"Oh, alright.." Lann says, trailing off for a moment before turning to face the barricades.
He gathers himself up and then steps forwards to the barricades. "Vendui'," he calls out, pleasantly. His arms are raised and he reveals his whole form. "Usstan tlun Lann d'l'ssussun thac'zilen. Usstan inbal doer ulu nindolen thac'zilen wun ragarrl d'ussta abbil lu'Cwyr v'utir nesst, Javyn, vel'uss uriu tlus plynnet a duergar pholor l'Verve Z'hin. Udos daewl ulu thalra xuil dosst ventash'ma, ji nindel udos xal meun biu abbanid"
"Greetings, I am Lann of the surface land. I have come to these lands in search of my friend and fellow mongrelman, Javyn, who has been taken by duergar on the Long Walk. We wish to meet with your leader, so that we may form an alliance."
An Underfolk guard stands over the barricade in full view. His face is ape-like, and obscured by long, shaggy hairs. "Al tha. Usstan tlun Dwalla, l'kyorl venta'kyorl d'l'Gunduara zikowt. Usstan xun naut inbal l'zasimartek ulu telanth pholor mizil'ra folt 'zil abbaniden, jhal zhaun nindel dos orn ragar nau ssinssrigg whol duergar ghil."
" Well met. I am Dwalla, the guard captain of the Gunduara tribe. I do not have the authority to speak on matters such as alliances, but know that you will find no love for duergar here."
"Valaria, what's happening?" asks Xanderghul. "Do we have the go-ahead to negotiate with their leader?"
"Looks like we made a good call," Val replies. "They definitely don't like the duergar. I think we'll have to talk to their leader to get any actual help, but sounds like a good first impression." She clears her throat and carefully calls out to the guard in the new tongue. "Ol zhah bwael ulu kyorl natha gre'as'antar jindurn p'luin udossta verve z'hind. Orn dos plynn udossa ulu dosst ventash'ma ji udos xal joros nind dortho? Udos daewl ulu doer ulu biu inthigg xuil dosst lodias."
"Fre'sla rath," the Underfolk calls out, commandingly.
"Stand back!"
"Fall back a bit," Lann says. "I think we're good to go through."
"Udosorn pahntar l'vidennen ji nindel udos shlu'ta Ssin'kyorlin dos areion. Mu'll rahi, qualla," the guardsman continues.
"We'll open the gates so that we can escort you through. Empty hands, please."
Undercommon is a strange language - it seems to carry several loanwords from both elvish and dwarven - but not enough of either for you to parse what is being said alone from that.
Lann presents both hands out, palm-side up. At the center of the barricade, a gate swings open, allowing the heroes single-file passage through. They are flanked on either side by an array of armored Underfolk. No two look alike. Their weapons and arms are as motley as their appearances: hammers of dwarven make, primitive spears, and even one guardsman wielding a pair of elven curved blades. They keep their weapons ready as they eye each of the heroes' passage warily. Lann moves through first, he smiles at the guardsman, who returns it. Next, Valaria passes through, and her unusual appearance doesn't merit a second glance from the patchwork Underfolk.
Next in line, with Isilme, however - as soon as she becomes visible to the guards past the barricade, do they quickly draw their polearms up and towards her throat. "Ilythiiri srow! Vel'bol zhah l'iklnig d'nindol?"
"Drow scum! What is the meaning of this?"
"Woah, woah." Lann says, his hands raised in peace. "Ilythiiri?" he asks, questioningly. He doesn't know the word.
"Ilythiiri," the closest guardsman hisses. His tone is venemous. "Ryldvir."
Ryldvir means slaver.
"Isilme, I think they have you confused for someone else," Lann says, trying his best to translate the situation.
The concept of Drow entered public discourse a decade previously, when a group of them emerged in Varisia intent on bringing about a second of Age of Darkness. They were stopped (obviously) and ever since the discovery of a new subspecies of elf spread throughout certain circles in Golarion. It wasn't exactly earth-shattering news to those already familiar with elven ethnography: elves seem to have a pre-disposition towards adapting physiologically towards their environments, and can come in a wider variety of hues than humans do, so the idea of black-skinned elves adapted to living underground did not seem far-fetched.
However, little else is really known about Drow, beyond their appearance. None of the heroes present have ever met one, nor have you read of any other accounts about them.
Isilme had lived in Kyonin, in the guise of an elf, for some time, and that is why she knows about the Drow. The elves of Kyonin are secretive and insular. She knows that they knew of Drow - the dark elves of the underground - for some time, however their existence was not shared with non-elves. In Kyonin, they are spoken of as accursed creatures - those who failed to return to the Elvenhome, Sovyrian, during the Age of Darkness. Instead, they fled deep into the earth, where their skin became black, and their hair, white. The illustrations she had seen of them were certainly wicked. However, she's never met one in person, nor known of someone who had met one.
"Well this certainly is no minor faux pas," Isilme says, slightly embarassed she'd made such a novice mistake. Clearly the drow would not be welcome down here. The form was incredibly useful for moving about in the dark, and certainly more aesthetically pleasing than some of the other options that were available to her. The question now is whether they would believe her after she changed shape. "This will be fun to explain. The drow are elves who fled underground long ago, to say they are spoken of poorly in Kyonin would be an understatement."
She looks to Valaria and exclaims, "Would you give my apologies and explain that I am not a drow, Val, and I will revert my form. If that will not suffice, I can await you all outside the village."
With that she waits for a sign to change her form, pondering as she does whether she should go with her normal elven form, or something more disarming, like a gnome.
Xanderghul is not heavily armed, nor is he particularly intimidating, and his apparel obscures his nature at least enough to create doubt. He is clearly wounded, with his clothes torn, and he appears hearty. He is capable of both arcane and divine magic and he knows a little bit about everything. Surely his presence in the Underfolk village is non-threatening, although he lacks none of the capabilities he needs to disable many of the village's inhabitants. To compound that, he is disguised as a fetchling - a Shadow Plane touched native of the Underdark.
Being a mage comes with privileges.
When Lann requests that they stow their weapons, Faith immediately begins to reduce in size, transforming from a spike-covered light shield into a buckler with an ornate holy symbol taking up the majority of its existence. Ary is quite certain it was before she had even begun to will it so... perhaps a trick of imagination. She hums for a moment, but stows Radiance as well. Her sword arm was cramped from constantly keeping it at the ready throughout their travels, wielding the weapon as though it were a torch for the majority of their travels.
Her ears perk up at the word srow... she'd heard the word from Ilivan, referring to a half-elven cultist, but beyond that, it was all gnomish to her. Ary immediately pushes past her allies to stand between several of the guards and Isilme, though the buckler still remains a buckler, physically interposing, though offering no threat. She keeps her eyes on the leader of the other group, despite the fact that she isn't privy to anything the underfolk is saying, aware of the situation's gravity. She does glance at Faith for a moment though... she had also willed it to return to being a light shield...
Ary pauses as Isilme mentions the issue without hesitation, and purses her lips... maybe they'd be less upset over a half-drow? "Yeah... and tell them I'm a blonde farm girl from the Stolen Lands who just happens to have died once?" she adds.
"Ary, I am not sure interposing yourself here is the best idea, especially given your appearance," Isilme says, worried that by leaping into action she'll only worsen the situation. "It is we who threaten them, not the reverse, please back down and step aside."
Isilme gently nudges Ary to the side and encourages her to lower her shield. She then raises her hands to show nothing is in them and takes a few steps back, grabbing Ary by the arm and encouraging her to do the same.
"Val, please explain the situation to them," she says looking to the tiefling for help.
"If they're threatened by me standing, unarmed, between you and them... after they draw weapons, I'm not sure how to feel about that." Ary says simply, but moves backwards with Isilme as she backs away. "I've already almost lost one person today, I'm not going to let your skin be the reason I lose another."
1. Guard #1 [23]
2. Guard #3 [22]
3. Guard #4 [19]
4. Valaria [18]
5. Guard #2 [18]
6. Hinagiku [17]
7. Isilme [13]
8. Ary [13]
9. Lann [12]
10. Xandergul [10]
11. Ehren [7]
12. Guard #6 [6]
13. Dwalla [6]
14. Guard #5 [3]
The guards had already been tense - the heroes continued to whisper and murmur to themselves in Common, which they don't understand a word of, while Valaria gathers herself time to think of a response. "Vel'bol ph'nind bauth?" one guard mumurs to the other.
"What are they all whispering about?"
"Usstan xuat saph l'tejmook'cinkjuu d'nindol," the Underfolk responds to her kin.
"Yeah, I don't like the feeling of this."
For what its worth, Xanderghul is right - though he has yet to even pass through the Underfolk barricade, his appearance in itself is not threatening to the Gunduara tribe. However, Ary, a half-drow wearing heavy armor, uniformed in the attire of a soldier, is extremely threatening, un-armed or not. Lann, who had been encouraging everyone tacitly to keep their arms up and to move slowly, gives an audible groan as Ary pushes her way past the Underfolk to interpose herself between Isilme and the guards placing spears at her throat.
"Ser rath, dos rul'selozan olath rosin e'trit!" cries out the guard as Ary approaches.
"Keep back, you disgusting dark born filth!"
Grey-skinned half elves were known of on the surface well before the discovery of the drow, though it was just assumed they were born some from variant of elves. Certain dusky skinned wood elves of the deep woods along the Inner Sea lended credence to that idea. Now, scholars debate whether or not such cases are actually descendants of the newly discovered drow.
Most scholars discredit this notion however. Grey-skinned half elves don't have better senses than any other half elf, after all. This is because most scholars do not believe that the drow themselves are very populous. It is theorized the total population of under-dwelling elves must be very small, since reports of encountering drow are so very rare.
Isilme doesn't know much about half-drow, as Ary is the only one she has ever met. She knows that the elves call them "mithelma" (grey-skinned), and they are treated with similar derision as the drow themselves.
However, she does know that elves in general have a strange relationship with their half-ken. Elvish histories tell tales of great kingdoms of elves many milennia ago, for elves were once more numerous than human kind across all of Golarion. There were many great elvish nations, once, and more ethnicities and elvish races than there are of man.
However, now there are very few elves left on Golarion. Kyonin is the only great elvish nation to remain. While the other humanoid races tend to believe that this is because most elves have returned to what elves refer to as "Elvenhome", or Sovyrian, the truth of the matter is a dark secret only acknowledged in private amongst elves. You see, elves were once as fecund as humans, so combined with their long lifespans, they easily covered the planet in a large population of elves. However, for unknown reasons, that fecundity has worn thin with each successive generation of elves. Many elves are born completely sterile, and each woman who is not, only comes into their moons-blood (a sign of incoming fertility) once or twice a lifetime.
However, unlike dwarves, male elves can readily breed with other races, producing half-elves. However, it is widely agreed amongst elves that half-elves are not elves, so there is significant racism levied against these elven bastards. Half-elves in Kyonin are not viewed as full citizens, even when born into influential families, so most end up going their own way after a brief adolescence. Some more open-minded elves view this as a pity - perhaps the half-kin are the future of the elvish race, and should be welcomed in to further their culture before the elves themselves go extinct.
In any case, while one would think the quickly approaching extinction of their own race to be a major point of elvish focus, research, and conversation, it really isn't. Elves are more sexually liberal than other human races - so elves continue to go on having trysts with other races, creating more and more half-breeds, with little regard for the consequences. Also, elves tend to be fierce individualists, most lacking the undying loyalty for race, country, or clan that other humanoid races tend to possess. So all this is swept under the rug, the proverbial elephant in the room, as most elves continue to live their lives as if nothing has really changed for them across the millennia.
The situation quickly deteriorates. One guard places his blade against Lann's neck. " Lann, ka dos ph'fridj natha rothe d'nindolen renor faalrof srow, udos shlu'ta gultah dos nec'perya. Jhal nau qee'lak."
"Lann, if you are just a slave of these black skinned scum, we can offer you sanctuary. But no quick movements."
The others, closer to Ary, attack before she has time to back away. She moves away in time to avoid the one to her left, but the one to her right manages to land a punch across her jaw. It stings a bit, but she's been hit with far worse.
Round 1!
Valaria is up!
Val doesn't draw her weapons, instead raising her hands as the guards advance. "Kyorl! Nindol zhah natha duanda. Isilme zhah natha shinduago darthirii. Ilta meun zhah natha faerl lalat'uil ji il shlu'ta helothannin l'oloth xuileb degahr. Qualla, udos hass'l nau jivviim!"
From the Underfolk's perspective, Valaria actually looks the least strange out of the bunch. She fits right in with her horns, tail, and her pink skin. Paired with Lann, and her flawless Undercommon, they take her for just another one of themselves.
"Ooooh, this is good drama," the Bound Horror whispers in your mind. "I've had lots of dealings with the Drow over the past millennia or so. Nocticulans, noble intrigue, lots of debauchery, I'm sure your imagination can fill in the details. Buuu~uuut I'd be happy to answer any questions."
"Usstan z'reninth dos - jhal Usstan inbal mziln nym'uerus nindel l'ilythiiri shlu'ta enrot l'ves shar, xor foldraevals ann'ish 'zil vel'bol naut," cries out the ape-like Dwalla. He pauses for a moment, thinking. "L'olath rosin glenn - Usstan orn'la saph ilta. Lu'l'heeth, ichl."
"I believe you - but I have also heard that the drow can enslave the very mind, or sometimes appear as what they're not. The darkborn soldier - I would like her disarmed. And the shapechanger, too."
"Yes, they very much do not like drow," Lann agrees with Isilme. He then continues to translate, slowly. "They are afraid of drow spellcasters, it seems. They want Ary and Isilme to surrender their arms."
Ary huffs softly, she was annoyed for obvious reasons, but immediately began obliging them. "A sword is but a tool." she says as she begins by unstrapping her cloak and then beginning to remove Faith next, kneeling down to place the shield on the cloak. Next she removes her bow... then her lucerne hammer, then her gauntlets, then finally Radiance, and places all of them into the cloak in a one-by-one procession, honoring each item. She ties the cloak into an oversized sack around the head of the hammer with the poll sticking out the top, before leaving it where it is and stepping away.
She doesn't remove the rest of her armor.
"Hooo, well, yes, they're big-time slavers - they have a real racial superiority complex," the Bound Horror drawls. "They enslave all sorts of races - Darklands races, imported surface races, whatever they can get their hands on, really. They get away with it because so many of them are powerful demonic cultists. Pretty much each major noble house has a demonic patron, and they're all constantly vying for power..."
"Oh, another funny quirk - they're intensely matriarchical - I think that's partially why your grandmother loves them so much. The women tend to be larger than the men, who aren't afforded the same sort of rights and privileges that women have in their society."
"Their cities are a blast, just total anarchy. The people in charge are technically the various noble houses and their matriarchs, but they only enforce the laws that benefit them, so there's all sorts of criminal activity going on in the streets," he recalls, fondly.
The situation almost falls apart, but before Isilme can begin to react, Valaria manages to step in and get the situation under control again. She breathes a sigh of relief as the guards back off, and nods at Lann when he explains their request.
Isilme removes the star knife that had taken Eternal Night's place, undoing the belt and scabbard and gently setting it down. She then removes her bow and unstrings it, setting the bow staff and her quiver on the ground next to the star knife. Finally she unhooks the golden buckler that had been a gift to her from Oneol in heaven and gently sets it atop the weapons.
After standing upright again, she holds her hands up where they can clearly see them, and then proceeds to shapechange back into her normal form, thinking it probably a better choice for now, regardless of whether they believed it was her true form or not.
The Underfolk guards take Ary and Isilme's weapons. They seem appeased by this gesture, and they don't cause the pair any trouble as they move along as a group. They leave two guardsmen behind at the barricade, while the other 5 serve as the group's escorts. Past the barricade, the tunnel follows the path of a subterranean stream. After a few miles, it opens onto a wide cavern The stream flows into a small lake at the center of a grove of petrified, deformed trees. Many dwellings constructed from varying materials rest at the base of these trees, and some even sit among the branches. On the far side of the lake sits a single massive petrified tree, its uppermost branches reaching almost to the roof of the cavern. The tree is decorated with furs, vines, and patches of glowing fungus, and at its base strands of pebble, bones, and shells hang over the entrance of a tunnel leading between two massive roots.
This petrified forest is the lair of the Gunduara tribe. Its denizens appear peaceful enough (if curious), but closer inspection reveals many barricades scattered among the buildings and trees, and all of the Underfolk here are readily armed.
Dwalla leaves them at the home at the base of the petrified tree, whose carved interior is likewise decorated with furs from a wide assortment of creatures. At the center of the dwelling is a large chair, on which a young, thin Underfolk woman sits. Her face is most similar to that of a bat's, though several of her limbs and her tail are reptilian. She stands to welcome them, and once everyone has entered her dwelling, she takes a seat.
"Usstan tlun Grila, d'l'Gunduara. Dwalla tessoe uns'aa dos inbal doer dal feir tarthe wun tein'sar d'duergar. Tesso uns'aa, ele inbal dos lac'us udossa doeb wun lekzermtz?" she asks.
"I am Grila, chieftain of the Gunduara. Dwalla tells me you have come from far away in pursuit of duergar. Tell me, why have you sought us out in particular?"
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By the time Ehren comprehends the reason behind the rising tension among the underfolk, a confrontation has already arisen. Fortunately, Valaria apparently says the right thing at just the right time, cutting the skirmish short. He frowns as Ary and Isilme disarm themselves. It was a reasonable compromise, but it was unfortunate that they had to be judged by their appearances, to begin with. Especially since neither of them was truly what they appeared to be.
The druid looks to Ary in particular. While Isilme's form had been a disguise fashioned in poor taste, Ary's was something she had absolutely no control over. It was through the will of the Green that she returned with the body she has now. Ehren did not usually question such things but for perhaps the first time, he wonders if in this case, they were a little unfair. What's more, it occurs to him that while he has spoken at length with Hinagiku about her reincarnation, he has never asked Ary about hers. He puts that thought on hold for the time being, deciding to bring it up when the opportunity next presents itself.
As they are finally escorted into the village proper, Ehren looks around, taking in the wondrous sights. He had initially envisioned it being more like Neathholm, but the thought was naive in hindsight. The environments underground were just as varied as those on the surface, if not more so. But while the grove seems idyllic enough, it seems apparent that the place has been prepared for conflict.
Once they reach the leader of the village, Ehren bows his head respectfully but does not speak up right away.
Val breathes a sigh of relief as the underfolk at least give them the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully, they'll have no need of weapons within to begin with. She was so used to Isilme's drow disguise and Ary's reincarnated form that she hadn't even thought about the implications of having two apparently drow-blooded members of their group. That sort of carelessness was going to cost them if they made another mistake like this in the future. She silently promised that she would be more careful in the future as the guards led them into the tribe's territory.
The gnarled limbs of the petrified trees felt slightly ominous as they walk through, but the mere image of a forest growing deep underground sparks the desire to learn more. Perhaps there was a story that the tribe could tell them of just how their home came to be. If they had time after their mission, perhaps she could ask.
Val bows her head to the chief as she welcomes them to her dwelling. "Vendui'. Udos doer dal feir ulu l'trezen zhahen jalbyr zikowt d'underfolk dro. Nind chief's dalharuk zhahus plynnet a l'duergar lu'udos inbal doer lac'nou ulu duul'sso ukta."
The chieftain leans back. "Siyo. Qel'bol zhah ol nindel dos ssinssrin d'udossa?" she asks, head tilted. Her bat-like face is difficult to read as her beady little eyes move over each of the heroes in turn.
"Yes. What is it that you want of us?"
"Her name is Grila," Lann translates in a low voice. "She is the leader here. She wants to know what we're doing here."
It was strange and a little frustrating to be involved in a conversation with a language she was unfamiliar with. It was a feeling she was completely unfamiliar with. Certainly she'd heard things she didn't understand since she'd returned, but generally by the time they encountered that language again, she'd remembered most of that language. But now there was no time for her to remember, and even if she were to use the rune she had mastered to attempt to give her the ability to speak and understand their language, it was unlikely they would be interested in or willing to listen to her. Far better to have Valaria doing the negotiating after the mistake she'd made.
"Sheltering rescued slaves here might be a good thing to ask for, especially if some aren't in shape to travel. Information about how and where would be best to ambush the slavers would be good as well," she whispers quietly through message
Hinagiku takes a deep respectful bow when they are brought in front of the underfold leader. Once he straightens back up, it is to add to what Isilme has answered to Lann.
"I think we should mention Mr. Sandricaan, he seemed to know quite a bit of this place and its people. "
Nodding to Hinagiku, Ehren decides to see if he can simplify things a little - or complicate them further, depending on everyone's understanding.
"Gabhaim leithscéal as cur isteach, ach dúirt fear darbh ainm Sandricaan linn gur draoi é ceannaire an Gunduara. An bhfuil sé seo fíor?" he asks politely, knowing that whether Grila can even understand him would answer his question. While holding a conversation in multiple languages is less than ideal, having one more person who could communicate with her at all would ease Valaria and Lann's burden.
Ary follows along with the armed escort, looking to the each of the underfolk that they pass. It wasn't uncommon for an armed escort to draw eyes, but she knew what they were truly looking at. She'd seen it all the time above ground, but leveled primarily at the Tieflings... and if none were available, at the Sarkorians. No... Ary was no stranger to racism - the fact that she'd been a strong, blonde, human farm girl was one of the main reasons she'd received any recognition at all. The more prominent reason being that her name carried its own gravity.
Stares at the dark-skinned half-elf hadn't been nearly as pronounced as she had at first expected - but then, she hadn't really been around many new Crusaders with any consistency that weren't already aware of her station.
So, ultimately, being on the receiving end of racism was a new-enough subject for the woman. Being forcibly disarmed in order to be near a group of people wouldn't be uncommon in the surface world... but the act was tainted by the fact that only two of them had had to be disarmed. And to her recollection, this was the only time the group had faced such a thing. Ary shouldered the burden reluctantly, but well. This was nothing her students hadn't put up with... and further - nothing that her students wouldn't still have to put up with upon graduation.
She'd do her best to prevent it, of course, but her reach would only extend so far... when it came to ex-cultist tieflings trying to survive in a world of their former enemies, tensions would run deep on both sides. Having the perspective that even being unarmed, and presenting no threat - albeit she had tried to give a clear nonverbal warning and failed - could still lead to a group of people taking arms against something they didn't understand gave gravity to the situation.
So, once they arrived, she leaned against the clearest piece of wall she could find and kept her arms at her side, watching her friends rather than the bat-girl, and let the pain in her purpling-gray face slowly pulse with her heartbeat, adding nothing to the conversation but introspection.
"Hermet lu'de'lu'mith ust lu'alurl. Udos ph'niki ulu nindol thac'zil lu'udos ssrig'luin ril boron udos shlu'ta ulu dormagyn udossta abbil."
While Hinagiku and Isilme whisper, the Underfolk chieftain gazes off into the distance for several moments. Ehren snaps her to attention. She peers at him, intently. "Tha fios agad cuideachd air na faclan domhainn," she says, with some wonderment.
"Chan eil fios agam mu Sandricaan. Ach tha. Dh ’ionnsaich mi na seann dhòighean bho mo mhàthair, a dh’ ionnsaich mi bhuaipe. Tha sinn air an seann ghàrradh seo a dhìon airson ginealaichean gun àireamh."
"You too, know the deep words."
"I do not know of a Sandricaan. But yes. I learned the old ways from my mother, who learned them from hers. We have protected this ancient grove for countless generations."
”Táimid araon, maidir leis sin. Tá mo threibh ina chónaí ag an Sean-Chreideamh leis na mílte bliain,” Ehren replies with a small smile. There were many things he wanted to ask her about, but now was hardly the time to indulge his curiosity.
Raising a hand, he gestures to Valaria. Making a few assumptions about what exactly she is saying, he says, ”Tá sé mar a deir mo chara Valaria. Nuair a d’fhoghlaimíomar faoin Gunduara, cheapamar go mbeadh sé ciallmhar tú a lorg.”
”It is as my friend Valaria says. When we learned of the Gunduara, we thought it wise to seek you out.”
She remains fixated on Ehren for a moment longer, even as Valaria begins speaking to her. She speaks very slowly, each word carefully considered. "Tha e math gu bheil thu an seo. Bu mhath leam cluinntinn mu do bheachd air cùis a bhuineas dhomh"
"It is good that you are here. I would love to hear of your opinion on a matter of mine in a moment."
After another long moment of her eyes closed in quite contemplation, Grila returns to Valaria with a small smile. The Underfolk chieftain is a very short woman, but she remains imposing all the same. She spreads her arms apart - one human, the other scaled and reptilian. "D'heen. Udos shlu'ta xxizz dos ulu g'jahall l'duergar -- Usstan inbal verve biu ulu Milith udossta z'ress ulu mina," she grins arrogantly and draws her taloned claw into a fist."Vel'klar ilro'e ph'nindolen nindel dos tein'sa? Vel'bol zhah dosst inth whol mina?" she asks.
"Of course. We can help you to defeat the duergar -- I have long awaited an opportunity to prove our strength to them. Where exactly are these slavers that you pursue? What is your plan for them?"
Lann translates in a low voice as she continues - "Valaria asked if we could shelter here. Ah! Good. The chieftain will help us. She seems glad to. She asks where the duergar are. She is also inquiring about our plan of action."
"They should not be too far right now," Isilme says, opting to respond quietly through the spell, "as they are likely passing by here about now, if we have worked it out correctly. Javyn could likely give us the time since the last notable landmark if we contact him, which could help us figure out where they are exactly. We should be able to come up behind them"
Over the course of the last few nights, the heroes had learned through a series of scrying spells some limited information about the duergar slavers. They know that there are at least fifty slaves. Javyn says that the duergar follow a disgraced leader, Thulmaga, but they fervently believe in her. He says their entourage is large - at least forty, many riding giant beetles. He does not know much more than that. He does not speak dwarven.
"Nind ph'pholor l'Verve Revis, naut feir dal ghil. Udos talinth udos gumash doer phor rathrea mina," Lann translates for Isilme.
"They are on the Long Walk, not far from here. We think we could come up behind them."
The druid leans back in her chair. Several animal skulls rattle as she shifts. "Hm? L'Verve Revis? Usstan sieva, ka dos gumash." She gives a small, wry smile. "Usstan zhaun nindol rek'larst al, lu'l'duergar shlubnaut ser uns'aa doeb d'jala k'lar Usstan daewl ulu tlu. Gaer ph'mzil reztorm l'Verve Revis. Fol d'mina ph'naut al. Xal udos gumash thalack'vel, mina?"
"Hm? The Long Walk? I suppose, if you could afford the toll."
"I know this area well, and the duergar cannot keep me out of any place I wish to be. There are many outposts along the Long Road, for rest. Some of them are not well guarded. Perhaps we could ambush them, overwhelm them?"
Lann turns to the group. "She says we'd need to pay tolls to go to the Long Walk. But she also says she is very familiar with the area, and that the outposts near here they use for rest are not very well guarded. So perhaps we could stage an ambush?"
"Ambushing them at one of the outposts would be ideal, especially if it is poorly guarded," Isilme responds, wasting no time. There was no doubt in her mind that if they had the underfolk guiding them that they could pull off a spectacularly effective ambush. Having their numbers bolstered by the presence of the underfolk would also make it easier to end the battle quickly.
"Perhaps we could bring weapons for the slaves as well? Even clubs would help if we freed them quickly, given there are at least fifty slaves," she asks, not knowing what sort of extra equipment the underfolk might have available.
"Udos inbal ssiggrin reztorm l'loidhnichean d'biu thalack'vel 'zil al. Natha ssussunel dìon dùn ul'tro saph ol orn'la tlu l'llieh k'lar ulu cur air bhog folt natha zotreth," Val adds as she nods in agreement. "Udos z'reninth gaer ph'mzil rothen xuil mina. Ka udos gumash da're mina, ol orn'la morfeth uamhasach l'duergar rescho'ur, tangis'ka er'griff fol d'mina ph'fit ulu sslig'ne nintan."
"We believe there are many slaves with them. If we could arm them, it would make overwhelming the duergar easier, even if only some of them are fit to defend themselves."
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While Valaria, Ehren, Lann, and the underfolk chieftain converse, Xanderghul simply sits down on the ground. Rocky floor is no obstacle of discomfort for him, and it is better to spend time not spent on other things resting. The group is safe here, and he has already made a contribution to the resolution of the situation.
Instead, he pulls out The Lymirin Discourses and begins to study it. The Second Act drew him back - not for the descriptions of Iomedae in her glory, but for the descriptions of the witches. In battle against a superior foe, they were clever and cunning with what magic and resources they had against her. She prevailed in the end, but they proved worthy foes for a demigoddess, which provided good lessons. Of course, if Xanderghul were to be successful he would need to be better, but building on the lessons of the mages who come before you is merely the first step.
The chieftain's eyes widen and she tilts her head. "Saroless? Gaer zhah nau cuass'ili whol yibinss ghil. Nindyn udos duul'sso shlu'ta plynn phor l'da'rex d'nind, xor malar xuil yinn lu'vress'lve." She stands up, suddenly. "Nin, ka nindolen dos lac ph'ke ji veir, udos z'klaen mumbaro xuileb n'hai."
"Weapons? There is no room for weakness here. Those we free can take up the arms of their captors, or fight with tooth and claw. Now, if these slavers you seek are indeed so close, we must move without delay."
"She doesn't seem too worried about arming the prisoners... we can just steal arms from the duergar. But she does think we need to get moving," translates Lann.
The druid then turns to Ehren to continue speaking. "Ach, mus tèid sinn gu cath, tha aon eile a dh ’fhaodadh a dhol còmhla ris an adhbhar againn. Tha am bulette mòr Old Ironfin a ’dol fada bho seo. Fada tha mi air feuchainn ri càirdeas a dhèanamh ris, gun fheum. Is dòcha gun urrainn dhut mo chuideachadh gus buaidh a thoirt air a ’chreutair seo. Tha adhbhar mòr aige airson a bhith a ’fuath air an duergar, agus bhiodh e na charaid làidir."
"However, before we go to battle, there is one other who may join our cause. The great bulette Old Ironfin ranges not far from here. Long have I tried to befriend him, to no avail. Perhaps you can help me to impress this creature. He has great reason to hate the duergar, and would be a powerful ally."
There are many dried herbs and mushrooms hanging from strings along the ceiling encircling the hut. She begins picking some of them to stow in the many pouches and pockets inside her robes. "Am biodh tu deònach cuideachadh a thighinn?"
"Would you be willing to come help?"
"Cabhróidh mé go sásta leat, ach is beag cleamhnas atá agam le beithígh fiáine, i bhfad níos lú iad siúd de bhunús mínádúrtha," Ehren admits, watching as Grila makes her preparations. Despite being able to speak in the tongue of the land, he has never known a magical beast capable of comprehending him. But then, he has not exactly met all that many of them. At the mention of the bulette, he decides to bring up their earlier encounter with the ferocious creatures. "B’éigean dúinn cheana féin beirt dá leithéid a mharú le linn ár dturas - b’éigean dúinn dul trína dtailte seilge chun an áit seo a bhaint amach."
"We were already forced to kill two of his kind during our journey - we had to pass through their hunting grounds to reach this place."
"Hm. Is dòcha gu bheil smuaintean eadar-dhealaichte againn mu na tha nàdarra. Tha mi a ’faireachdainn - bidh e ag anail, bidh e a’ bleoghan, bidh e a ’biathadh, bidh e a’ bàsachadh, an uairsin tha e na rud beò, coltach ri gin eile," she responds to Ehren with a small frown.
"Hm. Perhaps we have different thoughts on what is natural. I feel - it breathes, it bleeds, it feeds, it dies, then it is a living thing, same as any other."
Her people must be accustomed to moving at a moment's notice. She already has packs with provisions and stowed weapons ready to grab scattered throughout her possessions. Her living quarters are small, and cluttered with packs and satchels, with no recognizable furniture to speak of.
She continues talking to Ehren in a low voice. "Cha bhith an duergar a ’toirt ach tràillean humanoid, bidh iad a’ spùtadh creutair sam bith as urrainn dhaibh gu seirbheis. Bha seann Ironfin na chreutair mar sin. Ghlac an duergar am bulette na òige agus thug e air a bhith na bhiast eallach, inneal cladhach, agus armachd cogaidh. Rinn an duergar "leasachadh" air a ’chreutair le bhith a’ brùthadh truinnsearan meatailt ris an armachd nàdurrach aige agus a ’cur an aon stuth air na spuirean aige. Tha na h-àrdachaidhean sin ag adhbhrachadh pian mòr don chreutair, ach leigidh iad leis a dhol tro chlach chruaidh. Mu dheireadh, dh ’fhàs creach a’ chreutair aig a mhaighstirean cho mòr is gun do mharbh e an duergar agus gun do theich e gu nead faisg air an seo. Thairis air na bliadhnaichean tha e air mòran de na daoine agam a mharbhadh, ach tha fios agam gu bheil gràin a ’chreutair as motha an aghaidh an duergar."
"The duergar don't only take humanoid slaves, they wrangle any creature they can into servitude. Old Ironfin was such a creature. The duergar captured the bulette in his youth and forced him to act as a beast of burden, excavation implement, and weapon of war. The duergar "improved" the creature by bolting plates of metal to his natural armor and replacing his claws with the same material. These enhancements cause the creature great pain, but they also allow it to burrow through solid stone. Eventually, the creature's rage at his masters grew so great that he slaughtered the duergar and fled to a den near here. Over the years he has killed many of my people, but I know the creature's hate is greatest against the duergar."
She stands by the cave-like entrance to her shelter, ready to leave. "Creidim go bhféadfadh sé a bheith ina chomhghuaillíocht mhór dúinn, mar roinnimid na naimhde céanna."
She turns and nods towards the others. "Ba chóir duit a iarraidh ar do chomhghuaillithe teacht. Is iomaí uair a rinne mé iarracht cairdeas a dhéanamh leis an gcréatúr seo, ach níor éirigh liom riamh. Bogadh mícheart amháin, agus d’fhéadfadh rudaí dul go mícheart."
"I believe it could be a great ally to us, as we share the same enemies."
"You should ask your allies to come along. I have tried many times to befriend this creature, but have never succeeded. One wrong move, and things could go very wrong."
"Go ndéanann sé," Ehren replies simply, unable to provide a meaningful argument. Having just butchered two of the creatures, he saw little difference between them and any other living, breathing things. "B’fhéidir gur chuir an saol ar an dromchla mo nasc leo siúd atá ina gcónaí go domhain."
"Perhaps life on the surface has dulled my connection to those that dwell in the deep."
He frowns as Grila details the unfortunate past of the beast, before turning to the others.
"She believes that there is another who can help us. A bulette known to them as Old Ironfin lives not far from here," he explains to them, eyeing Ary as he goes on. "Apparently he was once a slave of the duergar. They captured him when he was young and fitted him with torturous implements. Metal plates painfully bolted to his flesh, as well as metal replacements for his claws. All so that they could use him to tunnel through solid rock. But eventually he turned on his masters and escaped."
"Between his ceaseless pain and hatred for the duergar, he is incredibly dangerous. He has killed many duergar and underfolk alike. But if we can befriend him, he would be a powerful ally." The druid grimaces before adding, "She has tried and failed to do so many times before. If things go wrong, we might have no choice but to put him down."
"Well... it will certainly make for an entertaining tale one way or another," Isilme responds to Ehren, out loud now. "Perhaps we can determine how to free it from its suffering as well."
"Otherwise I cannot see a reason not to move quickly if they are willing to help."
"Then we'll need our weapons back." Ary says, pushing off of the wall. "I can't hold anything back if I don't have my shield. But... beyond that, we should leave the food here, if it smells dead kindred we'll lose its trust. I think I can at least try to help out with the Bulette. It's been years, but Ser Illivan did his best to teach me to interact with the things we hunted on a basic level. Things that aren't food are friends, yeah? So... I'll be up there with you." she rolls her wrist, uncomfortable without her gauntlets creaking. "Best place to be if he decides we're not friends."
"That sounds like a worthy idea," Val agrees, lapsing back into common. Though Xanderghul's spell allowed her to understand the druidic tongue, it seemed rude to interject when they were speaking in the private language of their orders. "If nothing else, he deserves a little payback for what the duergar did to him."
Xanderghul shrugs noncommittally as he puts away the Lymirin Discourses. He was kitted out for battle today, and he had not expected to need to speak to and befriend a gigantic monster. Nevertheless, he would be there with the others. Isilme was right - it would make a good story if nothing else.
Grila nods and heads out into her village, crying out in a loud voice, "Sargtlinen! Kr'athin dosst da'rex! Vel'drav usstan yutsu, udos alu ulu malar l'duergar!"
"Warriors! Ready your arms! When I return, we go to fight the duergar!"
The many Underfolk in the village give out war cries - a strange, ululating sound, and begin readying for battle. Spears, blades, bows, and other implements of war are brandished and sharpened. After a few moments, Isilme and Ary's arms are returned to them, but they are kept under a close watch regardless. It is clear that most of the Gunduara tribe here do not trust them, though Grila herself does not seem to pay either much mind. Ary in particular attracts many stares and whispers.
Meanwhile, Grila leads them out of the village and down a set of tight and twisting tunnels, accompanied by two of her men for her own protection. They are large, intimidating specimens for Underfolk, but their weapons and arms look primitive compared to the heroes' magical and crusader-forged weaponry.
The ground in these tunnels is particularly uneven, and deep claw marks mar the rough stone walls. Deep furrows in the stone floor lead to a dark cave that smells of rust and blood. The druid pauses here, raising a hand to halt the others.
"Bu chòir dhuinn stad a-nis, "druid uachdar"," she says with a small smile. "Bidh sinn a dh ’aithghearr faisg gu leòr gum faodadh Old Ironfin mothachadh a dhèanamh air na ceumannan againn."
"A bheil gin den bhuidheann agad sgileil ann an cànan bheathaichean?" she asks.
"We should stop now, "surface druid"."
"We will soon be close enough that Old Ironfin could sense our steps."
"Are any of your group skilled at the language of beasts?"
She turns to Valaria, not knowing she could understand her either way. "Ph'jala d'dos bwael xuil l'thiin? Xor, o'gothin? Nindol aterruce mzilt, jhal Usstan inbal naut tlus izil ulu inbau veir z'lonzic ulu gultah ol o'gothin xor."
"Are any of you good with animals? Or, healing? This creature suffers much, but I have not been able to get close enough to offer it healing salves or poultices."
"She asks if anyone is good with animals or healing. However, she warns that it is difficult to get close enough to touch, so anything we do should be at a distance," translates Lann.
"Perhaps lets not have Xanderghul lead the way this time," she says with a grin. "I believe I can call upon magic that might help it enough that we might tend its wounds, but we would need it to remain calm enough not to try to fight the magic. I can also provide some healing as well."
She steps up, somewhat, but waits for Hinagiku or Ary to take the lead, as they would be most likely to survive the direct assault.
Lann translates for Grila. "Il, ilta kaas zhah Isilme, shlu'ta o'goth, ka l'fuer'yon 'udtila naut ilta." He gestures at Isilme.
Grila turns to look at her. "L'uss xuileb heeth uss?" she asks.
Lann shakes his head. "Siyo."
"Gi. Al, t'yin. Tesso nindel uss nind zhal'la naut canthen wund jalbyr bulette. Nind ph'ves," she pauses to think. "L'fuer'yon ussta llanath, jhal naut mzilt mzild."
"She, her name is Isilme, can heal, if the beast does not resist her efforts,"
"The shapeless one?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well, then. Tell that one they should not change form into another bulette. They are very territorial. The beast tolerates my presence, but not much more."
Lann turns and translates for the others, "Grila says that we should not attempt to assume the form of a bulette," he says with a small smile at the thought of such a feat. It vanishes as he continues. "But she also warns that it is a very aggressive animal."
Ary ensures that all of the food that they'd gathered was within her bag of holding, rather than her normal bag, along with the portion Xanderghul had saved. Best to keep up the appearance that they weren't Bulette-slaying adventurers, after all. She then simply follows along with Grila, near Ehren at all times given that he was in the front and would likely need to work with the beast just as Grila would.
She wastes no time redonning all of her gear and stowing the rest where it belonged.
"Tell her that I'll help her to help calm the beast... then we can start asking it to be nice and accept our aid, before helping to guide it towards its and our enemies." Ary whispers to Lann. "Though... don't expect too much." she says with a small smirk, "I haven't done this in a long, long time."
She's careful to move just barely ahead of Grila once they begin to move forward, ensuring that the beast would focus on herself if things went wrong... though she definitely did not enjoy the idea of having its claws rending her armor as it would rend stone... better the underfolk's leader wasn't killed right after going off into the... wilderness? Was that the word? with the outsiders.
Show no disrespect, but also broke none. That was the first step with wild creatures. For the hunted, being gentle and offering food was a good step... but for the hunters, showing strength and solidarity was important. A wolf pack would leap upon you if you turned your back or bared your teeth too willingly, after all.
So, her focus would be on asserting that Grila had a powerful pack, that would be willing to fight alongside her. One last step forward, and then Grila would be allowed to lead. She wasn't certain that Bulette understood packs, but she was certain that it would understand power. Just as it moved with shrieking plates of metal, so too did Ary, though she bore them with ease. Their roles were essentially reversed. The creature was at home in its hide but not in its armor, and Ary was at home in her armor, but not her hide. She did her best to show a gentle calm, holding back the clear strength it would take to carry her plates as well as she did.
Lann relays Ary's words back to Grila, who shakes her head and affixes Ary with a distant stare, before responding to Lann. "Gi, Usstan qua'l. Usstan talinth nindel gaer ph'draa klezn udos ssrig'luin ulu - ust, nindel udos ph'garethur taga ukta, ji uk 'udtila naut maerch udossa 'zil cahallin. L'byr, nindel udos shlu'ta xxizz ukta... ol zhah sekene, vel'bol nindolen duergar xun ulu tupora klezn." She clutches her spear tightly. "Dos orn kyorl, ulnin."
"Oh, I agree. I think that there are two things we need to do - first, prove that we are stronger than him, so he does not view us as food. The other, prove that we can help him... it is truly horrifying, what these duergar do to living things. You will see, soon."
Lann responds to the group, through message. "She has two ideas - one, to prove that we are stronger than it, and two, to try and help with its old injuries,"
Ary takes the lead just as they come upon a dark cave that smells strongly of rust and blood. As she slowly approaches, she first hears a loud hissing coming out from the cave. The enormous bulette emerges, teeth bared. Scars cover the enormous creature's hide and face. Thick plates of solid adamantine are bolted to his face, jaw, and back, and bloodstains stain his hide where they were attached - the wounds here had never fully healed. His claws have been replaced with claw-shaped adamantine blades. Old Ironfin bellows, claws at the ground, and lowers his head as if he is about to charge -- but upon seeing Ary and Grila, he hesitates.
Seeing the creature hesitate, Isilme steps forward slowly. If she could heal it some with her divine abilities, it would likely be more amenable to receiving her spells, after all. "We should move up slowly, I will need to be within 30' to begin healing it," she says to the others quietly.
Once they are ready, she begins advancing tentatively, making each step slow but decisive. Approaching too quickly might startle the beast, after all, but appearing afraid could also provoke it as well.
Toeing up to just within range, she raises her hand, clearly presenting the butterfly on it and invoking the blessing of her Lady Starsong. The room fills briefly with blue and silver light, and a wave of warmth wash over those still wounded, as well as the Bulette. Immediately she channels the blessing again, hoping to drive home the idea that they could help it.
"We must attempt to convince it to relax now, so it will not fight my magic," she says.
"Right." Ary says, not taking her eyes off of the Bulette, maintaining that connection. She motions a hand to Isilme, and holds up a gauntleted hand in a 'stay' motion to the Bulette, moving forward just enough to keep Isilme from becoming the nearest creature to it.
"We're here to help." Ary says aloud, not bothering to whisper. Soft voices could soothe, but they could also show weakness. "We have to touch you." she says, running her gauntleted hand along her shield as she continues to press forward near Grila.
"Helping with it's injuries seems good," Val says softly as she watches Ary and Isilme advance slowly toward the obviously pained beast. The sight of the still seeping wounds causes a swirl of pity to well up in her chest and part of her can't help marveling at the sheer resilience of anything that could survive wound like that for who knows how long without succumbing to madness or outright death. Unfortunately, no aspect of Xanderghul's magic lets her talk to something that lacks a mortal language and her lack of healing skills leaves her as an observer to Ary and Isilme's efforts to help the old bulette.
Hinagiku follows Ary like a shadow, trusting the commanders knowledge of animals. Silent, right behind her, stepping as she steps, waiting as she waits.
Doubt creeps into the monk's mind as she finally lays eyes on the dark shape of the creature. Could a beast in such pain truly be tamed, she cannot help but wonder, just to be proven wrong by Ary. Truly, the young woman was always full of surprise, so many skills already mastered at such a young age. There was much to impress besides the gifted power of the ley.
Slowly detaching herself from Ary's shadow, Hinagiku advances with Isilme, and, in sync with her, she begins to call unto the powers of the Master of masters to heal the landshark.