With a distrustful look, Alagor quickly decides that a man in front of them is not a threat, so he refocuses his attention to their surrounding. He still did not feel "part of the group" so he was very uncomfortable answering the man's question. Trying not to look threatening, despite his sword, he relaxes his stance and moves slightly to the left, hoping that the man will be able to see that his weapon was pointed to the ground.
Well, at least there are no goats here. Ugly creatures...
A bit oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation, swordsman simply stands there sniffing the air, waiting for someone else to speak in front of the party.
Pyotr felt a strange sense of revulsion as the man emerged from his hut. It was not dislike or distrust... just a strange mix of envy and antipathy from the half-orc rejected by society, to the human who had rejected society.
“And who might you be?” he asks suspiciously, one eyebrow raised quizzically.
"We are merely pilgrims, traveling the Flood Road to lands far north. Our caravan leader has been poisoned by an assassin. This poison has no antidote known to us, but we pray it may known to you." Pyotr steps forward to stand with Pellius. "The coward that attacked our trail master confessed that the poison was crafted from a poultice of the upper gills of the black twincap mushroom. Please, are you familiar with this fungus?"
The hermit’s eyes continue to flicker from one adventurer to the next, lingering particularly on Alagor’s bared blade. Nonetheless, he holds his ground.
the poison was crafted from a poultice of the upper gills of the black twincap mushroom.
“The coward that attacked our caravan master confessed that the poison was made from a poultice using the gills of the black twincap mushroom. Please, are you familiar with this fungus?”
“Aye, in passing,” responds the hermit. “Tis a grave tincture indeed, but not necessarily as mortal as many would believe.”
“Enter and share some food with me. But leave your weapons outside.”
The hermit ducks back into his hut.
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"So tell me, dog; how much grease did Rosenholt lay in your palm before setting you to this fool's errand? What kind of poison did the coins of a coward buy?"The slight chatter of Tharkon’s teeth is audible as Bonegrit presses in close, though it’s likely more to do with the frost of Pellius’ spell than fear of the half-orc.
He masters his lips and manages a surprisingly candid reply to Bonegrit’s question.
“Ten coins of platinum, and five beggars’ diamonds,” he replies “A fortune large enough to quell my qualms. As for the poison, I’m not sure of the name, but the principal ingredient stems from the crushing of the upper gills of a black twincap mushroom. The coma comes on quickly, and though the death itself is lingering, it’s reckoned rather inevitable by most."
“Aye, in passing,” responds the hermit. “Tis a grave tincture indeed, but not necessarily as mortal as many would believe.”
"I hope for Master Ironcoffer's sake, that is true."
“Enter and share some food with me. But leave your weapons outside.”
Pyotr nods, unslinging the scabbard and sword from his shoulder. He first props it against a nearby tree, then thinks better of it, and hangs the strap from the highest branch he can reach, sliding it down until it rests against the trunk.
"Your hospitality is most gratifying, sir," Pyotr says as he pulls aside the flap and enters.
Time spent at Freedom Town has learned Alagor to be distrustful of strangers. Especially those inviting you to share their meal with them, with no apparent reason (or gain) for them. Your words sound good, but are you trustworthy enough...?
"You guys go ahead. I'll wait here. I don't want to offend our host, but I am not leaving Tanladvir unattended, so I'll just wait outside. Plus, it's probably very hot inside, I'd rather stay out and enjoy the breeze."
Anyway, I know nothing on poisons and such, and there will be already plenty of people inside - his thoughts wander while his attention is focused on studying the rusty weapon (bec de corbin) leaning against the wall of the hut.
(Untrained) Sense motive: 1d20 ⇒ 19
Alagor does feel the hermit is trustworthy, just naturally cautious in the face of so many armed men arriving unexpectedly at his home.
Offering a parting nod to Alagor Faelan, Bonegrit is glad that someone other than he is willing to stand watch while the others file into the hermit's ramshackle dwelling. He is more than a little curious to see what manner of oddity and spectacle await within the strange fellow's home. With a little luck he might even know how to save Dierik from the threat of a fate he has does not deserve.
"I could go for a bite to eat." Khozin moves toward the door, but pauses when he notices the hermit's gaze following him from within the building. The half elf looks undecided for a moment before shrugging in resignation. He deftly produces a number of daggers in various shapes, a flick of his wrist planting the blades of each into the turf next to the hermit's door one by one. Khozen once again looks to the hermit, nods his head, and follows the others past the threshold.
The interior of the hermit’s hut reeks. In closer proximity to his inhabitant, it’s quite clear that he reeks too. Nonetheless, he nods in approval as his guests divest themselves of their weapons and duck through his irregularly shaped entrance.
Despite the poorly covered windows and doors and the small cooking fire burning in the centre of its single room, the hovel’s as gloomy as it is cramped. There’s not much in the way of furniture; a pile of unwashed furs and withered bracken seeming to serve as a bed, a flat boulder as a table and two logs for sitting; one of them taken by the hermit. In the shadowy corners and the roof above comes the occasional rustling of small animals – mice most likely. A few more piles of trash lie about; for some indefinable reason the hermit has not yet chosen to throw these bits of junk out to join their cousins in the clearing outside. Delkaneth fails to notice any religious iconography pertaining to any god he recognises.
“Mushrooms, toadstools, aye, I know a good bit about ‘em, and learned a lot more I have since living in Curbril Wood. Maybe not the best growing conditions for ‘em, of course, but a darn sight better than anywhere else in these parts, save un’erground.”
A small cauldron, askew on its bent legs, totters over the fire. The hermit stirs its contents with a stick. On occasion, an errant waft manages to battle its way through the stench to reach the visitors’ noses. It smells surprisingly appealing.
“Aye, ‘tis the main ingredient of my broth,” the hermit explains “A couple of common mushrooms, the ones they call the bower waxcaps and the chicken o’ the woods, plus a little bit of a squirrel I slinged an a few ‘erbs.”
“Here,” he continues, dishing up with a wooden ladle “Sup away. I’ve only got three bowls, so you’ll have ta share. Oh, an’ one of ‘em’s cracked,” he adds.
The hermit looks at Khozin. “You’re with Ohrim aren’t ya? Or were. He was sickly, is ‘e still livin’?”
Turning to Pyotr he asks “So what’s this tale? And what makes ya think I can help?”
His words are friendly, yet therein lies a doubt as to how he can be of service.
Pyotr accepts the cracked bowl, and with his usual lack of decorum, slurps down the greasy squirrel stew. As he passes the now empty bowl on, he licks his fingers clean from the stew that leaked through the crack.
"The tale is a brief one. A man who has forsworn all honor hired a mercenary to assassinate our trail captain. The mercenary used a poison-tipped quarrel, and has confessed that the poison he favored was crafted from the black twin-cap mushroom." Pyotr glances to his companions looking for any additions or corrections to his recounting. "In short, he claims there is an antidote. Neither I, nor any of my companions know it. So, we have sought for one who may."
"You stated that the poison is not as fatal as many believe. Can you help us cure our Master Ironcoffer?"
Seeing all his comrades entering, Alagor hesitates for just a moment, but decides to stay with his original decision. He disliked having to leave his sword anywhere. Some moments later savory aroma drifts over the din of conversation and Alagor realizes that he also did not have any proper lunch. Very soon afterward, rumbling in his stomach makes him move away from the hut a few more paces, where the smell of the food was not present. His eyes dart around his surroundings, but his thoughts are lost elsewhere.
I wonder what She's doing now. She had such a beautiful smile. She's laughing probably....Laughing...with that buffoon - he spits on the ground, and take a few well practiced slashes at the empty space in front of him.
The magus slurps down the stew when the bowl comes his way. He listens attentively to what the hermit has to say, only nodding as Pyotr relates the sad tale.
Khozin moves to accept a bowl of stew but halts at the hermit's question, a shadow falling across the half-elf's face. "I'm afraid my teacher's door has been sealed." He pulls back his hands before he can accept the offered meal and slumps into a heap on the floor.
"You stated that the poison is not as fatal as many believe. Can you help us cure our Master Ironcoffer?"
The hermit scratches his loins thoughtfully. Whilst most of his fingernails are blunt and ragged, the right index has been allowed to grow unusually long, making for an ideal tool for picking at hard to reach areas of the body.
“Your information is true,” he answers “The lower gills do indeed harbour the makings of an antidote for the poison above. Aye, there’re a couple of other things to add, but it’s something I figure I could put together swiftly enough.”
“Challenge is gettin’ a rotcrown. Like I said, that’s one of ‘em mushies that likes to grow un’erground, an’ not round ‘ere neither. Needs undeath to grow, does the black twin-cap, ‘tis the weirdest thing really.”
“Closest place I’ve ‘eard of ‘em growing is un’er the Hungry Mountains to the east. A legacy of the Whispering Tyrant you see; where the restless forces of ‘is legions linger, in shadowed places where the light don’t reach, there you can find ‘em. Shouldn’t ‘ave to go as far as Gallowspire. Where exactly, couldn’t say, though Navareene might know. You’d certainly have to be willing to delve down a few caves, of which there’re more than a few.”
“Aye, though, you’ve the time to find it. Deadly though the rotcrown is, it works its doom slowly. You’ve two weeks at least, maybe even three. You could make the foothills of the Hungry Mountains with a day’s good riding.”
The hermit reaches over, plucking a threadbare burlap sack from the wall, and handing it across.
“Take these. Bark musseltufts, they’re called, sometimes I can find ‘em on the lower branches of dwarf oaks. Scarce, but it’s a good time o’ year for ‘em. They’ll not cure anything, but they might slow the poison. Crush 'em, boil 'em, mix 'em with some pig's blood, then take a pestle 'n mortar to 'em till you've got an' oily paste. Smear it on the skin of the afflicted.”
"I'm afraid my teacher's door has been sealed."
“Aye, I feared as much. Last time he came here it was clear enough the end was imminent and inevitable. Poor soul. Bitter luck too. Three years I’m telling ‘im that lookin’ fer elfgates in the Hold ‘a nonsense, an’ by the time ‘e finds a real lead, ‘e’s too sickly to follow it!”
Pyotr cannot keep an expression of surprise and elation from his face. "If this is so," Pyotr hefts the sack of musseltufts, "then you have done us a great service, and offered us a greater one still to come. There are too few who offer help so easily and selflessly. What boon can we offer you for your generosity?"
What boon can we offer you for your generosity?
“Musseltufts ain’t much use for anything else, an’ I’m in fine fettle, so I don’t need ‘em. Don’t worry yourselves. If you find some rotcrowns, bring ‘em to me. I’ll make the antidote, an’ if you can spare me a few coins, aye, I’d be happy with that.”
“You sure that big lug outside don’t want any dinner?” concludes the hermit, stirring the remnants of the cauldron.
The sage Sleer in Freedom Town suggested that you might be able to give us more insight into a recent encounter we had with the Council of Thorns?
“The Council of Thorns? Never ‘eard of ‘em. Sorry. From what I hear, that Sleer’s something of a preposterous fool anyway.”
Pyotr listens as Delkaneth relays his request. Council of Thorns?
“The Council of Thorns? Never ‘eard of ‘em. Sorry."
"Nor have I? What is the mystery behind these questions? Are we in danger from this 'Council'?"
Pellius shrugs his shoulders at the question and looks at Del for answers.
Later he turns to the hermit, "It's comforting meeting someone as noble as yourself nowadays. You shall indeed be well paid for your antidote. Any other information that may help us in our search of this plant?"
The magus looks about to see if anyone recognized the name dropped by the hermit. Finding blank faces, he quickly adds, "You mentioned someone named Navareene. Someone who could help us finding these caves? Who is he and where is he?"
Pyotr realizes after a moment that he is staring, mouth gaping, at the oddity in Delkaneth's chest. With a start, he shakes himself free of the trance. "Have you tried just pulling the damned thing out?"
Even as he asks, Pyotr realizes how foolish the question is. "What of you, Bonegrit? Are you well? And Ser Redgrave? Was he affected the same as you?"
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"Whatever those blighters were, they hated orc blood somethin' fierce. I reckon that's why I didn't get volunteered fer duty," Bonegrit grumbles more than speaks, though worry begins to creep into his features and tone as he turns a glance to the protuberance on Delkaneth's chest, "but I don't figger Modoru had any of the enemy's blood in 'im to get a pass. I reckon he's got one of those barkin' stumps growin' out of his chest too, ya get me?"
Bonegrit ponders his navel for a moment before looking at the Chelaxian's gnarled protrusion. "What if it's hungry fer the taste of orc? The glowin' blighters barked on an' on about revenge against the hordeborn." Quite unceremoniously, Bonegrit removes his left glove and sinks one of his sharp canines into the tip of his thumb. Squeezing pressure onto the minuscule wound to coax some blood to the fore, he reaches over to Delkaneth and gives it a smear across whatever it is that is sticking out of his body.
"By the Lady's light, don't feed the cursed thing!" Pyotr shouts. He winces as Bonegrit's thumb brushes the oddity leaving a smear of blood on its peak.
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Inside
"You mentioned someone named Navareene. Someone who could help us finding these caves? Who is he and where is he?"
The hermit slurps down the remainder of his mushroom soup, belches softly and then replies.
“Navareene? I think you’ll find that’s a girl’s name! Aye, she’s one to talk to if you wanna find ‘em rotcrowns quickly. I can point you in the right direction, but I’ll wager she can tell you exactly which cave you should be poking around in. Probably save a little searching.”
“Who is she? Well, I guess she’s the witch of the Freedom Town, though I dunno how well she’d take that label if she ‘eard it. She’s my chief customer, buys most of the mushies I gather in Curbril Wood for ‘er concoctions. She’s Abram Sharpe’s creature,” here the hermit pauses to spit on the ground, “an’ ‘e likes to keep ‘er close. ‘E’s got an interest in witchery. Dunno exactly where she resides, cos she comes to see me ‘ere. I don’t set foot inside the Freedom Town no more. But word ‘is, she’s got a nice big residence be’ind the The Court of Knives where all the Sharpes lair.”
Another refugee is Navareene, a midwife of Vigil exposed as a witch who trysted with vodyanov.
it's safe to say they've marked me as that envoy.
Del unlaces his tunic, revealing what lies beneath . . .
curses the hermit loudly, dropping his bowl. His eyes bug out of his head as he stares at Delkaneth’s chest. “I’ve never ‘eard of such a thing. Aye, you’re ina grim predicament to be sure.”
Alarmed, the hermit’s eyes flicker wildly around at the others in the hut, as if expecting them all to unveil similar afflictions.
Then Bonegrit bites his thumb and reaches across to press the digit against the branch protruding from Del’s torso.
As Bonegrit’s blood touches the stump of wood, Delkaneth feels an ecstatic rush pass through his body, and can’t help but let out an orgiastic sigh. For a moment his senses reel as a shudder racks his body, but pleasure rather than fever that precipitates this reaction. At the next breath it’s gone, leaving naught but a warm tingling in his spine.
Outside
At the edge of the clearing, a pair of squirrels pause to stare at Alagor, before scuttling along the branches and out of sight into the leaves above. Within the hut, he hears the low, unintelligible murmur of the adventurers’ conversation, then a sudden exclamation of surprise or fear from the hermit:
“Who is she? Well, I guess she’s the witch of the Freedom Town, though I dunno how well she’d take that label if she ‘eard it. She’s my chief customer, buys most of the mushies I gather in Curbril Wood for ‘er concoctions. She’s Abram Sharpe’s creature,” here the hermit pauses to spit on the ground, “an’ ‘e likes to keep ‘er close. ‘E’s got an interest in witchery. Dunno exactly where she resides, cos she comes to see me ‘ere. I don’t set foot inside the Freedom Town no more. But word ‘is, she’s got a nice big residence be’ind the The Court of Knives where all the Sharpes lair.”
"We should go and pay our respects to Courthrin Sharpe. He has been charitable to our cause once. Perhaps he could arrange a meeting with this Navareene."
curses the hermit loudly, dropping his bowl.
Hearing the sudden scream from the hut, Alagor does not waste a moment. In just a few steps he is at the entrance to the hut, jerking the boar skin aside in one swift motion with his free hand. Sword held high, he exclaims: "Who cleaves and splinter?!?"
The strangeness of the scene in front of him stuns him for a moment. He does not even hear Pyotr's words, when he finally murmurs to himself - "What in the Nine hells is that?!"
His blade is pointing towards Delkaneth's chest and the blood smeared stump protruding from them. Not able to understand the look on Del's face, and unable to place his orgiastic sigh in this scene, fighter's eyes keep darting across his new-found comrades until they settle at Khozin. Not saying anything, he just grimaces towards his friend. Explain this, please...wake me up, somehow!
All this commotion has left the hermit decidedly out of sorts. When Alagor bursts in, he involuntarily hurls himself into the corner of his hut, arms over his head. He trembles for a moment, opening one eye to find the adventurers not advancing upon him, then smoothes over his filthy garments in a fruitless attempt to regain some dignity.
“Aye. Well, if we’re done, maybe you’d best be off. An’ when you return, needn’t come in such numbers, nor with so many weapons,” His eyes are glued to the tip of Alagor’s greatsword as he speaks.
Pellius tries his best as the whole ordeal of Del is revealed. His warning about the 'dog' comes to mind as well as his brother old saying 'plenty of trouble around so don't be crazy and start looking for some'.
Keeping his comments to himself, the magus gets down to business once more. "Let's head back to talk to this woman first. We can also get Kelya to apply this medicine to Dierik but it sounds like it can wait."
Pellius is almost out the door before he nods his head back in thanks to the hermit. "Thanks for the stew as well; it really hit the spot."
"Many thanks, for many services," Pyotr nods to the old hermit. "I believe one or two may be capable of carrying the twincap. It should not be necessary for us all to trespass upon your hospitality again, and certainly not with weapons drawn." Pyotr nudges Alagor away from the door as he steps through.
"If it is not my fortune to be among the envoys to return, then I bid you farewell."
Pyotr retrieves his sword. "We should return to camp. The faster we deliver these," he hefts the bag of mussletufts, "to Kelya, the better. Also, we should collect a... gift of sorts for Founder Sharpe. I do not believe his sense of 'fairness' will extend to further charity."
With a sheepish look on his face, Alagor simply stands there, until nudged by Pyotr. Finally putting the sword down, he mumbles some sorry excuse and follows half-orc out.
Pyotr retrieves his sword. "We should return to camp. The faster we deliver these," he hefts the bag of mussletufts, "to Kelya, the better. Also, we should collect a... gift of sorts for Founder Sharpe. I do not believe his sense of 'fairness' will extend to further charity."
"Yes, what little I know of Sharpe's would confirm your assumption. If we need something of'em, we better go in with a gift of a sorts."
"The tapestry," Pyotr nods his intent. "I hesitate to negotiate while Dierik's life hangs in the balance." Pyotr looks scandalized by his own thoughts. "But, I suspect the Sharpes control much of the trade and wealth of the Freedom Town. If we sought its value in trade goods... such as the ale for which Freedom Town is famous... we could ask for the service and expertise of Navareene as part of the balance."
Alagor knows only the common knowledge regarding the Sharpes. The elder Sharpes number four or five, the original members of the Sharpes gang and the founders of the Freedom Town. Most are related as brothers or cousins, with Abram and Courthrin being the most influential in the settlement’s affairs. There is second generation, another half dozen sons and daughters of the original Sharpes.
Bonegrit recoils in abject terror at Delkaneth's reaction, flailing trickles of blood away from his thumb before returning his glove in a panic. Fortunately, the wave of ecstasy seems to pass in but a moment, thus earning Bonegrit the Chelaxian's reprimand. "Sorry. Didn't figger on it being... well." Bonegrit coughs and scratches at the back of his head for a few moments. "I reckon it caused a reaction, for better or worse, and answers my bark and then some: yer stump's vice is orcs. Suppose that's favorable in a way. We're starin' down the badlands of Belkzen, after all."
Hearing Pyotr's plan, Bonegrit finds himself readily agreeing with the fellow half-orc. "Gettin' these things to Kelya is important. Any time we can buy Dierik is worth the trip. As fer Navareene?" Bonegrit shrugs then looks about the room as he gains his feet in preparation to take his leave. "Everybody wants somethin'—even rich barkers in Freedom Town, yeah? Might be we can figger out somethin' to do for the Sharpes clan to secure the witch's help fer a while. Just gotta ask."
For the second time in a short time that he knows him, Alagor find himself readily agreeing with Bonegrit. Still feeling some unease as a newcomer to the group, he steps towards the two half-orcs discussing, making sure there is still some space between him and Delkaneth. He clears his throat, and proceeds to speak with his usual thick accent.
"I'd say Bonegrit is right. Sharpe's might ask something, or nothing, but no sense in assuming here. Let us get this stuff to your boss, buy'im some time, and then go and ask Courthrin. Their boyz were not really regulars in Worg's Head, and even when they were there, I made sure there were no broken heads" None on their side, at least "So I've no bad blood between me and them, and neither have any of you, from what I gather. We should be fine."
Almost as an afterthought, he adds - "But still, if you can part with that tapestry, I'd suggest we bring it with us, and one of us can stay outside with it. Cause if we carry it in, they'll know it's theirs"
Bidding the hermit farewell, the adventurers retrace their steps, emerging from Curbril Wood to where their horses are tethered, and then riding back to the caravan.
Dusk is settling, and a sombre air permeates the camp. Deramil helps unsaddle the horses, nodding a wordless approval at Bonegrit on seeing that the two steeds loaned to Khozin and Alagor have been looked after.
Tharkon remains where he was tied to the wagon wheel, head bowed, seemingly asleep or unconscious. Santrian and Kelya are not to be seen, but a lamp is glowing in the tent set up for Dierik, with Karannah and Callan standing guard outside.
On the step of her three-wheeled carriage, Zriorinta the Apocethary sits with her head in her hands, weeping loudly. Her cats are gathered around her, mewling in sympathy.
Pyotr walks towards the tent, making a point to pass close beside the otherworldly wagon of Zriorinta. "Take heart, lady. Dierik will not die this day. Nor tomorrow. You have my word."
He moves determinedly to the tent, approaching Callan as he stands stalwart. "Are Santrian and Kelya inside? We have a treatment that will ease his symptoms and buy him some time. And we are on a path to an antidote."
After they move away a few steps from Zriorinta, Alagor addresses Pyotr in a low voice: "I am guessing that crying Varisian lady with a strange wagon is in love with caravan master? That's why she is so grief stricken, right?"
Alagor walks with his characteristic gait through the camp, following pair of half-orcs and human magus, all the time making sure to keep some distance between him and Delkaneth. Being from Ustalav himself, he heard his fair share of horror stories, and what he saw on pale young Chelaxian could surely fit into some of those stories. Not intending to be a part of such a story, but at the same time not having any idea what to do, or how to help Del, Alagor has chosen to keep his distance for the time being, hoping that Navareene might help them.
"Take heart, lady. Dierik will not die this day. Nor tomorrow. You have my word."
Sweeping back the heavy mane of midnight black hair from her face, Zriorinta looks up at the noble half-orc.
“Thank you for your words, good sir, but there is nothing that can prevent a rotcrown from doing its wicked work. You’re right. Dierik won’t die this day, or the next, but eventually the poison will claim him. It’s only a matter of time.”
- - - - -
"Are Santrian and Kelya inside? We have a treatment that will ease his symptoms and buy him some time. And we are on a path to an antidote."
“At least we’ve some better news then,” replies Callan. “Santrian and Kelya are inside.” He’s about to usher the adventurers in when he notices their new companions and hesitates. Nodding his head to Alagor and Khozin he asks “Who are these fellows?”
Bonegrit's features soften somewhat at the sight of Zriorinta, though he offers no consolation to the distressed woman. As worried as he is, there's little he can say to ease her grief. And even more harshly, he is forced to admit that her emotional equilibrium ranks decidedly low on his list of priorities at the moment. Securing a means of curing their employer will suffice far more than reassuring words from any half-hordelings. At Crooked Callan's query, Bonegrit grunts what vouch he can for the recent arrivals at the camp. "Arrived on our heels last time we were makin' to leave camp. They got us to the hermit and back in one piece, and have offered help even further beyond. Thought to make introductions to Santrian before we head out again, if he's in the mood to entertain. Extra hands familiar with Freedom Town are a stout boon fer our cause, I reckon, yeah?"
Bonegrit's pace slows as they near Dierik's carriage. Looking for an excuse to avoid seeing the man in such a feeble state, Bonegrit instead puts his focus towards a practical task. As way of farewell, he begins stepping away and calls out over his shoulder, "See to Dierik, then, yeah? Goin' to get what we can here fer a trip to the Mountains; we can pick up the rest in Freedom Town, I reckon." Bonegrit sets to getting the animals prepared for a much longer haul: checking horseshoes; double-checking straps and saddles; securing enough animal feed and treats for the long trip ahead.