"I agree. Better to announce ourselves and avoid any confusion."
"But, if they mean to do us ill, then they are foolish to alert us to their presence," Pyotr gestures towards the fire.
"A worthwhile plan," Pyotr agrees. "Keep Agtharda with you. We swore to keep her safe." He looks towards Khozin. "Keep that one with you as well. If they never see him, they may not believe we are his captors. It is a weak ruse," Pyotr shrugs, "but better than nothing."
The appearance of the not-so-distant campfire distracts Agtharda from her efforts to borrow Pellius' spellbook. A sense of disquiet settles on the adventurers at the prospect of yet more danger after their travails within the Garrison of Arith-Zind.
Bonegrit and Delkaneth hang back in the company of Agtharda and Khozin, whilst Pyotr leads Alagor, Pellius and Commor into the night to greet whatever awaits. A gully of shale and dirt seperates the two hillsides upon which the opposing camps lie, a terrain difficult to cross quietly in the semi-dark. Commor in particular makes a terrible mess of the approach, stumbling and tripping a handful of times, each pratfall accompanied by a curse he fails to smother.
As they approach the campfire, they see two tethered horses looking out into the darkness nervously, fine beasts of a build and disposition to suggest Lastwall stock. A young woman in armour stands at their side. She is rail-thin but well muscled, barely a few years into her womanhood. Her face has a childlike beauty, blue eyes, cascading blonde hair and a heavy dusting of freckles. One hand clutches the hilt of a sword nervously as she peers into the night.
Beyond her, lying prostrate beside the fire, is a small, gnomish human of significant years. Despite his wrinkled features and aged frame, he wears the full plate of a Vigilant knight. A sheathed sword lies on the dirt by his right hand, his balding head rests against a saddlebag.
"I warned you not to light a fire out here Leodegraine," he admonishes, but the young woman shushes him and calls boldly into the night "Who goes there?"
Pyotr's foot slips off of a rocky step just as the young girl comes into view. He stumbles a few short-steps before righting himself, only to have Commor collide into his back and send him stumbling again.
With the dim light of the fire and his superior night vision, the girl's features are clear enough to make Pyotr uncomfortable at the sight. Just a child... What is she doing on the edge of the Hungry Mountains?
"I warned you not to light a fire out here Leodegraine," he admonishes, but the young woman shushes him and calls boldly into the night "Who goes there?"
Pyotr turns his attention upon the aged man lying nearby. A Knight of Vigil! That offers some explanation...
"Hail and well met, travelers," Pyotr calls out. "We are pilgrims, like yourselves, traversing the wilderness. My name is Pyotr, and I am a swordsworn of Vigil. This is Pellius, a scout for Lastwall, and Alagor, a swordarm of Freedom Town. The last is Commor, a squire and my honourable captive. Whom do I have the honour to address?"
Wary as ever, the magus doused his feather and waited in the darkness for the man and woman to identify themselves. His left hand free and already wiggling his fingers should there be need to cast something in a hurry.
Bonegrit watches on in silence from the relative safety of the shadows. The group does not appear to pose any threat, nor do they seem unsavory to him, but it's best to be safe rather than sorry. Resting on his haunches a bit, Bonegrit continues eyeing the exchange intently.
Pellius extinguishes his feather, but the act only seems to make Leodograine more nervous. “Why conceal yourselves now?” she asks. “We heard and saw your approach. Step forward rather than shout your greetings from the shadows.”
If she has noticed Delkaneth’s stealthier flanking movement, she reveals nothing of it. As for Delkaneth, his circuit reveals the pair to indeed be alone in the wilderness – no hidden agents lurk in the darkness.
From where he lies by the fire, the old knight interjects, his voice frail, his words punctuated by wheezing coughs. “If you are indeed of Vigil, swordsworn Pyotr, lurk no more and present yourself and your Mark to Ser Vythes Brightbrooke and his squire Leodegraine.”
Ser Vythes Brightbrooke is a Knight of Ozem with a long and distinguished history in defence of Vigil, although he has something of an iconoclast’s reputation.
“Why conceal yourselves now?” she asks. “We heard and saw your approach. Step forward rather than shout your greetings from the shadows.”
"Do not be alarmed," Pyotr placates. "We have been through one desperate fight this day, and barely escaped with our lives. We only take precautions."
Pyotr steps into the ring of firelight, the heavy bloodstains down the front of his armor apparent. "Ser Brightbrooke..." he steps towards the recumbent knight with his swordhand raised, palm forward. "Your name and deeds are well known to me." Some more distasteful than others. Pyotr leaves the thought unspoken.
The firelight falls unfairly on Pyotr’s orcish features as he steps into the circle of light illuminating the knights’ encampment. Leodegraine gasps at his countenance, and an inch of steel has been drawn from its sheath before Vythes’ bark of “Hold!” stops her. She looks at her master.
“The Sword Mark is the only identification you require Leodegraine,” he chastises gently “Look to that, not to the surprising ancestry of his countenance. He is not the only half-orc to bear arms in Vigil’s name.”
"Your name and deeds are well known to me."
“Your name is known to me as well, returns Vythes, his voice carrying despite its fragility “Enough to know that there are no deeds of note attached to it. It seems that may have changed though,” he concludes, eying the blood and damage to Pyotr’s plate mail. “I know that armour too. And the glaive.” he mutters.
Leodegraine continues to eye Pyotr cautiously. “With your three followers, you outnumber us. Bid them all present themselves like honourable men.”
The firelight falls unfairly on Pyotr’s orcish features as he steps into the circle of light illuminating the knights’ encampment. Leodegraine gasps at his countenance, and an inch of steel has been drawn from its sheath before Vythes’ bark of “Hold!” stops her. She looks at her master.
“The Sword Mark is the only identification you require Leodegraine,” he chastises gently “Look to that, not to the surprising ancestry of his countenance. He is not the only half-orc to bear arms in Vigil’s name.”
"Leodograine," Pyotr nods in greeting.
"Your name and deeds are well known to me."“Your name is known to me as well, returns Vythes, his voice carrying despite its fragility “Enough to know that there are no deeds of note attached to it. It seems that may have changed though,” he concludes, eying the blood and damage to Pyotr’s plate mail. “I know that armour too. And the glaive.” he mutters.
"I am surprised my name was ever spoken within your circles. I spent most of my youth cloistered within the Cathedral. I have even taken the carillon bells of the tower as an emblem." As if in emphasis, the silver chime hanging from the glaive rings brightly.
"The armour and glaive are spoils taken from uninvited combat. Their owners have lost their claim upon them." Pyotr draws the glaive. "Of deeds, I can claim some few since leaving Vigil's shining walls..."
Leodegraine continues to eye Pyotr cautiously. “With your three followers, you outnumber us. Bid them all present themselves like honourable men.”
"Three and more. There are two waiting at our camp. Others watch from even more deeply within the shadows. You need not fear them. They only watch to ensure our safety, and may yet present themselves."
Pellius quickly recornizes the name of the older knight. He steps forward toward the light, "Well met, Ser Vythes Brightbrooke. It's good to see you're about this night. Somehow I feel safer knowing you're around."
He extends his hand showing his Sword Mark, "I am Pellius Fullonna, a scout in service of the Lady. What brings you out in this cold night?"
Pyotr frowns slightly as Ser Vythes Brightbrooke remains on the ground. A bit impolite, not to stand to greet us.
"The quiet one, here, is my captive, Commor." Pyotr pulls Commor forward. "He is the Squire of Ser Yevender, of Freedom Town. He has given me his parole, and will not raise arms against you."
"I have given him the opportunity to regain his freedom, by taking to heart the lessons of knighthood. His instruction has been... lacking. He and his comrades approached us in hostility. It would be helpful to show him how soldiers, peers, may greet one another in friendship..."
Bonegrit quietly ambles into view behind Pyotr, though makes no introduction. The pair seemed amiable enough, if for no other reason than their weapons remained sheathed where they belonged. Men of Vigil are not his specialty, however, so he resolves to leave the introductioning to the other half-orc.
The remainder of the band emerge from the night to join Pyotr, Leodegraine and Ser Vythes around their campfire. Leodegraine is visibly alarmed when Delkaneth steps out of the darkness behind the camp, she had no idea that another had slipped past her unseen.
Pellius, Alagor and Commor follow, the latter beginning to lift one arm to wave hello to the pair, then stopping, shamefaced at Pyotr’s words (“… will not raise arms against you”).
Finally, Bonegrit emerges, with Khozin and Agtharda scrambling after him.
Ser Vythes watches the strangers multiplying with surprising equanimity, though his does not rise from where he lies beside the fire. His young squire moves to stand over him protectively, her blue eyes flickering cautiously from one new face to the next, searching for any sign of treachery.
I am surprised my name was ever spoken within your circles. I spent most of my youth cloistered within the Cathedral.
“Chaplain Orradin* has spoken of you with kindness and praise,” responds Ser Vythes “And he has also spoken of the prejudice you’ve had to brave from many in Vigil, Ser Haisnar Rosenholt among them. Not a man who would have fallen easily in battle. Did he survive the encounter?”
"I am Pellius Fullonna, a scout in service of the Lady. What brings you out in this cold night?"
Ser Vythes is silent for a moment, seemingly struggling to regain his breath. Momentarily, his face contorts in pain, and worry fills Leodegraine’s features. Then the old knight answers.
“The son of Gellius, I can only presume. I met him a couple of times in passing, a good man was your father.”
“We are returning from our perennial patrols through the Hungry Mountains, watching, as the Knights of Ozem always do, for signs that the Whispering Tyrant gathers himself to fuller voice. The Freedom Town is our destination, but we have fallen short of the soft beds of the Goodly Goatherd. Alas, my health does not allow me to ride with the alacrity of old.”
It’s clear that Ser Vythes is appreciably downplaying the state of his health. By the obvious fact he doesn’t appear to be able to get to his feet, coupled with his shallow breathing and grey pallor, it’s apparent that a significant illness, working in cruel kinship with his declining years, has laid him low. He is but a few paces from death's door.
“And what of yourselves?” asks the knight in turn. “This is not a part of the wilds one wanders into without good purpose.”
*Chaplain Orradin is, of course, Pyotr’s mentor at the Cathedral of Sancta Iomedaea.
"I am surprised my name was ever spoken within your circles. I spent most of my youth cloistered within the Cathedral."“Chaplain Orradin* has spoken of you with kindness and praise,” responds Ser Vythes “And he has also spoken of the prejudice you’ve had to brave from many in Vigil, Ser Haisnar Rosenholt among them. Not a man who would have fallen easily in battle. Did he survive the encounter?”
"The Chaplain is a man of honor," Pyotr relaxes at the mention of the name. "Ser Rosenholt is not. Like Commor, he has much to learn of the virtues of knighthood. I offered him the opportunity to discard his pride, and allowed him to return home. My last word was that he had done so, and cloistered himself within his home."
“We are returning from our perennial patrols through the Hungry Mountains, watching, as the Knights of Ozem always do, for signs that the Whispering Tyrant gathers himself to fuller voice. The Freedom Town is our destination, but we have fallen short of the soft beds of the Goodly Goatherd. Alas, my health does not allow me to ride with the alacrity of old.”
“And what of yourselves?” asks the knight in turn. “This is not a part of the wilds one wanders into without good purpose.”
"No doubt the storms of late delayed you," Pyotr dismisses the recumbent knight's seemingly self-effacing diagnosis. "Our progress was slowed through the mountain passes as well."
"As a senior veteran of the Knights of Ozem, you should know that we entered the Garrison of Arith-Zind. While its rather... loquacious Commander was struck down, an entire company of undead soldiers remain. I intended to send word to the Precentors Martial at the first opportunity..."
"Looks like your health isn't going to allow for a lot of things, yeah? There's somethin' other than old in yer bones. Anything to be done for it? We're on our way to Freedom Town with one cure. I reckon I could be persuaded to ride back with another one if there's one to be had. If not, my condolences. . . Ser." Bonegrit dares come no closer and risk the wrath of the elder's squire, but the half-orc eyes the old man with the same sympathy he had the starving puma.
"Looks like your health isn't going to allow for a lot of things, yeah? There's somethin' other than old in yer bones. Anything to be done for it?"
Pyotr looks more closely, taking a measured step towards the knight, despite the protective spectre of Leodograine standing nearby. "Is this true?" Pyotr had been around humans for his whole life. Humans' faces showed age more clearly than nearly any other race on Golarion, but they wore so many varieties that something like the gaunt, wan look of the dying did not stand out. "Are you unwell?"
"The Chaplain is a man of honor, Ser Rosenholt is not. Like Commor, he has much to learn of the virtues of knighthood. I offered him the opportunity to discard his pride, and allowed him to return home. My last word was that he had done so, and cloistered himself within his home."
“Still, he’s a man of no small skill at arms. Did you best him single-handedly?” counters Vythes, who does not seem to disagree with Pyotr’s assessment of Haisnar and Orradin.
"As a senior veteran of the Knights of Ozem, you should know that we entered the Garrison of Arith-Zind. While its rather... loquacious Commander was struck down, an entire company of undead soldiers remain. I intended to send word to the Precentors Martial at the first opportunity..."
“So Arith-Zind returns once more to death? Not something which should be lamented, I must admit. You have indeed busied yourself with deeds since leaving Vigil, young Pyotr. But you have also sidestepped my question. What are you doing out here in the Hungry Mountains, poking around in Tar-Baphon’s ancient garrisons?”
The old man’s eyes flicker from Pyotr to Pellius. “As you say, I am a senior Knight of Ozem, in standing as well as years, and my rank must compel you to answer truthfully. I’d also like to know why you are travelling in such . . . varied . . . company.”
Vythes continues to scrutinise Pyotr’s companions, a succession of stuttering coughs quietening him for now. He looks for a long time at Agtharda, who shuffles back into the darkness. It’s hard to know if his sickness elicits the grimace that falls over his features, or the figure of the one his gaze falls over.
"Looks like your health isn't going to allow for a lot of things, yeah? There's somethin' other than old in yer bones. Anything to be done for it? We're on our way to Freedom Town with one cure. I reckon I could be persuaded to ride back with another one if there's one to be had. If not, my condolences. . . Ser."
“Nothing but the weight of years, I’ll be fine once I’ve taken some rest . . .”
Here Leodegraine interrupts her master, blurting out her prognosis in a mournful but accurate rush.
“He has Gorum’s Curse, in its most advanced stage. His bones are as stiff and heavy as pig-iron, and exertion causes them to grind against one another, wearing his joints to dust and exhausting him. Iron also flows thick in his bloodstream, wearying his heart from the effort of pumping it. He’s carried the curse for more than half a decade, alleviated at many times by the blessings of Iomedae, but each time it comes back stronger. It threatens to reach a terminal juncture.”
Vythes looks up at his squire tenderly. “My dear Leodegraine, your descriptions are always so . . . exacting. I’m sure I’ll be able to ride again come the dawn.”
"The Chaplain is a man of honor, Ser Rosenholt is not."“Still, he’s a man of no small skill at arms. Did you best him single-handedly?” counters Vythes, who does not seem to disagree with Pyotr’s assessment of Haisnar and Orradin.
"Truthfully, that fight was not mine. A number of us stood as seconds to Dierik Ironcoffer. Whatever hatred Rosenholt holds for me, it is a pale flame to the inferno of loathing he carries for that one." Pyotr taps his breastplate. "If he had held true to the rules of the contest, we would never have involved ourselves."
"You should know that we entered the Garrison of Arith-Zind..."“What are you doing out here in the Hungry Mountains, poking around in Tar-Baphon’s ancient garrisons? I’d also like to know why you are travelling in such . . . varied . . . company.”
"It is a long tale," Pyotr sighs. "We four," Pyotr indicates Delkaneth, Pellius, and Bonegrit, "are in service to Dierik Ironcoffer, providing security for his caravan. Alagor has signed on, as well. But, before his service was confirmed... Master Ironcoffer was struck down by an assassin's arrow. Though he survived the wound, the bolt was coated with a rare and deadly poison. We are here in search of a cure."
"To that end, we secured the service of a guide," Pyotr gestures towards Agtharda. "And that one," he nods at Khozin, "well... his fate is yet to be decided."
"Are you unwell?"“Nothing but the weight of years, I’ll be fine once I’ve taken some rest . . .” Here Leodegraine interrupts her master, blurting out her prognosis in a mournful but accurate rush. “He has Gorum’s Curse, in its most advanced stage."
Pyotr sits in an uncomfortable silence for a moment. "I am sorry, Ser. If there is anything..." Pyotr shakes his head, lost for words.
Pellius sits quietly through the whole exchange with the older knight. His disease strikes home as the memory of Pellius' father struggling with a terminal illness surfaces; the memory too recent, too raw.
He adds his own offer of help, "Aye, Ser, let us know if there's something that would aid your existence. And rest assured, that the people that accompany us are no enemies of the Lady."
Vythes’ aged countenance crinkles into a smile at hearing the name of Dierik Ironcoffer.
“That young rascal,” he remarks “So he’s finally returned to Lastwall. No doubt you’ve heard there was a woman involved when it came to Dierik and Haisnar, though I’ve always believed there was more to it than that."
As Pyotr tells of the assassination attempt, Vythes’ smile swiftly dims. “So the poison is no doubt that of the black twincap, hence the delving into Arith-Zind’s lair. One assumes you were successful, and if not, at least the poison is slow to conquer its quarry – there’s still time.”
And rest assured, that the people that accompany us are no enemies of the Lady
“Can you be sure of that assertion, soldier? Vythes shoots back sternly, his eyes flickering to where Agtharda skulks beyond the campfire’s warm circle of light.
"I am sorry, Ser. If there is anything..."
“Bah, save me the useless consolations. No doubt I’ll be right as rain come morning; I’ve carried this affliction many long years and it’s not beaten me yet. Come, gather your supplies and your horses and join our camp. This close to the Hungry Mountains, the more company we keep the safer we’ll be.”
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“That young rascal,” he remarks “So he’s finally returned to Lastwall. No doubt you’ve heard there was a woman involved when it came to Dierik and Haisnar, though I’ve always believed there was more to it than that."
"So it always seemed," Pyotr nods. "I have never pried into Ironcoffer's personal business. Rosenholt's hatred for me was always so straightforward and superficial. But, he hardly noticed me once Dierik was in his sights. That alone says much."
“So the poison is no doubt that of the black twincap, hence the delving into Arith-Zind’s lair. One assumes you were successful, and if not, at least the poison is slow to conquer its quarry – there’s still time.”
Pyotr eyes the senior knight with raised eyebrows. "A remarkable conclusion. It was not an easy task to learn about this rare poison and its curative. Nor to secure a guide that could lead us to it. A pity we did not find you first."
"Come, gather your supplies and your horses and join our camp. This close to the Hungry Mountains, the more company we keep the safer we’ll be.”
"It would be my honor to join you, if my allies are willing, and if Leodograine can endure our presence." Pyotr smiles uncertainly at the young girl. "I would be happy to hear about your patrols, and the trials of squiring for such an accomplished knight."
Bonegrit nods in agreement with Pyotr. Seeing that Alagor and Delkaneth have the camp well in hand, he instead takes a quick stock of their perimeter, ranging out at a half-mile in a full circuit before returning to camp with the rest.
The newfound allies set up camp together, a band of ten: three half-orcs, six humans and a half-elf, eight men and two women, three paladins no less, and of course, all their horses gathered in a discontented huddle.
Despite being closer to the Hungries than anyone would like, Bonegrit’s patrol finds nothing to worry him, and neither do the different sentries who keep alternate watches throughout the night. The night passes surprisingly peaceably.
Agtharda once more hovers around Pellius, hoping the magus will hold true to his earlier promise to let her take a peak at his spellbook. Vythes, despite his ill health, struggles to sleep, and seems quite happy to talk in his weak, rasping voice. Leodegraine remains attentive throughout, apart from taking her turn on watch. Pyotr remains close to the old knight, quietly sharing philosophies and listening to tales of Vythes’ clear heroism, delivered by the man himself with humility and much self-deprecation. Amongst many interesting things the half-orc learns is that Vythes has thrice visited Arith-Zind’s halls to engage the wight in conversation, exploiting his loneliness to trick Arith-Zind into revealing the locations of other lairs in which the Whispering Tyrant secreted his undead allies, both in the Hungry Mountains and further afield. Vythes’ reminiscences portray a man of unfailing courage and commitment, but also of unorthodox methods for a paladin, including a willingness to suffer the existence and occasional company of wicked creatures to serve the Crusade against a greater evil.
Pre-dawn brings the return of the rain, and no improvement in Vythes’ fortitude.
Pyotr marvels at the old knight's recounting of his many conversations with the wight. After the third such tale, Pyotr practically groans in shame. "I have robbed you and the Shining Crusade of a valuable source of intelligence. Chaplain Orradin will not condemn me, but Lord Saiville will likely have me pilloried..." Pyotr's head hangs low.
"I actually thought myself something of a hero, having struck down a powerful agent of evil. But, you have won much greater victories without ever drawing a sword..." Pyotr turns his silvered helm in his hands, clutching to the one creditable trophy.
Happy to be near a campfire and feeling comfortable about the set up, the magus calls Agtharda over. He smiles as he offers her his spellbook. When the half-orc reaches for the book, the magus pulls it back and warns, "Years of my life are here so please treat the book with utmost care and respect. You understand?"
Nodding at the woman's agreement, he hands over the book with a sigh.
"I have robbed you and the Shining Crusade of a valuable source of intelligence. Chaplain Orradin will not condemn me, but Lord Saiville will likely have me pilloried..."
Vythes chuckles quietly. “Feel no chagrin. None can lament the passing of that vile minion of the Tyrant. He served his purpose, and truth be told it would be unlikely if I were to return to this Garrison soon, especially given Leodegraine’s damning verdicts on my health. And fear not Keyron Saiville, he's a Gorumite and always happy to see a problem solved with a swordblow.”
Across from them, but some way back from the comfort of the fire, Agtharda leafs through Pellius’ spellbook with extreme care. She spends some considerable time copying some of the arcana inscribed into her own tome.
The steady patter of rain on the canvas of their tents, the cold and damp, and the unpleasant odour of wet horsehide are all the greetings the adventurers receive from the new day. It’s not a deluge like the one they faced yesterday, but the rain is unrelenting and the skies offer no indication that it will pause soon.
Dawn finds Ser Vythes sickening further. When the rain started Leodegraine erected a tarpaulin to shelter him, but he refused to take refuge within a tent, claiming he wanted to keep his senses alert for any disturbance in the night. He did accede to the removal of his armour, a superb set of plate mail decorated with beautifully rendered representations of Iomedae’s iconography. This is neatly stacked beside him, his equally impressive longsword leaning sheathed against the breastplate.
Despite a bearskin covering the old knight right up to his cleft chin, he continues to shiver, and the coughs come with the insistence of the rain. He remains awake and alert, but silent. After his long discussion with Pyotr beside the campfire, he seems to have exhausted his desire for conversation.
Leodegraine offers him a little porridge cooked up over the smoking embers of the fire, but Vythes has not the strength to even hold his spoon. His squire ladles the food into his mouth like she would to an infant. Nonetheless, Vythes refuses to acknowledge the gravity of his failing body.
“A few chills, a few chills. An old man must face as such. The warmth will return to my body shortly. Forgive the delay, but let us wait a couple more hours before we depart for the Freedom Town.”
Vythes is not the only one feeling unwell. Pellius’ foot is oozing pus and smells quite unpleasant where the ghoul bit him on his descent into the Garrison of Arith-Zind. It’s painful to put pressure on and Pellius also feels hot and clammy, with a headache tugging at the corners of his skull.
The morning wanders on, but it’s clear to all that Vythes won’t be getting on his horse anytime soon. Eventually, even the knight himself appears to recognise the fact. His breathing has become hoarse and wheezing, and ugly splotches of purple stain his face. His eyes water and struggle to focus on the men and women around him.
“Gorum’s Curse, they call this infirmity,” he mutters quietly. “I prefer to think of it as Iomedae’s Blessing. She calls me to her side, to raise my sword on battlefields far distant from Lastwall. Travellers, I should delay you no further. I think I must resign myself to the truth that this has been my last ride. Saddle your horses and gird yourselves with weapons, and finish the dangerous journey back to the Freedom Town.”
Leodegraine is weeping silently as Vythes whispers his words, but it is Pyotr the dying knight beckons to.
“Young Pyotr. Deeds indeed, deeds indeed. Your countenance might not be as many would wish of a knight in the service of Lastwall, but I trust that Iomedae is pleased by that which she regards beneath your breast. Namely a heart that beats courageously and true. Your adventures in her name tell me that you recognise Lastwall’s future can be served more by daring that grimly standing behind stone walls in vigil and waiting; a philosophy that has guided my own path.”
“It’s a belief I’d like to extend to my squire, Leodegraine. Her future promises much more than simply standing atop Vigil’s battlements with sword in hand and bandage in the other. The road is a cruel mistress, but it teaches more than the castle. I bind her to your service, if you are willing, for the circle of one year. She will serve you as squire, as she has done me, and when it is finished, choose her own path, either in your company, beneath the banner of Lastwall, or a calling delivered solely by Iomedae herself. Will you aid me in this matter?”
Across from Pyotr, Leodegraine shakes her head in disbelief as she grasps one of Vythes’ hands. “Surely one of the other knights,” she interjects “I could serve Jelvern Hawkshead, or even your niece Hanya. I know the way back to Vigil well enough . . ,” Leodegraine trails off as Vythes turns to look at upon her. “I’m sorry Master Vythes,” she says contritely, the tears still falling. “I will do as you ask.”
For a moment, Vythes is silent but for his ragged breathing. Then he reaches out a hand towards Pellius. “That wound reeks of ghoul fever. A dangerous affliction which will not end well for you if it is not treated. Iomedae’s mercy might help you, if you take my hand in yours.”
For a moment, Vythes is silent but for his ragged breathing. Then he reaches out a hand towards Pellius. “That wound reeks of ghoul fever. A dangerous affliction which will not end well for you if it is not treated. Iomedae’s mercy might help you, if you take my hand in yours.”
The magus looks at his foot and winces in pain. He isn't sure if it smells bad but it sure hurt like the devil.
Seeing no harm in the knight's offer, the young man says, "I welcome your gift but you should save some energy for yourself."
The magus then takes the old man's hand and they pray together to Iomedae.
He nods at Del's suggestion, "Aye, we can fashion some sort of travail and bring him along. In any case, someone in Freedom Town will be able to take him back to Lastwall."
He looks at the old knight and playfully chides him, "No arguing young man! You are to go to Lastwall and find some way to serve the Lady. You are not dismissed. You understand?
Pyotr sits untroubled by the delay, as the party waits for Ser Vythes to regain his strength. He grows more uncertain, though, as it becomes clear that the elder knight is not growing stronger with the rest.
Leodegraine is weeping silently... but it is Pyotr the dying knight beckons to.
“Young Pyotr... I trust that Iomedae is pleased by that which she regards beneath your breast. Namely a heart that beats courageously and true... a philosophy that has guided my own path.”
“It’s a belief I’d like to extend to my squire, Leodegraine. I bind her to your service, if you are willing, for the circle of one year."
“Surely one of the other knights,” she interjects “I could serve Jelvern Hawkshead, or even your niece Hanya."
Leodograine's immediate response stings Pyotr. "I..." he begins. Every Vigilant has reacted in such a way. Why should it bother me what this one thinks? But, he was surprised how deeply the remark hurt.
"I will do as you ask."
"I should delay you no further. I think I must resign myself to the truth that this has been my last ride. Saddle your horses and gird yourselves with weapons, and finish the dangerous journey back to the Freedom Town.”
"I will not leave you here, to the mercy of wind and weather and wild beasts. This is the night of the Remembrance Moon. We shall not yet count you among their number."
“Gorum’s Curse, they call this infirmity,” he mutters quietly. “I prefer to think of it as Iomedae’s Blessing. She calls me to her side, to raise my sword on battlefields far distant from Lastwall."
Pyotr stays silent, kneeling beside the dying crusader. After a long time, he finally stands and retrieves Ser Brightbrooke's longsword, drawing it from its scabbard. Pulling back the bearskin blanket, the half-orc places the hilt in Ser Brightbrooke's grasp, laying the naked blade against the man's chest. "Lady speed you on your journey..." he whispers.
"I welcome your gift but you should save some energy for yourself."
Pellius clutches Vythes’ hand, and immediately feels a surge of healing energy bearing Iomedae’s blessing. The foul smell emanating from the injury scabs over, and the rest of Pellius' wounds close, but the headache and fever persist.
Vythes’ hand slips out of Pellius’ grasp, but the Knight smiles as he slumps back down onto the hard ground beneath.
Pyotr stays silent, kneeling beside the dying crusader. After a long time, he finally stands and retrieves Ser Brightbrooke's longsword, drawing it from its scabbard. Pulling back the bearskin blanket, the half-orc places the hilt in Ser Brightbrooke's grasp, laying the naked blade against the man's chest. "Lady speed you on your journey..." he whispers.
The magus looks at the paladin in disbelief, "What are you doing? I hope you're not giving up on him. Not here."
He pulls the paladin aside, "At the very least this knight deserves to rest his bones in one of Lastwall's cathedrals. Why not take him back? Even if it is against his wishes."
The magus looks at the paladin in disbelief, "What are you doing? I hope you're not giving up on him. Not here."
He pulls the paladin aside, "At the very least this knight deserves to rest his bones in one of Lastwall's cathedrals. Why not take him back? Even if it is against his wishes."
"You have served with many soldiers, have you not?" Pyotr turns his gaze from the knight to the scout. "How many have fought a lifetime's battles and still chosen their deathbed."
"I would not leave him. But, I would not drag him off, either..."
Leodograine stands a few feet off, tears streaming silently down her face. After placing the sword in the dying crusader's grasp, Pyotr begins to reach out a comforting hand, but withdraws it at the last moment. He inhales a ragged breath, trying to quell the discomfort he feels at this moment.
A proper knight would know what to say...
"Ser Vythes Brightbrooke fought dozens of battles," the half-orc's voice comes out much harsher than he intends. Nevertheless, he carries on without pause. "I do not profess to know all of his tales. But, those few I have heard place him face to face with foes far beyond the likes of Arith-Zind. Here, at the end, not one of them can claim victory."
"There are tales uncounted of the glories of knights who fall in battle, defending the realms. But, even the bards do not dream of life of unfailing victories."
"First, we shall mourn the death of Ser Brightbrooke. After which we shall celebrate a life of valour unblemished. Then we will remember a life of honor and service that we shall both strive to emulate for the rest of our days."
Bonegrit watches in solemn silence from the periphery of the campsite. It sounds like the old knight is close to dying. While he holds sympathy in his heart, he doesn't know him well enough to share in the depression.
His whole speech basically.
Though Leodegraine continues to stonewall Pyotr as the morning drags on, his noble words do break through her mask. She registers surprise to hear such eloquence from a half-orc, but only momentarily before her expression hardens again. Yet it does not remain so for long.
“He’s gone,” Leodegraine whispers, before silent tears overcome her.
She speaks the truth. Ser Vythes Brightbrooke, Knight of Ozem, is dead. Having spent decades daring his life against the servants of the Whispering Tyrant, finally it is only old age that can usher him into Pharasma’s company. This night, there is one more soul to remember.
• A set of full plate armour, masterwork at the very least, and no doubt very expensive.
• A longsword, masterwork at the very least.
• A masterwork light crossbow and twenty bolts.
• A potion.
• A chestnut brown heavy warhorse (a Dort Charger) with combat saddle, finely worked tack and scale barding.
• A purse with a few gold and platinum coins.
• A platinum holy symbol of Iomedae on a golden chain.
• Three flasks of holy water.
• A little feathered brooch, made from the feathers of a swan fashioned to appear as the bird itself.
• A small oilskin folder containing some letters.
“He’s gone,” Leodegraine whispers, before silent tears overcome her.
She speaks the truth. Ser Vythes Brightbrooke, Knight of Ozem, is dead. Having spent decades daring his life against the servants of the Whispering Tyrant, finally it is only old age that can usher him into Pharasma’s company. This night, there is one more soul to remember.
"I almost believe he would rather lie here, eternally stalwart at the edge of the Hungries, than rest in state in Vigil." Pyotr stands near Leodograine. "You spoke of his niece, Hanya. Do you know how to reach her?"
"You spoke of his niece, Hanya. Do you know how to reach her?"
“She’d be easy enough to reach in Vigil,” responds Leodegraine “Fellow knights at Caste Overwatch or friends at the Cathedral could get word to her swiftly, presuming she’s not afield patrolling Gallowspire as we were.”
Pyotr has indeed heard of Hanya, though he has never met her. The Brightbrookes have a long and proud history of serving in the Knights of Ozem, and Hanya is most recent of the line to take up the mantle. She’s yet to gain any fame of note, though the word is she’s a brave firebrand in the same mould as her uncle Vythes.
As Pyotr and Leodegraine exchange words, Vythes’ chestnut charger pushes gently between them. The stallion lowers his noble head to nuzzle Vythes’ body, snuffling quietly, both dark eyes weeping. Leodegraine strokes his flank, her own tears continuing unchecked.
Pyotr pats the noble beasts neck, while it silently mourns its fallen master. "You must serve as sole pallbearer for this one," Pyotr laments. "Come. We must be on our way. Another life hangs in the balance, and we do him no favors by delaying."
Pyotr lifts the body of Ser Vythes, wrapping him more fully within the bearskin blanket, and laying him across the back of his steed. With a few minutes work, he is able to lash the body down to the saddle along with his few belongings.
"Gird yourself for this ride," the half-orc warns his new protege. "We have a great deal of ground to cover, if we are to reach the outskirts of Freedom Town before nightfall."