Nme'an moves to the grouping of Gnomes and clasps his hand together in prayer causing a healing wave to pass among them.
Mot watches as his allies cut down the foe-plants. His eyes brim with the glee of victory as his lungs continue to fill the worn pipes of his homeland. The tune changes from one of rousing encouragement to a somewhat slow tune to both mourn those lost in the fight as well as call the spirits of the survivors.
The mountain of a man closes his eyes and sways in time with the drawn out whole notes, lost in the rapture of the music. Eventually the changes come more quickly as the tempo of the tune increases into a toe-tapping jig.
The melody builds into a full fledged song as the warrior from the Highlands begins to dance and spin, body-language encouraging his new diminutive friends to join him in the celebration of continued living.
Wounds begin to close over the fallen and the survivors of the battle as golden light centered from Nme'an washes over the gnomes and Olp. One of the fallen flutters open his eyes. The tribal leader looks up from binding another's terrible wounds, to the paladin. "Thank you," she smiles, feeling her own injuries begin to heal somewhat. "None of us can use magic in that way, so we learn what ointments and treatments help encourage the body to heal itself."
"You should have seen them, down below," says the distiller of alcohol, regarding the four tall folk as Beorae and Themp turn and make their way back into the cave with the box of spirits. "They fought well. And brought down the savage chieftain when he emerged from the yellow fog."
The gnomes work together to fashion makeshift carrying beds for all the fallen gnomes but one. Next to the body without a bed, two gnomes begin to dig. The rest of the tribe somberly carries two unconscious back toward the mouth of the cave. They smile widely at highlander's music, but they do not dance or cheer.
"Keep them alive till morning and we should be able to revive them," Nme'an tells those tending to the unconscious gnomes. He then moves to help the diggers dig, his comparatively large hands and arms helping the sorrowful work go more quickly.
Once the hole is large enough the half elf steps back to observe the burial from a respectful distance.
"Lumos," says Beorae, as she playfully slaps the back of Themp's head. It glows a pale white as they descend into the dark warren once again. Stepping over the bodies of vegepygmy strewn about, she finds the last of the russet mold lingering in one of the corridors. The druidess lobs a gourd, which manages to kill off all that remains of the dangerous growth. Given that the vegepygmy chieftain came from this corridor, she cautiously ventures further, but finds nothing more than narrow off-shoots containing small gnomish living spaces. The main corridor continues on to the east quite a ways.
The burial of the gnome is a bit unceremonious. When the two and Nme'an are finished, his body is rolled into the grave and the dirt pushed back overtop. One of the diggers makes a comment about returning at sunset as they make their way toward the mouth of the cave.
"Come," says the tribe leader to Mot and Nme'an. "Let us not waste any time. We promised to guide you to the Stillwater by sundown, and now with our homes free, we have more to trade if you need to."
Despite the smack to the head, Themp decides to accompany Beorae downstairs, in case she needs help. And in case anything interesting shows up, of course.
"Hey, Red, take your sling back. This rock-slinging thing just isn't for me..." he tells her while walking, handing her the sling back.
Despite his quick hands, Themp can't help but feel completely exposed with this glowing magic. Still, he finds his eyes darting back and forth along the way, looking for any useful (or valuable) piece of equipment lying around.
“Yeah, I haven't found it very useful, either,” Beorae says, taking the sling back. “Say, what was that ring you found earlier?” she asks, hoping to keep the thief on his toes.
Mot collects his equipment, putting everything back in it's place. Nodding quietly he follows after the gnome, wherever he might lead.
Beorae and Themp look into an opening off the main tunnel, finding a little living space. After a quick glance about, the druidess moves along, down the large corridor. The street rat lingers a moment longer.
Themp notices small-sized furniture, tiny plates, bowls, and cups, and low shelves. On one of the shelves, he notices a clay bottle labeled Tanglevine Wine in Sylvan. The light from his head also illuminates a small book on the nightstand near the fur bedding. Also near the bed, a short wooden stick angles out of a hole in the wall, similar to a torch, or perhaps an unnecessarily long coat peg. The protrusion has one end covered with a tightly tied leather cap.
Presently, Themp hears gnome voices as they make their way back into the warren, and knows he has only a spare moment or two before they join company.
Moving along through the large tunnel, one of the rocks lodged in the earthen walls seems peculiar to the Sevenstone. Pulling it free of the dirt, she finds a little secret storage compartment. Inside that hole in the wall lays two stoppered gourds, labeled in gnomish, and one glass vial sealed and labeled in what appears to be dwarven runes. Scattered under the small containers of fluid are twelve platinum coins, also bearing dwarven runes.
Presently, Beorae hears gnome voices as they make their way back into the warren, and knows she has only a spare moment or two before they join company.
The gnomes pour into the open area of their commune. Some immediately begin dragging fungal bodies outside, while others dart into their living spaces to drag tables into the commons to lay the wounded onto. Others still begin clearing the lumps of dead, inert mold matter. Their cleaning uncovers the bones of gnomes succumbed to the mold in the past weeks, as well as three human-sized suits of armor, the bones of which still lay inside. At sight of the three non-gnome bodies, the tribe appears to be mildly confused.
“Those three weren’t here when we fled our home,” says the alchemist gnome, “I think the dwarves have a sort of code for winnings after a victory by combat. Called ‘spoiled by war’, or something. It means that the loser’s possessions are forfeit,” he says to the rest of the tribe. He looks up at the full plate worn by the half-elf. “Looks like the vegepygmy got a few of your aye-urn wearing friends,” he remarks matter-of-factly.
“Our four heroes slew the chieftain, and these three are of their kind,” says the gnome matriarch. “We have no rules for war, but my friend here is right. These things are yours by right," she gestures to the three bodies, "You four should handle their bones and belongings in your own way, preferably outside, away from our homes.”
"I too wonder what they would have been doing here, without your knowledge," Nme'an remarks. "Allow me to inventory their equipment and I will give them a proper burial out of sight of your home. If some were to help me by at least helping carry the bodies it would make my task go by much more quickly," he says seeking any assistance he might find among the gnomes or his companions..
Going slowly, making sure to not miss any details, Nme'an preforms a through inventory and a careful search of the three knights' belongings. Though the half-elf primarily searches for who the three knights were and for any hint of their mission in the gnomes' tunnels, he makes note of the reduced weight of the two shields when compared to his own, and his hands take an instant liking to the feel of the warhammer. He takes care to pack the holy symbol and text after inspecting them in hopes of returning them to their owner's families and sets aside the potion, trail rations, and vials of antitoxin intending to share them with the others of his party.
"A vial of antitoxin and two trail rations for each of you," Nme'an says, handing out the supplies when he has finished sorting them. "For myself, I only wish to make use of one of the lighter shields and this warhammer which has an agreeable heft to it. I also found this potion, can you tell anything of its type or use, Bi Sevenstone?"
No clues readily present themselves as Nme’an looks for an explanation for the Order of the Dawnflower to be found here. The only peculiarity he notices are deposits of dirt collected between the metal plates along the backs of the suits of armor. There is too much foot traffic to find more evidence, but the half-elf wonders if perhaps the knights’ bodies were dragged underground.
The weapons and armor were unmistakably used by Nme’an’s knightly superiors, but most of the equipment does not stand out to have specific owners, save for two things. The holy text, called The Birth of Light and Truth, has margins scrawled with prayers of Knight Captain Aella Larkin. The back of the holy book has several empty pages that are filled with encouraging stories redemption and healing, witnessed and recorded by Aella. Nme’an recalls little of the captain, save that she was quiet, devout, and followed the common sense of using a bow or thrown spear before meeting one’s foe in melee. The second item with identifying markings is the bastard sword. The hand-and-a-half longblade is not uncommon among the training grounds of the Order, but this distinctive leather handle is embossed into a flowing elven script: Heshima kuliko yote, or, Honor above all. Among the knights who may have carried bastard swords among their weaponry, Nme’an remembers one Knight Major who was known to favor the blade: Sabr’adt Aibu’ya.
Sabr’adt Aibu’ya almost always had a smile on his face and a quip ready to share in a laugh. He took after one of his parents with the elven tendency toward merriment and light-heartedness. Coupled with a humble nature, his joyful personality won him some popularity among the common folk and the court. Also a half-elf of scandalous birth, Sabr’adt entered the Order of the Dawnflower about twenty years ago, driven to surpass the dishonor that followed him. Yet his ambition was often overshadowed by the self-deprecating humor he often shared with anyone who would listen. In fact, one of names the commoners called him was “The Gentleman Bastard”. When not riding over the Vyren countryside in defense of the realm, he made many appearances at local festivals, adding to the celebration with his lyre and singing voice. In his appearances, he always encouraged the values of mercy and truth, holding the belief that one’s nobility is determined by their heart and actions rather than parentage. It seems that the Order of the Dawnflower lost another honorable knight.
Sadly, the Knight Major’s stringed instrument is not found among the belongings of the departed.
Even though the earth floor of the warren has been trampled many times, she does not think the three armored bodies came down here on their own volition, judging by the dirt collected between the armor plates on the back and the legs. They were probably dragged here after incapacitated or killed.
The weapons and armor were unmistakably used by Nme’an’s knightly superiors, but most of the equipment does not stand out to have specific owners, save for two things. The holy text, called The Birth of Light and Truth, has margins scrawled with prayers of a Knight Captain Aella Larkin. The back of the holy book has several empty pages that are filled with encouraging stories redemption and healing, witnessed and recorded by Aella. The second item with identifying markings is the bastard sword. The hand-and-a-half longblade is not uncommon among the training grounds of the Order, but this distinctive leather handle is embossed into a flowing elven script: Heshima kuliko yote, or, Honor above all.
After Nme’an finishes inspecting the golden sunburst symbol of Sarenae, Beorae fancies a look, and discovers a part of the sacred item unscrews an opening that contains a long, narrow glass vial that holds about two ounces of transparent fluid.
A handful of gnomes help Nme’an carry the bones outside.
Mot quietly assists with carrying any of the items too heavy for the small-folk. Once it's all laid out above ground, he hefts the spear and bastard sword, testing their weight in his hands.
"The knight who used that was something like yourself. Musical and of high spirit," Nme'an notes as Mot begins to examine the sword. He leaves the book and holy symbol near his things while he enlists a few gnomes to help him perform the solemn work of burying the dead.
"Unless any can think of a good reason, I think it would be best if we delayed our trip to the tower until the morning. We have been on the move and in combat since the morning and are currently short one bow as Ariella was crafting Themp a new gooder one. A safe evening and night's rest before our final challenge would seem useful to me," Nme'an suggest to all assembled, his voice still a bit raspy due to the spores he breathed in earlier.
Hearing the approaching footsteps, Themp hides the bottle within his cloak, in one quick swipe.
He casually strolls back into the main chamber and addresses the newcomers.
"Seems like we're clear of growths. Should I go back for the bow?"
“Agreed. I think some rest before we get to the tower might be best for all of us. I am exhausted and my magic is nearly spent.”
While the knight and the gnomes go about the work of burying the dead, Beorae looks at the bottles but has little luck determining their properties in the dim light of the cavern. She carefully unstoppers each vial and allows just a trace of the vapors to waft past her nose.
She then focuses on the other items found with the bodies and examines them for magical properties .
While Nme’an is out, Beorae says quietly to Themp, “Also, I’m slightly concerned about those spores we breathed earlier. The bodies looked like they had been torn open from the inside. I wonder if some strong drink might help get rid of anything that might linger.”
Both potions appear to possess the magic and mixture to quickly close wounds. However, the one hidden in the holy symbol seems more potent than the other.
The druidess’ inspection for magical auras illuminates one conjuring property in the holy symbol.
Observing the golden item with magical senses, it seems to Beorae that this holy symbol is made to amplify the ability to channel a burst of positive energy. However, this amplification is not without cost; a healing potion must be placed inside the secret compartment, wherein its contents are subsumed in the bolstered channel of energy.
The Sevenstone thinks the inhaled spores have already done the damage they can, and are no longer a threat. The alcohol might help everyone feel better, but in truth, the strong spirit won't help or hinder the healing process. Prolonged exposure to the floating spores may have resulted in worse symptoms, but for now it seems that her companions will need to either rest and let the body recover naturally, or use the strongest magic Beorae can muster. But even then, she wouldn’t be able to heal all of her companions.
One of the gnomes scratches his hugely hairy head at Themp’s question. “I think she said she would be done with it tonight… and the sun has just started leaning toward the treeline. I mean, you can go see her whenever, man, but your bow might not be finished just yet…”
The tribe leader, who followed Mot and Nme’an above ground, wrinkles her nose at the knight’s talk of not leaving until morning. With a sigh, she rolls to the ground, laying flat and looking straight up at the jungle canopy overhead. A few gnomes continue to help Nme'an dig the graves. She takes a few deep breaths, and then states. “We like to maintain original promises. You saved our home, and we were going to save you time and tiger-fights. But waiting until morning puts us in a debt I do not like. A need to rest, heal, and recover is something I understand, though...”
She turns her big head of hair toward Nme’an with a thoughtful expression. “We have treated the spore-sickness before, and we are all practiced in the bandaging of cuts and breaks. I can task a few healers to oversee your recovery as you rest, to make sure you leave at full strength at sun up. Then, one of us will guide you to the lake. Does that sound fair?”
Nme'an frowns in thought then says, "Ordinarily, I would not seek to impose. However, in this case our oath to our people was placed aside to help yours. And our mission might be of helpful to both if we are successful. In that cases, I would ask for your helps."
The female gnome nods to Nme’an solemnly. “Then we have an agreement.”
She rolls to her feet and starts to walk away from the burial. “We celebrate our dead at sunset. I do not think the others will find it disrespectful if your kind,” she gestures to the graves of the Dawnflower knights, “were included in the sending off party.”
The tribal leader looks over the armor and weaponry catalogued by the Knight Apprentice. “I do not know if it is your custom wear all of that,” she points to the three sets of armor, “but I know that if you wish to trade us something for it, you may. We have very little use of aye-urn, but our tribe can trade it to the dwarves before winter comes in earnest. Let us know what supplies you want to trade for.”
Meanwhile, underground in the warren, Olp manages to exchange his bone longspear for a shorter, wood one made by the gnomes. He hefts it in one claw, making a few practice jabs into the dirt wall. The kobold nods in approval of the trade, and then reaches into the pouch at his belt. Offering gold pieces of his homeland, the scaled warrior also buys a round wooden shield. He then ascends the ramp to the jungle floor and finds an area away from everyone. There, he practices thrusts, throws, and tumbles in conjunction with his new shield.
"I only wear the one set of armor at a time. If your people could make final use of it in trade then by all means. It as not is if we would want to carry it with us." Nme'an says. "If you insist on trade, I believe we are in need of supplies of healing. If none are to be had, any items that may be of use to us when surrounded by dark magics."
"Also, you may wish to talk to my other companions. I get by with little and do not always know what to ask for. They may have better ideas. Think of these items as their first for getting items they might need before thinking of me."
When Nme'an returns, Beorae shows him what she has discovered about the healing contraption. "This could be useful, but you'll have to be the one to use it since my magic isn't compatible."
Afterward, the druidess looks around the room, searching for their alcohol-brewing gnome friend. She spots him quickly and rifles through her well-organized pack, palming a particular vial and slipping it into a pocket. Beorae makes her way across the room to him and kneels so that her eyes are level with his. "หากคุณมีช่วงเวลาที่มีสัญญาที่ผมทำที่ฉันต้องการที่จะตอบสนองความ มันเกี่ยวข้องกับความลับที่สามารถบอกให้นักเล่นแร่แปรธาตุและคุณดูเหมือนจัดเรี ยงทางขวาของคำพังเพย," she says with a smile, waiting for his reply before continuing.
One of the gnomes sees what Olp is doing, and offers to spar with him. It is plain that the fighting styles of the two are very different, and both score solid strikes on the other several times before they begin to learn how to counter each other's maneuvers.
The female tribe leader quietly nods to Nme’an’s answer, her mind turning on what the tribe has that could counter “dark magics”.
“I will mention it to them,” She says as she continues underground. Her huge head of hair hovers over the gnomes still severely wounded, laid on beds in the common area. A handful of gnomes appear to be applying salves to the wounds, and pouring hot, bitter smelling tea for the wounded capable of drinking it. After a time, she finds each of Nme’an’s companions, and tells them to consider what they might like to trade for the “piles of aye-urn above ground.”
The maker of wood alcohol smiles back at the language of the fey, and replies to Beorae, “ความลับ? ครู่หนึ่ง... “ before leading her to a small room cramped with clay jars, glass bottles, hoses, and even a miniature stove. Under the workbenches, are wood boxes with a wide variety of raw ingredients. He waters a potted mushroom with a dropper, and the capped fungus bathes the room in a soft yellow glow. The alchemist grins again. “ บอก. เพียงแค่ระหว่างเราที่ฝึกฝีมือเดือดปุด ๆ“ The gnome listens carefully.
“A secret? A moment…”
“Do tell. Just between we who practice the simmering craft.”
Beorae smiles at the glowing mushroom. "I might need one of those when I get home." She stops for the briefest of moments, thinking of home and wondering what her mother is up to in her alchemist shop. The tall druidess blinks back to the moment and reaches into her pocket. Drawing a vial, she carefully sets it on the table.
"เราพบมนุษย์หมาป่าในช่วงต้นของการเดินทางของเราและผมกลัวว่าคนของเราจะได้รับก ารกัดและกลายเป็นมนุษย์หมาป่าตัวเอง [ผม] นี้ [/ i] เป็นขวดยาพิษพืช ผมติดป้ายมันเป็นสิ่งที่ไร้สาระในกรณีที่มีคนพบว่ามัน แต่ฉันมีไว้ในอำนาจที่ดีที่มันอาจจะเป็นยารักษาโรคมนุษย์หมาป่ากัด มันเป็นปกติราคาแพงมากและฉันไม่ได้มีทองที่จะซื้อมันทันทีดังนั้นสัญญาของฉันคื อการแบ่งปันข่าวนี้กับนักเล่นแร่แปรธาตุอื่นเพื่อให้คนอื่น ๆ อาจจะรู้ว่าอำนาจนี้" Beorae finishes with a contemplative sigh and looks up at the gnome. "คุณเคยมีปัญหามนุษย์หมาป่านี้ทิศตะวันตกเฉียงเหนือห่างไกล?"
"We encountered a werewolf early in our travels and I was afraid that one of us would be bitten and turned into a werewolf ourselves. This is a vial of Wolfsbane poison. I labeled it something nonsensical in case someone were to find it, but I have it on good authority that it may be a cure for werewolf bites. It is normally very expensive and I didn't have the gold to purchase it outright, so my promise was to share this news with another alchemist so that others may know its power."
"Have you had werewolf problems this far north?"
Mot stands there with a rag, cleaning bits of gunk from the blade when the gnome makes her offer. He seems to consider her words for a bit without speaking before coming to some sort of conclusion.
"Ah whant soometheng ta drenk." He says. Face straight as the side of a cliff he continues. "Nae booze nor tha sweeet drenks, ah whant soometheng magical." He nods his head with finality and smiles at their hosts.
The gnome raises his overlong eyebrows at Beorae’s account. “มันเป็นประเพณีอันเป็นเพื่อการค้าวัตถุสำหรับการดำเนินการอยู่แล้ว? แปลก ” He furrows his brow at her question, and at length, answers. “ มีรูปร่างเปลี่ยนจำนวนมากในป่าฝนนี้ บางส่วนที่เป็นประโยชน์บางอย่างที่เป็นอันตรายและบางส่วนจะมีอะไรจะทำอย่างไรกั บเรา กัดจากเล็ก ๆ น้อย ๆ ของพวกเขาสามารถเปลี่ยนเหยื่อของพวกเขาเป็นหนึ่งในพวกเขา แต่หมาป่าไม่ได้สิ่งมีชีวิตที่ทำเช่นนี้ เป็น-เสือและหมี-ที่นี่ ผมรู้ว่าพืชหมาป่าสารพิษที่อาจจะทำให้เป็นพิษ ฉันสงสัยว่าความทุกข์เหมือนกันโดยไม่คำนึงถึงสัตว์ในรูปแบบคำสาปแช่งจะ? ใช้เป็นยาพิษการรักษาจะไม่ได้เกิดขึ้นกับผมดังนั้นผมขอขอบคุณคุณดรูอิด” He smiles, and he glances at the mushroom lamp. “ฉันสามารถเพาะปลูกเห็ดทารกจะใช้กับคุณถ้าคุณต้องการ ทำไมคุณเขียนเรื่องไร้สาระในหมาป่าพิษสารพิษ?”
“Is it a southerly custom, to trade an object for an action? Strange.”
“There are many shapechangers in this rain forest. Some are helpful, some are harmful, and some will have nothing to do with us. Bites from a small few of them can change their victims into one of them, but wolves are not the creatures that do this. Weretigers and werebears, here. Though werebears can be persuaded to help if one is careful. I knew the wolfsbane plant could be made into a poison. I wonder if the affliction is the same, regardless of the animal form the curse takes? Using poison as a cure would not have occurred to me, so I thank you, beastmaster.”
“I can cultivate a capling to take with you, if you want. Why did you write nonsense on the wolfsbane poison?”
The she-gnome nods up at the highlander. “We have quite a bit. I’ll scrounge up what we’ve got and show you.”
"Oh, I'd love a capling! It would be a wonderful treasure to remind me of your people," Beorae says with a bright smile. After a moment, the druidess remembers the Meditation Incense recipe in her pack and pulls it out. "I'm looking for some ingredients, might you have any of these?" she asks, handing the list to the gnome. "I have a few things to trade in exchange."
A great commotion echoes down one of the narrower corridors, a cacophony of gnomes working together to negotiate large objects through the small tunnels. Their gnomish chatter follows them into the common area, where they drag out several wooden crates of various items: armor and weapons, potions and oils, thin wooden sticks and lengths of parchment (some tightly bound and others left unrolled), and other odds and ends mixed in. Two other wooden chests are dragged in from a different part of the warren, containing food and drink.
“This is what we have for trading. We will abide by the trade values our tribe has established with the dwarves, who live closer to your home.”
The gnome alchemist raises an eyebrow. “Outlawed poison? Interesting. Do you mean to leave your ‘Essence of Serpent’s Blood’ here, then? I can compensate, but not with an action. Items for items, stories for stories...” He trails off as the druidess produces the recipe. He takes it and reads the ingredients.
After a moment, he nods. “Kief powder, and Sauki hardened sap, I have,” ducking under his work benches, he rummages through his raw ingredients. In a few moments, he lays out a cedar stick, and then sets out a measurement of black charcoal, another measure of clumpy, brownish green powder, and then he counts out seven honey-hued, teardrop beads and leaves them on his workbench. “The stick and charcoal won’t cost you anything.” The gnome turns a meaningful look to the resin and green powder, “but those two took some effort to acquire, though not nearly enough for your poison to make an even trade. I would still owe you quite a bit. But if you prefer to use gold and silver like the dwarves, fifty pieces of gold ought to suffice.”
Mot looks on appreciatively at the armor as it's brought out. Both the thorny and bony pieces catch his eye. But all is forgotten when the tray of various liquids and potions is brought out. Happily he looks at all the arrayed glasses and vials of different hue as he thinks about making his choices. Finally he simply decides on which potions he likes the colors of best.
Nme'an makes but a two selections, one of the two Elixers of Swimming, and half the available arrow. He then watches over the other's selections in the event his reserve coinage is able to help.
Themp finds himself overwhelmed with the sheer amount of small goods he could easily pocket without notice. With the combat adrenaline gone, however, his mind quickly wanders back to the dryad and he stops short of the collection, with heavy conscience. I promised I'd help them...
Keeping his hand to himself, he inquires the price of the weapons and armors, clearly avoiding the potions and magical items so as not to sound foolish in his ignorance.
He shows remarkable interest for the sleep arrows, that is, until the gnome states their price. แม่, they're pushing it. He decides then to just buy the buckler, which feels surprisingly lightweight and craft some arrows for himself while his companions barter.
The druidess emerges from the side tunnel with the gnome, Shark silently padding along behind. Taking in the scene, Beorae thinks for a moment and goes through her bag, laying out items she's willing trade: a Wand of Flare ; Leather armor ; a Fiery-orange carnelian; a Chipped agate with milky, brown, and red rings; and a large tiger pelt.
"Hey guys, think we could pitch in together for this wand? Could come in very useful if today's encounter was any indication of what's to come. I have about half its value in gold and items but I need help with the rest."
"Ooh, Nme'an! Isn't this that spell from The Crossing? Beorae asks with an edge of taunting in her voice, holding up the scroll for the paladin to see.
"So it would appear," the Paladin replies. "I will save that story for when a novice, apprentice, or one of you needs to be encourage," he says with just a hint of a smile.
In one hour, Themp finishes four arrows, and in that time, Olp tires of his martial practice and returns to the warren.
The kobold nods in a agreement to Beorae's suggestion. "Hoarding is best, but not able, right now. A shared treasure is better than none."
The eyes of the gnomes light up at the sight of the druidess' carnelian. They offer up one of the lesser magical potions in exchange. The chipped agate, they are less excited about, though the tiger pelt also receives an offer equal to the small, fiery-orange gemstone.
The gnome alchemist appears amongst the trading and announces. "Sunset will be in three hours. I am going to the Undertree to meditate until then; anyone can join me if they want. I will be back for the celebration of our fallen."
Without another word, he strides through the commons area, and takes a northerly tunnel. A few other gnomes not participating in trading or healing follow him.
"We steck? Ah dinnae see whee yood wannae steck?!" Mot says with a hint of incredulity towards Beorae.
It is a healing wand. The one Bi Sevenstone has been using to heal you each time you get injured is nearly run out of," Nme'an says, in Beorae's defense.
"What resources I have I will add to help with the wand," he then tells the druid.
"I guess whatever is left of the pot is suppose to go towards equipment anyway..." Not like we're buying our way out of this mess, right?
Beorae picks up the Wand of Cure Light Wounds and flips it in her hand , lightly catching it on its return trajectory. “Yeah, I think we should take this one,” she says.
She rummages around for a few minutes and collects a few items, including the 100-page blank book , two quills , an inkwell , the Feather Token (bird) , and one of the Everburning Torches . The druidess picks up the disgusting, withered Hand of the Mage necklace and waggles it in Themp’s face for a second with a giggle, “This thing is actually pretty neat, despite its appearance…” she says before putting it back among the other items for sale.
Figuring that the gnome would like to meditate in peace, Beorae doesn’t make any motions to follow him to “Undertree.” Instead, she and Shark train with his Come command until sunset.
The hours pass quietly as the tribe of gnomes tend to the wounded, clean the warren, and begin packing away their trade goods.
At sundown, the tribal leader calls everyone to the common area, and then leads them outside. The dusk that streams in through the overhead canopy brings new greens, browns, and yellows to the jungle floor. They gather around the mound of buried gnomes and knights; the alchemist and a handful of others trail in last. A few bring torches, and others bring clay jars of alcohol. The leading lady gnome begins a somber chant in their native tongue, and the rest of the tribe join in the tune as a single clay jar is laid over each mound. The gnome song quickens in pace, and brightens in melody, and the gnomes begin to dance in a circle around the mounds. Wood sticks rap against small tight drumheads, and one of the drummers dances wildly within the circle, spinning and rolling between the burial mounds. The dancer wears a garment of bright feathers and flowers that flashes with his quick, flowing movements.
The music takes on a happier, exciting tune, and the drums build and build, and gnomes yip and shriek when the beats meld into a continuous thunder. Quite suddenly, the drumming dancer within the center leaps high into the air. Mid-spin, his hand darts out and releases tiny throwing darts, and the other extends the drumstick over his head. Just before he lands, the drums silence immediately, and he brings down the wooden stick to crack open a jar of wood alcohol laid on one of the mounds. The thrown darts shatter the other clay jars at the exact moment, ending the invigorating dirge with a crash. Wood alcohol trickles into the soft earth that covers the dead. The gnomes cheer and whoop with the ritual complete, and the alchemist begins distributing small shares of the wood alcohol.
“Be careful,” he admonishes the tall folk as he offers up thimble-sized clay cups. “I do not know how humans and half-elves… or kobolds... will react to this spirit.”
The gnomes drink and sing, occasionally sharing happy and funny memories of the fallen long into the dark. Finally, the gnomes individually speak a parting word over the graves and return to their warren home. The gnome leader shows Mot, Themp, Beorae, Nme’an, and Olp to rooms with heaps of fur for bedding. A few gnomes bring in ointments, herbs, and clean bandages to treat the wounds of their guests as they rest.
As the mind of the Knight Apprentice quiets to rest, his inner senses detect ...something. A space. An enclosed space. His dreaming mind’s eye comes to focus on a dry dirt floor, his armored boots, and looking up, a ring of masoned stone fifty feet in diameter. The roofless, open courtyard is none other than the training grounds of the Order of the Dawnflower in Thaleniel, save for a few differences. This court is smaller, and emptier than Nme’an remembers. The young knight feels the weight of his armor encasing his form, and his ears catch a metallic clanging echoing from the far end of the training arena.
A creature stands on two legs with his back to the Knight Apprentice, also covered in gilded heavy metal plate. Its knees bend backwards to that of a man’s as it makes sweeping strikes with a shining greatsword against a wooden dummy. A furry tail curls out from its armored backside, and two furry brown ears stick out from the top of the strangely shaped helm. One of the ears twitches in Nme’an’s direction, and the armored, brown-furred creature pauses in practice and turns to look at the half-elf from across the grounds. The bipedal form bears the head of noble looking hound with glowing white eyes.
The standing dog-man’s stature is tall and proud, and for the moment, regards the young knight with expectant silence.
Beorae, who had been tapping her foot to the rhythm of the drum, takes the rotgut and peers at it with a wary indecision.
With a shrug, the druidess braces herself and drinks the thimble of home-brew in a single gulp.
She turns her head and winces as fire races through her sinuses and her eyes begin to water. After a few moments, the effect begins to fade and she shakes her head with a sharp breath. “I can’t exactly recommend that…” she breathes to the others. “Oomph…”
---
Back in the warrens, Beorae prepares for bed and settles down next to Shark for warmth. She scratches her companion between the ears and rubs his chin. “Sweet dreams, buddy.”
Mot follows the group to the ceremony and nods in approval as he sees the beverages trickle down into the dirt. Happily he dances alongside the gnomes until the alchemist offers up the heady liquid. With a nearly manic grin the big highlander downs first one, then two, then three shots in quick succession.
He cackles with no small amount of glee and exuberance the son of Casns sings along with the gnomes. At least as best he can, not knowing the language or even many of the tunes performed.
Purified, distilled, and filtered through various reagents -this wood alcohol pack quite the punch to the senses before it is even consumed. The fumes mask most of the ingredients, save for the prominent oak flavor, but after the sip, the alchemist experiences a momentary dimming of her eyesight. The split-second symptom suggests to the druidess that there is small chance of blindness if the drinker is unable to metabolize the strong spirit.
Mot feels the spirit warm his insides as he gulps it down. The end of his nose and fingertips feel tingly.
Nme'an takes the offered cup, makes a small respectful gesture to the dead then downs the drink in a few short gulps before handing the empty cup back to its offerer. If he feels any discomfort at the strong drink he does not show it.
"Welcome to my dream," Nme'an says evenly from where he stands even as he attempts to whether it is evil.
Themp sniffs the spirit and with an approving grin quickly follows Mot's lead.
Themp catches up to Mot, and he feels the burn of the alcohol spread from his throat to warm the rest of his body. Before he knows it, laughter comes easier but his graceful movements are feeling a little less precise...
The white light of creature's eyes flicker when in blinks, and a single patient chuff escapes its jowls. Silence at length as the two stare at one another.
A richly-accented male voice pours out of the standing hound's mouth. "I am ordered here to speak to you. But I would first like to learn why you earned my superior's attentions..." He steps forward as he speaks, stopping thirty feet from the Knight Apprentice.
The shining greatsword in his hands arc alongside his tall armored figure as he brings the enormous blade to a ready stance.
"Shall we to first blood?" he asks casually.
"Very well," Nme'an says. A quick glance around and the Knight Apprentice finds his heavy shield and and longsword hanging upon a nearby rack he had not noticed before. He retrieves and readies both then, despite the surreal feel of the situation, gives the creature the opportunity to make the first move, saying: "When you are ready."
The hound-man makes a few long strides, and closes the distance quickly and cautiously. He brings the greatsword along a wide, low sweep, arcing up to meet Nme’an’s side.
The knight sees the swing come up between his body and his shield, and he twists and pushes down at the last second so that the rim of his shield knocks the heavy blade off course and away from his body. Still, the attack was slow and deliberate, and the dueling hound-man seems unphased by Nme’an’s successful deflection.
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Mot spies Themp matching him dram for drop and quickly harvests a double handful of shots from the alchemical brewer. Placing half in front of the wily street rat the big warrior downs his share with an expectant grin.
"Oh, it's on, big guy."
After downing his 6th shot, Themp launches into a parade of short naughty jokes, in an attempt to throw Mot off-balance and break the ice with the little ones.
The edge of Nme’an’s sword indeed finds a narrow space between the hound-man’s plate mail, and he feels the blade drag over thick fur. But so tough is his adversary’s hide, the sword fails to break the skin. The adversary raises an eyebrow.
“Ah, well struck,” the mild surprise in his bubbling accent is melodious in sound. “But you’ll have to hit harder than that!”
With his sword still close from the near-cut, Nme’an feels the hound-man’s armored gauntlet strike the flat of his blade, in an attempt to turn the sword out of the knight’s hand.
“Bah!” barks the hound-man as his disarming attempt goes awry. Regripping his greatsword, he shifts a step back and uses the enormous blade’s reach to keep any retaliation at bay.
The arcing cut clangs against Nme’an’s shield as it comes up, parallel to the ground and pointed at the half-elf’s head a few steps away. The tall hound-man crouches defensively, muscles tense and ready to spring in any direction.
Most of the gnomes roll to the ground, holding their bellies in hollering laughter at Themp’s ribaldry.
"More! More!" they cry, pushing drinks into the hands of Themp and Mot.
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"Is this a duel or did you wish a fight of slappings?" the Knight Apprentice asks as he pulls back and readies to strike again at his sparring partner.
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