackery, but modified by real magic.

The now nameless being broke free of her cage, and began to feast upon the halflings of the town, only to be attacked and nearly killed by members of the Raven's Guild. They were investigating, in fact, at the behest of Snively, vasir of Gnoshing, having killed him for his crimes only minutes prior.

Skinny Ermire

One of the busiest locations in Sarai are the docks. Most of the traffic in town is headed to or from the docks. Sarai is the Easternmost city among the Free Cities, sitting on the shore of the Perrin Sea. Although it is possible to travel around the sea on land routes, it's longer, costlier, and potentially more dangerous.  Well, differently dangerous, at least.

To the north are the plains and scrublands currently being raided by the Storm Elves, and to the south are the unstable borders of the lands collectively known as The 1001 fires and the lands the Silk Elves claim as their Temples of Silk.  But directly to the east are the vast expanses of the stone wastes, and beyond them are nations of gold and exotic goods, ready and hungry for trade. All it takes is someone willing to cross the Sea and then the stone wastes, and many are those willing to take the chance for gold and riches.

And that's where Skinny Ermire comes in.

Shamelessly stolen from a google images search for "Fantasy Dockyards"

Skinny Ermire is an extra rotund, extra brown, middle aged halfling you can almost always find at the docks owned and controlled by the Temerkind Trading Guild. Those docks are located near the center of the docks reserved for citizen shipyards. He'll be sitting on a stack of crates, watching the dockhands load and unload cargo, offering instruction in his booming baritone if asked, and occasionally shouting warnings regarding personal safety or fragility of the cargo's contents. Skinny hasn't been a working hand on a sailing vessel for many years, but he still knows most of everything there is to know about a ship, and he still looks and talks the part. He likes to say, "waste not, want not."  As a matter of perverse self indulgence he calls everyone "baby."  Skinny Ermire is, ostensibly, the dock boss, and he's friendly if you have legitimate business.

Some of his dock lieutenants know that he's not just a member of the guild, but a high level leader, too.  As such, he's in a position to negotiate trade taxes and tariffs with the Tower of Sarai for his fleet, and influence their decisions regarding other fleets and foreign nations. A few of his men are also aware that he's a high ranking member of the Sarai thieves' guild, with all the utility and profit that can grant.  They're almost right.  Skinny is the head of the Sarai thieves' guild, and by extension, the thieves' guild of all six of the free cities.

In it's position of authority regarding trade, Skinny has made a fortune off of smuggling, caravan theft, kidnapping, slaving, limited piracy, and murder.  His wealth has positioned him to exercise control over the other thieves' guilds in the cities, and those who couldn't be bought were killed, or kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder. Occasionally worse.

Skinny deals with his allies in a fair, sometimes even generous manner. He happily bribes the local urchins, and brings them into the folds of the thieves' guild. He'll equally happily bribe a hardworking sailor from a rival trading company onto one his ships. He wants loyalty and knows how to get it. No fool, though, he's seen through those that try to usurp him and looking for handouts when they have something to offer instead.

Skinny Ermire's success didn't happen overnight, and it didn't happen without planning or ruthlessness.  Most halflings show their age in their eleventies, and many make it to one hundred fifty. Despite his apparent middle-agedness, Skinny is actually closer to two hundred years old.  Because he wants to be. Being a man who's seen firsthand proof of gods and monsters on the waters and on his travels, dying is something he wants to avoid at all costs, having led the life of black blood and bile he has.

When Skinny was only a mere hundred and twenty, his deeds weighing upon his head, and as he felt his vitality flee, he met a Yuan-ti warlock.  Skinny Ermire's ship, The Regal Gorgon, had made port at an island not shown on the maps, hundreds of miles from where any land at all should be. The city's name was unpronounceable without a forked tongue, but the denizens were still willing to trade for what they had.  And, oh, what they had.

Skinny met a merchant who offered him the thing he wanted more than forgiveness, more than redemption. He offered a way to avoid death, and live as dastardly as he wished, forever.  He just needed to do one little thing.

And so now, twice a year, Skinny Ermire eats a living, sapient soul over the course of three days. The more of their body he can eat before they die, the more of his youth he recovers. Over the last seventy-plus years he's gotten quite good at cutting out just enough.  Not too much, lest they die, and not too little, lest he could have gotten more. Though not strictly a requirement of the ritual, Skinny likes it when they're conscious. Likes it when they're forced to watch.

Skinny practices often, to make sure he's ready for when the night comes, and he's grown corpulent from it.  He wants to make sure he can fit it all in his gullet when it counts. So much was wasted in the early years because he didn't have the room. So much blood was also wasted in the early years, spilled on the floors and splashing the walls, but it's part of the body and it counts, so now Skinny makes sure to collect it, and mixes it with his rum. It's become a favorite drink of his, and even when there's no eldritch benefit, he carries a bottle of his special brew, coyly sharing it with the unaware.

Skinny has developed a list of skills he'd never thought would carry him this far, but when you run the criminality of the free cities they're very handy. Grinding bones to powder, removing unnecessary organs, amputating limbs and cauterizing them, performing life saving medicine when needed, mixing cocktails of drugs that numb just the right amount of pain, cooking nearly inedible parts into palatable things, and when nearing the deadline, swallowing whole chunks of flesh, torn straight from the victim, with little time to waste.  Waste not, want not.

Waste not, want not.

Waste not, want not, Babies.