.
***
The meeting in Absalom with Drandle Dreng nearly a month ago was brief, as always. “I have a routine mission for you, though a dangerous routine mission,” the old man whispered in the great hall in the Grand Lodge. Suffering from a cold and weak from lack of food and rest, the old venture-captain looked quite possibly the worst you’d ever seen him. Through wracking coughs he explained, “An ally of ours in the Land of the Linnorm Kings — Rognvald Skagni — is writing a lengthy report on the state of government in the northern countries of Avistan. I received a letter from him just yesterday requesting several key documents from the vaults here to help him finish the report.” Venture-Captain Dreng patted a large, heavy-looking chest next to him. “These are the documents, and I need you to board a ship north to deliver them to Skagni.”
Dreng tried to stand at that point, but a fit of coughing sent him back into his seat. He gestured for a well-dressed, impeccably kept man standing in the shadows of the room to approach and whispered raspy orders to him. The man picked up a small pouch and a large key and handed them both to the party.
“Venture-Captain Dreng is unwell, as you can see. He wished me to give you this key and this pouch of gold. The key opens the chest, and the gold will buy you passage and get you from the Linnorm coast to Trollheim, where Skagni resides. Whatever you do, do not let the chest out of your sight and do not, under any circumstances, allow
it to be searched. These documents are for Mr. Skagni’s eyes only. Are we understood?”
Dreng’s nameless servant waited for a reply and then smiled. “Good. Now run along; Venture-Captain Dreng needs his rest.”
***
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A small tree of a man scribbles notes of a scrap of parchment, in hopes of remembering his mission. He debates asking how to spell Rognvald Skagni, but quickly dismisses the thought, others will know who to deliver it. Dressed in armor of seemingly beaten together sheets of metal, and the twin hammers within arm’s reach clearly reflect that this man is a warrior, not some silly spellflinger. ”Ahh, Alexis, Good to see you again.” he says to the witch, his eyes occasionally glancing up to her hair. Doubling over in an awkward bow, he puts his face at head level to Zirt, ”Hello tiny thing, I am Rhyno, please do not steal anything from me, I would be most cross. Thank you!”
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Zirt's mouth opens in astonishment at the man's comment, her eyes growing very wide. Her voice is shrill and offended as she lights into him. "Steal anything! STEAL!?! Do I look like a thief to you?! I, sir, am a very accomplished storyteller! Not a thief! Thieves are worthless people who don't have anything better to do, or at least that's what my mother always said, and I most certainly do have better things to do! Now I suggest that you learn some manners! Have you ever heard of the Dog of Kaer Maga? I think you're just like him, and if you don't watch out you're going to end up like him too! Hrmph!"
With that she purses her lips and waits for the man to acknowledge his atrocious lack of manners.
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Rhyno smiles a wide, disarming smile, "That is good. Too many of you tiny people are thieves. I have not heard of the dog of Kaer Maga, but dogs are good pets, so it is probably a good story. Most people refer to me as a bull in a potion shoppe. I think it is because I like to charge into battle!" Happy to have a new friend, Rhyno hoists the hammers onto one shoulder and the chest onto the other.
The trip’s taken weeks of hard travel through punishing cold but finally the party arrives in the city of Trollheim – the first sign of civilization since entering the rugged land of the Linnorm Kings. Trollheim is a large city with high, secure walls and a sprawling, frozen network of small neighborhoods and districts, many of which contain their own defenses. The market districts are unruly, smelly, industrious, and busy, while residential districts are generally neater, calmer, cleaner, and more secure from potential invasion (either from neighboring Irrisen or other more natural hazards). The native ulfen must be doing something right as even though it’s a sizable city, compared to Absalom, the wide streets largely crime-free.
Following the Venture Captain’s directions, the party heads for Skagni’s home first at the furthest edge of town.
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Zirt hums quietly as she walks along, her eyes wide with excitement as she scans the new surroundings. Her head cranes around on her little neck to watch a massive Ulfen pass by, her gaze taking in everything from his fur-lined boots to the large pike in his hand.
"Isn't this fun!" she exclaims, pausing her joyful tune only long enough to speak.
Where the directions indicate Skagni’s house should be stands only the charred husk of a burnt-out building. Bits of burnt timber and ruined furniture lie scattered about, but if anything remained after the fire, it seems to have been picked over and looted. Though most of the walls are blackened with soot, a patch along the former front of the residence still shows relatively clean, white walls. Smeared across those white walls, written in reddish-brown letters four feet tall, are the words, “Pathfinders go home”.
Poking around the burned out ruins, Zirt and Sidney find nothing but charred timbers and scattered ash but no sign of a body...
The reddish-brown substance is definitely blood.
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Sidney, you have noticed, has a great personal force. His command of magic is completely instinctive and natural. He is not, however, the brightest man you have met. He makes the next pronouncement as if he has solved the greatest riddle.
"I think Skagni was assaulted, kidnapped, and a warning written in his blood!"
The young man obviously is expecting some positive reply to this pronouncement.
Suddenly several javelins fly through the air and pelt the rubble.
"Ikke drepe lederen! Slakte resten av dem!" a hoarse voice shouts.
Four burly ulfen thugs emerge from a copse of trees north of the ruins of Skagni's home. They're dressed in loose mail and frost-caked furs.
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Zirt squeaks in surprise as the javelins appear out of nowhere. Recovering after a moment, her shrill voice becomes commanding. "I don't know what you're saying, but you'd better just stappa right there and think about what it is you're doing!" she cries, waving her arms around at the nearest javelin-tosser before moving to Sidney's side to examine his wounds.
Sidney is wounded badly and without treatment he'll die!*
The targeted thug curses and bats at the air as Zirt's enchantment overwhelms his senses.
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Rhyno grunts as javelins clang off his armor, "They want to butcher us." he says as his Lucerne hammer comes off the shoulder. Within a few powerful stride of his legs, he has closed the distance, and brings his hammer around with a vicious swing at an undazed foe.
He then howls in glee as the blood and gore explode from the end of his hammer and showers the other enemies.
Rhyno's hammer smashes into his opponent's ribs with a wet crunch. The northman crumbles to the ground with bloody spittle oozing from his mouth.
The other thugs visibly flinch at the sight of the lanky ulfen's violence.
Alexia starts her spell.
Leary of their opponent's long-handled hammer the surviving thugs hurl additional javelins at Rhyno.
Alexia's spell finishes, sprinkling two of the thugs with sleep-inducing magic.
Both fall to the ground unconscious. "Jadwiga!" the surviving assailant shouts at the witch.
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Zirt nods once in satisfaction at her spell's effect, then quickly kneels to do what she can for Sidney. "Come on now, you can do it, wake up!" she urges, tapping him with his wand as an afterthought. After that she sets his wand down beside him and draws her own, looking over at Rhyno to see if he's alright. It's a good thing for him that he went out of his way to repair our friendship after that rather rocky start! A thief?! Goodness, the man has no manners whatsoever!
The last man, wounded and alone, casts down his weapon. "I yield! Show mercy. Don't let your witch lay a hand on me!"
"We're mercenaries. We do what what we're told and we get paid. The job was to watch this place and kill anyone that came poking around", the bruised northern man explains in accented common.
He produces two slips of paper and offers them up.
"The coin was good so we took the job."