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"What is the state of things here?""How's Dierik? Any trouble from the Sharpes?"Dierik’s state remains much as it was,” explains Santrian as he leads the adventurers to their paymaster’s tent. “No worse yet no better.”
“Skaraben Sharpe was here, in the company of Marshall Oswald. He took back his ring, and Pellius’ promise of Khozin in chains. I see he is not among you. What befell the thieving half-elf?”
"Khozin has fled." Pyotr looks east.
"If Skaraben has the Marshall's support, then we should prepare for an icy reception in town from this point forward."
Pellius looks at the visibly nervous would-be-herbalists. "Perhaps we shouldn't try to do something you are not comfortable with. It's not like these things abound. Why don;t we wait until the morning and head over to the hermit who said he could concoct the medicine needed?"
Bonegrit nods to Deramil. He entertains the thought—briefly—of explaining the ordeal involving the accident, but thinks better of it. That the horses were tended to and returned to health is enough to satisfy both he and the First Master. Instead, Bonegrit's mind returns to the entire reason for the ordeal: Dierik.
Returning to the fold as Pellius speaks, Bonegrit rubs the back of his head as he mulls over the situation. He is tired. Not that it's ever stopped him before, but even following Kelya's tending he is sobered by the dull ache in his bones from their travails. At the same time, waiting until morning doesn't seem very appealing.
Bonegrit shakes his head and taps Pellius lightly on the wrist with his forehand. "We could have Banthorl back here tonight. I don't like the notion o' Skaraben havin' the marshal at his back. With Khozin gone, they might figger on our craw deservin' their stick, yeah?"
"We could have Banthorl back here tonight. I don't like the notion o' Skaraben havin' the marshal at his back. With Khozin gone, they might figger on our craw deservin' their stick, yeah?"
"I think you are right. We should use Banthorl's expertise, and we should do it as quickly as possible."
"He did not want our entire entourage to return all at once, though," Pyotr says with a grin. "Maybe one or two could go collect him."
As the men and women of the caravan mill around greeting the returning adventurers, Leodegraine stands uncertainly near Bonegrit. Further away, Commor glowers, casting mournful looks in the direction of the Freedom Town.
Pyotr watches as Commor and Leodograine seem to hover around one another, and stand off from each other simultaneously. Commor sulks and shoots sullen looks towards the Bellknight's new squire, while Leodograine simply fidgets, looking for an appropriate place to stand.
"I have several... responsibilities... to deal with, at the moment," Pyotr says. "I should stay here, and help... coordinate the defense of the caravan."
Bonegrit nods to Pyotr then says, "Another fast rider would be plenty."
"Another fast rider would be plenty."
Bonegrit’s question doesn’t get much in the way of a response from his fatigued companions. The brief, uncomfortable silence is broken by Crooked Callan.
“Looks as though they’ve all ridden themselves out barring yourself. Your endurance does you credit Bonegrit. Perhaps I can offer a couple of my own men to escort you to the Curbril Wood whilst the others get some rest?”
“Lhairak, Korvus, go and saddle your horses. You’re riding out with the ranger.”
The two guards ready themselves quickly. Looking out into the darkness nervously, Lhairak speaks: “I know you see well in the dark, but I ain’t so blessed. Mind if me and Korvus light torches?”
• It’s not too late for Delkaneth or Pellius to feel guilty and offer to join the three riders.
• Organise defences if trouble’s expected.
• See if Zriorinta can identify some of the potions you’ve acquired (see the loot sheet). And although Alagor told Pyotr a little about Tanerit’s glaive, perhaps the apothecary can reveal more.
• Find out more about Skaraben’s visit from Second Master Santrian.
• Talk to Tharkon (Dierik’s unsuccessful assassin).
• Pyotr may wish to talk to Commor or Leodegraine.
• Delkaneth may wish to seek out Lunt and find out whether the ‘minions of the Wood Devil’ have kept their word.
• Or he might want to find Karannah.
• Get an early night!
• Something else entirely.
Pellius is just starting to rub down his companion after the tough two-day ride when he hears the call for volunteers.
Shaking his head and mumbling that a few more hours won't kill anyone, he pats Signior and steps up. "I'll go with you. It's probably best to get started as soon as possible."
Pyotr nods as the indefatigable ranger flies off with Callan's men racing to keep up.
With most of his strength flagging, he marches determinedly towards his squire and his captive. "Come with me," he says to both of them. "Let us find you a spot to lay your bedrolls."
He leads the pair through the camp, finding Tharkh unexpectedly in the midst of the camp. The ropes that had held him to the Sixbull had been exchanged for a chain that gave him a bit more freedom of movement, but kept him more securely locked down.
Pyotr pauses, allowing Leodograine to step up beside him. The young knight felt a strange heat creep up his neck at the proximity of the young woman, though he clenched his tusked jaw and quashed the sensation immediately. "This is the assassin who attempted to end the life of Master Ironcoffer. There is no doubt that he fired the poison bolt. However, I do not yet know what the judgement against him may be..." Pyotr points back towards Dierik's tent. "Dierik still lives. So, we must wait to learn the extent of his crime."
"Again, justice is elusive. This man is a hired blade. His only motive is coin. While he pulled the trigger, he did not truly aim the bolt."
As they continue on through the camp, Pyotr continues to look for likely spots to place his new squire. Someplace not too close... he thinks as fevered, half-formed thoughts numb his brain. However, Pyotr cannot help but notice the lithe girl begins drawing some glances from the more lascivious drovers and guards. Maybe someplace not too far away, though...
Pyotr catches sight of Zriorinta's strange three-wheeled wagon, and turns to head in that direction. "Mistress Zriorinta," he says in greeting, though only one of her many cats is visible. "I wonder if you might aid me in identifying the properties of this weapon. I have swung it through a few attacks, but aside from its fine craftsmanship, its unusual material, and a few rumors, I know little about it."
Nodding at Pellius, Bonegrit leads out of the caravan and hoists himself up into the saddle again. The half-orc is tired, but makes no show of being thus. Instead, he trots out to the head of volunteers and says, "Best to get to it, then."
He softly nudges Amiro forward to a canter and begins the return trip to the hermit's dwelling.
To The Curbril Woods
Their torches flickering in a cold, blustery breeze blowing down from the north, the four riders strike out into the night, led by Bonegrit atop Amiro. Riding carefully in the dark, the ranger unwaveringly finds the way back to the outskirts of the Curbril Woods.
The copse being too thick for the horses, the group dismounts.
“I’ll stay here and watch over the animals,” announces Korvus. “We’re not close enough to the town to discount the threat of an opportunistic wolf making a run at the horses.”
With Zriorinta
As Pyotr’s two companions trail him through the camp, the disgraced Commor once again pipes up.
"Let us find you a spot to lay your bedrolls."
“You said I could go back to Ser Yevender,” he complains, casting a longing glance to where the lights of the Freedom Town glow on the rise above, but a couple of bowshots distance from the caravan’s laager.
However, his captor’s attention is elsewhere – on Zriorinta’s strange wagon. Although the apothecary is not visible, one of her cats is lain out on the leading wheel; the one that turns between the draft ponies that pull the carriage.
"I wonder if you might aid me in identifying the properties of this weapon. I have swung it through a few attacks, but aside from its fine craftsmanship, its unusual material, and a few rumors, I know little about it."
When Pyotr announces himself, the cat turns its head lazily towards the carriage, and immediately movement is heard within. The tiny door at the rear of the carriage pops open, and Zriorinta’s pale, tattooed hand emerges and beckons.
As the half-orc walks around, he sees the Varisian sat pensively in her doorway, green-flamed candles flickering eerily inside her wagon, giving wavering hints of outlines of strange and curious objects; potions, elixirs, strangely shaped branches, glittering orbs, grotesque masks, old tomes, lingerie and slumbering felines. Zriorinta herself is dressed in widow’s weeds with a black veil obscuring her face except the eyes.
“Pyotr the Unwelcome. You’ve returned. Was your mission successful?” she asks hopefully.
Zriorinta takes the weapon from Pyotr and holds it in both hands, whispering arcane words as eldritch light seeps softly from between her closed eyelids.
“Προσδιορίσει του, έτσι ώστε ομπορεί κίνδυνος που ισχύει να γνωρίζει ο για όσους καταχρώνται τη η πανίσχυρη ενέργεια συντονισμού στο εσωτερικό, αλλά και αλλά και αλλά και μαγεία του που αποθηκεύεται.”
When she opens her eyes they glow no more, and Zriorinta explains the weapon’s properties.
“An interesting weapon, but one to be cautious of. It’s built to shatter the arms and armour of those it’s wielded against; finding a resonance so perfect that the things it strikes are blasted asunder. As its pitch builds, so too does its power, and therein lies the danger. Not many of these glaives, said to have been created by the dwarves of Koldukar, remain. Most have been destroyed, blasting themselves apart along with the men that put them to use when their song distorted into a screech.”
"Don't ya worry. Amiro'll keep ya safe," Bonegrit grins back at Korvus. He swings his legs over the side of his steed and lands with a soft thud on the ground beneath.
"It's easy to lose yer way in there, so make sure everyone keeps up. Stay close an' stay alert." Bonegrit's eyes are looking over the trail for familiar paths even as he speaks. He remembers the place being a tangled mess in daylight, and knows the others likely aren't used to traveling in such places.
“Pyotr the Unwelcome. You’ve returned. Was your mission successful?” she asks hopefully.
Pyotr winces slightly, hearing his old epithet. He was surprised how quickly he had become accustomed to his life without prejudice. Leodograine's objections to Ser Vythes, and now this reminder, showed him how much he had truly gained since leaving his comfortable, safe hidey-hole in the Cathedral catacombs.
"Bonegrit has left to collect the hermit, Banthorl. He will return before the sun reaches its zenith," Pyotr assures the mysterious woman. "If all we believe is true, then this time tomorrow Master Ironcoffer will be recovering."
Zriorinta takes the weapon from Pyotr and holds it in both hands, whispering arcane words as eldritch light seeps softly from between her closed eyelids.
"An interesting weapon, but one to be cautious of. It’s built to shatter the arms and armour of those it’s wielded against; finding a resonance so perfect that the things it strikes are blasted asunder. As its pitch builds, so too does its power, and therein lies the danger. Not many of these glaives, said to have been created by the dwarves of Koldukar, remain. Most have been destroyed, blasting themselves apart along with the men that put them to use when their song distorted into a screech."
"A powerful artifact..." Pyotr accepts the return of the weapon. "I can see why its owner was loathe to give it up. How am I to know when its power has grown too great?"
As Pyotr’s two companions trail him through the camp, the disgraced Commor once again pipes up. “You said I could go back to Ser Yevender,” he complains.
Pyotr considers releasing the squire from his captivity in that moment. Agtharda had already returned to Freedom Town, so he could guess that the party's successful return would soon be known to the Sharpes. But, the less they knew, the better. And Commor would not have the will or wherewithal to resist an interrogation.
"I said I would release you, and so I shall." Pyotr frowns as he confronts the squire's complaints. "But, things will not always happen on the schedule you would prefer. Learn patience, Commor. In the morning, I will deliver you to Ser Yevender."
With Lunt
Delkaneth seeks out Lunt, who greets him with a smile. The drover is engaged in a little ceremony to honour Remembrance Moon, his dirty grey cap removed to reveal his balding pate. With a smile and a toast of the bottle he carries, he declares the names of fallen friends, before taking a sip of wine and pouring a little on the fire before him. Those who are literate observe a similar custom, but instead write the names of the dead on a parchment (often marked with a pressed flower) and cast it into the flames.
Similar ceremonies are taking place about the camp, but the usually sombre air of such ceremonies is gone with burgeoning hope that no ritual need be played out in Dierik’s name. Crinkles is playing his fiddle, the slow, moving air known as Let Blades Sit Sheathed Forever More, though the halfling can’t resist adding playful trills and ornament to this stately piece.
It seems Lunt has a lot of friends to honour, for he is swaying slightly on his seat. He waves the bottle in the Chelaxian’s direction.
“Darned good wine yer minions brought me! Care to share some?”
As Delkaneth takes a place beside Lunt, the drover passes him a small scroll. “Yer minions also brought a message for you.”
The note reads:
Twerp,
I was surprised and heartened to find that the world’s wayward youth are not completely fibreless, with regard of course to the fibre of the moral. You paid your debt, which is better than I expected of you, though to return to the previously referenced topic of morals, some might question the wisdom of dominating simple street thugs to do your bidding. The mark of a young despot in training, I’ll wager. If such ambitions of tyranny are to take root, a better calibre of toady will no doubt be necessary.
Does moral fibre extend into the realm of courtesy? If so, perhaps I should reconsider my earlier praise. Although the agreed upon sum was appreciated, especially to a struggling wordsmith of little means such as myself, this cannot negate the fact that we had also agreed upon an appointment, which was duly cancelled without notice on your part. Considerable preparations were made in readiness for your visit, all put to naught by your failure to arrive at the appointed hour (or at all). Do you also possess the moral fibre to remedy this breach of etiquette?
I remain most interested in studying your condition, especially in light of the eldritch manifestation reported by Messrs. Killoran and Shang. I would consider numerically compensating you if necessary, should the shame instilled by knowledge of the inconvenience caused by your missed engagement not provide sufficient motivation.
Yours,
Sleer Huddlegrew
“I wouldn’t have ‘em two louts hanging round the camp,” explains Lunt in reference to Shang and Killoran. “However much you have ‘em cowed, they bashed me noggin. But we’ve made an arrangement that one or the other comes down here every midday to see if I’ve got any errand to make ‘em run.”
Pyotr thanks the mysterious woman, and continues on his quest for a place for his entourage. The watchfires are all surrounded by drovers and guards, some on duty, others in the midst of remembrances.
Pyotr picks up a blank slip of paper from one of Callan's guards. "May I borrow your quill?"
Slowly, carefully, he scrawls out the name "Ser Vythes Brightbrooke" on the small slip of parchment, and hands it to Leodograine. "I think it would be best if you rendered him this honor."
In Curbril Wood
Bonegrit leads Pellius and Lhairak into the tangled confusion of vegetation beneath the Curbril Wood’s boughs. The dancing flame of Lhairak’s torch casts around, deepening a sinister shadow here, starkly illuminating the claws of a skeletal branch there. Undeterred, Bonegrit presses on into the wood, his keen senses picking out the game trail that previously led them to Banthorl’s hermitage.
In truth, it doesn’t take long for them to get there, though the creepy surroundings stretch the minutes. Although no light comes from the hut, Bonegrit detects the aroma of a cookfire and deduces that Banthorl is home. This is confirmed when Lhairak calls out a greeting and the boar hide covering the front entrance jerks aside for the tall, scruffy man.
However, it’s immediately apparent that all is not well with Banthorl – a wide bruise stains one eye and his left arm is in a sling. Held clumsily in his right is a rusty old bec de corbin.
“Back for more eh?” he snarls out, squinting at the torchlight as he tries to make out the faces of the intruders.
Pyotr, Zriorinta and Leodegraine
"If all we believe is true, then this time tomorrow Master Ironcoffer will be recovering."
At these words, Zriorinta tears away her veil to reveal a wide smile. She proceeds to gleefully shed, and even shred her mourning wear, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the curving, ivory contours of her body beneath the torn clothing.
It’s in this state that the apothecary inspects Pyotr’s glaive.
"How am I to know when its power has grown too great?"
“It’s a dangerous balance to strike, for as the pitch of its song rises ever higher, the greater calamity it can inflict upon the arms of your foes, or upon your own fragile flesh. When the screech rings within your head and you grind your teeth at the cacophony, then cast the glaive aside.”
=====
"I think it would be best if you rendered him this honor."
Leodegraine blinks in surprise at the offer, and although her eyes immediately film over with tears at the mention of her master, they also register further surprise at the half-orc. There is even a brief smile of thanks as the young girl takes quill and parchment and writes her remembrance.
Delkaneth
As Delkaneth wanders the campsite he crosses paths with Karannah, who pointedly refuses to make eye contact with him.
Pyotr, Zriorinta and Leodegraine
"If all we believe is true, then this time tomorrow Master Ironcoffer will be recovering."
Zriorinta begins to tear away articles of clothing, beginning with her veil and quickly working down to pieces that, while they did not seem to protect the lady's modesty, were certainly a safeguard for Pyotr's...
He quickly turns his head away as flashes of white skin appear from beneath quickly discarded mourning attire. However, his embarrassed gaze only meets the stark green eyes of his new squire. Suddenly, the half-orc becomes a massed jumble of hands and elbows and tusks, trying and failing to stand comfortably in the midst of the two women. His lopsided, too-toothy smile contrasts brightly against the now dark, dark pallor of the heavy green blush to his skin.
Leodograine, for her part, watches the woman's pseudo-burlesque with an honest, unblinking gaze. Her youth a comfortable shield against jealousy for the older woman.
Pyotr glances back towards his captive, but Commor is no help. The dimwit simply stares unashamedly at the mysterious woman, casually revealing so many mysteries...
"How am I to know when its power has grown too great?"“It’s a dangerous balance to strike, for as the pitch of its song rises ever higher, the greater calamity it can inflict upon the arms of your foes, or upon your own fragile flesh. When the screech rings within your head and you grind your teeth at the cacophony, then cast the glaive aside.”
Pyotr gratefully accepts the return of his glaive, and beats a hasty retreat, the speed of his trek greatly increased across the campground. Eventually, he finds a likely spot not far from Crinkles' wagon, next to one of the massive Sixbulls.
"That halfling is named Crinkles," he tells Commor. "Go ask him, with my compliments, if there is any way he could relight the cooking fires for those of us who have just returned. A hot meal would be most welcome."
Pyotr begins to undo the clips of his armor. Almost immediately, whether by habit or from a sense of duty, Leodograine is there to help. Pyotr almost jumps away, surprised at her sudden proximity. If Zriorinta's actions had him feverish, Leodograine's sent his mind absolutely whirling...
The knight very nearly sends the girl away, determined to find some minor errand to force her upon. But, then remembers the flash of embers that was Ser Vythes memorial, and the sprightly older man lying on his bedroll with his armor placed so neatly nearby... Squires have duties to fulfill, he tells himself harshly. More importantly, Knights have obligations to their squires... This is only the beginning.
He looks Leodograine in the eyes. "Thank you."
Bonegrit's face washes over with a grimace at the sight of Banthorl. He's quickly able to piece together the man has been in a scrap. Worse still, he's sharp enough to know that he and his are likely responsible for the scuffle. The ranger turns and halts his companions where they stand, gesturing for Lhairik to pass him the torch. As he does so Bonegrit straightens up and approaches within twenty paces of the recently beleaguered hermit.
Holding up a hand, the half-orc calls out firmly, "It's true we're back, but I don't figger we're the "we" you think. We shared dinner and a few moments to speak of mushrooms, and. . . other things." Bonegrit kneels down and stabs the torch into the ground. He begins rifling through his rucksack for something, and it becomes clear shortly what the young ranger is fumbling for.
A small vial of crimson fluid, the same Alagor had offered him scant nights prior, rests in the grip of Bonegrit's right hand. "Ya look a little worse fer wares. This should help get yer arm back to workin', then ya can point yer pig-sticker at me with a proper menace, yeah?"
Either way, a Diplomacy check will probably be required when speaking to Banthorl.
Pyotr, dressed in a simple tunic and pants, practically flops down cross-legged next to Delkaneth at the fire. The big half-orc appears almost diminished outside of his armor for the first time in several days. Leodograine follows suit, although with much more demure movement.
"Crinkles made more of that porridge," Pyotr shakes the bowl slightly. "I think there is some of that bacon left from the pig they slaughtered. Not much, though."
"I will return to Yevender's in the morning, taking that one back," Pyotr juts his chin in Commor's direction. "I will collect my gauntlet from the blacksmith... assuming he ever got around to it. Either of them may be interested in these." He kicks out a leg, toeing the piled armor and weapons collected from their trek through the Hungry Mountains. "Would you like to help me drag them into town?"
A small vial of crimson fluid, the same Alagor had offered him scant nights prior, rests in the grip of Bonegrit's right hand. "Ya look a little worse fer wares. This should help get yer arm back to workin', then ya can point yer pig-sticker at me with a proper menace, yeah?"
The magus quickly calls his feather to light up and then raises his hands. "Aye, take the potion. We've been around too many injured people lately and it's no fun."
He then adds, "I take it whoever did this to you is far worse than you are. Do you know who it was?"
"Would you like to help me drag them into town?""Gladly. Last time I went by myself I got into a little trouble, having a chaperone is probably a good idea."
"Im not sure you want to be walking around Freedomtown with that thing? We've attracted enough attention already."
"We have most likely created some enmity in town. Better if nobody leaves camp on their own."
Pyotr pulls the glaive around, and holds it out for Delkaneth. "Zriorinta was able to tell me much of the weapon. It was originally forged by the Dwarves of Koldukar. The rumors that Alagor had heard are quite true. The sound of the blade striking can indeed shatter metal."
"A powerful artifact..." Pyotr accepts the return of the weapon. "I can see why its owner was loathe to give it up."
Delkaneth's eyes widen at Pyotr's tale. "No wonder he was loath to give it up!"
"I said very much the same thing," Pyotr smiles.
"Then we definitely do not leave camp alone. And you better find a safe place to keep that thing while we're in town so we don't put the camp in danger."
A mischievous smile crosses the young man's face as he shrugs. "Again."
Pyotr nods. "I suspect most of Freedom Town knows the fate of the blade, by now. It may serve as a reminder that we are not to be trifled with... I doubt it will deter the Sharpes. But, it may make their pawns think twice."
