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The sun creeps blearily over the Saukith Sea, casting fog-softened morning light on Port Elam. Small fishing vessels dot the bay, the fishermen already at work from the wee hours of the morning. Dockworkers and sailors shuffle out of inns and cathouses to begin their day’s work and soon the large port is buzzing with activity. Crates of goods are loaded and unloaded, ropes are tossed to and from the gunnels, and workers move about the ships and docks. The salty morning air is filled with shouted orders from ship captains and dock overseers alike, interjected by creaking wood from crates and rigging, and the bustle of moving foodstuffs, livestock, textiles, and all manner of trade goods into the city for sale.
Port Elam’s market is equally busy. The shouts of merchants can be heard over the steady din of hagglers, in competition with each other and the street musicians and entertainers. The gritty streets are filled with people of all race, creed, and dress, a semblance of peace and order maintained by sauntering city guards. Visitors and residents know to watch for pickpockets and charlatans, whose eyes brighten at the sight of gold, silver, or an easy mark. About nine months ago, word passed to Port Elam that good King Thadeus Andreat is deathly ill, and the royal family is trying everything they can to cure him.One month ago, the city buzzed when important-looking men from across the Saukith Sea landed in Port Elam and made haste to Thaleniel, but that is now old news. No word of his recovery reached the trade city, so a few will still raise a glass or prayer on his behalf, but seldom are vigils held.
Off one of the main roads, a large tavern and inn called the Dancing Donkey is where two half-orcs, three men, a halfling, and two dwarves find themselves on this fine morning. The grey-bearded human innkeeper is busy taking orders for breakfast, and the small gnome wench with a shock of violet hair expertly balances trays of drink and food to those with coin.
The little bright-haired barmaid approaches one of the half-orcs, known as Quick, “What’ll it be, hun?” she asks casually.
The young man sits alone at the center table in the small inn. In truth, he is not a man, but his diminished tusks and lofty brow often lead people to overlook his Orcish parentage. If that were not enough, it becomes clear when the youth opens his mouth and a perfect, unaccented common rolls out. Yes, Quick is indeed a one of a kind.
Without looking up from the pamphlet he is reading. Quick answers the friendly gnome in his deep, soft voice.
"Three eggs, fried ham, a bagel," He looks up with a charming smile. "and the juice of a pomegranate. Thank you, Igith."
Quick sets down his reading, and lights his thin, slender churchwarden pipe.
Seated towards the edge of the tavern a lone Dwarf, Gorim, is engaged in prayer. His left hand is held before his face while he mouths words into a simple wooden necklace, from which hangs the carved hand of Irori.
The necklace almost matches the assorted beads that inhabit his greying beard, which further match his modest clothing.
His whispered words come to a halt, he pauses for a moment, and lowers the symbol, slowly wrapping it around his wrist while opening his eyes. He surveys the room.
Hungry, he thinks. I could do with some grub.
Henry's grin hasn't left his face since the group arrived at Port Elan. The port and the market just feel so much like his hometown, even the fog and the chill can't damp his spirits.
"Sausage, pomegranate juice... You wouldn't have any pelican eggs to fry, would you? If not, I'll just take fresh bread."
The shock of purple hair bobs in acknowledgement to the requests of Quick and Henry, though Igith’s face betrays some confusion at the request for pelican’s eggs. The innkeeper wordlessly shakes his head as he wipes down the bar. “Just hen’s eggs, if you wannum.”
In a few minutes, a steaming sausage, a small loaf of warm bread, and blood-red juice is placed in front of Henry. Quick also receives his eggs, juice, ham, and a fist-sized roll of sweetbread. “Out of bagels, sorry,” Igith explains.
When the lone dwarf looks to be finished praying, the little gnome regards him expectantly, but says nothing.
A finely-dressed elderly elf totters into the tavern, and looks about the common area as the door closes behind him. His nice clothes appear to show signs of wear from travel, and dust from the road covers his boots and trousers. Still, his bearing marks him as one with money, and one accustomed to giving orders. A small smile plays over his aged and narrow face, apparently pleased at something he sees. “I represent a family of artifact collectors. I have two hundred gold pieces to anyone who will guide me to the snowcaps of the Baldrin Heights and back,” he boldly announces to the patrons, his eyes passing from one to the other, “one hundred now, and one hundred when we return. I will give more details to those interested at this table. But first,” he gestures to the innkeeper, “Four eggs, a rasher of bacon, mulled spiced wine, a light leek soup, and a baked potato.”
The innkeeper nonchalantly nods at the order and ducks inside the door to the kitchen. The old elf eases a table next to the door, and breathes a sigh of relief, setting a heavy backpack on the floor beside him. He plops a pouch of coins onto the table to indicate that he is ready to discuss business.
"Oi!" Henry calls out, "You'll want to talk to us about this trip, then, once you're done with your meal."
He turns to the maid. "I suppose I'll also take hashed potatoes. It may be a long day yet."
Quick rises from his place, meal half eaten and approaches the stranger.
"I admit to some curiosity, and though I have some questions: perhaps a reservation or two, I am inclined to accept your offer. May I sit?"
|
The other half-orc in the Dancing Donkey watches the attention now set upon the traveler. Clothed in leather and bits of salvaged armor from various flotsam and jetsam encountered over the years, with a pack containing all of his possessions beside him, Gwath Gil remains stoic, his body motionless. A passerby might mistake him for sleeping if they weren't the subject of his unblinking gaze.
The Evening Cleave had docked that morning, leaving him some well-deserved shore leave after a season primarily at sea. Privateering was not a consistent businesses, and a half-orc was never granted seniority nor tenure in man's civilized world. Any opportunity for coin was not to be ignored.
As Gwath silently observes, his black parrot quietly sneaks away a bite from his meal.
Gorim's eyes, now finally drifting downward from the Elven traveller, meet with the Gnome.
"Oh, errr..." the Dwarf utters, pausing to rub the back of his balding head, contemplating and grinning, "...a bunch of eggs and some bread. 5 eggs, I think. And some cranberry juice? Potatoes too."
His gaze soon then returns to the new arrival and gestures with a nod, "You'll find me over there. Thanks."
And with that he stands, sling his backpack over his shoulder, and strolls over. "It'd be nice to see those hills!" he exclaims.
The old traveler gestures to the dwarf and pipe-smoking half-orc to sit, and waves Henry an invitation. “Plenty of room to eat here.” Igith sets a warm mug of mulled wine before the elf, and a cup of cranberry juice before the dwarf. She turns and enters the kitchen, which is now clanking, murmuring, and sizzling in activity.
The wealthy representative answers the dwarf amiably, “Indeed! The journey through Vyren’s countryside has been quite a sight already. A healthy change from living within arm’s reach of a tree trunk!”
He smiles and takes a sip of wine, and smacks his lips in satisfaction. He looks up to the half-orc, “What sort of questions do you have? My name is Moss, by the way.”
He offers a hand to the dwarf, then the half-orc.
Quick shakes the offered hand absentmindedly. "I presume by 'guide' you mean 'go with a protect.' Am I correct? Because if I am not, I must decline your offer as I have no talent for surviving the wilds alone, leave alone aiding another to do so."
Henry Southgard moves his plate and drink to the new table, and makes a second trip for his pack and crossbow. He starts eating in silence, waiting for everyone else's questions to be answered first.
Gorim thanks Igith with a subtle smile, and responds to the elf with a firm shake, "Mah name's Gorim," his grin widening. He takes 2 swigs from the mug and continues, "I'm curious, watchu after up there?"
Moss nods his head in thought, “Yes, some protection would not go amiss.” He answers Quick, “Port Elam is the last ‘civilized’ leg of my journey.”
His face brightens when the other half-orc speaks. “Really? Please, sit.” He gestures to an open seat at the table. He turns to the bearded dwarf beside him. “Well met, Gorim. I am Moss.”
He leans forward as though about to whisper something to those at the table, but is interrupted by Igith, who deposits plates of hashed potatoes, baked potatoes, eggs, warm bread, and an oniony soup. A look from Moss tells her to give the table some space for awhile. She departs without a word.
He leans in again, whispering, “Have any of you heard of The Silver Scale?”
"Silver scale? Would this be one of those scales jewelers use for precious metals? Or are we talking about something that fell off one of those metallic dragons?"
Gorim, leaning to grab a loaf of bread, now leans in closer.
It is said, when the world was wild and no building cast a shadow, that dragons ruled the earth and skies. The races of men and those like men were simpler folk, wandering the world to scavenge food for the day and the next. Some dragons sought to aid these fledgling races, while others sought to enslave. Uthylzarion, a silver dragon, wise and helpful to the humble tribes, took up a cause to defend them from a ruthless and bloodthirsty red dragon that lived atop what is now Armaag’s Peak. The battle between them was said to have lasted days, and the trees across the Baldrin Heights were blighted from the earth. In the end, Uthylzarion fell to the incinerating breath of the red dragon, and he was reduced to a cloud of ashes. The people that lived near the hills fled, and the red dragon continued his reign of terror. Worshippers of Uthylzarion hid in the crags of the Baldrin Heights until the red dragon cast his wing shadow over other lands. When they emerged, a single large silver scale was found to have survived the dragonfire. In the snowcaps, worshippers built a shrine to their silver-scaled martyr. The cult has long-since died, but some lorekeepers believe it to possess magical powers. Recorded attempts to find the Silver Scale have failed, for various reasons.
The Silver Scale is an obscure artifact, mentioned to in the unabridged history tomes as the sacred item of a long-dead cult. Records vary in guesses at where the Silver Scale might be, and expeditions to find it have failed thusfar.
“The latter,” Moss answers Henry before sipping his wine, “A very old dragon, if legends can be believed.”
"A very dead dragon, if we're going after one of its scales," Henry says. "Or, I'd hope so."
"Do you reference the fabled scale of Uthylzarion? What do you know if this, and tell me true, mind you. I shall know if you lie."
Any harshness in Quick's tone is easily chalked up to enthusiasm and youth. The boy means no disrespect.
"Oooo, I've heard of it all right... some cult held it sacred, I think, some while ago..." Gorim says, now coming across a tad more serious, then leans back and spouts "though it's more than a bit missing! No one's been able to find the damn thing, or agree on it's location. Hah!"
He reels back in, composing himself.
Moss nods to Henry, then to Quick with a serious tone. “Uthylzarion, yes. A long-dead silver dragon revered by cultists thousands of years ago. The elven Andel family will pay handsomely to add it to their museum. With your help, I will find it for them.”
He looks to the dwarf with a raised eyebrow, but continues to whisper, “Ah, but that remains to be seen. I have searched all manner of history tomes and records, read ancient carvings, and endured the oral traditions of Urlghain elders. The clues are wide ranging, vague, or difficult to interpret, but I uncovered a map with a few vital clues. It may lead us to the Scale.”
The elven traveler falls silent as he begins eating his mountain of breakfast.
Henry briefly glares at Quick. He shrugs, and turns to the elf.
"Good work rousting out the location of a relic. But now that we're talking business, where is your destination, how do you plan to get there, and what opposition do you expect?"
Quick waves Henry's questions down for the moment. "We will get to all that."
He points a long, powerful finger at the elf. "Think you this thing is just some trinket to display? Think you such a memory of this noble souled dragon deserves to go to the highest bidder as a trophy? Without the sacrifice of that heroic creature, you would likely been born a slave if at all."
Quick straightens and turns as if to go, but stops short. "There had better be more to this tale, or I'm not sure I can allow this venture to begin, let alone be a part of it."
"And if there be none, permit me at least to see the map." Before anyone can object he adds, "I do swear on my life that no harm will come to it by my hand this day."
Henry's face betrays a growing shock and horror from Quick's sabotage of the negotiations. He leans his chair back and rubs his temples when the half-Orc demands to see the map, biting down a stream of invective.
He rocks forward and points a finger at Moss.
"You. Same three questions. We'll want a look at the map sometime after that."
He turns to face Quick.
"And you. Act like a professional. It's a scale. From a dragon. Which had ten thousand of the damn things. What makes this one so sacred?"
WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!
Settled down, Gorim listens and stares away in contemplation while these two hash it out, twirling one of the beads that adorn his beard and grinding his teeth ever so slightly through bad habit.
He's sure their energy will churn up from great information from the elf, but if need be he'd be ready to step in.
"I do not blame you for your ignorance Henry. Indeed, most people are ignorant of dragons and their lore. In most things, I would count myself among that 'most'. But not in this."
"As for acting professional, I am not a professional of any kind, so will not deceive people by acting otherwise."
"It is not that this scale is sacred. Only that it deserve more respect than to sit on a shelf in some collector's hall. That scale is a symbol of hope for all peoples who would live free."
Quick's eyes are those of a kindly teacher, but his face is hard as granite. The dichotomy lends an unsettling aspect to the half-orc's visage.
While you converse within the walls of the inn, your ears catch an out-of-place noise down the road in the market area. A high-pitched scream -not like that of the daily victims of theft, but a scream of inescapable terror. Still, it was a great distance away, that there are probably city guard already on their way to the source of the noise.
“Fellows, please,” Moss interjects, looking from Henry to Quick.
“Do you think, half-orc, that I would show you the map after a statement like that? You would clearly work to oppose my discovery! If it eases your conscience, the Andal family take pride in their thorough historical records, and if a fuller account on the legend around the scale is available at its shrine, we will copy it down to bring with us.” After a glare at Quick, Moss turns to Henry with a business-like tone. “The location is up in the snowcaps of the Baldrin Heights, about two day’s journey from here, on foot (in case we need to climb), so long as we don’t get lost,” Moss glances appreciatively at Gwath, the other half-orc nearby, “I am not native to the area, but I expect the dangers along the way will be the cold weather and wild animals.”
After a pause, he turns an incredulous look to Quick, “And how else would you show respect to such an artifact? Their collection is open for all to see! I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, honestly.”
Quietly, Henry nudges his pack out from under his chair.
"This scale, if we find it, probably deserves more than to be lost to the world at large. Delivering it to a collector who could give access to scholars would be doing it and the world a favor."
"Now, Moss, you mentioned this scale is at a shrine. Doesn't that imply that there's people worshiping and protecting it? Animals and weather will be no great problem, but intelligent guardians will cost extra."
He shrugs at question regarding the shrine, “Yes, a shrine. As mentioned, I spent the last few years chasing down any and all information on this relic. If the cultists hadn’t died out, I think they would’ve resurfaced in the realm’s history at least a few more times, even if their mentioning spoke of attempts to erase the knowledge of their existence.”
Moss turns a shrewd look to the mercenary, “At the end of this venture, you’ll be holding two hundred gold pieces. A hefty fortune, to the unwealthy,” he casts a disdainful look on Henry’s appearance, “I have serious doubts you have ever held that much coin at one time. My price is more than generous compared to the traveling merchants or nobles pay for protection.”
The elf begins digging into his breakfast once again.
"I'll have you know," the mercenary says as his eyes harden. "I held twice that amount in my hands not two months ago."
He meets Moss's eyes for a few heartbeats, and then breaks into a smile.
"Hah. That was when we were escorting a pair of merchants through this fine town, and I was loading their cashbox into the wagon. You are right, even split four ways, two hundred gold pieces for five days work is more than a fair wage."
"Now, we're talking about raiding a shrine that was kept by a cult that has possibly died out. The Silver Scale may be there, and there may be other artefacts of intrinsic or historical value. And there may be cultists guarding them."
"So, here's my proposal. We go up to that shrine and recover anything you think may be of value to scholars. If we have to face cultists, you pay us half of their market value, as appraised by a neutral third party. If the Silver Scale is unguarded, you only pay us the two hundred gold pieces. Does that sound fair?"
Quick, looking abashed and reddening more than a half-orc should be able to, mutters an awkward apology: claiming he was in fact ignorant of the Andal family's generous sharing of their collection.
He then orders a strong red wine, and nurses the glass in a sullen silence.
Gorim, almost snapping back into action - or perhaps inspired by Moss, begins to gobble down his eggs. He finishes off by making short work of his Cranberry juice and sliding the mug back onto the table.
Then, as an extension of thoughts, "...nasty business, cults. Glad that lot ain't about no more".
"Famous last words..." Quick breathes into his cup.
"Hah! That's not to say I won't be weary, lad. I've got me some keen eyes for danger, and you'll soon know it" Gorim grins, confident the group is soon to be comrades.
"Heh," Henry laughs. "You'll be plenty weary after we've trekked up those mountains."
"Henry, please, there is no need to poke fun at Mr. Gorim's accent. Let's keep it...professional."
Quick smirks briefly and winks at Coppervein.
WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!
The most common problems with the hills of the Baldrin Heights are the territorial wild boars, and Gwath recalls one horrific campfire tale of barbaric ogres that live at the foot of the mountains. Gwath has also seen large thick wolf pelts said to have come from the colder reaches of Baldrin Heights.
Moss seems to have trouble gulping down food, so he points to Henry as his jaw works, apparently wanting to address something. Finally, he speaks. “Ah, you misunderstand me,” he replies, glancing about the inn before continuing with a low voice, “Each of you will receive two-hundred gold coins at journey’s end.”
The elf gestures for Igith’s approach, indicating for the table to be clears. She offers a wan smile as she collects the dishes and cups.
To his credit, Henry Southgard's face does not betray his surprise. But people watching closely might have noticed that his spoon missed his hashed potatoes by a few inches.
"You've just bought yourself a troop. Give me an hour to hunt down a scrivner, and we can have a contract drawn up. Take the rest of the day securing provisions, and we can head out in the wee hours of the morning tomorrow."
Quick looks at everyone, looking for some hint of surprise. When he finds none, he shrugs and says in a sarcastic tone, "Lead on then, fearless leader..."
“I am permitted to write such contracts,” Moss answers brightly. He produces a small chest from his pack, and a hard cylindrical case holding parchment. From the chest, he unpacks a stoppered inkwell, quill, and a tiny sharp shiv. As he resharpens the feathertip, he pauses, and reaches again into his pack and hands Gwath a well-worn leather map. “You’ll find the path I mean to take marked in red,” Moss says. He glances at Quick, “And don’t you worry, that is merely a copy of the map I uncovered. The real one I keep safe, for it is very fragile.”
“This may take me a few moments to finish, so each of you look over the map while you wait. Oh! And one more thing! Barwench!” Moss waves to get Igith’s attention and tosses a coin purse to her. It jingles when she deftly catches it. “That should pay for my meal and those of these fine fellows, plus some extra. Thank you.”
The elven traveller stoops over parchment with ink and quill, and begins to write.
The dwarf keenly watches as Moss writes, and then leans to peek at Gwath's map, with much excitement ablaze in his eyes.
"How's it lookin'?"
"Will we take the remainder of the day to gather supplies? I can be ready to depart inside an hour if that is agreeable?"