Jervaise adopts an expression of mock indignation.
"Meycho, you wound me! You know I would never spread vile calumnies about a marching companion... Speaking of weddings, though, I do recall at least one occasion when a certain someone had rather too much fun at a different one... Tell me, did the best man's beard ever grow back...?"
How many times do we have to go over this...I've got no knowledge of what happened at that wedding...except that I had a mite too much to drink, perhaps, Meycho says with a smile and a wink.
Jervaise laughs heartily.
"Say no more, Meycho! What happens in Augustana, stays in Augustana," he replies, with an exaggerated wink.
Caelin smiled at the exchange between the old friends, the camaraderie making the work of setting camp easier.
"But what you catch in Augustana is with you always!" he laughed.
Caelin lowered the piece of jerky he'd been about to eat away from his mouth. He examined it closely. "Good point. Two good points, actually. I'll take first watch."
The injured twigjack is securely bound and fastened, with a gag firmly in place to prevent it from spitting splinters.
Night passes without disturbance. The mist makes standing watch an eerie affair, but no evil fey emerge to disturb the peace of the camp. As dawn breaks, the bound twigjack begins to stir and struggle against its bonds. It glares at you with malice in the tiny eyes, and you have no doubt it would like nothing better than to cover you all in sharp, painful splinters.
Speaking to the others, Meycho says, I speak their language, assuming they speak the same language as good fey. What do we want to ask it about?
"Ask it why it attacked us and what is up wit' de fey bein' in revolt." Goodluck finishes his morning prayers and scratches idly at a barnacle that is creeping up to his chin.
Nodding along with Goodluck's comment Caelin added "And ask about the 'Queen' that freakish gnome back at the wedding mentioned. I'll keep an eye on them as they answer. I have a decent feel for when they're lying."
The fey glares at you all as Caelin and Jervaise hold it tight, ready to shove it's face in the dirt if it should attempt to spit splinters. Meycho asks a couple of questions in sylvan, and the twigjack seems to understand clearly enough, but refuses to answer. It just chitters angry noises at you.
The twigjack scowls at Taecuss's diplomatic phrases, but when Tae makes his magical suggestion, it blinks a couple of times as if to contemplate the words, then hisses in an angry, high-pitched voice.
"TWIG AND STICK AND BUSH AND BRAMBLE - YOU ELVEN FOOL, HOW DULL YOU RAMBLE. OUR MIGHTY QUEEN SENT US FORTH TODAY, TO KILL OR CAPTURE BOTH MORTAL AND FEY. THE WITHERED GNOME HAS SET US FREE, NOW EVERY MORTAL HAD BETTER FLEE. TRAPPED IN THE FELLNIGHT REALM WE ARE NO LONGER, FOR VENGENCE AND BLOOD WE DO HUNGER. YOU ALL DO WELL TO FEAR THE NIGHT, FOR SOON YOU WILL BOW TO RHOSWEN'S MIGHT. WE MAIM AND MURDER AT HER COMMAND, TO BRING THE FELLNIGHT TO THIS LAND. YOU'LL FIND NO SALVATION FROM SPELL OR BOW, THOUSANDS WAIT TO BRING YOU LOW. YOU MAY HAVE WON THIS ONE LITTLE BATTLE, BUT YOU GO TO YOUR DEATH LIKE MINDLESS CATTLE."
Jervaise raises an eyebrow.
"Hmmm... Well, it sounds like that Gnome has gotten up to some serious mischief. Do any of you know what this 'Fellnight Realm' the fey speaks of, is? It sounds like we really should try to find that Druid, quickly..."
Creepy, gods-damned fey! Caelin cursed to himself. Why do they always rhyme when they have bad news?
Taking a deep breath to calm himself and suppress a shudder, he wracked his brain for any memory triggered by the the 'jacks's words.
Despite his impressive knowledge of all things fey, Caelin has never heard of either the Fellnight realm or anyone named Queen Rhoswen.
"No, Tae, I'm done with him." Caelin got up and drew his greatsword. He moved forward towards the tied-up fey, swallowing hard as he steeled himself for what he felt must be done.
The twigjack struggles and whines as the elven ranger closes, but to no avail. A swift stroke, and the last evil fey dies.
"Might as well follow these tracks. That should help us avoid getting lost in this mist."
Jervaise nods at Caelin.
"One can only hope," he remarks dryly.
Caelin's woodland training easily allows him to follow the tracks, leading ever westward. Here and there, you feel certain that you spot wierd shapes and darting shadows in the mist, but every time, Goodluck's enhanced sight confirms that there is nothing there. Even so, the eeiry feeling of the mist is alomst palpable, and you all have a feeling that the woodlands are somehow - changed.
After a few hours of tracking, the trail leads you past an huge fallen tree. A patch of spongy gray-green moss covers the sides of the massive log.
The substance is spirit moss. Those consuming it suffer Strength and Dexterity damage, but temporarily gain the ability to speak with the dead. A character who makes a Survival check (DC 16) may harvest enough for two preparations.
Jervaise looks thoughtful.
"Well, that could be useful. How does one go about harvesting it?"
"Use a hot knife and hold your breath", Caelin answered, pulling out a small hunting knife....
Meycho has remained silent since the interrogation, lost in thought, but as they start salvaging the moss, he sends Falling Star to the sky to keep vigil, while he eyes the shadowy wood, his bow at the ready.
I really don't like this at all..., he mutters under his breath.
"Such moss migh' be helpful down the line. I say we take it and be gone."
Caelin's vast woodland experience serves him well, and once he has heated the blade and prepared a wrapping of leaves smeared with oily sap to keep the moss safely stored, it only takes a few deft motions to harvest two potions of the spirit moss.
You continue through the woods, following the tracks of the spriggans and their captives. You march for hours, until the shadows grow long, and the trail is becoming increasingly hard to see.
Just as you begin to contemplate whether to set up camp or push on, a slender, furtive figure separates from one of the trees at the edge of the trail in front of you. It is a humanoid creature with elven features, obviously female, with numerous leaves and blossoms tangled in her auburn hair.
She looks around in the manner of a hunted animal, large doe-eyes fixing on you with a mixture of hope and fear.
“Please... you must help us!” her small voice implores. “They came from the shadows... inside the mist! My sisters...our trees... The last words come out as a hysteric sob. The creature takes a couple of wavering steps towards you and then collapses to the ground with a gasp of pain.
This beautiful, shapely elven female is actually a dryad, a spirit of nature. Dryads possess all fey traits.
Although they are fierce defenders of the woodlands, each dryad is mystically bound to a single oak tree and risks death if she strays too far from it.
Dryads often use charm person or suggestion to sway travelers into helping them deal with offenders they themselves cannot overcome. They can also influence animals and other creatures of the woods to defend themselves and their homes.
Caelin felt the usual conflict upon encountering a distressed fey: compassion and distrust. He steeled himself for any tricks and moved forward to collapsed creature.
To the others he said "It's a dryad, and it might not be an enemy."
To the dryad he said firmly, "Quick, tell me your name and that of your tree. I will help you both if you stay true. But beware, I will not compelled or beguiled!"
Knowledge: Nature
Jervaise moves forward to assist the fallen Dryad, concern etched across his features.
"A fey damsel in distress, is still a damsel; what say you lads? I think we should help..."
Hope flickers for an instant in the eyes of the dryad. Then she suddenly cries out in anguish, and writhes on the damp forest floor. After a few moments, by force of will alone it seems, she steadies enough to answer Caelin.
“I am Breena...A dryad born of the Second World... My tree and those of my four sisters stand in a clearing of paueliel trees just south of here. Follow ...argh...follow the gully like a trail and it will take you there. My sisters...they defend our grove....Please don’t let them die!”
Another wave of pain seems to strike her, and she collapses and sobs uncontrollably.
She is obviously in great distress, in pain and badly injured. You feel no magical compulsion uring you to help her.
Recognition dawns across Jervaise' features.
"Ah. So we are looking for a grove of silver trees. Right then. Shall we be off? I dare say the sooner we render assistance, the better..."
She speaks the truth. Quickly, we must aid her and her sisters before they are killed!
Meycho then draws his two daggers and starts moving south at a quick (for his short legs) pace.
Caelin grunts in reluctant agreement to Meycho's assessment a hurries to follow the halfling, hoping to overtake and place himself in front.
Goodluck will shrug, and head after the others.
Taecuss:
Caelin:
Jervaise:
Goodluck:
Meycho:
Taecuss:
Caelin:
Jervaise:
Goodluck:
Meycho:
As you turn to rush off, something catches your eye at the edge of your vision. When you look closer, you see nothing but the swirling mists...but still....you feel certain that there was SOMETHING there...in fact, now that you think of it, ever since you left the camp this morning, there have been several times you have gotten a similar feeling. But then again, it could just be the mist playing tricks on your mind.
As you move after the others, you peer through the woods with your magic vision and see....what?...there is nothing there but trees and leaves, but still...maybe it is branch that moves the wrong way, or a disturbance in a cloud of floating dust motes, but something fells out of place somehow...in fact, now that you think of it, ever since you left the camp this morning, there have been several times you have gotten a similar feeling. But this time, as with all the others, there is nothing unusual to see.
Breena does not even respond to Tae's touch, so lost is she in pain and despair. Jervaise moves over to her and gently scoops her up in his strong arms. As the group moves of at a hurried pace, she dangles limply in his grasp, giving off low moans of pain every few seconds.
The gully leads south through the forest, rising into a small clearing of silver-barked paueliel trees, many of which lie fallen and hewn into large piles. Up ahead, the light from bonfire bathes the fog hovering at the forest’s edge with an orange glow, its flames burning away some of the mist, and replacing it with the heavy tang
of woodsmoke instead.
As you get closer, you hear the sound of axes cutting into wood, and the loud crackle of fire. Above the din, a female voice screams and cries, and a high-pitched voice shouts something in an angry tone.
"Chop faster, you oafs....the dryad wench may think she can escape us, but once her precious tree falls, she will die screaming like her sisters!"
Jervaise gently places the Dryad to the ground, and draws his sword.
"Well lads, we can't have that! Let's get them!"