She had found it quite exhilarating, a completely new type of research. The best part was that it was centered on improving something important to her: alcohol production. Trisfelt had a very detailed system that, while taking some time to understand, was clearly useful in testing and experimentation. He called it the scientific method, a most wonderful method. Trisfelt had told her that it was the basis of modern wizardry and was why wizardry had progressed so much in the last few hundred years. It was all in the methodology. The method of magic! How glorious!
Of course, based on her experience, such a method might work well in the Planes of Men, but all bets would be off in the Outer Planes. Everything here was pretty much there due to the direct desires of the pantheons and their assistants. Even the refleca-wood chair she was sitting on at the moment. Sure, it looked like wood, as did the table before her, but it was not actually wood. It was but a reflection of wood from the material planes.
That was the secret of the Outer Planes; they were but reflections of the material planes as seen through a god’s eyes. Or the eyes of multiple gods and goddesses, some of whom didn’t always agree with each other as to what the current state of reality should be. That did make things interesting. Thankfully, the disagreements only affected the common regions of the pantheon’s outer planes. Tierhallon itself was pretty stable; or at least, the regions where the avatars lived was stable.
The regions where the “deceased” lived were quite malleable by the gods, avatars and in many ways, the deceased themselves. In the Etonian religions, a good part of one’s afterlife was of one’s own subconscious choosing; subject, of course, to the constraint of one’s particular deity’s overall framework and rules.
The door to the room opened and Beragamos walked in. He smiled to see Hilda, much like a kindly old grandfather, and shut the door behind him. “Good to see you, Hilda!”
“A pleasure as always, Your Lordship,” Hilda replied with a bright smile.
Beragamos chuckled. “Feel free to call me Beragamos in private, my dear.”
“Thank you sir, Beragamos,” Hilda replied with a bright smile. What a great honor this was.
Beragamos sat down with a loud sigh. “If you’ll pardon the expression” — the supreme archon tilted his head to give her a wry expression under his brows — “it’s an ungodly time of night to call a meeting! If you ask me.” He chuckled.
Hilda chuckled as well. “It is a highly unusual time.”
“Is there wine?” Beragamos looked around the room, frowning as he saw none.
“Allow me, your... Beragamos,” Hilda said. “I will retrieve some from my wine locker.” She held her hand out above the table as if holding a bottle of wine by the neck and summoned a bottle of Romden Heart Valley Portsooth, 1470 RV.
The bottle appeared in her hand and she set it down on the table. She had dug deep into her wine locker for this one. It was not every day one got to have wine with a supreme archon of Tiernon. Beragamos clapped as he peered at the label.
“My dear! What impeccable taste you have! Here I had hoped for some simple table wine, and you bring a masterpiece.” He waved his hand and two refleca-crystal wine glasses appeared on the table. After a moment of hesitation, he motioned and two more appeared.
“I will not rush such a fine bottle of wine, so I fear we must be prepared to share it with Moradel and Sentir.” He shook his head. Hilda just grinned and pulled her travel corkscrew from her pocket. One always needed to be prepared.
Hilda had just begun to pour the wine into Beragamos’s glass when the door opened and in came Moradel and a young saint whom Hilda did not recognize.
“Oh drat, a fifth!” Beragamos muttered under his breath.
“Good evening my friends,” Moradel said rather grimly. “Unfortunately, Sentir is occupied and won’t be able to join us.”
“How unfortunate!” Beragamos said with what sounded like great emotion, even as he withdrew his hand from creating a fifth wine glass.
Moradel glanced at the bottle of wine, his eyes widening as he recognized the label. He snorted. “Yes, I am sure you are truly disappointed, Beragamos.” He shook his head with a slight smile.
He turned to gesture to the young saint. Hilda thought of him as a young saint because he appeared to be in his early twenties so he must have died young, but he was also young given his aura. She would be surprised if he had been a saint for more than sixty or seventy years.
“This is Saint Stevos Delastros, Patron Saint of Travelers of the Border Forests,” Moradel said, gesturing to Stevos, who nodded politely to each of them. Clearly the youth was feeling a bit overwhelmed to be in the meeting, even as she had been but a few days back. It was funny how quickly one became accustomed to the previously unbelievable.
Moradel shut the door and Hilda poured wine for the four of them. Stevos nervously took a seat that Hilda gestured for him to take and Moradel sat down at the final seat. He raised his hand to give them pause before trying the wine.
“I think you will want to wait to drink until after you’ve heard what Stevos has to say,” Moradel said solemnly.
Beragamos raised an eyebrow at this as he pulled his hand back from his glass. “Very well,” he replied. “But first, where exactly are the Border Forests?” Hilda was glad he asked; she had no idea.
“Uhm, they are on Norelon, Your Lordship,” Stevos replied hesitantly. “They are the forests between the Abancian wasteland and Jotungard. Where the Kingdom of Murgandy and The United Federation are.”
“I am not sure I like where this is going,” Beragamos said firmly yet hesitantly at the same time. “ If there is trouble in that region, historically it meant orcs.”
Stevos nodded. “But it’s worse, Your Lordship.”
“Worse?” Hilda asked, puzzled.
“Yes, ma’am,” Stevos said.
Hilda smiled tightly. While technically a term of respect, the word always put her on edge; it made her feel old. She had only just celebrated her two hundred and forty-sixth birthday one month — okay, a month and a half ago. She was by no means old; at least not amongst present company. She glanced at the two archons.
“Go on, Stevos,” Moradel said.
“Well, as you know, our presence in that part of Eton is minimal and has been so for some time,” Stevos began.
“Since the Desolation,” Beragamos added.
Stevos nodded. “While we do have resources in the Cythanian Federation, and of course Noajar, Ferundy and further north have not been particularly welcoming.”
“Alfar, orcs, and assorted brigands are not our ideal worshipers.” Beragamos smiled.
“Aye, My Lord, but I do what I can in the region. I support a number of itinerant priests who do try to support the faithful that we find there,” Stevos said.
“Admirable work, lad.” Beragamos smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” Stevos said somewhat breathlessly, clearly nervous. “So as it is, not having a huge number of illuminaries to deal with, I tend to pay special attention to those I have.”
Beragamos smiled and nodded, trying to ease the young saint’s nerves. “Excellent.”
“So, one of my priests, Teragdor — ” Stevos began.