Vaulting off of Amiro in his usual fashion, Bonegrit fetches up the reins of the extra horse and hands it off to Deramil. "Khozin decided he wanted to steal the Sharpe younger's signet ring—Skaraven, or Skaraben I believe his name was. He wasn't too pleased, and sent over a half dozen local strongarms to collect Khozin and the ring to bring back to the Sharpe kid. Couple of em are worm food now; the horse and everythin' on it are the spoils we claimed in the wake of the thugs and their poor choices."
"Aye, Bonegrit has the gist of it. No need to tell you to be careful but I'll do so. The Sharpes pretty much own this place so be careful."
The magus pats Signior in the neck, "We've camped about an hour's ride away and we ought to get back. Try and see if returning the bauble, together with the promise of Khozin in a couple of days, buys you enough goodwill to avoid violence. Tell them that two more, wounded and defeated, men will be back by morning, if you see them before then."
Making sure that everything is ready and there are no questions, Pellius mounts up again, "I take it you can unload the horse for us?"
He turns to Bonegrit, "Ready to head back?"
Prior to departure of Pellius and Bonegrit, Alagor approaches the loot pile and takes a pair of beautiful looking bronze wrist torcs. He fiddles with them for a few moments, until he finds a proper way to fit them on his upper arms. He flexes his muscles once or twice winking at Khozin, obviously satisfied with his own look. Next he takes a big longbow from the pile, and one of the quivers. He shuffles some arrows between the quivers, finally taking 8 normal and 2 strange looking arrows with blunt arrowheads. He tests the bow by pulling it to the limits, and notices with grim satisfaction that he needs quite a bit of his considerable strength to pull it completely. He looks around at his compatriots, as if asking if it is OK with them to take these items, and seeing that no objections are forthcoming, he simply shrugs and moves towards Bonegrit.
"I've seen you use your bow with quite some expertise. I don't know much about bows, although Dalamad went out of his way to make sure I learn the value of ranged weapons, but this seems like a good weapon. Now don't get me wrong, but for your orcish ancestry, you do look a bit scrawny. Not sure if you can pull this one all the way through. What do you say we help each other a bit when we find some time - you help me to brush up on my technique when shooting, and I'll help ya with a few pointers how to properly pull it all the way. Once you master it, I'll hand over this bow to ya. Sure as hell you can put it to better use than I might. Deal?"
After the half-orc and Chelaxian magus left, Alagor tries to answer Pyotr's questions to the best of it's ability: "Yep, from what I remember the story is the followin' - it is an enchanted glaive and it chimes with every strike, sometimes at a pitch so perfect it can shatter weapons and armour into fragments. Not sure how much is true or legend, but if you'd like, I'm pretty sure Khozin might help you some more. Knowing him, he probably knows more of this magic thingie, and can maybe use his sorcery in determining how to use it the proper way."
Without even waiting for Pyotr to answer, Alagor whistles sharply "Eh Khozin, come and help our knight 'ere with his new weapon, will ya?!" Here ya go Khozin, start showing your value
"Now, I do not know much about horses..." - Actually, I hate those creatures - "...so I have to ask you guys what do we do with them? On the other hand, I am more than willing to help around setting up the camp. Here, I'll try and find some wood for the fire, and see if there's some fresh water nearby, maybe find some berries and such."
Leaning closer to heavily armored half-orc, Alagor adds in a whisper: "Actually, I am not sure if Delkaneth should take part of watch rotation tonight. He seems very weak. Maybe we should use Khozin after all. Your call, sir knight."
Commor spends a few moments blinking stupidly up at Pyotr, but soon focuses as the naked blade comes down to rest on his shoulder.
"You must learn the weight of your sword. More importantly, learn when not to draw it. Do you understand?"
“I think I do,” responds Commor. “Ser Yevender must weigh my sword. Do you think it’s too heavy?”
= = = = =
"I wonder if it has a name...?"
"Eh Khozin, come and help our knight 'ere with his new weapon, will ya?!"
Khozin scratches his little blonde beard, then shrugs. “I don’t know much more than that I’m afraid. Certainly it has no name that I’ve heard spoken about the Freedom Town. Perhaps its owner could tell us more if we revived him.”
Along the banks of the dry gulch Alagor manages to find a couple of dead trees which he uproots for firewood. He also cuts some peat from a boggy patch of ground near the camp to add fuel to the fire. There’s little to be had foraging – these moorlands lack fruiting bushes as it is, and in spring none of them are bearing berries.
Somewhere up in the mountains, a wolf howls.
Khozin decided he wanted to steal the Sharpe younger's signet ring—Skaraven, or Skaraben I believe his name was.
“Yes, Skaraben, I know of him. Courthrin’s son, but under no one’s control, or so I’ve heard.”
Deramil checks over the new horse with an appraising eye, muttering to it soothingly.
Try and see if returning the bauble, together with the promise of Khozin in a couple of days, buys you enough goodwill to avoid violence.
Santrian takes the ring and regards it thoughtfully. “This is a useful bauble to have to hand,” he muses “The squabbles of the Sharpes rarely run in the same direction. I trust that unless the thugs you battled wore black tabards, they were Skaraben’s cronies and no more. Should the Sharpes come calling, this might mollify them. Otherwise it’s a nest of snakes that I won’t disturb until the time is right.”
“You’ve certainly a right to the spoils,” concludes Santrian, as a couple of drovers unload the grey horse. “But we’re relying on you. You must hurry to fetch the cure for this insidious poison. Ride swiftly.”
“You’ve certainly a right to the spoils,” concludes Santrian, as a couple of drovers unload the grey horse. “But we’re relying on you. You must hurry to fetch the cure for this insidious poison. Ride swiftly.”
"Aye, sir. We understand this and us coming back here hasn't slowed us down any. The rest of the group is making camp so hopefully by the time we get there, they will be waiting for us with some hot supper."
The magus deftly climbs on top of Signior and nods to Bonegrit, "Ready to go back?"
Bonegrit nods, returning atop the considerable brute-bulk of his own steed. "More'n ready. Let's see if you've learned anything about holdin' those reins, properly!"
Grinning in earnest for likely the first time the entire evening, Bonegrit wheels around and lets out a loud "" Amiro rises on his rear legs and winnies before bringing front hooves back to earth and cutting away from the camp at a fast gallop. Recognizing in himself at least the need to lighten the mood, he's also eager to be back at the campsite now that his own worries are put to rest. With any luck, they would be on a return trip from the mountains soon, once more the heroes of the caravan.
Commor spends a few moments blinking stupidly up at Pyotr, but soon focuses as the naked blade comes down to rest on his shoulder.
"You must learn the weight of your sword. More importantly, learn when not to draw it. Do you understand?"“I think I do,” responds Commor. “Ser Yevender must weigh my sword. Do you think it’s too heavy?”
Pyotr snorts back a laugh. "Close enough. It is a tremendous burden you wish to bear. But this," Pyotr brandishes the sword before the young man, before he slides it back into the scabbard, "is just a tool. Your heart must guide the weapon. Otherwise, what separates a knight from a brigand?"
Leaning closer to heavily armored half-orc, Alagor adds in a whisper: "Actually, I am not sure if Delkaneth should take part of watch rotation tonight. He seems very weak. Maybe we should use Khozin after all. Your call, sir knight."
Ser knight? Ser Pyotr? Yesterday, I was Pyotr the Unwelcome. But, that title no longer fits. This morning, I was Pyotr the Unblooded. Pyotr forces himself to look back at Tharkh's corpse. I suppose that title no longer fits, either. I shall have to create a new one. If only I could forge one with the same clarity as Thurcytel's works... As if on cue, the small bell hanging from the hilt of his sword chimes its pure note.
Pyotr looks back towards Khozin. "What can we expect to go missing during his watch? Never mind," Pyotr shakes his head. "Let Delkaneth rest. I will take the middle watch. Let us hobble the horses first."
After making a good campfire, Alagor goes with Pyotr to help him hobble the horses. He does not really know what should be done, but he follows half-orc's lead and tries his best to help. When that tedious task is done, Alagor simply states that he will take the first watch, and promises to wake Pyotr later.
He goes to check on Delkaneth, making sure he is properly tucked in, and that he has fresh water reaily available, and then he glances around for Khozin. He waits a few moments until their eyes meet, and then winks at the young half-elf and nods towards Commor. He knew that Khozin was a master at unloosening tongues, not that they needed any form of mastery with half-witted squire. So Alagor approaches Commor slowly, swaying while he walks, his heavily gloved left hand clunched in a fist.
"So, boy, you decided to join big man Tarkh and chase after us, eh? Bad choice, very bad, ain't that right Khozin?" - he stops for a moment, staring directly in squire's eyes, while his right hand scratches his chin. "Wonder what you would do to us if you won? Prolly nothing nice, eh boy? If I were a vindictive sort, I might think of a several bad things that might happen to you tonight, while ser knight there sleeps. Whatcha think 'bout that, eh?"
Again Alagor waits a few long moments for a realization to sink in on Yevender's young companion, before continuing: "Now my friend Khozin here, he claims you might be of use to us. He's tryin' to convince me that you might tell us what Skaraben promised you, where did he find you, and other useful stuff. Me...well, you know me, I'm a man of action, not words. I keep tellin' Khozin that you might talk even better with a few bruises, maybe a broken bone or two. Hell, all you need is tongue, right? And I promise you I ain't touchin' that. But, Khozin is a nice guy, and he hates blood and gore and all that...so, he had me agree to give you a chance to talk and buy your way out of this."
His right lip curls up offering a crooked smile, while he punches his left fist into the open palm of his right hand with a loud smack.
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Pyotr feels Khozin’s flattery is a genuine attempt to repair some of the damage done by his actions, although there’s no doubt some element of self-preservation is also evident in trying to ingratiate himself with the men who could end up dragging him back to the Freedom Town and the grim fate that likely awaits him.
With the sun beginning to get swallowing in the clouds heavily arrayed above the tallest peaks of the Hungry Mountains, Pellius and Bonegrit turn their steeds about and launch them both into a gallop. At this thundering pace, they rejoin their companions just as twilight is settling over the wastelands.
The horses are hobbled, a small fire lit and the tents set up, things are as comfortable as can be expected for such a desolate place. Delkaneth has already fallen into an exhausted sleep.
With camp set up, Alagor turns to the conscious captive. Commor is still somewhat delirious, but he manages to gather his wits as Alagor begins menacing him. Khozin looks uncomfortable, but plays along with the charade, and by Commor’s wide, fearful eyes, Alagor’s threats do the trick.
“Look,” he blurts “I’m very sorry. If we won we were supposed to kill him (Commor points at Khozin) but only kill the rest of you if we had to. Or if we wanted to. But I didn’t mean to upset anyone! Ser Yevender said that to be a knight I have to fight brigands, and Skaraben Sharpe’s a good friend so I did what he told me because you’re all brigands. But now the half-orc says my sword isn’t heavy enough to be a knight, so I think I want to be a brigand like you guys!”
Slowing Signior down, the magus trails in behind the half-orc to camp. Happy to see everything is as it should be, he sits down by the fire and breaks out the rations that were prepared for them.
"I'll take the last watch; I need my head as clear as possible to study this new spellbook we got from the tower."
With that, the scout finds himself a comfortable spot somewhat near the dying fire and closes his eyes. The distant howling delays his sleep some and he lays his sword within easy arm reach. A few moments later and he dozes off.
Absorbed in discovering new arcane secrets, the magus lifts his head from his new book...
Bonegrit is in a noticeably better mood upon their return to camp. The unburdened ride back from the caravan laager is one spent enjoying the freedom the saddle brings. The chill winds sweeping down across the moor that kiss his ashen skin are always pronouncedly liberating. Amiro, too, welcomes the opportunity to go through his paces. Being tethered and confined with the other horses often leaves the brute irritable, but the brief jaunts or forays Bonegrit's occupation affords seem to redeem the destrier's good spirits. The hearts of both rider and steed begin to flag somewhat at the prospect of their ride's end, while the prospect of the day to come still looms brightly on the morrow's horizon.
After securing Amiro nearby to the most appetizing scrub and weeds he can find, the half-orc eventually makes his way over to where Agtharda has sequestered herself. Words are spent largely in vain, and it is a few moments before Bonegrit becomes aware of the muted nature of their guide. Awkwardness reigns then for a short time, as he attempts to find apologies sufficient to undo the unintentional rudeness. Thereafter, he begins sticking to questions and observations that can be responded to with a nod or a shake of the head.
Seeing that no useful information is forthcoming from Commor, Alagor simply gives up. It was not his intention to hurt anyone in the first place, but he was hoping (against all odds) that he might actually learn something valuable. Witnessing Commor's cockamamie anew, warrior simply slumps his broad shoulders and moves towards Bonegrit, who seemed to be drawing lines in the dirt. Once again, he engages the half-orc how to best use his new bow (), before he goes to sleep.
Finally alone at the watch, Alagor moves around the camp slowely, making sure that the fire is on all the time, and there is always a torchlike stick of wood ready to be used if needed. He was painfully aware how little he saw in the dark, and for a few moments he actually envied his comrades with mixed ancestry and their well honed senses.
If nothing happens during the couple of hours of his watch, Alagor would go and wake up Pyotr, make sure his sword is sharp and properly oiled, remove his armor and go to sleep.
When Alagor shakes him awake, Pyotr stands from his bedroll without complaint. Resting upright against his pack is a virtual arsenal of weapons... lance, greatsword, longsword, warhammer, shield, and the magical glaive. Pyotr instinctively reaches for the comfort of his greatsword, but hesitates momentarily. With a deft twist of his fingers, he pulls the small silver chime from the hilt of large weapon and reattaches it to crosspiece at the haft of the glaive.
He spins the weapon, delighting in the low thrum of the large blade as it sliced the air, and the counterpoint of the bright peal of Thurcytel's gift. The long-limbed half-orc thrusts hard at an invisible foe, measuring the new lengths he can reach with the polearm.
The would-be knight is so engrossed in his play at weapons that he hardly pays attention to the surroundings. He notes that while he slept, Bonegrit and Pellius had returned to camp, but hardly notices anything else...
Bonegrit gives the composite bow recovered from the previous fight a few brief tugs, an appreciative grunt the full measure of his appraisal. "Might be a bit sore pullin' on that string overlong. Yer a big guy, though. I can give ya some pointers in the morning if ya like. Feel free ta keep that bow though. I can always hire on a bowyer to adjust mine later on, yeah? If ya ever need a quiver supplied, just take whatever's needed off of Amiro. I keep well stocked; would be stupid not to as long as I spend on the road, I reckon."
Scratching a bit of scraggly, black stubble on his chin, Bonegrit jerks his head slightly in Agtharda's direction. "Tryin' to figger out where we're goin' an' what we should expect before we get there. Had enough surprises for a lifetime, I think. Wouldn't mind bein' a step ahead fer a change."
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Absorbed in discovering new arcane secrets, Pellius lifts his head from his new book, but sees nothing out there in the darkness.
Despite an awkward beginning, it’s clear that Agtharda is quite astute and immediately realises Bonegrit’s intention. She puts away her little arcane book and instead draws a roll of parchment, bottle of ink and quill from her sack. As Bonegrit scratches out the outlines of the black mountains that loom ahead of them in the twilight, she tears little strips of paper from her roll and scribbles out the names of each peak; including a mountain named Taxathar’s Bane, under which she adds the notation ‘The Garrison of Arith-Zind’. She stabs one half-orcish finger into the title emphatically; this it would appear, is the party’s destination.
Agtharda marks no water sources en route.
The Hungry Mountains are so named because of dearth of food or water to be found for those foolish enough to travel into them. The closer one gets to Gallowspire, the less natural life prevails, until finding a scavenger bird sailing over a distant peak or some desiccated lichen clinging to a rock is a discovery. Luckily for the adventurers, the absence of life is far more noticeable on the eastern side of the mountains where they border Ustalav. Closer to Lastwall, foraging is tough but not impossible.
Storms are common in the Hungry Mountains, but in the highest peaks these tempests have a destructive, malignant sentience, driven by the undead spirits howling within to send deluges of bloody rain and acidic sleet upon travellers foolish enough to brave their peaks.
The mountain known as Taxathar’s Bane derives its name from the red dragon that met its end there centuries ago. Taxathar unwittingly ventured into the demesne of Marrowgarth, the undead dragon once said to be the mount of Tar-Baphon himself. Sallying forth from the ruined city of Adorak, Marrowgarth chased Taxathar across the Hungry Mountains, toying with the lesser red, wearing him down with passing rakes and nips that slowed but did not slay. Disorientated and defeated, Taxathar flew into a mortuary storm crackling above the mountain that would come to bear his name, and smashed unseeing into its precipitous flanks, leaving the ravening Marrowgarth free to descend and despatch the broken dragon at his casual leisure.
When Pyotr takes his watch, he also takes the glaive which until recently had belonged to Tanerit, who still lies comatose beside Commor. After attaching his bell, he goes through some spins, slashes and thrusts with the glaive, admiring how deftly it handles despite the weight of its admantine.
[ooc]Pyotr has determined that glaive is fairly cool, but not amazingly awesome.
As his comrades take their turns on watch, Delkaneth thrashes fitfully on his bedroll, in the depths of a fever dream.
The sun is setting over the Ghostlake, turning its dark, placid waters crimson. In a circle, the Council stands, its nineteen members up to the waists of their drab brown robes in still lake water.
You chant the words you have been taught, their endless repetition becoming a mantra, the fey syllables sounding closer to calls of birds and beasts than any human speech. For hours it’s been thus, as one by one by one the offerings are brought to fuel the ritual.
Despite the sun’s red glare on the surface, you can still see some of these offerings glittering on the Ghostlake’s bottom. The greatest works of men’s forges and their sorcery, the most brutal killing tools of the orcs, all these civilised anathemas to the Council’s creed, all sacrificed to feed Eranworl’s great work.
In your hands, the mighty greatsword Tanladvir, the last work of man to be surrendered to the Ghostlake and Eranworl’s last gambit. The weapon holds a deceptive beauty, its long blade mottled from a blue-green sheen, the legacy of a battle with the Omox of Lake Encarthan, or so it is said. One might almost regret that such a weapon must be stripped of its magic, but such is the demand placed upon Eranworl by the fey creatures he venerates.
The sun vanished below the horizon, the appointed hour, and you simply let Tanladivr fall, let the Ghostlake swallow both its physical form and all its arcane power.
The chanting continues, unbroken, hour upon hour, and the moon rises full. The water that was before red, then black, now turns silver to reflect the orb above. The ritual has gone on all day, without pause, but still Eranworl continues to lead the Council of Thorns in their ceaseless incantation. Despite all your focus, you can feel your cold, numb legs trembling beneath you and your vision swims as you continue to force your exhausted vocal cords to make their way around and around and around the repetitive sylvan manta.
The moon reaches its zenith, and from his belt, Eranworl draws his own blade. Ithuryssa, is unmistakeable, with its antlered quillions and the spidery fey runes running along the blade all the way to the tip. You are shocked to see that Eranworl would cast it into the Ghostlake, especially as Ithuryssa is not a creation of the world of men, orcs, or even of this plane. Indeed, the hierophant himself seems to falter as he holds out his dreaded longsword, unwilling to make this final sacrifice.
Then … something falls … is it Ithuryssa … or is it you? Your body rebels, your stamina depleted to nothing, you fold into the cold, waiting waters of the Ghostlake.
Delkaneth awakes with a start. Dawn is near.
Bonegrit spends the remainder of the evening speaking with Alagor and Agtharda. When at last the time comes to retire for the night, he thanks the half-orc woman for her time, once more apologizing for his prior ignorance before finding his own tent to try and get some sleep.
Delkaneth wakes still feeling weary, but thankfully the illness seems to have finally left him.
The jagged peaks of the Hungry Mountains begin to frame the horizon as a deep purple heralding the coming dawn spreads across the sky. Pellius, on watch, hears Delkaneth start awake nearby to him, but the rest of his companions continue their slumber*.
Suddenly Signior, Amiro and one of captured horses begin to snort and neigh, struggling to bolt but impeded by the hobbles around their legs. The panic swiftly spreads to the other horses, but none of the mounts can move far. The predawn light allows Pellius to vaguely make out the rolling moorland immediately surrounding their campsite, yet he cannot work out what is spooking their animals so.
Its hunt spoiled by the alert senses of the horses, the Belkzen puma has given up its stalk. Body pressed close to the ground, where its tawny coat blends well with the withered vegetation, it swiftly moves away from the camp, some forty feet distant, occasionally darting looks behind it with its pale blue eyes.
*
Alagor's loud snoring is interrupted by commotion amont the horses. He rears his head and takes a look around while his left hand finds comforting grip of his sword. Not seeing anything, he rolls in his bedroll, yawns mightily and goees back to sleep completelly unaware of an potental danger. Horses...such stupid animals...zzz...
Pyotr rolls over as the horses champ and strain against their restraints. As he lifts his head to see what has them spooked, he locks gazes with a pair of large yellow eyes, and from there is able to discern the image of the puma.
He jumps to his feet, grasping the long hilt of the glaive and dashing forward to defend the animals. "The horses!" he shouts.
With his keener night vision, Pyotr can see the Belkzen puma is in a rather emaciated state, and certainly isn't going to challenge men for its prey now that the element of surprise has gone. It continues to hurry away.
Oblivious to the puma that just tried to have breakfast, the magus drops his spellbook and heads over to the horses, "Sh, sh..., it's OK. Whatever it was, it's gone now. Now hush down, there are others trying to sleep."
Signior and some other horse still neigh back nervously but calm down after a bit.
Pellius gives one more look around and goes back to his sentry spot.
Bonegrit rises slowly from his bedroll, eyes scanning the horizon for full measure of what draws near. Upon sight of the puma, he notes first that the animal is in retreat. Soon thereafter, his eyes yield up the fact that it is also exceptionally underfed. A thought to roll back over and go to sleep is soon dominated by an acute pang of pity. His hands quickly seize his pack, rummaging around for the provisions he brought with him for the trip. He unfolds a small metal tin and removes a small bundle of dried meat from within.
Soon enough, Bonegrit finds himself chasing after the starving feline, a brief proclamation of "Don't worry, I'll be back soon," his only explanation to those still at the camp.
With the spooking of the horses, the camp begins to stir, most of the travellers electing to rise rather than snatch any more sleep before the sun breaks the horizon. The horses are easily calmed, their knowing better than most of their riders that the danger has passed. As things at camp settle down, Bonegrit roams out with only a brief and obtuse explanation to Pellius, the half-orc bearing his weapons in one hand and a bundle of jerky in the other.
Bonegrit pauses some distance from camp, crouching down on his haunches.
In the brief time it took Bonegrit to gather his possessions and the dried meat, the puma had already crept out of view. Bonegrit follows the animal more by hunter’s instinct than by any sign it has left, but after a while he spots it some fifty feet away, hunkered down in a low defile and watching the ranger cautiously, the tip of its tail twitching gently back and forth.
Bonegrit moves closer in as unthreatening fashion as possibly, trying his best to make his silhouette less imposing, but the puma scrambles away, running low for a score more yards before finding cover behind a low mound. Again it pauses, it eyes fixed on Bonegrit. It seems to have recognised the scent of the desiccated scraps of jerky as meat, but is too cautious to let the man come any closer.
Back in the camp, Khozin and Agtharda are awake and getting ready to leave. Agtharda mutely points to a wide valley leading between two foothills as their chosen path. The way looks devoid of much vegetation and rather stony, but should not prove too challenging for the horses.
From his sickbed, Commor briefly struggles to rise, only to clutch his head and swoon back to the ground. Tanerit remains unimproved from the previous day, although he has at least survived the night.
The magus stretches and readies himself for travel. He is fairly quiet throughout the morning, perhaps his 'faux pas' weighing on the young soldier.
Nonetheless, he finishes his breakfast and starts packing up camp. "C'mon, let's set these two free on a horse and get back to our business."
He turns to Agtharda and speaking way too slowly and mouthing his words, he asks, "D-o y-ou th-ink we-'ll a-rri-ve to-night?"
Pyotr does not move far past the nervous herd of horses, and merely watches as Bonegrit tries to chase the mangy beast down. With the adrenaline of the moment coursing through him, Pyotr discards any thoughts of returning to sleep. He turns to find a few of the horses still quite skittish, but Torshen's Hammer remains his usual stoic self.
Pyotr removes the restraints on his indefatiguable steed, and brushes him down before he begins armoring the horse with the barding captured in yesterday's ambush. After Hammer is armored from mane to fetlocks, Pyotr begins girding himself in his golden-filigreed suit of platemail. Then he saddles one of the remaining captured horses, preparing it for its solo journey.
Pyotr watches Commor's struggles to breach the depths of unconsciousness. He shakes the would-be brigand-nee-squire, giving him several light taps to face. "I know it is early, but it is time to rise and face the day. You have to carry your companion home, now. He will need greater attention than we can provide, and more rest than we can allow here."
Pyotr's shakes fail to revive Commor. In fact, he faints clean away in the half-orc's arms. It's clear he's quite incapable of riding without assistance.
Beside him, Pyotr's hears the faintest whisper from Tanerit. "Water ..."
Pyotr moves over to the other wounded man, easing his waterskin to the man's mouth and tipping it forward slightly. "Drink slowly. Do not try to sit up. You are quite badly wounded."
After hearing the exchange between Bonegrit and whomever was on watch duty at the time, Alagor tries to go back to sleep. Sure, he heard Pyotr's shout about horses, but Alagor was aware that those animals were skittish and prone to false allarms. With their capable half-orc tracker on the prowl, Alagor was certain enough that he could continue with his snoozing. Alas, it was not meant to be - only a quarter hour later everyone (but the wounded enemies from yesterday) were wide awake, discussing about puma, the day before and the fight, breakfast, day ahead and whatnot. Desna's stardust and Gorum's stomping! Why do you people not sleep?! The sun's not even up yet Sure enough, only seconds later, first rays of morning sun shone on the camp, and young warrior finalley gave up and rose from his bedroll. Mumbling through his clenched teeth, he goes through his morning chores, his mood not improving even after his morning drill with his blade and an ample (but cold) breakfast.
Finally, he approaches half-orc knight who he was tending the wounded: "Don't know much 'bout healin' and stuff, but from the looks of it, I don't think these two are in any shape to ride...or even walk. At least not today. Can the mute witch help them maybe ?"
More water dribbles down Tanerit’s chin than manages to enter his mouth, but he manages to swallow a little. His gummy eyes crack open, and he stares up at Pyotr in cold, defiant defeat. This gaze only intensifies when he notices Pyotr’s possession of his glaive and the bell dangling from the haft.
Cautious both of his injury and of his captors, Tanerit ever so slowly raises himself into a sitting position, still scowling silently.
"D-o y-ou th-ink we-'ll a-rri-ve to-night?"
Agtharda stands stock still for a few minutes, her expression difficult to gauge from within the depths of her hood. With an impatient snort of breath through her wide, flat, warty nostrils, she rummages in her bag for a quill and paper. In her elegant handwriting, she composes the brief response.
Yes. By the way, cutting out one’s tongue in no way affects their hearing. She signs off the sentence with a rather crazed smiley face, its tongue protruding between triangular fangs.
"D-o y-ou th-ink we-'ll a-rri-ve to-night?"Agtharda stands stock still for a few minutes, her expression difficult to gauge from within the depths of her hood. With an impatient snort of breath through her wide, flat, warty nostrils, she rummages in her bag for a quill and paper. In her elegant handwriting, she composes the brief response.
Yes. By the way, cutting out one’s tongue in no way affects their hearing. She signs off the sentence with a rather crazed smiley face, its tongue protruding between triangular fangs.
The magus, slightly embarrassed, nods, "Good, Glad to know you seem to know your way."
He quickly turns around and is about to continue with his preparations when his good nature surfaces. He gets in front of Agtharda and, speaking in normal tones, apologizes, "Sorry 'bout that. I meant no disrespect but I don't think I knew why it was that you couldn't speak. And If I was told, it just didn't register. Too many things going on with my boss and us being attacked, you know?"
The magus nears the prisoners and, seeing the situation, starts giving out orders before things get out of hand. "Let's get the boy to take back the other guy. Freedom Town is only an hour's ride away. I'll help tie him down."
He searches for some rope, "C'mon, let's get going. Agtharda says we'll get to our destination tonight but our ride is a much longer. We can't waste any more time with the prisoners."
Pyotr gently, but firmly, pushes the wounded man back to the ground. "Put aside any thoughts of retribution. You would not survive. Besides... you have nobody to blame but yourself."
"We have no time to spend waiting for you and that one," Pyotr points to the unconscious Commor, "to heal on your own. Give me your word that you have accepted your defeat, and I can heal you. Otherwise, we will give you a pair of daggers and a horse, and leave you to make your way the best you can."
Chelaxian's feelings are quite close to Alagor's, only he does not voice them. Sure thing, heal them. Not that any of us is in dire need of healing... As if to emphasize his thoughts, he touches the edge of a scar that started to form beneath his breast plate. Yes sir knight, heal him and watch him return with an even bigger posse to claim our skins. Most of his fame as a mercenary depended on that glaive, you think he will not try and reclaim it!? We all just made a very dangerous enemy, one that will... His bilious reflections are interrupted by a familiar voice from not so distant past. For a brief second Mishea's image linger before his minds eye, and he can not but smile weakly. What would you do my darling? Kill them outright? Leave them to the wolves? You know that's not the way my dear...
Hints of a smile leaving his face slowly, he understands that he is staring into the morning sun. He shakes his head lightly, and approaches Pyotr and the prisoner: "Sir knight, if you will allow me. This man here, Tanerit, is a man of some fame in these parts. A mercenary of a sorts and a capable one. Most of the stories around him revolved around that magical weapon. Knowing him, he will not give it up so easily. He will come back after us, prolly on another fool's errand and try to reclaim it. Maybe ambush us somewhere on the way back - 'tis the way of Freedom town. One way or the other, another battle is imminent. Maybe better if we simply just kill him now, and end his vendetta 'fore it began"
Alagor stares straight in Tanerit's eyes before continuing: "Or...we might offer him a way out that might be better for all of us. You're a mercenary, right? Then earn your valuables again, through your work. This time work for us - escort Commor safely back to Freedom town, or at least nurse him back to health. Then come back after us. Find us, join us and fight next to us. I believe that should you prove your worth, sir knight here might return you your famous weapon. Who knows, you might even earn a few silver along the way. What say you?"
Warrior watches intently to reactions both from half-orc, as well as from the mercenary, trying to gauge his reaction.
"Back home they would have been tied to their saddles and sent off. Probably wouldn't even use rope, hellknight's would have flayed strips of skin off their backs and tied them using that......"
"Sir knight, if you will allow me. This man here, Tanerit, is a man of some fame in these parts. A mercenary of a sorts and a capable one. Most of the stories around him revolved around that magical weapon. Knowing him, he will not give it up so easily. He will come back after us, prolly on another fool's errand and try to reclaim it. Maybe ambush us somewhere on the way back - 'tis the way of Freedom town. One way or the other, another battle is imminent. Maybe better if we simply just kill him now, and end his vendetta 'fore it began"
Pyotr steps aside with the warrior, and listens to his proposal. "Kindly call me Pyotr," the half-orc huffs. "I would not like to be counted a pretender to a title I have never gained. But, titles aside, I would not choose to simply return the weapon. It would be most... unchivalrous. It would imply that as a warrior he is without merit."
Pyotr returns to the wounded man's side. "You are a very fortunate man... Tanerit, was it? As a child, as a vagrant orphan, I might have found my way to Freedom Town. The battle would have ended decidedly differently had I done so. I was found and raised by the Knights of the Shining Crusade... instructed by the priests of the Cathedral Sancta Iomedae... and so you live."
"Two of your allies were not so fortunate. The other three abandoned you to our mercies without so much as a look back. Shall I visit the ministrations of the Chelaxian Hellknights upon you?" He glances up towards Delkaneth. "Or are you yet capable of peace and redemption?"
Bonegrit fishes out the prepared parcel of meat, tearing it into several morsels before trailing it at a respectable distance away from the puma. He moves slowly and steadily away from it as he lays each bite on the ground. Soon thereafter, he unshoulders his bow and readies an arrow. He spends some time ranging the wilderness in search of a more worthwhile entree for the famished feline.
Tanerit’s silence continues, even as Pyotr kneels down beside him and heals some of the grievous damage inflicted by Alagor’s greatsword. As he listens to Pyotr and Alagor discussing his fate, he can’t help letting a sneer cross his face as Pyotr’s words touch on chivalry, peace and redemption.
However, Alagor’s proposal does elicit a response. He nods in agreement.
“Yeah, I’ll fight for you. Give me back my glaive, and I’ll ride with you to wherever you’re going. Thirty days of service, then I’m free to choose my own way, or you keep me on with coin. Commor needs some healing, and I’m not completely whole either. Revive him your prayers or some healing potion, and I’ll make sure he rides with us as well.”
“You won’t trust us, I’m sure enough of that. I wouldn’t if I were you. No matter. When the battle is joined, send us in first and we’ll show our mettle.”
Meanwhile, as the sun rises, Bonegrit starts to stalk off further into the wilderness, bow in hand.
Alagor senses that Tanerit does not wish to lose his glaive, but also that his proposal is honest enough. Back in the Freedom Town, he's heard that Tanerit is spoken of as a man of his word, though rather ferocious and unmerciful.
Bonegrit lays out his breadcrumb trail, excepting that the breadcrumbs are morsels of meat. The puma continues to watch him, but makes no further movement until the ranger has doubled the distance between them. Then it darts out of cover to snatch the first tidbit, spins about and returns to its original hiding hole.
As Bonegrit seeks fresher game, it strikes him just how poor the surroundings have become for animal life. There’s no sign at all of large creatures near the camp, but he does eventually find the spoor of a scrub hare, and a nearby burrow that smells likely.
Bonegrit knows that if he waits, the hare will probably emerge, early morning being a good time to forage as the hawks and eagles are yet to take wing. But how long will he have to wait? With Erastil’s blessing, perhaps a scant few minutes, but equally it could be an hour or more. Can his companions afford to dawdle that long?
Pyotr approaches the other three caravan guards, as he continues to disassemble the campsite. He looks across the horizon for Bonegrit, but his hunt for the ragged puma has not yet concluded.
"These men rode out to kill us on the word of Skaraben Sharpe. That one we will still need to deal with when we return." Pyotr nods to Khozin. "Mercenaries are mercenaries all of the time. Even if we have purchased his service, will he renege on his contract with Sharpe the Younger?"
Pyotr removes the silver chime from the haft of the glaive. He holds the weapon out for the others. "It is a fine weapon, but not worth killing for. I will not murder that one in cold blood merely to keep it. I have my doubts that Tanerit would either. He was defeated soundly and lay at death's door for an entire night. Most would not hasten to return there."
"If we are in need of another sword-arm, let us keep that one." Pyotr points to the recumbent Commor. "He is in need of... well... greater instruction. His knight-patron has been most negligent."
"Your choice Pyotr, but you should know this. Tanerit, although ferocious and devoid of mercy like most in Freedom town, is a bit of oddity. He is a man of his word, or at least he was so far. I would trust him on this one. His contract for Skaraben, if there was any to begin with, was honored. He fought against us, failed but somehow survived. I doubt that he owes Skaraben anything."
Shifting his weight, he searches for proper words, but since he can't seem to find any, he simply states what's on his mind: "Commor, I would not take even to a brothel full of women in the middle of the desert, devoid of man. I've no doubt that he'd be able to f...well, ya know, to do what needs to be done! Now true, we all...or some of us at least were once young and stupid, and we all deserve a chance, so it's your call, but I'd rather have Tanerit cover my back (on his word) any time of the tenday, and twice on slow days!"
Pellius is furious, "This is crazy and we don't need another dubious ally on our side."
He nods towards Tanerit, "He is a mercenary. He was soundly defeated. He could have been killed yet he lives due to our mercy yet now he wants to work for us? No."
He looks at Alagor, "He is a man of his word. Good. Then let us have that work to our advantage. Is his life not worth anything? I say we propose to set him free and he gives his word that he doesn't come after us. If he agrees, we set him free with a horse and dagger. If he refuses, then I will leave him tied up here on the spot until we cricle back around, if he survives. I think that's a fair deal."
He breathes out, "Let us not lose sight of our main quest here and remember that I don't think he would have been this merciful to us if the tables were turned." He pauses for a moment, "C'mon now. let's be practical about this. If he refuses then he has refused our mercy twice. How many more chances does he get? Is he seriously expecting to come out unscathed through all of this ordeal?"
"Now Commor just seems to be a very green and misguided youth. He can come along as long as he behaves but he's your charge and responsibility, Pyotr."
Pyotr nods in agreement with the others. He reattaches the silver bell holy symbol to the haft of the long blade. "Let us be on our way, then."
Pyotr approaches the two wounded men, the long blade of the glaive resting against his shoulder, and tosses a dagger to the ground beside Tanerit. "We have decided not to purchase your services. You are well enough to travel. Take that horse," Pyotr indicates one of the captured horses. "Do not tarry."
Pyotr lifts the unconscious Commor into the saddle and holds him in place to allow one of the others to strap him down.