Heavy dust of mid-summer churned up behind the large wheels stagecoach which now rumbled across the Sargarvan savannah. Aside from the rattling of wood of the conveyance and the occasional curse from its cantankerous, old pilot the journey from the port city of Eleder has been one of relative silence. Spreading out as far as the eye can on either side, golden prairie grasses and acacia trees separate the earth from the brilliant blue sky. Wisp of thread like clouds hang motionless in the great expanse before you. So much freer in feel than the northern lands you and your traveling companions obviously hail from, so mired in their wars and excesses of so called “civilization”. Out here a man makes it by his wits and not the laws of some weak willed, jellied spined bureaucrat.
Just as the thoughts of your life outside this wild place began to filter in, the coach slows to a stop. Glittering bits of trail powder glisten in the luminous rays of the mid-day sun as they filter into the cabin. A stillness seems to hang for a moment before it is shattered by a thunderous thump and a loud yip from the coachman. Poking his head through the fore most window he says, “Makin’ camp ‘ere ta-night, boys. Best ta not be travelin’ these parts af’er dark, ya know. But, I just bagged us a fine aurochs calf fer dinner. Gonna need te be gettin’ it quick ‘fore the hyenas or worse do.”
After prepping a fine meal and burying the left over carcass, the coachman builds up a fine fire and identifies himself as Hob. A former ranger from Cheliax, Hob came to Sargarva mostly because he didn’t most of the folks in Cheliax. “A stuck up lot,” He called them. Taking up a position running new ranch hands out to Freehold just seemed to be a natural fit.
Sitting back with antique musket of a massive caliber across his lap, the old man says, ”So I understands ye boys are headed out ta the ranch ta help wit’ the problem wit’ them abos. They sure is a superstitious lot them Zenj. Been saying a boogie man or some such nonsense been stirrin’ up all manner of problems. Where you fellas comin from anyhow?”, he says with a puff from his pipe.
A dour, scruffy dwarf with a beard the color of prairie dust nods awake as the stagecoach stops. At the thump of the coachman's musket his hand quickly drops to the grip of a gleaming revolver, but at the yip of delight he relaxes again. Slowly reaching for a water skin, Gurn takes a long pull from it, then climbs from the back of the coach and stretches his legs out on the open plains.
As they sit around the fire finishing their auroch steaks, Hob inquires about everyone's past, a line of questioning that doesn't seem to spur anyone to conversation. The severe halfling might as well have spoke for the lot of them when he said from one job to the next, at the small cowboys words Gurn cracks a smile and seconds the notion. "Spoke true lad, from the last job to a new one, rolling on like a tumbleweed."
The old scout chuckles a gravely sound of acknowledgement saying, "Sounds like the same stories I gets from most comin' through these parts. Might ah said the same of maslef when I came here, too. You boys seem a bit more prepared than most. That's a good thing. I've taken a good many of ya, or should I say parts of ya, back the the way we come in boxes. Sargarva ain't the most fergiven place in the world. Gotta be tough and smart ta be makin' it here."
I am Gyasi of Orsirion friend. Gyasi says gathering his things, which do not seem to be alot. His skin has a slight blueish tint which is accentuated by the fact he is almost completly hairless. I come to heal the sick and pray for the return of Nethys. He says with a hint of sorrow as he gazes up at the new sky he finds himself under.
"Pretty peculiar look ya got about yerself there, fella. But, I'd imagine the Mwangi thought the same thing about us when we came down here, hahahaha."
"Indeed, they probably did. They either thought us monsters or spirits, I bet." A tall, slender man dismounts off a chestnut mare. The horse had built up a good sweat under the heat of the day and the man calmly ties it to a nearby tree. Afterwards, he comes to the fire to share in the juicy, but tough meat.
"Name's Cyrus. I'm a traveling preacher of Erastil. Old Deadeye has decreed that I spend what's left of my time ensuring different towns hear some of his stories and get his blessings. Especially out here in the wild." He looks at Hob and bows his head toward him for a moment. Then he gestures to the aurochs meat roasting over the fire. "Blessed be the hunters. For they provide for us all."
"Indeed they be, preacher, indeed they be. Pull up a stump an' share the fire with us if ya like. These fellas an' 're more 'han happy ta share what we got here. Little coffee an' some of the local buffalo is whats we got tonight. Where ya headed there, stranger?"
"Thank you for your kindness. Don't mind if I do." Cyrus sits on a log next to Edvard. He gingerly take a piece of sizzling meat with his dagger. "I'm just moving from town to town as long as people have good will. Don't much care for the destination. It's the journey and the company that matter. I do hope to get to Port Freedom at some point, though. How about you all?"
Gyasi casts Prestigitation on himself to clean off any dust and creat a sweet scent. If any of you would like Nethy's blessing I can grant it removing the road from you and your equipment.
Cyrus looks up at Gyasi cleans himself off. "Well. A mage. Ain't seen one of you around in a long time. I thought you said you were a pilgrim of Nethys." He pauses to think for a second. "Though, I suppose that at least makes sense if you learned arcane arts along the way. Please don't take offense though, if I decline."
And what will you do once you have all that coin good sir? Then shifting his gaze to the other man. Yes, the gift of magic I bring to those who may have forgotten. Nethys is further from the world than he ever has been. We must bring him back or soon the mana wastes will just be another desert because all of the world lacks Nethys' blessing. Gyasi says passionatly his face almost showing aggony.
Cyrus considers Gyasi's words. "Magic is important, I'll give you that. I don't want it going away. But how it's applied is also important. A simple spell to help the crops or an incantation to heal the sick. That's what most people around here appreciate."
The dwarf accepts the offered cleaning, glad to remove some of the sweat and grim from the journey.
"Thanks lad, no need to keep dirty britches out here in the wild country if one don't be havin' to."
Glad to be of service good dwarf. I spent some time amoung the dwarves of Alkenstar during my travels.
Gyasi shares stories around the camp, and offers to take either the first or last watch if possible so that he may get a full night's rest.
As the evening winds down, Cyrus takes his leave from the group, but not before offering to help stand watch. "I can take first watch, if you'd like." He picks up a tree branch about as long as his arm. He whispers a prayer to Deadeye, and the tip begins glowing as bright as a torch.
He smiles at Gyasi. "See, I told you I wasn't opposed to magic." He turns and begins to unload his bedroll and blanket from his saddlebags.
I never doubted you good Sir, I am a friend to the great hunter, though my path is not his. Good night then and may tommorow make us anew.