Kothos (prime)/Glamour
A flash of foxfire-green light flickered into existence on the other side of the stone bridge, echoed by a softer, coral-hued flush just above it, and the two motes floated across the dark water; the rose orb turned into a deep, full red, and the viridian split into two lambent glows, revealing the eyes of the priest crossing the archway. Brother Blud had come home to his swamp.
He gripped his glowbark staff, using its ruby light to navigate through the shadowed garden, avoiding Ysharra and Xanthium's newest plantings. The night always falls thick and close in the marshes, aided by the lush canopy overhead; creeping vines, boughs of flower-laden cypress and banyan. Even a short walk over familiar territory could be risky, from the spiders, the crocodiles who sometimes found their way into the courtyard- and the much worse possibility of stepping on the new favorite orchid of a certain ranger. He smiled for a moment at his internal jest, and then returned his thoughts to his primary concern, the news he had heard in the Landing just now, about the call for the younger Burdos' arrest. He nodded absently at the acolyte who greeted him at the door and his priestess, Sister Nock, asking them a few questions about their ward in the western hall of the Temple.
Kothos pushed open the yellow pine door to his quarters, glancing once at the bed, which was sadly empty. He passed it by, focusing on the only other furniture in the small room, his writing desk. There, he unpacked some of his new purchases from the recent festival in Mist Harbor, and began to write.
Master Burdos,
My name is Brother Kothos Blud, we met at your return to the Landing outside the North Gate, some weeks ago. While my Service at the Temple does not often allow me time to come see after your mission, word still reaches me and the other residents about your losses, and your ongoing strife with the Landings' authorities.
I know that you find me and my Mistress to be misguided, and I do not much care about that, my faith is my own, and I have it in abundance. However, you were kind and compassionate to my dear Alvyara when you healed what Vlashandra had done to her, and for the sake of that act, and the care I have for her, I write this missive to you. I repeat the offer I gave you that first night, that of the hospitality of the Temple and the Vipershroud. The territory here is vast, and secretive, filled with nooks and crannies where those who have traveled here with you or to see you may be able to avoid confrontation with Marshal Thadston's forces. Regardless of your feelings on Ivas, Her halls are manned by those who are versed in tolerance. I cannot guarantee safety, of course, as we ourselves had our temple and her icon burned by the Prelate's forces four years ago. However, save for that, the swamp is generally remote and out of mind, for the most part.
Regardless of what you choose, I plan on extending this to the occupants of the tent city in Lower Dragonsclaw. My Order has a trove of experience in the care of those who suffer, and I would not see them butchered like the caravan simply for being hopeful of an end to their plight.
Yours in Service,
Brother Blud
Kothos reached a hand down to stroke Rusalka's copper-flecked head as the large snake started to unwind from about his waist, extending his leg down to the floor to let her slither off. He watched the ribbon of dark green scales pool out the door while he sealed his writing, hoping his serpent had better luck finding companionship tonight than he was likely to. Tomorrow, after Service, he would hand this off to one of the blood-stained guards who were always about forest just outside the postern gate.
Done with his task, he wondered if he now fit the definition of "cultist" and would no longer be welcome in the Landing. No doubt there were those who already agreed, based on his faith. And now he was reaching out to one who had managed to earn the ire of nearly every power faction in the frontier town. Still...his mind returned to Alvyara's healed face, her soft features returned to as they were prior to her betrayal by the Magister. He laced his fingers together in front of his lips, and uttered a few soft prayers under his breath, which were interrupted by the hushed noise of his door opening again. A sweet smile, long pale hair, graceful curves...Kothos grinned back at his nocturnal visitor, reaching up to coil his long fingers around her hip.
Glory to Her. Ivas provides.