Bonegrit’s carefully judged chop crushes the hand pinned beneath his boot. A moment later, Pellius’ longsword transfixes the other.
Remaining claw scurries between Pyotr’s legs and back to poor Delkaneth. A series of rapid hops sees it crawling up the man’s legs, then it squeezes underneath his leather armour. Delkaneth twists and jigs, yelping all the while as filthy undead thing works its way up his chest, its wretched nails digging into his bare skin. Pyotr circles around his companion, desperately trying to work out where the hand is so he can destroy it.
Suddenly it squeezes out through the collar of his leathers and begins to choke Delkaneth once more. He stumbles, back peddling into Iomedae’s icon. It topples with an almighty crash with Delkaneth on top of it; motionless. Finally though, Pyotr is able to help him. Both hands gripped on his greatsword, a carefully controlled sweep cuts the hand free from Del’s neck, annihilating the last crawling hand.
Pyotr drops his blade and kneels beside the unconscious man. Delkaneth’s fall has driven him onto one of the jagged spikes representing Iomedae’s sunburst symbol. The sharp metal edge has sunk deeply into his back. Blood trickles across the icon and drips to the floor beneath.
Pyotr is at Delkaneth's side in a moment. He hefts the fallen man off of the statue's spear pointed tip, leaving the wound freely running down his back. "Where is Kelya when we need her?" Pyotr intoned.
He held his hand over the dying man's back, took a deep breath and pressed his hand down. "Come on! How do I make this work? Lady, grant me the power once more!" Frustration begins to overwhelm Pyotr as the magic fails to appear. However, just as he begins to pull his hand away, there is another swooping rush of power through him.
The blood flow slows to a trickle, and Pyotr relaxes slightly. "I must determine how that power is summoned, if I am to rely upon it."
Pellius lays down his sword and goes over to inspect Del's wounds. Seeing Pyotr invoke Iomedae hits a jealous note with the magus who nonetheless does his best to comfort the fallen comrade.
He looks at the rest of his mates, "I think it's high time we headed back. We are in no shape for another fight and we should ourselves lucky with what we got."
He looks at the rest of his mates, "I think it's high time we headed back. We are in no shape for another fight and we should ourselves lucky with what we got."
"Agreed. Though I think I will have a last look in that secret cupboard."
Pyotr matches actions to words, although he waits until all have weapons to hands before throwing wide the cabinet doors.
With the imminent risk to Delkaneth’s life averted, the Chelaxian returns to consciousness, though still weak and barely able to move
Pyotr investigates the secret compartment from whence the undead hands crawled. The helmet is there, just as he saw in his vision, except it’s been tipped on its side and has acquired a coating of stone dust.
The helmet is conical and made from fine steel. It’s an open helm, though small cheek guards and a nasal extending over the nose help protect the face. The frontispiece is a sunburst worked from gold, the horizontal beams extended to rest across the brows of the wearer. Iomedae’s sword runs behind the sun, the stylised blade emerging to form the nose guard. Discs of engraved silver on each cheek depict fanciful lionesses rearing on their hind legs.
It looks a little like this in general design.
Despite the beauty and distinctiveness of its design, Pyotr has never heard this helm mentioned in the Cathedral of Sancta Iomedaea.
As Pyotr handles the helmet, a third and final vision washes over him. The same occurs to Pellius as he kneels beside Delkaneth, one hand resting on the bent and ruined frame of Iomedae’s icon.
The din of battle is close now. In the centre of the chapel, the eight severed hands lie in a slick of blood, beside the discarded, empty bottles of healing potions. The possessors of these hands, the men who so cravenly mutilated themselves to escape their fate, are gone.
A new band of defenders scramble into the chapel. These men and women have clearly seen a fight, their armour and weapons plainly streaked with blood, the red-black tar of the orcs mixing freely with the brighter crimson of their own. Three of the ten are sorely wounded indeed, dragged into this last redoubt by their comrades.
“Bar the door, and barricade the pews against it,” orders their leader, a tall, stern-faced woman in a suit of full plate that seems to shine despite the gore splattered over it. A tattered tabard bears the symbol of the Swords of the Allure. She’s bare-headed, and despite her imposing visage wears her long dark-hair in a pair of girlish, braided pigtails that dance down her back. Pellius immediately recognises this woman from his first vision. She is the priestess who oversaw the ceremony of Marking.
As her warriors set to the task, the priestess notices the desecration before Iomedae’s symbol and pales.
“The cowards, the cowards, the ” her muttering rising to a wail of anger.
“Lady Knight Uriala, Nerrit needs one of those healing draughts . . .” cries one of the men-at-arms as he cradles a wounded comrade, a young woman with a broken spear straight through her abdomen.
“They used them all . . .” replies Second Sword Knight Uriala, her blood-soaked longsword held limply at her side. “There’s nothing left for us.”
“What about the infirmary? They have some healing potions,” suggests another man.
A shattering crash interrupts their conversation, and the door to the chapel shakes.
“Too late,” answers Uriala. She raises her sword skywards, a move echoed by her comrades. “For victory, for the heart,” she says quietly, smiling at the bitter irony of her words.
The door shudders again, and the defenders of Harchrist’s Blockade close ranks and ready their weapons. Even Nerrit manages to rise to her feet, despite her obviously mortal wound.
A final blow smashes the door to fragments. Bent almost double in the corridor beyond is a massive ogre holding a club of petrified wood. Like a battering ram, the ogre smashes a path through the piled pews, and a tide of orcs surge over the barricade, falchions and greataxes in their hands.
cries Uriala as the doomed soldiers meet their foes.
Pellius and Pyotr blink and the vision ends abruptly. Their eyes are drawn to the pile of human skeletons lying quietly near the entrance to the chapel.
"Odd," Pyotr muses as he turns the helm over in his hands. "Surely this object has some intrinsic value, if nothing else. But, those treasonous vipers disdained it..."
"They could not have hoped to find wealth and security by their actions. If you were abandoning all honor, stealing powerful curatives and condemning your fellows to death, would you hesitate to steal this?" Pyotr displays the helmet to all.
The vision shakes the magus to the core and he looks at the corpses with sadness. He brings his sword up to salute them while promising the dead his eternal gratitude. "I promise that Sancta Iomedae will hear of your deeds and I will personally pay someone to record your bravery for posterity. others need to know of your valor and sacrifice."
Sword down and sheathed, Pellius examines the helmet, "I can take a closer look tomorrow with better spells so let's take it with us."
He then helps out Del by giving his shoulder for the bard to lean on, "C'mon. Pyotr, Bonegrit, you guys lead the way and I'll bring the rear with Del but don't stray too far."
After thinking things over for a bit, "You know there are many things here that would interest our boss so we may get a chance to come back for more. Let's just play that by ear."
Although conscious, Delkaneth remains sorely wounded, and needs the help of his friends to rise slowly to his feet and limp out of the chapel.
They make their way out of Saint Lymirin’s keep without further incident. Thankfully, the horses remain where they were tethered, and don’t seem to have missed their master’s absence. There’s no moon, but it’s probably somewhere around midnight as they mount up and turn back to camp.
Bonegrit glances back at the keep as they depart. The half-orc’s keen night eyes pick out the fortification’s outline quite clearly against the ebony sky behind it, and a stirring of recognition moves within him that he’d not noticed when they first approached the place.
The orphanage . . . those memories of his early life where faint and indistinct, and yet . . . He’d rarely been outside, but didn’t it have that same silhouette? Had that orphanage once also been one of the forts of Harchrist’s Blockade?
A weary ride brings the adventurers within sight of the laager’s campfires. As they approach, Karannah hails them from her perch on a piled of shattered masonry at the base of the wall, relaxing her grip on the string of her short bow on identifying them.
“The wanderers return. How was your jaunt?” As the lights of camp settle on their many wounds and bruises, a concerned tone joins the lilt of Karannah’s mockery. “Woah. Is this what you boys consider a fine night out?”
Karannah’s nose wrinkles a little as she nears them, it seems some of the carrion golem’s offaly stink has lingered on their vestments. She sees Delkaneth’s fragile state.
“By the Starstone Del, you look like you’ve been doing some sightseeing in Pharasma’s backyard! Hold on, I’ll wake Kelya.”
Bonegrit endures the majority of the return trip in silence. A palpable weight of melancholy seems to have gripped the usually stoic ranger's features. Even as he finds himself back in Amiro's presence, the feeling lingers. His eyes contemplate the path of their return, though it is plain to see that he is less picking out a route than lost in thought. That place... could it be? Maybe... Bonegrit's head raises as he begins taking in the surrounding area. The Blockade yet looms behind, and he spares the sprawling juggernaut a long glance over his shoulder. Some stones ain't fer turnin' over. Best worry 'bout keepin' Del on his feet fer now.
The guard Delkaneth seems to have worked up a rapport with is attractive, despite what struck the half-orc as an overt attempt to be "one of the boys." Bonegrit had spied her moving about the caravan often enough, though he had not found opportunity to get to know her himself yet. That she was willing to secure them aid without stern reproof beforehand was a relief. He only hoped Dierik would feel the same about the state of their return—beaten, bloody, and bruised. It had likely been a foolish venture, and yet it felt almost... necessary. As if some imperceptible force drove at their back with chain and scourge. That monster had known Pellius. Could that be a coincidence? Bonegrit grumbles to himself before dismounting his stolid destrier; whether from the injury or an internal monologue that has plagued him for the entirety of the trip back to camp is uncertain. "The gypsy-woman would be a welcome sight, I reckon. Might be better fer everyone involved if she tends to us before Dierik, yeah? Can't reckon he's gonna be too pleased with us off an' nearly dyin' on him twice now." The ranger flashes a tusked smile Delkaneth's way.
Pyotr turns the helm over in his hands. With both hands needed to carry the tapestry and no better place to store the artifact, Pyotr uses the most obvious solution, and places it upon his head.
The two half-orcs manage to twist and turn their way down the spiral stairs and back through the main doors without doing too much damage to the antique cloth. Once returned to the horses, Hammer's patient and indefatigable strength easily bears the awkward weight of the tapestry.
“By the Starstone Del, you look like you’ve been doing some sightseeing in Pharasma’s backyard! Hold on, I’ll wake Kelya.”
"Quickly, please." Though Delkaneth had fared the worst, Pyotr felt the pain of bruises sustained from the cascade of catapult balls.
Before
Nothing untoward happens when Pyotr dons the helm. With Bonegrit’s help, the two half-orcs wrestle the tapestry home.
- - - - -
Karannah runs back into the circle of the laager. Before the adventurers, on their plodding horses, have even reached the ringed wagons, Kelya is bustling out to meet them at Karannah’s side. The priestess is dressed in a long olive green sleeping robe, her long hair bound up in a net. The silver butterfly of Desna bounces on a long chain that dangles from her neck.
She shows no annoyance at being woken. “Did Shambles run away again?” she asks mildly, the twinkle in her eye revealing her confidence that this wasn’t the case.
“Off your horses,” she instructs “Make a circle about me.”
Kelya bays the men join fists then settles her own hand above theirs. With the other, she dangles the symbol of Desna over them and whispers a prayer before her breath. Golden light gathers beneath her palm then flashes out to envelop the wounded in a perfect arc. They instantly feel a surge of healing energy flash through their bodies.
“That should take you a few paces away from death’s door,” she says as she sees the extent of her patients injuries diminish. With a concerned glance at Delkaneth, the tall Varisian adds “But perhaps Desna might bless this young man with a little more of her grace.”
Kelya presses her holy symbol against Delkaneth’s chest and mutters another prayer.
Miraculously, this extra prayer banishes the remainder of the Chelaxian’s numerous injuries, restoring him to the full measure of his health.
Karannah smiles widely “Well there goes all your chances of getting any tender ministrations from me!” she declares with a hearty chuckle and a wink, and promptly spins on her heel to attend to her guard duties.
“You should all get some sleep,” advises Kelya “We’ll inspect the rest of your injuries in the morning, and see if require any more attention.”
The magus nods in thanks to the priestess and acknowledges her sound advice. But he can't keep his hands from the spellbook he found. After finding his spot to rest, he casts his spell on his feather and only slips it out just enough for him to read. He further puts his back towards the camp shielding the light, hoping that no one will notice.
Pellius then read the spellbook he just found. His fingers lovingly caressing the words etched on the old book. After about half and hour or so, weariness takes over and he reluctantly closes the book, douses the lighted feather, and falls to sleep.
The wave of healing energy washes over the half-orc's injured frame. The bloodied wounds inflicted by the crawling hands scab over, but remain. As Pyotr turns to attend to Torshen's Hammer, the sharp pain of his bruised abdomen alerts him clearly to the price of his night's adventures.
"Thank you my friends, for not leaving me behind as a burden." His gaze turns toward Pyotr, and this time he does look up to meet the halforc's eyes. He speaks again, his voice in more of a hushed tone. "Your gifts saved my life twice last night. Thank you, ser."
Pyotr doffs the recovered helm as Del walks quickly away. Pellius, too, heads quickly for a secluded spot. "Your servant, miladies," he says with the slightest of bows towards Karannah and Kelya, before heading off to find his own place to bed down.
Bonegrit grunts his thanks to Kelya's rejuvenating efforts. As his would-be adventuring circle makes to disperse and recover from their late night ordeal, the ashen skinned ranger pauses for a moment in consideration. Removing his backpack from his shoulders, Bonegrit begins rummaging deftly through the contents. In short order, he withdraws the curious hook he had found on the floor of the keep. He proffers it to Kelya before mumbling "If ya can make anything outta that, I'd be further in yer debt, ma'am." The half-orc offers a curt nod before finding his own way through the camp to settle Amiro and get some rest. His thoughts and dreams are terrorized by fragments of the past. The silhouette of the ruined keep still looms in the back of his mind, bringing with it a teasing hint of buried horrors and ordeals long forgotten.
Starday, 14th Desnus, 4711 AR
For many, dawn arrives too early, and the nagging sounds of the camp coming to life; men groaning, creaking wagons being moved, equipment being readied or stowed, the occasional flatulent reports of the oxen (!) prevent further slumber. The sky is clear, a wide expanse of azure promising another uncomfortably warm day.
Crinkles is warming some broth for breakfast, a watery concoction containing some root vegetables he extracted from the broken ground in the shadow of Harchrist’s Blockade and he claims to be ‘potatoes’. They are small, chalky and unappetizing.
Kelya approaches Pyotr. “Are your injuries still troubling you?” she asks. “Do you have further need of Desna’s healing caress?”
Before Pyotr can respond, she puts her hand on his forearm and says quietly “The word is out on last night’s little expedition, and from what I’ve heard Dierik isn’t best pleased.”
- - - - -
Shortly after, Second Master Santrian approaches all four adventurers. He gives them a smile that seems to communicate a sympathetic ‘what can you do?’ air, then addresses them stuffily.
“Sires, your employer Dierik Ironcoffer would like a word.”
He shrugs, drops his monocle into his palm and gives it a brief polish, then jerks his head awkwardly towards the ‘Flagship’, Dierik’s personal carriage. The man himself is sat upon the running board, dressed casually in a long-sleeved burgundy tunic and dark leggings. He seems engrossed in slurping on a wooden bowl containing Crinkles’ lacklustre soup, but after a moment upends the contents on the grass, an irritated look crossing his face.
Pyotr winces as he rises from his bedroll. He stretches his limbs through a series of turns, finally deciding that he has full movement, and resigns himself to a few days of painful recovery.
Kelya approaches Pyotr. “Are your injuries still troubling you?” she asks. “Do you have further need of Desna’s healing caress?”
Before Pyotr can respond, she puts her hand on his forearm and says quietly “The word is out on last night’s little expedition, and from what I’ve heard Dierik isn’t best pleased.”
"Pyotr, I can talk to the history of these things but he will probably listen to you best of all. And we probably shouldn't keep him waiting."
Pyotr eyebrows arch in surprise at Delkaneth's declaration, but nodded his agreement regarding the need for haste. He leaves his armor and gear by his bedroll and goes to greet Dierik.
"Good morning, Master Ironcoffer. I suspect you are eager to hear the report of last night's scouting expedition." Pyotr nods to Delkaneth's maps. "These were recovered from the offices of the First Sword Knight commanding this section of Harchrist's blockade. I can only guess at their value in planning our route through the Belkzen wastes."
"We also rooted out the deathless horrors that had corrupted the chapel of Saint Lymrin. But, not without some cost," Pyotr shrugs as if to indicate his own battered form. "One such creature, a golem by Pellius account, looked to be stitched from pieces of a fallen soldier and an orc. Perhaps you know better than I what that means, and whether it bears more investigation."
The magus is standing at attention with his hands behind his back. "Aye, sir. The abomination we slew is called a carrion golem and is the crude work of a necromancer."
Pellius smiles, "But sir, the maps were sure worth the time and agony." He clears his throat, "I know our employment arragement allows us to keep what we find but we would be honored if these historical treasures were given to someone who would appreciate them and hopefully even get some use out of them."
Dierik’s mouth is a thin, neutral line as the men approach. He stands as they address him.
I suspect you are eager to hear the report of last night's scouting expedition.
“Oh, a scouting expedition. Is that we’re calling it? Forgive my forgetfulness, it must be my age, but when exactly did I ask you to go and investigate a keep a mile away?”
These were recovered from the offices of the First Sword Knight commanding this section of Harchrist's blockade. I can only guess at their value in planning our route through the Belkzen wastes.
Dierik sets the maps aside without even looking at them. “Perhaps so, perhaps not,” his eyes flickering back to them “Though I doubt cartography that is centuries old is going to trump my own recollections of the Hold. We are not the Pathfinders, and we’re not here to explore every nook and cranny of this desolate wilderness. We’re going to the Realm of the Mammoth Lords. All we need do is head north, and follow the Flood Road when we return to it.”
Despite his words, by the way Dierik’s eyes linger on the maps as he speaks, it’s clear he’s intrigued by them.
We also rooted out the deathless horrors that had corrupted the chapel of Saint Lymrin.
Dierik sighs. “Pyotr, there’re dozens of ruined keeps along Harchrist’s Blockade. No doubt half of them have some restless dead lurking in them – by the Spheres; enough men met their futile ends there. I’m sure there are plenty of chaplains back in Vigil’s cathedral who’d commend you for clearing out one of Iomedae’s chapels, but I’m certainly not one of them. As you know, it’s been many a year since I uttered a prayer in her name.”
I know our employment arragement allows us to keep what we find but we would be honored if these historical treasures were given to someone who would appreciate them and hopefully even get some use out of them.
“Well Pellius, I’ve been merchanting long enough to recognise, and no doubt appreciate, a bribe when I see one. But, your job is to defend this caravan, not to go off dungeoneering at the first opportunity. And these maps woudn’t have mattered a damn to me if an orc warband had slain me and my comrades in their cots last night whilst the men I’m paying coin to protect me were fighting with some monster that was keeping itself to itself!”
And that golem proves that others are interested in the blockade.
“And what makes you say that, Delkaneth?”
Curt as Dierik’s words are, his notoriously frail temper doesn’t seem to have broken yet. However, it would be foolish to assume the adventurers had reached safe ground already.
Bonegrit visibly winces as Dierik's collecting ire beats a harsh response in measure against the collective attempts of his companions to assuage the older fellow's misgivings about his most recent hires. In no small part, Bonegrit finds himself agreeing with their employer's assessment. It had been reckless and unnecessary, the undertaking nearly costing Delkaneth his life before all had been settled. At the same time, the ranger's conscience impressed upon him the fact that the entire ordeal had been his idea. All present had been nothing but fair to him, and it would be disrespectful of him to allow them to take the full brunt of Ironcoffer's wrath for slinking away at Bonegrit's behest. Hoping that their past exchanges might temper the man's aggression, he places a hand on Delkaneth's shoulder and skirts around the Chelaxian man.
"It ain't their fault. I reckon I'm the one what whipped us up into a clamor to go off explorin' in the middle of the night." Bonegrit's gaze heightens to find itself level with that of Dierik's, and he forces his eyes to linger there. He would not cower from the coming blow. "I've spent more of my days pickin' through the wastes of Belkzen and the plains of Lastwall than I have among caravans and men. Makes it hard for someone like me to sit still sometimes, not knowin' what's lurkin' nearby. And not to be barkin' superstitious 'bout Harchrist's picket fence, but somethin' about that keep..." Bonegrit sighs, and his voice begins wavering a mumble as he continues, "...somethin' about it was callin' to me. Like a clarion call it were; a great bluster crackin' a whip behind me."
Bonegrit relinquishes the vice his eyes had taken on Ironcoffer's, and shakes his head as if to dislodge the feeling that had taken a clenching hold of his innards. "Anyways... the entire thing was my idea. If there's to be reprimand, I reckon it should fall squarely on my shoulders."
If there's to be reprimand, I reckon it should fall squarely on my shoulders.
“Noble sentiments perhaps Bonegrit,” responds Dierik “But all bear the responsibility for their actions. Your bravery in rescuing Shambles the night before last was an act appreciated by all in the caravan, but last night’s escapade served your own interests first. They are indeed threats crawling about all over this land, but abandoning your post to deal with just one of them merely exposes us to an opportune attack by the other half dozen.”
He shoots a sidelong glance at Pellius. "And recently." Not my tale to tell
Despite his criticisms, Dierik’s ire seems to be cooling. However, Delkaneth’s sidelong glance at Pellius is noted.
“Do you have more light to shed on this monstrosity, Pellius?” the trail captain asks.
[Despite his criticisms, Dierik’s ire seems to be cooling. However, Delkaneth’s sidelong glance at Pellius is noted.
“Do you have more light to shed on this monstrosity, Pellius?” the trail captain asks.
"Aye, well maybe..." Pellius hesitates in telling his tale for fear of not having done the right thing. But it was tough to do the right thing when some monster was trying to kill you and your friends.
"Well, sir, the carrion golem seemed to have been made from parts of a human and an orc. And, sir, that human part looked like it may have come from one of the soldiers in my troop that died a few months ago."
The magus shrugs his shoulders, "It was dark and everything happened too fast. And it could have been a trick of some sort but the resemblance seemed to be there and the thing did say that it had more information when it pleaded for its life."
He turns to his companions, "Is that what you make of this? Please feel free to add your input to this."
Dierik nods gravely at their words, then continues to question Pellius.
That thing......it knew your name, Pellius.
the thing did say that it had more information when it pleaded for its life
“Do you think it truly recognised you? And did you give it an opportunity to share what it knew?” he asks.
"It's words did not match its actions. It did not hesitate to seek our deaths until its own oblivion became apparent. Besides..." Pyotr looks Dierik straight in the eye. "The creature was an abomination of false life. Oblivion was the only worthy end."
“Do you think it truly recognised you? And did you give it an opportunity to share what it knew?” he asks.
"Pyotr has the right of it. Whatever chance it had for forfeited as it tried to knock us silly by sending down catapult missiles. It then tried to kill us straight."
The magus became defensive, "I don't talk to monsters that try to kill me or my own. They answer to my sword and may Iomedae have mercy on them."
The creature was an abomination of false life. Oblivion was the only worthy end.
Dierik gives the half-orc a somewhat condescending, but not unkind smile. “When I was wet behind the ears like you, my thoughts weren’t so different. Bitter experience has taught me that though such absolutes might be found in the Heavens or the Hells, on this mortal world grey creeps into everything."
I don't talk to monsters that try to kill me or my own. They answer to my sword and may Iomedae have mercy on them.
“Very well. Curious as this incident may seem, I don’t think it matters much to me or my caravan. I’ve heard a lot of conjecture, but it doesn’t seem you have any evidence the monster was part of any greater plot.”
“I’ll chalk this sidetrek down as a lesson for the four of you, and let it pass on account of your youth and naivety. In the long run, I imagine your enthusiasm for getting yourselves into trouble may serve me well, but remember, as your paymaster, let me be the one who decides what trouble you get to jump into.”
“It looks like the caravan’s ready to move out. You’d best go saddle your horses.”
Pyotr nodded, absorbing the reprimand, before leaving to don his armor and weapons for the day's journey. Before placing the helm upon his head, he carries it over to Delkaneth.
"You were in poor state to give me any historical perspective on this artifact, last night. I am glad to see that Kelya's ministrations have returned you to health. Can you shed any light upon the significance of this helm?"
Bonegrit nods at Dierik's dismissal, ambling out of the much older man's carriage with jaw set firm as he makes his way towards Amiro to prepare the brute for the day's ride ahead. Or so it seemed. In truth, the half-orc felt much more deeply the sting of his employer's criticism than he would publicly let on. He had been steadily gaining a decent rapport with the man he had felt, and this was no doubt a poor way to repay what had, up until this point, been respect and kindness. He would have to steel his wanderlust in the future. In the mean time, he turned his attention and affections to Amiro, finding solace and clarity in his moments spent tending to the horse. It is not until he has settled into his saddle that he thinks on the token he had left in Kelya's care.
Atop Amiro, the ranger makes his way through the bustle of the caravan's preparations. He stops momentarily behind the lithe and worn frame of Deramil, calling out to the old fellow's back "Gonna be a bit longer yet til I can help ya tend to the beasties today. Need to have a bark or two with the Desnan." Not waiting for what would likely be an indifferent response from Deramil just past acknowledging that he had been spoken to at all, Bonegrit continues to where Kelya labors away at making her own arrangements for departure.
"Ah... hullo again, miss." Bonegrit clamors off of Amiro's girth and makes his way up to a respectful distance away from the cleric. "Got a couple things ta ask ya, if ya've a moment to spare. About that thing I left in yer care last night, and..." Bonegrit looks momentarily timid, and his eyes seem to find his boots a more comfortable focal point before he regathers the will to speak. "I got an awful pain in my nose. One of the little blighters in the keep 'bout tore it clean off. Been tastin' blood all mornin', an' I can still smell the barker's stink in me."
The magus leaves Dierik with more than just a nasty bump on his head; his ego has also taken a beating. But it doesn't last long as he justifies last night's actions as being proactive with regards to the threats that might be out there. He's surprised that Dierik doesn't pay much attention to the maps and makes a mental note to bring that up again in the near future.
But something else bothers Pellius; his new found loot is itching in his pocket and the young man wants a place to spend some. Understanding that there was still some distribution matters to take care, his steps lead him to a place where he hopes the money will be well spent. Indeed, everyone of them could have used some healing magic last night and knowing that last night won't be their last foray into exploring, Pellius hopes to remedy that.
Zriorinta's cats greet him when he approaches her carriage but it's not long before the woman sticks her head out. "Ma'am, I was hoping you had something for headaches," the magus jokes as he points to the nasty black-blue spot on his head. "We, uh, came into some money and was hoping that we could buy whatever healing magic you have available."
The magus looks around to make sure no other curious people are about, winks at the woman, and brings out one of the beautiful gems. "And I think we can afford quite a bit, eh?"
The caravan quickly gets underway, following the remains of Harchrist’s Blockade and the ruined road. One of the first things they pass is the Keep of St. Lymirin, the scene of last night’s adventure. Dierik, riding near the front of the caravan on Isabellina’s Arrow, doesn’t give it a second glance, but Crooked Callan, bouncing up and down in an ungainly manner on his black-brown horse reins up beside Pyotr.
“Was it worth it?” he asks conspiratorially.
Not far away, Karannah pull hers chestnut brown steed alongside Delkaneth.
“Well Kelya’s prayers certainly did the trick. You’re looking a lot more hale and hearty. What was it that beat you up so bad in there?” she asks, tossing her pretty head in the general direction of the fort.
- - - - -
A while later, after his conversation with Karannah, Delkaneth guides Harika up to ride alongside Zriorinta’s three wheeler. Two of her cats are visible, one slouching on the tailboard and the other on the roof. This morning their reaction to Delkaneth’s presence is remarkably different to their usual looks of idle suspicion. The cat on the tailboard flattens its ears and narrows its eyes, whilst the one on the roof even goes so far as to arch its back and tail and throw a hiss in his direction.
Its complaints are loud enough to draw Zriorinta’s attention; she opens a cunningly concealed, porthole shaped window in the side of the wagon and frames her pale face in its circle.
“I think they’re growing fond of you,” she says with a wry smile, thumping the ceiling of the coach with her fist to quiet the spitting cat. “Looking out for me again, or seeking to do a little business?”
Despite Zriorinta’s words, you sense she sees some significance in the reaction of her cats, and has simply chosen to ignore it.
Delkaneth guides his horse closer to the wagon and begins to speak with her.
We found a brace of test tubes, quite old but only one broken. Im sure you have everything you need but if you're a collector of history they might interest you.
“Are they magical?” Zriorinta asks “I’ve little interest in history, but anything bearing a trace of sorcery* is bound to tweak my attention.”
I was wondering.....if you had any recent failures?
A frown settles on Zriorinta’s brows, but it appears to be formed more from curiosity than annoyance. “Have you been talking to the dwarf?” she queries “Yes, I’ve had some failures in the field of alchemy, but my skill at mixing potions has improved a great deal. Crafting more complex magic does continue to vex me though.”
Maybe instead of throwing away something that didn't turn out as you hoped I could have it?
“I’d hesitate to give you anything from my little cauldron that had gone bad. Perhaps what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but an ill-brewed potion’s more likely to do the former.”
I'm looking to strengthen my stomach a bit
“I have some natural remedies, but their potency pales beside items made of magic. This potion,” she says, waving a small bottle full of green-brown liquid through the porthole “improves a man’s stamina and fortitude significantly, if only for a little while.”
Their conversation lapses into an awkward silence. Small talk doesn’t seem to be Zriorinta’s forte.
- - - - -
Later, Delkaneth uses his magic to investigate the helm Pyotr found in the keep. Although he recognises nothing more Iomedae’s symbol, his divination is more successful. The helm is magical, radiating a moderate aura of divine enchantment.
- - - - -
Deramil nods wordlessly as Bonegrit explains himself. He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything, but as Bonegrit turns away he calls out.
“Don’t be too long. The animals’ u’ll be missing you.”
The half-orc makes his way to Kelya, who greets him with a wide smile. In his few interactions with her, Bonegrit has noticed the Desnan is utterly unconcerned with her orcish heritage. He’s barely finished his timid explanation of his injuries when Kelya’s already pressing her butterfly symbol to his battered face and muttering a healing prayer.
When she’s finished, she hands the hook back to Bonegrit. “It’s a nasty looking thing,” she says, then shrugs “But the symbol’s not something I’ve ever come across before in my travels.”
- - - - -
Sometime close to midday, Pellius approaches Zriorinta’s caravan. A couple of her cats, sitting upon the roof, regard him coolly, perhaps the closest thing to a greeting these felines are likely to offer. He rides beside for a little while, and then the peddler opens her porthole and offers him a coy “Hello.”
We, uh, came into some money and was hoping that we could buy whatever healing magic you have available.
Zriorinta appraises the gems, and then gives Pellius a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to burst your dreams of fortune, Master Pellius, but shiny as they might be, you’re holding mere baubles. Don’t be ashamed, you wouldn’t be the first to fall for a beggar’s diamond. But truth is, they’re worth perhaps a 100 gold apiece, but little more than that.”
“Still, I’ve got a few healing potions to sell. 150 gold for each one.”
*I use sorcery here as a generic reference towards arcane magic and don’t make any distinctions as to whether it’s the magic of a wizard or a sorcerer.
The caravan quickly gets underway, following the remains of Harchrist’s Blockade and the ruined road. One of the first things they pass is the Keep of St. Lymirin, the scene of last night’s adventure. Dierik, riding near the front of the caravan on Isabellina’s Arrow, doesn’t give it a second glance, but Crooked Callan, bouncing up and down in an ungainly manner on his black-brown horse reins up beside Pyotr.
“Was it worth it?” he asks conspiratorially.
"Worth it? Pellius and Delkaneth certainly believe we have returned with an enormity of wealth." Pyotr jingled the pitiful few coins in his belt pouch. "If you refer to my standing in the eyes of Master Ironcoffer... I have ever been 'the Unwelcome'. I may be too slow to consider how my actions affect such things."
"But, social affluence is a small consideration. We were drawn to a place of sacred import. A place desecrated by the failing courage and treason of a craven few among the Knights of the Allure. The Chapel and Tower of St. Lymrin has been cleansed of its evil taint. What value would you place upon that?"
Not far away, Karannah pull hers chestnut brown steed alongside Delkaneth.
“Well Kelya’s prayers certainly did the trick. You’re looking a lot more hale and hearty. What was it that beat you up so bad in there?” she asks, tossing her pretty head in the general direction of the fort.
"I am deeply grateful for her assistance..." the attentions of a young woman unnerved the half-orc. Pyotr kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead, his cheeks flushing a slightly deeper shade of green. "Pellius called it a golem. It looked like it was cobbled together from the remains of the dead, both Vigilant soldier and Belkzen orc. It smelled of death and decay. Within the chapel we faced the legacy of treachery. The remains of those who have forsaken their oaths and abandoned their duty." Pyotr flexed his sword emblazoned hand inside the gauntlet.
Crooked Callan, Karannah, Delkaneth and Pyotr
If you refer to my standing in the eyes of Master Ironcoffer... I have ever been 'the Unwelcome'.
“Ah, well,” says Callan “Dierik’s always had a temper shorter than a pixie’s hose. But he’s not one to hold a grudge, at least amongst those he rides with. I’m sure you’ll be quick to win his favour again.”
What value would you place upon that?
“Me? Well I’d view it as a foolish waste of time. If I want a god’s favour then I give ‘em a prayer, or maybe an oath! If that ain’t good enough, then I just make my own luck. Still, as seen that’s ye’s one of the faithful; no doubt your goddess noticed your hard work.”
I am deeply grateful for her assistance...
Karannah blinks as Pyotr blunders into her conversation with Delkaneth. Still, perhaps seeing the good nature in the half-orc’s bestial features, she smiles back at him.
“Well, you tell of it with a bit more verve than your friend here,” she observes, pointing a playful finger at the Chelaxian. “Get a bit of drama in your tales, Del,” she advises “This isn’t an academy of letters. Next time, tell it like a bard tells it. After all, that’s what the ladies like.”
Then she turns her horse to follow Callan, who has ridden back to check the rear of the caravan.
Delkaneth and Zriorinta
historical items and a stench box
”Hmm, historical items interest me more with a price tag affixed to them,” observes Zriorinta dryly. She sticks one shapely arm out of her porthole to indicate the pile of dung left by one of the oxen’s of the sixbulls. “Perhaps you can make your own stench box. I can provide the container; there’re plenty of things around here to fill it with!”
From within the darkness of her carriage, Delkaneth sees her full lips draw into a smile, an expression both gently mocking yet also sympathetic.
“Still, I’ve got a few healing potions to sell. 150 gold for each one.”
The magus is confused, "Are you sure about the gems? I mean it was dark and I had just gotten hit pretty good in the head at the time but I could have sworn these were more valuable than that."
Pellius scratches his head and winces in pain, "Tell you what, hang on to those healing potions and I'll go see if I can scrounge up some money."
The magus then saddles up again and heads over to find his adventuring buddies.
Once he had everyone's attention, Pellius pulls forth the gems from last night, "Uh guys, I have some bad news. Apparently these gems are not as valuable as I thought and that means that we are not as rich as we thought."
His face suddenly lights up, "But last night, I mean that was something my father would have been proud of so it's pretty safe to say that we'll continue trying our luck at adventuring, eh?
The magus is full of emotions today and he tones down his joy some, "Which brings me to my next point or two. Well, anyhow, we all did our fair share last night but I may have taken too much of the spoils. I have the scabbard, the spellbook, the two gems, and I even took one of the gold coins. I just feel that some of you didn't have enough. I think we're heading into Freedom Town where we may be able to sell some of stuff. I'd hate to part with the spellbook but it may be the only way to compensate the rest of you." He shrugs his shoulders, "What did you all keep anyway?
Pellius then turns to Pytor, "And while the Lady's grace manifest through you as healing, we all know we could use some more. I mean who's going to heal you should you go down? Zriorinta has some potions at 150 gp a pop; what do you think?"
"We may have pushed our employer's patience to the very limit. It would not be wise to carry on so heavy-handed for the time being. We are only a long day's ride from Freedom Town. I have no doubt we will tarry there for a time. Dierik is too much the entrepreneur to miss a chance to trade in the markets, and too reliable a caravan master to leave before we are fully outfitted."
Pyotr pulls the helm from his pack. "Delkaneth tells me this helm is magical, but has not derived any more of its history. I would need some knowledge of its power before we decide its value."
Pyotr pulls the helm from his pack. "Delkaneth tells me this helm is magical, but has not derived any more of its history. I would need some knowledge of its power before we decide its value."
The magus steps towards the paladin, "Here, let me see what I can figure out about this."
Pellius then sits down and waves his hands over the helm which promptly glows with a soft light.
The caravan rolls on slowly. The road tracing its way along the shadow of Harchrist’s Blockade grows increasingly broken, necessitating numerous detours to continue the caravan’s forward movement. The delay is telling, and as nightfall gathers they are still short of the Freedom Town.
Dierik calls a halt in the shadow of another of the Blockade’s forts. This fortification resembles the Keep of St. Lymirin, but it is a mere shell; one whole wall missing, an ancient fire of massive intensity having destroyed all its interior levels. All that remains is a pile of scorched rubble mantled by the remaining walls.
The caravan is swiftly laagered as the men prepare for the night ahead. Second Master Santrian trots by, the last rays of sunset glinting off his monocle. “Stay close lads,” he advises, his face a mixture of unsure authority and hopeful optimism.
The heat of the day swiftly vanishes as night falls. Something in the soup Crinkles is preparing smells appetising, and the drovers and haulers drift about, finding comfortable spots to settle for the night. Dierik is sat in the open door of his wagon, a small lamp in hand as he studies the maps his adventurers gave him.
The distant sound of a wolf’s howl drifts out of the Hold of Belkzen.
This is not the cry of an ordinary wolf. There’s something guttural and malevolent in the sound. Surely it’s a worg, an evil wolflike beast oft used by orcs as mounts or guardians.