Explorers into the the cave find it to open up into a tiny room in the rock. This was the living space of the two mites, as a little sooted corner marked a fireplace, and dirty piles of furs served as bedding. Small cubby holes pocked the surface of the stone walls, holding oddly colored stones, wooden dice, a gold tooth, interesting bones and skulls of small animals, and other mostly useless odds and ends. However, the most notable object in the cave laid in the corner beside the fireplace. The skeleton of a dwarf reclines against the wall, a downturned smile eerily greeting those who find him. The dwarf bones appear to be picked clean of any flesh, rather than rotted away. A well-crafted heavy steel shield engraved with runes is at his side, and a runic breastplate appears to be tossed aside. The skeleton becomes less complete in the arms and legs, and these bones can be found among the ashes of the fireplace. It takes some rummaging to unearth the dead dwarf’s battleaxe, of average make.
"Of course I'm thinking of eating it. As a general rule, any monster I kill is fair game for the fire spit." Henry says as he starts pulling legs off the dead centipede. "Only exception I've ever made was for an otyugh, and believe me, nobody would have come out of that looking pretty."
After collecting a dozen legs, Henry Southgard builds a fire at the mouth of the cave and starts cooking.
"No promises, but it shouldn't be any different from crab legs."
Henry takes his time cooking the oversized centipede legs. When he is finished and cracks one open, he finds the meat within to be white and very soft. The taste is somewhat bland, but reminiscent of a cross between chicken and cod. In all, he is able to harvest and properly cook centipede legs.
Gorim has been standing, staring uneasily at the fallen Dwarf. He steps in closer, inspecting the runes closely.
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"If no one minds..."
Gwath picks up the two daggers from the fallen Dwarf and places them next to his own throwing dagger strung to his belt.
He then leaves Gorim alone with the corpse and wanders back to the growing light of Henry's fire and settles down next to him, keeping his eyes ever watchful of the glade outside.
As Henry bites into his food, Gwath stoically jokes,
"Will you be eating the entire centipede or do we each get a contractual percentage of it?"
"Help yourself," he says, passing a plate over to the privateer.
While waiting for the next batch of legs to finish roasting, he relieves a blowgun from one of the Mites and examines it. Based on the performance in the skirmish, he doubts it's useful for killing anything other than small game. Still might come in handy.
"Speaking of contracts, though... I'll wait for Gorim and Quick to return."
Quick looks up from his place across the fire. "Have a gone somewhere?"
"Eh, I figured that you would head into the cave and see if anything interests you."
"Fair assumption, though I currently have everything I need."
The Cleric lays what remains of the fallen Dwarf down flat, relieving them of their gear, and returns to the fire.
Sitting alongside the runic armour and axe, still fascinated by the runes, Gorim grabs a centipede leg.
"I'd like the bury to Dwarf before we leave, should we have the time."
The runes are lines to battle hymns familiar to the denizens of the dwarven kingdom below the Komat Mountains. Such hymns have been chanted by dwarven foot soldiers and nobles alike as long as tradition remembers, though this particular hymn, March of the Mountains, was added to the liturgies some three hundred years ago. The former owner of this armor was either a Komat exile, or the direct descendant of one, as a dwarven lifespan often exceeds a human’s by at least fifty to one hundred and fifty years. The wearer of the shield likely died in-keeping with the virtues in the chant: a glorious death in battle.
"Anybody bring a shovel?" Henry Southgard asks. "If not, it's going to be a shallow grave."
Henry sets his makeshift dish aside and pulls out Moss's journal. The unsigned contract was folded up for use as a bookmark. "Alright, gents, seeing as how nobody in these parts considers it impolite to talk business during a meal, let's get this out of the way. We never signed Moss's contract, so we are unbound by the agreement. We can simply divide up his money and go our separate ways, or we could try to retrieve the scale. How do you all vote?"
"I'll be retrieving the scale. I would welcome any help."
Gorim nods to Henry's remark about the grave, then unbuckles his pack to retrieve an ink vial and pen from his pack, "Aye... I'd be keen to see Moss' work complete; retrieve the scale".
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Gwath turns the collected "daggers' over in his large hands, realizing how small they are.
"These might be more suited for your blowgun, Henry. Better than in my clumsy hands at least."
His head turns to see his black parrot nearby, poking around in the grass after having explored on his own for a while - conveniently away from giant centipedes, Gwath noticed. The bird reminded him...
"If the port is overrun, The Evening Cleave either set off and escaped without me, or is burnt and sunk. Either way, my business opportunities seem... poor at the moment. And besides, heading landward instead of seaward for a change would do me well."
Gorim tucks into the centipede leg.
Raising what remains to Henry, "Not bad!" though that's likely The Dwarfs reaction to most foods.
"Then we are in agreement," Henry Southgard says as he unrolls Moss's map with a flourish. "Our destination is a shrine two days from here, three if the passage is difficult. As I count it, we have the provisions to make a beeline for the mountains, avoiding hangers-on and Orcs, if they're still on the move."
The Mercenary passes the journal to Gorim and taps on the section that mentions Sheog’Dritkaan.
"We may be racing against something called a Drow. The name feels familiar to me, but I was taught about all kinds of monsters and fell near-humans at the Lucein academy, sixteen years and half a continent ago. Does anybody know about them?"
Henry looks around the fire, waiting for replies. The next batch of legs isn't done yet, so he unstrings his crossbow and checks a wax seal around the trigger to see if it's been broken.
Gorim stares at the page, returning to the old habit of fiddling with one of his beard's beads while drifting into thought...
"Aye, rings a bell alright..."
Drow are also known as dark elves, and they live underground.
The mercenary recalls that drow are dark elves, twisted and cruel shadows of their surface-dwelling brethren. Drow nearly always live deep within the earth, building cities and kingdoms that never see the sun. The only time drow are seen topside are for slave-taking raids, or in this case, in search of an artifact of great importance.
Gorim's face lights up as he uncovers some small detail in his mind: "Elves! Drow are Dark Elves. Live underground I think..."
He goes to mouth some further words and realises that's all he knows on the matter.
"They're a long way from home, then," Henry muses. "And if they're related to the elves... probably good with magic."
The mercenary shrugs. He's fought for, with, and against too many elves to feel safe generalizing them. He's seen elves who were generous, stingy, arrogant, humble. He's fought against elven nations that could make war with the best of them, raided elven villages that saw little difference between hunting and fighting, and even met pointy-ears who wouldn't know which end of an arrow to point at the enemy.
"Alright, we start up early in the morning, and try to avoid contact. Gorim and Quick hail from these lands, so if you have any idea what traversing the Baldin Heights will be like, I am eager to hear."
By the end of the next day, their path should take them well into the snowy summits of the Baldrin Heights. Just below the frostline, Gwath knows that tribes of massive ogres live on the forested slopes. The group would do well to avoid them.
Up in the icy crags, the mercenary recalls horror stories of the fearsome yeti, and the bigger cousins to ogres, frost giants. The mountains willnot be teeming with these monstrous threats, but great caution to avoid them will not be amiss.
The higher up the mountains the group goes, the thicker the snow and stronger the wind.
The forest below the snowcaps of the Baldrin Heights will probably have natural predators who live in cold places, like wolves or bears.
Wild animals aside, the mountains ahead will have whipping wind, biting cold, and deep snow. These could be hazards in themselves, for careless travelers.
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"It's been some time since last I wandered the Heights. Besides rugged terrain filled with snow and carved with wind, there's plenty of creatures we would do best to avoid. Ogres, yetis, frost giants... A lovely neighborhood, really. We stay quiet and smart and make sure we're not stumbling on one of their dens, then we may get through this with all our limbs."
"Aye, steer clear of that... Not much in comparison, but the forests below those peaks are sure to be home to wolves and bears. The cold's not much for 'em."
Bears are strong! Gorim also knows that wolves will hunt in packs, surrounding prey before moving in to take it down.
After a brief pause Gorim continues, "Social animals, Wolves... hunt in packs; that's their strength. I'm quite the fan of their work!" he jokes, "Though it's less fascinating up close, I'm sure."
The Cleric glances across the faces of his allies, "We gonna have someone keep watch tonight? Ain't sure how likely it is for someone to pass while we sleep".
"I was taught always to have a watch. I will take first watch for I must sleep to recover my magic."
"I'll take second watch," Henry Southgard says as he finishes cooking the last legs and begins the process of packing them for transport. When he is done, he goes back to the process of cleaning his armor and crossbow.
Gorim stands, nodding at the group, "I'll get to work on that grave then, better than leaving that poor soul. I'll be up early to meditate before we set out, too".
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"I'll watch after that then."
Gwath settles in at one side of the mouth of the cave, back against the rock, with his pack used as some rudimentary padding. His parrot finds the remains of his crab legs as Gwath closes his eyes, still listening for anything and anyone for some time before nodding off into a light sleep.
Henry Southgard picks up his work and relocates so he sits right by Quick. He offers his hand to the half-orc.
"I believe that formal introductions are in order, now that we have officially signed on to the same journey. I am Henry Southgard, son of Micheal, son of Samuel. And you?"
"I am Quick, and I am as you see me." He shrugs. "My past is hidden from me."
"Good enough," Henry Southgard replies. "And I see that you work magic. My old company had an elder wizard with us, a shaman who joined us after we extinguished his tribe. He told me that there are two kinds of spellcasters in our world. There are those who gain their knowledge from careful study and must weave each spell at dawn. Magic comes to the other kind of spellcaster just as easily as breathing does to you and I. Which are you?"
"I'll take the final watch," says Gorim to Gwath, while scanning for a spot to dig.
He begins to wander around the clearing in an attempt to find a good patch of softer ground. He stops to rummaging through his pack and pull out tent pegs, and begins the task of slowly loosening the soil.
"I wouldn't say it's as easy as breathing, but I do not have to study and prepare my magic. It uses my own reserves, and once depleted, I must rest to recover it."
"And you don't have much for reserves, from what I've seen. Probably not enough to outlast a real fight. You never had any training? You're entirely self-taught?"
Quick's eyebrows furrow, and he tries to pass it off as thoughtfulness. Does he know something?
"I have had a few mentors over the years, but nothing like a professor if that's what you mean. And no, my reserve is not large, but you'll notice I carry a sword and an axe, and I know how to use them: not so well as our own Gwath though!"
"Good work today, cousin." Quick nods to Gwath, hoping the conversation will shift away from him.
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Half-listening to the conversation, Gwath's right eye opens at the mention of his name.
"Eh? Ah, yes... Running forward swinging a large piece of metal requires years of intense training... And if that doesn't kill your enemy, you can always try running at 'em from a different direction or with a different-shaped piece of metal."
Gwath stares at Henry and Quick, with a raised eyebrow.
"It's all very nuanced, you see."
"Quite so!" Quick says laughing.
"Very nuanced. It takes a lot of training until you know how to separate a man from his soul with a slab of metal, or you'll use a bec de corbin as a bill or a bill as a bardiche."
Henry Southgard grins and drums his fingers across his crossbow, which he occasionally likens to a Gnomish artillery piece.
"And wooden weapons! Reaching out and touching someone with a slender shaft of wood is harder than it looks. I was merely a boy when my training began, and nearly a man when I could pick this crossbow up!"
His brow furrows momentarily when he realizes that Quick is lying, or at least evading him. After a moment of consideration, he chalks it up to the half-orc naturally being on the defense. Plenty of cultures see sorcery as an affliction that can be cured with a stake, a rope, or a really hot fire.
"Good to hear that you've had some training. That's the thing about magic; I can watch Gwath or Gorim fight and judge for myself how well they know their arms. But I have no way of knowing how proficient a spellcaster is. If I plan for the future, I'd like to know what flavor of smiting you can lay down. So, what can you do? Who have you learned from?"
"For now, I can detect the presence of magical auras, I can mend broken items quickly, I can create a link that allows whispered conversation over some distance, I can fire a bolt of frost or force much like your crossbow, and I can augment the defenses of persons not wearing armor."
"I beleive these spells have come to me because they assist in keeping me alive. Now that I have others to think of, I'm sure my gifts will begin to manifest a more versatile portfolio."
"I just want to reiterate, I do not need a teacher. My magic comes from within. As a grow in strength and will, so too will my powers. It is not important whom I have learned from. Besides, as I am sure never to have heard of your master at arms, you likely won't have heard of my mentor."
If she does, in fact, exist...
Gorim halts from his digging momentarily, pausing to observe the others. He should be over there getting to know everyone, though of course there will be plenty of time for that.
Images of Moss run over Gorim's mind, and the state of Elam. Terrible... The fallen deserve respect.
His eyes wander back downward to the mess of a hole. A shallow grave indeed...
Dropping to his knees, The Dwarf begins to shovel the dirt to one side with his shield.
"Thank you, Quick, that answered my question." Henry Southgard says. He watches Gorim dig for a while, until he starts feeling guilty for sitting around while other people work. With a glance toward the setting sun, he steps out of the cave and helps the Dwarf.
"So as you don't feel left out, Father," Henry says as he plucks some rocks out of the way. "I am Henry Southgard, son of Micheal, son of Samuel, formerly a lieutenant of Shaleclast's Free Company. It will be an honor to journey alongside you."
"Ah, likewise; it's truly an honour!"
"Gorim Coppervein myself," states The Dwarf somewhat proudly while scraping away dirt, picking up a rhythm between his and Henry's efforts. "Son of Glerin, son of, well... he was banished I'm afraid, so it gets a tad blurry."
In fear the conversation may appear to have taken a dramatic turn, the Dwarf adds "Son of Irori too, might I add, in a sense!" making a brief gesture to the holy symbol swaying around his wrist.