A mere three days ago you where back in Absalom, away from this hellhole. Three days ago, you where you where back in the civilized world, making your way to the local tavern you call your second home, looking for good drink, company, a few laughs and stories, and perhaps a little extra warmth to share your bed with. All until an aspiring Pathfinder stopped you, asking you to meat for a mission. You went, but instead of a briefing, a servant imply informed you that you where to travel to the Kortos Mountains, North of Absalom, . . . and deliver a stupid letter. Wait, what?. Deliver a letter. You must be joking, you think, until other Pathfinder join you and receive the same instructions. To one Nashota Bloodhoof, a centaur. You and the others gathered your gear and made your preparations, then set off on the trek to find a small tribe of centaurs. It went uneventfully, using your wits and experience you found the place, the Cangarit Camp, and where allowed entrance once you identified yourselves as Pathfinders. Taken to Nashota, and what seems to be an informal war-council, or perhaps meeting of elders amongst the tribe, you hand over the unopened letter, unsure if you should await a response.
“Three days?” Nashota exclaims, tossing the letter from the Decemvirate to the ground. “That’s quite the sense of humor you Pathfinders have! I tell you I need time to make this land safe for my tribe, and you give me three days? You think by paying off one enemy, you solve all our problems? Look around you,. . . we make camp in unfamiliar lands, our strongest warriors lay dead, our wounded captured by minotaurs, harpies and thieves harry us constantly. But lo! The hounds of Absalom retreat, we are saved!”
This rouses a hearty chorus of laughter among the centaurs, until Nashota raises a hand for silence. “A promise is a promise. I owe you much, and Nashota Bloodhoof pays her debts. Give me a month to train and arm a warband so I can clear out these damned mountains. Then I’ll sail off to fight in your silly little game for human prizes."
. . .
“Or,” the centaur says, smiling, “you could always march up the mountain in my place. You Pathfinders dealt with our enemies to the south—might as well handle the north, east, and west while you’re at it, since we’re such good friends?” Nahsota grins, and gestures up the mountain. “To the north, there’s that freak harpy Jerevyx. She roosts somewhere up by Hollowfrost Pass. Just follow the path up Mount Ganog to find her. In the east, look for Dahruun Firehorn. I hear he and his minotaurs are holed up in the old Northwind Mine. To the west, the thief Urso Landel makes camp somewhere in the forest. I don’t care what you do with him so long as you get back the arms and armor he stole from us. Deal with them in three days,” she snorts derisively, “and I’ll consider your request. Until then, the matter is closed.”