"Right. You folk stick to the road and move slowly. You'll make great targets. I'm going ahead and leaving the road. It'll be slower, but if I see something that wants to kill you, I'll let you know."
Braddon jogs forwards, then jogs back.
"You're turning right down that path to the hut, right? I'll be towards the base of the mountain. Should be a gully or two I can follow there. Scream if anyone dies."
Braddon jogs ahead and leaves the path.
As the ranger trots off, Snake turns to the others, "'Scream if anyone dies'"," he repeats, pausing a moment in thought. "That's funny," he deadpans. "Okay, time to move." The warlock then starts out toward the hut.
"Amusingly dark humor at best." drawls Tendal, ambling along the path. "The more important question, which Mr. Hurst did not specify was if it should be the person who is in the process of dying that should do the screaming, or said person's companions?"
"Hmmm....method and immediacy of incapacitation would also play a part."
"Should we trust him... on his own? Not that we could find him... Not that I distrust him... bah. Good luck, Braddon."
There is only one passable path through the notch in the ridge, but past the Boneyard Cut, the party splits, the main body sticking to the road while Braddon attempts to work his way around toward the hermit Krooge's hut by a more circuitous and hidden route. The structure itself is unseen from the road, its presence pinpointed only by the smudge of smoke rising sullenly from the trash fire which is kept always burning, even on such a hot day as this. The only sounds are the soft plash of the tide in the salt marsh at the foot of the cliffs, the cries of seagulls, and the occasional creak and splash from the abandoned ships slowly rotting in the Boneyard. The sun is high in the sky, however, and the ripe smell of putrescence from the garbage prevent the scene from being as eerie as when the the party traveled by this road at night.
The main party continues along the main road until they reach the turn-off to the bonfire and the hermit's hut. The heavy ruts in the road testify that most of the traffic out of Riddleport turns up here rather than continuing across the Boneyard: carts laden with the town's refuse to be dumped from the ledge into the marsh or burned in Hyram Krooge's fire. The road climbs steeply up and then curves back toward the ridge; neither the hut nor the fire is visible from here.
"Gentlemen? To the hut... but any detail? Trust the hound to hound, and the flut to flit, but the men? I suppose in Braddon's absence, I'm the point of our spear?, Gristav maths in a gregarious grimness, galumphing to the vanguard of the group, his staff a nimble blur at finger's length for an instant, but settled sedately again before the bluff is cleared, and view to below regained, and given.
"If the hound's nose is not finding any scent worthy of tracking, then we must use our minds to deduce some sort of further path."
"Would there be some alternate identifiable meeting place in the Boneyard that with common knowledge could be discussed, or is the hut the only location of known import in the Boneyard?"
"I do suggest that our most prudent course, regardless of the existence of aforementioned alternate location is to first complete our inspection and inquiry at the hut, and see what we can discern from there."
As the main part of the group climbs the path, following the ruts in the road, they pass between some gnarled and stunted trees clinging to life in the thin layer of soil atop the rock, and the whole vista of the Boneyard comes into view before them. Masts, some jaggedly broken off, some still with moldy scraps of sailcloth clinging to them, crisscross each other crazily like a child's game of pick-up sticks. The bellies of the vessels from which they protrude roll at various angles in the positions they have settled down to rot in, like bloated carcasses in the sun. The ground at the foot of the cliff is clearly uneven, as some of the ships are truly beached and some are up to their gunwales in murky water. Past the ships' graveyard, the smooth surface of the Varisian Gulf glitters in the sunlight, but among the rotting hulks, the water is stagnant and shadowed. It seems clear that, if, as Ishana reported, Captain Treeg brought Lil ashore here in a jollyboat, he could not have picked his way between the wrecked ships but would have had to anchor somewhere on the other side of this tidal swamp.
Also coming into view as the party continues is the hermit Krooge's bonfire, perched at the very edge of the cliff. It burns very low today, a narrow flicker of sullen orange flame just visible below the haze of brownish smoke that drifts across the vista. There is just enough sea breeze making its way through the Boneyard to waft the smoke inland; its unwholesome smell pricking the throat and nostrils and stinging the eyes the nearer the men approach.
"Of course I'm no sailor, but a traveller, to be sure. It seems to me, where day-wind draws toward shore, night-wind blows away. By night, even where the bonfire might not be seen, it might be scented, and guide a boat by drifted scent and echoed firelight..."
"I suppose the burn serves neither of you well, eh, Greatreave? Still, it will likely cling, and might perhaps be tracked later, on those, like us, who have been here... Yes?"
The dog, in fact, is cringing, the hackles raised on its shoulders.
"Come now, Sludge," the gnome tells his canine companion firmly. "You've smelled worse than this before. Remember that days-dead rat on the verge of the Velashu? You positively enjoyed that. Come along now. Sludge! What are you doing? Hi! Come back!"
Rather than continue to approach the bonfire and the long, low shack facing it, the dog turns tail and runs back down the hill toward the road.
"I'm glad Braddon didn't see that. Greatreave, your hound is clever and well-mannered, and well-known to you. What else does he fear so? Orc, perhaps? Or something else, more incarnate than the ruse of the risen?"
"I'd say, it's proved, to be ahead."
Phil watches the hund retreat and sees to put the spinning coin about his fingers to pouch... replacing it with a wary hand on as yet sheathed blade. Eyes narrowed to the shack he shifts unconciously into a wary stance. Scanning the ground he looks to sheltered approach...
Perception:
...while offering "If the hund's put to flight by more than mere stench... it would be best to move with anticipation of trouble. I'd see myself closer and hidden if and when you all move with less stealth?"
"A silent count of a hundred, starting when I cannot see you, myself?", Gristav answers softly, not looking toward Phil.
Nodding at the halfling's suspicion, "Hard to argue with that. Especially with the way our luck's been running lately." Snake grabs his morningstar as he prepares for the trouble that is sure to come.
Tendal nods his agreement. Then quickly reviews the spells he has placed upon himself. He then pulls out a scroll of protection from evil from the scroll case, and tucks it loosely in his doublet, ready at a moment's notice.
"If it appears that we engage with the undead, I plan to promptly cast a protection spell upon someone who would be seeking to engage the creature in close combat. Gristav, or Snake, whomever is closer." he finishes watching, as Philip moves off the trail and into the wreckage.
Snake gives a nod to the well-dressed man. "Sounds good. Time to find Braddon's 'ghost' and get rid of it."
"Gentlemen," the gnome intones with what dignity he can muster, "I am chagrined. My companion has behaved shamefully. I cannot say what may have led him to flee so ignominiously, but I can assure you that neither scent, the harlot nor the dwarf, lies this way. I shall attempt to locate and regroup in the pursuit of your quarry." Natinilinus decamps after his dog.
Phillip climbs upward off the main road and is soon lost from view behind the rugged terrain as he heads in the direction of the bonfire.
Snake, Gristav, and Tendal pause to give the halfling some time before continuing to follow the deep wheel ruts. As they climb to where the ground becomes level, what must be the home of the hermit Krooge becomes visible, more a long, L-shaped pavilion than a proper hut. Much of the structure is open to the elements under a sailcloth canopy supported by repurposed yards, and in this rough shelter what must, to someone's eye, be the cream of the crop of Riddleport's discarded detritus is arranged: broken pieces of furniture, various barrels and casks, a row of bottles in different colors of glass.
Past the building and a little behind and below it, you can see Gristav, Snake, and Tendal approaching up the rood through the haze of smoke. Phillip, the gnome, and his dog are nowhere in sight.
"Gentlemen," the gnome intones with what dignity he can muster, "I am chagrined. My companion has behaved shamefully. I cannot say what may have led him to flee so ignominiously, but I can assure you that neither scent, the harlot nor the dwarf, lies this way. I shall attempt to locate and regroup in the pursuit of your quarry." Natinilinus decamps after his dog.
"Go with a forgiving mind, Greatreave. He's spoken his warning, unmistakably. And even some men fail at the purpose of a properly tied cravat."
Wishing the gnome well, Gristav glances to his fluttery familiar. "What do you scent, I wonder?", he asks, but doesn't wait for an answer before beginning his hundred-count.
As they ascend to the hut, Tendal glances over the assembled detritus. "Palatial" he says to nobody in particular. "And where is the solitary hermit who should be, by all accounts, sitting amidst this bric-a-brac?" he continues, slightly out of breath from the ascent.
"Poor hermit... shanghaied 'board the Nuck'lavee Green", Gristav cants casually, "Though his smudge smoldered on, was he e'er again seen? Quested seve-, uh, five, rather three for lost man, and though number did dwindle, never questioned their plan..."
Sighing resignedly, Gristav keeps to the van...
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Just about to respond to the fashionable merchant as he glances around, Snake waits for Gristav to finish speaking.
As they ascend to the hut, Tendal glances over the assembled detritus. "Palatial" he says to nobody in particular. "And where is the solitary hermit who should be, by all accounts, sitting amidst this bric-a-brac?" he continues, slightly out of breath from the ascent.
The warlock momentarily pauses from looking around and looks over at Gristav blankly, wondering if the magus can even understand himself. Returning to his scanning of the area, "That's a good question, Suit. I guess he's gotta be here somewhere though."
As the trio approach, they can see that the end of the ell nearest the road is walled off with a collection of various large pieces of detritus: a wagon bed without axles or wheels is stood on one end from ground to roof facing the road, while the side overlooking the bonfire and cliff is stacked solid with crates. There is no sign of a door in the two "walls" visible from the road.
"Well, shall we find whatever plank, sheet or wagon wheel that passes for a door, and knock politely, or wait out here, or simply shout out at the hut? Tendal turns and addresses Gristav and Snake. "My preference would be to simply circumnavigate the debris and knock." he finishes, then a frown creases his lips.
"Of course, the hermit does also have something of a sinister reputation, and simply walking up to his hut may be intrinsically dangerous in and of itself." he waves his can vaguely at the inoffending walls. "Traps perhaps to ward off skulkers."
"Best to simply announce ourselves, as the hermit is not an avowed enemy." Tendal finishes, then calls out "Ahoy the hut! Sir Hermit, you have visitors looking to parlay."
"Visitors?" a deep, hoarse voice responds from somewhere within the enclosed end of the shed. "Visitors with skulking spies creeping up to my doorstep! Upsetting my pets with the smell of their skins! What do these visitors want of a man who asks only to be left alone? Hey? Why do they creep up like pirates and bandits?" he demands, aggrieved.
"Pirates, sir, would come by boat. And bandits, by the dozen. We are three, the skulker, four, in caution, sent by cousin. The ghost haunted the road above, and tale, told o'er and o'er. Then prescient, fair seeress sent, your harbor to secure. The greatest treasure yet, was said, would pass yon harbor's gate, so fear ye, hermit, not we four, but company of fate."
"Don't talk in riddles!" the voice snaps back. "If you have a reason for being here, state it plainly."
Gristav casts Unseen Servant.
Like talking to a wall...
"We were told a thing we seek was here. We're here for it. If you know what we seek, present it, and we'll be off. If you don't know, then we've nothing to talk about. We'll just explore without your ill-humored ill-hosting."
Gristav casts Prestidigitation.
"Or, you can truthfully relate your visitors of the last several days. Truthfully. Truthfully, I'll listen. Until then, we'll be searching, cleaning, maybe painting..."
Gristav casts Detect Magic.
A bestial laugh somewhere disturbingly between a bark and a snigger wafts out from beneath the shelter. "Threw away something valuable, did you? Oh, it happens all the time. Must be something valuable indeed for you to gather companions to come dig through the Boneyard. I may have seen it; I may not. What is it?"
"Visitors, sir. You haven't been the hermit of your ruse. Come, list them, and spare us all our searching. We might all be gone before anything of note occurs, if cooperated with. And if not, then while I promise we are more... empathetic than gendarmes, I can't warrant, a lack of regret."
Servant lifts tarps and such, not too quietly. Detmag scans. Prestidigitate clean anything to be handled personally.
"Oh ho!" the voice replies, something cold and calculating creeping into its timbre. "Threats and demands, is it? Mighty big men you think yourselves, bullying a poor hermit in his own home, uninvited."
Dragging a hand down his face in frustration, the tall man takes a deep breath and can only shake his head. Not surprised they've gotten nowhere with the fantastic level of diplomacy that Gristav possesses, "Look, old man, I've 10 gold for you if you let us take a look around."
"Ten gold? Ten gold? Let me see your coin, friend; there's nothing here I won't sell for ten gold." There is a shuffling of movement, and a bulky, hunchbacked form appears in the stacks of detritus under the pavilion, blinking through the miasma of smoke from beneath a hooded cloak. (It appears that the entrance to the hermit's cell is beneath the shelter of the roof, facing westward toward the ridge.)
Snake pulls his pack off and rummages through it, counting out the coin from within before putting it back on. He holds the hand full of coins just above his empty hand. He then drops one at a time - counting them out loud as each one falls - into his empty hand until he's dropped them all. "There you are, old man, ten gold. Now... do we have a deal?"
"Of course, of course. Take what you want," the old hermit chuckles, quickly carrying his newly-acquired wealth back into his makeshift hut for safe keeping.
Shaking his head at the sight of the poor creature as he makes his way back into his hut, he turns to Gristav and Tendal, "Alright, bubs, let's find what we're looking for and get out of here," he sniffs, "'cause this place stinks."
"We've lost some quantity, and some of the qualities, of our sensors. But we might make up in measure and method what whither was want..." The butterfly flittered before Gristav, and he glanced to Snake and Tendal, and restated, "Let us be thorough."
The three unhidden members of the party move under the roof of the pavilion and begin to search through the collection of junk, with the assistance of Gristav's spells. The task is made less pleasant by the haze of smoke which drifts continuously through the open-air shed, causing their eyes and throats to sting.
Tendal steps diffidently around what appears to be a pile of smashed lanterns as he steps under the pavilion, and peers through the haze at the hermit.
"Sir, hermit. In your isolation, it appears that little escapes your notice about your environs. You are positioned to have a commanding view of the Boneyard, and, I wager, have sufficient insight to know when a rat dislodges a board somewhere in the maze. So would you have noticed any other persons who arrived in your domain in the last few days?"
Through the dim light and the haze of smoke, Tendal doesn't notice until just too late to change his figure of speech that the hermit's pet, scrabbling curiously at the corrugated metal and wood planks at the back of the makeshift shack, is a rat, a large one the size of a lapdog.
"Rats?" Krooge replies with a toothy grin. "Aye, plenty of rats in the Boneyard. All of Ziphras's boys, they come and go. And the trash men, they bring their carts for me to pick through."
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Raising an eyebrow at the sight of the fairly large-sized rat, "You gotta be kidding me." Shaking his head, wondering what other mutant creature might be living in here, "'Trash men'? Who are these 'trash men' you speak of, old man?"