Putting a hand on Vylyar's shoulder. "Fret not, for I will be your shield," tossing his head toward the half orc, "and it would seem he is your sword."
Then turning to the guards "Excellent 100 hold for each of use seems reasonable. Our timeliness would be guaranteed if we had the use of houses and traveling rations."
Stretching lowly and throwing a thumb back to the bakery. "[b]Well I'm bushed. I'm going to get some shut eye. We can sell these weapons in the morning and then head to the barracks to get your letter, houses and supplies. Oh also captain I need 3 jars of lamp oil as well. I look forward to getting to know all of you on the road. Until tomorrow sleep well all."
Ajaxx then collects up the weapons in a piece of canvas from the camp and takes himself to bed on the floor of the bakery again.
"One hundred gold coins and three jars of lamp oil it is," Henry Southgard says to Captain Waldemar, mentally sizing the man up as he shifts from 'brother in arms' to 'potential client'. "And if it is speedy delivery to Thaleniel you desire, we do not have a cleric with us. In these dangerous times, healing potions will do much to keep us on the road."
"Also, if you could recommend me to a good armorer, I would like to see our arms and armor seen to."
The one in a shroud mumbles a joke to a guard as they labor the bent iron gate into place, which elicits a loud throaty laugh from MacGowan. The big Urlghain guard slaps the helper on the back approvingly.
"Good man, a simple courier would take the message for not even a quarter of my offer." The grizzled officer corrects Ajaxx. "One hundred in gold, even. Not per traveling companion."
Captain Waldemar frowns in confusion and mouths the word "houses" as Ajaxx returns to the bakery. Then the request dawns on him and with a shake of his head he grins at the mercenary's accent. He gives a few orders to the guards as he listens to Henry.
"The watch go to same blacksmith -his work is reliable, sturdy, and fair priced. An honest dwarf..." Waldemar details directions to the armorer he recommends. As chance would have it, the very same smithy where Henry, Gwath, and Gorim parted ways.
"I'll see what I can pull together to help you on your way," he adds, extending a hand to Henry. "See you in my office tomorrow morning."
Quick signals to Henry that he will tag along until the mercenary sleeps once more.
"See you then," Henry Southgard says, taking Captain Waldemar's hand.
For a minute, Henry stares at the walls and listens to the sound of a city waking up to the danger outside. If the party didn't leave town soon enough, they would have to fight through a siege. To get to Thaleniel to deliver some letters. As cover to elude the Drow as they sought Moss's employers.
It's funny how distant that all seemed. As if it happened months ago.
With a shrug, Henry leads the rest back to the bakery to settle in for the night. Tomorrow would be another day, a frenetic morning of preparation hopefully followed by a peaceful afternoon of sneaking through enemy lines.
Before he settles in, the mercenary digs a bundle of parchment and leather from his bag. It is battered, foxed, but vaguely recognizable as a journal. It has been rebound and added to many times over the long, illustrious career of Henry Southgard, but a few pages in particular have been there since the beginning. A few pages full of diagrams of crossbow parts and notes on all the little techniques that went into making each part.
Henry's crossbow was a family heirloom, passed from father to firstborn son. Unlike many heirlooms that were locked away in a cabinet or left to collect dust in the spare bedroom, the crossbow had seen near constant use since its creation. Bereft of magic as it was, parts had to be fixed or replaced when they wore out. Back in Lucien, some of the finest craftsmen to be found were hired by the Southgard family to tend to the crossbow. Out in the field, Henry had been forced to make do with inferior materials and clumsy tools for over a decade. He'd been a busy man in all that time, and by the time he'd learned how to do the repairs properly he'd been saddled with too many responsibilities to give the crossbow proper attention.
That changed tomorrow. If he could get the backing of Captain Waldemar, and if the blacksmith was willing to budge from his schedule (Blacksmiths rarely were) to make crossbow prods, and if he had the proper grade of spring steel, and if he had a bit of brass to cut a new sear, and if... if... if...
Vylyra gives a wry smile to the group, and follows suit back to the bakery to attempt a few more hours of rest.
In the back of her mind, as always, is her mission. Tomorrow, hopefully, she will find more clues. For now, rest.
The night seems to quiet down somewhat, after the heroic defenders return to the bakery for rest. Those with sharp ears can hear the labor of soldiers and workmen tasked to block up the sally port until morning. Tulden does not return to his spot on the bakery floor, where his shield and pack remain. Flor welcomes them inside, praising their bravery while also shushing any sounds made as they lay down for the night. The dark deepens, and passes.
With the predawn pale, the town begins to stir, though perhaps it never really slept after the nocturnal terror it survived. The streets are quite full for the early hour; few refugees dared to return to their scattered and burned camps beyond the walls. The town guards on the streets look tired, and make an effort to maintain order with the surge in population. The number of soldiers on the walls appear to be doubled, and vigilant. By the talk of those around, last night’s raid took place on the eastern and southern walls, but the orcs were killed or repelled. When day broke, not a living raider could be seen. No vast armies besiege Redstone Keep; the hills and roads around the town are, according to the locals, free of orcish warriors. Many folk have turned their worrying to the troubles inside the town, while others still postulate on the intent of orc strategy, or lack thereof.
At the barracks, while the sky is starting to brighten, Captain Waldemar is looking tired after working through the night. He is shuffling through papers at his desk when he notices the defenders from the night before.
“Well met,” he grumbles, setting the papers down and searching for others. After a moment he pushes a parchment sheet into one of the hands of his visitors. The bottom is weighed by a hardened flat glob of green wax displaying the seal of the Keep’s watchmen, and signed by the captain himself. “Give that to the blacksmith I spoke of yesterday. I’ve commissioned him to offer improvements to your arms and armor, up to four items for each of you. What’s more, he’s to begin immediately. As partial payment, he will relieve you of whatever gear his craft shall replace, and not a copper more.” He pauses, glancing at the footwear those in his office. “It’s a long walk to the capital, but I’m not too keen on sending out warhorses away from the front. The stablemaster shares my inclination. If you have the gold, I was able to talk her down one-fifth off the market price for a light horse on your behalf. Just steer clear of a fight, and you’ll ride fine. Stablemaster Halstock knows who to watch for, but it wouldn’t hurt to mention my name if you do business with her.”
“Oh,” he remembers something, and stoops behind his desk. Captain Waldemar drags out a small chest from underneath it. Glass clinks gently as he leaves it on the ground at the feet of the adventurers. “Called in a favor with a local brewer in town. These ought to see you through on your journey.”
Inside are two rows of five tiny compartments, each containing identical potions, labeled: Treats flesh wounds. Do not waste on bumps or scratches.
He returns to his desk and slides papers out of the way and centers one half-written sheet of parchment before him. Reaching for an inkwell, he levels a wisened look to the half-orc. “Now, boy, I’ll hear what that orc we let go had to say. Any word of enemy movements? Names? Schemes? The Thaleniel command will want to know.”
Ajaxx seeing the box leans forward and scoots it toward him. Only as the silence persists does he realize that he was the only source of noise. Looking to quickly at the group to see if they care, he shrugs and opens the box.
"Oh..." a little disappointed Ajaxx closes the box and pushes it back.
Henry Southgard is awake at first light. It is a habit taught to him since he was a child in the Academy of Lucien, a useful habit for an officer of the Watch. Later it had been a useful talent for a sentry of Shaleclast's Free Company, and then it had been a useful talent for the company cook.
Today, he'd rather have slept in.
Silently so as not to wake the others, he makes a pot of coffee on Flori's already-roasting oven. Well, as silently as he could. He'd forgotten how loud percolators gurgle.
"Don't know what I'll do," Flori says in hushed tones. "I need the coin and you all need a place to sleep, but there's scarcely enough room to walk in my kitchen."
Henry Southgard poured her a cup of coffee and the baker politely accepted it. Very politely. She made a face when she though Henry wasn't looking and set it aside.
"Ach. You bunch drove the Orcs back from the gate single-handed, from what I hear. Stopped them from overrunning the garrison. I suppose I should learn to live with a little inconvenience. So many are living with even more."
"If the Orcs took the city, you could always try cooking for them," Henry jokes. "In my experience, Orcs will tolerate anyone who cooks pork the way they like it."
She laughed loud enough to startle Vylyra. "Heavens, yes! But where would you learn to cook for them? One or two aren't so bad on their own, but a whole tribe would cut you down before you could ask if they want the ribs or the flanks!"
"Mercenary company. We had every sort of soldier with two legs pass through our ranks, and I had to cook for them. Twice a day at least, and my kitchen was a pit in the ground."
"You were a cook? In a mercenary company?" Flori asked, casting an inquisitive glance at Henry's crossbow.
"Company cook, armorer, off-and-on paymaster, scout, troop leader, engineer when we had siege engines," Henry says, squinting at the crossbow. That wasn't where he'd left it, was it? "Whatever Shaleclast needed me to do, I had to do and be good at it."
"But that's a family crest on yon crossbow, with Abadar's Key at the center. How does a thing like that come into a mercenary's hands?"
"Because it's mine," Henry says as he steps across the kitchen, takes the crossbow off a wicker hamper where he knew for a fact that he didn't leave it last night, and steps out of the bakery. It was getting too hot in the kitchen anyway. The door shuts before Flori can finish telling him not to leave it where she might step on it.
Outside, the town is starting to stir. Some townsfolk are going about their daily business, but most are carrying lumber and carts of stone down the road. Carts come back, filled with the possessions of dead refugees and canvas tents wrapped into bundles. "Normal" and "Ordinary" had taken on completely new definitions, for now.
Henry Southgard catches some odd looks, probably because he looks too normal. He's sitting on the porch, enjoying the brisk morning with a cup of coffee like people did when there wasn't an invasion of murdering and pillaging Orcs. Only the large crossbow sitting across his lap gives him away.
Well, 'ordinary' was relative. An invasion may come to this city only once a lifetime, but Henry Southgard's life had been one invasion after another since he was sixteen years old, except for the civil wars and the manhunts. Sometimes, that made the normal folk hard to talk to.
------
"One fifth is... incredibly generous," Henry Southgard says as he examines the potions. "As is the help of the blacksmith."
Henry folds the letter and gently stuffs it into a pocket. His crossbow was in need of repair and he wouldn't mind if an expert blacksmith improved his captured falchion. Beyond that...
Quick wakes to the sound of gurgling coffee and cracks an open in annoyance. He sits up intending to scold his mother for her thoughtlessness and stops cold when he remembers where he is.
Apsu's ass. Quick slaps his face and drags his hand down to play it off as wiping the sleep from his eyes. I was supposed to tell Henry the truth last night.
Quick sighs loudly and dives back under his blanket only to sit up again immediately. "Are we leaving Henry?"
Henry answers by gathering his things and pushing through the door.
Swearing under his breath, Quick grabs his few possessions and mutters a mumbled thanks to Flori before following the mercenary and the big man with the shield.
He spares one glance back at the bakery door. I wish the redhead was coming...
The door opens and Vylyra moves to follow. Quick turns away, his cheeks burning.
Hearing the jarring chortle of the bakery wench, Vylyra sits up suddenly, rubs her eyes, puts her armor back on, and gathers her things to follow Quick out of the bakery door.
Just before she exits, she grabs her coin purse, and glancing over the dull and packed-too-full bakery, turns around and tosses one gold coin to the woman at the fire. She says, "Thank you for your generosity. If you see any flame headed male elves come through here, about my age, please let him know Vylyra is looking, and she will find him. Tell him...tell him I just need to know he is safe."
With that, she follows Quick out the door and into the morning light.
---------
Vylyra nods and says, "Thank you, Captain, for these gifts. They will be well used." She grabs the chest and carries it to the stable master to pick out a horse. A horse could make her search much easier.
He returns to his desk and slides papers out of the way and centers one half-written sheet of parchment before him. Reaching for an inkwell, he levels a wisened look to the half-orc. “Now, boy, I’ll hear what that orc we let go had to say. Any word of enemy movements? Names? Schemes? The Thaleniel command will want to know.”
Quick stays silent for a long moment at the question, then answers flatly.
"The Orc was chief Drokro of the Nose-Taker clan. They fight with a chieftan called the Breaker who has united the Orc tribes into some loose federation. They claim they will take all these lands."
Henry Southgard nods slightly at Quick's words, as he still feels a pang of guilt from misleading the captain the day before.
Flori takes the gold and nods sympathetically to Vylyra the huntress.
--------
“Shame you didn’t get any more from him.” Captain Waldemar grumbles as he scratches ink across the lower part of the letter. Leaving it to dry, he grunts and steps up to a cupboard. From it he takes three jars of lamp oil and places them in the hands of the big man.
He rolls up the missive and drips hot wax onto parchment, pressing the seal of the town guard onto it. “That about concludes our business.” A sack of jingling coin appears in his gauntleted hand. “A hundred in gold, as promised. Thaleniel has multiple guard captains, and they are overseen by Chief Watchman Erkam Hardkey. He is a thorough man, and picks his subordinates carefully. His captains are dependable and obedient, fine examples of the watch. A message delivered to them can be trusted to reach him post haste.”
He hands the gold and missive to Henry. “I have instructed the receiving officer in Thaleniel to order add fifty gold coins for every day less than seven by which you arrive.” Captain Waldemar pauses, reading what might be a confused expression. “If the journey takes six days, you will be paid an extra fifty in gold. Five days: one hundred. Four days: one-fifty…” his explanation trails off.
The missive in Henry’s hands says: Deliver to Chief Watchman Erkam Hardkey IMMEDIATELY.
“That will be all.” Captain Waldemar straightens. “A few scouts returned to me at dawn -the roads toward Thaleniel should be clear. Travel safely. Travel quickly.”
With a grin on his face Ajaxx remarks "You remembered. I will protect your letter with vigor." Looking down at the jars. "Oh but not these." He chuckles and stows them in his bag.
"Welp if we are done here we best hit the trail. I'd like more money."
Ajaxx will then head to the door ready to head out.
"Crystal clear," Henry Southgard's says, slightly miffed that Captain Waldemar felt the need to spell out simple math. He'd been given the role of company paymaster on account of his knowledge of mathematics and his impeccable (by the standards of Shaleclast's Free Company) honesty. Then again, he also knew that belaboring the terms of an agreement was the best way to avoid misunderstandings and he-said-they-said disputes. No offense should be taken.
"We shall deliver the letter posthaste," the mercenary says as he takes the missive and the gold. "I pray that the city weathers the invasion well, and that the end comes with few deaths and little hunger."
The dwarven blacksmith grumbles about being set behind schedule until he fully reads the written orders from Captain Waldemar. After scanning the parchment a few times, he begins to catalogue the arms and armor traded in by the defenders of Redstone Keep. The dwarf listens skeptically to Henry’s instructions concerning the work to be done on his crossbow, until it seems to the smithy that the crossbowman might know what he is talking about. His eyes notice the family crest, but he says nothing as he carries all of the weapons and armor into his shop.
His apprentices suffer roared commands that would shake the deaf, but nevertheless, they set to the new task with vigor and skill. The dwarf returns to the three standing in the market-end of his shop, a heap of banded mail hanging over one shoulder. Behind him, an apprentice brings up a shield as big as Ajaxx’s old one, but with a slightly different design, and lacking any dings or scratches. Quick's new handaxes hang in the blacksmith's belt. “Me boy’ll help ya into the mail. You’re lucky we have these on hand, they take a long time to make.” He looks up to the human lad carrying Ajaxx’s new tower shield. “Locker Six should have the two curved heavy blades they need, and check Three for a flail for the big man…” He turns back to the men and half-orc. “For the rest of your kit, I need two hours. Sorry lads, try as I might, ya can’t rush art. Either be here then, or tell me where to send wunna me boys to deliver.”
Vylyra reaches the stables as a bookish dwarf trundles out, muttering something about Horsemaster Prestor. One of the stableboys directs the half-elf to Stablemaster Halstock, a fellow half-elf with nut brown hair in a long braid down her back. She wears a warm smile when she greets the huntress. The soft-spoken Stablemaster shows Vylyra the horses she had in mind when the arrangement with the guard captain is mentioned. They are not the biggest or the strongest of the penned steeds, but they are a healthy size and said to be swift and obedient. “I would not charge them into combat, however. These ones are still gentle in spirit, and are more prone to running than fighting. Isn’t that right, Sneezy?” Halstock runs a hand along the nose and neck of a white horse speckled with black spots, as they slowly pass each stall. The spotted horse chuffs heavy droplets of drool near Halstock’s riding boots. Chuckling, she reaches into a short apron with bulging pockets and produces an apple and hands it to the kinswoman. “When you see one you like, take this with you…”
The three reach the stables to see the fire-haired half-elf already atop a light horse, trotting in tight circles and getting a feel for the beast. Stablemaster Halstock walks the other defenders of Redstone Keep through the palfreys, warning them in a similar fashion to steer clear of battle. When Southgard asks for a mount with a bit more training, she leads him to a different wing of the stables, where the coursers and destriers stamp and shake their manes a bit more eagerly than their less-trained counterparts. She outlines what they are trained to do, and digresses into the personality quirks of each mount.
The blacksmith finished his work a few minutes early, allowing for the four adventurers to ride out of the northern gate of Redstone Keep exactly two hours after they met with Captain Waldemar. Already, a steady stream of refugees walk the edges of the northbound road, leaving the town with what little they carry on their backs. Many of them solemnly grateful to still walk among the living. The road is a dirty brown line that divides a stretch of grassy field tramped by thousands of hooves. A mile further, farmlands cover the low, sloping hills. Banks of the morning fog have not yet burned away, and the chill of night lingers a little longer, a brisk reminder that winter marches ever closer with each passing night.
While on the road Ajaxx's view lingers on the refugees a sadness in his eyes. He slows for a moment but decided that cracking on is the best for these people. To distract himself he pulls out yarn and a small hooked pice of bone and begins working on a hood for himself.
Henry Southgard can't help but wonder at the craftsmanship of his crossbow's new prods. The dimensions were uniform from one tip to the other, and when he slowly spanned the bow by hand, both prods bent smoothly and evenly.
As an armorer, he knew how to make and repair arms and armor, but he was merely a gifted generalist. He could patch leather and cut new wood slats to repair shields, almost as good as a tanner or a carpenter. He knew how to hammer out dents in steel armor without weakening the material. He could even do some forging, if a blacksmith would be so kind as to let him borrow the furnace. But tempering steel was a hit-or-miss thing. Welding it was beyond him.
Therefore, he had often repaired his crossbow with parts commissioned from village smithies, who often had little experience with spring steel. Every new pair of prods he bought had to be perfected through a long cycle of test draws and hammering out defects.
A new pair of prods that worked right the first time was a welcome change.
Henry takes the lead as the party rides away from Redstone. The day wears on, and they continue on without stopping. Lunch is eaten in the saddle, and Henry has a hard time not insisting that dinner be eaten on the move as well. At the end of eight hours of riding, Henry dismounts from the warhorse he named Theseus and takes a long look back in the direction of Redstone. And then he takes a long look in every other direction, just to be safe.
Quick watches the others pick out their mounts. So much prodding and inspection...surely one beast is as good as the next?
Quick swaggers over to a black maned roan and strokes its forehead as Henry had done.
"Hi fon vesey naal iiz fahdon. Aalkos hi fen frey zey ko dii wund?"
"You seem kissed by ice friend. Perhaps you will aid me in my quest?"
_____________
Later, Quick dismounts just behind Henry as he peers around their position. "Are we stopping? We really should talk..."
Stowing the half finished hood, Ajaxx hops off his horse and ties it to a tree. Pulling off the saddle and packs he begins to brush the hours as it drinks from a small babbling creek.
"Agreed. I'm curious as to what Vylyra is running from and too."
Quick jumps noticably. It's not natural for a man that big to be that quiet.
Failing to regain his composure quickly, Quick barrels ahead. "Yes! That is what I was referring to as well."
Grabbing the apple from Halstock, Vylyra says, "Thank you, I think Sneezy will do. I will be sure to treat her gently." Sneezy, she thinks, is a lovely horse, but might need a name change. She will have to see after some time with "Sneezy."
Leaving with her new rag-tag group, Vylyra is grateful that silence seems to be the norm for the day, and she says very little as they ride in quiet together until they stop for the day.
In answer to Quick and Ajaxx, Vylyra says almost too casually, "I am not running from anything, but rather after someone. My brother, to be exact. He has been missing for nearly two years now- we suspect drow."
With this Vylyra looks away, obviously uncomfortable with the personal nature of the questioning. The others may or may not notice her eyes well up with liquid just the slightest amount. She clears her throat loudly.
Not an hour from Redstone Keep, the four riders approach a split in the road. A wooden post is planted at the fork, with one arm indicating the town of Clearwater to be down the left, westward, and Thaleniel on the other arm, pointed right. Some of the refugees totter down the road to Clearwater, but the majority continue north. Since they left town an hour ago, Vylyra estimates about two dozen sneezes from her mount, a blast of thick spittle seeming to punctuate every couple hundred yards or so.
By now, many of those traveling on foot could not have left Redstone Keep on the same morning as the four. More likely, they were already on the road yesterday, perhaps earlier. As a whole, they seem pleasant enough, though the trying events of the past week seems to keep their friendliness in check. The northbound road nears the eastern shore of King’s Lake, and follows its gentle curve. Already midday, the sun seems unable to evaporate the thick fog lurking between the low hills that make up the Greysight Vale. Occasional clusters of trees, some without leaves and others bristling with green needles, dot the landscape. Much of the land is owned by farmers and keepers of livestock, so travelers on foot and horse go no longer than an hour before seeing another soul, even if they toil half a mile away. Smaller dirt paths lead up the main road, no doubt leading to villages or homesteads.
Once every few hours, the travelers clear the center of the road at the sound of thundering hooves, and the king’s cavalry come galloping by. The patrol keeps wary eyes on the hilly horizons, paying the civilians enough mind to keep them from getting trampled. One of the patrol groups is led by a distinguished rider, who wears polished platemail that gleams in the hazy sun. By the golden brooch that holds his rippling blue cloak in place, and the other finery he wears, the head of the patrol is clearly someone of importance. Vylyra's mount sneezes again as the leader's horse passes, and earns a vague, disgusted grimace from its rider.
The rider in the polished full-plate armor is a member of the Order of the Dawnflower, the holy order of knights that serve the king. Only those of remarkable skill in combat, devout faith to their fire goddess Sarenrae, and utmost loyalty to the royal Andreat line are allowed into their ranks.
The days seem to grow shorter with every passing sun, and presently Henry calls for a rest as the light lowers toward the western horizon. There are a handful of trees about twenty strides off the road, and the field is otherwise matted with overgrown grass. On the other side of the road, the shore of the lake sloshes gently over rocky mud about. The grassy field eventually slopes into hills, where the fog persists under the late autumn sun. Already, the four passed two or three camps, the closest at least a mile away, set up by fellow travelers, most of which were eager to be off their feet or unloading their pack mules. Those on the road are now fewer and far between, as the sun inclines toward the mirror-like surface of King’s Lake.
Ajaxx would vote for the tree grove.
Ajaxx wonders off into the woods to find food.
Surprised Ajaxx looks up from setting his tent up, "Drow!? When did he go missing? And better question why didn't you want to mention that in town? There wasn't any Drow."
Seeing Ajaxx wander towards the trees, Vylyra follows closely, also looking for something to eat. She leads her horse so it might grab a few bites of grass as they walk, and she keeps a keen eye out for a spot that might be inconspicuous to set up camp.
Vylyra replies to Ajaxx, "He went missing nearly two years ago. I've been searching for him ever since, and I did not mention it because I do not know who spies for the drow, and they might be listening."
Quick thinks back to the camp he had spent so much time calling home, back when his mother was still with him. Large tree before two rock outcroppings that formed a wedge. Small creek a quarter mile off.
"The trees offer us the best protection, but lowest visibility. We'll have to take watches."
Quick hesitates as Vylyra mentions her brother. Two years? How do you cling to hop after such a length of time? He swallows his words and stares at the ground.
Ajaxx pokes around, looking between the trees and doesn’t notice anything right away, until he nearly steps on a cluster of tan, flat-headed mushrooms. By his reckoning, these fungi are safe to eat, but there are only enough to fill one belly.
Vylyra also sees no easy pickings, but happens across a patch of sprouts. The greens themselves are edible, but very bitter, however their taproot can be boiled or roasted to be somewhat tasty. The tubers grow small but can be filling, about five or six would be enough to stave off hunger pangs, and the half-elf thinks the whole patch could yield six full meals. The ground under the trees provides enough wood for a cookfire, but not enough to stoke an overnight fire for warmth or visibility. While her mind is on it, she picks a suitable spot for the fire so that the tree trunks will obscure the light from most angles. After dragging a rotten log to cover one open side, the fire would only be seen from one approach. All in all, an excellent camp for the effort required.
By her estimation, she and the others rode forty miles north today.
"Two years is a long time to search," Henry Southgard muses aloud as he walks with Ajax toward the trees. "Do the Drow even keep their captives that long?"
Sensing Vylyra's withering glare, he slows his pace until she catches up to him. "There were Drow in the city, or at least one Drow. A scion of one of their powerful families, I believe. It never occurred to me at the time, but she may have been meeting someone there. You made the right call."
Upon seeing Vylyra gathering firewood, Henry helps her get the fire going, and then sets a shallow cast iron pan over the flames. It will take a few minutes for the fire to rise and a few minutes more for the pan to warm up, so Henry nips out of the trees to check on his horse and retrieve his pack. He's back a few minutes later, and he feels rather guilty for having not yet thought of a name for his horse.
On his walk from the trees, Henry notices a rabbit trail through the thick overgrown grass. It seems easy to follow, and in no time he spots the warren hole.
After leaving his mushrooms to be prepared Ajaxx begins the laborious task of taking his armor off. "Two years of searching. Gods below that is a long time. I've only been searching for my love for the last 8 months and I'm beginning to lose faith..." pausing his armor removal Ajaxx stops for a moment looking off into the distance.
Returning to removing his his armor he continues as if he hadn't paused "So in your two years, besides the Drow what have you discovered?"
Returning to the campfire with a rabbit in each hand, Henry tosses one to Quick for skinning and cuts the other one open himself.
"Two years and eight months. Are the pair of you even from around here?"
Quick draws his knife and begins to clean the animal. How do I talk to Henry with these so close? I'm glad they focused on Vylyra...
Feeling rather uncomfortable with all of the questions, Vylyra attempts to assuage her companions by saying, "Yes, it has been a long time, but I am not so easy to give up hope. There have been signs that he is alive. He has left secret Elven runes along the road and that is why I followed the drow in this direction. I have heard whispers that he may yet be alive, though I know not why. I will continue my search until I find him either alive or dead."
She continues building their cook fire and cleans the roots as best she can for cooking.
A couple hours pass. Over that time, the thin trickle of foot travelers dwindles to none, and the four enjoy a delicious meal of food foraged from the outdoors around them. The sun is a yellow semicircle on the horizon when Vylyra notices a man and a woman walking from the dimly lit road towards their camp. They must have somehow seen the cookfire. From this distance, she can tell by their gait and road-worn garments that these look very much like the other refugees displaced by the orc raiders. The pair at first appear to be poorly armed, if at all, though the half-elf thinks she sees the arm of a crossbow bouncing on the man's back with every step.
At a distance of about one hundred feet, the campers hear a male voice call out. "Hello there! May the two of us share your fire? We mean no trouble..."
The caller and his female companion wait for an answer in the open land between the copse of trees and the road.
As the hours pass by, Henry Southgard makes small talk, tells a few anecdotes from his days with Shaleclast's Free Company, and fervently commits the maps in his possession to memory. He is about to check on his horse (Bucephalus, perhaps? August?) when he hears the man call out.
"Stay there, we're coming out."
The land is dark and getting darker, and Henry is having trouble seeing in the twilight. He had two party members who could see in the dark, and of the two of them, the Elf was least likely to terrify random refugees.
On the other hand Quick did have something he wanted to say.
"Quick, follow me. Ajaxx, watch the other three directions. Vylyra, stay alert." Henry stands up, grabs his crossbow, and slowly picks his way to the travelers.
"Who goes there?"
"I am Pierre, this is my wife Sophie. From a homestead just north of Port Elam. The 'No Belly' Acres, if you've heard of it... eheh..." His nervous laugh trails off and he presses on. "If you have a fire to share, we can oblige you some of our stale bread, wine, and perhaps a song or two." Pierre states plainly, gesturing to his wife. "A real pretty voice, she has." Sophie nods quietly with a pleasant smile. Both of their faces are lined with worry and wear.
Now a bit closer, Henry can see that these two are garbed as travelers, and poor travelers at that. Each of them carries a large backpack stuffed to test the seams, and things like cookpots and rolled blankets strapped to the outside. A small blade that might serve as a steak knife is sheathed at Sophie's belt, and Pierre's light crossbow is slung off his pack. Henry can tell with a glance that the crossbow is not in a convenient place to draw. Whether by intention or carelessness, they do not seem to be a serious threat.
Quick follows Henry out and does a poor job at seeming to be a threat mostly because these folk seem so harmless, but also because he's hungry and isn't sure what else Henry picked him out for.
Seeing the potential for a threat, Ajaxx grabs his shield and flail in one hand and his bow and quiver in the other and moves so that there is a tree between him and the travelers. Putting his back to the tree Ajaxx leans his shield against his stomach and drops the flail on the ground. Knocking an arrow he begins to scan the area looking for other potential threats.
Ajaxx scans the field of thick, overgrown grass around the trees. The low fog, which did not lift since that morning, seems to thicken as the night is getting on. The mist keeps the mercenary from surveying about three hundred feet in any direction, give or take a stone's throw, and the open land within sight reveals no threats that he can see.
Satisfied that there is no imitate threat, Ajaxx relaxes. He lets the bow fall lax at his hip and he adopts a more comfortable lean against the tree as he listens to the conversation with the strangers unfold.
Henry Southgard shrugs, motions to the campfire, and says "The singing will not be necessary. You are welcome to spend the night, but we plan to leave early in the morning and make haste to the north. Are there many others on the road?"
After he speaks, he peers out toward the road and then toward the lake.
Sensing the young Orc's confusion, he clarifies. "We walk around the campsite, from the road to the lake, and check for signs of intruders."
Sensing the young Orc's exasperation and hearing the siren song of a warm bedroll, Henry clarifies again. "You had something you wanted to say, but you don't want to say it in front of everyone else. In fact, I think you were going to tell me last night, but I couldn't hear you over the battle outside the city gates. You can get it off your chest while we pretend to do something useful."
Quick's eyes go wide and he inhales sharply. This man is a little too perceptive.
He nods once and falls in beside Henry.
Once they are well out of earshot, Quick sighs and launches into an explanation.
"My name is not Quick. My true name is something else and I will not tell you now. My mother was a powerful seer and it was prophesied that she would bear a child that would battle Armaag, the terrible Red Dragon. I am her only child."
"I recovered the Silver Scale and wear it now because it is my birthright. I fought against turning it over to the elves because I could not part with it. The temple is sacred to me and I felt my powers could truly blossom there."
"All I know of my father is that he is a powerful Orc chieftan known as Breaker or First Cleaver. His true name is Borgruth and he commanded the Orcs that attacked us at Redstone. I feel in my heart he also commanded the attack on Port Elam."
Quick breathes a relieved sigh. I thought it would take longer to tell. Still, it feels good to say it.
"I realize you'll have some questions. I will try to answer them.
"That's..." Henry Southgard is unsure of what to say. Quick was putting his trust in him, and it didn't seem right to downplay it with a glib "...not the worst thing an Orc has ever told me."
"You proved your credentials back in the temple, and again in the cellar. Your lineage is just extr-no, I'm wrong, it's pretty damn pertinent. Is there any chance that Borgruth is looking for you?"
Vylyra nods to the incoming travelers, and wanders towards them with her hand on her falchion. "Are you hailing from town? Where do you go?"
Perceiving to see if I notice anything off about them or their clothing.