You hold in your hands a potent document. It reads:
Be it so known that the bearer of this charter has been charged by the Swordlords of Restov, acting upon the greater good and authority vested within them by the office of the Regent of the Dragonscale Throne, and granted the right of exploration and travel within the wilderness region known as the Greenbelt. Exploration should be limited to an area no further than thirty-six miles east and west and sixty miles south of Oleg's Trading Post. The carrier of this charter should also strive against banditry and other unlawful behavior to be encountered. The punishment for unrepentant banditry remains, as always, execution by sword or rope. So witnessed this 24th day of Calistril, under the watchful eye of the Lordship of Restov and authority granted by Lord Noleski Surtova, current Regent of the Dragonscale Throne.
Here
"Meow."
In each of your travels through southern Brevoy, rumors have reached your ears that the Swordlords of Restov have issued a call for brave souls to venture south into the lawless Stolen Lands on their behalf. Though bandit raids have long been a nuisance on the southern border, few can say for what true purpose the Rostlanders launch this initiative.
A typical day. The weather is nice, and ground pushes back on Toth's feet. Still, there is something on the winds. Gozreh has something to say, but I don't know what she's saying...
I am here to help guide you through the wilderness and help keep you all alive. It is my sworn duty and my oath to Erastil.
Taranis meets no one in his wanders through the wilderness, and various creatures he encounters are tight-lipped around the tiger. On Starday, he passed a weathered sign-post on a muddy farm road, the lettering too faded to read. But he knows where it points.
The Glenebon Uplands, a harsh and hilly scrubland to the west.
The Hooktongue Slough, a marshy plain around Lake Hooktongue.
The Greenbelt, a large wilderness of forests and grasslands.
The Nomen Heights, a steppe to the east broken by several mountain ranges.
Starday soon comes again.
Unrak, spending time in nature as he usually does with his half-brother Taranis, keeps his own eye out...
While studying the feat ahead and trying to pack everything he needs and shop for the parchment to draw maps of the area he’s going to explore, Augrym asks about the area he’s going to be going to and the goals of the people sending them. If he can, he’d also like to know about his new companions.
A sign in the road is good Toth. It's a translation of Golarion to men. There is much potential in this land. Potential for weal. Potential for woe.
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If you have spent any amount of time in or around Korvosa in recent years, you might have heard of a powerful wizard who had allied himself to King Odric the Stout. While not nearly as knowledgeable or famed as Grand Master Morkeleb the Mighty, those within the city and its flourishing suburbs would certainly know of Shain, the red haired elf conjurer who was among the Academae’s brightest rising stars and the King's most trusted advisors.
But what you may not have heard...
In a terrible battle in a desolate crypt beneath Irrisen, where King Odric sought one of the fabled relics of Kazavon, Shain erred. His pride and ambition overcame his abilities, and in the crucible of a pitched battle with demons, frost giants, and enormous wolves (each the size of a barn), Zed attempted to summon and bind a demi-god to vanquish his foes. This summoning was in direct disobedience to his king, so success would have meant serious consequences of a temporal nature. Unfortunately, success eluded the brash elf.
Upon arrival on the Prime Material Plane, the being Zed had summoned broke from his eldritch shackles and in a rage at the insolence of Zed’s spell levied judgement on the young elf. This creature, a demi-god of despair knew that death would be swift, torture and imprisonment of a cherished follower of Odric the Stout could invite retribution or a rescue attempt. This being devilishly devised a punishment to fit Shain’s crime of unbridled ambition and lust for power.
With a soul-shuddering cackle and a clap of otherworldly thunder, the demi-god stripped Shain of all his power and vanished. Like a tap run dry, the magic no longer flowed from the elf, but dribbled faintly. Years of study and discipline vanished in an instant. When Shain stood, in the eerie quiet of the desolate crypt after the battle, he looked imploringly to his liege lord. Odric was unsympathetic. Contravening his direct instructions, Shain has crossed several crystal clear lines; he had endangered the party, risked crushing defeat, and nearly caused the King to fail in his quest to retrieve and destroy the Relic of Kazavon.
When the party departed, Shain was left behind. The demi-god of despair had done its worst and its success was overwhelming to the elf. He vowed to regain his lost power, to undo what the fiend had wrought. He shed his name in shame - no longer would he be Shain. Taking another portion of his True Name, one that rung of finality, he ventured out into the world as Zed.
-Many months later-
In the shadows of a moss-covered stone pillar a hooded man waited, and as he stood silently his stillness was unnerving. Zed had always been mildly uncomfortable around underworld
figures, but he supposed now that he actually was an underworld figure, he should get used to it. The summoner fingered the rich hem of his robe, an unconscious gesture but a painful
reminder of his diminished power.
With a rustle of rich velvet, Zed’s hand turned over revealing an unadorned gold ring. The ring
was the fruit of weeks of his own labor – calling in favors from old associates, trading several of
his precious few remaining magical items, and handing over a fortune in gems he had tucked
away over his years of service to Korvosa’s monarch.
“This ring, placed upon your finger – provided it is either alone or paired with but one additional
magical ring – will give you the power to move and attack normally, even under the influence of magic that might otherwise impede your movement, such as paralysis, solid fog, slow, and web. It will also aid you in escaping from restraints, physical joint locks, or even from a wrestling pin should you find yourself in that unfortunate position. Known in wizardly circles as a Ring of Freedom of Movement – it is a valuable treasure, and one that many men would kill for.”
With barely a whisper of movement, during which the only thing Zed felt was the dead weight of
the gold ring disappearing, the hooded man retrieved the ring from the wizard’s outstretched hand. Without a word, the shadowy figure produced a folded parchment and passed it to Zed.
The men nodded at one another once, and parted.
Zed breathed easier when the rogue departed. With the sudden and unexpected calamity Zed suffered some ten months ago in that blasted Irrisenian crypt, he found himself entirely defenseless before a skilled assassin like the one who had just melted into the shadows. Without his magic, with his obviously blunted intellect, and absent most of his wealth and worldly power, Zed would be an easy target for a man such as that.
The summoner cursed his station in life for the thousandth time. Why had he been that careless and ambitious? Why hadn’t he simply restrained himself when his liege lord had asked him to? The void of power sucked hungrily at his soul and he ached for the surge of magic when he used to wield it in battle. Putting aside those thoughts, Zed focused on the task at hand. He had heard rumor that a specific tome could hold the power to restore him to his former stature as a wizard. The state of affairs he found himself in, an Acadamae graduate by the gods - yet unable to muster but the most feeble of dweomers, was untenable. He unfolded the parchment to read what had been written within.
Written in a firm but elegant hand, was a description of the Greater Tome of Perfect Restoration and its location. This book, bound in a cover burnished bronze had been finely etched with a celestial design. The pages within were inscribed in the rarest of inks upon finely tooled leather pages with but a single spell. This spell, crafted on another plane of existence in the rarified world of angels, demigods, heroes, and legendary creatures never seen in this world, was powerful enough to restore the reader to a former glorious version of himself.
Zed had pieced together rumors of this volume in his travels since King Odric had cut all ties him all those months ago, but to see the description before him seemed almost too good to be true. Everything he had learned seemed to be confirmed in this note, but Zed resolved to be careful of some treachery just the same. He resolved to depart Veldraine, heading for the location he had seen written below the tome’s description: The Temple of Erastil in Restov.
Again he cursed his new lowly station. He lacked the funds to secure a teleportation spell, which shouldn’t have even been necessary for a wizard of his standing. Recalling what he knew of Restov was a matter of thinking of the men of the Stout Legion who could claim ancestry or at the very least lineage from the northeast – they liked to talk incessantly about the finer points of Aldori and Taldan dueling. The trip there would be arduous and long, but to preserve what capital he had against the likelihood that he would need to leverage it against entry to the temple for the purpose of acquiring the Greater Tome of Perfect Restoration.
Zed, careful to give the impression that he was a wizard of means and power, crafted a tale that he was seeking first hand knowledge of some ley lines that criss-crossed the geography between Korvosa and Restov. The ephemeral nature of these lines, and their sensitivity to any manifestation of magic, meant he had to travel strictly by mundane means, and that he would not use his powers except in dire circumstances of self-defense. The story was plausible, and while he was reduced to the skill and power of a rank beginner, Zed could still converse fluently in the highly specialized language of an accomplished wizard. Fluently enough to confound a layman or to maintain his cover in the face of any curious magic-users he might encounter. While his accoutrements and paraphernalia as a wizard of power were quickly dwindling as he sold them to fund his quest to restore power, he hoped this new intelligence about the tome would restore him and end his quest.
Bitter, but for the first time in months hopeful, Zed ventured into the wilds.
From the outskirts of Korvosa, he secured passage on an armed riverboat called “The Glowing Maiden” which was ferrying a party of Paladins who had come to train under Captain Oso for a couple of months. They were fervent in their faith, and courteous to Zed. They were also kind enough to abstain from any magic while he was aboard the sturdy boat. Upon arrival at Vellumis, they parted as friends. One of the group, an Abadarian Paladin named Kilson Tuttle, having learned of the next leg of Zed’s journey asked his permission to bestow a blessing up on him, given the terrors known to inhabit Caliphas and her environs. Zed assented after a cursory consultation in his notebook for the dispositions of ley lines in Vellumis, and thanked Tuttle.
Whether it was because of Tuttle’s blessing or through Desna’s hand turning in his direction, Zed’s voyage to Caliphas hugging the coast of Lake Encarthan was largely uneventful. So too was the next leg of his journey which brought him through the Razmani’s realms.
Once in Thronestep, Zed was forced to part with his magical boots and an amulet to avoid an uncomfortable stay in one of the living god’s prisons. The iron masked priest was of course inscrutable, but the hollow voice from within the depths of his mask was tinged with anger as he dismissed Zed and drove him out into the night. The bribe was frustrating, since it left him without any magical defenses at all, and barefoot. A few silver procured him some acceptable boots for traveling, but he bridled with the humiliation yet again.
On the outskirts of Daggermark, the trade caravan he was traveling with was attacked, and Zed earned the contempt and anger of the merchants when in response to the bandit raid, Zed’s only contribution was a few scrawny dire rats to scurry through the melee. After the robbery left him in his trousers and an undershirt, he watched the bandits argue carelessly over the incredibly valuable robes as though they were a pittance. Now, left with naught but a small sachel of gems he had managed to conceal from the looting bandits, Zed found himself friendless, alone, and on foot.
Zed regretted summoning the demi-god in those crypts with such intensity, and with such self-loathing, that he hoped he would die. This was a departure from his ordinarily ravenous lust for restoration of his powers. The demi-god’s curse, which stripped him in a moment of his magic, his skills, a portion of his intellect, and his standing with King Odric, had now also stripped him of his will to live. The crisis was short-lived, but left the wizard shaken. Hope once again pushed him to pursue his goal, and he joined a riverboat crew on a humble, unnamed vessel heading into Brevoy. This time as a deckhand. Rather than a powerful wizard researching the abstruse topic of ley lines, Zed was now a down-on-his-luck elf hauling a very mundane lead line from the muddy depths and hollering depth readings to the pilot.
Several months later, and after many close calls Zed arrived in Restov on a cool evening with the shadows darkening the alleys in the small city. He had some pay from his service on the riverboat, and he had the gems he had concealed thus far. Zed found an inviting common room where warmth, light, and the sounds of clinking glasses mixed with mellow conversation and laughter. He wore a simple tunic. His boots were road-worn and muddy. As he entered the tavern, aside from a few bored glances, no one marked his entrance at all.
Zed spent a few weeks in Restov, finding light work near or in the temple to reconnoiter. In that time he marked a particular guard who was a drunkard, and determined to press the man for entry into the library in the depths of the temple’s sanctum where the tome was supposedly mouldering away, forgotten.
Zed befriended Brotnard, plied him with liquor, and after a week or so he managed to convince the man that he knew precisely where in the temple there was a map that would lead to an unimaginable treasure. The wizard justified his deception by reasoning that upon reading the book, his powers and otherworldly intellect would be restored, allowing Zed to magically reseal the library, and bampf away from the scene of the crime before the clerics arrived after their morning devotions and caught him. Once he escaped, he could secure some treasure out in the world that his friend would be able to parlay into the vast wealth promised him.
The plot was set, and although entry to the library was considered an extremely grave offense, Brotnard’s concerns were allayed when Zed discovered buried in some documents of the court that another man who had penetrated the Temple’s Library some years back had been punished with the lash and imprisonment. With hanging off the table, Brotnard was convinced. That night, after vespers and the clerical chanting that closed the sanctum’s doors, Zed would slip through the outer courtyard. Brotnard would be the only guard in a position to see or stop him, but by agreement he would of course not do so.
To protect his friend from implication, Zed suggested he partake of strong spirits. It would be better, he reasoned, to have the library penetrated due to Brotnard’s having been drunk on duty that to have the guard seen as a conspirator.
The cool night gave way to still humidity as Zed closed the door to the library, noting the tracery of magic, and hoping he could re-seal the doors in just the right way to fool the clerics. The stone steps were worn from centuries of traffic into the depths of this temple. Zed crept along and in a breathtaking moment, he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned a corner to behold stacks of books and scrolls to boggle the mind.
With barely contained excitement, Zed narrowed his search to the proper area as indicated by the rogue’s note. So far, all was as it should be. The wizard sifted through the stacks of ancient texts carefully - his respect for the knowledge contained over rode his excitement and the urgency of completing the mission before dawn. After several hours, the excitement gave way a bit to concern, which in turn gave way to fear, then panic. The tome was not here!
With a dwindling number of shelves left to peruse, Zed had nearly given up hope. Then he saw a bronze binding that was so covered in dust and tarnish that he had initially dismissed it as leather. With shaking hands, the wizard dared to touch it. He pulled it from its place, and revelled in the rich smell of the decaying paper and glue around him. The smell of ancient knowledge pervaded his senses and he opened the book’s beautiful cover with an exhilaration few men know through the course of their lives. He read.
He had learned of magical books in the Academae but Zed had never encountered one before now. He read what seemed like gibberish lines, inked in a fine hand across the pages in what seemed like Celestial, but wasn’t. He was unsure if simply starting to read would trigger the magic, but his guess was that he had to read through to the end. Laboriously, Zed dragged his eyes over the nonsense almost-Celestial text for many hours. His candle guttered and he lit another. With trepidation he noted the remaining pages were less and less, until at last there remained but a single page. Zed’s eyes ached, his palms were sweating and his temples throbbed. He turned the page, the final lines approached and he forced himself to read through the text on this page as carefully and diligently as he had read the rest of the volume. His eyes were tempted to flick to the bottom of the page, but he resisted the temptation and plodded through to the end.
He closed his burning eyes and waited. He had assumed the transformation would be immediate and dramatic, and when nothing spectacular happened he started counting silently. More out of intellectual curiosity than impatience, because perhaps he could write a treatise on the workings of magical tomes when he returned to the Academae.
He reached one hundred when his inner monologue began interfering with his silent counting. Something was wrong. The surge of power he had expected had not arrived. His mind was reeling in desperation and despair. The tome had not worked. Perhaps he had been lied to? Perhaps the book’s power was long gone, used up, or had never existed?
As he reeled at the implications, he heard angry voices - one accusatory and one defensive. ”I sealed the doors brother! I swear it!” The steps came closer, rounded the corner at the bottom of the steps and the chatter stopped. Zeroing in on the flickering candle light in the depths of the library, the two clerics crept through stacks of books, scrolls, and all manner of treasures to see what was going on.
He was discovered. After an initial commotion, the guards were summoned. Brotnard among them. Zed closed his eyes in despair and meekly allowed himself to be shackled and lead away. He stole a glance at his friend and gave what he hoped would be a reassuring look that he would not betray the man. Brotnard seemed more concerned with the map, but in his despair Zed had forgotten the conceit. He shook his head slightly, hoping against hope that no one would see the small non-verbal exchange.
By noon, Zed found himself penniless, sitting upright in a cell, and trying to ignore the searing pain from the lash that still stung his back. Perhaps, he thought, the solution is not to restore what was lost, but rather to rebuilt what had fallen. In that cell, with a mouthful of stale bread, Zed resolved that he would not break. He vowed he would apply himself to regaining his former glory, not through seeking to undo what the evil demi-god had done, but by earning it again. He would survive this and emerge from this jail cell a new elf - Unbroken.
Augrym, already in Restov, hears a great deal of chittering among the locals about the news that the Swordlords are sending explorers south. While everyone is certain that this has something to do with the rising tensions between Rostland and Issia to the north, the particulars are a little more elusive. Some says it is gold in the hills. Some say it is weapons of power, hidden away in the cairns of long-dead barbarian kings that dot the landscape. Some say it is outright colonization. What is clear is that few Rostlanders are willing to risk their lives in the Stolen Lands, but ambition drives most that are.
Confident that he is not so timid, and cognizant of a forthcoming need for mapmaking materials if he is to present himself as a candidate, Augrym visits a local cartographer. The woman takes one look at tattooed goliath and shakes her head regretfully. "You too, huh? As the stars see me, you're the fourth one today. No, I don't have any parchment. I sold it all already to that Varn fellow last week. Maegar Varn, I think his name was. Goin' to the Nomen Heights, he said, that he did, and needed all the parchment he could get. Cleaned me right out. Should've had a bigger stock!"
* * *
The brothers Redleaf are, this week, scraping their itinerant living in a small farming village on the Rostlandic plain north of Restov. Unrak is busy culling an invasive strain of thornweed from the potato fields, while Taranis provides guidance on which trees in the small nearby wood would be best to use for a new house and still leave the copse whole. As the sun descends beneath the horizon and the night turns chill, the brothers prepare to make their camp when the village headman approaches and invites them to his modest home for a drink. "Too cold to be out here, anyway. Come on! As we say: the temple is close, but the night is cold. The tavern is far -- but I have a cloak!" The greybeard chuckles and leads the way.
Inside, after a mead or three is had by all, the headman shares the news a rider had brought the week before. The Restov Swordlords are sending four separate groups into the Stolen Lands. Into the Glenebon Uplands to the west, Restov is sending an experienced band of adventurers known as the Iron Wraiths to push back the incursions of the barbarian tribes in that region. To the Nomen Heights in the east, they are sending an ambitious young swordlord named Maegar Varn with a group of mercenaries. The most important group, chiefly composed of diplomats and knights, is being sent to secure the trade routes on the East Sellen River that have fallen into disuse on account of the heavy piratry along the waterway. No word has come of whom the Swordlords are sending into the Greenbelt...
Are the The Hooktongue Slough, a marshy plain around Lake Hooktongue and "the trade routes on the East Sellen River that have fallen into disuse on account of the heavy piratry along the waterway." the same place?
Well, I suppose nobody could have expected a rush on parchment. Perhaps I will try a local wizard for extra parchment, or maybe a large notebook of some kind instead of rolled parchment if need be. This does put a damper on things as I am usually more prepared when starting on an expedition. I am going to need to meditate on this in order to keep my calm.
It is entirely understandable that you did not see this rush on parchment coming. Curious though, do you know of any place that I might go to find parchment or perhaps a notebook? Also, what can you tell me of this Margar? The Varn name tells me something but I am unable to place why.
The woman perks up. "A journal? A journal I can sell you." She fetches one and slaps it down. "That'll be 15 crowns. As for Varn, he's one of them swordlords. Young fellow. Excitable, but seems to have a good head on his shoulders."
If my background has the Swordlord campaign trait, is this enough to say I may have heard of him or his family?
”Thank you madam. The largest journal you have that’ll fit in a backpack, if you please.”
Is 15 crowns, 15 silver or 15 gp? If it’s 15 gp, that’d better be a damn fine journal and I may need to pass depending on how much money I have left for starting equipment. Lol
If my background has the Swordlord campaign trait, is this enough to say I may have heard of him or his family?
”Thank you madam. The largest journal you have that’ll fit in a backpack, if you please.”
Is 15 crowns, 15 silver or 15 gp? If it’s 15 gp, that’d better be a damn fine journal and I may need to pass depending on how much money I have left for starting equipment. Lol
"The largest? Alright." She ducks under the workbench and pulls out another journal. The pages are slightly larger, though the leather binding is not gilded as the other was. "Ten crowns."
The gaudy fashion and puffed-chest braggadocio of the young swordlords strikes Marc as distasteful, and the sprawling, crowded expanse of Restov itself makes him uncomfortable. He asks himself frequently why he bothered to visit the populous, rambunctious city, much preferring a the outlying farming hamlets to the bunched townhouses and crammed storefronts. He hopes a visit to the Temple of Erastil will bring him peace and calm.
He arrives at the front steps just in time to see a fire-headed elf dragged into the street and around the bend, his disheveled head hung low in shame. A pair of priests follow the pitiable elf out to the door, and one spits into the mud after him. "Probably some spy Surtova sent down to see what we've got worth taking," he comments to the other, oblivious of Marc's presence. "If the Issian usurpers want a war, they'll get one before long," the other agrees. Both shake their heads and turn back inside.
Throughout the day, whispers of war seem to be on every tongue. As the heart of Rostlandic pride, Restov's citizens show no little eagerness at the prospect, as many long to break free from the Brevic crown that Choral the Conqueror forged with dragonfire and Rostlandic blood two centuries hence. Still, some of the cooler heads raise a worry that Restov cannot fight on two fronts at once, and the territories east and south are nearly as much a threat as Issia to the north.
Toth goes hunting, touching upon an age old question.
Zed, confined as he is, makes an effort to learn more about what is going on in Restov. Old habits die hard, and he knows that what he might learn from the fellow guests in the adjacent cells might help him get his feet under him.
Zed is naturally intelligent, but his intellect often makes him seem self-important or arrogant. He grates on the average man, and the negative stereotypes of his elven heritage only reinforce their reactions to him.
Having never been especially charismatic, Zed nevertheless inquires of the guards and other prisoners. "What is the news of the day? Does anyone know of any stirrings in the streets?
Zed is roundly mocked for his refined tongue: "O-h, dear me, what in heaven's name has the rabble in such a tiddy-wally! Ha! What's got you'n here, fancy-pants? Steal your brother's title?" -- but eventually gathers that the pair of brutes in the cell next to him were jailed two days hence for causing a brawl with a visiting minor noble of House Lodovka, an Issian house closely aligned with the reigning House Surtova. The pair were eager to rough up any perceived 'Issian interlopers.'
Starday soon comes again.
Despite his ferocious appearance (huge size, powerful build, great mane of red hair & impressive red beard), Unrak has a force of personality that can make people more comfortable around him than would be assumed. When he is not in a stressful situation, his deep rumbling voice is almost soothing.
It's when he shrieks out his battle roar that his charsima works in the other direction...
But on this day, he is especially attuned to nature, and therefore calm, as he chats with the folk nearby.
The winds gather and strengthen in the days. It is not the might of their rush, but the gravity of their passing. Something brews on the horizon Toth. We must seek the eye of the coming storm.
In the quiet hours during the darkest part of the night, Zed listens to the scurrying rats and strangely peaceful snores of his neighbors.
He probes his memory for anything he might recall about House Ludovka or House Surtova.
Houses Ludovka or Surtova? Sup wit dat?
In the morning, Zed makes use of his limited magic to try making life easier and more comfortable for the men in the adjoining cells. Hoping to leverage goodwill through the practical use of a few cantrips, Zed presses for more information from the men around him.
The brothers Redleaf strike north towards Restov, and encounter the occasional rider or wagon heading the other way on the road. One such encounter introduces the pair to Breeg Orlivanch, a seedy and sweaty-looking trapper who mentions that he's just coming from a sale in Restov, and is heading to a place called Oleg's Trading Post before returning to his trapping grounds a few dozen miles to the southwest.
* * *
Bereft of his copious compendium of spells, Zed must make do with the few pages of cantrips he had ripped out for scrap paper in his hour of desperation. On the back of each page is scrawled hasty cataloging notes on the shelves of Temple of Erastil's library. Still, the pitiful magic is enough to entertain the uninitiated, at least for a few hours. Zed learns that Rostlandic fervor for independence from Brevoy is at an all-time high, at least considered over the past century. With this patriotic energy comes a wave of youths eager to prove themselves, and the Swordlord academies have had to turn away unprecedented numbers of applicants. Restov itself has experienced something of a population boom, and arable land and decent housing have both become especially precious resources.
Less than a half-mile down the road, Taranis just manages to hold out a hand to stop his brother. Peeking out of a muddy rut inches below the redbeard's foot is a half-submerged but armed bear trap.
"Bear trap? Here? I fault not the man who needs his belly filled and his skin warmed. In industry, however, is different brother. Be alert."
Unrak grunts & nods his thanks at the saving of his paw, and keeps his eyes more peeled for other, similar dangers.
Starday soon comes again.
Retcon from last week.
Zed's knowledge of Avistan, though once vast and still considerable today, is centered on a far-off land and does him little service among Brevic customs and traditions. He learns little this week, and the prospect of a long stay in a sparse cell begins to set in.
The Redleaf brother entered Restov itself after three days on the road. Following up on earlier rumors, Taranis learns that the Lord Mayor has invited all applicants eager to explore the Greenbelt under charter from Restov to gather at his offices at noon next Starday, 24th Calistril.
"You smell it too, don't you my friend?"
"Boof."
"Brother, I think Gozreh is telling us something. He speaks infrequently, and never with words. Still, I think she's telling us to find our weird there."
With a slap on Unrak's shoulder, Toth and Taranis hasten.
Unrak had learned long ago to defer to his brother in such matters; the big man’s attunement to nature was inward, whereas Taranis’ was outward. You surely hear him more clearly than I, brother. I’m with you.
He gives Toth a rough ear scrub. and you, ya great furball!
FACE LICK
A new opportunity finds its way to Marc's ears. The Swordlords are sending free agents south into the sparsely populated Stolen Lands to bring order, peace, and prosperity to those territories unclaimed by any king or sovereign. There are dangers, yes, but the people there could certainly use the help of Erastil's faithful to keep their communities safe.
The Lord Mayor has invited all applicants eager to explore the Greenbelt to appear at his offices at dawn tomorrow!
Zed continues his campaign to use his cantrips to ease the plight of his fellow prisoners, and to help his guards with some of the mundane issues of working in the prison, like cleaning, polishing their boots, or mending small items. He hopes the prisoners' lots are improved enough to loosen tongues. Or that the guards appreciate the extra free time they have with their days as a result of his paltry spellwork.
And knowing he isn't likely to learn much from interpersonal interaction, he determines to watch from inside his stuffy cell. Perhaps he can see or hear something to help his lot.
Though he tries to make the best of his current lot, Zed finds his pitiful abilities grating in comparison to the arcane might he once could wield. The frustration dulls his senses, and he misses even what few tidbits he might scrape from his surroundings.
The dawn of 24th Calistril, 4718 by Absalom Reckoning, creeps past the horizon to herald a crisp, clean day. The Lord Mayor's door finds but four men waiting in the cool morning air, along with one over-sized cat. It seems that most of Restov's eager adventurers have managed to sign up with one of the other expeditions, or are too comfortable with city living to leave it.
The offices of Lord Mayor Ioseph Sellemius are finely decorated in Opparan fashions several seasons old. Sellemius frowns at the cat and surveys his lot: a shaggy red-bearded fellow, a tanned and slightly untidy man stroking the cat's ears absentmindedly, a priest of Erastil's faith, and a heavily tattooed man with a hint of orcish blood in him. "I suppose you will have to do," he mutters, signing and sealing a prepared document.
Sellemius explains that banditry and other menaces on the southern reach of Brevoy have become too bold, and it is time for the brave to tame the wilds -- at least enough to bring peace. He offers this charter as a chance to explore, to document, and perhaps even to gain glory in the Stolen Lands that have fallen from Rostlandic control. You are given authority to explore an area known as the northern Greenbelt, thirty-six miles east and west and sixty miles south of an abandoned border fort to the southwest recently converted into a trading post by a man named Oleg Leveton. He stresses that it is important not to stray from this territory, as other agents have been sent with their own missions into other parts of the Stolen Lands. You are not to interfere.
Something about the company leaves the Lord Mayor unsettled. Perhaps the rudimentary quality of their gear limits his confidence in their success. Perhaps it is the several untrimmed beards that makes him wonder whether the mission of civilizing really calls to them. He moves to a side-door and knocks, speaking a few soft words to the guardsman that opens and answers from the other side. Turning back to you, he clears his throat.
"The clerics of Erastil recently discovered a thief elf in their vault, a powerful wizard -- or, at least, so he claims. I have no use for him in my jails, and perhaps you may find a use for him in your journeys. I shall send him with you."
A moment later, a bewildered elf with fiery red hair is brought in by the guardsman, uncertain what to make of the gathering. Sellemius takes a key from his servant and unlocks the elf's manacles. The Lord Mayor gives him a stern gaze. "I am banishing you from my city. I am also offering you a chance, perhaps, at redemption. These men here," he gestures, "are under charter from me to explore lands to the south. Travel with them and help them bring civilization to the Stolen Lands, and perhaps you will find there whatever it was that you sought to steal from the Temple." Looking over the wizard, he recalls how curiously penniless the elf had been when found, despite his fine robes, and he searches a moment on a bookshelf. Pulling out a dusty tome with a simple vellum binding, he thrusts it at the elf. He also tosses him a small coin purse. "Here. An old spellbook of my predecessor's arcane assistant, and some coin to buy yourself some food for the road. It is a long walk to Oleg's, I am told."