Pellius' pleasant smile gives away his mood when meeting the rest of the crew. "Good to meet y'all. At your service."
He then approaches the half-orc jockey and was about to pat his shoulder when he recoils due to 'produce'. "Well that was some good riding even if some of us citizens fail to appreciate it. Rest assured that we don't all feel the same way about half-orcs here."
The magus then wonders out loud, "Now those riding skills need some practice and this is your first time racing, right? So where did you learn to ride like that?
Pyotr nods his greetings. Pellius was a familiar face from the Cathedral and the War College, even though Pyotr was not well acquainted with him. "Your servant, sir."
"That was a race well run, Bonegrit. You deserve a shower of accolades. Not the pillorying that you endured."
Pyotr stops by the betting cages to collect the return of his wager. "Master Ironcoffer, I will greet you before first light, tomorrow. For now, I shall return to the Cathedral, and prepare myself for the journey."
On his return trip through the city, Pyotr stops once again at the forges of Thurcytel the Bellfounder. "My greetings to you, brother Thurcytel. I wonder if I might prevail upon you as a patron of your forges? I would like to carry remembrance of the great Cathedral's bells with me as I travel. Do you have any bells suitable for the reins of my steed?"
Dunagan reaches his hand out to Pellius, "Pleasure 'ta meet you. I am Dunagan Haarglick."
The dwarf finally picks up on that Bonegrit actually won the Strander Stakes. A smile stretches across his face, "Well done! An impressive feat indeed!"
Having said his goodbyes to his family earlier in the day, Dunagan once again returns to the camp. He lets the others know about his trade goods and what he intends to sell. As the evening progresses, he plays with his newly acquired tent, learning its workings. After a few failed attempts, he props the tent up and lays his bedroll in it.
He then approaches the half-orc jockey and was about to pat his shoulder when he recoils due to 'produce'. "Well that was some good riding even if some of us citizens fail to appreciate it. Rest assured that we don't all feel the same way about half-orcs here."
The magus then wonders out loud, "Now those riding skills need some practice and this is your first time racing, right? So where did you learn to ride like that?"
Bonegrit's nose is curling due to the odor emanating from his back. As he descends from the stage, he gives his tunic a couple of fans to try and remove some of the excess gifts the citizens of Vigil were kind enough to offer him. Seeing some familiar faces—and a new one—causes a smile to spread across his face once more.
"I've spent a good deal of time around stags, stallions, and steers. Got to know my way around handling the beasts pretty well. Truth be told, though, I can't take much credit here; Isabellina's Arrow is an incredible creature." The half-orc's eyes flit towards the pearl destrier again, briefly. "Name's Bonegrit, by the way. You sign on to Master Ironcoffer's caravan as well?"
"That was a race well run, Bonegrit. You deserve a shower of accolades. Not the pillorying that you endured."
"Probably so. Can't say I'm surprised—living in the shadow of Belkzen isn't a first choice for many. Nothing a dip in the river won't fix, I reckon. Speaking of which..."
Delkaneth, Bonegrit and Dunagan spend the evening within the circle of the encamped wagons. With the dramatic victory and the prospect of departure but a night’s sleep away, the mood is already festive. To add further fuel to the merrymaking, Crinkles has elected not to cook (having bought of feast of hot food from the city with a little of Dierik’s winnings), but the halfling has elected to play his fiddle. The ale flows freely, the guard Lhairak beats the top of an emptied cask with the pommel of his sword to add a beat to Crinkles’ reel, and most of Dierik’s men are up and dancing.
Meanwhile, within the blazing walls of Vigil, Pellius and Pyotr pass quieter nights in their respective beds.
The breezes that blew throughout the previous day played themselves out overnight. The rosy fingers of dawn begin to crawl over the eastern horizon, and the magical beacons on the towers and walls of Vigil start to flicker out. Gauzy mist lies low over the meadows surrounding the city.
This static tableau does not extend to the small encampment of Dierik’s caravan, which is abuzz with activity. The inevitable sprawl of trappings following several days of sedentary living is being wrapped, boxed and loaded. Crates, bales and kegs are carefully piled onto wagon beds and tied down, or fastened carefully to saddles. Voices worse the wear for the heavy carousing of the previous night call out low instructions to one another, careful not to offend the hang-overs of their companions with a full-throated bellow. Men and women munch half-heartedly on the leftovers of the feast.
By the time the sun’s crimson orb has revealed itself in full and commenced burning away strips of mist, the caravan is ready. From the Northgate, Pyotr and Pellius ride out together upon their fine steeds, joining their companions as Second Master Santrian gathers the crew together. It’s a formidable assembly; forty-nine men and women including the newly hired adventurers, not to mention seventeen riding horses, eight draft horses, two ponies, four mules, eighteen oxen, four cats and a dog.
“My lady, if you would,” he asks, bowing to the tall figure of Kelya Fylessi, now clad in simple, worn, travelling garb. From around her neck she takes the holy symbol of Desna – a delicate butterfly in beautiful silverwork, hung from a slender chain.
“Blessed is the long road,” she prays “Blessed is the destination, blessed be the homeward path and blessed are all who make the journey.” As she speaks, one long finger flicks the holy symbol, sending it into a spin. Rather than slowing down, its velocity increases as it spins, and it begins to glow with a faint, blue-white gleam. “Our dreams take us towards a dark land, but dreams are as stars, and can offer us light in a night with none.” As she continues, soft sparks of light drift off her symbol and float amongst the congregation, before drifting north like blown cotton. “Whether we stray from the path, or stay the course, the Song of the Spheres still sounds. May Desna’s luck find us all in our waking breaths, and may her dreams find us as we sleep.” The blessing complete, Kelya tucks the medallion back beneath her tunic. The glowing stars fade away as the morning turns to full day.
Dierik leaps atop Isabellina’s Arrow, spinning the destrier about to take a final look at Vigil’s high walls. His expression is unreadable as he surveys the fortifications; a home that still rebuffs him. It seems more than usual contingent of Watchknights line Vigil’s crenellations to bear witness to the caravan’s departure.
Dierik turns away. he cries.
With a laborious rumble, a creaking of traces, wagon wheels and still-sleeping men, the caravan begins to move out onto the road that follows the Path River, south briefly before its confluence with the Esk, whereupon the caravan will turn east, following the Esk to the beginning of Flood Road.
“From there we’ll head north-northwest to the Freedom Town,” explains Santrian to his new hirelings “A convoluted route certainly, but it’s easier ground to cover with these great wagons, and perhaps safer, although I’ve no doubt it’ll prove difficult to quantify danger once we exceed the ambit of Lastwall’s patrols.”
“For now, Dierik has no orders for you,” continues Santrian “And I’ve no doubt each of your particular skills will begin to reveal themselves. Indeed, in the case of Master Bonegrit’s horsemanship and Master Dunagan’s smithery, they already have. Find your own place in the caravan, wherever you feel you can serve us best. And enjoy the ride while you can, because something in my water tells me it won’t take long to turn bumpy.”
As the towers of Vigil begin to dwindle behind them, the caravan sorts into its regular order. Four of Crooked Callan’s guards form a vanguard, two a rearguard, with the remaining four acting as outriders, moving to wherever they seem needed. Two of the sixbulls lead the caravan, these ponderous vehicles setting the pace for the rest. The third sixbull brings up the rear. The remaining wagons proceed in the following order: ‘Old Stubborness’, the pack mules, Zriorinta’s bizarre three wheeler, Dierik’s personal wagon, then the ‘Mealwheels’.
Pellius has spent the afternoon readying Signior for departure. Magic permeates the stables of Castle Overwatch, for this magnificent building exists within its own dimension, a massive hall capable of quartering a thousand horses comfortably.
As evening falls, the stiff breeze that has blown all day falters, and the pennants and banners that have flapped from Vigil’s heights collapse limply into rest. The magus walks through the city, winding his way through streets which boast a clean, utilitarian elegance.
In the shadow of Watcher’s Tor lies the Tiercel in the Hand. A carefully painted signboard hanging over the door depicts a leather gauntleted hand upon which is perched a sharp-eyed merlin. Serving as an inn and a tavern, the Tiercel boasts three floors. The two upper levels provide expensive lodging (in many cases to young squires and cavaliers who have left their homes to join Lastwall’s Crusade), whilst the lower is an expensive taproom.
Pellius ducks inside. This evening the Tiercel is relatively busy; a mixture of locals, warriors bearing the Sword Mark, and a smattering of out-of-towners. A trio of young musicians play a gentle quadrille on a pair of violas and a cimbalom. Much of the talk revolves around the surprise victor of the morning’s Strander Stakes.
A quick survey of the taproom is enough to establish Kaleb is nowhere to be seen.
Pyotr spends the afternoon regaling Thurcytel with the events of the race and the shameful display that followed. As the day draws to a close, Pyotr listens carefully to the four massive Cathedral bells as they play their evening carillon, and selects four silver bells that play the same notes, though at a much higher pitch.
That evening at the Cathedral, he gives a nod to Pellius in the aisles before secluding himself in his chambers for quiet meditation. It only takes a few minutes to pack his meager belongings into his pack and leave the modest chamber bare save the bedding.
The young acolyte who shook him awake looked fairly shaken in the dim light of the candle. A journey through the dark, labyrinthine caverns of the Cathedral's ossuaries could do that to a person, though Pyotr suspected waking a recalcitrant half-orc could as well. The acolyte dutifully held the candle as Pyotr donned his armor and greatsword, and collected his pack in preparation for the journey. He was grateful for the light, though he did not need it to see by.
In the stables of the War College, Pyotr readied Torshen's Hammer for the journey. As he applied the bridle and tack, he carefully attached the four silver bells to the harness, listening as Hammer moved, trying to hear the morning chimes of the Cathedral in their notes. Pellius joins him shortly with his mount.
"Good morning, Pellius. We are fortunate that the sun shall rise in its full glory upon the start of our expedition. That is a hopeful sign."
"Lady, be vigilant," Pyotr whispers to himself.
Pellius ducks inside. This evening the Tiercel is relatively busy; a mixture of locals, warriors bearing the Sword Mark, and a smattering of out-of-towners. A trio of young musicians play a gentle quadrille on a pair of violas and a cimbalom. Much of the talk revolves around the surprise victor of the morning’s Strander Stakes.
A quick survey of the taproom is enough to establish Kaleb is nowhere to be seen.
Pellius' good mood is instantly fouled when he doesn't see Kaleb. He approaches a couple of the locals inquiring about the halfling but no one has seen him tonight.
Remembering the flask he had spied on his friend earlier and with a decidedly bad feeling in his guts, the magus exits the bar and heads towards Kaleb's home.
Various emotions bounced through his head as the dwarf tossed and turned in his bedroll: excitement, fear, sadness, he dwelt on each one until his patron deity's teachings finally took root in his head. These feelings were not productive. They were only counter productive. He finally set down the ambling tools of emotions next to the cold forge of sleep.
Dunagan rises as the first pink hues begin to show on the horizon. He has not slept well, but well enough. Kneeling next to the embers of the fire the night before, he begins his usual prayer to Torag. As he has done the day before, he alters the prayer slightly, "Mighty Dwarf Father, guide our steps towards our destiny. May you protect and preserve us. Lend your strength and focus to this caravan.... I will honor you in this task."
Spell List:
0. Detect Magic
0. Read Magic
0. Guidance
1. Lead Blades
1. Bless
1(domain). Animate Rope
He packs the few things he has and moves on to help the others with their gear. He doesn't offer a new prayer when the Desnan priestess finishes hers. He simply nods in agreement. Showmanship must be a prerequisite for Desna's worshipers! The dwarf smiles in appreciation when his patron mentions his work.
Most of the day spent by Dunagan is simply enjoying the sights and sounds of the road. He doesn't speak much and tries to remain near the center of the Caravan, able to respond to any threat in a moments notice with the casting of bless. As the day progresses, he eventually makes his way to Bonegrit and begins to speak, "So how much did you win my friend? I hear the purses can become quite hefty for the victor. Especially if odds were against them.
Bonegrit keeps a keen eye and a keener nose towards the horizon. The time for feasts are undoubtedly waning, and the half-orc knows full and well the reality of a caravan subsisting on bland food or rations: low morale. He maintains his vigil for what seems like an excruciating amount of time, though Dunagan is finally afforded a moment of the ranger's attention when the half-orc allows Amiro to take a rest during one of the caravan's few stops. Bonegrit is brushing the horse firmly as the dwarf ambles up beside.
"Ah, friend Haarglick." Bonegrit smiles, revealing the jutting row of tusk and fang from his pronounced underbite. "Hmm. Truth be told, I didn't see any of the jink from the prize money. It was Ser Ironcoffer's stallion, though, so I figger that adds up." Bonegrit absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck, then returns his attention to Amiro. He speaks back over his shoulder to Dunagan, "Had the rest of our company as much faith in I and the Arrow as our employer, they would likely be enjoying a not-so-small purse themselves." Bonegrit punctuates the statement by jerking his head slightly to the rear, indicating the sizable throng of caravan guards, hands, and mercenaries arrayed therein.
"How is Cornalium holding up? I would be more than willing to work with him for you." The half-orc smiles again. Or maybe I should say I am willing to work with you.
Dunagan smiles as if he has read Bonegrit's mind, "I think both Cornalium and I are of the same mind. So perhaps it would be best to work with us both." He waves his hand, brushing away a fly, "I've heard that horses not trained for combat can be more dangerous than the enemy, and a Dwarf even worse." He chuckles.
"I think you may have won Sir Ironcoffer our entire pay for the rest of the journey." Dunagan eyes the half-orc's weapons. Noticing the bow and then the greataxe he speaks up, "A mighty axe you have there. Do you favor it or your bow more?"
Pyotr sits uncomfortably in the saddle as the caravan rolls along. Torshen's Hammer plods along placidly, seemingly unconcerned with the immense weight of the fully armored half-orc saddled atop him. Pyotr squirms in his anxiety as little by little the walls and towers of Vigil begin to sink below the horizon.
The sun breaks in glorious hues of golden pink, rays piercing the clouds like the shining blades of the Inheritor. Pyotr realizes that the landscape has quickly become unfamiliar. Since the day he first entered her walls, he has never stepped so far from Vigil's protective sanctuary.
I am no longer the lost child. I was an outcast, a scavenger and vagabond. Now, I am a Vigilant. I am a soldier, oathbound and servant of the Lady.
Pyotr's meditations are cut off as a horrendous creature crosses his line of sight. A wave of revulsion and hatred flare within the half-orc's chest as the creature jogs in and out of view, through the many legs and wheels of the caravan. After a few tense moments, the creature ambles on its way towards the front of the line, though not without splitting the peaceful silence with one of its unnatural calls.
After a time, Pyotr eases his grip on the reins, and settles himself as knots of tension unwind in his back.
Shambles the dog continues to bound along, blissfully ignorant of the half-orc's revulsion.
Dunagan smiles as if he has read Bonegrit's mind, "I think both Cornalium and I are of the same mind. So perhaps it would be best to work with us both." He waves his hand, brushing away a fly, "I've heard that horses not trained for combat can be more dangerous than the enemy, and a Dwarf even worse." He chuckles.
"I think you may have won Sir Ironcoffer our entire pay for the rest of the journey." Dunagan eyes the half-orc's weapons. Noticing the bow and then the greataxe he speaks up, "A mighty axe you have there. Do you favor it or your bow more?"
Bonegrit retrieves the axe from his back, running a calloused hand along its smooth, oaken haft. "Mighty though it is, it's found more use biting bark than flesh." At this, the dwarf no doubt notices the condition of the double-headed weapon. The side bearing the larger crescent is all but blunted and bearing myriad chips, while it's smaller counterpart is mostly pristine. The half-orc's words ring true—this weapon has seen more utility than fighting, despite being clearly of orcish craft.
"Aye, it's the bow I favor, no doubtin' it. Best to put something down before it ever reaches you, in my experience. When that fails, it's best to have a swift horse underneath you." Bonegrit gives Cornalium a favorable look. "Let me get Amiro settled, then I'll show you a thing or two about workin' with yours. Be glad you chose a Jennet; they're an obedient lot, and fast as a streak of lightning."
"Starting a journey on such a day is always a good omen. I remember watching the sun rise from outside Westcrown's walls for the first time, I never thought I'd see a more beautiful sight. How long ago did you leave our 'fair' land?"
Pellius is perplexed at first. He doesn't speak the infernal tongue but knows enough about it to recognize it. He remembers his childhood in Westcrown and not much about it is good.
He shakes his head as he speaks to Delkaneth, "Don't take this the wrong way or anything but I actually don't have many good memories about Westcrown. My father and brother basically escaped from House of Thrune who disposed my father of his title and belongings. That was about fifteen years ago when I was barely ten years old"
The magus hopes to catch some meaning in his companion's listening but finding none, continues, "I'm sure there are plenty of good people from Cheliax. I even met a few here in Vigil but I would be lying if I told you that I remember the place as a 'fair land'. How about you, how long ago did you leave Westcrown?"
Pellius walks to Kaleb’s home on a quiet street not far from the Market Square. Most of the stalls have been packed away, but a small redoubt of stands selling sweet snacks cater for those enjoying the evening air.
A band of young rakes hold off attacking the toffee apples they’ve just bought to gabble excitedly as a squad of Watchknights march with purpose across the Square. They enter Kaleb’s alley just ahead of Pellius, and as the magus watches the five guards halt in front of the jockey’s green door.
The sergeant raps the knocker on its horse hair braid a few times, then follows up by striking his mailed fist three times firmly on the peeling paint of the door. The Watchknights wait for a handful of breaths, but no answer comes. The sergeant nods once and the burliest of the Watchknights puts his shoulder to the door and smashes it open.
The squad hurry inside, the sergeant shouting “In the name of Vigil and Ulthun II, we violate the sanctity of your abode for the peace of the city!”*
*A term commonly used by Vigilant guardsmen when searching a private home.
Like a great burlsnake uncoiling after its winter hibernation, Dierik’s caravan makes its ponderous way west. Beside it, the Esk River runs in the opposite direction, inexorable, deep, and as a grey as the Mindspin Mountains which nurture its headwaters.
The Esk’s cold flow waters the land about it, and spring has greened the scattered woodland that flanks it. The river’s influence does not extend far, stretching no more than a couple of miles to edge of the Belkzen badlands. Still it’s enough for a few farmers to have to have cleared a few meagre plots amongst the brush here and there. There are no buildings though; the croppers have simply cleared a small acreage, sown some seeds and returned to the safety of Vigil. Should anything survive to be harvested is left to the will of Erastil. By midday, even these small and scattered parcels of cultivation have gone, and true wilderness reigns.
This close to Vigil, game is not plentiful, but Bonegrit does spot a large hare foolish enough to be caught nibbling at some fresh growth too far from the shelter of the long grass.
The road is little travelled. Every hour or so a dozen riders, sometimes a score, pass by, Lastwall soldiers and knights heading to or from the front lines. They scowl at the caravan as they pass, doubtless aware of its purpose. Neither of the Sword Marked adventurers (Pyotr and Pellius) know any of these men by name. Aside from the military traffic, the only others they encounter are a handful of Vigilant hunters, one pair proudly bearing a hefty boar on a sagging stave of wood. Crinkles makes a vain attempt at purchasing the beast, but the hunters decline, declaring they’ve promised their wives and families enough wild pork to feed them for a week.
Delkaneth rides beside the strange wagon of Zriorinta the Apothecary. He sees no more than the slender tattooed hands of the Varisian, for the traces of her ponies enter the wagon via a tall, thin hatchway through which a halfling would have difficulty squeezing. Sometimes he doesn’t even see the hands, leaving him pondering whether anyone is controlling the vehicle at all. However, he’s not entirely without company; one of Zriorinta’s cats lounges on the roof of the wagon and whenever Delkaneth is there the cat stares at him intently.
After midday, Pyotr rides forward to get a view of the land ahead. There he joins Bonegrit and Dunagan in their conversation.
"Master Haarglick, I am told that you go to Belkzen in the hopes of finding the mark of your great ancestor. Your family name is quite renowned in Vigil's walls, and your reputation as weaponsmiths is well-earned. His mark must hold great value to you, for you to leave your family and seek it in as dark a place as Urgir's walls."
Dunagan looks bashful at the mention of his family's quality wares and brushes it off. A few seconds of deep though passes for the dwarf before he speaks up, "indeed, it is Amrin Haarglick's legacy that I seek to restore, but it is what is behind the mark that holds the greatest value to me. The Haarglicks have lost much since the fall of Koldukar. We have lost long lines of Dwarven blood, our homes, and worse, a legacy. Perhaps Torag will one day provide us the opportunity to build a new legacy."
Dunagan tugs on Cornalium's reigns trying to pull him from a patch of onions. "Excuse me while I indulge this beast."
The squad hurry inside, the sergeant shouting, “In the name of Vigil and Ulthun II, we violate the sanctity of your abode for the peace of the city!”
Pellius is confused by the soldier detachment but quickly reacts, "Wait, sergeant. What's going on here? Kaleb is my friend. Is he in some kind of trouble?"
Pellius spurs Signior to a gallop and rides up to the Pyotr. The chestnut slows down to a walk to match the half-orc's horse's gait.
"So Pyotr is it? It's good to finally put a name to a familiar face from the cathedral. You know our Lady's influence is strong in Vigil but it wanes the further out we go. Have you ventured far into orc country before or did your duties take out east towards Ustalav instead?"
The magus' gaze strays to the horizon as if trying to discern his future. "I plan on offering morning and evening prayers to our Lady. It won't be the same as in Sancta Iomedae but you're welcome to join me. Who knows, there may be others doing the same.
The sergeant pauses in the doorway frowning, but seeing the Sword Mark on Pellius’ hand he turns back into the street. To his companions he orders quickly;
“Into the house and search the premises. Be swift.”
To Pellius he asks “Kaleb Varadin is wanted for the reneging of debts to Lords Gaeltair Reun and Abarew Shuvail, as well as the Lady Morwen Bellaime of Vellumis. He is suspected of the attempted nobbling* of a contender in this morn’s Strander Stakes, and the subsequent theft of said horse.”
“Nothing sir,” one of the Watchknights calls out from within Kaleb’s house. “He’s not here. The place is a bit of a mess, we might find something with some searching, but nothing obvious.”
“When was the last time you saw Varadin?” asks the sergeant “Can you offer any insight into his whereabouts?”
*A term used in Vigil in reference to magical meddling to improve a horse’s performance.
As the hare scurries out from the tall grasses, making its way towards prized eating before the caravan roars past, Bonegrit retrieves his bow from his back and prepares to knock an arrow. Something causes the half-orc to hesitate however; a touch of sappy pity for the small creature, perhaps. Bugger's got the same idea as me, I figger. Just wants to fill his belly with something a little tastier than the usual. 'Sides, doesn't look like the runt could feed more than a couple of us.
Bonegrit gives a light tug on the reins, and slows Amiro down to a leisurely pace. He lets the hare finish its banquet before he and the train of wagons sends it fleeing back into the safety of a thicket. I'll find something worth the effort later, maybe. His mind roams back to the brief exchange with the passing hunters, and the prize boar the men had taken with them. Maybe I'll be as fortunate later.
The day rolls by without much incident. The bright sun of the morning spoils a bit as evening approaches, swallowed up by a grey haze, which might thicken to rain later in the night.
Dierik orders the wagons into a lager whilst there’s still enough light to see by. With quite a lot of coaxing, each vehicle is manoeuvred to form a rough circle. The animals are removed from their traces and herded together to graze on the sward near the river’s bank. They will only be given a couple of hours to graze before being herded back inside the protective lager.
Atop Mealwheels, Crinkles Cupporchin and his assistants set about stoking up their makeshift kitchen, whilst other members of the caravan hurry to pitch their gear and sleeping rolls in the most comfortable spots before going about their other chores. Large tarpaulins are taken down from the sixbulls and hung as crude awnings to offer some shelter should the weather turn foul.
Crooked Callan, accompanied by Karannah and Lhairak, does a quick circuit of the camp on horseback, riding out to the distance of a long bowshot whilst the light still holds. Spotting nothing that concerns them, they turn their mounts about and canter back to the wagons.
Santrian calls over the adventurers. He wipes a spot of drizzle from his monocle and glances up at the sky. “Not more of that now please. We’d prefer the Flood Road not to be living up to its name by the time we get there.”
He then turns his attention to the men he hired in Vigil. “I’ve spoken to Callan about watches, and we’d like you to assist us. Callan’s men, plus a number of the regular crew are always assigned lookout duty through the night, and we’d like you to do the same. Callan feels there’s a benefit in you devising your own schedule outside the rota he enforces with his own men. He figures if you are following a different timetable to the rest it means there’s more chance of someone being on the alert when trouble stirs.”
Santrian is about to continue when there is a cry from one of Callan’s guards.
“Riders on the road from Vigil!”
Five men on horses emerge from the evening gloom, pulling back on the reins to slow their steeds from a swift canter to a dancing stop. At their head is a knight in gold filigreed plate mail. His tabard and kite shield display his arms; a red tower upon a green hill, a crown of black roses exploding from the top of the tower. His left hand is clad in a black gauntlet decorated with a red rose. The men behind him are garbed in chain mail covered by grey surcoats. Their round wooden shields bear no emblem. All the men have longswords hanging from their belts, and their leader has a tall lance strapped upright in a special holster on his saddle. A short, violet pennant (perhaps some lady’s token) hangs from the tip of the lance.
His men hold back as their leader walks his snorting warhorse forward. The man is bareheaded, balding and past his fiftieth winter. His eyes rove back and forth, flicking to each man of the caravan as if looking for someone.
“When was the last time you saw Varadin?” asks the sergeant “Can you offer any insight into his whereabouts?”
The magus is shocked at first but his gut tells him to trust a sergeant with the Sword Mark. He clicks his heels together, salutes the man in charge, and answers, "Sir, I was with Varadin this afternoon watching the race. We were supposed to meet at the 'Tiercel' but he never showed up so I am also here looking for him."
Pellius glances past the sergeant to inside Kaleb's place but his eyes get right back to the sergeant, "Sir, I know not where he may be. His only family here is his sister and nephew but Varadin is not the visiting kind."
The magus relaxes slightly, "Sir, no disrespect meant but are you sure you are looking for the right man?"
“In my experience, the simplest answer is usually the right one, and the most obvious suspect is invariably the culprit. Varadin owed a lot of money to people of standing. Enough money to make me take to flight if I was in his position. Plus, he’s Oathless, for all the years he’s spent in Vigil. You saw him this afternoon. Did you notice any suspicious behaviour? He’s accused of being involved in a plot to nobble the horse called Samair, apparently through magic. Not the first time too, if you believe the gossip. Relate to me all you can remember of Varadin’s actions at the race.”
"... Relate to me all you can remember of Varadin’s actions at the race.”
The magus looks like someone punched his gut. Slowly at first he tells the captain all that transpired earlier today, including the suspicious flask in Kaleb's hand. It isn't that he wants to rattle on his friend but rather that he believes that if Kaleb is in trouble, honesty is still the best answer. If worse came to worst, the halfling could take the oath and pledge the rest of his life to working Vigil. His skill with animals would be welcomed and there were far worse ways to end your days.
He turns to the sergeant, "Sir, please make sure he gets a fair trial when you catch up to him and make sure you explain to him his option of enlisting. The man may be not be much of a fighter but he knows his way around horses."
He salutes again, "Sir, if that will be all from me, I have plenty of things to do this night..." The magus waits until he is dismissed.
He then turns his attention to the men he hired in Vigil. “I’ve spoken to Callan about watches, and we’d like you to assist us. Callan’s men, plus a number of the regular crew are always assigned lookout duty through the night, and we’d like you to do the same. Callan feels there’s a benefit in you devising your own schedule outside the rota he enforces with his own men. He figures if you are following a different timetable to the rest it means there’s more chance of someone being on the alert when trouble stirs.”
Pellius is standing at a relaxed attention as is his norm when addressed by someone up the chain in command. He nods at Santrian suggestion. "Sir, that is sound soldiering. If I may, I suggest we also vary our own schedule. It's well known that people develop their own routines when on lookout duty at the same time each day. A smart scout looks for that and uses it to his advantage."
He sighs as if regretting something, "And sir, the enemy has plenty of smart scouts." He turns to his fellow adventurers, "We can discuss this further during dinner but rest assured that we'll start lookout duties tonight, sir."
Pellius is sharpening his longsword when he hears the commotion. He quickly sheaths the blade, grabs the scabbard in his left hand, and saunters towards the front of the small 'reception crowd'.
He visibly relaxes as he recognizes the knights and bites his tongue in mild frustration. In other gatherings, the magus would have been either welcoming or questioning the new arrivals but he quietly reminds himself this is not his role here. Still, legs spread slightly apart, hands behind his back, he waits to see what the knights want or whether they will be asked to join the caravan for food and protection.
The magus notices Delkaneth looking at their coat of arms and asks him, "Know them?"
Pellius spurs Signior to a gallop and rides up to the Pyotr. The chestnut slows down to a walk to match the half-orc's horse's gait.
"So Pyotr is it? It's good to finally put a name to a familiar face from the cathedral. You know our Lady's influence is strong in Vigil but it wanes the further out we go. Have you ventured far into orc country before or did your duties take out east towards Ustalav instead?"
The magus' gaze strays to the horizon as if trying to discern his future. "I plan on offering morning and evening prayers to our Lady. It won't be the same as in Sancta Iomedae but you're welcome to join me. Who knows, there may be others doing the same.
"It is. And it is an honor to meet you formally, Pellius Fullona. Please forgive my distance. In the Cathedral, most supplicants did not desire or encourage familiarity with me."
Pyotr scans the horizon and sighs deeply. "The truth is that I have been far, far afield from Vigil... And the truth is I have never once left her shining walls." He holds up a hand to forestall Pellius queries.
"I was a child of no land. I was an outcast. A scavenger. Perhaps no better than an animal. Then I was brought to Vigil. On that day, I was reborn. I was given a life and a purpose. But, I was also given a name. I am Pyotr 'the Unwelcome'. I was neither a guest nor a prisoner, neither friend nor enemy. Nevertheless, Vigil is my home and my charge. I carry her with me wherever I go." The tiny chime hanging from Pyotr's sword hilt jingled a musical trill, while the bells of Hammer's harness rang a quiet, constant melody.
"I will join you in the mornings, if you wish. But, do not bring a mat to supplicate. Rather, you should come well armored." Pyotr gives the soldier a grin. "'I will learn the weight of my sword.'" Pyotr quotes the Iomedaean proverb with a broad smile.
Santrian is about to continue when there is a cry from one of Callan’s guards.
“Riders on the road from Vigil!”
Hardly a word is spoken as the leader of the riders peers from one face to another. His gaze lingers menacingly on Bonegrit, as the ranger trots back from scouting some distance from the camp. Ultimately, however, his scowling visage moves on to continue its hunt.
With a jingling of bells, Pyotr steps from beneath the temporary rotunda of the circled wagons. He pushes his way through the crowd of assembled guards to the front, as Ser Haisnar Rosenholt trots his restless mount further forward.
"Knight-Captain," Pyotr growls. "Could you not have waited for the sun's first setting before embarking on this fool's errand?"
The Dwarf goes about pulling his own tent from his pack and sets to work staking it in. He places the tent within the protection of the caravan's make-shift walls, but he is not picky where he sets it up. After all, most of the furniture found within his old home was made from stone. The circular encampment almost reminds him of Vigil.
Dunagan remains quiet during most of the discussion about watch rotations. He nods mostly, agreeing that he would be most willing to pitch in his fair share. The sudden cry from the guards makes the Dwarf almost jump from his armor. He turns abruptly to the sound and draws his battle hammer, not entirely processing what the guards had cried out. He finally takes notice of those around him and lowers his guard with a bashful smile, "Just practicing me technique, that's all."
The startled dwarf stays very close to Pyotr, listening to him growl at the knight. While the dwarf has since returned his battle hammer to his belt, he still watches, a bit on edge as the two converse.
Slowly at first he tells the captain all that transpired earlier today, including the suspicious flask in Kaleb's hand
“Thank you, warrior,” he continues “Your account has been most informative, and at least exonerates the part of Valos Harricles in all this. I imagine that vial contained some magical potion that allowed Kaleb the opportunity to wear his nephew’s form long enough to ride Samair away without suspicion.”
Sir, please make sure he gets a fair trial when you catch up to him and make sure you explain to him his option of enlisting. The man may be not be much of a fighter but he knows his way around horses.
“I noticed your Chelish accent,” says the sergeant “You’ve lived here long enough to earn a Sword Mark, so you should also realise that everyone in Vigil receives a fair trial, on the Lady Iomedae’s name, no matter the crime.”
“But if he is indeed guilty, I don’t suppose an aging, indebted horse thief would be exactly what Lastwall’s soldiery would be looking for in a stable boy. Perhaps the justice will be lenient. To be honest, I don’t think we’ll catch him now. Looks like he’s fled the city on a swift horse. I don’t imagine he’ll be coming back.”
"Sir, if that will be all from me, I have plenty of things to do this night..."
“My thanks again. Have a good evening.”
As Pyotr steps forward, the knight’s eyes meet the half-orc’s only briefly before continuing their roving. When the half-orc speaks, the knight captain smirks.
“Flatter yourself not, beastman. Today, I’m about as interested in you as I am the mud beneath my heels.”
“It’s me he wants, no doubt,” interrupts a new voice, that of Dierik Ironcoffer, who stands on the running board of his personal carriage, giving a clear line of sight over the heads of the onlookers to the mounted man.
“Welcome to my caravan, Knight Captain Haisnar Rosenholt. I don’t believe I’ve seen you since you the day we road together against Warlord Graukrad.”
snarls Haisnar furiously “You saw me many a time in Vigil after the victory, though half the times I’d warrant you were too drunk to remember, and the other times you were skulking in the shadows, hoping I wouldn’t see you.” Haisnar’s voice quietens to a deadly whisper that nonetheless carries through the gathered men to Dierik’s ears. “And you saw her more than enough.”
“And so you’re here for revenge,” replies Dierik.
retorts Haisnar. He takes a deep breath, as if too calm himself, but can’t help continuing. “She was mine! Then you her. Where was your honour!? Half the maidens in Vigil were throwing themselves at your feet in those days. Yet they weren’t enough to quench your passions – and so you turned to stealing the women of your sword-brothers!”
“I’ll give you no satisfaction,” answers Dierik “I’ll not fight you.”
“Ha! Yes, you will. Now your honour has been stripped from you, what do you have left but your courage? You’ll not let it be said that Dierik Ironcoffer was too much of coward to accept a formal challenge.” As he speaks, the Vigilant knight clumsily pulls off the black gauntlet, revealing the hideously damaged hand beneath. He hurls the gauntlet to the mud in front of him, his challenge thrown down to Dierik.
There is a moment of silence. The heads of Dierik’s men turn to regard their leader, awaiting his response.
You notice the palms of Haisnar’s five ‘retainers’, who sit upon their horses a few yards behind their leader, are unblemished by Sword or Shield Marks. They are Oathless, if they are citizens of Vigil at all.
Bonegrit's appetite having bested him, he wheels Amiro around and makes to return to the caravan. Seeing the assembly being arranged into a circle is reassuring—at least I won't have to eat on the move. He slows Amiro to a leisurely walk, enjoying the light spring breeze as it plays through what few strands of hair have managed to escape the tight pony tail that flails at his back. He shoots a favorable eye to the sky as well. Could use a good rain. Not sure I scrubbed hard enough in the river yesterday. He is nearly back to the caravan when he hears the warning sounded from within the circle of wagons.
Riders from Vigil? Wonder what that's about.
Bonegrit works his stolid warhorse back up to a canter, first getting close enough to see who is approaching, then closer still so that he might overhear what the commotion is all about.
“Ha! Yes, you will. Now your honour has been stripped from you, what do you have left but your courage? You’ll not let it be said that Dierik Ironcoffer was too much of coward to accept a formal challenge.”
Bonegrit audibly scoffs loud enough for any assembled—ally or otherwise—to hear. He shakes his head slightly before muttering, "If they'd put as much stock in common sense as honor, the twits might accomplish something against Belkzen for a change."
Amiro's amble comes to a full stop just behind where Delkaneth and Pellius are standing. Bonegrit speaks softly, hoping to disguise his words enough so as not to tip off Rosenholt's men. "Be ready. Those aren't Marks he brought with him. He's looking for blood, one way or another."
The yellow eyed ranger leans forward on his saddle with his left arm, his right hand reaching behind him to grasp his bow in case things go awry.
Amiro's amble comes to a full stop just behind where Delkaneth and Pellius are standing. Bonegrit speaks softly, hoping to disguise his words enough so as not to tip off Rosenholt's men. "Be ready. Those aren't Marks he brought with him. He's looking for blood, one way or another."
Pellius shifts his stance as he hears the half-orc on horseback near him. His eyes dart to the men's hands when Bonegrit states his warning. He looks back at Bonegrit, "I think you're right; he does want blood Nothing messes with a man's judgment more than skirts."
Not wanting to overstep himself but somehow wanting to diffuse the situation, the young soldier steps forward and salutes, "Sir, it is a pleasure to meet you, Captain. I am Pellius Fullona, a scout in our Lady's service. May we know who the soldiers that accompany you are?"
“Flatter yourself not, beastman. Today, I’m about as interested in you as I am the mud beneath my heels.”
“And so you’re here for revenge,” replies Dierik.
"You’ll not let it be said that Dierik Ironcoffer was too much of coward to accept a formal challenge.” As he speaks, the Vigilant knight clumsily pulls off the black gauntlet, revealing the hideously damaged hand beneath. He hurls the gauntlet to the mud in front of him, his challenge thrown down to Dierik.
Pyotr glances from Ser Haisnar's gnarled hand, to his gauntlet where it lay on the grass, and finally to Dierik Ironcoffer. He shakes his head in frustration. "Different errand, still the fool's. Is vengeance the only passion that drives you, Ser Rosenholt?"
"Is vengeance the only passion that drives you, Ser Rosenholt?"
“He took the passion that drove me, when he stole my lover from my arms,” retorts Haisnar swiftly. He knight blinks, perhaps surprised at his own admission, and then roars
"Sir, it is a pleasure to meet you, Captain. I am Pellius Fullona, a scout in our Lady's service. May we know who the soldiers that accompany you are?"
At seeing the Sword Mark on Pellius’ saluting palm, his anger rises yet further. “Another drawn into this pit of snakes. Do not address me again.”
“Leave them be,” says Dierik, leaping down from his wagon to make his way through the throng of men. He stops before Haisnar’s glove. “Though only Iomedae knows it shouldn’t be, this is my fight now. I accept your challenge, Haisnar Rosenholt, and as the challenged party, will choose the circumstance of our duel. A joust at dawn; the first man unhorsed must subject himself to whatever punishment the other views fitting . . . as long as it is within the proper remit of Vigilant law.”
Dierik kneels, picks up Haisnar’s gauntlet and returns it to him, the formal recognition of the challenge complete.
“The day is long past when you can expect the shield of Vigilant justice to defend you,” is all Haisnar has to say, but it’s enough to put a dent in Dierik’s calm.
“Nonetheless, I shall extend you the courtesy when you are grovelling in the dirt. Until then, I offer you the hospitality of my camp, such as it is.”
“I’ll share no roof with you, even if it’s no more than a roof of open sky.”
Haisnar spins his warhorse back to his men, who dismount and begin unstrapping a heavy tent from one of the saddles, intending to set it up some hundred foot from the circle of wagons.
Dierik’s reference to Vigilant law is important, for under Lastwall’s legal system a formal challenge can only end with the death of one combatant if both parties have agreed the duel is to the death (and even then quarter must be given if asked for). Should Dierik lose, Haisnar can demand tribute in gold, service, or even exile, but can do no more to physically harm him.
By Haisnar’s bearing, it seems highly unlikely he settle for simply defeating his adversary. The man wants blood.
By the time Delkaneth cautiously moves to the front of the crowd to be ready to act, Haisnar and his men have already started to move off to prepare their camp. Turning back to Pyotr and Pellius he attempts a wry smile.
"Well....HE seems nice. Do we have any reason to believe he'll keep his word or are we all at risk of being stabbed in our sleep? Seems a little odd that a mission of 'honour' requires a lynchmob of Oathless as your backup." His glance turns back to Dierik. "And even if he does keep his word, does our employer have any chance of beating him?"
The magus shakes his head while mumbling, "Traitor my ass," Deciding that this is not the place for a formal complaint, he turns to his companions, "No, he's not nice and I don't think he'll be happy tomorrow unless he sees blood no matter who wins the duel."
His eyes turn back to the men pitching the tent, "We need to double our watch tonight and be ready for anything tomorrow."
He looks at Pyotr, "You seem to know this man; is there any concern of him acting outside of Vigil code? And I echo Delkaneth here; how good of a lancer is he?"
Pellius then approached Dierik, "No disrespect sir but the man is determined and blinded by his passion. I'm pretty sure he wants blood so please be careful." The magus knows better than to question Dierik's skill or bravery, "Sir, is there any way we may assist you in this?"
Dunagan turns to Pellius, "You've already judged this man to be a villain just by this chance, heated meeting? Did you not hear his words?"
The dwarf turns away and continues talking as he walks towards his tent, "I would probably be in the same condition if the same happened to me. But, this is not necessarily my fight nor my concern. I was hired to protect the caravan, not its master's honor." The Dwarf scowls at Dierik, "I thought Orcs would have been our worst concern, but it seems that we should be more worried about your history, Sir Dierik." The dwarf quickens his pace back to his tent. He looks over to the group still talking as he removes his armor shouting, "Wake me when it's my watch!"
"Do we have any reason to believe he'll keep his word or are we all at risk of being stabbed in our sleep? And even if he does keep his word, does our employer have any chance of beating him?"
He looks at Pyotr, "You seem to know this man; is there any concern of him acting outside of Vigil code? And I echo Delkaneth here; how good of a lancer is he?"
"Yes, I know him," Pyotr huffs. "He is a knight-captain of Vigil. That is not a position that can be won with savagery and deceit. And even if you doubt his honor, do not doubt his pride. It would be beneath him to commit such a treachery."
Pyotr sighs heavily. "He has a strong reputation. His company of knights are very loyal. That he travels with these mercenaries says much. He will not impugn his circle in this affair. It would almost be admirable, if it were not so sordid."
"Whether our employer can win... Ser Haisnar is an accomplished soldier, past his prime to be sure. But, he trains and leads one of the most notable circles of knights in Vigil. If Ironcoffer has allowed his skills to fade over the years..." Pyotr lets the thought hang.
"But, this is not necessarily my fight nor my concern. I was hired to protect the caravan, not its master's honor."
"I think Dunagan has the right of it. Ser Rosenholt issued a formal challenge to Dierik Ironcoffer. It has been accepted in the traditional manner. Unless Master Ironcoffer asks one of us to act as his second, this is no longer any of our affair."