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The tavern’s battered front door bursts open, letting in a gust of cold air and swirling flurry of snow. The people within, a handful of patrons, the proprietor and her maid, look up in surprise. Business this time of year is slow, and generally limited to a few local regulars. The figure now standing in the door, letting out the comfortable warmth, is not one of those.
With a sigh of relief, the new arrival pulls off his frosted scarf and throws back his hood, while kicking the door shut behind him. Warm air from the twin fireplaces rushes in to banish the frigid draft. He is an older man, perhaps in his fortieth winter, and the silver shows in the week’s growth of beard on his rough face. His eyes are a warm hazel, reflecting the drab green of his woolen cloak. The man’s face is unscarred, but the bridge of his nose is notched from an age old break.
Marta, the proprietor, stands up from beside the right side fireplace, where she had been poking the embers to new life. “Welcome, stranger. We don’t see much patronage here this time of year, but we can accommodate you. What will you be needing?” She starts toward the short bar.
The new arrival pulls his leather gloves free and runs a hand through his short but tangled hair. “Cheers!” he nods his head in thanks. “Anything warm, if you please. Stew, mead, mulled wine.” He finds an open table close to the fire, which are many this time of year, and sits down, dropping a heavy, snow-laden pack to the floor beside him. He looks around the tavern, observing his fellow patrons.
From another table near the fire, an Ulfen man wearing a hooded black cloak looks up to observe the newcomer. At his neck, a heavy bronze wolf's-head brooch fastens the cloak in place. Under it, you can see the glint of a polished chain shirt. His quilted tunic is dark with gold trim.
At his feet, the head of a sleek, black wolf pops up when the pack hits the floor. It's eyes reflects the red and gold of the fire. It's fur is thick, mostly black, but with an amber brindling on the head, neck and chest.
You see the man reach his hand down to the wolf's head and a moment later it returns to its prior position. The Ulfen man acknowledges the newcomer. "Snowing harder out there, eh? Looks like a night to remind me of home."
"Aye, and by the air I think a bit of a blizzard is on the way." He shakes his head ruefully. "I picked a poor time of year to travel, but... Desna laughs," he hesitates at the end.
Seating at the table with hooded Ulfen, directly across him was Jericho. Very tall and slim, with grayish white hair kept in a ponytail, Jericho was almost always unshaven. Anyone who would inspect him in more detail would easily notice that he was not from these parts. His facial skin was very tanned, suggesting that he was coming from much warmer areas, and that was additionally emphasized by him constantly being cold. He was draped in nondescript gray trousers, and a heavy brown coat obviously made for someone of larger girth.
When the newcomer opened the door, Jericho involuntarily shivered lightly. His hands were kept around a warm mug of mead, while his attention was directed at the newcomer. Seeing that his recent acquaintance Ulfarr was addressing the stranger, he decides to join in on the conversation.
After all, it's not I have anything better to do here. And I am far enough from Ollo...
"Another damn blizzard, you say?! Damn, I'll die of boredom 'ere. come stranger, share some ale and a good tale with us. First round's on me"
"Aye, join us and we can swap some lies while we stay warm here by the fire. I'm Black Úlfarr." As he raises a mug of the warmed mead to his lips, you can see the hood covers a full heads of unruly black locks. The man has clearly seen some fighting in his day with a couple of old scars on his weather-beaten face.
Marta returns a moment later with a clay flagon of mead, and a trencher of steaming mutton. "Many thanks, friend," the man raises the flagon in salute, then quaffs a few deep gulps. He sets the drink down with a contented sigh. "Just what I needed to ward off the chill." An log in the nearby hearth pops loudly, sending a glowing ember into the room. The man tenses noticeably, but does his best to cover by reaching for his fork.
"I am... Vecil. Up from Andoran. I've lived more than a few tales, and some of them might even be true. Not a lot of fairy tale endings, though." He finishes with a rueful smirk.
I do not trust this one. But he needs not know that.
The soft features of Kaelyn's face turned harsh only for a moment when the man entered the room, but she quickly recovered her wits and put on a smile.
"Not many strangers come and go through these parts. And that face of yours makes me no less uneasy. But I jest. Kaelyn Cain, at your service."
She bows low with a flourish, her natural grace on full display. Her red vest glimmers in the firelight as she smiles again, attempting to disarm the man's wits.
"I'll join you good folks," she says as she pulled up a chair at the table, running her hand through her short, blonde hair and lowering herself into the seat.
Vecil winks at Kaelyn, eyeing up her 'grace' with a distracted smile. "I am just passing through, what is this town... Three Pines Ford? Its never ideal to be on the road this time of year. If its not the weather, the mud is downright deadly. I'm lucky to have made the inn, rather than getting stuck out in the snow." He carves a sausage link and chews it slowly, savoring it like he has not eaten in days.
"Aye, I think the fairy tale endings are best left to the fey...and I'm not sure even their endings are all that happy. Best a man can hope for is good food and good women like our Kaelyn here." Úlfarr pauses for a moment and downs another sip of the mead. "This is Three Pines Ford, but you could have probably knew that already. Won't find another town on the Lastwall side of the river till Roslar's Coffer and that can't really be called a town anymore. You bound for someplace in Lastwall or Nirmathas?"
"I'm headed... north." Vecil hesitates. You can see he is unsure what to say. "I seek something... someone actually, said to live in the Northern Fangwood." He gives the door a long look. "But I know not the way, and with this damnable weather I won't be getting anywhere soon." He takes a long swig of his mead. He looks to the older man, "But you mentioned stories... do you have a good one?"
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Black Úlfarr leans back and takes another drink in response, "Aye Vecil, perhaps a tale of my home, eh? It is fit for a night like tonight and then perhaps we shall speak of what you seek in the Fangwood." He almost spits the final word and you see his hand involuntarily rise to touch the holy symbol of Gorum that circles his throat.
"Have you heard of the isbjörn, Vecil? The great northern bears? White as fresh fallen snow, but with all the rage of the demons that haunt Lost Sarkoris. It was a night even more bitter cold than you emerged from. A band of young Ulfen warriors had beached a karvi on the icy shore, led by a pair of hardened huscarls. They only sought shelter for the night and one of the huscarls led a pair of the youths out to scout a sheltered hollow to spend the night. The wind was fierce and howled with the fury of the wendigo. They had been gone only a short time when a worse sound rent the night. Men screaming in pain and horror. In the soft lands of the south...no offense Jericho...the rest of the men might have returned to the karvi and looked for a safer harbor. But, these men were Ulfen and do not abandon their clansmen. The rest of the men readied their weapons and headed out into the blasts of snow. They hadn't gone far when the shape of a man appeared from a respite in the snow. The huscarl stumbled out of the storm, an arm torn from his body and terrible wounds covering his neck and shoulder. He fell at their feet, but not before breathing warning of the isbjörn. The men pushed forward and there over a mound of snow stood the terrible creature. It was large as one of the houses here in Three Pines Ford and it's head alone was large as the four of us. Below the isbjörn lay the broken and bloody bodies of the missing clansmen. Spotting the newcomers, the beast let out a sound that would freeze the blood of most men, but the living huscarl order the men to surround the monster. The battle was terrible. The first man to reach the isbjörn was torn in two, but it left an opening for the others and they attacked with sword, spear, flail, and jaws. Aye, jaws. For one of the most fearsome warriors that night was a vargr, not unlike my friend Surtr. Before the end, two more of the clansmen lay bleeding on the snow and ice, but the isbjörn too had fallen. That night, the men and vargr feasted well and drank to the memories of their fallen clansmen. The next day the head of the isbjörn was mounted to the prow of the karvi. In days to come, that head would prove to possess a powerful magic of its own. But that is a tale for another day."
"Quite the wordsmith, aren't you? Give me a few more drinks and I'll tell a tale far greater than yours. But then again, I'm just a "good woman" to you, aren't I?"
She gave Black an angry glare and then downed her drink in one swallow.
"Bravo, bravo!" Vecil smiles genuinely. "That reminds me of an adventure of my younger years... A few good friends of mine and I were exploring a Thassilonian ruin in southern Varisia, long before such expeditions became the flavor of the month. I was much more spry then, more given to acts of recklessness. And so, of our party, I was given the riskier tasks, or those in tight spaces where even a halfling would feel confined."
"So, there we were, searching for ancient treasures long forgotten by mortal souls, and facing down a massive stone portal with no obvious latch. Only a space of reversed gravity, with a ceiling (or floor, depending on one's perspective) full of razor-honed blades." As Vecil speaks, and becomes looser with drink, a Chelish accent becomes more noticeable in his speech.
"I took Ahgnur's shield, riding the field and using it to deflect harm on 'landing'. Then, moving quickly, I walked along the ceiling (floor?) and found a crawlspace through to the far side. Beyond was a massive chamber, as large as a cathedral, with columns of bronze along each wall, a great pool of lava in the center. More crawlspaces, perhaps for long-dead dwarfen slaves, riddled the walls." He uses his hands in large gestures, accentuating the story.
"Oh, and an ancient guardian automaton, invigorated with magical life even after millennia of neglect. My weapons had no effect, and it scored me with a telling wound before I wisely withdrew. The automaton chased me for hours, as I fled through crawlspaces, weaved through columns, and sprinted for my life. As the game of cat and mouse played, I began to notice a pattern in the automaton's moves. I slowly formulated a plan to lure it into the fire pit."
"And then my friends arrive, having finally found a way through the portal. And the automaton was destroyed. They claim to have saved the day, but I had it well under control, I assure you." Vecil winks, and takes a sip. He looks to Kaelyn and Jericho, next in line for a tale.
"You fools aren't getting a story out of me that easily." Kaelyn shakes her head as she stands, walks to the bar and orders another drink. Her hips sway as she walks, trying to catch the men's gaze.
So easily manipulated.
"No, no story for you." She walks back to the table with a flagon in her hand. "But how about a poem?"
"I once was a bard for a ruler,
I spent all my time try'n to fool 'er.
I irked her one day,
she sent me away.
And now I'm no more than a boozer."
She bursts out laughing as she finishes and takes another long swig of the mead.
"This sure does warm your bones. Almost as much as I could." She winks at Vecil.
I still don't trust him. But I can make him like me.
Vecil smiles warmly at Kaelyn, but his eyes wander to Jericho. "Your turn, my friend."
"Thought I bought my turn with drinks..." - Jericho squints his eyebrows.
Looking first to Vecil straight in the eyes, and then to both other companions sitting next to him, he realizes that he could not get away that easy.
Here goes nothin'...
Scratching his chin, he takes another swing from his mug. Not looking at anyone in particular he begins: "I'm not much of a talker. Usually my fists or some club do the talkin', when and if needed."
Looking around and seeing that more is expected of him, he exhales loudly and continues: "I'm coming from far south of 'ere. Across the Inner Sea, a place called Shackles, if you heard of it. I was a bouncer there, in one of many harbours, and, as luck would have it, I stepped on some wrong toes. Had to split if I wanted to live, so I ran. And ran a bit more...so here I am, lookin' for a job. If you or someone else need some muscle, than I'm your man"
Jericho grunts, placing his mug back on the table with a loud clap, and looks somewhere above Ulfarr's shoulder.
Vecil raises an eyebrow, but nods in commiseration. "The Shackles to Lastwall is a long way to run. I hope you're free of your pursuers. I know a bit about being chased by ill-meaning foes... part of the reason I'm here, now, in this backwater village." He takes the last gulp of mead from his flagon and waves at Marta to bring another round. He gives his drinking companions each an appraising look. "If you're looking for work, and aren't too particular about the details, I have need of a few extra hands."
Glancing briefly at both Ulfarr and Kaelyn, Jericho just shrugs his broad shoulders.
"I learned the hard way that too much knowledge can be dangerous. So, I speak only for meself here - I do not need to know too many details. As long as the job is not too dirty, and the pay is good, I'm up for it. Don't know for the two of them, though"
"Might be interested. Surtr and I came down this way to see about things in Nirmathas. We skirted the Fangwood on our way down here because of the wood's reputation, but that was just the two of us. With two or three more? Perhaps. I've found it useful to have companions at my side when facing strange places in the past."
"Well, someone has to keep these two in line. And I'm always interested in finding a little trouble. Keeps things interesting. I'm in.
I'll just have to keep my wits about me, in case this stranger is leading us into a trap.
A wild-eyed man staring into his beer for the past few moments, hears something, gets up and walks over to the group. "Extra hands you say? I know a fellow who has four. I may be able to duplicate that given time. I'll have to study you for a while and get your bio-rhythms down, but I'm certain it could be done. Fairly simple when you think about it. Are you certain you want to improve upon this design that's worked for you all these years?"
The simply clothed man leans on his well-made steel-shod staff and stares at Mannon, squints, and then pats his hand sympathetically, "Or is it because you're old. You need an edge, eh? Perhaps an alternative to fleshmaking or other horrific necromantic things. I've got a book somewhere. Take me some time to find a better plan than your ridiculous 'extra hands' spell. Certainly I'll come along. I'm surprised it took you so long to ask."
He turns to head outside, wheels about quickly, "Ah, where are we headed again?"
Vecil gives the new arrival a half-smile. "Nowhere, at the moment. Unless you can magic away the storm." He waves to an open chair by the fireplace. "Come sit and tell us about your four-handed friend. I was being figurative, you understand?"
Black Úlfarr smiles in response to Zwain's observation and Vecil's response, "Aye, that is a tale to top all of ours. Let's have it while we wait out the storm."
Zwain moves to sit down and then stops, looking puzzles, runs to the bar and grabs his beer and then sprints back to the table, sloshing it everywhere.
"Come now, friend ... you were serious about the storm, I'm sure. I could go check, but you just called me back. That would be rude."
He stares intently at Mannon for a long awkward pause.
"This man with the hands I used to know. Dabbled in the arcane, you see. Not a true practitioner. Mixed chemicals and experimented on himself, nasty stuff really. Only thing worse than that is necromancy. Foul stuff, really. Not really magic. He drank something one day and a pair of extra arms grew out of his chest. Made his entire wardrobe obsolete overnight. Sad, really."
He rocks back in his chair muttering to himself and looking over his shoulder back to his old seat, "Now, where's my beer?"
Jericho looks intently at Zwain. Not understanding Zwain's "personality", he is very fast to attribute his strange behavior to alcohol.
OK, if I were working here you would be ripe for throwing out. Drunk as a fiddler's b!+~+ and still gettin' some. On the other hand, I haven't been in a good ruckus for quite some time. Let's see if we can spice it up a bit...
"That sounds rather nasty - another pair of arms. I mean....what, your beer? Don't know, but I'm thinking that one of those guys took it"
"Hmm, I don't think the man would've taken it. One of the side effects from growing those extra arms was a severe allergy to alcohol. Really sad. Oh! Look, someone else left a beer here ... don't know why he'd leave in such a storm, but have to waste it. Bottoms up!."
Ahh Zwain, always entertaining.
So, back to this...what did you say...work for the extra hands. As much as I enjoy listening to Zwain and Jericho go round and round, a little excitement would be better.
Vecil takes a long swig and nods, "I am trying to track down a friend. We... parted ways a few years ago; circumstances beyond our control. I was able to pick up his trail in Andoran, and kept it even through the chaos in Molthune and Nirmathas. The last clue I had pointed at the Fangwood, where he was supposedly headed to find a wizard, or cabal of magic users." Vecil sighs and shrugs. "But I haven't got much more than that."
"Nobody found me."
This all seems like shady business to me. Right up my alley.
"Any idea why this friend of yours was looking for these magic users? Seems a bit reckless to wander off into Fangwood."
"I agree with Kaelyn. The Fangwood has a foul reputation. In addition to her question, you're sure its the north wood and not the south, correct?"
"Well, I don't know what he was after, but 'reckless' is not a word I'd use to describe my friend. He's an elf ranger, from Kyonin originally. He knows his way through a forest, even those with nasty reputations." Vecil gives a wry smile.
"Your story sounds...let's say OK. I do not really care too much. What I DO care however is reward. What kind of deal are you able to offer us?" - Jericho declares very unceremoniously, while looking Mannon straight in the eyes. He was getting bored from not doing anything really, his funds were running very low, and he was nervous due to the bad weather. He was willing to accept almost any kind of offer, but he knew a thing or two about bargaining, and he tried not to show it. He was aware that if he sounded too interested, he would be getting a bad deal.
Being screwed over so many times, let you learn a bit or two...if you survive, of course
"I have some money, though much of it is held in reserve accounts in Magnimar. But how about five-hundred gold, per week, plus a cut of any spoils we find?" He looks around the table. "... each."
Zwain ponders the offer and looks at Vecil stating seriously, "I can afford that. Count me in."
Kaelyn shakes her head at Zwain and chuckles.
If he's willing to give it up, I'll certainly snatch up his share.
"It's more than I'd ever see sitting around the tavern, making fun of this crack squad of adventurers extraordinaire. I'm in as well."
A lot more than I ever made going a viking or as a mercenary. Black Úlfarr nods, "Sounds like a reasonable offer. Surtr and I are in as well." The wolf lifts its head from where it sits at the Ulfen man's feet, then rolls over to offer its belly to the fire. "Have to say I've been at least a little curious about the wood's reputation. Now I get to see for myself."
Ten thousand thundering typhoons! Jericho does his best as to not let his jaw drop to the floor. This man was offering them a small fortune.
"For that kind of money, you could probably rent a small army to escort you. Luckily, there are no armies around so I'll guess we'll have to do. Now, call me what you like, but it sounds almost too good to be true. And if I learned something is that things like those usually stink to heaven. Meaning we'll probably piss blood, cough fire and then die trying to earn your money."
Jericho pauses for a second, taking time to look at everyone around him, before returning his stare to Mannon, looking him directly in the eyes" "Which is OK with me, as long as you give me some advance, so I know I won't be fooled."
Could have died for much less money anyway. This...is a promising start. Now, are there some wenches in this dump-hole?
Vecil winks, "Shrewd, I like that. But not exactly prudent for me to be tossing you coins before we even know where we're going. Likely you'd waste it all on whores and mead while we wait out this storm... and then where would we be?" He sits back, setting a foot on the table's edge, and takes another swig. "The first thing we need to do is find out wher my friend went from here. It was over a year ago, so the trail is well cold. The main clues I have are that he was with some Aspis Consortium agents, and that they were meeting with, rescuing, or confronting a local spell caster, or family of them... accounts vary."
"So, what's your friend's name and did your sources give you any names he might have been meeting with?"
"I called him 'Thrif', short for Cirnthrifal Celebdoron." Vecil enunciates the name with a clear, elven accent. "He was from Kyonin, but spent most of his years as an errant ranger. I have no idea who or what he was after, and the Aspis agents were not exactly his usual company." He shrugs, It's a mystery, else I'd have likely found him already."
"Whores and mead are exactly what I was planning to spend it on. You see, I have no...long-term plans 'ere, and with the storm around, there's not really much to do. Anyway, I understand your concern - if I get three sheets to the wind ("get drunk like a skunk"), you ain't gonna be able to force me outta here. However, that still leaves me...unconvinced that you have the type of money you were mentioning earlier. Convince me somehow, and give me just a very small down-payment so I can get me just a few more mugs of mead, and a good-looking...hell, any kind of wench, as long she's a girl, and I'll be ready to leave the moment this bloody storm stops" - still not trusting Mannon, Jericho tries to push for some "evidence".
"A Hunt for an Errant Ranger! I think I'll make that the title of my next book, which would be my first book, but still essentially the next one. Chapter 1: From Kynonin to Lastwall, a 'guest' of the Aspis, our erstwhile fairy hero left his long-time friend (lover ... perhaps?) and his silver-streaked hair behind to pursue his passion with a rag tag bunch of dysfunctional witches deep in an evil forest!"
Zwain pulls out a journal and starts taking notes tapping his pen on his lip every once and a while and leaving ink stains below his nose.
Vecil winks again, fishing out a single platinum coin, stamped in Cheliax. With a practiced ease, he flips it to the table and it rolls to a stop in front of Jericho. "That should more than cover your entertainment plans this evening." He smiles, not entirely mirthless, but it is clear he has no intention of passing over hundreds of gold on demand.
Black Úlfarr watches bemusedly as Jericho works Vecil for the coin. "Now all you have to do is find a woman Jericho." He takes another sip of the warm mead when a short, sharp bark sounds from the entrance to the inn. "Ah, there would be mine." The Ulfen man tips his chair back forward and walks over to the door. He opens it to a blast of snow and a smaller pure white wolf slips in and immediately bolts over to the table. "Hope you had a happy hunt Bleikr." he comments as he sits back down. From under the table you hear the crunch of small bones snapping. "Now, where were we? Yes, Thrif. You don't know who he was looking for here in town? Perhaps we should ask."
"Yes, a few locals might have a good chance of finding some information subtly, even if one of those locals is... she motions her head toward Zwain, ...him. Why don't you tell us all that you can tonight, and once the storm passes, we can go out and find out what we can.
This just keeps getting more intriguing. I haven't been this eager in months.
"Well, there's not a whole lot more to tell, really. Thrif and I knew each other for years, shared in a few adventures together, including the tale I told earlier. We were forced to split ways... let's just call it 'family business'. I spent some time in Garundi lands, including six months conscripted on a Shackles reaver." He rolls his eyes at that one. "Thrif was... is a good friend, a trusty partner, and a dead-eye shot, who's gotten my arse out of more hot spots than I care to recall." A swig of mead. "I'd be happy just to rejoin his company again, but more importantly... he's got something of mine. A family heirloom I need to recover in a bad way."