Pick listens to Siulor, tugging on his beard here and there and occasionally glancing back over at the cozy interrogation in process.
"Huhm, no chances Huan's nose might be able to pick up the trail on the far side, ehn? Well, it sounds like they've got something of a lead to go on, by the sounds of things, but this does seem like it's going to be a tangled sort of web to unravel."
He says over his shoulder, "I do hope we're not planning on just patting those two on the head once this is over and letting them go-- they triggered a rockslide on us once we were walking up the hill to them. They may not have thought it was all that bad, but we're damned lucky nobody wound up with a broken ankle-- or worse-- as far out from town as we are. At the very least I'd say their goods-- especially their pay for this 'job' of triggering rockslides on travelers-- ought to be forfeit."
Renato shrugs at Pick. "From my perspective, I think they have the perfect chance to repay us and redeem themselves. If they are truly willing to lead us to this Cale—and consequently, the Red Raven—we would be spared the effort of tracking them. I certainly would not mind conversing with this Calistrian, and getting some answers. We still have no idea about the Red Raven's true motives..."
The writer thinks for a moment, and then turns to Rhis. "I think this is how we are going to proceed: one of our group will take Dwale with them back to Azurestone, along with both of your belongings. There they will be kept by the reeve until we return. This is to make sure that you cooperate, and to set my companions' minds at ease..."
Renato flashes a apologetic smile at the gnome, kneeling to squeeze her shoulder. ". . . ..."
He then turns back to the rest of the group. "Would that be acceptable?"
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"This plan is good. It lets us resolve the gnome issue while still letting us focus on catching up to the villain."
Black Midknight kneels down in front if the gnomes.
"We appreciate your cooperation."
She glances back at Renato, sighs, then turns back to the gnomes.
"No, seriously. We appreciate it. I wasn't trying to be threatening. This time."
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, sighing again.
"Not that I will be threatening you later."
She stands up and retreats from the gnomes, backpeddling so she can keep her eyes on them. She folds her arms, trying her best to disguise her sulking as much cooler brooding.
"Stupid not-being-able-to-threaten-people...."
Siulor once again nods in approval and says, Well said, Renato. Rhis, rest assured that no further harm will come t' you or Dwale so long as you stick to the plan. Now let's get movin'! We're already hours behind the Raven and his lead is getting bigger the longer we stand here yappin'.
Torg nods as Renato outlines his plan. Sending one of the gnomes back to Azurestone will ensure that the other does not try anything funny. To placate his dwarf comrade and because it feels fair, an additional penalty must be applied. "Pick, ya searched them. How much gold did they carry? It seems just to keep the fee they were paid for this job, indeed."
"Now, there's the question of who'll escort Dwale back to Azurestone, of course, and we can be on our way."
Rhis's lip protrudes petulantly. I only got half in advance - Cale ain't so naive as that. And the half I got ahead was just enough to get me my new set of tools... Wiggling slightly, she shimmies loose a small leather pouch from her pocket; it falls open to reveal a set of thieves' tools, still shining new, with different-colored gems inlaid into the larger handles.
Got 'em off a guy in Edme - the stones set into the handles are straight from a noblelady's necklace, he said! After meeting Razor Jenni, though...well, her neck wasn't exactly going to hold jewels too well anymore. She looks down at the set wistfully. But if you gotta take 'em, you gotta, I guess...
At Torg's final question, Donnen rises and dusts off his hands, then calls out a loud, rolling chant. Suddenly, his skin begins to turn a sickly green, and his legs begin to writhe and twist; before anyone has time to react, a humanoid torso - recognizably Donnen's, though elongated and discolored - sits atop a pulsing mound of fungus that stretches and twists to pull him forward.
Bending over, he grabs the gnome (mostly) gently by the shoulders and sets the limp form atop the fungus that now serves in place of legs. With another chant, this one softer, Dwale's body begins to glow with a pale gold light; his wounds close, his eyes flutter open - and he lets out a shriek of fright at the creature holding him. Wha - wha - Rhis? he calls out stupefied, his eyes traveling to his comrade. What the...what in all the Hells?
Donnen's eyes crinkle slightly in a smile, and he looks to Torg. Don't worry - I think I can handle him. Setting Dwale back on the ground, he takes hold of the rope leading to the gnome's hands.
Rhis looks to her partner with concern, though she seems resigned to his fate. He's a...friend? Look, these folks aren't bad sorts at all - it's just that they didn't take too kind to the slide. The...elf?...is going to take you back to Azurestone - you'll wait there until I come for you, ok? From there...we'll see. Just...don't make a fuss. They're ok sorts, really.
Pick opens his mouth to say what he found, but the answer is made evident by the gnome herself. He already has a fine set of tools himself, but it's the principle of the thing, damn it. Greedy little creatures shouldn't get to profit off nearly killing him!
He appropriates a tanglefoot bag for himself with a hum. "Right then, on to see this 'Cale'--"
He stops and stares at Donnen's transformation, then clears his throat. "--well get on with it then, gnome, it's merely a fungus, surely you've seen them before."
Pick resettles his pack on his back after making sure none of those nice coins or gem-studded tools are left behind. "Ready when everyone is. Nobody's hurt, yes?"
Siulor looks over the confiscated belongings and collects the other tanglefoot bag. He then turns to the others as he finishes packing his belongings, No harm here, Pick. Now, if everyone's alright, let's get Rhis up and head out. Which way are we headed, miss?
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Black Midknight side-eyes Pick, somehow barely managing to notice his suppressed reaction, sees an opportunity to reclaim some of her "cred." She approaches the gnomes with a light, quiet step before turning her gaze off into the distant sky. She, of course, makes sure that she stands at a prime angle for the gnomes to see her face still. She also exaggerates her facial expression so that it can be noticeable underneath her full-face mask.
"Do not worry. I have seen such dark, aberrant powers before, as well as far worse. The unspeakable tendrils of the Dark Tapestry reach far in the Void and Stillness...."
She is just as weirded-out as Pick, if not more so
She suddenly dashes off towards the front of the group, throwing out her cape behind her with a flourish. She settles into a sneaking stance and glances back over at the rest of the party.
"Let us go. We have a villain to catch. I can feel the Dark Power aching in my blood."
Silver Starlight trudges after her. She stops and turns around, meeting the gaze of the other party members, and shakes her head, her mouth apparently shrugged into a frown. She breathes deeply and follows after her master.
Renato blinks at Donnen's transformation. Even with prior warning, the metamorphosis of man to mushroom is somewhat unsettling.
The writer unties Rhis from her bindings, helping the gnome to her feet.
"Are you ready to depart?" he asks. "Do you need more healing?"
Like the others, Torg is disturbed by the transformation of Donnen into a fungal-elf hybrid. "Those druids folks aren't all right in their head, methinks. Who would consider transforming into a mushroom, if they weren't a bit crazy to start with?" Nevertheless, it is convenient that the elf is willing to bring back Dwale to Azurestone, as well as the gnomes' belongings that are of no interest to the group.
After Renato has freed the diminutive woman, Torg recovers his rope and replaces it in his backpack, which he shoulders again. "If ya know what's good for ya, don't try anythin' funny. My crossbow is feelin' rusty." Ready to depart, he aks Rhys, "How long before we reach our destination, do ya expect?"
Still in one piece...but if we're going to go traipsing through the woods, I'll want patched up some more. Rhis eyes Torg dubiously, massaging her wrists where the rope once was. Without getting slapped this time, maybe?
And if you folks want me to be any help in a scrap, I'll need my armor and sword back, thankyouverymuch. We aren't the only life in the Boarwood, she adds, jerking her head to the south, and I'm sure there's plenty wouldn't say no to a morsel of gnome for a midnight snack. Don't worry...I won't try anything.
The camp is the other side of the river. There's no true road, but there is sort of a most-agreed-upon trail, though it's still slow going through there. I'd recommend sticking to that path until we get across the river, so it's easier to find a bridge. After that, we'll veer off to the rendezvous. But it's a ways off - we won't get there tonight. The river's on the other side of the woods, and we'll be lucky even to make this side of the woods by nightfall. And it seems to me setting up a camp in the woods in the dark sounds less than fun - I'd say it'd be easier to camp outside the forest, set off into the thick of it tomorrow.
But we can decide all that as we go. As she stands, she helps people load the last few items back into their packs, then starts off down the hill. Come on - daylight's burning. With Rhis in the lead, you set off down the hill toward the forest as Donnen and Dwale descend the hill's other face back toward Azurestone.
Pick huffs and produces the wand. "Oh, very well.... the nerve of you, asking for healing after attacking us..."
Pick clears his throat as they resume moving. "She's right about there being quite a lot of wildlife around here. Big stuff, too. Good hunting, if you're the sort who thinks it's fun to hunt a boar thrice as big as yourself. Now we'll be coming up on the Kantele River, and our best bet there is to find one of the bridges that span it-- swimming or fording it is a fool's errand, with the overgrown things lurking in the water. There's sense in what the gnome says of camping in less forested ground tonight... less likely to be eaten by a man-sized rodent, or the like."
Aye, that's true. You seem t' know these woods fairly well, Rhis. I suppose it wouldn't serve t' let some beasty snatch you up. Perhaps we should give some of her gear back. Siulor nods with approval both at what Rhis says and at Pick's confirmation, then he adds with a smile, Those boars are good meat, Pick. We'd be well provisioned if we could find one o' them.
Siulor adjusts his pack, gives Huan a quick whistle, then begins making his way down the hill with the others, a look of contentment at returning to the forest on his face.
Renato falls in step with Rhis, trying to make small-talk as they trudge towards the woods.
It has been a long time since Torg has roamed these lands, and he only vaguely remembers what it is like travelling through the Boarwood. That is enough to make him approve of Rhys' suggestion: camping outside of the wood is certainly safer. He does not however feel the need to say so aloud, as Pick and Siulor have already concurred with the gnome.
Humming a dwarven marching tune, he follows after Siulor and his hound as fast as he is able.
Making your careful way down the side of the hill, you soon rejoin the road and continue along; with a few minutes' searching, Siulor even manages to find the Raven's trail again, though the time lost to the gnome saboteurs' trap weighs on all minds. Falling in step with the small gnome, Renato begins to chitchat with her, and finds the conversation actually quite fascinating. Blessed with the long life of the gnomes, the woman was growing up in Isarn as the Revolution began to roil into motion, and while she's never been terribly political, her insight into the time period proves invaluable - Renato has to fight to keep up with even the shorter legs of the dwarves and gnome as he scrawls furiously in his notebook.
A few hours more walking along the well-rutted road brings you in view of an imposing sight - the fringes of the Boarwood, old-growth trees towering over the countryside. Heeding Rhis's advice, you turn off the road just before it begins to peter off into a series of intertwining footpaths at the wood's edge, finding an open flat area a couple of hundred yards from where the scattering of trees turns into a wall. With camping gear aplenty, it's no time at all before a camp is constructed, and everyone begins to settle in for the night.
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"As befitting my name, I should take the watch in the deepest Darkness of Midnight. Which I think is second watch."
She skulks about in full-view of the others, as if performing a solliloquy on the stage.
"The Darkness is my ally. I was raised in it, molded by it. I did not see the light until I was a grown woman."
She stops gives a long exhale, the same frustrated release of an actor that forgot their line.
"...though I do need eight hours of rest to recover my, uh, Dark Magic, so I should probably take the first watch...."
A wave of energy seems to move through her and revitalize her, as though she had finally remembered her line.
"Which ENDS at Midnight! So I'll be awake then!" In her excitement, her voice falls out of Black Midknight's typical affected breathy purr. She clears her throat as a method to make herself reset, crouching down again.
"Hmm, yes. Daaaaaaarkness."
She stands there a moment, the only sound crickets chirping nearby in the bushes. She slowly backs away, then finally runs off, scrambling up a nearby tree.
Pick snorts loudly and rudely.
"Can you see in the dark, little Miss Midnight? If you can't, I suggest you leave the darkest deepest oogie-boogiest hours of the watch to those of us who can. Who do you think you're performing for, anyway?" grumps the dwarf with a shake of his head, digging out his bedroll and blanket.
He tries to find the flattest possible ground for his personal spot, and spends a few minutes picking up rocks and twigs to try and make it even more flat. If he's to be denied his glorious mattress at home, then he'll put in a little extra work for his creature comforts here. With lots of grumbling about his back as he does so.
Pick gets out the cooking gear he's lugged around. He shreds pieces of beef jerky into the pot, dumps in water from somebody's waterskin, some pepper and thyme, and demands someone poke around under the trees for the brown tops of winter onions-- at least, if they want any soup. The pot goes over the small camp-fire on its little tripod, and Pick stirs at it, letting the dried beef simmer into softness. "Should have brought butter," he mutters.
With the soup squared away, Pick settles in with a battered old book by the fire, studying the pages intently.
Level 2: See Invisibility, [open slot]
Siulor and Huan simultaneously roll their eyes at Black Midknight's theatrics, but the man finds no harm in it, so he lets it slide. At least they have a rough schedule for their nightly watches now. He is especially pleased with the opportunity he will have in the early morning to catch up with Renato/Jean. What has happened to your through all these long years? Who are you now? he wonders about his old friend as he begins pulling his bedroll and a few tents out of his pack, which seems to hold more than it ought to.
Siulor only sets up his own tent grudgingly, as he would prefer to sleep beneath the stars, but he recognizes that the cold would make doing so unwise, especially since the wildlife might be driven to seek out unusual sources of food. He wastes no time to clear away the twigs and pebble around the site where he sets up his tent. He had slept in much worse conditions. As he settles into his bedroll in the tent, Huan turns a few rounds before curling up between Siulor and the tent flaps, ready to wake up in a moment to protect his master from any unexpected visitors in the night.
As the sunset turns into darkness, everyone begins to cozy down for the night. At Pick's offer, Rhis bounces to her feet, sidling over to the grouchy dwarf. What is it you need? Listening carefully to his description of the onion plants, she soon rushes off to root around the bases of some of the nearby firs. When she returns, she carries several withered brown stems, as well as an armful of yellow flowers, roots dangling. Here's the onion tops you asked for - and I found these, too! You're supposed to be able to eat dandelions, right? I've heard the roots are good to cook, and dandelion tea was my uncle's favorite...
After chopping up her findings to supplement Pick's stew, Rhis goes to her small, shaggy pony, retrieved from a side cutting of the quarry where she and Dwale had set their trap. Patting its nose, she unties a sack from its pack saddle and withdraws a bedroll and a tiny tent, setting them up untidily at the edge of the circle of tents before going back to the campfire with a small tin mug and spoon to get some of Pick's stew.
At Renato's question about keeping watch, she readily agrees to join him in the wee hours of the morning, then excuses herself to her tent. Setting a hand on the inner lining of her bedroll, she mutters a few words of Gnomish and snuggles in. Before long, she is asleep, snoring uproariously. From the small smile on her face as she wriggles into comfort, she seems surprisingly warm despite the chill of the nighttime air.
Black Midknight's rants are starting to worry Torg, but once again he ignores her.
The young dwarf sets up his tent near the others' quickly. Then, he clears the ground carefully of any small rocks and roots before laying down his bedroll and his thick woollen blanket. Travelling should not prevent someone from having a good night of sleep.
While the gnome goes looking for onions, Torg searches for dead wood to fuel the fire for the night. He soon returns with his arms full and sets about to cutting them at the proper length using his axe.
Tired of this day's long march, he grabs a portion of Pick's stew and eats it rapidly before retiring to his tent. Kneeling on the ground, he recites a brief prayer to his pantheon before welcoming the soothing darkness of sleep.
With twilight fading into darkness, everyone retires to rest, with Black Midknight settling in the crook of a sentinel pine to keep watch, Silver Starlight kneading at her chest before settling down to groom herself. Her watch passes uneventfully, the night broken only by the rustling of tents as her companions settle down to sleep. The night is clear, and the stars wheel past, brilliant in their dance and uncloaked by cloud.
When black midnight overtakes Black Midknight, she wakes Torg before retiring back to her spot in the tree and nodding off, Silver Starlight still perched on her chest and stomach. Torg wakes Pick in turn after an uneventful (some without a dwarf's patience might even say dull) couple of hours, and Pick finds there's little to tell Siulor when he wakes the hunter and his hound, though occasional yips and rustles in the forest beyond indicate things may not be so quiet beneath the trees. It seems camping outside the forest may have bought much of the night's calm.
Siulor and Huan watch as the sun's first light creeps over the top of the trees, content in each other's company and huddled next to the fire to ward against the pre-dawn chill. For a moment, he swears he saw a hint of movement beneath a tree to the south - but it turns out to be a trick of sleepy eyes, or the movement of something too small to be of concern. When the sun finally crests the horizon, its bright morning rays draw a refreshed Renato from his tent, and he wakes to the final hours of a night's watch without incident.
Pick yawns through his watch, occasionally pinching himself to stay alert and awake. He resists the urge to go poking his nose in other people's belongings, since experience has taught him 'well I'm just seeing what we all have in case of an emergency' is not a rationalization that most people tend to accept. Besides, the one he'd most like to go prying at is Little Miss Midnight and she took herself and her gear into the trees.
So he settles in with his pipe for a calm watch, amusing himself with watching the stars overhead when it's clear enough to see, and identifying those constellations he knows.
Once his watch is over and Siulor's begun, Pick wastes no time in trundling back into a deep, comfortable rest.
Just as dawn begins to break over the horizon, Siulor stands and stretches his weary limbs. He prods the fire to stir a few of the embers back into life, preparing it for when Pick and the others awake with the hope of a hearty breakfast. As he lifts his eyes from the refreshed campfire and looks back toward the tree line, a hint of movement catches his gaze, but whatever had stirred had either already left or was too small to see from here, and was thus not worth too much attention at this point.
Knowing that Renato's watch is next, Siulor decides to stay up the extra hour or two so the two of them might get a chance to talk in private. As he makes his way toward the Renato's tent, a mischievous plan crosses his mind. He recalls an instance from their youth when the two boys had shared a night at the MacBruthe manor. Late in the night, Renato, then called Jean, had awoken with devious purpose. He had warmed a small pitcher of water, set the pitcher next to Siulor's bed, and carefully moved Siulor's hand into the water. Within moments, the boy Siulor had woken to find that his hand was not the only that was wet. For half a moment, the adult Siulor considers returning the favor, but ultimately decides against it. Instead, he leans down and whispers a command to Huan, whose tail begins to thump excitedly in the grass.
A moment later, Renato/Jean wakes to find an open mouth full of sharp teeth inches from his face. When the man begins to react to the sight, though, the mouth threatening teeth will be replaced by a slobbery tongue licking his face with enthusiasm. As he listens to the rude awakening on the other side of the tent flap, Siulor thinks to himself, Now that is how you get revenge!
A moment later, Renato/Jean wakes to find an open mouth full of sharp teeth inches from his face. When the man begins to react to the sight, though, the mouth threatening teeth will be replaced by a slobbery tongue licking his face with enthusiasm. As he listens to the rude awakening on the other side of the tent flap, Siulor thinks to himself, Now that is how you get revenge!
The hunter is rewarded first with a muffled yelp, and then the sounds of a feeble struggle. Renato emerges from the tent crawling on his back, kicking at his blankets and trying in vain to keep the beast at bay. It is a losing battle. Noticing Siulor looming large against the rising sun, the writer resigns to his fate. He runs his hand through his tangled hair, looking sheepishly up at his old friend as Huan slobbers all over his face.
The writer tries on a smile, but it does not linger on his lips for long. The easy grin Jean often wore as a child seems to have been lost to years in between their previous encounter. Overall, the man seems muted, worn thin almost. His brown eyes have lost their luster, almost bringing to mind the jaded stare of a soldier returning from war. Embarrassedly, Renato offers up his hand, hoping to be rescued from further canine attention.
"It is... good to see you," he manages to get out. "Truly. Unexpected sight, certainly, but not at all unwelcome."
Siulor gives Huan a soft "Down," providing his old friend a respite from his canine companion's fervent greeting. The dog immediately ceases the assault and sits back on his haunches, patiently waiting for the treat his master gives him a moment later. Siulor grins down at the bedraggled writer, listening for the carefree laugh of his childhood companion. He sees the strained smile, the dull eyes, the expression of weariness that far exceeds that of a man suddenly awakened from a deep slumber. Siulor's own grin slowly fades to an expression of concern, until the sun rising over the trees of Galt brings enlightenment and understanding.
He reaches down to take Renato's hand, helping him to his feet, then looks deeply into the man's eyes as he greets him in turn, And you, my friend. We heard only the blackest rumors after what happened, but I'm glad t' see that you are returned. Come, let's sit by the fire a while and talk.
Siulor walks toward the fire with Renato, then serves him a bit of dandelion tea made from the last few flowers Rhis had retrieved the night before. As he takes a seat on a log near his friend, he begins to speak again, beginning with the question that had plagued his mind ever since he recognized Renato as his old friend, How is this possible? All the rumors said that Madame Margery had claimed the last of the Corneilles. I always thought that meant that you...I thought...well, you know. Siulor's voice trails off as he averts his gaze and stares into the blazing red embers of the campfire. A moment later, he looks at Renato again and says, I am so sorry about what happened.
Renato sips his tea, staring into the embers. He merely nods in acknowledgement at Siulor's condolences, a blank look crossing over his face: not as much sadness as the hollow feeling that follows the initial despair of mourning. He hesitates for an instant before saying anything. This was the first time he had shared the truth with anyone, and trust did not come easily after so many years of secrecy.
"The Corneilles are dead," he says matter-of-factly. "As far as the rest of the world is concerned, that is the truth of it. That is by intention. My guardian and saviour saw it fit to keep my identity from the rest of the world, for my own safety. Hidden in plain sight. I have seen no reason to doubt her wisdom. Indeed, the more I have witnessed of Galt and the nature of humanity, the more I tend to agree..."
"I do regret never reaching out to you," he adds with a frown. "I have kept my ears open, of course, hoping I would never have to hear such rumours of you or your family. No news is good news, or so they say. Making contact would have put both of us at risk, not to mention your kin. I do not value my life so highly, but I could not imagine putting anyone else through what I have suffered. Or so I keep telling myself...
The writer leans in, hungry for good news. "But enough about me. How have you been? How is your father?"
Siulor listens to Renato's tale with a mixture of awe and fury. The perils that he has survived, the trials he has overcome, the struggle to simply leave the memory of his family behind and to take on a whole new identity - how could one man endure so much? He wonders briefly who this guardian might be, but takes Renato's silence on her name as a sign that it would be best to leave her nameless for now.
At Renato's questions, Siulor responds, I understand your discretion. My father sometimes considered reaching out t' some o' the old families, but he thinks as you do: it would too much of a risk. As for how he's been? He is healthy, as is mother. Inghinn is off traveling with the Pathfinder Society. She writes from time t' time, but not as much as mother and father would like. I don' know what gave her the idea to go running off with that gang of maniacs, but she seems to be doing alright for herself, and it got her out o' Galt, which is a good enough reason I s'pose. As for me? I am as you see me: a hunter, living off of what the land can give me. He pauses for a moment, thinking back over the years of his family's life in exile. I have t' tell ya. This life has suited me alright. But my father... well, he hasn't taken it too well. I told you the other night that he's actually read some o' your work. He buries himself in any political text he can get his hands on, looking for some sign that the tides are turning again. I'm afraid he might do something foolish someday. But what worries me and angers me more than any of that is when things like what happened t' you take place. I heard your family had set aside your titles and your wealth to appease the mobs, but they still turned on you. I'm afraid the same could happen to us. That's why no one in Azurestone knows my surname. If they heard, word might get out, and next thing you know, I might come home from a hunt to find the little plot my family's on a smoldering heap of embers. Damn those Gardeners! The last few sentences escape through Siulor's gritted teeth, and for a few moments afterward, his breath is heavy with fury.
Sorry, he finally says, [b]I just don't understand what these mobs think they gain by murdering innocents. Anyway. What do we do now? I assume I should keep calling you by your new name. I don't want to cause you or your protector any problems. I have missed you so, my friend. I do not intend to lose you again.
At Renato's questions, Siulor responds, I understand your discretion. My father sometimes considered reaching out t' some o' the old families, but he thinks as you do: it would too much of a risk. As for how he's been? He is healthy, as is mother. Inghinn is off traveling with the Pathfinder Society. She writes from time t' time, but not as much as mother and father would like. I don' know what gave her the idea to go running off with that gang of maniacs, but she seems to be doing alright for herself, and it got her out o' Galt, which is a good enough reason I s'pose. As for me? I am as you see me: a hunter, living off of what the land can give me. He pauses for a moment, thinking back over the years of his family's life in exile. I have t' tell ya. This life has suited me alright.
Renato breathes a sigh of relief, closing his eyes for a moment of blissful remembrance. He even dares to smile for a moment longer than before, lost in a brief reverie. Something of his past still remained!
"I am glad to hear they are safe," he says in response. "Good news are so rare these days. Thank you, my friend."
The writer reaches over to pet Huan, careful to not startle the hound. "I am also glad to see that you have prospered. We both seem to have adapted quite well, all things considered. For years I have maintained that is only through pain and hardship that we reach our full potential. Man and nation alike. That is why I write, you know. To mend old wounds, both my own and those of others. I try, at least..."
But my father... well, he hasn't taken it too well. I told you the other night that he's actually read some o' your work. He buries himself in any political text he can get his hands on, looking for some sign that the tides are turning again. I'm afraid he might do something foolish someday. But what worries me and angers me more than any of that is when things like what happened t' you take place. I heard your family had set aside your titles and your wealth to appease the mobs, but they still turned on you. I'm afraid the same could happen to us. That's why no one in Azurestone knows my surname. If they heard, word might get out, and next thing you know, I might come home from a hunt to find the little plot my family's on a smoldering heap of embers. Damn those Gardeners!
Sorry, he finally says, I just don't understand what these mobs think they gain by murdering innocents.
The writer nods along sympathetically. These were thoughts that he knew all too well, even if no longer shared them. Not fully.
"That certainly sounds like the man I remember," he says. "I can understand why your father is stuck in the past, but there is no returning to what was. I hope you realise that, and why it must be so. The dead remain dead, and the beast cannot be put back in its cage. Like those families who fled to Gralton, many fail to grasp that what happened here must run its course. Otherwise, my parents will have died for nothing. Not just them, but all those people who have been consumed by the Revolution. That is what I have come to believe. The best we can hope is to nudge the flow of events in the desired direction..."
The writer scowls. "The Gardeners, though... I do not trust them. They meddle too little or too much in turn, and they definitely have some ulterior motive for doing so. I think they benefit from the chaos somehow, and do not wish to see it end. I would not be too surprised if the Red Raven shared their goals, whatever they may be. A mask of a different colour, but a mask nonetheless..."
He glances over at the tree where the Black Midknight had nested for the night, looking meaningfully back at Siulor.
Anyway. What do we do now? I assume I should keep calling you by your new name. I don't want to cause you or your protector any problems. I have missed you so, my friend. I do not intend to lose you again.
Renato nods grimly. He puts down his empty cup and stretches, yawning. After a moment of contemplation, he looks Siulor in the eye.
"We must be careful," he says. "The man we hunt has brought many a noble to the Final Blades, and I do not see why he would treat us any different. Hopefully we can bring him to justice... if there truly is such a thing. Regardless, the people of Azurestone do not deserve to be caught up in whatever conspiracy is afoot here. Perhaps together we can set things right...?"
His tone is hopeful, but uncertain. To fight alongside a friend to defeat villains and right wrongs? The very thought of it was odd, but elating. It was something he would normally think of as naïve and reckless—not to mention cliché—but strangely he did not recoil at the idea. For once, the thought of directly intervening in events as they unfolded seemed like the right thing to do.
The writer scowls. "The Gardeners, though... I do not trust them. They meddle too little or too much in turn, and they definitely have some ulterior motive for doing so. I think they benefit from the chaos somehow, and do not wish to see it end. I would not be too surprised if the Red Raven shared their goals, whatever they may be. A mask of a different colour, but a mask nonetheless..."
Aye, the Gardeners have proved t' be little more than murderers and fomenters of chaos, and it seems like this Raven is doing the same. Siulor follows Renato's gaze toward Black Midknight's tree and sighs heavily. That one seems t' have some good intentions at least. Strange that she should choose t' hide her heroism behind a mask, though. Makes ya wonder what she's tryin' t' hide.
"Regardless, the people of Azurestone do not deserve to be caught up in whatever conspiracy is afoot here. Perhaps together we can set things right...?"
Siulor meets Renato's sudden optimism with renewed anger. This is just the issue about the Gardeners and their ilk. For every true enemy of the state they remove, they harm dozens of innocents. I've made far too many friends in Azurestone to allow the Raven to get away with this.
Aye, the Gardeners have proved t' be little more than murderers and fomenters of chaos, and it seems like this Raven is doing the same. Siulor follows Renato's gaze toward Black Midknight's tree and sighs heavily. That one seems t' have some good intentions at least. Strange that she should choose t' hide her heroism behind a mask, though. Makes ya wonder what she's tryin' t' hide.
"I do not doubt her good intentions," says Renato in response. "But the road to Hell is paved with such, as the saying goes. The rest of our little group seems trustworthy enough, but she worries me. What she hides from us is merely a face, but what she herself might be hiding from is far more worrying. Responsibility, perhaps? Culpability? That is the path of the Gardeners, whether she is aligned with them or not..."
Siulor meets Renato's sudden optimism with renewed anger. This is just the issue about the Gardeners and their ilk. For every true enemy of the state they remove, they harm dozens of innocents. I've made far too many friends in Azurestone to allow the Raven to get away with this.
Renato leans in and takes Siulor's hand, doing his best to calm his friend.
"We will not let that happen," he says reassuringly. "But we must take care not to act too rashly, either. We still do not know why the Raven stole the Vernal Key, or how this Cale and his lackeys play into his scheme. Were we to play judge and executioner without concrete evidence, we would be no better than the mobs. More importantly, if we act without knowing all the facts, we might cause more harm than we avoid..."
Torg was sleeping peacefully until it was interrupted by the masked figure of Black Midknight staring at him in the dark. Startled, he instinctively reached for his axe before realizing she was waking him up so that he could replace her at the watch. Sorry mam, but ya scared the four hells out of me. I ain't used to bein' around the like of ya. Masked persons, I mean... After her departure, the dwarf carefully donned his armour before stepping outside of the tent.
For many men, night was a terrifying experience whose darkness concealed numerous dangers. As most dwarves, however, Torg had developed the ability to see clearly in the blackest nights and he welcomed them as a time to rest, well clear of the noises of the day. Thus, he was in a great mood as he began his watch. After refuelling the fire with some of the lumber he had gathered, he started an lengthy series of callisthenics. Thanks to the cold air, he was able to work out thoroughly each of his muscles without breaking a sweat.
Once done, Torg sat close to the fire. His thoughts drifted from a subject to another: his faith, Azurestone, the Vernal Key, his mother... That was enough to occupy him for the rest of his watch. As the time to wake up the next watcher, however, he started thinking about the mysterious would-be hero that was accompanying them. At first, she had appeared harmless and over-enthusiastic, maybe even naive as a young human could be. Over the day, though, she had shown ruthlessness, a decent ability at combat and a somewhat grim persona. This was worrying, as far as Torg was concerned, and now he was able to sate at least part of his concerns.
The dwarf cautiously went to his tent and removed his armour. Then, he returned near the fire and started mumbling some prayers while staring towards Black Midknight sleeping in her tree. The familiar cantrip did not reveal any distinguishable information about her morals and value system, which was also reassuring as it meant that she probably wasn't mightier than Torg. Then, cautiously, he approached the tree where she was sleeping as close as he dared, for fear of arousing her feline companion. Once within distance for his spell, he once again spoke a few dwarvish words. To anyone nearby, nothing happened but the dwarf's senses sharpened so much that he felt as if he could touch the vigilante from where he stood, 30 feet away. Carefully, he inspected her attire and equipment, trying to locate any clues as to her identity.
At the agreed time (or so Torg estimated by looking at the stars above), he went up to Pick's tent and shook delicately his shoulder to wake him. Then, the young dwarf went back to his own tent and laid on his back beneath the thick blankets. Within minutes, he was snoring lightly as he dreamt of a better world free of crime and prejudice against his brethren.
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Black Midknight did not respond to Pick's question. She thought this was how it worked. You drove fear into the hearts of evil with theatrics, appealing to their inate superstitious natures. Is she not doing it right? Is she turning up to high? Too low? She never had to work with a group like this before. Well, any group at all, really. She was beginning to understand why Dad liked to work alone.
Silver Starlight nodded to Pick as he threw his piercing question towards her master. The girl needed a reality check, and the little celestial cat knew this group would be happy to oblige. Silver Starlight was awake to see Torg's attempt to stealthily uncover Black Midknight's identity, and made no attempt to stop it. It might push her, in a good way. These people all seemed trustworthy enough, and if not, well, they are good at getaways.
Torg begins to walk the perimeter of the camp, murmuring prayers to himself...and then circles again, and again. But his prayer is not merely a chant of devotion - it's a request to the dwarven gods to open his eyes to the truth of his strange companion. He looks...and looks...and looks again. Finally, near ready to give up his inquiry, he intones one more prayer, and the girl suddenly changes before his eyes.
The butterfly-shaped markings around her eyes fall away, and her white eyes begin to darken, the pupils darkening to black and the irises taking on a more ordinary hue. Her cape's silhouette morphs into a regular traveling cloak, and the form-fitting leather transforms into a buttoned-up shirt, pleated skirt, and simple opaque leggings. Now, she looks just like an ordinary girl...and what's more, a girl that seems somehow familiar...
But the glance lasts only a moment, and soon the costume returns.
----------
The next day dawns fine and clear as well, though the cold is somewhat breathtaking, especially to those having to drag themselves away from cozy bedrolls and blankets to face it. Soon, though, everyone is up, refreshed, and ready to take on the next day of traveling; even Rhis seems enthusiastic about the walk as she packs her things onto her pack pony. There's...there's more space on Little Bit's saddle, if anyone wants to put anything there... she offers somewhat timidly as she sees everyone gathering their things.
The fire soon stokes back into life under Siulor's ministrations, and breakfast is almost a hearty affair, supplemented by a few blue-and-pink-shelled eggs found by Rhis in a nearby tree. Everyone gathers to enjoy the food, sitting close to capture the last of the fire's warmth.
The chilly air wakes Torg despite the thick wool blanket that covers him. The dwarf stretches his arms and legs to warm them up, before donning his thick clothes and his armour, which is rather uncomfortably cold. He then does his morning prayers, before exiting the tent and collapsing it.
Once his tent is carefully packed away, Torg joins the others near the dying fire to eat breakfast and attempt to warm himself. He is in a contemplative mood this morning and does not mention what he found the previous night.
Refreshed and ready to go, everyone sets off from the campsite and into the Boarwood, Rhis leading her pony along the worn foot trail. While the path isn't too difficult to follow, it's certainly not a true road - the narrow gaps between trees, random bumps and gullies, and occasional piles of scat make the going slower than on the road leading to the wood's fringes. Still, though, the day is pleasant, the cool actually making walking easier.
Traveling along, you find occasional piles of droppings along the way, though they're surprisingly not foul - they have almost a sweet smell to them, like wine beginning to ferment. There are occasional tracks crossing the path as well, wide and short with five clawed toes. After a half hour or so of walking, you find that the tracks are changing - instead of distinct prints, the marks are distorted and dug in deep, almost as if whatever was making them was stomping and twisting its feet.
As you pass by a large oak tree, you suddenly hear a series of grunts and a low moan from between the trees. From behind one of the trunks, a dark-furred bear emerges and looks at you. Then, with a wail that sounds, eerily, almost human, she begins to rush toward you, crashing through the underbrush.
Siulor marches along behind Rhis and her pony, trying to look ahead tracks that might belong to the Red Raven or to Rhis' companion Cale, and keeping his eyes out for anything else unusual. He notices the tracks along the path as they travel, but the group is moving at a good pace, and he is unable to get a good look in the gloom of the forest. Just to be safe, however, he straps on his shield and readies a javelin. He signals to the others that they may want to do the same, in case they came upon something unfriendly.
As the group rounds the oak tree and the bear comes into sight, Siulor's eyes widen in surprise. I should have known she was so close! How did I miss this?!
Taking the attack as a sign of unwarranted aggression, Siulor calls to the others, Kill her! She must have been driven mad by the cold!
Torg follows Rhis and Siulor through the forest, glancing occasionally at the animal tracks that cross the narrow trail. He notices some which are deeper than the others, but as he prepares to ask Siulor about them he is interrupted by series of grunts. Apparently, the tracks belong to a bear...
"Bears don't eat humanoids, I think. Something must be wrong with this one... Some sickness, maybe? Or is it the cold that preventing it from feeding normally ?"
Pick freezes as the wild animal rounds the corner, hands gripping his cane tightly. He can hear nothing but the bear's roar.... or no, wait--
Pick's head snaps back and he gazes up, then points with his cane.
"Her cubs are in this tree!" the dwarf shouts. "Up in the limbs! Get the hells back from the tree, she's defending her young!!"
Pick follows his own advice, double-timing back the way they came as quickly as possible.
Renato lets out a panicked sound, suddenly disappearing from sight.
Caught unaware by the bear, Siulor stands ready to fight - but Pick's keen senses spot the tree's inhabitants, and his shrewd mind works out the creature's true objective. Calling out, he warns everyone away from the tree's base, and the warning jolts Siulor's memory, confirming Pick's guess.
And as everyone withdraws from the tree's base, it has a marked effect on the bear's demeanor - she breaks off her charge, steering slightly wide of the retreating party and going to the tree's base. Letting out a few throaty huffs, she is answered by the cubs' soft moans, morphing quickly to a humming sound almost like a cat's purr. It seems all is well again with the small family.
Taking a side trail to avoid the bears' resting place, you soon join up with the trail once more and are on your way. A few more hours' travel brings you to a large opening in the trees. Siulor is familiar with the place - to local hunters it's known as the Cauter, the scar of a fire several years ago. Some of the trees surrounding and standing in the clearing still bear the fire's marks, and bits of charcoal and ash still emerge when you scuff a toe across the ground.
"See! If you just listen to me, things turn out fine," Pick drawls in self-satisfaction over the matter of the bear.
***
"Well! Easy enough to see where our man's gone-- look, that fire ring up there still has a bit of smoke. We're right on the thief's trail!"
Once they are safely away from the bear, Torg takes a long breath to fill his lungs again. "Thanks, Pick. It would have been a shame killin' that beast for nothin'."
After a while, they happen upon a clearing which has obviously been carved by fire. In the middle, the dwarf notices a dying fire that still emits some smoke. "I'd be tempted to say that's where the darned thief spent the night, but it's mightily suspicious that he did not hide the fire better. I'm wary of just crossin' this open area, could be an ambush. I say we circle round left, hidin' behind the trees, and approach from the opposite side."
Torg has tensed once more, his hand resting wearily close to his crossbow.
Torg tenses, ready to make his move through the patchy trees and behind the small camp - but as he begins to tiptoe into action, Siulor holds up a finger. No...no, wait. These prints...they're not right. The tread's too narrow, the heel's all wrong... He scans the edge of the clearing for several more moments, then suddenly spasms in a spontaneous gesture of triumph.
Our thief didn't go through there - he came over this way, skirting the clearing's edge. He points to a wide stretch of dirt; to untrained eyes, it looks merely disturbed by wind or some sort of animal. Someone covered his tracks for him - did a heckuva job, too. I'm guessin' they put a false trail out after he passed by, to throw us off. The whole campsite's probably for show...and damn irresponsible of 'em, too, to leave it burning like that. Could'a burnt the whole forest down around us, and themselves.
He begins to move down the true trail, then pauses. But it might be we could find out somethin' more at that campsite - how long ago whoever set it up passed through and the like. Might even be I could pick up a set of tracks from there, find out if it was our little companion's buddies or just a passing hunter here by chance. He nods to Rhis. So what'll it be? Check out the camp or follow the thief's trail?
Completely out of his element, Renato stays close to Siulor—perhaps imperceptibly closer than he would have dared previous to their conversation in the small hours of the morning.
"It seems prudent to avoid the campsite," he says. "This seems like a perfect place to set up an ambush. Or maye a trap of some sort. I mean, at least from a narrative point of view..."