Frowning Flynn looks down at the bodies.
"We don't know if they were deceivers and infidels or not. Though it does seem that way. I agree time is of the essence. So I will keep this short" He places the bodies in a restful pose, and stands back.
Straightening up he grabs his holy symbol and says a quick prayer
" Iomedae, Milady please deliver these souls to the after life that they deserve, be it paradise or the abyss. For you would know their intent and comportment better than those here. Blessed be"
Reknar assists Flynn with dragging the corpses, and setting them up accordingly - the short procedure reminds him of others he had left lying around in dark tunnels before, so he moves away as the paladin speaks the words, preferring to focus on watch duty.
Jens intones the appropriate parts of the blessing after Flynn, though doesn't handle the bodies further. After the small ceremony is finished, he gruffly readies himself to move on. "Time's wasting. We should keep moving."
While working on the harvest, Voren has a smile on his face. As he moves his knife, cutting the spore-cougher and fungi, he hums, clearly happy with what he does.
Aravashnial seems a little awkward as Voren peppers him with questions of alchemy, the elf hesitating before responding. "I must honestly say it is not my realm of expertise, Voren," he says with an apologetic smile. "As a Riftwarden, my studies have been focused primarily on the outer planes. I cannot say I know much at all about creatures such as this, or the production of potions and the like."
"However, I suppose, theoretically, using a plant-creature as the base of a magical concoction seems like it would suffice for some ingredients. I don't know much on that myself. That was never something I was greatly interested in. Also, I kind of failed my potions classes..." he mutters quietly to himself, almost bitterly.
Luckily, Aravashnial has no time to be questioned, for Reknar announces his recognition of the brass bull symbol and the atmosphere becomes immediately tense. Standing beside Osric, Anevia fumes just as much as the inquisitor does, scowling in disgust and slamming the base of her makeshift walking stick on the ground. "You give them too much benefit of the doubt," she says quietly as the discussion of burial rites comes up, "probably because you've never had to deal with them personally. The Templars long been a thorn in our side, and Irabeth has been working hard to root them out of the mercenaries and other less scrupulous types that take advantage of the 'Wound's state... but to think that they might have infiltrated even the crusaders now? By Desna's fallen stars, it's worse than we ever thought!" Anevia seems to struggle to hold back her emotions the more she speaks on the topic, and by the end is practically shaking with anger.
When Aurica offers her the chain shirt, Anevia vigorously shakes her head. "No. ... thank you," she adds, trying to soften her fierce tone, "but I would not wear something that came from a demon-worshipper. That," Anevia smiles, tugging at the leather jacket hanging from her frame, "and this is much better protection than it might seem. Got it enchanted last summer, and it's as quiet as a mouse to boot – not like that jangling chain."
Horgus eyes up the chain shirt sidelong, but says nothing...
"Well," Lann says with a glance at the bodies and then back over to Crel and Dyra, "there is no true harm in waiting, although perchance we come across danger of some sort in the interim. I am inclined to leave as soon as possible, but if you wish to remain here, then we shall abide by your decision."
The elf, however, doesn't seem too impressed with the decision to offer them a burial... although for completely different reasons.
"Don't you think it would be wiser to bring the bodies back with us to get them identified by the church?" he suggests merrily—almost too chirpily, really. That gleam of excitement seems to have come back to him. "I've long suspected that perhaps they have infiltrated to even the highest echelons of the Iomedaean church, and this would be perfect evidence of my correctness!"
"And how do you propose we drag a couple of corpses around, Aravashnial?" Anevia shoots back acidly, causing the mage to wilt a little.
Clearly, practicality is not one of Aravashnial's strong suits.
... in any case, the burial is done, the spore-cougher does not strangle Voren when he starts chopping it to pieces, no giant bats swoop in to eat people's faces, and some reasonably nice-ish words are said about people who may or may not be horribly evil demon cultists. By the time the group is ready to leave, the mongrels and Anevia are more than impatient to leave, and Lann and the others lead you down yet another passageway into the darkness.
"We have seen other men and women like that down here in the tunnels previously," Lann admits during the journey. "It is not particularly an odd occurrence, in some regards. However, I feel as if their presence here has increased lately, though this is based on my own conjecture and experiences as a guardsman and nothing concrete..."
With that thought on the minds of all, the tunnel opens up after another quarter of an hour into a hemispherical cavern with no other passages leading out of it. Four mongrelfolk—you have to assume they are, at least, judging by their disparate and oftentimes disturbing appearances—stand guard outside of a huge stone door carved into the far rock face. Upon seeing Lann, Crel, and Dyra, their faces visibly brighten, and they warmly greet them with handshakes and shoulder claps. You uplanders are greeted with quite the stink-eye, but with a few words of encouragement from Lann the guards gruffly allow you passage beyond the stone door...
A small, dark lake ripples in the centre of an incredibly large cavern at least a couple of hundred feet in diameter, the walls and ceiling aglow with thick sheets of luminescent fungi not unlike the stuff Voren had gathered previously. The cave slopes upwards impossibly far, and not even the keen eyes of Aurica are able to see just where the ceiling might be. Here and there, other closed stone doors not unlike the one you entered from lead out elsewhere into the labyrinthine tunnels of the Kenabres underground. In the centre of the lake, over two dozen squat stone buildings cluster on a rocky island probably no bigger than a typical town square (if that). Lights glow in the windows of buildings, giving the settlement an almost welcoming look... if you can look past the bizarre forms of the inhabitants therein.
Rafts made of mismatched planks of timber bob along the length of a crooked pier at the lake's closest shore, and it is to here that Lann leads you. It takes a couple of trips to get the entire group across to Neathholm proper; the place is clearly not equipped for more than a few people coming and going at any one time. While waiting for the farmer-wolf-and-sheep game to be over, you might perhaps take the opportunity to look around. In the nearest home to this side of the shoreline, you occasionally notice a pair of nervous citizens glancing through the window onto their unexpected visitors—one has a long, curved beak not unlike an eagle, while the other’s face is yellowed, gaunt, and terribly pockmarked. Down the street—there is only one street in this village, with houses built along it—you can see a couple of children playing tag... children with stunted feathery wings, pigeon-toed stances, wolf-like ears, and insectoid stingers on the end of elongated fingertips, among many other bizarre formations. One building features a simple painted sign reading 'Trading Post', and strange purple clouds waft from the chimney of a peculiarly decorated building engraved with odd, arcane runes. The largest building in the tiny hamlet stands at the end of the road at the summit of this 'island', and it is to that which Lann directs your attention.
"That is where Chief Sull lives," he explains with a nod. "I would prefer to take you to him immediately. However, if there is anything else you require in the short-term, we can deal with that beforehand instead."
", Aside from resting and recuperating, I see no reason to delay a visit to CHief Sull. I cannot however speak for the others..."
"Let's see the boss," Aurica agrees. "Rather get permission to be here an' all before we get to resting. Can you lead us on, Lann?"
She tries to keep herself from staring, as they make it through the very-small town. In a way, it helps Aurica that Gwerm is with them: she's so worried he'll open his mouth and piss off half the town that it's making her more conscious of trying to be polite herself, not staring openly, trying not to tense up around the bizarre and grotesque... people.
She does sidle near to Horgus and pitches her voice quietly. "I know this place is weird as snow in summer, but let's play it smart, eh, sir? Wouldn't want the whole town risin' on us. 'S just business, so we play for th' profit of a safe place to rest, an' food to eat, an' a way back to our homes."
Osric remembers the prayer offered by Flynn.
Maybe they didn't deserve it, but it was well said. And who knows? Maybe their souls will somehow find redemption.
Once in town, he nods his assent to Aurica's suggestion.
"[/b]Yes, let's meet your chief. We can rest and resupply afterwards. I must admit I am quite curious to learn more of your people.[b]"
-Posted with Wayfinder
Voren nods at Aravashnial. "It's okay. Your talents are greater in the field of the Planes than mine are. So, I understand."
At Anevia's outrage, Voren looks to her. "It's okay, Anevia! We'll find a way to root out the cultists."
Gathering his new materials, Voren puts away his dagger and stands, wiping the dirt from the front of his robes. For some reason, his arms start feeling warm. And some slight pain seems to be forming at his left leg. When the group arrives at Neathholm, Voren looks on in awe. He fully puts down his hood. The sights are unique and fascinating. As they walk, these odd sensations of warmth and pain grow stronger, so much that Voren's starting to feel uncomfortable. At the suggestion of meeting with Chief Sull, Voren says, "Well, I think..." However, his face then contorts into pain. The heat on his arms increases, becoming scalding. When Voren looks at his arms, he's surprised to see... his sleeves and arms are on fire! While his skin can shrug off some heat, this is different. He screams, waving his arms around, trying to put out the flames. As he does, the pain in his leg skyrockets! He buckles then falls on the planks. Looking at his left leg, it's started bleeding profusely. His screams become inhuman, desperately calling for help. Ayne crawls off of his shoulder and onto Aurica's shoulder. 'Ayne! What's going on?!' The female voice of Ayne replies, 'I... have no idea, boy!' He continues to scream, as faint voices ring through his head, carrying whispers of knowledge and power. They sound like a preacher in a cathedral, speaking of their faith.
After a few moments, it all stops. The fire puts itself out and the bleeding stops, the wound miraculously heals itself. The sleeves of his robes are nonexistent. His arms and hands now resemble brunt, blackened wood, with a faint red glow. Oddly enough, the green glowing markings and the blue glowing birthmark have not been burned or distorted. They're still as clear and vivid as possible. When Voren moves to his feet, everyone can see (past the blood) that his left leg is now weaker in movement. He looks at himself before turning to the group. His face has dried tear trails. "W-What just happened?" Ayne moves back from Aurica's shoulder back to Voren's.
The instant Voren bursts into flame, Aurica wheels around, eyes wide. Any thought she might have had of what to do next-- admittedly, her current idea of what to do is evenly divided between 'KILL HIM' and 'THROW HIM INTO THE LAKE' vanishes abruptly when that creepy scorpion he carries around crawls on to her.
"GAAHH! GET IT OFF!" she yelps, and does an awkward frantic dance of trying to shake the scorpion off, flinging her arm around and slapping at it.
Jens remains stoic as the group is led through the small 'town'. Though his sword remains in its scabbard, his shield remains strapped to his arm, the old weight dragging on his bones, but still a welcome feeling. He remains close to Voren - though not entirely trusting of the boy's demonic appearance, he's obviously young, and the most frightened of the group - and Anevia, making sure she knows where his arm is if she needs aid.
Being close to Voren, he's one of the first to be surprised when the lad bursts into flames. Fire fills his vision; screams fill his ears, Voren's and Aurica's both, the screams of those who fell as Khorramzadeh cracked the Wardstone and demons swarmed the city...
It takes all his restraint to not belt the screaming tiefling over the head with his shield, just to put an end to the clamour.
Instead, he sweeps the scorpion off Aurica's shoulder with one gauntleted hand, sending it to the ground, and with the other, grabs Voren by the scruff of the neck, spinning him around roughly once the flames flicker out.
"Pharasma's bones, lad, what was that?" he demands to know, half hissing, half growling, his beard and eyebrows bristling with rage. "It's bad enough that you look like a demon, now you're bursting into flame and spontaneously bleeding? If there's any light you can shed on this, boy, you'd best start talking - now."
As they move through the stone double doors, Reknar stands in awe of the sight in front of them, staring at the expanse of the huge cave - "You've got a veritable settlement here" - he comments to Lann and Crel with a smile - "Amazing job..." - his words trail off as he notices the inhabitants peering at them from around corners and half-closed windows, and then the children playing in the streets, not unlike any others would do - And why the heck should it be any different? - he scolds himself.
"That is where Chief Sull lives," he explains with a nod. "I would prefer to take you to him immediately. However, if there is anything else you require in the short-term, we can deal with that beforehand instead."
"Good thing that you asked" - Reknar retorts with nod and a smile - "We actually have a couple of things that may be worth a trade, and..." - but then the others voice their will to speak with the Chief first, and he nods, ackowledging their reasoning - "They are right, this can wait" - he finishes.
His eyes go wide as Voren screams, bursting into flames and bleeding all over the place - "What the ****?!" - the man roars, moving towards his companion, and drawing his weapon, fearful that he may be under attack from some unseen force - "Boy, are you ok?!" - but then it is all over, faster than it started, with Aurica cursing at the scorpion on one end, and Jens asking for explanations.
The sudden movement makes Reknar jump and react also, trying to break Jen's grip on Voren - "Hey! Hey! One second there Jens - how do you even know this is his doing?!" - he adds, looking around, then turning to the tiefling - "Are you ok man?"
He then faces the Ulfen again - "Come on Jens - I've fought alongside tieflings since whenever I can remember. They are no better, nor worse than a human, a dwarf or an elf - why the heck are you roughing him up? He has trailed alongside all of us, has he not? Heck, he's patched you up more than once" - his tone is calm, as he looks back at Voren, and to the huge man again - "Before... Up top... None of us would give him a second glance, or even question anything about him if going on a mission together. Even here, you are trusting enough to come to this place without a question, so why the heck turn on the boy? Who's to say he hasn't been attacked? This has got to stop now"
Horgus merely grunts at Aurica's attempts to placate his feelings on the matter, but he's at least not saying anything offensive... right now, that is. Still, she has the right idea with her tactics here; the nobleman is doing a terrible job of hiding his disgust. ... But, y'know, a filthy scowl is miles better than what he could be doing.
With a nod, Lann takes the group down the simple road to the residence of Neathholm's chief. The playing kids scatter as the bedraggled crew makes their way through their homestead, watching from a safe distance behind a building with wide bug-eyes (... literally, in one case). There's other signs of normal life twisted into something similar and yet foreign as you make your way to your destination: a mother with a baby on her back hanging out laundry--though the baby has a twisted horn sprouting from its forehead, and the mother uses a rubbery prehensile tail to pick up wooden pegs; two huntsmen (with enormous claws and gnoll-like snouts) returning home with arrow-studded dire rat corpses slung over their shoulders; the sound of cheerful banter in the curiously accented Taldane coming out from the trading post as you pass; a small shrine to Iomedae in someone's back "yard" with an offering of colourful mushrooms left before it. All so close to being normal... and yet so far at the same time.
The two guards posted outside of the peculiarly-shaped stone cabin seem hesitant to allow you entrance, but eventually with Lann and Crel's explanations you are led inside. The guards take you to a comely sitting room with a small fireplace and a collection of simple stone chairs softened with downy pillows. Wood seems to be at a premium in this place and used very sparingly in the architecture and decor. Instead, most things are made from carved stone, metal, bone, and even precious stones. Most curiously, you notice a common patterning carved into some walls: a bat perched on top of a mushroom... hmmm.
After a brief period of waiting, in comes a bloated and unpleasant-looking man using a bone-carved walking stick to assist his movement--although he seems rather spry considering his extreme obesity. His right eye is covered with a milky white film, and the left side of his face features a rat-like ear and whiskers. Despite all that, Chief Sull greets the group with a friendly smile and mild-mannered politeness. "Oh," he says as he takes a seat himself, "it has been so long since I have had an opportunity to speak with uplanders. My name is Sull, chieftain of Neathholm. I do hope you find your stay here most pleasant." Sull's voice cracks with age, resulting in a gravely and deep voice.
Lann clears his throat. "Chief Sull, these brave souls saved Crel from certain death. He was trapped beneath a rock near the western outpost--it collapsed from the earthquakes. Without them, he would almost certainly have perished." Crel nods in acquiescence, taking the opportunity to shoot you all another thankful look.
"Is that so...?" Sull smiles, his many chins wobbling in turn. "Bless you, kind travellers. It is good to know Iomedae's justice still shines strong on the surface and in you all."
"Would you care to explain your presence in these caverns?" he asks gently. "The tremors have never been this bad before, and Seer Opoli has been having nightmares for days... I cannot even begin to imagine what has occurred."
Reknar observes everyone they come across - he tries to be nonchalant about it, but the strange deformities or mutations of the people they meet are indeed surprising to the man, as he searches his memory of conversations with Lucian, and from the time spent in Kenabres, trying to remember if he had ever heard anything about these people or the underground settlement.
As the bloated image of chief Sull comes into sight, he is transported to an incursion into a goblin den about two years ago with the Badger company - their leader was much like this man here, and they lost at least a score of men taking it down.
He shakes the memory away, focusing on the reality at hand, and the fact that they had no reason thus far to suspect these people. When the old man is finished, he steps forward.
"Our meeting with Lann was a fortunate one, and we were glad to be of assistance. We do count ourselves fortunate also to find your underground home after we have been trekking for two days - we had to fight more than a couple of hostiles to be able to progress through the tunnels, and for the time being, the possibility of a finding a secure haven to rest is much more than we could hope for" - he begins, the reference to Iomedae not lost on him.
"My name is Reknar, and I hail from the aboveground city of Kenabres - our group was thrown together by happenstance when disaster struck - to the best of our knowledge, and from what we were allowed to witness, the city suffered a major demonic offensive about two days ago" - he continues, realizing that his concern for the immediate underground travel had made him somewhat 'file away' what happened before - "It was a vicious and murderous attack - there were scores of them, from minor to veritably titanic ones, and they tore through the city like a tidal wave, shredding buildings, commoners, and soldiers alike, in spite of Terendelev's attempts at defense" - Reknar shakes his head.
"One of those monstrosities tore the ground wide upon right under our feet, and we could do nothing else but fall under tons of rubble" - his eyes glint with the memory of the magnificent dragon who saved his life - "I am not sure how we survived it..." - he stammers - "But we did. And after finding ourselves trapped below ground, we decided to take the trek, and try to return to the surface"
Pausing for a moment, the man finishes - "We do not know what will be waiting for us - if there is a war raging or if Kenabres even still exists. But still we intend to find out" - he nods resolute - "We thank you for the hospitality shown us by you and your people" - he motions towards Lann and Crel with a smile - "And hope to have the chance to rest and recover our strength here, before continuing. We are also obviously looking for any information that would help us find the path to return uptop, since our travel thus far has been one dictated solely by the instinct of our guide - Aurica" - he indicates the dwarf - "And we cannot be completely sure we are heading in the right direction"
Gathering his new materials, Voren puts away his dagger and stands, wiping the dirt from the front of his robes. When the group arrives at Neathholm, Voren looks on in awe. The sights are unique and fascinating. As they walk, these odd sensations of warmth and pain grow stronger, so much that Voren's starting to feel uncomfortable. At the suggestion of meeting with Chief Sull, Voren says, "Well, I think we should see the Chief first. Maybe afterwards we can resupply and rest."
Voren continues to look around in awe. However, he feels a slight pulse in his mind coming from Ayne. He turns to her. 'What was that, Ayne?' She responds: 'A sign, boy. A sign that your power is growing. Now focus on the task at hand.' Voren tilts his head slightly. 'That's... it?' '*scoff* What? Were you expecting something grand? Nonsense, boy. Now, focus!' Voren's attention returns forward.
As the group enters the cabin, Voren sees the man sitting at the table. He pulls down his hood and bows in respect. "Greetings, sir. I am Voren. We thank you for your kindness, Chief Sull. It was our honor to help Lann, Crel, and Dyra. What Reknar says is true. Kenabres has been attacked for one of the wardstones has fallen. The Storm King himself led the assault. It was due to Terendelev's last kind act that we stand before you. We wish to stay and rest; and then find our way to the surface. Also..." The tiefling then digs around in his robe pockets and pulls out bat/mushroom brooch. He holds it out to Sull. "...I think you might be familiar with this."
As he walks down the street, Jens reflects on the last few days, his old heart sinking. He was too old for this. He'd nearly died once already; if something like that happened again...
He looks around at the small group. Anevia, crippled. Aravashnial, blinded. Aurica, still trying to cope with the loss. Voren, young and terrified. Reknar, stubborn and headstrong; Osric, stoic and devout; Floynn... Flynn, with a son on the surface. A son... a young one to be protected.
If he doesn't make it back to his boy, I'll never forgive myself.
With that, he turns his thought elsewhere - to Alfsigr, wherever she was. It was strange, really; he'd spent so long despising her for being more like her sire, but just as he'd grown used to her, even started to cherish the stubborn mare, this had happened. How strong were her hooves? Would she have been able to break the rock that surrounded them? She could almost kick down a brick wall, so maybe...
"I agree. We should pay our respects to the Chief," he intones in his baritone rumble, making sure his sword is firmly secured in its scabbard. "There is no sense in making other plans if we will not be welcome here."
Sull wasn't the ugliest thing he'd seen, but he was close. he waits as Reknar and Voren speak their piece, removing his helm and shaking out his tangled hair. Without it, the deep lines of age that crease his face are apparent, the grey streaks in his red-gold mane a dull contrast to his strange strength and agility. When the others have finished, he lowers himself to one knee, placing his helm before him, reciting his name and titles - barely remembered, and unused for over a decade - in the reverance he hadn't used in years. "I am Jens, son of Varmod. I am called Shield-Breaker, Fiend-Slayer, the Red, the Unbreakable, Giant-Born, the Bulwark. I kneel before you, Chief Sull of Neathholm, to confirm the words of my comrades. For the second time, I have seen the Storm-King, with his whip of thunder, break the stone that holds the city's defense. We were thrown to the bowels of the earth, and fate drew us to your people. We ask that you provide us with temporary lodging, a chance to purchase what supplies we need, if our coin or posessions are useful to you, and for any assistance you may provide in finding our way home." His thick accent creeps into his voice, lending an air of authenticity to his words - he speaks as he would to a Jarl, or to a Linnorm King.
Aurica stays silent at first, her brows climbing at the eloquent words of Reknar and Voren and Jens. Jens's especially makes her nod slightly in approval-- that's just about dwarvish, she thinks, the litany of titles and the words of honor. Her brother'd approve of that, she thinks.
She steps forward and ducks her head in a bow as well, clearing her throat.
"Sir," she says, bringing her fingers up to touch at her brow briefly. "'s as they say. Aurica of the Firehand clan, at your service. We have injured among us," she tilts her head at Anevia and Aravashnial, "so we'd be mighty grateful for the chance to rest up, an' all."
She leaves it at that. Big speeches have never been the thing she's good at.
Flynn also approaches the Chief. Standing, but bowing his head in respect, he speaks.
" Though I have not the words of my friends, I too would add my thanks for your hospitality. I would also entreat you to help us find our way to the surface. I offer whatever services you may need of me to aid us in this endeavor."
Osric stands by as his companions address the chief. It seems he has a turn to introduce himself.
"Sir, I am Osric Barnesdale, servant of the Inheritor. My friends speak truly, and times indeed seem dark. Times such as these are often considered to be trials of faith. I must believe this to be true for me, at least."
"But we will return to the surface to learn what fate has befallen Kenabres and its other defenders. In the meantime, would you be so kind as to indulge my curiosity? Are you and your people truly descended from the crusaders of old? And how long have you lived in these caverns?"
Chief Sull listens in relative quietude as the pieces of the puzzle are laid first by Reknar and then further detailed by the rest of the group, nodding along but otherwise allowing himself some time to ruminate on the circumstances. By the time your stories have come to an end, the lines in his brow have doubled as an undeniable frown marks his face like crevasses cutting through fleshy hills. "A most terrible story indeed," he says eventually, with a heavy sigh. Sull makes a cross in the air over his heart, "Thank the gods that you at least have survived—and may they watch over anyone else still left on the surface."
"Your requests for well-deserved rest will of course be met. What kind of host would I be to treat guests so rudely otherwise?" A glimmer of amusement manages to penetrate the anxious gloom that has overtaken Chief Sull's face, but it's short-lived. "I am afraid that we do not have much in the way to help with your injured parties' wounds; Seer Opoli is our most skilled healer and soothsayer, but this is far beyond her ability to handle. We can provide mundane assistance, however, and perhaps some potions... and of course you are welcome to stay for as long as you desire. ... though undoubtedly you are quite ready to be on your way as soon as possible," he adds, with a kind smile.
"I do know of a route to the surface," he continues, thoughtfully rubbing at the top of his walking-stick as he speaks. Lann and the others seem curious about this fact as well; it appears to not be common knowledge amongst the First Descendants. "The nearest route to the surface lies to the south... but it will not be easy passage. The exit is guarded by the traitors," Sull practically spits the word out, his voice seething with venom; you notice the other mongrels stiffen at the mention as well. "a smaller tribe who split off from us some years ago. They felt that we no longer held any responsibility to our ancestors and the Inheritor. According to our scouts, they have been consorting with less than savory uplanders ever since they left. ...That said, they have never directly bothered us, so I have largely chosen to ignore them."
"... however, that time has passed." Sull looks back at the group, staring in the eyes of each and every single one of you for a few seconds before he continues. "If they have been complicit in the demonic attack that has wrecked the surface, as you say, then they have lost any bit of familial respect I might have had left for them. If they cannot be convinced to submit, then the taint must be forcibly removed." His tone and expression hardens at this declaration.
"Myself and my kind may be outcasts and freaks in the eyes of uplanders like yourselves," Sull says with a gentle smile—it is clear that the nervous or perhaps disgusted expressions have not gone unnoticed by him, "but our ancestors helped drive back the demons in the First Crusade. My grandfather and grandmother were indeed crusaders, Osric, rest their souls; the others go back a few more generations than that. Unlike the traitors, the burning hatred of demonkind still simmers in our hearts, a flame that cannot be extinguished even though our forms have been twisted and we have been forced to survive belowground for a century. We want the demons to be defeated as much as anyone who lives above, so that none more may suffer like we do."
"If you are willing—take this message back to the surface. We, the First Descendants, will stand with Kenabres to defend your—nay, our city. We may even be able to gather some of the other, smaller tribes that live further out to bolster the defenses even further. ... if the crusaders above will welcome the crusaders below, we will be ready to rise up and help take back Kenabres."
When Voren retrieves the strange brooch from his belongings and offers it to Chief Sull, the obese old man gasps in surprise, his one good eye immediately becoming misty with tears. He reverently accepts the offering with two outstretched hands, simply staring at the brooch for some time with a gentle but sad smile. "This was Prax's—my eldest son," he explains eventually. "We had a terrible argument some time ago, and he left, determined to make a life on his own..." Sull drifts off sadly. "... with this in my hands, I do not expect him to return. But I will treasure its return, for this prideful old man is unlikely to ever repent for those words said back then..."
Sull remains morose, so Lann steps forward to fill in the awkward silence with some more answers that he himself can supply. To Jens, he nods and says, "We occasionally trade with other underground races. Gold is just as useful here as it is anywhere, for that reason, but item bartering is more common between townsfolk. However, either would suffice for our purposes. I will speak to Firo at the trading post to explain the circumstances."
Voren bows to the Chief. "Thank you, sir. We'll be more than happy to deliver the message and accept your aid." At the story of his child, Voren frowns in sadness. However, a thought comes to him. "Excuse me, sir. But we found this at a ruined campsite. There was no body to be found. Maybe... maybe Prax's still alive! Perhaps, if we can double back and examine that campsite, we can find some kind of trail to him!"
To Lann, Voren says, "Thank you. I would like to see Seer Opoli. I am most curious to meet her. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two about healing. Also, is there somewhere where we could get more potions or the like? Or somewhere I could make some potions and other alchemic items?" He feels his pack digging into his shoulder. "Though, I can't carry much more."
Aurica frowns at Voren's words, rubbing at her forehead. Don't volunteer a promise like that 'fore the rest of us can talk on it, she thinks unhappily. And don't give a father false hope, either.
"Sir," she says to the chief, "how long ago did your son leave? Because... that campsite where we found that looked long, long disused. In my opinion, as a tracker, there was no trail that could have survived to be found so long later. We don't mean to give you the promise of hope when there may not be any, sir."
As for the message to the surface, Aurica is similarly less than optimistic. Sure, they can carry the message up-- but who's to say those up top will react with anything other than revulsed horror at the sight of these below? Poor bastards.
"We'll deliver your message," she says slowly, "if we make it back to those to whom it should be given."
"Either way, we thank you for your hospitality. As soon as we're rested, though, we'll be off-- as you say, we're eager to see to our own homes, our own... families. If they're still alive."
Reknar considers the words from the chief, and his companions. Pondering for a moment, he adds - "I am sorry to hear about your son" - his semblant is ashen and dark, in contrast with the usual smug smirk - "Things between fathers and sons can get... Ugly at times..."
Shaking his head, and a distant memory away at the same time, he stands up - "As Aurica said, if there is anyone to whom that message can be delivered, we will do so" - he nods, resolute - "And if the way back up leads us through traitor infested tunnels, then we'll stomp them first - I'm sick and tired of all these covert activities that seem to be taking place just under Kenabres" - he finishes.
Getting up and readying himself to leave - "I echo their words again - thank you for your hospitality, and we'll be leaving once we manage to get some rest" - he bows shortly in a somewhat militaristic way, then moves off with the others.
Sull remains morose, so Lann steps forward to fill in the awkward silence with some more answers that he himself can supply. To Jens, he nods and says, "We occasionally trade with other underground races. Gold is just as useful here as it is anywhere, for that reason, but item bartering is more common between townsfolk. However, either would suffice for our purposes. I will speak to Firo at the trading post to explain the circumstances."
"Gold will always be gold, right?" - Reknar nudges Lann - "We did find some stuff that we can perhaps barter with you. You're taking us to this Firo fellow, and the trading post?"
----
As they move along again, Reknar will approach Horgus. Clearing his throat, he comments - "Gwerm , we need all the protection we can get when navigating these tunnels - I would rather you got involved in any fighting only if it cannot be avoided, and leave the brunt of it to us" - he holds his lamellar leather armor in his hands - "In any case, things do not always turn out as planned, so would you like to put this one on for some added protection? It is not in pristine condition, but it is still as efficient as can be" - he finishes holding it out to the man.
Chief Sull smiles gently at Voren in an almost fatherly manner, though his words are nevertheless tinted with a twinge of sadness. "I do appreciate your concern, young one, but it is not likely to achieve anything. As your friend Aurica says, I doubt he is lingering so close by. He left Neathholm over a year ago now... this being left behind just confirms to me that he never intends to come back--if he even still lives."
With the group preparing to restock and recuperate, Sull shifts in his chair and pulls himself to his feet. Though Lann and Crel are closer to the height of Reknar, and Dyra only a little shorter than the two men, the rat-like chief of Neathholm is barely taller than Aurica, and certainly rivals the rather sturdily build dwarven frame... although for completely different reasons. Despite his girth and a limp when he walks, he seems surprisingly nimble for his age and physical state. "Let me show you to the rooms you will use here, and then Lann can take you to speak with Firo... and Seer Opoli if you will."
There are only three guest rooms in the stone cabin, which means you'll be sharing... but hey, anything's better than the cold, hard floor of the temple of Torag. The rooms are simply furnished with beds made from packed earth and soft, velvety blankets and a couple of other decor items besides--perhaps a stone desk or shelves. The beds seem big enough to hold two people at once, if you don't mind sleeping with another. Sull also informs you that he will arrange meals to be brought to the rooms when you are ready, and then he leaves you to your own devices.
"Well, I think I'll leave you in Lann's capable hands," Crel announces with a grin. "I really need a good, long sleep after the whole ordeal... c'mon, Dyra, let's get you home as well." After some brief parting handshakes, the two other mongrelfolk take their leave as well.
There's one trading post here that sells common items. Assume you can get most generic/common adventuring gear here, in limited supplies. (i.e., you can buy arrows, but maybe only thirty of them; and you can buy a longsword, but not a... idk, some weird exotic weapon.) Most of the more common alchemical items will also be available in similar limited supplies... things like alchy fire and whatnot, not so much the weirder stuff like air crystals and what-have-you. Still, feel free to ask for whatever and we'll see if the percentile dice like you. ;) Seer Opoli may have some alchemical remedies and potions, again according to these kinds of restrictions!
The base value of Neathholm is 200gp, and the purchase limit is 1,000gp. Anything above 200gp will need to be rolled for, and will likely take additional penalties considering the extreme isolation of the hamlet depending on what the item is.
In addition, there are very few spellcasters here (if you want spellcasting services). The highest available is level 2 witch spells; you might find a couple of other NPCs who can cast 1st level spells from other classes.
Speaking with Firo will reveal the following items are available (without rolling):
Eight flint-headed arrows that feel strangely warm to the touch. "One of our scouting parties had a squabble with the traitors--we found these on the leader's body."
A glinting steel buckler with four rounded rivets in a square shape in the centre and cross-hatched engravings encircling the outer edge. "Traded this with a creepy duergar who came down here a few months back, his head all wrapped up. He was so quiet, he barely spoke above a whisper..."
A smooth, fist-sized tiger's eye gem that faintly vibrates in your hand. "Our miners found it like that. No idea how it got inside a hollow in the rock."
A ring made from tiny bands of silvery titanium and one strip of meteorite. "Old Zeris used to make these kinds of things, but she passed away last year... alas."
---------------
Horgus eyes up the proffered lamellar with obvious skepticism, but eventually accepts it with a vague and indecisive muttered... well, not thanks, but something close to it. Maybe. "I would not want to see my clothes get more damaged than what they already are. Blood stains are quite the pickle to remove," he begins conversationally, but quickly turns awkward as he struggles to find an appropriate response. "... Ahem. Yes. This is... A good idea. I appreciate... the good idea."
"I agree with Reknar. Fighting our way to the surface through these traitors would not be a bad thing. We definitely cannot leave them in place to attack whatever forces we have left on the surface. "
Voren bows his head to Sull. "My apologies. I offered to help... because it's the right thing to do and one must always have hope." He looks over their new living quarters, a smile forming on his face. When Crel leaves, he shakes his hand and pats Dyra's shoulder.
Looking to Lann, he says, "I would like to meet with Seer Opoli, please. Also, if there's anywhere where Ayne and me can learn some new spells for our arsenal, I would like to look into that." He turns to the others. "I don't suppose if I got a portable alchemist's lab, someone would be able to help me carry it."
***
When Voren's walking through the town (most likely by himself), he comes across the trading post. Walking in, his speaks to Firo. His glowing eye catches sight of the ring. He looks it over. "This looks interesting. How much is this?" After hearing the price, Voren also says, "I'm a healer. I've heard of a resin that allows people to recover more when resting or receiving long term care while it's being burned. I believe it's called... healing.... healy.... healing mry? No no no, that's not it.... hmm.... oh! Healy myrrh! That's it! I was wondering if you had any."
Voren, hearing that the store doesn't have any extra masterwork backpacks and healy myrrh, sighs. He puts down the ring and asks, "Do you have any portable alchemist labs?"
Afterwards, he moves out of the store. Maybe he'll be back later. In any case, he moves to meet with Seer Opoli.
The slight nod from Aurica doesn't escape Jens' gaze - something in the movement makes him think, searching through his memory for... something. He isn't entirely sure what; it's been so long, after all...
After the chief dismisses them, he retrieves his helmet and makes his way to the dwarf, stopping her with a gentle hand to her shoulder. "Your people and mine have plenty in common," he says, keeping his voice low with little success. "I hope my behaviour doesn't cause you any undue distress." After a moment, he continues, "You mentioned a brother. I think I knew him - was he trained in the last decade, perchance?"
When the group reaches the guest rooms, he looks them over with a small frown. Unsure whether to trust the beds with his bulk, he resigns himself to the idea of sleeping on the floor. The ground was softer than stone, and that was good enough for him. "If you want to see to anything, I can watch our belongings," he offers. "My old bones could use a rest, I think." And those ribs need some time to heal, he adds silently. "Anevia, how’s your leg holding up? Perhaps we can find a better splint here?"
"Here you are Horgus. A more elegant blade for a personage such as yourself. Now if I could get my longsword back? " Flynn hands him the rapier, and awaits the return of his plain, if serviceable weapon.
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-Posted with Wayfinder
Aurica glances up to the old Ulfen at the hand on her shoulder, his gruff-quiet words. She glances down to her feet, then up with a little nod, a bittersweet smile.
"His name's Jormur," she says. "Easy to tell him, we've all got the red hair, so aye, you might well know him. He's... he'd like that bit you said. So would my mother. They'd say that sounded real... vägande. Um, that it had weight, I guess you'd say in Common. Weight of years, and people, behind it."[/b]
They'd say such things-- if they're still alive. Aurica takes a deep breath, feeling rather self-conscious about it and trying not to dwell on the worry of whether they're living or dead right now. She clears her throat.
"You didn't distress me none. I... I'm not easy to rile," she says-- and she has to smile here, a tooth-achey, pained smile because Aurica knows full well how she's behaved herself over the last few days, especially at first. Screaming, all but launching herself at Voren...
"...usually 'm not, anyway."
When she catches sight of the rooms, Aurica huffs in slight dismay. Three rooms. An' there's... nine of 'em. Three to a room, two to a bed... No one's likely to want to share with Horgus Gwerm, she wagers. (As far as the matter of there being two women and seven men, Aurica doesn't give a fig about that. Humans! And a tiefling...)
She puts her mental game of who bunks with who to one side for the moment. Better to see the town, see what supplies they can scrounge and trade for. She digs the ring out of her pocket and looks on it sadly.
Aurica had vaguely thought to try and find the owner of the other one, on the surface. But with little to go on other than 'your husband might have been a priest of Torag' ... that seems a doomed task. She still has the warhammer, which bears more craftsmanship clues than the small ring does, at that.
For that matter... now that they've light to see by and no immediate threat of dying, Aurica looks over the warhammer she's been using in battle ever since the confrontation at the temple.
Then, she joins the migration to Firo's, looking over the objects for sale and trade. She sees a pack that looks to hold better than her worn one-- of good make, she wagers, with bands to distribute the weight nice and easy...
"Trade you my current pack for that one, and my armor," she offers Firo, with a gesture at her hide armor. "You ever see a statue like this, by the way?" she says, holding up the chipped angelic figure they found.
While Voren's still in the store, he takes out the scroll of shocking grasp. "How much could I get for this?"
Jens gives Aurica's shoulder a gentle squeeze, smiling in his old beard. "I think I taught our brother once," he says finally. "I remember a dwarf with red hair like yours, and the name sounds right. He never took too well to the saddle, if I recall, but he held a shield better than most I saw. If he's as strong now as I remember him, he'll be fine." He smiles sadly. "I've trained many people over the years, Aurica. I was a mercenary for my youth, and I saw many men die then. But worse was when I began raising young men and women for war. I taught them to ride, to charge, to use a shield as an extension of themselves. And I never saw many of the, return. Of those that did, only few still breathed. But your brother... Four tours, did you say? And he came back every time."
He pauses for a moment, weighing his words. "My father taught me respect from an early age," he says finally. "If I disrespected him, or my mother, I was strapped for it. I grew up better for it. I never resented him, for he taught me how to be a man. And a man keeps promises. So when I promise you this, I want you to understand that it comes from a lifetime of being taught honour, from a culture that values oaths and honesty - if Jormur lives, we will find him."
Voren listens to the conversation between Aurica and Jens. When Aurica smiles, he feels his face heat up... for some odd reason. He chimes in with, "If you need any help finding your brother, I'll help. I know we don't really see eye to eye, Aurica. But I feel like I must help in any way possible."
He looks to the others. Then at the beds. "So... how do we deal with the... uh... bunkings?"
Aurica looks down to the ground at the old human's solemn words, because it's very embarrassing if someone were to see her eyes a little too bright and threatening tears.
"Thank you," she mumbles with a throat clearing. "That's... sterling of you, that is."
When Voren chimes in and offers his... aid, Aurica closes her eyes briefly, before she lifts her gaze to him with a sigh. "Right. Well. Thank you too, I s'pose."
As for bunkings, Aurica hooks her thumbs into her belt and surveys the little group. She imagines Gwerm's insufferable self if he doesn't get what he no doubt sees as his 'right' to one of the limited beds. She debates whether it's worth the headache of trying to convince him to share with anyone... or if anyone's willing to share with him, for that matter.
"Right," she says, crisply. "Bed priority goes to th' folk with injuries, so Aravashnial and Anevia. Mister Gwerm," she says, with a chipper sort of forced optimism, "you hurt any that hasn't been mentioned yet?"
She'll see what sort of shame, if any, he might have, and put it on him to lay claim to one of the beds. If he's got any decency down there, he'll yield beds to those who obviously need them more, but Aurica doesn't really place a lot of stock in his decency. Still... sometimes the ore surprises you, when it's put to the furnace.
" I would suggest, that Aurica and Anevia share one room, Horgus and Aravashnial another, and Jens, Reknar and I the third. I will take the floor."
Flynn will grab his gear and bunk down on the floor.
Voren gives Aurica his fanged toothed smile, which oddly looks like the type of smile a good-natured child would give. You know, if the teeth weren't sharp. "No problem. That's what friends are for, right?"
When Flynn puts in his suggestions for rooming, Voren turns to him and tilts his head to the side a bit. "That sounds good, Flynn. But... where would Osric and I sleep?"
The beds seem big enough to hold two people at once, if you don't mind sleeping with another.
" My apologies Voren. I wasn't thinking too clearly. Mostly I was stating that I would take the floor..." He ducks his head in embarrassment and shrugs.
" I think I am just overly tired. I MISS the sun..."
"It's understandable Flynn. I can make do on the floor as well. Let's just get some sleep and get ready to press on in the morning."
Voren nods at Flynn. "It's alright, Flynn. I can understand. I miss the sun as well."
Voren seems... quiet. His tail is wagging listlessly. He seems deep in thought.
Inside, however, an internal conflict wages. 'Should I tell them? Is it time to tell them? Will they believe me? What should I do?'