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Rapping carries up from the well, enough that Angrin, Dakun and Dwunderbran can all hear it. The tapping is arrhythmic and clearly intentional, though as Angrin can see in the gloom of the well, it isn't Rogath doing it -- rather it doesn't appear to be done by anything he can see at all.
Down in the well, Rogath can make sense of the stone knocking noises, though the answers are coming at erratic intervals. Perhaps the spirits trapped in stone perceive time differently than Rogath does, or perhaps the effort to communicate is great. From the answers the spirits provide, Rogath learns that they were among hundreds of Ulfen settlers who came from further up north at a location called Valenhall many days away. These dead were a family, and Rogath gets the impression there were three, but he sees only two corpses in the well and only two spirits' presence in the stones.
Their description of some molten flesh abomination exhausts Rogath's extensive knowledge of the undead and provides little clue as to what scared them so soundly that they would starve themselves to death at the bottom of a well. Or, perhaps they died of exposure? Conjecture, at this point.
As for the date, 4602 was a very, very long time ago.
Mineko's tiredness is reflected in Quint's demeanor. He may not have had many opportunities to interact with Halsiig but the man had put this whole expedition together. Despite how it had ended Quint was still grateful to him for that, for the opportunity this new land provided. He did not deserve this ignominious end; it was the least they could do to give him a proper send off.
As Mineko proposes using the tent canvas a sigh escapes the rotund dwarf as he looks at the intervening hill; it's condition would only have deteriorated after his previous climb. He turns gratefully back as Logem offers to transport the body, though purses his lips at his continued manner. "Mineko, please, go rest. I will stay with Maven and see that proper preparations are made." he offers the weary Minkaian. He looks about until he finds a relatively clean boulder where he can still see--but not smell--Halsiig's remains, and levers himself down to perch upon it until Logem's nurses arrive.
"Will you need any supplies for a funeral? I'm afraid my recollection of Highhelm funerary rituals is quite limited." he asks Maven
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Dwunderbran calls down into the well with a voice that has yet to regain its full composure. "'Ey! Ye be ready ta be comin' on up'n outta tha' hole, boy-o?" Waiting for a response from the Desnan, Dwunderbran then turns to the others, a hint of a conspiratorial tone in his voice as he offers "wise" counsel. "Nie, if'n 'e be addle-brained er possessed we be needin' ta be preparin' fer tha' possibility, savvy? Cannae be bringin' a dwarf what's rotten in tha mind back intae a camp full o' kin. Jes' be keepin' yer rope handy, aye?" His initial thought of laying the long dead Ulfens to a respectful rest has all but evaporated after the overwhelming terror visited on the sailor-dwarf at the hands of the possessed well. Still, barring their grim discovery the locating of a river and fresh source of water boded well for the encampment. There would need to be talks of further exploration, and perhaps establishing a more formal and semi-permanent home until a proper dwarven promised land could be found. It was a lot to think about, and it made Dwunderbran's butt itch.
Maven's skin crawls at the mention of funeral preparations. Though she took her duties as a cleric seriously, there was still only a certain threshold of vividness that she was able to tolerate before losing composure. Though Halsiig had not yet decayed to the point of overwhelming odor, the ravages of both sea and pincer still left a deeply disturbing image; he almost looked rotted. Such were the tricks of the mind, and they did her no favors now.
"A funeral...well, I s'pose someone's gotta do it, don't they?" As she stands to return to camp, she anxiously rubs her arms, eyes to the side, trying her best to recollect the most neglected part of her teachings. "Never had much of a spine for this sort o' thing, t'be honest. Always better off usin' Torag's gifts to patch up kinsmen before they get 'emselves killed or...eaten." A shudder escapes her as the image of crabs picking away pieces of Dwarven faces leaps to mind.
"But, aye, I'll do what I can. Let's get back ta camp; I'll gather up what we can use and, erm...put somethin' together."
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In the hours after their return from the beach, Mineko, Quint, Logem and Maven return to the activities they had planned to perform before word from the local expedition team came in. From what they hear around the camp, the settlers have become slightly shaken from the injuries that came with the explorers work. It isn't much discontent, but keeping tabs on the well-being of the dwarven settlers is something that Mineko and the others have committed themselves to. The arrival of fresh crabs and the carcass of the rock crab has helped alleviate some of the concern, though doubt about their safety still lingers.
Through the rest of the evening and into the night, the settlers continue salvaging up and down the coast as well as making small improvements to their makeshift beach shelter. The scouts set out again to continue exploring the local countryside and it has been many hours since Dakun and the others set out west to explore the hills. Already, it had been eventful; dangerously so.
The night concludes much as it had the night before, in prayer. Led by Maven, a service to inter the body of Halsiig Halfhammer into the stone has begun. A grave dug and filled beside the other settlers who perished in the sinking of the expedition vessels is marked with a chiseled stone bearing the runes of his name upon its sea-worn surface. Gathered around the grave site, many of the settlers mourn Halsiig with a heavy heart. He was instrumental in getting most of them here, his ships were the ones that plied the waters, his supplies wash up on the shore.
His ghost haunts Quint in the form of illegible text in a sea-battered journal.
"It is a shame that Vigar could not be laid to rest here as well," Mineko comments, solemnly watching the service with head bowed and hands clasped behind her back. Her eidolon sits vigilantly beside her, brows furrowed and large eyes focused on the mound of Halsiig's grave.
"He is with us," Koimano-kun comments in a low tone, "and we musn't disappoint."
Breathing in deeply, Mineko closes her eyes and slowly shakes her head. "No," she agrees, "we musn't."
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Teacher Rogath, what is transpiring d'wn there? Do the restless spirits assault you still or have you made some s'rt o' peace with the troubled souls?" The Pahmet was not easily rattled by association with the dead or their spirits and the supernatural fear that had gripped him was beginning to be displaced. Putting on a brave front he called down the well. He did not think that Rogath was in danger still, but if needed he was prepared to leap down into the well himself and destroy the remains in hopes it would banish the spirits.
Getting back to his tent, after the funeral, Dr. Logem's first task is to finally examine his booty. He had previously left it in a chest in his tent, as the retrieval and burial of Halsiig's body happened quicker than he had expected it. Now that his tasks were done for the morning, he could get on to more important jobs.
Such as appraising his new acquisitions.
Dr. Logem's first choice of action is to retrieve his merchant's scale; More often than not, he often uses this scale to weigh ingredients, as he rarely has anything to do with gems and other valuables. With Sumetusen cleaning each of the ten rings, Dr. Logem focuses his own efforts on measuring the weight of the gems and the precious metals in each one. As he does so, he keeps track in his journal. This very same journal has already been written in extensively; Mostly medical journals, though the odd entry about events as well. The entry, written as such, is written neatly in traditional dwarven runes.
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<< Beach Camp | Night | Clear Starry Skies, Cool, Very Windy | Wealday, Arodus 6th, 4714 AR >>
Today, we discovered the remains of one Halsiig Halfhammer, Prophet of Kalistrade; A man instrumental in our expedition thus far. Remains were discovered among a nest of Rock Crabs upon our landing sites' beach. The remains were incomplete; Halfhammer's corpse had been partially consumed by the previously mentioned Crabs. His clothes were ruined, though all had not been lost.
Tens Rings, former propery of one Halsiig Halfhammer, were found on the body:
Total Worth of Rings: Two-Thousand-Eight-Hundred-Seventy-Six Gold Pieces <2876>
In addition, a journal had been discovered at Halfhammer's campsite; One Quint Bonechisel will be researching the journel for time to come. My assistance is not required for alchemical identification. Should Bonechisel discovery anything of note, more information will be noted in this journal at a later date.
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The journal continues on, filling the rest of the page and the page after it with alchemical and medical notes and procedures, ones that Dr. Logem plans on gathering and producing ingredients for. It details lists of ingredients, tools required, and the proper precautions that will need to be implimented for the day's activities. After the dwarf finishes his writing, he sets out on completing those very same tasks.
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"Aye, I'm ready to come up. But send down something to place these bones in first. They've been here a long time, and they deserve a better resting place." He places one hand on the rock wall, and speaks to the spirits in a lower voice. "You will be able to rest and move on soon. I'll see to it." Looking back up at his companions, he adds, "I'll tell you their tale as we lay them to rest. It is a sad story, but it will honor their memory to share it."
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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The second night and the second funeral service. This time without Dakun to lead them, the service is led -- reluctantly -- by Maven Brewbane. A dirge for the fallen, for the lost, and for those that perish far from home. The song, a dwarven tradition dating back to the end of the Quest for Sky reminds those who stand around Halsiig's burial mound that they will never die "at home" until they come to terms with the fact that these distant shores are all the home they will ever have now.
In the wake of the funeral for Halsiig its clear there are mixed emotions among the dwarven settlers. Some openly weep, not merely for Halsiig's passing but for their plight. The weight of the situation they have been thrust into has finally settled in, but at least the roar of the ocean helps mask those mournful sounds. The injuries sustained by the expedition team also worry the settlers, and the leadership now beginning to form among the dwarven heirarchies begins to understand that without proper shelter, fear of the unknown may well tear this group apart.
Away from the others in his tent, Doctor Logem stares into a clear flask of preserving fluids and the severed finger suspended within. Holding it up to the light of a lantern, his eyes gleam with possibilities.
Not all of the dangers the settlers will face in the coming months will come from Arcadia.
Some threats come from where least expected.
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Spirits of the dead left restless, it's an unsettling discovery in the new world and one that tarnishes some of its resplendant beauty. With Dwunderbran, Dakun and Angrin hauling Rogath out of the well they learn some of the history of this forgotten place. By Rogath's account, a family of Ulfen settlers once lived here over a hundred years ago, part of a greater colonization attempt much further to the north. Something attacked them in this place, something that terrified a mother enough to cower with her two children down a well and die of exposure or starvation there.
Those lost souls are given their final rest, the skeletal remains hauled up from the well and buried in a grave at the foot of the monolith erected nearby to their farm. A mother and her two children, interred in the Arcadian soil. By the time the hole is dug and the remains interred, the sun has set beyond those western hills that the expedition team hadn't yet even reached. They'd traveled less than a full day from the beach camp before finding this location, and it would appear Arcadia has much more in store for the wayward settlers than mere forests and bears.
At night, in the shelter of the cellar hole with fire lit for warmth Rogath explains the history of the armaments found among the ruined home. The sword -- Feybreaker -- has patterns engraved in the metal and design similar enough to the shield that was found to indicate they were forged by the same smith. While some questions regarding this site were answered, some were still obcured. Who, or what, attacked this farm? What settlement did the mill service? Surely not Valenhall, as it was implied to be weeks away or more.
All questions that would linger on into the embrace of sleep.
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Warm sunlight contrasts with a chilly breeze out of the west at first light. Waking in her tent on the beach, Maven can see the way the sunlight reflects off of the ocean's lapping waves. The cry of sea birds had roused her from sleep, and in those first few moments it becomes clear that she wasn't the first to rise. Standing by the ocean with a steaming hot cup of coffee in hand, Doctor Logem too is watching the waves from where they lap against the beach. Other dwarves pass across the narrow slit opening of Maven's tent, carrying driftwood and seaweed tangled nets and crates.
The smell of crab meat fills the air.
The camp has come alive in the first few hours of morning, dwarves continue to comb the beach for a mile in either direction from the camp for salvage from the sunken ships. Sometimes that salvage comes with a waterlogged body, two so far today laid out on the beach and covered with canvas tarps held down by stones. There'll be another funeral tonight.
It's beginning to become routine.
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Morning was met with dried rations, water, and a mouthful of rum for Dwunderbran. Setting out from the mill just before dawn, the expedition team was able to put some distance between themselves and the mill and recover some of the ground that was lost by stopping early the day before. Crossing the river by the mill was a matter of endurance against the frigid waters, walking through it at its shallowest point. Beyond the river the land broke up into grassy knolls and buttes, more windswept hills of bare granite and shale. The dwarves had never seen such bounty of stone just waiting to be plucked from the earth.
With the sun rising warm at their backs, the explorers find trackless land unfit for wagon or carriage travel, a region of rough land inhabited by flocks of starlings and the occasional rabbit. There are no more signs of Ulfen inhabitation out here, no more signs of anyone having been on these hills at all. Perhaps they were the first, but that was seeming more arrogant a notion after yesterday's discovery.
Far, far to the west cloud-shrouded mountains loom imposingly and dark where the sun has yet to rise. What secrets might they keep in their cold stone, and what wonders might lay between here and there?
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- Goods Consumed: 3
- Goods Used: 2
+ Goods Salvaged: 4
+ Goods Produced: 3
Total: +3 Goods
+ Unrest Increase: +2
- Unrest Reduced: 0
Total Unrest: +2 (3)
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x
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Yes; Notable occurrance
Yes; non-hostile encounter
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Yes; unusual weather/terrain
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Quint returns to his previous, self appointed tasks in the aftermath of the crab attack. Despite the interruption, the resulting emotional weariness, and the distraction of the waiting journal he makes good progress in getting the camp more organized, and ensuring that resources are getting to the right people. Had it not been for the grizzly discovery he would have rested easy that night with a sense of satisfaction.
Instead he finds himself looking at a somber crowd, mumbling along to half-remembered lyrics of the song chosen to honor Halsiig. Having little clue any more what constitutes a proper dwarven burial he leaves things well enough alone, but as things start to draw to a close he steps forward to address the gathered crowd. He speaks simply of the few experiences he had with Halsiig, before drawing to his main point. Displaying Halsiig's battered journal he extorts his fellow expeditionaries to take heart from this discovery, that from it's pages hope may bloom, and that as he works to restore it's contents that they will be able to learn more of this land and what Halsiig intended to do once they arrived, that they might have direction once again.
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Quint's sleep is not as restful that night, and he starts awake, sweaty blankets quickly starting to cool in the chill weather. He shivers and quickly dresses, trying to put the fitful night's sleep behind him, the the image of Halsiig collapsing in front of him, his belly bursting with hundreds of tiny crabs refuses to leave him.
Spotting Logem he eyes the dwarf with new-found suspicion; there was not much he could do about it so far, but he would be keeping a careful eye on anything that went missing from the stores now and where it might show up... The archaeologist doesn't linger to watch Logem any further however, the scent of crab drawing him on to the cooking fires, and from thence to find Mineko so they could begin their work.
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Maven's first impressions of the morning are less uplifting than she had hoped. The reflection of the sun on the waves is comforting, though it only reminds her to keep her eyes level. The smell of cooked crab in the air is appetizing to her nose, but unsettling to her mind. As hard as the tries, she cannot completely separate the scent of cooked crustacean from the odor of decaying Dwarf in her head.
Really wanted some crab, but now it's kinda hard not to think we might be eatin' pieces o'our kinsman along with it.
She barely suppresses her shudder as she pushes the images away from her thoughts, but the chill breeze brings it straight to the surface, much to her dismay. Hurriedly attempting to distract herself from a dangerous train of thought, she scans the camp for other, less disturbing scents, and spies Dr. Logem with a mug of coffee; two ideas emerge at once.
Reluctantly, she wills her feet towards the shore until she stands just outside arm's length at his side, struggling both to find the phrasing of her questions, and to avoid fidgeting.
"So...does it help with the smells?"
Och, lovely conveyance, girl; that'll get a straight answer for sure...
The wind blew softly across the beach as the survivors of the three shipwrecks began their morning routine. Near the shore nets were being placed out to harvest fish and scavengers made ready to comb the beaches to the north and south for more supplied before the weather turned foul and the dwarves would well and truly be on their own on these strange new shores.
Sitting on a chair, fashioned from a recovered crate, Mineko sipped at a hot cup tea. Thankfully the Tian dwarves still had several bags remaining, enough so that it would last for another month if they were lucky. Quietly the empress in exile considered the possibly of finding wild leaves or bark that might make something that approximated tea, unlikely to be sure, but she would mention it to her servants. It was a shame that the most knowledgeable about nature was the odious doctor. Mineko did not trust him and she knew that her protector felt the same way. That only served to strengthen her resolve. Sighing to herself, the kimono robed woman rose. That would be an issue for another day, for now she would remain watchful and continue to gather support among the remaining dwarves. A strong power base would be important if she was the lead the group. She knew that her customs and curious behavior would be at odds with the traditionalism of the other, but she had faith that they would come around over time. It was only a matter of them seeing the similarity in their heritage rather then the difference.
Rising, her retainers also rose. To her left her protector stretched like the giant stone statue of a cat that he was and rumbled with a low cackle-purr. Smiling softly to herself, Mineko ran her hands through his ivory curls chased with veins of gold. He was a source of much relief. Looking to her right the empress turned her attention to her handmaiden Kaori. Nodding regally, the slight dwarven woman fixed eyes on the minor noble. Watashi, this one wishes for you to make a list of all of the teams going to scavenge this morning. Uruwashii, continue to train the dwarves with some skill in martial forms. The sooner that they can act as a unit rather then individuals we will be stronger for it. Itamae, look over our remaining stores. This one requires a list by the end of the day of current rations and how long we can expect them to hold out. The council needs a running total of food so that we can plan for a trip inland as soon as the wreckage is exhausted. Kaseifu, see to the other women and make sure that cleanliness is being observed in the camp, the last thing we need is for an outbreak of disease. Setting her tea cup down daintily on the crate, the empress clapped her hands together. This one is going to visit the scholar-archivist Bonechisel-San. We understand that there is some recovered knowledge that needs to be translated. We will return before the evening meal for your reports. Now go.
Gliding across the makeshift camp, her clogs digging into the sand, Mineko smiled slightly to herself, projecting an air of confidence. The survivors had a chance. Each was working diligently towards their goals. The community was coming together through shared distress. That was well. Moving past a group of artisans who were working on another cart, Mineko watched carefully before noting the work was well done. She approved and informed the dwarves of it. It was important that they know that each pulled their weight. Weaving through the groups like a kingfisher in flight the empress arrived at the tent that belonged to Quint. The dwarf was already in study, eyes pouring over a slightly waterlogged tome. Taking out a fan, she flicked it outward to hide the lower half of her face. This one took far too many liberties with her. It would need to be addressed in time. Were all western dwarves as bold as him? Bowing slightly, the empress sat across from the bespectacled dwarf. I saw the book you had recovered following the defeat of the crab. Tell me, how goes the progress? I have studied several books of antiquity and would be happy to provide a second set of eyes.
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In the morning before departing from the remains of the Ulfen mill, Dwunderbran takes a quick tally of what few items the expedition managed to accumulate from the location. Insisting that such high quality arms not be squandered, he offers to carry the unclaimed relics back to camp, in the interest of outfitting the few fighting men available to their number with superior quality gear to help defend themselves.
The trek further inland seems to find the rancid dwarf in sagging spirits—a blessing in disguise as it seems to serve sufficiently as a means of shutting up the madman's raucous singing, whistling, and tall-taling. He takes note of the vast tracks of granite and shale the land seems so ready to afford their expedition, nodding in agreement to the others as if his approval were either merited or required. "'Ere we be findin' a good spot fer ta be diggin' a quarry, savvy? Nie if'n we can be findin' a good spot fer ta be buildin' a town, ah believe're business be half finished, ye grab me? Mebbe we can be carvin' a statue're two in me honor, "
Mountains roll into view as their course for the day nears an end, and it looms on the horizon as a bastion of promise; that maybe these lands weren't so strange after all; that maybe the storm splintered dwarves could find a home worthy of their ken; that maybe the riches promised in this strange new world were tangible, and not fits of fancy from some loony follower of Kalistrade. In the midst of such promise, Dwunderbran finds the still scenic terrain surrounding them decidedly desolate. Little exists here to interest them in this untamed place, and he can't help but feel exposed without an adequate outcropping or rise to shelter in. For the first time since departing from Absalom, the sky overhead seems oppressive. He doesn't count on getting much sleep tonight.
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As the stars fade into the first faint light of day, Rogath can be found leaning against the monolith, gazing up at the sky. He pulls his cloak a little tighter around him against the pre-dawn chill of the stone at his back. Such an shame, to have come so far, only to have their hopes crushed so brutally. Lady Starsong, grant that our fate is not theirs, that our journey continues in safety, freedom and wonder, and that we will find the safe haven and resources that our people need to survive in this land. As the last stars disappear into the steadily brightening sky, the lone dwarf retrieves his prized deck of Harrow cards from his robes and draws a single card to presage the day.
Gazing at it in the light of the rising sun, before his eyes begin to water from the brightness of the day, he contemplates The Bear. Strength. Pure strength, for good or for ill. His thoughts drift to the Vulgarbeard accompanying him, and the most dramatic demonstration of Strength as a present ill omen he'd ever encountered. Lost in a memory of a time that seems so long ago, and yet less than a year past, he idly tucks the deck away, and returns to the fire where breakfast awaits.
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Later in the day, as the dwarves are trekking through the trackless and apparently untouched wilderness, he finds occasion to approach Dwunderbran and walk along side him for a while. "So... I've been wondering. Back at Hraggir's funeral. What possessed you to start swinging your sword around like that?" Nothing in his manner indicates he finds it odd to be asking questions about an event eleven months past and an ocean away. He just trundles on, watching his companion more than his footing, although he occasionally glances around at the magnificent (but empty) views. "If you remember, that is."
Gazing at it in the light of the rising sun, before his eyes begin to water from the brightness of the day, he contemplates The Bear. Strength. Pure strength, for good or for ill. His thoughts drift tothe Vulgarbeard accompanying him,Hraggir's funeral and the most dramatic demonstration of Strength as a present ill omen he'd ever encountered. Lost in a memory of a time that seems so long ago, and yet less than a year past, he idly tucks the deck away, and returns to the fire where breakfast awaits.
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Much of the morning hours are spent conversing as Dakun, Rogath, Angrin and Dwunderbran trek across miles of grassy hills. The sheer abundance of quarriable stone in the hills is astounding, granite nearly as far as the eye can see and without even needing to dig below the soil, exposed to the air by whatever forces shaped the hills and the mountains. It is the looming specter of those mountains far on the western horizon that is the most tantalizing; high peaks that scrape the skies from one end of the horizon to the other.
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Under the bright sun and clear skies, Quint and Mineko spend much of their morning comparing notes on the deciphering of water-blurred writing smudged throughout Halsiig's old journal. From what they have unearthed thus far, it appeared as though Halsiig had been researching Arcadia through legends for decades, following ancient Ulfen stories across the northern reaches of Avistan. For the book proclaims the Ulfen first set foot in these lands a thousand years ago or more, settling the legendary Valenhall somewhere on these distant shores.
While Mikeno and Quint research Halsiig's journal, the scouting team returns from their expedition up and down the coast with a -- thankfully -- favorable story to tell. Up the coast they discovered grazing spot for several large stags amidst twisting apple trees. The scouts felled two of the stags and harvested what they could of the extremely tart apples from the trees and hauled back the spoils. The leather, bone and meat from the stags as well as the fresh fruit would do well to outfit the survivors and stave off salty fare of dried rations and crab meat.
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Many more miles across the hilly land has led to a rather clear vision of what the eastern edge of the hills holds. Animal burrows riddle the rocks here and great hunting birds circle the skies above, falcons and hawks both as well as enormous buzzard-like birds with a wingspan bigger than a dwarf. None seem hostile to something as big as a dwarf, but their dark shadows seem terrifyingly large when cast against the ground.
Nearing the evening hours, the explorers discover a freshwater brook bubbling between the hills coming from a small pond laden with lily-pads and croaking frogs that has some sparse shade in the form of free-standing boulders looming beside the pond's rocky shores. This fresh source of water and a safe place to bathe gave another sense of the splendor of nature that Arcadia offers in what seems like unlimited bounty.
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As the sun begins to set behind those jagged western mountains, shadows grow long over the grassy hills. For much of their day's trek there has been no shelter from the sun or the wind, and the dwarves are left to wonder what this place must be like in the winter months -- unforgiving hills exposed to the harsh wind and blistering cold with no trees to shelter. A truly human concern -- wind and cold mean nothing beneath a hill of rock and earth. But if the Ulfen could survive this terrain, surely a dwarf could.
With daylight nearly extinguished, the dwarves find yet more of the same hills. Thankfully they are adept at navigation and keeping track of which way is north and knowing which way they've already been makes criss-crossing the wild terrain all the easier. Still, there is so much more land to cross before they can be sure they've scouted thoroughly beyond the western river. It will be another day before they can even turn back towards home and hours to go before they sleep.
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The camp is abuzz as night approaches with word from the scouts having returned from the southwestern region inland of their camp. The scouts report having found jagged cliffs and deep ravines in the earth where the cliff walls were as white as clouds. Talk among the scouts says that there were eddies and currents of powdery white dust blowing through these canyons. Some samples of the white rock brought back reveals that these inland cliffs are laden with chalk and cover a watery ravine that connects to a river that feeds out to the sea.
A proper quarry could harvest the chalk for all manner of purposes both mundane and alchemical, though at present that's a luxury that isn't high on the dwarves' priorities.
With the sun setting, the settlers go about cooking the last of the crabs rounded up the day before, steaming them in underground cook-pits layered with seaweed and sand, boiling the crabs in their own juices. Varisian fare, for certain, but when forced to cook with human ingredients, human recipes are the most palatable alternatives.
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The crackling pop of a campfire helps take the chill out of the air. Some of the firewood brought with the explorers from the ruins of the old mill serves well to take the chill out of the night air. The stars are bright -- positively vibrant -- in the sky, and they outline those western mountains. By the firelight, the dwarves are left to wonder if the mountains have names already, or if they should name them.
Is there a precedent for that? First come, first served?
As the dwarves sit around the fire, there's a gusting sound and the noisy flaps of bird wings overhead. It elicits their attention, and the night's darkness hides nothing from them. Something enormous flew overhead for but a moment and appeared to have dove from the sky behind a hill a few hundred feet from camp. It was making no effort to hide, not even the slightest, but it was also not a bird -- not even one of those great vultures from earlier in the day.
It looked like a winged human.
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Calm has come with night, and the bonfire of driftwood burns brightly at the center of the camp where dwarves spin tales and sort through the day's bounty of salvage from the beach. The salvaging teams have been bringing back less and less as the day went on, much of the beach having been picked over. They estimate perhaps a day's worth -- perhaps two -- and what had washed ashore from the shipwrecks will either be in their camp or washed out to sea.
By the light of lanterns and the campfire, Quint and Mineko review the pages of Halsiig's journal they have successfully translated, comparing their notes and making necessary corrections of words. The debate between the two has been scholarly and civil, trying to determine what one muddied blot is, whether it's the word "father" or "farther." Their eyes ache with strain by day's end.
But the reward is well worth it, once they have someone versed in geography to go over the details.
The first section translated is the most controversial, likely what brought Halsiig to these forgotten shores and cost him his life. The beginning of the book is a history lesson, speaking of the ancient Quest for Sky where after the Earthfall dwarves journied up to the surface world en-masse, a tale all dwarves raised among their own can recite like the words to a familiar song.
But some of these details speak of political and social fractures not glorified in song or story. That some of their own kin refused the quest for sky is known, the kin who turned to the dark forces of Droskar for salvation. But this collection of Halsiig's research tells another story entirely, one of the Kings of Old as he calls them, the first dwarven lords that ruled in the Throne Below before the dwarves on their sacred quest for sky would seem the Throne Above.
It speaks of a symbol of dwarven rulership from that ancient time, a symbol of the King Under the Mountain that Halsiig believes was the inspiration for the creation of the artifact that would become known as the Axe of the Dwarvish Lords. Halsiig's whole of his research appeared to have been searching for the restingplace of the Axe, hoping to use it to unify his people and join the clans together under a single sovereign to bring about a new age of prosperity.
But Halsiig could not -- did not -- find the axe. Instead he discovered that another weapon was forged long before, a sacred relic of Toraag himself claimed by the dwarves who would become the foul duergar... the Hammer of the Dwarvish Lords, forged by Torag himself and bestowed upon the first dwarves and sworn kings of their people. These legends Halsiig uncovered claim that the hammer was with the duergar when they came into a great conflict deep below the world, and may be lost even to the those dark kin.
But what solidified Halsiig's curiosity was an oral story passed down through the lines of Ulfen men that had built Valenhall in centuries past, Ulfen men that returned home to the Lands of the Linnorm Kings with tales of foreign shores, and a dwarven kingdom in the west rules by a sovereign wielding a hammer of immense power.
Halsiig believed it was the Hammer of the Dwarvish Lords, and that it lay somewhere in Arcadia.
Somewhere here.
Whatever other truths Halsiig uncovered have yet to be determined, those pages of the book are some of the most heavily damaged and yet to be translated. Mineko and Quint were able to read Halsiig's records of the journey, his hopes for unifying the dwarven people and founding a prosperous kingdom that could survive the dangers that have enveloped the world and bring his people back to prominence. Halsiig makes no effort to conceal that he had hoped Vigar would become that king, would become the one to find and wield the hammer and forge a nation of dwarves.
But if what Halsiig learned of earlier is true, would he not have to steal the hammer from the dwarves of the west? His attitude seemed indifferent to them, not even mentioning them by name or even indirectly. The hammer was all he spoke of, never its potential wielders.
But hope alone could not save Halsiig, and when all hope in his eyes was lost, he gave in to the dangers of Arcadia. His last log entries detail his washing ashore, believing that he was the sole survivor of the expedition. Halsiig wrote of his shame, of how he had led a life of avarice greed and that only in finding the hammer and returning some lost glory to his own kin could he redeem himself from the disappointment he felt he had become to his family. On turning his back on Torag's faith as a youth for the Prophecies of Kalistrade.
His last words define his last moments.
Father of All
Forgive Me.
Angrin quietly makes his way along the path with his comrades, looking from one to the next contemplatively, though his expression is slightly brooding.
At Dwunderbran's insistence that they take the weapons and equipment along, he nods appreciatively. The dead had no need of their things, and the living might. It brought to mind his own work in the tunnels beneath Varrok's Deep, whereby he essentially took things that his ancestors had been forced to abandon (or had died defending, potentially), and the sheer practicality that required he take the weapons and armor (when he could carry it) from tombs (though he privately admitted to himself that there was a religious aspect of reclaiming them for the dwarves). When the stinking warrior - something that still bemused Angrin - slowly becomes quiet throughout the morning, Angrin offers a brief prayer of thanksgiving to Torag for the blessing.
His mind turns to Rogath, the odd Desnan priest, as do his eyes. What was the deep dwarf-turned-surfacer thinking? He recalls the card the priest drew earlier that morning, frowning slightly. Some sort of furry bugbear, maybe? Well, whatever it was, it seemed to worry the priest. When Rogath notices his stare, Angrin offers him a small smile, in what is an awkward attempt to be reassuring. "Well, leastways we're in somethin' like home again, aye?"
Finally, he turns his attention to Dakún, and the implications of his nigh-prescience the previous day at the farm. Bloody Hell. The sand dwarf had done more that day than Angrin had managed to do during the entire expedition. If Angrin didn't see things when others did, what did that tell him about himself? He was being oblivious, and that was lethal, especially in unexplored- Bloody Hell! He cuts his thoughts off, keeping a sharp eye out for any potential threats or signs of civilizations past or present. No time for overthinking right now - he's on duty, dammit!
Later in the morning, Dwunderbran breaks his periodic silence with a mention of the granite, and Angrin takes a brief moment to nod in agreement, though he arches his brow in slight amusement at the thought of a statue of Dwunderbran being carved. "Aye, they might," he considers aloud, "what with yer heroics an' whatnot against the beastie in the sea!" He abruptly looks contrite, and makes a hushing gesture. "Let's keep it a bit quieter, aye? Who knows what's out here t' hear us?"
As he drains the last drop of coffee from his mug, Dr. Logem raises his hand and examines the new ring on his left hand - a shiny, polished golden ring inset with a diamond - one of the rings he pilfered off of Halsiig's corpse. Of all the rings, this one was his favorite, due to its price. A price that, sadly, is of little value here in Arcadia. However.. he had been giving such a matter thought. He had nine other valuable rings, each taken from the same source. Unlike Halsiig, who apparently squandered and hoarded his wealth until the brutal end, Dr. Logem had no interest in such wasteful behavior.
These rings.. they might prove useful if given to the right individuals.
Instead of his usual routine, Dr. Logem spent the day moving through camp, making as friendly of an appearance as was possible for him. He greeted many dwarves, asking how they were holding up and doing his best to get to know people.. looking for those who could prove useful.
By noon, he believed he had found such a person. A bookkeeper by the name of Mafol Nekolbomrek. 'Skullwhip' - an interesting surname to be sure. This dwarf, his nose deep in a book, recording the salvaging, manufacture, and usage of the expedition's goods, was surprised to find Dr. Logem initiating a conversation with him. At first, he suspected the good doctor was finally coming to him to record the medical supplies he himself had been keeping track of. When Dr. Logem, however, began flashing a pair of rings his way, he knew all too well the good doctor's intentions.
After speaking for a bit about bookkeeping, labor promises, and influence among some of the soldiers in the expedition, Mafol wearing two new shiny rings, the two agreed on an exchange. Over the next five days, Dr. Logem would seek out a crew of soldiers.. these men would be 'accidently' given additional food and alcohol rations, better beds, and, among other things, recreational goods. In return, they would offer their services to Dr. Logem for an extended period of time.
Mafol, meanwhile.. would ensure no one was the wiser of the extra resources being given to these men over some of the others in the camp. A job easy for him, considering the few dwarves interested in bookkeeping.
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Rising to his feet in a hurry, Dwunderbran turns to the others to see what tale their faces have to offer, and it is one of agreement: he wasn't seeing things—they saw it too.
"Ah'm gon' tae see wha' tha' be, ye grab me? Dinnae getter good look at it, but ah'll nae be restin' a wink wiff tha' a'prowlin' over yonder hills, aye?" Intentions stated and ringing true, the dwarf grips his weapons and begins stalking off into the night, wondering what manner of madness this strange place has deemed worthy of inflicting upon their small scouting party this night. Elsewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, beneath the tangled network of matted and braided fiery hair that crowns his head, he is forced to admit that part of him is looking for some sport—a dumb way to be so far from home in strange lands, he is forced to admit, but the violent streak in Dwunderbran is often times immutable.
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Angrin scowls, gesturing sharply at Dwunderbran. "Leave it t' me, would ye?!" He hisses, standing up himself, utterly certain that he was better at sneaking than the surfacer. He glances at the other two dwarves as he snatches reluctantly at the stinking dwarf's arm. Thanks to that, though, he misses, and Dwunderbran moves on. Angrin flinches as he hears the warrior crashing blithely through the area, then makes his way (much more quietly) up to him. "Dwunderbran - I've got this, aye? I'm the one most used t' sneaking, aye? Wait here, an' if ye see I need yer help, then come, aye?"
He moves forwards, hoping that the impulsive warrior does not follow.
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Dakun nods slowly to Dwunderbran and Angrin, the glow of the fire reflecting in his eyes. He reaches for his pistol, gently cocking the firing hammer back as he offers a side-long look to Rogath. After that brief look, Dakun watches the pair moving away from the camp, keeping an eye on them as they investigate whatever that sound was.
Dwunderbran and Angrin aren't the most stealthy of scouts as they make their way away from the campfire, Dwunderbran's breastplate armor clanking and clattering while the surly dwarf moves in a crouched posture, trying to occlude his silhouette behind the rocky hills. When Angrin moves to halt the other dwarf's movements and pass ahead, Dwunderbran spots something creeping up from around the corner of a rocky outcropping off of one of the hills. At first it is just eyes -- glowing red eyes in the dark -- then it is something hurled towards the pair.
With a wet slap and a splash, the eviscerated carcass of a ram is thrown bodily at the feet of the two dwarves. Entrails spool out like improperly coiled rope, kidneys and other bulbous organs sloshing out among the bloody morass. Standing just beyond Dwunderbran and Angrin's darkvision, a tall vaguely humanoid figure holds one arm out -- the arm that hurled the goat carcass -- then spreads a pair of feathered wings out as far to either side as it can, stretching tip to tip nearly twenty feet.
The figure growls something in an unfamiliar tongue, "ບໍ່ໄປເກີນກວ່າພູຜາປ່າດົງ," eyes narrowing and fingers curling towards its palm. The wind picks up, blowing the creature's long and tangled hair to one side.
It stands there, just beyond where the two dwarves can see, otherwise motionless. Dakun offers an urgent look to Rogath, awaiting some sign of what the pilgrim is going to do.
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This creature looks to be making some kind of peace offering. Perhaps it wants to share the spoils of some kind of hunt with you?
The goat carcass is both a gift and a warning. It is something like a consolation prize, take this and no more. The finer details of what the creature is trying to get across are unknown.
It said something that you think means no more or nothing else.
You're fairly certain its trying to draw a line in the sand. There's an implication that it wants you to take the goat carcass, but to also consider that it was butchered. A double-entendre meaning to imply that you and the goat are alike.
This language shares roots with Infernal and ancient Azlanti. Knowing that, you can infer that it said something like, "Do not approach mountains," but there was certainly implications that the goat was an offering to ensure that line is not crossed.
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Dwunderbran can make no sense of the creature's intent or words, and any hopes of its message holding any semblance of purpose with the dwarf is lost utterly on him. He stares confusedly at the carcass, axes raised halfway in a poise that is flirting with aggressive. Gleaning nothing worthwhile from the beast or its features, he instead peers towards the collection of dwarves around him from beneath shaggy brows. What happens next depends on their own reactions. His palms, growing clammier by the second, ache for an excuse to tighten their vice on his weapons and bury a message of his own in the winged thing's guts. The others seem to be more savvy on the strangeness of this land, however, so he affords them a moment to voice caution before his own blood lust gets the better of him.
Poor li'l bugger. Dwunderbran's eyes flash affectionately to the ruined carcass on the ground before him for the briefest of moments.
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Quint pushes the odd contraption back on his head, rubbing eye tired from squinting and straining to make out the shape of words. With the light largely gone the task had only grown more difficult and even with candles eventually it was too much.
He leans back in his chair, having obtained some actual surviving furniture for the task. It was worse the wear from having washed up on the beach but they could hardly have done this work sitting on cushions on the floor. The desk was even worse than the chairs, but they had managed to compensate for the missing leg and get it more or less stable in front of Quint's tent.
He looks across at Mineko with a grateful smile. "Well, a frustrating task, but rewarding I feel. A Hammer of the Dwarvish Lords..." he breathes, flipping back to the illustration inside the cover. Held by Duergar perhaps, but... perhaps greater even than the axe... such a find! The other passages had been less interesting, the last downright depressing but still he held onto the fascinating clues held within those first passages. He knew the task would on get harder from here, but it seemed the remaining sections would be even more rewarding...
"Lad, I know your a Dwarf, but if ye don't mind yourself, ye won't live long enough to be proud of it."
Maven's advice to the young Dwarven man is almost motherly in tone, and elicits more than a minor sigh and rolled eyes as the bandages were secured. He'd apparently suffered a nasty gash in the arm while handling a fishing line--quite improperly. This made the second trip to Maven's tent for his carelessness.
"There we are. Now fer Torag's sake, lad, get someone to teach ye how to handle a hook, would ye? We've only got so many bandages here, and we cannae afford to have ye mummified for a fish or two, aye?"
The lad drops his shoulders in exasperation as he gets up to leave. "Aye, aye, ma..." He sneers derisively. Maven shoots him a threatening glare as her right hand snaps to the handle of Drowbreaker, leaning to against a table. The young man's eyes go wide as he quickly backs out of the tent and runs off.
With no patients waiting on attention, Maven finds the time to clean up a bit before stepping out for air. Nighttime was a little less disorienting for her, if only because the sky was black, rather than the vibrant blue that made her think of the sea. She still avoided looking at it for too long, however, searching for other things to focus on, other tasks to do besides sewing and bandaging injuries. Seeing wounds all the time was not the most motivational experience she could recall, and she didn't feel as if she was accomplishing much, other than erasing the consequences of other's carelessness. She needed something to build...something to accomplish, something to think about...As she strolls about the camp, she spies a pair of Dwarves examining a book. Komainu's presence spells out their identities without question. As she paces by them, fidgeting a bit over whether to approach and make conversation, she finds the distraction she's looking for.
"--The Hammer of the Dwarvish Lords." The phrase freezes her entire body in its tracks. Her feet seem to turn of their own volition; her body swivels around to face the object of her frozen gaze, and her legs bring her forward into the candlelight.
"Hammer...of the Dwarvish Lords? I'd heard of an Axe, but a hammer as well? Love ta see the workmanship on that..."
Her thoughts drift to the hammer and the boulder in her vision from the funeral, leaving her wondering if there was some connection in the grander scheme of things.
Hammer...oh!
"By the way, if the two of ye've been bookkeepin', erm...how're we--well, the lot of us, I mean--supplied for equipment? I may not have a proper forge, but I can still try ta make sure we're not fightin' off beasts with broken axes and torn armor..."
Coming up behind the two leading dwarves, Rogath misses the bloody mess of flying goat. He just hears a meaty thud before he gets close enough to see what made the noise. And the... creature behind it.
Amazing wingspan, he thinks to himself, but I definitely don't want to get on its bad side, whatever it is. As he closes the distance, he listens to its warning, or threat, or challenge, and tries to translate for the others. "It wants us to do something. Or... not do something, I think." The Desnan frowns in concentration as he studies the creature and it's posture. "I think it's friendly, for the moment. Whatever it is. Or at least not hostile. But it's trying to tell us not to do something, and I think it'll be really angry if we do. Maybe it wants us not to hunt?" He shakes his head. "So many strange languages in this land. Perhaps, if Luck is with us, it speaks another we might recognize?"
Stepping forward, Rogath asks the strange creature a question in the lilting syllables of Celestial: ""
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Red eyes gleaming in the dark, the figure takes a few steps forward when Rogath approaches and addresses it in the language of heaven. As it steps into the monochromatic darkvision of the dwarves, the creature before them looks little like an angel, though stands near seven feet in height. Its appearance is too feral and hardened to be a celestial, with a prominent brow over hawkish features of crooked nose and high cheekbones. It bares its teeth threateningly, revealing a jagged maw designed for rending flesh. Its body is mostly humanoid, though bare-chested and athletically muscled. Its hands end in long, bird-like talons, and it stands on its haunches, having feet like that of a bird of prey. Most notably, however, are its elf-like tapered ears and bird-like wings of night black that spread out from behind it.
The creature emits a low, bass-filled rumble like some sort of predator's growl. Blood, likely from the animal, drips from the claws of one hand. Rogath can tell that it's expression is one of uncertainty, it doesn't recognize the language. Instead, it merely raises one hand with a taloned finger pointing, not at the dwarves, but rather the land behind them.
It shakes its head in a visible no, and then takes a slow step back, waiting to see what these small creatures do.
Quint directs a sharp gaze towards their eavesdropper, only softening marginally when he recognizes Maven. "We have discovered references to such a thing in Halsiig's journal. Oral legends and ancient stories... There is much still to be deciphered however." he says, seeming reluctant to share the information.
He gladly accepts the change of topic. "I'd have to check the latest reports for what's been brought in today, but we have enough to arm the defenders of the camp, but not much more. It would certainly be beneficial to obtain some more."
Looking slightly shaken, Rogath speaks to his companions without taking his eyes off the bloody creature. "Well, it was worth a try, but my Lady is not smiling on us right now. I know a ritual I can ask Her for which will let me understand this creature, whatever it is, but without the ability to speak back, I'm not sure it'd help." He frowns, thinking. "One more thing to try, then I'm out of ideas."
Stepping forward again, he makes a gesture to himself and the other dwarves, then points back east towards the coastline and waits for a response. Then he repeats the procedure with each other direction - North, West, and South. Each time he waits to see how the bird-thing responds.
"Good, good...it'd be nice to have somethin' to do besides bandagin' cuts and settin' broken bones. Been too long away from a proper forge with proper work to do; hard not knowin' what to do to make things better 'round here..."
Unsure of how to move the conversation along, after a few moments Maven uneasily nods to Quint and begins to head back to her tent when she spots a new pile of driftwood being hauled up by a few settlers. It would have escaped her notice completely but for a glint of metal sticking out from between planks. tugged by her curiosity, she treks over to the dump site, and as the two Dwarves heave the heavy mass of lumber onto the growing piles of salvage, a crossbow bolt tumbles out and onto the sand.
As she stoops to pick up the ammunition, turning it over in her hands, her mind starts to wander, making connections between materials, ideas, and purpose.
...bolts...wood...metal...we'll have to move soon...wait! Of course!
Maven's eyes light up with inspiration as an image forming in her mind. the bolt falls from her hands as she absentmindedly runs back to her tent. From outside, the sounds of rummaging and the occasional crash can be heard.
Then, only a faint scratching. A trained ear might recognize it as the sound of a pen on parchment.
Sitting beside Quint, Mineko sipped her tea quietly. Looking up she saw that Forgemaster Brewbane had joined the pair in study. Inclining her head slightly in a measure of guarded respect, the Empress nodded cordially. Yes, the book does speak of the Lords of Old and The Hammer of the Dwarvish Lords that the Axe may have been later based off of. Frowning slightly at the remembrance of her lost clan, Mineko closes her eyes momentarily to block away the pain. I find it so odd, the diverging and yet similar cultures our people shared. In my land the White Mountain Peak Clan, or "Yamauchi" held a Ancestral Celestial Weapon, who when last I knew was carried by my father. In this case the weapon was a Katana who our legends say made of star-filled steel crafted by a deep earth Kami. Frowning Mineko sighed. Perhaps my peoples sword like your peoples axe were both inspiration based on a previous longer legenge from our mutual peoples forefathers.
Sipping quietly on the cup of tea, Mineko nodded thoughtfully. Our peoples divergent history has spanned thousands of years so it would not come as a surprise that we might find common ground the further back we travel. Regardless, I think this journal is an important find and one that may help us in the future. Its clear that Halsii spent years planning this expedition and it is imperative that we focus on unlocking its secrets. Turning back to Quint, Mineko nodded as if making her mind up. I understand that you had planned to review our supplies and that needs to be of utmost importance, but I don't believe this journal can wait. I plan to continue to study it while the gatherers spend the next few days bring in the last of the supplies before we move to wherever possible the scouting group determined would be of our best immediate interest. In the mean time, we need to make sure that nothing from these pages is lost. It could be a serious setback to us. Just in case, we should consider having the book transcribed to protect it.
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Red eyes narrowing, the creature looks to the east at Rogath's suggestion, then turns back to the pilgrim with a curled upper lip in snarling expression. It takes one slow, purposeful step back and lets out a hiss, then with a single flap of its great wings explodes upward into the sky, then in another flap rockets into the night with great speed, leaving the bloodied animal carcass behind; offering, warning, promise.
With that grim warning made, the expeditionary team sets out to complete their survey of the western hills. While back at the beach, the settlers acclimate themselves to their new, foreign home and make plans for the future. Together with Mineko, Quint continues the process of transcribing Halsiig's journal, making progress on two more entries in the weighty tome. The two discover that Halsiig had originally intended to recruit the elder Skuldafn on his journey, but his untimely passing turned his sights to Vigar as a hopeful for the future of the dwarven people. Halsiig himself is shown to be a man of great hope for the dwarven people, but one who dishonored his family by forsaking the path to the dwaven pantheon to venerate the philosophies of foreign origin.
Rogath, Dwunderbran, Angrin and Dakun make their days-long trek across the hillside, spotting groves of fruit-bearing trees, lush fields of grass and much exposed stone ready for use. As they journey, they find no more signs of life or habitation, and on their return pass once more through the ruined mill that began their journey. Finally, after days of travel they return to the beach camp that they had left behind to find it thriving. Tents dot the rocky shoreline, salvaged materials from the beach have been hauled ashore and categorized for their utility and value, and appearances indicate that what little good they could find from the beach has been removed.
There would be much to discuss in the intervening days about their discoveries -- on both sides of the expedition -- but now, reunited, they would make their first forays into the lands of Arcadia to find a more permanent settlement, for the winds of spring blow hard and strong, and storms could brew off of that roaring surf that would bring ruin to their tent village.
Their journey had just begun, and it would be a journey of a thousand miles...
...beginning with a single step.
R u i n s o f P a t h f i n d e r
Book I: A Wayward Dawn
Part II: Foundations
The crackle and pop of a bonefire joins the symphony of lapping waves, crashing against the rocky shoreline. Seated in the sand around the fire, dozens of dwarves share stories of their journeys in and around the landing sight over a meal of the last bits of crab boiled into a stew. The salvage was beginning to thin, food stores running lower than they were, and it was becoming increasingly clear that the dwarves could not stay on the beach much longer. The group that was largely becoming a circle of inspiration and leadership among the dwarves sat together, pages of translated book spread out on a cloth over the sand, each page weighted down by small, seaworn stones.
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Quint, holding the original text in his lap, drums his fingers on the book's surface. "Ancient Ulfen settlements, winged creatures, and the presence of an artifact of our people..." Quint's brow furrows, looking into the large bonfire with a distant expression.
"That black-winged creature, it is reminiscent of a creature from Avistan. They are called Stryx, and reside in the cliffs around Westcrown in Cheliax. Reclusive, accursed things, as far as I am aware. They shun other races and keep to themselves..." The archaeologist looks to Rogath, wishing he had been there himself to see the creature first hand. He doesn't say it aloud, but there is wonder for how -- why -- a stryx may be on Arcadia painted across his face.
With all these unusual pieces of a much larger puzzle aligning themselves, it was time for the settlers to decide the direction of their future.
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Living on this beach could get everyone killed when a storm comes in. There's also no shelter from predators or -- potentially -- intelligent attackers. Every day spent on the beach risks the lives of all the settlers. Moving inland and finding a suitable place to build permanent shelters would go a long way, especially if you could find lumber.
There's plenty of granite in those hills to the west, which could be used to build suitable strong shelters. There is also a freshwater river and a mill, though wildlife is not abundant in this area and would make hunting require longer distance travel. The western mountains that Angrin and the others spoke of seeing beyond the hills would be ideal to settle in, especially if nearby forests could be found to harvest lumber from.
The beach area is unsuitable for prolonged habitation. Unless the group plan on doing more salvaging up the coast, staying here is risky as it leaves everyone exposed to predators and potentially intelligent threats. The settlers have been lucky, thus far, but luck eventually runs out.
Maven sat with her back to the bonfire, soaking up all the warmth she could; the breeze of the sea felt nice enough, but she craved the glowing heat of a real fire. As she blankly gazed at the ruined scraps of the incomplete journal, scattered on the cloth like pieces of a torn quilt, all she could think of was the Hammer of Dwarvish Lords.
What manner o' hammer is it, I wonder? Likely a warhammer meant fer a shield. Or maybe it's meant ta be paired with the Axe? That'd be fearsome, true enough...can't imagine it bein' the likes of Drowbreaker...What I wouldn't give to know who shaped it out of what...wouldn't it be a laugh if it turned out ta be a smithin' hammer wielded fer war...
Almost as quickly as the thought spreads a smile across her face, it is replaced by a grim reminder of how much she missed her own forge; indeed, her home. The harder she tried to take comfort in the fire's heat, the more the loss ached. She had been preoccupied these last weeks with sailing, keeping her eyes off the sky, treating wounds, and recently, planning schematics, that she could almost feel the soreness from her unused smithing muscles. worse than the physical withdrawals, however, were the dreams. An unnerving reminder of her visions from the funeral, her rest had been disturbed on occasion by the same clarion peals of a hammer on the strange, dark stone as she had experienced once before. No clearer was the vision or the meaning, but what worried her most was that the sound had grown louder. More than once, she'd snapped awake from the pain of her hammer arm striking objects in a reflexive swinging arc. Not a word had she spoke of it, fighting off the shudders that no Dwarf next to a fire should be having.
thank Torag no one's caught wind o' that little quirk...If we don't find a better spot soon and start pullin' up ore and stone, I'm 'fraid I might start hammerin' people's heads in me sleep...
Dwunderbran occupies much of his time upon returning to the beach with seeing to the training of what few dwarves were available or up to the task of serving as watchmen and guards for the expedition. Upon learning that one of the Easterling Empress' retainers has taken to the task in his absence, he almost flies into a frenzy. The disciplined rows of dwarves all practicing forms in unison under the discretion of Uruwashii is more than he seems willing to stomach. Fortunately, the calmer, wiser Helk Thardnof manages to assuage Dwunderbran's concern and outrage with vouching words and praises. The words hit their mark, and Vulgarbeard elects not to drown Uruwashii in the chilly chop of the tide—at least, not this particular night.
Later, gathered around the bonfire with the others, Dwunderbran scoffs very overtly and intentionally as Quint considers the existence of Stryx in Arcadia. Stoking the fire so as to allow a more concentrated gust of heat to warm his bones, simultaneously causing the flames to cut a grim look to the dwarf's visage as they dance in the waning light of the evening. "Ah dunnae care a'fer wha' tha buggers be. Ah dunnae care if'n tha' blightin' goat-cutter be wardin', warnin', or warrin' us away. We be dwarves a'true, an' tha' range o' cloud scrapin' stone o'er the horizon be a'ready fer ta be claimed, ye grab me? Buggers can keep the soddin' sky—long as we be gettin' the cellar." His bravado belies his own hesitance when the creature appeared. Truth be told, they were in the dark about their numbers; was the creature alone, or did it belong to a tribe of hundreds or thousands? It didn't matter. To Dwunderbran, the choice was simple: dying at the hands of a superior foe was a far more fitting end than by the torture of starvation.
"Aside from tha'? We be needin' ta find food aplenty, an' soon. Me gut be rumblin' right afierce fer tha Northwest. Cannae say fer truth, aye, but ah've a feelin' tha' food be a'hidin' there an' by the plenty." Dwunderbran casts his eyes to the Southwest with a knowing nod, a few sedate points following shortly to let the others in on his impeccable instinct's choice of hunting grounds. That goat had come from somewhere. By his reckoning, there were thousands of the bleating things just waiting to be culled by a butcher's blade.
Upon seeing the expedition return without anything interesting for him to examine, Dr. Logem is initially uninterested in what they discovered. However, he still ends up attending the meeting later that night. Sitting upon his recovered collapsable chair near the bonfire, his bare feet propped up on a toasty rock, he listens intently upon hearing about the Stryx.
Dr. Logem strokes his beard, and when they finish speaking, he chimes in."It is too bad you were unable to capture the being in question. I would have very much liked to examine it - perhaps if we were to encounter it again, we could attempt it? Particularly if it proves to be less than friendly. It could provide.. insights into their physiology should they end up becoming a threat. Knowing the weaknesses of a potential enemy could save us in the long run. Plus - should we be able to communicate with it - I would be able to extract information from it, should we deem it necessary."
"I believe I will join the next scouting expedition when we decide to do that - just in case such an opportunity arises." Dr. Logem smiles, eager for such an opportunity. "In any case, we need to move inland. Staying where we are will be a death sentence should a storm roll in. However, the question is where to go? The mountains are supposedly 'off limits' according to these Styrx - while they seem our best bet, it would also be prudent not to unnecessarily annoy the locals just yet. We have heard of bountiful food to the northwest - but with bountiful food comes likely predators. Should we go that route, we will need to be doubly careful, for where there is food, there is prey - where there is prey, there is something to hunt it. I am personally interested in this bounty of Chalk we've discovered. Chalk, if I am correct, has its uses in metalurgy, does it not, Maven? It has other alchemical uses as well, though by no means is it particularly valuable in my craft. However, if we do not move the entire group that route, we should at least send a scouting party that route. The rest of the expedition could head to where food is plentiful - food is, afterall, one of our primary concerns right now. Predators or no, I'm sure we can handle them. Though.. it might be prudent to send a scouting party in that direction a day or two ahead of the main expedition - as insurance. I would volunteer to be a part of that team, if necessary."
Quint is forced to wonder why the others thought Dwunderbran having a voice in this assembly was a good idea. Even putting aside his offensive presence he continued to prove that he could not fit more than the basest of ideas into his thick skull.
As Logem speaks up Quint's opinion of the fellow only continues to descend. He had seemed a reasonable enough fellow on the journey over, but since they had crawled away from the grip of the ocean he had been showing a different side all together.
"I fear your priorities may be somewhat skewed there Doctor. I suggest that we make a more formal attempt at diplomacy prior to any aggressive actions. At the least we need a better idea of what territory they claim and if we even need concern ourselves with them. From what I recall theChelaxian Strix possessed their own language. We’ll likely need magical aid to help us communicate." he reasons, adding the last part more to himself, his brow furrowing as he tries to recall the right spells. The knowledge evades him however, and he looks to the clerics expectantly.
"I believe even that is getting ahead of ourselves however. Doctor Logem is correct, we need to move our camp, we are too exposed to the elements and anything else that cares to take an interest in us, and with the salvage from the ship having dried up there is little left to keep us here. " Quint reasons
"I still advocate a cautious approach however. I believe in the mornign that we should begin to move west and establish a small, semi-permanent camp. From the reports shared by the expedition it sounds like there is some good stone that can be quaried, and plentiful fresh water. If a suitable location can be found providing access to these, then from there we will only need to secure lumber, and a more permanent food source."
"To that end, and to address the earlier topic, we send a small, stealthy group of scouts out to the surrounding area again, while sending a larger group north to more thoroughly evaluate the herd animals spotted by our initial survey. I still believe that we need to secure as much of the salvage from the ships as possible, and suggest leaving a group of 40 to 50 of our number to head north or south and begin securing those supplies."
"What I believe to be the most pertinent information to our immediate survival from Halsiig’s journal is some of the most badly damaged. I will continue to attempt to decipher it, but any extra pairs of eyes, or aid anyone else may have will speed those efforts along."
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Rogath nods to Quint's points as he makes them. "The only magic I know which may help only goes in one direction. It's the same as helped with the journal. Invoking it on a Strix as well would allow a conversation, but convincing them to do allow it may be hard without that conversation. It was not friendly." Rogath shakes his head.
Leaning back so he can look up at the stars, he continues musing. "Splitting up could be risky, if there is anyone or anything truly hostile around. But it will allow us to establish ourselves here that much faster, and that is probably more important. We have been lucky enough to not suffer a bad storm yet, but who knows when we will need a more permanent shelter?" He looks back down at the other dwarves around the fire. "Let us explore, and acquire the resources we need, and leave the birdmen for another day."
Nodding sagely as if the thought were some profound epiphany not encountered since the discovery of fire, Dwunderbran offers supportive weight to Quint's mention of the vast tracks of granite the away team had encountered on their stab westward. "Me words be doin' no justice to tha stone riddled rolls o' land tha' we be findin', laddies. Stone aplenty fer ta be buildin' up'n to a groundling empire, savvy? Miss Brewbane can getter smithy a'stoked an' a'fiercely. Time permittin', ah be believin' we can be sproutin' walls ter keep tha crawlies out; firm roofs ta be keepin' out tha winged buggers. An' it all be restin' aside a river fit fer drinkin' tha' be feedin' intae tha sea direct. 'Tis a bounty ripe fer ta be clutchin' fer, ta be sure, an' a fair wee bit less gratin' than tha crash o' tha tide on me ears, ye grab me? Tha' is, 'til we be a'manhood totin' nuff fer ta take tha mountains fer a home a'true, aye?" Dwunderbran reclines on a gnarled log, propping his feet up on a jutting bit of rock as he retrieves and lights one of his bitterleaf stoagies. With practiced ease, he begins exhaling thick smoke rings into the chill night air.
Quint taps his thumb against his lips as he thinks, nodding to Rogath's reasoning of the spell. "I think I may be able to help... If the creatures speak the same tongue as their kin it's a mix of an ancient tongue spoken by the inhabitants of Azlant, and the language of the devils. I don't know their foul tongue, but I do have more than a passing familiarity of Azlanti. It's not much but it could perhaps smooth the initial talks. I might even be able to tease some more meaning from that warnin' if you were able to repeat it ta me." he looks at the away team expectantly, but doesn't seem surprised or disappointed if they are unable to do so.
"I realize there is a danger in spreading ourselves too thin, but I think it should be safe to leave a few strong dwarves here to protect the salvage teams. The only thing that's given us trouble here so far is that crab, and there only seemed to be the one of them. We'll just make sure that the groups have someone watching over them in case there's any more wildlife along those stretches of beach, and no what to do should they have any trouble."
He turns his focus to deciphering Dwunder's rambling speech then and a few moments after the sailor finishes he gives a hesitant nod. It didn't do much to improve Quint's opinion of him but it seemed Dwunderbran was supporting his plan.