Dot
Tis late in the year, and winter is approaching. A light dusting of snow already covers Issen and more is yet falling gently. The white blanket muffles sounds, increasing the feelings of loneliness already present in this desolate landscape. Few villagers are out tonight, and there's a feeling of importance in the air. Something was going to happen tonight, although you couldn't quite put your finger on what.
Thurin Foehammer
Your journey is long and cold, but finally the end is in sight. You reach the town early in the evening, and find the streets nearly empty. A lone villager, walking between buildings wordlessly points you towards a crooked two story building near the edge of town and stalks off. The large building has a sign on the front reading 'F oze Dr an Inn', which appears to be fading. Entering, you find a large common room, occupied by a few folks. Of the patrons, only one looks up as you enter. The elf maiden manning the bar glances at you, smiles, and remarks "A dwarf? Not many of your kind in this forsaken place. What can I getcha?"
Morsel
The Thing had been silent for days. This was slightly unusual, although it did afford you a chance to recover from your hard march into Issen. For the whole trek, it had been pushing you and taunting you, driving you faster and harder towards the town. Finally, when you arrived a few days ago, it relented. With strict instructions to 'Rest for what's next', you check yourself into the Frozen Dream, ignore your mothers questioning glare, and wait. The silence was peaceful, until now. "Morsel...", it's deep voice whispers into your mind. "My Morsel, fate is in the air. The common room. Be ready. Soon, the time will come. Soon, you will be food." Ominous warning given, it again lapses into malevolent silence.
Katsanóron Vazrasti
It's a peaceful day and with the lack of wounded villagers requiring healing, you find yourself with all the time you need to pursue glassblowing or whatever else strikes your fancy. Early in the evening, your peace is disturbed by a loud banging at the door. Opening it, you find an unfamiliar human youth, dressed in thick traveling clothes over armour. A sword dangles from his side. Short brown hair matted with sweat crowns an otherwise unremarkable face. Blood is dripping from a cut in his forehead, and he's clutching his arm which is bent at an odd angle. "You're a healer, right? We can pay double. Please hurry." He jerks his head down the street and starts stumbling off at a rapid pace, pausing after a while to check back and see if you follow.
Ganzorig
Pyrope was antsy today. It couldn't sit still, and was always poking at things and prodding you. "Nothing, nothing" was the feeble excuse it gave, as you circled around town fine tuning and checking your traps. Finally, in the early evening, Pyrope shifts into a form akin to a more normal dog, and stalks into town. You find a trio of figures slowly walking through the village. Two of them are leaning on the third. They all appear to be somewhat injured, especially the two so on the outside. The group is traveling towards the inn. Pyrope sticks to the shadows, as if to remain unnoticed.
Hob Smith
In the evening, a knocking at your door disturbs you. Upon answering it, you find an orc youth sheepishly grinning at you. Kimarl is well known in the clan for getting up to mischief. He was one of the few infants to have been spared after the major battle, and often doesn't seem to understand how far the clan has fallen. This attitude causes him to frequently be dismissed by his elders, and he sometimes goes to you for advice. In orcish, he stammers a nervous request in contrast to his usual fast talking confident style. "H-hi Smith! Uhhh, look you wouldn't happen to know how to heal, would you? I, uh, need a favour." He steps back, and pulls a second orc into view. Bojarn, a younger female orc leans heavily on him. Blood covers her front, and she's nearly unconscious. A huge claw mark has been carved into her front.
An elf. He thought. Pointy-ears are usually mage-born. Can’t let my guard down.
”I’m looking for Kagen.” He said, bluntly. ”And the strongest ale ye’ve got. None of the piss-water the last village tried to pass off on me.”
Adventurers, or so Ganzorig hopes. Seeing that they're headed toward the inn draws the gnome to them like a moth to the flames. Maybe they would have stories. It was deeply troubling to notice the way the blood contrasted so starkly with the snow. Ganzorig didn't like that something so morbid fascinated him, but nothing else in this village was so vivid as blood, especially in the winter.
Maybe they got injured helping a unicorn out of a pit.
That would be nice.
Touching up his sleeves to bring out the color in his trapper's gear--but not so much that it might flush out his complexion--Ganzorig approaches, jogging as the men trudge. "Oh dear, what happened here? You lot certainly look worse for wear."
Yeah, Ganzorig tells himself, they got hurt, yadda yadda yadda, offer to pay for their room and a round for the able, tell some jokes, drink myself stupid, ditch them the second things get morose. Sounds like a good night. Pyrope will stay nearby. Near enough... It's been so standoffish today. I should give it some space.
Thurin
A loud laugh echoes from behind Thurin. One of the patrons, a human dressed in a long cloak and sitting in a corner is cackling and staring directly at Thurin. She salutes the dwarf with her own mug of ale and smirks.
The barkeep raises an eyebrow. "I can get ya one of those things, and it ain't the wizard." She turns around, and returns a few seconds later with a foaming mug of ale. Not incredible, but definitely an improvement on the last village. "3 coppers." She pauses, and then continues. "I'm Phe, by the way. Listen. You're not the first to come looking for him, and I doubt you'll be the last." She pauses, frowns, and props her elbows on the bar to lean closer. She conspiratorially whispers "Your wizard's been missing for a decade, pal. Not sure what you'll find here. That's why Bashar's laughing at you. She came here for him a month ago."
Ganzorig
The three are dressed in a combination of winter travelling gear and armour. Of the three, the leftmost one is barely conscious or alive. His head lolls over and is barely kept up by the central man. The one on the right is missing much of her leg below the knee, which has been tied tightly by something. She grunts with every step and ignores Ganzorig. The one in the middle is the one who responds, looking at the gnome as he talks. "Rrg. Blizzard. Orcs. Wolf." He grunts in pain, and stumbles. "Killed half dozen. This way to an inn?"
Ganzorig nods, looks down toward the inn, back to missing leg, then up to the man. "Yes, this way. I can run ahead and get some help to come meet you. This late, you'll need someone to make sure you aren't charged and arm and a leg."
Without waiting for a response, the gnome scampers off toward the inn.
Hob Smith
In the evening, a knocking at your door disturbs you. Upon answering it, you find an orc youth sheepishly grinning at you. Kimarl is well known in the clan for getting up to mischief. He was one of the few infants to have been spared after the major battle, and often doesn't seem to understand how far the clan has fallen. This attitude causes him to frequently be dismissed by his elders, and he sometimes goes to you for advice. In orcish, he stammers a nervous request in contrast to his usual fast talking confident style. "H-hi Smith! Uhhh, look you wouldn't happen to know how to heal, would you? I, uh, need a favour." He steps back, and pulls a second orc into view. Bojarn, a younger female orc leans heavily on him. Blood covers her front, and she's nearly unconscious. A huge claw mark has been carved into her front.
Hob's ears prick at the first knock. Grumbling at the interruption he slips out of bed, wrapping the blanket around him as a cloak, and walks barefoot over cold stone to the door.
His face clouds when he sees Kimarl 'If he's bothered me for some' the thought trails off as he smells blood, and for a second he worries the teens have done something stupid.
His mouth drops open when he sees the wound.
"By the wolf!" he grunts "What happened?"
He pauses for a moment, then throws the door wide "In. Quick. By the fire in the forge, I'll pump the bellows. Bojarn; stay awake."
Thurin looked over to where the laughter came from with an annoyed look on his face. To the innkeeper he slapped three coins on the table and muttered a thanks as he walked over to Bashar.
Holding his mug steadily he plopped down at the table next to the cloaked human without waiting to be invited. Bluntly he said ”Ye’ve been here a month. Ye don’t look like an idiot, so there has to be a reason. Why’s the mage gone and do ye have any leads on where he might be?”
Sure, whatever you say, buddy, Morsel silently and wryly responds to The Thing. It had been saying she would “soon” be food for a decade now, so the initial menace had become more of an annoyance to be put up with than a credible threat. Still, The Thing had driven her this far north, and at least its directions were usually good. Morsel felt these things more in her gut than as thoughts, like the gnawing hunger of a starving rat. With a grumble she rises from her warm bed and dresses to go to the common room, simple dark robes and a furred cloak. She reaches out a hand to pick up the rat that had been curled up in the crook of her neck for warmth, placing it in a pocket before heading downstairs.
She looks up from her seat in a battered armchair by the fire, mismatched eyes flicking from the small brown rat cradled in her lap to the well-armed dwarf shaking off snow as he approaches the bar. A dwarf was rare to see in this dumpy little town, but it’s clear from his armor and ridiculous hammer that he’s the adventuring sort, and this inn was where those sorts usually ended up. Morsel prepares to discount him as having much to do with what the The Thing was talking about, but pays closer attention when he asks about the old wizard. She raises an eyebrow (a gesture without much room to maneuver between her eye and the bottom ridge of her horns), disturbs the cozy rat to shift it to her shoulder, and pads over to the dwarf at Bashar’s table in her thick socks.
“What do you need to find the old man for, anyway?” Morsel hisses out as she quickly pulls out and perches on the seat next to Thurin, her voice high pitched and raspy. “Nothing but his old house here now, and no one can get in. They say it’s cursed, you know - turns little kids into things like me.” She smirks at the dwarf and Bashar, or perhaps just at her own joke, before turning to call to the elf at the bar, “Hey, Phe, pour me something, too, okay?”
Looking at the tiefling, the dwarf raised his eyebrows in alarm, his hands reflexively twitching as if though he wanted to reach for his hammer. The moment passed as quickly as it came.
"Surprised me." He said, while eyeing her rat. A witch then? Or a wizard? Looks like a familiar. Watch her hands. Make sure she isn't casting anything. He put on his best fake smile.
There. I bloody well did it. Should put her at ease. He thought to himself.
"Looking for old man because word has it that he's found a way to put fey in their place. I'd like to know what he knows. Ye've got any information, or are ye just here to drink with me. If the latter I don't rightly care, so long as ye keep yer mouse away from me drink. If it's the former, then start talkin'."
Ganzorig
The man in the centre grunts in appreciation. Within the inn, all appears normal except for an interesting looking conversation between the village tiefling, a human you've seen a few times, and an unfamiliar dwarf. Phe raises an eyebrow at your appearance but says nothing.
Hob
"Heh" Kimarl chuckles nervously as he drags Bojarn in, heading for the fire. As he settles her down, he tries to explain. "Wolf is, uh, exactly right. We were at that mansion. And then... Massive white wolf, straight outta nowhere. Cut her up." He pauses and glances at the injured orc. Bojarn chimes in, struggling to speak. "There was a b-", she trails off struggling to speak. Kimarl finishes "Blizzard. Then some humans charged it, and we fled. Can you help?"
This description matches that of The Spirit Wolf, which is described as always surrounded by a localized blizzard. It being that near town is worrying and unusual, assuming the pair are speaking the truth.
All occupants of the inn
Bashar smiles as Thurin sits down. " Nope. No leads on where he is." Her face turns somewhat sour as Morsel comes over, but she patiently allows Morsel to finish and watches the dialogue with an amused expression. "Ahem". Pointedly, Bashar clears her throat. "Don't mind her. She's wrong anyway. Someone can get in. The question is who? That's why I'm still here." Phe shoves another ale over the counter, and waves at Morsel. "See, Kagen ain't an idiot. He's the greatest abjurer of the age, after all. You don't wanna break into that house. Ohh, no." In a mockingly whiny voice, she puts up an impression: "But how will I steal his secrets without accessing the house? said every traveller in the last decade" She grins, revealing a mouth of yellowed teeth.
"He used Opon's ritual on the house. To get in, you need a key. But in the early days o' that ritual, some idiot left all the keys inside something important and locked everyone out permanently. So they modified the ritual. If you take all the keys inside, it shuts down automagically." She raises an eyebrow, nearly finished. "So 10 years ago, a wizard goes in. Never comes out, as far as we know. Wards are still up. What does that tell you?" She looks pointedly at the dwarf expecting him to conclude something, and then glances at Morsel just in case.
Opon's ritual does exactly as Bashar explained. It was originally developed by the Heretic God Opon, before the Mage War. Despite this, it's widely used in modern times as an effective protective ritual, especially because of the key failsafe.
"One of the keys is outside the thingy?" The voice comes from a young, pale gnome presently scaling a stool near the conversation.
Ganzorig nods to Phe, touching his brow and shrugging. "Oh, uh, Phe. There are some armored folk down the road. Attacked by wolves or orcs or orcs turned into wolves. I was only half-paying attention."
Turning back toward the "you meet in a tavern" in progress, Ganzorig leans in. "You folk talking about Kegan, like the Kegan who lives in the locked house Kegan? Ol' wizard-locked-inna-house Kegan? That, uh... That Kegan?"
Morsel’s smirk spreads into a mischievous smile as the dwarf recoils and grimaces, clearly put off by her but still trying to be polite. As Bashar corrects her and explains what she knows about the wizard’s mansion, Morsel’s smile fades and she pays rapt attention. She hadn’t heard about all these keys before, and had largely written off the mansion as a boring, unsolvable mystery. If it was actually possible to get in, though, surely there would be very trinkets worth nabbing inside.
From her seat, Morsel points a scarred hand at the drink on the bar, curling it into a claw, and concentrates for a moment. The image of a stray mutt lapping at a dirty puddle flashes through her mind, and she growls quietly. The ale gently lifts off the counter and carefully floats through the air toward her until it reaches her hand. She lifts the mug to her mouth for a drink, before setting it down and looking seriously at Bashar. “So, what, you’re saying Kagen’s still in there? Trapped or something? I thought he left town or something.” Morsel tilts her head quizzically.
At the sound of the front door opening, Morsel quickly turns her head to see who it is, whip-like tail twitching from side to side like a feisty cat’s. “Hey ‘Zo,” she greets the gnome, giving him a lazy wave with her free hand. Why is everyone out tonight? I mean, it’s not like mom and pop don’t need the business… Is this what The Thing was trying to tell me about? She takes another sip. “Anyway, ‘Zo, yes, that Kegan. But also, wait, what’s this about folks being attacked? Also,” she adds, “have you ever paid attention to anything more than halfway?” Her smirk is not unkind, hoping the gnome doesn’t mind a bit of friendly teasing.
Hob swore reflexively, then paused for a few moments while he thought things through, then swore again. "The Spirit Wolf? That close to town? And you left a blood trail back to my place?" He held up a hand "No. You did the right thing with bad materials.Not your fault."
Hob turned to the alarm bell and rang it a few times "Don't want it killing everyone in the house while they're still in their beds"
"Alright. Bojarn. I've nothing to treat anything bigger than a cut here. We need to get you a healer. A good one. Katsanóron Vazrasti, maybe. She's got a gift." He turned to look into the Orc woman's face. "Cold and clot is the best we've got right now. I can put bandages on it, but they'll just soak up the blood, and if I peel your furs off I might rip it open worse. I could try searing it shut, but the shock might kill you, and it'll never heal right."
He looks gravely into the young orc's face "So: No messing around here. No-one cares now if you look weak - Wolf's killed a lot of orcs - but I have to know; do you think you can last long enough for me to carry you into town?"
While he speaks Hob does his untrained best to try to decide whether Bojarn is bleeding out as they speak.
So; I don't think she's in Dying, she's stabilised as long as she doesn't do more than a move? Proceeding on that theory, 'cos with no Heal I don't think Hob can stabilise her.
If time is that critical he'll cut down on donning - starting with a hastily donned breastplate and then down to just going in his pyjamas. He'll take the armor with him, though.
Hob gestured to his armour, and to Kimarl. "Right. Help me get into that. If the Wolf comes for us, I'll hold it up while you two run. I've not got an orc weapon here, but my Smith's Sword is close enough to a Falchion to do you for now. We'll use the tower shield as a stretcher, do our best to make sure we don't bump her around."
Ganzorig nods to Morsel, one of the few folks around town who get more lingering glances than he does. The gnome gives the tiefling a sidelong smile and taps his temple. "See, if you only pay half, you see twice as many things."
Now that he's hustled across the room, the gnome gets a good look at the stranger; big, thick-limbed dwarf that he is. The hammer he's got is probably heavier than Ganzorig himself. This would have to be the one stirring up about Kegan again. The townies should know better. "Ganzorig Tengrin Tomor Xian, fey trapper, at your service sir- pardon... I've heard it's hard for other races to distinguish dwarf gals from dwarf guys. I hope I haven't blundered already." The gnome flashes a genuine smile, and looks charmingly flustered.
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Thurin looked down at the gnome, a flash of annoyance on his face. ”Dwarven lasses haven’t got beards. Common misconception from those who don’t know us. Common slur from those who do.”
He glared. Beards! Always beards. Blasted fools have never felt the soft hair from the chin of a Dwarven lass! Nothing so soft, nothing so precious. Fools the lot of them. Or jealousy, perhaps? Yes, that’d explain it.
The gnome points to his own chin. "I haven't a beard either." Ganzorig winks, then breaks eye contact to look about for a drink, sees none, and pulls a silver from his pouch and drops it on the table.
"I can see that." The dwarf muttered. Then, turning back to everyone else...
"What I'm hearing is this. We need to find a way to break the wards. No other way without a key, that I know of. I doubt it'll work, but I'm fairly adept at breaking enchantments. Makes killing wizards easier. This Kegan, if the rumors are true, is probably far too adept for anything I can muster. But if we don't have any other ideas besides drinking for the next few months, then it's worth a shot."
"Yes, I'm a healer," Katsanóron says, scooping up her winter shawl and hurrying out into the gathering storm after the young man. "Hold on just one moment, we'll get there faster if you're in better shape."
Closing the door behind her, Katsanóron wraps her thick woolen shawl about her shoulders and quickly catches up with the young man. Wincing slightly, she plucks a snowbell from her hair and presses it lightly to his chest. There is a brief flash, and in an instant glowing green-gold roots spring out from the flower, wrapping the young man entirely in glowing tracery. After a moment the light fades, and the flower crumbles into silvery dots the swirl away in the snow.
"There," she says. "Lead on. My name is Katsanóron Vazrasti. Most people call me Katsa for short."
The inn
Phe narrows her face at Ganzorig. "They look like they got money?" She holds out a mug, offering to pour one for the gnome.
Bashar frowns at Morsel, clearly uncomfortable by her presence. She flinches at the floating mug, and shuffles her stool back a little. "That's the question, ain't it. Last time anyone saw him, he was walking towards the house." She drowns the rest of her ale, and waves for another. "They didn't realize he was missing for weeks. No one knows if he left." She turns to Thurin. "You'd be a sight braver than I to try smashing that door down."
Hob
Bojarn nods slowly and swallows. "Yes." She tries to smile weakly, but is clearly in pain. Kimarl nervously helps with your armour, and soon you're suited in full plate. The two of you depart into the evening, carefully suspending the stretcher between you. After a few minutes of trudging through the snow, with Bojarn moaning at every step, you finally approach Kat's house. The streets are quiet tonight, and few houses have lights in the windows to keep the darkness at bay. The snowfall is slowly increasing, and a dusting of the powder settles on Hob's shoulders. As you arrive, you see Kat out front with a human.
Katsa and Hob
He sighs as your healing flows through him. "Thanks. You're good." He pauses for a moment, and looks at the ground. "Katsa. Morrow." He points to himself. Turning, Morrow starts to jog down the street. "This way", he calls over his shoulder. "We got attacked by-" He cuts off as he notices the trio of orcs. Spinning, Morrow turns towards Hob and strides forwards. Kimarl shrinks back. "Hey!" Morrow glares at Kimarl and places a hand on his sword. "By Aza, what was that thing?" Then he glances up at Hob. Hastily, he pulls his hand away from his sword and raises his hands.
In the short walk from Katsa's house, flakes of dusty snow acumulate on her shawl, flipped up over her head like a hood. They glitter in the light from Katsa's windows.
Noting the aggressive posturing, Katsanóron pats Morrow on the shoulder, saying "Easy there, Morrow. Don't go making any more work for me, hey?" She glances over at the other group. "Same goes for you three. I see you've brought a patient. Let me have a look."
Katsa walks to the stretcher and kneels beside it. "Oh, my," she says, taking in the extent of the damage. "What did this?"
She reaches to her head once again and plucks a bluebell, laying it on the injured orc woman's chest. The flower lies still for a moment, then rapidly spreads and grows, until the orc's entire body is covered in enormous petals. The snow glitters and shines in their pale violet glow.
The glow fades and the petals slide away into nothing.
Ganzorig shrugs at Phe, accepting the mug. "I saw armor and missing limbs. Not exactly a cultural atache. D'ya think someone should point them to Katsa's? I'd hate to drag her out of bed, especially if some poor soul got it in their head to raid the orcs." He takes a gulp of ale, then looks disgusted. "That's out there by Kegan's isn't it? Nuts."
Turning back to the trio of burglars, he asks, "You three wouldn't want legitimate reason to go snooping around the permises in the dead of night would you? Unfortunately it might save a woman's life if you did."
Morsel follows the conversation silently, picking out old crumbs of something from the table and lifting them up for the rat on her shoulder to take hold of in its tiny claws to chew. She nods at Bashar’s answers. Morsel was genuinely grateful to have someone here from outside for the past few days; Bashar obviously thought she was a freak (and she was probably right), but at least the adventuring sorts would talk to her instead of shunning her or shouting curses. They tended to be blatant about other things.
Morsel blinks at Thurin, then Ganzorig. Missing limbs? Saving lives? What in the nine hells is going on tonight? Briefly, she thinks of a pirate she once met in a warmer place. “You’re going to have to explain that last part, ‘Zo. Besides,” she replies, turning to address the dwarf, “some of us might not in the business of saving lives.” She lifts her mug to her lips while maintaining eye contact with Thurin, and a forked tongue darts into the ale before retreating back behind the tiefling’s weather-cracked lips. “You kill wizards.” It wasn’t a question. “Do you intend to kill Kagen?” she asks matter-of-factly, sitting still and serious except for the agitated motions of her tail.
Hob bows - a quick nod to Morrow, and a slower grateful bow to Katsanóron.
Quickly he summarises the issue.
"The two children" the term is borderline insult, even more so to those on the cusp of adulthood, and is used advisedly "Were playing out near the Wizard's House." in this town there is no need to clarify which wizard's house was meant. "Along came The Wolf and tried to eat them, when some humans jumped in. The children showed sense and left. Not sure about the humans."
"We need to get word to the town to prepare. If the Spirit Wolf's this close it might come all the way in. Even if it doesn't kill someone directly, the Blizzard it brings with it might." he looks over at Morrow and then back "We should check to see if any of the humans made it out, if you feel like the trip. Find out the end of the Tale at least."
"I know, right? It's just there's these three injured dummies out there, and they might need someone to run out and fetch the flower girl--Katsanóron Vazrasti?--have her fix up the wounded. That one with the missing leg might need it, but I'm certainly not going out there alone at night. If you three were interested in heading that way, however, I might be persuaded -and if we're spotted by Kegan, or gods forbid accidentally break his door when we knock, it would give us an excuse. Kegan set up shop in Katsa's back yard you know." -and give me a reason to vamoose once Kegan starts sending folk to the shadow realm.
The gnome turns toward the door, taking another gulp from the mug which he's holding in both hands. "They should be shambling in any minute."
"The Spirit Wolf? That's bad news," Katsanóron says. "I think the other fellow there must have been with the humans. He was pretty beat up and apparently came on behalf of one of his friends, who's even worse off."
"Where to, Morrow? Where's your injured friend?" she asks him.
Thurin sipped his ale, wondering what was in it. He had expected a small, sleepy village, much like all of the other wastes-of-space he had seen thus far. Full of slack-jawed, inbred idiots who couldn't tell their arse from a plow. He was shocked to find how different this place was. So far was drinking with a tiefling, a gnome, and now in came a blue-skinned...elven plant-woman? Some kind of spell gone wrong, obviously. He'd have to keep an eye on her. And now an orc as well! The first person that he was glad to see. He had never seen an orc before, but he had heard of them. It almost made sense...if there was ever to be a village with strange people in it then it would be this one. Gods knew that he was as strange as any other, and here he was!
Sadly, they were all talking about Spirit Wolves, Blizzards, and injured folk. Three things that he wasn't familiar with, and which were firmly placed in the category of 'not-his-problem-but-interesting.' Finishing off his ale he got up and walked after the gnome.
She moves quickly, lighter on her feet than it looks like she should be. It could almost be called elegant, if the motion didn’t give the impression of something scurrying in the corner. She reappears soon after wearing a pair of fur lined boots and sliding her rat into a warm inside pocket before fastening her cloak and pulling the hood over her head - with two holes made for her horns, of course. There’s also a well-oiled whip at her belt. “Alright, ‘Zo, let’s go find the healer before someone has to try to dig a grave in this weather.” Seeing that the dwarf has also risen to investigate, she nods at him. “I’m called Morsel. What do I call you, killer?” she asks as she heads for the door, bracing for the cold trek to Katsa’s place.
"Thurin. Don't call me names I haven't earned yet." He said, as he went for the door.
Hob turns in surprise to the human, and bows lower. "Good work." He shoulders his shield and starts to turn, then stops.
"Hold on." Hob rumbles, thinking. "There's a story from the old days. This couple run into the Wolf. The Wolf injures one, then leaves. The injured one can't move, so the other runs for help. Comes back with a healer." Hob turns grim "Wolf was waiting. Killed them all, took out the tribe's best healer."
The Orc turned to look at Katsanóron Vazrasti "The inn's just over there, right? Let's get some of those adventurers who are always causing trouble. Maybe some militia. Then we go as a group." Hob turns to Morrow, doubt in his voice "Unless your lot killed it?"
Phe sighs, and continues trying to scrub the filthy counter. "Do what you will. I don't really care. Always more death round here." She shakes her head and looks down, although the tilt of her ears implies she's still keenly listening. The few other patrons in the bar have fallen silent and are watching the show.
Bashar raises her eyebrows at Ganzorig's suggestion. "Oooh no. Not me. You have fun though." She laughs, and shakes her head. "Bunch o' fools" she mutters. At Morsel's request, Phe remarks "I'll add it to your tab", and throws some fabric at the tiefling as she returns to the room.
The three of you leave the inn together, into the cold dark night. The sun is down, and no stars are visible through the thick clouds. Snow crunches underfoot, and it feels as though the chill penetrates into your very souls. Light shines from under the doors of a few of the houses, although no villager is about. Far down the street, you can just make out a silhouette of three figures stumbling towards the inn. One is clearly legless. Beyond them, a larger collection of figures emerges at a jog. The natives can clearly identify the massive armoured figure of Hob, but the other four shadows are harder to identify. One of them starts running at the humans.
Bojarn's flesh flows together, and she gasps a shuddery breath. "T-thank you", she mutters in thickly accented common. The orc clambers to her feet on shaking legs, and glares at Kimarl. In orcish, she continues "Idiot." Kimarl frowns at Hob's insult.
Morrow leans back in surprise at Hob's bow, and then seems to relax. "There were twelve of us. Now four, if Mhia hasn't bled to death yet. He sighs, and looks at the ground concern and regret etched on his face. [b]"Saw a pair of orcs under attack. Charged. Got wiped." Swallowing, he struggles for speech. "We fled. Others held it off." He shrugs, and starts walking. "First door we knocked at gave us this lovely lady's house" He waves at Katsa, "And directions to the inn. We agreed to meet there."
Morrow exclaims in surprise. "That thing is intelligent?" to Hob's story. His voice betrays fear. "We left before the fight finished." He sighs. "But it didn't look good"
As a group, you travel towards the inn in relative silence. Despite Hob's efforts, few in the village have stirred and the street is still empty. The sun is down and the night is dark. Approaching the inn, you see three figures, who can barely walk. The door to The Frozen Dream swings open, and in the spray of light, you see emerging a dwarf, a gnome, and a tiefling. Morrow breaks from your group, and sprints for the humans.
Katsa follows Morrow forward. "I'm the healer," she says to the other humans. "You have a patient?"
Hob thinks to offer comfort - but there is no comfort. The Spirit Wolf is a nightmare given flesh. All the power of a blizzard, the cunning of a wolf, and the cruelty of a man. 'Odds are his friends are dead already.'
Hob looms out of the dark, arm raised to stop the Orcs joining Katsa and Morrow on their run. Keen black eyes play over the figures emerging, and he carefully walks slowly forward.
[Outside the Inn]
As Ganzorig leaves the inn, he looks about for signs of Pyrope, spotting the dog's nose poking out of a stack of split firewood. He would know if it wandered off too far, but the little gnome wasn't about to run off into the forest without it.
Sated, Ganzorig looks down the road at the injured trio, now shadowed by a group including one of the orcs. "See? I told you they angered the orcs."
When Katsa comes forward, Ganzorig can't help but feel a little disappointed. "That's a big pack of wolves to injure so many." The gnome's gaze returns to Pyrope, eyes narrowed accusingly.
Katsa
The three are in rough shape. One of them is missing most of her leg below the knee, and another is covered in smaller wounds and has lost a lot of blood. The central figure is actually standing under his own power, and he sighs with relief as Morrow shows up. The two of them gently lower the injured to the ground. "Two." says the unknown man "Thank you".
Hob
The two orcs willingly stay back, although you can sense Kimarl getting antsy. No doubt he wants to either fly off to avoid trouble, or investigate and cause more. Bojarn places a hand on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear, which appears to calm him down.
Ganzorig
Pyrope lopes out of the wood pile, and snifs at your feet. Silent, no doubt due to the surrounding figures, it gives you a baleful stare and whines.
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”Great.” The dwarf said, unhelpfully. ”Now we have wolves strong enough to kill orcs. Who are reputed to be tough fookers.” He stomped over to the injured and looked down at them. ”Yer a healer? I’ve dabbled myself. Let me see how ye treat these poor sods.”
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Morsel flinches against the cold wind and pulls her cloak’s hood tighter around her face as she stuffs the bandages into her pocket. She pats another pocket to check that her rat is safely secured in a relatively warm spot and trudges forward into the snow with Ganzorig and Thurin. She trails behind them, seeing that the travelers Ganzorig spoke of have arrived and attracted half the village to them, including Ganzorig’s dog.
Having so many people around, especially so many strange humans, starts to bring up bad memories of the fights Morsel would get into growing up in this cold armpit of a town, so she hangs back and observes. Luckily the humans seem far too injured to be jumpy about her appearance after their ordeal.
She resolves to move forward once Thurin approaches the injured travelers. Not wanting to surprise him with potential danger about, she steps over to him trying her best to suppress her instinct for subtlety and be obvious about crunching through the snow. “You don’t get to demand those things of Katsanóron,” she chides the dwarf. She looks up and aims to make eye contact with the woman. As far as Morsel was concerned, Katsanóron was the other village freak. More helpful, attractive, kind, and generally liked than Morsel was, yes - but the tiefling couldn’t help but feel a kind of connection to the strange half-elven woman. Turning her attention back to Thurin, she adds, “Either ask nicer or offer to pay for a lesson, and don’t interrupt her work.”
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"Take them into the inn," Katsa says. "The cold will do them no good."
Inside, Katsanóron examines the patients. "There's not much I can do about a missing leg, I'm afraid; but I can ease your other wounds," she is saying to them as the unknown dwarf stomps up and makes his demand. She shoots him a measuring glance but makes no immediate response. She nods a polite thanks to Morsel.
Standing up, Katsa places her hands flat on her chest. She closes her eyes, dips her chin down for one moment of stillness; inhales. And then:
A breath of warm air riffles through the inn, sending loose bits of paper fluttering and ruffling Katsa's hair. It smells of green grass on the long slopes of a spring dawn, with a hint of early-blooming flowers. Across the bar, one of the wooden chairs spontaneously sprouts a small branch, much to the consternation of the patron sitting in it, who goggles as the branch unfurls leaves and cherry blossoms. The chill of winter retreats -- the darkness outside is full of swirling snow, but for a moment, no one feels the bite, as a flood of warmth pushes back all their aches and pains.
Then it fades. The warmth slips away, the scent fades, and the branch struggles for a moment to hold on, then breaks into particles of light and drifts to the floor before winking out.
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The Orcs rumble a little as they pass into the inn, and Hob removes his helmet in politeness. When the energy passes through him he stands a little stronger and waves for a round.
"Not wolves." he says to the dwarf, helpfully. "A Wolf. The Spirit Wolf. Snow White, and always in a Blizzard. Cold as death. Mean as man. Hunted the Tribe 'till they were all but gone. Picked 'em off over years. You picked a bad time to visit."
He turned to Morrow "This all of them, then?" 'All left, at any rate'
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As the others file in, Ganzorig stays near the door whispering to Pyrope. "A spirit wolf? Isn't that the kind of thing Kegan usually keeps at bay? If something like that is getting so bold, maybe there is something wrong with the blighted abjurer."
Scratching the soot-black dog behind the ears, Ganzorig makes sure the magic suppressing the its magical aura is still in place, and refreshes the nodes which are prone to deterioration. Especially if they'll be traveling with the mage-killer, it wouldn't do to have Pyrope's fey nature bleed through.
Morsel follows the crowd back into the inn, glad to be spared the freezing wind for now as she pushes back her hood. Her rat squirms in her pocket before poking its head out, wriggling out and scampering up her robes to nest in the thick hair draped over Morsel’s shoulders.
She hangs back from Katsa’s healing, slinking over to Morrow. “Go on, answer him,” she rasps out, lowering her head until it's uncomfortably close to the youth’s. She makes brief eye contact with Hob before continuing, her expression flat and inscrutable. “And while you're at it, why were there so many of you out in a blizzard anyway?”
Thurin shook his head at the tiefling. ”I can and I will. The orcs need healing, and they need it done right. She does it right, and mayhaps I’ll learn something. She fooks it up and I’ll be here to fix it. Either way, the right thing happens. If that hurts your feelings, go see a healer.”
As he said this, he felt the healing power of Katsa’s healing flow over him. He smiled. Barely. ”And with that, I see that it is done right.” He looked at Katsa for a long moment, in his mind judging her. When the awkward moment was over he muttered ”She’s better than me. Good. More to learn. Doesn’t look like a threat. Good magic? Hrmm...” The flow of the conversation was already shifting, towards the spirit wolf and the missing mage. If the dwarf realized that he was failing to make any friends, then he didn’t show it.
With so many available hands, getting the injured inside is effortless. Phe gives an amused smile as the odd crowd gathers in the bar area and gently calls "Ale for your troubles?". Bashar shakes her head, and tries to catch Thurin's eye. If she does, she mouths at him "Fools".
While Morrow, or the only uninjured human visitor, is paying rapt attention to the healer debate, the other humans are too focused on being wounded to care much. Morrow glares at Thurin, and clears his throat aggressively. He appears to be about to speak, until Morsel steps in, causing his face to shift from relief to sheer amazement at Morsel's odd appearance. Katsa's healing radiates over the inn, and brings the injured just about back to life. Phe glares at the unfurling branch and opens her mouth to complain, before deciding that such a comment may start a fight with the healer's supporters. Morrow quietly says "How much?" to Katsa.
Ganzorig's dog is reluctant to come in, but agrees to after the gnome touches up the magic. It's a small kinda mangey thing, and it sticks close to it's gnome.
Morrow only manages to spit out a rather nervous "Uh" to Hob, before a tiefling descends upon him. He grimaces and tries to focus on Hob, shifting away from the strange faced Morsel. "Yes." He places a hand on Morsel's shoulder, and pushes to make some room. "I'll tell you the story when we have shelter. What are you, anyway?" Getting the others sheltered takes about a minute, and consists entirely of Morrow paying Phe for a room, and then getting the other three inside of it. He returns to the common room, sighs, rubs his hands on his face, and settles down at a table to tell the story.
"We're messengers. A small fortune was paid to get this", he holds out a thick sealed durable envelope, "transported very quickly. Even if I knew what it said, I wouldn't tell you". He places the envelope within his armour, and then waves at Phe signalling a desire for drinks. "We're just passing through." Phe delivers a mug for him, and oddly doesn't demand instant payment, perhaps bribed by the glimpse of the large coinpurse he paid for the room out of. Morrow pauses to talk a large gulp of ale, and then continues. "For an hour before the fight, something was stalking us. It shot our horses one by one, but never us. We never saw it. Strangely large arrows. Any ideas?" He looks around.
You're pretty convinced that this doesn't match any local characters or stories. The fey in the woods are known for being sneaky and using arrows, but they have no reason or precedent for attacking random travellers and nothing against horses. Additionally, their arrows are normal sized.
"Then it started blizzarding. We followed the road, and found a massive wolf standing over those two" He waves at the two orcs that came in with Hob, one female, one male, and both quite young. The boy lowers his gaze embarrassed. The girl turns to Hob and whispers something in orcish. "Rhak cho choss, hazzak korrin volgur ahak skor ind"
"This idiot was trying to break into the wizard's house to impress me."
Morrow ignores the comment. "Our commander yells charge, so we do. Those two disappear. We start dying." He shakes his head, and drowns more ale. "Our swords wouldn't hurt it, the wind deflected our arrows, and ice speared those out of reach of the claws. We four fled as the others held it off. Woke up some villager, got directions to here. Questions?" He looks around the group.
Hob frowns at the younger Orc, and looks down as Morrow finishes "Don't reckon anyone else made it out. That's the wolf alright."
"Do you have any of the arrows?" Hob demands "Can't think of anything around here that uses large arrows except maybe Orcbows. Tend to be about" Hob gestures a size, perhaps ten percent larger than a normal arrow. "Fey tend to small, if they use arrows at all, and poisoned. They do use smaller javelins - could've been javelins?" he pauses "Maybe a ballista? "
"No stories about people working with the Wolf. Could've been chance. No stories about really big arrows 'round here either; I'd say they're more linked to your message than our town."
"Either way, you fought the Wolf. If you need a room, local Tribe'll put you up - or I will." He nods, and looks down again. "Give me the name of those who fell, and I'll put up a stone, try to find the bodes tomorrow. What's left of them."
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Ganzorig is distracted, momentarily by the Envelope of Infinite Mystery. His fingers run against themselves as he considers palming it for a peek, but it disappears into Morrow's armor, so until they bed down, there likely wouldn't be any chance of it.
When Morrow mentions that their weapons were ineffective against the creature, Ganzorig's hand touches the silvered dagger inside his robe. The town was lousy with cold iron weapons, which he found hard to wield even if he could raise such a blade in Pyrope's presence. The gnome kept the dagger for the other sort of dangers that turned steel.
Morsel says nothing in response to Thurin’s mockery, but her tail starts to swish in agitation. She focuses her attention instead on harassing Morrow, who proves to be a much easier target. When he pushes her away and asks his rude question she responds with a neutral expression, “I’m the innkeeper’s daughter - just like in those racy three-copper broadsheets. Isn’t it obvious?” Morsel sits ready to receive the lad’s response, but thinks of something and turns toward the bar to ask, “Hey, Phe, where are Mom and Pop, anyway?”
She turns back just in time to see the boy place a very tempting envelope down the front of his armor. Morsel makes a mental note to investigate later when the weirdness has died down. She shakes her head at the question about the arrows and pipes up after Hob. “Doesn’t line up with anyone or anything around here. And the fey seem unlikely even if they did have arrows that large. They aim for riders, not horses. Sounds like you brought some new danger to town with you.”
She listens patiently to the rest of Morrow’s story, and manages to catch some commentary from the orc girl as well. Straining to hear, she just manages to pick up the message. When Morrow asks for questions, Morsel throws in, “When were you planning on telling us that you tried to break into the mansion? Or did you just plan on leaving that little bit out of the story? Are you burglars in addition to messengers, or did I just guess wrong about which broadsheets you like?”
---
"No. We didn't keep them." Morrow shakes his head at Hob and frowns. "As terrifying as orcbows sound, whoever was shooting at us used bigger than that. Arvy said giants, but there's no way something that big could've been that sneaky." He sighs. "Thanks. We'll sleep here tonight, and agree on a plan tomorrow. I'd like to go with you to see the bodies." He smiles at the smith and claps him on the shoulder. "You're a good man."
Phe smirks at Morsel. "Sleeping. Say, ain't it past your bedtime?" she calls out in a teasing tone.
Morrow, either due to the earlier tragedies of the evening or the copious quantities of alcohol disappearing down his throat, does an admirable job of ignoring Morsel's jab. "Very obvious", he mutters. Her comment on the arrows does merit a more lively response, however. "Likely. We were told to expect danger."
"Planning to break in to the..." Morrow trails off from repeating Morsel and frowns. "I wasn't". Confusion plastered on his face, his eyes dart around until the guilty face of one of Hob's charges clues him in. "Is that what you two were doing?" he asks of the orcs. Of Hob's two charges, the girl nods. She mutters in accented common "My name Bojarn. Kimarl break into house. I watch." She waves at the other orc. "Don't get in. Then wolf." Kimarl tries his absolute best to hide behind the impressive bulk of Hob Smith.
"The lot of you should get some rest," Katsanóron tells her patients. "I know it feels better, and it is, but you've still suffered some terrible trauma. You'll need time to sort yourselves out. Rest will do you good."
Once they are safely on their way to some warm beds, Katsa makes her way to the bar and takes a seat. "Just a glass of cider, please," she says. "Mulled, if you have it."
She lends only half an ear to the conversation around her until Bojarn makes her halting explanation of what they'd been up to. At that, Katsa turns and looks the two orc teens, and particularly Kimarl.
Noting his mix of embarrassment, defiance, and general teenage mule-headedness, Katsa purses her lips thoughtfully. She turns back to the bar to collect her drink, pulling the necessary coins from her belt pouch and sliding them across the counter.
She sips at her cider and listens.
Ganzorig waits for an opportunity to get Morsel's attention. He speaks in gnomish, but doesn't trust that the Great Bearded One hasn't learned the tongue, so he whispers and throws his voice to Morsel's shoulder.
If Morsel turns to look, Ganzorig will spare her the extra disembodied voice by Effecting a shoulder devil: a tiny tentacle-faced Ganzorig with slick lavender skin and a crystal orb. (A red devil would have been insensitive, and the misdirection is better humor anyway.)