.
To Demgazi
.
☦ ¤ ♜ ¤ ♬ ¤ ♞ ¤ ♆ ¤ ☀
Linkah grabs a couple of hours cakes from the plate of food in the table between them. Hearing Nosatrub's inquiry, he speaks around a mouth of food. "Oy, got ya a dwarfy iron-splitter o'er near the market. He's gots racks o' killin' toys, but there's o' e'en better thing he gots, mate..." Linkah hops down from the chair and swings a small hand towards the door. "...this dwarfy gotsa gnome artificuh. C'mon, steel-shanks," the halfling beckons to Nosatrub. "...I'll bet they can get ya outfitted."
Linkah trots his way out of the tavern - the Rusted Ax - and leads those attending towards the market in the Northwest of town. "Let's get a move on, chumeroos. I don't wanna be late for Captain Lovely-legs' dinner tonight. Spivey's cookin' up some lambshanks!" Over the passed several days aboard ship, it was clear Linkah had developed a love for Spivey's food. The halfling cook reminded him of his uncle he'd left behind in Cassomir.
Nearing the market area, the clarion call of a forge hammer can be heard among the shouts and bustle. Linkah points a little finger towards a low-roofed blacksmith shop with a simple sign reading "Corg's". Inside the establishment, those standing above 5 and 1/2 ft are forced to stoop. In addition they're greeted with the acrid smells of both forge fore and alchemical mixtures. In the deep dark of the shop you can hear the cursing voice of a gnome as he goes about his business.
"Ya here ta stare r'ya gonna get ta business?" A brown haired dwarf stumps over from the forge bellows, shirtless save for the heavy apron about his chest. He's a hairy fellow with stern eyes that look to bare no nonsense. As such, those eyes narrow with suspicion at the sight of Linkah.
.
To Demgazi
.
☦ ¤ ♜ ¤ ♬ ¤ ♞ ¤ ♆ ¤ ☀
Agidor stretches his neck and rolls a casual glance Drogan's way. "If you're interested, mate, there's a nice n' rowdy hole in the wall just past the market I've heard is lousy with mercenaries n' dwarves." He drums a jaunty beat on his guitar case. "What I didn't hear is word of proper musicians.. Seems like such a waste, eh?"
He leans over to the dwarf and whispers,
Agidor leans back and finishes his drink. "If we got time, chaps," He looks Beckett's way. "...maybe we look in on this Druid and Priest over in the market area. See what they know about the rumors on the east road."
The market area in Golsifar is a rowdy place, full of sailors and soldiers and mercenaries bartering their wares from north and south and east and west. Passed Crog's Forge and the wet market and the assorted stalls lay a wood and stone tavern named Elber's Last. By its name the establishment looks ready to keel over but for the haphazard stone buttresses on the east wall. Out front a trio of dwarves debate the effectiveness of ax blades when it comes to chopping down the local trees. From inside the sounds of shouting and drinking can easily be heard, even though the sun is 3 hours away from setting.
|
"What types of critters are these? If they are so much trouble, surely these Phalanx people would see to them, if they have such authority. Have you dealt with these... critters... much? How close have these things gotten to Demgazi?" He drops in again, watching their faces for any spark on the name.
Karl nods toward the paladin and converses with Linkah as he takes in the armorers stock.
"Good to have you back Link. Let's get our business done in town, I'm not going to miss what is likely to be our last few great meals in this place."
"You think she is going to keep dockside for us link? Or is she going to take her ship back out to sea?"
"What did Father Argus send with us in those crates anyway? I haven't been very engaged as of late. I need to get my legs back under me."
Drogan smiles as he hears the smack and thump of old Dwarven come to his ears. It had been so long since he'd heard it spoken by someone who wasn't trying to kill him. It felt good to hear words without pain of death behind them for a change.
He leaves them be and makes his way inside. If the sounds of revelries outside seemed loud, a man could hardly hear his own voice among the cacophany inside. There was a great deal of cheerful jesting and heavy drink. Sailors, it appears, do not care for the sun's location in the sky when it comes to their drinking. Any time ashore is time for drink, and they are everywhere. As he watches the stumbling youth, he takes note that many of them appear less accustomed to drink then they are to the sea.
The rest of the bar was filled with his folk, but a particular band of dwarves catches his eye. At a corner table he sees a pack of them looking not unkind, but clearly out of sorts. Traveling merchants on their way from one port or another. They wore the mark of Highhelm, though he did not know them. He never had cared to tread the market district much past a few artisan friends of his, so it was hardly surprising. He didn't wear the mark. Hadn't since he left the walls of the citadel behind him. He shakes his head, refusing to directly hail them out of shame and guilt, but it stokes a fire in him. He could not go back to Highhelm - but perhaps he could bring Highhelm to Golsifar.
He walks to the bar and address the barkeep - a rough, wirey human with red hair and close cut beard. He lays three coins down on the table.
What's this then," the bartender questioned above the noise, "What's it you want?"
Drogan picked up first coin and displayed it. "A drink to the Drunken Hero fer courage on the road."
Picked up the second, "A drink to Torag, fer safety an' outta respect fer the forge that birthed mah people."
Picked up the third, "And a drink fer mahself, because the other two 'ave kept me here and alive te drink it."
The bartender turns to get three pints, but Drogan catches his arm, "Wait, mah friend, ah wasn't done. How 'bout a bit a fun fer those coins before we get straight te the matter a fact of the business?"
The bartender smirks "I'm listening."
"You don't have a musician in this fine pub - despite plenty a fine souls and finder spirits. You let me and mine set up shop, play ONE TUNE, and if we can't get every man, woman, & lesser beasty in here clappin' and dancin' along - I'll pay you straight what I've promised an' you call it square." He raises his finger into the air and smiles through bright teeth, "BUT, if we ken shake this buildin's timbers with every man jack in the place - you will not only let me an' mine drink for free - but will buy the house a round in a toast te Cayden Cailean. What ye say to it?"
Drogan waits as the bartender considers. Agidor leans in, "You sure you have the right of this, Drogan? Can't anyone hardly hear a dragon howl for the noise in here let alone our playing?"
The dwarf gives him a wink and smiles. The Bartender agrees, brimming with confidence that it can't be done.
Drogan looks to the bard, "Follow along as best ye can. Doubt you've heard this one, but I promise ye won't forget it either."
He pulls the drum from across his back and begins to thump the rhythm of a tune he hadn't thought to play in these months on the road. The Axe of Taargick's Glory - practically a prerequisite for any bar man or anvil basher in all of Highhelm. It began slow. Long, powerful beats left to hang in the air, but as the pace began to quicken, the tone beginning to shift the heads at that corner table all turned.
Drogan's arms flailed as if possessed by Torag himself - thumping and smacking the skin of his drum like war drums and fire - anvil and steel. The dwarven merchants stood as the song grew to its pace, catching the eyes of a few other bar patrons, but stopping only a few from their previous course. But as 5 of them lined the floor - more eyes began to turn. It was only when two of them lept into the air, coming down on the table with the downbeat that the dance had begun. Each heavy boot on floorboard or table plank adding to the pounding rhythm from the drum. Agidor added his guitar - a bit of chord work that flittered about their legs like a bird amid a crash of thunder.
Drogan and the Highhelm merchants began to sing as the rhythm wound it's way back round to the start:
"Taargick said to darkened souls
There must be more to life below
And so he rose through conquered foes
Swinging Taargick's glo-ry
The axe cut clean and ever-true
Nothin' left for dwarves to do
Say farewell to hearth and flue
To follow Taargick's glo-ry
Lost to fire and dragon's bite
Rests the Dwarvish Lords' last light
And soon we'll end that dragon's s$#!e
And reclaim Taargick's glo-ry"
More verses were added, even a few that the merchants tossed in that Drogan had never heard before. It was the nature of the song to pick up new additions with each playing, so when he didn't know the words - he simply drummed the harder.
First the other dwarves jumped in, picking up the steps. Then folks of the other races and towns awkwardly found their way around the dwarven dance. Before long, the rafters shook with the stepping and not a man among them was left standing still.
The song ended with a swirling chaos, ending as quickly as it had begun. Huge waves of applause filled the tavern, only quieted by the bartender, who shouted, "A ROUND ON THE HOUSE IN THE NAME OF THE LUCKY DRUNK. Let's drink to Cayden Cailean, Lads - and thank him for bringing our friend the bard over there for makin' the night."
The cheers rose again, as he was surrounded by dwarves and his kinsmen from Highhelm. He laughed, and drank, and played the whole night away - and could not recall a time when he had been happier.
.
To Demgazi
.
☦ ¤ ♜ ¤ ♆ ¤ ☀
》Karl
》Nosatrub
》Beckett
》Lavios (?)
》Linkah
Linkah leans against one of the posts holding up the forge's porch area and pulls an apple from his pouch. Taking a bite out of it he stares up at Karl. "Me thinks Captain Nice-legs will be sailing north ta keep coin flowin' to the crew." He gives the old warrior a wink. "But don'tcha worry none, Marshy. Ol' Linkah will stick with ya."
"As for what the vicar (Argus) sent our way," the halfling giggles and responds. "I might've had a peek. Look like some scrolls and a some water jars. Holy waters my guess. He did give me this little thing here..." He withdraws a folded letter held within a thick envelope. "The vicar says it's a note to the Headmaster o' the school. Gets us all sorts o' good will built right in..."
He hands the envelope over, the item sealed with wax bearing the signet of the Scales of Abadar. On the back is the envelope, the flowing script of a calligrapher reads:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.
♞ ¤ Phedron
Then two dwarves study Phedron for a good long while, wondering if the half-elf is either attempting a joke or is just knew to town. The first one shrugs and takes a gulp of his ale, waving at the barmaid to bring another.
The second dwarf, however, gives his beard a tug and responds. "Some o' the usual, mountain lions n' coyotes."
"They ain't the problem now is they?" the first dwarf snorts. He raises a calloused, thick-fingered hand as if to say his fellow dwarf is an idiot. "Nasty Death Dogs, been harrasin' caravans. Sh&te-born, two-headed devils, ain't ta drop below the hills, but they come down n' get after us at the camp sites on the way."
"Wee bleeders 're gettin' bigger stones o' late." the first acknowledges of the topic. Then he raises a finger and adds, "There's also more bats n' usual."
"How's about that queen thumpin' we heard near Jimson's Rock, eh? Like someone hoppin' about n' spittin' mad ta boot."
The first dwarf nods sagely. "Oh aye, we awoke ta find one o' the horses had a gash in its neck. Cleaved the things head near off. Poor bugger."
They pause for a bit then the first continues. "Seems the crazies take a hold o' beasties out there during the dawn hours mostly."
"Aye, the dawn hours mostly." The second dwarf grouses a bit and spits to the side. "East Roads cursed I say, boyo. And it's cuttin' into me coin purse till them Phalanx chicadees figure it out."
"If ya ask me, let us travel. Let us bring more axes on the road. We'll deal with what's ailin' the critters."
"Ya makes mention o' Demgazi. That's about the only spot o' turf where the critters ain't." He spits to the side too. "That lil' hole in the ground is cursed too. E'en the bad beasties no ta stay clear over it."
The other dwarf nods agreement. "Ya got business out that way, laddie, give Demgazi a pass. Stick with Inspitah n' do your deeds. Then broom the place fast."
"Less ya got a brat ta give the school up on that hill." the first dwarf chuckles. "That case, punt the runt from a distance n' turn yer arse back fer Golsifar."
"Aye, that school's a black-boned monstrosity, it is. Ain't dwarvish."
The two fall silent as the barmaid drops off two more ales. When she departs they both look at Phedron, their bushy eyebrows asking, Why are you still here?
Karl nods at Links report.
"The boy has become a warrior Linkah. I suppose he is on his way to owning a full suit of plate."
Your armor is a valuable asset. It must be cared for and mended whenever possible. If properly maintained, it will save your life more times than you will be able to count. It is always something that you should be seeking to improve.
Nosa surveys the shop, glancing this way and that at the items the dwarf has displayed.
What do you have that would fit a servant of the Lady good dwarf?
.
☦ ¤ ♜ ¤ ♆ ¤ ☀
》Nosatrub
》Karl
》Beckett
》Lavios
》Linkah
The dwarf pulls off his leather working gloves and tucks them behind his apron. A few steps and he's looking up into the eyes of Nosatrub. "So, ya fancy yourself a servant o' the Lady do ya? Intrestin'..." He look the paladin up and down and grunts to himself. Then over his shoulder he calls to the back of the shop. "Oy, Brimmer! We got us a right randy knight o' the Bright Lady lookin' fer armor eh?"
From the back of the shop there's the distinct sound of breaking glass and a dull whumpf. Then a rapid succession of gnonish curses that would do a sailor proud. In common the high-pitched but craggy voice says in common, "Send him back. Is he human? Tell him I have something good for him to drink!"
The blacksmith chuckles a bit at flustering the gnome and turns back to Nosatrub. He holds out a hand for greeting, his eyes softer now with a touch of mirth behind them. "Corg Hornsplitter. I think I might have something in your size...least ways ah can for it to ya."
He shows Nosa to the armor area where 4 sets of resplendent armors hang from the wall.
》Half-plate set (helm, boots & gauntlet included)
》Mwk Half-plate set (helm, boots & gauntlet included)
》Full Plate set (helm, boots & gauntlet included)
》Mwk Full Plate set (helm, boots & gauntlet included)
Outside of that Corg has a decent collection of weapons and traveling gear.
"Halfplate doesn't suit this youth's body. He is too dexterous to waste on lesser armors. Your work is art, master craftsman. I would see the boy fit in this set of full plate and this masterwork ensemble here. Let us see how these would fit on him. Shall we?"
Nosa claps Beckett on the shoulder.
This may make the difference one day in my life or death. A knight needs to have fine armor. I find that to be worth the time. Our adventures will still be there.
Now good dwarf. Your work here is indeed a wonder. How much is this masterwork set?
|
Beckett drops his eyes again... Ashamed.
Stupid! Weak!
Don't take it out on Nosa...
His face instantly changes, his training asserting itself, taking control of his speech and demeanour.
Beckett interrupts Nosa's fumbling words "Sir Knight is humble to a fault!"
Smiling at the blacksmith...
"I can tell by your lack of excitement that you have no idea who graces your establishment, Master Dwarf!"
Beckett then launches into a tale of Nosa's lineage, history and prowess... then details the many benefits that would come to the blacksmith by having such a famed Paladin publicly wearing his armor...
Karl smiles and watches the Inqusitor go to work.
Nosa attempts to speak, but words cannot come out. He hopes that one day he can live up to the words that Beckett has just spoken of him.
.
.
.
☦ ¤ ♜ ¤ ♆ ¤ ☀
Corg sizes up the party, listening carefully to Beckett's description of the paladin before him. He scratches at his beard, sniffing the air as though signs of a lie might be floating around his forge. "Ye talk a good gab, longshanks. Cut a yarn that'd do a poet proud."
He claps his hands together and gives the suit of full plate armor a wrap with his knuckle. The steel resounds, a clarion call to arms and the echoes of battles distant. It's clear sound resonates thru the bones of those present. "I'll tell ya, lads. T'was a fair bit o' work piecin' her back together. Greaves 're the same steel, but I had ta replace 'em."
A lengthy perusal of the dwarfs work and it's clear to see that even if the suit had been damaged at some point in the past, it showed no sign of it now. The quality of the result is quite high. Perhaps the mercenaries that pass thru Golsifar come to expect a cut above.
"Ya look ta be a good fit fer this one, laddie." Corg taps the armor again. "I'd be needin' a day or two ta get it fittin' right, but I'll let ya have it fer 1,700 gold." He strokes his beard, continuing to study the group. "Ya got the bearin' of a servant o' the Lady. Iomedae's got a spot in Torag's forge, e'en if yer goddess don' know a good mug o' ale. But it mean's ya kin be trusted."
Corg steps away from Nosatrub and the others and goes to a weapon's rack along the wall. Leaning next to it is a long, thin object wrapped in oiled canvas. The blacksmith rests a hand in the object, bows a head for a moment, then turns back to the group. "Tell ya what, lads. I've got a piece o' work for ya. It gets done, I cut the armor's price in half."
Looking around the shop, there are telltale signs of Dwarven iconography, a particular motif of hammers. It's worked into the walls and the forge and the stone floors.
Looking around the shop, there are telltale signs of Dwarven iconography, a particular motif of hammers. It's worked into the walls and the forge and the stone floors. Then there's the ring on Corg's finger.
Corg very likely is a devout follower of Torag. At the least, his forge is dedicated to the deity.
Nosa looks ro his allies, hoping to find in their reactions their thoughts on taking on another job.
|
|
Responding to the dwarves, he pokes a little further.
"So you think the beasts are being driven to the road? Something pushing them? And then these other creatures, anyone else around that's encountered them that you know of? Say, since we are sharing tales are either of you thirsty? I could stand giving my thirst a rest. I'll buy!" He offers with a smile. Whether they take him up or not he will push on about the school.
"Have you heard anything about the school? I've heard only vague rumors. Any tales to share?"
"We're listening."
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Rorber - Red-haired, wirey owner/bartender of Elber’s Last (Human)
> Minsie - Head Barmaid (Human)
> Ramona - Barmaid (Human)
> Taks - Cook (Dwarf)
> Velryssa - Fixer on the Landless Gentry (Human)
The music plays on through the night, Drogan hammering the drum and in the process reclaiming his ancestry he’d thought a distant thing in the past. In Elber’s Last there are no dwarvish inquisitions, no council judgements, no echoes of his his boots stepping their last in his homeland. There is only the music. Drogan even senses that his friend Agidor is putting aside the cares of his past to simply enjoy the moment.
It’s in the wee hours that the wirey red-headed tavern owner - named Rorber - trundles over with weariness in his eyes. ”Well done, Master Bards. You’ve doubled my take for a night such as this and you’ve earned a taste,” He lays down two items on the small table they’d been using on the stage to hold their gear; a pair of keys and a pouch that jingles with the familiar tune of coin. ”Ya got my two best rooms upstairs, overlookin’ the harbor they do.” He gestures over to the stairs. ”I got Minsie drawin’ tubs fer ya both, so enjoy. Then there’s this,” Rorber gives the pouch a flick. ”50 coin, 25 each for a job well done.”
From behind him Ramona, one of the other remaining barmaids on duty sways up to the stage with a wooden platter. She lowers it to the table and presents two goblets of spiced rum and an assortment of smoked, hand-pulled port. ”Food’s a gift o’ Taks. Said he kept ‘er smokin’ the night thru for ya.” Then Ramona nods to the goblets of rum and gives a wink. ”Them’s from the ‘xotic eyes at the bar. Says she knows ya boys.”
Over at the bar, a familiar Tian Xa face smiles back at Drogan and Agidor. Velryssa is at her ease, leaning back on the barstool, elbows propped on the bar, a mug in her hand. At catching the dwarf and human’s eyes, she raises the latter in salute. Along the way to the bar, Drogan is greeted and glad handed and thanked by those still conscious.
"I got curious when you rascals didn't show up for for dinner aboard ships." She gestures to the surrounding tavern. "Now I see why. I'm regretful I missed all but the last performance."
[ooc]I'll leave it open as to what you want to do.
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Jabral Rockjaw - Ranger/Mercenary (Dwarf)
> Iago Rockjaw - Fighter/Mercenary (Dwarf)
At the mention of additional ale, the two dwarves look at eachother then back to Phedron and grin broadly. ”Oh aye, now yer queries will go down a sight bettuh wid some ale ta wash ‘em down, laddie.”
”Aye, now yer talkin’, stranger.” the second dwarf says. He thumps down on twice on the table causing the mugs there to shudder and jump. With a practiced skill, both dwarves raise their recently refreshed mugs and down them in three mighty gulps and slam them down.
”Name’s Jabral,” the first dwarf extends a meaty hand. ”Jabral Rockjaw. This here lump o’ dog arse is mah brother Iago.”
Iago wraps his knuckles on the table and then shakes Phedron’s hand too. Looking between the two brothers, Phedron sees the resemblance now. Their personalities are different, but from the accoutrements on their respective persons, Jabral’s crossbow leaning against the table and his kit mark him a ranger of sorts. As for Iago, a double-bladed greataxe that’s close to hand either marks him as a fighter-type or a more lunatic breed of barbarian.
”More ale!” Jabral calls out, then looks back to the half-elf. ”Them beasties ‘re jus’ drinkin’ from the same well. Got a case o’ the crazies is all.”
It’s the shifting look upon Iago’s face that piques Phedron’s interest. A flash of something just before the dwarf offers his answer. ”Nah, I’m tellin’ ya it’s the water. Bet them bloody lunies out in Demgazi’s puttin’ poison in the waterin’ holes ta drive the critters West.”
”Far as the thumpin’ critter we been hearin’ on the road? There’s Mala...Malowa…” Jabral begins, tryin’ to pronounce the name. He waves it away and snaps his fingers. ”Malau, aye, that’s the name. He’s a animal lover o’er in the Market. Hang’s ‘is fur hat o’er at Lemay’s lil temple.”
”Aye, Sheyln worshipper, Lemay is. Good lad, can’t drink worth a gob, but he’s good folk.” Iago shrugs and belches loudly. ”It’s the druid ya want, laddie. Fella name o’ Malau. He’s got all sorts ta talk about, wear yer pointy ears off wid all the pain’s been goin’ on in the dirt wilds.”
”Oh aye, he’ll give ya all yer arse can stand o’ the talk.” Jabral adds. But he tilts his head and juts out his chin thoughtfully. ”But through tha rampant spittin’ n’ the lunie eyes, he’s gotta point. Things’re all loads o’ b%+~@%&s out there on the road.”
A barmaid sweeps in, scooping up the empty ales and dropping off fresh ones. After taking Phedron’s order, she peels off and disappears into the tavern’s throngs.
”Now ya wanna know ‘bout that black-boned school, do ye?” Iago questions. ”I gotta a real romper fer ya…” He takes a swig of the new ale and wipes his lips with his beard.
”That Oppara brat, eh?” Jabral inquires, emitting a long belch to punctuate the question.
”The very same, brother-mine.” He nods over to Phedron to come in a bit closer as he tells the tale. The dwarf’s breath is rife with ale and assorted other undigested foods. ”Me n’ Jabber here, we take a lil pissant from Oppara out a year or so ago. Wee breeder, pro’ly not a year outta ‘is pisspants. Father pays us 100 gold ta cart ‘is boy out ta that school.”
”Aye, quite a payday too.”
Iago waves his brother off, an angry eye for his sibling’s interruption. ”T’wernt the road out what got us up n’ curious. We got the job o’ bringin’ the lil runt back couple o’ years later. The kid’s gotta bloody odd look ‘bout ‘im.”
”Like he ain’t gotta bloody reaction ta nuthin’.” Jabral puts in.
”Aye. On the way out ta drop ‘is arse at the school, he’s all up n’ me n’ Jabber’s business, askin’ questions. Seein’ ifn he can hol’ our blades ‘r if we done fer a bloke ‘r two.” Iago waves a hand in the air as if to say, that’s the normal way of young ones. ”But on the way back, the lad didn’t spit o’ peep without me r Jabber pokin’ ‘im.”
”Talked funny too.” Jabral says. ”Like the lil runt was half asleep.”
”Ah think the school’s a rottin’ apple, full o’ wankers who got no bloody sense that far outta right society.”
Jabral agrees with a grunt. ”Place ain’t dwarfish, laddie. Tha’s fer sure. We only got’s as close as tha road up the hill ta that monstrocity...but n’ ill stink’s on the place.”
”Aye, there is.” Iago grunts, swigging down another gulp of his ale. ”Gotta cartwright down in, Inspitah. Says each night them bloody half-wits in Demgazi light up torches n’ lanterns, keeps ‘em goin’ all night in the town.”
”Ayup, saw them wankers doin’ it wid our own eyes, we did. Then the singing comin’ down the hill.”
Iago ever so briefly shudders, a hand unconsciously brushes the handle of his greataxe. ”Buncha breeder runts singin’ all a’ once. Shoulda been a bloody nice sound, but it ain’t.”
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Corg Hornsplitter - Owner/Forgemaster of Corg’s Forge | Cleric of Torag? (Dwarf)
> Brimmer Fizzleboom - Artificer, works in an Alchemical shop in back of Corg’s Forge (Gnome)
Corg grins at Beckett’s citing of Torag and nods as the group indicates their interest in what he has to say. The dwarf motions to a section out of the heat of the forge, a gathering of low stools and a central grill pit. There’s still a few pieces of pork warming over a low set of coals and wood chips. All move into the area keeping their heads low as they’re mindful of the low ceiling.
”Is he human? Is he clean?” the gnome calls out again from the back of Corg’s shop.
”Heh heh, get out here ya runt n’ see fer ya self.” Corg retorts, chuckling. He grabs a wood crate and drops down on it, the heavy leather forge apron stretching at his broad chest.
Out of the back another crash of glass can be heard, another dull whumpf and a string of gnomish curses. Then a stunted form fills the lower half of the doorway and resolves into one of oddest gnomes the group has most likely ever seen. As opposed to most gnomes, this one has his vibrant hair shaved to the skin, stubble of purple and black still visible. He wears leather-sealed goggles with smudged lenses that glow dully of an emerald hue. The gnome’s face and hands and forearms are covered in black and blue and green and orange streaks of grime. He stumps over to the gathering, standing all of 3 feet tall. He tugs at his right arm where a strange bracer festooned with gyrating and vibrating mechadentrites. After another string of gnomish curses the little brass apparatus stops moving.
”May I present, Brimmer Fizzleboom,” Corg introduces with a grin. ”My artificer.”
”Ya can present me, foot n’ yer arse, ya daft dwarf fer pullin’ me away fro…” Brimmer begins, but stops short when he sees the armored form of Nosatrub. ”...oy, ya forge-humper, why ya not say he’s clean n’ human?” He pulls off his goggles and adjusts his eyes, bright orbs of violet peer intensly at the paladin. ”Ya follow the Lady do ya?” He nods vigorously and continues. ”Give this lot the job, Corg. Torag don’t send sparks less he’s workin’ the forge, eh?”
Without another word, the gnome grabs another of the assorted seats and plops down. He fiddles with the numerous pouches on his hip and the ones adorning his workshop apron. The plethora of tools on his person is dizzying. Eventually he comes out with a pipe and a pouch of tobacco and proceeds to set himself up.
Corg gives the gnome a look of affection, like he’s looking upon a cantankerous cousin, then motions for the companions to have a seat. ”So, I’ve got a proposition fer ya, lads. There’s a message I’d like delivered ta Inspitah. A message and a package.” He points to the canvas wrapped object next to the weapon’s rack. ”Contract’s good, gold fer expenses ifn’ ya need a cart n’ mules, or jus’ travelin’ gear. Not sure ifn’ ya got other stuff yer haulin’...” He pauses and gets a look at the group. ”Assumin’ yer headin’ East, eh? Not jus’ passin’ on the way ta Absalom r’ some other?”
Corg nods and continues. ”Been waitin’ fer a devout o’ the Lady ta pass thru. Not many these days, one or two a year, headin’ ta the Fort, they are. Or passin’ thru ta get passage ta Absalom n’ the Temple there.” He nods to the iconography work on Nosa’s shield and the hilt of his weapon. ”Spotted the work when I gotta good look at ya, laddie. Been a long while since I lay these eyes on the Flamin’ Sword n’ Gauntlet o’ Ozem.” He scratches at his bulbous nose, eyes distant for a moment as he flashes back into memory. ”No sense ah forged fer Lem Brasser.”
It’s clearly the reason why Corg seems to instantly trust you and the group with this mission.
The realization of such clear providence hits you like a thunderclap!
”But ya pledge ta deliver me wares, Sir Nosatrub, n’ the armor’s yers right here n’ now fer half.” Corg says finally.
”Ya can’t b!++*%@s this up, ya buncha dogooders,” Brimmer puts in with a snarl. ”No usin’ the package fer scratchin’ yer arses r’ fer grabbin’ skirts. Deliver it n’ bugger off.”
The dwarven blacksmith seems to study Nosatrub for a time then hops down from his seat and goes to retrieve the package from near the weapon rack. As he returns to the circle, he unwraps the oiled canvas to reveal a truly astounding piece of hardware; a dwarven urgrosh of unparallelled quality. He hands it reverently to the group for review. It’s a long weapon, two-handed, with a double-bladed ax at one end and a menacing spearpoint at the other. Throughout the steel are intricate dwarven markings and runes along with the symbology attributed to the worship of Torag.
This weapon is most likely a +3 Masterwork item worth well into the thousands of gold pieces. The runes engraved throughout are of such precision as to be nearly unbelievable. The metal is lighter, but impressively resilient, most likely a mixture of mithrial and other materials. The shaft is of Darkwood.
There is a repeated phrase throughout the markings in dwarvish; “In battle, in drink, in song, we are brothers.”
You never know when help will come to you, or when you will be sent to help. To be one of our order is to be one who puts aside his own self for the sake of helping others. Yet do not be fooled. There are those who will try and take advantage of this and will use it to bend you to their will. Trust in the Lady that you will know the difference.
The sound of a familiar name is enough. Nosa recognizes the province of the Lady.
He looks to Beckett and to Marsh then back to Corg.
Though I cannot speak for my friends, I accept your offer. I will deliver it for you.
When looking at the weapon, Nosa cannot help but be awed by it's magnificence.
|
|
Beckett shakes his head with resignation at Nosa and Lavios' words.
The Dawn save us from halflings, gnomes and dwarves...
A magnificent weapon, Master Dwarf. I am surprised that someone from the caravan town could be the patron for such a project.
The Inquisitor meets the blacksmith's eyes.
To whom shall we be delivering it to?
Drogan lifts his glass to the lady and gives Agidor a wink. "If you'll excuse me, Iss only proper that an artist thank 'is patron. Tuck in, and stay off my plate."
When he reaches the bar, he gives her a deep bow.
"If the road lay open before us, there'll always be another performance. No promise a' tomorrow, but as long as the Drunk walks with me, I'll have another day te play." He sits next to her. "Does this mean you're checking up on us? I told the others I planned te slip away 'til it was time to leave. I needed a little time 'round kith and kin. Iss been even better than I thought it'd be."
He brings his glass up to his mouth, speaking from behind it, "Seems we're off te darker things in days ahead. You an' yours have been good to us. It'll be a shame te part paths whenever it happens."
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Corg Hornsplitter - Owner/Forgemaster of Corg’s Forge | Cleric of Torag? (Dwarf)
> Brimmer Fizzleboom - Artificer, works in an Alchemical shop in back of Corg’s Forge (Gnome)
Corg rubs at his nose, the veins and muscles of his forearm stand out from the years of work at the forge. But the callouses on his knuckles and the scars on the dwarf’s visible skin are those earned on the field of battle. When he looks upon Nosatrub, he studies the young paladin’s eyes and then glances down to the emblem upon his shield; the mark of the Knights of Ozem. ”Thank ya, boyo.” He fall silent, still studying the emblem, the flaming sword and gauntlet. ”I’ll see to it ya got yer heraldry on the suit too. A knight should ‘ave a sense o’ home where e’er he puts ‘is boots.”
He reaches into the apron and pulls forth a small notebook, then fishes a bit of charcoal out of a pocket to begin drawing.
”Mah thanks fer your pledge as well,” Corg responds to Lavios, looking up and acknowledging the man of Gozreh. ”I’m not as familiar wid yer god, but I’m familiar wid ‘is work, I am.” Corg gestures to the sky.
At Beckett’s inquiry, he looks to the man as well, meeting his gaze. ”Aye, lad, a necessary item o’ note, eh?” In the depths of the dwarf’s eyes, the Inquisitor sees the swirling reflections of the forge fires and the glinting of something more.
There is more to this blacksmith than meets the eye.
”You’ll be cartin’ this lovely o’er ta Inspitah, give it to the care o’ Borrs Stoneheel.” He returns to drawing in his notebook but continues speaking. ”He’s got it in ‘is fool mind ta dig fer min’ral rights n’ the hills east o’ the school. Bloody ham-head brought ‘is two brothers Trudo n’ Handt fer the ride, he did. While they wait, they got a small business workin’ outta Inspitah.” Corg nods to the Urgrosh. ”Borrs ‘ad this lovely commissioned a’fore he left out East.”
He finishes the drawing and passes it to Nosatrub. ”Been a wee bit o’ time since ah been north, laddie. Ya tell me if ah did ‘er justice.”
”Varus tol’ me about a lad he’d brought in to the family. I can only assume it’s you.”
Another thoughtful moment and then a shake of the head. ”I won’t be wonderin’ how ya found me, boyo. I know not the mind o’ the Forgemaster.”
Brimmer pipes up, blowing smoke into the circle of people. ”He wants yer gob of a head fer n’ anvil.” He barks, then laughs roughly. ”Tis the will o’ Torag, I bloody know it.”
”Mayhap, ya stunted wrap o’ haggis.” Corg chuckles. ”Mayhap.” He turns to the others in the party. ”I’ve other items of value to ya lot if ya turn a heel with the likes o’ Nosatrub ‘ere. Any o’ ya lookin’ fer armor or weapons?”
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Rorber - Red-haired, wirey owner/bartender of Elber’s Last (Human)
> Minsie - Head Barmaid (Human)
> Ramona - Barmaid (Human)
> Taks - Cook (dwarf)
> Velryssa - Fixer on the Landless Gentry (Human)
”Oh I got the word, Master Drogan.” She shrugs and laughs, a musical thing to match even the captain’s. ”...but I rarely listen to the captain if I can help it. I wouldn’t be much of an eyes and ears for the boat if I did.”
Velryssa looks down at her mug and then places it aside for the time being. ”I’m a little disappointed you didn’t share such rousing songs aboards ships. But I can understand.” She slips a practiced hand into a pocket within her vest and retrieves a small vial, a cork stopper on the end. Her face is directed to the vial, but her eyes move from it to give Drogan a sidelong glance. ”Your’s are the drums of home that stir the memories in the blood. Mine…” She uncorks the vial and smells it deeply. Then she holds it over for Drogan to get a whiff. A mixture of jasmine, cherry blossoms and earthy grasses waft to his nose. ”...mine are smells. This is of a meadow near my house back home. A place where I played as a child.”
She replaces the cork and puts it away in her vest pocket and closes her eyes. Memories drift across her face as clearly as a master artist’s brush across canvas. ”There was a time I ran through that meadow until I collapsed. I slept there until nearly sunset dreaming of horses and katanas and bows and sorcery.” Her eyes open as she returns to the present. ”But now I am here in Golsifar, my only pleasure the beating drum of a bard and the information I have to pass along.”
A breath of time passes and Drogan can see beneath the exterior of the mystery that is Velryssa. All the days gone past and the dwarf can surmise that her skill with daggers is only matched by her guile. But of the deeper meanings within the Tian Xa woman, there has been little until this moment. Drogan sees a woman placed into a role for which she’d never intended.
”I’ve had some time today and after dinner to do some digging.” She taps a few lacquered nails on the bartop to signal to Rorber that she’s ready for another drink. He nods with a smile, obvious that he knows Velryssa. Then the fixer continues. ”The druid over in the markets, lives with a cleric of Shelyn, and speaks of the ‘aggravations placed on the creatures of this land’. Bit of a firebrand to be honest.” She nods thanks as Rorber replaces her mug and moves off. ”He’s been a part of town since long before I started in with the Gentry. Always was a card shy of a Tower’s Hand...but he’s been worse than ever now. His name’s Malau. Priest he rooms with is Lemay.” She let’s it go there, an indication that they’d be a good place to start tomorrow.
”So how long’s it been since you were home, Master Drogan?”
Nosa takes hold of the notebook paper the dwarf hands him. Immediately he is struck by the blacksmiths memory and artistry. On the page is a near perfect representation of the sigil of house Shieldarm.
Iomedae's sword graces the center on the sigil with a golden eagle aloft on the hilt. The eagle, nearly as resplendent as the sword has wings spread wide as if to shield the world from any evils that may be behind it.
Nosa smiles a broad smile. Memories of the first time he bore the family symbol flood back and he is reminded of his calling.
it is perfect master dwarf. It seems there is no end to your artistry. The sigil of house Shieldarm shall look magnificent on your armor. And may all who stand in the way of justice look in them both with dread.
Karl looks over the weapon. It is a incredible piece, not something he would covet for his own use, but an amazing work of art none the less.
"You have picked a good steward for your delivery. If it can be done, this young man will get it done."
Karl smiles and nods to the three younger me the proceeds to look about the shop.
|
|
Beckett nods at Corg's explanation... using it as an excuse to break eye contact with the dwarf.
He takes a moment to examine the shop and its wares before turning his attention back to the blacksmith.
Confound this cursed weather... I miss the sun...
Considering his words, Beckett speaks slowly.
Master Corg... I do not mean to be forward... But... You seem familiar to me somehow. Yet, I do not believe we have ever met...
The Inquisitor leaves the question unspoken.
The scent still lingered in the air. Aye. I know the feeling. What I wouldn't give te smell the old books again, or walk through the alleys of the Hollow as forge fires glowed and hammers sang."
Drogan sighs, staring down at his glass.
"Iss been five years since I've seen the walls of Highhelm. May as well 'ave been a lifetime ago. I'm beginnin' te think the gates'll always stay shut fer me. Even if a' manage te kill the one that sealed my exile, iss not enough. I have te prove he did it. The word of an exiled line breaker against a proven field archivist."
He drank the rest of his drink and waved over the barman.
"Jus' leave the bottle." He looks at the woman beside him, managing a heavy smile. "It was good to sing the old songs and dance the old dances with kinsmen again, even if that place has forgotten me."
.
Dramatis Personae
> Corg Hornsplitter - Owner/Forgemaster of Corg’s Forge | Cleric of Torag? (Dwarf)
> Brimmer Fizzleboom - Artificer, works in an Alchemical shop in back of Corg’s Forge (Gnome)
Corg considers his memories for a moment then shakes his head. "Can't say as I've lay eyes on ya, laddie."
Over the last week's, some your dreams have been oddly devoid of the normal terrors of your childhood home. Instead, you've experienced experienced a strange assortment of dreams...
You are on the deck of the Landless Gentry, pencil thin lines of sunrise drawing outward from the eastern horizon in a mixture of emerald greens and golden yellows. You look to your right and see Onura at the wheel of the ship, but her violet eyes - so lively and sharp - seem clouded and distant. She smiles little.
A firm hand grips your left shoulder and you turn to see Kraken looking down at you, face calm and unemotional. "It's time," he says simply.
You feel yourself nod and your boots carry you to the ladder leading below decks. down the hallway between rooms and into the crew's area. A group of men are there playing at Liar's Fives. When you approach, the faces of the men you've killed turn to greet you. One man, the first to die so long ago in Dog's Teeth, gestures to an open seat next to a him. "Been waitin' fer yahrgrlll..." his words become garbled as blood pours from his mouth...
Then Beckett wakes up. The dream varies between different games at the table to who invites him to sit. But always it's the same group of men who'd died by his hand.
Corg gathers the weapon back and nods with satisfaction. "Strange how the iron shapes when no one's lookin'. But I'm thankful fer the help." He sits back down and places his hands on his knees. "I'll 'ave a contract drawn up fer ye, nice n' proper. I'm have the armor ready fore the morrow."
Karl ceases his meandering about the shop and walks back towards the dwarf.
"Indeed fortune has been kind to all of us here."
"Can we ask you about the druid and priest that we have heard about? They seem to be the talk of the town. Also it is said creatures are attacking more often along the road, do you think that is just rumor, or is there some substance to it?"
Karl unbuckles his sword belt and places it on the table before the swordsmith.
"Lastly, these are the blades of my father's before me. They once carried enchantments, but have since fallen dormant. Could you look at them and see if they can one day be rekindled, or enchanted anew?"
|
|
Introducing himself as Phedron Rushing, he pays for the drinks but imbibes slowly, allowing the two dwarves to share their tales.
He wonders if the cult he suspects houses in the school is actually causing these attacks by these creatures. At this point he doesn't find the notion surprising. He does his best to be a good audience, attempting to maintain the appearance of a casual listener while hungrily digesting the information.
While listening to the story of the child they retrieved, he interjects an odd comment.
"Behaving almost as if he were dead? I had seen a person like that before, but the other one had a strange circular scar on his neck. Certainly some odd things out there."
He lets his comment hang in the air, delving for possible confirmation of this suspicions.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Jabral Rockjaw - Ranger/Mercenary (Dwarf)
> Iago Rockjaw - Fighter/Mercenary (Dwarf)
Phedron's question causes Iago to pause mid drink, his eyes looking over the rim of his mug. He places it down on the table. "Aye, lil pissant had a mark like it on 'is neck he did."
"Like a circle it was, angry red." Jabral wipes at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Thought he had a run in r' somsthin'." He scratches at his beard then casts at sidelong glance at his brother.
"Great gobs o' donkey piss," Iago says, worry in his eyes. "What the lil scamp got, laddie? It ain't catching eh?"
.
Dramatis Personae
> Corg Hornsplitter - Owner/Forgemaster of Corg’s Forge | Cleric of Torag? (Dwarf)
> Brimmer Fizzleboom - Artificer, works in an Alchemical shop in back of Corg’s Forge (Gnome)
Corg looks down at the blades and nods appreciatively. "Bless mah hammer, fine weapons indeed." He rests a hand each on the sword and dagger respectively and closes his eyes and whispers something in dwarfish that sounds like a prayer. Then his eyes open and he looks at Karl. "Oh aye, they've the whispers o' enchanting upon 'em...but they go' another man's song to 'em." He returns the weapons to Karl and says, "Might be to yer Da...but the metal...it's waitin' fer somethin' ta happen. But they're growin' on ya, lad. Like a tunin' fork not quite right." He trundles over to Marsh and says in a private whisper,
"Malau, aye, that’s the name. He’s druid o’er in the Market. Hang’s ‘is hat o’er at Lemay’s lil temple down the dirt path a piece." He gestures north west of the shop. "The druid...he's a wee bit crazed o' late. But Lemay, he's gotta good heart in 'im. He's watchin' out fer Malau these days, but there ain't no puttin' a cork in the druid's brisket chomper. Goin' on 'bout the Dirt Wilds all in a uproar o'er an evil out on the east road."
Corg moves to his workbench and retrieves a set of armor, chain by the look of it. "Had o' merc on a caravan leave with thus in good nick," The dwarf has it up and the long gash down the front is apparent. "Fella sent this on ahead while 'is soul stay out there a wonderin'. Is company o'er at Wistrix don't talk it, but I know a pair o' dwarf brothers what know the tail. Some kind o' thumpin' in the night, bucha wailin' n' growlin' then this fella's in half."
"But ta hear tell from the caravans, yeah, the wee n' the not so wee been up n' right frisky. Death dogs more aggressive, bats comin' down from hills to the north." Corg shrugs. "Phalanx is nervous too, cuttin' down on travel unless yer privateers r' in numbers. Heard one guy, says he saw an owlbear las' month. Not sure I can believe it." He glances to the Urghosh near the rack. "Borrs Stoneheel's as practical a dwarf as I've known, so if he's orderin' this here lovely, guess things aren't too good in the east."
|
|
Nodding in affirmation he replies, "Catching, Iago my friend?" Phedron turns this thought over in his head. Part of him desires to conceal the dark world he is learning about. Conceal it so that he may also ignore it in part. Ultimately he chooses to prod the chink of light they've let in, hopefully in a useful fashion for the dwarven brothers. He keeps his voice soft and even, aiming it only for the ears of the two brothers. "It IS spreading; I won't lie. Beware those who have a similar scar and behave in a manner similar to that which you have witnessed in the boy. I entrust this to you in thanks for your stories. Be careful who you share it with. The darkness does not want light shed upon it."
With that, Phedron finishes the drink he has been nursing and settles up with the waitress.
"Iago, Jabral, it truly has been a pleasure. Stay safe out there." he says with his signature smile and a nod of his head. From there he heads to Kidge's while keeping an eye out for the party. He lets Caster wheel overhead. Suddenly he feels less comfortable walking alone. Speaking of the evil has brought it near in his mind.
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Rorber - Red-haired, wirey owner/bartender of Elber’s Last (Human)
> Minsie - Head Barmaid (Human)
> Ramona - Barmaid (Human)
> Taks - Cook (dwarf)
> Velryssa - Fixer on the Landless Gentry (Human)
Velryssa swirls her drink a bit and says, "Home is a state of mind, master dwarf. If I'd not met you before, I'd say hone for you was on the stage." She tilts her head to the side and adds, "But I've deemed home to be where the job is. My life is set to only the pattern I create."
She finishes her drink and sets it on the bar. For all her abilities as a fixer or a blade, there is the echo of a vastly different life behind her serene eyes. "I was very young when my father sent me away. The years drifted by on the very breezes that carried the blossom of my youth. But time and patience led me to a tavern in Brevoy. Not long after I watched the blood of my enemy, my swarthy thief... I watched it leak into an alley." Her almond eyes are distant again, memory's veil before them. "It left me no satisfaction because I did it for my father. I set an evil right in my life only to find that he still considered me spoiled and unworthy." There is no anger in her tone, only the clear sense that she's moved onward.
"Keep the memories of home locked away, treasure them as a dragon does her horde. But don't let your steps be governed by desire to return to a world gone by." She looks down to Drogan, her face serious. "You've undertaken a task, it's clear. But ask yourself why you would right the wrong. For your father, or for you?" She folds her arms and crosses her legs. "Shouldn't my father have had more faith in his own daughter?"
There is a moment as it seems Velryssa is mulling over Drogan's words again. "I've known you for only a few days, but I wonder what could have been so bad in you that your home would shut its gates. Did you not have those who would vouchsafe your character? A brother, friend, parents?"
.
.
Phedron departs the Rusted Ax tavern and looks about the open area before him (see map link under avatar). There's a lot of old traffic in the dirt. Probably the site of infrequent market gatherings or some such. But the open space affords him a view to the south and a large wooden sign brandishing "Kidge's" in golden lettering. Flaming the sign are two large torches fired into poles.
To the west, the sun is setting on Golsifar, reds and purples coloring the clouds. His time with the dwarf brothers had carried him into the evening (5 pm).
Far above and north of him, Phedron senses Caster. It would seem the dark-feathered hawk had spotted other members of the party near a place of burning steel. A moment reconciling the images and impressions from his familiar yields what must be a blacksmith's shop.
But further into the bustling market, Caster also spots a group of two-legs surrounding a single one. The latter draws his attention because of his bearing and the animal quality in the bird's sight.
"Speak for me? Perhaps, if they'd been allowed te speak, they'd speak kind. Only true friend I 'ad was a halfer - no place in a dwarven tribunal. Some a' the tradesmen and smiths perhaps, but time and reflection has opened my eyes to the fact that we were more friendly than friends. A mutual appreciation fer craft. Not quite enough te stick yer neck out on the block for. Parents?"
He swirled the last bit of drink in the bottom of the glass. "Who in the seven hells d'ye think gave the order te have me exiled in the first place? No, A'm not doin' anythin' fer him anymore. If I clear mah name an' he makes peace, I'll gladly accept it. But I'll not bend one knee to that man fer all the ale in Absalom."
The Dwarf threw the pouch up of gold his playing had earned him onto the counter. He counted out the proper coin, about half the purse, and said to the barkeep, "Oy, Rorber, first choice of spirits goes te my kin from Highhelm and another stout fer mahself. Whatever's left buys the house another round or two in the name a' the Drunk. Keep goin' 'til it runs out."
He gave the Velryssa a smile. "The road's been kind, fer the Drunk walks with me. But the road is only beautiful if you know it ends somewhere you ken call home. I ken carry it with me only so far, ye see. Gods will it, that'll be a long ways, but should I fall, Lass, there'll be no tears in Highhelm fer me. No recountin' a' my days. No book a' tales penned in the archives. No. I'll have been like so much scrap paper tossed aside. And that I will not abide. I'll get back the bit a' history I sold so short before, and when I do, I'll 'ave earned my place in the storybooks generations from now will still be readin'. Iss what cayden cailean would want 'iz humble servant te strive for."
.
.
Dramatis Personae
> Rorber - Red-haired, wirey owner/bartender of Elber’s Last (Human)
> Minsie - Head Barmaid (Human)
> Ramona - Barmaid (Human)
> Taks - Cook (dwarf)
> Velryssa - Fixer on the Landless Gentry (Human)
"I can understand the passion if not the logic, Drogan. But we think so delightfully different, don't we." Velryssa's response is as earnest as can be for a woman in her profession. She holds a hand up before Rorber fills her mug again. "So, Drogan, to where do your steps lead today? Our jubilation have carried us to the morrow."
She stretches and yawns but her eyes are no less sharp. "I've good connection to Kidge the Sundries shop owner. Despite Seamus' dislike of the gnome, can you fault him for wanting to be successful? If that includes a bribe or two in Phalanx pouch...?" She shrugs. "But I'd not extend trust his way, but he's got a good ear for information."
"There's also Lemay and Malau to consider. I'm sure the druids talked himself to a calm by now." She arches an eyebrow Drogan's way. "The dawn's only an hour or two away, and Captain Lumnestti departs on the next day. I'll be glad to travel with you and Agidor for a time."
|
|
Phedron is relieved that the others are within Caster's sight. The animal-man sparks his interest, just in that Caster noticed it. He ponders for just a moment and then heads for the wild man. Subtle chances like this can sometimes be more than chance.
Once close enough, he will look to see if this is a friendly gathering or a hostile one.
"That has been my belief on the matter as well . . . Thank you for the confirmation."
Karl collects his belt and nods to his companions.
"Thank you again sir. I will look forward to meeting with you in the morning."
"Wouldn't be the first time I'd gone without sleep, but these are hardly average times." He sniffs the air. The stink of his travels and a night of ale and song hung heavily in the air. "Besides, a'm hardly in a state te be sociable. If ye'd give me the simple pleasure of the bath Rorber promised me. Afterwards I think that druid has things te say that I'd like te hear very much. So we'll pay them a visit after I clean mahself up."
.
Dramatis Personae
> Lemay de Rosin - Priest of Shelyn (human)
> Malau the Unwashed - Local druid (human)
> Fornholdt Hittlebriar - Wisterix Bros Caravan Boss (human)
The group departs Corg's blacksmith shop and heads west towards the market square (map updated under my avatar). Free of the dark confines and heat of the forge they realize the weather is cooled outside. In the west, the sun is sending its last rays skyward.
Across the walking path and beyond a trading shop, the market square sounds as though a gathering is in the works. Men and women can be heard shouting support for a central figure.
"Send us in, we'll deal with 'em!" One man sounds off, a smattering of grunts following in support.
"Don't send Hittlebriar," a second voice shouts back. "...he'll eat all the rations 'fore ya get a league from here!"
Laughter follows along with a few choice curses from the first voice.
The group comes around the trade shop, able to see the gathering is made up of twenty or so men and women with a central figure standing on two stacked crates that wobble precariously. That man, garbed in skins and welding a rather rough looking staff, begins shouting down to the gathered audience. His movements are dramatic, eyes wide and feverish.
"It's bigger than just goin' out n' clobberin' a few mountain lions 'r stabbin' a gobber r two..." The man's wild eyes glare down for his crates. "...the land's sick! It's gonna cough up worse than the likes o' bats n' wolves if ya don't heed my warnings!"
The crowd begins shouting the man down, calling him a fear monger and a looney. In fact, a heavy set man strides forward and manhandles the wild-eyed fellow off the crates. Then he hefts his girth upon the crates, the wood creaking beneath him.
"Someone call the carpenter! Them boxes ain't gonna hold up!" Someone shouts, to which a scattered sea of chuckles ripples thru the crowd.
"Shut yer, trap! All o' ya!" He coughs into his meaty fist, and bellows out, "Ya gaggle o' miscreants all know me, eh? I'm tired o' waitin' on the bloody Phalanx to get their helmets outta their arses n' clear out the East road."
"Don't do this, Hittlebriar!" the wild eyed man interrupts, holding his staff aloft.
But the crowd is done hearing the man out and begin shouting him down and shoving him to the periphery. There, a man dressed in colorful, well-tailored robes, gathers the disheveled man and pulls him aside.
"Now then," the big man - Hittlebriar - continues. "I gotta caravan set to leave at first light, two days from now. I need brave souls ta get my wares ta Inspitah then to the Fort. I'm offerin' 200 gold per armsman!"
"Who's gonna pay me fines with the Phalanx, ya great hairy ape!" Someone shouts back.
Hittlebriar stabs a thick finger towards the crowd and roars, "Great gobs o' goose-s&!t, Gilder! Ya can shove yer fines right up your..." The crates creak and groan beneath him, cutting him off. Hittlebriar hops down and waves off the man's complaint. "Anyone gots the minerals ta give it a go, ya know where ta find me!" He moves to depart but delays to answer questions from those in the crowd.
Over to the side, the he well-dressed man soothes the raw nerves of the wild eyed one.