By Vigil’s standards, Yevender’s home would be considered somewhat humble, but it far exceeds the poor calibre typical of most of the Freedom Town’s houses. Yevender ushers them through the hallway to a large sitting room, beyond is a small kitchen, the door ajar, and the squire Commor preparing the coffee within. So comprises the bottom level of Yevender’s home, not accounting for the stable extension beyond the kitchen.
The onus that Yevender’s puts upon his status as a knight and his affiliation with Lastwall’s chivalrous traditions is acutely apparent to his guests. Comparatively small his house might be, but it contains enough knightly paraphernalia to decorate several halls of a lord’s castle. The walls almost sag under the weight of trophies; stuffed heads of bears, stags, and other, weirder creatures, captured arms of both men and orcs, banners bearing the heraldry of men and companies that have borne Lastwall’s shield, even a rather poor oil painting of Wather-Lord Ulthun I. However, all this memorabilia suffers from a general shabbiness; the stuffed heads mouldering, the weapons blunt and rusted, and even Pellius and Pyotr struggle to recognise whose coat-of-arms appear upon the dusty standards.
Yevender takes his ease in a great padded chair and bids his guests make themselves comfortable. There’s some shuffling around as they shift aside enough furniture to unroll the great tapestry for the knight’s appraisal.
Yevender can’t take his eyes of Pyotr. He is grinning merrily.
“To think,” he declares, “An orc in the service of Lastwall. What a marvellous irony. How long did it take for them to train you to speak the tongue of man?”
The knight glances sideways at Pellius, perhaps in the hope that the Chelaxian will confirm this loquacious ‘orc’ can understand as well as speak Common.
"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."
“Don’t concern yourself with the food; I rarely break my fast before noon these days, my bowels are not what they once were.”
The tapestry is laid out on the floor of Yevender’s sitting room, and the knight’s eyes glitter with interest as the work’s full, blemished glory is revealed.
But, we would gladly see it in the hands of someone who will honor and respect it.
"Yes, I'll gladly take it off your hands," responds Yevender quietly.
You can’t help but notice that dark black, circular scars mar palms of both Yevender’s hands – palms where you’d expect a Vigilant citizen to bear his Sword and Shield Marks.
As mentioned above, Yevender’s collection is impressive in its quantity and breadth, but not in its quality. There’s little unity in what’s on display beyond loose connections with Lastwall, Belkzen, or a hackneyed view of ‘knighthood’. Very little appears to be in good condition, and it doesn’t seem that Yevender nor his squire do much to conserve the various items.
Despite his disinterest in maintaining his hoard, it’s immediately clear that Yevender is interested in more, and he’s struggling to hide how much he wants the tapestry. Delkaneth also realises that the knight has a distinctly overinflated opinion of himself, which no doubt extends to his bargaining skills. In short, taking Yevender for a song might be easier than anticipated.
It’s also clear that Yevender sees nothing of significance in the symbols of the Allure, he seems to be taking Delkaneth’s description at face value.
Yevender can’t take his eyes of Pyotr. He is grinning merrily.
“To think,” he declares, “An orc in the service of Lastwall. What a marvellous irony. How long did it take for them to train you to speak the tongue of man?”
The knight glances sideways at Pellius, perhaps in the hope that the Chelaxian will confirm this loquacious ‘orc’ can understand as well as speak Common.
Pyotr arches an eyebrow, no longer shocked by the man's atrocious behavior. "How long did it take you to forget?"
He walks to one wall, running his finger down the dusty, fraying edge of one of Yevender's captured banners. "It seems we were misinformed. This does not seem a suitable home for the tapestry." Pyotr turns to the others. "Our next errand was always to petition the Sharpes. So, little time is lost."
Yevender can’t take his eyes of Pyotr. He is grinning merrily.
“To think,” he declares, “An orc in the service of Lastwall. What a marvellous irony. How long did it take for them to train you to speak the tongue of man?”
The knight glances sideways at Pellius, perhaps in the hope that the Chelaxian will confirm this loquacious ‘orc’ can understand as well as speak Common.
Pellius' face turns serious. This is not what he expects from a Knight. He clears his throat, "Pyotr here is a sword brother and I couldn't care less what else he was. The man and I have bled together and he has proven himself an able soldier and a better companion."
"I would appreciate it if you treated him as a the fellow knight that he is."
The magus notices the man's hands and smiles, "Yes, we're in a hurry but I always have time to listen to a good story. Pray tell, how did you get those marks on your hands? Did a foul orc shaman try to erase them from your body when he couldn't erase them from your heart?"
Yevender seems rather mystified as to why his visitors have taken offence, and completely blanks Pellius' question regarding his hands. Still he gets flustered as they make ready to leave.
"Wait one moment. How much do you want for it?"
Bonegrit
Dumuzi smiles widely, whilst the still radiant Arvina offers the ranger a slight nod of greeting.
"Forgive me fer my graceless exit before. Had a bit of misfortune come tumbling my way, I fear."
“No worries. We followed you out and saw what befell. How fares your master? And I heard a magus who rides with you brought down the rotter that caused all that misfortune. Is that him yonder?” Dumuzi points towards camp, where Tharkon can be seen tied to his wheel.
“It’s a shame our conversation was cut short,” Dumuzi continues. “But it inspired us. We’re rather tired of orc bounties, so we thought we’d try our luck poking around in a few of those ruined towers along the Blockade that you mentioned.”
Although Yevender sneers at the mention of Hellknights, he doesn't seem too phased at Delkaneth's asking price.
"Would you accept payment in gems?" he asks "I keep little coin in this town, considering my neighbours are sometimes less than honest."
Pyotr turns from his examination of the banner, the words "seven hundred" on the very edge of his lips when Delkaneth jumps in. His movement is the only thing that covers his surprise at the astonishing amount Delkaneth asks for. As Delkaneth wraps up his sales pitch, Pyotr is on the very edge of protest, when Yevender immediately agrees.
He glances around at his companions, then accepts that his estimation of the tapestry's value must have been very wrong...
Nodding grimly as his eyes fall to the still-restrained form of Tharkon, Bonegrit growls out a, "Yeah, that's the old codger. Dierik's in a bad way, but he won't be fer long. Little jaunt to the Hungries an' he'll be right as rain."
"Glad to hear we inspired somethin' other than tender ribs and busted sniffers. If ya'd like, I could maybe point ya towards some of the more promisin' lot that we passed on the way in. There's a barkin' lot of the old ruins—probably enough to keep both o' ya busy for months."
I'm afraid that gems are not my area of expertise, wouldn't we need a reputable dealer in town that can convert them to coin?
“Tis’ the Freedom Town. The people here are wise enough to barter with what they’ve got, be it gold, gems or goods. Necessity makes them practical. You shouldn’t have much trouble,” reassures Yevender.
“Most of my wealth’s in beggar’s diamonds. Don’t let the name fool you; whilst they’re not as valuable as the real thing, they still fetch a hundred gold pieces a gem. That’s the equivalent Jork will take should be interested in purchasing supplies at his shop. I’ve ten; do we have a deal?”
In the kitchen, Commor’s loading a tray with a variety of different sized mugs filled with steaming coffee. He catches his master’s eye, and Yevender the Knight shakes his head slightly; his visitors are all business, so they won’t be getting beverages. Commor puts his tray back down.
Pyotr plucks up one of the gems holds it to the morning sun streaming through the window. He brings it near his eye and gazes through it, examining its size, weight, clarity, and color.
Sensing his visitors are willing to deal, Yevender creaks up the stairs. A few moments pass, during which numerous bangs and thunks sound from above. Then he returns, a small leather bag clutched in his fist. Upending the pouch, he spills ten glittering jewels across a small oaken table. Pyotr picks up one and investigates it. By his limited experience, it seems just as valuable as Yevender claims.
Bonegrit
If ya'd like, I could maybe point ya towards some of the more promisin' lot that we passed on the way in. There's a barkin' lot of the old ruins—probably enough to keep both o' ya busy for months.
“Well, we’ve no intention of spending that long on it,” replies Dumuzi affably, “We’ll poke around until we find something approximating treasure, then head back to the Freedom Town. Still, your knowledge would be most welcome if you’re willing to share it.”
Sensing his visitors are willing to deal, Yevender creaks up the stairs. A few moments pass, during which numerous bangs and thunks sound from above. Then he returns, a small leather bag clutched in his fist. Upending the pouch, he spills ten glittering jewels across a small oaken table. Pyotr picks up one and investigates it. By his limited experience, it seems just as valuable as Yevender claims.
"I’ve ten; do we have a deal?”
Pyotr turns to his companions, giving them a slight nod of assent as he drops the beggar's diamond back onto the table with its brothers. Sensing no disagreement, he states, "Very well, Ser Yevender. I believe we have a deal."
"What little I got bouncin' around my noggin is at yer disposal. We passed within sight of a few keeps along the Blockade that looked intact enough to warrant a poke or two. Most of the barkin' things are a sore sight to gander, though; more rubble and ruin than stronghold or tower. I can scribble out some quick directions fer the two of ya if nothin' else. Would offer more, but we've got a cure to sniff out fer the caravan master." Bonegrit shoots a furtive glance to Dierik's tent, worry showing plainly. Hope the barkin' witch is a far cry more agreeable than the hired blade.
Yevender smiles widely at his purchase and makes ready to usher his guests out.
From the DMs point of view, if Pyotr's seeking out a coat of arms I'll try and find an opportunity to acquire one in the not too distant future, although it might not necessarily be prior to the PCs leaving the Freedom Town.
Bonegrit
"They say a good map's worth more a hundred hired spears beneath your standard, and I believe 'em," replies Dumuzi. For a brief moment his smile dims. "I'll spare a prayer for your master, but should your efforts fail and this caravan travel no further, seek us out. Perhaps we can ride similar roads."
"There is no point standing on ceremony," Pyotr brushes the stones back into the satchel and cinches the thong tight around the opening. "Every moment we delay, Dierik inches closer to the edge. We should go and petition the Sharpes."
He tossed the gems to Delkaneth as he makes his way towards the door.
Being silent was Alagor's usual behavior when he was in an unusual situation or company. So far, visit to Yevender’s home was completely inside what the young warrior would consider as "awkward". Why the hell should I need to wipe my boots? There's no manure or any of the goat excrement's on it, just simple dirt and mud...
Still, the young Ustalavan does the same as Delkaneth before entering the hallway, and helping Pyotr to carry the tapestry inside. Entering the large room Alagor notices that it is filled to the brim with various trappings and regalia. Of course, his attention is immediately drawn to deadlier pieces of the collection, and while Pyotr and Del are busy with bargaining, Alagor studies various arms, armor and banners. Missing the negotiations completely, he just notices how easily Knight accepted their price. Leaving what he considered to be a rather stately mansion, he addresses Delkaneth and Pyotr: "I don't have any idea how much that carpet-thing was worth really, but I reckon you boys could have gotten a better price. When in Freedom town, someone accepts the first price you name, either that person is desperate enough, or you should say - I'm kiddin', let's talk real money now."
Now gaiting in front of the duo, he adds: "So, we go to Sharpe's now, eh? Tough bunch they are, so do not use big words...or too many of'em. To bad Bonegrit's not with us, he would make a nice addition to our bargaining power"
Once no more than an unusually successful band of outlaws seeking to escape the arm of Lastwall’s retribution, the passing decades have seen the Sharpes end up de facto rulers of the Freedom Town. Not an imaginative lot, their residence has never been graced with an official name, but most of the Freedom Town’s population know it as the Court of Knives. This demotic name reflects both the brutal justice occasionally meted out to lawbreakers within its grounds as well as the guileful, treacherous nature of some of the Sharpes themselves. It’s notable that the Sharpes themselves have never made any effort to quell this colloquial appellation.
The house itself is by far the grandest in the Freedom Town. Built primarily of stone, the L-shaped main building fronts onto Freedom’s Square and the Orcgate Road, rising two, and in places three, stories in height, the upper floors overhanging the street below. The roofs are pitched and tiled, with a narrow walkway for patrolling guards (not a common sight) running along the apex. A dovecote marks the highest point, at the angle of the L, although it does not appear to have any inhabitants. Several chimneys are also visible.
The northerly wing of the house mixes stone with timber, and consists of a large stables, as well as kitchens and quarters for the domestic staff. The wings of the house are said to enclose a garden and even a small pond (the only patch of open water within the Freedom Town), but this area is closed to the public. The alley crossing the rear of the Court of Knives is heavily guarded by hard men who refuse entry to all.
Several buildings north of the Freedom Town share the superior quality of the Sharpes’ residence. These are houses are the homes of the extended family and their closest allies, and are also well guarded.
The main entrance to the Court of Knives itself is from Freedom’s Square, a surprisingly modest though reinforced single door, flanked by two guards. The men bear no insignia, are dressed in thick black tunics, with bec de corbins in their hands and short swords at their belts. The same pair lifted not a finger in aid when Dierik was shot down before them just the other day.
The somewhat stiff movements of the guards, and the unusual thickness of their garb belies some kind of armour beneath their attire, most likely chain mail.
Making sure that they make a wide berth in order to avoid his previous place of employment, Alagor leads his comrades towards the Court of Knives. Once there, he recognizes one of the guards, as he was somewhat a regular in The Worg's Head.
"Howdy Strusir. Still lugging that chain bellow, eh? Told ya a hundred times guys, you're gonna get cooked if you keep wearing those black tunics over it. But I guess it's the bosses orders, eh?" - smiling crookedly, Alagor proffers his hand for a strong handshake, as he continues "Look Stru, we'd need to talk to Navareene. Will ya check with ol' Abe or any of the other Sharpe boys if that'd be OK with'em?"
And how much it would cost us...who knows, they just might be to preoccupied with something else and simply let us talk with'er...Yeah, and The Great Dreamer may just manifest herself and make Lady Keyla fall in love with you, you big oaf. But, let's see...
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Pyotr stands silently as Alagor makes his plea.
"Look Stru, we'd need to talk to Navareene. Will ya check with ol' Abe or any of the other Sharpe boys if that'd be OK with'em?"
Although Strusir initially responds to Alagor’s firm handshake in kind, he pulls away from the man’s grip as Navareene’s name is mentioned. His eyes narrow dangerously at the ol’ Abe comment.
“Who are you to dare such familiarity? It’s Lord Sharpe to a little whippersnapper such as yourself. Now, who told you about Navareene?” responds Strusir, glaring up at the taller man.
Behind Alagor, Khozin lets out a long, low whistle, a trait of his, uttered in appreciation of someone clearly saying the wrong thing.
"You wanna play that way, fine. Lord Sharpe it is then. Now, puppy..." - Alagor spits the last word with obvious distaste - "...please inform Lord Sharpe that we have a business proposal for him. And be quick, or be ready to explain to him how he wasted an opportunity because of you. Begone now!"
Pyotr steps forward, pulling Alagor back slightly. "There is no need to be unfriendly. Navareene is not completely unknown despite the Founder's wish to keep her cloistered. She has particular knowledge that would be useful to us. We merely wish to barter for her service." Pyotr pulls a pair of silver from his belt pouch, twirling them between his fingers.
"Perhaps you would be good enough to ask Lord Sharpe for a moment of his time?"
"That's a tempting offer. More tempting than takin' a caravan of knights, ex-knights, an' a parade through the wastelands, I reckon. But I'm committed to 'em, an' I don't like their odds if I'm not leadin' em through, yeah? Maybe when this whole caravan-venture-thing is at an end I'll come seek ya out—that is, assumin' we're not all stinkin' rich an' retired by then."
Bonegrit smiles and sets to scrawling out a crude map of the more intact keeps they passed along the way. "Careful in there. If all the keeps hold things in common, you've got a fight on yer hands: Severed hands that still move; rats the size of a dog; a stitched-together mass of rotten parts big as an ogre. But keep yer eyes peeled an' glued to tha stone. There're secret doors to be found if ye know how to look."
Strusir’s mouth sets in a hard line, but he cannot match Alagor’s glare. Instead, he turns his attention to Pyotr, and the two silvers the half-orc displays. Holding out a hand to to claim them, he gives a quick nod to his colleague, who turns and enters the building.
“Who told you about Navareene?” he repeats.
- - - - -
Bonegrit
that is, assumin' we're not all stinkin' rich an' retired by then.
“Such are the dreams of adventurers,” laughs Dumuzi “Though I’ve yet to meet a one who’s rich, retired and happy. If the gods will it, Bonegrit, you’ll be the first.”
Severed hands that still move; rats the size of a dog; a stitched-together mass of rotten parts big as an ogre.
“All things we’ll enjoy playing with, I’m sure! Keep a finger on your bowstring when you get out into the wastes. ‘Till we meet again!”
Taking the map Bonegrit has drawn, Dumuzi thrusts it into a narrow gap between a kukri and a line of throwing darts on his cluttered baldric and spurs his horse towards Harchrist’s Blockade. With an elegant bow of her head, Arvina follows him.
Bonegrit is not left in peace for long. The two riders have barely passed out of sight when his attention is drawn back to the Ruingate. A figure stumbles through, and continues to weave as if drunk as he makes towards the camp. As he nears, Bonegrit recognises the man as Lunt, the drover who went into town earlier in the morning. He was on his own business, but he was also running an errand for Delkaneth (). Blood is running from Lunt’s forehead and he looks in some distress – it’s clearly the wound to his temple rather than any alcohol that makes him so unsteady on his feet.
Still glaring at Strusir, Alagor's face going from openly hostile to cockiness. Finally, with a sanguine look, Alagor responds: "Worg's Head is a popular place. Lot's of people come there. Liqueur helps the tongue to unloose fast. I even remember on one certain night, someone I used to know, spoke about Lord Sharpe in a very, very rude fashion. Sure, that dude was tanked to the brim, but boy'o'boy, how much attributes did he use. I had no idea some of those words could be used in such an offensive manner. What was that dude's name...I think 'twas beginning with an S...remember that? Now, 'fore your colleague returns, tell me how come is the witch so important, and I'll forget to mention that night to Lord Sharpe. Why is your boss hiding her?"
Strusir’s face goes white. He throws down his bec de corbin and puts his hand to the hilt of his short sword, drawing an inch of steel.
“You lying scum,” he spits “One more word from you and I’ll gut you on this very spot.”
"What would the Founder value greater? Your life, or the loss of our good coin?" Pyotr takes a few steps to the side, flanking Strusir. "You are outnumbered, and we have no business with you."
The chime on Pyotr's greatsword jingles as he moves. But, he pointedly avoids drawing steel.
"You couldn't gut a pig on a plate, let alone an armed man. Now..." - with a smirk on his face Alagor continues defying the guard, when he suddenly stops. He heard a voice, a voice he did not hear long, long ago. Hearing Pyotr interject with some tact, young warrior steps aside, his demeanor changed. His focus was not on the guard in front of him anymore. He looked somewhere above the man's shoulders, while he was trying to cling to the remnants of her words.
Great Dreamer, what am I doing?! I have been in this place far too long. I am turning into one of them. A bully, taking everything by force, or coercion. True, it is a way of the Freedom Town. But it shall not be my way!
Seeing that half-orc took a stand in front of Strusir, Alagor turns towards Delkaneth: "I trust you will be able to finish this without me. I will go and find Bonegrit. I'll wait for you beyond the gate. I...I gotta go..." Looking Delkaneth straight in the eyes, look of shame clearly written on his face, Alagor nods lightly before he leaves. I don't wanna turn into one of'em. I have to leave this city now! Crestfallen, he heads directly towards the gate. He is so absent minded that he even forgets to take the long way around, moving in the direction which would take him past Worg's Head.
Pyotr's tusk-filled mouth hangs agape as Alagor makes a complete turn-around both in attitude and in reality. He stands dumbfounded, watching the warrior's form as he disappears through the winding streets of Freedom Town.
Bonegrit urges his horse forward and Amiro thunders across the periphery of their laagered campsite, cutting a straight path to the wounded drover. Lamashtu's saggin' teets, if it ain't one thing it's somethin' else! Nearing Lunt's wobbly form, Bonegrit vaults quickly out of his saddle and off of Amiro to land with a squishy splatter in the trampled mud beneath. A hurried pace carries him to Lunt, and he throws his shoulder under the injured man's to help lead him to Amiro, forcing the man on top of his horse just as quickly.
"Hug his mane; I'll get ya to Kelya. I need ta know who did this and why. Speak slowly and calmly, yeah?"
______________________________
Things seem on the verge of coming to blows until Alagor abruptly quits his war of words, turns on his heel and strides away across Freedom’s Square. Strusir permits himself a smile of satisfaction, but wisely says no more as his adversary departs, instead letting his sword slide back down into its sheath and picking his bec de corbin up from the dirt.
Khozin also watches his friend walking away. He shrugs, nudges Pellius and whispers “Normally I’d follow him you realise, but this is a door that’s unlikely to open often, especially for the likes of me, and I’m dying to see how the insides of the Sharpes’ place shape up.”
The entrace to the Sharpes' residence opens once more, the departing guard returning in the company of two more, similarly armed and uniformed.
“Abram ‘ul see ya’,” he announces “Follow these gents.”
Pyotr, Delkaneth, Pellius and Khozin enter the Court of Knives. The two new guards lead them into a narrow foyer flanked by small alcoves that serve as cloakrooms. Several doorways branch off the hallway; the adventurers are taken through a set of double doorways to the left which open into a grand dining hall, empty now save for a bent old crone sweeping the flagstones with a broom and several fat, contented war dogs dozing by the embers of a grand fireplace. Through this hall they go, ascending a wide L-shaped staircase up to the second floor. Here they enter a long corridor that appears to run the length of the storey. The guards tramp down the passageway, the weathered wooden floorboards underfoot groaning noisily.
They halt at a door of teak, its upper panel carefully carved with a fan of five knives facing upwards. One of the guards knocks twice, a deep, booming voice from within bids “Enter.”
The guards smartly open the door and walk through, taking flanking positions on either side of the portal and ushering the adventurers through.
The room beyond is a large, opulently appointed master bedroom. It’s probably four times the size of the kind of lodgings one might commonly rent at the average inn. Three large windows looking down onto Freedom’s Square allow light to pour into the room, which is furnished with a massive four poster bed, a full-length, silvered mirror, a broad circular table large enough to seat eight guests and an old rocking chair. Several tasteful oil paintings of pale, nude, buxom women hang from the walls, and another naked girl, this one of flesh and blood, snuggles contentedly in the bed itself, her modesty barely maintained by the hide of some massive woolly beast serving as her blanket. She rolls her eyes as the visitors enter.
Abram Sharpe, however, is fully clothed. He stands in the centre of the room, awaiting his guests. Like his men-at-arms and his brother Courthrin, black is his preferred colour, although with a little more flair on display in the shine of his knee high boots and the lacy ruffles at his throat and cuffs.
He cuts an impressive figure, perhaps a few years older than Courthrin but younger in appearance, and more handsome too; a face weathered just enough to be termed rugged rather than worn, a neat goatee, greying hair falling to his shoulders and blue eyes so pale they seem to hold barely any colour at all. He is unarmed, but a naked bastard sword leans against a dresser but a few yards from where he stands.
“I am Abram Sharpe,” he says, his voice booming with authority without any effort on his part. “What can I do for you?”
In addition to being the great bastion on the edge of hordelands, home of the Shining Crusade, guardians over the silent tomb of the Whispering Tyrant, and a beacon of peace and justice in the world... Lastwall is a place of philosophy, music, and art. During various periods, many artists had created works that explored the beauty and majesty of the humanoid form.
So it was that Pyotr, despite his youth and inexperience, was not completely ignorant of the appearance of the female nude. He was denied access to most of the galleries and museums within Vigil. But, the Cathedral itself was a vast work of art, and had at times housed hundreds of sculptures and portraits. Pyotr had even steeled himself to once look upon the highly controversial Valor in Arms, which depicted a raven-haired beauty wielding a flaming sword and wearing a silvered helm... and nothing else.
Those few experiences, though, did not prepare the young half-orc for the sudden apparition of the shameless girl in Lord Sharpe's bed, nor the highly provocative portraits beaming down at him from every wall in the chamber. From the moment he enters, a tremendous heat begins to crawl up his neck and into his face. He blushes a deep, dark green. At Abram's welcome, he tries to look the man in the eye, but finds the girl moving demurely in his periphery. The portrait fixed to the wall behind the Founder draws his eyes despite his determination. The rush of blood to his face makes him light-headed, while the heat rushing to other regions doubles, then trebles his anxiety.
In the end, the would-be knight stares ashamedly at the man's shining leather boots, and mumbles something akin to a hello...
With Pyotr seemingly disarmed by the surroundings, and Khozin staring unashamedly at the lady in the bed, a large grin plastered across his face, Abram shifts his attention to Delkaneth and Pellius, hoping the two humans might have a little more control of themselves.
Bonegrit
Lunt has taken a pretty hefty blow to the skull, and as with many a head wound, the gash is bleeding with fervour. Thankfully though, the injury does not appear to be life-threatening, and although Lunt’s speech is slurred, he can nonetheless understand and reply to Bonegrit’s questions as he clings to Amiro’s mane.
“Some thugs . . . jumped me . . . I was on my way to deliver Delkaneth’s coin . . . they stole it . . . one was ginger, the other frog-eyed . . .”
Alagor
Before noon business at the Worg’s Head is slow, and no-one Alagor recognises recognises Alagor as he strides past towards the Ruingate. Exiting the Freedom Town, Alagor’s just in time to see Bonegrit haul a wounded drover onto his horse and speed back towards the encamped caravans.
Seeing a wounded man, Alagor speeds toward the half-orc. He tries to provide his help as best as possible. and helps Bonegrit to escort the man towards the caravan. During the trip back to the encampment Alagor learns the description of the thugs.
"Ginger and frog-eyed you say? That sounds rather specific...but I do not think I've heard of them. Let's take you to Keyla, and then we'll see."
Delkaneth appraises everything but the girl, and quickly concludes that by and large the room’s décor is as expensive as it appears. He’d wager the nudes were the most expensive items, but his eye also catches a small electrum hookah with a crystalline water bowl resting on the bedside table.
It is a rare fungus that we are after, and from what we have learned so far Navareene may be able to give us guidance in our search.
“Curious. I thought adventurers such as yourselves usually sought treasure, not fungi. No doubt you spoke to Banthorl Whittles? Anyone else would more prudent bandying about my witch’s name.”
Alagor & Bonegrit
By the time Alagor catches up with Bonegrit, Lunt and the horse they ride, they’ve already arrived outside Dierik’s tent. This, of course, is where Kelya is to be found; she dashes out of the tent at the sound of Amiro’s thumping hoofbeats. As Bonegrit helps Lunt to the ground she presses her palm to his bloody forehead, closing the gash with a swiftly muttered prayer. Lunt immediately seems more confident on his feet, and starts to thank Kelya profusely.
Alagor does not recognise the men by Lunt’s description of his attackers.
Finally catching up with Bonegrit and the injured driver, Alagor tries to give a hand to Lunt also, so he could help him off the horse. Lady Keyla chooses that moment to dart out of the tent, and a clearly distracted Alagor nearly drops the poor guy again. Thankfully, Bonegrit is prepared as he fixes young warrior's blunder and finally helps Lunt from the horse.
Boy, she's even prettier now than the last time I saw her
"Lady Keyla, this...this...guy, was injured...obviously" - Alagor stutters, again having issues in keeping his wits in front of the older, but still gorgeous priest - "...erm, he's hurt and he needs your charmin', I meant harming, no I mean your healing. Healing skills!" Oh, go wrestle a bear you idiot! Stop talking!
"Robbed is what he was. Where were these thugs, Lunt?" A furrowed brow and tight jaw explain Bonegrit's anger. He would much rather not have to bother with this nonsense at a time like this, but the thought of someone taking advantage of one of the drovers is more frustration than he can manage at the moment. Then there was the fact that Delkaneth's own coin was involved in the scenario—such transgression will not stand.
“I am Abram Sharpe,” he says, his voice booming with authority without any effort on his part. “What can I do for you?”
His mouth also open wider than he intends but at Pyotr's reaction, the magus quickly regains his composure.
"We are sorry to wake you at such at inopportune moment but our business is urgent." Pellius quickly retells the tale of Dierik's poisoning and restates their intent to briefly converse with Navareene.
"Needless to say, sir, your generosity and her time will be repaid in kind. Do you think she may be available for a brief word at this time?"
Pyotr closes his eyes and takes a few slow, careful breaths. Shame builds upon shame, as he realizes how much of a pathetic spectacle he is making of himself. Delkaneth's shoulder is a poignant exclamation point to his running internal condemnations of himself.
He stumbles forwards slightly as Delkaneth plants the sharp spur of his shoulder hard into his ribs. As if that jab had broken a barrier, a torrent of words came flooding out. "She'llne'erbe'ndanger," he almost hyperventilates. "Weonlyneedhertofindthecaves." Pyotr gulps down a few more breaths, and seems to calm just a bit.
"We do not intend to bandy her name about. Eventually, we would have found our way here, one way or another. If you are seeking something exotic, and powerfully deadly... you would start with the Sharpes."
"We only wish to find the antidote. We have been told that she goes in search of these mushrooms on her own. Surely, you would be happier to have her guarded."