Long post, had a lot to catch up on.
The nimble feet of Rayle almost skipped as the three great monuments of Shadowdale came into view at once, dominating structures that cast their shadows across the morning earth. His mismatched eyes lit up at the sight of Old Skull, and then again when glancing at The Twisted Tower, a sight which filled him with songs of woe.
He could get used to this place.
But what trapped his sight most of all was the magnificent Morninghall, the place of prayer for the sunâ€™s children. Rayle had always loved the silver sheen of moonlight more than the scorching touch of the sky-orb, but this temple was thing of beauty!
The checkerboard cloak swirled in extravagant patterns as he strode towards the huge doors, nodding with a smile to the Morning Guard and their heavy ashen staffs. Something he had learned over time was that a smile, maybe with a nod or a wave, can get you anything. Especially when youâ€™re Rayle Swiftsong the bard. The doors creaked open at his touch, revealing a great hall of stone patterns and depictions of The Morninglord.
Letting a light laugh spill forth the bard spun on his feet and clicked his heels to send echoes bouncing through the temple, his harp sensing its masterâ€™s exhilaration and producing a slight resonance. It was then that the doors ahead burst open and a young man in the robes of an acolyte smashed into his form, almost knocking the bard from his feet and shouting for the guards.
Slightly dazed, the Seeker of The Song watched as the two Morning Guard from outside hurried to the acolyteâ€™s call, charging into the next room. Gathering his wits about him, Rayle followed with curious eyes to end up within the largest of rooms, priests of Lathlander arranged in orderly ceremony throughout the place. The main sanctuary. His eyes went from the priests to the drow bowed upon the floor and then back to those guards in shining armour.
What to do now? He could watch, or he could help either the priesthood or the drow. His hand went to the hilt of his rapier, affectionately named Dirge out of pure instinct, and the harp hummed a threatening tune of its own accord.
Whatever he did, Rayle had a feeling things were about to get messy. Brilliant.