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You escort the wagon to a nondescript patch of the trail before Jandri brings the horse (whose name you've learned is Anka) to a stop. She signals to Arik, who hops down and pulls aside a bosh, revealing a narrow path that leads back a few dozen yards to a small clearing. "There's the landmark to look for when you return" Kazrin says, pointing to two forked trees side-by-side on either side of the path. "Miss those and you could wander all night trying to find us."
Jandri hops down and leads Anka by the bridle down this track, circling the wagon around to be positioned for a quick getaway. As Arik releases the bush your view of the road becomes completely obscured, and you think someone who did not know of this clearing would have a very difficult time finding it from the road. The three Varisians immediately begin poulling materials from the wagon and rigging them into elaborate traps and defenses with the deft hands of much practice. "Be sure to signal before you come down the track. Two high whistles, then three low. We'll disable the defenses." Jandri says, in the longest sentence you've heard from her yet.
You can easily make your way back to the site of your recent conflict. The bones seem undisturbed since last you saw them. From there can easily follow the tracks to the graveyard.
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Oiur's multicolored lights wink out as the group approaches the clearing, sixteen distinct shadows disappearing four by four until there's just the forest's gloaming.
Their low, quiet voice extends no further than their huddled group. "I'll conjure them again once we've determined things are safe, or as soon as we encounter a threat. Don't want to draw attention in the meantime."
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You walk slowly, carefully, as quietly as you can into the graveyard. You see no movement, hear no sound save the occasional cricket.
Knowledge Nature DC 12:
Knowledge Arcana DC 17:
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Oiur stops. In the same quiet voice, they speak a single (and very serious) word.
"Pancakes."
They meet the eyes of their companions one by one, turning their head as little as possible. They slowly raise a hand close to their torso and point towards a gravestone off to the group's side.
"Wolf-like thing behind headstone. Waiting, but no aggressive posture. Can you see it?"
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The bird whispers, just loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Be careful, that's an old Worg, probably smarter than some of us! The bird pokes its beak down at Ibb and then at the puddle of drool near the worg. Well, it also seems overexcited about pancakes, so perhaps not… at any rate, you wouldn't put something that could talk in the stew pot now would you, Ibb?
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Oiur considers their friends' advice. It was the Gerblinblood Wars, not the Wobbleblood. Worth a try. They raise their voice, hoping Rowdy's in earshot.
"Good evening, gravestone skulker! We hope you're peaceful." They spread their arms and hold their hands with palms upward. "We are armed, but would prefer to leave our weapons sheathed. Why provoke a badger in its den? Especially if said badger is eating pancakes and minding its own business." They furrow their brow at this last sentence, barely visible in the dimness amongst the trees.
"We were attacked earlier by undead, and we're here trying to find their source. If you're always as watchful as you are now, maybe you saw something?"
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A rough, wispy voice sounds as the worg takes a cautious step out from behind the gravestone. "I have no wish for a fight. I am old, and though I have seen and done much, I do not wish to die today. You seem more than capable enough to deal with an old dog such as I." Now that you can see her more clearly, he words seem true enough. Grey fur around her muzzle and eyes betray her clearly advanced age, and her patchy fur and prominent ribs speak suggest that she is significantly malnourished. “A hobgoblin tribe, one I do not recognize, came across this place several moons ago. They spent many days turning the land and removing the dead—human, goblin, bugbear, it did not matter to them. I have been searching what they've left for food."
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Oiur exhales slowly, breathing out their tension now that things seem resolved.
"I'm going to weave a spell; just some light, don't worry. Our eyes aren't as good as yours."
They cluck their tongue and snap the fingers of both hands. Familiar lights shimmer into existence behind their head, coating the forest floor and undergrowth in distorted shadowy representation of the four Pathfinders and their unlikely new acquaintance. The glowing orbs drift slowly back and forth, prompting the gaunt simulacrums to glide over the surrounding greenery.
"A new tribe, you said? Do you know any other places where they've disturbed the dead, or maybe where most of the hobgoblins gather?"
They kneel down and balance on the balls of their feet, putting them about on level with the worg. A pitiful creature, starved and misshapen. Not unlike Isger itself. I wonder what she's had to do to survive? Or what might she have done before her current troubles?
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The worg approaches cautiously, ready to dart if you move to attack. She sniffs at the proffered ration, then snatches it and darts back a few feet, tearing into it. "Fank foo" she says, her mouth full of ration. As she finishes eating it, she seems to relax a little. "Sorry, I was a little hungrier than I let on, perhaps. Thank you. My name is Feren, by the way.
"The hobgoblins have made their lair not far from here, toward the setting sun. That trail" she says, nodding toward the far edge of the graveyard "should lead you directly to a tree broken in two. The entrance lies somewhere off the road, beneath the tree."
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Oiur steadies themself with a splayed hand on the forest floor, the elbow of their other arm resting on their thigh.
"Feren." They nod and smile. "I'm Oiur. Thank you for the information, and you're certainly welcome to more food. I know what it's like to be that hungry."
They shrug their pack off their shoulders, work the stiffness out of their neck, and kneel in the dirt. They rummage around for their rations while they speak.
"Any idea why the hobgoblins need corpses, or why they moved into this part of the Chitterwood? Information on how many live in the lair or what kinds of weapons they have would be helpful, too, but I wouldn't blame you for not getting close enough to find out."
With a little ah ha! of a hum and the rasping of cloth on leather, bone, and metal, Oiur pulls a bundle from their pack. A small drum and an oilskin-bound book peak from the pack's open top before the flap partially covers them. Oiur separates out some dried meat and hard tack and gently places the food a few feet in front of Feren.
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Squatting against a headstone, Ibb begins wolfing down his own rations; the bird stands atop the stone and eyes Rowdy as he makes his way over to the potentially shiny treasure.
They said we got pancakes, but I don't see no pancakes. They said we got golfblins, but I don't see no golfblins.
Pausing, he glances sadly down at his butter knife: Jus' preten' gophers 'n jerky.
He looks up at Feren. Hob-golfblins, they heads got a good range when you knock 'em off? He burps.
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You see something metallic within the grave, but it doesn't seem to be the source of the magic.
"Thank you, Oiur."Feren approaches the food set before her, sniffs it, then pauses to glance nervously at Ibb. "Good range? I don't know what you mean. And I certainly haven't seen any gophers around here, or I might not be so hungry." She wolfs down the food before saying anything else. "I don't know what they want the bones for, though they had a couple skeletons walking around with them the last time they came through. I haven't gotten close enough to that cave to know much more than that. It doesn't smell right." She thinks for a moment. "The ones that came through here were carrying swords and bows, though one of them had a longer weapon on their back. That's about all I can tell you."
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In the dirt you find a mummified hand attached to a tarnished chain, loosely wrapped in dirty bandages.
In the open grave you find a finely-crafted heavy steel shield, a skull with two gold teeth that look to be worth about 5gp each, and between the dirt and the grave you find loose coins of various denominations totaling to 147 gp.
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Oiur hums quietly as they listen and consider the new information. The floating lights and the party's stretching shadows shift with each change in pitch.
"Hmm. I don't think I want to approach a hobgoblin cave tonight. Ibb, Irp, Eugressia? What do you all think?"
They place their rations back in the pack, fasten its flap, and push back into a crouch. They spot Rowdy and his excavations as they do.
"Speaking of gophers, though, there's at least one. Badger, what are you digging for?"
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Oiur wrinkles their nose at Rowdy's macabre trophy.
"Me, I'd cast that thing back into its grave. If that hand's part of mage, it should probably stay with the rest of them. Unless it's some kind of talisman with special properties, in which case I'd consider it."
"To your point, Ibb, I was going to say that we don't even know that these 'herbgerfblins' are what's disrupting the Society's shipments. But I suppose that even if they aren't, they clearly pose a danger to anyone passing through the Chitterwood. You may have a point"
Oiur thinks on the proposition, and tries to recall any information they have on hobgoblins.
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"Thank you for the food, strangers. I wish you good luck." Feren returns to sniffing around the graveyard as you depart, though she watches you as you pass out of sight.
The path winds its way through the Chitterwood until it forks at the foot of a large and mangled tree. A large tear runs the length of its trunk, splitting the tree nearly in two. The southern half of the tree hangs awkwardly to the side, casting a shadow over a small dip in the land.
Concealed in the shadow of the tree (though you're able to find it easily enough following Feren's directions) is the entrance to a small cave. A crude flight of stairs lies just beyond the cave entrance, leading deeper into the earth.
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Oiur considers the unearthed shield, then rearranges their gear so that it's strapped to their back. They nod farewell to Feren, their lights bobbing ahead of the group as it makes its way through the forest. They stop once they find the tree and its cave entrance. The colored orbs move to spin around their raised right fist.
"During the Goblinblood Wars, the goblinoid armies made extensive use of tunnels and cave systems like these. Many retreated into them at the war's end. No telling what will be in there in addition to the individuals Feren mentioned, so it's probably best to be safe. I'll send the lights ahead—hopefully they'll distract whoever's in there while the rest of us are busy being discrete. But first..."
With their left hand, they pull a tuft of fur from a pouch on their belt, then punch their right fist into their left palm. The fur and shining globes flare at the impact, and Oiur's chest vibrates with the deep bass of a short, quiet hum. Before it fades to lurk beneath the surface, the others can see that vibration in their mind's eye.
"Just stoking your inner strength. I think you'll know when to act on it."
They ready their earth breaker and send their lights into the cave.
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Sneaky:
Rowdy stealth: 11
Initiative:
Oiur's lights go dancing down the stairs, casting odd, shifting shadows as they go. Rowdy creeps down in front of the party, looking for traps as he moves. As the lights swing by a shadow moves oddly, not as he would expect based on the movement of the lights. Looking more closely, he can see two small, skeletal shapes at the foot of the stairs, waiting. As he gazes into the abyss of their eye-sockets, the abyss gazes also back into him. One of the skeletons then moves forward to attack!
Initiative! Round 1: