The knowledge of the cleric having not availed him of any noteworthy revelation, Bonegrit resigns himself to a general state of ignorance regarding his trinket. Shrugging, he elects to pierce one of the thick leather straps that secures his quiver across his hindquarters. He offers the oddity a favorable look as it jingles lightly, making impact with one of the myriad studs adorning his wide, leather belt. "I 'preciate ya takin' a look, ma'am. And I 'preciate ya fixin' my sniffer twice as fierce. Here... these things are proddin' me something awful when I'm ridin'. Might do me some good to get the barkin' thing out of my pack." Bonegrit produces one of the brass figurines he recovered from the dilapidated keep: a mounted cavalryman. "Ain't worth much, I reckon, but I wouldn't feel right without givin' ya something in return." Channeling his inner Deramil, Bonegrit elects to let the words hang there, offering a curt nod and scurrying off to help the First Master tend to the beasts again.
Bonegrit finds his way to Callan as arrangements are being made for the night. He draws his calloused hand to the back of his head upon approach, scratching briefly and awkwardly as he hails the veteran caravan guard with a guttural clearing of the throat. He waits until he has gained the man's attention before speaking up. "I'd like to pick up an extra watch tonight if it's all the same to you. I reckon I owe it after sneakin' out last night and damn near gettin' killed. Anyways, I'll take my usual shift with the others, then with any of yours you'd like. Prefer 'em to be close together so's I can get a wink or two though, yeah?" As a wolf's howl echoes across the umbral horizon, Bonegrit does not offer much reaction. So lost is he in his earnest attempt to make amends to Dierik in his own way that he doesn't stop to consider the potential threat the cry might herald.
Pyotr led Torshen's Hammer around the edge of the campsite. All the standard defenses that Santrian and Ironcoffer employed were in place. The wagons were wheeled into a defensive screen with the pack animals safely ensconced in the middle. There was some excessive lowing from the oxen. Pyotr suspected they were more thirsty than anxious. Watering them would have to wait, though. There were wolves about.
Pyotr dismounted and secured Hammer to the inside wheel of one of the sixbulls, allowing him enough rein to nibble at the scrabbly grass the wagons. Bonegrit had volunteered to take the two middle watches. Pyotr decided to take the final, pre-dawn watch. With a glance at the sword mark on his palm, and another flood of certainty, Pyotr fell quickly and deeply asleep.
The magus settles in for the night after a decent meal. Where others are socializing, Pellius is sitting down as comfortable as possible, his back against a wagon wheel, and his hands holding the spellbook they'd found the day before.
Magic was too important for this soldier and the lure of something new to learn was strong. The cry of the wolf momentarily disrupts his study. Pellius is about to get up and remind everyone that they were in orc territory and this could very well be a worg but decides against it when he sees everyone nervously start talking about it and looking towards the animal cry. Besides, he is going to take first watch and would make sure that everyone there knew of the danger.
His mind wanders for a bit, I wish Tharxes were here. He would know for sure if that was wolf or worg...
When the camp was getting ready to turn in, Pellius once more checks on Signior, noting the horse's nervousness. I bet you know what that cry was, eh? Well, just relax and try and save your strength, boy; I'm here to protect you. The magus chuckles, Or is it the other way around you?
The lone howling wolf continues his disturbing serenade for some time, and as the night deepens others join his chorus, causing the draft animals to shift nervously, rolling their eyes and uttering soft neighs or lows. Deramil moves amongst them, doing his best to soothe them whilst the caravan folk glance nervously at each other.
But as time passes, the howls grow fainter. Whatever prey the wolves seek tonight, they are not intending to target Dierik’s band.
Just outside of camp, Delkaneth relentlessly practices his axework. On hearing his yell, Karannah pauses on her patrol, perhaps considering going to his side, before thinking better of it and continuing with her guard duty.
Meanwhile, Kelya accepts the figurine Bonegrit presses into her healing hands. “Not necessary,” she says with a smile “But I enjoy picking up curiosities in my travels. I’ll wager there’s some history in this thing.” Later, Callan arranges for the half-orc to share a watch with Lhairak and Korvus.
No more wolves are heard as the night wheels on. It’s a cold one, and with no clouds to blanket the sky the day’s heat swiftly evaporates into the vault of glittering stars above. Those staring upwards are occasionally rewarded with a glimpse of a shooting star streaking through the heavens.
For the two Chelaxians, the peaceful night is far from pleasant. Shortly after Delkaneth finishes his axe drill and Pellius begins his watch, both begin to feel dizziness, aching joints and an arid, dry mouth.
SUNDAY, 15th DESNUS, 4711 AR
Despite the sickness of the two Chelaxians, the caravan gets underway swiftly. Shortly after breakfast, a bank of grey cloud rolls off the Mindspin Mountains and advances across the sky. Nonetheless, the despondent weather fails to dull the upbeat mood of the travellers; for today is significant for two reasons: the caravan will shortly arrive at the Freedom Town and what’s more, it’s payday!
A couple of hours later Dierik calls a halt. Here, Harchrist’s Blockade is nothing more than a faint shadow of raised earth with scattered, shattered stones tracing its way across the moors. No more flagging paves the road they’ve been following, but in fact the trail is clearer; unlike before it appears that people travel this stretch occasionally, for cart-ruts have worn a passage through the coarse vegetation.
Looking across over the gently undulating fells a settlement can be seen. The dirty stain of smoking cooking fires hangs above the Freedom Town, which even at this distance seems a rather ramshackle place, especially after the martial majesty of Vigil.
Perched on a low rise, the Freedom Town is ringed by a simple palisade of timber stakes. Clustered haphazardly within is a muddle of simple buildings, most but a single story in height. A single white obelisk protrudes above the rooftops in the centre of the town.
Surrounding the settlement are small fields, where the residents struggle to coax root vegetables from the infertile soil. Further afield, flocks of goat wander, some attended by shepherds, others just left to their own wits. A shallow valley runs away to the south, a small copse of green trees about half a mile distant marking the headwaters of the Path River, which eventually gathers strength from various minor rivulets and tributaries to flow proudly past Vigil, some sixty miles distant.
Before the caravan is led the last couple of miles to the Freedom Town, the crew gather expectantly about Dierik’s reinforced wagon. Santrian sets up a camp table before it, carefully setting a thick ledger, vial of ink and a long goosefeather quill upon it. Agiz adds an abacus with marble beads to this arrangement and a smaller book of bound red leather, then with a nod from Dierik, the two heft a large strongbox from Dierik’s carriage to the earth.
The men and women queue to receive their coin. Most take only a little of their silver and gold pieces in anticipation of whatever meagre pleasures the Freedom Town might have to offer, leaving the rest in Santrian’s care to be returned to the strongbox – the amounts assiduously recorded by both Santrian and Agiz in their respective tomes.
At the end of their first week of service, each of the adventurers receives twenty-one gold pieces in payment.
As Delkaneth opens his tunic, Kelya cannot help emit a gasp of surprise at what he reveals. Involuntarily she reaches out to touch the wet stump of wood protruding from his chest then jerks her hand away. She takes a deep breath, and mutters “I’ve seen many a strange thing on my journeys, but this is a bizarre affliction. Does it pain you?” She follows with a host of further questions.
“How long have you borne this?”
“Have you tried to remove it?”
“Have you dreamt of it, or perhaps had dreams this affliction may have influenced?”
Pyotr scans the horizon, broken by the haphazard palisade of Freedom Town, and pierced cleanly by the single towering obelisk. Strangely, the town felt more otherworldly to him than the road and trail and wilderness. "I have been too long within the city walls..." he grumbles to himself.
As the crew jostles good-naturedly to be first to get their pay, Pyotr approaches Santrian. "Freedom town is not what I expected," the half-orc states bluntly. "It is a ramshackle. It looks more like the refugee shanty-town that appeared at Vigil's border following the raids of the Murdered Child Clan. How do they survive on the edge of the horde-lands? It looks like they could hardly defend themselves from one of these wayward goats. Who oversees this village and its defense?"
......
At the camp table, Ironcoffer counts out the sums of payment for guards and drovers, Agiz ticking away madly at the beads of his abacus. Mostly it is done with the jocularity and friendliness most often displayed by the close-knit, self-reliant group. Pyotr's approach, however, does not merit even a glance from Dierik. Without taking his eyes from the ledger, the caravan master announces, "Twenty-one."
Pyotr frowns as his full wages are counted and placed upon the table. "I am prepared to accept any penalty you deem for my actions of the other night."
Dierik presses his fingers deeply against the bridge of his nose. Finally he looks up. "'Pyotr the Martyr'... Or should I say 'Pyotr the Masochist?' Is it not enough to inflict yourself with disease and death, danger and injury, but you would keep doing yourself harm after the danger has passed? And must you inflict me with these constant headaches? You're too certain of everything, son. Learn to have a little doubt, in yourself and your actions. You'll live longer, make more friends, and more importantly, when I scold you, you'll feel properly ashamed."
Pyotr nods wordlessly, collecting his earnings from the table. Dierik rubs his hand across his face. Leaning in towards Agiz, he whispers, "If sighs were gold pieces, I suspect that boy could make us all filthy rich."
The magus finally falls asleep after his upset stomach and dizziness come to pass.
Pellius nods his thanks to Master Santrian, "Thank you, sir. May I trouble you to keep my funds as well as these other 29 gp. It looks like they will be safer with you, at least here in this place."
The speck on the horizon that constitutes Freedom Town is a familiar sight, despite Bonegrit's having never passed through this way. He had always managed to avoid the place in the past. The place's reputation might have seemed a fit for a roadworn ranger from the badlands to the north, but the half-orc didn't feel that way about it. It was hard enough securing what coin he had. Strolling into a place like that by yourself was tantamount to begging the fates deprive you of the weight of your coin pouch. It was not a threat he had experienced in the wild. Coming into view of Freedom Town again, however, he allows himself a small smirk. This time is different; this time he's brought friends.
Eyeing his share of pay favorably, Bonegrit deposits the the stack of gold measures nonchalantly into the poorly cured leather pouch before drawing the string tight and tucking it wisely underneath his leather vest. "Reckon I'll be keepin' my share. May find somethin' worth grabbin' for while we're in town, yeah? Hmm..." Reaching up to scratch the scraggly strands that have begun climbing their way out of his cheeks and chin, Bonegrit seems to be lost in momentary consideration. A heckle from behind alerts him to the fact that his turn is lasting a bit longer than others are willing to tolerate, so he is forced to decide quickly. Unclasping and hoisting his backpack onto the table, Bonegrit fishes out his remaining two brass cavalrymen and slides them across the table to Agiz. He retains the brass archer, feeling a particular favor of the odd figurine out for obvious reasons. Looking at the creature without much in the way of facial expression. "Could ya hold onto those fer me? Not completely sure what they're worth, but they're a bit awkward to pack into town, yeah?"
“When I cast my divination, I had no inkling that the magic I detected would manifest itself in such a dramatic way,” Kelya seems equally appalled and fascinated by Delkaneth’s predicament.
After dreaming of Ghostlake.
“Hmm, Ghostlake? A place within the Ghostlight Marshes I’ll wager. I almost wish I’d been with you on that expedition, but seeing this makes me reconsider. It seems like you’ve brought something of whatever curse afflicts that place with you.”
Kelya places one hand on Delkaneth’s bare chest and another lightly upon the stump of wood jutting from his sternum. She does not pray, but instead looks him directly in the eyes.
“You did a brave thing the other night when you ventured into the marsh after Shambles and your companions. I fear it’s cost you more than it should. To be truthful, I don’t know what this is or what it means, or whether I can even help you. My understanding of Desna’s mysteries is insufficient to make this affliction simply go away. I’m sorry.”
“I’m no authority on such matters, but it seems you’ve had the ill luck to become caught up in some ancient and powerful magic. Keep this to yourself for now; best not to alarm anyone. If anything changes tell me, and don’t fight the dreams if more come. They might be the key to understanding what’s become of you, and how it can be fixed. Desna’s teaches us that we often learn more from our dreams than we do from the waking world.”
How do they survive on the edge of the horde-lands?
Santrian glances up briefly at Pyotr, fussily finishing his bookkeeping before looking up again to answer the half-orc. “The same way we’ll do I’ll wager,” he says, beckoning forwards the next man in the line “Bribery, flattery and any trick we can think of to divert those brutish eyes from what’s ours.”
You're too certain of everything, son. Learn to have a little doubt, in yourself and your actions. You'll live longer, make more friends, and more importantly, when I scold you, you'll feel properly ashamed.
The caravan master continues to talk, drawing Pyotr away from the men receiving their pay. This time he addresses Pyotr’s earlier question.
“Santrian’s guessed right here. The leaders of the Freedom Town are without scruples, but they’re a practical lot. Luckily for them, so is K’zaarg the Drover, the chieftain of the Cleft Head orcs who consider these reaches of Belkzen theirs. The Sharpes boys brew better beer than the orcs can, that’s for sure, and it appears K’zaarg’s got a taste for it. That’s not the whole story I’ll wager, but for now, the Freedom Town exists at his forbearance.”
Pellius turns over the beautiful helm in his hands. His skill with magic might still be nascent, but after a short while he begins to determine the significance of the item’s enchanted aura. Seemingly crafted for those who would serve Iomedae in their defence of the weak and their courage in putting down the evil creatures of the world, its power is strongest when worn upon the brow of a paladin. The helm channels the wearer’s bravery and disperses it to his allies, allowing them to share his fearlessness in the face of danger.
Delkaneth and Pellius continue to feel under the weather, although their symptoms have not worsened.
Last thing I want is to tell anyone, but did your magics sense the same......something...in Bonegrit as well? He was in the swamp with me, might have the same trouble.
“I cast my divination only on you and Modoru. I’m not sure if Bonegrit’s been similarly affected. How close are you? Perhaps you should ask him to come and see me, but he might suspect your motives. I tend not to be in habit of casting magic uninvited on tall warriors unless they’re actively seeking to harm me.”
The pay distributed, the caravan is led the last couple of miles to the Freedom Town. A bowshot from the palisade, Dierik orders the wagons laagered. As this happens, a small flock of tinkers and traders is already streaming through the settlement’s gate, giddy at the sight of so many men and women on which to ply their wares.
“Callan, make sure none of these light-fingered fellows ventures close to the cargo,” orders Dierik, and the grizzled Garundi and his guardsmen firmly prevent any of the traders approaching the encampment.
Second Master Santrian speaks to the adventurers. “I’d like you to share the duties of protecting the caravan with Callan and his men. Alternate shifts; Callan’s boys will look after things here until noon tomorrow, then it’s your turn to keep an eye on things for a day and night. In the meantime, you’re free to do as you please,” Santrian scratches his nose and nods towards the Freedom Town “Just make sure your wits are with you,” he advises.
The caravan encamped and secure, Dierik and the majority of his crew eagerly stroll up the hill towards the town. Most have the good sense to ignore the hawkers who now swarm around them, a disreputable crowd who do their best to sell good-luck charms, jugs of ale, sticks of fried, stringy meat and other assorted odds and ends at inflated prices. One enterprising ruffian has even set up a small bar outside the gate; a handcart which he has wheeled out and laden with pots of the beer for which the Freedom Town is known.
“Best beer this side of Belkzen,” he proudly bellows “A single silver coin for a whole pot!”
In the watchtower beside the gate a human figure and the silhouette of a crossbow can be seen, but the guard looks relaxed, slouched against a strut and idly eyeing the new arrivals. The fortifications are piled banks of sod topped with a timber palisade. Many of the stakes of the palisade look old and riddled with woodworm; few trees grow out here in the wastes.
Stepping under the archway of the gate, the adventurers enter the Freedom Town. The street is unpaved – packed dirt still muddy in stretches. The air is ripe with the smells of a place without any proper sanitation, and where livestock wander with impunity; there’s just as many goats inside the Freedom Town as there are wandering the outlying pastures.
The buildings prove to be just as ramshackle as they appeared from a distance. Many of them would be classed as huts rather than houses, and wattle and daub seems to be the primary construction material, although occasional blocks of weighty sandstone show where Harchrist’s Blockade has been pillaged for its stones.
The majority of the citizenry are human, but a significant number of half-orcs also pace the streets, with a few halflings, dwarves and half-elves also glanced. Taverns are commonplace, and even though the evening remains a long way off, a goodly number of the Freedom Town’s population seems quite drunk.
As the rest of the caravan crew disperse, the adventurers find themselves on the road into the square, in which they see an alabaster spire rising above the surrounding buildings. Not far away, Dierik and Santrian are talking business with a human in his sixties, a tall, balding man in neat dark clothes which somehow resist the dust and dirt about him. His eyes are a cold, intelligent blue and a thin white moustache rests upon his upper lip.
Pyotr took in the meager sights of Freedom Town as he sauntered through the gates. A pair of grizzled watchwards kept a suspicious eye upon him, though they didn't seem at all alarmed by his appearance. Astonishingly, after giving him the once over, they turned their suspicious gazes upon Delkaneth and Pellius. "This place has a strange sort of equanimity."
Pyotr approached a young lad that he would have guessed was no more than twelve, though he looked as though he was cut from tortured leather and had a mouth full of blackened and broken teeth. The boy was tossing a razor sharp, oddly curved dagger that had a silver sheen to it. "You're rather young to be wielding such a blade."
"Whadda you know, greeny? T'sa me hopeknife. We all has 'em," the boy spat a gobbet of black-brown phlegm.
"I've heard of this practice," Pyotr nodded sagely. "It is a dangerous and barbaric custom."
"Ha! Says the greenskin! Go on into the Hold and see some 'barbaric customs'. When the horde has you stretched like a snakeskin over the rack, you'll be beggin' for a blade this fine to open yer own veins!"
"I would rather not," Pyotr stated dryly. The boy snorted a throaty chuckle. "I would, however, like to find the weaponsmith capable of forging such a blade. And perhaps an armorsmith of equal skill? Does it bear a mark of its crafter? Or do you know where it was forged?"
Pyotr approached a young lad that he would have guessed was no more than twelve, though he looked as though he was cut from tortured leather and had a mouth full of blackened and broken teeth. The boy was tossing a razor sharp, oddly curved dagger that had a silver sheen to it. “You’re rather young to be wielding such a blade.”“Whadda you know, greeny? Me knife’s me knife. I stoles it fair ‘n square. Any lad’s gotta get one sumhow,” the boy spits a gobbet of black-brown phlegm.
“Thievery is a barbaric way for a young squire to conduct himself,” Pyotr nods sagely.
“Ha! Says the greenskin. Go on into the Hold ‘n see some barbarism! Or better yet, just idle down this street when the torches are gutterin’ low. Stick ‘em before they stick you, tis the only way.”
“I’d beg to differ,” Pyotr states dryly as the boy snorts a throaty chuckle “I would, however, hope to find a weaponsmith capable of forging such a blade. And perhaps an armoursmith of equal skill? Does your blade bear the mark of its crafter? Was it forged here?”
“Nah,” answers the boy “I nicked it off an adventurer outa Trunau. Tis’ a hopeknife, they’ve all got ‘em apparently. Use ‘em to open their veins ‘fore the orcs get ‘em. I’ll open an orc before I open up myself, lemme tell ya.”
“Now we’ve got ourselves a smith here in Freedom Town. He’s a dwarf, so everybody thinks he knows his business, but I’ll share a secret fer free – he’s a disgrace to ‘is race. Me pa’ says even ‘is horseshoes ‘ur only good for shoeing goats!”
“But if you needs a good blade or summint sim’lar, just talk ta’ me, Gedrin. Me ‘an me boys can get our fingers on just about anything, an’ for a good price too.”
“I’ll even sell ya me hopeknife, if ya wants it,” Gedrin says, proffering his razor sharp dagger. “Twenty gold pieces should do it.”
Meanwhile, Delkaneth buys a stick of stringy meat, a chalky apple and a slice of baked potato doused in butter from a street vendor. Some casual enquiries soon reveal that Jork’s Junk Shop in the town square is the best place to buy and sell just about anything that might have value. Whenever Delkaneth asks about art dealers the locals think he’s joking.
The subject of books yields more. Freedom Town, surprisingly enough, has a sage, a ‘very learned man’ by all accounts, although no-one seems sure in what direction this learning lies. At the very least, they’re able to give direction to where his abode lies, as well as a name: Sleer Huddledew.
As for magic, apparently nobody trades regularly in such fancies out here, although Abram Sharpe, one of the younger Sharpe brothers and the town’s nominal boss, is said to have a stockpile of enchanted items.
Most of the taverns are little more than shacks turned bars, many lacking even a name. The best prospect appears to be an establishment in the centre of town which stretches to two floors, a signboard, and a pair of swinging doors for an entrance. It’s called the Goodly Goatherd.
Freedom Town certainly lives up to its reputation. While Bonegrit fancies himself a bit of a rounder, he seems to withdraw into his shell when venturing into the town, sticking close to Pyotr as they make their way through the streets. While the ranger himself is a far cry from accustomed to the ways of the more seedy walks of life they currently wander through, he seems to be taking on a sort of protective vigilance over the Iomedaean. If nothing else, it gives him a brief glimmer of purpose—making sure the other half-orc doesn't get a raw deal or poor treatment.
"I have no desire to trade in stolen goods. Point me towards the smithy. Honest labor has a greater value than a cut-rate cut-purse could understand." Pyotr caught the knife as the young lad continued to juggle it.
"Hey, give it back!"
"When the Lady is displeased, she weakens the temper of even the stoutest blades. I have seen good steel shatter like glass. How will you trust the blade, when the master is weak and unworthy?" Pyotr drove the blade hilt deep into the barrel stave the lad was using as a bench.
The prospect of spending ire on bootstraps with hopeknives in the streets of Freedom Town quickly loses its appeal to Bonegrit. While he understands Pyotr's intentions, he finds the lofty words and well-meaning lesson a bit over the head of the Iomedaen's present company. Rather than sticking around for the fall out, he makes to slide past his fellow half-orc, offering a whispered word as he does so: "Headin' to the only tavern worth headin' to. I'll see if there's anyone worth buggerin' inside." With that, he ambles past Pyotr and Gedrin, his path clearly intent on The Goodly Goatherd.
Bonegrit's usual stoic demeanor finds a few glimpses of toothy sneers to mar his generally bestial visage. The town is swimming with roustabouts and ne'er-do-wells, and he knows a half-orc wandering on his own will be an easy mark if he doesn't manage to sell himself as a rough-around-the-edges sort himself. Grimspur had taught him long ago how to put steel in his gaze, though Bonegrit had seldom found a need of it. His usual stomping grounds saw him isolated, and those he wished to dissuade from the caravans he occasionally escorted usually found enough warning in the volley of arrows he sent their way. Freedom Town was different than either experience, however, and the ranger finds himself trying to put the old hermit's advice to use, exhibiting a thousand-yard stare that could make a man's blood curdle. He continues unabated to the swinging double doors of the Goatherd, pushing them open nonchalantly and taking a quick survey of the common room before settling on a corner to occupy.
Delkaneth
Delkaneth gets directions to the abode of Sleer Huddlegrew, down an alley off a street named Rundul’s Tree. The locals promise him it’ll be easy to recognise which house belongs to Sleer – just look for a piled cairn of drained green beer bottles outside the door.
Rundul’s Tree seems to lead into one of the sorriest parts of the Freedom; the houses are barely worthy of being named such. A more pestilential, miserable and haphazard collection of structures Delkaneth has not seen before. Not one of the houses rises more than a single floor, and most just have old, mouldering auroch skins to cover the doors and windows.
A couple of tanneries are most noticeable (and pungent!) businesses on the main street, although Delkaneth also notices a long bearded ruffian sharpening daggers and knives on a pedalled grindstone, what looks to be a brothel and yet more taverns. The street itself is haphazardly paved with rotting planks and large pieces of slate, but the alley supposedly belonging to Sleer is covered by nothing more than sucking mud.
The locals say that the street of Rundul’s Tree is so named because many decades ago it harboured the only tree remaining within the boundaries of the Freedom Town. When the town’s leaders decreed it should be cut down to repair a breach in the palisade, a man named Rundul, whose house lay adjacent to the sorry piece of foliage opposed them and swore to defend the tree with his life. His inspired oratory on the tree’s beauty and its importance to the spiritual wellbeing of the settlement impressed many, but it didn’t stop the citizens of the Freedom Town knocking him out and chopping down the gnarled old birch whilst Rundul was unconscious.
As Delkaneth squelches down the alley he sees the promised pile of empty bottles, but his view is blocked as a slender-limbed youth barely older than himself slouches into his path. The lad has a startling halo of wildly curly ginger hair, freckles and brass knuckledusters on both of his large hands. From a shadowy doorway behind Delkaneth steps another man, also young but nonetheless wholly bald. This ugly chap boasts a pair of bulging, froglike eyes, as well as a long handled warhammer which looks like it’s mainly employed in pile driving.
Trying his best to look serious and threatening, the ginger thug announces. “Tis a fee to walk down this street, on account of laying a worthy road surface, to keep the s%&+e off our feet, so to speak.” Delkaneth gets the impression the lad has rehearsed his declaration a few times before using it, considering the careful pronunciation of each word and a weird overemphasis on the word ‘s!@$e’.
Bonegrit
Leaving Pyotr to his preaching, Bonegrit strides past several horses resting at the hitching post outside and ducks into the Goodly Goatherd. The swinging doors creak as the half-orc pushes into the common room, his glare in place.
Several people turn to regard him as he enters, but nobody’s interested in staring down the tall ranger. Most simply lower their gazes back to their mugs, whilst others incline their heads imperceptibly, recognizing Bonegrit as a man to be reckoned with. Chief amongst the latter, to Bonegrit’s surprise, looks to be a full-blooded orc, who stands erect at the end of the bar, his hands resting on the pommel of a mighty greataxe, its razor sharp edges glittering in the orange light thrown out by the roaring fireplace. None of the other patrons seem concerned with the orc’s presence, and Bonegrit surmises the orc must be a regularly fixture in the Goatherd, perhaps even the bouncer.
The Goatherd’s doing respectable trade for this hour in the day, but there are still plenty of seats to be had in the expansive common room. A trio of serving wenches, all slender, pretty blondes with daggers belted openly at their sides slide efficiently and gracefully amongst the busy tables, their hands laden with trays bearing mugs of ale and beer, as well as generous wooden bowls heaped with curried mutton. The smell of well-cooked food is delicious, especially in the shadow of several days worth of Crinkles’ bland concoctions.
A merrily crackling fireplace marks one side of the ground floor, and opposite is a small stage upon which a loudly dressed minstrel teases intricate melodies out of his lute. A staircase leads to a balcony overlooking the common room; doors leading off the balcony lead to various private rooms for patrons not wishing to share the rude conviviality of the crowd. A long, low wall of dressed stone (likely pillaged from the ruins of Harchrist’s Blockade) serves as the bar, behind which rickety shelves hold host to an array of different bottles. Larger kegs of the more popular beers also rest on the floor. A tall, rangy man in his early fifties, runs the bar in an affable, confident manner, swiftly filling cups whilst maintaining good-natured banter with his customers. His long brown hair tumbles to his shoulders and he wears an oddly-square shaped hat of strange provenance. What looks to be a wand hangs from his belt.
Of the two dozen men and women dining and drinking within the Goodly Goatherd, most look a cut above the average ne’er-do-well stalking the streets of the Freedom Town. That’s not to say they don’t look dangerous, most wear weapons openly, but they are at least better dressed. Bonegrit hazards that several of them are visitors from out of town.
Pyotr
As Pyotr grabs the hopeknife and drives it into the barrel stave, he notices that Gedrin’s promise of it being a good blade is truer than the lad likely realises – the dagger is a masterwork!
The half-orc leaves the young waif scrutinising his back darkly as he heads towards the smithy. Dunagan Haarglick falls into his company.
“Heard there was another dwarf in town,” Dunagan says “I’ll come with ya and see the measure of his forge.”
The two of them stroll down Stutters Street, easily marking the smithy’s location by the copious black smoke funnelling out of a sooty black chimney that rises slightly above the surroundings houses. An open building needing no signage to declare its purpose, the smithy has the filthy air of a place that recognises cleanliness has no bearing on a job well done. Dunagan wrinkles his nose disapprovingly at the disorder on display.
Within the dark bowels of the ill-lit smithy, a dwarf is hard at work at the forge. Deafening, high-pitched blows ring out as the dwarf adds shape to a cooling breastplate with his hammer. The smith is rather slightly built for a dwarf, although the strength in the corded muscles of his arms is clearly evident. His beard is protected from errant sparks from the forge by a thick leather bib, and his left eye is dull and unseeing.
Noticing the visitors, the dwarf discards the breastplate and stomps through his cluttered workshop to greet them. Jerking a thumb at his chest, he introduces himself as Harbat Hammertunn and presents a glove smeared with black cinders and the other wastes of his forgework for his guests to shake.
On hearing Dunagan’s name, Harbat’s thick sooty eyebrows bunch together momentarily. He coughs slightly.
“Heard ye’d might be coming through these parts. A letter from Vigil arrived for ye a day ago,” he hands his fellow dwarf a small envelope, and Dunagan shuffles away to read it.
Harbat turns to Pyotr. “What can I do for ye?” he asks.
Pyotr takes a studious look around the filthy, soot-encrusted smithy. "I suppose there is not a great call for delicate work in this place." The dwarf crosses his arms and arches an impatient brow over his one good eye. Pyotr raises his gauntlet to forestall the dwarf's reply. "Can you enamel this? The purest white available?"
Pyotr slide his hand out of the gauntlet and hands it to the smith.
Pyotr
Harbat takes the gauntlet and raises it to within an inch of his good eye. Sniffing thoughtfully, he nods his head.
“Not really me area o’ expertise, but I ken givit a shot. But it ain’t cheap, no sirree. Need a bag o’ mica flakes for the white; an I’ve only got one bag left. Should be enuf for yer gauntlet though.”
With another, more decisive sniff, Harbat hands the glove back to Pyotr. “Five gold pieces,” he states.
Pyotr’s contemplation of the price is interrupted by a slight snuffle from Dunagan. The other dwarf is wiping at his sky blue eyes, a stricken look on his face. For a moment, he cannot compose himself, but then with a gasp he waves the letter handed to him.
“Word of the Haarglicks, my kinfolk in Vigil. My father lies gravely ill, heartstop writes sister Emlin. By Torag’s forbearance that my departure did not afflict him thus. He needs me at his bedside. I must return home.”
Without saying more, Dunagan turns and stumbles out of the smithy, no doubt heading back to camp to gather his belongings.
Delkaneth
As Delkaneth unlaces his shirt, the ginger-haired thug’s eyes are immediately riveted by what he reveals. The colour swiftly drains from his cheeks, making his freckles stand out more sharply. The other ruffian’s protruding eyes bug out even further, and he begins to back away, almost tripping over the haft of his warhammer in his haste.
“Well, I guess we can always throw down a few more rushes when it rains,” suggests the remaining thug, who suddenly busies himself gathering some fallen, shattered roof slates, as if that were the purpose of his being in the alley all along.
Delkaneth strides past, arriving at the sorry hut of Sleer Huddlegrew. A single-story lean-to, it is at least somewhat larger than many of its neighbours, and even runs to the indulgence of boasting a front door. On said portal, a yellowed scrap of paper reads:
Erudite Callers Only
If you can’t read this, Go Away
Delkaneth’s knock elicits no response from within the dwelling, but a moment later a skinny man squeezes through the narrow gap between Sleer’s house and the next. He stops to regard his visitor, whilst fumbling to retie the strings of his breeches. It appears he’s just been answering a call of nature.
Even from a few paces away, Delkaneth can easily detect the smell of alcohol on the man’s breath.
“You looking for Sleer?” asks Sleer.
Sleer Huddlegrew is short, slight yet still possessing a certain tough edge. He has a big featured, lugubrious face and a massive wrinkled dome of a forehead. His little remaining hair is swiftly retreating, perhaps put to flight by the ruddy intensity of his visage. He wears sandals and a scholar’s robe tucked into threadbare shorts, both garments festooned with pockets and pouches, through which Sleer is earnestly rummaging, apparently searching in vain for his front door key. A quill is tucked behind one ear and ink splashes run down the front of his clothes like dark tears.
“I seem to have misplaced my key,” he glances mistrustfully back at the outhouse from which he’s just emerged “And I’d hesitate to return to that hellhole before the vapours have been given sufficient time to disperse.”
He looks quizzically at Delkaneth. “You any good at picking a lock?”
Pellius saunters into town after making sure his horse is well taken care of.
Without as much money as he thought he had, there really isn't much that he can acquire with the exception of a well-cooked meal. A soldier at heart, the magus still took his pleasures where and when he found them and he was hoping for a spicy chunk of 'something' to sink his teeth into.
In the back of his mind, he still wanted to find out more information about his brother so he kept his ears open and his eyes tuned to any familiar sight.
Pyotr watches impassively as Dunagan makes straight for the door and vanishes down the street without so much as another word. Lady, watch over them...
He turns to the other dwarf. Harbat shrugs, "Kin is kin. Hard luck on 'em startin' a journey, and finishin' off his father in one stroke."
Pyotr gives Harbat a measured stare. "An unfair judgement. Dunagan cannot be faulted for the failure of his father's heart." Harbat tilts his head in an 'if-you-say-so' kind of way and tosses the gauntlet back to the half-orc. Pyotr sets it down on the workbench and spreads five gold out behind it. "Alabaster white. Understood?"
The dwarf snorted. "It'll glow in the moonlight." Pyotr nodded without catching the sarcasm, and turned to leave the smithy.
Delkaneth
Sleer watches Delkaneth make short work of his front door lock with a mixture of suspicion and gratitude.
“So you’re not from these parts then,” he observes as the pair make their way into the sage’s cluttered home. “Because it certainly looks like you’ve got the skills to feel right at home in this wretched little backwater.”
Sleer’s home is as messy as the man. More empty bottles yet to have migrated to the heap in the alley outside lie scattered about, many resting precariously on the edges of tables and bookshelves, just waiting for the opportunity to fall and shatter. The house contains altogether too much furniture for its restricted dimensions, and very little in this menagerie of chairs, footrests, tables, desks, book pedestals and bookcases matches. Distinguishing a stool from a sidetable, or a dresser from a cabinet is a challenge in itself, for everything is strewn with the detritus of Sleer’s pursuits (both alcoholic and scholarly) irrespective of whatever the piece was originally purposed for.
Besides the numerous drained bottles, papers and tomes are foremost amongst the litter. Errant leaves of parchment, covered in Sleer’s uneven, spidery hand festoon the parlour like confetti, and where they can’t find a home on shelves or surfaces, books stack upon the floor in uncertain towers.
Central to the front room that Delkaneth finds himself in (and there can’t be much more than perhaps a scullery and bedchamber given the dimensions of the place) is a particularly grand chair on a little dais. Facing the chair is an ornately fashioned stand which hosts a great scroll at its crest; the scroll then unravels across a wide writing board to spool onto the floor. A mechanical crank allows Sleer to unwind more of the paper as he scribbles away.
After brushing some piled notes off what turns out to be a rickety footrest and inviting Delkaneth to sit there, the scholar takes his ease in the grand chair, which reclines and swivels with a squeal announcing the long absence of oil from its springs and joints.
I did not expect to find you in this part of town.
“Well, you see my friend, all life came from the gutter, somewhere back in the great primordia. That’s what we are, you see, nothing more than the festering pollutants the gods flushed out of the heavens after some wild bacchanal. If you want to the true story of humanity, start at the beginning. Find a place in the gutter and glory in it.”
but I'm hoping it doesn't affect your stock, because I am very interested in researching several topics of my own.
“Well, you snivelling little twerp,” continues with a jolly smile which indicates the insult was meant in good humour (at least on his part) “Better to talk to a man that lives and breathes, eats and s&*~s, kills and f*!$s, and learns something of life in the process rather than longbeard who’s can’t even open the shutters on his tower window for the weight of useless lore stacked against them. Show me a scholar in an academy and I’ll show you a clueless bore.”
Sleer smiles widely, revealing a full set of rather yellowed teeth. “Fancy a drink?” he asks.
Pellius
Pellius saunters through Freedom Square, the plaza in the centre of the town. Different streets radiate off the square, and a number of notable buildings surround it, most significantly the office of the Marshall, the Goodly Goatherd tavern, and an impressive complex of stone buildings – the most solid and imposing structures in the whole settlement, and apparently the residences of the Sharpe boys, the outlaws made good (at least in financial, if not moral, terms) who a generation ago founded the Freedom Town and continue to rule it.
It’s not long before a familiar sight greets his eyes. A man of some means rides past, a young man with a hard, handsome face, loose white tunic and an open leather jerkin decorated with a design of abstract purple rhomboids. A long rapier, black-hilted and finely worked, bounces at his hip, and by the way the man moves he no doubt knows how to use it.
However, it’s not the man but the mount that grabs Pellius attention so. It’s a horse he’s seen before, an unmistakeable breed. It’s a Qadiran and it’s Samair, the very same horse Pellius watched Valos Harricles ride in the Strander Stakes just a few days ago. The words of Watchknight in Vigil come back to him . . . his halfling friend Kaleb Varadin, wanted by the authorities for the attempted nobbling and subsequent theft of the racehorse Samair.
Pyotr
Pyotr hands the gold across and leaves Harbat to his work.
“Come back in a day,” the smith calls after him.
Bonegrit attempts to maintain his impressive demeanor, though does not allow his gaze to rest overlong on any of the Goatherd's current patrons. He takes particular note of the possibly-bouncer Orc at the end of the table. Hope the barker doesn't find a reason to swing that at one of us. Reckon he's just muscle for the place. Guess we don't have to worry about an orc invasion if they're walkin' the place openly. Not wishing to draw undue attention, the ranger nonchalantly approaches the stone bar, offering a polite nod to the barkeep as their eyes meet. Offering a coy glance around the room as he does so, Bonegrit says a little louder than is necessary, "Orcs on the march an' wisps on the marsh. Troubling times looming to the south, and a hard week's travel outta Vigil to find a hole worth waterin' myself in. I reckon I'd be obliged if ya could offer me somethin' with more flavor than watered down grog." Bonegrit smiles a bit as he speaks thus to the bartender, hoping to convey that he means no offense at the jest, though his ears perk up and his eyes search for any overly interested parties about the place.
Leaning in on his elbows a bit, now speaking more privately, he asks, "And I reckon it wouldn't hurt to know how much a private view would cost a half-Hordeling an' his friends, either, yeah?" Best to find a place to sequester ourselves if we mean to spend much time here. Only a matter of time 'til someone thinks they got 'emselves an easy mark.
The magus, perplexed at the sight of the horse, walks up to the rider. "Hey, didn't I see that horse in the last race? I may be mistaken but I don't forget a horse such as this. In fact, I even lost some money on it. How did you come by it?"
Pyotr exits the smithy with little else on his agenda aside from tracking down a merchant interested in some of the historical antiques he and his friends acquired from the fort. A few streets over, he catches a glimpse of shadowy movement coming from the edge of an alleyway. Shrugging away the slight paranoia of being in this seedy place, he goes in search of a more cosmopolitan trader who might pay good value for his wares.
Bonegrit
I reckon I'd be obliged if ya could offer me somethin' with more flavor than watered down grog.
The barkeep chuckles at this, and responds “Well, if you’ve got the coin to pay for more than watered down grog then you can smile wide. If you look around the Freedom Town with honest eyes, you’ll see the grog’s just about the only thing not watered down. Now what do’ya prefer, beer strong enough to make pacifists of the orcs of Belkzen,” the barkeep nods his head towards his bouncer “or spirits guaranteed to have ya spurting fire like a dragon?”
And I reckon it wouldn't hurt to know how much a private view would cost a half-Hordeling an' his friends, either, yeah
“If you’d like a private room for you an’ ya companions that’d be fine. No straight fee for that, but your drinks will cost more. We’re not an inn mind you, these are rooms for conducting business not sleeping. Though if you’d like some business with some dollymops there’s a couple of girls I can send a runner for.”
“If you're looking for board, I’d recommend Tolerance’s Flophouse on the corner of Darlings Street and the Ruin Road. The rats are smaller and cleaner than the other places, which is a ringing endorsement by the standards of the Freedom Town.”
There is an elastic, musical snap from the stage as one of the lutist's strings breaks under the weight of a rather strident motif. The bard somehow manages to make the breaking string sound like a natural part of his performance and continues to play without concern. Bonegrit’s eyes sweep the room again.
Nobody seems to express curiosity in his words or presence. The more interesting patrons look to be:
• a trio of Chelaxian merchants in the depths of a heated argument about some swindle they’ve bungled,
• a black skinned Mwangi mercenary in brigandine mail, with a small armoury of melee and missile weapons dangling from his battle harness or propped against the chairs around his table,
• the Mwangi is in the company of a young blonde woman of staggering beauty, also wearing adventurer’s leathers with a sword at her side,
• A tall, slender figure swaddled in dark robes and a hood tugged low over his or her face, sitting hunched in the most poorly lit corner of the Goodly Goatherd. A beaker of water rests on the table before the figure, and a staff is leaning on the wall nearby.
Delkaneth
"Guess I'll just stand for now. Don't want to disturb your 'filing system' do we?"
“Are you drunk good sir?” asks Sleer, again indicating the footstool “Did you not see me clear this fine chair for you to rest your posterior?”
I'm looking to learn about the Ghost Lake.....Ghost Marshes, just a few day's ride from here.
“Well, well, well,” continues Sleer, jumping down from his own perch in search of the promised drink “It’s not often you hear people call it the Ghostlake these days. That’s a name that fell out of use some 500 years ago. Back then the demesne of the orcs was less than today, and the Ghostlake was a place sacred to the druids who once worked to protect the natural order in a land riven by war and strife. Since the passing of the druids, the sanctity of the Ghostlake was lost, and it grew into the haunted swamps of today. Its name and purpose was corrupted, and what was once the Ghostlake became known as the Ghostlight Marshes.”
My friends and I encountered some strange creatures there who were trying to give us a message. Bit of a language barrier but we did catch some hints of 'ancient failures' and 'vengeance for our folly'.
“Strange creatures you say . . . describe them,” says Sleer, but he pauses as yet another bottle of the dozens he's squirrelled away about the room comes up dry “Hold that thought. We’re all out I’m afraid. The only thing I can suggest is that you run down to Mama Veljka’s at the end of the alley and buy us something to wet our whistles and grease the mind.”
Pellius
"Hey, didn't I see that horse in the last race? I may be mistaken but I don't forget a horse such as this. In fact, I even lost some money on it. How did you come by it?"
The rider hauls back on the reins at Pellius’ interjection, tugging Samair to an abrupt stop. He turns to regard the Chelaxian with his pale olive eyes. He looks rather surprised to have been addressed at all.
“Not even a by-your-leave?” he responds, raising his thin eyebrows. Despite his aristocratic manner, his voice holds none of the noble ring of nobility; he speaks in the same rough voice as most of the common men in Lastwall.
“Any money you lost to his horse is no concern of mine, stranger. It serves me well enough as a mount, and I bought it with fair coin but a couple of days ago. Now kindly leave me in peace.”
The rider swings Samair roughly in the direction of the Sharpe’s residence and taps its flanks sharply with his spurs.
Pyotr
The rider swings Samair roughly in the direction of the Sharpe’s residence and taps its flanks sharply with his spurs.
The magus is surprised at the man's reaction, "Wait. I am not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering how you came by this horse which I saw a couple of days ago in the race."
Pellius gives the Qadiran and appreciative once-over. "And don't take offense but such a horse is much more than just a mount. With some training, it can serve you well in any race."
The magus continues, "Anyhow, know any place where I can get a good meal 'round here?"
Pyotr meanders through the random jumble of ramshackle huts and scrabbled together buildings that made up heart of Freedom Town. He makes his way towards what he guesses is the town center taking time to glance in opened windows and doorways, but finding little more than the salt-of-the-earth folk of the town scratching out their meager existence in this barren frontier.
A group of young rapscallions turns the corner, pushing and shoving each other as they carried on a loud and quite bawdy conversation that leaves the much older Pyotr astonished. Pyotr eyes the group as they pass by, and continue down the street. There was certainly less attention being paid to him by the citizens of Freedom Town than in Vigil. But, had the strangest sense that the boys were trying too hard to pay him no attention.
Putting it out of his mind, he enters the town square only to spot Pellius accosting a horseman, moving twice to bar his path, and calling out to him as he rode away.
"Friend of yours?" he asks as he approaches the mage. "I doubt the orcs would value the history of Lastwall's antiquities. I was hoping to find a dealer in town who would. Have you any interest in such a hunt?"
Pellius (and Pyotr)
For a moment, the man checks Samair and scowls murderously back at the Chelaxian. His hand hovers near the hilt of his rapier.
“Your opinion on my horse is neither wanted nor asked for. Listen hard stranger, your Chelish blood is worth nothing but scorn in the Freedom Town. Your boorishness might go without consequence in Westcrown, but here it’ll leave you bleeding in the gutter. My name is Skaraben Sharpe, and around here the people are wise enough to leave me be or suffer for it. You’d best do the same.”
Samair snorts as Skaraben slaps the Qadiran hard on the rump, and the horse carries its rider across the filthy cobbles of Freedom’s Square towards the grand, rundown roost of the Sharpes of the Freedom Town.
Pellius notices a squat figure, a ratman like Agiz, standing atop the flat roof of the Marshall’s Office, keeping a careful watch on events in the square.
Despite the distance of several dozen yards, you realise that the staff upon which the ratman leans is in fact a jezail; a long muzzled blackpowder musket, a weapon incredibly rare in the northern lands of Avistan.
Delkaneth
"What say we talk about these creatures a bit more then I'll run down the alley and get you as much as you need."
Sleer’s eyes narrow slightly and for a moment he regards his visitor with a cold, reptilian stare*. His nervous energy quells, and rather more soberly he listens to Del’s tale from the Ghostlight Marshes.
“Will o’ wisps. Since the druids’ great sacrifice, they’ve become synonymous with the Ghostlight Marshes, though strangely they were never reported in the days when the Council of Thorns held sway over the borderlands.”
“As for the other beast, that’s an intriguing creature indeed, and one I’ve heard of before. What they call themselves is unknown, but I’ve read them described as a Conductor of the Fens; a fitting enough title considering their talents.”
“One of the fey races, it’s said, but of the wicked sort rather than the frolicking in sun-dappled glades kind. The account I’ve seen placed them as natives of the Mushfens, the great swamps of southern Varisia, and a good four hundred miles from here. I wonder where I put that particular journal . . .”
Muttering to himself, Sleer begins sorting through the monumentous chaos of his library. Parchment rustles and empty bottles clink – rather pointedly – but the sage fails to find what he’s looking for. Ten minutes passes by and turns to twenty, and Sleer continues his search without so much as a glance at Delkaneth, or even remarking on his apparent inability to find the book, so contradictory of his earlier boasts.
Meanwhile, the sickness that began to grip Delkaneth earlier is worsening. Throughout the day, his fever has been slowly increasing, but despite the burning heat of his skin he can’t help shivering. Occasionally it gets so bad that his hands shake violently, although Sleer hasn’t seemed to have noticed these shudders.
.
Nodding a thanks to the bartender, Bonegrit tucks his middle and index finger beneath the thick folds of his leather vest for a moment before producing four silver coins. Pressing them each down beneath a finger and sliding them across the top of the table, Bonegrit barks out a brief order. "I reckon three o' the first and one o' the dragon-spits, yeah?" Paying well in excess of what is owed, Bonegrit hopes the tip might elicit a favorable response from the proprietor as he retreats to prepare the ordered drinks.
As the round of booze is delivered, Bonegrit decides to try his luck at the more approachable table among the patrons currently enjoying the common room. His long, knotted fingers loop through the three steins with his left hand while his right secures the gripless tumbler of potcheen. Though gangly and unsightly, the half-orc's motions and balance are, as ever, graceful and practiced. His steps carry him swiftly and without losing that which is meant to be imbibed shortly. The collection of alcohol is settled gently onto the surface of the table currently playing host to the weapon laden Mwangi—his "quarry"—and the young blonde sitting nearby. Bonegrit barely spares a glance to the beauty at the table, instead fixing his eyes on the dark skinned warrior. "Don't mean to be interrupting, but ya both look to be well traveled and tested. Mind sharin' a mug with a passerby and a bark or two? Headin' up a caravan birthed from parts South an' I'm curious 'bout the lay of the land further on."
Delkaneth
The air of the squalid alley passing Sleer’s home might not truly qualify as fresh, but it’s a darn sight better than the musty atmosphere inside.
Delkaneth stumbles down the muddy lane. Mama Veljka is a fat, middle-aged half-orc, and her home stands on the corner of the main street. It sells no more and no less than alcohol in a staggering quantity and variety for the rundown neighbourhood of a frontier town.
The ginger-haired thug Delkaneth encountered earlier is loitering in the shebeen, but he swiftly makes himself busy elsewhere when he sees the Chelaxian’s approach. Veljka is a friendly, talkative woman who certainly appears familiar with Sleer.
“Ah, yes, our resident wordsmith, whose fame stretches from one side of the Freedom Town to the other, only to vanish into utter obscurity a stone’s throw from our timber walls. For every chapter he writes of his masterpiece, enough coin passes over my counter to buy each of my children a new outfit becoming of the finest Taldan gentleman.”
“Now, whilst I shouldn’t be eager to roast my golden goose, keep your wits about you with Sleer Huddlegrew. There’s clever and there’s cunning, and Sleer’s both, and a selfish sot to boot. He’s rarely as drunk as he appears, except when he is, if you catch my drift.”
“Prefers potcheen or rotgut when alone, but in company our finest local hoppy is his tipple. Here we are,” says Veljka, plonking a half dozen bottles of thick green glass before Delkaneth “Chuggachaff’s Chosen, the best beer in the Freedom Town, and don’t you believe those fools who talk about Bronzefist’s Best. Should be enough here to grease Sleer’s tongue for at least an hour or two.
Bonegrit
"Don't mean to be interrupting, but ya both look to be well traveled and tested. Mind sharin' a mug with a passerby and a bark or two?
On seeing Bonegrit’s hands full of booze, the Mwangi smiles widely, thick white teeth shining brightly.
“By all means,” he says, quickly leaning across to pluck a crossbow and a case of quarrels from the nearest chair and make space for the half-orc to sit.
“The name’s Dumuzi,” he introduces himself, offering up a big hand to shake “and my companion’s Arvina.”
Arvina gives Bonegrit a half-wave and less of a smile. Bonegrit does his best to ignore her unearthly beauty. Her hair is like liquid gold and her sky blue irises refract the dim light of the tavern as if there were diamonds set within them.
Arvina’s iciness is more than counterbalanced by Dumuzi’s affable nature. After taking a long, slurping gulp from one of the beer steins, he expansively begins to regale Bonegrit with the escapades the two adventurers have been having along the Belkzen borderlands.
They’ve certainly been busy. In the time it takes for Dumuzi to work through his mug (at a healthy pace), he recounts his kidnapping by Kring the Beautiful, chieftainess of the Blood Trail orc tribe, and subsequent rescue thanks to Arvina’s courage and daring, their slaying of a pair of hags in the foothills of the Mindspin Mountains and a brief stint beast-hunting on behalf of a merchant of Urgir, Belkzen’s great city of orcs. Their motivation for being in these lands seems no more than the honest pull of adventure, gold and glory, plus . . .
“We made some enemies down in Absalom, oh more than a year back. City at the Centre of the World. Well, here we are at the arse-end. Nobody’s looking for us here.”
Arvina rolls her starry eyes. It sounds like she’s heard the joke before.
“Excuse me,” she interrupts, her voice melodious with an accent Bonegrit can’t trace “Is the potcheen yours, or may I take a sup?”
Dumuzi quickly launches into another tale, this one their exploration of a haunted siege tower, abandoned somewhere in the trackless wastes of Belkzen.
I'm curious 'bout the lay of the land further on.
Pellius catches up to Bonegrit in the town square, "Any luck finding a decent meal?"
The magus scratches his head trying to remember, "BTW, did we have anything we wanted to offload in this poor excuse of a town?"
The Chelaxian raises his head and nods to the ratman with the musket, "Where do you figure he got a hold of that weapon?"