Garrivek recalls his time helping out back at
At the fire, Garrivek is inspecting his fine silver tankard while the others talk. Psychically sifting its history for secrets and stories long forgotten. He raises an eyebrow at Arryn. "I think it's time for you to get some rest."
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Aramis pulls her arm out of Arryn's grasp and gives him an incredulous look. "Looking up? Gods, do you hear yourself?"
Smelling the booze, she stands and turns to stalk off, but after only a few paces she shakes her head and turns back around, pointing a finger at Arryn. "No! Not this time. I get that you're in broken and you're drunk, but Dregg's dead. You don't get to write that off! You don't get to joke about it! Nothing was worth his life! Nothing!"
Aramis swipes away the tears forming in her eyes. "And it's my fault. I was too slow to heal him. I could have... I should have..." She wipes her eyes again and crosses her arms. "I would have gladly given my life for Dregg. But, I can't. It's too late. I have to live with that. And so do you."
Aramis opens her mouth to speak further, then glances at Phaistea.
Way to pick a winner.
She holds her tongue, shuts her mouth, and walks away.
Aramis heads out into the woods, climbs a tree, pulls her knees up to her chest, and cries.
This was all her fault.
Arryn watches her go, then tries but fails to take another swig from his very empty flask. ”Buzzkill.”
To the others, he adds, ”Dregg would make a joke about it. And she doesn’t get to take all the blame for herself. I get some, too. You hear me!? I get some, too!! I had two good shots at that redcap and I wasted them on her stupid hound thing. I could have done it the other way around, and then Dregg would be here to make jokes about being dead, ‘cept he wouldn’t, cause he wouldn’t be dead! So, you don’t get to take all the blame, Aramis!” he shouts after her. ”I want some, too!”
He staggers off in search of more booze, getting rather irate when nobody will give him any. Eventually, exhaustion and grief catch up with him, leaving him asleep in some hollow on the edge of camp.
In the morning, he’ll get the shakes and crave more booze.
Garrivek watches the fight awkwardly, then focuses on the tankard he's examining, trying to tune Arryn out.
The next morning dawns bright -- too bright for Arryn, who's head is less than happy.
Worse, as he arises, it seems Phaistea isn't all that pleased with him either. She immediately turns and leaves the area where she and Jet are preparing communal food when he enters.
The night wasn't a total loss, though, as Garrivek at least think he's got more than enough plans for a still, though it perhaps seems a bit ironic to have come up with such a thing while Arryn is so clearly struggling.
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Arryn watches her leave. He doesn’t try to stop her, but it also does little to help his absolutely foul temper.
Having no luck convincing anybody to give him alcohol, he smoothly lifts a hip flask from a random villager, then looks for a lonely corner in which to drink it.
But the corner isn’t empty, as a one-legged halfling has already taken roost. Arryn grimaces and turns to go, but stops instead and asks, ”How do you do it? How the hell, with the sheer amount of hell you’ve been through, can you just keep going, jumping right back in the fight? I seriously want to know. I thought I’d gone through hell cause a bugbear hit me in the face a few times and tied me up in a tent. I thought I had been so brave then because I didn’t run away. I’ve always run away and tried to hide whenever anything got hard. My father. You'd like him, course you’d have to, since he was a Ranger, too—is a Ranger I guess but he’s more into politics now than Ranging. He’d sure like you, probably give you a medal for what you went through. He’d be like, ’Arryn. There’s a real man. Half your size and twice the man you’ll ever be!’ I thought my childhood was hell because my daddy was mean to me and never gave me enough snuggles, so I was an angry kid and drank a lot and killed some innkeeper’s boy in some random, stupid bar game, so daddy shipped me off to join the militia. Can you picture me in the army? I still can’t and I was there! Crossbow unit! Second time out my patrol got hit by Ironfang Legion and I hid in the bushes while my unit got slaughtered, then I ran off. Hid in villages until Phaendar, where I thought I finally had a second chance. Phaistea won’t even look at me now, don’t blame her though. The one blessing I have in this life over everybody else is I don’t ever have to look at me. I’m a coward. I run into a bottle every time things are hard. Daddy’s disappointed in me: bottle. People got hurt: bottle. Friend gets killed...” He pulls out his stolen flask.
”The rest of them think I’m pathetic, you know, and now you probably do to, if you didn’t already, plus I think I just confessed to treason and desertion somewhere in that little rant, so if you could please just tell me. How are you still fighting? How are you still seeking the enemy to defeat? How are you still smiling and joking and not lying in a hole screaming to rend your soul? If you could just tell me how, maybe I could be less pathetic, maybe I could be worthy of the friends who hate me now. Maybe I could be a hero, too. Maybe, just maybe, I could not drink this.”
The earliest risers in the small community find Vexras already up himself in the pre-dawn, his tunic folded down off his shoulders and wrapped at his waist as he moves fluidly through a series of strikes and stances with a wooden replica of his sword. He is both talented and graceful as he moves through his forms, though it seems like he’s focusing on learning to flow through faster.
Though who stir well after dawn find him sitting cross legged in the sun, his tunic still rolled back off his shoulders, with a heavy book in his lap. The cover seems to be some kind of thick, mottled brown leather with heavy iron reinforcements at each of the corners. The same dull grayish metal runs down the book’s spine and the pages look to be yellowish vellum.
As he finishes studying the book so intently, he flips his tunic back up over his shoulders and starts to make for his quarters to prepare his gear. He catches a decent chunk of Arryn’s regretful rant, but merely pulls a silent face and shrugs at Cirieo before moving on.
In the morning, Garrivek studies his gloves, compass, and book, placing tendrils of his psychic potential in each of them. Satisfied, he slips his gloves on and does some early-morning work on the still with Aubrin. When Phaistea brings him his breakfast, he thanks her then sits down to eat.
"Lovely morning. Good morning to begin our next venture, I'd wager. We've a trip to Fort Nunder to undertake."
Aramis skips breakfast, instead spending her time basking in a patch of sunshine in the woods. After she suspects everyone's done eating, she heads back into the caves and spends some time chatting with the survivors. She puts on a brave face and tries to raise their spirits, but its clear her smile is haunted this morning, as her hearts not in it. "Everything will be alright," she reminds them -- or perhaps herself.
"Fort Nunder? Yes, we should head out soon. Are you ready to travel."
Cirieo looks somber as Arryn spills his heart out to the injured halfling, and reaches across to pat the man's back.
"I don't see how we have much choice, lad," he says. "I could have died down there -- all my friends did -- just like you could have died in the bushes with your unit. I'm no religious expert -- I'm just half a man who likes the woods and cares deeply for other people -- but I don't think Pharasma's ever been that choosy about who she chooses to take into her bony bosoms. Seems to me, if she hasn't taken you yet, maybe she doesn't want you. And if she doesn't want you, well, you can go one of two ways on it: You can either keep trying to prove to her that you're good enough until she gathers you home, or you can figure you got a lucky break, and you can keep fighting because you're what's left down here to do it.
"I don't know your dad. Maybe I met him, maybe I didn't, but doesn't seem like he really matters. For all we know, he's dead too, along with what seems like most of the Rangers in these here parts. But here's the thing. From what I hear, you got all these people out of Phaendar. Sure, you weren't alone. You had the pretty elf, you had Dregg. I heard there was some other elf, and another militia man, but none of them are here anymore (except Aramis, thank goodness), so seems like you're the one who keeps going. Everyone else is dead or gone or staying close to him. Seems like maybe your dad might be pretty proud of you. Now, I think we got off on the right foot -- I hope so, cuz the left one's missing -- so take it from me. I've seen a lot of horrible things, and I'm never going to think bad of a man or woman or anyone who's seen those type of horrible things and doesn't want to see anymore. But there are two types of people who have seen those sort of things and keep going. The monsters who just don't care, and the rest of us. The rest of us have to keep forcing ourselves, because we know we're going to see more bad things, but there's not much else we can do about that."
He pauses for a moment to see Arryn's reaction and then shrugs and adds.
"If you don't want to drink that, you could always let me have it. I used to have quite the hollow leg for alcohol, you know."
He grins, hoping Arryn will be able to laugh.
Arryn turns the flask over and over in his hands. ”If I don’t drink it, I should return it to the villager I stole it from.”
”Mitchum Woodhaver. My father. Mitchum Woodhaver. He lives in Tamran, campaigning to become the next Forest Marshall. He might be Forest Marshall by now. My dad might be the leader of our whole country, except he doesn’t know that hobgoblins have just taken a giant piece of it.” He looks up at Cirieo and smirks. ”Somebody should probably tell him.”
Arryn pauses a moment, then takes his leave. He hands the untouched flask to the villager with a, ”Hey, you dropped this,” then moves on to find Aubrin.
”I need help. I don’t even know if clerics if Cayden Cailean even consider this is as a problem, but I need a drink, and then maybe ten more after that. I’ve gotten this way before, and sometimes I pull myself out of it in a few days, sometimes months, but I don’t have a few days or months, so I need your help. My friends probably don’t want to help me, and Phaistea walks off when she sees me, but for the good if the town, do you have a potion, or a spell, or some other trick to make it so I don’t need alcohol anymore? If not, will you take me somewhere and strap me down to a bed, and...” he trails off turning very beet red. ”I didn’t mean that the way it just sounded. Please. Help me. Help me before nobody can.”
"There is magic that can take such desires from you," Aubrin says gravely. [b]"Cayden will likely grant me such magic -- he wants us to find joy in drink, not be hurt by it -- but the truth is it can just take the craving that makes you sick. You can still return to the bottle -- or the pipe or powder or whatever -- if you don't deal with the demons you have in you.
"I can pray to give you this relief, of course, but I just don't know how much it will truly help. You need to find the strength in yourself. That's what helped Cayden survive the Test of the Starstone, not the liquid courage he had."
”Fair enough. For now, I need to be able to function out there when we leave for the next Fort tomorrow. Then, when we get back, maybe we could find time to talk?”
His business with Aubrin complete for now, Arryn goes to find the others. He doesn’t try to say anything, just silently stands there, his hands shaking from both nerves and withdrawal.
"You dry again," Isabella asks as she looks at Arryn, her eyes narrowing an inch, "Little Angel? 'Cause if y'are, you an' me gotta have some words."
”Whatever you want to say, go ahead. Get it off your chest.”
"Don't got naught on mine, Peaches. It's you's got somethin' crawl up yer shift," Isabella says. "Dregg died. I'm right sorry. I weren't fast enough, din't hit hard enough. I carry that. I carry lots. But I don't let it break me. One day, I'ma be in the Boneyard, an' I'll say sorry for not bein' there, for not bein' the hardass they needed to keep alive."
The half-elf's eyes blaze.
"But leastwise, I'll not be apologizin' for usin' their deaths as an excuse ta dive into the bottle! It's dishonour on those I regret for. It'd weaken me for the next person as needs me.
Next time I see you sloshed, I'm after punching you in the gut 'till you puke it all up. An' I'll beat shame inta yer bones. You couldn't hit a housefly if yer sloshed, so it'll be easy pickings."
”Very thoughtful of you to offer. I’m sure that will definitely help.”
”Or if you’d like another suggestion, I’d recommend that, if I continue to accompany you, that I allow random and unannounced searches of my belongings to ensure I haven’t squirrelled away any liquor when you weren’t looking. Since, you know, my best friend had just died a day after I confessed to everybody that I have a drinking problem I can’t control and I was allowed to go a build his funeral bier out of literal casks of booze, a random search on the way home might have helped. Of course, I’m sure a beating would have worked just as well. I’d be careful though. My aim is bad when I’ve been drinking; I have a history of missing what I’m aiming at and hitting somebody else.”
"I din't say ye've no right to grieve. So weep. So blame me. So sing. So throw a punch. So get yer girl with child. But don't use Dregg's death as an excuse ta finish destroying yerself."
Isabella snorts. "I'm not after puttin' me hands on yer body every day ta check what yer hidin'. Yer not my type. But I'll give ya consequences if ya louse up again. So if yer after killin' me, better get me in one shot."
”You make it out like it’s a conscious choice, like I sit around deciding like I’m sad so maybe I’ll just get hammered. Until you’re in my skin, which I hope you never are, you just can’t understand. Tomorrow, Aubrin is going to use magic to reset the diseased part of my brain that forces me to want a drink so badly my hands are literally shaking. That’ll take the cravings away and make it so I can travel, but it won’t ever fix the part the wants to want the first drink. The only way I can truly stop is to not be able to have the first drink in the first place.”
"Ya think I dunno what it feels like ta have a great big, black hole in yer head, suckin' all the light an' joy an' colour outta yer world?"
”Oh no, I’m sure you have plenty of joy-sucking black holes in your life. I’m just saying you have other ways of dealing with them and so can’t understand the cursed method that I ended up with.”
"True enough, my beardless beauty. When me village got hit, I thought I'd save me kin. Right little hero, I was. But I couldn't track worth crap. Lost the trail. So then I wanted ta gut those as hurt my kin. The noble avenger! But again, couldn't find 'em. So I turned bandit.
I figure there's still a stretch of forest folks look over their shoulder. Don't think I killed none, though 'twere close. But I stalked. I did harm. And I didn't care. You filled the hole with drink. I used blood and pain. Other people's blood and pain. I told myself I was getting stronger so I could find my kin, but we both know that was a lie. Kind of like a booze hound telling himself it's just one glass to dull the pain, yes?
O'course, I jumped someone who turned out to be stronger'n I thought. Beat me into the ground... and then he spared me. Said my life was his for a year and a day. He... honed me, I guess. And he taught me; you can't fill one hole with another. You want that hole filled, you start shoveling grit. If you get a spell cast to stop wanting, then a spell can cripple you by taking the magic away. You'll be going 'Pleaaaase, mistah wizard, one more hit...'!
You need to start shovelling. If you feel too weak, don't get magic, SAY SO. These other folks're kind. Speak up. They're guaranteed ta be better at talking you away from the bottle."
”Maybe you understand, a bit. I have no illusions about the magic. It isn’t a cure, it’s a patch, no more than a healing potion is a cure for ever being injured again. But as for speaking up, I did. I told you all I was too weak, and do you remember what these kind people said? ‘Yeah, that's more baggage than we can deal with right now, Arryn. But you and Dregg can hug it out later, kay?’ Except now we can’t hug it out. I’m bloody here on my figurative knees telling you I’m weak and asking for help, and all you can do is talk about punching me till I puke. I’m not asking you to feel me up and take me to your bedroll every night, I’m asking you to help me not have any drink by searching my stuff to see if I hid any. When the demon takes hold, I lie and steal. I already stole some booze from one of the villagers this morning! Don’t worry, a kind person convinced me to give it back before I drank any. But...I...need...help. If beating the s&** out of me helps you to forgive me, then go ahead and do it, but it won’t help me. No matter how much you embrace your inner Callistrian, you won’t ever match the emotional abuse I got to drive me to this point.”
As the exchange between the two seems to be coming to a close, Vexras hesitantly brings a forkful of eggs the remaining three inches to his mouth and chews it quickly. He then rushes through what’s left on his plate before another emotional argument can gust up. When his food is finished, he looks to Arryn and offers, ”If you are looking for someone to hold you directly accountable for your habits and to ask you the uncomfortable questions, I would be willing to do this. I would understand if you’d rather it be another, as we do not know one another very well yet. But, you saved my life, after all, and it sounds as though you think this to be very near to returning the favor.”
”You know what, I think our lack of history makes you uniquely qualified to be objective about it. I place myself in your hands, and I thank you. It does mean heading back out and into danger, though. I could certainly understand you preferring to stay here after what you’ve been through.”
Vexras waves a dismissive hand, ”Nonsense! You all did me a tremendous service saving me from those talent-blind fey and I have every intention of helping you all until we are, each and everyone one of us, well past the point of having grown quite tired of me. No, no - save your breath, my scarf-wearing friend. My mind is made up! Try as you may, you cannot convince me otherwise!”
Arryn runs his hand over his two day stubble, idly wondering if he should let it grow out. ”I’m not trying to convince you of anything. So long as you know you’re heading back out into danger then we’re happy to have you along. What can you do, besides make swords? You wear that one like you know how to use it.”
Garrivek cranes his neck to see what the fighting's about, while he's enjoying his breakfast. Seeing it's Arryn and Isabella he decides he'd better leave them to it. He was new, after all, and he wasn't sure getting between them was his place.
Instead, he turns to the folks eating with him. "Did I ever tell you the story about the golden axe beak? No? Well, there I was, scouring the plains for the perfect axe beak when I found this massive feather — huge, I tell you! Bigger than my arm! So..."
By the time he's finished his roundabout tale, his food's cold, but he eats it anyway. Then he dusts himself off, hands Phaistea his dirty plates, and wanders over to the others. "Vexras! I overheard you're coming along, eh? Wonderful, wonderful!" He turns to Arryn and claps him on the back. "Times are tough, Arryn. You'll pull through this the same we the folks here have pulled through — together."
”Thank you, Garrivek. I appreciate that.” He pats the dwarf on the shoulder, his hand still shaking.
Aramis wanders up, having missed most of — well, everything — due to her lack of peculiar eating habits.
"I forgive you," she tells Arryn. "And I'm sorry." She gives him a fragile smile. "Ready? Should be a long walk. Plenty of time to talk on the way, if you still want to."
He shakes his head. ”I appreciate that, but I can’t travel until tomorrow. I’m completely nauseated because of the withdrawal, but Aubrin is going to prepare a spell to take care of it. If you’d rather go without me, I’d understand.”
Besides, Arryn has one other person to apologize to for his behaviour.
Throughout the day, an invisible Arryn follows Phaistea around, and as she’s working, random, freshly-picked wildflowers begin to appear, tucked among her supplies, or inside her apron pockets. By mid-afternoon, she has amassed an enormous bouquet, so that, at supper time, Arryn appears holding a clay pitcher with one flower and room for more. ”I’m sorry you saw me being such an ass.”
"We're not leaving yet? Ah, I see. Well, I best get back to working, then. Plenty to do and never enough time to do it in."
Garrivek strolls off to get back to work on the still.
”Want some help testing out the still?” Arryn asks. Catching the glare from Isabella, he says, ”What? Too soon?”
"I'm sorry too," she says, though her usually soft-spoken voice is hard, harder than he's accustomed to. "I like you, Arryn, but I'm not going to put up with that. I saw enough drunks at the inn to know they don't respect me, or themselves. If you can be better, I want to spend more time with you and get to know you even better, but ... if you're acting like that, I can find someone else!"
The words are like a hammer blow, though he'd been feeling much better for much of the day thanks to Aubrin's magic .
--
You head out in the morning and carefully make your way to Fort Nunder, the ranger stronghold closest to the Nesmian Plains. It sits against the west side of a steep hill called Nunder Scarp, part of the fort built into the hill itself. It's clear that this place has suffered a fate similar to Fort Rivistin.
Though you don't get too close, you can see the gatehouse portcullis is raised and bent sideways beneath the heaps of stone filling the walkway above, providing a clear but shadowed passage to the fort’s interior. A huge hole in the western wall also would allow entrance to the courtyard.
During the hike to the Fort, Arryn is uncharacteristically quiet. When they reach the Fort, he offers to go invisible and have a look around up ahead.
"Oi," Isabella says, without looking Arryn in the eye. "I may've heard something. I'm pretty sneaky. I could keep ya company."
”Sounds good. Try to keep up.”
Arryn shimmers our of view and picks his way carefully forwards. Taking 10 for a Stealth check of 32. He doesn’t go far, but tries to get a better vantage point to check out the shadowed passage.
Isabella ghosts after Arryn, loaded crossbow already in her hands, eyes moving left to right, pointed ears twitching subtly.
As you creep closer, you see three canine-like creatures in the shadowed passage, a foul smell filling your nostrils. Unfortunately, you also notice the two closest ones raise their head, snuffling. You're pretty sure they're aware you're there!
"Back up," Isabella whispers for Arryn's benefit, as she starts to sneak back towards the others.
If Isabella and Arryn make it back without immediately being attacked or tracked, Isabella trots up to the party.
"Trouble. There's some sort of dog-headed critters there, and they caught our scent."
Isabella fires her crossbow at the lead creature, then starts running back towards the others, yelling at the top of her voice!
Arryn follows Isabella’s lead.
Isabella, realizing they're not going to get away, turns and snaps off a shot with her crossbow, the bolt flying high as the three beasts lope toward them.
They're trollhounds.
Saddled with the dead weight known as Isabella, Arryn’s options are limited, and he suddenly materializes as a chunk of rock flies at the reddish thing, crushing its throat.
x 1.5 = 69
Round 1
Arryn sends a chunk of stone that smashes the skull of one of the creatures, but the second leaps over its prone form, closing in on him in a flash, as its remaining partner does the same to Isabella.
The half-elf manages to avoid her foe's snapping jaws, but Arryn's not quite as lucky, as he barely keeps its feat as the creature tries to topple him, fangs drawing blood .
Red: -36
Green:
Yellow: