"If this spell scroll is as dangerous as you think it is then someone will be looking for it. Wanting it back. I would rather not give them any chance to reclaim it. Destroying it would seem to be our best option..." Nme'an offers. "We are already trying to cure a sickness no one else has been able to lift by... on purpose... riding into a Koblod ambush and by riding towards some party strong enough to challenge Prince Titus'... Do we really to carry this other burden along with us as well?"
With a nod of thanks to Themp, Beorae pockets the wand. Picking up the scroll, the druidess once again bites her lower lip while she weighs their options. “I tend to agree with you, Nme'an. The part of me that wields magic wants to see whatever this creature is, but I also know that your reasoning is sound. Themp, you found these items, what do you think about destroying the scroll?”
"Well, I'll be blunt here. If I expected to keep the stuff at all, I wouldn't have shown it at all to you guys."
"That being said, I have no idea of how anyone could even deduce it was us who took the scroll. I was cleverly disguised, if not very subtle and I'm quite sure no one has followed me."
"I must remember you that I once had very little, so I have quite a pack rat mentality. I have never come across magic items back in the day, though, so I'm honestly at loss here."
Mot tugs at his beard, a stupid expression on his face as his gaze moves from speaker to speaker. At one moment he looks as if about to say something, but instead leans over and spits heavily on the ground. Rising back into his saddle the highlander clamps his mouth shut with a bullheaded look of consternation.
Beorae looks over to Mot, who is staring at the sky and obviously not interested in the conversation at hand. With an almost sad expression, she says, “Very well, then I vote that we burn the scroll. Our campfire tonight should be sufficient, yes?”
Handing the scroll and potions back to Themp, the druidess stands tall and dusts off her traveling clothes, “Mot's got the right idea, we should get back on the road.”
"Yes, tonight should be sufficient," Nme'an says.
At this rate of travel on horseback, the four will probably reach Axton by dusk.
Hopping into the saddle, Beorae scans the sky. “Actually, we might even reach Axton a little after sunset if we keep this pace up, which is good because it will probably rain tonight.”
The four champions continue on the northbound road, occasionally passing travelers and tradesmen heading south to Brenan’s Crossing. Some of the passersby give an amiable head nod or greeting, and others ignore them with their eyes intent on their destination. Hours pass, and while the light brightens as the sun reaches midday, the constant overcast dims the shadows beneath the feet of the travelers. The clouds persist until miles west of the road, burning away over the dry wastes of Armaag’s Plains. More wildlife is spotted along the river, and in fact, one grizzly bear makes a threatening chuff from across the river when it sees the mounted four. But when they get no closer than the road takes them, the muscular carnivore turns its hungry eyes back to the Emestar River. On another occasion, Beorae’s sharp eyes spot a lone elf standing among the trees across the riverbank, quietly watching them pass. He does not return any wave or greeting, and in the blink of an eye, the wood elf slips from view among the old tree trunks.
A small bit of precipitation begins to grow as more hours pass, until steady showers develop as the sun reaches the western horizon. In an hour's time, it seems, the highlander, the knight, the scoundrel, the druid and her tiger are soaked. The four can see up ahead a small village of thatched roofs and brown wooden buildings corralled together behind a wooden palisade, every structure not far from the river’s edge. A few amber lights already shine through windows, and at the watch post above the gate. The wooden gate lays open, and a man in a dark, heavy cloak leans against the rail of the covered watch platform. His hood is drawn up, but it is plain that he saw the four coming from a great distance.
He pushes himself to his feet when the four horses are close enough to hail, and calls with his hands cupped around his mouth.
“Welcome! Come inside and we’ll get you outta the rain.”
By the time the four enter the open gate, the cloaked man is waiting for them just inside, in dirt road turned to mud. He beckons a bit closer.
“Four of you? Very well, welcome, welcome. Deloris outta have a few empty rooms. Are you here looking for work?” he asks conversationally.
His hood is pulled back and the rain beats down on the squinty smile of a middle-aged man with a dark beard sporting flecks of grey. The watchman blinks against the rain as the four see another climbing the ladder to the watch post, evidently taking their greeter’s place. The road leads to a small town square not far away, where stands a larger, two-storey house with most windows lit. The other shorter houses huddle together, their thatched roofs making them look like a herd of enormous yaks in the rain. Smoke rises from the chimneys, and the smell of rain and mud does not quite drown out the aroma of cooked dinner. A few other dirt roads lead from the town square, one of them to the river, which burbles and surges loudly in the rainfall.
"No, we are not here for work. Just are looking for a place to stop for the night," Nme'an responds with a dashing smile, his voice hearable above the sound of the rain pinging off his striking armor. "Where is the best place for a room and to tie our horses?" Nme'an thinks for a moment then adds, "We are also going to want to speak to a town leader or one who handles your town's security... in the morning I expect..." he frowns skyward into the cold, uncomfortable rain as he finishes speaking.
Mot loosens his shoulders from the saddle and looks up into darkening sky. The big grin on his face grows wide as the highlander opens his mouth to catch the falling rain. He stays in this position until his mouth holds a goodly amount of the rain water. Jaw snapping shut like a trap the towering fellow swallows loudly and turns back towards the interaction between knight and gatekeeper.
“Well met, Sir. I’ll show you where to go.”
The watchman nods up at the larger building as his limping gait leads the four into the muddy town square. “Sharon Garwell is mayor here, she’s who you want to talk to. She might be wrapping up a meeting with the loggers about now.”
Passing a few small houses and stepping into the clearing, a covered area is revealed next to the taller building, with two horses tied to posts out of the rain. “Your horses can go there.”
Muddy boots trudging up to the door, the watchman reaches for the door to the larger house, which had no signs overhead to indicate the function of the building. Looking inside one of the bigger windows, a few wooden tables and chairs fill a large room. In a corner, a middle-aged woman folds her arms with a long-suffering look on her face as she stands over a table of bearded lumberjacks, a few of which are adamantly speaking to her at the same time.
“There she is,” the watchman says above the rain, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go finish my rounds. Deloris outta be around inside somewhere, she can find you beds upstairs.”
The bearded gatekeeper holds the door open for the champions before taking another road to finish his patrol. A lively discussion fills the air of the warm room.
“I don’t care ‘bout your fancy ‘buh-jit’, Sharon. We sent our last drove of lumber this mornin’ if you won’t git us the tools we need fer this monster.”
“Yeah! We don’t mind huntin’ the beast errselves if we had the silver weapons! The stories says that’s their weakness!”
“No lumber, no money for Axton. I thought you’d better understand our problem after the last, uh, attack.”
At this, the hairy lumberjacks silence awkwardly, some of them noticing the four travelers, and others flashing a silencing look to their last speaker. Either way, all of them suddenly avoid Sharon’s eyes. The last critique shakes Mayor Garwell out of her patience, and she slams her fist onto the table. “Don’t you say that! My son hasn’t been dead two weeks!”
She turns an annoyed glance to the four by the door, and subdues her anger to an even, controlled tone, “I understand that logging is even more dangerous with a werewolf about, but the town coffers simply can’t afford more silver weapons, if the stories are even true. I didn’t hear one of you volunteer to go get the one we lost.”
Sharon Garwell sighs tiredly when none of them reply. “This meeting was a waste of time. Go back to your homes. Let me know what you decide to do in the morning. I will let you know when we can afford better weapons, but I can promise you now it won’t be soon.”
Grumbling, eight lumbermen rise from the table. A plump, grandmotherly woman enters from the kitchen door and begins gathering their used cups.
Stepping forward, Nme'an speaks up, "We fought off a werewolf and his pack yesterday on our way to Brenan's Crossing. Word was that it and its kind may have come from here?"
Shaking his great shaggy head, Mot douses his companions in sweaty rainwater before speaking up. "Aye! Tha' wea did! Blaggard ran lahk ae wee pup, when hea saw mea! Wet bahind tha ears an tale batween tha legs! Ha!" A meaty hand makes an audible splat as it lands on the paladins armored shoulders in a friendly gesture. Trademark grin plants itself on his face as the Casns warrior surveys the group of consternated loggers.
"Oh, boy...", Themp whispers to Beorae, "Sounds like our shiny friend and the barbarian are about to volunteer us into a hunt..."
"Yeah, I've got a bad feeling about this…" the druid whispers back, keeping an eye on the meeting and a firm grip on Shark's leash.
Most of the loggers blink, impressed by the claim, but two of their number skeptically fold their arms. "Yeah, you could say that. Started losing workers in the forest a few months ago, and the disappearings are getting more frequent. What's it to you?"
“Fought him off, but didn’t kill him…”
The others speak up with admiration in their voices, “Are you saying you’ll help us?! You’re just the guys we need!”
“Look at the size of that one! And the sword on his back!”
“I’d run too, if that giant cat come runnin’ at me!”
Sharon raises her eyebrows at the newcomers with some incredulity. “I’m sorry, who are you? What is your business in Axton?”
These ordinary workers gape over the armor-encased half-elf, the massive highlander, the lady beastmaster, and the tall, shifty-looking fellow who surely has a trick up his sleeve. Even the old round woman, presumably Deloris, spares a kindly smile at the four as she carries an armful of cups into the kitchen.
“Mayor Garwell,” Beorae says, stepping forward into the room, “my name is Beorae, and my companions and I are travelers on a mission from Thaleniel. It is true that we were attacked by a werewolf and his pack yesterday morning on the road north to Brenan’s Crossing, and the foul creature managed to flee before the highlander and knight here could take him down.”
“As for our business in Axton, that… is a more sensitive subject. We would like to speak with you after this meeting is concluded, if you have a few moments.”
The scoundrel knows from a few “reliable sources” that werewolves have tough hides that help them shrug off fatal injuries, only surmountable by silver weapons. He also remembers hearing that werewolves are capable of three forms -the body they possessed before the lycanthrope curse (be it man, elf, or dwarf), the body of a wolf, and lastly, a hybrid wolf-man body. Of the three, the hybrid of man and beast is the most formidable.
Historically, Themp knows that lore of shapeshifters good and evil have been around since the dawn of man, and perhaps before. He does not recall Axton having a long-standing problem with were-creatures. It is known that Axton much keep vigilant watch for kobolds from the northeast, and enact a flight to Brenan’s Crossing in the event of an invasion. The town exports a great amount of lumber, and in fact might even be a supplier to the business owned by Laura’s father in Thaleniel.
“No rest for the weary…” Sharon mutters to herself, as she takes a few steps toward the four. The lumberjacks continue to shuffle toward the exit. “We are finished for today. Men, spend tomorrow with your families, but the day I after I expect to hear falling trees from the other side of the river.”
This allowance appears to placate the grumblers, and Mayor Garwell smooths her dress and tiredly wipes her face before beckoning the four to come and sit. The loggers appear reluctant to leave with such interesting new folk in their town, but a pointed look from the mayor urges the last of them out the door.
“Hunting down this werewolf will put us in your debt, but I understand if you are not willing or able to do so. It’s more our problem than a stranger’s.”
“Anyway, you are here on sensitive business,” the woman with grey streaks in her dark hair returns to business, “Do I need to know what it is, as mayor? Or can you simply promise to maintain the peace in my town, and we can leave it at that?”
“Our apologies for barging in like this,” Beorae offers with a friendly smile. “As far as our mission, just know that we have been sent from Thaleniel to find Prince Titus and his knights. Last we heard was that they came through Axton a few weeks back on their way north, and we were wondering if you've heard any news.”
Shifting her weight, the druidess hesitates before bringing up the werewolf again, careful to avoid bringing up the apparent death of the Mayor's son. “As far as the werewolf goes… we spoke with Commander Morgan in Brenan's Crossing last night about the beast and he has offered a reward for the werewolf's hide. I do not know if this will be sufficient to put an end to the troubles…”
"You mentioned retrieving a silver weapon? Nme'an asks. "I am afraid our mission does not allow us to stay long enough to hunt the werewolf, but perhaps we could help you in that way?"
Outside of knowing that werewolves can shapeshift into the form of a person, the knight thinks that all the campfire tales about these dread beasts ought to have some truth to them. A weakness to silver is an odd detail to remain consistent, unless it was true.
Mayor Garwell nods in understanding with a glance at Nme’an’s armor. “The Prince and his knights, yes. They did spend one night here, at Deloris’. So many of them, with so many horses to feed. The generosity of our townsfolk prevailed over their business sense, and the supplies needed by the knights were given freely. Prince Titus told me in private that they were going further north, but where exactly, I don’t know. I worried that he intended to battle the kobolds, which is as foolish as striking a beehive, but since we saw no retaliation from the northwest, I suppose not.” She pauses, recalling the score of knights and their leader, “He did seem rather distracted, worried about something. Probably the failing health of his father, I don’t envy the weight of a crown and the loss of a loved one-”
She stops short with a sharp intake of breath, and begins blinking and clearing her throat. A moment later, she speaks again, stiffly. “Perhaps the reward will bolster the bravery of our men, but I fear we will lose more before this monster is put down, even if the silver weapon is found,” she faces the knight, “and thank you for the offer. We pooled our silver coins together two weeks ago and commissioned our blacksmith of fashion a silver weapon. He quickly produced a large, silver club, saying that silver is too soft a metal to hold a proper edge or point. On the next day my son set off with a few lumberjacks, to a tree where they thought his lair might be. But…” her voice falters, “but the beast met them at the river ford…” she sniffs and clears her throat, and continues in a wavering voice, “they f-fought… and the silver club rolled into the river when my son…”
Sharon presses her lips tightly together, and blinks glassy eyes. Her cheeks redden as she looks away from the group, making a brave show of holding back the grief inside. Deloris interrupts the silence by bursting through the kitchen door with a tray carrying a clay kettle and tea cups. She sets them on the table near the five and quietly pours Sharon a steaming cup and hands it to her. Such was the sudden preparedness of the old innkeeper, it was likely that she was eavesdropping from the kitchen.
"I will see about recovering the club, I'll just need someone to point me in the right direction," Nme'an says resolutely. "One further question about the prince, we heard rumor from a... colorful... source that the Prince and his men were attacked near Axton. Do you know anything about that, or was it after he and his men left here?"
“No…” Mayor Garwell lowers the tea from her face, shaking her head slowly, “they said nothing of an attack between the Crossing and here. Though it sounded like they met some bandit trouble before then. And if they were attacked a few hours north of us, we would’ve known. We watch that area very carefully.”
She sets the teacup onto the table and rest a thankful hand on Deloris’ shoulder, and answers the knight, “I’ll show you where our best guess where the club sank.”
Grabbing her cloak from a wood peg near the door, she wraps it tightly around her before trudging back into the heavy rain. The sun touches the horizon, but the day’s light is already fading.
She walks up to the surging Emestar’s edge, where three thick posts rise six feet out of the ground, about twenty feet from the river bank. A wide, wooden raft lays on the mud, tied to the posts, the wet wood glistening amber from a lantern hanging on a nail near the top of one of the posts. Raindrops ping over its metal hood as Sharon picks it up and shines it over a certain part of the river’s edge, and points.
“This is where it fell in,” she points twenty feet downriver, “and we can hope it only went that far before reaching the bottom. The Emestar is swift and strong, Sir. I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind.”
She turns a dark, remembering gaze at the rushing waters.
"No, I will not change my mind," Nme'an says adamantly, "but jumping in now as the light fades and in this heavy armor does seem foolish. I think it best to wait until morning's light to make the attempt," he says before indicating that he is prepared to follow the town's leader back inside.
Beorae follows outside, keeping close enough to hear the conversation, but far enough back to not interrupt.
Resentful of the heavy rain soaking his clothes, but realizing staying behind would be beyond "awkward" and stray a little into plain "suspicious", Themp decides he has had enough "suspicious" for a day and follows the troupe towards the Emstar.
Realizing Beorae follows at a more respectful distance, Themp stays back with her, seeking a tree's shade to escape from the thicker of the rain. Out of instinct, he keeps an eye open for both threats and shiny things.
"Och! In tha wee liddle stream?!" Mot exclaims, speaking for the first time since exiting the inn. "Nae need ta waet for tha morrow!" The big highlander plants his spear in the soft bank side and drops the remainder of his gear beside it. "Why Ah ooonce swaam tha Dak river cleer froom tha Bloomrot marshes ta Lake Rog! In tha middle oof ae thundar stoorm too!" It takes the blustering behemoth a minute to undo the straps securing his chain shirt to chest, but eventually the armor slinks off and falls to the ground. With one final flourish, the gigantic man strips off his kilt and stands glistening in the light of the rising moon.
Paying no heed to those around him, Mot examines the river and without further ado dives straight into its depths.
When underwater he keeps his big eyes peeled for the shine of silver.
Mot's sudden appearance catches Beorae off-guard. Frozen for a second by the Highlander's sheer brashness, the druidess quickly realizes that there will be no stopping the man from jumping into the river.
While Mot fumbles with his chain shirt, Beorae firmly tells Shark to “stay” and drops the tiger's leash. Stepping forward, she puts a hand on Mot's shoulder and speaks two druidic incantations above the patter of rain on the surging river.
She finishes just before the big man drops his chain shirt, and turns away a moment too late when she realizes that Mot is going to lose the kilt as well. None of the others can see in the dying light of the day, but the druidess feels her face warm as she blushes. Trying to think of something to do, Beorae pulls the silken rope from her pack and turns to throw one end to Mot, but the highlander is already in the water. With a sigh, she looks to Nme'an and Themp with a look that suggests, "what now?"
"What the-?!"
The burly epitome of freedom splashes into the fast current, and the shocking cold tempts Mot to greater gusto. After a moment of adjusting to the chill, his muscular limbs push him deeper and deeper to the river bottom. A dim light illuminates the area around him; a churning chaos of bubbles, beard, bottom-dwellers flurry before his stinging eyes, and as his hands hit the riverbed, brown clouds of upset sediment further confound his search. His meaty palms come up with nothing but dirt, small round rocks, and one unlucky freshwater crawdad.
The others watching from the riverbank can see a faint light below the flowing surface, like a torch, if torches remained lit underwater, as it makes slow progress along the riverbed. Themp notices in particular the three tree-like posts that anchor the large raft, which look to be driven in deep enough to keep the currents from spiriting away anything that is secured to them. The posts stand a mere twenty feet from the river’s edge.
While Themp sees nothing overtly threatening, his avoidance of attention begins to prickle when he sees a few open windows from the nearest houses, and the faces of residents watching Mot’s daring from the safety of their homes.
The thief also notices a simple gold ring on Mayor Garwell’s ring finger.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!"
"Red, throw me your rope, will ya?", shouts Themp as he runs past her towards the raft.
Wasting no time, he quickly unwinds his own silk rope and ties a single knot around each of two of the posts.
Beorae tosses her neatly-coiled rope to the rogue, curious to see what he has in mind. “I'm going to want that back!”
Nme'an can only watch as his companions somewhat uncharastically spring into helpful! selfless action. "Kwenda timu?" he mutters to himself, now feeling just a bit useless.
Sucking it up, he turns his gaze back outward and keeps a lookout for any approaching trouble.
Spinning around in the water, Mot continues to search.
Hastily, Themp ties both ropes together with a double fisherman knot and drops his leather armor and shirt. As he ties the other end of Beorae's share around him, he notices Nme'an frozen in place, simply watching what he is doing.
"Oy, Mr. Pointy Ears, could you at least stand by the rope so you can help pulling me out?", he yells at the paladin, annoyed.
"And Freckles, could you light me up too?", he adds to Beorae, finishing up the last knot.
Beorae is caught off-guard by Themp's request, “I, uh, can't. It only works on one subject at a time – if I cast it on you, then Mot's light goes out, and he's already underwater… If you join him, you should be able to use his light. I can give you a little help with the swimming, though.” Taking a step toward the rogue, Beorae firmly plants her slender hand on his shoulder and speaks the first of the two spells that she had cast on Mot just a moment before. “Good luck,” she adds with a hopeful smile.
"Well, then, let's hope the rope doesn't tear itself to bits..."
And with that he jumps into the river, chasing Mot, hopefully raising his attention.
After slipping up on the bank, Themp almost gets thrown off by the strong current. He does swallow a mouthful, but quickly recovers and heads for Mot's location, hoping to be able to at least tap his shoulders for attention.
Themp disappears beneath the churning river current. His eyes throb as they peer through the cold, rushing water, but he easily makes out the light moving along the riverbed. Like a quick little fish, he glides into the opaque lighting surrounding the highlander.
By the fleeing river creatures, Mot easily finds the source of the splash, and sees the scoundrel swimming toward him from upriver, with a rope trailing from his waist. Continuing the search, the savage warrior’s eyes spot a brief, shiny glint in the mud upriver, about twenty feet away.
A distant rumble rolls in from darkening clouds inching closer toward Axton. Nme’an notices a few families watching from their homes, and the watchman from earlier meanders down the road, curious at the riverside happenings involving the mayor and the four visitors.
“Evening, folks, Mayor,” the watchman smiles vacantly, “some of our visitors fancy a swim?”
The rain continues to beat down on everyone near the river.
A savage grin takes the warriors face as he spots the shimmer. Turning once more, he coils his body and strains against the pull of the river.
Drawing closer to the shiny object, the Casns reaches a burly had to take hold of it.
In between the muddy clouds the barbarian rises in his search, Themp notices him suddenly moving with greater purpose. Assuming the big man is almost finally over with his suicidal gamble, the scoundrel steps it up, hoping to catch the Casns before the river does.
Noticing that Themp's line is tugging downstream while Mot's light continues upstream, Beorae realizes that something is amiss and calls to Nme'an, “Labda tunapaswa kuvuta naye nyuma?”
Nme'an hastens forward, grips the rope, digs his feet into the soft, wet ground to brace himself, and begins to pull Themp back towards the shore.
The massive swimmer rummages through dirt and rocks and slimy things before unearthing a great club with a heavy silver head. The wooden handle is grimy and water-logged, but its craftsmanship is unmistakable.
Themp tumbles backward, meeting moments of accidental success as the current upends his sense of direction and he is dragged further downriver. The rope ashore uncoils and thrums when pulled taut.
The watchman tenses, not understanding outside of “something is wrong”, and looks to the mayor. Mayor Garwell stays out of Nme’an’s path and rushes to the water’s edge, watching both the rope and the subsurface light.
The salt-and-pepper bearded man steps closer, still unsure, but wanting to help. “What’s going on? How do I help?”
But as soon as the words leave his mouth, a soaking wet Themp emerges from the water, gasping for air.
"Where the hell is Mot?! I lost him in the current!"
Hoping that Mot knows what he's doing, but not sure what to do otherwise, Beorae responds to the man, “Our highlander friend is trying to find the silver club. At night. In the rain…” She looks to the ominously darkening sky, hoping for the best. Pointing to the glow emanating from the river, she says, “Look, you can see where he is by the light under water.”
Planting great bare feet on the muddy bottom of the river, Mot kicks off and strikes for the shore.
Roaring with the thrill of victory Mots great shaggy head breaks the surface of the river. With strong sure strokes he makes for the bank. Feet feeling the stony ground rise up beneath him, the mammoth fighter begins to wade to the shallows. Lifting the silver club over his head in a glowing hand he shouts "CASNS!" to the sky!
The stormy sky booms its own reply to the highlander’s call. The mayor, the watchman, and the families cheer from their homes.
"He found it! He found the club!"
"Now that wolfman'll be shakin' inn'is boots!"
"Blind Deadeye! Cover yourself man! There's children watching!"
"You crazy bastard, you did it! What the hell were you thinking?!", laughs off Themp at the big man, untying all the knots that he made in vain.