Outside Gwendolyn’s office, little Archivist Quinn sits at his desk, reading through primary reports and scratching down notes as he twists a tassel on his coral cloak between two digits. His long, soft fur is almost blue.
At the end of the hall, in the lobby of the archives, Orator Kent is babysitting the children of the Patrol Mice who have been sent out on missions. He’s a lean, cream-colored mouse, and on his wooden leg, he doesn’t go on many Patrols these days. He's on another tear telling stories about loss and death. It's been two years. Those little ones don’t need any more reason to worry about whether or not their parents are coming back.
Teigh, what could he want with me. Nothing good that’s for sure, Finn thought while he made his way to Gwendolyn’s office. Along the way he searched his memory for everything he knew about the war hero and concluded, I really don’t know much about the mouse.
Finn entered the office and saw the officious mouse scribbling away at his desk. The patrol guard sauntered to the desk and cleared his throat trying to get Quinn’s attention, He paused for a second and self-importantly announced, ”I believe Capt’n Teigh is waiting for me.”
"Ah, yes. Scout Finn, of Ivydale. Thank goodness you were still available. Teigh had me running clear to the back of the log trying to find you a local guide. Fighter Niall, one of Seyth's tenderpaws- graduated, of course. I counted tabs, and the two of you should have a sixty-four percent survival rating beyond the border. Best out of any two mice I've seen."
Yes, thank goodness, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finn offered a roguish smile and offered, "I'll take those odds and buy you a drink in the fall."
"Niall you said?" Finn asked rhetorically. "Never worked with him before. Seen him around old Nathaniel's shop. Nice penmanship and fine attention to detail." He pauses and adds as he stroked his whiskers, "I'm sure he is a fine mouse but there must be some sort of mistake, I usually work alone."
"I was thinking something similar, actually." Niall walks in a bit late, catching only the chance of survival and the "two mice" part. Unlike Finn, he doesn't smile, or show much of any emotion at all. Instead, he stares ahead, looking over Quinn's shoulder and avoiding eye contact. "Can we hear what our sisty-four percent survival rating is all about?"
"Oh, well I aggregate success and injury rates for different categories of missions, and compare your records with a Guard-wide average, then extrapolate over-"
A side door opens, and Guard Captain Teigh enters the hall. He glares down toward Kent, sniffs, then motions for the two of you to enter his office.
"Captain Teigh will see you now." Quinn bows meekly.
~~~
Captain Teigh’s office is small, and sparsely decorated. The only striking piece of decor is the weasel saber hung on the far wall, altered for two-handed mouse grip, and set with jewels. It looks like he just moved in, but he’s been working out of this room for two years. He has a small table with sheets of layered paper spread over the surface. Each sheet is a map drawn in a different hand, and layered, they form the southern scent border of the territories. Pins driven into the table mark out the scent border’s outposts, but the map reaches out into weasel territory. The pages at that end are tattered and burned, their visible histories spelling out the reason Patrols don’t go far past the border.
Tiegh taps his needle against his snout as he speaks at the ceiling. “We need a fresh report on the southern border of the territories. The whole border. The real border. Outposts are one thing, but we can’t afford to present a face of complacency. A detailed map of our furthest influence will help me keep things under control.” He turns to catch Finn’s gaze. His dark eyes glitter with flecks of gold. “I’ll be honest, Finn, you’re not the first patrol I’ve sent. Pathfinder Pilib and his patrol were escorting Nathaniel, the Cartographer, when they went silent. Their reports end outside Sprucetuck, and worryingly close to a known entry into the Darkheather.” Tiegh taps an X on one of the maps with his pointer as if thrusting a dagger into the heart of darkness itself.
This is not a search and rescue mission. Find them, if you can. See them home safe, if possible... but we are not waving our tails at the weasels and inciting another war. I would prefer if you were in and out unseen. See to it that old Rampaul gets no report of your activities… or Pilib’s... by any means necessary. I shouldn’t have to tell you how devastating it would be if Nathaniel’s notes were to fall into weasel paws. If I’m just being paranoid, your patrols should meet in the middle. I chose the two of you because you learned Cartography under Nathaniel. You’ll understand his notes, if you find them.
I recommend taking the route to Ironwood, and following the coast until you push past the border. Watch for signs of Weasel settlement, especially around Pebblebrook. Pilib may reach Pebblebrook before you. You may want to ask around. -and damnit, check in at each outpost along the border so I don’t lose track of two patrols this early into spring.” His tone is firm, but you can see the question in his eyes as he looks to Niall. Say the word, and he’ll ask someone else. He doesn’t want to do this, but he’s got to work with what he’s got to keep the territories safe, and the two of you are the best shot he has.
“Any questions?”
As Captain Teigh reveals the details of the mission Finn can't help but think Sixty-four percent, yeah that sounds about right. I wonder if the Captain is telling us everything. When the captain concludes Finn stays silent for a few seconds and concluded, Well if we don't do it who will. Plus Nathaniel deserves the best.
He sighs and looks at Niall, "Looks like we best be getting started."
You both push through the cracked gates of Lockhaven and into the sweet, chill air of early spring. Outside of Lockhaven, teams of Laborers are starting to move snow to uncover the outbuildings and check on any mice who didn't hole up in the main castle. The city needs to reclaim its lands quickly. Almost no one has gone out in months, and the snow around Lockhaven is still a blank canvas. You reach the western outpost: a hide built into the crook of a pine. It’s in disrepair, and looted for supplies, but it's still a good location for an experienced Weather Watcher to ply her craft.
There is no path to follow. The melting snow and debris have seen to that. The pathfinding and trailblazing patrols haven't been through yet, and the snow is a blank canvas. The first leg of the journey is to reach the northern end of the scent border, which means stopping off at Ironwood.
Beyond the stand of trees in the distance, there’s no telling what challenges lay between you and your destination.
As the other team is learning, earning Checks is important to be able to recover from conditions along the way. When we reach Ironwood, we will have a Player Turn, and you will each earn one free Check. Checks can be used to roll tests to gather supplies, information, or to recover from conditions. (also, rolling tests is how you advance skills) To recover from a condition during the GM turn, you must have 2 Checks to spend. Using your traits to give yourself a disadvantage is the only way to gain extra checks. More details on Checks are listed on your character sheet.
Niall stares at the sky for a few minutes. As he does, he mumbles to himself. "Clouds in the distance, could be rain, or snow, or they could miss us completely. They'll probably have gone into the Darkheather, you know."
Because my level at that is three?
Sorry if the question is dumb, but I'm not too familiar with non-Pathfinder systems.
Finn noticed that Naill kept observing the sky and pointed out, "I do be thinking the frost is melting off the path quicker than it might." He shakes his head affirmatively, "Bodes well, should mean warm weather ahead right?"
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The sharp-eyed Finn tries to pick out the best trail ahead but he must have been staring in the sun for too long. "This way," he leads missing the path.
Finn strays from the path, not out of incompetence, but out of duty. Hanging from a branch, sharp-eyed Finn spots a red scarf. At the base of the tree, there is a narrow burrow. The snow is stained red.
When Finn approaches to investigate, a matted ball of teeth and claws leaps out, swinging a rusted axe!
Startled Finn jumps into a thick hedge of bushes and attempts to hide from the axe wielding fiend.
Finn darts into the bushes and out of sight.
The half-feral attacker swings his axe a few times before running out of breath. He stands in the snow, breathing heavily and stalking around the area. He doesn't loose sight of his burrow, but he's looking for trouble. After a few hours, if nothing disturbs him, he'll head back into his burrow to wait out another victim.
Once Finn's clear of danger, Niall stops to watch his attacker for a moment. It takes a bit, but he decides he's not likely to be a danger in a fight. He pulls his sword off his back and moves forward, swinging the flat of the blade toward the matted mouse's head!
Nial catches the wildling as he rounds a bush, driving the butt of his sword into the mouse's gut and putting him down in one swift move.
The mouse has been eating, and in some cases cannibalizing victims that stop by his little trap. The burrow is filled with frozen, half-eaten carcasses and a large pile of gear.
You mark the cache on the map so that a later Patrol can bury the bodies and sort through the gear.
~~~
The two of you reach Ironwood in good time. This town is relatively small, but filled with Laborers. Their lands are already cleared of snow, and the townsfolk welcome the Guardmice warmly.
Niall had spent the rest of their journey to Ironwood watching the half-feral, wondering how he'd gotten to that point. Attempts at...conversation? No, attempts at interrogation hadn't revealed much, and as they arrived at Ironwood, he hoped to find some sort of law higher than himself. It wasn't that he didn't want to see the half-feral dealt with, and his crimes were clearly worthy of any punishment no matter how harsh. It was more that, somewhere in the mouse's crazy eyes, Niall could see how me might've ended up after Ferndale.'
In the end, Niall decides that a military authority might be the best option for the half-feral. They might execute him, or they might have need of him somewhere...maybe somewhere south.
The closest you come to a conversation with the wildling mouse is when you mention weasels. His eyes focus and the fur around his shoulders rises. Outside of that, the two of you get along quite well. Not that Finn would recognize this.
Finn sees two mice who barely talk go about the business of camp maintenance like shiftless ghosts, avoiding eye contact, and checking the shadows a bit too often.
Once you near Ironwood, you take the half-feral mouse to the coastal outpost to meet with the Patrol there. A mouse with a wooden leg unties the wildling mouse, has him place an inked pawprint into a ledger, and takes him into the provisioning shed. The entire process is conveyed in fleeting glances and pregnant silences.
Having watched Niall dispatch the feral mouse so quickly Finn badgers him to show him some moves when they arrive in Ironwood.
Niall, Finn is engaging you in a rough bout of sparring. Even as he readies his bow, a small crowd forms. At a glance, he looks fresh for the fight. He's good, for a city mouse.
There is another mouse who looks ready for that kind of brawl, if Niall's the type who doesn't draw blades unprepared for death.
After his sparring with Finn, Niall's blood is up, and that's no mood to play sword games with a stranger. "If I pass through again, I'll take you up on that offer, but for now, we have Guard business and can't risk failing to complete it." Instead, he goes about applying poultices to Finn's wounds from the fight.
Finn readies his bow, loaded with a blunted pine needle, but when the sparring match starts, Niall rolls to one side, closing the distance while the arrow bounces off the ground where he previously stood. Finn has to bend backward, teetering on his heels to avoid the possibility of getting his throat cut. Niall stops short, however, and is already pulling some gauze from his belt.
Finn tumbles onto his tail, his bow clattering onto the floor. Angered for being so humiliated, Finn kicks Niall's leg out from under him, swiftly planting him on the ground.
Mild, industrious mice, the villagers of ironwood have no problem offering the two guardmice a warm, dry place to sleep. In the morning, you have a border to map.
Finn wakes early and gathers his gear anxious to be on his way. When Niall is ready he grumpily stated, "Best we be on our way." It obvious he is still angry about the results of his sparring.
The snow is a patchy blanket of pure white. You're out early. North or south of the border, you're the only ones out here... for now.
Finn cautiously scouts the path varying his pace and often backtracking over his own trail.
The northern reach of the borderlands is a natural valley of open fields, and as such it is buried in a thick blanket of melting snow. The surface has melted and re-frozen enough to walk across, but the melt has made traveling across it hazardous because a mouse is liable to fall through the crust and into the running melt water below.
Finn scouts ahead poking the snow with a branch trying to find the safest path.
The route is riddled with holes into the Darkheather, and broken paths in the snow where warbands and scouting parties have made their own rounds checking the border. Finn's patrol crosses the hazardous snow, making excellent time, reaching Pebblebrook by midday of your second day of travel in the borderlands. The Guardmice posted there are supervising the repairs on the town's defenses: a series of cultivated brambles which they are pruning and shaking loose from the snow.
Within the barracks, Arne, Pilib's Scout, is huddled, having just come in from the cold. He's just fled from an ambush. As he describes the area, Niall recognizes an old Harvester's shelter outside Ferndale. Pilib is dead, or critically injured, and the warband has Nathaniel. Hands shaking, Arne hands you a reed case full of cartography notes. "Tha's not alluv'em, but it's what ol' Nate threw me 'fore I ran. Won't be no good finding 'em. It's jus' tha south end: band routes and outposts annat."
Beyond Pebblebrook lie the blooded fields around Woodruf's Grove. As your third day in the border darkens, you hear a distant peel of thunder...
By nightfall, the downpour is torrential. The huge globes of rain, and the rapidly melting snow cut rapids through the dirt. The Patrol is grounded, for now, and at risk of getting sick if you can't get warm soon.
[dice=Attack (Scout)]5d6
There's not enough cover, but Niall's used to making a fire in the open. He pulls out his flint and tinder and gets to work on making a fire out of the nearby twigs and leaves.
[dice=Attack (Scout)]5d6
The fire is struck at the base of a lone pine, the smoke masked in the massive canopy. Water streams past on both sides, ripping the earth out from under the roots, but your shelter in the lee of the trunk is soon a warm safe-haven.
Through the night, you watch the storm boil over, secure in the knowledge that the warband is likewise taking shelter. Finn takes to the branches, straining against the night to see any signs of their party. You get little sleep, but wake ready to close on their position. As your mission reaches its objective, you speak less, and act in concert. You haven't worked together before, but both of you are seasoned Patrolmice.
Niall's had lots of training with the sword, so when the weasel scout shows up outside their camp, he understands how to kill it, not just that he can . He draws his big sword and asks Finn to distract the weasel, hoping for an opening before bringing his blade around. Unfortunately, once the fighting starts, everything fails Niall except his blade.
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Fate, for seemingly the first time since Ferndale, is on Niall's side...
The weasel scout spots your camp's smoke and as the storm ebbs, the fiend slithers up into the brush beneath the pine. Finn is sleeping, bundled in his cloak, and the weasel approaches slowly, inch by inch, until claws touch the fine tufts of his ears.
Out of the boughs, Niall drops, driving his long-bladed claymore deep into the creature's shoulder. Dropping into a deathroll, the weasel hisses and gurgles. Niall tumbles away, pulling his blade free.
In a flash of lightning, the weasel is gone, a streak of blood pointing the way back to his lord and camp.