Sorry Balion, but you've had three days to post. I'll move this along.
Aladdin:
Up ahead, another group of travelers can be heard and seen walking south. By the look of it, you will intersect in about fifteen minutes.
Rolg:
Up ahead, another group of travelers can be heard and seen walking south. By the look of it, you will intersect in about fifteen minutes.
Behind you, perhaps one hundred yards away, another group also travelling northward. You didn’t notice them when you left Mirth, but then again, you weren’t exactly facing south the whole time. Besides, they might be at a faster pace, and merely left later than you did.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a math problem.
Bolgrith:
Up ahead, another group of travelers can be heard and seen walking south. By the look of it, you will intersect in about fifteen minutes.
Behind you, perhaps one hundred yards away, another group also travelling northward. You didn’t notice them when you left Mirth, but then again, you weren’t exactly facing south the whole time.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a math problem.
The group behind you seems to keep a more determined pace, and might pass you within the hour, if they don’t want to keep their distance. At first it seemed that they were closer, but in fact, all five of the travelers are just very big. From this distance, they appear to lightly armed and armored, each of them bear a heavy, bulging load on their backs.
Balion cannot stop thinking about his marvelous hat, to the point of forgetting his surroundings.
"Be ready, we are not alone on this road. When we meet these groups, Balion and Jamie will hold the front with me. Bolgrith and Aladdin will form up behind us, while Simon and Sqaull guard the rear."
Rolg prepares his shield and loosens his sword in its scabbard as he speaks.
Jamie smirks. "Yessir, gobo sir. I'll protect you from the dangerous traders."
Despite her jape, she tugs the handle of the falchion on her back to ensure its readiness, and keeps her attention on the approaching group.
"Hold on a second Rolg. Your plan seems sound if they are hostile, but we've quite a while yet before that group behind us will get here. Lets take this one at a time." Bolgrith looks up and out towards the horizon. "This place seems a well regulated land, I doubt we'll find roving bands of brigands." He adjusts the aspergillum at his belt. "Though if they do thirst for violence, let it be as you say."
It is known that the humans native to Stonebit region of the Ytramond Commonwealth are not only very tall, but also solidly built. The area is named after the Stonebit house that oversees this region of the Commonwealth. The southbound travelers appear to be ordinary folk.
The travelers heading south pass the group in a few minutes, one of them giving a curt nod but otherwise ignoring the adventurers. Forty-five minutes pass. The other northbound group trails you at a distance of forty feet. Not breaking pace, the foremost of the group, a giant of a man with dark brown hair calls to you. “Behind you. Gonna pass.”
The handful of large people, three men and two women, break into a trot to pass the adventurers. By the look of them, they might not all be related, but the shortest of them, one of the women, appears to be over six feet three inches. None of their builds are particularly lanky, but fit and lean, save for the trailing oldest man who totes a bit of a paunch. They are wearing light armor under full packs of various wares. The apparent leader of these travelers speaks up, once adjacent to the adventurers.
“You fellas heading up to Stonebit? So are we. Hoping to fetch a price for our linens and knittin’s,” he nods to the packs on their backs, “What are you heading north for? Not carrying much, looking to buy? Won’t find much in Stonebit but rock and wood, and ‘fraid to say, lumber ain’t cheap anymore. I grew up there, see. I remember when every other father was a lumberjack and pine logs choked the Snowrun. Times change, I s’pose. It’s what my dad used to do, before he lost work. Had a bad run of luck, stole a few things. Then he killed a man. Lord Stonebit hisself took off his head. ‘Only man of honor around here’, people say about ol’ Stonetit. Heh, you like that? Honor is bunk, says I. A man’s gotta make his way, doing right by none but his kin. Master Dwarf can attest to that, no doubt.”
He pauses, studying Rolg. “Not many of your types wander into Stonebit. Must be something real pressing to waltz into those gates without so much as a fellow kinsman to watch your back. I’ll warn you to stay clear of the Borderguard. Them and similar fellas have an axe to grind with most goblinfolk, for all the raids your smaller kind bring. I bear no qualms against you, we all travel under the same sun, so I advise: stay in the markets and city inns. Get too close the northern towers and a ‘mistake’ might be made. “Anyhow, best be on. Maybe we’ll find you in town. May the road rise up to meet you.”
Not waiting for the response, the leader of the tall group marches ahead, with the other four in tow. They continue their trot until they are a good one hundred yards ahead of the adventurers. Most passing travelers are not nearly as talkative, but such is the eclectic nature of mankind.
See Discussion.
The Ranger looks completely unconcerned by the trader or his talkative ways. Deciding that the man was merely an odd one, he waltzes on without a care.
Squall continues walking draped in his hooded robe and peers out at the travelers.
Sense Motive as they're walking by to see if they're harmless. Perception to notice anything, ie daggers sticking out of bags and such. Sense Motive1d20 + 4 ⇒ (11) + 4 = 15 Perception 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24
Sense Motive: While he seemed pleasant enough, there seemed to be more purpose to his conversing than merely wagging his tongue, but that purpose is unclear to you.
Perception (nice roll, btw): You got a good look at their packs, which indeed seemed to be rolls of cloth, though it would be very easy to conceal a great number of things in the rolls. The weapon at each of their sides is plain, but by the odd bulges under their long sleeves, they are likely more armed than they wish to let on. As their leader speaks, you also catch the others slyly sizing up your group.
Bolgrith nods and smiles at the group as they pass. Responding to the man's remarks with a quiet; "So it is." Though apparently unworried, the dwarf waits until the group is well and away before removing his gauntleted hand from his weapon.
While he made an amiable front, you sense the leader is interested in taking your possessions. Given his remarks and general attitude, you peg him as one who doesn't give a spit on good or evil, and is as like to try something in town as he is on the open road. Still, he didn't seem wholly stupid...
"I do believe that man intends to rob us. My apologies Rolg, it would appear my first assessment of this lands stability may have been generous." Bolgrith watches as the group passes out of sight in the distance. "In any case there's naught to do about it now, if we see them in town I would of course advise keeping on ones toes so to speak. Shall we continue?" He hefts his pack higher onto his shoulders and continues forward at his ponderous pace.
After hearing the dwarfs remarks Balion decides he is now interested in the travelers and their ill intentions. He takes his bow from his pack and strings it carrying it in his hand. Turning to Rolg, "He would not warn you of the dangers to goblin kind posed by the watch out of the goodness of his heart. If what Bolgrith says is true he will make trouble for you in Stonebit."
Thinking it over a bit, he decides to give his assessment of the situation. "We should confront them on the road on our own terms. Make camp in a vulnerable area and lay a trap for them. If indeed they wish to harm us they will strike and we will be ready for them."
"No, we should be within Stonebit's walls by day's end. We can just hole up in an inn, and try to sneak out before sunup tomorrow. It was easy to sneak myself past the Borderguard's vigilance awhile ago, but I don't know about seven of us. We'll think of something."
As the hours drag on, the traders led by the talkative fellow continues out of sight. After awhile, the sun begins to set, and the lights of the city can be seen glowing over walls in the distance, on a small hill. Behind the hills, the tall mountains loom ever closer, and darker in the fading sunlight.
“There she be, Stonebit. Not a minute too soon, I’m famished.” announces Simon. He removes his embroidered cloak and stuffs it into his pack.
“I don’t want to cause a scene in the city. Rolg, would you care to dance?”
He drops his pack, showing two blunted tourney swords in his hands. Wearing a cheeky grin, he makes a courtly bow, ending with a flourished under-hand toss to the hobgoblin. He fluidly steps into a fighting stance.
Let’s not go hit for hit. Just say you practiced, if you wish to do so.
"I'd like to see how good you really are without your slab of metal. Without the shield, this time."
Simon moves in to spar with the hobgoblin. After a few blocked swings, he tries to feint and open Rolg's defenses, but he tries too hard, and overextends his own defense. The hobgoblin wallops him for the attempt. Enduring many more blows and scoring one himself, Simon eventually staggers back, wavering on his feet. The tourney blade hangs limply in his hand and he breathes heavily.
"Yield," he pants, showing a bloody grin. One of Rolg's strikes made a small split in his lip.
The young noble catches his breath, regains his composure, and repacks his bag.
In just over an hour, the group reaches the heavy wooden double gates of Stonebit. Its grey stone walls appear to be the tallest and thickest yet seen on the island, at least thirty feet high and ten feet thick. Others are just filing into the city, but none you recognize. When a guard sees Rolg among the group, he casually strides in front of the group, and stops Simon with a raised hand.
“So,” he nods at the hobgoblin and glances at the dwarf before returning his gaze to Simon, “this is quite the entourage, tradesman. What is your business in Stonebit?”
“We are on assignment from Hagglesport, city business. He is our escort. There is still peace between Hagglesport and the Commonwealth, is there not?” Simon asks innocently.
The guard gestures them forward, grumbling. He shoots a glare at Rolg as he returns to his post. Once inside, the businesses of the city seem to be closing up shop, though the visible taverns and inns roar with life.
Simon points to an inn on the left, a few blocks from the gate. He produces a small coin purse, and extends it to Bolgrith. “Here. That inn won’t charge a fortune for a night’s stay, and it’s no rat nest, either. I will meet you there, uh, later tonight. I have to- the- family business- to call on.”
The young noble begins to redden, and adds “I must be going, I’ll be back soon,” before turning to start down a different road.
Bolgrith waits until Simon is out of earshot before turning to the group. With a small smile he says "It would appear that young master Simon has needs same as any man." With a quiet chuckle he turns back to the inn and tosses the coin purse in the air. Catching it in his other hand he starts off down the road.
As the group steps inside, the inn is moderately busy, and would be at a steady rumble of conversation if it were not for a very drunken gentleman at the bar. He stands at close to seven feet, with thick arms and legs, sprouting from wide shoulders and a bellowing voice to match. He wears nicer clothes that appear to be well worn. He sloshes a tankard around, toasting loudly. “Cheers one! Cheers all! Barkeep another round for everyone!”
Patrons cheer, though for some, their thanks are accompanied by a look of concern. The large man takes a swig, which seems to muffle a sob. His drink runs from the corners of his mouth and into his dripping brown beard. “Most of all, to my work crews! Each of you an honest, hard-working man who deserve a better lot. Damn the pirates and the dead, and DAMN THE WYLDOTES!”
He thrusts his tankard violently into are with this toast, and the resulting splash shows the tankard’s contents to be a hard whiskey. Nearly half the men cheer and raise their cups to his toast. He gulps more. He sees the adventurers standing in the doorway, and his shaky arm jabs a finger to them.
“You there! I haven’t seen you here before, but damn it all, I love you. Another round, on me!”
He digs into his trouser pocket and slams another fistful of gold coins on the bar. The innkeeper hurries to refill tankards of other patrons, sending expectant glances your way.
"My thanks friend, but the gold I am paid requires me to ask you to keep your opinions on the Wydoltes to your self while I am around. Let us enjoy our drinks and enjoy what women we can find. No call for slander here."
The dwarf accepts the container offered to him and takes a sip. Looking towards the innkeeper he hefts his bag of bits and asks; "Seven rooms for the night, if you have them." The Priest takes another swallow of the strong drink. "And another tankard, this one water please." Glancing over at the large man by the bar, Bolgrith adjusts the straps of his pack and makes his way to an empty table, large enough for the group if need be. He says nothing as Rolg speaks. But he does keep a lane open between himself, the hobgoblin, and the human.
Some of the conversation in the common room falters as the hobgoblin crosses the room and accepts the drink. The burly man raises his eyebrows and hands in mock surprise. “Hoho! So serious! ‘Keep your opinions’, ‘No slander’, ‘Barbarbar’. Green-ear’s got stones strutting in here with a chip on ‘is shoulder. I ‘magine the Wyldotes must bury you in gold to keep you blind to their thievin’. Tell you what, keep an’ open ear an’ I’ll keep the ale flowin’. You keen?”
Instead of watching for an answer, the large man empties his tankard and brusquely shouts to the innkeeper, who stands no less than ten feet away retrieving seven keys for Bolgrith.
“FINE SIR! MORE WHISKEY!”
The innkeeper hands the dwarf the keys and in a few quick steps has a full tankard of whiskey for the big man and another filled with water for the dwarf.
Bolgrith:
Perception: Many of the patrons here to drink are dressed in simple laborer’s clothes, and by the smell of sap and wood, you guess many of them to be lumberjacks. These were the ones who cheered at the large man’s toast to his work crews.
Sense Motive: Even though inebriation is improving his mood, the large man seems to be trying to make a celebration out of a bad situation. By the flash in his eye at Rolg’s rebuke, his contempt for the Wyldotes must run deep.
Bolgrith tries to catch Rolgs eye, nodding slowly he speaks up loud enough for the bar to hear. "I for one would like to hear what the man has to say." He takes another swallow of the liquor and turns a concerned gaze upon the foreman.
"Speak then, but only if you have proof. I will not hear slanders. Nor am I a Hobgoblin to turn down good whiskey. Barkeep, I will drink what our loud friend drinks, and on his dime."
The Ranger walks into the bar at last, after gazing around the outside of the inn and cleaning himself up a bit. to the bar collecting his free ale from the bartender. Upon hearing the exchange between the large man and Rolg he walks straight up to the giant of a lumber jack.
"I for one would love to hear tale, the name is Balion ." From under his fur hat you can see ale dripping from his mustache. Balion sticks out his weather worn hand to the lumber jack in an exaggerated manly gesture he no doubt learned during his many years as a woodsmen.
The innkeeper nods, glancing at the large man before pulling a tankard of whiskey for Rolg. The large man makes a wide, wet grin.
“Well met. Name’s Brenan Stonebit, and no, I’m just a distant relation to the lord, afraid there’s too many kin between me and him for it to matter. My father and father's father managed most of the lumber trade in Stonebit, I do as well. Or did, rather. Used to fill the West Snowrun with all the wood bound for Wheaton, for the dwarves. Bandits were scarcely an issue until about two years ago, when it got so bad, only about half of the lumber would make it downriver. And what thieves would want with pine and oak, I don’t know, but they surely recognized the folks bringing the money north. Those I sent to look into it and protect the goods were killed, or escaped the slaughter.
“So we loaded our ships and sailed around the Commonwealth to Wheaton, and were finally able to reestablish trade with the dwarves. I thought we found a solution, til The Gentlemen of Fortune happened upon our trade route. Sure, the dwarves have the largest navy, but they can’t be asked to babysit the Ytramond coastline.”
He reaches for the tankard, and drinks deep for several moments. He sets it down with a raspy cough.
“And that ain’t the half of it. We have two main forests we harvest from, but the replacement saplings we planted years ago aren’t taking in one of them, so we’ve been relying on just the one to get us through. I traveled to Siloguard myself to ask aid from the Wyldotes, maybe send a galleon escort, or run patrols along the river. With the amount of gold my business brings for the Commonwealth, I thought I could get an open ear. Never could get an audience with the any of them, was told my request would be ‘under consideration’. A week after I get back, our last forest suffered a forest fire in the middle of winter.
“So no, gobo. I ain’t got any proof, but the Wyldote’s can’t sleep on the thought of Stonebit success. I’d wager it made ‘em sick seeing a gold pot they couldn’t stick their hand into, so they pull their strings and call in favors to bring us down. The towel is thrown, though. I can’t afford to keep paying my work crews, but I can afford one last hurrah.” He raises his voice to the rest of the common room, “DRINK UP, MEN! No work tomorrow, and the night is young! HaHA!”
He laughs bitterly as he brings the tankard to his lips, making a small sound that could be a muffled hiccup or sob. The crowd roars in toasts.
“To Brenan Stonebit! The fastest tree-feller in the Sunderlands!”
“To Brenan Stonebit! A more just boss than a man could hope for!”
“To Brenan Stonebit! I don’t know him, but he’s paid for my ale!” Raucous laughter fills the room.
Make Kno: Geography checks. The DC is 10, so you can make it untrained if you like.
Bolgrith stares into his whiskey considering for a moment. Before too much time passes he looks up and meets Brenans eyes. "That surely is a tale of woe, and I would like to know whether the Wyldotes actually had anything to do with it. Though I'm interested to know, didn't I see a great forest just north of here? What's to keep you from felling those trees? At the least until your other forests are back to shape."
“Pah! That’s the way of the Wyldotes, dwarf. They might deny any underhanded dealings, but things always seem to turn to their favor. Rivalry between our houses is no secret, either. Let me put it this way: if The Gentlemen of Fortune had stolen a major shipload of Wyldote goods, Jeremiah Wyldote could and would summon every Wyldote, Stonebit, and minor house ship to purge the sea of pirates. Oddly enough, pirates steer clear of Wyldote ships, and have a hay-day on ours. Perhaps not so oddly…”
Brenan’s mood seems to darken a bit, as the tankard momentarily covers his flushed face. He regards the drink as it leaves his lips. “Ah, this was a fine cask, innkeeper. And dwarf, as for the Barrowood, I haven’t the heart to send my work crews to tangle with walking dead and scummy goblins. I remember a decade ago when a Sarenrae priest gathered followers for a holy mission to cleanse the cursed wood, but few survived, and the dead retook the dark forest. A few have tried since then, but none were as successful, if it can be called that.”
Brenan’s lips curl into a grin again at the sight of Balion.
“Heh, that hat seems odd on a woodsman, fine as it may be. You expect to charm your quarry to death?”
He raises his glass with a nod, and gulps more.
Balion returns the nod and lifts his stein into the air. "Oh I have no need of charm, but come rain, sleet or shine my head will be kept warm and dry. Any working man can appreciate that." The ranger laughs and enjoys the company of the lumberjacks drinking heavily.
Balion allows some time to pass before joining Bolgrith at the table.
Turning to the dwarf, "It takes a great many undead for a priest to call a holy mission does it not? Should we head that way we ought to be prepared."
Your sense of Simon's motives are actually quite apt; he is not in the inn. He will be joining you later, or so he said. Of Brenan, you suspect the copious amounts of liquor are loosing opinions he would have normally kept to himself. While his dislike of the Wyldotes runs deep, he bases his opinions on what he's observed, so there must be some credit to his words.
Also, GM handout: Simon wasn't sure how he was going to sneak all of you past the Borderguard, and before you is a friendly and liquored up local.
"Hmmm, indeed." Bolgrith takes a swallow from his mug and looks around the inn before returning his gaze to the Ranger. "For followers of Irori, expeditions of that nature are exceptionally rare, though not entirely unheard of. I've never be a part of one before, if that is something you are wondering."
Drawing deep from his flagon of water to wash the whiskey down, the dwarf thinks back on what he knows of Sarenrae.
Rolg Naxdag
