Petracleus |
Petracleus acknowledges Coutessa's question with a shake of his head, "Not as much as I would have liked...it was a strange night - I'll be okay though, I've learned to rest in the saddle though...just so long as the weather holds" and, with that, the bard hoists his pack over his shoulder and goes in search of the stables.
Merick Renarin |
Once everyone is gathered, Merick grabs his things and begins the onerous task of getting everything packed onto his mount securely. He gives Petracleus a sympathetic glance, the storm had been rather unnerving, surely. After checking with his companions to make sure everyone has packed everything they need, Merick gets into a good cheer.
Here was a task that could hopefully be completed quickly, and more importantly, with a good measure of success. Such was needed to boost their spirits.
Michael Meunier |
Verran was completely quiet in the morning, aside from his prayers. He seemed even more distant and silent as he ate his breakfast and packed his things. The current course of action didn't seem to sit right with him. No matter how it was stated, they were abandoning the hunt of one who reveled in undeath. Someone who needed to answer to his lady personally. But now some weirdly dressed man drops of a note, waves some coin in their face and they run off and chase it. He was of half a mind to continue the pursuit on his own.
But he didn't,he wouldn't. But he didn't have to like it.
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
Aymehn carefully gathers the remnants of breakfast from the table. He pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and collects his personal belongings. Aymehn exits the inn and heads for the stables.
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
Looking for some kind of weather forecast or report here.
Aymehn pauses just before reaching the entrance of the stable. He licks his left pinky and sticks it in his ear. With his right hand he shakes some accumulated mud from his long beard. He carefully studies the falling partices of dirt as they blow in the breeze. Aymehn turns his eyes to the overcast sky, looking for some shift in the clouds above him.
Survival: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (2) + 14 = 16
Perception: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (6) + 14 = 20
GM Haladir |
Note: Let's say you all start play with a light horse with riding saddles. If you wish to have a war-trained horse and/or military riding gear, you'll need to purchase that as equipment. I see that Merick already has a barded warhorse.
You bid farewell to the inn in Brathlewhyte, and head to the stables to saddle up your horses. It appears that the stablehands took reasonably good care of your steeds, and you set out on your side trek to see what the Burgomaster of Barovia wishes of you.
After about an hour of riding, you find yourselves at the crossroad that the Varisian stranger told you about last night. The road continues west into the mountains, with one track heading south and another north. A signpost at the crossroads indicates Brathlewhyte back the way you came, Kavapesta to the west, and Hyannis to the south. The road north appears overgrown and not well-traveled at all. That is the way the stranger said Barovia lies.
You turn your horses north and follow the road into hilly woodlands. With the rains last night, the air is still damp in places, and you ride through some patchy fog here and there. After three more hours of travel, you stop at a hilltop clearing for a brief midday meal and to marvel at the spectacular view of the snow-capped Svalich Peaks before you. The valley below seems shrouded in heavier fog, but for a few moments, you can make out a the dark towers of a castle through a break in the fog.
Your meal ended, you continue to follow the lonely road down into the misty valley. Black pools of water stand like dark mirrors about the muddy roadway. The thick, cold mists spread a pallor over the road. Giant tree trunks stand on both sides of the road, their branches clawing into the mists. As you descend into the valley, the mists grow thicker and the forest grows more oppressive.
Your pace slows as you descend through the mists. Sound seems deadened-- you don't hear the expected sounds of birds through the trees. The air is also still with no breeze to stir the leaves of the trees whose stark trunks you ride by.
After two more hours of riding, you see your first sign of civilization. Jutting from the impenetrable woods on both sides of the road, high stone buttresses loom before you, gray in the fog. Huge iron gates hang on the stonework. Two statues of armed guardsmen flank the gate. Their heads, missing from their shoulders, now lie among the weeds at your feet.
Merick Renarin |
Merick eyes the headless statues amidst the shrouding mists, chuckling grimly. "Lovely." He spurs his horse into a slow walk, not wanting to risk a misstep in the murk. He slowly swings his head from left to right, inspecting the ground for holes and the surrounding areas for bandits or the like.
Petracleus |
Petracleus has always had a horse (war-trained with barding and military saddle) although I haven't quite named the horse yet...will see if it plays much of a part in the adventure / if I am inspired - it is also exceptionally likely that the 'far too' romantic bard will have named both his violin and his rapier...
Setting his horse in the middle of the pack, Petracleus lets his trusty steed follow the trail as he, hunched down within his cloak, attempts to find the sleep that eluded him the night before. Somehow he arrives at their hilltop meal in far greater spirits than at the start of the journey... He relishes the food, the drink, the cold fresh air, the view and then the acoustics afforded by the setting- unable to help himself, he launches into a rendition of 'The Eternal Battle of the Dwarven Shieldmaiden and the Elven Swordsmaster' - an unnecessarily bawdy selection for such an early hour but one that seems somehow fitting to the environs as the yodelling chorus is sung.
A happier man, back in the saddle, he converses with Aymehn as they drop down into the valley - sensing the druid's uneasiness at the unnatural deadening of sounds and the unseasonal absence of birdsong, he instead focusses his conversation on the rocks that the dwarf has collectd since leaving Carrion Hill...and just exactly what do they mean...
As they reach the gates, Petracleus looks up at the statues...and, as if caught by some ancient memory, falls silent and contemplative....
...the last time I saw statues treated this way, it was back in Brevoy - many is the statue that fell in those days, some more deserving of their fate than others...but this? This seems different somehow... Beheading? Why?
A chill up his spine, Petracleus gently nudges his steed onwards....
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
If the party was paying attention on the ride, then they would learn that Aymehn is carrying several new rocks and some clumps of soil that have been gathered in the past week or two. Aymehn explained to Petracleus with great joy, and in great detail, about all of his new additions.
The party likely ignored much of Aymehn's droning, but may have overheard something about a trio of moss covered shale chunks taken from the derro lair. Aymehn believes a proper alchemist may be able to make some sort of antidote from the moss.
The party may also have heard of the new smooth stones taken from creeks and down spouts nearer to civilization.
Additionally, the party likely overheard, as Aymehn raises his voice a notch for this bit, that the gravel Aymehn earlier presented to Verran was collected from the ground of the cage where the derro were keeping the children. Finding those children alive was the last time Aymehn can remember Verran truly smiling.
GM Haladir |
After pausing to marvel at the ancient, broken statues by the gates, you slowly ride through, past the silent, headless sentries. From the forest floor, the stone eyes look up at you impassively.
After the last of you rides through the gates, you all hear the creaking of rusty hinges behind you. Turning, you see the gates slowly close behind you, seemingly of their own volition. The black, rusty gates clang shut.
Beyond the gates, the mist seems to thin a bit, giving you about 20 yards of visibility. The forest on the sides of the road still looms menacingly.
The road here turns to the northwest, disappearing into the mist.
Petracleus |
Perturbed, Petracleus dismounts from his horse and, hand resting at the hilt of his rapier, walks to the stone heads upon the floor, "Do you ever get the feeling you're being watched?"
Murmuring a little ditty to himself, Petracleus looks beyond the natural world and Searches for the tell-tale signs of arcane wonderment...
Petracleus, Detect Magic upon Statue Heads / Iron Gates
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
Aymehn unhooks his sling from his pack's strap and starts swinging it to and fro nervously. Following Petracleus' lead, he dismounts and looks around cautiously.
Perception: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (20) + 14 = 34
Merick Renarin |
Merick forces a grim smile. "They're just closing the doors behind us, like good chaps. Shows they want us to stay a while." Still, the warrior loosens his sword in its scabbard as his steed slowly clops forward, his eyes flitting about as the group moves towards its destination.
GM Haladir |
As the sound of the metal gates clanging shut echoes through the woods, you all stop to investigate. The woods seem unnaturally silent.
Verran of Pharasma |
Verran nodded when Countessa asked about getting an uneasy feeling, but didn't seem otherwise concerned. He'd been in a lot of creepy places before, so this wasn't anything that concerned him too much. That lasted until the gates closed, then he started to worry.
Much like the others, Verran moved one hand to his mace and shifted his shield to a ready position whilst guiding his mount forward.
"I don't like it when things close me in, particularly on their own. Caution is more than warranted.
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
Aymehn kneels down and sticks his fingers in the mud by the roadside. He raises filthy fingers to twitching nose.
"I've got tracks here. Headed south into the woods. Pretty fresh. A man walking amongst a pack of wolves."
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
Intrigued by Damion's speculation, Aymehn studies the tracks closer. He attempts to follow them south into the border forest.
Survival: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (11) + 14 = 25
"Stay close and be at the ready, friends."
GM Haladir |
The trail leads into mist-shrouded woods. Towering trees, whose tops are lost in heavy gray mist, block out all save a death-gray light. The tree trunks almost touch, preventing you from bringing your horses with you. The thick, damp undergrowth presses in on you, making it impossible even to see one another at all times. The woods have the silence of a forgotten grave, yet exude the feeling of an unsounded scream.
After about half an hour of picking your way through the forbidding forest, you come across a small clearing. Half-concealed by bracken, you find the decayed remains of a man. He has obviously been dead for several days.
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
"It appears that my initial impression of these tracks was not quite right."
Aymehn looks up from the tracks to each of his compatriots one-by-one. He rubs his beard with his muddy hand.
"These boot prints are not walking amongst the wolf pack..."
Aymehn pulls the hood back off of his head.
"These boot prints are running away from the wolf pack."
Petracleus |
Guessing, even before anyone even examines the corpse, the savage end that befell the poor fellow, Petracleus urges everyone to be on their guard. "This man was hunted down - there are dangers within these woods that we would do well not to underestimate - We should do the right thing by this man and then return to the road...quickly", dismounting the bard asks Verran what the local customs are for the dead...
...specifically those that are swift, if you please cleric...
Merick Renarin |
Merick's face grows grim at the sight of the dead man. He had expected little else, but this confirmation only brought back the brooding mood of the past few days. "A few wolves against a group of well-armed men? And woman?" He bows his head to Countessa, then continues. "Let us be about this business swiftly. This burgomaster likely needs to be told of the feral pack of wolves prowling these lands."
Michael Meunier |
Verran nods at the Dwarf and moves to start examining the body whilst beginning to muter the appropriate prayers for the departed. Looking to the shovel strapped to his pack, Verran stated,
"If someone wants to start digging, they're more than welcome."
heal: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (11) + 10 = 21
Aymehn Al-Thorin |
"I'd prefer not to man the shovel, but I will pitch in."
Aymehn kneels in an area not too far from where the Pharasmin prays over the corpse. He mumbles a few words and slaps the ground with an open palm. The tough, knotted soil suddenly loosens into the consistency of a wet, sloppy mud.
Aymehn casts soften earth on a patch of ground that appears to be appropriate for a burial site.
Merick Renarin |
Merick, suited for such work, grasps the shovel and starts digging in the soft patch of ground. He will continue until it is done or until someone relieves him, the steady monotony of the hard work soothing to him.
GM Haladir |
Verran kneels beside the dead man and examines him. It appears that he has been savagely mauled by wild beasts and partially eaten.
Please make a DC 15 Will save.
A moment after the Pharasmin priest begins examining the corpse, he suddenly turns to look behind him. His face becomes a mask of terror and shouts, "No!" as he defensively covers his head with his arms.
You are shaken for 1 minute.
Please make a DC 15 Fortitude save.
GM Haladir |
Aymehn calls to the spirits of the earth, and his fallen friend is bathed in the warm light of a spring morning. His bleeding stops, and Verran's eyes snap open. He gasps in fear, but then sees the stoic face of his dwarven companion kneeling beside him.
The echoes of the terrifying vision continue to rattle him.
Verran: You will be shaken for the next hour.
Merick Renarin |
Merick wheels his horse around at the man's cries, looking for approaching enemies or spellcasters. Seeing none, he casts a wary glance at the priest as a couple of others run to him and help him out. Not wanting to crowd the obviously distraught cleric, the warrior busies himself with making sure they are not taken unawares.
Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 1 = 3
GM Haladir |
Everyone: You're on foot in the forest. You cannot bring your horses. The way through the tangle of dense brush, tightly-packed trees, and fallen trunks is barely large enough for a person. Even then, you have to squeeze, crawl, and duck much of the time. Sorry if i hadn't made that clear.
Verran: You can try a Knowledge (religion) check to figure out what happened to you.
Countessa and Merrick: You don't detect anything in the creepy forest around you. Actually, the woods seem unnaturally quiet.
Merick Renarin |
It was perfectly clear, Haladir. My brain just stopped functioning.
Merick feels his hackles rise as silence reigns in the woods. As the priest collects himself, the warrior draws his sword and dons his shield, giving a shrug to anyone who glances at him questioningly.