Heldren is just the sort of sleepy village you'd expect in southern Taldor--quiet, unassuming, and suspicious of strangers. Even in the short time Kazmir had been in town, however, he had gotten a feeling for the uneasiness now disturbing the village's usual quiet. The unnatural snows had everyone on edge.
Taverns were often good spots to hear the local news, and afternoon found Kazmir in the Silver Stoat, Heldren's only tavern. He'd hardly had time to order a drink from the barkeep--a practical-looking middle-aged woman--before fate came knocking on the door.
Or rather, barging through it.
The man was quite a mess--his extremities were blackened with frostbite, an ugly wound in his side still oozed blood, and his cold iron sword was still in his hand.
"Send help!" he gasped, panting hard between words. "The Lady... they've... they've taken the Lady!"
"Quick! You!" The barkeep points at one of her long-time patrons. "To the apothecary! Off with you!"
The farmer stumbles to his feet and jogs to the door, apologizing to the wounded man as he warily makes his way around him.
"No, do not... worry about me..." he pants. "The Lady... I left them..." He falls to his knees as the barkeep gets out from behind the bar to do what she can for him.
Kazmir looks at the man and regrets ordering ice for his drink. he had heard there were unusual occurrences of cold in the area, in fact that was why the druid was here. But he hadn't expected it to be so...violent. He knew from long experience in the high places of the world the damage cold could do, even without malignant magic behind it.
Moving behind the barkeep he says, 'Please, allow me. I have experience with frostbite." Unsaid was why a man in southern Taldor had frostbite so extreme it had disfigured him.
The dwarf goes over to the man trying to calm him and assess the injuries.
'Get me warm towels. Warm, not hot," barks, to anyone listening. 'We'll try to save what we can."
He's shivering, but confused, indicating that he's suffering from (comparatively) mild hypothermia. The frostbite is far worse than he should have suffered without his other symptoms being worse. What's more, the frostbitten parts all seem to be centered around small puncture wounds. He suspected he was still grasping his sword because he could no longer let go of it. This close Kazmir can tell the man had some strong Ulfen ancestry, possibly full-blooded.
The wound in his side, on the other hand, looked to have been made by a sword.
"Please, the Lady..." he murmurs, clearly exhausted on top of his wounds.
"Warm towels? That I can do," the barkeep says, standing. She addresses the group of gawking farmers that is forming around you. "You lot, if you're not being useful, clear out!"
They part as she makes her way into the back room of the tavern, then mill about, talking in hushed, worried tones.
'You'll be alright, lad." Kazmir said, wishing he knew Ulfen. 'I've had worse myself." Lying, but meaning well.
The dwarf raised a hand over the sword wounds. Muttering a brief prayer to the varied spirits of dwarf and man, he attempted to heal the wound magically.
The man responds well tot he spell and watching Kazmir can see the skin and muscle repairing itself.
Kazmir's sword undoes the wound in the man's side, and heals enough of the damage in his hand that it finally releases its death-grip on the sword, which clatters to the ground. The man himself slumps somewhat more on the ground, eyelids fluttering as he fights unconsciousness.
"Easy, now," the barkeep says, returning from the back room with two rough towels. She walks over to the fireplace as she speaks. "Why don't you just lie down there, sir?"
She turns to the small group of watching farmers. "You lot! Help the dwarf get our guest comfortable."
A couple of the farmers hesitantly approach you while the barkeep uses tongs to pull a couple of hot rocks off the edge of the fireplace, wrapping them in the towels she had brought.
Kazmir nods to the farmers. 'Someone rub his fingers and toes. gently now, it'll help save them." He turns to the barkeep. 'get the strongest drink you have. We need to get his blood flowing again."
He shows the farmers what to do, making sure they don't put him too close tot he fire. Too often people wanted to cook frostbite, when the trick was slow, gradual warming. No one climbed mountains without seeing frostbite and learning how to deal with it.
Meanwhile he starts to wonder...what had done this? Some sort of spell? A magical trap perhaps? Some creature with cold attacks? The dwarf had never heard of that, but it was a strange world out there.
He turns to the barkeep whens he gets a moment, 'Any idea who he is and where he was? Could be a danger for your town."
The farmers comply with Kazmir's instructions without question, as does the barkeep.
The man's eyes flutter open again at Kazmir's question. "Yuln..." he murmurs, "I guarded... the Lady Argentea...."
The barkeep blanched a bit at the name. "That's the Lady you've been talking about?"
"Yes! Save her!" The guard is growing agitated.
'Focus." Kazmir says, knowing shock might be driving the man. "Who is she, what does she need saved from? What did this to you? Quickly now, lad. Sooner you say it, sooner we can take steps."
He wondered if it was just the wound talking and if not...how badly did he want to investigate this whole affair?
Yuln nods convulsively. Before he could speak, the barkeep interjects, "Nobility. I can't say I remember her exact lineage, but she has a voice in court, at the least."
"First... bandits," Yuln says once she finishes speaking, "Those... not hard. But then... Cold Fey..."
His shiver is not entirely due to his body temperature. "They... killed the... others... then... bandits took... the Lady..."
"Bandits, Cold Fey..." Kazmir frowns. This sounded like something serious. Cold fey, this far south and aggressive? That wasn't normal. And attacking caravans...
The dwarf looks at the barkeep, 'Anyone in town you'd trust to come with me? Someone just go see if anyone else is hurt and just what is going on. I'll go alone, but if the town has someone..."
"That'd be a question for the sheriff, not me," the barkeep replies with a bit of a shrug. "What with the strangeness in the wood of late and..."
She is interrupted by the arrival of a halfling woman, dressed in hard-wearing clothes and a leather apron stained with grass and mud. "Where's the patient... oh, I see."
She rushes over to Kazmir and Yuln. "You've already... I see, good," she says distractedly, looking over the injured man. [b]"Some magic healing?" She points at the mostly-healed sword wound. "Still, we'll want to dress what remains... I have some poultices for that..."
The dwarf grumbles at the mention of sheriff. he didn't mind those who kept law and order, but the instant reaction to put any problem on them troubled the rather independent minded dwarf.
'Where can I find the sheriff? We need to move quickly.."
Kazmir is distracted by the halfling woman. "Yes, miss. I tried to care for the wounds as best I can. The sword wound was quite nasty when he came in, but the frostbite worries me as well. I did what I can. I hope you don't mind intruding on your area." the dwarf says carefully wondering who she was.
"Yes, yes, you've done well," The apothecary murmurs. "He may still lose the ends of some fingers, but he'll keep most of them."
The barkeep now speaks up. "Our sheriff's also the town blacksmith--not much call for a sheriff most of the time, so he'll probably be working his forge. Man by the name of Isker."
She pauses. "I'm Kale, by the way. Good to meet you. And this is Tessaraea."
Kazmir nods, "Thank you." he nods to the wounded Ulfen. "This could be very bad for your town. You need to take action. Will either of you come with me? It might help to have someone of local repute to convince them of the seriousness."
"Do either of you know what direction the man would have came from?"
"I need to get these wounds dressed," replied Tessaraea.
"I'll come along, though I doubt you'll need it," Kale responds. "I'm sure the news of the half-dead frostbitten man stumbling into town is already spread throughout all of Heldren. As for where he came from," she shrugged. "The way he was dragging that sword, I doubt you'll have trouble figuring it out."
Yuln, by now, was sleeping soundly.
"Very well." Not sure what to make of the barkeep's tone. He was trying to help after all.
Kale leads Kazmir through the village. The forge is closer to the edge of town, likely as a courtesy to those who don't appreciate the noise. (Humans are odd like that--they don't appreciate the sounds of metalworking)
"Isker, we've got a real problem!" Kale shouts as she leads Kazmir into the forge.
Isker looks very much the part of a human blacksmith--broad-shouldered and singed, with a sooty apron and tough, calloused hands. He looks up at Kale's shout from the plow he was hammering on.
"Kale? What kind of problem?"
"Something more substantial out of that cold snap in the woods than white weasels," she replies. "Bandits working with fey, strong enough to overwhelm a noblelady's guard."
Isker frowns as he sets down his tools. "That is trouble," he agrees, [b]"Does it have something to do with your guest here?" He nods at Kazmir.
Kazmir has more respect for a blacksmith then a sheriff. While he is certainly not metal-worker, he has the innate Dwarven respect for artisan and those who create order and beauty from chaos. Even a humble country smithy was an homage to Torag, even if they did not know it. He wasn't very devout, but Kazmir knew to stay on the good side of the God of Forges.
"Sir." Kazmir says, deciding to be obviously respectful might help, "I was merely at the Inn when a guard stumbled in, very wounded. I helped heal him."
The dwarf straightens, 'My name is Kazmir Brightbeard and I am long accustomed to the cold places of the world. I was merely passing through your lands after a long journey. I am not looking for trouble but instead seek to help. I offer my expertise to the town. Can someone come with me, to see what can be done? Time, may be running out. The guard said a noblewoman, and possibly other guards, lives are at risk."
Inwardly he is starting to chafe at the delays.
"Well, if there's danger to Heldren, I can't come," Isker says, sounding almost regretful. "It wouldn't do for the militia captain to be out of town if they were to strike at Heldren themselves. And other than myself... well, folks here know how to use a spear to defend their farms, but this sounds like more than a militiaman can handle. I'm sorry, Master Brightbeard, but there's none in Heldren that can aid you in this. We'll send a message on to the nearest garrison, but..."
His shrug seems a bit jaded. "They haven't cared before. Maybe news of the noblelady's fate will stir them, but I wouldn't count on it."
Kazmir frowns, 'Your duty is what you make of it." he had hoped for more vigorous aid. "Very well. I will go alone, to make my investigations. Consider yourself warned. Make what preparations you can."
He turned on the sheriff, disappointed. It was Kazmir's task to tell the man what to do, but to not even investigate?
He turned to Kale, "Then I suppose I go alone. Do what you can to spread word about the danger."
They both seemed a bit shocked by the dwarf's bluntness. "Good luck, Master Brightbeard," Isker says, hiding his emotions, whatever they might be. "We'll be grateful for anything you can do."
It's not hard to tell that Yuln came along the road that skirts the forest from the southeast, and after several miles, Kazmir can feel an unnatural chill in the air. It grows stronger as he continues, until he sees frost on the grass and leaves around him.
Shortly afterward he reaches the site of the battle. Dead horses lay in front of two carriages, one of which is overturned, the other still upright. One man stands dead and encased in ice in the middle of the road, his face a mask of horror. Other corpses lay on the ground, their equipment stripped from them. Nothing living stirs that Kazmir can see.
Pondering, Kazmir calls Bizzk to him. He'd need someone who can help. Humans are as independent as peas in a pod.
As he waits for the heron to arrive, he ponders the scene. The unnatural cold was worrying. The man locked in ice was disturbing. Stripped corpses....Any hopes that it was a natural act of nature vanished along with the grave feeling the dwarf was in over his head.
He scans the ground, looking for clues about the attackers )footprints, marks left, any items left behind) and what is causing the intense cold. As well as the outgoing trail.
Kazmir easily finds a few broken arrows of fairly low quality scattered around. More difficult to notice are the tiny arrows that protrude from some of the dead men--fey arrows, no doubt. He also notices that the frozen man seems to have been wearing a very nice breastplate, that would be accessible if it weren't currently encased in ice.
It seems that the attackers came from the forest, and returned to it afterward. He sees only human tracks. The cold... the cold seems just like the cold of winter. In fact, the forest here is snowbound in the midst of summer... though only fairly recently so, for many trees are still in process of losing their wilting leaves.
Still waiting for Bizzk, Kazmir makes his way to the forest and attempts to find the outgoing trail. he knew little of fey, but he doubted Cold fey were common in a southern Taldor summer.
The dying trees make the druid sad. He had nothing against the extremes of nature, and had seen much death among creatures of mountain or field, but this was....wrong, unnatural. A winter here was like someone building a road on the ocean. Should be impossible...
The dwarf shivered, and not from the cold.
The trail is clear and easy to follow, for it seems the bandits made no attempt to hide their tracks in the snow. It winds along for a while between tree-trunks and through dying underbrush.
Just as Kazmir reaches a clearing, he hears the welcome sound of Bizzk's wingbeats. That is not enough, however, to make him unaware of the fact that a large chest sits incongruously in the middle of this clearing.
A chest?
Kazmir approaches it carefully. He scans the ground. Was it dragged by the attackers from the battle, was it brought by the attackers?
'What do you think Bizzk?" the dwarf asks the heron, who of course, fails to answer.
Kazmir examines the chest closely, focusing on the lock and latches.
Unfortunately for Kazmir, the trap is not on the chest itself, but a tripline hidden beneath the snow in front of it. When he steps on it, a log swings down from the forest canopy, aimed straight at the dwarf!
It strikes him solidly in the head, throwing him to the ground and leaving his ears ringing.
Kazmir spends a long moment with the cold, hard ground. The frost has time to melt as he slowly regains his bearings after the very hard blow.
Bizzk comes over, murmuring in concern. "I'm...I'm fine." the dwarf says, not feeling that great, ribs creaking.
A trap? By who? The fey? He seemed to recall they enjoyed such things. Warily he stood up and looked for any more trickery.
Nothing moves around Kazmir... well, except for Bizzk. Apparently whoever left this trap here isn't present at the moment.
Wondering if any more logs were present, he steps forward and (careful not to touch the lock with bare flesh) tries to open the chest.
The chest is unlocked... and also empty, when it opens.
Kazmir pokes around, wondering why anyone would leave an empty chest here. Has someone got here first? No, there are no tracks. But if was empty, why trap it? Fey being fey?
The dwarf suspects maybe an illusion or a more mundane false bottom.
"Keep a lookout Bizzk." he says, hunching over the chest.
Looking around, Kazmir soon realizes what happened. The bandits hid their loot under the chest, using the chest itself to hide the hole they'd hastily dug. Sorting through the things hidden in the hole, he can tell it consists of the gear stripped from the slain guards. There are several suits of leather and studded leather armor, one finely crafted chain shirt, some swords, a couple spears, three crossbows, some bolts, and a very well-made dagger.
On the other side of the clearing, he can make out the continuation of the trail that led him here.
Shrugging Kazmir trades his dagger for the fine one int he small hoard. The men who once carried it would need it no longer. he could think of no better way to honor them then to use their own weapon against those who slayed them.
'Come, Bizzk. We hunt, but stay quiet." he speaks low to the bird, more to reassure himself.
Kazmir takes up the trail again, moving carefully to avoid more traps.
The trail winds back and forth for several miles, without anything of note. Looking at the tracks in the snow, Kazmir suspects he's just keeping up with the bandits, not closing the gap at all.
Eventually he reaches a spot where the trail widens out a bit. On the sides of the trail, dead ravens hang from slender threads tied to tree branches, small arrows protruding from their breasts.
Must be fey, Kazmir thinks, staring at the mutilated birds.
The druid stares at the birds, wondering if there is perhaps some purpose beyond pointless cruelty.
He stops Bizzk from trying to peck at them, keeping their distance.
He doesn't think there's anything magical going on here. Kazmir does, however, feel like he's being watched.
Kazmir's first instinct is to call out, but he restrains himself. Who knows what is lurking in the wood, watching him. Perhaps not all ofhis quarry went on ahead.
The druid starts to melt toward one edge of the woods, Bizzk with him. As he approaches cover, his eyes scan the other edge.
Try as he might, Kazmir doesn't spot the two icy-white sprites against their snowy surroundings until after they've already fired on him.
One tiny arrow sticks right into the dwarf's neck. It saps the warmth from him as it sticks in.
He's felt worse, though, and he shrugs off the cold. The arrow still hurts, though.
The pain stings his neck and he clamps a hand to it. The cold is nothing, he has felt worse on a winter morning on the peaks, but the blood trickling down is concerning. Head still ringing from the log, he retreats into the woods.
Using Bizzk to cover his retreat best he can, he heads back to town, head hanging in shame and pain.
The little sprites taunt and jeer at him as he retreats, but Bizzk's beak soon convinces them to not pursue him.
Kazmir makes his way through the woods paralleling the path, trying to minimize his destruction of any signs left behind. It burned him to be defeated like that. The druid had a very strong, personal desire to best challenges, weather it be a mountain, a social convention or a foe. Despite bleeding neck, ringing head, defeat burned worse then any wound.
Still, he knew he was over-matched.
The druid went into town to meet the herbalist, Kale. She had seemed most sympathetic to his plight.
Kazmir's knock on Tessaraea's door brought the halfling to the door. "Yes... oh, my!" she says. "Quick, come in! I'll have to find a third bed..."
She bustles away, muttering to herself, and Kazmir can see into the room beyond. It looks like the front room is a storefront, with various herbal remedies and alchemical concoctions for sale... including a large amount of Alchemist's Fire. Tessaraea herself heads around the counter towards a door in the back of the room.
"Come, come!" she says without looking behind her.
Kazmir's eyes widen on the fire. Considering what he just saw, a bit of hot fire might be just the ticket.
The druid steps inside, bowing politely, "Mistress Tessaraea. It is Kazmir, I have returned, with disturbing news." Assuming she listens I'll tell her everything, including the bodies, the ravens and the cold fey.
"Things are much worse then I first thought. Much worse then mere bandits even. Also." the dwarf grits his teeth, "It is more then I can handle myself. I..require aid. Is there anyone in town willing to help me? Someone with some talent for violence?"
"Actually, Master Kazmir, you might want to speak with this fellow," Tessaraea says, waving Kazmir to the back room as she opened its door. "One of the rangers from the wood just stumbled in here while you were away, and he's insisting he'll be well enough tomorrow to go back. I'm not so sure, but..."
Kazmir ducks into the back room, wanting to see who this 'lost ranger' was? Last thing he needed was a wounded man to help.
"Do you know him at all, Tessaraea? Or the rangers in general?"
"Oh, certainly," Tessaraea replies. "They have a lodge a few days' journey into the woods, from which they keep watch over the sorts of trouble that are always trying to spring up in forests--bandits, animals, the occasional monster, that sort of thing."
She pauses. "Or, well, they used to."
Stepping into the room, Kazmir sees it's been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Or rather, expanded. Yuln is snoozing on one bed, his wounds and frostbite dressed. On the other side of the room, Tessaraea is looking over a half-elven man who has several bandages on him. A suit of studded leather, a bow, and a sword lie on the ground next to the makeshift bed he lays on.
The half-elf looks over at Kazmir. "Yes, we used to watch the wood, until those bandits allied with those accursed fey and wiped us out." The bitterness in his voice is plain. "Now I'm probably the only one left, and then only because I was out on patrol and quicker on my feet than the bandits."
"Sometimes running is the best response. Not that I care for that advice myself."
"My name is Kazmir Brightbeard. I was traveling through when I heard about your..incidents. I came here hoping to looking into an interesting academic puzzle. Instead I found a pile of bodies. I tried to follow them, but I was over matched."
"I was wondering if you could help me? Things looked dire on that road. What's your name?"
The ranger moves as if to rise, earning him a stern look from Tessaraea. Instead he just gives Kazmir a little nod. "The name's Marius. As soon as I'm given leave, I'd be glad to get a bit of vengeance for my friends," he states, his voice hard. "The bandits are using our lodge as their base, now. I got a bit too close and got some arrows for my trouble, but I reckon I dropped a couple of them in turn. If we can manage to pick a few more of them off, we should be able to finish the rest."
"Now, Master Kazmir," Tessaraea interjects, "You will sit down and let me take a look at that neck wound of yours, as well as your head. None of you are leaving with wounds like you're carrying around!"