Iagon whirls on Ortego, still gathering power around him. Wood fragments hover a few inches off of the ground. What was that?
Moira groans. "This is not our day, is it? But I won't fall for that trick again. If anyone thinks we should chase her, I'll be right behind them... but maybe we should just leave."
She limps over to the wounded Attai and gives him an apologetic smile. "Sorry I yelled at you. You were right."
Moira finds her tongue again, and Túrante returns to normal size.
Ortego stammers, "I... I am sorry, please believe me. I don’t know what... Are you ok?" she turns to Attai, then looks about the dark misty woods, "Is she ok? Where did she go? We must find her. She knows where my men are."
Just then, a scream and shout can be heard coming back from the river.
Moira tries to say something. She fails. She runs toward the river, Miro, and Alonzo...
Attai merely nods to Ortega and mutters “Not your fault...” before heading off toward the shore with Moria and the captain...
Túrante stumbles slightly as she returns to her normal size. She looks around to get her bearings again, then wipes down her sword before sheathing it.
"Hopefully this will go better next time," she says wryly.
Noting Moira running off, she shouts, "Moira! Don't run off by yourself, it's too dangerous!"
She mutters something in Elvish under her breath and starts chasing after the bard.
Iagon throws up his hands in frustration. Shoulda' stayed on the boat...damnit.
He turns to rush after his companions.
Emerging into the riverbank, you see Miro and son waving and shouting from the barge, "Oy! Heroes! There was a she-devil what appeared on the shore, right where yer standin’. Vanished into thin air just as quickly as she appeared. Y’all ‘bout ready to leave this place? I don’t wanna be messin’ wit no she-devil."
"Blarble warble."
Moira starts throwing handfuls of sand around. While her behavior may look completely insane, she's scoping for an invisible Galene. She sprinkles the boat and raft in particular, and she fills a pocket with some sand for later.
Clumps of sand and mud fling through the air and fall to the ground. Moira, for a second, might swear she hears a cackling laugh in the back of her mind, but no one else hears it.
What everyone does hear, though, is the sound of a raven cawing and wings flapping, back in the forest now behind them
Iagon nods dumbly as he looks back and forth from the woods to the father and son. Yes! Let's leave this forsaken place. C'mon everyone!
"Blorble."
Moira helps to get the raft and boat moving.
The party sloshes through reeds and water to get back onto the raft. The mad cackling that started in Moira’s head begins to fill the woods along the river, chasing the party down from seemingly multiple directions. But, while Miro pushes the barge off the bank, eyes wide with fear, beads of sweat and fog rolling down his pale brow, the cackling cacophony suddenly ceases, and the woods fall silent.
For a moment, all is quiet on the barge, only the sound of long poles pushing through the slow water, plodding along the muddy riverbed. Just as the light of Galene’s campfire disappears around the bend, a whimpering moan is heard from Ortego. Her mouth trembles, and then she falls to her knees, mournfully sobbing.
Liamae puts a comforting hand on Ortego's shoulder. "Hey. Are you alright? The witch used enchantment magic on you. It's not your fault."
Ortego seems to calm down with Liamae’s touch, answering between sobs, "I just wanted to find my men, get them back home. She knows where they are. I thought she was going to help. But... you all are helping me, right?"
"Yes, we will help you. We are your friends. She is not," Liamae says firmly.
Moira nods.
Iagon seems to still be a bit lost, his inexperience showing. He leans in to whisper to Liamae. What...what was she?
"Yes. We will do what we can."
Alonzo looks back at the crying captain, then to his father. Miro merely shrugs and says, "She’s had a hard day. Let’s get ‘er someplace safe."
Ortego calms down, but spends the night crumpled in a heap next to the cargo. Miro an son push the barge through the night. Just before morning, a lantern light is spotted on the north bank of the river. A long pier juts out into the water just at the point where a tributary creek pours into the river. No other vessels are docked and no one is about at this hour. Miro deftly pulls up to the pier, but looks like he’s on the verge of collapse after pushing so hard through the night. Wiping cold sweat from his brow he states "Gotta stay wi’ the goods till I can get a hand unloading ‘em. Ye folks go on ahead. There’s an inn in town, The Wise Piper, should be a nice place ta find a bed."
Belhaim lies just north of the Verduran fork, nestled in the confluence of the smaller Verdira River and Rogue’s Creek. Just a small walk through the woods from here.
Liamae shrugs at Iagon's question. "A hag. An evil witch. There are many kinds of monstrous creatures like that, but I know not more specifics about them. They are dangerous and not to be trusted."
The elf leads the way towards Belhaim.
Iagon nods, though seems a bit unsatisfied with the explanation. He continues to glance towards Ortego until they arrive.
Alright, everyone...finally, a safe, warm place we can rest and recover. No offense of course, Miro - you've been an excellent guide through this. He pats him on the shoulder as he steps onto dry ground to follow Liamae.
Heading back towards the woods, Iagon keeps his eyes towards the treeline, looking for hobgoblins, or hags, or something else similarly creepy and dangerous.
Moira, who has been holding her peace for a long time now, cautiously tries to say, "Bye, Miro and Alonzo! I hope we meet again!" When her voice works, she sighs with relief, and the torrent begins to flow:
"Damn that evil creature! Not that I have anything against them as a class. Attai, I'm sorry I doubted you when you shot at her--I just like to try to make friends with everyone and everything, and I thought I was making diplomatic progress before she went after Ortego. Ortego, I'm not sure that the hag could have been talking about your men in particular, since we set the boat on fire. And she'd have to have traveled faster than our riverboat to get ahead of us with the news... I just don't think it's likely. If she's somehow managed to desecrate their flaming ship burial, we'll find them and put them in the ground. Your hair is... dirty, can I clean it off? Anyone else need some?"
She begins blasting herself clean, working delicately around her many wounds. "I wonder if Prestidigitation can prevent infections?"
She rambles a bit, finds herself swaying, and decides that it's time to get quiet again. After a drink or three, maybe. She heads toward the Piper and explains her plan: "I need a room, a bucket of ale, a bottle of whiskey, and a big plate of whatever house special doesn't involve river fish. And then I'm going to sleep it all off."
Ortego by now has developed that thousand mile stare, and seems to look way past Moira as she speaks. At mention of her hair she mindlessly runs her fingers through, and they get stuck in the tangles and knots. "Thank you," she remembers to say.
The road through the wood is dark in the predawn hour, but at least one of you has means to light the way. Iagon is the first to notice the fog turn into a light drizzle. By the time you reach the bridge leading into town, it has turned into a steady rain.
Beyond the wooden bridge stands an old limestone wall, covered in moss and ferns. Beyond the walls lies the town proper, which you can just start to se in the grey light of the overcast morning. The streets are starting to turn muddy in the rain, and there’s no one out at this hour. However, a lantern hangs above the door to a three storied building, the largest immediately in sight, illuminating the sign to The Wise Piper.
Moira's focus shifts from the sign of the Piper to the drips of rain starting to congregate on the brim of her hat. She starts softly singing a tune she'd learned just recently:
"Whither wanders the Belhaim Four?
Do our heroes breathe no more?
Did save Belhaim from dragon green
Only to vanish from the scene?
Did you brave the acid of her breath,
Only to walk the paths of death?
While we breathe, we'll wither
when we think of them, and shiver."
"The folk singers tell that this place lost its heroes recently. Four dragonslayers, a tough bunch, missing without a trace. We must be cautious."
She knocks on the door. She pounds on the door. While she waits for some sign of life under the sign of the Piper, she mentions to the party,
"I started out this way because I heard the local baroness had lost her son and was badly bereaved. I thought I might be able to help. I guess we'll see."
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I'd love to say that we're their heroic replacements, but we've a job to get done here, and best not be tied up with their local groups. Besides...dragonslayers...well, they probably ran into a dragon - for I know that would end my career quickly.
Iagon waits at Moira's side, motioning for everyone to get close and try to make use of the very little shelter that the building provided from the rain.
Túrante chuckles and says, "Indeed, dragons are... a little too much for us, I suspect."
Shortly after Moira bangs on the door, a woman’s voice calls from within, "Oh! Wait just a moment!" And wouldn’t you know it, a moment later there’s the sounds of someone fussing with lock and key from the other side of the door. The door opens and a human woman quickly ushers you in, "Oh ye poor souls, come in from te rain, shall ye?"
She wipes her hands on a flour caked apron, her frizzy red-orange hair sprinkled with stray whites and stands aside to let you in, closing the door behind Ortego who trails behind the group. "Shelyn’s Grace, ye look a fright. What’re you doin’ out here at tis hour?"
The Wise Piper has a spacious common room, dimly lit by a few candles, most of the chairs still overturned on the tables this early. The smell of baking bread fills the air, and a newly lit fire burns in the hearth. Most noticeably, a full sized adult grizzly bear stands reared on hind legs in the middle of the room, fore claws out and menacing, a snarling roar writ across its face. After a moment of shock, perhaps, you notice it is a very expertly done taxidermy.
Your hostess hurries to a table by the hearth and begins setting the chairs down, "Come, take a seat, I’ll warm up some o’ last night’s stew o’er some toast, how’s tat sound, loves?"
Moira, tired, exhausted, and soaked, feels tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and a lump in her throat. After so much suffering, motherly kindness is almost too much of a shock. For a moment, she feels her tongue fumbling once again, but this time due to a different sort of magic.
She nods at the offer of stew and manages to get out, "And... brandy? Whiskey? Thaaaaank youuuu..." She hangs her hat where it won't drip on anything important before collapsing into a chair at the table closest to the fire.
Iagon gives a sidelong glance to Moira, then motions for everyone to gather in and follow. Please, yes...not a good night to be out in that, for certain. He gives the bear a wide berth - taxidermied or not, he's seen stranger things wake up and start moving.
[b]Quite the...adornment, there - is there a history to that impressive creature?
Liamae shivers off the cold and wet, her skimpy clothing not providing much protection against the elements. She waits for Turante to find a seat before curling up in the princess's lap with a sly smile.
"Are ye sure ye want ta be drinking’ tis early in te mornin’?" your hostess catchers herself and looks amongst the crew, "Aye, whiskey it is, loves."
She turns to look at the stuffed bear, and you may notice she wears a band of black cloth tied around her left upper arm, "Oh! Tat’s Borris te Bear. I won ‘im at auction about five years back. Used ta belong to te kookie wizard tat lived up on te hill. Don’t worry loves, ‘e won’t hurt ye."
From the back room there’s the sound of pots and pans clattering to the floor and someone cussing up a ruckus.
"Excuse me, loves," She takes a step back and remembers, "Te name’s Talia. Holler if’n ye need anytin’."
Iagon nods and motions. Please, don't worry about us...just nice to have a seat in a dry place for now. After she leaves, Iagon turns to glance at the bear warily before hunkering down over the table. So, whaddya' think...should we get rooms here in town? I'd rather not be here for more than absolutely necessary
Moira raises a weary eyebrow and says, "You may not need to sleep, Iagon, but I'm hurt three ways from Sunday and my bardic magic tank is completely dry and I need a bed almost as badly as..." she empties her glass "...I needed that. Plus I need to see the lady of the land about her poor dead boy."
The thought of her mission (self-assigned, sure) and the warmth of the liquor steadies her enough to ask Talia about Baroness Devy and her dearly deceased baronlet. She smiles her first professional smile in a while as she hands over her business card.
Talia returns with warming bowls of stewed red beans and pickled pork served over fresh baked baguette.
When asked about the Baroness, Talia replies "Aye yes, m’Lady has ordered te town te be in mournin’ till Arnholde’s body be found and buried proper. Tis strange, te whole affair."
She takes Moira’s calling card and says, looking it over, "Looks like yer in te right place, love."
She looks over the group once again and sighs heavily, "Te town ‘as a cursed fate. If’n yer lookin’ ta be heroes, Shelyn’s blessin’ upon ye. But, first, ye look like yer in need of a comfortable bed and tere’s plenty o’ room at te inn. Make yerselves at home."
"His body is... missing? Oh dear... oh dear oh dear."
Moira looks all the more tired as she thinks about the undead and related phenomena she'd seen in the woods over the last few days. She tears a chunk of baguette in half and makes an improvised sandwich first, then she devours the rest of the food.
She won't leave until the rest of the party leaves, but when the meal is over and it's time for bed, she'll sleep and hope to rise refreshed.
Liamae crosses over to Moira and puts a comforting hand on the bard's shoulder. "Do not despair. We will find out what happened to the body. Perhaps I can pick up on the psychic impressions left behind where the body was last located to help track him down."
Moira reaches up and across her body to take Liamae's hand. "That would be amazing. Amazing that you can do it, and amazing that you will do it for the Baroness, her boy, and for me. Thank you. I probably wouldn't have made it upriver without you." Turning to the rest of the party, "Without all of you. Thanks."
Seeing Moira's state, Iagon nods and deals with the business at hand. He seems a bit uneasy about getting in the middle of calming and reassuring her - those and things best left to the more empathic Liamae. He passes over five gold to Talia.
We will take you up on that, Talia...five rooms if you please. Also, could you possibly set some water to boil for tea? I'd like to brew some for tomorrow. I'll need some more waterskins, if you have any for sale.
Energy Tea - Fatigued
Calming Tea - Shaken
Alertness Tea - Drowsy
Talia hands over the room keys, "Tymek’s is te general store across te street. I’ll send m’boy over ta fetch ye some skins while ye rest."
Ortego stares into the fire, a tear rolling down her cheek. She pipes up, "If you are to see the Baroness, I’ll go with you. She should know what happened to my ship and crew, and... should be able to find me passage back to Arenway." She too books a room and heads up for some sleep.
"Thank you for the hospitality," says Túrante. "This will be a welcome change from the dampness outside."
When the party goes off to sleep, Moira collapses into her bed and starts working on recovering 3 HP and 1 point of STR and DEX.
Iagon nods her thanks and takes advantage of some well-deserved rest.
Túrante holds Liamae close and scoots the other elf off her lap so that she can stand and then heads off to get some rest as well with her, uh, "friend."
Liamae giggles and eagerly follows the princess to her room to, uh, “rest.”
Moving forward, following the glimpses of your guides, you come across the ruins of a fallen tower, succumbing to the earth. Within the ruins, a hooded figure sits at a golden table, bathed in light, shining with jewels. On the table sits three golden chalices. You approach and sit at the table. The figure removes its hood to reveal itself to be a goat faced devil with forked tongue.
“You must choose and drink,” the devil speaks.
You look down. The center cup is filled with spiders, swarming over the brim. The left cup is filled with flies, buzzing around charred and blackened flesh. The right cup is filled with a decaying mass of earth, putrid and blackened, crawling with diseased vermin.
The devil laughs, and the ruins echo back in a mad cackle. You choose a cup, but before you can raise it to your lips, a torrent of black water rushes over the crumbling walls, flooding the ruins and dragging you under.
Crying, you look back down into the grave. Your mother, dead, half buried, reaches out her arms and embraces you, pulling you into the cold, dark earth with her.
Now you are running through the woods again, a child, tears in your eyes, blood on your hands and face. Running blindly, you suddenly find yourself standing in a large clearing, the mightiest oak you’ve ever seen, it’s boughs seemingly holding up the sky, stands before you. Within the trunk of this massive tree, a red light pulses with life blood. “The Dead Heart,” Lilacea’s fragrant voice whispers in your ear. You feel your skin tingle in anticipation of her touch. You turn to look but she’s not there. Instead, specters stand at the edge of the clearing. You hear a groaning and turn to see the red light grow dark, the ancient oak twisting and gnarling upon itself, it’s bountiful boughs becoming bare in the moonlight. Something grabs at your leg, and you look down to see rotten corpses crawling up from the bloodstained earth, pulling you under.
Finally you emerge into a back show room. There, standing in the light of a single window, a wicker mannequin is draped in the loveliest silken gown you have seen. An elder elven woman with long silver hair works diligently embroidering at the hems. She turns to you and smiles lovingly, “Ah, how pleasant to lay my old eyes upon the beauty of youth. Yes, we shall help the caterpillar turn into the butterfly. Come, child, and put on the dress.”
The elder takes the dress from the mannequin and helps you into it, then turns you to face a full length mirror. The dress is perfect, and hugs and caresses your every curve. You feel yourself moving fluidly as the silk fabric, bright as the violet dye.
“Good. Lovely,” the elder encourages, “Now… HE wishes to see you.”
She turns you again, now to face a curtain that wasn’t there before. Behind the curtain, you sense something very large moving, grotesquely, undulating. The old woman who guided you here cackles as she draws the curtain back, revealing a true horror. A gigantic grub worm slavers yesssss, yesssss, yesssssss! It opens giant mandibles and you are overcome with the screeching sound of a thousand crying infants. You feel a crawling across your skin, and looking down, the dress has turned to worms. The infant cry intensifies and morphs into a high pitched buzzing drone as a massive swarm of flies spills out from the overgrown maggot’s maw, filling the room in darkness
Ahead you hear a rumbling, groaning sound as a massive form rises from the marsh. Ancient, gigantic bones pull themselves from the muck, stained black from the peat. Skeletal wings, dripping with mud and moss, unfurl to reveal the living skeleton of an ancient wyrm, long swooping horns grow from its skull. The dragon skeleton sets empty eye sockets upon you, and a hollow voice reaches to you from beyond the grave.
Have you brought death with you, lamenter? It permeates the air around you, the smell of plague. Child, forgive me, but there is death and misfortune enough here already. What difference did you wish to make? What hope do you have for these forsaken woods?
The dead dragon laughs, and the bones shake and rattle. It is then you notice, the bones are animated, puppeted, by long tangles of wet, black hair, reaching up and out into the surrounding green fog.
The muck covered skull leans in close, Mere Child, Mother will take care of you.
You feel something cold rise up out of the swamp behind you.
You pull closer to the warmth of the fire, but then turn your ears to the sound of something padding up to you through the woods. Out of the darkness returns the quicksilver hunting hound. It lowers its head in respect, “The Moon is high Princess, and the Sun is at rest. The Forest never sleeps. Your friends are having troubling dreams, but the dreams carry a message if you listen. You have many enemies in the woods, and many allies. It is up to you to decide who to trust.”
The dog pants and lowers it’s head again, “Forgive me Princess. There is much to be learned. The Old Heart is dying, The Young Heart is weak. Corruption and darkness feed on both. The nations of men crumble under misguided rule, but not even Kyonin is safe.”
The hound’s ears perk up, “Awake, Princess, the hunter is also hunted.” Out of the stillness of the night, you hear a mighty crack of thunder and look up through the forest canopy to see a bright bolt of lightning streak across the sky. You look back and the mercurial hound has vanished.
You wake with a start to find yourself in the comfortable rooms afforded to you at the Wise Piper. It is mid to late afternoon by the time you feel rested; the weather has broken and the sun is shining through gaps in the grey sky, trickling into your rooms. Windows facing the street show there is activity in Belhaim, as the townsfolk hustle to make the most out of what’s left of the business day.
Iagon finds four waterskins and a pot of boiling water outside his door.
Making your way down to the common room, you find it is now a little bit more occupied with late lunchers or early diners. Faces turn to catch a glimpse of the new adventurers in town. The countenances are a mix of curiosity and worry. Everyone wears an armband of black cloth on their left arm.
Talia greets you between fetching a round of ale and bussing tables, breaking down the tail end of the lunch rush and prepping for the dinner. Ortego sits by the fire, nursing a mug of mint tea.
Moira wakes up feeling a little better, but when she swings her legs off the side of the bed and flips herself upright, she stumbles a bit. Still clumsier than usual.
She looks over her wounds and wonders whether it'd be better to hang on to her spells or patch herself up. She decides that it might be best to take it easy today, if the party will let her, and fires off a couple Cures.
She watches the wounds knit together, leaving just the telltale white wickerwork of scars. Magic always heals that way. She inspects the many interlaced scars on her body in the mirror as she cleans herself and her clothes with Prestidigitation. Her short hair curls the way it always does after a thorough Presti. Damned dream dragon calls this a child? Past thirty. Not bad lookin' though. Musta fooled those old bones with my carefree banter and flashing eyes. Those never age.
Entirely restored, she draws her heirloom longsword and loads it with a Chill Touch.
Out of sorts again. But the spell you regret the most is the one you didn't have a chance to cast, Bart always said.
She lays out her clothes on the bed and goes over them with Mending. The tears and scratches heal together much like her body had moments before. How do people even live without Prestidigitation and Mending? Wish it was easier to teach folks how to do it.
She dons her clothes and her armor, a black raven of mourning. She laces her boots and clomps downstairs, hand on the banister.
When she finds food, drink, and the rest of the party, she says "Had a wild dream last night." She tells them about the bone dragon in vivid detail before the picture fades.
Iagon grabs up the waterskins and the boiling water and mixes up his brews.
He then meets the others down in the common room, and seems lost in his food. Hearing Moira's tale, he sighs deeply, turning inward as he explores his own thoughts.