The spray of cold water brings Renato back from his reverie. The writer blinks blankly at Siulor before turning his wand back towards the carnage.
The combination of divine healing effects is quickly closing the wounds caused by the giant pikes and only a trickle of blood still oozes through Torg's metal armour. Free from his foes' relentless attacks for the time being, the dwarf decides it is time to call for another of his god's favour. Intoning a chant in his deep voice, he asks for his comrades' arms to strike true.
Black: 10/30, -8, -5: dead
As Siulor wrests his javelin from the pike's side and Torg shares Torag's blessing with his allies, Pick's crossbow bolt goes wide, but Renato's burst of energy and Black Midknight's starknife both find their marks. Under their onslaught, another of the pikes is defeated even as it eats its final meal, and with two giant hunks of fresh meat to choose from, the remaining beast is thoroughly distracted. Another barrage of attacks, bolstered by Torg's blessing, is enough to ensure that the huge pike won't be troubling any more travelers trying to cross the river. (And enough to ensure that, with some time to butcher, you'll be eating fish for a long time.)
With the pikes dispatched, the river falls quiet, the soft burble of the river rushing across its shallow bed the only noise you hear. Torg's rope remains strung across the river as far as he had reached, and no sign of other disturbance seems to be rising to interrupt his work.
Once the fish have all been dealt with, Pick scrambles down bank to drag at least one of the mangled bodies to shore before the current takes it away entirely.
"These are worth money!" he sputters. "Also, next time, eh, listen to this old dwarf's wisdom, hmn? Does anyone need a bit of that blessed stick of ours? Torg, lad, you have yourself well in hand?"
Pick cuts out the prized innards of at least one pike, contenting himself with that for the sake of moving on with little wasted time.
Renato takes a deep sigh of relief as the last of the pikes is brought low, nodding with satisfaction at the fruits of the group's combined labour. The writer procures his journal and a piece of charcoal, quickly scratching down some lines with shaky fingers. The blood on the snow, the steam of their breaths in the wintry air, and the steady murmur of the water... The scene was positively inspiring!
"Like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone forever..." he mutters as he tries to capture the feeling of the moment.
Siulor sits right alongside Pick, assisting in butchering the pikes, though he is in pursuit of sustenance rather than prosperity from the great fish. As they complete their work, Siulor pushes the bodies of the fish beck into the river, allowing the current to carry away what is left. As he watches them float away, he speaks to the river, "Thank you for the provisions granted by your children. Take them back into yourself, that they may rise again and rejoin the flow of life."
While Siulor is making his quasi-religious tribute to his old friend, the River, Huan steals up behind him and snatches a few nibbles of pike from the freshly butchered filets.
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Black Midknight breathes heavily as she sees herself bleeding. She quickly moves herself out of the water, wanting to keep herself away from the creatures as much as possible.
"I have taken wounds from these creatures...I will take some healing."
Silver Starlight purrs and rubs up against Black Midknight's leg. Her master kneels down and scratches her behind the ears, trying to hide a smile.
"Ah, so the vengeful shadow of the mysterious night does in fact bleed, eh," Pick drawls, but he touches the wand to the dark-clad lady's injuries. "Or was that the mysterious shadow of the vengeful night? Can't keep it all straight."
With as much harvested from the great fish as time allows, everyone prepares to cross the river. Torg splashes across the expanse with no great trouble, the weight of his armor and the strength of his legs helping to anchor his feet in the riverbed as he ties the rope off to create a handrail. Once the path is in place, Black Midknight splashes through the water easily, though a sudden deep spot threatens for a moment to make her lose her footing. Pick starts behind her with a bit of difficulty gaining his feet in the current, though the rope helps to steady him and he soon brings his gait under control.
The hard part is Renato's crossing. His life's work has been cultivating strength of mind and spirit, not of limb, and while his ability to carry seems prodigious for his slight build, it apparently doesn't carry over to his stability in the river's flow. Halfway across the river, he loses his feet, floundering and flailing so vigorously he loses hold of the rope and begins to wash downstream. But fortunately, after a few more moments he manages to find his feet again and make his way with difficulty back to the lifeline. He loses his footing again near the opposite bank, but Siulor, who had followed behind loosing and coiling the tied ropes as Renato passed each anchor point, rushes forward to help, and the two manage to make it together to shore.
Renato's first priority upon reaching the shore is checking that his notes have not been touched by the sudden dampness. To his relief, he finds that his backpack, at least, was worth its price, having mostly endured his quick dip into the river. The writers does his best to wring the water out of his new winter clothes, but still ends up looking rather wet and miserable.
"Th-thank you," he says to Siulor, teeth chattering. "Not qu-quite like the ge-gentle brooks back ho-home."
With everyone across, Siulor quickly finds the outlaws' trail again, and Rhis confirms that their tracks lead toward the intended rendezvous as she scrambles down from atop the bundles tied to the pony's saddle. And so, the journey continues. Three days of travel start to wear on minds and spirits, and the longer you spend in the Boarwood the more the rustles and chitters in the distance begin to unnerve you...but the Fog Peaks Mountains draw ever closer, your travels eating up the distance as a light snow begins to fall.
And as the sun draws to the finish line of its race through the sky, you spot a wide gorge between two steep tors at the mountains' base. Eight stone outcroppings, each the size of a small cottage, protrude out from the hills' base, possibly the bones of an old structure. The snow has begun to accumulate, creating drifts between the stone outcroppings that form steep ramps of sorts. And throughout the gorge, the only opening in the mountains' base that you can see, you see a jumble of footprints of all sizes...and a small curl of smoke and faint glow atop one of the outcroppings.
That's them - that's them! Rhis squeaks excitedly. Let's go - let's go!
After dragging Renato out of the river, Siulor doubles over, his hands on his knees. After taking a few heavy breaths, he looks up at the writer and laughs. "My goodness, Renato. You really didn't get out much back in the city, did you?" He stands and moves over to the man, helping him to dry out his clothes as much as possible, then starts to really feel the cold himself. After getting himself dry, he pats his leg whistles to call Huan over. The great hound shakes himself violently, throwing water droplets all over the hunter and his companions. Again Siulor's deep, gravelly laugh rings out across the water. "Sorry 'bout that, everyone. Huan loves water about as much as a house cat." He pats the dog's head, then sets about finding their quarry's trail.
Upon arriving at the outcroppings, Siulor examines the area, looking for potential ambush points, of which he is sure there are many. Rhis's exclamation makes him jump slightly, but the sight of the smoke brings the hint of a smile to his lips. Ya have to love people. They may be the most dangerous prey, but they're the worst at hiding.
Once the pikes are dead, Torg is finally able to make it back to shore where he collapses on the ground with his arms spread out, hugging the earth. Though he proves to be steady in the current, he certainly doesn't feel at home in the chilly water.
After getting his share of healing from his dwarven comrade and while Siulor butchers the pikes, Torg returns to his prior task of roping the ford. His companions cross after him without sustaining any lasting injuries. While the hunter assists Renato, the dwarf removes his armour and attempts to squeeze as much water as possible from his gear.
Soon after, they depart once again. The journey is uneventful until sunset, when they reach the feet of the mountains and finally find what appears to be sign of human presence at the top of a stone outcropping. Warily, Torg scans the scene carefully while their gnomish companion-prisoner starts to get excited. "Don't ya get too worked up. We aren't goin' further until we have assessed the odds."
Eight stone outcroppings, each the size of a small cottage, protrude out from the hills' base, possibly the bones of an old structure.
Renato eyes the site, not for threats, but out of curiosity for what seems like ruins of civilisation admidst the wilderness.
That's them - that's them! Rhis squeaks excitedly. Let's go - let's go!
The writer places a hand on Rhis' shoulder, trying to calm her down.
"Just a moment," he says. "We need to be careful. We are here to talk, but they might think of us as enemies. Do you think we will be able to approach peacefully? Or would Cale be willing to come out and meet us here, if we sent you to fetch him?"
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Black Midknight crouches at the back of the party as they finally sight the smoke. She slinks up near the others.
"To know the heat of a star's flame, we must cross the Void between the stars before it flickers out."
She had been editing that line in her head since the group left, and she thought it was A-material. She suddenly worries it's a bit too esoteric. She begins mumbling an explanation.
"If we want to figure out their intentions, we need to them before they leave by crossing the space between us. The Void. And flames like a fire--there's smoke, which means fire--and...."
She turns her head away, her mask not enough to hide the embarassment on her face.
"Nevermind."
Pick squints at the 'cottages' ahead, and spits into the snow dourly. He pointedly ignores Black Midnight's attempt at poetic phrasing. "Right, then. Let's go have a Serious Chat, shall we? And I wouldn't mind it if were inside, I'm sick of the snow."
He starts trudging forward.
You're right - maybe it would be best if I went ahead, brought them back to meet up with you guys. Rhis scans the landscape between your vantage point and the gorge's mouth, finally pointing out a small copse of trees. Hold back there, yeah? I'll bring Cale to meet with you there. I swear, he's a really nice guy, and he didn't mean any real harm...but you guys clomping straight into the middle of the camp might not go over too well.
Clambering once again atop her pony, she gives his side a gentle kick, and he begins to amble across the rocky plain, closing the mile or so between where you wait and the camp while everyone else prepares to meet with the outlaw leader. And the wait isn't long - after several minutes, you see Little Bit ambling back, with Rhis astride and a pale, lanky elf walking alongside. At the elf's hip is a long, slender rapier in an elegantly inscribed scabbard; perched on his shoulder is an unusually large raven, faint tinges of purple and blue at the edges of its feathers. As they draw close, the elf stops and crosses his arms, glaring at you with a look almost as cold as the snow beginning to fall.
So? What is it? I'll have you know, I don't take kindly to people kidnapping and blackmailing my employees. Bad for business, you know?
"And we don't take kindly to having a hillside dropped on us. Now, if yer done complainin', we're interested to know a bit about the one who hired you. The Red Raven. Where is he, and why did he steal the Vernal Key? He must know that, without the key, people are going t' die. Doesn't he have any decency?"
Renato takes a step forwards, placing a hand on Siulor's shoulder to calm the ranger. He nods to acknowledge Rhis, sparing her a short smile of appreciation before focusing on the matter at hand.
"You will have to excuse my companion," he says to Cale. "He, like many others in this group, holds great affection for Azurestone. I realise that to you, it is just a village like any other. That is understandable. No heart can hold the whole world..."
The writer takes a moment to look the Calistrian in the eye, searching. "As my friend says, we are here to seek answers. We do not wish to fight, and from your willingness to speak with us, I assume you wish the same. We know you work for the Red Raven. Help us understand his motives, so we may avoid needless bloodshed."
At mention of Azurestone's plight, Cale merely snorts derisively. They knew their entire way of life rested on that little blue orb - did they think it would last forever? Magics can fail with time, and as they've discovered, something smaller than a melon isn't exactly hard to make off with. If they couldn't be bothered to store up a few extra blankets and a couple bundles of wood in case the thing disappeared...well, I don't see how that's my problem. Anyone could see the thing was going to walk off someday, even if all it was was a magic heater...
...but if that's all it was, why would the hero of the downtrodden, Edme's savior and scum all in one, be running away from his grand city with it? At this, Cale's face becomes...almost affectionate? Why else would anyone abandon the triumphs and tribulations of a life's work in the city he calls home for a headlong rush into the unknown? For what other reason would he risk everything? He leans in close, his answer in a theatrical near-whisper.
Love.
At the answer, he sighs. His lady love's disappeared, adventuring near here. A sorceress by the name of Geppa - and a charming little thing, too. She was supposed to meet him in Edme two weeks past for a tryst; when she failed to meet him he was despondent, disconsolate, despairing. So he bought a vision from a soothsayer with a noblewoman's comb, and the seeress told him Geppa was locked away in an ancient prison, hidden away among hills of mist. Blue stones rested at the mountains' base in the walls of a boar's cave, until the cold's touch morphed them into keys of light that parted the mists to reveal his beloved lying within...
A breathy chuckle escapes him. Poetic, is it not? I've always lived for the imagery of soothsayers. But it wasn't hard to figure out, not for the Raven - blue stones at the feet of hills of mist? Doesn't Azurestone make a pretty sight, on the Boarwood's edge where it carpets the path for the Fog Peak Mountains? So the Raven made his way to Azurestone, made himself comfortable - and made his plans. It seemed the sleepy villagers had forgotten that a key is made for its lock, and someday someone might need to open a door. To leave such a treasure so lightly protected...they nearly asked for the trouble that's found them. The festival was the perfect cover, and cover is a specialty of mine. So I offered to keep pursuit from him, until he reached this mysterious prison and was reunited with his delectable little lover. It's all so romantic, so noble - he'd better be careful his head isn't next in Razor Jenni's embrace. The dark joke elicits another careless chuckle.
Pick idly holds up his crossbow, squinting at the stock, then squinting at Cale's head, in a very assessing manner.
"Food for thought: the 'they' you're referring to, these trusting fools of Azurestone, the ones you're implying to be poor naive country bumpkins and so forth... I live in Azurestone. I call it home. Perhaps there's some merit to the notion it could have been guarded better, but what we may've lacked in guards, we do have in plenty comin' to take it back, you jumped-up, snot-throated, overly-wordy weasel," he says amiably. "I've got plenty of miserable theatrics from this one already, I don't need yours too." (He waves a hand vaguely to indicate Black Midnight.)
"There, I think we've done a nice job trading mutual insults, haven't we? Now, I'd dearly love to turn you into a message against anyone else who just thinks that poor folk 'deserve' to have our safety stolen out from us-- I think that stringing up the corpse of someone who'd collude with a thief would serve as a nice deterrent against anyone else making the same mistake that we're easy marks, in Azurestone-- but since you're bein' so nice and helpful, I imagine that we could see our way to avoiding that sort of unpleasantness. If, that is, you give directions to this 'prison,' plain and clear, and then you bugger off somewhere far the hells away from here."
Renato wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, deeply touched by Cale's tale of love denied. He turns to his companions, spreading his arms in a gesture of supplication.
"My friends," he says. "I implore you to have compassion! The Calistrian is brusque, but what he tells us casts the theft in an entirely different light. Can you imagine being put in the Red Raven's position? What would you have done if you knew the only way to save the one dearest to you is dooming an entire village to suffer? That cannot have been an easy choice to make. Surely his love does not deserve to be imprisoned, any more than the people of Azurestone deserve to endure the cold! There must be some way we can aid in releasing her, and still return the Vernal Key to the village."
The writer then turns back to the elf. "Once the lock is open, can the Key be brought back?"
Pick spits into the snow, unimpressed. "I've have gone and asked the village if they could loan me the bloody key, is what I'd have done. And not set people to bring a hill of rocks down on those who'd have followed. Imagine if it'd been some poor farmers rather than us."
Renato nods understandingly at Pick, yet does not yield his impassioned entreaty.
"There is no simple answer here, no black and white," he says. "You come from Azurestone. Would they have given the Key freely, the guardian of their prosperity? To a stranger, no less? Mayhaps they would have, but how long would it have taken to persuade them? All the while, your love languishes out of reach, enduring unknown torment. If you can claim you would not have considered resorting to theft to save them, you are a better man than I..."
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"The existence of darkness does not excuse snuffing out what light remains."
She pauses, this time calm, the break planned for rhetorical effect. She looks directly at Cale.
"The evil of others does not excuse your own."
She crouches, resting on the balls of her feet. Silver Starlight sits in front her master, who takes the opportunity to scratch behind that cat's ears.
"We shall retrieve the key and the Red Raven's lost love."
"There is no simple answer here, no black and white," he says. "You come from Azurestone. Would they have given the Key freely, the guardian of their prosperity? To a stranger, no less? Mayhaps they would have, but how long would it have taken to persuade them? All the while, your love languishes out of reach, enduring unknown torment. If you can claim you would not have considered resorting to theft to save them, you are a better man than I..."
"Considered? Mayhap. Done it--? No. Not knowing that plenty of other lives would pay the price for my numbskullery," Pick scoffs. "Anyway, you can tell him when you find him how poetic and tragic you think it all is. Speaking of that... location of this prison, Mr. Cale. Specifics to be preferred."
Torg maintains an expressionless face, despite the silent anger that is rising within him. Not only does he dislike the tone and theatrical manners of the elf, but he also disagrees strongly with his justifications for the theft. If you can call them justifications, that is, as Cale does not seem to feel any guilt.
"What a fine protector of the people he is, that Red Raven. It's easy to call yourself that when all you're doing is stealing from the wealthy, but as soon as a personal sacrifice is required it's back to the old "Might is right!"!"
At first, he lets his companions react. Of course, Renato takes a much more diplomatic approach (or is he simply swayed by the elf's tale of woes...) than Pick and Siulor. Once they have spoken their mind, Torg decides it is time for him to jump in.
"It's not just a matter of buyin' a couple of blankets and a pile of firewood. Without the Vernal Key, the productivity of the farms will be greatly reduced and famine will follow. Mining will become harder as the rock freezes. Wild game will also suffer from hunger and hunters will find less and smaller prey. Babies will freeze to death as they come into this world despite the warmth of the fireplace... Yar actions have upset the whole ecosystem of the region, causin' multiple casualties and for what? To save one single person, who placed herself in the way of danger voluntarily, and trustin' in the visions of a soothsayer... Is her life worth so much more than those of the people of Azurestone? What a fine "protector of the People" yar Red Raven friend is!
Of course, I wouldn't expect a human to understand that sometimes one has to sacrifice his desires for the greater good of his community, but I am disappointed that ya, an Elf, did not advise him otherwise. I expected better from your kind, though I suppose your faith might influence your feelin's otherwise!"
The dwarf has spoken his mind slowly and calmly, but with very assertive tone that one wouldn't be surprised to hear from the mouth of a cleric teaching his parishioners.
"Listen, all we want is to have the Vernal Key returned to Azurestone as soon as possible. I, for one, do not care much about what becomes of ya and the Red Raven after that and I'm not certain that he has given it much thought, either. If we can help him to save his lady in any way, we'll do so."
Torg pauses to catch his breath before concluding. "If the Key is destroyed in the process, though, we'll have a major disagreement to settle."
"I'm afraid we're not going to have any choice but to lend a hand to the wretched thief if we want to recover the stone, or the elf will never tell us where to find the Red Raven. I suppose it's the right thing to do, anyhow, if we can help to save his beloved, but I hope it won't delay us too much from returning the Vernal Key to Azurestone. We'll have to evaluate the situation as we go."
At Pick's diatribe, Renato's rhetoric, Torg's admonishment, and Black Midknight's simple agreement, Cale snorts haughtily and turns to Renato, pointedly ignoring the crossbow Pick toys with and fingering the handle of his own rapier. Ah, what a charming pet you have, he croons to the writer, talking over Pick's protests. But as you say, how could the Red Raven stand aside when love lay languishing in peril? And of course, it is not only his lady that waits in danger - many have disappeared into these hills, following the story of the fabulous treasure hoard of the Jarl of the North Wind. It is all these he would rescue, not just the charming Geppa. And all of those something to someone...lovers, friends, family...
But alas, I am afraid A- the Raven's path from here was one he was not entirely certain of himself. The Jarl's hoard is storied to be beneath Nordrein Glacier, if the stories are to be believed; there are few enough paths through the mountains, to be certain, and certainly plenty have fallen into the Jarl's clutches entirely unintentionally. Perhaps the Raven trusted to his luck to stumble into her holding place - if you know aught of his story, you know his fortunes are just poor enough to ensure he will. Again he laughs lightly at the grim comment. From there, I know nothing - most keys survive opening their locks unscathed, of course, but there are strange and wondrous things afoot here.
And we were tasked with ensuring the Key reached its lock...but if you intend to aid in poor Geppa's rescue, perhaps I can be convinced to turn my head as you pass by. The glare of the sunset on the snow can be fierce, you know. He raises a hand to his forehead in a parodied expression of distress, the other hand still on his rapier's hilt; as his shoulder flexes, the bird sitting upon it gives a loud caw of disapproval and takes off to circle around the elf. Oh, and one more thing - be sure to translate for your pet, here. Small words for a small, small creature, yes?
Pick smiles tightly, a glint in his eyes behind his glasses, and says nothing at all.
Pick rubs at chin with one thumb, eyes half-lidded as he consults all his mentor ever taught him about the peaks of the region... and if she ever mentioned some 'jarl of the north wind.'
But alas, I am afraid A- the Raven's path from here was one he was not entirely certain of himself...
The writer raises an eyebrow at the elf's slip of the tongue, a momentary flash of shrewdness shining through his mournful demeanour. He wipes it away with the last of his tears.
And we were tasked with ensuring the Key reached its lock...but if you intend to aid in poor Geppa's rescue, perhaps I can be convinced to turn my head as you pass by. The glare of the sunset on the snow can be fierce, you know. He raises a hand to his forehead in a parodied expression of distress, the other hand still on his rapier's hilt; as his shoulder flexes, the bird sitting upon it gives a loud caw of disapproval and takes off to circle around the elf. Oh, and one more thing - be sure to translate for your pet, here. Small words for a small, small creature, yes?
Renato maintains a cordial appearance, nodding patiently all the way through Cale's belittling and self-aggrandisement. After so many years of navigating the tumultuous politics of the nation's capital, he was more than used to dealing with people who loved the sound of their own voices. There was nothing to be gained from antagonising the Calistrian. Thankfully, to a narcissist there was no such thing as negative attention.
Seeing that he has been granted the privilige of basking in the favour of the dashing outlaw, the writer dons the briefest of smiles and winks knowingly at the elf.
"Whatever their... personal misgivings may be," he says. "My companions and I seem to be of an mind in regards to the Raven's lover. I, for one, vow do my best to see the two reunited. Surely, the Lost Maiden would frown on me if I sought to keep them apart... not to mention the price of crossing one of the Savored Sting's faithful."
Although Torg remains expressionless throughout the elf's new diatribe, he does not miss a word of what is being said. Ha, he might be good at leading a band of thieves, but he is way too talkative. Wouldn't make a good spy.
Of course, the mention of the Jarl reminds the dwarf of the conversation he had in Azurestone regarding his mother. A glint of hope appears in his heart, quickly suppressed by his common sense. "Don't get your hopes up, you fool. The chances that Ma travelled this far from Azurestone are too slim to justify any decision." Since then, he hasn't had the time to investigate the topic further, so his knowledge of the topic still is too limited to be of any real use.
Siulor grunts disapprovingly at the elf standing before them. This one doesn't care about anything, does he? He gets a job to waylay any pursuers. He nearly kills us and leaves the gnomes to deal with the backlash if the trap fails. He walks us right into a gigantic spider's web. He turns the forest I've come to know and love into a place of fear. And now we catch up and he just spills the whole tale and offers to let us continue on our way? Huh, Calistrians.
While Siulor is wrapped in his thoughts, Huan sits beside his master, carefully watching and listening to this stranger. He gives an inquisitive sniff of the air, but does not move any closer to the new person without his master commanding it. He knows that Siulor does not like the man, but feels no intent to attack, so he hangs back and keeps quiet. For now, Huan simply waits.
You recall hearing some snippets of conversation about a Jarl of the North Wind in the excitement of the festival - but paid it little heed at the time, not knowing the strange turns fate would take. From what you remember, the Jarl was some sort of evil air spirit, blamed by the locals for everything from bad weather to the disappearance of several hikers.
But researching into the legend, you found a few details that cast the story in a different light. The Jarl may not actually be the ruler of his domain - he may be its prisoner, and the labyrinth a cell designed by his djinni brethren to hold him when his malice grew too disruptive and dangerous. This could explain why so few have returned with tales of the Jarl's realm...because its master is incapable of granting egress from his holding place, even were he so inclined.
Pick shoulders his crossbow again and pats the hip quiver that contains his last venomed bolt. Maybe if he doesn't wind up using it in battle, it might find a home hereabouts.... but that's a concern for later.
To the others, as if Cale were no longer still there, he says:
"So Nordrein's off at the northern end of the Fog Peaks. Big, bloody glacier. Expect mist and clouds a-plenty; not much in the way of regular folk, but some of the critters that can survive the cold alright. Story goes there's a sheltered valley in there, if you've got to try the region, but the glacier's eating it bit by bit.
"Now, as for this 'jarl...' Spirit, not flesh, they say. The regular folk hereabouts blame him for everything you might reckon of a bogeyman, and supposedly he has a nice big pile of gold off in the caves, like in all those stories.
"The truth's a bit more chilling." Pick pauses to see if anyone appreciates his pun, then continues. "From some digging I did into the legend when I was younger, I don't think he's the master of his lair so much as a prisoner of it. The glacier's labyrinthine heart was made to hold him... sort of a prison cell, made by the other spirits. Supposing that's all true, cells have locks, and locks have keys... which fits with the Vernal Key. But I should tell you: not many have ever returned to tell tales of this place. Not an easy place for the jarl to leave.... or for us, probably."