Yes, I apologize for missing that roll.
At this point we will need the two assistance checks.
Irakli is not much help with the tracking, still somewhat out of sorts after the fiery flare, while Ayerth manages to help find a few tell-tale clues, but ultimately Orin loses the trail of Yoshiri when he cuts sharply South and heads into the waters of the Thorn River. The trail is a well used one, perhaps a cut back for the bandits or a planned approach to waylay travelers on the river. After about ten minutes, your group heads back to the camp, the night and river working against you and in favor of the bandit.
Do you want to try to follow Myron's trail, or call it a night?
What are the other party members doing while they track?
After stopping at the river and being unable to locate another trail, Orin turns to his companions. "Sorry, Ayerth and Irakli. I was depending too much on the night to foil our wayward quarry. I think it best to head back and start fresh tomorrow." Then mumbling to himself, "I should have expected rats to have a bolt hole."
Orin lets out a low whistle once more and Fáinní scurries up Orin's armor to settle in the mass that is his steel gray hair covering his shoulders. The night hides Orin's disappointment and scratching Fáinní's little head gives him some comfort on the trip back to the camp.
I did allow you to track Yoshiri all the way to the river with the rolls. You were assuming that Yoshiri was human, but there are other races that look "humanish" which have vision enhancements. Don't forget, you are working with aides that do not have darkvision and must likewise move slowly to avoid missing the tracks. If you wish to search the banks and surrounding area, you are welcome to check the area and do so. It would take about an hour to recheck, per the Survival rules.
BTW, Darkvision is colorless, and the Survival/tracking rules make no distinctions for neither darkvision nor low light vision. Darkvision has a limited range, and being colorless can miss distinctions in leaf turn, grass twist, tread, etc, which is part of how tracking is accomplished.
That said, I will throw you a bone, I was going to wait and ask for a perception check in the morning; the tracks changed just along the bank prior to entering the water, the boot tread changing from a normal boot to a long, unshod foot, one that seems to have a narrow profile, bulbous heel, and two spade flayed toes with singular thick curved claws.
"It was a worthy attempt master dward. Ye did well tracking him till the river, but alas our prey has eluded us. We should take rest and deal with the other prisoners in the morning. We can learn must from questioning them."
"No matter. Perhaps Mother Nature will see to him."
"Let's try looking for the other man. He might be easier to locate."
You may do so if you wish. This is a different quarry in a different direction, so you would not need to wait an hour to do so.
Grailmont sheathed his sword and placed his shield on his back walking over to the man he poked in the chest with his sword. Alright everyone, well done on taking down these hooligans, although next time we need to be more precise with our actions. He said, taking a deep breath. We will set a perimeter, I volunteer Ayerth and Irakli for first watch as they have better sense in the dark, followed by Ser Brandon and myself, then Echo and Orin. That will give Echo time to interrogate the prisoners if possible. At dawn we ride to liberate the kobolds from their false king, as it is on the way to our final destination.
Unless anyone wishes to attempt to track Myron, we will move forward.
The night turns cold, a freeze rolling in with a return of the rain. The temperature dips to about 28F/-2C, and rain falls in short sheets in wave after briefly broken wave. The 10th of Desna, Moonday, starts off wet and chilly. During those brief times of respite, the sun again peaks from behind the clouds, the day's high barely reaching 57F/14C, and then for an all too short period.
Searching the next day for tracks for Myron or Yoshiri turns up nothing in the woods, the trail cold and wet. As the group leads the prisoners out of the woods, regrouping with the soldiers of Olegton, they find the men have themselves found something. A naked body was pulled from the waters of the Thorn, it's head smashed and bloodied by heavy, repeated blows. It seems impossible to identify the remains, until someone points out the few stray bits of hair caught up in the man's broken skull, the brown of the missing Myron.
Word of the find, combined with the weather and the hopelessness of the size of your force, seems to loosen the tongues of the prisoners.
Information garnered from the prisoners...
When asked about Svetlana’s wedding ring, he reveals that a couple of bags of loot were stolen the day before yesterday by a group of filthy mites—the same annoying little beasts accosting the kobolds. The mites escaped with both bags, and Kressle believes they’d fled to their lair under the old sycamore tree, to the south. The Stag Lord placed the mites off limits for now, he wants them to make an example of the kobolds, the little beggars refused his alliance, for now. Most was just some copper coins an' cheap-looking trinkets. Your old man's ring could be there, she never said.
Regarding the Stag Lord he has little first hand information beyond what the others offer. He does have one tidbit, rumor really. The Stag Lord keeps a strange old man locked up in the basement. I suspect the old guy might actually be running the show, using the Stag Lord as a puppet, you know. While I never saw the Stag Lord up close, I got a look into the old guy’s eyes once, and it terrified me. He is not someone I would want to cross. He is like the Queen-Sister, evil to the core.
After waking to a wet and chilly morning, Orin begins by renewing the fire, and then using cantrips to warm and flavor whatever breakfast food is available. He then cracks open his spellbook and refocuses his arcane potential. After rejoining the men, he listens patiently when Echo questions the others, but has little to add.
"Since we have a little more in the way of resourced that we did not have previous, does anyone want a particular scroll or a particular item? I can begin work."
You can dispense with most of the guards, directing them to return to Olegton with the prisoners and stolen goods. A pair would be useful staying with the group, to guard the horses and help around the camp.
@ Orin, you do know that any spell you scribe to a scroll is lost for the day. If the group sticks to the rough plan, your next stop would be the mites then on to the kobolds. Two hours time is hard to come by while traveling, more so if you break the time up into increments, as it ties the spell energies up in the crafting until complete.
Previous Plan Recap: (Still subject to group changes)
Olegton to Thorn River Camp: 1 day used and on schedule.
Thorn River Camp to the Mites Lair: 6 hours ride then the assault
requires 1 days time
Mite's Lair to Sootscale's Mine: 2 hours ride then meet the Kobolds
requires 1 days time
Sootscale's camp to Tuskwater Lake, first hex: 6 hours ride then begin your search for the Stag Lord's base.
requires 1 days time
Exploring the Shores of Tuskwater Lake
requires 2 days time
Attack and kill the Stag Lord
requires 1 days time
Return to Olegton
requires between 2-3 days time
Complete trip between 8 to 10 days in total.
The Castellan of Issia is due to arrive in 10 days time.
Before receiving the next day's spells, Silas will heal whoever in the party is injured, with the remaining cure spells spread out among the captured bandits.
Silas will encourage the others to take Lanthan up on his offer (since, in his mind, Lanthan's crime is much more amusing than the others and may deserve some clemency).
Lanthan, nervous and exhausted, spills his story in a rambling, disjointed manner. Once he begins, over the next twenty minutes his relates his tale, albeit in fragmented and jumbled pieces. He never had a trial, never saw the evidence against him, only the threat against his life causing him to flee for his life.
He was once a minor court functionary, a scholar documenting the goings on at court. His father had been a court historian for the Rogarvian court before him. He had opposed the rise of House Surtova as a replacement for the missing monarchy, but had been wise enough to keep such whispers to only his family and a few close friends. Lanthan followed his father into the court, serving as a scribe and documentarian with the Queen-Sister's retinue. For awhile it all seemed normal, until one unfortunate accident snowballed into him fleeing for his life and a posting of forgery.
One afternoon, while gathering up a few writs and scrolls the Queen Sister had signed, Lanthan had accidentally picked up a letter she had written for her brother, the King, who was visiting Port Ice on royal business. The letter had been a salacious piece, regarding all manners of longings and yearnings the sister had for her brother, what she missed of his touch, how she longed for his loins, etc.
Lanthan copied the scroll at first without really reading it, using the magics he normally used as part of his duties. Once he realized what he had, he tried to slip the scroll back into her belongings, undetected. He thought he had succeeded, and for a few days all seemed well. Then, late one evening, he returned to his lodgings to see a man fleeing his rooms above a baker's shop. Thinking himself burgled, he called for the constabulary and they together mounted the stairs, only to find the baker dead, his throat cut. The man had been coming to collect his rents, surprising the "burgler". The next day as he approached the castle to return to work, he met another scribe coming from the servant's entrance. He rushed to Lanthan, calling to him and clasping him like a long lost relative. The man said that it had been rumored that Lanthan had died, killed by a burglar the day before.
Lanthan realized the Queen Sister knew he had seen the letter, had sent an assassin to kill him. He fled the city that day, gathering what things he could and leaving for Restov. Once he arrived there, he discovered a wanted poster with his visage, accused of forgery and slandering the monarchy. A friend saw him safely out of Restov, and he wandered the wilds heading for the River Kingdoms when he ran into a ruined castle on the edges of Tuskwater Lake. It was there he blundered into the Stag Lord's service, cataloging "taxes" collected and the subjects of his realm, or more precisely the hunters and trappers that called the lands home.
. . .
@ Orin, you do know that any spell you scribe to a scroll is lost for the day. If the group sticks to the rough plan, your next stop would be the mites then on to the kobolds. Two hours time is hard to come by while traveling, more so if you break the time up into increments, as it ties the spell energies up in the crafting until complete. . . .
When there is a moment, Orin will address the party without other ears present. "Good Echo and company. I am inclined to believe Lanthan. I also feel that, after listening to his story, that he would not get a fair trial anywhere but Olegton. Even then, he could not travel back to Brevoy in safety."
He seems as if he is about to speak once more, then twice, looking a bit unsure on how to continue, then finally letting his words out in a rush. "What I am about to suggest is a bit subversive. Would it be in the realm of possibility to report his death and allow him to start over under another name? I see that as being a smoother course at the moment."
"What he knows is not his fault, and I do not believe we have the ability to protect him, at the moment, from those who may use power without respect to nobler intentions."
"Fair enough, Good Echo." Orin nods. "Fair enough."
I say we go investigate the false kobold king, see if what Meepox told us is true. We need to turn that king over to the kobolds, after all, he did threaten to eliminate their kind. If all this proves to be true, we will then head to the mites and wipe them out and ensure that no one is bothered by them anymore. Then our swords point to the stag lord. Once he is defeated, we can then explore if time permits, but I am sure our ride in the sunset back to olegton, presenting the head of the stag lord to the castellan will be glorious.
"It may be a bit problematic for the Queen's envoy to see a criminal like Lanthan—whose deeds, while perhaps forgivable, involved the royal authority—get off with a light sentence. We could perhaps try him under a new name, or reach a clemency agreement where his sentence is commuted to something more suitable soon after the royal envoy leaves. But this we can probably discuss further at a later time; right now, we've got some more bandits and beasties to round up."
These people seem to worry too much about protecting this so called innocent criminal and worry less about the impact of protecting such a scoundrel from the Crown. We have learned of a valuable secret if such be true and must guard it closely. This man and his secret may be of great use.
Ser Brandon questions Lathan, "And what has become of this scroll you copied? Is it with you? Is it somewhere safe, or was it seized by crown?"
-Posted with Wayfinder
There were two copies made, as was the rule for documents I was to duplicate for the crown. The original was returned to the Queen's desk when I tried to hide that I had taken it by mistake. I was not sure what to do with the copies. I had planned on destroying them somehow, safely, fire perhaps, so that no one would know they had existed. Then my landlord was killed. When I fled I left one in the safe but unknowing custody of a priest friend in New Stetven. He does not know what it is, or even where. It was hidden behind the front piece of a book of hymnals to Lady Iomedae. He probably still has it on one of his pews, unaware of it's existence, or the danger it represents. The other I had on me when I stumbled into the court of the Stag Lord. His demented old servant, slave, whatever he is, took it with all my other things. I was stripped bare of all my possessions and conscripted into the Stag Lord's service, to document his rise to power. The Great and Drunken Stag Lord, once and hopefully never ruler of the Green Expanse, his planned kingdom of man and fey alike. I imagine it is with my things, somewhere within the Stag Lord's holding. Oh how I wish I had never seen that letter.
"This man cannot be returned to the crown. You know in your hearts what is right if you believe his words. Especially one who sought refuge from The Lady Iomedae. Also as a matter of duty and honor, Baron, he has submitted himself to you and is now under your charge . . . And protections."
To Lanthan.
"Who was this man that fled and died? And what or whom would beat him so?"
If you mean Myron, he was a local hunter. Kressle took a liking to him and so she made him an offer, join up or die. So he did, and for a time she had her fun with him. But her tastes soon waned, and she picked another plaything. Myron was stuck by then, and so he stayed around. I don't know who would have killed him, unless it was the Queen-Sister's assassin, Yoshiri. He had seemed ok until a few days ago, then he got all sullen and moody. I never realized he was her assassin until I saw the look in his eyes last night, when he tried to kill me. His eyes were white, vacant, no life, no emotion, only reflections of firelight.
Orin shakes his head back and forth. "I almost feel sorry for this Myron. Love can make fools of us all, and his made him into something worse."
"If you do not mind, what can you tell me of the dwarf? Even if I cannot agree with his actions, I think I would like to say something over his grave. I would see him entombed in stone or burned in the forge, as befitting our people."
"Though I think making a proper resting place will have to wait. The living can yet be saved. The dead can only be remembered."
"You would memorialize a criminal with a shrine of stone Orin? Such things should be reserved for those more deserving. Of the two choices, it would seem more fitting to sprinkle his ashes and pray for his soul. His immortal remnant will need guidance to find some mercy for his actions committed in this world."
"His body is just a shell now. You could inter his body to the forest where it could be lent to the furtherance of life around his death. Burry him beneath one of the young trees here, let it be his headstone and marker. Lay a bed of stones atop him, it will prevent scavengers from reaching the body and help water and roots reach the nutrients beneath as the tree grows and nature makes him a part of the future of this place."
Valor was a dangerous dwarf. He was banished from his clan for what he called acts unbecoming a proper dwarf though I think it more likely his perverse devotion to Droskar, some beliefs which I think were blasphemous even for that dark cult that had something to do with it. He was the only one in the camp that Kressle respected; he was as much a butcher and degenerate as she was.
"---Point reinforced."
Orin turns to Ayerth and gives him a long, level look. "You misunderstand, Ayerth. Once I die, if possible, I would like to feed the forge. More often, my people prefer to be surrounded by the stone from whence we came. He was a dwarf, and by our traditions that is how he should be buried."
"I would do this, surround him in stone, not to honor him, so much as to honor the idea of what dwarves were and still should be. I was not thinking a grand monument either, just simple stone fashioned well. For nothing should be done with half a heart. I, however, am not the one to judge the soul that has passed on. All I can do is treat the shell with the respect I hope I deserve."
He closes his eyes for a moment and places his hand upon the axe slung to his back while lowering his voice, but intoning the words as if chanting. "All that you find to do, do with all your might, for there is no work nor devising in death."
He shakes his head and reopens his eyes, giving Ayerth a sad smile. "I can only treat others as I would like to be, and do everything as well as I can, even it that includes burying the dead."
"Unfortunately, Orin, we don't have time. Perhaps, if he is buried in a quick grave with the others, you could mark it with a small cairn of stones."
Orin nods. "You are right, Silas. Time is currently a factor." He strokes his beard for a moment. "Forgive me for what appears as sentimentality. I will intend to return, but duties to the living must be met before the traditions of one's past."
"And thank you, Ayerth, for your words. I value your honesty."
"Maybe someday you can build a monument to those who died fighting in the Riverlands, guards and bandits alike. But yes, first we should make sure we are not among them."
Alright everyone, enough chatter. We need to be riding Now Grailmont said, hopping up on his horse, waiting for everyone else.
"You act with great honour Master Orin, though time is against us. Perhaps we may return later to complete such a noble undertaking.
On hearing Grailmont's command Ser Brandon mounts up and announces, "You heard the Commander, saddle up. We ride for the Kobolds and to rid them of their false chief."
"Well, Brandon, I believe we had some mites to deal with along the way, through one means or another."
You set off from Thorn River, leading your band of heroes, two troopers, and Lanthan in tow. The other troopers take the wagon of goods and the prisoners back to Olegton. Hawke, Anza and their prisoner accompany you, Lanthan commenting aside that he is surprised that Creed is still alive. Kressle has wanted to kill him quite a few times, but he and the Stag Lord's old "minister" share some "common interests" and so he was ruled untouchable. I've heard the reason the Stag Lord never leaves child survivors is they are fed to the appetites of Creed and the old leach.
Anza helps the group scout as you go, everyone taking lunch in the saddle to keep good time. The sun is nearing the treetops to the West when she calls a halt atop a small ridge. In the distance, about a half mile, is an old towering Sycamore tree atop a small knoll, a cleft rent in the roots and soil beneath. That would be the place, the mite's lair, by what everyone's said.
The tree is old and dead, only it's great mass of roots entangled amongst the rocky soil keeping it standing. Most of the branches and limbs are gone, leaving a skeletal trunk and a few broken jagged arms here and there. The entrance chamber lies on the southern side, barely visible, the shadows already lengthening, shielding the doorway from the last rays of the sun.
"Ah yes, looks like a place the littlest of fey might inhabit. Quite unlike flitterings or fairies these mites."
Ayerth relates to the others, in addition to this being their likely lair, the following:
They possess darkvision, low-light vision, a sense of smell similar to that of dogs, and a sensitivity to light.
Mites have a particular hatred of dwarves and gnomes, often training hard to fight against these hated foes.
Mites seem to be able to manipulate and control vermin, which are normally mindless, but this empathic communication imparts on them a modicum of implanted intelligence, allowing mites to train them as guardians or to use them as mounts. It is believed they can even influence vermin swarms with relative ease.
Descended from even smaller fey, the mites are among the most pitiful and craven dwellers of the dark. Hideously ugly, even goblins have been known to mock mites for their homely appearances, mockery most mites take to heart and nurture for weeks, months, or even years in their tiny homes, until their distress and anger finally overcome their natural cowardice and impel them forth on short-lived bouts of bloody vengeance from the doubtful safety of a spider's back.
Mites, once closer to the strange realm of the fey, have grown larger and stockier after countless generations spent on the Material Plane. Yet still, their stature places them at the bottom of the pile in the dangerous caverns in which they live. Their traditional enemies are dwarves and gnomes, though more recently they seem to be on par with kobolds for fighting to share spaces and resources of the deep underground caves. The one thing that gives them a significant edge over an enemy in a fight is their natural ability to empathize with normally mindless vermin, being particularly fond of spiders, centipedes, and cave fishers, and a mite colony usually has a few of these far more dangerous monsters on hand to defend the group.
It is believed that mites may perform minor magical tricks with prestidigitation, and often use these tricks to annoy their enemies. When faced with dangerous foes, a mite may hex an opponent, it's eyes bulge hideously open when it uses this ability to bring about the doom of it's opponent.
A mite normally stands around 3 feet tall and weighs roughly 40 pounds.
"Filthy little scum. They shall soon meet their end." Ser Brandon says confidently enjoying the ride.
It good to be on a ride to battle. Nothing gets the blood flowing like it. Real danger, glory to won, the cries of defeat of the enemy and sound of battle horn signalling the charge. It was good to come here. There much adventure in these parts.
You manage to approach within 60' of the site, the ground becoming rocky and the path more treacherous. The 100' tall sycamore rises above the rocky hill, it's roots forming a tangled mess jutting from the hillside and draping down again to the ground. What first appeared to be a doorway now shows itself to be a dark stone, stained black from blood and bodily fluids. Hanging amongst the roots above it, three kobold bodies are stretched and draped, their forms poked and punctured by stones and pointed sticks or roots.
Perception check to spy out the true entrance.
Approaching the hillside any further involves rough terrain, so movement is halved. If taking the mounts any closer, you might risk the mites smelling them and becoming alerted, their day-long sweat being a bit more pungent than yourselves, some of you only just so.
Fáinní pokes his head out from the perch on Orin's shoulder and scents the air. After a moment, he moves to the opposite shoulder and makes a little squeak, then flees back into Orin's mane.
Looking in the direction that Fáinní seemed to favor, Orin begins to look for more signs of the ill favored fey.
"Or, you know, Ser Brandon, we could try talking to them first, see if we can talk them out of their hostilities."
Orin spies a small hole near the base of the hill, partially hidden by a curtain of dried roots cleverly wound together.
You are still all 60' from the entrance, and the remains of the mites' kobold victims. Perhaps the little kobold was correct, the chief has been throwing away his fellow kobolds in pointless raids and battles.
A small smile steals across Orin's face. "Clever. Very Clever." he says to himself in almost a whisper.
He motions a few over to himself. "Ayerth. Irakli. Silas. Confirm this for me, please." He eyes the spot without pointing. "Those roots woven together at the base of that dying tree seem to conceal a hole. That could be their entrance and egress, yes?"
"I also can't see so much iron being good for a tree, but I am no herbalist." he says as an aside, noting the areas stained black from blood of kobolds and who knew other victims.