"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.”
"The Inheritor is not a fickle mistress. She has not abandoned Dierik Ironcoffer despite his protestations. She has placed a distant beacon in a dark, shadowy place. But, it leads to a cure."
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?"
Pyotr continues another few paces. "Impossible to know that one. Perhaps her cats could tell you." He stops short as the memory of Dierik's midnight liaisons with the apothecary return to the fore. He looks to Alagor with his jaw gaping at the scandalous thoughts. The man is a scurrilous rake! To use a woman so... without a thought for her reputation!
He shuts his hanging mouth and continues on towards the tent.
- - - - -
"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?”
"This is Alagor, a sell-sword from the Freedom Town. He has offered his service for employ. The plight of the Master of the caravan has not escaped him, and he is pledged to return Dierik to health in exchange for passage and pay on the journey north."
Standing in front of Dierik's trail guards, his face stolid, Alagor waits for the two half-orcs to finish their introduction. His eyes scrutinize carefully the man standing in front of him, and although Callan is obviously past his prime age, Alagor is aware that this man has seen his share of troubles, and managed to survive.
"Pyotr's words ring true - I am at your service" - Alagor simply bows his head lightly, while crossing his right arm across his chest in a practiced move. While doing so, the sleeve of his tunic latches itself upon a stud on the armor, revealing two small scars bisecting at a slight angle, Mark of the Order of the Descending Blade.
Lady, we were lead to believe that the Bark musseltuft could help delay the poison?
“Musseltufts are no cure,” sobs Zriorinta “Perhaps they’ll slow the poison a little, but no more.”
Buy us some time to go find more rotcrowns?
She frowns. “Why would you seek more? Revenge on that bastard?” Zriorinta points over to where Tharkon’s trussed form is slumped.
- - - - -
Callan listens to Pyotr and Bonegrit’s endorsements and responds with a cautious nod, then glares intently at Alagor as the warrior makes his introduction. He reacts not to the mark of the Descending Blade. Callan’s eyes shift to the half-elf Khozin, who just shrugs. Callan grunts, and bids them enter the tent, but follows the adventurers inside. Suddenly, even the grand tent that shelters Dierik seems cramped.
The caravan master lies comatose on a cot heaped with furs, his face waxen and set with a grim expression, deep in the depths of unconsciousness. As expected, attending him are Kelya and Santrian, the former with her hand in Dierik’s as she quietly mutters prayers to Desna, the second sitting on a camp chair, despondent and morose, idly twirling his monocle between his fingers.
Santrian barely seems to notice the adventurers as they enter, his eyes far away, but Kelya looks up and smiles wearily.
“Anything?” she asks.
"We were led to believe that the mushroom holds the key to the poison and the cure. Though the source seems reliable we were hoping you could verify?"
Hope kindles in Zriorinta’s tear-swept eyes. “I’ve not heard this said before. All I’ve heard is that poison from a black twincap mushroom is incurably fatal, resisting even the curative blessings of the most powerful priests. Who was your source, who says otherwise?”
The caravan master lies comatose on a cot heaped with furs, his face waxen and set with a grim expression, deep in the depths of unconsciousness. As expected, attending him are Kelya and Santrian, the former with her hand in Dierik’s as she quietly mutters prayers to Desna, the second sitting on a camp chair, despondent and morose, idly twirling his monocle between his fingers.
Santrian barely seems to notice the adventurers as they enter, his eyes far away, but Kelya looks up and smiles wearily.
“Anything?” she asks.
"We were given these," Pyotr holds the bag of mussletufts forward. "They should be mortared into a paste and applied directly to the wound. If our benefactor is any indication, I would wash them first," Pyotr gives a brief, nervous chuckle, trying to break the dark tension. "It is not a cure. But, it will ease the symptoms and buy Dierik more time."
"Is Deramil awake?" he asks Santrian. "We will need the horses brushed down, fed, and watered. They should be ready to leave as early as possible, and travel a great distance. We will need feed for several days, at least. There is a cure. It is in the darkest place imaginable."
A shadow crosses Pyotr's face as he looks towards the east. Ustalav. The very shadows of Gallowspire. Pyotr looks down at the sword mark on his bare hand. I hope I can retrieve my gauntlet before we depart. Unconsciously, he begins tapping his fingers on the silvered helm he took from the Iomedaean chapel.
"We were given these," Pyotr holds the bag of mussletufts forward. "They should be mortared into a paste and applied directly to the wound. If our benefactor is any indication, I would wash them first," Pyotr gives a brief, nervous chuckle, trying to break the dark tension. "It is not a cure. But, it will ease the symptoms and buy Dierik more time."
The magus shrugs his shoulders, "Aye, the man also said to mix in some pig's blood. I'm not sure if that's part of the concoction or just something to make the paste. In any case, you would know better than us, Lady."
Pellius then looks around, "So we leave the sooner the better but I'd be weary about traveling in the dark."
At Callan's biding, Alagor canters into the big tent. Immediately his senses are assaulted by the strange smells and even stranger sight greeting them in the pavilion. His gaze wanders slowly from pale Dierik's face to the person sitting next to him, twirling the monocle between his fingers.
Monocle?! 'tis not really a place...
And then, Keyla's smile lighten up the tent, despite the obvious fatigue on her beautiful face. Big man is smitten on the spot, slack-jawed as he struggles to say something, anything.
"You are a dream come tru...I mean, you also worship The Great Dreamer. Me too!" - Alagor blurts out, before trying to compose himself and somehow repair the irreparable. Bravo you big oaf, what a way to start! Idiot!
His eyes darting around, he catches Pyotr talking and is quick to add onto his sentence: "Yes, we will go to a dark place. Rest assured milady and..." - here he struggles for a second, understanding that he does not know who the monocled man really is - "...and you, that we will do all in our power to bring the cure needed. We shall do it. For sure..."
Stop talking! Stop talking! Shut your jabber and stop talking!!!
"Yes, dark place. I am from Ustalav actually. It is not as dark as...well, it is east. I will make sure we succeed!" - babbling incoherently, Alagor bows slightly and leaves the tent as fast as circumstances allow. Once outside, big man feels that his legs are starting to shake, and that there is a very strange feeling at the bottom of his stomach.
Pellius then looks around, "So we leave the sooner the better but I'd be weary about traveling in the dark."
"I doubt the Sharpes would welcome late night visitors, armed to the teeth, and seeking the services of their resident witch. If we are to ask for this Navareene's aid, we should wait at least until dawn."
"We were given these," Pyotr holds the bag of mussletufts forward. "They should be mortared into a paste and applied directly to the wound. If our benefactor is any indication, I would wash them first,"
"Aye, the man also said to mix in some pig's blood. I'm not sure if that's part of the concoction or just something to make the paste. In any case, you would know better than us, Lady."
“Yes, bark musseltufts,” answers Kelya “I’ve heard of them. Perhaps they’ll help . . . I certainly don’t think they’ll hinder Dierik. As for the pig’s blood . . .” Kelya weighs the bag of mushrooms uncertainly.
Santrian rises from his reverie at the promise of a cure. “Let’s take no chances,” he interjects “If pig’s blood is suggested, then pig’s blood it will be.” The Second Master throws a jingling pouch of coins into Callan’s hands. “Send someone up to the Freedom Town to buy a pig with all haste.”
"Is Deramil awake?" he asks Santrian. "We will need the horses brushed down, fed, and watered. They should be ready to leave as early as possible, and travel a great distance. We will need feed for several days, at least. There is a cure. It is in the darkest place imaginable."
“Deramil’s no doubt awake – I doubt many of us will be sleeping this evening,” responds Santrian. He stands, tucking his monocle into a pocket of his waistcoat. Turning his haggard face towards Pyotr, he asks “What and where is this cure? You speak of a dark place – where does it lie and how far? What is your plan?”
Kelya is serene in the face of Alagor’s babbling; over more than thirty years her looks have won the hearts of many men; some as young as Alagor. Despite the seriousness of their surroundings, she grants him a smile to reassure that his bumbling words have not offended. Beside Alagor, Khozin rolls his eyes at his friend’s performance, but at least manages to stifle a snicker.
Bonegrit joins Deramil to tending to the horses. They work in silence for a time, then unsolicited, Deramil begins to speak.
“Rotten misfortune dogs our Trail Captain. He was a man of great promise in his youth. I still hope one day Desna’s path will bring him back to the hero’s road. But always there are setbacks, betrayals, the worst kinds of deception. And now, today . . ,” a heavy sigh escapes the half-elf’s lips.
Bonegrit notices that Sard and Cornalium are gone, although with all of Dunagan Haarglick’s piled possessions.
"Is Deramil awake?" he asks Santrian. "We will need the horses brushed down, fed, and watered. They should be ready to leave as early as possible, and travel a great distance. We will need feed for several days, at least. There is a cure. It is in the darkest place imaginable."“Deramil’s no doubt awake – I doubt many of us will be sleeping this evening,” responds Santrian. He stands, tucking his monocle into a pocket of his waistcoat. Turning his haggard face towards Pyotr, he asks “What and where is this cure? You speak of a dark place – where does it lie and how far? What is your plan?”
"The black twincap mushroom is an odd toadstool. It grows primarily underground, and while this is not unusual for a fungus, it also requires the presence of the restless dead to flourish. A foul, cursed thing. But, as with all such evil, it is self-defeating. The upper gills can be crafted into a poison, but the lower gills can be made into the cure."
"There are few places where we can hope to be certain to find the undead. But, the legacy of the Whispering Tyrant," Pyotr spits, as though the very words are unpalatable, "is strong to the east. In the depths of the Hungry Mountains, we will find the twincaps."
"The hermit recommended that we seek the aid of Freedom Town's local witch. Abram Sharpe keeps a woman named Navareene out of his fascination in her powers. Our first task should be to enlist her aid."
Though surprised at Deramil's unprecedented foray away from the realm of brevity, Bonegrit nonetheless does an admiral job of not overtly reacting or drawing attention to the elder's appraisal of Dierik's circumstance. Instead, he continues brushing down the horse he has been tending to with a feigned disinterest. Figuring Deramil is not terribly unlike himself, drawing overmuch attention to the First-Master's sudden verbosity would embarrass at best. After a few moments pass, Bonegrit finally manages to offer a response to what strikes him as sagging hope.
"Lastwall is a strange place. Men puttin' orcs to the blade and torch for a living—that takes a toll. Orcs have children like any other. These honorable knights are called heroes fer their deeds; burning out hordelings and leavin' what's left to be raised by strangers that don't give a shake fer any of 'em. When their duties chip away at the man beneath the armor, they're tossed aside as villains and rakes when they find comfort in a mug or a bosom." Bonegrit snorts deeply and dislodges a hearty helping of phlegm from his gullet onto the ground beneath the horse he has nearly finished brushing down. "People keep holdin' Dierik to Vigil's standards, he's always gonna be drawin' a short straw. Then again, how many knights of Vigil would put a half-hordeling atop his white destrier in The Stakes? If y'ask me, Dierik's hero enough already. Maybe he's just lingerin' in the wrong place."
Moving on to Torshen's Hammer, Bonegrit sighs audibly, figuring the concern in Deramil's voice has not been sufficiently allayed by praises to Ser Ironcoffer's integrity. "I wouldn't figger on him findin' a Boneyard any time soon. Rotcrowns ain't half as incurable as people say, and we're workin' on sniffin' out a whole crop of em. We'll fix him up soon enough, then we can get this damn caravan movin' again."
Santrian seems buoyed by the fortuitous news. “Be cautious when it comes to Navareene. Whilst we appear to have an ally in Courthrin Sharpe, Abram may have a different perspective. There’s little fraternal love between the two, from what I’ve heard. I’ve also heard it said that Abram’s as cunning as a leucrotta.”
- - - - -
Like Bonegrit, Deramil’s attention remains focused firmly on the horses he is tending. He begins a response, but no more than the first syllable passes his lips when he seems to reconsider his words, faltering, and instead saying only “True enough,” in response to Bonegrit’s observations.
Pyotr gives Alagor a concerned look as he rambles on, but does not interrupt. "You are Ustalavan? Then you should coordinate with Bonegrit to plan our route. He seems capable of picking a path through any terrain, but some knowledge of the area could not hurt."
He turns to Kelya, handing her the sack of mussletufts and placing a hand on her shoulder, sympathy etched upon his face. "After you administer the poultice, you should turn in. Dierik is in no immediate danger, and will not be helped by you exhausting yourself by his bedside."
He turns to Santrian and Callan, "I will call upon the Sharpe's first thing in the morning. I will take care with Abram," Pyotr runs a thumb across his tarnished armor, "though I can hardly imagine what he could hope to gain."
"Until then, I shall try to get some rest. I am still suffering from the wounds of our previous engagements."
Pyotr stretched out the remnants of his night's sleep, catching himself from the twinge of pain from the last of his bruises. The flesh golem's catapult balls and the crawling hands had done enough damage that he still had not fully healed.
Most of the caravan crew looks like they had spent the entire night awake. Crinkles breakfast fare is a cold and congealed porridge, which Pyotr fears would not stand up to the trials of the day. Nevertheless, he wolfs down the colossal portion he typically eats.
Pyotr joins his companions and Deramil at the paddock where the horses stand ready. He produces the tapestry, the cameo locket, and the box with the gold coins from their storage in the sixbulls. "We should decide now how much of this we will offer in exchange for Navareene's aid. Though, it may be better to secure its value in gold first, than to try and barter with the Sharpes."
The thunder that was rumbling to the east the night before has not ventured closer, and Moonday dawns to a grey and rather cold morning. Dierik’s condition remains unimproved, despite Kelya’s application of bark musseltuft and pig’s blood paste. Although the word has now spread about the camp that the adventurers may have found a cure, the mood remains low.
For the early risers, cold, congealed porridge is the only breakfast available. However, later in the morning Crinkles rouses himself and makes good use of the slaughtered pig. The rich smell of sizzling bacon drifts through the camp.
By the great wheel of one of the sixbulls, Karannah quietly spoons some porridge into the captive’s mouth. She follows this up with a cup of water, but Tharkon nevertheless looks worse for wear for a night trussed against the wheel.
Pyotr retrieves the cameo, gold, and with some help, the tapestry. Studying the locket, he figures the damage must have reduced its value (the front clasp is missing), but still guesses he should be able to get around fifty gold pieces for it*.
Rolling out the tapestry to its full length on the ground, the half-orc once again appreciates its beauty. There’s a lot of damage, both from dried blood and fire. With skilled restoration and a party interested in Lastwall’s history, it might fetch an astronomic price, perhaps even three or four thousand gold pieces. However, in its current condition and given the haste he and his companions are in, such estimates must be seriously reigned in. Even so, Pyotr considers something in the region of seven hundred gold a reasonable judgement if the right buyer can be found in the Freedom Town.
Hopefully with these and the box of gold coins they’ll be enough to pay for whatever they need . . .
Breven, one of the drovers, approaches the adventurers.
“I hope ye finds a cure for Dierik,” he says, before pulling a folded scrap of parchment from his pocket. “Dunno if ye noticed, but the dwarf rode out last night, with his two horses. He asked me to give ye this.”
Breven hands across the letter. Its message is written in Dunagan’s hand.
My Companions,
It seems our paths do not run as far as we expected. The legacy of my ancestors will have to wait for now, for even as a write my father’s forge fires flicker and dim. My sisters have already lost a mother. If they are to lose their father too then I cannot leave them alone in the world. Thus I return to Vigil.
I am troubled to leave your side with Dierik stricken such, but my family calls me. You have proven your courage and resourcefulness – if any can save him it will be you.
Delkaneth – trouble yourself not over my loan. Coins are little things in times like these. I hope Harika bears you well.
May Torag keep your blades keen,
Dunagan Haarglick
Sometime in the night Alagor stirs, and half-awake notices Khozin’s bedroll is empty. However, the warrior drifts quickly back to sleep, and, on rising with the morning finds Khozin right where he should be, snoring contentedly with blankets tucked up to his chin.
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As Delkaneth sleeps . . .
It’s night on the marshes. Somewhere out there in the darkness, the drums continue their persistent ominous rhythm. How long until the horde arrives? The Council does not realise how little time they have. The knowledge spurs you on as you slosh towards the Ghostlake, your brown robes sodden, the thorns of the swamp plants clutching as they always do. There is no time to tarry; Harchrist’s message must be delivered before it is too late.
Breathing hard you thrust your way past the last of the entangling vegetation, and the placid waters of the Ghostlake lie in front of you, the fog silver in the moonlight. The fog silver, but beneath it something is wrong. The water is red, clouding with blood . . .
Unless you have something to share before it's too late?
Tharkon begins to sob in desperation.
“I’ve been trying to share the location since you caught me! All I ask for is my life and my sword and I will draw you a map. I keep telling you this, why don’t you listen!?”
After a long time, Alagor slept like a baby. His rhythmic but light snoring was interrupted only once or twice. Once finally up, he notices that Khozin is back in his sack, but still sleeping. Must be tired after his night walk. I'll ask him later where he went
Seeing that he is late for breakfast and there's only cold porridge left, he becomes crestfallen a bit, but very soon after that the smell of sizzling bacon drifts in, and large warrior follows it quickly for another round of "real man" breakfast.
While waiting for the party to gather round and go to Sharpe's, he helps Pyotr with the tapestry and admires it's beauty. "I don't know much about these things, but if you ask me, this is too valuable to be traded to Sharpe's for a simple conversation with Navareene. Especially considering the fact that she actually might not even have any information we need. Let us simply try with gold, I think it would be easier."
Later still, with nothing better to do, he follows Delkaneth to the prisoner. After Tharkon's desperate plea, although unsolicited, he voices his opinion again: "Tell ya what. If I were you, I'd draw that map immediately. If we use it and are able to save Dieriks life, than the old man will decide on your faith. Could be he decides to kill you, but from little I've heard of'im, I think you have a good chance walking alive. Maybe even with another job, you never know. Now, how's that sound?"
Pellius still winces and drags his feet. The heroics of the day before had taken a toll on the magus. He meekly approaches Kelya, "Lady, I know you have been through a lot; we all have. But I fear I won't be able to do my job right if my wounds don't heal quickly. Thus I implore you for help. Do you have any magical healing left? Can you tend to my wounds tonight?
Later, seeing his wounds are not completely healed, the magus then seeks out Pytor before going to bed for the night. "Aye, paladin. Any aid for a fellow soldier fighting on the Lady's side? Thrakon's blades bit deeply than I care to show but I know I'll need to be at my best for the long ride tomorrow.
Pellius scoffs at the assassin, "It looks like a good night's sleep has done wonders for your social graces."
"I too feel much better." The magus looks around, not sure about his authority about what he's going to say. "Listen here. You draw us a map and we get what we need AND Dierik recovers. Once that happens, during which time you remain here in our custody, then I will give you my word that you'll be set free, unharmed." Pellius shakes his head, "Before you answer, be reasonable and think that we have no reason to trust you. If we let you go now with a piece of paper, you could be sending us all to our graves. Deal?"
Pyotr lays his helm down beside his bedroll and begins to undo the catches and clips on his armor. He frowns slightly at Pellius' request, not certain whether the power would still come to him... Still, he places his hand on Pellius' shoulder, feeling a sense of empathy for the wounds suffered.
Wearied though she is from her long ministrations at Dierik’s side, Kelya obliges Pellius immediately. Her feather light touch rests briefly on the dried blood of the magus’ wounds as she whispers the words of healing.
- - - - -
The uncomfortable night strapped to the great wagon wheel has weakened Tharkon’s resolve. Although he quickly manages to stifle his burst of sobbing, the bold defiance of the previous day is all but gone.
You draw us a map and we get what we need AND Dierik recovers. Once that happens, during which time you remain here in our custody, then I will give you my word that you'll be set free, unharmed.
Tharkon’s old, red-rimmed eyes meet those of the man whom he crossed blades with the day before. “You’re a man of Lastwall. Will you swear it on your Sword Mark? Will my sword be returned to me on my release?”
I think DM has made pretty clear, Tharkon's not giving up the goods unless we set him free with his stuff.
You draw us a map and we get what we need AND Dierik recovers. Once that happens, during which time you remain here in our custody, then I will give you my word that you'll be set free, unharmed.Tharkon’s old, red-rimmed eyes meet those of the man whom he crossed blades with the day before. “You’re a man of Lastwall. Will you swear it on your Sword Mark? Will my sword be returned to me on my release?”
The magus face contorts in what could be construed as a smile. It was clear that he didn't like to deal with this sort of man, "Yes, I will give you my word but just to show you that I mean no trickery here, let me go and check with the man in charge of your fate to make sure that my word will hold."
In a grave voice, the magus explains the deal he is about to make with the would-be-assassin. "I think the information could potentially save us days to find a cure. Do you think we can agree to releasing him, with his sword?"
"Whether that man lives or dies matters not a jot to me. My sole concern is Dierik's survival. If making a deal with Tharkon is what it takes, then so be it," answers Santrian.
Pyotr approaches Pellius and Santrian just as the latter makes his proclamation. He turns and looks towards the east in a pointed fashion. "The sun is well up, now. The rumor will have spread all the way across Freedom Town that Dierik Ironcoffer was poisoned by an assassin and his life hangs in the balance. Tomorrow, the rumors will say that while Dierik Ironcoffer stood at the very gates of Pharasma's domain, his murderer was set at liberty."
Pyotr turns back to Santrian, "Very soon those rumors will leave Freedom Town for all points east and west, south and north," Pyotr lays special stress on the last.
"Or... if we hold onto our faith, and steel our nerves... then the rumor will go across the land that Dierik Ironcoffer survived the assassin's arrow, survived a full dose of an unsurvivable poison, and his attacker stood trial and was justly punished for his crimes." Pyotr glances back towards the tent. "Dierik is a businessman. You decide which will profit him more."
"Or... if we hold onto our faith, and steel our nerves... then the rumor will go across the land that Dierik Ironcoffer survived the assassin's arrow, survived a full dose of an unsurvivable poison, and his attacker stood trial and was justly punished for his crimes." Pyotr glances back towards the tent. "Dierik is a businessman. You decide which will profit him more."
The magus scratches his chin in thought. Magic although difficult didn't have these kind of choices.
He nods in agreement with the paladin, "You make a good point but Dierik will profit provided he survives. Let's delay our decision with regards to Tharkon; he isn't going anywhere. Let's see what sort of aid we can obtain from this witch and then pick our poison." Quickly becoming aware of his choice of words, the magus clears his throat. "...er, make our decision. If she provides us with clear directions, then we can act accordingly. Agreed?"
With that, the magus goes over to check on Signior and readies himself to go to town.
Seeing that he could not offer any more significant help during negotiations with the prisoner, Alagor wanders off into the camp looking for a way to kill time until the group decides to leave for Freedom town. Since he could not locate Khozin, and with most of his comrades busy with horses, he decides to practice a bit. He looks around for Crooked Callan, asking him if he would be allowed to spar with one, or maybe even two of his guards.
"I know this may sound like I'm simply bragging around, but I've had a bit more training with the blade than an average guard. And I do not want to dishonor anyone, but I do need a good challenge. Do you have some, or should I practice solo again?"
Bonegrit passes the morning in the silence of determination, having begun preparing the horses for the possibility of long distance travel an hour before a sliver of dawn's grey approaches on the horizon. Though his eyes are more sullen than usual, a tell of what little sleep he was able to find, his jaw is set as firmly as the horse shoes he has finished affixing. There was much to do today, and haste was required.
Impatience becomes the mask that Bonegrit wears. Slopping down what porridge he can between preparations, his gaze visits a few accusatory tones to his companions and the scant delays. He had hoped to be on the trail before the sun made itself fully known, but the task of loading tapestry and further inquisitive efforts being effected on the captive assassin in the camp see the morning's hours waning at a rate the ranger is no longer comfortable with. Approaching the growing circle around Tharkon's "prison" Bonegrit announces himself with a low growl.
"Knock the barkin' fetters off yer stilts and let's get goin' already! I had the damned horses ready before half of ya rose. Dierik's not got time fer second breakfasts or prattle parties; especially from old codgers like him." Jerking a thumb in Tharkon's direction, Bonegrit offers a final scoff before turning to approach the horses once more.
"I'll carry the soddin' tapestry there myself if I have to," Bonegrit grumbles, pulling his heft atop Amiro.
Pyotr blanches at his fellow half-breeds impatience, but accepts that time is passing away. "Thank you for attending to the steeds," he says as he pulls Hammer around to the tapestry. With Alagor's aid he is able to tie the massive woven roll to the saddle.
For barter or gold... "I'll follow your lead. If we are to sell this piece straight out, then we should go to Jork's place, a trading post I gather. If we are looking for a buyer of historical works, then there is a disgraced knight named Yevender. If we are merely to barter with the Sharpes, then would you kindly steer us by the smithy on the way?"
Santrian listens to Pyotr’s warnings and Pellius’ change of heart. It’s hard to read his thoughts over the mask of weariness and concern set hard in his face. He twirls his monocle slowly, and after a moment’s pause repeats “I’ll follow your judgement here, so long as the cure is found and Dierik recovers.”
Tharkon, overhearing their exchange, mutters a broken curse and stares daggers at Pyotr, who seems (to him at least) devoted to continuing his incarceration.
"I know this may sound like I'm simply bragging around, but I've had a bit more training with the blade than an average guard. And I do not want to dishonor anyone, but I do need a good challenge. Do you have some, or should I practice solo again?"
With all the concerns of the day, Crooked Callan seems little interested in Alagor’s braggadocio. However, another of the guards, looks up from where he sits sharpening his longsword and offers “I’ll fight ya.”
This is Morin, one of the oldest of a Callan’s men – short, stocky and balding, with thick, furry eyebrows that continually appear to express surprise or scepticism at events around him. His blade sings through a couple of practice cuts before he takes a sloppy guarded stance in front of Alagor.
“Just don’t hurt me with that great slab of iron,” he jokes.
Khozin watches his friend sparring, and after sidles up to Alagor, chewing absent-mindedly on a bacon rind. “Back into town eh? Let’s hope we don’t tarry too long, there’s a few doors there I’d rather see closed firmly behind me – and perhaps locked for good measure!”
Meanwhile, Delkaneth gives the money he owes Sleer to Lunt, a weathered old caravanner who’s heading into the Freedom Town to spend some of his hard-won earnings, Dierik’s health be damned. Lunt promises to deliver the outstanding four gold pieces to the scholar.
Just a few practice cuts and swings were all Alagor needed in order to size up Morin. Man was shorter, and although obviously older, still possessed enough agility to properly wield a weapon. He had a lighter blade than Alagor, and that combined with his stature and fleetness gave a clear signal to the young warrior that speed will be Morin's strategy. As usual for sparing matches, they started off slowly, circling and judging one another. Morin made one or two quick thrusts which Alagor was able to parry. They were more of a preliminary thrusts, designed to further test his reaction, than real attacks. Then Alagor started his play - he made several relatively awkward swings, all of them rather easily avoided by his stocky opponent. He swore once or twice loudly, adding more weight behind his thrusts, but still he was too slow for Morin. Breathing heavily, and showing clear signs of fatigue he raised his left hand for a second to wipe the (non-existent) sweat above his eyes. At that moment Morin chose to press his advantage, over what he thought was a tired opponent. Actually, Alagor had more than enough stamina left, but he was baiting his opponent on purpose. Taking a gamble, he slowed his defense on purpose, each and every time blocking Morin's long sword just a moment before he would penetrate his guard. Several viciously fast swings later, Alagor noticed the victorious flash in his opponents eyes and he knew what was coming. Morin feinted low to the left and Alagor predictably lowered his claymore to block the thrust both knew would not come. Hastily, Morin changed the direction, raising his sword up and to the right. He grasped his sword with both of his hands, swinged mightily and tried to land a fast, powerful blow to Alagor's armor. The young warrior was ready - his bluff worked and his opponent did exactly what he wanted him to do. His sluggishness disappearing, in a flash he raised his great sword and easily blocked the lighter weapon. The sudden block and intensity of the clash took Morin by surprise, while the vibration made him drop his weapon. Armored glove protected Alagor from the same affect and he swiftly brought his great sword dangerously close to Morin's neck.
"No worries grandpa, this slab of iron serves me just fine" - he said with a light smile. Suddenly, Alagor draws his sword back, and extends his left hand. After clasping the surprised man's hand, he young warrior bows his head lightly and adds: "This is Tanladvir and I am Alagor. I was taught by Dalamad. It was an honor to cross blades with you."
Casting several quick glances around, Alagor tries to determine if Keyla was maybe watching the duel. Later he joins Khozin, as he awaits for the party to start towards Freedom town. I sure do hope we do not have to ride again, not now at least
"Come on Khozin, what say you we walk ahead of them to Freedom town. We could ask ol' Jander or maybe Miss Ionna if they heard of that Yevender the Knight. We can wait for the rest of them with information on town square, or in front of the gates."
Pyotr leads Torshen's Hammer into Freedom Town's gates, pushing past the vagabonds and hucksters coming out to hock their wares. He makes his way through the streets towards the smithy, opening the door into a shower of sparks and a cacophony of clanking and banging. The dwarf was well into his first job of the day, even this early in the morning.
"I beg your pardon," Pyotr paused before shouting, ""
The dwarf spins on the spot nearly launching the hammer at the half-orc. "Aye, and my pardon you'll need, lad. Like ta give me the heart-stop same as yer friend's pa."
"That is not a matter for jokes," the taciturn halfbreed insists. "I am here to collect the gauntlet."
"Aye, aye. Don't get yer armor bunched." The smith took a few more swings at the red hot metal on his anvil.
"I would also like to know the whereabouts of one Yevender, a former knight of Lastwall. Certainly a knight would require your service for his horses and armor from time to time."
Alagor
Morin shakes Alagor’s hand with a surprised smile. “Next time, I’ll have you,” he excuses himself good humouredly “If it weren’t for your longer blade the story wudda been different.”
- - - - -
Old Jander is sat, as he always is, on his uneven rocking chair outside his home on Dungheap Lane. He’s puffing away on his pipe, pausing occasionally to spit into the dust in front of him, whilst moving his seat with lazy twitches of his cane. He can’t do so with his feet, as he has none, both legs having been severed below the knee many years ago by an orcish greataxe.
Jander’s spent years watching the comings and goings of the Freedom Town’s folk as he rocks himself back and forth watching the passers-by. He knows Yevender, and though he doesn’t know the knight’s abode, tells Alagor and Khozin that the knight can often be found drinking at the Pissing Post tavern, just about any time after noon.
- - - - -
"I am here to collect the gauntlet."
“At this hour it ain’t done yet. Ye ken come back in the afternoon, should ‘ave it finished by then,” Harbat answers. “Ima busy dwarf!”
"I would also like to know the whereabouts of one Yevender, a former knight of Lastwall. Certainly a knight would require your service for his horses and armor from time to time."
“Aye, I’ve worked fer that ‘un a few times. Spends most of his time in the Pissing Post it seems, but he does keep a house; the last building but one on the left on the Orcgate Road. I’ve delivered his arms there a few times, after he’s bashed ‘em up fightin’.”
Pyotr's sigh is audible even in the general din of the smithy. "You said one day. A return this afternoon is almost untenable. Nevertheless, I shall try to do so. Please have it ready in case I am able. I would be most... displeased... to depart without it."
Pyotr gazes in the general direction of the Orcgate. "Thank you, at least for that."
Pyotr gazes in the general direction of the Orcgate. "Thank you, at least for that."
The magus encourages the half-orc, "C'mon, pay no heed. We have other important issues to take care of."
Pellius then checks his pouches before heading out to the Orcgate Road.
Bonegrit spends the majority of the morning ensuring the horses are both tended to and kept under keen eyes. The last thing they need now is for some emboldened brigand to think their beasts of burden an easy mark. To add gravity to his self imposed vigil, he keeps bow in hand and arrow nocked at the ready. It is likely for the best, as his furrowed brow and the permanent scowl he's been wearing since waking would likely do little to elicit a favorable response from any of their destinations. He simply wishes to be well on their way to the alluded to caves that might afford them a treasure trove of Rotcrown.
"Yevender's house lies very near the end of the Orcgate Road. Second from the last, if the dwarf is to be believed."
With that, Pyotr gathers Hammer's reigns and begins the walk to Yevender's home.
As they walk down the Orcgate Road, it’s immediately apparent that Yevender’s house stands apart from the run-of-the-mill hovels and huts that comprise the Freedom Town. It’s a fine building, built in the Vigilant style, albeit lacking the grand martial facades of marble that often adorn the richer, older houses of that city. It stands at two stories; fieldstone walls supporting a pitched, thatched roof, what looks to be a stable round the back, and a projecting upper floor overhanging the lower porch. Its frontage is of a pleasing design, black timbers framing white plaster (imagine something in the Tudor style, such as this). Two small lattices of ivory-white and salmon pink dawnroses flank a heavy oaken door reinforced with iron studs. Pyotr clangs the old bell hanging beside the entrance a couple of times.
For a while, nothing happens at all, but after a little there’s some muffled shouting and banging from within the building. The door rattles, there’s the sound of several bolts being unfastened, and then it opens.
A young lad blinks as the light from outside strikes his pale blue eyes. He’s wearing a long, dirty tunic and ragged leggings, a baldric with a scabbarded knife hastily slung about his waist. His hair is mussed, and it appears he’s only just awakened. His slack jaw and look of confusion also make it appear that he’s none too bright.
“Yeh?” he asks after he finds his wits.
- - - - -
Having watched his companions enter the Freedom Town, Bonegrit waits with the horses. Shambles pads over and lies down beside the half-orc, his tail wagging lazily. After about an hour on watch, he notices two riders leaving the Ruingate. As they draw closer he recognises them as Dumuzi and Arvina, the two warriors he met in the Goodly Goatherd. The road passes close to the camp, and as they near they hail Bonegrit. They are garbed and geared for a journey, and for fighting.
A young lad blinks as the light from outside strikes his pale blue eyes. He’s wearing a long, dirty tunic and ragged leggings, a baldric with a scabbarded knife hastily slung about his waist. His hair is mussed, and it appears he’s only just awakened. His slack jaw and look of confusion also make it appear that he’s none too bright.
“Yeh?” he asks after he finds his wits.
Pellius immediately has flashbacks when he looked and acted like that boy. He was in Cheliax, of course, because things had changed dramatically for him since the night of the escape. He can still see a much younger Dierik leading them out of the city. That memory brings him back to the present where his savior, and now employer, needed his help now.
"Aye boy, be kind and call your master. Tell him we have business with him, something histo..." Realizing that the boy probably didn't have his wits about him, the magus quickly adds. "Just tell him that we a canvas he will like. An old and valuable canvas."
Pyotr looks the young man over. Yevender's squire? He glances back towards the sun, well over the horizon now. Not a particularly disciplined one, if he has yet to rise and face the day.
"Just tell him that we a canvas he will like. An old and valuable canvas."
The boy nods stupidly and hollers up the stairs. He has to call Ser Yevender’s name several times before any response is forthcoming. With little sense of decorum, the squire just continues to yell from where he is rather than take the message to Yevender directly.
Eventually, a booming voice drifts down from the upper floor. “Alright, alright, alright! Iomedae’s tits Commor, I heard you the first time. A canvas you say? ‘Tis a bit early, forgehammers are still rattling my cranium!”
Yevender the Knight tenderly makes his way down the stairs into the hall and regards the visitors standing outside his door, blinking owlishly into the sudden light just as Commor did. He is wearing naught but a nightrobe, but it’s a fine affair; black silk decorated with triangular grey patterns. A rather sturdy paunch threatens to batter aside the folds of robe, and his curly black hair is shot with silver. He looks to have passed his fortieth winter at least, and could well be approaching fifty. Despite his girth, his arms are still well muscled, and his bleary green eyes hold a certain intelligence as they flicker past Pyotr and Pellius to regard the rolled length of textile slung over the saddle of Torshen’s Hammer.
“Fool,” he remarks, lightly cuffing Commor around the back of the head. “That’s a tapestry, not a canvas. Being a knight requires a streak of chivalrous knowledge boy, it’s not all riding down orcs from astride a destrier.”
Giving his head a little shake to clear the cobwebs and smoothing his great handlebar moustache, Yevender clears his throat and booms.
“Forgive me, where are my manners. Please enter my abode goodsers, and make yourself comfortable, though I pray you, wipe your boots ‘fore you cross the threshold. Commor – brew some coffee for all.”
Bonegrit offers as warm a wave as he can muster by way of response to the approaching forms of Dumuzi and Arvina. Seeing that their approach brings them so near to his own self-imposed vigil, the half-orc elects to clamor atop Amiro and ride out to meet them where the road passes closest to the camp. Beneath Amiro's own plodding, Shambles ducks in and out of the much larger animal's path at often precarious intervals, his face holding what looks like a permanent smile as its tongue hangs drooping out of the front of the dog's mouth amidst light panting. Bonegrit reins in Amiro when within a respectful distance of the two and leans forward in his saddle while offering the two a favorable look.
"Ya got the looks of a pair lookin' fer touble, I reckon." Punctuating his introduction with a chuckle, he further appends to the remark, "Forgive me fer my graceless exit before. Had a bit of misfortune come tumbling my way, I fear."
Eventually, a booming voice drifts down from the upper floor. “Alright, alright, alright! Iomedae’s t+&! Commor...
Pyotr winces visibly at the vulgarity, a low, rumbling growl emerges from deep in his throat.
“Fool,” he remarks, lightly cuffing Commor around the back of the head. “That’s a tapestry, not a canvas. Being a knight requires a streak of chivalrous knowledge boy, it’s not all riding down orcs from astride a destrier.”
Pyotr stiffens at the remark, his movement loudly jangling the silver bell holy symbol hanging from the hilt of his sword. The pariah knight's attempt to smooth his disheveled appearance and affect a courtly manner stand in sharp contrast with his first impression. Pyotr recalls the rumors he had heard from Pellius. A boorish attitude is a far cry from dishonor, poison, and murder. Even the lordliest of men are allowed to go carousing of an evening, and strong drink will bring down a knight as easily as a villain. His manners had best improve quickly, though.
Pyotr kicks the mud off of his boots, and with Alagor's help, carries the tapestry crabwise through the front doors of Yevender's near-palatial estate.
"Good morning, Ser Yevender. I am Pyotr the..." Pyotr pauses. He had become accustomed to being labeled 'the Unwelcome', but it was hard to reconcile that title to a man who had just invited him into his home without pause or prejudice. He fishes rapidly for something to fill the void and settles somewhat lamely with "...swordsworn of Vigil. These are my companions: Pellius, soldier, scout, and swordsworn, though originally of Cheliax; Delkaneth, a scholar and fortune hunter, also of Cheliax; and Alagor, a free soldier lately of Freedom Town."
"We apologize for rousing you from your repose, and for asking you to conduct business before breaking your fast. If it pleases, we would be happy to offer you a portion of our fare. Our caravan supped from porridge and fresh-fired bacon, though it may have toughened over the fire in this time. Your squire could be there and back in a trice."
"If not, then would you be good enough to turn your courtly and chivalrous knowledge towards this artifact? Our caravan could not possibly spare the time and expense to restore and repair this beautiful work. But, we would gladly see it in the hands of someone who will honor and respect it."