Torlaes smiles and nods. "You are true warriors, all. Even your grumpy necromancer friend. Please take these provisions so you do not go hungry. And this map, so you do not get lost on your way to the flea-ridden dump that is Gatherhold. I am sorry that we cannot lend you some mounts, but we do not allow our horses out of our sight - it would be like lending you one of my children. Or one of my wives. Ha! Though for such doughty warriors, I would make an exception and lend you each one of my wives for a night, just to give thanks for the pleasure of getting to know you and fight with you!
"But alas, instead of coming with me and meeting my wives, you instead go to Gatherhold. See, I told you it was a bad idea! But what can I do? You minds are made up. Farewell, my friends. The battle was glorious. May you have many more battles to come, and may your names resound through the ages to the honour of your ancestors!"
Torlaes shouts a command in Elvish and the horsemen gallop away. After a few hundred yards they stop and, as one, they cheer the adventurers with weapons raised in salute. Then with a thunder of hooves the warband takes off across the dry plain, dust kicking up in their wake as they disappear towards the southern horizon.
Captain Moss’ expression could hardly grow darker as she orders the helmsman to follow the griffon riders towards Hold Mroranon. Meanwhile, Squadron-Leader Ironscar stands on deck, back straight and head back as if she were in command of the ship, which impresses the captain even less. The ship circles the flank of the mountain, leaving the original north-east bearing to head northwards. More peaks rise up on the starboard side as the ship flies along a valley. This side is less desolate, with small patches of greenery amidst the lava fields. The patches grow more frequent until the valley floor is covered with scrubby forest along which trickles a small river. The land gradually descends and the griffon riders follow it down, maintaining a steady height above the treetops.
The ship negotiates a bend around a huge basalt column and the reaches the mouth of the glen. The valley suddenly drops away as it reaches the sheltered heart of the Mror Holds. To left and right, massive mountains rake the sky, their bases covered in forest, their tops bare rock capped with snow and swirling cloud. In the far distance to the north and east, hovering above the haze, the shadowy outlines of more mighty peaks can dimly be made out. Between the near and far mountain chains, and thousands of feet below, spreads green rolling countryside braided with rivers and speckled with lakes, forest alternating with grassland as it disappears beyond the northern horizon. The transition between highlands and lowlands is narrow, and waterfalls cascade in series like white ribbons over cliffs and from rocky crags as the land plummets abruptly from summit to rift floor.
A small city can be dimly made out nestling amid the lush splendour. But the riders do not turn in this direction, continuing to follow the flank of the volcano. Soon their destination becomes clear. A brooding mass of worked stone projects from the steep rocky slope, a brutal agglomeration of crenellated towers, buttresses and walkways topped with ballistae and catapults to form the outworks and main entrance of the subterranean clanhold built inside the mountain. The white specks of circling griffons stand out against the dark rock, and larger dots resolve as they are approached into airships at rest at a docking tower. “You will moor here,” says the Squadron-Leader. “You will then be boarded and questioned.”
The ship slides up to the docking tower and ties up. As the gangway is dropped more dwarves hurry onboard. Unlike Squadron-Leader Ironscar they do not have resplendent armour with winged helms but the drab tabards of border guards covering leather jerkins. They begin poking around the ship and asking questions: “Who are you?” “Where are you travelling from?” “Where are you travelling to?” “What is the purpose of your travel?” They do not seem especially interested in the answers, and several times a different dwarf begins asking the same person the same questions again. They open barrels and peer inside and stir the bilges with long sticks. They crawl through the hold, tapping the walls and listening. All told, the inspection takes several frustrating hours. By this point, the Squadron-Leader has ceded responsibility for dealing with the ship and its crew to an Under-Captain Whitegleam, a dwarven male with an oiled beard and carefully waxed moustache who is, if anything, even more insultingly supercilious than his predecessor.
Self-importantly hooking his thumbs in his tabard, he says, “Currently we have found no evidence of wrongdoing. However, before you can leave we must collate the evidence, complete the report, report to my superiors and receive their confirmation before you can travel on. In the meantime, this vessel is impounded. In the absence of any evidence to indicate contrariwise, you are free to visit the city. However, please do not stray far should we need to speak to you.”
"I trust we will be given vouchers for meals and board due to the inconvenience of your bureaucracy? After all, you wouldn't want us unwilling tourists to be telling everyone we were imprisoned, eh?"
Rehil stays as silent as courtesy allows through the remaining time with the elves.
He returns their salute, holding his own curve blade high and voicing a corresponding cheer as loudly as he can.
Afterwards he looks at the sun and the chart. Then he shrugs into his pack. When his companions are ready he begins marching westward toward Gatherhold. His pace is steadfatly steady and he keeps his gaze fixed forward save for occasionally glances toward the southwest.
The group set off, on foot once more, for Gatherhold. The map and rations certainly come in handy and while they are tired and footsore, it is a less difficult journey and Rehil leads them in what seems to be the right direction. The herds rumble slowly across the grasslands, browsing on the thorn trees.
The dwarf scowls. "I'm sure we have a few free holding cells if you want somewhere to stay."
"It's OK," says Bokehn, pulling the others away. “Look, don’t push it. Let’s keep a low profile. That means using those hats to disguise yourselves, for one.” He looks at Atsu. “She might not have stopped us if she hadn’t realised who, or what, you are.”
“Listen, there’s nothing to find on the ship, so we should be off once they’ve written things down in triplicate and got the nod from the boss. I’ve not been here before, but I think there’s an inn district at the next level down. Let’s have a drink – might be the last chance to relax for a while.”
Atsu looks a bit nonplussed. "I didn't realize the dwarves were so suspicious of the shulassakar," he says. "Certainly I don't believe we've done anything to engender a poor relationship with them."
"Too late for now, but perhaps for the next stop I can take on a different identity."
Vaard shrugs, "Agreed, let us keep our heads down and our snouts clean. The sooner we are away the better to be sure".
Vaard follows Bokehn keeping quiet and away from any beings that seem like they may wish to cause trouble.
Tal doesn't really mind walking but understands how useful a mount would be. He keeps on the lookout for a suitable dino.
He follows the closet outdoorsman Wultram in order to get the best stalking position.
He keeps his equipment from clanging and clattering as they approach the target.
“Dwarves, particularly Clan Mroranon, are suspicious of anyone over four feet tall. And your people don’t help themselves much. You haven’t spent much time outside your city – your reputation outside isn’t the same as the way you see yourselves.”
The group head through some gates and down a wide staircase. It opens out into a tall, wide, pillared hall. Sunshine filters down from above in shafts which illuminate the floor with pools of light. Dwarves, and a few other races, stroll about their business, haggle or chat. A few stalls are set up, mostly selling food, and shop fronts are built into the walls.
Bokehn picks an inn at random and walks in. The arrival of a group of strangers elicits no interest in this relatively cosmopolitan part of the city. Inside it is dark and smoky, many of the mostly dwarven patrons puffing on pipes as they consider the large frothing steins before them, and filled with the noise of guttural Dwarven conversation. Bokehn grabs a free table and a barmaid, a dwarven woman with massively muscled forearms like hams, comes over.
“Five pints of the dark.” The woman nods curtly and returns very shortly with five foaming mugs. Bokehn grabs his and takes a gulp and wipes his mouth. “Say what you like about the dwarves. They brew the best beer in Eberron.”
Rehil watches with some stifled amusement which changes to grudging respect as the others search for, and then find sign of dinosaurs.
As the party gets closer, the elf lowers himself into a crouch so that his head barely clears the tall grass on the plains.
The adventurers find themselves on their bellies in the long grass within striking distance of a bull triceratops as it strips the leaves and bark from a tree.
Tal lays in the grass and mutters a few words to cause the grace of Dol Arrah to flow into him and his allies.
Atsu seems a bit surprised at the commentary about the shulassakar. "Truly? We mostly keep to ourselves and our business is our own, aside from the rare occasions when we fight against extraplanar foes. I would have thought that merited at least neutrality - we are not the sort to harass the dwarves or impact their business. Ah, well, I suppose rumors will happen," he says.
He sits in the tavern with the remainder of the group and says, "Regardless, we have given them no reason to detain us, so I hope for an eventual acceptable resolution to the matter." He sips at the dark beer gingerly.
"Perhaps they are simply trying to attain some wealth from us by making us pay fees to get the vessel out of the impound? If this is the case, what would be our approach?"
---
Cole stands by watching the room scanning for potential threats while his allies drink.
Ashshar
Ashshar seemed less interested in the inhabitants and more focused on the surroundings. Every place had a feel to it, just like nature did. Reaching the inn did not change the tension of an unfamiliar place, it just let them shift some of their attention to the individuals. Vaard speaking did pull some of that attention from the room to the table, however.
A dwarf who is sitting by himself leans over from his seat. His long grey beard is luxuriant but the top of his head is a shiny pink dome. He gestures with pipe in hand, a finely carved meerschaum. “I spy strangers,” he says in a not-unfriendly fashion, “What leads scalyfolk like yourselves to Clanhold Mroranon?” He replaces the stem in his mouth and takes a puff.
Rehil crouches at the edge of the tall grass. When Wultram's undead break cover, the elf does too. He dashes forward on a wider line than the others, hoping to circle and contain the big horned dinosaur.
"Not intentionally friend, we were boarded and forced to land. Is it common for the Griffon Riders to do this to travelers through this territory?"
Nalverren mutters to Bokehn briefly about wanting to torch the place, half-jokingly, before they reach the bar.
"Aye, it's far from unknown," says the dwarf. "The dwarves of Clan Mroranon think they are a cut above the rest of us ordinary folk. They like to throw their weight about a bit, trying to find every little infraction to catch you out and put themselves ahead. They probably saw you lot were a bit on the unusual side and just assumed you must be up to no good. A bunch of bumptious greedy bureaucrats, if you ask me." The dwarf takes another puff. "'Tis a shame they make the purest steel in Khorviare, otherwise no one would give them the time of day.
"I'm Hedrig Ruulson, of Clan Lanarak, trader. Yourselves?"
Tal follows after his companions and fortifies himself with the power of his god.
The beast bellows and charges forwards, attempting the trample its enemies underfoot.
Rehil is a little taken aback when the beast wheels and charges the skeletons. Watching while he alters his own course, he's even more so when the skeletons stumble or are brushed out of the dinosaur's path.
Turn complete, the elf dashes for the triceratop's head, hoping to divert it before it can reach Tal. As he runs, he frees his curve blade from its scabbard, scythes it through the grass ahead of him, and sweeps it up in a wheeling overhand stroke aimed for the beast's shoulder just behind the horny frill.
...
The beast swings its wicked nose-horn at Rehil as he closes with it.
Rehil's sword still manages to open a wound in the softer skin behind its neck-frill.
Maybe the elf should have taken a cue from the charge on the skeletons, because he's not prepared the speed with which he finds himself on the business end of the horns.
"Aye, it's far from unknown," says the dwarf. "The dwarves of Clan Mroranon think they are a cut above the rest of us ordinary folk. They like to throw their weight about a bit, trying to find every little infraction to catch you out and put themselves ahead. They probably saw you lot were a bit on the unusual side and just assumed you must be up to no good. A bunch of bumptious greedy bureaucrats, if you ask me." The dwarf takes another puff. "'Tis a shame they make the purest steel in Khorviare, otherwise no one would give them the time of day.
"I'm Hedrig Ruulson, of Clan Lanarak, trader. Yourselves?"
"Atzu, from Krezent. To be honest, we're simply trying to pass through. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at bureaucrats doing their best to turn a simple trip into a good deal of delays and permissions, though," says the shulassakar with a raised eyebrow.
"My associates are from further afield; I joined them in Krezent to provide assistance in their tasks."
"Honestly, I'm surprised that no one has done anything about a band of dwarves just capturing nearby travelers for no purpose. It's like a soft form of piracy."
Arms crossed, having elected not to sit, Cole examines his surroundings and Ruulson for signs of danger. There is a good chance that the detour was just the result of bad planning and worse luck, and that the dwarf is just looking for some conversation.
But his unrelenting paranoia is subtly whispering that a trap is being laid out for them.
"Aye, well, I wouldn't disagree with you, 'cept it's their land and so up to them how they defend it. Clan Mroranon's getting quite paranoid at the moment - there's been some nasty fights with the Jhorash'Tal orcs. Don't know the rights and the wrongs of it myself. Me, I'd leave the orcs to get on with it, but Clan Mroranon call them a menace to be wiped out. Can't help thinking there's underlying greed in their motives, though - there's plenty of untapped veins in the mountains where the orcs live. Causes some big arguments at the Clan Moots - Clans Tordannon and Soldarak want to make the orcs the thirteenth clan of the Mror Holds." Hedrig chuckles. "Though I bet that's more to rile up Mroranon than anything else. Anyway, you don't want to listen to an old dwarf rambling on."
In a corner, one of the dwarven drinkers begins to hum a single low note and rhythmically bang his mug on the table. The others at his table begin to do the same, picking up the beat.
"Och," says Hedrig, perking up, "Seems we've got a sing-song!"
More patrons join in until the tavern throbs with a basso drone and the steady thud... thud... pulse. Then one of the dwarves stands up and begins to sing in a tuneful baritone in Dwarvish.
"Ach, one of my favorites!" grins Hedrig, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
Another dwarf picks up the next verse. Then another picks up the third as the song passes around the room, accompanied by to the slamming of mugs on tables and the deep hummed bass-note.
After the fist few seconds the dinosaur is bleeding from several wounds. But then, so is Rehil.
Tal moves to block the dino in the circle of enemies and slashes at it's flank.
"Orcs in the dwarven homelands." says gruffly Cole, in a low voice. "That will do wonders for internal politics."