When his work has finished, Dunagan bundles the five longswords in an oilcloth, careful not to cut himself on the now wicked edges. When he takes his leave of the bellfoundry, the sky is already dark and winter’s chill has returned to the night air. Dunagan hurries to the Northgate before it closes. Agiz scurries along behind. The Watchknights do stop them, accustomed as they are to the Haarglicks moving their wares around Vigil . Nonetheless, they mutter suspiciously when they see Dunagan turn towards Dierik’s encampment.
Crooked Callan is delighted with Dunagan’s work. “Master dwarf, yer odour’s none too pretty, but I can make no complaints about yer work. A fine choice boss,” he shouts over to Dierik “Short of stature, but a head above the usual lowlifes you put on the payroll!” Callan waddles over to his men and distributes the mended weapons “Yeah, by lowlifes I mean you,” he announces with a braying laugh .
Dierik nods his thanks to Dunagan. “Good work.”
Delkaneth sits in a comfortable spot, digesting dinner, leafing through his journal by the meagre firelight. Nearby, Bonegrit leans against the great bulk of a sixbull, whilst across from the treasure hunter is the curious three-wheeled coach with the gaily painted sides; the one that immediately stood out amongst the other vehicles as different when he arrived at the campsite.
Its occupant has not emerged during the day, although Delkanneth has occasionally heard strange whirring noises from within and seen thin wisps of oddly coloured smoke drifting from its small tin chimney.
Dierik joins Bonegrit, and Delkaneth listens to the Trail Captain talk with reverence about Isabellina’s Arrow. Only Delkaneth notices the small red door to the three-wheeled wagon open silently, and a slender, long-haired woman slide out to perch on the step, her features still disguised by the shadows of the night.
Like Delkaneth, the woman listens with interest as Dierik makes his offer, but as Bonegrit agrees, she harrumphs, leaps down from the wagon, and strides up to them. The firelight illuminates her. Dark-eyed, with wild dark hair tumbling down to her waist, her features clearly mark her as a Varisian gypsy. A long burgundy scarf is tied around her brow, and a loose, flaring dress swishes about her ivory legs as she walks. Both scarf and dress are covered with embroidery; looping allegorical patterns stitched out in reds, greens, violets and browns. Abstract tattoos cover her arms. It would be easy to call her beautiful, but the capricious set to her face makes one hesitate.
“Dierik Ironcoffer, with each day that passes you prove to me what a fool you are. Do you want the Strander Stakes to end in a riot? Consider what you are saying. Think on it: Dierik Ironcoffer, the most disgraced knight in Vigil’s history, enters Isabellina’s Arrow, that mighty horse he’s stealing out of Lastwall on some acquisitive and foolhardy venture into the Hold of Belkzen, in the Strander Stakes. And who’s riding the beloved Arrow? The most orcish looking half-orc this side of Urgir!”
The woman stands next a few paces from Bonegrit, shamelessly pointing out his brutish visage.
“Zriorinta,” says Dierik, his words clipped with fury “If for a moment I thought they’d let me, I’d ride the Arrow myself. But we both know that’s not an option! That stallion is a champion. Bonegrit will ride him to victory, then I’ll ride him out of Lastwall. Vigil might not have missed Dierik Ironcoffer, but by the Hells it’ll miss Isabellina’s Arrow.”
“So this is revenge?” asks the Varisian.
“Perhaps. Perhaps that’s part of it. But passion too. I want the Arrow to win. He’s a legend to join the role-call of racers; Caileigh, El-Mehrik, Lancer and all the rest. If I never come back from the Hold it matters not to me, but Isabellina’s Arrow should be remembered.”
“Show up with this half-orc astride him, and every rider in the race will conspire to stop them. And if the Arrow wins, the crowd will lynch the half-orc, and then you.”
“You exaggerate.”
“Not by much,” Zriorinta’s voice suddenly becomes coquettish “But I can help you.” She draws a slender, fluted potion bottle from a hidden pocket of her dress and swirls the liquid inside. “Drink this, and he’ll be a full-blooded human, with a face to make the damsels swoon. A hero the crowd can cheer for. It’ll last just long enough for the half-orc to take the victor’s flag.”
“That’s not a choice I can make. The decision is yours, Bonegrit. Let Zriorinta’s magic conceal the truth of your heritage, and have every man, woman and child at the Stakes cheering you on. Or ride as you are, and the crowd be damned.”
Starday, 7th Desnus, 4711 AR
Another bright, sunny spring morning dawns over Vigil. The magical flames on the towers and walls fade away as the sun rises, and the pealing of the morning bells rouses the Vigilants from their slumber. What will the day bring?
“There is much talk of Ironcoffer’s journey into Belkzen,” confides Thurcytel to the half-orc “And little of it kind. Friend Pyotr, I know not many recognise Iomedae’s grace in you, but to me it rings clear as the last chorus of the Cathedrals evening carillons. Whatever your reasons for taking the Flood Road north, I believe the Inheritor walks beside you."
Pyotr and Thurcytel talks some more, sharing their thoughts on Iomedae’s teachings and their interpretations of her Acts. Just before the half-orc leaves, Thurcytel gifts Pyotr with a tiny silver bell stamped with Iomedae’s holy symbol.
Pyotr stares at the bellforger's gift. "I- I-..." He lowers his head. "I am quite overcome. In my short life, I have never found such generosity and kindness as I have within Vigil's shining walls. Know that I shall carry this heirloom, and the Inheritor's mercy and justice, into a land that has the greatest need of it. Thank you, brother."
Dunagan makes small talk with Agiz during their trip to the forge and back. They discuss their respective crafts, trade, and all manner of different subjects. While they talk, Dunagan realizes one simple fact, he can probably sell goods along the way to make extra coin. He makes a note to himself to talk to Agiz in the morning more about this revelation.
Dunagan, with his self-confidence bolstered by the the sharp blades in his arms, turns to Callan with a sharp stare, "That odor you smell is hard work. Hopefully I will smell it upon you when your time to work comes." Acknowledging the compliment from his patron he turns to him and speaks, "Thank ye. I am pleased to earn my keep." For after all he is guiding to my ancestral home with a contingent of guards... what more could I ask for.
The dwarf pushes his agape jaw back into place after listening to the scolding Dierik just received. He strokes his beard and thinks over the option, trying to assess Bonegrit's decision. No matter what the others decide, Dunagan opens his mouth and adds his two cents, "Bonegrit, judging by your name alone, I believe you a man of blatant honesty and a hearty disregard for deception. I feel the same. If you decide to race and if they allow you to enter as a man-orc, then enter as one. For a sword that tries to be an axe will sever no branch."
As the sun's brilliant fire licks the edges of the world in a pink hue, Dunagan rises from his bedroll and stretches. The campfires have dwindled down to nothing but embers. Dunagan takes some nearby kindling and re-ignites the closest fire. He tosses a few larger branches on to it and pulls his bedroll closer to it. Kneeling on it, he looks to the fire and begins a prayer... "Father of Dwarves, may this fire serve as a symbol of your mighty forge... Alight today in its brilliance and temper me and my new found friends in a way that you would approve... Dunagan mutters on and on for awhile before he simply stands up, packs his bedroll much neater than before and places upon his backpack. He stores his heavier gear with the caravan. Leaving his gear behind, he takes Cornalium for a ride around Vigil. He feels the horse out and the horse him, it is a tough ride and Dunagan realizes that the horse may just be as stubborn as a Haarglick.
After returning from his ride, Dunagan finds the rat-man during breakfast and starts up a conversation, "Agiz, I was wondering if you may have a chance to discuss the workings of caravan trade." Dunagan sits next to the wainwright and takes a bite of bread before he speaks again, "I'd like to play my hand in bringing goods to those who need them, and in turn, earning a bit of coin. Today would be a great day to walk the markets and find cheap goods that we could sell further north along our travels. Perhaps you would be interested in joining me?"
Callan gives Dunagan a friendly wave as he guides Cornalium back into camp. Despite his abrasive manner, it seems the crippled mercenary has taken a liking to the dwarf.
Dunagan sees Agiz squatted beneath the undercarriage of Dierik’s wagon. The ratman is jealously munching through a large hunk of cheese, a leftover from the previous day’s feast. Grabbing a bowl of Crinkles’ morning broth, the forge master sits down beside the purser.
Agiz wears dirty grey robes of a thin, gauzy material. To compensate for their thinness, he wears several layers, making it appear like he’s cocooned in an onion of cloth. Several gold hoops are punched through his ragged ears, and bejewelled rings glitter on his furry fingers and hairless tail.
“Good morning dwarf. What a fascinating place that bellfoundry was,” he squeaks in appreciation, then continues “I have considered our discussion last night, and I see no harm in helping your nascent plans at merchanting. You are, after all, a mere amateur, and will no doubt stumble more than you succeed. Thus, I do not consider you competition.” Agiz let’s forth a scritching little laugh and smiles at the dwarf, bruxing his great chisel like incisor together. This, presumably, is a sign of camaraderie.
On finishing breakfast, the dwarf and the ratman return to Vigil. Pausing just inside the Northgate, Agiz lays down their options. “I made a point of questioning Dierik at length about trade in Vigil, such as it is, before we arrived. Salt is probably the surest bet. It’s long been mined from the nearby hills. The orcs of the Hold struggle for food, and struggle to preserve what food they can. If you can find an orc who can see further than the point of his blade, you’ll make a good profit. Though it makes me creepy to think on the meat there’ll be salting. Salt’s five gold pieces a pound from the Saltworks.”
“Another alternative is the Market Square. Mostly it’s domestic produce, but you never know what you might find.”
“Finally, if we’re seeking out more specific products when should visit different workshops around the city.”
After lunch, Delkaneth practices a few of the moves he’s just read about in Nimble Hands, Sharp Mind, Sharper Blade. Although most of Shartandel’s instruction is focused on the use of light blades such as the rapier and sabre, Delkaneth finds plenty of what he writes can be applied to his axe fighting style. In particular, Shartandel discusses techniques to improve the coordination of the dual weapon fighting style at length.
As the Chelaxian goes through the exercises with increasing speed, he notices he has an onlooker.
One of Callan’s guards sits on a nearby wagon, her naked sword across her lap. She’s rather short, despite having the lean body of a fighter, and like many in Dierik’s caravan, she’s Varisian. Unlike most Varisians though, her tumbling, wavy hair is amber blonde rather than black.
“Slain many trees recently?” she asks, pointing at Delkaneth’s axes. “I didn’t realize the lumberjack fighting style was such a big hit in Westcrown.”
“Look out lad,” interjects a passing driver carrying a packing crate, “Karannah’s blade’s just as sharp as her tongue.”
“Well let’s see shall we,” replies Karannah, sliding to the ground and circling Delkaneth, the flat of her blade tapping lightly against his thigh. “Care for some sparring? Though I must warn you, my sword’s keener today thanks to the work of your hardworking, hardsmelling dwarf friend.”
Karannah and Delkaneth spar energetically. The treasure hunter fights with an axe in each hand, and does his best to apply some of the techniques he’s just been practicing in his fight. Karannah wields only her longsword, and although she must fend off two weapons at once, maintains her guard even though Delkaneth’s attacks force her to give ground repeatedly. After a few minutes, they’ve proven themselves to be evenly matched, and have also soaked their clothes in sweat. Several of the crew, including Second Master Santrian, pause in their work to watch the pair duelling.
Santrian claps his hands in praise as they finish panting. “Well Delkaneth, if you’ve managed to keep Karannah quiet even for the time it takes her to get a breath back, you’re already starting to earn your pay.”
Delkaneth’s opponent flicks a rude gesture at the Taldan. Blowing an auburn lock away from her face, she grabs a bucket and heads for the moat to wash herself down. “It’ll take a few more cuts than that to knock me from my feet!” she shouts as she walks away.
"Fellow Agiz, I would not want to be a burden and create competition for you. If the caravan is trading salt, then I will look to other wares. If not, then I shall take your advice, but it seems to me that if we are stopping in Freedom Town first, then we should purchase goods that they need. Then, sell those goods and use the profit to buy more trade goods that the orcs may need from Freedom Town... Thus increasing our profit two fold!" Dunagan strokes his beard in thought, "Perhaps the villagers would enjoy a few pots of honey."
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Pyotr steps from the cathedral's interior into the bright wash of morning light. With no determined agenda before the departure of the caravan, he makes his way out to the camp, where Torshen's Hammer is stabled. One of the caravan guards, a Varisian by his looks, amicably helps Pyotr brush the gargantuan steed down, and shows him the proper way to saddle him.
The friendly caravan guard earns his due a few moments later, in the comedy of errors that is Pyotr attempting to mount for the first time. With one foot in the stirrup, Torshen's Hammer begins a slow, plodding walk across the open field, with the hapless half-orc off-balance and frantically hopping to maintain pace with the warhorse.
His second attempt ends no better. Pyotr, attempting to gain leverage by pulling on the reins, ends up spinning the horse round-and-round as he tries to roll himself across the saddle and into a seated position. One enormous spin and tumble leaves Hammer shaking his head and wickering in frustration, and Pyotr dazed and flat on his back in the grass.
Pyotr's third try begins in success, as the would-be-knight hoists himself into the saddle and sits upright. For the first time, he realizes how far he towers over the ground, and his commanding height causes him the grip the reins and pull them tightly to him. Torshen's Hammer rears back on his hind legs, forelegs kicking the air. If Pyotr had followed it up with a glorious charge across a battlefield, it might have been a display worthy of song. Instead the paladin flails in the air a moment before rolling off of Hammer's back to land back in the grass.
Undeterred, with a stubbornness a dwarf might envy, Pyotr gets back on the horse, over and over again. By the time afternoon rolls around, the half-orc is riding, not nearly so well as Bonegrit, but staying in the saddle nonetheless. After a time, he walks Torshen's Hammer back to the camp, unburdens him of his saddle, waters him, brushes him down, and stables him for the remainder of the day.
After brushing the dirt and grass of his many, many falls from his tunic, he makes his way through the camp seeking Masters Ironcoffer and Santrian to see if there are any last minute tasks that may require his assistance.
Pyotr enters camp to see the conclusion of Delkaneth and Karannah’s duel. Second Master Santrian waves away his offer of help. “Fear not, Pyotr. You’ll be working hard for your crust soon enough. We leave on Moonday. Take the weekend to say whatever farewells you wish to in Vigil.”
“But perhaps you’ve not heard,” continues Santrian “Tomorrow Dierik will enter his horse, Isabellina’s Arrow, in the Strander Stakes, and your fellow half-orc Bonegrit will ride him. It should be a sight to see, and if your coin purse is empty then why not have a flutter, perhaps Desna will favour you. Most of us will be there to cheer them on.”
Interestingly, Bonegrit and Dierik, and their horses, have not been seen around camp all day.
Dunagan finishes his shopping trip after stopping and talking with multiple vendors. He visits the salt works and buys a measly pound of salt, then heads to the market where he purchases 4 jars of honey, and notices a few farming tools nearby. He strikes up conversations with the tool salesman and resolves to buy one, very expensive, shovel.
"Thank you Agiz," the dwarf states as he returns to camp with a sack and arms full of his goods. "If there is ever anything you need me to do, just ask it." Dunagan heads back to the camp and tries to outfit Sard with the load. While she is in no way a pack horse, Dunagan plans to use both of his horses to share the load, switching between them at lunch or during long rests.
The forge master awaits what this night will bring and Bonegrit's answer...
When Delkaneth catches up, Karannah is sat upon the bank of the moat, drenching her thick hair with water. Thankfully, Vigil’s moat is fed by a diversion of the Path River, so the water relatively is fresh and clean. Soaked through, Karannah swings her head back and forth, showering Delkaneth with droplets, then pushes her hair back from her face with both hands. Seeing a sentry watching them from the city wall above, she shouts up;
jerking a thumb at Delkaneth she continues
She disarms the last with a crooked smile at the treasure hunter. “Well?”
Unfortunately, her smile quickly becomes a wince as Delkaneth launches into a discussion on tactics. For a while, she nods along politely to his spiel before interrupting him.
“You know the manoeuvre that always worked best for me?” tapping the hilt of her sword, “Stick the pointy end into something soft and squidgy. Gets ‘em every time.”
“But come now Delkaneth. You’ve come here all the way from Cheliax. Impress a girl with some tales of the devils of Westcrown, or at the very least tell me about some of your adventures on the road.”
Later that evening, Pyotr is returning to his humble quarters in the monastic halls of the Cathedral.
Knight Captain Haisnar Rosenholt has persecuted Pyotr since the day he captured the half-orc scavenging for food in Vigil’s midden heaps well beyond the city walls. A courageous and well regarded knight of the city, Haisnar is a regular visitor to the Cathedral and often flies the colours of Iomedae beneath his own flag (a red tower on a green hill, the tower crowned with black roses) when on the battlefield. Of equal years to Dierik Ironcoffer, Haisnar bears his age less well. What little remains of his hair has turned grey and is cropped close to his skull. Once dashing, courtly looks have been smudged off his face by fattening jowls and clammy, flushed skin. Seven years ago, Haisnar’s left hand was horridly mangled by an orc falchion, and since that day he has always worn a black metal gauntlet decorated with a red rose on the injured limb.
Haisnar is not wearing his customary, gold filigreed armour nor carrying his weapons. Instead he wears his gauntlet plus the cotton white robes commonly donned by a supplicant of Iomedae. It seems he has just come from prayer. His ungauntleted hand is wiping a handkerchief over his brow as Pyotr turns into the low passageway.
On seeing the half-orc he drops it to the floor and a storm of rage clouds his face. “So beastspawn, the news is out. You’re joining Ironcoffer, your traitor in arms, to run back to Belkzen. I was right all along. You are nothing but an animal tamed to spy on us. I should have run you through the day we found you wallowing in filth amongst the middens.”
He takes a step forward. “On the Inheritor’s honour, I wouldn’t shed blood under this hallowed roof. But I swear in her name that next time the Vigilant Horse ride out against the orcs of Hold, I’ll be looking for that ill-favoured face of yours!”
Dunagan meanders around the camp tugging at his beard. Sometimes he paces back and forth, other times he makes small talk with the crew of the caravan. The dwarf seems rather irritated about something. Anyone interested enough could probably tell that he is just frustrated at not having anything to really do. His home forge had provided him countless things to accomplish throughout the day and sometimes well into the night. For there was no shortage in the need for fine blades along the border of Lastwall.
The forgemaster tells Crinkles about how dwarves are well known for their culinary arts. He explains to the halfling that the dwarves create blends of spices that can make any dish edible. His family even buys some at the market every so often.
To Callan he discusses the Garundi warrior's past battles and experiences. He admits that he is no warrior but has seen a few battles just outside of Vigil when the town was called upon to assist. He claims that he tends to be the arm behind the sword rather than the sword itself.
The dwarf really doesn't veer to far away from those he knows already. He knows better than to stick his nose in other people's business - particularly, courting humans.
Pyotr descends the winding stairs at the rear of the chancellery tired, dirty, and more than a little sore from his exertions of the day, but nevertheless, in a cheerful mood. Though his armor is stored in the anterior gate house, swords are holy relics of the cathedral, and Pyotr's massive greatsword is strapped to his back, the bellforger's chime jangling merrily from the hilt.
The skull-lined crypts beneath the chapel proper carry their own austere majesty in stark contrast to the light, airy domes of the cathedral. Pyotr knows their labyrinthine turns better than he knows the streets of the city, and so pays little attention as he walks the weary stretch to his modest chambers. He is completely taken aback when a silent figure detaches itself from the shadows and bars his path.
Knight-Captain Haisnar Rosenholt...
“So beastspawn, the news is out. You’re joining Ironcoffer, your traitor in arms, to run back to Belkzen. I was right all along. You are nothing but an animal tamed to spy on us. I should have run you through the day we found you wallowing in filth amongst the middens.”
He takes a step forward. “On the Inheritor’s honour, I wouldn’t shed blood under this hallowed roof. But I swear in her name that next time the Vigilant Horse ride out against the orcs of Hold, I’ll be looking for that ill-favoured face of yours!”
"Rage is a handicap you can ill afford." Pyotr steals an involuntary glance at Rosenholt's gauntlet. "Your fury makes you blind, and leaves you open to the fell blades of those who truly wish you ill. Find me, if you wish. I will defend you when you fall."
Pyotr pushes his way past, the holy chime ringing a darker, more ominous note than before.
Delkaneth
After sharing some of his adventures with Karannah, the treasure hunter spends the rest of the afternoon reading and practicing some of the moves he’s read about in Shartandel’s primer.
Dunagan
The dwarf wanders around camp, making small talk and trying to find something to occupy himself with. Unlike Dunagan, most of Dierik’s company remain quite happy to enjoy this idle time, well aware they’ll be few chances to relax on the road ahead. The wagons are largely packed, the horses rested and well-shod, everything is ready for the Flood Road. Talk centres excitedly on tomorrow’s horse race, and whether Isabellina’s Arrow has a chance of winning.
Crinkles seems defensive without being rude when Dunagan tries to offer him some cooking advice. It’s probably not surprising; the halfling’s culinary arts do not seem well regarded by his fellow caravan workers.
Delkaneth and Dunagan
In the evening, Crinkles serves some fried hunks of bread. They’re not very appealing, although the moist cardamom cakes (bought rather than baked by Crinkles) make an excellent dessert. Shortly before dark, Dierik and Bonegrit return to camp on horseback. They sit apart from the rest, talking quietly. Second Master Santrian mentions they’ve been surveying the course for the Strander Stakes, as well as putting the Arrow through his paces.
The dwarf and the Chelaxian settle down with Crooked Callan and a few of his men. Karannah is absent, as it is her turn for guard duty. Callan recounts numerous run-ins Dierik’s crew have had around Avistan; goblins stealing and butchering horses in Varisia, bribing their way through Cheliax with fake gold, blazing a trail into the Bloodsworn Vale, five days bartering to close a deal with the dwarves of Peddlegate and more . . .
Pyotr
Haisnar stalks away, muttering curses under his breath.
Dunagan approaches Delkaneth with intent in his eyes and strikes up a conversation, "Hello there lad. I've noticed you have some interesting stories to tell and a keen interest in books. I was wondering if you have heard any dwarven tales or have seen any artifacts of my people during your travels." He pulls a journal from his satchel and shows the emblem on the front cover. It is the forge-rune of Armin Haarglick and his family's crest. "Perhaps you have seen this rune anywhere else besides our patron's blade and my smithing journal?"
Ragged clouds move swiftly over the blue vault of the sky, and from the towers of Vigil, pennants and banners snap and swirl as they are caught by the blustery wind.
On the banks of the Path River, a crowd is already gathering. It’s the day of the monthly Strander Stakes, where the finest horses in Lastwall show their speed, and the folk of Vigil do their best to astutely bet on the winner.
Led by Second Master Santrian, most of the men and women of the caravan skirt the perimeter of the city wall, joining the growing throng of Vigilants gathering to see the race. A skeleton crew remain behind to watch over the encampment, headed up by Crooked Callan.
“Enjoy yourselves, ya wastrels,” he shouts at the backs of his comrades “I’m a wiser man. I’d have been living a comfortable life, in some warm southern clime, with at least a half dozen ladies to wait on me, if it weren’t for the gold I’ve lost gambling!”
As the adventurers have already learned, Vigil loves its horses. When this tradition is not being upheld on the battlefield, it is celebrated by the races. Most famous of these is the annual Sophronia Steeplechase, whilst the Strander Stakes take place every month.
The course of the Stakes runs along the banks of the Path River south of Vigil. Nothing more than the usual cart road of beaten earth leading to the city of Vellumis, the horses race five furlongs to the Turning Staff. There they wheel and race back the way they came. In total, they complete six lengths of the course (a total distance of three quarters of a mile). It’s a flat race, with the exception of the Ashelflow, where the horses jump a small stream feeding into the Path (the wooden plank bridge normally crossing the stream is removed for the occasion).
A merry festival atmosphere is already in full swing at the race track, with groups of common folk scattered along its course, many with hampers of food and, despite the early hour, pots of ale. Around the Henswain, where the race begins, the mood is busier still. People jostle about the bookmakers, eagerly trying to place their bets, whilst tough-looking foreign mercenaries stand guard over the chests and strong boxes which are quickly filling with gamblers’ coins. Nearby, eccentrically dressed tipsters proclaim they know without doubt who the winner will be, and they’ll share it with you for a silver piece. Not far away, an old Varisian crone turns the cards of a Harrow deck. “Don’t listen to these dim-witted fools, only the cards know who’ll ride to victory today.”
Stalls sell various treats, beverages and wooden horses on wheels for the children. Minstrels play. A large crowd has gathered around a dusky-skinned beauty with a striking voice, who sings songs about past winners of the Stakes, whilst a plump, homely dowager accompanies her on a dulcimer.
At the starting line, a great scaffold holds a chalkboard, on which are written the odds offered by the bookmakers. The following names stand out.
1. El-Mehrik 3-1
2. Isabellina’s Arrow 5-1
3. Halamay Eclipsed 7-1
4. Arnisant’s Valour 3-1
5. Peculiar Pasara 100-1
6. Tallaset Tarn 12-1
7. Samair 10-1
8. Words of the Prelate 20-1
9. Enliforis 18-1
10. Kellid Mead 33-1
On the horizon, a large band of well armoured Watchknights make a slow patrol, ensuring there’s no chance the Stakes can be interrupted by some audacious warband of raiding orcs.
A short distance from Henswain, a temporary paddock has been roped off and guarded by Watchknights. There the competing horses and their jockeys make their final preparations for the race. Twenty horses in all, most are swift-footed Vigilant Coursers, though a fair few Qadirans from the fabled Plains of Paresh are also counted amongst the steeds. Most of the riders are halflings or lightweight human youths dressed in uniforms displaying the heraldry of their sponsoring knight. Needless to say, both Isabellina’s Arrow and Bonegrit tower over the lot of them, though at least the half-orc’s rangy frame won’t weigh down the great frame overmuch. Dierik and Deramil attend them, but the other competitors keep a wide berth.
Resplendent in a ridiculous waist coat, purple top hat and massive ginger side burns, the booming tipster suddenly quietens as he takes the silver piece. He quickly fishes a silver speaking horn from the wide silk sash tied about his bulging belly, indicating that it should be inserted into the ear to hear his selection without his tip being overheard by others.
The speaking horn is beautifully decorated with stylised pegasi. The tipster’s whispered words sound tinny as they travel down the horn.
“There’s a lot of talk about El-Mehrik, but this horse should never have been taken out of retirement. His day is past. Ignore all the fuss about Isabellina’s Arrow, he’s unproven and he’s too heavy for this race. Put your money on Arnisant’s Valour, or for an outside chance, Tallaset Tarn.”
All kinds of conflicting opinions are flying back and forth, but the prevailing focus seems to be on two horses. El Mehrik is already the winner of seven Strander Stakes. His owner retired him last year, but now the Qadiran brown is back and most people think his form’s as good as ever.
Isabellina’s Arrow seems to be the name on everyone’s lips though. Though many think putting a ‘great lumbering ox of a horse with these gazelles’ is pure nonsense, others talk of the legendary swiftness of the stallion’s dam, and retort ‘longer legs make longer strides.’
A lot of people seem to be excited about Tallaset Tarn. They think he’s got a fair chance of winning, despite the long odds.
Dame Lyrica Ericsdottr still possessed the vestiges of what must have been rare beauty in her youth. She lived on the wealth and reputation of her late husband, who after his service as one of Vigil's Knights, had served as the Tribune of Trade for the city. These days she spent her mornings in supplication at the Cathedral and her evenings living and breathing the horse races. How she enjoyed them, Pyotr could only guess, because she was as blind as a stone wall.
"Arnisant's Valour is good stock," she cackles as she walks arm in arm with Pyotr through the crowd. "His sire took the Stakes three times running... or was it four? Well, no matter. His mom was a jumper, in the Steeplechase, don't you know. Never did anything. I think most of his popularity is all due to that name o' his. People get all excited about anything named Arnisant."
Pyotr walks along silently, listening to the fiery dame give her litany of racing knowledge, mixed with her thoughts on the famous people of Vigil. She knows her way around the track, even without sight, and leads them both to the betting cages soon enough.
"I hear you're to be off with that Dierik Ironcoffer, eh? He's a scurrilous dog, if ever there was one! So, tell me," she whispers conspiratorially, "what's the dirt on that lumbering charger of his? Does the Arrow have his mom's spirit? It doesn't matter. Those warhorses get used to running in a line, don't they? Never like to get out front. If you'll take my advice, you'll put your money on Tallaset Tarn. He's an up-and-comer. Great bloodline, too. Why, I could tell you about his sires going back five generations! Winners, all of them!
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"For Victory, for the Heart!"
Pellius feels good, like he hasn't felt in many days. Like the clouds in sky being chased by the wind thus is his foul mood finally over, all thanks to Keyron Saiville, the Precentor Martial for Scouting, who had finally given him his leave of absence. Not that Pellius wants a vacation; he loves serving Vigil and is a proud bearer of the Sword Mark but he needs some time off. He hasn't been the same since that day his patrol was ambushed and his brother taken by the orcs. And Pellius knows, like he knows Iomedae used a longsword, that his brother is still alive out there, probably being forced to fornicate with some disease-ridden orc woman...
The young man shakes his head in disgust, white hair catches the wind like the banner flags. He is dressed in riding breaches, studded leather armor on, and his goddess beloved weapon at his side. Pellius is a common sight in Vigil, having been here for over a decade now. The soldier splits his time between soldiering, Sancta Iomedae, and the civil mage's guild but today is different. Today he is here to enjoy the horse racing and to contact Dierik Ironcoffer to hire himself on his caravan.
The magus makes his way around the river nodding to different people as he walks by. More than one soldier stops by to wish him good fortune and to be careful. Pellius, an avid horse enthusiast, knows he would not be able to get a hold of Dierik if he was attending his horse but he heard of someone else he needs to speak with.
He spots the monocled Taldan and confidently approaches. In his most relaxed military composure, he salutes the man, "Sir, I hear you are going to take a caravan down the Flood Road. I would like to offer my services. I know the land and I bear the Sword Mark. Will you hire me?"
The magus stands silently , a pleasant smile on his face, never expecting anything else than a welcoming yes...
Knowledge: History: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9 do I know anything about it?
Not with a roll like that I'm afraid :-)
Waking way before most, Dunagan delves into his ritualistic morning routine. His prayer seems almost identical to the morning before, but he adds a bit about Bonegrit, "Although the man has orc blood in his veins, he is a good sort. May you bless his works today. See that his works forge a better future for this land and protect what has been done so far."
During Dunagan's ride he notices a large patch of wild sunflowers in the morning sun. He tugs on Cornalium's reigns, who in return tugs back, but the horse finally complies and veers from the graveled path towards the brilliant yellow-hued field. The Dwarf drops with a loud clank into the towering flowers which rise just to his nose. He peers over them, selecting the best of he bunch before he severs them from their stalk. Gathering them into a bunch he ties a thin leather strap around them and carefully slides them into the saddle pack. Cornalium looks back at his new cargo and huffs defiantly. "Oh did I hurt your male pride fella?" Dunagan chuckles as he climbs atop Cornalium once again.
The dwarf does not return to the camp nor does he ride to the Strander Stakes. Instead, he rides for the heart of Vigil. He passes the guards who eye him suspiciously as he rides up the stream of its citizens. As soon as he breaks free of the crowd and enters the market district he slows Cornalium to a halt and pulls a sheet of parchment and an inkpen from his pouch and draws a small amount of ink into it. He eloquently scribes a note on the piece of parchment before he returns the pen to the pouch. Sliding from Cornalium, he reaches into the saddle pack and draws out the flowers.
He peeks around the corner at the forgeworks of his family to check if they have left for the Strander Stakes. Like he thought, they were gone. The Stakes are not good for business and the family usually heads down amongst the crowd to drum up business by handing out flyers and touting their wares. Taking his chance and unwilling to confront his father, he darts inside the forge.
Once inside he places the flowers on the anvil and the note beneath. The note reads:
Dearest Family,
The flowers are for my two beautiful sisters, Emlin and Reyna. I hope you will not miss me too much! I think you all understand why I am leaving and it breaks my heart that I must, but Torag's call is strong. I have to protect our history and create a new legacy for our family. We are simply existing in a dreary state in Vigil. Simply surviving is no longer enough for me. I must seek out Amrin's legacy and return it to glory. Father, do not be angry or upset. My intention is not to run off and leave the forge unattended. I know the loss of mother pains your very soul and you would be broken to lose me as well, but please find a place in your heart to accept that I need to do this. Emlin and Reyna are strong. They will be with you and by Torag's will, I will return!
Love,
Dunagan
The dwarf slinks out of the forge with teary eyes and climbs back upon Cornalium who looks back with an understanding, empathetic look. He slightly nudges the horse to move forward, but Cornalium just looks to the dwarf as if to ask if this is what he really wants. Dunagan's voice cracks a little, "c'mon boy, we've things to do," and the horse moves forward, back to the camp.
Dunagan arrives at the camp and takes his place next to Callan. "I've never enjoyed the Strander Stakes. Perhaps it was my family's peddling of their goods or maybe it was the crowd, but I've seen enough races to last me a lifetime. I wish Bonegrit well, but I just feel the whole thing is a bit contrived by Sir Ironcoffer's to fulfill some misguided desire."
Dame Lyrica sets a measured pace, walking through the manicured lawns and towering pavilions of the lords and merchants who sponsor the horses and jockeys participating in the Stakes. She keeps a running commentary of the pedigrees of the horses, and often of their owners.
"Of course, you have to consider El-Mehrik to be a contender. But, I doubt he still has the chops. Been out to stud for nearly a year, now. Takes the edge off a horse, it does. Makes them complacent. His owner, oh- What's-his-name...? No matter... He's probably gotten himself into some sort of financial quandary, and he's praying his champion can buy his way out of it. Seven Stakes he's taken. The bookmakers sure seem to think he has an eighth in him...."
They stroll through the paddocks and onto the first stretch of the raceway. "The ground is good and hard. How does it look to you, dear? It feels to me that it's in quite good condition. That's a blessing. It'll mean a fast start and a head of steam for the leaders. El-Mehrik will likely get out to an early lead, but he'll fall off fast. He just doesn't have the condition of these young colts."
The unusual pair wander on until they come back to the betting cages. "Be a dear and lay twenty gold on Tallaset Tarn, would you? I should hedge my bets, of course. I usually do. But, between El-Mehrik, Isabalina's Arrow, and Arnisant's Valour, I'd just be rolling the dice." Dame Lyrica hands Pyotr a small purse weighted down with gold. The Half-orc feels a pleasant tinge of pride at being so trusted by such a great lady. "You should lay a wager, too, my dear! You'll find the Stakes ever so much more exciting!"
"As my lady wishes," Pyotr speaks the first words he's been able to get in edgewise since escorting the lady from the Cathedral that morning.
The Dame pats his arm. "You're a fine lad. I've been singing your praises for years now. Not that these dunderheads ever hear what I have to say! But, go on. I dare say, you've been patient enough."
Pyotr finds a teller without a line in front of him, and proceeds to place the Dame's wager. He carefully returns the unused gold to her purse before removing his own. There he hesitates. The meager gold he possesses is the first he has ever owned. He is loathe to risk gambling it away. On the other hand, he is fully outfitted for his journey, and extra gold could allow him to begin paying back the Cathedral and the Precentor for their generosities. After another moment of hesitation, he places a wager of five gold on Tallaset Tarn.
Pyotr returns the lady's purse along with the receipt of her wager, and leads her towards a luxury box set to the side of the starting gate.
"Ahhh," the Dame breathes as she sits. "How I wish I could take these shoes off? Whichever of my peers brought about the fashion of these pointed toes... well, let's just say I have a few select tortures I'd like to inflict on them! Thank you, young man, for your patient company and your strong arm. It's a long walk from the Cathedral steps to the raceway, but I hardly noticed the time pass. Run along and enjoy the rest of your day. I'll be quite fine here. And do take care on your journeys. The Lady's blessings on you."
"Farewell, my lady. The Inheritor's sword defend you."
With most of the crew down at the races, the encampment is quiet and peaceful. Callan and Dunagan are sat on the edge of a sixbull, enjoying the energetic breeze and the twittering of the skylarks above, the old warrior swinging his twisted leg idly like a bored child in class.
“Here, Dunagan,” he says “Don’t mind if I snatch a look in that book of yours. I’d love to see your great-sire’s rune, the one yer was showing Dellie last night.”
The dwarf obliging passes his journal across, and Callan takes it, holding it at arms length and raising his woolly cotton eyebrows as he squints at the rune of Amrin.
“And this same mark is on Dierik’s sword, or so I hear from Santrian?” he asks.
“That’s a magic sword yer know. I’ve seen it glowing in battle a dozen times I swear. A brilliant white fire lines its edge, yet it casts no light. Strangest thing. Yer know, once Dierik struck a hellknight with the tip, and every piece of the blaggard’s armour shattered in twain, right down to the codpiece. Funny thing is, Dierik didn’t even seem to know why it had happened. Not like he’d commanded any power he knew of the sword or anything.”
Karannah and some of the guards are behind Delkaneth as he places his bet. They’re accompanied by Kelya Fylessi, a Desnan priestess who has travelled with the caravan for the last six months.
Kelya is a tall, rugged looking woman in her thirties. Normally dressed in practical clothes well-suited for the road, today she’s dressed for the occasion; a light patterned dress of chequered black and white diamonds, with her silver holy symbol displayed on a long chain hung from her neck.
“I saw a butterfly alight on the rump of Samair,” one of the guards explains excitedly to Kelya “Do you think it’s a sign that the goddess’s luck has touched the Qadiran gelding?”
Karannah snorts “Lhairak, why don’t you admit you’ve got no idea who to put your coin on. An insect on a horse’s arse! Doesn’t sound like a sound of divine favour to me.”
“Well, there Karannah’s demonstrating her ignorance of the ways of Desna. If the goddess wishes to favour you today, Lhairak, that sounds like just the irreverent kind of portent she might indulge in,” admonishes Kelya.
Lhairak hops with glee, flashes Karannah a superior glare, and hustles off to the bookmakers, silver piece in hand.
“Creep,” mutters Karannah as he hurries away.
-----
Not far away, a young man with white-blonde hair and a military bearing approaches Second Master Santrian.
“Oh, no need for any of that,” Second Master Santrian assures Pellius as the magus salutes before him. Santrian let’s his monocle drop into his open palm and starts to wipe it with a satin handkerchief.
“You’d like to join the caravan? Hmmm. And you bear the Sword Mark? Hmmm. Most with the Sword Mark don’t think too well of our humble outfit. And they’ve a reason, as we’re certainly no altruists. Which begs the question young man. Why?”
Sorry if a 'past tense' slips by my 'grammar checking'.
“You’d like to join the caravan? Hmmm. And you bear the Sword Mark? Hmmm. Most with the Sword Mark don’t think too well of our humble outfit. And they’ve a reason, as we’re certainly no altruists. Which begs the question young man. Why?”
The magus relaxes as much as possible, after all this is a job interview and one he could not screw up.
Feet slightly spread apart, hands behind his back, he starts speaking. "Well, sir, I have no such thoughts about your caravan. I admire your leader's brawn and gusto for life, sir."
Pellius knows that he could take this conversation in different paths. He can be honest and tell the man about his ulterior motive, about how he's hoping to find his brother, or he could be honest and praise Dierik and simply ask to join. He also holds his ace card, sort of speak; Dierik is an old friend of the family but he's saving that card unless he really needs it.
The magus continues, "If you are worried about my Sword Mark, sir. I was given a 'leave of absence' so I'm not a deserter or anything like that." The magus touches his embroidered sword on his chest and continues, "And sir, I serve with the city's scouting unit so my job has taken me in the orclands many times before. I'm sure you have talented scouts with you but you know what they about an extra pair of eyes, sir."
Pellius suddenly realizes that he hadn't answered the man's question and, in the end, admits that truth is the best course of action. Iomedae be praised. "Sir, if I may speak freely. I've been serving the city for seven years and about two months ago, my brother and other comrades were taken prisoners by the orcs. I want go deep into orc territory to see if there is any trace of them. I can't go alone; I know what it's like out there so this caravan seems a good option.
Seeing the man's objections, Pellius nods, "But don't worry, sir as I am a soldier of Iomedae first who knows his duty. I understand that I will have a job to do and will do so to the best of my ability. You can count on me, sir."
His hands back behind his back, Pellius waits for an answer.
With the caravan business taken care of, Pellius goes to find his friend Kaleb, a former halfling jockey, originally from Cheliax. And the magus knows exactly where his friend was. Pellius raises his head and looks for the crowd of people and a moment later strides with confident steps towards the spectacle. Although not in her tavern, Sharina draws a crowd no matter where in Vigil she was singing. And how could she not when she usually sang either about horses or heroes; it was hard to tell which Vigil loved most.
Pellius excuses himself through the crowd and taps the plump halfling on his shoulder while he lowers himself and whispers, “Well boss, where is our money going to this month?”
Kaled, angry at first for being interrupted, breaks out into a mischievous smile, “Samair, the Qadiran is the lightest, fastest horse.”
Pellius seems surprised, “But she’s got no stamina. We’ve seen her race before.”
Before he can continue, Kaleb raises his hand, “Ah, things change don’t they and I’ll tell you what’s changed. The weather for one; it’s rained in the past few days and the field is heavy.” The halfling raises a pudgy finger, “One for the fleet-footed.”
The magus opens his mouth.
“No, don’t say anything until you hear me out.” By now, the two leave the crowd and are speaking in hushed tones. Another little finger joins the first. “Whoever removed the wooden bridge this morning made sure that the banks of the stream were nice and muddy. More than one heavy horse will struggle with that jump.”
Pellius is not buying it, “No, you really are crazy.”
Kaleb smiles, “Crazy or not but between you and me here, I’m the only one who ever won the Stakes so respect your elders!”
It is Pellius’ turn to show his mischievous smile, “Yeah, but I hear that the only reason you won that time was-“
The halfling seems angry, “Don’t say it! I heard those rumors too but that’s all they are. The way I see it the only reason I only won that one time was because no one would ever trust me with their horse again!” His anger is quickly replaced by a smile; the old halfling raises his hand, now with three pudgy fingers, as high as he can trying to put it in front of the magus’ face. “And three... my nephew Valos is riding the Qadiran for the first time this race!”
Now Pellius is taking Kaleb seriously, “Valos? Really?” That seems to convince the magus who takes out his money pouch to see how much money he can afford to bet.
A few minutes later and both magus and former Stakes winner were sitting on a small grassy hill, ready to watch the race.
His monocle cleaned to his satisfaction, Santrian replaces it. He nods in approval at Pellius’ praise of Dierik, and raises his eyebrows on hearing the fate of Pellius’ companions and brother.
“You lay your motives out plainly, young soldier,” says Santrian “And that does you credit. Our wages are 3 gold pieces a day, to be paid at the end of the week. And should you find word of your brother on the journey and wish to leave the caravan, we will not hinder you.”
-----
A discordant bell rings and the cry from the bookmakers goes up “Last bets, last bets!” Watchknights efficiently ensure that the course is clear. Then the betting bell is drowned out by a fanfare of silver trumpets, and the twenty horses wheel out of the paddock to jockey for position at the start line.
Isabellina’s Arrow stands at least two hands above even the largest of the lighter horses, even if his shining pearl white coat wasn’t enough to make him stand out. There’s no hiding for the stallion’s lanky rider, and as the crowd gets a good look at the half-orc, an ugly murmur ripples through it. A few angry heckles ring out, but there are retorts as well.
“Shame on you!” cries one onlooker “Remember the words of your Shield Mark. This is not the spirit of Vigil. We don’t condemn a man for his ancestry, we judge him on his actions in the name of the Crusade!”
“Aye,” shouts another “And see how the Arrow carries him with pride. If he wins the respect of such a fine steed as that, then he wins mine!”
Chastened, the malcontents quieten, and a hush falls upon the onlookers as all eyes focus on the start. The board carrying the odds has now been taken down from the scaffold, and a young maiden in long, violet skirts carefully makes her way up its creaking wooden stairs to a small platform overlooking the restless horses. She’s a beauty, and her long golden, waist-length hair streams out like a dancing flag as the wind plays with it. From a pocket, she produces a lavender handkerchief and a cheer goes up as she raises it, arm outstretched.
Her delicate fingers open, and the rag dances and flutters, tumbled by the breeze as it falls, increment by increment, down towards the track. It seems to take an age, but finally it touches the dirt . . .
At that moment, the horns sound again and the horses explode into action.
El-Mehrik
Halamay Eclipsed
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead
Isabellina's Arrow: 15
Pellius is on his feet when the horses started off and the old halfling jockey is jumping up and down with joy, "Great start! I told you this is Valos' race!"
The magus just smiles and nods his head in time with the horse's gallop. He can see almost the entire race from this spot. Although not the highest grassy hill on The Escarpment (there some higher to the east but these didn't block the view), its northwest location allows a great view of almost the entire race. The only place they couldn't see very well was the sharp turn behind the Great Olden Oak.
As always, they aren't alone on the hill but it doesn't matter, the magus and the others just seem to be enjoying the race.
Gone is his military demeanor, Pellius pumps his fist in the air and shouts, "Go Valos. Go! C'mon Samair!"
The horses explode into action, trampling the handkerchief beneath their hooves. Tallaset Tarn and the dappled grey Words of the Prelate both make great starts, leading the race nose to nose. The two Qadirans, El-Mehrik and Samair are right beyond, and only a yard behind them is the white streak of Isabellina’s Arrow. These five lead the charge out of Henswain, trailed by Halamay Eclipsed and, in a surprisingly poor start, Arnisant’s Valour keeping apace of Kellid Mead. Peculiar Pasara and Enliforis lead the rest of the pack.
El-Mehrik
Halamay Eclisped
Arnisant's Valour
Peculiar Pasara
Tallaset Tarn
Samair
Words of the Prelate
Enliforis
Kellid Mead