Nme'an looks at Mot's newly clean form, then back to his own gauntleted hand in surprise...
“Suit yourself,” Beorae says, taking the key back. She leans down to the chest and inserts the key into the lock. She prepares to scan for magic and then gives the key a twist.
The chest clicks open and the iron-banded lid lifts an inch. Already, the druidess can sense a few magical auras within, and nothing seems to explode or blind or stab at her, so she lifts the lid to find four sealed vials, a roll of parchment bound with twine, a tiny wooden box with the image of a raven burned into the lid, a fist-sized clear gemstone, and two heavy leather drawstring bags. A stack of three clean large blankets are neatly folded underneath the collection.
Every item, save the bags and the blankets, appear to be magical. When the leather sacks are lifted, their weighty contents make the familiar jingle of coins. One of the potions is pink inside the glass, another is tin grey, the third is brown with white spots, and the last looks like it is stuffed with white fur. Opening the tiny wooden box reveals a single, tiny feather with minuscule magical script tracing up the narrow shaft. Unrolling the scroll shows it to be lined with meaningless runes to the untrained eye.
”Hey, check this out…,” Beorae says to Themp. ”Look, one for each of us!” she jokes, hefting the sacks of gold with a smile. She tosses one bag to the rogue and sets the other one down the floor before sifting through the magical items one-by-one.
She starts with the feather since it was the first to catch her interest. At first glance she thinks might be another Feather Token like the one she purchased from the gnomes.
She then picks up the mysterious scroll. The last one of these was bad news… let’s hope this one is nicer… Although the script is unfamiliar, she checks its magic for any recognizable features.
Beorae then lays out the four potions and tries to determine their functions. She quietly mutters descriptions of each as she picks them up and holds them to the light.
”Pink… seems normal enough.”
”Metallic gray…”
”Brown and white… this one looks sickly.”
”What is this, fur?”
Finally, the druidess peers back into the bottom of the chest. ”I think that’s it.”
The Feather Token summons a raven to carry a short message to a specific target known to the sender.
Although she does not know the spell, Beorae capably recognizes the function of the magical script on the scroll. Once deciphered, the written spell is a sort of litany that calls upon the mercy of the gods to lift a curse from a single sufferer. A strong negation of powerful dark magic.
The pink potion is a bit of a mystery to Beorae; she is unsure of the magical effects inside. The grey fluid forms a protective, invisible layer over the drinker, like a Mage Armor spell. The spotted potion buzzes with a stronger magic than the others, and after further inspection, the druidess recognizes the Owl’s Wisdom spell distilled into the strange liquid. The last potion she looks at, the furry one, is also a mystery, though she suspects it to be protective in some way.
Looking underneath the folded blankets, she finds no other treasures hidden inside the chest, though she does note that the inner walls appear to have a thin layer of lead around them. This would explain why she did not detect these magical items through the wood and iron that make and fortify the chest.
With the worst of Mot's injuries healed, Nme'an returns to his reading.
Mot bursts into the small shack with a smile beaming on his face. Though still wet from the pouring rain, the Highlander is nearly spotless in appearance. His armor, clothes, weapons, and body all sheen as if freshly scrubbed in a
warm bath. Even his wounds, though still significant, are at least clean and free of dirt.
"Hoho, frens!" he says by way of greeting as the door slams into the wall with the force of his entrance, "Look wha' tha Occidental Good has bestoowed apoon mea!"
The big warrior waves his hands about in a series of fancy gestures. You can only assume he's trying to mimic the performing magicians you've all see travelling the country side. Just when it appears that nothing will be happening, he says "Ef oonley there waas ae whey ta clen oop ae bet!"
The words, as usual, are nearly a mash of incomprehensible gibberish. But it's easy to recognize the now-familiar lilt and bounce of his musical cadence. However, unlike normal, this time there is a glow of amber light that forms in his gnarled hands, flowing out into the room to cover every surface!
The magic that flows from the big Casns warrior scours the room of grime and dust, leaving everything clean -from the bedding to the eating utensils. Even the foods harvested from the jungle are free of dirt, and the ash around the fireplace is neatly tidied up.
Olp watches, interested, but offers no comment on Mot's new-found powers. He crouches near the fire to dry off from the constant downpour.
Still entirely dumbstruck by the gold, Themp just gives up on maintaining any significant train of thought once the room magically cleans itself.
"What." is all he can muster as a reaction.
Beorae raises and eyebrow when Mot does his magic “trick.”
“Wow, Mot. When did you learn magic?!” she asks.
“There was some nice stuff in this chest, by the way. Themp has your gold, and we have a few potions, a scroll of Remove Curse, and a messenger spell.” Turning back to the the loot, she carefully unstoppers the two unknown potions and tries to determine their effects by taking a small taste.
”So what was the deal with that guy? Did you know him or something?”
Mot beams at his elven companion, "Tha greet good Cayden Cayleean bestooed mea weth poower when ah drank thoose pootions!" Mot declares proudly. But at the mention of the fallen Urlghain his face darkens somewhat.
"Nae, ae dinnae knoo hem. Boot ah knoo hes family." He relates the story of the Casns and the Tare'Owluf clans and their great enmity, all those years ago.
The pink potion contains magic that helps deflect weapons off your body that would have otherwise harmed you.
The druidess begins to pull the stopper out of the potion that appears to contain white fur. In the instant the cork loosens, the half-elven fingers holding the potion are coated in thick, white fur. Her entire hand is covered before she instinctively pushes the cork back in. Her white furry hand feels much warmer than the rest of Beorae, and she can feel tougher skin underneath the thick coat of matted white fur. It seems to the half-elf, that this potion is not to be drunk.
After an hour of reading from the holy book and meditation on its words, the Knight Lieutenant feels the tightness in his neck loosen. His vocal cords are free.
Subtly, as if sensing some unseen change, Nme'an rotates his holy text one hundred and eighty degrees and begins to pretend to read it upside down.
While he merely pretends, Nme'an does notice that some of the flourishes in the lines of text form larger letters that were obscured until the words were turned upside down. On the left page, he distinguishes four letters: D... O... N... 'T... and on the right, he sees five: P... A... N... I... C...
Upon noticing this, Nme'an check the index then keys in the appropriate reference number for Ithagol's Keep.
Without comment, Nme'an rotates his book the right way again then closes it and rejoins the others.
"I..." he begins, testing his voice, "I think we should rest here for the night. The position is very defensible and it seems a not good idea to assault the tower by night when we are not fully rested and healed."
Nme'an uses his three remaining Lay on Hands to heal Mot for another damage.
"I think that's a good idea. Start fresh in the morning."
After Nme'an casts his healing spells, Beorae steps in and offers her help. She spends a while dressing Mot's wounds. "Now, take it easy for the rest of the day, will ya? I thought we lost you back there."
---
Afterward, the druidess steps outside and surveys the lake and the tower through the chilling rain, contemplating the task ahead. Twenty or thirty minutes have gone by, Beorae lost in though, when a raven suddenly swoops in and lands on the barrier. The black bird looks at Beorae with its head cocked to the side and it squawks at her. She gets the sense that the bird is trying to communicate, as animals of nature sometimes do with druidic folk. She cocks her head to the side too, mimicking the raven's posture, and asks, "คุณต้องการอะไร?"
The two share each other's gaze for a few moments and then the bird suddenly departs, its wings spraying water as it flaps away. Beorae watches the bird fly off into the distance past the tower when she remembers an old druid trick. I saw Ferwald do this once before, but I wasn't strong enough at the time to try it myself. I wonder if I'd be able to now… she muses.
"Yoo dinnae ha' too tell mea twice!" Mot laughs as more of his injuries heal from the combined ministrations of the Paladin and Druid.
The big highlander falls silent, watching the two cast their healing magics. As they go about their business he can be seen in a corner of the small shack trying to mimic the hand positioning and postures of the healers.
"Ooh Caden Caleean,
Soo brash an soo boold!
Heal oop mah woonds,
An maek mea whoole!"
He whispers, contorting his fingers like some sort of circus performer. Predictably, nothing happens. He throws his great hairy mits above his head with exasperation, "Twenny and twenny hells! Ah joost wanna nae be hurt!" The curious lilt and timber of his voice seem to match the curve and spin of his irritated gesticulation, and it doesn't take long before that warm amber light, now rapidly becoming familiar to the hulking Urlghain, to spread from his waving hands and cover his wounds, healing the warrior from his injuries!
"I don't have any objections either. In fact, I feel a lot more tired than I use to this time of day..." sighs Themp, in quiet annoyance.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Beorae walks to the lake's edge and sits on her knees in the soft, wet gravel that makes up the shore. She watches the raven off in the distance, noticing the movement of its wings, the pattern of flight. She begins a druidic chant, softly at first and slowly growing with intensity. She loses track of time while in her chant, but almost an hour goes by, repeating the chant and focusing on the movement of the bird. From time to time, she can feel the pull of the raven's spirit. Almost an hour passes with the rain pouring on Beorae. Her voice is starting to become raw from the endless chanting and her travel clothes are soaked through. But she doesn't notice any of it.
There's a blinding flash and Beoare instinctively jumps back as fast as she can. An enormous CRACK! fills the air as the sky rends itself apart. As her eyes adjust, she realizes that she's looking down at where she had been kneeling, a smoking crater and superheated glass is all that remains of the spot where the lightning bolt struck. Did I die?! is her first thought, but she immediately realizes that she's flying under power of… her own wings? Beorae tries to shout, "It worked!", but instead, she's startled by the loud screech! comes from her beak.
She flaps her wings for a few moments and circles above the cabin, getting used to the feel of her wings. After a minute of diving and sweeping, the eagle makes her way out over the lake to get a view of the surrounding area.
The druidess soars over the Stillwater Lake, its surface made restless by the heavy downpour. Not a perfect day for flying, perhaps, but the new sensation of wind both under and over her as she flies faster than she could ever run is an exhilarating change, to be sure.
From the shore, the lake appeared to be roughly one mile wide, Ithalgol’s Keep rising up at the center. Not even a quarter mile she needs to fly to see the small, circular island on which the tower stands, and her new eyes see no life on that spot of land save for unkempt grass. The stone is charcoal grey, nearly black. No windows on the sheer rock face are lit, if there are any windows at all -she is still too far away. Angling northwards, she soars a wide berth around the tower to get a good look at its north side. Beorae’s eagle eyes pick out wide stone steps leading up to large double doors, though they are miniscule by the great distance she observes them. To her left, jungle trees and foliage border the lake, and some mists hangs between the tall trunks of the dense mossy wood. Some movements below her, near the surface, snatches her attention. A fish.
Now almost three-quarters of a mile from the small cottage, she passes the tower, swooping a wide turn around Ithalgol’s Keep. Nothing on the eastern side of the tower draws her attention: more wild grass and plain stone wall. Facing south, she notices a river touching the banks of the large lake. This river, she remembers, is marked on maps as the Ith River. Gliding closer, one peculiarity becomes clear: the current of the river flows from from the lake, not into it. The Ith River snakes into the lush rainforest, and from her high vantage point, she sees it runs toward the Komat Mountains. She does not see the water directly flowing uphill; the jungle floor seems to be relatively flat for now.
It would appear Stillwater Lake might be sourced from a spring, rather than snow from the southern mountains.
After glance back to the small cabin where her friends rest and recuperate, Beorae decides to follow the Ith River for a bit. The canopy of trees forms a vibrant green carpet far below her, as she pursues the meandering grey line of water, flecked with white where occasional rocks break the surface of the river. At the surging banks, she spies creatures drinking from the freshwater -tigers, wild boar, deer, even lizards as large as her human form. More than once, a flock of petty birds fly up from the green treetops to harass her, but she easily avoids them by angling her feathers to soar higher into the rain, out of their reach. The higher she goes, the windier it becomes, and there is a moment when the first strong gust falters her flight, though a few corrective flaps right her bearing again. She is more ready for the next buffet of wind, so long as she remembers to remain calm and trust her instincts.
After perhaps two miles of flight, she notices a waterfall drop in a southerly direction. Swooping down for a closer look, something unnatural glares out at her from this wild, lush landscape. Along the cliff face, near the surging white waters, jagged stairsteps carved into the rock descend into the canopy of trees below. The Ith River cascades heavily onto big glistening rocks, foaming white before streaming further south, closer to the mountain range. Near the base of the waterfall, a pool of water forms by the wayside of the main current, and a wide clearing around it grows only thick grass. Besides the stairs, she sees no other signs of civilization near the waterfall, and the clearing seems naturally occurring. Observing the treeline of the sprawling rainforest, it seems to the druidess that this cliff and waterfall mark a sort of valley between the lake and the mountains.
She continues to follow the river, spotting the wild creatures of the valley along the riverside. On one occasion, she spots a little brown furry mammal, perhaps a rabbit or a large rodent, and feels a predatory instinct tug at her mind. Tiny streams branch out from the river, into the jungle, and sometimes the air in the valley carries a faint boggy smell. It suddenly occurs to her that she has traveled quite a distance; she cannot even see the cabin anymore, and Ithalgol’s Keep is looking smaller by the minute. The Komat Mountains are still many miles away, but not too far to reach them today while in her current form.
Beorae has flown about four miles already, in roughly a half hour of time. It should only take her another half hour to return to the cottage. The mountains appear to be twelve more miles south as the crow (or eagle) flies. At her current speed, she might reach the foot of the mountains in about an hour and a half.
The sudden realization that she's so far from the rest of the group makes Beorae turn back toward the lake and the cabin. I wonder how long I can hold this form?, she wonders to herself, but decides she'd like to be a lot closer to the others before she finds out. Once back near the cabin, she attempts to catch a fish. She's delighted to discover the ease at which she can swoop down to the water and snare a fish in her talons! She "shouts" a triumphant scree and flies the fish back toward the cabin, dropping it off near the front door. She heads out over the water again, looking for another catch.
The next couple fives don't go so well, but she's able to catch a second fish eventually. She flies her prize back toward the cabin again and drops it off near the first. With one last circle, Beorae lands on the fence in front of the cabin and screeches loudly to get her friends' attention. After a minute, she flutters down into the mud and wills herself back to her natural form. That's a lot easier than going the other way… she thinks as she looks at her hands and feet again.
She is keenly aware of being grounded, as though her boots are tethered to the earth.
Mot twirls in a final flourish finishing his dance of magical-jubilation. Breathing heavy he examines his arms, clean of all dirt and road grime, wounds closed and well on the way to being fully healed. All his life it had only been the gifted and learned of his clan who had been granted the ability to bend the worlds unseen to their whim. Never in his nearly 30 years had the hulking berserker thought that he would be able to summon and manipulate the otherworldly.
Just then, he hears the seemingly incessant call of an eagle cutting through the patter of the rainfall outside, drawing him out of his reverie. Grabbing his spear, the warrior grins and begins to ask Themp if he's ever eaten eagle, before deciding he'll just surprise his friends with the fresh meat for tonights meal.
Stepping outside he nearly trips over the large sturgeon laying just outside the entrance. With a startled yelp he stumbles out into the rain before glancing at the fish, then up to the water-laden clouds in confusion.
Lost in the art of counting gold pieces, Themp is thoroughly startled by the very loud bird-of-prey screech. Dropping the sack mid-count, he rushes after Mot.
As the big mountain of a man stumbles, Themp barely has time to dodge the hulking mass, successfully sidesteps just in time to see a very large eagle staring at them from the puddle of mud right in front of the door. Before he can finish slowly drawing his bow, so it wouldn't startle the big bird, it morphs into Beorae.
It is at that moment that Themp decides he should most definitely call it a day.
Beorae looks at her arms, moving them slowly up and down, feeling how entirely un-wing-like they are. "I flew!", she exclaims to her companions. "I… I turned into an eagle!," she explains. "It's an old druid trick. I've never done it before but then I saw a raven and I thought about going for a scouting mission and then there was the lightning and then I was FLYING!" She pauses a moment to look over the confused and dumbfounded expressions staring back at her. She had been so caught up in wonder that the weapons in Mot and Themp's hands are just now registering. "Wait, were you going to skewer me?!" she asks, not really wanting to know the answer.
"Anyway… I scouted the area caught some fish for our dinner."
---
While the fish is prepared, Beorae heads back inside and tells Nme'an about her adventure. She pulls the book and quill from her bag and begins to pen a note:
~~~~~
Mr. Dacius,
Day 10. We have arrived at Stillwater Lake. Ithalgol tomorrow. Lands in the north are unnaturally tropical. Have encountered necromancy a number of times north of Brenan's Crossing. We fear there may be much more in the tower. Craig Tare'Owluf is now Thrice Fourth Slain.
We have seen many signs and heard stories about the Dawnflower Knights, they have lost many in their journey ahead of us. No sign of the Prince yet.
There is a fifth Champion of Thaleniel; a kobold named Olp that has joined us. Long story, but he is one of us now.
Wish us luck in the Keep,
~N, M, T, B+S, & O (The Champions)
~~~~~
When she is finished, Beorae rolls the note tightly and ties it off. To protect it from the rain, she places it into one of the many small leather pouches she has acquired. Finally, she retrieves one of the feather tokens from her pack. Placing the stem if it between her palms, she rubs her hands back and forth quickly. The feather rotates and begins to sparkle! After a few moments, the token poofs into a cloud of smoke and a small, unassuming carrier pigeon appears in its place. She smiles at the bird and ties the note to its tiny leg. With the bird on her finger, Beorae steps outside under the awning. "Sorry about the rain…" she says to the bird. "This goes to Court Wizard Mortimer Dacius" As soon as she's said the name, the bird hops off her finger and flutters into the sky, heading south.
" I saw," Nme'an replies to the druid's exclamations, having come over to check on the commotion. He coughs once, his throat still a bit scratchy, then continues. "An eagle red as your hair who was flying oddly in these grim parts? It seemed as if it was one of yours."
He chuckles once, but then says nothing even though he looks all the world as if he wants too.
Unable to hide the truth well, it seems obvious that the knight wanted to joke that the reason the eagle was flying oddly was because she was the eagle. But, he caught himself before making the impolite, though completely good natured, jest.
"You learn to fly first and then we can discuss finesse," Beorae says with friendly banter. She briefly sticks her tongue out at the knight paladin and smiles before heading inside.
Mot's jaw drops at the proclamation from his Druid friend. He's about to begin peppering the woman with questions but decides instead to remain silent. Closing his mouth with a 'snap' he grins ruefully and spears one of the fish before gutting it and preparing it for the evening's meal.
Watching Beorae take pen to paper, Mot takes on a contemplative air. Many expressions flit over his face, most of them related to anger or confusion somehow. By the time she's finished though, his eyes are clear and he approaches his companion with a simple request. "Beoragh, dew yoo thenk yoo could doo mea ae boon?" He starts, "Ah want foor peopool ta knoow about wha' happened here. Meybey yoo could pen ae sign? Or soomesuch, tellin' hoow tha Tare'Owluf clan died here tooday? An tha ae Casns helped?" The hulking man seems oddly demure, but definitely earnest in his request.
”Well, uh, sure,” Beorae says. It never occurred to me that Mot can’t read or write… The Casns’ thick brogue is still difficult for her to parse from time to time, but she understands this request well enough. Not having any materials to make a proper sign, she instead tears another sheet from her book and begins to pen in large, dark lettering. She puts the date at the top and then writes,
~~~~~
Let it be known to all who visit this place, that on this day, the Tare’Owluf clan ended. At the hands of Mot Casns and the Champions of Thaleniel, the evil of Craig Tare’Owluf the Twice Slain was removed from this land and the Casns family sword was recovered by its true owner.
~~~~~
She scours the cabin for something that might work as a nail, and she securely pins the note to the front of the door.
Meanwhile, Nme'an drags the headless body away from the cabin then works several of the spiked sticks out of the ground and piles them around the Fourth Slain. When finished, a searing blast from the knight lieutenant's outstretched palm aimed at a vial of alchemist fire is enough to set even the damp wood ablaze. Within in minutes, even what remained of Craig is but mere indistinguishable ashes.
As he sets down in a corner of the hut, Themp realizes his dizziness isn't because of the amount of succeeding shocks of reality he underwent. Couldn't have been. He's had worse before. In fact, he quickly notices he is exceedingly weary for this time of day.
Slowly, as if his mind is moving through a slur, the thief remembers the gnome alchemist and his advice. Before finally succumbing to his tiredness, Themp manages to take a big gulp of the medicine the helpful gnome gave him. In no time, he is dreaming of dryads and gardens.
Olp joins Nme’an and helps him pile the wood onto the body. The hulking, headless form sizzles and burns under the heavy rain, billowing a column of black smoke with a foul smell. The kobold suffers a fit of wheezy coughs, but the moment passes. As the dark fumes reach the sky, the grey rainclouds answer with deep rumblings. In the end, the embers smolder over a blackened patch of earth. It is not until the remains cannot be distinguished from the ash that the kobold breaks his silence with a simple comment. “Rok krif pruzah.”
“He fought well.”
The small dragonkin nods with finality and then returns to the cabin. He makes a face at the dinner of fish shared by the group, sniffing his share and eyeing it with a distrusting look. After much hesitation, he uses the fireplace to cook it until the fish is seared black on the outside. He takes a tentative, crunchy bite, and seemingly satisfied, devours the rest.
The evening darkens as the heavy rain hammers the little cottage. Occasional gusts of wind make the wooden walls creak and the door shake, but those inside are kept safe from the storm. Some of the wet wood chopped by the Tare’Owluf is kept near the fire to dry. The champions of Thaleniel also place their soaked belongings by the fire, and before long, the only window of the cozy cabin is black from the night outside. By the constant pattering, the skies are still keen on soaking the strange lands below. Each of the six drift off to sleep one at a time, and they take turns stoking the fire overnight.
The night passes without a single disturbance, and everyone enjoys a sound sleep. Olp offers to help Nme’an buckle back into his heavy suit of armor as the overcast sky pales with the coming sunrise. The air is fresh, and wet, though the rain had stopped falling some time in the night. The ground outside is still muddy, and the small rowboat on the lake has a few gallons of water collected inside. The placid surface of the Stillwater Lake mirrors back the pale grey from overhead. The sounds of the jungle waking up echo over calm waters.
Nme'an wakes early, says his morning prayers, then begins to prepare The Breakfast of (the Thaleniel) Champions for himself and his companions using the cooking pot, one of his trail rations, and what ingredients can be found around the cabin. By the time the others awake, they are greeted with the smells of a morning meat and bread stew mixed with the very best of Craig's apples.
Beorae pops awake after her two hours of sleep and curls up next to Shark, the tiger's warmth only surpassed by the softness of his fur. She dozes off again for a little while, but it's not long before she's awake again, thoughts of Ithagol's Keep and the monsters within racing through her mind. She stirs and heads outside under the awning to get an early start on her morning meditation.
The smell of… breakfast draws the druidess back to the others and she rouses Shark. Before they eat, she calls Themp over to the corner of the room. "Sit down for a second, I prepared a spell that should help with that fever," she says, pulling up her sleeve. She puts her hand on Themp's back and begins muttering in Druidic, which might as well be gibberish as far as the others are concerned. As she continues the incantation, warm energies flow into the rogue's body. "There, that should help a bit." She stands up and heads back to join in with the breakfast.
Curious about their strategy for getting to Ithalgol's Keep, Beorae asks, "So, are we gonna take that little boat over to the tower?"
Morning finds Mot sitting on the floor whispering over the breastplate taken from the fallen warrior the day before. The big Urlghain has a look of utter concentration on his face as he waves his hands about over the piece of armor. Every few moments the warm amber light fills the room and focuses on the breastplate but, save for the first time he cast his "cleaning" spell, nothing seems to change with it.
Finally satisfied he leans back and hefts the metal up and into the diffuse sunlight leaking through the imperfections in the shacks construction. He stands and is about to buckle it on when he notices Beorae speaking with Themp. Wandering over the Casns warrior sees Themp seem to perk up again under the Druids healing magic. He places a meaty hand on the street-rats shoulder and pats reassuringly. "Hang en there boyoo, yool pull threw." As he does so, more of the amber light plays out of his hand and into the rogue!
Mot smiles at the energy, but then looks confused as he sees that Themp doesn't look any cleaner. He absently scratches at his head, but forgets all about it when he sees Beorae and Shark heading outside. "Aye, tha soonds liek ae good plahn." Mot nods in approval before hefting the mithral breastplate up to show. "Ah cleened et as good as ah coould, but ah feer et maght have soome oof Craigs evel en et stell?" He says by way of question.
"If there was any evil left, I live, you polished it straight out..." Nme'an says with mild amusement at Mot's antics.
"I have been worrying over that as well, Bi Sevenstone. I would much rather have a solid stone bridge... with large size fall stopping hand walls... but it seems unlikely we have the time to build such."
"I do wonder, however," the Knight lieutenant muses as his eyes fall upon the large wooden shield. He finishes his breakfast then carries the tower shield down to the water and gently places it in the shallows to see how much it will float.
The big, rectangular wooden shield drifts on the surface of the lake for a moment or two. But soon, the elements of the shield that are not buoyant, such as the metal boss and handle, the rivets that bind the wood together, and the treated layer of animal hide between the boards, allow the surface to break over the top of the shield. The tower shield lingers a moment longer just below the surface, before sinking in earnest.
Fortunately, there rests a small wooden rowboat right next to the paladin, which was specifically designed to float over the surface of Sillwater Lake. Though it may need to be upended for a moment to clear the collected rainfall before disembarking from the shore.
It occurs to Nme'an that the boat is rather small for all five of Thaleniel's champions to pile into for the crossing. The knight estimates that the rowboat was crafted with the intention of two passengers, or perhaps three lighter folk like Themp or Beorae. He thinks it will still remain afloat with everyone aboard, but they will have to be careful not to rock the boat too much while rowing to the tower.
Nme'an reaches into the shallow water and retrieves the large shield with a disappointed frown. He moves to check the small boat and again frowns.
"I think it wise if we cross in pairs, to avoid overloading the boat. A fighter and... not fighter... in each crossing for safety?"
"Agreed, the boat seems much too small for all of us. Unless..." Themp nods in agreement, wandering off in his own thoughts.
”Hey, who you callin’ a not fighter, mister?” Beorae says with a smile.
"I did not say who I meant... but yes, Bi Sevenstone, I would prefer to pair yourself and Themp with Mot and myself," Nme'an says to fully clarify his meaning.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Hah!" Bursts out Themp from his reverie. "So Olp and the tiger? I'm pretty sure Shark will bite him, you wacky peacekeeper. Anyway... I'm pretty sure we can fit more people there if we upgrade this dingy boat a bit. Here, let me draw it out so you can give me a hand."
The city-boy then proceeds to sketch out his plan so the others can aid.
"Hmm, I suppose I did assume Shark loves water..." Nme'an admits. "But do we really have time to up-grade the boat? Crossing will take minutes... your up-grade might take hours..."
"Hours?" Olp calls to the knight, as he uproots the wooden spikes around the shack. "If we are in such hurry, why did we stop to rest at noon yesterday?" He gestures a wooden point at Mot before stooping to pull up another. "He was healed not long after the giant one was killed. Could have crossed after. Before sundown."
He carries over an armful of wood to help with Themp's designs. "I agree with archer Themp. Strength in numbers. Do not be spread thin."
The little kobold listens carefully to the thief's instructions and follows them as best he can.
But the warrior seems less adept at ship-building, and gets frustrated easily.
"Several knights more skilled than I did not return from this tower. From the stories the gnomes and our plant friend told us, warriors from the forest as too attacked this tower and did not win. To attempt this task without full rest would be foolish..." Nme'an replies. "...and do not forget the storm and rough water."
Resigned to helping Themp with his odd project, Nme'an too follows the thief's instructions to the letter...
...but only ends up with a pile of sawdust and a collection of wooden shapes that in no way fit together.
"Have you correctly built something of wood in the past, Themp?" Nme'an asks.
”Here, like this…” Beorae offers to Nme’an. Years of watching her father work stone and wood were finally paying off, it seemed. ”Hey, Mot! Come hold this for a second,” she calls to the Urlghain.
A draconic grin spreads over Olp's little face at Nme'an answer, and his yellow eyes trail to the freshly turned earth where the buried heads laid. "Not a dragonkin among them. Maybe that was their failure." He regards the knight for a moment, with reptilian features that make his face difficult to read.
The smile diminishes when his attention turns to calm surface of the lake. "The still water makes me more uncomfortable than the rough water."