The rain lets up for a little, yet its cold sourness remains and the overcast sky shows no effort towards cheering the mood. When Osprey assigned you this venture to Taldor’s wine country, he said the region was pleasant. As usual, his words were misleading. The coast was pleasant, the mires surrounding the Railford Distillery are not.
“This mission is easy,” he said, “All you need to do is travel to Railford, find the son of Iodon Railford and convince him to let the Pathfinders use part of his distillery as a lodge. We have finances, we can protect him, and if nothing else, we can help him honor the work of his father, who after all, was one of us.”
The path to Railford is hardly an easy one to follow, especially after the spring thaw waters turn the thick clay soil to slough. Only a few crudely scarred trees denote the secluded route as it winds through the syrupy mire of flooded vineyards and vague remnants of rotten trellis with grapevines choked out by prevasive briars and heavy blankets of peat.
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Taldor was a country Calanthe had heard much about; indeed, many Pathfinders came from there, and spoke quite highly of the country. This was her second expedition to the nation personally, and thus far it had been rather... uninspiring, much as the first experience was. The country continued to prove itself to her to be completely insufferable, and that's coming from the girl who grew up in Korvosa! For once, Calanthe feels glad that her racial heritage necessitated her wearing heavy cloaks... at least they shielded her from the worst of the weather.
At least the company was pleasant. She was back with her old friends again, for the most part; no Todric though, and Calanthe had sighed a little about that before she caught herself and promptly rapped herself over the nose about it. Morrigan was most displeased with the muddy environs, and thus she spent as much time possible on the wing, fluttering from tree to tree with the occasional mournful whip-poor-will.
"What bleak environs," Calanthe mumbles quietly along the way. "Why on earth would they want to set up a Pathfinder Lodge all the way out here...?"
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Norine feels good to be traveling, even over such bleak and rough terrain. "I must remember to thank someone for sending us to Taldor like I suggested! It feels good to be in the 'home country' - well, not for me ('least that I remember), and not for gnomes or the Society ... but you know what I think I mean," she prattles cheerily. "Certainly a good place for a whip-poor-will, though." Whip-poor-will whip-poor-whill she coos at Morrigan warmly.
"I always wonder where that Todric disappears to. I bet he is on an Osiriani adventure." (It isn't clear what exactly she meant by that, even to Norine.)
"I don't really know much about politics and history, but I do know that Oppara is well known for producing more than it can consume, as it is said, and the Pathfinder Society and lodges can sometimes clash with this or that... Maybe 'all the way out here' is precisely the best place to put a new lodge."
Norine continues at brisk pace, considering her size and armor and the mud, hustling ahead to see around the next tree or swampy vineyard, whistling and swinging her shillelagh walking stick.
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Mez pioneers much of their course when Norine hasn’t darted ahead to examine some odd foliage or an unusually shaped mud puddle. He fidgets with the straps on his new shield, adjusting it just right and practices swinging it from his back and into a fighting position. During breaks, he works with Ebon on some new defensive stances and ways to deflect incoming strikes and riposte better. When Norine remarks about Todric’s alternate adventures, Mez is about to comment that Todds probably exploring a certain Blakros daughter as opposed to some dusty crypt, but in a strange moment of clarity, decides not to spread rumors and risk upsetting the delicate Calanthe. After all, he thinks he remembers something about the two of them growing closer during that Andoran mission he wasn’t around for, or maybe it was something about her bird, ahh well, drunken memories aren’t always the clearest. Do we think we’ll be getting there shortly?” he asks the quieter members of the team, hoping to bring them into the conversation.
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Marching along in the rear of the group, Ebon smiles broadly at his companions.
Norine rushes ahead so filled with interest in ... Everything. Calanthe seems worried a lot, and Mez is focused hard on the fighting. Targost seems unhappy. Me? I love the rain...
Ebon is wearing his breastplate strapped to his back and has removed his clothing down to his breechcloth.
" Hah!!! I love the rain!" He yells as he spreads his arms wide and looks at the sky." Though I will admit that the mud sucks."
He grins at his pun and trudges along .....
The rain starts again and all darkens. The creepers and overgrowth do little to help the situation, blocking some of the rain but casting strange twisting shadows. Markers become more difficult to see. A thick mist rises from the ground.
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As she starts to sink in deeper in the mud and the rain begins to pour into her eyes, Norine becomes slightly less enthusiastic. She follows Mez's lead with her buckler, tiny though it be. She also listens to Mez's remembrance, and drops back a bit in the crowd, letting him move to the front; she takes fog and mist monsters seriously.
Norine remembers reading about Railford in a regional Taldan blue book. The entry read: Railford, population 46. The town consists entirely of its distillery, a few stone cottages that house its workers, and a small inn to service the local travelers. And we do mean service, as all the barmaids are also prostitutes.
Targost, Mez, and Morrigan all notice a small campfire in the near distance (about 60-80' away). They see the forms of two human mean huddled by the fire and two dogs lying coiled at their feet.
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Morrigan coos a few times before swooping over to Calanthe's shoulder and lightly nuzzling her mistress' cheek. "Two people ahead," the whipporwill intones in her strangely deep and monotonous voice; it's so infrequent that the bird even speaks that some may even be shocked to hear it. "And two dogs."
Though not expecting trouble, Calanthe draws her crossbow and sets a bolt in the holster... y'know, just in case.
The Pathfinders move down the road, drawing closer to the camped men. When you get within 20' of their fire, one looks up and points at you, shouting: "Intruders! Intruders!"
Both men stand and brandish fine-looking longswords. They kick their dogs awake.
Round 1:
Targost <<
bad guys
Norine
Calanthe
Muluk
Mez
Ebon
[ooc]<< means you're up Targost![ All ground is difficult terrain, so no charging, each square counts twice, etc./ooc]
As the men stnad, you notice some sort of insignia on their studded leather jerkins.
"Well, whoever you are you ain't welcome here! We've got orders from the lieutenant to keep all strangers out of here. Now scram or else!"
The two men advance closer (now within 10' of Ebon and Mez). The dogs stand up and move up to the sides of their masters, snarling.
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Norine shows empty hands and says, "We're Pathfinders, not your enemies, and we can help! Take us to your leader, the lieutenant - he will want to question us himself. We have been sent on a mission to set up a new lodge at the distillery."
Norine's hands are empty, and she readies to give Ebon the gift of Desna's luck should her diplomacy fail.
The men hesitate for just a moment, and seems a tiny bit less hostile.
"You won't get to see him. You say you're here to help? Help who? We're here to take over this rotten little town. Why should we let you interfere?"
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"Hmm," says Mez as he slowly meanders forward, all sense of humor gone from his face. "I don't recall there being an active war going on here. That means you guys are probably thugs and hooligans trying to oppress some innocent townsfolk" In a flash that surprises even his companions, Mez lashes out.
Drawing his rapier out of the mans guts, "I hate people who oppress commoners who can't defend themselves. Try picking on someone with a bit more bite."
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Calanthe sighs vocally, rolling her eyes as the ever-fiery Andorans let their patriotism overwhelm common sense. Nevertheless, she steps forward, seeking the weaknesses in the hearts and souls of these ratbag men.
Her eyes begin to glow with energy as she finds it - one nightmare that haunted the nearest for some time. A fear of losing someone dear to him, or perhaps the sadness of having lost once in the past; the witch sees it as a dark shadowy daemon lurking on the edge of the man's inner essence. Calanthe grasps it and, with a crooked smile, brings it to the forefront of the man's mind.
"Remember, remember..." she mutters, her voice echoing somewhat. "Remember that which you'd prefer to forget..."
The men look stunned as Mez steps forward, sword flashing in the dim light. The blade pierces the soldier and he collapses in a heap.
Targost recognizes the insignia to be of a stle common among the phalanx soldiers of Taldor. These men would be fiercely loyal to their commanding officer and no one else.
Ebons armor sails past the other man's head and Calanthe begins weaving her magic.
He feels doubt looming up inside him, but slashes at Mez with his sword.
The sword misses.
Then Targost's magic missile slams into the man and he nearly falls. At nearly the same moment Muluk moves in, his scimitar having been at the ready, A quick slash sends the second soldier to Pharasma's boneyard. The dogs turn and run, yelping in fear.
Despite the swiftness of the attack, you hear other groups of men and dogs starting to close in. The shouts earlier must have alerted them.
Norine quickly stabilises the fallen men, and Mez quickly helps Ebon into his armor.
With the sound of dozens of men and dogs growing louder, the team races towards Railford, coincidentally the only place the soldiers don't seem to be.
Atop a hillock stand half a dozen small stone cottages surrounding a tall brick and timber building topped with a massive tin-covered water drum. A sign over its looming doors reads "Railford Distillery est. 4693". From a squat brick building sharing an adjoining wall with the distillery rises a long cylindrical chimney. A low, moss-covered cobblestone wall surrounds the entire property.
The townsfolk regard you with suspicion at first, some yelling down threats and insults. But soon enough they realize you are not affiliated with the phalanx soldiers camped outside of town.
A small band of townsfolk come out to meet you. They are all carrying clubs, but not in an especially threatening way. The man in front introduces himself.
"My name's Dalard Fritch. Please excuse the hostility, but as you see things here haven't been quite right lately. Who are you and why are you here?"
The man nods and relaxes his stance slightly. He looks the group over more closely.
"C'mon inside the inn. It'll be dry enough there."
Once inside he does his best to help answer your questions.
"Those men out there? Not too sure, but they served in one of the Empire's Phalanxes. Can't say if they're here officially or if they mustered out and are here on their own. One thing's for sure, the Grand Prince won't bother himself with the affairs here. Now you're Pathfinders you say? Haven't heard much about that group, but if you're opposed to that gang camped out there, you're fine by me,"
"Iadon's son Becher is the man you'll be wanting to see. Trouble is, he ain't here. Two days ago, Becher and a few men ventured out into the swamps to recover a secret cache left by his father. He said it had some important papers, deeds even. This morning one of his men stumbled. Seems he caught some kind of fever. He told a horrible tale of walking corpses that fell upon his friends just after Becher recovered his father’s strongbox. If you want to tak to him, he's in bed at a local healer's place."
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Calanthe follows the others inside, happy to get out of the cold. She hesitates a moment as everyone begins to remove their dripping cloaks, but eventually removes her own, revealing the curling ram's horns, gold-and-red heterochromic eyes and long silvery hair that marked her as a tiefling. As a healer, she knows that keeping wet for so long would just cause her to get sick... and that's more important than dealing with people's reactions to her devilish nature.
She, however, immediately perks up at the words 'walking corpses', showing an uncharacteristic touch of anger. "Abominations!" she hisses, hand twitching towards her skane, the ritual dagger of her faith. Calanthe looks towards the others, "I... I'm sorry, but it is the duty of my church to destroy every last one of these... these detestations. I must cleanse this town... before we leave this place."
Dalard gasps as Calanthe pulls back her hood, but composes himself quickly. He only nods in assent as Calanthe and Norine speak. He then shows you to the healer's cottage.
A man lies in bed with a local healer attempting to cleanse disease from his festering wounds with live leeches.
As you approach the man and ask his story, he speaks in a weak voice:
"Becher led us through the swamps down an old trail to what used to be the barrel-aging caves. Them caves where vinters would set the casks ta dry ‘em out an give ‘em good flavor. When we got there, the caves was all boarded up, so it took us a while ta get in. The place was flooded, barrels floating everywhere and it had a foul stink to it. We poked around a bit till Becher found the back office. Inside, there was this strongbox where he said the deed was. That’s when they came... these things rose out of the muck and started attacking. Dead folk with sharpened fangs. We tried to fight ‘em but they was too strong. They tore Padrik’s arm right off and started eating it... we tried to get out the way we came in. I made it out, but some of the creatures started following us, escaping. They blocked the entrance, trapping Becher and Walmont inside and after that the entrance collapsed on them. One of the creatures that followed me tried to grab me and took a bite out of my leg, so I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I don’t know what happened after that."
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The vision of the poor man lying half-dead in the healer's hut is a terrible sight, but Calanthe is well-trained in swallowing her disgust at even the most disturbing of injuries. "Ghouls," she mutters, sweeping past the healer and placing a gentle hand upon the injured man's head. "Yes... he definitely has ghoul fever. The body does not heat up like normal... instead... it grows colder and colder, like the pallid shade of death... until they become yet another ghoul themselves."
"Norine," Calanthe turns around and looks back at her gnomish friend with a smile, "would you assist me...? We may yet be able to help him..." She begins to dig through her belongings, drawing out various herbal concoctions and other tools for palliative care.