Sorala wipes her brow and frowns as the back of her hand comes away smudged with ash. Indeed, though she can't see it, a long black streak runs up her cheek and nose, and into her hair. She has brown hair, deep in tone, with just the slightest blonde highlights that strike it in the sunlight. Her hair is pulled back into one long braid that runs along the top of her head and down her back. Sorala's eyes are a flat grey, the color of a typical winter sky. The woman’s face is chiseled and lean, as is her body, a combination of barely enough calories and a rigorous workout regimen.
Sorala’s wardrobe is functional; wool breeches and sturdy brown leather boots cover her legs and feet, while her torso is adorned with a simple cotton shirt, over a fine-linked chain shirt. Her clothes are dirty, and her cloak is black and threadbare.
The most striking thing about Sorala, besides perhaps her gray eyes, is the falcata she carries. The blade is finely crafted and honed, with silver veins running the length of its tempered steel. The hilt is ivory, and the sword’s handle is wrapped in fine white bear’s leather, stained dark from generations of gripping, sweating hands.
The White Squire stares as the lodge begins to fall in on itself, her mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief. All that work. Literally up in flames.
Turning to the newcomer, and then looking to the druidess, Sorala grits her teeth. "I happen to agree with you about giving her what she wants, but why did you burn the building down? I mean, I understand the pyre, but... that lodge could have been useful."
Ehiz is of average height and his tanned skin betrays his outdoor occupation. Fit as a fiddle, the man has muscular arms, strong shoulders and legs that are used to the hardships of farming and hunting. He has grown a mighty beard and moustache that dominate his face, sitting underneath a prominent hawkish nose. Cool green eyes loom above, calmly observing the world around him.
The man refuses to travel without his worn red leather hat, decorated with the feathers of hunting birds. He wears non-descript clothes fit for farming or hunting, that are a shade of brown and beige, and has a sturdy leather coat for when the seasons demand you to dress warmly.
Ehiz wears his well-maintained chain shirt over a layer of sturdy cotton and linens. A thick leather girdle around his waist keeps the chain from rattling (too much) and to distribute the weight more evenly over his body.
Right now, he's as tense as can be. The bloody taste of upcoming conflict is palpable and causes the man to clench his jaws together.
"..but why did you burn the building down? I mean, I understand the pyre, but... that lodge could have been useful."
Sulan shrugs.
"The ones who were using it were dead. Didn't know anyone else was around."
"Besides, easy enough to cut some more wood and build a new one if you need it. I just didn't feel like cutting a bunch of logs for the pyre when the log cabin was right there."
Sulan looks back at the fire, looking pleased with himself.
"And it's a good fire, too. I'm a bit surprised - looks like the wood's still pretty green."
The gray-green of her skin is a dead giveaway of her parentage, even though her other racial traits are rather muted. Her wiry body has a coiled spring tension about it, her shoulders slightly hunched and her eyes darting around as if seeking unseen perils. She wears her brown hair short, hidden under a woolen cap. Her dress is practical - leather trousers, solid boots, linen shirt, pocketed vest and a multitude of pouches and containers hanging from her belt and from leather cords wrapped around her torso.
She gazes at the burning lodge with a frown. "What else did you see inside?"
Yosiah continues working, listening in on the conversation as best he can, side-by-side with the Druidess. The two work in silence, their heavy breaths and dripping sweat a universal language.
"What else did you see inside?"
"Not much. Lots o' blood. There was a hell of a fight in there; looked like they had been killed by some kind of big cat. Lion maybe."
"It didn't eat them though, which is a bit odd. Cats kill mainly to eat. Perhaps it felt threatened or something."
Sulan doesn't bother mentioning the tools and weapons that he found.
"Then it may not have been the druidess. Her shape seems to be wolf. But we can ask."
Approaching the woman and rejoining in her efforts to protect the forest from the fire, Murob addresses her. "L'étranger dit qu'il y avait des morts à l'intérieur. Savez-vous ce qui les a tués?" She thinks for a moment, then adds. "C'est pourquoi il a mis le feu à la maison. Il voulait honorer les morts."
She looks the woman straight in the eyes.
"Nous avons perdu beaucoup de nos gens. Il y a eu assez de morts. S'il vous plaît, laissez-nous vivre côte à côte pacifiquement."
The druid scoffs, advancing on the group as the fire is contained with some finality. She stabs her spear into the ground, and then speaks to the group in Arcadian, her voice dripping with something like derision.
With a toss of her dirty hair, she and her wolves begin to leave, disappearing into the forest.
"I not fight you now. But no peace, no friendship, 'less you show me that you mean what you say. That you not lie and lie and lie like the others."
You know that in every story, the mngwa always seeks to punish somebody who has wronged nature in some way.
Mngwas' claws are lethal if not treated immediately. They are known to bite deeply and to cause wounds which absolutely gush with blood, leaving their prey dead within minutes even if they manage to escape. They are also impossible to track without magical aid, for they leave no footprints and exude no scent.
In addition, their connection to the night is powerful. So powerful, in fact, that they don't even exist during the day.
They have two weaknesses. The first is their connection to night - a daylight or similar spell renders them completely powerless, unable to act or even think of anything other than to escape the spell. The second is the fact that they do not exist during the day. Each day at dusk, they re-form near the spot where they first materialized. Because of this, if you simply run from a mngwa farther than it can travel in a single day, you will never have to deal with it.
"Tsk." Yosiah removes his helmet, wiping sweat from his forehead as he listens to Murob's explanation of the Mngwa.
"This sounds....bad. I do not like anything about this beast. We must lay a trap for it."
He calls after the Druidess as she retreats. "Si nous le tuons, nous croirons-nous? Voulez-vous vous joindre à nous et nous enseigner?"
If we kill it, will you believe us? Will you join us and teach us?
Murob shakes her head. "I don't think that is what she wants to see from us. The mngwa arose because the loggers angered it in some way, committed a wrong that the mngwa is righting. Perhaps it has to do with the chopping of the trees, or they did something else. What she wants to see from us is that we right that wrong and commit no others. But it is difficult to know what the spirits of this land consider wrong or right. In any case, if we want peaceful coexistence with her, then we must show that we respect nature."
She looks over her shoulder, to where First Landing would be. "But this is perhaps not our decision to make. We must ask the colonists what they want to do - try for peace, or fight the druidess and her creatures."
"Whatever it is, it's gotta be more than just chopping some trees."
"But it sounds like someone will have to deal with this 'mingooah' whether the druidess is around or not. Unless she was the one that called it up and is lying about it."
"Either way, I don't see how you need her around. Settling this land includes conquering it, doesn't it? So conquer already."
Ignoring Yosiah, the druidess disappears into the undergrowth without a second look back... leaving the group alone with their new half-orc shipwreck.
At Sulan's mention of conquering, Sorala casts a quick sideways glance towards Murob and Mogwai. That comment wasn't going to go over well.
Anyways...
"So we have to redress some wrong. Does a ma-NENG-wah talk? Should we camp here tonight to see if we can figure out why it is upset?"
"Or should we head back to First Landing, talk with the townsfolk? I'm still not exactly sure what the pitch is. Do we ask them if they want to give up logging and farming and become hunter/gatherers?"
That's also not going to go over well.
"Ohhh.... Mah-NENG-wah! Right! now I remember!" Sulan says.
"If it is what I think it is, it is no smarter than an animal. The Mah-ning-wah can be communicated with through magic like any other beast."
"But I wouldn't hold your breath. It's a vengeful creature and not likely to stop and chat."
"I think going back to First Landing is wise. We need to talk to the various groups and factions, find out if anyone did anything that might be the cause of all this. We best not point any fingers at anyone just yet so ..." and Ehiz takes a deep breath. ""We should be diplomatic about this even when people deflect blame and attempt to send us into the woods."
People were the same everywhere. Put an ounce of blame on their shoulders and they'd do whatever it takes to re-direct said blame. Even if righting the wrong would take less effort. Luckily, Erastil is here to guide them.
Murob sighs. "We would not get very far by trying to talk to the mngwa. We should go back and talk to the colonists, see if anyone there knows more. And ask them what they want to do - try for peace or fight the druidess." She sighs again, all too aware of how a peace proposal would likely go down with the people of First Landing. They were like her, hoping to find a better life here, and instead they were threatened with starvation and death. Yet, what right did they have to elevate their way of life above that of the druidess? She was a native of this place and, to Murob's mind, had more rights to this land than they did. A peaceful solution may yet be possible, but only if all parties worked at it, and she was afraid that the parties were not all that interested in more work.
The group is able to easily navigate back towards First Landing, still being within a couple of miles. With most of another day passed, the people of First Landing have begun to get more lively. Another three survivors staggered in today, their shipwreck site much farther south than any of the others. Though they brought three more mouths to feed, they also managed to salvage a few weapons and a few dozen pounds of food from their ship, and spirits are relatively high as the evening comes on.
A few of the people who members of the group conversed with earlier wave or smile as they return to the village.
When one of his Blades informs him that the group has returned, Breddaric comes out of his ship to speak with them. He begins right to the point - "So, did you kill her? Can we start farming again?" His gaze flits momentarily to Sulan, but apparently doesn't find him interesting enough to engage.
Sulan, you have come to First Landing for the first time. This is a small settlement, designed to have taken on the beginning of the colonization effort. Currently, it is just a few wooden buildings built on the edge of a natural bay, with a few docks harboring a single ship - the 20-crew caravel Point Man. About a hundred people live here, though most sleep in tents and eat dried food or collected berries and nuts. It was designed to be bigger by now to accommodate semi-comfortably the 800 or so members of the expedition, though a few disasters and setbacks have retarded its development.
"No," Sorala says, not adding any elaboration. "Have your Blades gather the entire town. We need to have a moot."
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Yosiah sneers at Breddaric's question, curling his lip in disgust. He is covered in dirt, soot, and sweat, and has no patience for the crass, bloodthirsty man. "No. We did not keel her, crétin." His Arcadian accent becomes more pronounced as his words accelerate from his mouth. "She had good reason to be scared. She wants to protect this forest, and now we have Mngwa! Go away, we will handle this without keeling her, because we are not sauvages" He brushes past Breddaric without another word, to sit near the cooking fire and stew.
"...because we are not sauvages"
"Heh," chuckles Sulan. "Speak for yourself."
Sulan looks around the encampment.
"I see one ship managed to make it. Better than nothing. Still, looks like most of the passengers didn't make it, eh?"
"Also, looks like your people are barely getting by. In a land as rich as this? Didn't you bring any fishermen? Maybe I'll go see if I can round up some things in the woods."
Breddaric raises his eyebrows and lets out a single mirthless chuckle. "I don't know why you expect me or my Blades to do anything for me if you're going to insult me," he says. He crosses his arms. "And last time I checked, I am in charge of this town. What do we need a moot for?"
Moots in Irrisen were secretive things; townsfolk gathered in someone's darkened attic in the middle of the night, decisions made about how best to avoid the threats of the nobility, who may need a little extra food from the community, how to honor those wisked away by fey or witch. Or so Sorala remembered hearing them to be. She never actually attended one. But the Irrisenian had hoped, fervently, that things would be different in First Landing, that all would have some say in how they were ruled. It was apparent that they would not.
It was also apparent that Bredaric would have to go. But Sorala wasn't sure the others were quite ready to admit that to themselves. The White Squire shrugged, and made her way past Bredaric, leaving the talking to the others.
She says simply, to Sulan, over her shoulder as she goes, "The fishers cannot bring in enough to feed all of us. The farmers are afraid to farm."
Sitting next to Yosiah, Sorala held her hands close to the fire, until she couldn't stand the heat anymore, a childhood game. She speaks in a low voice, barely a whisper. "There are, how you say, politique, here. Breddaric has swordarms, that we need. But, he is no leader. A conundrum, you understand? Un problème."
Yosiah gives the briefest hint of a nod at Sorala's words, holding his own hands a fraction of an inch closer to the fire than the Irrisenian woman - he is too competitive to do anything else. He considers her words for a moment, frowning. "A hunting accident, then? Perhaps outright challenge? I hate these...politique."
Murob speaks from behind Yosiah, also keeping her voice low. She is standing, stretching her hands towards the warmth of the fire. "'Accident'? Then we are murderers. Challenge? If you mean combat challenge, that is rather primitive. If you mean to challenge his authority to lead the colonists, then yes. Karzok seems to hate the man, we should perhaps talk to him and see what he knows." She looks around at the meager settlement, lost in thought for a few moments. "Or we let the colonists decide, like Sorala suggested. Who do they want to follow? But for that, we need to prove ourselves worthy of being followed. And the problems we are facing are... not simple.A conundrum, indeed."
She paces around the fire for a while, thinking. "We should start with the mngwa, tomorrow. Ask the colonists tonight, perhaps some of them know what happened, or can guess."
Sorala smiles - just so faintly - as she catches the Arcadian mimicking her game.
"Me too, about the politique. Because I've never been good at it."
Turning and looking briefly at Murob, Sorala turns back to the fire, and removing her boots, stretches her feet towards its warmth.
"Karzok plans to kill Bredaric. I've put him off the idea for now, but he will make his move at some point." Giving Murob another glance, she continues. "And if he succeeds, that is not a bad thing. The needs of many outweigh the actions of one."
"I don't know how skilled a warrior Bredaric is, though. Would Karzok be able to kill him? Could I defeat him in a challenge? I want his Blades. They are a good tool, if pointed in the right direction."
"Perhaps tomorrow, I will ask Bredaric to spar, for practice. It may give us a better idea of his skills."
"As for now, I agree that the mngwa is a good choice. I will ask the Blades about it, one of them in particular I have a rapport with. But, soon we will need to farm. What do you plan to propose to our farmers, Murob?"
Later, Sorala wanders First Landing looking for Rick, the Blade. When she finds him, she smiles and waves him closer. "Hi, Rick! I hope your belly is full. We found that the creature that killed the loggers is mngwa - a vengeful spirit. Do you know, were the loggers - or anyone else in the camp - up to anything that would be particularly upsetting to a nature spirit?
Mngwa are always created by other spirits, in response to particular wrong. Think, and don't be bashful to speak the truth. We can only end this by finding out what the spirit is angry about, and addressing it."
Breddaric sighs and walks away as the whole group basically ignores him. "Typical," he says.
The group is one of several huddled around a number of campfire beads which was brought by the original group. With no ability to log, spending wood on fires during the spring or summer seems irresponsible. However, they are able to talk quietly without anyone really noticing them. Everyone seems to be lost in their own world, talking in hushed tones with their friends, their families, or the people who have been thrust into their lives by surprise after the death of their loved ones.
Rick the Blade is in fact eating when Sorala goes to find him. Breddaric demanded that his men be given full rations from Victoria's create food spells, so they get to eat full dinners every night. Everyone else seems to be on half-rations for the time being, except for a few people (one pregnant woman, a few young children, etc.) that are also on full rations. So far, it is preserving the food supply... However, people will likely waste away like this.
Rick waves to Sorala when she comes to talk to him, swallowing a bit of plain bread. He offers her a magically-created bowl of rice and some water. "Hi, Sorala. You have any luck hunting that druid?" he asks when she sits down.
When Sorala asks her question, he gets thoughtful. "Hmm. I don't really know about that sort of thing. Maybe you should ask Breddaric?"
Karzok comes to greet the group as they sit down, bringing a tray of half-rations. There is a bit of fish from the fisherman's catch, and a bit of bread, some water, a half-ear of corn and a small pile of spinach for each of you. He sees Sulan and measures the other half-orc up before he sits down, judging him.
Karzok is of a medium build with a scraggly beard and unkempt dark brown hair. His hands are scarred from his trials and tribulations of being a carver and novice leathersmith. His clothes are threadbare and slung over his shoulder are a makeshift shortbow and a surprisingly fine greatsword. His armor is also of exceptional make, the leather lamellar covered in intricately carved patterns of leaves, birds, and simple animals. A hooded dark gray cloak hangs loose from his shoulders. He has a thick dark wooden ring on his right middle finger and carries a torn and tattered book of Tien legend which he pulls out of his pack and reads when there is nothing else to occupy his attention.
He begins to eat his half-rations, and murmurs, "So what have you done? What needs to be done?"
"I refuse to entertain the notion of anything unseemly, unlawful, dishonorable and or despicable." The words should come as no surprise, but perhaps the undertone of outright disdain does. "The path ahead is clear. We must find the root of the Mngwa's problem, fix it and then deal with the druidess. Everyone around us is trying to survive and build up a new life. Soaking that foundation in blood and betrayal makes for what, a house worth living in? I think not. No, hard work and dedication will be the sinew of this edifice we're constructing, and it starts with .. heh, words. Murob, mind accompanying me for a chat with the farmers and loggers? Everyone is, of course, welcome to join us."
He then blinks and licks his lips, not just waiting for a reply from his companions, but also to ponder on what he just said. "My apologies if that was somewhat heavy-handed, but Erastil watches over us and I'd hate if anyone inadvertently invoked his wrath upon all of us. I am confident we can solve this and come to a resolution, together."
Murob nods at Ehiz's words. "I am happy to help however I can, brother. And I agree with you that the foundation of our life together in this land has to be wholesome. What we do in these first few days matters more than we perhaps know."
She pauses to tear off a little bread and examine it. "I am no farmer, but I can forage well enough. If need be, I shall spend a few days doing that and helping feed First Landing, once we resolve the situation with the mngwa."
She paces around the fire for a while, thinking. "We should start with the mngwa, tomorrow. Ask the colonists tonight, perhaps some of them know what happened, or can guess."
"Isn't the Mngwa a night creature? If it was following us, or the colonists, it may appear tonight."
Of the eleven farmers who originally arrived, six are still alive. Four of the original nine loggers are alive as well. In addition to these ten individuals, there are thirteen others among the shipwreck survivors who identify as farmers or laborers assigned to logging. They're curious what Ehiz has to say, although a few of them have heard that he is a farmer himself, and a cleric of Erastil. One, a dirty young man whose clothes are ragged, asks for Erastil's blessing.
"No, Erastil has forsaken us," says another, older bearded man. "Clearly you can see that."
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"You don't expect Erastil to do everything for you, do you?" Sulan asks.
"Gods concern themselves with worlds. People are very small things to them. Best do things for yourself, and ask Erastil to give his blessing to your deeds afterwards."
Sorala sits next to Rick, and shrugs. "We found the druid. She still lives, though. Hopefully, the next time we meet, things will be resolved."
Quirking an eyebrow, Sorala draws some jerky from her bag, and chews silently, thinking. The way forward lies through the Blades.
"You haven't been completely honest with me, Rick. Are we not friends? Do you trust me to do right by you?"
The White Squire was a horrible liar. Her face would redden with the speaking of any untruth, making her unusually bad, perhaps, among the Irrisenians, for playing their games of subterfuge. So, Sorala vowed, she would not lie. She finds Bredaric first thing.
"Good morning, Bredaric. I'd like to apologize for last night. The ones I was with last night are blunt with their words, and blinded by idealism. Plus, none of them can swing a sword worth a damn. I need a real warrior to practice with. Could I spar with you this morning?"
After they spar, Sorala sheaths her white blade and offers Bredaric her hand. "Well done, Bredaric. You have some skill. Tell me, do you know of this mnangwa, of what it is? If not, I can tell you: it is a creature created by spirits to right a wrong. I must know what it is angry about to fight it. Do you know, was anything done, at or around the lodge, that could create such a thing? Once we know what its emotional trigger is, we can formulate a plan to stop it."
The farmer who Sulan addresses frowns with displeasure. He seems to be the most senior farmer, named Simon. "Yeah, maybe you're right," he says. "Gods never seem to help people as much as they f~@& people over. Because, what, they've got their eyes on the big picture? Bah." He spits.
"We should just head out to the farms, take our land back, and kill that b##~! when she comes calling, right?" he says, turning to the farmers behind him. A few of them give a cheer, holding aloft farming implements. "That's taking our destiny into our own hands, yeah? We're responsible for everyone's death if we don't."
Rick looks shifty. He scratches his short brown hair and fingers the edge of his handaxe. He looks uncomfortable to have been called out, and he shifts around. "I don't know, Sorala. I don't think that Breddaric would be very happy if I talked about it. I mean, you seem alright and all, but you're... kind of a stranger."
When Sorala finds Breddaric in the morning, he and six of his Blades (including Rick) are getting ready to go somewhere. They've put on armor, they're gathering and sharpening weapons, counting crossbow bolts, and more. Breddaric himself is having a stretch, and thinks that a quick spar is a great idea. "Men, when you're done preparing your equipment, you should take a few minutes to have a quick fight. Use your fists and body, try to put your opponent on his back. Just a good warm-up."
He stands, pulls a machete from his belt, and stretches his shoulders by throwing his arms back and forth. "So... what, a swordfight?"
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"We should just head out to the farms, take our land back, and kill that b+*#* when she comes calling, right?" he says, turning to the farmers behind him. A few of them give a cheer, holding aloft farming implements. "That's taking our destiny into our own hands, yeah? We're responsible for everyone's death if we don't."
Sulan shrugs.
"That's basically what I would to. But first you want to stack the odds against her. Just running out with some pitchforks is likely to get you killed. She has wolves for friends and knows the land. Make a plan first."
Sorala takes a good look at Bredaric, sizing up the condition of any weapons that the man carries. Then, the Irrisenian smiles her flat little smile, and draws her sword. "Use whatever weapon you are most comfortable with. You'll need it. Flat of the blades, until one of us asks for quarter."
In the morning, Murob checks on the other Marie Celeste survivors to see how they are settling in. Eliza had seemed like a capable woman, so the two end up talking for a while as Murob explains the situation with the druidess and the mngwa, as well as her hopes of reaching a peaceful resolution.
"You are a knight, are you not? Perhaps the people here will be willing to talk to you, tell us what might have happened to cause the creation of the mngwa. Gods know they wouldn't talk to me. And what do you think of the other matter?"
The farmer Simon nods. "Yeah, you're right," he says. "We'll need to lay traps or something. Be ready this time."
The other Marie Celeste survivors seem to be settling in fine. Ledz doesn't seem to be having any difficulties at all, while Sarah and Edward seem to be just eking out an existence. Being tailors, they don't have much to do quite yet.
Bokken, the dirty vagrant found in the second section of ship, seems to have set up a small shop. He seems to have dragged pieces of broken ship from elsewhere on the coast to erect a small yurt. A wooden board with hastily-painted words on it reads 'Bokken's Concokktions'. Inside, Bokken has a couple of reclaimed barrels bubbling with various liquid... concoctions. He is just finishing up a trade with a villager, writing down the terms on a piece of tree bark. He seems to have begun gathering ingredients for a potion-brewing scheme. He also brews alcohol, and trades or sells his creations.
Elizabeth has cleaned herself off and gotten her clothing somewhat mended, so she looks actually alright. She's also traded her scimitar with some other survivor for a longsword. She listens carefully to Murob's explanations, offering a bit of insight or observation occasionally. Overall Murob gleans that she is a disciplined, pragmatic woman who, while clever, may be somewhat short-sighted. Still, she nods. "Yes, I can speak to people for you," she says. "You saved my life from those gillmen. I owe you."
Breddaric agrees to Sorala's terms, keeping ahold of his machete. It seems to be very well-made, and he carries a brace of handaxes as well. In addition, across his back he carries a gastraphetes. A gastraphetes is a seldom-used, particularly large type of crossbow usually fired from a prone position but which carries a much more powerful spring than a usual crossbow. He wears a chain shirt underneath traveler's clothing. His equipment seems well-made and well-cared for.
When the duel begins, Breddaric attacks aggressively and savagely, trying to get Sorala off of her balance, but then after a few swings he takes a step back. He continues this pattern of quick attacks followed by springing back several times, seemingly to lord his superiority over Sorala and to extend the fight. It is quickly clear that Breddaric is a much better fighter than Sorala is, and faster too, though not as strong. He doesn't seem to have any special style dedicated to melee, which means that, given his general skill at fighting, he must specialize in something else.
At Murob's question regarding peace with the druidess, Elizabeth ponders. "Well," she says... "Generally in order to do diplomacy you have to give somebody something that they want. The druid obviously wants something. The people here want something. Breddaric may want something. How do we make sure that they all get what they want?"
She shrugs. "It seems irreconcilable at first look. The easy option is clearly to just kill her, and it's one that will have popular acclaim with the new settlers."
The farmer Simon nods. "Yeah, you're right," he says. "We'll need to lay traps or something. Be ready this time."
"And the more hands the better. Some of the people here want to negotiate with this druidess. Your chances are best if you can win those people over."
Holding one hand up, Sorala wipes the mud from her face with her other hand, her blade having been dropped by her side. "I give. Please help me up."
Grimacing, the White Squire takes Bredaric's hand, and stands, the world growing fuzzy for a second as she moves too quick. "I can learn a lot from you, Bredaric. Nicely done." Bringing her fingers to her mouth, Sorala winces; her bottom lip is swollen, one tooth is loose. Arsekicking, she thinks, and runs a shaking hand through her muddy hair. "What are your plans for the day?"
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Limping off to find Karzok, Sorala stands, regarding her friend with a keen eye. "What are your intentions with Bredaric? I just dueled him for some 'practice' and I'll be honest - I think he'd kill you if you fight fair. I don't know that both of us together could kill him."
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Next, it is off to find the others. "I think the key to the mngwa lies with the Blades. I don't know what it is, exactly, but something happened."
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Still hurting, Sorala spends the rest of the day loitering about First Landing, especially near any buildings or tents that the Blades inhabit. She intends to see what their schedules are like, if there are any, and if there's a moment when all the Blades are gone and it looks safe enough, Sorala will go through their things, looking for diaries, notes, and other writings that could explain what happened to cause the mngwa.
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Breddaric nods. He'd only taken a couple of hits before he'd managed to overwhelm Sorala, but he drinks a potion to soothe the bruises nonetheless. "You as well. You fight okay for someone so young. Some practice and some kills and you'll be a good fighter."
He grins when Sorala asks about where he and his men are going. He sheathes his machete and barks an order at his men to pick themselves up and get ready to go. "We're going to go hunt and kill that druid at last. I thought I might be able to rely on you and your buds, but I guess I have to do it myself. We just needed to re-stock after our last fight with her."
Sorala finds Karzok on the outskirts of the settlement, digging in the ground for tubers, worms, mushrooms, and hunting for flowers. He has a few beautiful purple flowers in a small bundle in one hand. He grunts and works with a spade one-handed. He nods. "I figured. He is the leader of a mercenary group, and they managed to kill my mother. That is why I'm gathering things for that man Bokken. He told me that he would make a poison which will cripple anybody if I bring him the ingredients and ten kilograms of meat."
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The ship is currently empty save for the gillman, so Sorala is able to surreptitiously board the vessel without any Blades seeing. Looking through their bunks, she finds few diaries. Apparently the men Breddaric recruits aren't exactly the literary type. The captain's cabin, probably where Breddaric sleeps, is locked. Sorala is no locksmith and no thief, though.
She could crawl in through a window, but Sorala swimming around the boat is sure to attract a lot more attention, requiring some kind of... distraction.
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"We should just head out to the farms, take our land back, and kill that b!%+# when she comes calling, right?" he says, turning to the farmers behind him. A few of them give a cheer, holding aloft farming implements. "That's taking our destiny into our own hands, yeah? We're responsible for everyone's death if we don't."
"Taking destiny into your own hands can be something completely different from doing what's right. The current situation is volatile, what with both the spirits of these lands being disgruntled at us AND! AND!" exclaims the priest, "a shepherd of the land has deemed it right to approach us with violence. Think about this. What might we have done to upset both the spirits and those who communicate with them? Killing the druidess might only make the situation with the mngwa worse. Right now, she seems okay with us treating the land right, which only leaves that ruthless spirit on our plate."
Ehiz pauses to take a breath and to give those listening time to process what he has said before finishing what's on his mind. "Someone or someones have wronged the spirits of these lands. We must find out what and where so that we can right this wrong. That should stop the mngwa. If we don't, the spirit will keep on returning, no matter how many times we kill it. Do you understand this? We must right the wrong. Please, does anyone know what might have caused this spirit to be so hurt and offended?"
(with a further +2 for a total of 30 if they're unfriendly or hostile.)