"What do you expect from a person who plays with dead things, Sir Simon. Moral ambiguity is part and parcel for his lot. And let's not forget that those Things are not wolves. Jack is a wolf,those are monsters who prey upon all they encounter till nothing is left to prey upon."
"Sounds like humans to me."
"Suddenly I miss my lost starknife..." Wexley grumbles to himself.
"Take it as you will,Elf. But, those are not the children of Erastil and I would no sooner hold my blade for one of their lot than for a slathering ork. Filthy, evil, twisted things. Look at what they did to the poor gnome. Nearly gnawed his arm off. That attack was not by chance. I would be willing to guarantee that."
"Let us not bicker among ourselves. Unless I miss my guess, they will be long gone with no trace when we emerge. I don't think the plan was to merely slow us down. Something altogether different has transpired."
"I don't follow." Wexley says, perplexed. "You think this was more than a chance monster attack?"
"I do. The leader was no ordinary worg. We're not dealing with simple wild animals here. And, this mist is similar to magical effects, but it too is unique. Finally, the worgs could not have slipped off so easily that we are not hearing them anymore. Be prepared."
"I agree with Douhrmahr. That beast will be back and I am sure it is not to have a nice chat."
(Just another driveby again today. Three more days and I have a little bit more free time)
It is with wuite a bit of work and fumbling that you all gather yourselves and your gear together, rope yourselves off, and head back out into the night.
It is some time before you begin to realize the fog should have abated at least somewhat if it was only an area effect spell. Or if you have left the area of the spell, the mists seem to have thickened to the spells consistency.
As you trudge slowly through the night, looking for the path, or perhaps better shelter, strange shapes and horrifying, demonic faces seem to form and vanish from the mist before your eyes (to the extent any of you can see).
Prodding carefully along, to prevent falls or other hazards, it is only when the mist begin to turn from dark to light that you realize the night has passed and morning has come.
Not that the day improves visibility.
Red attempts to calm Jack's constant low growling with gentle strokes upon his mane, but in some ways Red's petting is as much for as as it is for him. "What in the nine hells is happening here? We can't just keep wandering around like this."
"What'd I'd really like is to figure out a way to make this fog go away or at least find an end to it."
"I can try to see if it's any clearer in the treetops. It's not a practical way to travel, but at least I could see how far it reaches."
"Can't really tell which trees are the tallest. I guess we can find the thickest one, and see if you can get above the fog."
"Good idea Wexley. Be careful up there though."
Wexley detaches from the party to find a thick tree, and then begins to ascend, climbing the trunk and jumping from limb to limb.
Lyra:
There is nothing in your knowledge or experience that fits this specific description, however you have heard of certain powerful magical effects being tied to a place or a person, usually because of extremely strong emotions, or powerful or violent events.
Although you've also heard of places in the world that just have bizarre weather sometimes, like extra thick fog, or rains of frogs.
Wexley:
The fog thins somewhat at the treetops, in that you can actually see far enough to make out a handful of the tops of the closest nearby trees. And if you look straight up, there's a large, very pale blue patch above you that is likely sky.
"I can't see anything more up here. We'll just have to keep going." Wexley shouts down as he begins to descend.
"That's unfortunately Wexley. I'm not the greatest at keeping my bearings. Any chance any of you would be able to try to get some idea of which way we need to go by judging the light or moss on trees or something? I'm a little worried we could wind up just wandering in circles."
"Already working on it," Jeremiah said.
"Well, shall we just keep on going for now? Surely it can't go on forever...."
Jeremiah:
Despite the gray haze, you attempt to get your bearings, leaning close enough to the ground to attempt to find the trail, and lean in close to nearby trees to look for any signs that might reorient the team.
The leering faces in the fog are still quite distracting as you go about your work. One in particular seems more hideous than any you've seen yet. Terrifying and grotesque, it seems to take substance and solidify before your eyes -- some vile goblin-demon or bizarre gargoyle materializing out of the fog to attack.
Oh. That's Dourmahr.
The fog seems to be lifting somewhat.
You all begin to appear to one another out of the fog. Visibility remains limited to about twenty to thirty feet, however.
You are on the trail.
A trail or dirt road of some kind, anyway.
Jeremiah:
Despite the gray haze, you attempt to get your bearings, leaning close enough to the ground to attempt to find the trail, and lean in close to nearby trees to look for any signs that might reorient the team.
The leering faces in the fog are still quite distracting as you go about your work. One in particular seems more hideous than any you've seen yet. Terrifying and grotesque, it seems to take substance and solidify before your eyes -- some vile goblin-demon or bizarre gargoyle materializing out of the fog to attack.
Oh. That's Dourmahr.
The fog seems to be lifting somewhat.
You all begin to appear to one another out of the fog. Visibility remains limited to about twenty to thirty feet, however.
You are on the trail.
A trail or dirt road of some kind, anyway.
Don't know why this double-posted.
"Gah!" Jeremiah exclaims as Dourmahr materializes out of the fog. His revolver jumped up to level on Dourmahr before Jeremiah's brain caught up with it and jerked it skyward instead.
"I don't like this." He was far from the best survivalist but he had learned the area around the campsite some and had carefully employed his skills. Things should be more clear-cut.
Moving forward alongside Jeremiah, Sir Simon pulled a large locket from beneath his shirt and clicked it open. A soft light began to pour from it and he took in some kind of measurements from a gently swaying needle.
"Just keep us moving forward, Mister Flynt. I'll let you know if we start to drift."
Lyra pulls her cloak tighter about herself as the group begins to move again. "I can't wait to feel the warmth of the sun again."
Hah, appreciate you not shooting me Jeremiah. Some people actually find me cute and charming. Care to lead the way?"
"Take it easy, gentlemen. This is not a natural fog we know this for sure. Those faces and the strength of the stuff have told me that much."
Simon, the Wayfinder shows that the road runs roughly SSW to NNE. You don't really recall a road nearby running such direction, but there it is.
"As much as I hate to say it, followin' the dark creepy road is our best chance. Shall we?"
"Not much else we can do I suppose, Mister Flynt."
"The path it is. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Maybe we could get lucky and the path will lead to the village that we are searching for?" Lyra is trying hard to be optimistic despite the circumstances.
"We are on a road of some sort. That means we are not just wandering off into an unknown wilderness. This is something to be grateful for."
You are unrested and depleted from the night's activities.
You continue along the road, heading north-ish, for about another hour or so. The fog continues to lift ever so slightly during this time, but never fully dissipates. Vision is still limited to about 50-60 feet.
Some time mid-morning, a large gate looms up out of the fog. Twenty foot high stone buttresses jut out from the forest on either side of the road. A pair of dew-clad and rusted iron gates hangs between them. No name or sign of any kind marks the border gateway. To either side stand ancient and weathered stone statues in the shape of armed knights, their swords out with points down. Their heads, now missing from their shoulders, lie in the weeds at their feet. They greet you only with silence.
Almost as soon as you spy it, the gates swing open of their own volition. Their rusted creak is startling and loud in the mist shrouded morning. It is only after the intrusion of such an unexpected sound that you realize how quiet the morning has been.
On the other side of the open gates, the road and forest continue, with no other apparent sign of life or habitation.
"What's the hold-up?" Wexley calls from the back of the line.
"You would do well to learn a healthy dose of caution, boy," Jeremiah calls back. Taking his time, he approaches slowly, revolver still in hand. Jeremiah stops at the gate and looks in. Just what he is looking for is beyond him but the entire situation has his nerves in a tight bundle.
"We stopped and I can't see anything. Just wanted to check if you'd been eaten."
Indeed there is no building. Nor, upon closer examination, is there even a wall of any kind continuing into the forest. Merely the gate across the road, here at this place.
The stone is pitted and weathered, to the point that it's a wonder the gate hasn't rusted completely away. The faces on the statues' heads are worn beyond recognition, mostly by wind and rain.
"Damned nerves," Jeremiah mutters to himself. Casting a glance up at the statues, he steps through, intending to continue on his way.
Barring any other interaction with the gate, the party continues through unimpeded. Only once Wexley has passed through and the gate is almost out of sight behind him does the grating peal of rusted iron ring out again as the doors swing slowly shut.
Dourmahr lets out an uneasy laugh. "At least the worgs can't come in..."
Lyra replies gloomily. "There's always the chance we've walked into something worse than worgs..."
Not that she's a great shot or anything, but Lyra is riding while holding her crossbow. It just makes her feel safer to have a weapon in her hands.
"Simon? Do you recall ever having passed through those gates before or even just hearing of them before?"
"Something worse? In Ustalav? Slamming doors and clanging gates are the traditional welcome are they not?" In spite of his light words, it is evident that Dourmahr is preparing for trouble. His hands fidget and he keeps looking all around.
"I have long roamed these woods and have never come anything such as these.", Red says glancing about letting Woodsman rest gently in her lap.
"Never these gates, no. Sir Simon says. "Mister Flint is correct. We should be cautious."
"Nothin' to be gained by standin' around and bein' nervous, c'mon." Jeremiah took point again, following the road and taking comfort in the familiar weight of his revolver in hand. He was sorely wishing he had stayed away from this lot but now he had made his bed and hade to lie in it.
Just after you pass through the gates, you all think you hear movement through the woods off to your left.
Wexley readies his starknife, and lets go of the rope to draw his short sword.