[D1, Afternoon, Open] Cleanliness Is A Virtue

Giorg Two-Stones did not like being dirty.

One might argue that this contradicted his stance on traveling the road and seeing the world. It did. But that did not discount the fact that he also liked to bathe whenever circumstances permitted it. His brief wandering of the marketplace complete, he makes a quick trip to the Great Bath House to clean himself and relax for a while.

He finds himself a comfortable spot and sits down, rests his weary feet.

"Ah, that feels good."

Not far from Giorg, a man slides into the water, closing his eyes and relaxing as he dumped a good amount of water over his head. There were large red sores all over his body, and several old-looking scars.

It might take him a few moments to make the connection, since he isn't wearing the armor and is clean-shaven.

It does, indeed, take Giorg a few moments. But he does, despite the impediments.

"Ah, good day, friend," he greets. "Taking a moment to rest from your endless vigil?"

The paladin blinks, looking over at Giorg. "Ah, my apologies, I didn't see you there. I suppose you could say that," he chuckles. "I haven't had a bath like this in years. It seemed well overdue, for the work I've done."

"A good bath be a fine way to rest," he says. "And no apologies needed."

"Y'know, m'father got me in the habit of bathin' regularly, even on the road if possible. He was a military man, and he considered cleanliness t'be of great import to a soldier's life."

"A wise man, your father. To be clean is to also be less susceptible to illness. But there is a tremendous difference between bathing in a stream, and bathing in a nice, warm pool," he sighs happily. "It is a pleasure I have long missed."

"This is very true." The dwarf nods. "So, what d'ye think of the city so far?"

Sigismund thinks about the question long and hard.

"It's difficult to say," he says with all seriousness. "On the one hand, it is full of so many people, and that is always something to be celebrated, especially with the amount of diversity to be found. I have traveled to many places, and not everywhere are dwarves or gnomes so openly welcomed."

He splashes some water on his face, and runs his fingers through his hair again. "But on the other, there is a good deal of suffering that goes unnoticed. Or worse, unattended to. And I am not certain which distresses me more."

"Cities are always like that. There's too many places to hide, and too many places that can't be hidden."

"Yes, but this isn't merely any city. This is the capital, the heart of the kingdom. The Order of Apollo have several paladins stationed here. Which brings to mind a number of disheartening questions, none of which I seem to like the possible answers for."

"They can't be everywhere at once," he says, trying to be somewhat comforting. "Or see everything."

He doesn't add the idea that some of them may not bother looking.

The man furrows his brow, almost on the cusp of saying something, but changes his mind. "Tell me, friend, how do you find the city? You lived within the dwarven halls before, unless I miss my guess?"

"A small village not far from the halls, but I visited them often. I be more used to livin' under the sun than under rock and stone."

A pause lingers as Giorg thinks of his response to the Paladin's question.

"A lot of people. It's easy to blend in, be forgotten. But plenty of places to seize opportunities if you're looking for'at sort of thing," he says. "A fine place to spend some time, but I hav'a feeling I won't be too comf'rtable living here for very long."

He nods. "I can surely understand that. I suspect I too will move on from here soon, but I did wish to see the capital at least once in my life. And the prospect of a warm bath like this... well, it was simply too good to pass up," he sighs, sinking into the water a little more.

"It is good to indulge oneself every now and then."

"Aye." He nods. "City like this, y'meet all sort'of interestin' folk. Hear a few stories. Good for the minstrel trade, that."

"I like to imagine there are many good stories everywhere you look," the man reclines his head, allowing himself to fully relax. "Is there a particular type of story that you prefer to lyricize?"

"The ones that are long enough for it!" he answers. A simple, practical response. "Some stories, while they might be good or amusing, aren't long enough to make into song."

"Tales of great deeds or great tragedy are pop'lar and get coin, though. Some ladies tales of troubled souls tha're driven to become bett'r men by a good lass, for some reason." He rubs his beard a little. "And ev'ryone likes a good laugh."

"Tragedies and comedies. The truest expression of mortal-kind if ever there were. I heard once that the two are really quite similar, but for the life of me I cannot recall where I heard that."

"If you listen to my old friend Vereska, tragedy is when th'bad happens t'you. Comedy when th'bad happens t'everyone else." Giorg's face suggests he does not quite agree with this sentiment. After a bit more beard-stroking, he shrugs. "Not paladin material, that one. But could pu'together a pretty poem at the drop'f a hat. Enjoy'd playin'the villain on stage, too."

"Speakin'of stories, would't be pryin' to ask how ye came by those scars?"

"Of course not. A number of them were from mercenary training, like these here," he motions to the left side of his ribs. "I grew to be much better with a shield as a result. These, on the other hand, were from my paladin training, after I heard Apollo's call," he says, motioning to his right arm. "Hardly exciting stories, I'm afraid."

He looks over at his left shoulder. "These however... these were earned during the siege of Stormhall. I don't know if you would have heard of it, but it was a major operation by the city of Stormhall to purge the smugglers and traffickers from the old Dwarven halls. It took us a great deal of time, but in the end, we were victorious in our efforts."

The bard might detect a hint of wistfulness at the recollection.

"I heard. I knew a one from back home who fought then," he answers. "A tiefling mercenary, Minthe, had a haunted look 'nher eyes when'nyone asked about what she had t'do there."

"But beyond that, jus' stories an'tall tales about knives 'n th'dark."

"That's not too far from the truth. The best tragedies are bittersweet, but I'm afraid that story would purely be bitter. If you truly wish to know, I will tell what I know. But despite the victory, it was the sort of thing that doesn't really leave one feeling very heroic."

"If'ts not any trouble or grief," he answers. "It might help me narrow down which of the old legends about why the place was abandoned might be true."

"And I'd like to begin t'understand what ghosts haunted Minthe so."

"I never knew this Minthe, so I cannot say for certain what it was that she may have seen. But if I had to wager... well."

He sits up out of the water a bit, and stares into the distance as he recalls. "Some years ago, it was discovered that smugglers had been utilizing the old halls to stage their operations. The tunnels allowed them easy passage for their men, and their goods. After working with the local watch, we organized a tremendous effort of almost a hundred strong to put a stop to their operations. We expected to seize a large amount of contraband - drugs, black market goods, stolen artifacts and the like."

Taking in a slow breath, he finished his thought. "We did not expect to find slaves, tied up in the most horrid conditions imaginable. Men, women, children... We had stumbled upon a 'training center'. And the resistance was... far, far greater than we had anticipated. Far greater."

He shakes his head slowly. "It is always convenient to think of evil as some great struggle between the forces of life and death, and while that may be true, this... this was the purest expression of evil and malice imaginable. All for the sake of profit. Try as we may have wished, there was no saving them all. I am certain that most of them will never live a normal life. And for those that didn't, the rivers of Lethe would have been a sweet release."

His gaze locks on to Giorg's. "Not even Hera, in all of her fits of jealousy, could have devised something so cruel as what went on there. At least her acts, malicious as they may be, come with some degree of reasoning - a curse that someone has earned. This was not that. It was cruelty, for cruelty's sake."

Giorg listens, nods somberly. "Aye, that'd do it."

He lets out a sigh as he leans back, contemplating the horrors that mortals subject each other to. As if the whimsy and the jealousy of the gods was not enough. He takes a moment, recalls what he'd heard in the past. Of things concerning the place called Stormhall. One tale fit.

"And I'd like t'think this proves one'f the legends true, but…such things're all too easy to happen, even without darker things 'nderneath."