Homecoming (Inactive)

Game Master The Wyrm Ouroboros

ਉਹ ਕੀ ਸੀ?

Nissa does not reply to Khadga. The Ayudhapurusha had been needling her all morning; thus, begs a reminder who is the master. She lets the stillness without blanket the tempest within. Khadga hates stillness and silence. It finds its perfection movement and action. But, she does not hold true anger at the Ayudhapurusha.

It must be trying to awaken me to mine own divinity. For only the weapons of the gods possess Ayudhapurusha.

Sometimes it feels a burden to carry a sliver of a god in her thoughts at all times, but enlightenment never comes easily. With these grandiose thoughts, Nissa's left arm extends towards the floor palm up, signifying the gift giving gesture of compassion. Her right arm never strays from its ready position and her watchful gaze does not waver.

If there is any subtle rebuke in this mudra, it is overwhelmed by the magnanimity of the acknowledgement. And in its magnanimity it stakes a claim to the Reeve for only the truly noble could afford magnanimity. She is no mere girl. She is no lackey.

Meditating on her inchoate "divinity" does have one practical effect for Nissa, it silences her predatory urge.

Khadga: What was that?

Today, though, has been somewhat of a kick at his foundation. Here he is working, unenthusiastically, beside greenskins. The Keeper's wisdom cannot be ignored. Strange as it seems,the orc who speaks in the weird tongue is also either rather wise, or else the Keeper is making it appear so since he's doing all of the translating.

This brute, though. Claiming humans are more of a menace to orcs than vice versa? Ludicrous! Seeing the brute standing there close enough to get those filthy claws on Bluebright...

Bluebright. She probably thinks Brand is a fool at this point. Would she even want to see him this evening? He came to the grove as a friend and respectful visitor and almost started a fight right in front of Bluebright and the Keeper.

And now this news. The greenskins are moving more quickly and aggressively than first believed. Possibly before the snow falls. And a mage-lord? What part do the orcs have in raising such a fiend? Are they simply drawn to evil like flies to honey and it's the mage calling them, or are they the ones raising him?

"Keeper," Brand begins, hoping his tone sounds more certain than he feels, "if there is any way I can be of service in this, I am at your disposal. I have no idea how one might find, much less stop or kill, a mage-lord, but I will do what is in my power to find a way."

He then adds in a neutral tone, "Whatever part the greenskins may have in this, you know I am happy to stand in their way as well." Though it went against his nature, he said this generally to the room rather than directing it specifically at Nok.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Brand was hoping for a chance to prove himself against the dark-hued giant. However, he knew this was neither the time nor the place.

In another corner of his mind, he was hoping that his volunteering had not guaranteed he would miss out on the chance of spending the evening with Bluebright. Maybe more than the evening...?

"Beatrice, your hand will be required," he murmurs. "Sketch the mark by the pommel, please."

This beer is too weak for such dire news. A strong dark dwarven ale would be more appropriated…

Baltor came to the Crowsfoot to question the keeper about the Heartstone, thinking it was a serious matter and now it seems just a pebble compared to the avalanche of rocks that a mage-lord represented. He heard as the ranger volunteered himself and could not stop himself of thinking that if sent alone, he would be killed regardless of his experience. Especially for he felt a great rage against the greenskins. He should not go alone, but it wasn’t the only reason.

"You bring dire news, Master Nok. So dire that my concerns about the sudden shifts of the heartstone are now of minor importance. I have never been to the Trollheim Godswood before but I’ll follow you, if you accept my aid. I’m no keeper but I am no apprentice either." Baltor drinks another sip of his weak beer before continuing. "There were never much love between our kind, Keeper Nok, but this is one of those critical moments we all heard when we were children that different races put their differences aside to fight a direr danger."

"Don't underestimate the importance of your coming here, Baltor," Kubrik says quietly. "Thoq had only a feeling. Your news confirmed it in the most emphatic way possible."

"I'm no Master. But Trollheim isn't where the problem is," grunts Nok. "Ice Bay is. The city is swelling with greenskins, and I'm sure that someone there is manipulating them - and maybe manipulating the tribal leaders, too, because there's a lot of movement between Ice Bay and White Fang. And I don't know if that ties into this kha-phecht, but it's definitely not helping the situation."

Horst leans up and steps back from the blade.

"The Father's will is at work here, Provost."

He nods toward the knife.

"I pick up some books from the Church Library from time to time, for when I leave my boy Njorl to tend the forge himself for a few hours. Just last month, I picked up s book about the smiths of old Gondahar. The the book was older than I am.

A forge gone cold a hundred years since.

"If it is that so, I shall visit Trollheim another time." He turns to Brand before continuing. "Master Brand, if your will to help is still strong, I shall ask you to guide me to Ice Bay. We druids love our lands and we know how to walk among the wild places, but a city, especially Ice Bay, is not my territory. We should leave as soon as possible."

Baltor gets up and finishes his beer.

"Oh, and keeper Nok, when I do come to Trollheim to visit, I'll bring you a keg of the finest dwarven dark ale I can get!" Baltor laughs. Baltor Always complained with Kubrik about the weakness of the beer in the Crowsfoot region... too much fruity.

And I suppose we should leave as soon as possible Brand thought, I can't put my own desires ahead of this threat. Hopefully, Bluebright will still be willing to meet with me when I return. Then, somewhat less enthusiastically, he thought, Hopefully I return.

Turning his attention back to the assembled group, and not actually looking at Nok, Brand asked, "If anyone has advice on specific things we should be looking for or specific gear we should acquire, I'm open to suggestion. Mage-lords are not what I normally hunt."

When the dwarven priest mentions that the blade may be magic. Nissa begins to concentrate on the magical auras in the vicinity. She was curious about the knife, but she was more concerned with the possibility that there were invisible foes in the area which she could only detect by their auras. Protecting the Reeve and the city were her responsibility at the moment, and she had not considered that there might be magic involved. What if the killer never left the scene of the crime?

Detect Magic

The professor's second examination takes less time than the first, focusing primarily on the wound itself. When he is finished, he turns to the Lord Provost.

"Driving the dagger so far in required a great deal of effort- four or five strikes, at a minimum. The wound was fatal by the second blow, but the girl likely remained conscious throughout."

The dwarf slowly clenches his fists at the Professor's announcement until his knuckles whiten, his calluses creaking faintly. He unclenches them after a moment, but says nothing.

The old man watches the work with the killing tool less than he does the researchers who are telling him about it - and about the work that was done with it. "I see," he says quietly after both Horst and Brooks are done with their examinations of their respective objects - one a knife, one the corpse that was created by it. His eyes do shift sideways to regard Nissa for a moment as she murmurs in Aryindic and carefully frames her hands into meditative figures; his thin lips get thinner for a moment before he turns back to the others. "Well. Unless there is anything else you can tell us, Professor, I believe we are about done here. Acolyte IronBrow, Professor, if you can finally release those knots and cover the poor girl up until the wagon from the Temple comes to take her --"

The door that leads into the street opens. "Sir?" His eyes go (how could one's eyes not??) to the body still bound to the table; he blanches somewhat. "Um. The ironcart is here. Who ..."

"Kassenbaum. The City Guard has sent along their usual four?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent." The old man starts up, triphammering out instructions disguised as requests. "They can watch the outside for us. Please instruct them, then retrieve Pavel from the back door; bar the entrances as you come inside, I'd rather not have the tin men bumbling around and lousing everything up. Professor, if you'll please take the rest of your samples to the bar - do cover it first, we don't want Lieutenant de Navan's polish spoiled - and finish packaging them up and placing them into the evidence case. As for the dagger, please bind it carefully, and use the ties around the oilcloth; remember not to touch it. I don't believe it will fit into the evidence case, though. Beatrice, you can be finished with your sketches in, say, ten minutes? Good, good. I'm sorry, but the dagger will have to go into your portfolio."

His head tilts to one side as he eyes the ceiling, listening to the snoring forms on the other side. "Acolyte, Miss Alami, would you be willing to assist my provosts in taking into custody whatever individuals are upstairs? Alive," the old man emphasizes, having seen Horst's clenched fists.

"Take your bear with you before he eats all the berries, then, will you?" The ancient elf's fingers are laced as he watches the Trollheim Keeper lumber from the half-buried longhouse; the black orc's coarse laugh lingers around the entrance well after he's gone. "And you?" Kubrik asks of the smaller orc with the six-foot stone mace.

Thoq shrugs, and replies, his unintelligible words full of certainty, almost soothing in their implacability.

"Hmm. Makes sense. The closest major mass would be ..." He trails off, thinking for a moment. "Hm. Would be Kedron's Tor, actually. You could take a look at the heartstone yourself, if you need to. Baltor, would you -- no, I don't think so, you've a worse job ahead than giving directions." The Keeper rubs his chin for a moment. "They don't take kindly to greenskins at the Tor," he warns the orc. The presumably-a-druid-orc responds with a couple of words and an obscure gesture, which makes Kubrik bark a laugh. "Suuuure. Good luck."

Thoq nods, standing up from the bench on which he's been sitting, bare feet never under the table, and takes up the huge stone club again with the ease of one familiar with the burden. He makes a gesture, right hand over his heart then forward and down so that his palm is up, first to Baltor, then to Brand, before heading out as well, six feet of wood and stone slung over his shoulder.

"Um ..." Kubrik looks definitely abstracted for a moment. [/b]"Let me think. Frankly, we couldn't do much more than cook breakfast for a kolshi'ichanth mage-lord flexing its power, so ... let's deal with the moose in the house first - Ice Bay and whoever is whipping up the greenskins into coming south from Trollheim this-a-way. Then we can work on figuring out what to do about why the northern tribes have been coming south. Since neither of you are city people, exactly, you're going to need allies, and for allies familiar with a city, you'll need to head into Mosval."[/b] He eyes the two. "Either of you know anybody there who might be able to help, or help you find someone who can?"

Meantime, Keeper Kubrik seemed to have little insight into stopping a mage-lord, but the next part of his statement resonated quite well with the ranger: deal with the greenskins and with whoever is spurring them to motion.

The Keeper advises them to find an ally with more city wiles to help them out. Mosval. That's where he tells them to search, and he asks if they know anyone there.

"I can't say I have a multitude of friends in any given city, but I do know some merchants based out of Mosval. I don't know that they'd be much help in and of themselves, but they might be able to point us in the right direction to find such assistance."

Thinking on it more, Brand remembered specifically having scouted ahead for these merchants and eliminating a greenskin ambush before it ever came to bear on them. He didn't like "calling in favors," but it was good to know he had that if he needed it.

I like this orc, good man, even if a bit brutish in excess.

Baltor also stands up and repeats Thoq's compliment. Anyone able to bear such weapon definitely earns his respect.

"I know a dwarf that lives in Mosval, Horst is his name, from the IronBrow clan. We used to be good friends when were smaller, even if he is a couple of years older." Baltor things in his old friend for a couple of seconds.

I hope he overcame his loss... if I remember him correctly, he venerated his father and knowing what he had done and losing him soon after was a terrible blow to him.

"I have heard no news about him since I came back from the Haelanesh, but I bet he'll welcome us like only a dwarf knows in his home... his wife, Luda, used to cook incredibly!" Knowing he was getting lost in his memories, Baltor looks to Brand. "So, Master Brand, shall we leave? Do you have a horse? If not, you are welcome in my wagon!"

He then adds, "I also appreciate your offer of a ride, but I have a mount already, so I'm covered in that respect."

Then, turning somewhat sheepishly to the Keeper, Brand adds, "Master Kubrik, I know that we must leave with haste and that your druids have daily responsibilities to tend to, but would it be alright if I find Bluebright and bid her farewell before I depart?[/b]"

Then, feeling the blush rise behind his beard again, he adds, "I simply mean to thank her for her hospitality and kindness and to apologize for my poor behavior earlier with the greenskins."

The Professor moves to do as he is asked, first helping the dwarf to untie the knots holding the girl's body in place, then finishing up with the samples and placing them in the evidence case, before finally binding the dagger and handing it off.

Shall we?

"As always, Keeper, it was a pleasure to meet you, may your days last as long as the oaks from these woods, for none of us will ever be ready to take your place. Until the next season." Baltor bows to the elder.

"Now, if you excuse me, I shall guarantee that everything is prepared to our travel. I'll be waiting for you in the stables, Brand."

Before he leaves the room, Baltor whispers to Brand. "Take your time, no need to rush but remember, we druids do not read thoughts and it is always better to be sorry of saying something than of not saying it..."

Baltor leaves the room, whistling as he walks in the path of oaks and stones. He does not walks directly towards the stable though, passing by the druids lodge and kitchen to buy some food for the travel.

Hum... some pickled vegetables, goat, lamb and boar cured meats, a couple sausages, with garlic if they have, oh and some chilies and...

Feeling relieved that there her senses revealed no traces of a hidden murderer, Nissa inclines her head.

"Alive. It will be as you instruct, Lord of Provosts."

Nissa accompanies the Provosts up the stairs while keeping part of her attention focused on the professor.

Now, if the Keeper also gives his blessing to say his farewells to Bluebright, Brand will have to figure out exactly what that farewell would in fact be...

"Better to be sorry of saying something than of not saying it," Baltor had said. I hope Bluebright feels the same way. And that I can actually find the words to day.

"My name is Hayden, I suppose you might be able to explain why we find ourselves locked up this morning? Ummm, it is morning right?"

Big surprise with this guy, right?

Whatever the case, Provost Valcone (Val-CONE-ee) leads you (without speaking, and at a trot for you) through the streets of Hammersmith, down through the Docks, and across the Lake Bridge over to the lower area of Hillside. Between the Lurai River and the Long Canal stand the fine homes of noble and wealthy merchant; while a few of them (typically of nobles) are mansions, most others are more akin to townhomes, not unlike those that make up the Little House, albeit larger than the ones that the Little House was made from. A few (a very few) buildings possess the most top-end places; one memorable location, just up the street from the Fortress, possesses four such establishments: Vorbar's, a walk-down fifty-some-seat no-reservations-taken expensive-as-hell restaurant, the first and the finest, run by the same two families, the human Vorick (mostly serving) and the halfling Barholm (mostly cooking) for over seven thousand years; Flaco, Ltd., a clothing store of the most haute couture and with prices to match, located on the first floor; MVK Jewelry on the third floor, renamed only sixty years ago but said to have the best safe anywhere but in Gondahar; and on the top floor, the only privately practicing wizard (or at least supposedly) in Mosval, available for consultation. (Not his workshop, note, just a place where he can charge three arms and five legs for a discussion about why your teenage daughter doesn't want to marry the husband you've picked out for her.) Plenty of other places exist in little clusters throughout Hillside; the nobility and the rich don't like to have to travel too far for their shopping, after all.

Housing the Mosval government, the Fortress was previously the home of the ducal line, rebuilt after the frostwyrm's dominance (and their eradication) more than seven hundred years ago. Though the council still holds the city 'in the Duke's name', it's commonly accepted that that's a fiction, and 'when the duke returns' is local for 'never'. Nonetheless, the sixty foot walls are impressively tall, as is the twenty-foot gate. The drawbridge over the fast-flowing Tumbler Canal is raised and lowered at least once a day, though it's been more than two centuries since it's been done due to battle.

Inside and roundabout and up a couple flights of stairs, Provost Hall is a peculiar mixture of desk duties and combat practice; on the fourth floor along the river wall, half of the long, low, wide room continues to be used for its original purpose, as a salle; as you enter through a door in one of the 'short' sides, three pairs are on the inside half in painted-out lanes (some of them oddly shaped), working out against each other with wooden practice weapons, none larger than a longsword. Two archers stand with their backs to the wall you entered through, chalk-bag-headed-arrows drawn and aimed at targets on the far side of the room - through the combatants.

To your left, closest to the expanded arrow slits, rests a column of desks facing the door you came in; each desk possesses a lamp on a hook able to brighten its surface late at night. Another four individuals work at those desks, three gathered around the second one nearest the door, with the last doing paperwork roughly halfway down the way. At the far end, directly opposite the door through which you walked, is a closed door.

Your guide leads you over to the trio - a frowning middle-aged man, muscled but not bulky; a dour-faced dried-up kernel of an older man, standing but with both hands upon the ebon cane upon which he leans; and a young woman, perhaps fifteen years, looking a little pale. All three are looking at something on the desk, and as you approach, the first man is talking; you can catch the tail end of the conversation.

"... really rather you'd let me do this, Milo. Now that they've shown ..."

"My call," says the older man, turning towards you and your guide. As the young man stops and comes to attention, the older man regards you for a long moment, then nods - or, to be more precise, head-bows. "Mr. Dardragon, I presume. Would you care for a seat, or ..."

"Miss Salt," says the young woman diffidently, naming a halfling every halfling in the city knows, Veronica Salt, the only halfling in the Provosts, "has a platform by desk eight, sir."

"By all means, let us adjourn to desk eight, then. Matthew?" The middle-aged man flips up the ends of the leather to cover whatever it is they were looking at, then picks it up and heads down-hall; as your guide seems to be about to follow, the old man turns and says, "Thank you, Walter. That will be all."

For a moment, young Walter Valcone seems to be about to protest being dismissed, but since he clearly is, he exits back out the door in what can only be called a huff.

The prune looks after him with a faint smile, then nods again to you. "After you, please."

Once down by desk eight (and a very nice platform it is, right up next to the wall, with halfling-height steps and everything necessary to put you on a relative level with the humans), Matthew places the heavy object back onto the desk and flips the cloth back off it, revealing it to be a small chest; the lower half of it (and the leather upon which it sits) is wet with something oily.

"Mr. Dardragon," says the old man. "This item has proven to be dangerous to investigate, and we haven't the key or keys necessary to open it safely. Would you do us the honor of persuading it to reveal its secrets?"

The Keeper looks amused at Brand's request; his reply is, "Forester, I'm not her father, and even if I was, Bluebright's a grown woman. Talk to her if you dare; I'm not sure I would, but I've always been a little chickenhearted when it comes to the other sex." Asiding to Baltor, he murmurs, "What, only that long? Got a death-wish in for me, do you?" He laughs quietly, then gestures Brand to head off. "Go find Bluebright, Master Brand. Baltor, if I can put a flea in your ear for a few moments ..."

----------

The Keeper watches Brand leave, then finally smiles indulgently. "He's young. Talented," he admits, "but young. So is Bluebright, though, so ... give me half an hour, and then you can go see to harnessing your aurochs. Lovely beast, by the way. Haven't seen one of them in years." (You had, after all, arrived last night - a little late to talk to the Keeper, but what can you do.)

The old elf's face holds a thoughtful expression as he watches a six-foot-long lynx pad past the longhouse's opening, black tips to the tufts at her eartips and cheeks; a handful of kits, each about a third her size, pad alertly past a little bit later. One of the kits pauses to look inside and meets the Keeper's gaze, but not for long; Mom's call to order is a short rasping rrowl, and the kit turns and pounces out-of-sight after her.

The sight makes the Keeper smile for a moment. "Life goes on, I suppose," he says. "And it's up to us to make sure it does. Baltor, before you start getting ready, could you hunt down the following and have them come see me? I need to send messages to the other godswoods." He names off four or five others, most of whom you recognize as being fellow druids, who aren't too tough to find, but it does consume most of that half an hour. And while the druidic circle does have stores to last out the winter and much of the sparse spring that follows, they recommend that if you've money, you'll find better bargains in Mosval; they don't usually take money (due to having little use for it), instead preferring to trade goods or services directly. It's a very ... communal society.

----------

Bluebright, by the time Brand finds her, is in her own hogan, putting a few things together. She smiles - grins - at him, but doesn't stop her limited amount of packing. "Master Kubrik will be wanting me to head somewhere," she tells him, then pauses and lifts a hand. "Don't apologize," she tells him. "The wind does not apologize to the tree, nor the mountain to the wind, nor the water to the mountain. Wolves do not apologize to deer, or deer to the grass; do not apologize for what you are. People apologize, and make a muddle and a mess of things. Be what you are, entirely and unapologetically. If perchance you learned that not all greenskins are terrible monsters, well, then let that inform your thoughts in the future. No intelligent species is nothing but monsters; that does not mean you must cease your study of the best ways to fight them, because no intelligent species is free of individuals who are monsters." She gives a smile, and though she makes no bones about it being only a pleasant interlude, well ... though you are headed one way, and she another, you are there right now, and so is she.

But it is a very pleasant interlude.

"Arthur Harold Renaud," comes the voice of Burhul's manservant, civility slowly seeping into his voice. "Valet. Possibly 'at liberty and seeking employment,' depending on how all this plays out." Getting drugged and dropped in the clink is apparently not sitting well with him. Or who knows, maybe he thinks Burhul did do something to merit a prison sentence.

"David Tehloff," says the bus-boy (and probably general laborer). "I work at the Sword of Boram."

"Land-lord's door opener?" asks the old man, hands still resting on his cane.

"Yes sir. Makes roisting non-payers a lot easier. Cuts down your expenses for new doors a lot, too." He gestures with his head to Horst, Nissa, and his partner, and heads upstairs at a slow walk - not creeping, but not tromping, either.

The arrest of what winds up being three people is rather anticlimactic; the middle-aged man finds a narrow, two-inch-tall hole in the wall perhaps six inches away from the first of the two closed doors upstairs, and works the piece of shaped metal through it. A twist, a shifting, and a push and a thump sounds from the other side as the bar drops to the floor; the door pushes easily open after that, the brace that had held the bar in place fallen out. A young man and a twentysomething elven or half-elven woman are in the first room, an empty pitcher and two cups on the bedtable; a very well-built orc is alone in the second, but the same sort of pitcher and cups (again two) are on his bedtable as well.

None of them can be awakened.

All three are nude and must be dressed, at least in their underwear. "Ah," muses the middle-aged provost, "the glories of our work. Creep into murderer's bedrooms, find them unconscious, and have to make them decent. While we're at it, collect some of their clothes," he suggests to Horst and Nissa as he and his twentysomething younger partner (who's been blushing ever since they opened the first door) hoist the young man from the pair and start downstairs with him. "This boy's clothes look to be scattered across the floor in here," he adds to Nissa; she's had the dubious honor of 'getting' to dress the elf or half-elf woman.

That Professor mentioned a sleep drug...

Nissa checks each room to make sure there were no hidden surprises for the provosts. She wondered why everyone seem convinced the murderer had stayed and drugged himself, which was the only explanation why they did not rouse when put in chains. It seems like it would create suspicion, not remove it.

Though it isn't her job, Nissa does strive for excellence. She cannot help herself really. Once she has the half-elf clothed and shackled, she peers into he nooks and crannies of the room. So much of this scene doesn't make sense to her. Beneath the bed she discovers a curious box, which she examines for magic and traps.

"What do you have there?"

"I...that is...I want to tell you something," he blurted, ensuring that he'd have to come up with something to say.

Her beautiful eyes turned to him, perhaps expectantly.

"You're..." he sighed, and he started again, "You're fascinating. Probably not the right word, probably not a good enough word, but it's what I feel. Or at least, it's the best way I can put it."

He paused. She kept looking, and then she nodded for him to continue.

"You're stuck in my brains deeper than any arrow could be. You're like a force of nature that I just can't stop." He paused again as if trying to find the right words.

He didn't have to. She simply walked forward. Then, as he was starting to try to bring words from his lips again, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his. He looked at her for a moment, shocked. Then, encouraged by her smile, he leaned in and made it a proper kiss.

"I'll be...well, I guess we'll both be going soon," he began when they pulled their lips apart.

"True," she replied, "you are headed one way, and I another, but you are here right now, and so am I," and with that, she pulled him along with her as she moved to her bed, paused for a moment to move her bag to the floor, and then pulled him down with her.

And some time later, the ranger was standing beside that bed. Coy smiles were being exchanged as Brand was finding his gear and getting his clothes arranged and Bluebright, having neglected the simple homespun dress, had gone back to getting her few things gathered to pack.

"When all of this with the greenskins and such is over, will we...I mean could we...?" Brand tried to ask.

"We'll see," Bluebright replied. "Life is always in motion."

And so, accepting her answer, and giving her one more embrace and kiss, Brand set off for the stables to rejoin the dwarf.

Nissa freezes beneath the bed as Khadga gives his ominous oracle. You shouldn't give dire if/then prophecies, Khadga if you don't mention the alternatives as well.

The swordswoman possesses some familiarity with prophecy, having listened to her mother oracular visions as a child. Perhaps she would have some insight, Nissa muses.

Carefully, almost with reverence, Nissa pulls the strange cask towards her and removes it from beneath the bed.

She should take the now dressed half-elven woman out of the from room. Nissa debates whether she should reveal the cask to the sardar. The consequences to revealing it to no one were clear, but to whom it was revealed might also determine the course of fate.

She examines the cask closely before slipping it in a small bag. She leaves the woman on the bed clothed. And exits the room.

She is clothed," Nissa calls to the provosts and to the dwarven priest. I must speak to the, Lord of Provosts.

There is an urgency to her graceful decent that was not in her previous movements.

"Sardar, I must request a private audience," she asks politely.

"He’ll do well. Only worried about what can come of this… the lives of a ranger and of a druid are not normally filled with love stories… quite the opposite. Well, regarding the aurochs, if you have time, you are welcome to see Tuk, he is an awesome specimen, not so big, but strong and fast."

Baltor spent the next couple of minutes observing the felines. He was especially fond of cats, especially the bigger pumas from the mountains.

"As you wish my Keeper." With a bow, Baltor leaves the keeper behind, seeking the names that were given to him. "Until the next time."

----------

The first name was Jorvik, a man from the north and member of the Kelshin Rock Godswood. He was bald as an egg… and had also the shape of one. He was found tending the several species of bees that inhabited the Crowsfoot Godswood. Baltor heard that Jorvik was experimenting how the various bees would produce the best mead… this was his dream, simple as that. With quick words Baltor passed the message, unwilling to disturb Jorvik in his holy jod.

----------

Baltor located Iolara quickly, for he knew exactly where she was, under the biggest trees of the godswood, where few lights crossed the canopies of the trees. She was an elf born with a special condition on her eyes, allowing her to see in darkness as good as any dwarf, but bright lights hurt her eyes. She was also young and beautiful and they had a thing in the past the lasted as long as a normal druid affair.

"I has been a long time Iolara… Mooneyes, right? Glad to see you also finished your training. I had no doubt though." He wanted to say more, but he had no time to lose right now, even with matters of the heart. "Master Kubrik wants to see you, as you are the only representing member of the Darknest Godswood around… dark days are coming, darker than both our eyes could see." Baltor leaves her with a sigh and sweet memories of another time.

----------

Tardarmoor was also easy to find for he was the biggest druid in all of the Godswoods. Baltor was not sure if he was a big man, a small giant or even a half-giant… if it was even possible. He met him in the Haesslich Godsring a couple of years before.

"Long time no see you Tar! Have the giants and the Byres destroyed each other already?" He liked Tar, even though he was a slow as the mountains. He also knew that if he was going to wait for his answer, it would take him the next couple of hours. He quickly continued. "Master Kubrik wants to see you… there is an emergency." He left Tar behind, hoping he would come see the Keeper in a couple of days.

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The last name, Hasslov, was from the far south, a severe man with the garbs of a desert walker and burnt hands covered in bandages. The keeper told him to just deliver the message, nothing more. Hasslov was a dangerous man. Baltor approached him and said only a couple of words before leaving him behind.

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Finally at the stores, Baltor traded a supplies before heading to the meeting point. He saw the ranger entering the stables with the biggest smile he had ever seen.

Looks like they barely talked! Baltor laughs before greeting the ranger.

"Always better to travel thinking you have something to go back… or else you never know where your feet might lead you!"

"Indeed, friend Baltor, it is good indeed to know there's something to come back to. Just as surely as stars in the nighttime sky lead you through darkness."

Then, ceasing his laughing and taking on a more serious disposition, Brand added, "I suppose we should get going. Wagons don't travel as quickly as unencumbered horses, so we'd best make the most of the daylight. I can't see in the dark as well as you can, my friend."

Of course, the aurochs can't see in the dark either, so it's a good thing that both of you have made good use of your time. Like every other godsplace, though, the surrounding several miles are unfriendly to wheeled methods of transport; like most godsplaces, only those who truly wish to reach it can do so. The road between Mosval and Moosejaw is now little better than a two-rut track, but that's better by far than picking your way around fallen trees and finding fords you can get a wagon over; the two of you will reach the track by nightfall, but only just.

Take the lead master Brand... I may have a great knowledge of the wilds, but your experience on these lands surpasses my own by far. Also, since we are slowed by Tuk here, please keep an eye for any dinner that might come hopping in our way!

Baltor was part of the druid's sect that defended the consume of meat, since the man was indeed part of the great food chain... sometimes predator sometimes prey. One thing that Baltor always loved was to eat, so he kept his eyes open for anything that he could enjoy.

Horst comes down the stairs, sets the Orc's clothes on the table near the Provost, and watches.

With any luck, the noise of the wagon would send a creature darting out of its path and right into Brand's aim.

She asks in disbelief, before adding, "Is this some kind of local shakedown for money or something?"

"This certainly seems ridiculous."

"Ms. River, it has been decided that the information you - and your compatriots, thank you, I am not certain that the idea that several of you were involved has of yet been contemplated, but be assured that I will bring it to the attention of my superiors, along with correct attribution - desire to receive is to be kept from you. Master Zoosken's suggestion, I expect, but it may have a different source. Something about knowledge possessed by the guilty."

Another moment or two passes, and then the calm, collected male's voice comes again. "Now. Young Telhoff, correct me if I am mistaken; claiming employment at the Sword of Boram, you also claim Mosval residence?"

"Residence?!?" exclaims the young man. "I grew up here!!"

"Residence and citizenship for your place of origin, then. Thank you. Mr. Dha'zeek, Ms. River? Your places of origin? Village, town, and nearest city if necessary?? And if you are not from Mosval, your reason for being here, please. Mr. Dha'zeek, you may speak for your - apparently current, but by no means continued - valet if he so wishes at the moment."

"For the moment," comes Arthur's voice, composed and icy, "he may.

Mason's Welby is the time-dragger at this point, but I believe with him being back from vacation, we can hammer out his sequence pretty rapidly and get you all pretty much into the same place at the same time. If the two of you will feel free to share some of your backstories - tell a funny anecdote or two (or just the tail-end of them), just remember to keep it low- to no-magic and not too overblown, of the '-- and he left his pants behind!!' sort - that'll delay you boys until I roll you into town the afternoon after the murder.

Nissa stiffens slightly when the Reeve dismisses her concerns and when the dwarven priest unknown to her follows her down the stairs, presumably overhearing her desire for privacy. Despite Khadga's warnings, she could not bring herself to share her oracle to the rude and the untrustworthy. Let whatever followed be on their own heads. Truly they were the authors of their own misfortune. More the fool her for trusting in the Reeve's wisdom before seeking the council of her mother.

"Carefully hidden beneath the woman's bed, I found this box. Given the care taken in its placement, I think it may be of grave import."

The professor eyes Nissa carefully, wondering why the discovery of this box warrants a private audience.

"Mr. Dardragon, I presume. Would you care for a seat, or ..."

Welby stands tall long enough to bow back to the man before leaning back over to catch his breath. Still winded, "Yes sir. Welby...at your service."

As Walter is dismissed, Welby bows grandly. "Thank you for fetching me Walter. The pleasure was all mine." There is a bit of good natured teasing in his tone.

"After you, please."

Welby nods and enters the room. "Thank you sir."

"This item has proven to be dangerous to investigate, and we haven't the key or keys necessary to open it safely. Would you do us the honor of persuading it to reveal its secrets?"

Welby's eyes widen at the chest. It is obvious he is intrigued by it. He pulls out a wad of leather which is rolled up and tied with a black strap from his bag and places it on the table. He unties the strap and rolls the leather out, revealing a nice set of tools. He laces his fingers and supinates his hands causing his knuckles to crack. Within seconds, he is examining the chest closely. He first checks for any type of traps. After that, he methodically chooses tools and gets to work on cracking the lock.

"...so you see, my father, Bain, was the only consistent interaction I had growing up. Now and again, he'd talk about his life as a member of the Whole Earth Society. Nothing too specific, mind you, mostly just vague references."

Brand's eyes then took on a bit of a gleam as he recalled a cherished memory. "One time, though, he shared a bit more. Not quite a story, but about as close as he ever got to one. We were talking about the lay of the land: geography. Anyway, he mentions Ice Bay. This got him remembering and he mentions one of his Society brethren, Thyare. So, he tells me he and Thyare were talking about possible places to travel to at one point and Thyare mentions Ice Bay. 'Well,' says my father, 'what exactly would the Whole Earth Society have to do with an urban setting like Ice Bay,' and Thyare replies, 'The Whole Earth Society would have an interest because Ice Bay is the worst city in the whole earth!'"

And at this, Brand allowed himself to chuckle at both the story and the warmth of the memory. He does not often find chances to speak of his father, so the novelty of this moment adds to its joy.