Kazador returned the salute. ”May it bring these halls more safety than it did ours.”
Algric turned to Kazador, his tongue kept in check in large part by being in the presence of another Rune Warden. One who was, presumably, of unbesmirched honor.
”Thane. It is good that these are delivered, but did you not swear and oath to assist these umgi* in their quest? I can act in your stead from here. There will be no worry of any of our heritage being held in unworthy hands.”
Kazador nodded. He thought that he understood the threat. Algric could well tell the dwarves here about the artifacts that the party still held. Would they even be allowed to leave at that point? It would be difficult, at the very least. And if he shared news about how Kazador allowed *orcs* of all things to sail him home, orcs who may well have taken part in sacking his homeland...well, things could turn bloody.
But while the bowyer certainly didn’t seem to want Kazador’s company for any longer than needed, he was keeping quiet. Kazador’s understanding was that he wasn’t welcome here. That if he tried to stay, Algric would make it impossible. But if he just left? Then it would be left at that.
”Right. These fine folks risked their lives to bring these here, and I owe them a debt of honor.”
Turning back to the Rune Warden, Kazador said ”I will be taking my leave. But with much weight off my shoulders knowing that this heritage will live on. I am sure that Algric Graniteson will be fair in any retelling that he gives.”
Even as he said it, a thought crept up. That he would forever be Clanless. His home had been unique on the continent, and the dwellings of his people were few and far between. Algric’s knowledge and implicit threat had effectively made him into an exile.
And yet...not all was gloom. For he had not only found people who accepted him as he was, but through them he had come to find a deeper understanding of his own faith. Oddly enough, he was at peace. He was Kazador the Clanless, but he was not alone.
Fyrtor kept quiet during the party's time in the Dwarven hold. This was Kazador and Algric's people. He had done what he could when in Kazad Gravr. He did occasionally finger the necklace of claws nervously, unsure of whether it was to be returned to the dwarves or not.
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Mel looks around with curiosity at the dwarven clanhold as they walk through it. The hallways run straight and clean through the stone, laid out in an orderly fashion. Every surface is decorated with elaborate carvings depicting dwarves at work, in battle, at home; a few, Mel recognizes as scenes from dwarven folk tales.
While Kazador speaks, Mel drifts a bit to the side, studying one panel showing a dwarven woman hand-in-hand with a human man. Crowns adorn the heads of the stiff, formal figures. Beneath their feet, carven labels identify them as Brean Stonespinner, Queen Under Stone, and Henrik Lengacre, King Over Stone. Crowds of people stand behind them, humans and dwarves all mixed in together.
Poor Kazador, she thinks. Poor Algric. Their home is gone. And though these are their people, Revan and Kazad Gravr had very different histories. I hope Algric can find a place here, despite its differences.
She extends a hand and gently brushes her fingertips against the cold, rocky surface of Brean Stonespinner's shoulder.
I hope I can find a place again, too.
Fyrtor delivers the lie that they had discussed before regarding Turion's presence, that he was traveling with them for protection on his was to Bannerhold to serve as a tutor.
The lie serves well and the patrol lets the group continue on its way.
The greybeard reaches out a hand and a nearby smith tosses him a crowbar, which he catches deftly. With one motion, the dwarf pries open one of the crates, revealing fine shining dwarven mail, shields, and weapons inside. He smiles broadly and turns back to Kazador and Algric. "Kazad Gravr's final gift is welcome indeed, though we mourn her fall. Revan is your new home as long as you would want it. These weapons will serve us well, as we face threats from the Hammerfall from time to time. In fact, our scouts found a nearby nest of giant ants that will prove troublesome if not dealt with soon." He gestures to Kazador and his allies. "You are, of course, welcome to join the hunt if you wish, thane." Seeing Kazador is clearly the ranking survivor of Kazad Gravr, the Runewarden bestows his proper title.
Mel turns away from the frieze. Fascinating though it may be, there are other matters to attend.
She offers the greybeard a formal bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you," she says. "I am called Mel Elden. May I ask, have you heard any recent news out of Bannerhold? We are headed that way, but we have heard surprisingly little out of other travelers on the road. We have met a number of guard patrols, but they have been businesslike and disinclined to share news."
The grey-bearded dwarf nods solemnly. "We have some news from Bannerhold. King Stephen courts Lady Elise of Feldnost. The old Count moved to his country estate, a silent protest if you ask me." He looks around at the group. "If you are to stay overnight, I would know your names. I am Vargas Oldstone."
What luck! Mel thinks. He told us where to look for Count Aral, and we didn't even have to ask!
"Interesting," Mel says, and proceeds to introduce the rest of the group. Rather than invent new identities for them on the spot, she gives their proper names.
"We are grateful for the offer of hospitality, and will be happy to stay the night. In the morning, we must be off -- we have business in Bannerhold, and do not have the luxury of lingering."
"Algric? I know it was your mission to see these crates delivered to Revan; and now they are. What will you do now? You are welcome to continue with us if you wish."
”Nay.” Algric said with finality. ”Our business here be done. Ye’ve done enough. I’ll remain here. Make a life for meself. I’m nay oath-bound, like him. Wouldn’t want me honor tarnished though, if I was.” He said, glancing at Kazador.
”Aye. I know my oath, bowyer.” Kazador responded, coldly. Turning away from him, he said ”Aye, Ser Oldstone. We thank ye for yer hospitality. The time on the road has strained us somewhat, so I also apologize for this bickering. I’ve heard of ye Clan. Strong line it is. I’d speak more with ye, tonight. If ye’ve the time.”
Kazador will spend the time talking with Oldstone, sharing the tale of how Kazad Gravr fell to orc invasion, how the elves betrayed their trust to cause it, and how their party still works towards halting their plots. He will mention in passing how the group is naive enough to believe that orcs can be more than genocidal monsters, and how it is further proof of their good nature. All of this will be stated as a warning should the elves try anything similar to Revan.
Warden Oldstone nods solemnly to you. "Very well. We will treat you to our finest hospitality." He turns to dwarves standing nearby. "We feast tonight with our guests! Tell the kitchens!" A cheer roars through the tunnels as most of the nearby dwarves celebrate and several others rush off to the kitchens to relay the news. "Come! We will treat you to ale and song in the mean time!" You are treated to the finest of dwarven hospitality, drinking until dinner then feasting on the finest meats, puddings, and even dwarven pastries. You are full and weary when you turn in to warm, though somewhat short, dwarven beds. You wake in the morning and prepare to leave for the count's estate.
Waking up the next morning, Kazador said his farewells. Before he left he shifted his armor and hammer so as to once more appear as traveling clothing. Anonymity was to be their best defense.
It was a bitter sweet feeling. On one hand, the feast had reminded him of all that was gone. It was the best of his culture, the warmest and most welcoming it could be. And it was also something he would walk away from once more. But all in all, he was content. For he walked in the path of Torag, and in his heart he knew that this was where duty demanded. And at the end of the day, after all that had happened, what more could he ask for?
Mel spends the evening in conversation with dwarves, asking to hear their traditional stories and taking notes on what she's told.
The ale she sips lightly, not having a high tolerance for alcohol; but even so, she's a bit unsteady on her feet by bedtime. She weaves slightly on her way to her guest chamber, undresses, and hesitates for a moment. Sleeping with a hat on just doesn't work very well, she thinks mazily. So she takes her hat off as well, substituting her scarf instead.
With a tired sigh, she lies down.
Her feet protrude off the end of the bed, her calves resting atop the lower bed stead. Blast, she thinks, and turns over on one side, tucking her knees up.
In the morning she is somewhat stiff, having been unable to stretch out properly all night. Thankfully, she does not have a hangover. But still, she is quiet at breakfast.
Fyrtor enjoys the feasting, though he feels a little out of place. He spends some of his time speaking with the clerics of the hold, curious about their beliefs and eager to share his own with them. He turns in glad to have a bed instead of sleeping on the ground, even if it's a bit short. In the morning he rises and says his prayers, seeking Sarenrae's guidance and protection.
Túrion spends time exploring the Dwarf Hold, going where he is permitted and comparing elements of the design and layout with what he remembers from the other Dwarf Hold he saw, trying to find similarities and differences.
Of course, what REALLY made him curious was wether this place also had a Heart. He could probably straight-out ask, but trying to find out by himself, from hints and by deduction, was more fun.
But of course, time was limited - it may have been a social faux-pas to excuse himself from ale and song, but he would be there in time for dinner, and Nelly was a plenty good excuse to stay away from a choir of drunken singing dwarves.
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Turning and tossing in the too-short, too-hard bed, Túrion eventually settles down on the floor, curled up against Nelly. The low level of natural light and perceived lack of danger almost causes him to oversleep. Clearly in a hurry and with accelerated breathing, he manages to make it(barely so) and meet up with the others at the appointed time.
In the morning, Kelian greets you quietly and seems reserved. After a few moments silence, he speaks up. "I'm going to stay here in Revan for a while. I don't think I'm ready for the danger and responsibility of what you have been doing. Not to mention, I'm not particularly subtle so I doubt I'll be much help in Bannerhold..." He smiles and nods, as if reassuring himself of his decision. Then confidently, he states "It has been wonderful working with all of you and I wish you the best. It's too bad Brolin stayed behind in Helm to stay with the Sonder. I would have liked to say goodbye to all of you at once."
Mel's privacy is well-preserved over the course of the evening as the dwarves would not soil their hospitality by sneaking into her room. Fyrtor has interesting conversations with the dwarven priests, learning much about the centrality of the forge and hearth in the worship of Torag. While walking around, Turion sees a forge where magical weapons are being created.
Turion can tell that the smith himself is supplying all of the magic going into the weapon. There doesn't seem to be any external magical power source supplying the weapon's enchantment process.
You meet with Kelian and have all your supplies ready, about to leave Revan.
"You're sure?" Mel asks Kelian.
He nods. "Yes."
"All right. Enjoy your time in Revan -- maybe you can learn some new things here. And, well, be sure to give your parents my regards when you write to them." She hesitates a moment, then pulls the young man into an embrace and plants a light kiss on his forehead. "You're a good man, Kelian Falchen, and your parents should be proud of you. Be safe. And think of us, perhaps. Once in a while."
As the others finish their farewells and prepare to depart, Mel walks softly to the exit of Revan. She surveys the area; but does not really see the country around her.
Hirda left for the hills. And Vors stayed behind in Brookside. Perrin ... went wherever he went. Ai, Ostara, I pray he has found a better path to follow. Now I am leaving once again, and Kelian is staying behind.
The last link to Brookside; gone. Just like that. I am truly rootless. Ai, Ostara -- I will do what is needful. But I pray: some day, let me come to a home once again.
She is subdued as they depart Revan, and feeling a need for solitude, announces that she's going to scout a short way ahead of the group.
Before they parted Fyrtor gave Kelian a half hug while clasping his hand. "I guess this is goodbye then. I hope you find what you are looking for my friend." It was hard to see the young man go. They hadn't truly been close, but Fyrtor felt a kinship with the boy, and they'd shared something in that moment when he'd watch the boy accept his own death. He's not a boy, not any longer. Fyrtor reminded himself. He doesn't need you to protect him, he never really did. "You'll do well here. The dwarves here seem like good folk. There's a lot we could learn from them. Pray for us would you? I can't help but believe the gods are more likely to listen to your prayers than most. You are a good man Kelian o am glad to count you as a friend. Farewell, and may the Lady of Light and Mercy watch over you. Till we meet again."
Interesting. But is it because they don't dare draw power from a heart they have, or is it that this colony does not have one in the first place...
Túrion makes a mental note of that, wishing he had more time to study the architecture. Intense stress on a structure was one thing, and the Dwarves probably knew how to avoid damage from Earthquakes and the like, but the somewhat complete collapse of Kazadors home seemed almost as if such was planned - which would take very extensive preparation during construction, already.
Reading about such topics was intriguing, but he could not quite remember reading a lot about such details - and learning about them himself was exciting. Suddenly, he very much had a desire to do more research on the matter and write a book on the subject, himself. But that would wait.
Today, they would move on towards Count Aral's estate.
You travel northeast toward Bannerhold, passing many farms, mills, and smithies attesting to the industry of the Iustian people. A while after leaving Revan, you find yourselves traveling on well-made roads and you are able to push on a great speed. Roadside inns become increasingly common as you approach the city.
You travel along the roads toward Bannerhold, staying concealed in small copses of trees with Fyrtor's spell. On your fourth day of traveling, a portly, middle-aged man on a mule joins you at a crossroads. Making conversation, he inquires "Where are you heading? What's your business? My talents as a scribe are needed in Bannerhold so I go there to make a pretty penny."
"Off to Count Aral's estate," Mel says. "I'm a bowyer, and I'm hoping he may be interested in commissioning a fine new hunting bow. My friends similarly hope he'll have work for us."
And every word of that is true, she thinks, privately resolving to attempt to persuade Count Aral to commission a hunting bow.
She then immediately diverts the conversation back to the man himself. "A scribe you say? That's a fine line of work; is someone in Bannerhold starting a new library, perchance? Or are you expecting more in the line of working with administrative records? I imagine those are less interesting, but there's never any shortage of them."
Fyrtor nods his agreement to Mel's words as they walk along. "Where do you call home?"
The man smiles jovially and nods "Well the old Count certainly has the funds for it. I don't know how much he hunts at his age but they've always said he had more energy than a man that old should have." He chortles at his own remark and continues "I hail from Elen and am heading toward Bannerhold because, indeed, the demand for administrative work has gone up. Especially with the new model." He says the words "the new model" as if you should know what he means.
”New model? Mayhaps I’ve spent too much time below ground. But what’s that?” Kazador asked, figuring that out of all present he’d have the right to ask such a question.
The scribe chuckles and shrugs "Well I can't say I know how much you Revanites pay attention to our doings. The New Model Army, of course! King Stephen's reforms have made our lads a real fighting force, regulated across the board, excellent equipment, career officers, the like. Really ready to deal with any threats to our sovereignty."
"I'm sure that must generate a great deal of paperwork," Mel says. "No doubt you'll find plenty to do."
After chatting with the scribe and arousing no suspicions, the group travels onward, reaching the edge of Count Aral's estate a few days later.
When the group meets with the manor's servants Fyrtor takes the lead, "Hello, my name is Fyrtor Smithson. My friends and I need to speak with Count Aral, about a matter of some urgency."
Several footmen look you up and down, backing away from the imposing Nelly in particular. The doorman, in his mid-sixties, turns slightly pale but stands ramrod straight and asks "And who are you and what do you mean to do with that beast? Why should you be admitted to speak with the Count? He is a very important man." He is trying to walk a narrow line between insisting on propriety and not insulting these strangers, who could be anyone.
"As I said, I am Fyrtor Smithson, I am servant of Sarenrae and healer of sorts. My father Daryl served the Count many years ago and spoke highly of him. I don't know if he'd remember my father, as you have said he is, of course, a very important man, and certainly has many servants, but he may remember.
Do not worry about the wolf, she is quite well-behaved so long as she is not provoked. I expect she'll be willing to wait patiently while we speak inside." Fyrtor looks to Turion for confirmation of this.
"Either way, I am sorry, but we must speak with the Count in person, I can't speak openly of the reason, but know that on my honor as a servant of the Dawnflower, we mean him no harm. Indeed we come seeking his aid and counsel."
Mel nods. "Perhaps you could send a message to the Count relaying Fyrtor's request for an audience?" Mel asks. "We can certainly wait."
The doorman considers these words then nods politely. "I will send a note to Count Aral." He then steps inside for a few minutes. When he comes back out, he states "The message has been sent. Please come inside and sit while you wait to here whether or not the Count will see you. The wolf should wait outside." Several guardsmen step out after the doorman and take up positions a respectful distance from Nelly. The doorman leads you in to a modestly-decorated sitting room.
Upon close examination, you determine that the furniture and decor of the sitting room are very expensive but not ostentatious. To the untrained eye, the room is merely very nice and tasteful. But you can tell that this room indicates great riches.
After about half an hour's wait, a servant comes to you and bows. "The count will see you now." He leads you through a wood-paneled hallway, up a marble spiral staircase to the third floor, and down another hall, this one with many portraits on the walls. Then he gestures you through the open door of a study.
There an older man sits behind a mahogany desk, examining several papers. He looks up, notices you, and stands, bowing slightly. Though much of his hair has gone gray, he still moves with the grace of a man who has never grown sedentary. "Welcome, my guests." He nods to the servant. "Thank you, Percival. Please wait outside." The servant bows and steps outside, closing the door. "I heard the son of my old friend, Daryl Smithson, was here so I knew I must see him. How are you, sir? And what can a friend of your father do for you?"
From what you have heard, the Count is older than he looks, about 75 years of age. He is remarkably well-preserved, though he does show some signs of his age.
Fyrtor bows in response to the Counter, a bit clumsy, but deeper. "Hello sir, I am glad you agreed to meet with me and my friends. I am Fyrtor, Daryl's son, this is Kazador a Runelord of the dwarves, this is Turion, an elf of Avinoax, and Mel" here he hesitates, not sure is Mel would appreciate him revealing her identity. A moment passes while Fyrtor tries to decide before moving on. After a deep breath he continues. "We are here because we seek to prevent a war between the nation's, something that we have reason to believe that you would desire as well."
I hope that the Count is as good a man as we think he is. This is a lot to reveal to the wrong person, but we have to trust someone, Dawnflower bless that he's the right someone
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In the sitting room, Mel admires the gracious appointments.
When Fyrtor hesitates over her name, she smiles and says "Mel Elden; lately of Brookside, in the Bishopric of Helm."
Once Fyrtor has said his piece, she nods and says "That is correct. We believe that both the Concordat and Iustia have undertaken covert operations designed to give each of them a plausible cover for invading the Bishopric of Helm. Each sees it as an opening move in a larger campaign between the Concordat and Iustia."
Reaching into her haversack, she pulls out the receipt they had been given for the capture of Gertrude van Beem, and extends it towards the old Count.
"You may find this of interest, sir," she says. "It is a receipt for the bounty we received upon capturing Gertrude van Beem, captain of the Serpent's Serendipity, a notorious pirate. Over the past few months, she engaged in a series of attacks on Bishopric shipping, unerringly targeted at ships bearing sensitive or confidential cargoes. Her targets were chosen based on information provided to her by the Hand of the Reaper, a criminal organization which gathered intelligence for her."
"It was an elaborate operation, unusually well-executed for a mere pirate. Under questioning, van Beem confessed that she was not operating independently in this matter: she was hired by one Tyron Alabaster, a noble of Iustia. Her attacks on Bishopric shipping were intended to give Iustia an excuse to sweep into the Bishopric and 'rescue' it from her depredations."
She smiles grimly. "Meanwhile, the Concordat has been engaged in an almost identical scheme. Their version involved provoking tribes of orcs and goblins to attack the southern reaches of the Bishopric, so that benevolent elven forces could march into the country to 'save' it from these terrible aggressors. The first bunch of orcs hit Brookside, a small village in the south western reaches of the Bishopric -- where they were repelled thanks to the courage of the villagers, some timely reinforcements from Astin, and a great deal of luck."
"But not without cost." She drops her gaze to the floor for a moment. She thinks of Noln and his son dying in the darkened streets outside their own home; of Jonathan Golightly, who didn't deserve the arrow that took him; of Allen Dorner. She has a sudden, vivid memory of Perrin turning away in shame from Alice Dorner's weeping face as she buried the father Perrin failed to save despite his promises.
She returns her gaze to the Count. "I fought in that battle," she says. "And in others since. Good people died there. Between them, Iustia and the Concordat could make of this continent an altar on which to pile up such sacrifices: to greed; to hubris; to ambition."
"I want to put a stop to that war; before it even begins. My friends here want the same." She waves a hand broadly to indicate the group.
"Can you help us?"
She holds his gaze.
"I can assure you that she will be well-behaved, and waiting for my return. We do have a bond - she will know I am safe and accept that - there is no need for guards, she can take care of herself quite well, I assure you.", Túrion confirms Fyrtors suggestion, and comments on the guards dispatched to keep an eye on Nelly.
While Túrion was not very knowledgeable about human art and showings of wealth, he did manage to identify a makers mark here and a rare alloy there, helping her realize how lavish the room was despite the humble appearance.
As the others introduce their band and explain their reasons to the Count, Túrion stands at the back, near Kazador. His companions had already worded things perfectly, and there was little reason to add his voice to their just to re-iterate the same topics.
Instead, he carefully watched the Count to gauge his reaction. Not that he expected to be able to read a life-long political figure of another race that simply, but his reaction to Mels words could still show how he thought about war and the young king...