Renato swallows hard, and fiddles nervously with his journal. All of this had started to feel eerily like one of those cheap adventure stories, the ones about groups of intrepid adventurers trekking through wilderness to risk life and limb for treasure... or reckless heroics. Not something he enjoyed reading, and certainly not something he had any experience in doing.
"Well, um... I admit I am no ranger," he says uncertainly. "Still, I would hate to see this place come to harm. I have... talents... other than writing, which might aid in pursuing this vagabond."
The writer turns to Pick. "Do you think we should try to find the people from the tavern? The distraction, as it were. Would they still be around...?"
Pick tugs on his beard, making hrm noises to himself.
"Yes. Ye-ess. I think that might be a good use of our time-- unless they've left town already, they can't be too hard to find-- the town isn't that big. And I never forget a face."
He rubs his hands together. "I smell rats, oh yes."
"The last I saw the fellow, he was headed into the common room for a rag, so let's start there. The woman was skulking off to the tents just outside of town, but one thing at a time."
"Other talents... This human has more than meets the eyes, it seems." Grateful for the help, Torg nods appreciatively at Renato. "I don't remember there were so many peculiar folk in Azurestone back when I was a child. Master Pick, Renato Vitrotti, that Black Midnight lass... Must be the revolution bringing exiles from all over the country to this quiet town."
"My travel gear is back at the inn, so I'd have to go there anyhow. Besides, since only one of us saw those suspicious fellows, it doesn't make any sense to split up."
Torg will go along anyone that goes to the inn.
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Black Midknight glares at Torg, tilting her face down to both focus her eyes on him and to angle her face to keep her it further hidden by her hood, a completely unnecessary gesture with her face covered. The cat, Silver Starlight, cannot help but roll her eyes.
"I am unafraid of anything, much less having mud on my outfit."
She huddles down, as if performing the movements of checking for tracks would give her some insight into this possible course of action.
"I agree that we should start out searching for the pissible conspirators. A couple of us have seen them, so they may be the easiest to track down."
Silver Starlight gives a clear, human-like nod of approval.
Working together to ask around, you quickly discover that whoever the troublemakers were in the crowd last night, they're taking pains to cover their tracks. Johanna Lekainen, the maid at the Lattice Inn, claims that the injured man from last night stayed only long enough to nurse his eye for a few minutes before departing. Those caught up in the crowd remember several unfamiliar faces, but can't quite recall the particulars of anyone's appearance, time and hangovers having whisked the faces from their minds.
And asking for out-of-towners and late arrivals at the small city of tents on the edge of town is an exercise in futility - everyone in the canvas neighborhood is from out-of-town, and it seems half the campers had made a late night of the celebrations. The cold isn't helping to make people more talkative, either - several people are hunched over fires trying to warm achy fingers and toes, and it's not improving moods in general.
But after some time, you finally find one woman who saw a man with a fresh black eye crossing through the narrow paths between tents in the wee hours of the morning. Didn't know him, but that eye was hard to miss - he took the compress off it to let him see a little easier, and boy, you could tell even with the fire dying that must have hurt. Wasn't watching him or nothing, but I think I saw a tent flap go up over there. She points to a spot near the far edge of the camp, where the tents begin to thin out and sprawl more; at the place she's pointed to, only three or four tents circle a small metal fire pit with a layer of cold ash on the bottom.
While his comrades question Johanna in the common room of the Lattice Inn, Torg heads downstairs to his room.
He quickly doffs his tunic, his breeches and his boots and, instead, puts on his warmer winter gear: sheep-lined boots, thick woollen pants and shirts, and a goat-hide jacket lined with wool and trimmed with rabbit fur. His banded mail armour is worn on top, the jacket replacing the ordinary padding. The dwarf also readjusts his weapons, moving the crossbow to his belt, alongside the axe, and replacing the large steel shield on top of his cloak. After this "transformation" of his own, the dwarf appears much more formidable and much less conspicuous than he usually does. Finally, he makes sure to pack all his belongings in his backpack before he heads back downstairs.
Following the group back outside, he stops on the way to pay his bill. "Here ya go, lass. I hoped to stay longer, but y'all won't have any issue replacin' me with that cold!"
Once out in the field of tents, Torg does not regret his decision to put on his warmest attire. The pitiful shapes squatting close to their fires are a proof of how desperate everyone is, and of how unprepared they were for this seasonal but unusual weather. Luckily, they finally come across someone able to point them towards the part of camp where the suspects are staying.
The group stops at a safe distance from the camp to discuss strategies. Torg is the first to speak with a low voice so as not to be heard by the potential inhabitants of the tents.
"I reckon there are several ways we can do this." He gives a glance at everyone else. "First, we can go in there like civil persons, but who knows how these wretched people will react. Second, we can send one person to do the talkin' while the others surround the tents and take aim with their bows or such. I can go in, as I have good protection with my armour... And I know how to make people talk," he grins menacingly at that. "Third... I'll let y'all find that one."
"I'm liking that second plan," Pick says with a glower at the tent in question. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if they tried to do a runner. It's good thinking, Torg."
Siulor follows Torg's example and heads back to collect his gear before pursuing the thief and his alleged accomplices. He makes his way to the lodge, Huan skulking behind him. Back at his cart, he gathers up all of the gear that he typically takes with him on a hunt: his thick deerskin cloak, his rope and grappling hook, the unquenchable torch he had bought from Pick a couple years ago, the fine chain shirt he had won in a hunting competition, along with all of his camping gear. As he picks up the final two items--the spear and shield made from exotic woods that he had bought from a grizzled old warrior in Isarn--he pauses to take a deep breath. Carrying these tools of death was not a light thing for Siulor, for it would mean that the hunt had begun, and, for the first time in his life, his quarry would not be a beast, but a person.
As he slung the shield and spear over his back and lashed a few javelins to his pack, he muttered to Huan, Looks like these ones have chosen t' behave like beasts, so that's how we're gonna treat 'em. Seeing the light of the hunt back in his master's eyes, Huan barks loudly and wags his large, shaggy tail.
They meet the others back at the Inclusive Hall and follow them toward the tent-town full of visitors. Upon arriving at the circle of tents, Siulor silently signals to Huan to see if he can pick up the scent from the feathers Pick had found earlier while he tries to spot any fragments of glass from the window of the Inclusive Hall or any other clues that might indicate the thief's presence.
As Torg runs down the list of options, Siulor nods in approval. This one has a hunter's instinct, he thinks. When Pick lends his support to the second option, Siulor adds his voice in support of its wisdom. Aye. Seems like ya know yer' way 'round a good flush and flank, Torg. Huan and I have done the same sort o' thing to a stag more than a few times. Only question is, if we take up this plan, who's gonna go do the talkin'?
As he listens to the others, he straps his shield to his left arm and draws a javelin from his bundle with his right, feeling its weight and balance and letting a slight grin crawl to the corner of his lips.
Unsure if the group would actually be departing Azurestone that day, Renato also gets his things from his room in the Lattice Inn. His pack actually seems to be packed for camping or hiking, but it looks brand new and unused: his bedroll looks like its never been unrolled. Obviously, he is not prepared for cold weather. The writer is silent for most of the trek to the tents, visibly tense and fidgeting nervously.
There he stands, still wrapped in a blanket, shaking and sniffling and looking miserable. Then again, he always seemed to look miserable.
"I... I suppose I could go," he whispers. "They are less likely to think me a threat, and that would give the rest of you a chance to get into position."
Equipped with his gear, Donnen follows behind Siulor, keeping a certain distance. The half-elf was still unsure of what exactly was happening, but the disappearance of the key was reason enough for him to help investigate - especially if there was a lead.
The druid himself was fairly awkward; not charismatic or social at all, he preferred to take the silent path. Yet, he knew he could help the group if needed to venture outside the city limits. He shook his hands against another, saw ice forming and quickly hid them back in the gloves.
I hope I can accompany you, Siulor and master dwarves. - he finally said, shy - I know well the lands, and would love to help catch... This thief, whoever he is.
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Black Midknight crouched down close to the ground. She takes a moment to adjust herself into a in a better angle relative to the rest of the group to maximize the drama of her pose.
"I am the black void. The two of us can stealth closer and circle around."
Too concerned with looking cool while stealthing, Black Midknight progresses along clumsily. Silver Starlight practically melds into the darkness. She keeps stopping and waiting for her melodramatic companion.
"It's settled, then," Torg says with an even, focused voice. His right hand fiddle with his crossbows string while he talks. "Black Midnight and her cat can circle around them. Siulor, ya take the right flank. I'll take the left. Master Pick and Donnen (did I get yar name right), ya both can stay right here and move in if needed. Master Vitrotti, ya go in there and do the talking'..."
"Let's try to keep it civil and bloodless if possible. They're only suspects after all." Having finished his little speech, he looks directly at Renato and gives him a wink. "Don't ya worry, we've got ya covered!"
The dwarf deftly removes his elaborate repeating crossbow from his belt and loads the first bolt. Aware that he can hardly be described as stealthy, being an armoured dwarf, he waits a fair distance away from the tents to give Black Midnight a chance to circle them before he moves to his position on the left flank, about 45 feet from the small fire pit.
"I'll go in with Master Vitrotti, I think," Pick says. "I'm hardly a threat to scare him, and I do actually know what the chap looks like, so."
His own leather armor, a souvenir of those adventuring days from long ago, is hidden under his own thick winter clothes-- a bulky overcoat trimmed with white rabbit fur-- and he has no obvious weapon beyond his curved walking stick, everything else being stowed in his pack.
"Other than that, a fine plan. Well, Renato, shall we?" he says, clapping the nervous-looking writer on the back.
Pick puffs on his pipe, then ambles with Renato for the tent once the others have spread into position.
Before they move towards the tents, Renato procures something resembling a conductor's baton from one his sleeves. He mutters a few arcane syllables and taps himself on the forehead with the metal implement, momentarily enveloping himself in a thin layer of gently glowing energy: it flows over him, as if someone had poured water on top of his head, and vanishes from sight at his feet.
With that done, the writer nods at Pick and starts moving towards the camp. Just an unarmed and unarmored man wrapped in a blanket, and an elderly-looking dwarf leaning on a cane...
Siulor nods in agreement at Torg's plan, then wordlessly moves towards his designated position, Huan creeping at his heels. In order to avoid raising any alarm among the suspected individuals, the hunters adopt their usual methods for tracking down and approaching their prey--creeping from cover to cover, trying to move soundlessly and assume a ready stance within range of the tents so that Siulor could hurl a timely javelin while Huan charges in to make his attack.
As the pair make their way around the camp, Huan, still not totally experienced in the hunt, catches a whiff of another camper's breakfast cooking and lets out a bark. Siulor gives the hound a sharp look, thus putting him to silence, but the damage had been done. Hopefully a barking dog in a big camp like this won't raise any alarms, he thinks.
From afar, Donnen tries to spot the best place possible to hide in his plant form - ideally, some trees or the like.
Assuming I found a suitable place:
Donnen goes to the hiding place and wild shapes as a Fungus Queen. In the middle of the foliage, he then tries to hide the best possible and waits to see if it'll be needed to jump the enemy.
As the pair of hunters follow the trail, Siulor watches carefully for any trace of the thief, and Huan tries to follow the scent he had picked up in the Inclusive Hall. But neither has any luck; either the number of people walking through have obscured the trail or the thief avoided the tent city on his way out of town.
Everyone takes their places surrounding the small campsite, the clumps of low trees providing ample hiding places. No one stirs, even at Huan's short bark; it seems the tents' inhabitants are still soundly sleeping off the celebrations. There is some faint rustling coming from inside the tents, but no more.
Pick and Renato begin to visit each of the tents in turn, rustling tent walls and calling softly to wake the sleepers within. One by one, sleepy faces emerge from bedrolls and wads of blankets; from one tent, three children emerge with their father, yawning loudly. All the inhabitants look still tired from a day of festivities yesterday - and none look familiar to Pick. Neither of the thief's suspected accomplices appear to be among the sleepers.
As one man rustles around in his tent pulling on his trousers, he suddenly calls out in surprise. Where's m' belt pouch? 'Twas right here, next to my pack near the tent flap... The others, their attention refocused by the call, return to their tents, and most discover some small trinket or pouch missing.
Pick stares with narrowed eyes at some bare patches of grass, his lips pursed in the whiteness of his beard, then grunts to himself.
As they begin the questioning, and the theme of more thefts becomes apparent, Pick curses roundly in Dwarven (possibly making those who speak the language blush, for it's a fairly inventive curse involving a goat).
Reverting to Common, he mutters, "Damn and blast and botheration-- look here, this is where there were more tents last night, but these clever little rats did their deeds under cover of dark, then scarpered before the dawn. Very nice of them!"
Pick gestures with his cane as he speaks, indicating the small patches of flattened grasses. "Siulor! Perhaps a scent can yet be found leading away from right here?" he calls with some hope, though Pick also scrutinizes the ground for any sign of tracks leading away himself-- it's likely a rotten chance, with the ground as traveled as it is, but one never knows.
He collars one of the sleepy theft-victims as he works. "The people who were staying in this tent last night-- the tent that was here? Did you hear them give a name? See what they looked like? Did they look like--"
--he rattles off a description of the fellow he'd seen last night, the 'victim.'
Seeing that the tents' inhabitants are not behaving aggressively and, in fact, do not seem involved in the heist at all, Torg lowers his crossbow and moves in.
His attention is drawn to unusual traces on the ground and, piecing the elements in his mind, he quickly comes to the conclusion that the suspected accomplices left packed and left the camp early in the morning. Pick has apparently come to the same conclusion, given the profanities that he is now uttering.
He collars one of the sleepy theft-victims as he works. "The people who were staying in this tent last night-- the tent that was here? Did you hear them give a name? See what they looked like? Did they look like--"
--he rattles off a description of the fellow he'd seen last night, the 'victim.'
Torg knows that he is no match for the hound when it comes to following tracks, so he decides to concentrate on gathering human intelligence. After Pick finishes his questioning, the young dwarf adds in a steady and slow voice, intent on calming the newfound victims so that they can collect their thoughts and give useful information.
"We're workin' with the mayor to find the thief who stole the Vernal Key last night. We believe that the people campin' near you might be accomplices... Anythin' ya can tell us about them would help to increase our chances to catch the culprits and recover yar belongin's, as well as the Key."
Noticing Pick's gesticulations and hearing his stream of profanities, Siulor quickly concludes that the thieves must not be in the circle of tents after all. When Pick signals for them to come over and points out the tracks, Siulor and Huan approach, weapons still in hand, and quickly set about investigating the tracks, hoping to discover which direction the culprits might have headed after breaking camp.
Siulor quickly and easily notices the signs of the hastily broken camp, while Huan works his snout back and forth across the tent site, clearly getting a strong scent from the former inhabitants. With any luck , he would be able to follow the scent for some distance.
He collars one of the sleepy theft-victims as he works. "The people who were staying in this tent last night-- the tent that was here? Did you hear them give a name? See what they looked like? Did they look like--"
--he rattles off a description of the fellow he'd seen last night, the 'victim.'
Torg knows that he is no match for the hound when it comes to following tracks, so he decides to concentrate on gathering human intelligence. After Pick finishes his questioning, the young dwarf adds in a steady and slow voice, intent on calming the newfound victims so that they can collect their thoughts and give useful information.
"We're workin' with the mayor to find the thief who stole the Vernal Key last night. We believe that the people campin' near you might be accomplices... Anythin' ya can tell us about them would help to increase our chances to catch the culprits and recover yar belongin's, as well as the Key."
Renato relaxes somewhat, seeing as the tents' inhabitants seem to be victims rather that perpetrators. In an effort to help the dwarves in their queries, he makes an attempt to call out to those who might be farther away or too distracted by their own loss of property to listen. He starts waving people into an orderly queue—a rare sight in Galt—for proper questioning.
"Fellow citizens!" he calls out with surprising authority. "Please, may we have your attention. Yes, please gather around. One at a time. Any assistance you might render our investigation will surely help us in finding and returning your lost property, in addition to the artifact. If you would be so kind as to answer a few questions..."
Unfortunately, the campers in the small circle of tents had noticed little. All had slept soundly through the night, most until your arrival awoke them, and even those who had arisen early had missed noting the departure of their former campmates. One of the empty space' closest neighbors thought he had heard a slight rustling outside his tent when the cold had woken him early, but he'd assumed it was merely someone readjusting blankets against the cold; after all, that's certainly what he had done that moment.
A couple of them vaguely recall the faces of the departed campers, though; they describe a fairly short human man with close-cropped hair, a broad nose, and a missing tooth, as well as a heavy-set woman with long, dirty blonde hair she had kept tied up in a large knot at the back of her head. Neither seemed to be particularly well off; their equipment was worn, and the man had foregone a tent entirely, sleeping under a pile of ratty blankets and the stars. Pick recognizes the descriptions of the people he met in the crowd last night. No one can seem to recall hearing a name for either; they remember them as fairly quiet, keeping mostly to themselves and with poor tempers.
Indeed, Siulor and Huan soon find traces of the supposed accomplices' retreat. From the campsite, they went quickly to join with the main road to the east toward Edme; following the scent for a mile or so, it seems that that course is what they intend to keep.
Pick scrunches up his nose and mutters into his beard at the fairly useless recollections of the others in the tents.
"Well," he huffs to the others, quiet enough it won't be overheard by the tent-dwellers. "I can confirm that's who it was last night, too, outside the inn. So if this really is a theft by the famous Red Raven, then he clearly has accomplices-- who aren't above petty crime."
"Well," says Renato, glancing around nervously. "Should we follow them, rather than the main culprit? I am sure common crooks will be much easier to track than the Red Raven—"
"—if it is truly him," he adds quickly.
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Kneeling down near the diverging paths Siulor and Huan had found, Black Midknight looks to the tracks, rubbing her chin. She glances back and forth in the general area of each of the paths, contemplating the signs before her.
She has absolutely no idea what she is doing.
"We should follow the Raven himself. Now that the theft is over, his conspirators may have ended their contract with him and be going their own way."
Black Midknight skulks back over close to the others, her hood and cloak pulled around her.
"Even more evidence that this Red Raven is a villain. Only villains hire accomplices."
Silver Starlight stares at her, narrowed cat eyes full of judgment. Black Midknight glares back at the cat in answer to some unheard reproach.
"No, Starlight, I know what you're thinking and it's not the same at all. We are heroes brought together by dread circumstances and horrible childhoods in which our parents were KILLED and other similar dramatic turns."
The cat sighs and shakes its head. After a few moments, it finally shrugs its shoulders and begins walking southwest, sniffing for the Raven.
Pick glowers at the masked woman as she examines the tracks. He seems to take her entire accompaniment as somewhat personal, following her dramatic entrance-- and perhaps for him it is personal. This should, he thinks, be his grand moment. A chance to study the scene, calmly relay his genius in solving everything, take a thoughtful drag on the pipe, astound the townsfolk and this little band with his insights.... save the day... receive a rich reward... possibly redecorate his home, buy that new fur cloak he's had his eye on....
Hard to be seen as the cleverest chap in the room when there's this bloody masked-up gussied-up cloaked girl running around, though.
His glower turns into a grim smile.
"You," he harrumphs, with a gesture of the hand holding his pipe, "haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, young woman. I suspect you wear the mask to cover up a constant look of confusion!"
Leaning on his cane, Pick swivels around, gesturing with as much showmanship as he can put behind it at the trail of their scalawags.
"It's all damnably showy, this Red Raven thing, isn't it? Why do you suppose he-- whoever it was-- let themselves be seen, slipping away? Going in a gaudy costume and all? Could it be that's merely another ruse, another bit of smoke and mirrors?"
He pauses for effect, and to knock out ash from his pipe. "Now, it's these little runners that'll be the true trail to follow. Maybe our 'Raven's got himself a little gang. Like as not, they have plans to meet up with him out of town. So we ought to follow this track," he says serenely.
Torg nods in agreement as Black Midnight speaks, well, only as long as her first two sentences. What follows is her usual overly dramatic self, which the dwarf does not care for. "I have to agree with the lass here. These two buggers were probably temporary hires, or meant to create yet another distraction. Small fishes, really."
"It would surely be easier to catch up with them, as they left later, but it would make us lose precious time if they are not able to tell us where the Red Raven folk went to. I think that we should follow his trail, and we've wasted enough time already, just as he wanted." Torg scowls, and then turns towards the blanketed writer. "And I think that if ya want to come with us, ya'd better buy some warmer clothes. Ya'll fall ill before midnight, otherwise."
Siulor slowly stands from his position examining the tracks heading toward Edme. He moves over toward Black Midknight and stands directly in front of her, his eyes narrowing to slits as he sizes up this strange, masked figure, trying to figure out why she is so concerned with sounding experienced, when she clearly has no idea what she is doing.
Deciding that this is a puzzle that he can wait to work out later, he steps back and addresses the group. Our masked friend here may not entirely know what she's doing, but she's also not wrong, Pick. These petty thieves are little more than petty thieves. Even if we do catch up to 'em, chances aren't good they'd actually know anythin' about where we could find the Raven. I agree that we should try to pick up his trail again. He pauses and looks down at Huan, whose tail is wagging madly as he looks from Siulor back toward the thieves' trail, a look of almost predatory excitement in his eyes. Then again, Siulor goes on, We already have the trail, and Huan was able to pick up a strong scent too. Chances are we could find them pretty quick if we head that direction, and they might have some information. Beside, I've always said: "The greater game's not worth the lesser if y' canno' track it down."
He turns to Renato and smirks, And Torg's right. If y' don' want yer ink t' freeze, y' may want some warmer clothes.
Renato looks down at his blanket and frowns.
"Oh," he says. "Yes. I suppose you are right..."
Returning to the main part of town, you see that the festival's festivities have begun again. Games have begun again on the edges of town, and a few entertainers have taken up their posts, though they now seem much subdued compared to the exuberance of yesterday. The Inclusive Hall is closed off, a rope barrier set across each of the doors, and several of the stalls in the square look as if they don't intend to open for the day.
By contrast, though, Azurestone's general store is a bustle of activity. Several people stand in line for the till, their arms overflowing with boxes and packets of food. A worried look is in each customer's eye, and the words "Red Raven" can be heard in hushed whispers and soft tones of betrayal throughout. And the shelves are conspicuously bare of many of their usual offerings - including the cold-weather clothing that Renato had been urged to find.
Outside, the town guard is ever-present. Several of them are yawning frequently, and looking longer, you realize that they're the same men and women who were patrolling last night - it seems they're pulling extra time in response to the panic. As they move about, they speak words of consolation to all the townsfolk, although worry hides behind the veneer of confidence they put up.
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Black Midknight's eyes pop as seemingly everyone begins picking up on her self-dramatizing pretensions.
"Uh...I'm just distracted. That's all. The Dark Powers of Void that power me are sometimes overwhelming."
Black Midknight wracks her brain for any alternative sources of supplies she may have heard of in town.
Renato goes straight to the reeve, and attempts to get some warmer clothing from the town guard. They would have some stockpiled for their own use, he reasons. To assuage his worries, the writer gives him a short report about what the group has uncovered so far...
You've discovered his path? Oh, wonderful - wonderful... Thankful for your progress so far, he bustles to the guards' central station, with Renato pulled in his wake attempting to keep up. With the Key, we've not had to prepare for winter so intensely as some places - but we do have a couple of warmer sets, for when our officers need to make longer roves into the Boarwood on occasion...
The jacket and water-resistant pants he finds are roomy on the slender Renato, but they're passable, especially with belt and sash cinched tight. We can't thank all of you enough - helping you go on your way is the least we can do... He also manages to find a couple of small tents and a few extra blankets of scratchy wool. The tents might be a bit much to manage if you're going by foot, but they're yours if you'd like to use them. I don't imagine the guard's going to be doing much outriding for a while...we've got too much to worry about closer to home for now.
Yeah, you and everyone else is looking for supplies right now... the general store owner huffs crossly. But at Rowena's glowing smile, he seems to soften slightly. Listen - it's gonna be tough going finding anything right now. Everyone's panicking, buyin' it all up. But if you go up to the Deerstalker, you might just find something...he keeps trail rations stocked up for his clients, jerky and crackers and stuff. Not lavish, but it'll do for you - and if it's hiking you're planning on doing, it's stuff that'll keep, too.
Making your way to the Deerstalker Lodge, the owner, Ost Untamoinen, eyes Rowena dismissively...until she drops Siulor's name, and Donnen's. Oh - well, y' didn't say they were looking! Two of the best around here...well, besides myself, of course. He winks jovially. Hell, Siulor's probably responsible for hunting me a good bit of my jerky in the first place, and without Donnen my peach and plum trees would've given out long ago - it's giving back, really.
Pick harrumphs to himself at the decision to follow the Red Raven, but knocks his pipe out of ash and tromps along with the others... He sticks with Renato, muttering about how one of the things he likes best about Azurestone is the mild winters, and the fact that he doesn't need terribly warm clothing as a result, and he got plenty of damp and chill off during his days with those foolish adventurers, and his arthritis isn't going to like this one bit...
Pick squints at the little pile of supplies Renato manages to sweet-talk the reeve into handing over. He pokes with his cane at the bundle of canvas that marks a tent. "I'll need to stop by my home again if we're really going to go out traipsing into the woods!" he grumbles, tugging at his beard. "Can you get all this stuff back with the others, lad? If not I'll help, though my back won't thank you in the morning."
He does detour ultimately to the tiny cottage from whence he practices his alchemical pursuits, and rummages around in the scrambled clutter of all the oft-worthless thing he's hoarded over the years for those few items that are of use. Ultimately, he strips his bed of its current quilt (a gift from that nice widow next door, after he'd brewed up that potion for her gout last year) and piles the gear into it, knotting the blanket around his walking cane like a vagrant's bundle. It appears to be quite the heavy bundle he's gotten together, and Pick curses and grunts as he hauls it back.
When he returns to the others, now dressed in a sensible beaver-pelt overcoat and warm gloves and hat, Pick undoes the quilt with a clatter of gear. "WELL," he huffs, "I raided my closets at home. And my kitchen while I was at it. If there's aught you need, grab and grab alike. And you'll be thankful enough for that cooking gear when we're out in the cold with fresh game-- far better than sticking it on a twig and hoping for the best!"
The pile of things he's brought to contribute include:
If anyone makes a move for the furs, Pick clears his throat. "That's sable, you know! You be careful with it-- that was a gift!"
Pick harrumphs to himself at the decision to follow the Red Raven, but knocks his pipe out of ash and tromps along with the others... He sticks with Renato, muttering about how one of the things he likes best about Azurestone is the mild winters, and the fact that he doesn't need terribly warm clothing as a result, and he got plenty of damp and chill off during his days with those foolish adventurers, and his arthritis isn't going to like this one bit...
Not one to pry, Renato mostly just nods along politely with Pick's grumbling.
"I thought dwarves had stones for bones," he remarks jokingly at one point.
Pick squints at the little pile of supplies Renato manages to sweet-talk the reeve into handing over. He pokes with his cane at the bundle of canvas that marks a tent. "I'll need to stop by my home again if we're really going to go out traipsing into the woods!" he grumbles, tugging at his beard. "Can you get all this stuff back with the others, lad? If not I'll help, though my back won't thank you in the morning."
Renato thanks for the offer, and then throws the bundle of equipment on his back with surprisingly little trouble. He casually strolls back to the group, as if carrying something half as light.
The writer also presents the provided equipment to the group, allowing anyone to take what they need.
Although Donnen had already the equipment for the weather , he will quickly go around and hunt for a couple hours to reequip and get some extra for the rest of the team.
Siulor makes his way back to the Deerstalker's Lodge, where he finds his cart still around the back. Having already gathered most of his hunting supplies, he instead turns his attention to the hides and carcasses he had not yet sold the previous day. Most of his wares had already gone to various butchers, inns, and tanners around town, so he decided it would be best to just trade what was left for any last minute supplies he might get. He heads into the Lodge and finds Rowena inside, speaking to Ost. As Ost begins piling trail rations onto the counter for Rowena, he approaches and leans against the bar.
My my, that's a lot of provisions for a young lady such as yerself, Rowena! You going on a trip? Looks like we're here for a common purpose then.
He turns to Ost. I've still got some hides and meat in the cart out back, Ost. The rest is yours if you can help me quickly cure some of the meat. I'd like food for six for a few days. Not sure if there's enough there, but thought I'd give it a try.
After working with Ost for a couple hours, Siulor leaves the Lodge, now carrying considerably more food than he began with, along with the rest of his usual hunting supplies. He makes his way back to meet up with the others and begins sharing around his load of supplies.
He then looks around at the group, a thoughtful expression on his face. He finally speaks up after a moment of this quiet contemplation, Y'know, it looks like we're all geared up for a fight. Might be a good idea for us to grab something to help patch up any wounds we might get along the way. The woods aren't exactly a safe place normally, and the loss of the Key will only make that worse. Plus, I'm willing to guess the Raven isn't planning on giving up his prize without a fight.
Since he is already well-equipped for cold weather, Torg doesn't feel the need to look further than the general store like Pick, Renato and the others. Instead, he heads to the Stone Shrine to pray quietly for a short while. When the other members of the group return to the meeting point, they find the dwarf already there. He is visibly impatient to leave and he walks back and forth while playing with his dwarven-forged axe.
He tries rather successfully to hide his annoyance when Siulor makes his suggestion. "I usually do my own healin', but I reckon I can't take care of y'all. Siulor, I s'ppose ya're plannin' on purchasin' a wand? I never really understood how to use those, but if someone here can use one, I'm willin' to pitch in whatever money I have." He retrieves a small pouch from his belt and assesses its weight. There is plenty of money left. "I could put forward about 160 gold coins. That enough?"
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Rowena suddenly swivels about in place, giving Siulor her biggest grin.
"Oh, hi there! How are you Mister Siulor? This pretty cool lady in black just like, appeared out of NOWHERE and asked me to, like, get some stuff for her and her allies. She said I looked pretty smart and knowledgeable about where to, you know, find stuff."
She seems to be lying about the circumstances, but she does appear to be getting stuff for this "pretty cool lady in black"
Rowena holds up and jingles her pouch of coins.
"I've got some of her money to pay for the rations, so I can totes take care of it, Mister Siulor. I can, like, give them them to you, since you're her friend, right?"
Pick squints at Renato, who doesn't look anywhere near strong enough to manage that, but is... doing so. Hrmmff.
As he paws through Siulor's contributions in his customarily nosy way, Pick grunts his agreement. "Aye, that's not a bad notion. It's no good to be out in the wilds and wounded-- last thing you need is hungry winter creatures drawn to the scent. I have.... hmmm..."
He digs in his own belt pouch, taking out his profits of the day before and the other coins he took from their hidey-hole back home. "About nineteen plat, here. Or a hundred and ninety in gold. I don't mind doing it-- I like my hide intact!"
Pick gives Renato another sidelong eye and pushes the cooking kit on him. "Here! Since you're stronger than you look, writer! I suppose this is something to do with that pen-mightier-than-the-sword thing, eh?"
The old dwarf laughs at his own lame jest, then resumes tallying the pile of gear. "Seems we've got enough tents to shelter six folk, as I count it."
Pick gives Renato another sidelong eye and pushes the cooking kit on him. "Here! Since you're stronger than you look, writer! I suppose this is something to do with that pen-mightier-than-the-sword thing, eh?"
Renato frowns, but does take the pot and skillet and hangs them off the straps on his backpack.
"As long as you do not expect me to cook..." he mutters sullenly.
Surprisingly, the healing wand is one of the easier things to find in town - Azurestone's residents are worried about a great many things at the moment, but it doesn't seem as if injuries are one of them. Asking around after a source leads you to Marja Stonehands, owner of the high-end bathhouse in town as well as the town midwift - and very familiar to Pick.
I do keep a spare wand around, for emergencies with birthin' and the like - just got this one new. Don't ordinarily sell 'em to folks, but it seems you've got a powerful need...and I'd like my cousin back in one piece, ornery though he may be, she finishes with a wink. A quick spell from Renato confirms that the wand is indeed saturated with healing energy, as much as the complex runes traced on its surface can contain.
As your preparations near completion, the sun works its way toward its apex, still fighting to stave off the chill in the Lamashan air. If all preparations are complete, it's time to begin pursuing the thief.
Siulor listens to Rowena as she offers her explanation and nods along amicably . Ah, so you've met the newest masked mystery in town then? Calls herself "Black Midknight" she does. Seems a bit dramatic for my liking, but I'm not one t' judge out o' towners, 'specially since I don't exactly live in town either. He continues in his work with Ost and doesn't question the matter any further.
Siulor pitches in his portion of the gold to purchase the wand and thanks Marja for her help. He then steps outside and breathes deeply, letting the cold fill his lungs and awaken his senses. Time for the hunt to begin again.
Pick gives his second-cousin-twice-removed-through-that-aunt-on-his-father's-side a good clap on the shoulder and a squeeze of one hand. "Well! Ornery! I never!" he says with a grin. "Ah, there's no getting rid of me, you ought to know that by now. Thank you, my dear..."
He takes the wand and tucks into his belt, and bids a warm farewell.
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Rowena nods and smiles as Siulor describes Black Midknight. She lets the matter drop, not wanting to risk her cover any more than she has already.
"By Mister Siulor! Good luck on your mission!"
She goes to find a quiet, secluded place to transform back into her vigilante persona before rejoining the group.
With preparations made, you set off from Azurestone, heading into the unknown, following the supposed Red Raven's trail. And especially with Siulor and Donnen's trained gazes, it's not a difficult trail to follow - even on the packed dirt of the road out of town, the two working together manage to follow the trail without even slowing pace. Indeed, it seems as if the thief has made little effort to hide his way or throw off pursuit; Siulor even finds a trail of cracker crumbs and a discarded wax paper food wrapping, suggesting the thief is intent enough to keep pace that he's eaten his lunch on foot.
The first few hours of travel are uneventful; no untoward surprises emerge as you walk along the thief's trail. It does appear, though, that while dwarves make stout and tireless marchers, they do not make speedy ones - as the day goes on, it becomes clear to Siulor and Donnen that the prints they come across are becoming less and less fresh. The lead the thief had already gained from his middle-of-the-night start is only increasing.
As you go along, the terrain on either side of the road gives way to low hills, scarred and pockmarked by the quarries that have given Azurestone its name and so much of its livelihood. The packed dirt path weaves between two large foothills, their sloped faces covered in brush and scree.