One would think that an opportunity to assist the poor would have uplifted Bernard's spirits, given that he would have direct and important impact in lightening the woes of the city's unfortunates. Certainly, he had thought so, and was quite bemused by the opposite sensation. Thus for over a week, he could be found kneeling in prayer before a statue of Helloise in the docktown chapel, for rather lengthy periods of time.

He wasn't stupid enough to miss the fact that political matters were involved, and were likely the culprit, but he prayed and meditated all the same; it was his habit to allow his mind to travel down the back roads of his intent, searching for surprises, shining a light in what could be more easily left in darkness - in more ways than one. He did not often know what he'd find there, and sometimes he could not identify what was revealed; but he had to make the practice, and try to understand. At the very least, his mind would be calmed.

In this case, he turned over a few specific matters and found them to be acceptable; but there was one that he was left hunting, and could not find. The near constant ache of self-denial, that old friend, that source of occasional euphoria, was stronger of late. It was like an empty stomach that growled and tightened but made the fasting man uplifted; and usually he was uplifted, but now he felt to be virtually grasping, clutching after something, unable to fasten onto it with starving hands. There was a new, unfathomable edge.

It was about the time that he became aware of it, that he decided to end his prayer. He usually ended them whenever he felt the time was right, whether or not a question was answered, and so it was that he missed the fact that this time he had simply decided to shut that door and turn away.

Perhaps it would have consequences.

(Sometimes, RP needs no embellishment. The stage is set: Bernard is bathing, as he likes to do a great deal, in the public baths.)

Bernard sinks back into the tub happily and warmly, closing his eyes.

Bernard hums echoingly.

Rankin arrives through the main door.

Rankin tumbles inwardly, "Haaalp! I've got tharr cooties!!"

Rankin tosses two tumblers of whiskey everywhere.

Rankin forgetfully chucks a fresh thick lemongrass-flavored cigar on the floor.

You blink at Rankin.

Bernard sits up in his brass tub.

Julian offers a bar of lavender soap to Rankin.

Rankin takes a bar of lavender soap from Julian.

You say, "Cooties?"

> look rankin

You look at Rankin.

Rankin is an enormous hulking rat, with wild, scraggly raven fur, and long ill-kempt blue black hair, worn in savage dreadlocks. He is carrying a bar of lavender soap. He is wearing a gold Stormbreaker Crew ring, a loose-fitting sharkskin double-wrap belt, a black wool belt pouch, a cotton money pouch, a raffish shimmering black sharkskin pirate jacket, a sheathed well-worn iron dagger, a ruby and silver scroll necklace, a pair of subtly-worn black suede fingerless gloves, an aquamarine glass and pyrite ring, a pair of polished gold hoop earrings, a bronze sword scabbard, a snugly-fitted black bronze chainmail tail warmer, a pair of roomy murky black leather breeches, a pair of hefty murky black leather pirate boots, a grubby white cotton ruffled shirt and an oversized skull-and-crossbones sharkskin tricorn hat.

Rankin hops up-and-down, "Gimme that soap ye blaggard!"

Rankin totally ignores you.

Bernard seems very glad to be ignored!

Rankin moves from the main door to a brass bathtub.

Rankin hurries towards a brass bathtub.

Rankin totally disregards his raffish shimmering black sharkskin pirate jacket, his pair of roomy murky black leather breeches and his pair of hefty murky black leather pirate boots, "No time, nae time a'tall! I've gotta save m'self!"

Rankin literally heaves his beer gut into a brass bathtub.

Rankin jumps into a brass bathtub.

Bernard watches this scenario with something akin to mute horror. In fact, it probably is mute horror after all.

Rankin effortfully submerges his enormous hulking body and his grotesque whip-like tattooed tail in a brass bathtub.

Rankin splashes a brass bathtub everywhere.

Bernard flicks his ears in annoyance, as water droplets spatter into him.

Rankin visibly pushes a bar of lavender soap into his pair of roomy murky black leather breeches.

You blink.

Rankin scrubs his lap, "Aaargh! It itches!!"

Rankin flails generally.

You say, "What does?"

Rankin finally notices you.

Rankin dangerously tilts a brass bathtub with his enormous hulking body, "Tharr cooties! Missus Noire said tha' when ye git 'em, yer nobbles fall off an' ye don' e'en know when ye 'ave 'em!"

Rankin scrubs his pair of roomy murky black leather breeches and his beer gut with a bar of lavender soap faster, "Aaargh!"

Rankin washes his enormous hulking body with a bar of lavender soap.

You say, "Are you sure she wasn't having you on?"

Rankin appears to be drunk.

Rankin also appears to be about as smart as a bag of rocks when he is this hammered.

You say, "Calm down, I am sure you heard her wrong."

Rankin scrubs himself faster, "Cannae be too safe, aye!? They both tole meh!"

Rankin sprays a brass bathtub everywhere.

You say, "All right, all right! I think you killed the cooties!"

Bernard ducks as much as he can, given his trapped position.

Rankin pantingly slows himself.

Rankin stands in a brass bathtub.

Bernard opens one eye testingly.

Rankin drunkenly points a bar of lavender soap at you, "Ye sure?!"

Bernard wishes he hadn't.

Rankin accidentally squeezes a bar of lavender soap.

Rankin slickly chucks a bar of lavender soap at you.

You say, "It looks like you did a good job to...."

You yelp.

Rankin shifts his beady jet-black eyes faintly, "Oops. Sorry mate."

Bernard ducks, too late! The soap lands in his mane and slides down his chest into the water.

Rankin wobbles with a brass bathtub back-and-forth.

Rankin hauls his grotesque whip-like tattooed tail from a brass bathtub.

You say, "...me."

Rankin moves from a brass bathtub to the floor.

Rankin practically crawls onto the floor.

Rankin moves from the floor to a brass bathtub.

Rankin sloshes a brass bathtub over a bathhouse passingly,

Rankin says, "...Ol'roight....Bes' I make sure ter see th' Doc' 'Ush."

Bernard nods enthusiastically.

You say, "Good idea."

Rankin moves from a brass bathtub to the main door.

Rankin plods towards the main door unhurriedly.

Rankin noticeably sloshes his pair of hefty murky black leather pirate boots.

Bernard plucks the soap from the water and drops it aside, afraid that its soaplike qualities are forever compromised from touching Rankin's breeches.

Rankin jumps up-and-down around the main door.

Rankin somewhat dries himself.

You say, "You be careful out there, so you don't freeze. Maybe run to the infirmary."

Rankin grumblingly reaches for two tumblers of whiskey, a cup of orange pekoe tea and a fresh thick lemongrass-flavored cigar, "Aye..mebbie.."

Rankin takes two tumblers of whiskey.

Rankin peers at the floor and a fresh thick lemongrass-flavored cigar now, "....I got me cigar all soaked."

Rankin colorfully swears.

Rankin takes a fresh thick lemongrass-flavored cigar.

You say, "Maybe it will dry out?"

Rankin grumps at you audibly, "Aye, aye. They do. Jes' moight 'ave ter chew it 'stead."

Rankin peers downwardly at his lap and his long ill-kempt blue black hair, "...They'll be'er be gone."

You say, "I certainly hope they are."

Rankin puts his fresh thick lemongrass-flavored cigar into his black wool belt pouch.

Rankin examines his black wool belt pouch.

Bernard glances at the towel rack, oh so far away, and just stays put.

Rankin grumblingly stomps out through the main door.

You hear a man hollering "It's feckin' COLD out 'ere!" from the main door.

"My name is Albert," he continued, speaking quietly so that only the three of them could hear. Bernard and Jukka introduced themselves likewise, while he paused, choosing his words with some care. "I will help here until the twenty fifth... and then I will leave Triskellian and begin the Walk of One Thousand Lights."

Both Bernard and Jukka gasped in unison. Neither had gone on such an arduous pilgrimage, nor had they really expected to in their lifetimes; it involved starting at Triskellian and following an outwardly spiraled path to visit every temple - but only traveling at night by torch or candlelight. "That is an impressive act of devotion," Bernard said enthusiastically. "You must be a very pious man."

Albert chuckled and shook his head. "No, I'm not, though I hope to become one. I have much to atone for, and a great weight to be lifted from my soul. The Walk may not be enough to do it, but I can't keep going on without trying." A note of desperation crept into the hedgehog's voice, and his blunt fists tightened as if to restrain themselves.

Bernard wasn't going to ask why, though he desperately wanted to know what would drive a man like this to such lengths. Propriety and curiosity warred within him, until it was Jukka who spoke his thoughts aloud. "What weight do you mean? Do you want to take confession?"

Albert shook his head once, firmly. "No. I mean, I have. But it is not enough. I killed my own son in a fit of rage, took a hammer to him in our workshop. I was in jail for some time, and I wanted them to kill me. But they didn't. Now I have to do this, and maybe there will be something left over for living, after it's done. Maybe not."

Jukka made the sign of the octagram before he could stop himself. Bernard did not react outwardly at first, letting this news sift through his thoughts. It was a rather curious shift, to think so highly of this apparently selfless man one moment, then to find him possibly dangerous and loathesome; but he would not judge or condemn, he reminded himself. One must have compassion, and if one were only compassionate to those who were easy to like, the sentiment was worthless. It was just not at all easy to force oneself to think the way one should, instead of the way one did; but he was used to things not being easy, that constant exertion, comforting in its constancy. It was a pain he had learned to seek, perhaps to crave.

"I will pray for your journey and your cleansing," Bernard finally said, breaking the silence between the three of them. "Will you write to me, and tell me what you see and learn on your pilgrimage?"

Albert looked surprised at the request, and took a little while to answer. "I will..." He seemed ready to ask why, but in the end he did not. "I will send the letters here." His small eyes, shadowed in the dark of the night, seemed to gleam then as they captured the light of the candles. He turned suddenly, and looked out over the throng of people pressed into the cathedrale's grounds. "I'll go help some more," he murmured, and walked off into the crowd, merging with it as one more penitent searching for answers on a cold and snowy Solacia.

Even though he'd removed all his armor, carried no weapons, and wore his least fine garments - even though his fingers were numb, and his woolen scarf did little to keep out the winter's chill, Bernard felt overdressed. Overdressed and almost excessively fortunate.

He wandered through the crowds of pilgrims with Brother Jukka, a short reindeer dressed in black and white robes which he'd simply tied with a rope; whether Jukka was more pious, or simply of a species more content with the cold, Bernard could not tell, but he envied the smaller man's comfort and simplicity.

It was late enough that the sun had been down for hours, but the grounds of the monastery next to the Cathedrale were fully alight with orange and yellow auras, built of countless candles, torches, and cooking fires. Most of the pilgrims were shabbily dressed, cold, and exhausted, but they were singing, praying, and holding each other as they gazed up at the beauty of the Cathedrale even in the snowy night and listened to the bells.

Brother Jukka and Bernard held armloads of thick wool blankets, which they distributed to anyone who seemed to be in need. Other clergy were giving food, and medicine, and spiritual comfort, walking amongst the motley crowd.

"This first night is always pretty quiet," Jukka told Bernard, after handing a blanket to an elderly goat, "The constables don't tend to have much trouble with them, so long as they can keep the pickpockets and such out of the monastery grounds." Bernard had noted the constables around the perimeter, watching for signs of trouble, but so far everything seemed peaceable, if rather crowded.

Bernard handed a blanket toward a strapping hedgehog, who was dressed too thinly for the weather; even so, the fellow didn't seem as tired or dirty as most of the pilgrims. He shook his head, smiled, and pointed to the small figure lying upon a wheelbarrow. "Give it to her," said the hedgehog.

As Bernard tucked the blanket in around the muffled figure, he could tell that the little tigress was thin, and when the bent paw reached out to touch his large hand, it was clear that she was crippled as well, born with a defect of the limbs. He glanced up in surprise to her guardian, perhaps her mother, who whispered her thanks to him; but his eyes returned to the cub, who smiled up at him, her large eyes reflecting the glow of the countless lights in the courtyard.

It was a scene of simple and obvious beauty perhaps too sentimental for some, but he was not cynical of such things and tears welled up in his eyes. "May the Light Bless you," he said to the girl, and then nodded to her mother as he stepped back out of their way. Likely she was there in hopes that the pilgrimage would bring a miracle, on the Triumph of Light several days hence.

"They will be here a long time and will need that more than me," said the hedgehog.

"You aren't staying for the Triumph?" Bernard asked, surprised. "Why not?"
"Let us stand out of the way, and I will tell you," the man answered, and he stepped back from the path toward the lee of the gateway beckoning to both of them.

...to be continued...

It was just a short moment of his day, but it was like a sudden splash of cold water,  not unpleasantly so. It startled him, refreshed him; it was a contrast between what his life was, and what it had become.

In the quiet of the evening, with a nearly deserted commons, a destrier had leaped toward him from the darkness. Huge, dangerous, claws and beak flashing at him; he didn't notice the other two that had found the beast until his old habits had already taken over: step in, control the great lizard, speak to it in that nonsense language of riders and herdsmen. The destrier had responded just as naturally, settling down and allowing him to capture it with his belt.

The young kitfox fisherman, Kiffin, had a fish for it, which calmed the beast further. Riding was the easiest way to move the destrier, as it was destined to be returned to the fishmonger, according to a young healer girl that he hadn't quite met yet. It was she, Alyria, and Kiffin that had kept the destrier from running off, and so it was that they all went to return the great lizard to its owner.

All of his old instincts and training with the lizards had come into play as if he'd never left home. It was part of him, no matter where he moved or what calling he followed. It had been so easy to feel as if his past life belonged to another person, or perhaps to a story, but it would always be there just behind the illusory and flimsy barrier of time and place; brushing through the veil, touching him, whispering to be taken up as need and instinct required.

It became the subject of prayer and contemplation as he knelt for hours before the statue of Helloise, in the small Docktown chapel. How much had actually changed because of his circumstance, and his vows, and how much had not? Which parts would be of use to him, and which should be refused at all costs? Would he be able to leave such things behind if his path required it? No answer was forthcoming, but he was more aware now, than he had been, of the whispers behind the veil.