"What fun! Less than a day out, and already something interesting happening!
Could be anything, could be friendly, could be enemy. Not knowing makes it more fun!
Perhaps we will find tracks, must land at some point, then Garborn can examine tracks and guess what it is."
”Flying!” says Marisol. ”Interesting. Did they say if it was more like a bird, or like a lizard? Assuming anyone got a good enough look.”
"Could be dragon, could be Wyvern...could be small Roc, could be ANYTHING!"
Looking over at Marisol, Garborn gives her one of his biggest grins.
"You like flying, ja? Taking shape of flying creature and see the world from above, is truly awe inspiring."
Marisol says with a throaty chuckle, "Oh, I'm sure it's a thrill. I've spent a few evenings wandering a widow's walk on the high hills of Issia. I'm simply curious to know if there's any idea of what we might have to face down."
"Knowing is good, ja? But no worry, if not knowing, simply find out for ourselves eventually.
Everything that goes up, must come down, including birds.
And if it is dangerous... Garborn makes a fist and slams it into his open palm, We strike, yes?"
“Dunno. Didn’t hear firsthand. He left prob’ly an hour ago to head back to Chafwinth.”
Still adjusting to the newest member of the party, Vladimir cannot help but chuckle a bit before agreeing. "Yes, if it is dangerous we will have to strike to defend our people."
"An hour ago you say? I suppose we could catch up to him if we pushed the horses a bit. What do you think?" he asks the others.
"I think all the riding training is paying off and I daresay I could make it high in the saddle," says Marisol to Vlad with a smirk.
Vladimir shakes his head, feigning indignity. "Well it is about bloody time! We have only been riding through the region for a year now."
"Not to mention the lessons." he adds with a wink.
Marisol simply grins as she lifts herself in the stirrups, then rides high in the saddle, legs straight, shoulders back, bouncing slightly as she goes.
"Been practicing. But the lessons sure were good for my upright posture."
"Knew man once, called "Old man Timber", he claimed that riding was very good for the posterior rather than posture.
If to big, get firmer, if to firm, soften it a bit.
Either case, good posterior makes riding easier, like having your own cushion, gyahahahahaha!"
A look of concern crosses Nico's face. "The more our communities grow, the more we'll, uh, be pushing up against these things. If it's intelligent, I'd, uh, rather not fight it if we can bargain, instead."
"A stance I certainly have no problem with, Nico, but we need to be prepared a fight if need be." Vladimir comments. "There is a time and a place for either approach."
"Don't forget drink! Third option, and Garborn's favourite. Sometimes, to loosen the tongue of man or beast, lubrication is needed! Gyahahahaha!"
Nice chuckles and says, "If it will help, then I am all for it. But, agreed, Vladimir. If it comes to that, we need to protect the people who would call this place home."
After leaving your capital's farmlands, you travel on the wagon trail through the hills. Most of the soggy earth of early Spring has dried, but a few valleys, gulches, and low lands abutting the river are still soft - some muddy with thin reedy weeds and sparse wide-blade grasses.
You've been outside the farmlands for an hour with no sign yet of the hog driver.
In a muddy patch next to the river on your right, you see the impression of an impact in the mud as well as mule or donkey tracks and blood. Altogether, it looks like something slammed into a standing mule from above. There are also humanoid tracks which accompany the mule tracks, then run into the river.
The mosquitoes are fierce here.
"Ah, look! Blood, and signs of an impact. Garborn thinks something attacked a mule from above.
And there, more tracks, humanoid, going towards the river.
Possibly it's owner? Might still be close by."
"That is, uh, not encouraging." Nico looks up and studies the sky. "Um, Garborn, based on that impact, how big of a creature is this?"
"Well, looking close, seems whatever it was carried the mule off whole. To do that, had to be at least as large as warhorse, but probably bigger."
"Something that large likely has a fairly wide range for hunting grounds. Gods only know where it could have gotten off to."
"Perhaps the humanoid can tell us? Tracks are not too old to follow."
"Griffin? Roc?" muses Marisol.
"Alright then, we should follow the tracks then." Vladimir says.
"Garborn, if you would be as so kind as to lead the way."
"Of course! Garborn will lead, and if you loose sight of Garborn then...what is wrong with your eyes?
Garborn is HUGE!"
You follow Garborn to the Shrike River. Its waters are not too swift here, but it is wide. The far bank has a 40 degree incline (up to about ten feet high) which prevents you from seeing much of anything on the horizon of your new heading.
Vladimir has little trouble navigating the river himself, but Shadow is a bit more reluctant. After a bit of coercion, the swordsman is able to get his trusty steed to the other side.
Marisol is able to swim the waters easily, but can't get Prancer to come into the river. Frustrated, she clambers back out on the near shore, unable to get across.
Noticing Marisol's troubles with her mount, Vladimir swims back and offers to help. "Come on, dear. Hopefully, between the two of us, we can get Prancer to cooperate."
"Hmm, Garborn cannot swim, but has another idea what to do. Someone please to take Garborn's horse over, then Garborn show you all a good trick! Gyahahaha!"
Nico steps into the river but is unable to get his footing in the current and falls unceremoniously onto his side with a small splash. He stands up, dripping with water, and steps back onto shore. His mount seems even less impressed, and refuses to even approach the river bank.
"To hell with this," he mutters, then dismisses his Mount spell. The horse fades to a cloud of swirling dust which dissipates in the air. He pulls out a small feather from his pouch and gestures with his other hand as he casts a spell.
He takes to the air, flying a few feet over the surface of the river, and then lands on the other shore. Once there, pulls a bit of horse hair from his pouch, and conjures a replacement mount. He then follows that up with another spell to shake the water out of his clothes.
Scowling, he says, "I believe I am no longer in the mood to bargain."
"No? Ah, never mind, Garborn is not afraid to get wet, or make merry by falling, hehe."
Naturally, a man as big and ponderous as Garborn cannot help but slip and fall, just as predicted.
And perhaps not surprisingly, he resurfaces laughing uproariously as he shakes his head, sending sprays of water everywhere.
Then he proceeds to move with marked more care, making it across in the end.
"Hahaha! Brisk! Too bad there is not time for proper bath, Garborn always brings soap!"
As you reach the far bank, you hear a distant echo of a cracking sound... like trees splintering. It is originating from this side of the river, but hard to pin down precise direction.
You see clear signs of someone having recently scrambled up this incline heading east/northeast.
"Did, uh, anyone else hear that?"
"Ja, Garborn heard a loud sound, like tree breaking. Like something heavy landing on it maybe?
Also, look, more tracks, someone went up that incline over there.
Hmm, possibly in hurry, maybe in fear?"
Vladimir looks back to Nico an Garbon, "No, can not say that I heard anything. Tracks you say? Perhaps we should have a look and see what made them."
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The elder dwarf lets the head of his hammer clunk to the earthen floor. He points at Vladimir and smirks for a split-second. "Ahh... been waiting for you. I'm Brarim, Brarim Broadhammer, and my boy Dulig." He gestures to Dulig who immediately gets to work moving things around to make room for the party to enter.
"I'll be headin up your repairs and construction...until you see fit to replace me."
He rummages through the papers on the table until he finds a letter which he hands to Vladimir.
"I've been getting a lay of the land an' workin on drafts...gettin an idea of what you'll need to get the fort up to snuff for starters. C'mon in and warm up for a bit. Got some venison, broth, and ale if you've bowls and mugs."
The elven oracle enters last behind her companions after seeing that Whisper is entrusted to the capable hands of Arliss. From the moment Durielle steps through the door, the future collides with the past and visions of both overlay the present. The oracle stops in her tracks as what must be the Stag Fort suddenly appears before her eyes. The structure appears incomplete with signs of construction surrounding it: scaffolding, stacks of stone and wood, and the tools of stonemasons and engineers. These lay unattended as a large group of humanoids equipped for war gather before the half-finished tower cheering a commander who could only be a young Nugrah.
Her breath catches quietly. It's possible her companions haven't even noticed.
The words of the Jackdaw Prince spill out over the crowd. It isn't a noteworthy speech that will be remembered, but it serves to rouse the gathered warriors and instills purpose in them. The scene fades as the army begins to march.
The sight is quickly replaced by a sprawling complex: the tower has grown into a fortress with several supporting structures. It no longer resembles the rundown stone fort where Durielle and her companions defeated the Stag Lord. Humanoids of all kinds move with purpose and speed. A functional society with pieces moving in a clear expected way. Could this be a possible future of the new barony?
Again a shift, but this time there's a difference in the air. Durielle can feel this was a chance long past, a time that could have been had things not been the way they were. The tower grounds were in ruins, worse than they had ever been. A mysterious and strange presence filled the area, permeating the air. Bodies were strewn about. Her friends as well as others she'd never seen, both enemy and those she could sense were comrades. Most of the bodies were horribly mangled or rent.
Moving through them was the Stag Lord, his form suffused with a fell power. Wielding a wicked looking spiked mace, he continuously strikes the prone forms of any that seem to bear life. Durielle is nauseated as improbability of the situation disorients her.
The scene changes again. This time her friends and the Stag Lord share a toast around a bonfire laughing raucously. They reek of stale wine and old blood. A successful raid on one of the small colony villages is being celebrated. Bandits. They had become bandits. The mere notion made Durielle's heart sink.
This vision was misty and faint, even less likely to have ever come to pass than the other, and it dematerializes quickly as such fleeting fancies of fate often do before the eyes of the oracle.
Again the mighty fortress of the future appears, perhaps less grandiose then before, but decorated as if for a celebration. Clearly something is happening; preparations for some kind of event are underway. A festival or feast? Wait, those two people right there being cheered as they are paraded through the streets of the settlement. Is this...a wedding??
All at once reality intrudes as Durielle feels gentle hands on her shoulder. The vision shatters, and the pieces appear to literally fall to the floor before simply melting away. The hands are guiding her slowly across the room. Masculine with long fingers, their graceful proportions indicate they could only belong to the half-elf Balter. The oracle realizes he is easing her down into a chair as her conscious mind catches up with the movements of her physical body. She hears Vlad in the middle of answering some question asked by their dwarven host.
"...fell apart when he went mad. His newly wed wife died giving birth.. he swore it was the work of an ally.. a curse put upon them. He slew everyone at the fort.. other leaders, allies, friends, and the family of his wife." Looking questioningly at Brarim, Vladimir asks, "I take it this was the fort in question?"
The elf tries to slow her breathing. Her heart rate begins to return to normal as well. She glances up at Balter who eyes her over a mug of ale held to hide the hint of annoyed concern only those who knew the enigmatic ranger would be able to identify.
Such a burden it must be for them, having to deal with me and my...problems.
Durielle closes her eyes while her comrades make plans on how to improve their newly chosen capital. Nuances of the scenes she witnessed began to play behind her eyelids. Following such visions, this was fairly typical of the strange broken future sight she saw. It was difficult sometimes to separate the disorientation she felt from the change in perspectives from the unfortunate symptoms the Omenstar caused her. As the disturbingly empowered Stag Lord continued to mangle the corpses of his foes and subordinates alike in a variation of the previous vision, Durielle couldn't help but wonder if her oracular sight would be a different experience if Aroden had not seemingly died.
Ignoring her visions, she thought back to the chaos of the time following the disappearance of the god of mankind. She had been so young then. It had not affected Plainsend as much as the larger cities since the worship of Gozreh, Erastil, and Desna had always been the more important in the rural area of Brevoy where she had lived these long years.
The Age of Lost Omens... the elf rubbed her temples. The name given to the time since. Broken prophecy, broken promises. A future so uncertain and such tumultuous events springing up all around Golarion. Fitting, she thought, Especially considering these fragmented visions of futures and pasts that could never and would never be.
Durielle shifts in her chair uncomfortably as the idea of those other fates having been probable unsettles her. Topper Red's chance of redemption crosses her mind, and guilt washes over her. Her failure to act, to try and encourage the smallest chance...
She sighs audibly opening her silver eyes to a view of the table next to the chair she had been placed. The grains of the wood look straight from a distance, but tiny angles, nigh imperceptible twists and turns, prove the lives of the trees of which these wooden bones came were more complex than first appearances would imply. Durielle felt the ghost of a smile play on her lips. Everywhere I look, I'm shown that nothing is what it seems.
A rush of dizziness moved across her eyes. She is feverish again. The Omenstar's Promise triggered by the intensity of the visions. The oracle weathered the awful feelings as best she could unaware Balter still watched her from the corner of his eye. His mouth tightened as her frail form swayed slightly in the chair.
However, he may not have been the only companion to have noticed her affliction...
Durielle felt her eyes drift shut, and consciousness slowly drained out of her. Her head slowly lowers eventually making contact with the wooden table where she falls into a feverish sleep.
Winter has come, and the Greenbelt would soon drift into its own form of slumber. The future continued to fragment in the oracle's dreams, but not all were unpleasant and not all were truth. But among the visions one path showed the way, a path paved in blood and tears and no shortage of death. But in that path was also hope. Moments of happiness and laughter strewn along the way. Light among the shadows cast by the corpses of enemies and friends alike. And as with all dreams, the memory would fade; the clarity lost as the waking world intrudes imposing priority on the senses. Durielle would forget that once, for just a moment, she had seen the path they would all walk.
For a single forgotten moment, she had known exactly how she would die.
"Durielle, ma'am,"
Arliss' accented Common snaps Durielle out of wherever her head had been. Startled, she looks around only to see that the rest of her companions were missing. Where are Vladimir, Marisol, Nico, and Balter? A pang of sadness fills her when she realizes that she had called their new companion, Garborn Herwonkir, by the name of the departed ranger...even if only in her head.
"The others," Arliss gestures across the Shrike. "They've already gone across, ma'am."
"Ah!" Durielle follows the pointed finger to see her companions investigating some tracks leading over an incline.
"I-I'm coming!" she calls out eyeing the water of the Shrike flush with snow-melt.
"Um, let's see if we can do this, Whisper," Durielle mumbles anxiously to her mare. Dismounting, she begins to lead the horse into the water.
Unfortunately, she steps on a stone worn smooth under the river and loses her footing and plunges into the water. Her fall jerks on Whisper's reins upsetting the mare and ruining Durielle's chance to make an easy crossing. She splutters to the surface, clutching at the saddle of her mount to help her get her footing to try again.
For a moment, she sees a version herself swimming across with ease. Blinking away the vision, the oracle does her best to emulate the other Durielle and finds the impression successful with Whisper right behind her, all the confidence in her rider for which Durielle could have asked.
As she clambers onto the far bank, she briefly wonders if she had just seen what she had just done before doing it but only because she had seen it. Durielle forcibly puts the notion out of her mind since she had long learned that dwelling on such things is a path to madness from which few return. Such is the curse of an oracle caught between moments of Time.
"I'm sorry I'm so late!"
"Gyahahahahaha! Look! Garborn not the only one going for a quick bath!"
Holding up a hand and wiggling his fingers in a friendly greeting, Garborn favors Durielle with a massive smile.
"Welcome pretty lady.
Next time you have a bath, ask Garborn to borrow some soap, can even wash your back for you, gyahahahahaha!"
"Oh!" Durielle's eyes widen at the boisterous Garborn's proposal. A tinge of color darkens the usual wan palor of the elf's sickly appearance. Then she smiles ruefully. "Hopefully, the next bath will be one I choose. I prefer warm water!"
As if to emphasize, she shivers slightly as a spring breeze hits her skin. Durielle is glad her clothes are woolen.
Arliss clears his throat, and corrects Garborn.
"High Oracle.. Lady Omenstar."
He swallows hard, and nods then bows his head nervously.
"Sir."
"Hahaha! Yes! Warm water, in a big tub, with some wine and cheese on sideboard. Make an evening out of it, take the time to enjoy luxurious heat all night long!"
Walking over to Durielle, Garborn places a massive hand on her back and gives it a rub.
"Not to worry, we make camp, dry clothes near fire, soon no more shivers.
Ah, but until then, many ways to keep warm, like climbing up incline to follow tracks.
Is good idea! Great mystery to solve, soon forget all about cold water, Garborn already have!"
Giving Arliss a big grin, he slaps him on the back.
"Titles! Fine titles, impressive, but in wilderness, not so useful, ja? Much better a freshly oiled saddle and sturdy boots, Gyahahahaha!"
Vladimir nods, essentially agreeing with Garborn. "He pretty much has the right of it, Arliss. Beyond that, you know we do not typically make a big deal of our respective titles amongst each other."
Vladimir follows along behind the massive druid, trying his best to catch something Garborn had not.
"Garborn, you are quite the impressive tracker. Quite impressive indeed."
Marisol pauses on the far side after Vlad helps her get Prancer across, and says, "Durielle, dear, do let me help you." She hands the reins back to Vlad and with a few mystic passes she waves her hand languidly before Durielle, causing her clothes and her cloak to dry out quite rapidly via prestidigitation.
"Do I even have a title? I'll be honest, I, uh, wasn't really paying attention."
Vladimir laughs at Nico's comment. "Of course you do, Lord Tegustus, Magister of Hope's Haven...or something like that anyway."
"Is nothing special, Garborn been taught by the best. Hound, wolf, hawk!
Man forget that even if man's nose not as good as dog, can still use it!
Have many senses, not just sight!
Sounds, smell, touch, all helpful. First lesson of druid.
Look for spoor, feel the earth, all details."
Placing a palm on the ground, Garborn chuckles.
"Here, tiny bit of heat, and slight indentation, humanoid slip, plant knee in mud, body heat lingers little while."
Garborn leads you over and around several hills and gulches. You pass a few copses of trees, and to your left you see - nestled in a field of lavender and white lupins, and spade-leafed weeds - the mangled body of the mule.
In the distance, beyond the next sizable hill, you see a winged creature soar up into the sky, arc around, and then descend again - disappearing out of your view beyond the hill. There is another crack of wood as noted by Garborn and Nico earlier.
Garborn shields his eyes with one massive hand and frowns for a moment.
"Some kind of lizard, long tail, no arms, wings instead."
Looking back at the mule Garborn frowns again.
"Interrupted it's meal? Not good, hungry AND angry then.
Also, followed humanoid tracks, strange..."
Pulling out a bottle from a packet on his robe, Garborn shakes it a little.
"Still half full, so Garborn can't be drunk and imagining things yet! Gyahahahaha!"
"Possibly a wyvern?" suggests Marisol. "They're quadrupeds with wings instead of forearms, but clawed hind legs and long tails with stingers."
She frowns a moment, then says, "I think I've heard of people trying to train them before. Or hunt them. Either one could explain the humanoid tracks."