These events take place following Dyv5-02 Rising in the East.
The meal is simple for the people seated at the table. Roast beef, baked fish, a wedge of cheese, and half a loaf of bread. A small clay bottle holds enough Leardynian Gold wine for one cup each. Wooden spoons are placed in wooden bowls as the group finishes its soup. The matron, an elderly woman with gray hair and a simple dress and apron, stands from her seat at the end of the table. She collects the used bowls, taking them to a wash basin. Beginning at the head of the table, the obvious patron of the household sits silently, staring at the wall as his wife takes his bowl and wipes his lip clean with her thumb. He does not acknowledge her efforts nor does he make conversation with the two men sitting on either side of the table. Old in their own right, the two men still seem young and spry compared to the elderly couple. In truth, the man and wife still consider the young men young boys, as most parents tend to regard their children throughout life. This is made most evident when the matron collects the elder son’s bowl, stopping with a scowl on her face.
“What do you call this?’ she asks. Her Suloise accent is thick, unchanged from decades spent in a racially diverse metropolis.
“It’s only a spoonful mother. I didn’t want any more,” the son replies.
“I raised you better than this. You could feed all the homeless in this city with all the food wasted in such a fashion. You’ll finish your soup or I’ll have the rest of your meal given to charity. Obviously you’re no longer hungry.”
Reluctantly, the man takes his spoon and collects the last of the bowl’s contents. Looking across the table, his younger brother is clearly gloating. The elder man furrows his brow.
“That’s better,” his mother coos. “That’s a good lad.”
“If you insist that I eat everything on my plate, mother, I respectfully decline my portion of fish. You know my distaste for the vile creatures. Truly anything taken from the sea is dirty, unfit for human consumption.
Now it is the younger brother’s turn to glare. He begins to rise, but a motherly hand on the shoulder presses him back to his seat. She throws him a knowing look. He straightens his robes and regains his composure.
“I received an invitation to a banquet at Lord Darian Kesser’s city manor. Is it right to assume he hopes to address the recent tragedies?” she asks as she sets wooden plates in front of everyone.
The younger son takes a knife and begins to parcel out generous portions of fish to his parents. He inhales deeply before speaking. “He has invited the entire Gentry Council and their families. It could be that he hopes to make a ploy for the open seat of Magister. With families present, much of the usual gentry bickering will be hamstrung by their efforts to save face in public.”
The elder son takes a separate knife and cuts equally generous portions of the beef, offering his own speculation. “I find it unlikely Kesser would be so emboldened. I have repeatedly heard tell that the gentryman has been implicated in slave traffic. It could be that he merely hopes to address these rumors in a public setting. Or it could be that he hopes to force the gentry to deal with the tumultuous state of Dyversian politics. The Knights of the Hart stationed all these months in the west and now Greyhawk pressing in from the east. Times are uncertain and people are nervous. Such tension is not good for trade.”
“It is odd, though,” the mother continues, “that your father and I would be invited. We are neither noble nor gentry. Have you been invited?”
“I have been asked to say the opening prayer,” the boys say in unison, turning to each other with looks of both surprise and anger.
“What prank is this you play, Asyth. What need would the council have for you if I am present?
“Cleary, Jereader, they need someone to spare them your ego. Perhaps my presence will remind you that the Money Counter is not the only god represented in this city. You are one of many.”
“Many, yes, Asyth, but if not for the faithful of the Great Guildmaster, this city would be lost to the senseless meanderings of your sailors who like to pretend to be priests. Trade does not only come across the
“Perhaps they invited your parents to remind the two of you that you were both in diapers once. I have no more qualms bending you over my knee now than I did then, Gentry Council or no.” She lets go of her fork, sighing in exasperation.
“Mother, I’m the high priest of the Cathedral of the Great Guildmaster! It is not funny to jest of such a thing.”
“And I am the high priest of the Cathedral of the Sea Dragon!”
“And you both presume that I jest. Your father and I willfully chose to raise you in our respective faiths. Had I known it would lead to years of bickering and posturing, I would have gladly allowed your father to teach you both.”
“Mother, you shouldn’t say such a thing. To deny Him like this!”
“Shush, Asyth.” She sips her wine, taking a moment to calm herself. “You both see what’s happening. You need not attempt to keep the wool over our eyes. Kesser has asked for both of you to be in attendance. Gentry and their families are dead. The Magister is still missing and little has been decided on how to replace her. Even less has been done to find her.” She pauses, looking at her elder son. He casts his eyes to his plate and rolls a piece of beef back and forth with his fork. “The type of politics being played here doesn’t win or lose a few wheatsheafs. People’s lives are in the balance. Perhaps the entire city. Few city officials are trusted outside of the council, but the two of you are trusted by all parties, from Grandhearth to Pengallen. What greater opportunity have you been given in your lives?
The boys sit, silently, stunned by their mother’s directness. She speaks as more than a mother, but as genuine counsel who understands the gravity of what’s happening.
“Many people could die if this isn’t handled properly. You must set aside your rivalry and focus on the endeavor at hand. Dyvers needs you.”
As if emerging from a thick fog, the elderly man sitting at the head of the table begins to move slightly. His eyes show a moment of clarity as he focuses on his wife, taking in her look of grief. “Politics and war are simply two other forms of trade,” he says gruffly, his voice hoarse from lack of use. “One uses a currency of words and the other lives; the trick is to spend yours more efficiently than your opponent.” His eyes glaze over again and he forgets his family. The two men watch their father disappear again. They turn to their mother. If she were a lesser person, they know she would cry. They look at each other. The high priests of Zilchus and Xerbo, the two most powerful churches in Dyvers, pick up their wooden forks and finish their meals in silence.