Quick hands over his gold. "Next time advertise your outrageous prices barman. My goat was far overdone and I would expect THIS years vegetables for such a sum."
"Perhaps we might stay here," Henry says as he pays for the rest of the party. "Should the merchants move out, what would you charge per night?"
The innkeeper's angry expression quietly recovers from a moment of confusion as he notices Quick's small tusks. He holds the warning look to the mage a moment longer, until distracted by Henry's gold. "Thank you," he says pleasantly to the crossbowman, "Five in gold will get you one room for one night. My expenses have gone up ever since the refugees arrived. Hopefully all will return to normal when the orcs are turned back to their own lands."
"That's a fair price," Henry Southgard says as he counts five gold coins into his hand. "I'm not sure how long it'll be until we're sent back into the field, so we'll rent by the day."
He holds his hand out, but only drops one into the innkeeper's hands. "Should the merchants move out, please hold the room for us."
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Gwath cocks an eyebrow at the innkeeper at the mention of orcs, then drops a gold coin into the man's hand. The privateer then starts to slowly point Quick towards the door.
"Come now, Quick. We don't need drama over a goat leg with talking tornadoes and spider-dregs filling our workdays...The tea was good at least."
Quick snorts derisively and allows himself to be led outside.
The innkeeper closes his hand over the single coin with a nod. "Of course," he smiles, the gold slid into his pocket with a brush of his fingers, "Thank you for stopping in for a bite. See you this evening." The barman pivots out of the way of the four, readily taking orders from a nearby table.
Outside, the dwarf, human, and half-orcs find the roads as busy as before. Most of the people walking or riding to and from their business pay the four little heed, save for the untrusting glances toward Quick and Gwath. So far, no one accosts the half-orcs as they follow along.
As the crossbowman and companions make their exit, Henry notices the man pointed out by Gwath earlier, the farmer, drains his tankard and makes a grand bow to the fiddler. Leaving a few coppers at the musician's feet, the simpleton makes his way to the bar, gesturing to one of the girls that he intends to pay for his drink.
Once Henry is outside of the road, he does not see the farmer leave right away.
Henry Southgard motions for the others to follow him outside the inn and sets off in the direction of the nearest smithy. He goes slow, pausing at merchant stalls in search of a good deal on travel rations. He doesn't expect to find anything, but it's as good of an excuse as any to keep an eye out for tails.
Quick stops suddenly in the road. "We're meeting back at that inn later?"
"I need to find some answers. I am going to the library and will see you this evening."
On the contrary, the travel rations Henry finds along the road are a few coppers more than he would expect, likely due to their demand from those that fled Port Elam. He is able to to find one merchant who is selling the compact, nutritious meals at a fairer price. There doesn't seem to be anyone suspicious following the crossbowman, though there are a good number of pedestrians walking to and fro, so it is difficult to be certain. Before the four get too far along, Quick departs down a different road.
Henry and those with him hear the clangs and dwarven curses before they can see the smithy in question, and as they draw nearer, the telltale smell of hot iron fills the air. Presently, the thickly bearded mastersmith berates an apprentice for making a lopsided horseshoe. The master dwarf and his apprentices (there appear to be four) are busy with hard work. One of the boys makes finishing touches on completed works near the part of the smithy that serves as shop, keeping a wary eye for any approaching customers. Buckets of iron nails of various sizes, horseshoes, construction tools and supplies, and a few simple weapons and shields are on display. One exquisitely crafted and honed greatsword hangs across the high threshhold that leads from the store to the workshop, locked in a wooden case to the wall. A sheet of parchment is tacked up to the entrance at the road, that reads: New commissions will not be accepted until further notice. Go away.
By the roars of the blacksmith as he hammers away, it seems that this smithy is busy filling a large order for the king’s cavalry.
Meanwhile, Quick takes a different road, assuming that a place of reading and study would not be anywhere near a loud, clanging smithy. It takes him some asking around (some are less forthcoming due to his race) until he is pointed to a street that will take him to the north part of town. There, he is told, is a small library run by an elderly human couple.
After a brief ten minute walk, the half-orc finds the establishment: The Book Nook. By the blue paint almost completely worn away by the weather, and the sun-bleached wood panels underneath, this two-storey building is very old indeed. Inside, the quiet air smells of wood, dust, and old books. Looking about, the aisles and shelves are neatly organized, and each section even has a calligraphic label. The most prominent sections seem to be history and fiction, though his eyes also spot smaller sections of arcana, the natural sciences, and military academia. There might be more if Quick wanders down the aisles. The library is so quiet, that it could be completely empty.
But off in the corner, a gentle rise and fall of an open book, pages down on a round belly, shows a sleeping old man reclined in a reading chair. His spectacles rest askew on his pink nose, and thick, frizzy white hair forms a horseshoe around a shiny bald pate.
Quick scans the room and smiles at the old man. The good proprieter perhaps? Well I'm sure he won't mind my perusal. No need to wake him.
Quick saunters to the arcane section looking for anything that could relate to dragons: particularly, Armaag.
Passing the aisles, the half-orc mage notices a staircase in the corner, going both upstairs and to a downstairs. He thinks he hears a brief clacking of ceramic ware from downstairs, and soft, aimless humming. Quick quietly makes his way to the section of books covering arcana and quantifiable magics. The fact that this subject is not the largest section in the library does not bode particularly well, but nonetheless the mage’s sweeps over the titled book spines, looking for candidates to begin his research.
Leafing through encyclopedias, he finds much information he already knew, such as, in ages before men, dwarfs, elves, and orcs, dragons ruled the skies and high places, and intelligent races of giants built enormous cities of surpassing glory. And as the smaller humanoids began to spread and take hold of their own destiny, it was compassionate dragons who helped them understand the magic that bound the world together. Despite any frustration, Quick’s diligence pays off somewhat. One of the books lacking any real depth mentions that comets or meteors herald the hatching of a dragon destined for greatness, though the omen is both good and bad for the new wyrmling. While it is plain why a sign for future greatness is auspicious, the book fails to explain why such a prophecy would also be associated with doom. Quick’s efforts to locate this answer are not immediately sated. He finds a book that categorizes dragons according to scale colors, magical abilities, typical environments, and nesting and hoarding habits, and the book references it’s compiled information from a plethora of personal accounts. In this overview, it is stated what many already know: Armaag is only living ancient dragon known to the educated world. The half-orc mage pays close attention to the entries on red dragons, and more specifically, who provided the information. There are about a dozen or so are cited for their knowledge of red dragons, but among them there are three names whose accounts were relied upon heavily for the majority of the chapter: Rahalyrr Sabajiwe, Alanon Dacius, and Eor “the Unburnt” Pettiking.
With these names in mind, Quick wonders if the history section might be helpful. But before he can act on this, he sees an ancient, hunched woman shakily carry a tray with tea and biscuits down the center aisle toward her sleeping husband. The saucers and teacups clatter dangerously in her quaking grip. She regards the half-orc from across the empty aisle but says nothing as she focuses on landing one foot in front of the other.
"Hold on," Henry Southgard says to the blacksmith, before retreating out to the street with Gwath and Gorim.
"Not sure if I'd call it a crusade. In my experience, those involve holy lands and invading armies and valuable trade routes. So far, we've only got one in three going for us."
"This job is a wild goose chase on the word of an only-mostly dead cultist. And it's not the job we signed up for in Port Elam. I should have asked before now, but do you two feel like you can continue on this mission?"
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Gwath looks down at Gorim to try and measure some feeling out of him as he answers Henry.
"I don't know. You may have heard the growing doubt in my voice lately. It's not that I couldn't continue the mission. I have the will, strength, and means to do it - but cause? ... That, I'm not so sure.
A flutter of wings draws Gwath's eyes up to the roof a building nearby. He squints in the direction of the sound, feeling like he's forgotten something.
"Like you say, the mission has changed, from one of employment to one of conviction. But without that conviction, the base of it falls out."
"Aye, been meanin' to bring that up," says the dwarf priest to Henry, "We were paid to retrieve tah Scale by Moss, an' we did that. An' put a restless soul to rest along tah way. Though it took a bit more doin' than we thought," Gorim smiles.
He turns and looks around the bustling street contemplatively. "I've always wanted to see horsemaster Prestor of Redstone, a brother of faith to train an' meditate with. An' I been lookin' forward to a quiet place to dig into tah books from Zaal Vsok's library..." He pats the part of his backpack that safely stores the draconic tomes.
Bushy eyebrows furrow into an apologetic expression as Coppervein faces the crossbowman, then the privateer. "This may be where we part ways, lads. For now, at least; these wanderin' boots never stay in a place for too long..."
"I won't forget this adventure," The Irori priest reaches up to clasp forearms with the half-orc, "so until next we meet," and then the man, "I pray that tah roads you take lead you to better selves."
Henry Southgard and Gwath Gil feel a magic tingling transfer from Gorim's gauntleted hand and travel up their arms.
The historical section of the library is quite large, and it takes some time for Quick to find anything on the three names, whom he hoped might have insight or experience with Armaag and his kind. The little information he found so far was this: Rahalyrr Sabajiwe, whose named marked her as an elf, was a druid of repute who resided in the Carenthir forest a few centuries ago. Even with long lives of her fair kind, it is doubtful that Rahalyrr still lives, though Quick supposes a descendant of hers might still walk the northern wood. The name Dacius strikes the half-orc as familiar, though it isn't until he happens upon a footnote in a book of Andreat nobility that he remembers that Mortimer Dacius presently serves as court wizard to High King Thadeus Andreat the Benevolent. Presumably, Alanon Dacius is of some relation, and hopefully just as educated, though reading a bit longer may turn up more. Quick finds nothing on Eor the Unburnt, but there are a good deal more books to peruse yet.
Presently, the researcher hears the door open and close, but cannot see who enters from where he is in the history section. Perhaps all this reading is boring the mage, or perhaps sound carries particularly well down the aisles, either way, his half-orc ears pick up snatches up a murmured conversation between a deep-voiced newcomer and the proprietors:
"Did a young half-orc enter your library? Where is he?"
"I haven't-" squeaks an old man's voice. His tone seems startled, perhaps frightened.
"Arcane section," quavers the elderly wife. "Please, we don't want any trouble..."
S#@@...
In hindsight, Henry Southgard was sure he'd seen Gwath's resignation coming. But Gorim's departure completely blindsides him.
"Gorim, thank you for taking this journey with us. I hope that you learn much in your studies with the horsemaster. If I may make one last request, I would like to keep that Draconic translation book."
Feeling that, somehow, that farewell needs something more, he adds "Deszcz przychodzi do góry z daleka. W drodze strumieni i rzek, zwraca się z celem."
After the Dwarf departs, Henry examines his hand and wonders exactly what sort of magic the cleric had cast. He figures that he's had enough spells cast on him during his career that he should be able to identify them by tactile sensation.
But perhaps not.
"Gwath, I understand that you have no reason to continue this journey. You signed on for pay, and I can't guarantee that this will be a paying job from here on out. You don't share Quick's faith, and you don't share my ethos of staying on a job after I've been bought... dammit, that sounds like I'm accusing you of desertion. Let's walk that back."
"At this point, we're facing down the unknown at the behest of a departed ghost, and Quick won't be making regular payroll. Now's the time to leave if your heart isn't in this. I'm mostly in it because... because I've had some ideas scratching at the back of my head for a few years, and I think that temple in the mountains can put them to rest."
The dwarf nods to Gwath Gil as he goes.
Gorim gives Henry the Common-to-Draconic translation guide, happy to be keeping the Dwarven-to-Draconic tome for himself. To the crossbowman's parting words, the priest simply smiles. "If I don't see tah lad in town, tell him I will pray for his safety. And for his humility." The smile takes on a jesting glint for just a moment. He pats Henry's shoulder firmly and turns down the road.
The massive blade slides quietly from the sheathe on Quick's back, but his protective spell required a forceful command to summon it into being.
"You hear that?" growls the deep voice.
"Yup," answers another.
After a few moments of tense silence, Quick hears from somewhere in the center of the library, "We're not gonna hurt ya if we don't need to, boy. How's about you come out from where you hidin'?"
The library is quiet once more.
Quick walks swiftly and with purpose toward the door, hoping for the chance to get outside.
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"It's not so much about the pay. Or even our ghost employer. But yes, if this is a mission of heart, I've been thinking perhaps there are other matters of the heart I should concern myself with first..."
Gwath looks back to the rooftop from before. Then back to Henry.
"Lets at least speak with the blacksmith. I'm starting to get sick of the weight on my back," he says with a smile.
When Quick reaches the corner, he sees a lean and muscular man waiting by the door, garbed in worn studded leather. One hand idly whirls a simple wood club, and his face wears the bored expression of one hired to give a beating, when the beating has yet to commence.
A menacing, yellow smile slices across his mean face when he notices half-orc features round the corner of shelves and books. "Aw sees 'im, boss..."
Behind the unsavory thug, the elderly couple huddle behind their desk, darting fearful glances to Quick and the man at the door.
Quick glances to the yellow-toothed man, to the window, then sighs. He runs full tilt, sword outstretched, screaming at the top of his voice...
...and crashes to the cobbles outside.
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"Speaking of - no matter where I go - I'm going to need to be lighter. If you or you think Quick want some of the things I've picked up along the way, I'd rather you take them rather then sell them to a stranger."
Gwath hefts his pack, and what's attached to it, to the ground and begins to open its flaps.
"Sorry for holding you up. Turns out that we don't have as much to sell you as I'd thought, but we've seen action recently and we captured weapons and armor that we'd like to sell off. If you're interested..."
Henry Southgard steps into the smithy and lays arms down on a handy table.
"I believe that the current market value of these items comes out to four hundred and six gold pieces. With your clients and the looming threat of invasion, I have few doubts that you can make twice that much on the resale."
Not selling, just thought I should remind everyone of the wand's existence.
The apprentice’s eyes widen when Henry coolly states his price, and calls for the dwarven master smith. “What?! You forget yer numbers, boy?” Bellows the master in reply. He trundles over to the table in his thick, blackened apron with a smoking hammer still in one thickly calloused hand. Suspicious eyes peer up at the mercenary before he goes over the various items on the table, taking each one up and looking closely. The inspection takes about five silent minutes, that is, as silent as a busy smith can be with a handful of apprentices clanging away in the background. At length, the dwarf nods and counts out enough gold for the exchange.
“Pleasure doin’ business,” he adds begrudgingly.
"It has been a pleasure. May fortune find you in the days ahead," Henry Southgard says as he accepts the money. He turns and leaves with Gwath and Gorim.
"I'm going to earmark a full platinum for the festivities tonight. We've still got half of the town's beggars to thank for leading us to the Drow, and it'll be a great opportunity to plant some rumors."
"And before we meet back up with Quick, I want to see a cartographer."
Henry nearly walks into a trader pushing a cart full of parchment, ink, quill, candles, and local maps of the area. Also on display is a small collection of books, and "magic scrolls".
"A cartographer? Then look no further!" smiles the halfling, gesturing grandly with his short arms. "I've charted every alley of the this town, every hill of the southern Vale, and every significant rock and tree from here to Highwatch..."
The halfling might have the supplies for map-making, but it seems he is hoping to fake his way into a making some extra coin.
The crossbowman glances up from the small cartographer's presentation and notices Michael, one of the beggars from before. Looking on as he leans against an alley wall across the street, he smiles at the halfling and shakes his head at Henry.
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"Not a bad haul there," says Gwath as they leave the Blacksmith.
As he follows Henry through the town, the half-orc cannot help but ruminate on that phrase: a "mission of the heart".
It's felt like an age since he left the ramp off the Silver Cleave and onto the docks of Port Elam, but it's only been days. It's been one thing after another. And while there hasn't been much time to think during this journey he still feels a fool for not having wondered more about what might have happened to the ship, with all its jibs and booms he knew backwards and forwards, until now. Certainly they would have cut the ropes and cast off when they saw trouble coming? But if others on leave were still taking in the town when the attack came... how much of the crew might have made it into the Saukith Sea?
"I see," Henry Southgard says to the Halfling. "I bet you've surveyed every hill and measured every vale from here to the Sergentlich forest, haven't you?"
"Indeed, up to the very treeline!" he grins.
A nervous fidget and an errant glance betray the halfling's lie. It is possible that he has never seen the Sergentich Forest, for fear of its inhabitants.
No longer watching the exchange, Michael pokes his toe through a small pile of garbage left in the alley. Then he stoops down and picks up a half-eaten apple. The short beggar brushes it off and sniffs it, grimaces, and takes a bite.
"Then perhaps you can tell me who Lyre the Old Fire of the Clear Mire is?"
A little hand goes to his round halfling belly as he laughs. "Oh! What's the ol' scamp done this time? Did he steal away your wine, or perhaps a daughter's heart?" he chuckles, smiling brightly. "He goes by many names. The Piper Wine-Kyper, Diddlibob the Heartthrob, the Faun Who Roams the Lawn. I doubt 'Lyre' is his real name, but his mischief is known to these parts. A favorite pastime of the fey, to play tricks on we civilized folk," he shrugs. Halfling hands clap together eagerly as he returns to business. "But enough of the faun! You are in need of a mapmaker, you said?"
"Stole some wild bacon from our fire, actually. He probably saved us the bellyache," Henry says. "I need a map of, ah, the Greysight Vale. Everything from here to the highlands to the northern forest. Failing that, a map of the land between here and Clearwater will do."
The halfling feigns a deep sorrow with a hand over his heart. "Oh! Worse than one's daughter! He took the bacon!"
Dropping the act, he cracks a grin and turns to his cart. "I have something that might suffice. Not a work of my own, but I made copies. Uh, with the other cartographer's permission, of course. Heheh..."
His little fingers count over a dozen sealed scrolls before plucking one from its place and deftly popping it open. He eagerly unrolls and displays a map that encompasses the country of Vyren, with neighboring lands marked on the fringe. Major cities and towns are labeled, along with geographical features like rivers, lakes, mountains, and even forests.
"This beauty will set you back a mere three gold pieces." He says from behind the open map. "I can mark the smaller southern towns and homesteads if you need them, but for a copper per location."
The halfling's hasty and nervous addition to his ramblings betrays his falsehood. He did not have permission to make copies of the map he sells.
Henry Southgard's eyes narrow when he realizes that the map is likely copied without permission.
"Three gold pieces is a lot to ask for a copy of a map," he says. "I'll pay fifteen silvers for the map, and another silver for ten homesteads- if you know where they are."
The hobbit grimaces at Henry’s counteroffer. “Oi, I need to eat, man. How’s about two gold coins and I mark your ten homesteads for free, eh?”
Michael finishes his spoiled apple and meanders further into the alleyway, out of the mercenary’s sight.
The young half-orc bursts through the glass window, the crash ringing loudly in the street. A lady half-elf nearby shrieks in surprise. Quick twists mid-air to try to land on his feet!
True to his name, his boots crunch against the glass on the road as he lands in a low crouch.
The lean thug throws open the door of The Book Nook, and seizes the momentary confusion with a dramatic point to the half-orc. “Stop! Thief!” and he chases after Quick with an upraised club.
One of watchers of the scene retorts to the accuser, “Wot, you don’t like when people steal from you?”
Despite this, a few concerned citizens begin moving toward Quick, poised to take hold of him. A couple run down the street in the other direction, calling for the city guard, while others still look on in surprise.
Tulden Talees finds himself passing through the town of Redstone Keep. The military presence here seems a bit stronger than a town of this size would warrant, but then again, the king’s cavalry seems to base their training from here. As a result, Redstone Keep maintains a peaceful, and at times even friendly, populace.
Presently, the half-elf Tulden speaks with an elderly apothecary outside his storefront. The herbalist holds open a kit containing ointments, salves, and wrappings for wounds, and he describes the use of each. Tulden gets the sense that the old man is warming up to a sales pitch.
However their conversation is interrupted by a loud crash of shattering glass that rings through the street. Across the road, a young half-orc holding a large, savage blade seems to have burst from a window of the establishment called The Book Nook, startling a handful of passersby. A man of lean build throws open the door to the book shop and yells, “Stop! Thief!” before charging the half-orc with a wooden club.
The people outside seem to have mixed reactions. A few run and call for guards, a few others move to detain the half-orc, and others still are skeptical of the club-wielder's accusation. Either way, it looks like someone is going to get hurt very soon. Tulden knows that in a town like this, a prolonged scuffle will certainly draw the city guard.
Quick raises his sword defensively and his voice aggressively.
"I am Quick. On my honor, I have never stolen so much as a ha'penny in my life. I was shopping in that bookstore, a fact easily verified by the shop owners, when this braggart attempted to apprehend me with his thugs. I do not wish things to degenerate to violence, but I will have words with any one who calls me thief, and more besides with those who try to cause me harm. Now stand down!"
"I was a supply officer," Henry Southgard says as he digs out two gold coins. "I know exactly how much Halflings eat."
The halfling snatches the gold and makes quick work of the additions with a finely-sharpened quill.
Hurrying down the alleyway, the mercenary finds the small beggar scaling a stack of crates against a building wall. Michael appears to be intent on reaching the roof of a building when he notices the crossbowman, and drops to his feet. He leans nonchalantly against the crates with a wan smile. “Sumthin’ I’s can ‘elp ye wit’? Find yer mark we lighted for ye?”
Exasperated by the wordy elder Tulden is glad that the sudden commotion interrupts the current conversation. He didn't expect the apothecary to drone on for five minutes when all he wanted to know is where he could find a meal.
Turning around he sees that man advancing on the half orc with an ever tightening grip on his club. Displeased by the fact that the bystanders are assuming that the half orc is at fault, Tulden rushes over to the scene, knowing that the man with the club would soon pummel the detainee.
Tulden places himself between the aggressor and the half-orc, puts himself in a shoulder-width stance, turn with his right side to the man, and says in a forceful voice "You do not have the authority to execute justice here on the streets, human. That is for the solders. Wait for them if he really is a thief."
Shouting back to the half-orc: "Orc-man, what has this man have against you?"
Just as a precaution Tulden places his left hand at the small of his back to grab his scimitar in case its needed.
"Hells if I know!" Quick says exasperated. "But if you think the soldiers are taking me any more than this dolt, you've got another thing coming!"
The two men and dwarf that were moving to take hold of Quick are taken aback by his bold demand to stand down.
The ruffian with the club stops his advance when the stranger masked by a brown shroud interposes himself between the two. He fumes at the faceless man’s reasoning, clearly eager to deliver his own idea of justice. Taking a few moments to calm down, he speaks in an even tone to Quick. “Let’s not wait for the guards, tusker. You return my necklace, apologize, and I’ll let you be on your way.” The tight grip on the bludgeoning weapon tells suggests that the man is still quite tense.
The man with a club is bold faced liar! The half-orc’s necklace bearing a large silver amulet did not originally belong to him.
"I will not give you what is rightfully mine, nor will I apologize to a common criminal. Now walk away before we have to get wet."
"Found 'er, yeh. Fought 'er, caught 'er, got the dog what we came fer." Henry Southgard says. "Yew 'n yer bad ends are owed our thanks, and if yeh all can't eat thanks, we owe yeh dinner."
Responding to Quick: "There is no need to be snappy, orc-man. Anyways I doubt you would give any guard a run for his coin."
While turning to the club-weilding man, who Tulden still does not trust, he grasps the handle of his scimitar, making sure that this movement is behind his back.
"If this is all about a necklace, then it must be an important necklace indeed. If it was this important, would it not have been better to report him to the guards than take action like this? If the necklace is that valuable, surely they would have taken action?"
"So, human, I think that your claim over the necklace is a bit to shallow to hold any truth. I think that it would be healthy for you to leave this bold-speaking friend of ours alone."