There is a pause in the humming, and a high voice completes the verse in the same tongue, “so coi nomag confn ekess dolruth, batobot sthyri nugri ihk dastudr nishka bind jacion ekess sart, vur wer darastrixi batobot irral anku zklaen yor sva annoy vi ressan naktar di lore ui aldoer sva sia ixen, thurirl.”
“So it may come to pass, that man’s thirst for strength shall bind him to weakness, and the dragons that first teach must learn at last. A fellow keeper of lore is welcome at my fire, friend.”
Around the bend, the ranger finds the cave to open a small, roughly carved chamber. A few cracks trace up the walls, and chunks of stone appear to have fallen from the ceiling over time, casting large shifting shadows on the rock walls. One fissure near the back of the room is particularly wide, but other movement draws Balion’s attention: a green-skinned hobgoblin tending a small fire. His fine black and crimson robes are collared by gold reptilian scales, and the entwined silver, ruby-bearing headband holds jet-black hair out of his goblin features, which are softened by youth and a relaxed demeanor. He looks up unsurprised at the entrance, and studies the adventurer intently with dark, narrow eyes. He casually adds to the fire that crackles between him and the ranger. Thick, gaudy rings line his fingers, each possessing a different gemstone. With a beckoning gesture to sit near the fire, he nonchalantly speaks with a high, silky voice.
“Welcome, human. Please, sit, rest your weary legs.”
Without waiting for a reply, he begins to dress and skewer several hare, placing them over the flames to cook. “I wondered at the reason today’s catch was unusually successful,” he says lightly, “There looks to be more than enough for the two of us. You may call me Naja. Tell me traveler, where you learned the Arcane Tongue?”
He offers a small, charming smile with his question. The flickering fire casts warm amber light over the hobgoblin, a small pack, and a bed of furs. Three ornate dagger hilts protrude from the sash around Naja’s waist. Set on a sizable flat stone a few feet away are four thick tomes bound in worn leather, beside an unlit bejeweled golden candlestick.
You know Draconic is often learned by mages because of the deeply magical nature of dragons. You also know that dragons can be good or evil.
The Dragonspine island chain on Bolgrith’s map comes to mind, but it is known that those islands are uninhabited and difficult to reach by ship. Your interaction with other rangers of Stonebit hints that dragons are generally thought to be extinct.
You do not recognize any holy symbols or religious paraphernalia among Naja’s possessions. He also lacks the characteristics of the undead.
Naja’s hands did not so much as twitch as he spoke. It is very unlikely that a hobgoblin from this area does not know the goblin sign language. Now that it’s drawn your attention, his hands seem strangely unfamiliar with preparing food this way.
I was trapped beneath the ice and struggled desperately to break the ice above me but it was much too thick. As I was about to run out of air a large flame lit up the surface and melted the ice above me. Gasping for air I slowly made my way towards the shore but I was too weak from the cold so I once again began to sink. Suddenly, I was pulled up out of the lake. I passed out from exhaustion. When I awoke the craziest looking orc shaman i had ever seen was sitting by a fire for he had taken me to a cave nearby. As I regained my strength he taught me the arcane tongue and the lore of the dragons. With his tale finished Balion looks intently at Naja to see his reaction.
Naja is quiet as the ranger tells his story, seemingly distracted by tending the sizzling vermin. He opens a small container and sighs sadly at the contents, or lack thereof. He looks up to the sharer of his fire. “I am nearly out of seasoning salt, would you chance to carry a bit? I find the hare alone to be gamey and tough, a bit of spice seems to soften the texture and zest the taste.”
He shrugs and turns the container to show a scarce pinch of white granules, and adds casually, “I am unfamiliar with this area called Karn, or these creatures you call orcs. Tell me, do dragons live in Karn?”
"Karn is a interesting place across the sea on a continent known as Hamonreld. There is a testy understanding amongst the dwarf, human, goblin and orc residents to overlook traditional biases." Balion studies the hobgoblin for a moment puzzled that he has never heard of orcs before. Coupled with the hobgoblins complete lack of goblin sign language Balion becomes suspicious of Naja, he decides to satisfy his own curiosity. "Tell me Naja, what race would you consider yourself to be?"
The warm smell of cooking seasoned meat fills the small cavern. Naja’s unblinking gaze meets the ranger’s eye. He answers flatly, “A hobgoblin, of course.”
His face breaks into a jesting grin, “What race do you consider yourself, Greyhands?”
He suddenly throws up a hand with a small, tittering chuckle. “I jest, although it was you who started the duping. Hamonreld? Please. Do not think I am unacquainted with the dreamtales taught to the children of men. Perhaps my honesty will encourage the truth from you.”
The finely-robed hobgoblin stares into the fire as he recalls.
“I was born in the city-state of Hagglesport, but before my coming of age, I found their restrictions on the arcane too tedious, too prying. So I stole a few lorebooks from their library and sought to uncover ancient mysteries on my own. As a fellow traveler, you know as well as I, the going can be slow, especially when my grandiose query remains elusive, and I find only rocks and coneys.”
He absently rotates the skewers over the fire, and meets Balion’s eyes again. He takes a conspiratorial tone. “I heard a rumor that a powerful dragon has come to Ytramond. The creatures we thought long dead are at long last returning, and I will be the first to welcome them.”
The eyes of Naja gleam in the firelight.
The hobgoblin’s face betrays some disappointment, though he keeps a friendly tone.
“Very well,” he hands two skewers of the cooked rabbit to the ranger, “Tell me, Hamonrelder, what brings a human so far north, well into the domain of my wilder kin? Do you seek gold? Or do you hate your kind enough to join that goblin warlord? You do not strike me to be the malicious type. In fact, I will extend a warning; they would probably kill you on sight before you could swear allegiance.”
Naja smiles pleasantly over his matter-of-fact tone. “You seem a decent fellow, Greyhands. You should join my quest to find this dragon, we could benefit from each other’s strengths.”
The finely-robed hobgoblin’s dark eyes seem to bore deep into Balion’s.
Balion looks at the hobgoblin. "Perhaps we could help one another." The ranger briefly pauses before continuing."I am hunting a witch in these lands, help me kill her and I will help you search for your dragon. In the morning I will take you to my other companions. Agreed?"
“No, that will not do. I know the witch you speak of, and she is no longer in the forest. It would be a waste of your time,” Naja smiles warmly, “and I do not think your companions will be suited for our quest. The fewer, the better. Are they very far, your companions?”
Naja glances to the bend in the rock cave leading outside, and begins to eat the cooked rabbit.
The well-dressed hobgoblin smiles knowingly but says nothing. With a used skewer he pushes apart the burning logs and the light in the cave darkens to a dim, steady orange glow. Pushing his body from the chasing giant leaves Balion sore and tired, and he quickly succumbs to sleep. He is undisturbed in his rest until morning by the sounds of Naja repacking his bedding. The hobgoblin turns to the ranger, smiling. “Good morning, friend.”
Jamie takes up the watch from Bolgrith. In a few hours time, the sky lightens before the sunrays can find the rocky outcroppings around the adventurers. Jamie stops making an effort to be quiet. Suddenly, she curses.
“Rolg, up! Your gobo buddy is gone. Left his bed, and one of his little knives on your shield.”
Surely as the pit-fighter points out, the small wad of furs is missing Stabi, and one of the small blades he used the other day laid flat on Rolg’s shield, pointed north. Jamie spits, “Prolly on his way to tell his kind where we are. We shoulda killed him with the rest. Where is that damned tracker when we need him?!”
Jamie kicks and scatters Stabi’s furs.
Simon does not seem bothered by the missing goblin. “Good riddance, I say. He might’ve helped us avoid some more trouble, but I didn’t trust him. Let’s keep going.”
He shoulders his pack, adjusts his quiver of arrows, and grabs his bow. He turns a ponderous gaze to the volcano looming ahead.
“Karajhin’s letter said something about ‘Wolftooth Cave’, where we would find this key. I couldn’t find its location in my research, other than the letter mentioning it was close to Mount Fireblood.” A small grin appears on his young face. “Keep an eye out for anything wolf-toothy.”
Simon waits for everyone else to be ready to go.
"Such racist I travel with! What sort of reception will I get the next time I choose to eat an under cooked coney? Gods! Do you only put up with my presence because Karajhin chose me Simon? Stabi has left us directions. Do not doubt him until he proves himself false. Because, let's not foget, Jamie and I are sell-swords, but we can't be called turncloaks until we actually turn them."
Rolg spits.
"Now break camp and let's be going. Jamie, you're guiding me. Not a word about it."
Simon blinks. "I meant no offense, Rolg. The hobgoblins have always been fair traders with the folk of the Commonwealth. I've even heard a few express annoyance toward their wild kinsfolk in these northern lands, begrudging the raids on the borders of my father's land. Except for Stabi, every goblin I've seen did not stall in making mischief." Simon shrugs. "I only thought it was a matter of time. I hope you are right, and he is still helping us."
Finishing his calisthenics the sweating dwarf begins to dry himself as he watches the interaction between his companions. Donning his armor he looks over at the bed-place and the knife on shield.
The Ranger packs his bag and does a few stretches to limber up. Looking up at Naja he posits a question. "Where do you think we are most likely to find this dragon of yours? And where is the witch of the forest now? I only ask because you mentioned it last night."
Rolg maintains a sullen silence for the time being.
Naja smiles but does not answer right away, and the questions fall flat. He seems too distracted by leafing through one of his large, old books. At length, he speaks.
“One clue hinted at old secrets in this cave. I hoped the dragon would be drawn to its power, and I would find him here. Moreover, I found no magical energies here.”
He sighs disappointedly as he looks about the small rocky cavern. “I’ve seen nothing across the shores of Blood Bay or among the Saltbarrow save for fearsome beasts and pirates, although the distinction of the two can blur at times. My next place of searching was going to be the Grik Flats to the east of these mountains. The flatlands would let us see any flying dragon miles away.”
He smiles at his half-joke and adds. “Before we leave, though: I would like to review a few passages. Could I trouble you to forage or hunt some food for the journey? The plants and animals on that side of Mount Fireblood are hardier from the constant ashfall and scarce water, and serve poorly for sustenance. I remember seeing crab apples an hour north, and if I recall correctly, the wild goats of the crags love crab apples.”
Naja holds out the ornate candlestick. “We should be going as soon as you get back. Here, take this. It will give you good luck as long as you hold it.”
Aladdin wakes up and begins the ritual to summon his companion.
Squall appears, blinking into existence with a pop.
Opening his eyes, Aladdin sees that the pop was not from Squall's appearance. In fact, the eidolon is nowhere to be seen. Before he can spot the source of the sound, he feels something tug at his very essence!
Whatever was pulling Aladdin was not strong enough. The stormborn is able to expel the strange force, and Squall remains missing.
Perhaps it is the luck of the bejeweled candlestick, perhaps it is the woodsman’s canny eye, but before long, he spots a scraggly crab-apple tree. He is able to collect nine small crab-apples, ripe, bitter, and each scarcely larger than a walnut shell. While he spots no mountain goats, fortune sends him an oblivious, healthy stag. Quick work with his bow brings down the three-point beast, and Balion spends a good hour extracting all the meat he can. Finally, he rises from the kill with forty-five pounds of venison; his hands, sleeves, and knees are stained with blood. The ranger knows the meat alone will feed two people for at least ten days. He trusts that there are indeed mountain goats among these rocky outcroppings below Mount Fireblood; he clearly spotted their tracks near the apple tree he harvested. He also knows he will be slowed down if he searches for more food –encumbered by the weight.
The adventuring party proceeds north, over the boulder-studded hills that precede the Frostooth range rising up to their right. The natural stone barrier curves slightly to the west over many miles; its final peak, Mount Fireblood, darkly looming directly ahead of the travelers. It spouts a constant, slow-moving ash cloud over the snowcaps of the lesser mountaintops, and the wind seems to carry it further east. To the west of the Hamonrelders, rolling hills offer some visibility of the occasional wildlife. A few times, the gaps between hills lined up to show the very distant Barrowood. Once, an enormous giant is seen roving over a distant hill, wandering aimlessly. It lets out a bellow, and the call echoes off the hillsides, although it does not seem to notice the adventurers as they pass between the boulders at the foot of the mountains.
A moment later, a second bellow answers loudly from behind a very nearby hill, just ahead of the party’s direction of travel. It sounds like another giant, and by the slow, heavy footfalls, it seems to be climbing the hill. Bolgrith remembers that they are approaching where he spotted the tall bonfire from the night before.
"We should see what we're dealing with before we act. For now, lay low."
Jamie shuffles Rolg behind a boulder.
Simon ducks behind another rock with his longbow in his hand.
"A hill giant!" he whispers.
"There was a bonfire out this way last evening, based on how the little goblin placed his knife it wouldn't be out of the question to say he may be around these parts. Bolgrith whispers as he lowers himself to the ground.
Hill giants solve their problems with brawn, a philosophy well-suited to their frighteningly muscular build. They are generally distrustful of magic and are susceptible to trickery. Hill giants love to make overrun attacks against smaller creatures when they first join battle. Thereafter, they stand fast and swing away with their massive clubs. Adults are around 10 feet tall and weigh about 1,100 pounds. Hill giants can live to be 200 years old, but almost never do. Hill giants primarily subsist on meat and whatever food they can steal. During raids on industrious villages or traveling caravans, hill giants are sure to grab as much food as possible before taking the feast back to their tribe.
Already worried because Squall wasn't able to be summoned, Aladdin attempts to duck down with the others.
Proceeded by the loud, earth-shaking footsteps, a giant’s head and muscular shoulders lumber into view as he climbs the hill. His thick, bald pate is spotted by years of exposure to the weather, and patches of various animals are draped and tied across his muscular torso, thinning to tatters at about mid-thigh. Heavy scars cover over the bulging muscles in his bare arms, and one thick-fingered hand lazily drags a shorn tree trunk along the ground. Brownish, sun-bleached hair sprouts above the ears and around to the back of the head, and spittle glistens down a slack jaw, where his deep yellow, brick-sized teeth are visible. His mouth-breathing can be heard from where the adventurers hide, or at least, where they try to.
Perhaps among a roomful of his kind after few barrels of dwarven ale, Bolgrith’s appraisal of Stabi’s whereabouts would be considered a whisper. But here, it is just a wee bit too loud. The giant angles his tiny ear in the party’s direction. He sniffs the air loudly.
“Мирише ми на парти.”
The giant trudges forward to look behind a nearby boulder, and spotting Rolg and a cursing Jamie, points at the hobgoblin. “Какво.”
His thick brow gathers heavily over beady eyes bent on dumb cruelty. His grip seems to tighten on the heavy, knobby club, but he does not bother to lift it just yet.
"Is it just talking at us? Do something to make it leave."
"That would be our best course of action, yes." Bolgrith says while standing, giving up all pretext at stealth. Hiding his hand behind his shield he taps out an arcane tattoo, fingers glowing a soft blue before he straightens to his full height.
Staring up at the towering giant before him, he calls out to the creature.
"Mluv, sotva mohu slyšet tady."
The giant looks at the dwarf with an annoyed frown, and does not appear to understand the priest. “Главен казва носят храна или роби за Gartok,” he glances suspiciously at Rolg. “"Вие не сте длъжни като роби…”
The wheels turn behind the tiny eyes of the large, oafish giant as he thinks aloud. He hefts the big club onto his shoulder and takes a step closer toward Bolgrith.
“Chief says bring food or slaves for Gartok.”
“You are not bound like slaves…”
[ooc]Will Resist Najas influence and if possible run away like he is a "tricky" person.
Bolgrith whispers quickly to the group, "Try to look as unappetizing as possible!" Raising his arms over his head he tries to show the giant that no chains bind him while shaking his head "no". Ensuring that his motions are big and exaggerated, he rolls up one sleeve of his robe and licks his arm, making a disgusted face and spitting repeatedly.
"Le, mhux skjavi, u mhux ikel jew. Dan mhuwiex dak li inti qed tfittex."
Bolgrith mentaly crosses his fingers as the words leave his lips.
His shoulder burdened with the venison and apples, the woodsman is able to reach the cave in an hour. As he approaches the entrance now visible by daylight, he notices a stony outcropping overhead that bears some resemblance to a canine’s snout. Once inside, Balion does not find Naja, but a single sheet of parchment neatly folded on the flat stone where the hobgoblin’s books once laid, marked “Greyhands” in flowing cursive. Inside of the note, an unfamiliar language continues in the fancy handwriting:
ரேஞ்சர் கொல்ல.
As the ranger puzzles over this, Naja’s gift of good fortune suddenly falls to the ground at his feet. Looking down, Balion sees that it is no longer an ornate candlestick, but small silver-scaled snake with ruby eyes! It hisses menacingly, baring needle-sharp fangs and tensely poising to strike.
Quick as lightning, the treacherous creature lashes out at the ranger’s ankle.
But the ranger’s boots are too thick, and the snake recoils with another hiss, preparing to bite again.