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Adventurers! Please dot the Gameplay thread with your chosen battle cry!
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"I will shatter you like bog iron upon the anvil!"
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Bonegrit growls and sputters through gritted teeth, "Worm food!"
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"Few creatures deserve such merciless finality as this. I have done all in my power to spare you this fate."
Fireday, 6th Desnus, 4711 AR
The sun has finally broken through the brooding, sword-metal sky that has hung over Vigil for weeks. Patches of blue flaunt themselves through the rents in the cloud, and everywhere spirits in the city are lifted. Here, for once, is a siege that has broken. On the streets, unfamiliar sounds can be heard; the stifled giggling of maidens happy to be about without fearing rain will wash the colour from their dresses, a tuneful whistle from the lips of a normally stern Watchknight, animated gossiping from housewives hanging sheets out to dry. The bells of the city are in merry chorus, and suddenly summer does not seem so far away.
On the sward outside Northgate, beneath the towering walls of Vigil and not far from where the Path River swirls by, swollen with the waters of the spring storms, stand a small group of men and horses.
Second Master Santrian separates himself from this knot of people to stride towards a handful of adventurers gathering near the gate. A wide grin crosses his ruddy features and his monocle glints in the sunlight as he greets them.
“A fine morning, a fine morning indeed. One to tickle that little bit of the spirit that seeks excitement and adventure I’ll wager. Well, never fear, we’ll be on the road in but a few days. This way, Dierik’s eager to see you.”
Santrian ushers the adventurers towards the other group.
Though no introductions have been made, it’s not hard to identify Dierik Ironcoffer. Something about the blaze of fierce joy in his eyes, and the economy with which he coaxes the great pearl-coated destrier upon which he rides in a flawless display of dressage speaks of his quality. Though not tall, he sits straight in the saddle, smartly dressed in a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, black cloak and calfskin leggings; well-tailored clothes without ostentation.
Dierik acknowledges Santrian’s hail with a brisk nod, and before turning his horse towards the adventurers pauses by another man, a ranchman by the look of his riding leathers and slouching posture. Happiness written plainly on his face, Dierik hands the fellow a velvet purse that looks to be heavy with coin. Then he canters swiftly up to Santrian and his charges, bringing his steed to a smart stop a few paces short of them.
“These are they?” he asks.
“Yes, indeed,” replies Santrian, introducing the adventurers in turn. Dierik inspects them, his blue-eyed gaze level, friendly but appraising. Closer now, his handsome face shows the lines of age, and silver tongues flank a thick head of curly black hair. He is probably somewhere between forty and fifty years in age.
Two score paces behind Dierik, about a dozen horses are tethered, attended by three horse traders, including the man who just received Dierik’s purse. Carefully inspecting the horses is a hunched old half-elf, with a straggling grey beard hanging almost to his navel. He could be mistaken for a tramp, but calming in which he handles the animals as he inspects their teeth and hooves suggests there’s more to this man than meets the eye.
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"For Sarenrae and Lastwall!"
With an elaborate bow to Dierik Ironcoffer, but including his nearby companions, "I am Tibal Vyron, known in taverns and inns across Lastwall as Tibal the Halfing. I will defend your interests with the strength of my arm, and speed your journey with tales of intrigue, adventure, and humor. It is an honor to make the acquaintance of such a hero, and I am certain more stories will be written of our travels together.
With another bow and flourish, Tibal cedes the floor to his nearest companion.
Bonegrit stands with arms crossed, his yellow eyes lingering on the horses that stand just beyond. He is currently laden with more gear than he can comfortably carry; multiple quivers of arrows slung over hips and shoulder, and strapped bundles occupying his hands. He seems scrawny for a half-orc, more sinew and bone than muscle and bulk. His forehead and cheekbones slant at unfavorable angles, pronouncing his orcish heritage more than a lot of the half-orcs you've seen throughout Vigil. As Santrian introduces him, Bonegrit gives a solemn nod.
"Name's Bonegrit. Master Santrian hired me on to help with scouting for and guiding the caravan. I've dealt with the orcs of Belkzen before as well, so you can count on me to keep a cool head when we reach that leg of the trip. No stranger to guarding caravans either. Been to Caliphas and back several times. In short, I'm your man." Bonegrit gives another quick nod before returning his gaze back to the horses.
Pyotr adjusted the straps of his armor for perhaps the fifth time that day. This time he cinched it down so tightly he forced the air from his lungs. Hours of scouring and polishing had barely removed the years of tarnish and damage done to the ill-fitting suit of scale. Though he failed utterly to cut the figure of a shining knight, the steel was of good temper, and he felt safe enough ensconced in the mail.
The half-orc looked once again to the palms of his hands. The weight of the mail, or the new greatsword strapped to his back, was barely noticeable when compared to the weight of responsibility he held in his hands. The marks of the sword and shield showed as plainly against his mottled green skin as they would have in the palms of human hands. But, a human would have had no trouble securing an invitation to join one of the many, many companies of knights and soldiers that defended the city and carried on the centuries-long Great Crusade.
Pyotr had petitioned them all. This was his last chance.
"Greetings, Master Ironcoffer. I am known as Pyotr, often called 'the Unwelcome', ward of the Temple, and child of no land worth mentioning. Your good Master Santrian was kind enough to give weight to my petition to join your caravan. I can maintain myself well enough in the wilderness, though I bear no special talent in that regard. All I can offer is that upon my very life, the blade that reaches you, shall first have passed through me."
A rather average-set dwarf shuffles through the city with a glint of determination in his sky blue eyes. He juggles his equipment as if he had just stolen it from a nearby rack. Slung over his shoulder and gripped by his left hand is a suit of scale mail which clangs against a large wooden shield strapped to his back. A dented and scuffed warhammer hangs from his belt. As he rushes towards the adventurers, it appears as if he should be running to an anvil rather than to a caravan. He is dressed in common clothes concealed by a thick, dark brown, leather apron. This notion is solidified when you see a large backpack in his right hand almost spilling its contents of various smithing tools. As the other adventurers greet their new patron, Dunagan re-stuffs the backpack, tightens the straps on the crudely stored bedroll, and sets to work replacing his apron with armor.
The Dwarven smith's head pops from the scalemail and he looks about. He suddenly realizes that they are awaiting his introduction. Sliding the armor over the rest of his body he states in a rather calm, collected voice, despite his demeanor, "Dunagan Haarglick, forgemaster and faithful of Torag, at your service." As he affixes a scaled bracer to his forearm, he looks up, a bit concerned, "I suggest steering clear of my father if you have business with my family. He is not too happy with my decision to join you, sir Ironcoffer. My grandfather would be a better Dwarf to discuss trade, if need be."
“Well said, well said,” approves Dierik “Though I fear the day will come all too soon when you must back your brave words up with action. I don’t expect the Hold of Belkzen to treat us gently.”
To Dunagan he has this to say; “I remember well the name of Haarglick, and know even better the strength of their forgings.” Dierik reaches to his belt and unsheathes a beautiful longsword, which he proffers to the dwarf, tapping his finger on a small dwarven glyph on the chappe; the forgerune of Amrin Haarglick. “Some of my guardsmen are in need of new blades. Perhaps Lumrin can help me, provided I can afford the best swords in Vigil.”
To Tibal he says this; “Hero . . . there aren’t many who consider me such anymore.” For a moment his eyes flicker to towering city walls of stained granite that loom behind them, and bitterness floods them. “Not an ambition I’d recommend to any you,” he continues with a wry smile. Then the white charger whickers softly, and his face brightens once again.
Dierik pats his mount affectionately. “Come. Perhaps you’ll want your own horses to ride along the Flood Road. The horse ranchers owe my man Deramil more times than they've fingers to count on both hands, and luckily for me they remember it.”
As they approach the herd of sixteen horses, the straggle-bearded half-elf slips some platinum pieces into the hands of one of the ranchers and leads two away, heading towards an encampment of wagons several hundred yards away from the city wall. As he passes Dierik, Santrian and the adventurers, he gives the slightest nod of greeting, but no more.
“First Master Deramil mixes better with horses and oxen I’m afraid,” observes Santrian apologetically.
“These aren’t the freshest horses in the land by any stretch of the imagination,” explains Dierik “But you won’t get a better price. See if there are any you fancy, and feel free to put them through their paces.” Dierik indicates to a pile of different sized saddles on the grass nearby.
Dunagan gasps at the proffered longsword that is only a few feet before him. He walks closer, inspecting the blade carefully as a hastily fastened greave falls from his shin. "Sir Ironcoffer... Amrin's forge has been cold for over a millennium. My grandfather, Lumrin, my father Hagrim, my two sisters and myself are all that is left of his lineage. While we do smith the finest blades in Vigil, they will all pale in comparison to the blade you wield." Dunagan analyzes the blade meticulously as it is the first blade he has seen with the forgerune of Amrin upon it. His family had sold the entirety of the heirlooms over the past few centuries trying to eek out a living and restore some semblance of their former glory. It is apparent that the forgerune is indeed part of Dunagan's heraldry as it can be seen embroidered on his armor and apron, but each Dwarven smith places his own unique forgerune upon his craft. Dunagan's can be seen on the cheek of his warhammer. "I must ask, good sir. Would you allow me to take closer inspection of your blade when things are not so busy?" The stench of sweat and dirt comes wafting from the Dwarf towards Dierik as he stands only a few feet away.
Pyotr walked towards the horse paddocks with what he hoped appeared as a casual gait. He watched carefully as more knowledgeable trail hands made careful examination of the horses. Aping their movements, Pyotr made a show of running his hands down their legs and pulling apart their gums, examining their feet. Most reacted poorly to such cavalier treatment by the uneducated half-orc. They stamped and snorted, fidgeting in the confines of their enclosed paddocks, and nipping at his hands as he mishandled the beasts.
Pyotr tried to summon one of the hands with a gesture. A sullen rancher made his way over, a wary look in his eye. "Any o' them gets damaged, and ye jus' bought yerself a horse. Ye savvy, half-blood?"
"I understand, sir." Pyotr avoided smiling. With his oversized tusks the friendly gesture could appear quite menacing. "Perhaps, with your vast experience and knowledge, you would be good enough to supplement my ignorance, and outline the finer qualities of these stalwart creatures."
No matter the answer from Dierik, Dunagan eventually fits himself into the scalemail and walks over to the horses. He listens to the ranchers as they speak each horse's name and type, becoming deeply enamored with Cornalium.
Dunagan reaches to pet Cornalium's mane but the horse pulls back ever so slightly as if he is appraising the Dwarf as well. Dunagan smiles to the rancher and draws a handful of platinum from his purse. Placing five in his palm he reaches out and turns the coins over to the rancher.
As Dunagan is about to walk away, he is pulled aside by the rancher who whispers a few words about Sard and how she is named after a crystal and how she would be a perfect match for Dunagan since he was so interested in the horse with the 'ore' name. The rancher leads him over to the second horse and it doesn't take long for Dunagan to be persuaded into buying Sard as well. A few minutes later, Dunagan turns over another five platinum pieces. The horses neigh and whinny at their new master's tugs on their bits, but they finally comply and walk alongside the dwarf to the edge of the herd.
Dunagan takes his place next to Delkaneth and attempts to break the ice, "Torag guided me to Cornalium. Cornalium seems timid but loyal and appears to be quite a jumper. On the other hand, I can't seem to make out any quality in Sard. She is quite the mystery."
Bonegrit walks about the arranged specimens, giving each a practiced scrutiny. He often offers gentle pats to their muzzles, running his long hand down their necks and across their shoulders. The beasts seem oddly at ease with the gangly half-orc. Those that hesitate at his approach are soon won over by a series of calming shushes and soothing words. This he does for several minutes, though he ultimately seems to settle on Amiro - an immense and solidly built steed with a ragged black mane and a thick gray coat of hair. The large Dort offers little reaction, and Bonegrit meets its unflinching gaze for several seconds. A smile finally splits his face, followed by a short series of chuckles.
"How much for the Dort? Hmph. 200? A good deal, I think, but still too steep." Bonegrit rubs his protruding jaw with his right hand for a moment, then turns to address Dierik. "I can swing most of the cost. Maybe we could work something out? He's a fine horse, and I hate to let a handful of coins keep me from his saddle. I'm not dumb enough to ask you to take me on good faith, but perhaps we could forego some of my hiring fee instead? I'm only fifteen short. Would you be willing to forego thirty coins of my pay?"
As Bonegrit was making his rounds among the horses, he came to a short rest next to Pyotr. He gives Pyotr an appraising glance before tapping the larger half-orc on his thigh. Having gained his attention, Bonegrit makes a gesture towards the cream of the crop: Torshen's Hammer.
"That's the one you want - no doubt about it. Battle-ready as they come."
The dwarf, finally dressed now, has just purchased two of the smaller steeds. Bonegrit smiles slightly, then calls over to Dunagan, "Solid choices, friend, though Sard looks like she prefers a practiced hand."
“I hesitate to let such a fine weapon leave my side for long,” Dierik answers to Dunagan, “But I’m sure we’ll find the opportunity somewhere down the road.” He gently reclaims the blade, making no reaction to the dwarf’s cloying odour, and slides the glittering sword back into its sheath.
He watches the adventurers quietly as they survey the horses, noting their way with beasts. As Bonegrit settles on Amiro, the half-orc mentions his shortage of gold.
“Perhaps something can be arranged. I’d like to see how fast you can ride.” As Dierik speaks, he turns his own white steed to face the flat, open ground in the shadow of the walls.
“Care for a gallop?”
Bonegrit considers the question for a moment and studies Amiro a moment further. He nods a couple of times to Dierik. "I'd love to. Let me get 'im saddled up and we'll put the ole boy through his paces."
He approaches Amiro respectfully, and awaits the horse's permission before he begins attempting to saddle it. Throwing the blanket over the charger's girth, he whispers into it's ear.
He finishes securing the saddle, securing the cinch gently and adjusting the stirrups to accommodate his stature. Bonegrit reaches down to retrieve the bit and bridle, and moves alongside Amiro's face. He runs his hand up to the horse's ear, gently massaging it with his thumb. He proffers the harness to the horse, as if seeking it's approval.
The horse neighs once, then lowers its head slightly to accept the harness. Bonegrit gives it a friendly pat on the neck again before finishing his task. Giving the straps all a once-over, he then starts examining its legs and hooves, checking to make sure the horse shoes are well fitted. Satisfied that everything is in order, Bonegrit plants his left heel into the stirrup and hoists himself up onto the horse. He trots leisurely over to Dierik. Nodding to the area Dierik had gestured to before, he asks, "Shall we?"
Pyotr is so engrossed in conversation with the ranch hand, that he never notices he approach of the other half-orc. Pyotr was well aware that there were others of his kind in Lastwall, even in Vigil itself, but the unwritten laws of the city made such associations nearly criminal.
Though momentarily taken aback, Pyotr follows Bonegrit's gesture, across the crowded enclosure, until his eyes alight upon the most immense horse he had ever seen. The speckled roan stands easily eighteen hands, looking more like the most powerful of draft horses, rather than one anyone would try and ride. Pyotr nodded to the ranger, "Many thanks, friend."
Pyotr crosses the paddock, approching the enormous steed, its cream colored mane and fetlocks shining bright against its dappled skin. The powerful creature wickers slightly and turns a patient, but appraising eye upon Pyotr. He reaches out and runs his hand lightly along the horse's neck, in awe at the raw strength he can feel beneath.
Dunagan strokes his short beard for a second before turning to Delkaneth and handing him the reigns of Sard. "Why not take her for a ride? As long as she is nearby, I will be happy and willing to let her go for the price I paid."
Bonegrit hoist himself into the saddle and trots over to stand Amiro beside Dierik. “Shall we?” he asks.
Dierik says now more, but a wide grin creases his face as he kicks his stallions’s sides and flicks the reins. With a sharp cry of “Yah!” his horse explodes into action, and Amiro and Bonegrit are only seconds behind. Together, the two horses tear across the loam, clods of earth being churned into the air beneath their hooves, Amiro a dirty grey besides the pearl brilliance of Dierik’s steed. In no more than a few breaths they are at full gallop, the pounding rhythm of their stride echoing off Vigil’s walls, their flying forms reflected in the still waters of the city’s moat. Above them, soldiers on the fortifications whoop and wave encouragement.
Amiro and Bonegrit are giving it all they’ve got, but Dierik and his steed keep pace effortlessly. The white destrier glides over the ground like a racing cloud, and Dierik seems so comfortable in the saddle he might even be a centaur. As they ride, Dierik watches Bonegrit closely, noting the skill with which the half-orc controls his horse and the elemental way he urges Amiro on.
In less than four minutes, they’re at the Gallowspire Road, and Dierik calmly brings them down to an ambling canter with a slight twitch of the reins. Incredibly, his horse is barely winded by the dash.
“Isabellina’s Arrow is what they call him, named after his dam. One of the proudest lines of horse in Lastwall” explains Dierik as they slow to a stop. “He’s the finest animal I’ve ever ridden.”
Dierik jumps to the ground and proffers the reins to Bonegrit. “Ride him back. It’s like riding on the wind itself.”
Bonegrit humbly accepts Dierik's offer with a curt grunt. "You ride well, master Dierik - better than most I've seen." The half-orc vaults off of Amiro and gives the grey horse another ear rub. "And you as well, friend. Remind me you're due a reward when we return," he speaks lowly into the horse's ear. He grasps Amiro's reins firmly in his right hand and leads the brute over, offering them to Dierik with deference. He comes to stand before Isabellina's Arrow, and offers the impressive horse a similar appraisal to what he afforded the other horses - now far behind. Once more, he can be seen whispering favorable words into the white stallion's ear.
"Truly a fine creature, sir. He's got an old soul, but a fierce spirit." Bonegrit climbs into the saddle and trots the horse around in a small circle. Moments later, and now comfortable with the beast, he works up to a canter and then to a gallop, putting Dierik's appraisal to the test.
--
After finishing his ride with the caravan master, Bonegrit makes good on his intent to aid Delkaneth in his steed selection. He approaches him calmly, and comes to a respectful stop several paces away. Looking the human up and down, he stops and considers a moment, rubbing his chin once more as he does so. Bonegrit's gaze seems to then alternate between Delkaneth and one particular steed.
"You ask me, I like Harika for you. Rokasilv's a good steed, to be sure, but seems a bit untested. Harika is less likely to throw you if things get messy." Bonegrit looks over in Sard's direction again. "Now, Sard is a solid choice as well, but as I told master Dunagan, she isn't going to be easy to handle for someone who isn't used to the saddle. She seems stubborn, but strong."
Dunagan turns to the axe-laden human that is digging through his coin purse and walks towards him, sifting through his own light, but still somewhat full purse. He pulls a half dozen gold pieces from it and offers them to Delkaneth. "I figure if we are going to be watching one another's backs on this trip, I'd like you to watch mine especially well." The dwarf winks and thumbs his nose with his free hand, "Take what you need, lad."
Pyotr stands in awe of the marvelous creature before him. The ranch hand saunters over, a gleam of avarice in his eye. "Torshen's Hammer is a steed fit for the greatest of Lastwall's knights."
"Torshen's Hammer..." Pyotr breathes.
"Will you accept a promissory note from Precentor Keyron Saiville, in lieu of gold?"
The hand gives him a look of purest incredulity. "Ye're in the employ of the Lords Martial?" He holds the note up to the light, rubs the signatory line with his thumb, and finally shakes his head in disbelief. "Seems legit. Apologies, mister."
"No need for apologies. See to him until I have attended the caravan master at inspection and dinner."
Isabellina’s Arrow stands stiffly as Bonegrit climbs atop him, his eye rolling nervously to Dierik for assurance. His master briefly touches his muzzle, but it’s enough for the stallion to settle as Bonegrit gathers the reins.
It’s immediately apparent that Dierik’s appraisal of the stallion was no overstatement. Isabellina’s Arrow seems to anticipate Bonegrit’s commands even before he’s made them, and when they accelerate to gallop, the destrier flies with the speed expected of a courser, not the heavy warhorse he is. Dierik and Amiro make no attempt to match their pace to the Arrow’s, and Bonegrit finds himself back amongst his companions at Northgate in even less time than it took on the ride out, exhilarated.
Shortly after, Dierik canters up on Amiro, watching Bonegrit carefully to measure the half-orc’s opinion of the stallion.
“You ride well,” he says, and then he briefly glances at Second Master Santrian and nods, before striding over to retake possession of Isabellina’s Arrow. “Amiro also seems like a firm steed,” he concludes.
There is a definite sense that Bonegrit’s skill at riding Isabellina’s Arrow has great importance to Dierik. The significance of this will no doubt be revealed in time.
“Our caravan is encamped just yonder,” explains Santrian as the adventurers admire their new steeds. “Please come and join us there for lunch.”
Bidding farewell to the ranchers, who are busy uprooting their temporary paddocks of stakes and ropes and herding the remaining horses onto the road south, the adventurers follow Santrian and Dierik to a wide circle of wagons.
As they approach, the men and women who plainly make this caravan home stop to regard them. It’s midday, and the encampment has the relaxed, languid air of folk who know how to enjoy a rare moment of peace in a hectic, rugged life. The only ones not lounging in the shadow of crudely rigged awnings or perched on wagon sides playing cards are a handful of alert guards with shortbows and a curious little ratman busy piling copper pieces into towers as he flicks beads across an abacus.
“What’s this?” shouts Dierik jovially “A cold cooking fire! They lie at their ease for a few days, and my men grow too lazy to feed themselves . . . and their master!”
A halfling leaps down from a wagon and scurries over to greet the newcomers. “Not at all, Master Ironcoffer,” he assures “But this morning I went into the city and purchased a fine feast! We’ve been waiting for your return so that we could tuck in.” With a flourish, the halfling sweeps a leather tarpaulin off a small handcart. Its bed is laden with food; wheels of creamy cheese, thick-crusted meat pies as large as a man’s helmet, bundles of long bread-sticks, bunches of freshly cleaned carrots and turnips, plus various jars of jams, pastes and preserves.
“You mean there’s nothing cooked by your own hand, Crinkles?” queries Dierik in mock dismay, engendering a rude gesture from the halfling and a whoop of laughter from the gathering trailsmen.
“The best is yet to be revealed,” explains Crinkles. With a click of his fingers, two lads leave the crowd and haul the handcart a few feet, revealing a heap of ale barrels and wineskins that had been hidden beneath its undercarriage. A resounding cheer is immediately made by all.
“Ever the showman,” remarks Dierik before turning back to the adventurers. “Better grab a bite and a cup before these ruffians devour the lot.” Despite his jest, his men are surprisingly deferential; the food is not swamped by a crowd of grabbing hands and jostling bodies, but instead parcelled out equally by Crinkles and his assistants.
Dunagan returns the warm smile with his own,"no need to start tallying debt! For I'm sure we will all owe one another at some point!"
Dunagan mills about the food placing a large amount of turnips on his plate before scooping up the other items from the rest of the spread. After filling his plate, he walks to the keg and fills his tankard to the brim. After taking a long draw from his tankard he once again refills it immediately before sitting amongst the crew, but he ensures he is close enough to Dierik to inspect the Dwarf-forged blade on the patron's hip.
Looking over the hilt in a rather awkward fashion, Dunagan begins to speak, "Grandfather Lumrin has a few wares left here and there that he may part with... On the other hand, my father runs the smithy day to day and can outfit your men with what they may need. However, my father is quite stubborn. The iron-headed man refused my request to join you, which explains my hurried state earlier. He would not be all too happy to see me or you for that matter. He thinks us traitorous to trade within the Hold of Belkzen...." The dwarf looks wantingly for a consoling response.
Pyotr grabs his plate of food and wolfs it down with hardly a self-conscious glance around him. Within seconds he is sopping the last of the juice from his plate with the rind of his bread. A few of the crew stare in surprise and amazement as Pyotr politely inquires whether Crinkles has another serving available.
After a time, Pyotr works his way over to where Bonegrit takes his meal. "You ride extremely well. And I must thank you again, for directing my attention towards Torshen's Hammer." Pyotr lowers his voice. "I'm led to believe that you are somewhat acquainted with the frontier lands and the wastes of Belkzen. If so, then I would be very glad of your company during our journey north."
Retrieving Amiro's reins from his new employer, Bonegrit looks up and says excitedly - a rare tone for the half-orc to take under any circumstances - "You weren't kiddin'! He flies truer than any arrow I've come across in my days, and I've come across plenty." Bonegrit's smile recedes slowly, and he seems to study Dierik for a moment; he seems to hesitate over something, then bows his head briefly, scuffing the ground with his thick, leather boot before returning his eyes to meet Dierik's gaze.
"Someone wise once told me you can often judge a man by the horse that bears him." Bonegrit extends his right palm upwards towards the caravan master, an offered handshake that is likely as close to a stamp of approval as the half-orc gets. "The saying's always rang true for me, and I still hold to that."
Bonegrit indulges in as much food as his hosts and belly will allow. He enjoys several horns of ale, though seems self-possessed enough not to drink too much. He spends a great deal of time propped up against one of the larger wagon's wheels, fingers linked across his now-bulging stomach and a look of satisfaction and fulfillment plain as the grin that splits his face. At Pyotr's approach, he attempts to lean up, though quickly elects to return to his reclined position. He listens to what the burly half-orc has to say, smiling at the initial praise afforded his earlier riding performance.
"My thanks. I've tended to horses for a good bit, but seldom a stock so fine as this lot. Though, truth be told, I think it was Torshen's Hammer that chose you. He seemed about as interested in pairing with me as one of those ponies would be in pulling this entire caravan by its lonesome." At this, Bonegrit offers another wide grin and a chuckle.
As Pyotr changes the tone of the conversation, Bonegrit responds with a nod and a sidelong glance to his present company. He reaches up to scratch the back of his head, replying, "I've spent more time in the mountains around the orc holds than the wastes themselves, but I have visited their lands on numerous occasions. Some visits were gentler than others." Bonegrit rolls up a sleeve far enough to reveal a deep scar that runs from just below his elbow up to his wrist. "I won't mislead you, by trail or by word - this caravan is heading somewhere that is likely to not treat us kindly, whether we want to trade or not. I'm hoping our numbers will be a show enough of strength that they respect our passing. If not, I think you'll be testing your new steed sooner than you expected. In that, however, you are fortunate. He's a fine piece o' work, and will bear you with pride. "
Bonegrit lets his head come to rest on the wagon wheel again before speaking once more. "Don't know how much riding ya got under your belt, but I can give some pointers if you'd like. It's easier than it looks, and twice as liberating."
His meal finally settled, Bonegrit gets up and wanders over to where Deramil is tending to the animals. He clears his throat a short distance from the bearded half-elf to get his attention. "Don't mean to trouble you, but I thought I'd best make your acquaintance before we set off. Just wanted to let you know I can help tend to the horses and the like if you'll have me. I'm not a stranger to this type of work, and I follow orders well."
Dunagan sits close to Dierik. Having seen Bonegrit shake hands with Dierik, he’s keen to strengthen ties with his new employer. He’d also like to get a closer look at his ancestor’s blade. However for now, all he can do is marvel at the simple, clean lines of the crossguard and hilt, the blade being concealed within a simple leather scabbard of human make.
Shifting his attention from the sword to its wielder, he apologetically explains the state of affairs in the family smithy.
Dierik nods sympathetically “Well your father’s point of view is understandable. He’s of an age to have heard the war drums of Belkzen beating just outside the walls of Vigil more than once.” He calls over to a scarred old Garundi warrior, who seems to be the captain of the caravan’s small band of guards.
“Say Callan, what do your lads need in the way of arms?”
“Not much, but we've five longswords with blades so old they’ll not hold an edge longer than it takes me to drink a tankard of this stuff,” he says, upending his mug to underline its emptiness. “Those swords are little better than iron clubs these days."
“An iron club will mess up an orc’s face better than a wooden one,” points out Dierik, gesturing for Crinkles to refill his guardsman’s cup, then turning back to Dunagan “But we wouldn’t want to cause more troubles with your family. All of my men are Oathless, and thus forbidden from purchasing weapons in Vigil. I bear the Marks, but I have my own complications in the city. But no matter, we’ll manage.”
Unfortunately, Dierik doesn’t seem poised to share Amrin’s sword with Dunagan again; at least, not right now.
Meanwhile Crinkles misses Dierik’s instruction to refill up Crooked Callan’s tankard (the halfling is busy experimenting shaking a variety of unlikely looking spices over lumps of cheese to see what happens to the flavour), so Delkaneth steps in and passes one of the last ale pots to the warrior.
The Garundi grunts in thanks and takes a long slurp, then looks at the bard.
“You’re a Chelaxian right? There’s some paleness beneath your tan. What brings you north?”
It’s difficult to decide whether Crooked Callan is so named for his teeth, which stick out of his gums like a jumble of fallen menhirs, or left leg, which is atrophied and bent (although he managed to waddle over to Crinkles’ pile of booze fast enough). It would be hard to find someone who better defined the word ‘grizzled’. He looks to be in his fifties, though perhaps the tolls of the road have aged him more than they should. In addition to the obvious damage to his leg, his skin is a catalogue of scars, some put there by blades, others by claws.
As the Chelaxian and the Garundi talk, Delkaneth tries to get a sense of what to expect. It quickly becomes clear that the Flood Road holds just as much mystery to the old warrior as it does to the bard. “This is as close as I’ve been to the Hold before,” explains Callan “Not sure if the boss is going to follow the river or strike out immediately for the Freedom Town. From what they say, that’s the last place you can expect to do business with a red-blooded human ‘til you reach Hillcross. In between it’s just orcs, orcs, orcs. I’ve heard of a fare few daredevils try the Flood Road before, but I haven’t heard of anyone coming back. But the boss has talked about it for as long as I’ve known him. He’s been into the Hold, though he don’t talk about it much. Though sometimes I wonder whether this whole expedition was an excuse for him to see the walls of Vigil again, and to ride a Lastwall destrier.”
“As for me, I’m just the shepherd, the protector of this caravan. Just making sure someone’s always watching the horizon. It’s the boss who makes the rules. He’s a great man, but when he tells you it’s time to jump, well then you put some hares in yer boots.”
Zriorinta does not make an appearance, though Delkaneth does see one of the drovers put a small package of food near her wagon and a slim white hand reach out of the door and take it.
The two half-orcs talk for a while. After lunch, Bonegrit goes to find First Master Deramil, who is busy getting the two new draft horses he bought this morning used to their traces.
At Bonegrit’s introduction, the half-elf looks up, thinks for a moment, and they says “Greetings.” With that, he turns back to the two horses.
Pyotr nods his thanks to Bonegrit. "A bit of knowledge, and a touch of caution, will likely protect us far better than a thousand swords. My education extends only as far as the rites and rituals of the Cathedral. But, if such knowledge as this would prove useful to you, do not hesitate to ask."
Pyotr walks over to where the trade master sits in conversation with Dunagan. "My greetings, Master Ironcoffer. And to you, Master smith. I am familiar with the skill of the Haarglicks, though I have never been fortunate enough to possess one of their blades."
"I could not fail to hear your dilemma, even from across the yard. In this, I believe I can be of some small service. The Haarglick clan my carry some misgivings about dealing with someone of my lineage... But, I doubt they would be so stubborn as to turn away one of the lawfully Oathsworn." Pyotr lifted his right hand to display the sword mark.
"If you can provide me with the required funds, and your assurance that none of the blades, neither old or new, will be delivered into the hands of the orcs, then I will endeavor to provide for your men."
Dunagan listens patiently as the knight and Trail Captain discuss business. He nods in agreement that this option may get the job done. "Sir Pyotr, you would indeed be able to purchase such items, but five blades will bear suspicion. Although," the Dwarf eyes the Half-Orc over and then looks to Torshen's Hammer, "You seem to have a way with convincing others to give you what you need. Each longsword will cost you 315 gold, and a magical blade will cost you upwards of two-thousand gold." The Dwarf rises up and dusts the crumbs from his beard. "If I may, I will take my leave and see what I can do with the older blades."
Dunagan walks slightly behind Callan and urges that he lead him to the old longswords. As they march off, they are interrupted by Delkaneth. When the topic of books is brought up, Dunagan suddenly speaks up, "And there is only things that you can learn from books. Such as things from Dwarves who have long passed." The forgemaster seems to be talking about a specific piece of literature. He turns back to Callan and derails the conversation, "We should get a look at those blades before the day ends."
The Forgemaster runs his fingers down the spine of the blade and then along the edges. He looks over each one meticulously. Finding cracks and nicks almost invisible to anyone else, he notes them with a tap of his finger. He flips the sword that the blade touches the ground and examines the hilt and the tang that enters it. "These can be repaired, but I would need access to a forge." Dunagan looks around the wagons for Pyotr and calls out, "Pyotr! Does your order have a forge that I could use?!"
Dierik splutters into his tankard as Dunagan mentions the prices his father charges. “By Iomedae’s mortal remains, with the dwarves it’s either the best blades in Avistan or nothing at all! Callan you’ll have to make do with those iron clubs.”
However the Trail Captain brightens when he hears Dunagan suggest he can repair the longswords.
Bonegrit spends much of the remaining day tending to Amiro and allowing the Dort to grow more accustomed to his presence. He whips about the fields in sight of Vigil, mostly at a canter, though he occasionally pushes the horse to a steady gallop. After a couple of hours pass, he leads the horse to the riverbank nearest to the caravan and lets the horse drink his fill before returning for the night.
He gives Agiz, Dunagan, and Pyotr a friendly nod as they pass him on their way back into Vigil. After tethering Amiro with the other horses and storing the saddle, he makes his way back to the circle of wagons.
The half-orc spends the remainder of the evening in the shade of the foremost of the Sixbulls playing with Shambles. When night falls, he unfurls his bedroll and sets his packs nearby haphazardly. Before long, he has rolled over on his side, an occasional series of soft snores escaping his gaping mouth.
Wild Empathy for Shambles -
Deramil doesn’t say much to Bonegrit as they work together tending to the pack animals. After a time, he even gives the occasional nod of approval at the half-orc’s skill with the beasts, but no more than that.
After dinner (which consists of little more than cleaning up the leftovers from lunch) Bonegrit plays with Shambles, and quickly establishes a rapport with the mongrel. As he does so, Dierik strides over to join him.
“You have a rare connection with animals. I watched you putting Amiro through his paces this afternoon; you’ll make a good team.”
Dierik pauses for a moment and glances at the walls of Vigil. They are ablaze with fire; conjured flames summoned every evening to illuminate the city’s great fortifications. A message to watchers in the night, a sign of hope for men – and to the orcs, a warning that Lastwall is always ready to defend herself.
“Long ago, that was a sight that used to bring me pride,” he mutters, then sighs.
“But I can’t say I’ve missed it too much. There’s a whole wide world out there to explore. Here, a life of strategic withdrawals and trying to rally your sagging spirits. Not something for me.”
“The only thing I did miss? The horses. They don’t breed them like this anywhere else, I promise you that,” Dierik pauses again “And the races. The glorious charge of the Lastwall heavy cavalry? Ha! I’ve been there, and it’s just a precursor to terror and slaughter. But the races. Take off all that armour and barding, get a light man who knows what he’s doing in the saddle, and watch them take off. Whilst those horses are on the track, it’s the only time you’ll see a crowd of Vigilants not checking over their shoulders to see if there’s an orc horde on the horizon.”
“Well I’m in luck. The Strander Stakes are this Sunday. Tell your new companions, back the right horse and make a fortune. Ride the right horse to victory and become a hero.”
Now Dierik is looking at Bonegrit directly in the face, ignoring the bestial, orcish features to seek the man’s eyes.
“The Arrow, a destrier with a courser’s speed. A horse of Isabellina’s famous line. A winner. You rode him well enough. Perhaps not as well as I could have, but well enough. I can’t ride in the Strander Stakes. But you can.”
After playing escort and swordbearer through the streets of Vigil, Pyotr returns to the airy, echoing stillness of the Cathedral of Sancta Iomedaea. Even in the late evening, a few solemn parishioners move through the cathedral proper, while clerics and acolytes finish the day's rites and duties.
Pyotr makes his way to his tiny chambers in the depths of the monastery, laying his burdens down for the first time that day. Outside the walls, Torshen's Hammer is comfortably tacked and stabled with the other horses of the caravan. Pyotr removes his belt pouch, agonizing at the few remains of the small fortune he had been provided, and wondering about the items he still must find to outfit himself completely.
Bonegrit is surprised by Dierik's demeanor and offer, but his eyes do little to betray it. He returns the gaze with the only one he seems to wear: an earnest one. "Can't say I've ever participated in such an event, but I'll do my best to honor you and your Arrow."
Dunagan bids Pyotr farewell as he enters the Bellfounder's workshop to perform the repairs. Before he begins his work he kneels at the forge and prays. "Torag, guide my forgearm to strike true and clean." After fifteen minutes of deep meditative prayer, Dunagan rises and mutters a few more prayers, enacting the blessing he has received. He works diligently, removing every nick and hairline crack from the steel that he finds.
After finishing the repairs, he cleans the forge, leaving it how he had found it. Before Dunagan realizes, it is already late into the night. The Dwarf gathers the swords into a bundle and thanks Thurcytel for his hospitality and rushes quickly back to the camp. Knowing he has made his choice to turn from his father, he stays the night with the Caravan to avoid the tension his return to his home would cause.
Thurcytel’s workshop more often than not rings to the melodious tones of bells being tuned, but this evening a more clamorous beat holds sway. It’s the sound of a forge master deep in his craft, striking away the imperfections of the five worn swords with the blows of his hammer.
Pyotr and Thurcytel watch the dwarf at work. Thurcytel the Bellfounder is a former chaplain of the Watchknights, as well as a paladin of Iomedae, who has forsaken the blade in order to bring some beauty into the world. He took over the bell foundry from Hanwuld Longchimes, an old master whose increasing deafness prevented him from tuning his works with the perfection of his younger days. Thurcytel is a vigorous man in his forties, and under his direction the foundry continues to produce bells of all shapes, sizes and sounds.
A regular worshipper who makes generous donations to the Cathedral of Sancta Iomedaea, Thurcytel and Pyotr are known to each other, although they have rarely spoken.
“There is much talk of Ironcoffer’s journey into Belkzen,” confides Thurcytel to the half-orc “And little of it kind. Friend Pyotr, I know not many recognise Iomedae’s grace in you, but to me it rings clear as the last chorus of the Cathedrals evening carillons. Whatever your reasons for taking the Flood Road north, I believe the Inheritor walks beside you.
After a while, Pyotr takes his leave, returning to his chambers in the Cathedral’s monastery.
Pyotr and Thurcytel talks some more, sharing their thoughts on Iomedae’s teachings and their interpretations of her Acts. Just before the half-orc leaves, Thurcytel gifts Pyotr with a tiny silver bell stamped with Iomedae’s holy symbol.