"If you will allow me introductions, may I present, Pellius Fullona and Delkaneth. I am Pyotr the... the Unblooded."“And what is it you seek, Pyotr the Unblooded?” asks Navareene, an impish grin appearing “Perhaps a potion to make the maidens swoon at the sight of you?”
The memory of the naked girl in Abram's chamber is still fresh enough in Pyotr's mind that he cannot avoid a slight blush at Navareene's insinuation. "Nothing of the sort," he protests.
"Our caravan master, Dierik Ironcoffer, was poisoned in a most cowardly fashion by the mercenary Tharkon. I would never put much store in the Freedom Town rumor mill, but perhaps news of this event has reached you already?"
"The poison he used was an obscure thing, crafted from an infusion of the black twincap mushroom. The hermit of the Curbril Wood told us that while the upper gills can craft the most virulent of poisons, the lower gills can be used to create the antidote. While he educated us on some of the more unusual aspects of the fungus, the most notable piece of information was that you have gone to the Hungry Mountains to gather them."
"We are in a race against time to cure Master Ironcoffer. Your assistance in this matter would be invaluable."
"Our caravan master, Dierik Ironcoffer, was poisoned in a most cowardly fashion by the mercenary Tharkon. I would never put much store in the Freedom Town rumor mill, but perhaps news of this event has reached you already?"
“Well, I’ve never heard of either man,” responds Navareene “Though I put little interest in rumour, lest it concerns me particularly or a woman with child.”
"The poison he used was an obscure thing, crafted from an infusion of the black twincap mushroom."
“Mushrooms though, are another a matter. And it’s good that Banthorl recognises who the true authority on fungi is ‘round here,” she continues with not a little pride. “Yes, I’m intimately familiar with the properties of the black twincap mushroom, sometimes known as the rotcrown.”
“I have indeed gathered them, though the need has not been there for many a year. No doubt Banthorl told you about their particular growing conditions, it’s not like picking apples, that's for certain. Still, I remember well enough a few locations in the Hungry Mountains where they can be found, and one cave in particular where I’d wager the rotcrowns continue to grow in profusion.”
“Yes, it seems I can help you,” Navareene concludes with a warm smile.
It seems the floor is thick stone, but occasionally one can hear the occasional faint noise from the cellar below. It appears that there’s at least one person in the basement. Navareene, Elzevir and the dogs give no indication of being concerned by these sounds, presuming they’ve heard them.
Bonegrit approaches and begins glowering down at the pair of youths. A half-sneer, half-smile cracks his face and he runs a gloved hand over his chin in feigned consideration. "It's Lunt they waylaid, and The Chelaxian they robbed. Way I figger, it's up to them to dole out a punishment, yeah? More the pity fer these worms. The Chelaxian ain't known for his kindness. Pits Below, ye seen what he did to Tharkon, yeah?" Bonegrit turns his head away from the goons so that they cannot see his own face as he flashes a wink to Alagor. "Pin 'em up to the Sixbulls like the old codger, then. If they ain't spent too much of his coin, he may not unleash his devils on 'em this time. Hells, he may even let 'em keep their fingers if they play their cards right."
Catching a hint from Bonegrit, Alagor decides to join on the game: "Ouch, it was Chelaxian's moneys they stole?! Wow, you boys are in some trouble now!" - shaking his head as to emphasize his words, Alagor makes several slow steps back and forth, before turning towards general direction of the Sixbulls where Tharkon was bound.
What do we do with them now, damnit? How do we punish them, and teach them a lesson?! - still searching for answers in his head, Alagor continues to pace slowly in front of the two of'em, buying some time.
"Look, Lunt is now OK, and they will repay whatever the money they have. Let's find a way to appease the Chelaxian somehow. I don't want to have devil-stuff again. Last time it was...messy." - young warrior does his best to feign shuddering involuntarily. He then turns to the would-be muggers, and addresses them in a threatening voice.
"That...man means trouble. Big time. I do not want to be part of it, again. And if you're smart, neither do you. So, spill quickly, whatever you have. Money, information, rumors, whatever. Give me anything to appease the Chelaxian. Why did you target Lunt - was it by chance, or...? What do you know to do, aside from playing sorry ass robbers? Who do you know in the city, what have you heard? Speak damnit, speak!"
Delkaneth looks at Pellius to see if he has noticed anything, then returns to his inspection of the room.
Happy with the way things are turning out but silently disgusted at the withc's art, Pellius guards his tongue and merely nods in affirmation of the half-orc's request. He looks at Navareene.
"Indeed, a map with clear directions as to the whereabouts of this cave would be most appreciated. How long has it been since you visited the area? Any particular piece of advise that may save our hides is also most welcome."
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Alagor & Bonegrit
"The Chelaxian ain't known for his kindness. Pits Below, ye seen what he did to Tharkon, yeah?"
"Ouch, it was Chelaxian's moneys they stole?! Wow, you boys are in some trouble now!"
The moment the Chelaxian is mentioned, the faces of both thugs turn sheet white. The bug-eyed thug’s scrabbling in his trousers becomes even more fervent, and suddenly his quivering hand leaps up from between his legs, clutching a money pouch that had been tied around his upper thigh.
“Like I said, we still got most o’ it,” upending the pouch and letting a brief stream of silver, copper, and just a few gold coins loose to scatter on the grass beneath.
"Let's find a way to appease the Chelaxian somehow. I don't want to have devil-stuff again. Last time it was...messy."
As the threats gather about them, both of the young lads are visibly quaking, and the ginger-haired one is blubbing again. “That Wood Devil’s gonna get us,” Frog-Eyes mutters over and over. “We’re such turnips, gonna die for nothing at all.”
"Why did you target Lunt - was it by chance, or...?"
“Nothing personal of course,” responds Frog-Eyes “But gotta make a living, and the boss always expects his cut. Plus my papa can’t work no more after he lost his arm.”
"Who do you know in the city, what have you heard?"
“Okay, okay, okay,” sobs the ginger-haired one, suddenly speaking so fast he’s almost babbling. “Uh, uh, uh, that little girl Elvie didn’t get taken by orcs like they said, her papa Tharazel did her in, Lige Dagmin puts dead rats in his beer vats for taste, they say Squire Commor can’t sleep without a lit candle at his bedside . . . erm, erm, Culler’s the boss of our gang but Black Boils is gonna do him in one day soon, Abram Sharpe keeps a witch in his house, er, please don’t let the Chelaxian get me, Rufus Bothwyn is a woman in disguise, there’s a halfling in town says he can steal fast horses in Vigil and is looking for a gang to help him out, Khozin Ryovaldii don’t really like Skaraben Sharpe and talks shite about him when they ain’t hanging together . . .”
With Navareene
"Indeed, a map with clear directions as to the whereabouts of this cave would be most appreciated. How long has it been since you visited the area? Any particular piece of advise that may save our hides is also most welcome."
“Half a dozen years at least, but time doesn’t move swiftly in those dead places. Some of,” here Navareene’s name drops to a whisper “Tar-Baphon’s troops are still barracked there, nothing but skeletons now of course, but some still patrol as they did in life. There is a strange wight as well, a creature of some power but also some strange honour. It allowed me to pass without interference if I paid its price – a single kiss. It proved true to its word.”
For a second, Navareene pauses and shudders. For a little while she busies herself with the cauldron, throwing a handful of what look to be toe nail clippings into the bubbling mixture, then she continues.
“As for the map, I can offer you even better – a guide! Though if you’d like to meet her, your friend needs to step off the trapdoor.”
As the threats gather about them, both of the young lads are visibly quaking, and the ginger-haired one is blubbing again. “That Wood Devil’s gonna get us,” Frog-Eyes mutters over and over. “We’re such turnips, gonna die for nothing at all.”
"Wood devil?! Where the hell did you learn that?!"
“Uh, uh, uh, that little girl Elvie didn’t get taken by orcs like they said, her papa Tharazel did her in, Lige Dagmin puts dead rats in his beer vats for taste, they say Squire Commor can’t sleep without a lit candle at his bedside . . . erm, erm, Culler’s the boss of our gang but Black Boils is gonna do him in one day soon, Abram Sharpe keeps a witch in his house, er, please don’t let the Chelaxian get me, Rufus Bothwyn is a woman in disguise, there’s a halfling in town says he can steal fast horses in Vigil and is looking for a gang to help him out, Khozin Ryovaldii don’t really like Skaraben Sharpe and talks s&#&e about him when they ain’t hanging together . . .”
Looking at the coins scattered on the grass, Alagor scratches his chin yet again. What have I gotten' myself into? I have no idea how to punish them or prevent them from doing it again. They're not really needed around the caravan. If I go after their boss, even if I take him down, either that Black Boils, or someone else will step into his shoes. What to do damnit?!
"Someone get Lunt in 'ere! You two, what are your names? Tell me more about that girl Elvie, what did her papa do? And that Rufus Bothwyn - who's that and what does he/she do?"
Pyotr's lips pull back in a feral sneer at the mention of the Whispering Tyrant's name.
"Skeletons and a wight... I might have anticipated such creatures, but it is good to know, nevertheless. We should stop at Jork's place. Hammers smash bones far better than swords and axes," Pyotr looks tellingly at the arrayed weapons of his companions. "There are other protections we may need to face down a wight. Perhaps Kelya keeps a supply of holy water on hand."
As Delkaneth moves to the back of trapdoor, Pyotr circles to the front, anxious to meet their guide as she emerges.
"Save yer belly achin' fer someone who cares, runts!" Bonegrit barks at the pair. Truthfully, he has no ill designs on the youths, but he intends to make this matter terrifying enough for the pair that they not consider doing something so irresponsible for at least a very long time in the future. "In the mean time, we strap these lot to the wagon wheels like Old Tharkon."
Navareene and Elzevir flash each other a knowing look, Pyotr and Delkaneth’s strategic positioning of themselves having not gone unnoticed.
Then Navareene clangs the side of her cauldron with an iron ladle, creating a loud rattling noise. “Agtharda,” she bellows “Stop playing with your toys and come up and meet our guests.”
A few moments pass, then faint footsteps drift out from beneath the trapdoor. It shivers, then rises with an almighty creak, pushed up by a simple staff.
As the trapdoor opens, the distinct odour something dead and rotten drifts up from the cellar beneath.
Out of the basement steps a tall, slender figure swaddled in dark robes with a hood tugged low over his or her face. The only part of the figure’s body not concealed by the robes are the hands, whose slight greenish pigment suggest orcish blood. One of these hands clutches a plain staff of grey, the splitting bark not yet stripped from the wood beneath.
The name also sounds Orcish – Agtharda; a feminine name used to indicate a mother who would discretely maim or slaughter the infant peers of her children to ensure her own offspring’s success. In other words, a name indicating respect.
Rather incongruously, the figure offers a clumsy curtsy to Pyotr and Pellius, having yet to notice Delkaneth standing behind it.
“This is Agtharda. Several months ago she was in the Hungry Mountains, and knows the cave I’ve spoken of. She has ambitions of exploring it herself, and if you’ll act as her protectors then she can guide you there,” explains Navareene.
"Wood devil?! Where the hell did you learn that?!"
Frog-eyes worried eyes bulge out even further. “We met it yesterday,” he says “Looked like a man, but when we challenged it, it tore open its shirt and revealed a broken shaft of wood sticking out of its heart. We fought it briefly, and then it fled.”
It's quite clear the thug is exaggerating his bravery here.
Actually, one name apart from Khozin, Skaraben and Commor does ring a bell with Alagor. There was a little child he’d seen in the Worg’s Head on just a couple times, but never spoken to more than a hello. Occasionally, she’d come to the tavern to fruitlessly try and retrieve her drunken father. Alagor can’t remember the man’s name, but wasn’t the child called Elvie?
"Someone get Lunt in 'ere! You two, what are your names?
“I’m Shang,” answers Frog-eyes.
“I’m Killoran,” splutters the ginger-haired one.
Tell me more about that girl Elvie, what did her papa do?
“Don’t know which one she was,” says Killoran “One of the local kids though, down Rundul’s Tree. Weren’t old by all accounts, not yet ten. Tharazel don’t do much, but sometimes does some grunt labour in the tanneries.”
And that Rufus Bothwyn - who's that and what does he/she do?
“Don’t know Rufus. Never met him. Just heard he was mollyboy,” says Killoran lamely.
“Don’t be stupid Killie,” butts in Shang “You’re a only a mollyboy if you’re a man who pretends to be a lady, not the other way around.”
“So if it’s reversed, whatcha call one of ‘em then,” queries Killoran, the conundrum briefly distracting him from his snivelling.
“Dunno,” admits Shang.
This point of conjecture is interrupted by the arrival of Lunt, who looks at his attackers with a sneer.
“As I don’t know which one of you actually bashed me around the noggin, I’m gonna have to beat both of you.
Lunt flexes a fist, and Killoran starts to cry again . . .
The breath of stale air from the basement blew past Pyotr without phasing him. The strength of the smell insufficient to overwhelm one who had climbed a mountain of carrion and faced down a monster of stitched corpses.
Pyotr returned the awkward curtsy with a bow.
“This is Agtharda. Several months ago she was in the Hungry Mountains, and knows the cave I’ve spoken of. She has ambitions of exploring it herself, and if you’ll act as her protectors then she can guide you there,” explains Navareene.
"Greetings to you, Agtharda." Pyotr stumbled slightly over the orcish pronunciation. The throaty growl necessary to produce the name brought back the wisp of a memory that, like the air under the trapdoor, blew past the half-orc without recognition.
"If you will consent to act as our guide, then I give you my word that I will do all in my power to keep you safe. I am Pyotr the Unblooded. This is Pellius, and behind you is Delkaneth. We have some few other companions to make the journey, as well. We can make more proper introductions at the camp. Are there any preparations you need make before we depart?"
Pellius returns the 'bow' and is pleased with how things turned out, considering their earlier 'faux pas'. "Aye, well met. You will be kept safe on our trip but, like my friend stated, we need to make haste."
He turns to Navareene, "Thank you. Your charge will be cared for."
With the guide set, the magus is anxious to leave this place and head to the open sky. A good ride will do him well. Thinking about that, he asks the witch, "Does your charge have use of a horse?"
Frog-eyes worried eyes bulge out even further. “We met it yesterday,” he says “Looked like a man, but when we challenged it, it tore open its shirt and revealed a broken shaft of wood sticking out of its heart. We fought it briefly, and then it fled.”
Damn! By now probably everyone in Freedom town knows we have a wood devil with us.
Seeing that Lunt is already flexing his muscles, Alagor interjects: "Lunt, can you please determine how much money is missing. It's spilled here on the ground. Get some guards to help you tie them up. After you tie them, keep an eye of them. It's the Chelaxian they stole from, so they'll have to answer to him. He will determine their punishment."
Thinking hard, trying to remember if the girl Elvie was actually the child he remembered from the Worg's Head, Alagor's eyes water a bit. He turns sideways and looks into the distance.
"You, Killoran. Tell me once again about the girl. Why would her papa do her in? Where did you learn that?"
Ten...Mishea was only nine when I first met her...
Are there any preparations you need make before we depart?
Agtharda hesitates for a moment, her head turning in Navareene’s direction. The witch nods her approval, and Agtharda bows deeply.
“Agtharda has no tongue,” explains Navareene, “So you will no doubt find her a quiet companion. However, she can guide you without error; you can put your trust in her. I see you are in haste; she won’t need long to gather her possessions.”
"Does your charge have use of a horse?"
Agtharda shakes her head, then goes to one corner of the cluttered room and begins to sorting through the jumbled contents of several crooked shelves, dropping various knickknacks into a hessian sack.
“I don’t believe Agtharda is much of a horsewoman, but lend her a steady steed and she should be able to stay atop it. Now, before you venture on your quest, perhaps you’d be interested in a spot of business? I have many potions stirred to potency in this very cauldron, and a few other trinkets as well.”
“Navareene . . .” interrupts Elzevir, “You know that Abram disapproves of you trading his stash.”
“Let him fume,” Navareene responds curtly “He’s made his own profit no doubt, in arranging this little meeting. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t benefit too, if these adventurers are willing to deal.”
"Lunt, can you please determine how much money is missing. It's spilled here on the ground. Get some guards to help you tie them up. After you tie them, keep an eye of them. It's the Chelaxian they stole from, so they'll have to answer to him. He will determine their punishment."
“He stole from me too, and cracked my head as well,” responds Lunt, nevertheless kneeling down to gather the scattered coins and return them to his purse. “So I get to whack ‘em as hard as they whacked me, fair’s fair.”
He does a quick count. “Good thing beer’s cheap around these parts,” he continues “I count one gold piece and four silver missing, from my money and Del . . . oh, yeah, the ‘Chelaxian.’”
Lunt moves off to fetch some guards.
"You, Killoran. Tell me once again about the girl. Why would her papa do her in? Where did you learn that?"
“Look,” whines Killoran “Don’t really know that much about what happened to her, just the word on the street you know. Her and the local kids, the tough ones, they’re always playing their games of hide and seek, kickhelm, shadow tag, their little adventures, and sometimes just plain scrapping. The adults tell ‘em not to venture beyond the walls, especially Belkzen-side, which of course means they do it all the more.”
“Yep, Killie and I used to do it all the time when we were lads,” chimes in Shang “and we never even saw no orcs.”
“So three weeks back, or maybe four, Elvie disappeared when they were out beyond the wall. No-one’s seen her since, but the kids said they heard worgs howling out over the moors. So everyone guesses the orcs got her.”
“Except now they’re saying they didn’t, that it were her father, but I don’t know nought about the why’s and wherefores. It just the gossip you know. I ain’t seen Tharazel since the rumours started. Guess he’s hiding.”
Lunt returns, the guards Lhairak and Korvus in tow. “We gonna tie ‘em up,” Lunt explains, "but first I’m gonna give each of ‘em the hardest wallop I can muster. It’ll make the binding all the more easy.”
The guards shrug. Like Callan, they don’t seem to factor the two thugs high on their list of priorities, and don’t seem to care if Lunt beats the pair or not.
Now feeling almost completely overwhelmed by the "responsibilities" he pilled on his own head, Alagor reacts rashly. Spending time in Freedom Town he was used to violence, but at the same time he was unsure if beating prisoners was gonna get anyone any good. For sure, these two will go back to their old ways once released. They had not much options left. And yet, to beat them up like a common thug, it seemed...wrong. Mishea would not approve of this
Impulsively, young man raises his voice: "There will be no beating here. We captured them and we will decide. If you were capable of flexing muscle, you should have beaten them when they attacked you. Simply tie them up, pick up your money and await Chelaxian. Once he is back he will decide whether to release them or simply feed their souls to a demon"
I sure do hope that this Chelaxian act will scare them enough not to try it again...soon, at least
That settled, he turns to Bonegrit: "I know this is really not our job, but could be there's a child missing in town. It...it bothers me. I know that finding antidote for Dierik is of utmost importance. After all, I wanna get paid. But all four of them are still in Freedom Town, searching for answers. And dealing with Sharpe's can take time, and money, believe me. Wanna go back with me to check this out?"
One more thing worried young warrior, and he could not let it pass simply. Striding slowly through the camp, with his usual gait, he approaches Dierik's tent. Gathering his wits, he tries to sound composed: "Lady Keila, a word with you, if you'd please..."
Asking priest of Desna to come outside and to the side, Alagor searches for the correct words, prior to beginning: "Look, I guess that you have met a lot's of people and that you can properly assess us. I guess that I do not need to tell you that I am not afraid to wrestle or cross swords with anyone. But this thing with Chelaxian...I mean, Delkaneth...is it contagious? Can I get that if I am not careful? I mean - give me an enemy I can see and I'll deal with him, but this...I'm..." Say it damn it, you're AFRAID! "...I do not know..."
Lowering his gaze, Alagor finally voices his concern: "I am afraid...can you tell me what to do not to end up like that?"
Pyotr nods his understanding. "I would like to see your store of potions and oils. I am particularly interested is those that ward off the effects of undeath, or that can restore what is lost."
Bonegrit's brows droop into a furrow at Alagor's request. They had undertaken great risk by simply pursuing Lunt's attackers; a risk borne out of anger and frustration at a terrible situation paired with overly idle hands, Bonegrit is forced to admit with hindsight. And though the cause seems worthwhile, the half-orc finds himself able to find purchase on no reasonable ground to entertain the swordsman's heroics, noble or not. Drawing a hand to the nape of his neck and giving it a few dry scrubs, the ranger finally settles on a few shakes of his head in reply. Chasing off after a missing child does not strike him as a simple matter, and the rest of their number shouldn't be far from returning themselves, hopefully with the witch in tow.
"Can't tell ya where to go or not go, but the time to depart can't be far off. If there's a pup missing to the wastes, it ain't somethin' the two of us can fix in a matter of hours—an' we don't even got that, I'll wager. Ya sure it can't wait til we get back from the Hungries ? I'm more than willin' ta go sniffin' around fer the child, but only after Dierik's been set to mendin'."
There will be no beating here. We captured them and we will decide.
“Who in the Hells do you think are?” Lunt’s eyes bug out almost as far as Shang’s. “You only showed up here yesterday, that’s hardly reason to start calling the shots. How can you be telling me I can’t take a fair return shot – you guys already put an through that one’s leg!”
Simply tie them up, pick up your money and await Chelaxian.
“If you’re so interested in their wellbeing do your own dirty work. Tie ‘em up yourselves,” thoroughly piqued, Lunt turns his back on the two adventurers and their captives. “Come on boys, let’s leave ‘em to play Vigilant Watchknights alone.”
Korvus shrugs and follows Lunt. Lhairak lingers though. He looks at Bonegrit.
“You rescued Shambles, so I’ll help you bind this pair if you really think it’s important.”
Pyotr rifles through the assembled vials and flasks with the casualness of the uninformed. Then he pulls from the bottom of the assembly a small drawstring sack of powder. "This is ethersnare dust. The Knights of the Shining Crusade spoke of this. An invaluable tool if you are taken unawares by the spectral dead."
“Who in the Hells do you think are?” Lunt’s eyes bug out almost as far as Shang’s. “You only showed up here yesterday, that’s hardly reason to start calling the shots. How can you be telling me I can’t take a fair return shot – you guys already put an through that one’s leg!”“If you’re so interested in their wellbeing do your own dirty work. Tie ‘em up yourselves,” thoroughly piqued, Lunt turns his back on the two adventurers and their captives. “Come on boys, let’s leave ‘em to play Vigilant Watchknights alone.”
Why you ungrateful... - for once, big man's tongue was not faster than his brains. He can feel the pressure builds inside as a response to Lunt's verbal sting, but he is able to control his anger. Watching two man leave, he simply nods his head in vain, shrugs and helps Bonegrit/Lhairak to tie up Shang and Kiloran.
Can't tell ya where to go or not go, but the time to depart can't be far off. If there's a pup missing to the wastes, it ain't somethin' the two of us can fix in a matter of hours—an' we don't even got that, I'll wager. Ya sure it can't wait til we get back from the Hungries ? I'm more than willin' ta go sniffin' around fer the child, but only after Dierik's been set to mendin'."
Hesitation was clear in half-orc's words. Scratching his mark (scar) lightly, Alagor responds slowly, carefully measuring every word: "The pup, I mean the child, is maybe not missing to the wastes. My idea was to go back to the town and try to find this Tharazel, the kids father. I was hoping that would not take us more than a few hours. If those two are telling the truth, which I admit is questionable, this could be something fouler than orcs or wolves takin' the kid. I can live with that idea, it's the nature of those creatures...no offense meant"
Swordsman pauses here, both for effect, as well as to see if he overstepped some bounds and foolishly insulted the veteran half-orc. Few moments later he adds: "But, if this is the wrongdoing of one of our own, than this should be taken care of. Anyway, let us see - maybe the four of them return soon..."
“Navareene . . .” interrupts Elzevir, “You know that Abram disapproves of you trading his stash.”
“Let him fume,” Navareene responds curtly “He’s made his own profit no doubt, in arranging this little meeting. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t benefit too, if these adventurers are willing to deal.”
The magus politely listens to the wares offered hoping his anxiety to be out of the place is not evident. Still, the best soldiers, those that came back, are the ones who are best prepared. However, the wares offered did not fit his style of fighting nor that of any of his companions.
"We thank you for your offer madame but I'm afraid that we cannot make use of these particular wares."
He turns to the orc guide, "You ought to get whatever it is you need. We need to make haste. Perhaps if we leave right away, we can make it there before the sun sets."
Not knowing how communication was going to be, he asks, "Is that possible? I mean is it possible to get to the cave in six to eight hours?"
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"Perhaps droppin' mention of it to Marshall Oswald would be enough fer now? I'm sure the notion of a child-slayer livin' under his watch wouldn't be somethin' the rat finds too appealing, if only fer his reputation. Not entirely sure he'd smile on our stealing his justice out from under him twice in a single day, either." Bonegrit's eyes survey the far off walls of Freedom Town as he speaks. The thought of some old wretch doing in his own daughter is enough to make the half-orc's stomach twist, but he's equally forced to admit that it is not their problem. With Tharkon, they had a stake in the matter: Dierik Ironcoffer was the victim. There existed no such incentive here, and certainly no justification to vigilante his way through someone else's jurisdiction. "Neh, I'm gonna stay put. If we go sniffin' around where our noses ain't welcome, might be we end up causin' em to rescind their decision to leave Tharkon in our care. Best bet's to tip off the law around here—if they don't know already—and followup after we get our mutual employer back to the wakin' life."
Bonegrit nods assent to Lhairak. "Aye, let's tether the barkers up to the wheels across from Tharkon. I want 'em to have somethin' pitiful to look at while they wait."
Bonegrit manages to track down Lunt after his storming off earlier. Approaching more closely with a casual incline of his head by way of greeting he speaks quietly with the drover. "Listen, guy; if ya want to earn yerself a little payback on the whelps, just do it when the new guy with the big sword is away—which by my figgerin' will be pretty damn soon. Just keep it away from the face to hide the marks, and don't hurt em too bad. Whatever the blighters did, they're little more 'an kids. Deserve a good scare, but not a maiming."
Pausing for a moment, Bonegrit considers letting the second half of what he has to say wither without mention, but ultimately decides to press forward. "An' another thing. I dragged yer bleedin' hide atop my own horse to get you back to health after you let a couple of kids get the drop on you. Then I waded through that pit o' garbage they call Freedom Town to track down the ones who did the deed not knowin' if they numbered two or thirty, savin' yer hindquarters the trouble of payin' Delkaneth back what you lost to carelessness in a back alley. I think that calls fer a fair deal more respect than Vigilant mockery, yeah?"
Agtharda is quickly ready. Her small sack is swiftly bulging with the provisions she thinks she needs. A braided rope has been tied around her robes, and numerous pouches and containers dangle from it beside a scroll tube and a wand. An expensive looking ring set with tiny amber stones glitters on the hand that clutches her staff.
"Is that possible? I mean is it possible to get to the cave in six to eight hours?"
Agtharda shakes her head at Pellius’ question, then holds up two fingers. Navareene explains “Even if you leave this instant, it’ll be two days ride to reach the cave. Your progress will slow once you enter the foothills.”
The two thugs are trussed up as Tharkon is, seated with their backs to a sixbull wheel, their arms spread and tied along the thick spokes of the wheel. Slowly becoming resigned to their fate, the pair make no protest or struggle, Killoran has even stopped crying, his face a mask of utter despondency.
Crooked Callan, standing guard near Dierik’s tent, notices this going on, shakes his head in irritation, but doesn’t intervene with the prisoners’ constrainment.
- - - - -
"Listen, guy; if ya want to earn yerself a little payback on the whelps, just do it when the new guy with the big sword is away—which by my figgerin' will be pretty damn soon. Just keep it away from the face to hide the marks, and don't hurt em too bad. Whatever the blighters did, they're little more 'an kids. Deserve a good scare, but not a maiming."
Lunt thinks for a moment, but the temper has faded from his face. He sighs. “Nah, they’re only kids really. They still deserve a good whack, but we’ve scared ‘em enough I think. I don’t know Delkaneth that well. I hope his punishment won’t be as severe ‘as you pair were making out. A lost gold piece won’t change the world in the long run. We should just turn ‘em loose.”
I think that calls fer a fair deal more respect than Vigilant mockery, yeah?"
A flicker of anger returns to Lunt’s face, but it dissipates quickly. Instead he laughs bitterly. “Look, my job is just making sure the mules walk in the right direction. I can brawl, but I’m no warrior with eyes in the back of my head. That’s why Dierik hired people like you.”
“I did Delkaneth a favour by taking his money down to Rundul’s Tree, and I got a thump across the back of the head for it. If I was careless, then I’m sorry. I’ll not make the mistake of running errands for you again.”
“You and this new friend of yours swagger round like the light of Sarenrae settles on your shoulders and shines from your arses, just because you’ve got great weapons strapped on your back. I was doing real work pushing caravans along the roads before you’d even worked out how to chew. Young ain’t got no respect no more.”
Despite his words, Lunt’s voice remains quietly resigned. He looks at Bonegrit, taking in his orcish features, and concludes gently “Though I don’t suppose you ever had a mother to teach you right way to comport yourself with your elders ...”
"Is that possible? I mean is it possible to get to the cave in six to eight hours?"Agtharda shakes her head at Pellius’ question, then holds up two fingers. Navareene explains “Even if you leave this instant, it’ll be two days ride to reach the cave. Your progress will slow once you enter the foothills.”
Pellius nods trying hard to hide his smile. A couple of days on horseback and away from this place sounded really good right now.
"Then it's best we get started. I'll escort our guide back to camp and get her a steady horse. We need to check on Bonegrit and our newest companion. Hopefully, he'd enjoy a ride out to the foothills."
He then turns to Pyotr and Delkaneth, "If you two will take care of any supplies we may need, that would be great. If there's money for a blunt weapon, I'll take a mace, a small one, one that can be used with only one hand. And I'm always game for some additional healing, whatever the form. Shall we go?"
Their business with Navareene concluded, the black uniformed guard leads them back across the courtyard, then into the alley behind the Court of Knives and onto the Orcgate Road. The guard’s pace is swift, but Agtharda easily keeps pace with the swift strides of the men.
Returning to Freedom’s Square, Pellius takes Agtharda back to camp whilst Delkaneth and Pyotr go to obtain the things they need for their expedition at Jork’s Junk Shop .
When Bonegrit sees Agtharda, he'll recognise her as one of the customers he saw at the Goodly Goatherd (unless there's more than one person walking around the Freedom Town in such garb.
- - - - -
By the time the errands are run and Delkaneth and Pyotr are walking out through the Ruin Gate, midday is fast approaching. Before they even arrive at the laagered wagons, Delkaneth sees Lunt striding towards him. He does not look happy.
“A lot of grief it brought me,” he complains “Agreeing to deliver that payment to the sage. He never got it. I was robbed and done over, no thanks to you.”
He throws three gold pieces at Del. “They spent the fourth,” he explains “But Bonegrit an’ that new fella, the insufferable one who thinks he’s Iomedae’s gift to knighthood, went down Rundul’s Tree and accosted them. They’ve got ‘em both tied to a sixbull wheel.”
- - - - -
"Look, I guess that you have met a lot's of people and that you can properly assess us. I guess that I do not need to tell you that I am not afraid to wrestle or cross swords with anyone. But this thing with Chelaxian...I mean, Delkaneth...is it contagious? Can I get that if I am not careful? I mean - give me an enemy I can see and I'll deal with him, but this...I'm...I do not know...I am afraid...can you tell me what to do not to end up like that?"
Kelya quietens her voice so that the conversation can be heard by her and Alagor alone.
“So you know of his affliction. I hope he told you himself. Be wise and speak to no-one else of it. The truth is, I don’t know what to make of it. It’s fascinating, but also repellent. I could offer him no assurances, neither can I to you, especially with this fever that now seems to have caught hold of Delkaneth.”
“All I can say is that he’s a valiant lad, to bear such a deformity without too much horror. It would behove his companions to stand firm beside him.”
She gives Alagor a comforting couple of pats on the upper arm, and returns to the tent to tend Dierik.
Pyotr leads Hammer through the town gates laden with their purchases. Upon returning to camp, it is clear that the mood is less somber than before, but is now charged with animosity.
By the time the errands are run and Delkaneth and Pyotr are walking out through the Ruin Gate, midday is fast approaching. Before they even arrive at the laagered wagons, Delkaneth sees Lunt striding towards him. He does not look happy.
“A lot of grief it brought me,” he complains “Agreeing to deliver that payment to the sage. He never got it. I was robbed and done over, no thanks to you.”
He throws three gold pieces at Del. “They spent the fourth,” he explains “But Bonegrit an’ that new fella, the insufferable one who thinks he’s Iomedae’s gift to knighthood, went down Rundul’s Tree and accosted them. They’ve got ‘em both tied to a sixbull wheel.”
"It never rains, except it pours..." Pyotr laments. "This is becoming a prison camp. They stole your coin," Pyotr looks to Delkaneth. "I will take charge of the equipment, while you see to this situation."
After the would-be muggers are finally tied to a sixbull, Alagor sighs a breath of relief. He did not have any idea what to do with them, but now, somehow, they were Delkaneth's responsibility. Or at least that was he was hoping for.
Kelya quietens her voice so that the conversation can be heard by her and Alagor alone.
“So you know of his affliction. I hope he told you himself. Be wise and speak to no-one else of it. The truth is, I don’t know what to make of it. It’s fascinating, but also repellent. I could offer him no assurances, neither can I to you, especially with this fever that now seems to have caught hold of Delkaneth.”
“All I can say is that he’s a valiant lad, to bear such a deformity without too much horror. It would behove his companions to stand firm beside him.”
"I will do my best to stand by him. I swear this on the The Song of the Spheres, Lady Keyla"
With Shang and Kiloran taken care of, Alagor sees to his equipment, while awaiting the return of the rest of the party. Hungry Mountains were a dangerous place, and he gathers and once again checks all of his equipment. After sharpening Tanladvir to perfection, young warrior refocuses his attention to a what looked like a simple piece of wood reinforced with metal. Almost as if someone has torn off a a simple, albeit large branch from a tree and enclosed it with several plain, rusty looking metal rings, thus reinforcing it. He swings it once or twice, getting the feel for it, before turning to Bonegrit: "This bludgeon is called palija in Ustalav. You use it to defend from the beasts or monsters, especially skeletal ones. Or to beat the hell out of a guy who's too close to your lady" - he adds with a mischievous grin on his face. Or you simply wrest it away from a guy trying to beat you up
After going through a small arsenal of his weapons, and rechecking the contents of his backpack, Alagor simply waits for departure. However, only moments later a thought appears in his mind, and his appearance becomes crestfallen. Oh no, we're gonna ride there?!?
By the end of Delkaneth’s performance both of the thugs are babbling with fear, both weeping; in fact Killoran even wets his breeches.
The illusions and diabolical hectoring draws quite a bit of attention from the caravan crew as well. Some stifle smirks; including Lunt, but a number shoot each other concerned looks. It seems all this talk of Delkaneth’s devilish nature is starting to take root.
"You have been marked as mine. Everything you do, I will know. I will give you this last chance. I will not be trifled with again."
Although Killoran’s in no state to string a sentence together, Shang manages to whimper a response. “We’re in your power, oh Mighty Wood Devil. Consider us your humble creatures. We will do your bidding immediately.”
"Return the pouch to them so they can deliver it to Sleer. They won't be fool enough to cross us again, not with that spell on them. If they do, you will hear their screams from this far outside the city anyway."
“Well, the pouch is mine, and I’ve learned not to do favours for you folks no more. But if you want to release ‘em yourself, I’m satisfied they’ve learnt their lesson,” the old drover studies Delkaneth thoughtfully, perhaps wondering whether there’s any element of truth in what he just saw.
As Lunt walks away, Delkaneth sees Karannah looking at him, having also just witnessed the scene. Her face expresses a mixture of disappointment and curiosity as she catches Delkaneth’s eye.
- - - - -
A little later, Delkaneth finds Lunt and explains the charade. The drover is satisfied with his explanation, and even chortles at the ruse, but also offers a warning.
“This crew have travelled far and seen a lot, including some frightening things in Cheliax. But they don’t understand too well sorcery, devils, demons and all that. Those lads were scared, darned scared. I don’t know what tricks you played ‘em up in the Freedom Town, but they believed your bluff to the bottom of their hearts. Trouble is, you might have convinced a few people right here that you’re a little deviltouched too.”
“Wine bridges many a divide,” he concludes, stretching out his hand “Consider our differences settled.”
- - - - -
Second Master Santrian hurries over to Pyotr, monocle held limply in one hand.
“How are your preparations going? The sun has passed its zenith already. What did the Sharpes have to say?”
Laying eyes on their new orcish companion, Bonegrit stands in silence with a look of confusion about his face. After a few moments of consideration he approaches Pyotr and their guide-to-be.
"Didn't expect Navareene to be of Belkzen blood. Not a very orcish name, yeah? An' hells below, I saw her just this afternoon at the Goatherd. Coulda saved us all a ripe mess if I knew she were the witch to begin with." Realizing that he has forgotten any semblance of manners, Bonegrit lets his verbal train of thought die out. Turning to regard Agtharda, he extends a hand by way of greeting. "Sorry, miss. Been a long an' downright pathetic day. I'm called Bonegrit—hired on as a guide when I'm not runnin' down hooligans, tendin' to livestock, and wanderin' aimlessly through haunted swamps."
"Didn't expect Navareene to be of Belkzen blood. Not a very orcish name, yeah? An' hells below, I saw her just this afternoon at the Goatherd. Coulda saved us all a ripe mess if I knew she were the witch to begin with." Realizing that he has forgotten any semblance of manners, Bonegrit lets his verbal train of thought die out. Turning to regard Agtharda, he extends a hand by way of greeting. "Sorry, miss. Been a long an' downright pathetic day. I'm called Bonegrit—hired on as a guide when I'm not runnin' down hooligans, tendin' to livestock, and wanderin' aimlessly through haunted swamps."
Pellius shakes his head, "No, this is not Navareene. This is Agtharda."
The magus turns to their new guide, "Did I pronounce that correctly?"
"Anyhow, she'll be our guide for the trip."
Pellius' eyes turn in tought, "Say Bonegrit, why don't help me pick out a horse for her. I think she's not the best of riders so a good, steady horse will serve her best. I noticed you've been around the animals and their keeper..."
Second Master Santrian hurries over to Pyotr, monocle held limply in one hand.
“How are your preparations going? The sun has passed its zenith already. What did the Sharpes have to say?”
Pyotr removes the last of the bags from Hammer's back and brushes the hair down with his hand. "The Sharpe's are a variable group. I expect that we got the worse end of our negotiations with Abram. I also suspect that Abram Sharpe himself was directly involved..." Pyotr pauses. "I think a more strenuous interrogation of Tharkon would change our understanding of the facts of this case."
"Our preparations are complete, save for food and water. Will you kindly ask Crinkles to assemble enough rations for seven people for the next five days. If Deramil will assemble the rest of the horses, I will begin loading them with gear. We should depart within the hour, if we hope to get any distance before the setting of the sun."
Pyotr cinches the last of the saddlebags down to Agtharda's borrowed horse. The other six steeds mill around the open yard, saddled and laden for the journey. He walks to Santrian, where he paces and frets. "That is the last of it. Has Khozin returned? It is time to depart."
- - - - -
"Sorry, miss. Been a long an' downright pathetic day. I'm called Bonegrit—hired on as a guide when I'm not runnin' down hooligans, tendin' to livestock, and wanderin' aimlessly through haunted swamps."
As Bonegrit closes with Agtharda, he gets half a glimpse of the face shadowed beneath the hood. Although certainly ugly, something about the set of the features, as well as something about her scent leads him to believe her orcish blood is mixed with that of men. She’s probably not much older than Bonegrit.
As she did to his companions in Navareene’s lair, Agtharda offers Bonegrit a curtsy and inclines her head in confirmation of Pellius’ correct pronunciation of her name.
- - - - -
As the adventurers set to preparing for their departure, Crinkles’ sets to preparing them a veritable midday feast before their quest begins. From his kitchen atop the wagon called ‘Mealwheels’, he’s hard at work, and thanks to Freedom Town’s proximity, has managed to source some ingredients aside from the usual, boring fare of the road. There are boiled and fried potatoes and sweet potatoes, roast chicken, and even some apples and pears! And not to disappoint anyone (at least in his eyes), he’s cooked up some of his perennial jerky broth.
As people gather to eat the food and wish the men luck, Khozin reappears in camp. He finds his way over to Alagor. The half-elf has alcohol on his breath, but he’s nonetheless in control of his senses.
“Good thing Skaraben Sharpe can’t hold his liquor,” he says “Gods know why he thinks I’m such company, he’s a boorish prick in my eyes, but not a man one would like to upset unless you can be sure you’ll be putting some distance between you and him soon.”
“So, when’s this expedition getting on the road? For all its supposed freedom, this town’s been shutting its doors to me of late, and I long to see an open path ahead of me.”
- - - - -
"Our preparations are complete, save for food and water. Will you kindly ask Crinkles to assemble enough rations for seven people for the next five days. If Deramil will assemble the rest of the horses, I will begin loading them with gear. We should depart within the hour, if we hope to get any distance before the setting of the sun."
“Deramil has already seen to the horses, and Crinkles’ to the provisions. There’s nothing further to delay you.”
"I think a more strenuous interrogation of Tharkon would change our understanding of the facts of this case."
“Your words don’t surprise me. The duplicity of the Sharpes knows no bounds. Dierik and I chose to align ourselves with Courthrin when we arrived here, which may have raised Abram’s ire.” He glances across to where Tharkon is bound. “It’s time we get tough with that old rogue. I’ll make him talk, even if it means running a sixbull over his legs.”
Santrian taps his monocle lightly against Pyotr’s battered armour.
“One last thing. It seems Haisnar Rosenholt was behind all this trouble in the first place. His armour remains in locked in Dierik’s carriage, where it serves nobody. There’s no returning it now, not after his despicable crime. Let it do some good. I think you should wear it, if you are willing.”
Deramil supplies three horses for Alagor, Khozin and Agtharda; the same two solid beasts the pair rode to the Curbril Wood and a smaller, darker coated mount for the half-orc.
“Your words don’t surprise me. The duplicity of the Sharpes knows no bounds. Dierik and I chose to align ourselves with Courthrin when we arrived here, which may have raised Abram’s ire.” He glances across to where Tharkon is bound. “It’s time we get tough with that old rogue. I’ll make him talk, even if it means running a sixbull over his legs.”
"Abram Sharpe is not one to be lightly crossed. Threats and pain may not succeed. Tharkon's life may be forfeit if he betrays him. Force his surrender with the truth. We have purchased Abram's support. He will not rescue or even advocate for Tharkon, now. The man is all alone, and held by his enemies."
Santrian taps his monocle lightly against Pyotr’s battered armour.
“One last thing. It seems Haisnar Rosenholt was behind all this trouble in the first place. His armour remains in locked in Dierik’s carriage, where it serves nobody. There’s no returning it now, not after his despicable crime. Let it do some good. I think you should wear it, if you are willing.”
Pyotr stands, mouth gaping. After a moment, he breathes again and manages to close his mouth. For the first moment in a long time, it is clear that something has broken through his taciturn shell. His broad smile goes from ear to ear. "That is handsome gift. One not given lightly. I hope you truly meant it, because you should not imagine that I will refuse."
Second Master Santrian listens earnestly to Pyotr’s advice.
“I’ll trust your judgement then,” he answers “And see what else we can learn from that worthless creature.”
The adventurers quickly finish their lunch, and with the horses saddled and loaded with provisions and Pyotr resplendent in his new armour (though it still bears a couple of knocks and dents from Haisnar battle with Dierik), there’s nothing more to delay them.
The vast majority of the caravan’s crew gather to wish them luck. After polishing his monocle, then tossing and catching it like a flipped coin, Second Master Santrian clambers onto a sixbull to address the small band of riders and the assembled well-wishers. Clearly not as comfortable with grand oratory as his captain, Santrian’s clear his throat a few times before speaking in a voice that only just carries to all, and still inhabited with the grave worry he harbours for Dierik.
“This caravan’s seen its good times and its bad. We all knew this venture across Belkzen would try us all, but I don’t think any us anticipated such a calamity as this would strike us so early in our endeavour.”
“Dierik’s overcome many challenges in his life, terrible obstacles of both the physical and the spiritual kind. He’s a fighter, and I know he’ll battle the venom that poisons him longer than any normal man.”
“But today he needs help. For just such grim moments as this he anticipated the need to hire adventurers to go beyond what could be asked of us folk who simply drive, drove, fix and guard this little community of ours. They’ve only been with us a week, but now our very future rests on their shoulders.”
“Some of them I hired myself, and fate has pushed others into our company, some quite recently. Now comes the time for them to really prove themselves, and I have faith they’ll let neither I nor Dierik down." Switching his attention to the adventurers themselves, Santrian concludes "May Desna, Iomedae, or simply peasant luck stand close by your shoulder; we’ll be looking for your return soon.”
Given the solemn mood of the camp, Santrian’s words don’t exactly incite a chorus of rousing cheers, but there’s a general murmur of agreement and encouragement from those gathered as the seven adventurers turn their horses east and ride out of the circle of wagons. Along the hazy horizon before them the Hungry Mountains can just be made out, their peaks like the broken lower jaw of some fanged beast.
- - - - -
The small company of seven makes good progress, and the Freedom Town, with all its intrigues, complications and corruption, dwindles into the distance behind them. Soon they’ve passed the last far-roaming goat and are into true wilderness, and the Hungry Mountains begin coalesce and grow in size before them. The grey of the morning has cleared, but thunderheads are gathered amidst the peaks ahead.
For now though, the going is easy. The landscape is the desolate moorland common to much of Belkzen; gently rolling, treeless barrens vegetated by tussocky grass and patches of low scrub. Still, this unappealing environment suits the horses, which need no road to make good time towards the Hungries.
Agtharda, in her tongueless state, rides of course, in silence, rather ungainly on her dark-coated horse but managing well enough. Her guidance is not yet needed, the direction to the Hungry Mountains obvious enough.
As Khozin rides beside you, you notice an oversized, gaudy ring of gold and carnelian glinting in the sun. The red gemstones are tiny, but you can just make the stylised seal; five fanning knives facing upwards, the emblem of the Sharpes. You saw this ring yesterday, but then it was adorning the hand of Skaraben Sharpe.
It is good to be out in the plains with a good horse under him. The scout pats Signior in the neck and the horse neighs back at him as if echoing his thoughts.
Seeing that their half-orc guide was managing well enough with her horse, the magus trots up to Khozin to see how he was doing.
The waxing sun glints off the man's hands and the magus can not help but notice the shiny ring on the man's hand. Pellius quickly remembers that it was the same ring that Skaraben Sharpe had, not too long ago.
Sitting comfortably in his horse, the magus asks, "Nice ring there. Is Skaraben the betting kind or is this just some sort of loan?"
Pyotr quickly removes the old and tarnished scale he had worn since the start of the expedition, and goes through the slow, careful process of donning the gilded platemail. Once he is ensconced in the shining attire, he claps his silvered helm upon his head. He nearly dances in excruciation, longing for a glass to look upon himself with, but cannot bring himself to show his vanity by asking for one. With a sigh, he releases the desire, and promises himself that once he gets the enameled gauntlet from the dwarf, he will find a way to view himself once.
He walks stiffly through the camp, adjusting to the fit of the armor. He accepts the encouragement from Santrian and the others, and as he passes the six-bull he remarks, "Torshen's Hammer may not thank you for the gift, but I will thank you doubly in his place." He grins broadly, the menacing appearance of the gesture hidden by the cheeckguards of his helm. Then he walks off to the assembled steeds and begins negotiating the trial of mounting Hammer in the rigid armor.
Pyotr spends the first hours of the journey lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, all of them revolving around a resplendent, shining knight charging across the field, skewering undead witch-kings and dragons, or mowing down hordes of vicious barbarians who threaten the land.
Though he never notices it himself, Pyotr cannot help but overhear Pellius as he questions Khozin about the ring. Once his attention is drawn to it, there is no doubt that it bears the crest of the Sharpe's.