“May I join you?” At their nod, Tesfaya clambers creakily down to sit cross-legged opposite them. A few of the other pilgrims sit too, forming a rough circle.
One of them passes round smooth clay cups. In the dark, the two friends can’t tell what it is.
Tesfaya: “Will you accept a blessing? There is no obligation; it is freely given.”
“Gladly,” rumbles Theo, and Jes doesn’t complain.
Tesfaya raises his cup with a smile. “Joy to the serpent!”
“The serpent who circles!” another replies, eyes dancing, and then the pilgrims voices are coming one after the other in the dark:
“She circles the sun / the sun is her joy / joy as she circles / circles the waters / waters of the sun / sun is fire / fire is joy / joy to the serpent!”
They laugh merrily and drink and the two travellers follow suit. Jes tastes strong sweet wine and for a moment she imagines she feels smooth scales against her lips.
“Poison will not harm you until the moon rises tomorrow night,” Tesfaya tells them dreamily. Then he clears his throat and says: “Let us take council.”
Drinking to the snake circling the Sun: protection from radiant and poison attacks for 1 days.
Jes rolls to read Tesfaya and his people. 1d10 = 10 (crit). Hold 3, and she can spend them to ask the GM questions.
Jes still doesn’t want to give away why they are here until she knows more about what’s going on, so she immediately leads the conversation:
“Thank you for your welcome and your blessing, Elder. Can you tell me what you know about this Oasis?”
Tesfaya closes his wrinky eyes and thinks. “I have been here many times before - we make this pilgrimage every sixth year. But it has long been a quiet and forgotten corner, far from wars and even trade.”
“Even when the Empire conquered Zar Naf,” interjects a willowy pilgrim, “nothing changed here - the rich lands of Zar are all north and east of the city, and its ports to the west.”
“No traders come here?” prods Jes.
“Well,” continues Tesfaya, smoothing his sari with shaky hands, “sometimes caravans come from Zar Naf to trade with the Purple Weavers. They are small folk who live in the long grass. I think they sell flowers to the caravans? But little else.” He hesitates; it seems like he’s holding something back.
Let's spend all our hold:
Are they telling the truth? (yes)
What are they really feeling?
What opportunities are there here for me?
Jes’ tufted ears twitch as she realises: Tesfaya’s shakes aren’t just age; the old man is terrified and trying not to let his companions know.
Clearly, they might be able to get the pilgrims to help them if they could offer safety in return. But just as Jes is about to pursue that thought, she notices someone hanging back in the shadows of the group, trying not to be noticed.
Another ear twitch: that’s Valeria!
Theo covers for Jes’ stunned silence: “We will seek the small folk tomorrow and see what they know of the cactus-man.” He meets Tesfaya’s eyes with his own, slate grey ones: “You will be safe if you stay together here in the open; you are many. Or are you moving on with your pilgrimage?”
“No, no, not yet!” replies the willowy pilgrim with a laugh. “We haven’t eaten nearly enough yet!”
At Theo’s look of confusion, Tesfaya explains: “another ritual of our god: we must feast and eat the supplies we have before we make the Springbreaking Fast across the barren land to the south - there will nothing eat or drink there. We will not be ready for several more days.”
The music behind them increases in volume and pilgrims begin to dance and laugh around the fire.
“We should go join the ritual…” he continues.
Theo holds up a hand to stay the elder while he assembles his thoughts. “One more question, elder: you said few dwell here now. But what of the gods? What of Mama Cactus?”
“Ah, you are right.” Tesfaya pulls several strings of beads from around his neck and clacks through them to find one string in particular. A few pilgrims drift away to join the dance.
Tesfaya traces his fingers along the ancient story beads, and recites, sing-song:
“In the long ago she grew, sprouted, was mewling born. Cactus lady, desert queen, mother of those with waxy skin. Call her…” he hesitates on the unfamiliar name encoded in the bead, “…call her Cactiphytheal, honour her. Thousand thousand children, but two most beloved: Mama Cactus, Pale One. Thousand thousand worshippers but one most beloved: King of…King of Arijala.”
A pause in the music: the wind sweeps across the quiet oasis. There is no sign of worshippers for the cactus goddess, no one here remembers a country called Arijala.
Then the instruments strike up again, an infectious beat calling them to dance; Tesfaya stands and smiling pilgrims are taking their hands and tugging them into the celebration.