Coral surrenders a dagger she had hidden under her belt. After they collect the weaponry, other guards make a general search for any concealed weapons on the five. Satisfied, the elite guards usher the five toward the large double doors that open into an expansive court.
The great, polished stone walls are draped with tapestries, historical accounts woven into images accompanied by runes. Towering pillars of marble hold up the high ceiling, the surface of which is an enormous chiseled mural depicting the might of the Master Smith, Torag, and dwarves of his likeness carrying out the sacraments of toil, craftsmanship, strategy, and fortitude. White shafts of sunlight stream in from windows, giving luster to the braziers of silver. Along the deep navy blue carpet that leads from the doors to the thrones, are two lines of more royal dwarven guards. Their thick, stout armor gleams by the light of the fires and the sun, and they number one dozen in each line. Rectangular slabs of gold-veined black marble create a tall platform where three high-backed thrones, each a different color and each ornately designed. The throne to the left appears to be solid gold, the center looks like common iron, and the right is another metal, so black it appears to absorb light.
However, two of the three thrones are occupied. The iron seat at the center is filled by a dwarf who wears an iron headband presenting the Hammer of Torag on his brow. Over full plate armor, minus a helm, he wears a black, embroidered apron. A decorative and yet deadly looking warhammer lays across his lap.
In the golden throne, lounges a dwarf in shining mithral woven chain, over which a white cape with silverweave embroidery drape behind him. On his head sits a large golden crown encrusted with dozens of glittering gemstones. The head of an ornate pickaxe rests on the ground, and the butt of the carved wooden haft is clutched in one hand. Both hands of this king are arrayed with sparkling rings. He presently studies the approaching party from his slouched position, and mumbles something to the centered king. The one in the iron throne remains stone-faced, his only expression a single, slow blink. Due to the distance and the largeness of the king’s court, it is near impossible to discern what the golden crown said to iron crown.
“The man in the front is a Stonebit. The Wyldotes must truly be desperate to cater to the noble line most favored by the our kind. Be wary of what he says, if he comes on their behalf. The hobgoblins may finally have coerced the men to make war against us, for there walks one among them, as an equal...”
The dwarf on the iron throne is Priest-King Stormcall, ruler of the center island. The dwarf in the golden throne is High King Fivestone, ruler of the northmost island, Hammer. This means that High King Anvilhart, of the Anvil island, is absent.
The double oak doors thud close behind the five, and every eye looks on at the odd collection of races before them. The king on the iron throne speaks, his regal voice echoing off the stone walls. “Never before have we allowed a goblin into this court. But the attainment of an Irkei Stone is not a daily occurrence, and given his company, we will not eject him from our presence, immediately.” The last word comes out in a warning tone. He turns his eyes to Bolgrith, Aladdin, and then Logan. “What is your business? What urgency drives you to our court?”
The kings maintain guarded expressions, a well-practiced defense against decades of attempts to influence their emotions and rule favorably on a particular petition or request. It is difficult to be certain how receptive the kings seem, though the presence of Rolg wasn’t exactly received well. Still, they don’t appear to be bored, so they must be interested in the reason of this appearance.
Logan also knows that the three kings handle their domestic issues individually, each according to his kingdom, but foreign issues, such as going to war as a united force, require unanimous approval by all three kings. With only two of the three here, the decision must be tabled until King Anvilhart joins the king’s court.
Logan is not sure how long it will take to sail from one island to another. No sooner than eight hours, no later than two days.
Logan bows respectfully low at the waist "It is with sincere gratitude that I thank you for being willing to make an exception and hear our plea, m'lords." he straightens. "I am Logan Stonebit, lieutenant of the Borderguard and son of the late captain Patrick Stonebit and nephew of Dredan Stonebit, ruler of the Stonebit house. These are my trusted allies and friends: Rolg, the iron shield and impenetrable defense; Bolgrith, cleric of Irori and irreplaceable support; Alladin and Coral, powerful sorcerer and companion. We come before you today on behalf of the kingdom of men to seek the strength of the dwarven kingdom because the hobgoblin kingdom, Hagglesport, either willingly or by obligation, has waged a full scale war under the leadership of a bug bear warlord, Gartok the Undying and his dragon mount." he continues to describe the opposing force. "I understand that this is no small thing that we seek but I also understand that, if the kingdom of men is left to fight this force alone, the histories will record genocide at the hands of goblin-kind." he says with sober finality.
Bolgrith keeps his peace and maintains a respectful visage as he observes the interaction.
Aladdin looks around and keeps his quiet.
"What Lieutenant Stonebit says is true. Gartok the undying seeks the destruction of the kingdoms of men, but your fears of war against your majesties' lands are unfounded. We hold nothing but respect for your people. And you need not be so wary of me. Indeed I assure you that no one, be they man or dwarf, despises my kin more than I."
"I realize that I am an oddity and that I am likely unknown to your majesties. However, were it known, my reputation would stand untarnished for decades before you. I am a loyal, capable soldier and, though I have not always done so, I endeavor to repay slights with honor and mistreatment with mercy. I am learning much from Brother Bolgrith of the ways of Irori, but I confess a growing reverence for the Master Smith and his kin."
Logan maintains his composure and holds in an approving smile.
When Logan speaks of Gartok’s dragon, the dwarf on the gold throne shows a disdainful smirk. The aproned king remains stone-faced. Neither of them move when the lieutenant is finished speaking, though an unkind glint can be noticed in King Fivestone’s eye. At Rolg’s words, the two kings slightly crease their heavy brows, weighing the words of one who despises his own kin. Holy King Stormcall runs a calloused hand over his thick brown beard in thought.
The king seated in gold, High King Fivestone, scoffs openly when their visitors are finished speaking. “Pah! A dragon! And are the Council of Seven not known for their double-speak?” He looks at the elite guards flanking the double-doored entrance to the thrice throned hall. “This is a farse! A joke! Who allowed these jesters into our hall-” A sudden, swift gesture from Holy King Stormcall halts the black-bearded king’s mockery. The priest-king mutters something to him in their father tongue.
“There is no lie in their words. They truly need our help. And the hobgoblin is, different, than others of his kind.”
High King Fivestone’s expression changes from scorn to apathy, as he nods to the Holy King’s whispered words. He takes a ponderous moment looking over the visitors to the court. A bejeweled hand rises from the gold armrest, palm turned up in a lazy, helpless gesture. “I’m afraid your askance of Hammertide aid is ill-timed,” he says in mock disappointment, as a half-smile betrays his attitude, “Without High King Anvilhart present, we will have to wait to decide on the matter. Return to us in three days…”
The iron-crowned dwarf adds nothing to the Fivestone’s words. Rather, he watches the Stonebit with an intense, unwavering gaze.
The staggering ratio by which the nation of men are outnumbered, three days will be too late, even with an optimistic estimation. Given the time it took to sail to the Hammertide Isles, the men of the Ytramond Commonwealth have likely already joined battle with the goblins. Today might even be too late, if the battles go poorly.
A deep frown takes Logan's face. "I understand the necessity of having all three Kings present to make a decision as significant as this, but is there no other solution than to wait? The fact of the matter is that if we wait 3 days, the kingdom of men will be a blood stain on the boots of Gartok's legion and residual ichor in the maw of his dragon. Is there no other means, magic or otherwise, to bring the third king to court or to confer with him?"
Rolg falls to his knees before the Holy King. "The men of the west will be dead long before 3 days pass. My experience tells me they are likely dead already, but I have to believe they live. I have to believe there is someway this trip will help them. Please your majesty, there must be a way to decide this matter now. In return for your help, I will devote myself to Torag's teachings and will become a great champion of his cause. I swear it, and offer my service, such as it is."
By subtle body language, a masked shifting of weight, and an errant half-glance during Logan’s appeal, suggest that there is something the dwarf kings can do to quicken the process. But the stubborn kings know that this, like all other requests brought to them, is a negotiation. It is a common tactic between merchants, for one to remain indifferently silent while the more desperate one unwittingly makes the bargain sweeter and sweeter.
The hobgoblin can feel over a dozen pairs of dwarf eyes on him as he kneels, and the following silence betrays the surprise of the kings and their guard. Looking up, he sees the gold crowned king wearing a look of suspicion. The king under the iron crown no longer holds a neutral expression, but one of interest. He leans forward slightly as he peers down from his high seat, studying the hobgoblin. But High King Fivestone speaks up again, addressing Logan’s question. “You would question a High King’s command? My father’s father told me of a time when the fledgling nation of men would trade only with the dwarves. But such agreements were forgotten at the promise of goblin gold not one hundred years later! Since then, my father, and I, have watched the realm of men grow fat on the gold of our mines and those of the goblins.”
He pauses, and then gloats, “Do your fellow men now see their faithless folly? How bright do your riches shine when covered in blood spilled by treachery? If the Ytramond Commonwealth is as in dire need as you say, then any aid we send will surely suffer casualties.” He looks to Holy King Stormcall, but asks loud enough for all to hear. “Do we let these men soak up more gold and dwarven blood, simply because they ask for it? What profit will that be to us?”
The priest-king does not take his eyes off Rolg during Fivestone’s questions. In fact, he acts as though he does not hear them, until he inhales deeply and speaks to the kneeling hobgoblin in his court. “Your word is your bond, hobgoblin Rolg. But we will not so readily welcome you into our holy ranks on words alone. Such a station requires training, of mind, spirit, and body. For a soldier, a life is the greatest thing they can give, and take away, and for that I commend you. Even though the goblin kind are wicked at heart, and we should strive to abolish such darkness, High King Fivestone has a point. We three are responsible foremost to the dwarves of these isles. Are we to lend our ships and warriors freely to a cause so desperate?”
"My liege, if I may..." Aladdin bows and waits until he is further allowed to speak. "Would it not be wise to stand with men against the common Goblin enemy now, than stand divided against them later? Surely the Goblin thirst for blood won't be satiated with just the flesh of humans, but will soon turn for dwarven blood as well," Aladdin reasoned.
Rolg clenches his teeth. Never have I spoken more earnestly than then. Never have a stripped my armor more completely. And this is your reply? Fine...
"Will you help or no?" Rolg says with barely veiled indignation.
In his brief travels of the Sunderlands, the mercenary heard that the dwarves have dungeons that descend deeper than the water tables of their islands. Truly a feat in engineering.
Torag does not bar any particular race from worshipping him. Even if the dwarves were keen on allowing a goblin to join their righteous ranks, they are nothing if not traditional. Bolgrith suspects that Holy King Stormcall wasn’t denying the hobgoblin the right to join, but was telling him the path would not be easy or quick. If General Thunderhelm has anything to do with the training of Torag’s holy warriors, then Rolg might see fairer treatment in the process.
It is widely known that the dwarves command the vastest naval fleet of the Sunderlands. They are superior not only in numbers, but in seamanship and in the craft of their vessels. Moreover, the navy from the Stormcall Isle is celebrated as the fastest fleet in the realm, largely due to their pious captains who can magically direct winds into their sails. If the endeavor to rally armies and sail to Ytramond was given all haste, and dwarves worked through the night, the first of the Hammertide longships would land tomorrow evening on human shores.
Logan let's the kings words sink in. "Often times, when investing, is it not better to invest when the cost of the investment has dropped to its lowest point? You ask what profit would come to the kingdom of the dwarves to aid in our cause? Any logical person would confirm that if mankind should triumph over this force, any form of trade with the Goblin Kingdom would not exist because, if mankind triumphs, it will be at the destruction of Hagglesport and Gartok the Undying. In placing their lot with this warlord, Hagglesport has prepped the nails for their own coffin. Additionally, if what I say about Gartok's force is true, then consider this: if indeed Gartok has a dragon, what is the one thing that all dragons lust after? Is it not a monumental horde of gold and treasure? You ask what profit there is, I say there is both long term and short term gain in aiding the kingdom of men."
“The border between us and the goblins is a sea,” the Holy King reminds Aladdin, “and our ships are unmatched. We could blockade your entire island if we wished. No matter their thirst for dwarf blood, they are not a threat to our islands.”
There is a strained quiet after Rolg’s simple question, and the iron-crowned inhales as though to speak, but pauses to listen to the Stonebit.
The king in the golden throne does not mask his interest at the mention of a treasure horde. “You would forfeit the spoils of war, for our aid?” His greedy look turns to the one in the iron throne. Holy King Stormcall maintains a neutral expression, and returns the gaze to his fellow king. After a curt nod over an unspoken question, the two of them sit upright in their respective thrones. Their thick digits wrap tightly over the royal armrests, and a faint chanting in unison escapes their lips.
A moment later, a strange light pulses over the vacant black throne, repeating and quickening in repetition. Wub… wub… wub… wub-wub-wub-WUB-WUB-WUB-WUBWUBWUBWUB and a ground-shaking crack of thunder momentarily deafens the king’s court. In a small dissipating cloud of smoke or steam around the lightless throne, a new dwarf voice bellows “Is that your best?! AAAAAaaaaagh…”
The vapor clears to show a dwarf encased in adamantine full plate, frozen with a ferocious-looking waraxe reared back about to swing. Although the dark-metaled helm affords but a slit to see dwarven eyes, his paused figure heaves with heavy breaths, as though he was plucked from combat with no notice. The other two kings look on as though this is a regular occurrance. Still recovering his breath, the High King Anvilhart harrumphs and lowers himself into his black throne. His heavy armor clanks and scrapes with every minute movement.
“High King Anvilhart, welcome,” greets the Holy King, “Still sharpening your dwarves, I see. Very good.” He extends an open hand to the visitors of their court, “This is-”
“A Stonebit!”
“Yes, and-”
“And his companions! Why is he friends with a hobgoblin?” Anvilhart interrupts, casting an unkind look to Rolg.
“He will remain here with us, as an honored recruit. Logan Stonebit is here to ask aid of our kingdoms, on behalf of their realm. Their Commonwealth is under attack from every goblin save this one, and their need is dire. In exchange for our-”
“YES. At last, we can begin this war in earnest!” High King Anvilhart bellows. By High King Fivestone’s sigh of annoyance, and Holy King Stormcall’s patient blink, it becomes clear why Anvilhart is not often in the court of three kings. “HaHA!”
The adamantine king stands from his throne, and hefts his axe as though the enemy was in their very court. He looks to the other two kings, who remain seated, regarding him with long-suffering looks. “Why are we still here talking about this?” he asks, confused. “Rally your men! Fill your ships! We set sail tonight!”
Lacking any decorum, the heavily armored dwarf trundles down the platform and clasps arms with the Stonebit that towers over him. “I remember your father, Logan. And his father, when I was a lad. They were honorable men. I am glad to see that some things among men do not change.”
High King Fivestone claps his hands, and a royal page hurries to his side with parchment and ink ready. He quickly jots down muttered orders from the seated kings.
Rolg sighs in relief, then turns to Bolgrith. "You'll have to look after this sorry lot while I'm away. I still want to know more about Irori, but it looks like Torag will claim my soul one day." He claps the cleric on the shoulder. "Keep them alive. I'll find you when I can."
He pastes on his serious face and addresses the group. "You all take care of each other now, you hear?"
Logan's expression changes from concealed shock to approval to a wide grin at High King Anvilhart's appearance and exchange. As he clasps arms with the dwarf, he smiles a genuine smile. "I consider it an honor to be held in such regard, especially by you, High King Anvilhart. I do my best to make my ancestors, from Braedon to my father, proud. I must say," an impressed look crossing his face "with the blow that it looks like you were about to deliver, I am glad to call you 'ally' on the battlefield."
Once Logan and the high king are done talking, he turns to Rolg. "May Torag fortify that shield of yours even more. If we should meet in the battlefield, I don't think the army of Gartok will stand much of a chance." he says the last with a rueful smile. He gives Rolg a military salute as his farewell.
Bolgrith reaches up and clasps Naxdag by the arm. Nodding in approval he says, "You will be missed, Brother Rolg." Free hand gesturing to the High Priest of Torag he continues. "But I am glad you have found a cause to pledge your shield to other than coin."
The dwarf steps back and places his armored palm against his chest before bowing to his hobgoblin companion and friend.
"Ever we will watch for your return."
Aladdin sniffles and attempts to give Rolg an embrace. "Porkchop will miss you saving my hide" he said with a single tear appearing in his weaker eye.
Rolg stops Aladdin at arms length and clears his throat, "Yes, well...you'll be fine son." He says patting the sorcerer on the shoulder.
He looks to each of his companions in turn, nods, the reports to his commanders to begin a new life.
Holy King Stormcall addresses the Stonebit. “You have our word, Logan of the Stonebit clan. Tell your Steward that the three dwarf kings hasten to their aid, upon the condition of our claim to the spoils of war. If the Master Smith favors our plans, our longships should arrive on your shores by tomorrow evening. Let us pray that we are not too late.”
“Better not be!” adds High King Anvilhart, “My axe cries to me every day that it has not tasted goblin blood. It nearly dances from my grip in excitement for the feast to come!”
High King Fivestone offers a haughty look. “This Gartok and his dragon will not stand a chance, when our ballistae darken the skies.”
Bolgrith, Aladdin, Logan, and Coral are ushered back into the antechamber, but the hobgoblin is taken aside by one of the royal guard. In the antechamber, the other guards lock the door to the courtroom, and return the four their possessions. Rolg’s belongings are kept inside the chest, and the four are urged into the immense waiting room.
After his traveling companions leave, Rolg is called upon by priest-king. “I am encouraged to see one of your kind aspire to goals above skullduggery and creative wickedness. Perhaps one day, your rank will be equal to the royal soldiers beside you, but such attainment is hard-forged and purified by labors of mind, labors of body, and labors of faith.”
“As dross is burned away from gold, so must a soul purge oneself of impurities. Shed the trappings gained from your wanderings, Rolg Naxdag. If you submit to the teachings of Torag, the Creator and Protector of All, you must begin anew. Some iron must be wrested from the stone, and others are eager to be forged, but all must face the heat of the kiln.” One of the dwarf paladins begins to respectfully help the mercenary unbuckle his armor. Another stands nearby with the thick leather apron of a blacksmith, folded and held with reverence.
With his armor fallen to the floor, the smithy’s apron is ceremoniously tied around the hobgoblin. Holy King Stormcall speaks once more. “Do you kneel to the holy strength of Torag, and accept his teachings, committing every action, word, and thought to his precepts?”
The dwarf, the men, and lady make their way through the crowded room, catching envious glances from other petitioners who must wait hours to see the kings. One or two appear to whisper about the hobgoblin that entered, but did not leave. The chief administrator nods a farewell to them as they go.
The adventurers weave between dwarven folk, when a raggedly robed dwarf steps directly into Bolgrith’s path. He adjusts his bifocals and absently runs a hand through his white beard. By his unkempt appearance and preoccupied demeanor, it is plain the old dwarf’s mind frets over more important things than clean clothing and other such finery. Coral is visibly repulsed.
“Excuse me,” strains his elderly voice, resting a hand on the Irori priest and leaning uncomfortably close. “But where are you going, and do you know what you carry?”
His breath smells strongly of herbs, and his eyes are bloodshot and watery for want of sleep. Pushing long white greasy hair from his gaunt face, the old, smelly dwarf peers at Bolgrith under thick, bushy eyebrows.
Rolg does his best to look nonchalant as his armor, his skin, is stripped away, but he fails. His face breaks under the weight of his vow and he smiles through nostalgic tears.
He nods stiffly once at the priest-king's words. "I stand unshaped before the Father of Creation. I am cold and hard but willing to bend. Be for me the heat and flux that bind me in the forge. Cleanse my impurities that I may gleam like a new-polished blade: that all may see the Forgemaster's face in my shining shield. I kneel to his ways as grass before the wind."
Bolgrith stops in the hall, but doesn't shy away from the strange dwarf before him. Graciously, but with guarded intent, the Priest says. "I'm afraid our path is fraught with peril and must remain a guarded secret, friend." His gauntleted hand ever so slightly grips the staff more surely. "And yes, I do know that which I wield..."
Logan nods and agrees to convey the agreement to the steward. I got him the aid we need, it is up to him to make sure they are rewarded handsomely enough to keep it...
As Logan dawns his gear, a smile spreads across his face. He fits his falchion back into place. It's good to have you back, old friend.
As the old dwarf stops them, Logan stays alert and ready to draw his falchion while broadcasting a friendly demeanor.
The Holy King nods curtly, maintaining respectful silence for Rolg’s tears. The other kings look on in silence as well, perhaps for the first time in their lives regarding a hobgoblin with approval.
After a moment, Holy King Stormcall gestures to the dwarf paladins beside the honored recruit.
“Take him to the Grand Forge. Initiate Naxdag, the possessions you brought with you will be sold and paid toward your education, training, and raw materials. With those materials, your first prayer to the Master Smith will be armor and weapons of your making. On top of the labors of your arms, your mind must toil in the memorization of The Hammer And Tongs, the written holy words of Torag. I will see that you are treated fairly among your commanding officers and fellow initiates, but I do not expect you to enter this court again until your first rank is achieved.”
The dwarves that flank Rolg walk him toward one of the stone walls. As he walks, the hobgoblin feels a swinging weight in the front pocket of his smithing apron. The weight, he finds, is a compact, leather bound copy of The Hammer And Tongs, written in dwarven.
Presently, a large stone block swivels open, and a dozen more heavily armored soldiers behind the wall snap to attention along a stone corridor. Rolg’s two guides urge him forward, to begin his new life, the hobgoblin champion of Torag.
Logan knows that homing pigeons have been used for centuries, to send written messages to and from places far away. He’s pretty sure that some spellcasters have the ability to send messages to specific people, too, but he’s not certain on that one.
The priest is not sure what to make of the disheveled old dwarf, though one thing is certain: he is gravely serious about the staff. He will not likely be turned away so easily.
booms the magically magnified voice of the administrator. Several of the guards begin marching folk toward the doors in casual but firm manner.
An uproar of grumbling meets the order, but nearly all begin to shuffle toward the exit of the vast room.
Bolgrith’s answer receives a slow, unhappy blink. The old dwarf’s watery eyes trace from the priest’s boots to the exit of the waiting hall. Turning back to the doors manned by the chief administrator and guards, leading to the antechamber, he winces and many lines crease over his weathered face.
“Bah,” he waves a knobby hand at antechamber doors dismissively, “Only got a few years left, no sense in spending them wait-” The unwashed dwarf pauses to listen to the booming order.
As the surge of complaints recedes, he levels a knowing look to his fellow dwarf. “Perilous, you say?” He pats Irori’s worshiper on the shoulder and takes a friendly tone. “Come. I will walk with you, as long as I can keep up...”
He turns and hobbles along with the tide of dwarves that nudges the adventurers closer to the doors.
Logan speaks with the locals and learns of a rookery near the edge of the city, run by a dwarf by the name of Kel Fjorheim. From what the Stonebit can gather, Fjorheim has a small grasp of magic and sometimes uses it to help the ravens deliver messages. By standard market values, Logan doesn’t expect to pay more than fifty in gold to send a message to Steward Wyldote.
As Logan approaches the rookery, he looks about with a soldier's eye.
The Priest nods, a testament to his good nature. Beginning to walk out of the grand hall back into the city proper. His grip does not relent but he keeps his tone polite and courteous.
"My name is Bolgrith, called The Faithful." He says by way of opening. "Who might I have the honor of addressing?" Though the stench is unpleasant, the dwarf of Irori had dealt with far worse in his lifetime.
"I say friend, that's a wonderful cologne you're wearing," Aladdin said chuckling.
"Porkchop greatly enjoys it."
The dwarf priest senses that his motives are being sought out!
“Hiloxiet,” answers the old dwarf. “Tynn Hiloxiet is my name.”
He turns a frown up to the Azlanti. “Do you mock me? I don’t take kindly to insults,” he says flatly.
Tynn Hiloxiet walks beside Bolgrith as everyone follows the Stonebit to the edge of the city. “The buildings on these isles that predate the dwarves have always been of great interest to me. I’ve spent my last decade or so in a tower that shows promise for my studies, but my progress has come to a standstill.”
The old dwarf digs through his bag of stuffed and wrinkled papers, eventually retrieving and straightening out a hastily drawn map of Ytramond. He points to a large triangle marked as Mt. Fireblood. “Did you, by any chance, find that staff there?”
Bolgrith walks and nods muttering a "Well met." Until, that is, his new companion mentions ancient pre-dwarrow ruins and shows the map of Mt Fireblood. He stops in his tracks, eyes wide at Hiloxiet. "Now that is an interesting map indeed!" He tries to chuckle. "Which island did you say you were studying from?"
Making a snap decision the Priest quickly adds; "I would very much like to speak with you about this," he waggles the staff, it's end waving well above the head over most of the streets traffic. "But I would feel it remiss to do so out in the street like this." He smiles as graciously as he can before indicating that Tynn should lead the way.
The hobbling dwarf squints at The Faithful’s brief prayer for guidance. “The Anvil,” he answers.
He nods up at tall Logan leading the way to the rookery. “Fjorheim’s ought to be private enough. If you don’t mind the smell…” Tynn turns a sideways look to the stormborn.
The Irori priest detects no ulterior motive. It seems that Tynn has not been around other people in a long while.
Logan, Bolgrith, Aladdin, Coral, and Tynn make their way to the edge of the city, where they find a lone wooden tower with a vaulted roof. When they near the base, they can hear a cacophony of squawks and caws from the scores of ravens who live high in the tower. Near the slats in the roof, the wood paneled walls are bleached white from years of avian waste.
A sign is posted on the door. A tuning fork hangs from a bent nail at chest height. The sign says: Welcome to Fjorheim’s Rookery. No more than two visitors at a time. DO NOT knock on the door. Tap the tuning fork against the nail, and I will see you whenever possible.
Logan looks at the building and the sign while grabbing the tuning fork "Well, I need to send a quick message. Since no more than two can enter at a time, if someone would like to join me that's fine. Otherwise, I'll be back shortly." with that, Logan taps the fork against the nail.
Bolgrith regards Hiloxiet questioningly, as if to say "out here?"
He turns and surveys what view remains of the city. The smell of salt-air mixed with the droppings of the avian populace mingle and permeate the area around the tower. The Priest breaths deeply without hesitation. They had kept ravens at the monastery where he was taught in the ways of Irori.
The scent brought back memories of those happy, simple times. There wasn't much opportunity to reflect though, there were still tasks of world-shaping importance to attend to. Turning to Logan the dwarf says, "Send your message to the Wyldotes. I, for one, do not have any other communiques to dispatch."
"The Isle Anvil? Truly a kingdom of storied and distinguished history. You've come a ways to seek audience with the kings. If I may, what prompted such a journey?"
The sound of something heavy tumbling down creaky wooden steps precedes a sudden and haphazard opening of the tower door. Gripping the handle for balance, a short dwarf with an eyepatch and a frizzy black beard turns his brown eye up at the Stonebit. Glancing around at the others, he glowers, and waves the tuning fork tapper inside. Mumbling something, his constantly shifting eyes darts from one visitor to the next, until it is obvious that Logan means to enter alone. Fjorheim watches Bolgrith, Aladdin, and Hiloxiet with his wild eye as he pulls the door closed, staring at them until the wood thuds against the stone threshold.
The peculiar raven keeper takes a lit candle and indicates that Logan follows him up the wooden stairs. As they climb, the cacophony of raven squawks grows louder and louder. Up the steps that spiral up the circular tower, they open to a landing of a dimly lit office. Parchment litters the desk surfaces, along with scattered quills, and more than a few empty wine bottles lay in the corners of the work space. The stairs continue up to another level, and judging by the volume of his birds, there his murders caw ceaselessly. Trundling to a desk, Fjorheim lays out a narrow strip of paper and upstoppers an ink well. He points to the paper and hands Logan a quill, his mumbling indiscernible due to the ravens overhead.
When the Stonebit is finished, the little fuzzy dwarf leads him to a map at another table, kicking an empty wine bottle out of the way. Beside the map, lays an open book of miniature portraits prominent people, among them, the faces of the Wyldote house. Logan even sees a young Simon Wyldote, and recognizes his uncle’s name and face in a different entry. It is obvious that these portraits were taken several years ago. With gestures and murmurs, Fjorheim conveys that his customer needs to designate where he wants the message delivered, and to whom.
Coral gets bored very quickly outside the rookery, and wanders a bit. While she says nothing, any attentive man sees that she wants Aladdin to follow her.
While the Hammertide Isles as a whole are known for their legendary steel and metallurgy, the best of the best dwarven blacksmiths hail from the island Anvil. Bolgrith gets the impression that, while Stormcall might be the religious and political center of the Hammertides, the soldiers of Anvil are drilled and trained constantly, producing the hardiest shock troops within the dominion of the three kings. The priest also knows that most any dwarf is highly competitive and proud of their origins, and belittling the combat prowess of the Hammer or Stormcall dwarves in comparison to Anvil is the quickest way to stir up old rivalries.
The name Hiloxiet does not sound familiar in the reading Bolgrith has done of the Sunderland dwarves. Tynn does not seem to expect his family name to set any pretense in his interaction with Bolgrith so far.
Tynn Hiloxiet raises a caterpillar eyebrow at Bolgrith’s unease.
A rueful smile breaks over his old and cracked face at the mention of Anvil’s distinguished history, and he answers politely. “Funding, for a ship. The Anvilharts are not quite as interested in lending gold toward something that does not have direct battle application. It had been decades since my last expedition to Ytramond, when I studied the Oldkeeps of that island. Since then, my research here progressed significantly. But I found myself needing to return, to track down what my findings referred to as the ’Key of Honfogalas’.” He pauses, watching the priest’s expressions. “I have studied these ruins for most of my academic career. I am not worried about eavesdroppers, because I know most dwarves here care little for my work. Else a less-destitute dwarf would stand before you today,” he smiles. Reaching into a pocket, he produces a leather pouch and a blackened smoking pipe. He packs a few pinches of tobacco into the basket. Rather than use flint or a tindertwig, Hiloxiet utters a strange word and a spark burns into orange embers as he puffs blue smoke.
“But fate has played her hand,” he pats Bolgrith’s armored shoulder, “and it seems that I need not travel and scour Ytramond for the artifact…” His gaze grows serious, like one studying an opponent in a card game. His pipe glows orange again, and blue smoke escapes from dry lips as he continues, “I do not know your purpose among the Hammertides, but I suspect it is related to mine. Nor would I presume that my work should take precedence over yours. Regardless, I hope that I might persuade you, Bolgrith called The Faithful, and your companions, to accompany me back to Anvil island? I will show you the Oldkeep from whence I base my studies. Perhaps we both have answers to each other’s questions...”
As Logan ascends, his eyes widen ever so slightly at the state of the building. When the dwarf leads to the stopper and parchment, Logan writes the following message.
Dwarven aid is on the way. The only way to secure their aid was with financial promise of future trade and gold from the dragon's hoard. I did not promise an amount, I will leave that to your wisdom. The Dwarven ships will be there by tomorrow night.
By your wisdom
- Logan Stonebit
Logan then indicates the portrait of the Steward.
"How much will it cost to expedite this message?"