Huh...a lot of information while omitting the true nature of my quest...perhaps I should trust Henry more despite his boorish nature.
Captain Waldemar listens carefully, weighing the crossbowman’s words. He and Jenkins exchange a look, and then the captain shrugs. “Very well. This is all very irregular, but you seem like honest folk. I’ll do what I can to keep what happened in this cellar under wraps.”
“If you are finished here, take what you will of the drow’s and go. Good luck finding lodging for the night…”
The front door upstairs creaks open, and those in the cellar hear Austin reassuring Halda that damage to her store was minimal during the confrontation. Captain Waldemar sighs and turns to march up the stairs. Then, he pauses. “Actually, here,” he tosses a small coin pouch to Henry. “That should help you finding beds in town. Every inn within the walls is choked full of the monied from Port Elam.” He inclines his head to the open cellar door, “You can go, I don’t need you to stick around…” and the grizzled man makes his way up the stairs to speak with the store owner.
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Gwath feels a bit reassured and impressed by Henry's save, though he didn't appreciate the accusing eyes on him from the captain.
"An Inn might do us good if we can find one to fit us. We haven't had a good night's sleep since Port Elam.
"Head out, recover some travelling coin from the drow's goods and then shore up for the night?"
Gorim nods in agreement, "Some rest sounds solid. Not to mention some grub in our bellies. This scale is gonna pull quite the attention and we'd best be ready".
Henry Southgard nods respectfully toward Captain Waldemar and leads the group out of the cellar. He feels distinctly uncomfortable leaving the scene of the conflict with a pouch of the Guard's money in his pocket. He'd told the truth, but there were enough omissions in his story for it to have the ring of a lie to his ears. But then, how was he to explain a quest to stave off a coming apocalypse he'd only just heard of?
On balance, it sounded like Captain Waldemar wanted them away from the crime scene, and away from the city. Henry could understand that.
Before they step into the alley, he wraps the looted armor and weapons tightly in a canvas sheet.
"Food first. Then we find a place to bed for the night. I'm going to work through the evening if I can find a smithy. The Drow's kit can fetch a good price if I take the time to remove the distinguishing features."
Emerging from the alleyway onto the street, the four notice a crowd gathered around the front of the haberdashery, curious on the commotion inside. As they walk the streets, there is ample food available from carts and wagons for a few coppers, though the fare from indoor establishments look a bit more promising. Asking the locals about lodging informs the travelers of the most popular establishments: The Golden Growler, known for its lively atmosphere and ale brewed on site, Saint Marco’s, the brewpub-temple of Cayden Cailean, and The Whore’s Shoo-Inn, an establishment that, ironically, does not specialize in soft company. Moreover, the four learn that a handful of enterprising business owners have cleared out their shops, stoked their fires, and are charging a meager price for a sleeping spot on their floors. The helpful citizens offer directions to these places of interest; Saint Marco's is off one of the main roads to the south, The Whore's Shoo-Inn is near the western stables, and The Golden Growler is close to the center of town. The shops offering floor-rental are scattered near the sally ports, where the refugees are most likely to be found.
Henry Southgard leads the troupe toward the Golden Growler, resolving to get a bite to eat before the next shouting match between him and Quick. After quickly consulting with the locals and inquiring as to the locations of the town smithies, he turns onto a main street and makes a beeline for the inn.
Henry learns of three smithies within the walls of Redstone -slightly more than one would expect of a town this size. But then again, the Redstone provides most of the needs for the king’s mounted soldiers. He is easily able to get directions of the three, and one of them ends up being on the way to the center of town. The other two are on opposite ends of town, east and west, respectively.
The four hear the clangs and dwarven curses before they can see the smithy in question, and as they draw nearer, the telltale smell of hot iron fills the air. Presently, the thickly bearded mastersmith berates an apprentice for making a lopsided horseshoe. The master dwarf and his apprentices (there appear to be four) are busy with hard work. One of the boys makes finishing touches on completed works near the part of the smithy that serves as shop, keeping a wary eye for any approaching customers. Buckets of iron nails of various sizes, horseshoes, construction tools and supplies, and a few simple weapons and shields are on display. A sheet of parchment is tacked up to the entrance, that reads: New commissions will not be accepted until further notice. Go away.
By the roars of the blacksmith as he hammers away, it seems that this smithy is busy filling a large order for the king’s cavalry.
...and makes a beeline for the inn.
Below a wooden hanging board featuring the image of a yellow bear head, the four find The Golden Growler in a raucous state. A fiddler squeals away dancing tune from the corner, and the raised voices of speakers trying to speak over others produces quite a racket. Most of the tables are empty, and it seems rather busy for the middle of the day. Many of the patrons eating and drinking are wearing fine clothes, although the ones closest to the fiddler are in simpler attire and seem more comfortable in the establishment. Some of them kick and jig to the music. Two of the tables seating the better dressed is in a passionate discussion about the fate of Port Elam, and more specifically, the wealth left behind. Another seems to be very loudly involved in a dice game. Two girls circulate between tables and the kitchen and bar, keeping the patrons fed and hydrated. The innkeeper talks and jokes with locals while working at the bar. A wood staircase climbs the corner of the large room, no doubt leading to the rooms for rent upstairs. A large brick hearth contains a small fire.
The nearest of the serving girls nods to the four. “Welcome to the Golden Growler, take a seat if ya like. I'll be there when I can...” she gestures to one of the open tables as she carries empty dishes back to the kitchen. The patrons pay Henry and Gorim little heed, though more than a few stares linger on the half-orcs.
"Thank you kindly," Henry Southgard calls back as he leads the troops to an empty table near the hearth. The discussion about Port Elam sounds terribly interesting, but business must be attended to first. Unless this place had pork steaks to offer, in which case business could very well wait.
"Gorim, do you speak Orcish, by any chance?"
"Oh, yes," grins the Dwarf, his eyes focused on the fiddler. "Whatcha you got in mind, Henry?"
Quick follows the group in contented silence.
I have recovered the Scale, mother. I feel the burgeoning of power inside me. I wish you were still here to guide me...
As they enter the tavern, Quick glances around disinterestedly until Henry asks after Gorim's proficiency in Orcish.
Annoyance plainly on his face, he asks, "You ask the Dwarf when you have two perfectly good Orcs right in front of you?" His expression softens as he meets Gorim's eye. "No offense, Gorim..."
Henry Southgard smiles. "Ek praat vlot Orkse en het geen behoefte van die vertaling. Ek wil net hierdie gesprek aan privaat wees, en wil nie ons geestelike sluit. Eerste van alles, ek glo geluk is te danke aan Quick wat het geword van die skoolhoof van ons missie."
A few more patrons trickle in after the four sit at an empty table. Some of the affluent turn glares to the orcish speech, but are quickly drawn back into the discussion of Port Elam’s wealth.
Among those who entered The Golden Growler is a fellow the privateer noticed along the same roads the four took to get to the tavern. This observation alone is not much, given the size of the town. However, the man, in the simple attire of a farmer, pauses at the sight of the four when he enters the establishment. Adjusting his soft leather cap, he itches a large nose reddened by alcoholism, and trudges to one of the tables nearer to the fiddler. He takes a seat that faces both the front door and the adventurers, and taps his feet to the beat.
Quick leans in to the group. "Did you see that? That fellah's done nothing but stare at us since he arrived."
Henry Southgard raises an eye as Quick starts to say something. When the young Half-Orc says nothing, he continues.
"Vir redes wat ek nie omgee om te verduidelik op hierdie oomblik, die meeste huursoldaat maatskappye onderhandel oor kontrakte in ooreenstemming met maritieme reg. Onder daardie wette en gebruike, die voordele en verpligtinge van'n kontrak onderhandel deur Zaal Vosk het aan sy opvolger op sy ondergang. Daarom, Quick is nou ons kliënt."
"So, dit is soos ek gesê het . Baie geluk is in orde, sowel as meegevoel. Ek glo dat ons kontrak onmoontlik om te vervul geword het."
"So, it is as I said. Congratulations are in order, as well as condolences. I believe that our contract has become impossible to fulfill."
"Why do you say that, Henry?" Quick asks, pointedly in common, about the impossibility of the contract.
"Really? Who?" Henry Southgard asks, momentarily slipping back into Common.
It is difficult for the privateer to know why the farmer looked at the four of them that way. Whether his motives ulterior or innocent, the nature of the simple man seems harmless enough.
There is one among the common regulars who looks like he could be a farmer, a middle-aged man with broad, slouched shoulders and a face that has worked a lifetime under all manner of weather. He wears a soft leather cap and simple roughspun clothing. Presently, he pays no heed to the four, grinning dumbly as he claps to the wild tune of the furious fiddler.
However, the savage tongue seems to have drawn a look or two from the wealthier tables. The serving girls are busy with the others, so the barman approaches with a half-hearted smile.
"What can we get for you fellas?"
"The best cup of coffee you can brew," Henry Southgard replies as he steals another quick look at the farmer. "Clean out the pot if you have to. To eat, I'll take pork steak and a side of bread."
"A few fried eggs and bread, thanks," replies Gorim, his head bobbing slightly to the fiddler's tune, "Oh, and some cranberry juice if you've got the stuff."
"Raw vegetables, rare goat leg, beer. Thanks."
The barman makes a mental note of the orders. “We ran out of cranberry juice rather quickly,” he says with a meaningful look to the monied tables. “We have plenty of apple and pear juice, though if you’re in need of something tart I’m sure I could whip something up…”
A few moments later, he returns with Quick’s beer, a golden ale with a mounded head that trickles down one side. “We brew our own beer in the back room,” he says with pride, “I’ll have the rest of your drinks shortly.”
A bustling at the door draws the attention of the Golden Growler’s customers. About a dozen bodies file in, mostly men but with a few dwarves, half-elves, and one elf among them, and find seats at empty tables. Most of them wear plain, sweat-stained clothing typically found underneath heavy armor, and the thick trousers marks them as off-duty cavalry. They seem to be in good spirits, and the volume in the room increases threefold from their lively talk. The fiddler attempts to play a bit louder, and the serving girls move quicker between the tables. The innkeeper recognizes most of the newcomers and calls out a few good-natured quips from the bar, which receive a roar of laughter from the soldiers.
Listening to snatches of conversation, it seems these soldiers just came from a victorious battle against a large number of orcs.
After a few minutes, the man returns with the drinks of Henry, Gwath, and Gorim.
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Gwath begins to sip his tea with both hands around the cup. The days have been long and full as of late and any refreshment is appreciated. He attempts to observe the arrived soldiers without staring as he speaks to the group in quiet Orcish.
The soldiers make Henry Southgard apprehensive about conversing in Orcish, but neither does he want to risk being overheard.
"Funny thing is, we never took up Moss's contract. Never signed our names. I believe that our verbal contract with Zaal Vosk supersedes any understanding we had with the deceased Elf, especially seeing as how..." The mercenary trails off when he realizes that the High Priest of The Silver Dragon was deceased when the agreement was struck and money changed hands. The legal implications were... interesting. "Now that I think about it, I almost hope that Moss's next of kin track us down and take us to court for breach of contract. It'd be interesting to argue it either way."
"Regardless, I believe that our contract required us to retrieve the Scale and return it to safety. Leaving aside the fact that the temple is far from secure, one thousand of your distant relations are holding the family reunion picnic between here and there. And furthermore-"
"Thanks," he says as he accepts the fresh coffee.
"The Scale belongs in the temple, and I will take it there if I have to fight my way through every Orc alive to do it. I will do it alone if I must, but I would appreciate your help...." Quick pauses. "Friends." The last is very nearly a question.
"But I do not think we should leave Moss' folk to suffer ignorance. I think that once we get the scale to safety and restore the temple defenses a bit, we should journey to Elven lands to inform them of their Kin's death. Moreover, my mother said it would be wise to secure their aid against the Red Wyrm."
By a few who recount particular moments of the battle, these cavalry were part of a larger force that rode out against a horde of orc raiders late this morning. The invaders numbered in the hundreds, but the outnumbered horsemen cut them down and scattered the remainder. The battle took place in the southern vale, just west of the Spindlewood. Apparently, some of the commanding orcs led from their own mounts. By the declarations of some of the soldiers, the victory today did not win the war, but repelling the first major push from the invaders was a step in that direction.
Port Elam was a swarthy place (not that it is any cleaner now). Among the refugees would be a significant number of mercenaries, from bold sellswords to elusive assassins. It is likely that the eager and dim of that demographic already carry a king’s coin in their pocket, manning the walls and streets of the city. The canny mercenaries knew, like desperate nobles and merchants, city governance would offer a higher price when their need was greater than news of a distant battle. The grip on Port Elam was not broken, and winter is on its way. If the news from these off-duty soldiers tell Henry anything, it is this: unless the commanders of Vyren’s horses and armies have a higher stratagem, the war’s end will be a long time coming.
The off-duty soldiers raise their mugs of ale, loudly toasting each other’s bravery and prowess in combat. After they drink deep, one of the wealthy patrons stands and offers up another toast. “To the valiant of Vyren! May they free the shining city of Port Elam and cut down the beasts like the thresher on wheat!”
Soldier and farmer, rich and poor alike raise their cups with a cheer, and even the fiddler pauses to drink from his flagon.
Quick silently raises his tankard and drinks. No doubt those beasts need putting down, but I can't help feeling that I am missing something about this Orcs...
"Aye!" Henry Southgard calls out as he raises his cup. 'Even a turd will shine if the light hits it right.'
Fact of the matter is, we didn't kill Sheog today, we killed one of her off-relations. Take it from someone who knows, royal families are big and tangled and full of loose ends. There's always some useless git that everyone is trying to find a use for. Send him off to war, give him a trading skiff and hope it sinks, marry her off to a family with a nice vineyard, give her bodyguards and a pocketful of scrolls and send her off to fetch a trinket, you get how it works.
If Sheog wants the Scale, she probably has a whole cadet branch in her family tree loaded with bright, ambitious little Drow looking to make a name for themselves. She will send them after us, and they won't get trapped in a cellar and taken by surprise. We've lost the initiative, and rumors of what happened and who we are will spread and stay in this city. If we're really unlucky, Sheog herself will come after us. Again, take it from someone who knows: there's nothing more terrifying than a mage who doesn't mind inflicting a little suffering here and there.
Third problem is, we don't have long-term solutions. We can't just return the Scale to the temple, because we ourselves are direct empirical evidence that a lightly armed group of dedicated treasure hunters can simply walk in the front door. The place was only defensible because no-one knew where it was. There's no provisions up there to live on, and just the four of us isn't enough to guard against assassins and thieves.
For now, returning the Scale to its proper place is... not at the top of our priority list. First, we need to end the threats to the Scale. Second, and rather tangentially, you're going to need followers. You better start evangelizing, because this whole secret-cult-in-the-mountains gig didn't do your order any favors. Finally, Gwath is right. We need to know what the Scale does, and the nature of this impending apocalypse Zaal Vosk warned us of."
With no drink to raise, Gorim momentarily throws a fist into the air.
Quick furrows his brow and takes a swallow beer. He makes more and more sense...dammit.
"That actually sounds like excellent advice Henry." Quick sighs. "I'm sorry for my attitude sometimes. I'm just not used to working with others. I think we should retire somewhere so I can give you all the full story."
One of the serving girls brings soft, warm bread for Henry, Gorim, and Gwath, and leaves a plate of carrots and green beans for Quick. She assures them that the rest of their orders will be there soon.
After another fifteen or twenty minutes, the same girl brings out steaming plates of beef and pork steaks and a goat leg. Alongside the meats lays a mound of pan-fried eggs. She leaves a tiny bowl of salt at the center of the table, and a second bowl containing some other granular seasoning, colored a faded red. The house seasoning smells both tangy and smokey.
"Anything else you need while I'm here?" she asks after flitting a glance to the soldier tables bellowing for more ale.
Quick smiles and raises his hand palm outward as if to say "Nothing for me thank you."
"Aye, some tea would do me wonders" says the Dwarf.
Once the girl had left, Gorim concurs with Gwath's statement: "Mmhmm, once our bellies are filled, let's get somewhere a tad more quiet then, eh?" He tucks into a fried egg, "...get a little more perspective on this whole thing."
"I'm fine for now," Henry Southgard says, waving the server off.
"After finishing our meals, we should retire somewhere quiet for the full story. If it'll take a while to tell, it should wait until tonight. There's stuff we have to do today if we want to leave town tomorrow."
"Let's be off then." Quick says finishing his beer and shoving the last of the goat leg into his mouth.
"I have nothing pressing personally, but we do have some superfluous gear to be rid of. Henry?"
Gorim receives a steaming, herbal tea. The commoners and soldiers join in the song led by the fiddler, and the wealthy suppose over the future of the war.
Before the four reach the exit, the innkeeper appears in front of them from somewhere in the crowds. He wears a smile. "Gentle fellows, we haven't squared up." One finger raises, "One gold from each of you, please."
He brightens, "Will you be needing lodging for the night? Rooms are in high demand, but I expect at least one vacancy by evening. Some of the merchants are traveling further north..."