The quickest and easiest exit would be the front door right behind the rogue. Otherwise, Themp suspects the kitchens to have a backdoor, and it would be a gamble to assume the infirmary had a backdoor as well. Climbing up the chimney shouldn’t be too difficult, so long as no fire burns and the climber doesn’t mind being covered in soot. His sharp eyes spot parts of the high vaulted ceiling that appear to open outward, probably for ventilation and natural lighting in the summer months. These openings are certainly big enough to crawl through, but Themp would need a ladder to reach them, or be capable of leaping twenty-five feet high to unlatch and push one open.
Did he just offer to steal something for the priest? Unbelievable!
Finally, Beorae speaks up, stepping forward beside Mot. “Good evening, father Donovan. I am Beorae Sevenstone from Deeproot. And this,” she says, gesturing to the leashed tiger, “is my companion, Shark. There is also a paladin with us; he's outside stabling the horses but I expect he'll be back soon.”
“You are correct; we're on our way from Thaleniel, heading north. Earlier today we were set upon by a pack of wolves led by what I believe is a werewolf. We fought them off, but Mot and Shark here took a few bites in the skirmish—not from the werewolf,” she adds with a bit of urgency. “As the Mot says, I tried patching them the best I could, but I think they could use some attention if you have the time. The guards at the gate said that you were the one to talk to.”
Erastil is a Lawful Good elder deity, his worship hearkening back to the time when mankind first set about harnessing the wilderness and mastering nature. Farmers, hunters, and traders often worship Erastil. The Stag God, Old Deadeye, and Lord of the Hunt are other names he is known by, and he holds family, tradition, and survival in high regard.
“Well met, to each of you.”
Donovan furrows his brow, inspecting the injuries of Mot and Shark until Beorae makes mention of the werewolf. His old eyes narrow and meet hers grimly. “A werewolf, you say? Not the first report of the foul beast, and not nearly as fortunate either.”
He inclines his head to the highlander’s bound wounds, “These were well-dressed, Beorae, but now they need changing. Mot, if you could come closer to the fire, I need to see what I am doing.”
Once the head priest removes the blood-soaked bandages, he softly utters a word over the wounds. “Leigheas.”
The mighty warrior’s injuries heal almost immediately. "Ah. You may still have a limp for tonight, but after a night of rest, your leg will be right as rain."
Donovan turns to Shark cautiously. “I’ve never attempted to heal a tiger before, in all my years, but that does not mean I cannot try...”
The priest carefully and deliberately lays his hands on the big cat, and performs the same incantation on Shark’s wounds. “Leigheas.”
Beorae’s companion is fully restored and Donovan stands, satisfied. He smiles warmly to the three, but his eyes show concern, “Did this werewolf show himself in human form? Or were his markings distinct?”
Testing his weight on a newly restored leg Mot putters around in a little circle. Satisfaction evident on his big shaggy face, he clasps the priest by the shoulder and pulls him into a crushing bear hug. Lifting the elderly man off his feet he says "Yoo. Freend." Mot sets him down gently, twinkle in eye and smile on face. "Yoo tha guy!"
With a ginger little hop the Casns fighter tries to determine just how careful, or rather careless, he should be for the remainder of the evening. At the priest Donovons words through, he turns and responds. "Oh aye, he was ae great bruute oof ae beest! But he dinnae shoow his huuman side. Gray as raaw stoone, with patched spoots moar white than tha fairest clouud." He sniffs idly. "Ah'd av lahked to av killed him." He says the last with something akin to regret, if anybody present could think the big barbarian capable of such an emotion.
“Aye, and he was cunning, too. The pack was experienced, used tactics to surround us and coordinate.” Pausing a moment, but deciding it was safe here in the temple of Erastil, she continues, “I… spoke… with the wolves—Druid thing…. Anyway, they referred to him as ‘Mooncaller,’ and he made reference to creating more wolves while they were attacking us. I think Mot here was his first target, but we scattered the pack before it came to that. The other wolves seemed unhappy when I called him a werewolf; I wonder if there will be a power shift in the pack soon…”
Kneeling down to inspect Shark's neck, Beorae is delighted to see that the wound is fully mended. She scratches the tiger between the ears and Shark chuffs as Beorae stands back up. “Thank you very much. You are a skilled healer, father; someday I hope to be able to do that half as well as you. The guards said you might also have some beds available, if that's not too much to ask for. Is there anything we can offer in return for the healing and hospitality? Perhaps a donation?” Nodding toward the note on the kitchen door, she adds, “What is this ‘Feast of the Faithful,’ if I may ask?”
The priest chuckles as the highlander sets him down, and maintains his smile through the druid’s account, nodding in affirmation at parts of the tale. “So not all of them are werewolves. Or, at least, do not retain their human personality when shape-changing.”
He begins to stroke his beard thoughtfully, when Nme’an enters the door. “Greetings. Make yourself comfortable. Rest assured, your companions are well.”
Donovan looks back to Beorae to answer her questions. “The Feast of the Faithful is how we provide for our community, and in doing so, pay homage to the Lord of the Hunt.” His wrinkled hand sweeps over the long empty table. “All are welcome to the table, poor or rich, weak or strong. We encourage our brothers and sisters to forage food in the wilderness, and bring what they find to the kitchens, so that the community can share in the simple pleasures of a warm meal, a roof over their head, a fire to dry their bones, and brotherhood amongst neighbors. It does a soul good, when the body and mind can thrive in the forest or field.”
“Today’s Feast of the Faithful finished perhaps an hour after your arrival. I am sure we have some leftovers not taken home by the others, if you are still hungry. By His blessing, Brenan’s Crossing has seen little illness this winter, so I have clean beds available in the infirmary if you are in need of them,” he gently holds up a hand, “and a donation will not be necessary for your stay. Though it would be rude of me to refuse a gift from travelers.”
He smiles kindly as he waits for answer from the four.
“Well, those are tenets I can get along with, father. I've been trying to teach these three how to forage on the road,” she lowers her voice to a very audible whisper, “but between you and me, I don't think it's taking,” she finishes with a chuckle. A bright smile flashes across the druid's face, “A quick meal sounds wonderful, and we would be remiss if we were to take your hospitality for granted. I have had a fortunate couple of weeks and it only seems appropriate to pass it along while I can.”
“I believe we have some errands to attend to after our meal, but I expect that we shouldn't be back too very late.”
Walking a little closer to Donovan, Beorae lowers her voice and takes on a more serious tone, “I hate to ask, but I feel that I must. Is there any danger that Shark or Mot could have been infected when they were bitten? Is there any way for us to tell?”
The druid spots a collection box resting on the stone shelf above the blazing fire. Donovan nods and turns toward the kitchen door. “Beorae, there is something you can help me with in the kitchen, if you don’t mind. It will only take a moment, then we shall find all of you some food.”
The priest wants to answer the druid’s question in private.
Nme'an nods respectfully to Donovan at being greeted, but otherwise remains mostly silent, not wanting to interrupt the conversation in progress. He again nods, this time to Beorae at her mention of other errands to run. 'A quick meal would be nice... he thinks to himself.
Well that is a strange request. The druid's eyes narrow only slightly while she considers the priest's meaning. Uncertain, but not wanting to be rude, Beorae nods. “Mot, Themp, don't go anywhere just yet. Nme'an, if you'll join us?” She makes clear eye contact with the paladin when she requests his presence in the other room. Re-gripping Shark's leash, she turns back to the priest and motions toward the kitchen as if to say, ‘after you.’
"Of course, Bi Sevenstone," Nme'an replies. Ordinarily he would wonder what good he'd be in a kitchen, 'usually it's people 'inviting' me out, not in', but Beorae's held glance compels him to follow.
The priest double takes as Shark is beckoned into the kitchen, but raises his eyebrows and says nothing as he enters. Walking into a large, well-stocked kitchen built to produce large amounts of food, he begins to speak after the door swings closed.
“Lycanthrope,” the priest begins, “is an accursed affliction. It requires very potent magic and a strong faith to remove the disease, and even then, such magic will only work within the first three days after the bite. Symptoms of the disease will not manifest until the three days pass, so we have no way of knowing, unless we witness the bite from a known lycanthrope. You said only the pack leader was a werewolf. Did you use a spell to root out that truth? Or did he tell you when you spoke with him?”
As he speaks, Donovan moves a half-full pot of stew over the glowing embers of a small cookfire, and then sets out bowls beside the pot. He poses his question as he gathers four small loaves of bread into a large plate.
“Also, being a druid of the wood gives me a certain familiarity with the wild that others may not possess—a skill that I'm sure you can appreciate. The other seven wolves were definitely like normal wolves; I do not have reason to suspect that they had any specific malice toward us, but were simply following their leader.”
Thinking back to the events from earlier in the day, the druid remembers something, “It should be noted that the alpha didn't seem to think that Mot and Shark were already infected when he made his comment. From the way he said it, it sounded like he was the one who had to do the biting. Even so, if the lesser wolves were cursed with lycanthropy because they themselves had been bitten, would a bite from them put our companions at risk, or would the bite have to come from the alpha himself?”
With nothing better to do, since his companions asked him to stay for a few more minutes, Themp engages in one of his favorite activities since childhood: eavesdropping.
Half-listening to the conversation betwixt the priest and his companion, Mot examines the temple walls with mild interest. Though when Donovan requests Beoraes presence in the adjoining room the big warriors eyes narrow in suspicion.
As the two begin making their way to the "kitchen" a sly little grin takes his face and he leans over to elbow Themp in the shoulder. In a half-stage whisper he says "Ah'll waager tha Graybeard still has waarm blood in 'is vaens! Aye, shoor enoof." He nods and winks and smiles to himself. When at last the druid beckons Nme'an to accompany them the big Casns face is first marked with surprise, followed quickly by a eloquent shrug that practically screams "oh well, I don't judge."
Once left alone with Themp listening at the kitchen door, Mot's mind again begins to wander, and with it so to do his feet. As his eyes alight on the only other door, the one marked "Ifery, and a whole bunch of other stuff," he mumbles over his shoulder "Aye, stay eef ya lahk, Ah wannae see moar oof that bearded aarcher." A heavy hand gently pushes at the door before a mammoth furry head follows. Entering fully the barbarian begins to look at the walls of the new room, obviously looking for more carvings.
"This may be a question better left for Commander Morgan, whom we intend to speak with next, but have these wolves or this werewolf been a problem long?" Nme'an asks the priest. "I have not heard of such large scale wolf attacks along such a major road, though I confess I have not been able to be as attentive to the reports of returning patrols as I once was..." 'Of course, one hears less when one is no longer part of the city guard...'
The listening Donovan nods, understanding. He waves dismissively before reaching for a pitcher. “I misunderstood you. It sounds like neither your tiger or you friend should be in danger of infection. But, a bit of caution never hurts. I would keep an eye on Mot, if I were you, until the next full moon.”
He rests a pitcher full of water onto the kitchen counter. He glances at the knight as he retrieves four clay mugs. “Wolves have always been trouble for the farmers of the Greysight Vale, but lately I hear more and more reports of the wild beasts attacking those on the road, and going so far as to venture into unwalled hamlets and villages at night. Yours is not the first encounter with a werewolf in recent months, that I have heard at least, and it concerns me, to hear that this abomination seeks to reproduce.”
The elder unwraps a small wheel of cheese and carves four wedges into the platter with bread. “The stew will be warm in a few minutes. A venison stew, I hunted the stag myself just yesterday.” Smiling, he indicates to the bread and cheese, and to the pitcher and cups, “If I could get your help carrying these to the table? That would be appreciated.”
Mot opens the door to find a hallway with eight doors on the right side, spaced ten feet apart. One lantern hangs on each end of the log-walled hall, and each of the doors are open ajar, save the one on the far end. Beside the far lantern at the end of the hallway stands a tall cabinet with a brass keyhole locking the doors closed. Pushing the seven doors aside reveals a small room with a bed and nightstand, with pegs in the walls for hanging cloaks and the like. The doors do not have locks, and a narrow wooden panel opens inward on the outside wall, as a door to a glassless window, covered by a heavy curtain. An unlit candle and a small wooden figurine decorate the surface of the nightstand, along with a worn, journal-like book titled Parables of Erastil, the holy text of Donovan’s faith. The highlander hears soft snoring through the last door, which is fully closed.
In the first room, Mot certainly finds a fist-sized wooden figurine of the bearded huntsman, firing point-blank at a sharp-taloned eagle. In the second room, he finds a carving of the same man, this time wielding two handaxes against a great grizzly standing over him midroar. A third figurine is found, this time of a stag, painted white. The carvings continue on the themes of survival in the elements and the serene and mighty creatures found therein.
At the priest's request, Themp hastily hops to the Infirmary's doorway and hisses inside.
"Oy, big man, they're coming back! With food! I don't think the old man would be much happy to hear you were snooping around."
Beorae lets out a short sigh. “Well, that's a relief,” she says, leaning down to rub Shark's chin, “but we'll keep an eye out all the same.”
The druid motions Shark out the door, rinses her hands, and moves to help with the bread and cheese when she remembers the trapper and his brother. “Oh, you might be just the person to ask! Would you happen to know where I'd be able to find a boy named… Ronn Feddik, I believe his name is? His older brother is a trapper that I met some time ago—I thought he might be a follower of Erastil.”
"Snoopin'? Ah aem dooin noothing oof tha sort." The Casns man replies with some reproach in his voice. Casually he picks up the carving of the man and bear to study it more closely. His face shows that he is enjoying all the craftsmanship of all the art nearly as much as the subject matter it portrays. As his feet take him nearer to the room with its slumbering occupant the warrior begins to tip-toe. The sight alone of the hulking behemoth gingerly stepping on the balls of his feet would be enough to cause the sternest face to break into a smile, though Mots own shows nothing but earnest effort. Almost to himself he begins to murmur an age-old verse:
"The bear on the mountain,
Head lifted to sky,
Did roar and rage,
Until last wave bye."
"But when huntsman stood,
Blade dipped in gore,
Then bear on the mountain,
Does sing no more."
Nme'an enthusiastically steps forward and begins shuffling the food and kitchenware into the dining area. On his third trip he notices Themp standing worriedly at the door to the infirmary, and further notices that Mot is nowhere to be seen!
"What are the two of you doing?" he asks accusingly, while still trying to keep his voice low in the hopes of avoiding offending their host.
Nme'an enthusiastically steps forward and begins shuffling the food and kitchenware into the dining area. On his third trip he notices the door to the infirmary is ajar, and further notices that neither Themp nor Mot is anywhere to be seen!
"What are those two doing?" he asks accusingly, mostly to himself, hoping that the two's antics won't offend their gracious host.
Donovan stirs the stew, nodding. “I know the Feddicks, occasionally they come to Feast.”
He gestures westward. “If you pass the stables, continue on the road until you reach the last row of houses before the river. Once there, just follow your nose. Ronn turned his house into a shop of mixtures and tonics, and there is always a smell wafting from his strange brews. Bright boy, if not a bit misguided. He has it in his head that he can craft potions comparable to the spells of Erastil’s faithful.” He sighs, “We all have things to learn. I just hope his ambition doesn’t get him into trouble. If you are going to visit him, send my kind regards.”
After a few minutes of stirring, he ladles four bowls full of stew and begins to carry them out to the feasting table, depositing clean eating utensils as well. His forehead creases slightly at the absence of the other two visitors, and calls from the table, “Food is ready.”
He stands, kindly gesturing that the four take their seats at the simple meal.
“Thank you. Hopefully my simple question won't go to the boy's head too much. And I'll be sure to pass along your well wishes,” she adds with a smile. Arms full, and making sure there's nothing else in the kitchen that needs carrying, she heads out to the table. At Donovan's comment, she notices that Mot and Themp are conspicuously absent. Beorae grabs the chair to Donovan's left and Shark curls up on the floor behind her.
Aw, damn. Well, they're gonna see Mot coming out of the Infirmary anyway, might as well call him out...
Shifting slowly from his place at the doorway to the table, slowly enough not to startle and fast enough to be perfectly noticed by the others, Themp shouts at nowhere in particular.
"Oy! Big man! Weren't you hungry? Food's on the table! If you don't hurry up, I might even eat your share!"
Noticing that Beorae had tried looking for them, but clearly failed to notice him, Themp throws, yet again, his signature wink at her. Then he turns to the priest.
"Father, this smell great! What is it, if you don't mind my asking?"
Nme'an too sits down at the table.
Still gingerly stepping, the warrior exits the adjoining room glaring at Themp. "Shh! Yoo blitherin dreep backle! Yool waek 'em with all this hoopin and hallerin!" He whispers furiously. Once fully in the room his nose detects what his companion had spoke of and all traces of ire vanishes from his face. With an eager grin he sits at an open spot and shovels a mouthful of stew into waiting gullet.
“Venison stew, child.” Donovan smiles at Themp, the rogue’s antics not missed by his old eyes.
“If you have other business to attend to tonight, I will not lock the door before turning in. However, as pointed out by Mot, there is another resting here. If you could keep your voices down when you return, I would appreciate it.”
The simple meal of bread, cheese, and venison stew passes with idle conversation with the priest, but before too long, Nme’an and Beorae agree that it is time to see Commander Morgan.
Navigating the streets is made a little easier due to their towering destination, but in truth it seems those who planned the roads and buildings of Brenan’s Crossing did not have efficient travel in mind. Nonetheless, in a few minutes, the adventurers meet the guards at the castle walls. When the Knight Apprentice’s rank is discovered, they are escorted inside the gate and into the castle. Built nothing like the grand fortress of Thaleniel, the four-turreted bailey is well-lit, and primarily comprised of stables, a storehouse, and a smithy. The corners of the masoned stone are rounded, and uneven in some places, but the walls are thick and tall. The keep rising from the center looms over the curtain walls and the rest of Brenan’s Crossing. A guard escorts the travelers through the gates of the stone tower and leads them up stairs, passing several of his fellow soldiers marching or standing at attention until he indicates that they wait a moment in the hall. He opens a simple wood door to the right, and after a brief exchange admits the visitors to the castle.
Entering a mess hall furnished with few long wood tables and many chairs, Nme’an and those behind him see a weathered man in heavy plate finishing his supper alone. The furniture is scarred and scuffed from years of armored diners, and another door is visible off to one side, presumably to the kitchen. The armored man takes a gulp from his metal tankard and clears his throat, wiping his thick moustache and beard with a gauntleted arm. The escorting guard stands at attention just inside the door.
The middle aged Commander sighs tiredly, a thin layer of grime covers his armor and face, perhaps from a day of riding. He looks up at his guests with alert eyes without rising from his seat.
“I am Commander Morgan,” he begins gruffly, “What is it?”
Suspecting that the Commander will be more amiable toward a paladin, Beorae hangs back a step with Shark and lets Nme'an start the conversation, but takes a moment to inspect their surroundings.
Exiting the temple Mot follows along for a couple blocks, picking venison from his teeth with the blade of his spearhead. Every few minutes he grumbles and scratches at where his new armor meets the skin. The leather seems to creak and groan with every movement the big man makes. "Och ye gorram armoor. Suppoosed ta be master maade." he quietly complains to any who will listen. Continuing on for a ways the scratching becomes unbearable and the warrior stops. Loosening the straps of the armor as best he can he says, "Goo on aheed, Ah need to find mea ae smith." At first chance the hulking, grousing, fellow splits off down a likely looking boulevard.
The druid notices a longsword and a dagger at the Commander’s belt. She also can hear the kitchen staff busy cleaning what is likely a mountain of dirty dishes.
Mot finds that the smithy in question on the other side of town, but the berserker makes good time thanks to the directions from a helpful passerby. However he is still some two hundred meters away when he sees the blacksmith step out and close the door behind him and lock it tight. From the look of it, he is closing up shop for the day.
"Pardon us for intruding. I am Nme'an, of the Order of the Dawnflower, and this Beorae Sevenstone of Deeproot. We are two of four companions sent out from Thaleniel a pair of days ago by Court Wizard Mortimer Dacius. He sent us on a two-fold mission: to seek a remedy for our sickened king, and to determine the fate of Prince Titus and his accompanying knights. We wanted to check in with you in the hopes you could provide us with any assistance."
Nme'an pauses for a brief moment then clarifies what he meant by assistance.
"I would ask if you saw the prince when he passed through? Rumor has it he continued on to Axton though if you could shed any light on his motives or situation that might be helpful. Additionally, I... I would ask..." Nme'an hesitates this time, even duplicating his words. His gaze turns to and lingers on his half-elf companion for a moment before he is able to pull it away and return it to the seated commander. "...ask if you have two capable soldiers you could spare to replace two of my companions. One is deceitful, unnecessarily sneaky, and has a past that has already come back to trouble us all, while the other, Ms. Sevenstone here, is resourceful and clever, but unfit, I'm afraid, for continuing on a journey that has already seen the disappearance of twenty one skilled knights."
"Sina shaka ushujaa au utashi wako, lakini mimi hofu kwa ajili ya usalama wako, Bi Sevenstone, na ile ya alitaka moja ya" the Paladin says softly to the Druid standing at his side.
What is he doing?!
Nme'an's sudden but inevitable betrayal hits Beorae like a swift kick to the gut. At the word “unfit,” her anger flares for only a moment before she regains her composure, but the druid's connection to her companion is strong and Shark reacts to the momentary flash of rage.
Hackles raising, the tiger crouches slightly, baring his fangs at the paladin and a single low, threatening snarl echoes off the stone walls of the mess hall. Standing a little taller and clenching her jaw, Beorae gives a gentle tug on Shark's leash, directing the tiger to stand down and channeling calm thoughts to her companion. The tiger sits back on his haunches and waits patiently as though nothing happened. The entire event lasts only an instant and is over before Nme'an can finish his sentence, but the druid is certain that the Commander—and Nme'an—missed nothing.
The paladin does not even get to finish his Elven blathering before Beorae steps forward and addresses the Commander. “I apologize, Commander. My friend here…,” she strains to use the word, “…tells the truth about our missions from Court Wizard Dacius, but I believe he speaks out of turn on the other matters. For my part, I do not plan on abandoning our directive.”
Nme'an grips the hilt of his longsword as the gray tiger becomes the raw expression of the Druidess' anger, and only releases it once it appears Shark is back under control.
"Siyo juu ya kutelekezwa ... Mimi nasema ya usalama wako." Nme'an says argumentatively. "Ishirini na moja ya ufalme ya Knights bora alishindwa kurudi. Ishirini na moja. Baadhi yao kusaidiwa mafunzo yangu, moja au mbili nipate hata kuwaita rafiki, na wote walikuwa ujuzi zaidi na mafunzo zaidi kuliko mimi, lakini hakuna hata mmoja wao akarudi. Mimi si hivyo hakika kwamba mimi ama ..." the Paladin admits. "Kwa kweli, mimi hofu gani kuweka mbele ... na gharama gani katika maisha jitihada hii watadai. Napenda badala yake kuwa na maisha yangu na si yako ..."
Nme'an's statement hangs in the air for a moment, until he speaks again, firmly saying, "Na, wakati mimi na wasiwasi kwa usalama wako, mimi pia ni wasiwasi ajili ya ustawi wa ujumbe. Wamiliki pongezi ushujaa na akili, Bi Sevenstone, lakini naamini ujumbe huu itakuwa bora kutumikia pamoja na nguvu na nidhamu askari mafunzo itakuwa na uwezo wa kutoa katika nafasi yako. Kama wasiwasi wangu kwa usalama wako ni kutosha kwa ajili yenu kwa upya, wasiwasi wangu kwa matokeo ya ujumbe huu muhimu lazima."
Turning back to Commander Morgan, Nme'an apologizes. "Ms. Sevenstone is likely correct that I spoke out of turn, but I believe my reasoning to be sound. To allow her, or the young rogue who accompanies us, to continue on this quest might very well be akin to throwing their lives away. They each possess many useful talents, but a talent for combat is not among them. What is best for the mission is the path each of us should take, and I hold firm in my stance that the mission would better be served by those truly prepared to fight for our king and kingdom."
"It is not about abandonment... I speak of your safety. " Nme'an says argumentatively. "Twenty one of the kingdom's finest knights failed to return. Twenty one. Some of them helped train me, one or two I might even call friends, and all of them had more skill and training than I, yet none of them returned. I am not so confident that I will either..." the Paladin admits. "In truth, I fear what lays ahead... and what cost in life this quest will demand. I would rather it be my life and not yours..."
Nme'an's statement hangs in the air for a moment, until he speaks again, firmly saying, "And, while I am concerned for your safety, I am also concerned for the wellbeing of the mission. You possess commendable bravery and intellect, Ms. Sevenstone, but I believe this mission would be better served with the strength and discipline a trained soldier would be able to provide in your place. If my concern for your safety is not enough for you to reconsider, my concern for the outcome of this important mission should be."
As Mot separates from the band, Themp finds his excuse to avoid the Guards' barracks. However, the way the highlander does it lightens up the street rat's mischievous mood.
As soon as the big man is out of earshot, Themp excuses himself from the rest of the band. "My lady, Mr Worrisome, if you excuse me, I have certain... obligations to attend to."
Threading lightly, Themp then scurries after Mot, careful not to alert of his presence.
Seeing the armorer closing shop Mot sprints down the street. Reaching the closed door a meaty fist knocks as politely as a one can, using a stone against timbers. "Och! Mr Smith! Ah need yoor halp! Ahve coin and goods a plenty ta maek it woorth yoor while!"
Indifference and stoicism are values drilled into the attitudes of soldiers and officers alike, and nothing callouses a man like warfare. Still, Nme'an suspects that Commander Morgan is willing to help him, within reason. After all, Morgan is responsible for much long the Emestar River. He does not strike Nme'an as careless or impractical.
The commander coolly brings his hand from his hilt when he sees the tiger back under control. His eyes linger on the beast a moment longer, until the Elven tongue rolls from Nme'an's mouth, at which he looks up at the knight apprentice in annoyance. Still, he is quiet until the two are finished speaking, and he lets the silence hang a moment longer as he takes another sip from his cup.
“Prince Titus dined at this very table, with nineteen other knights, just before autumn's first moon. According to the prince and his comrades, one of their number succumbed to a poisoned arrow from a band of brigands they routed on the way here. The rest of them seemed to be in good health, some with the thought of a fallen friend still fresh in their minds. Such is the way of battle, though.”
The wood creaks as he leans back in his seat, regarding Nme'an before continuing. “Since the disappearance of the prince and his men, I've sent patrols further than I dared, for fear of sparking another kobold warpath, or worse. My trackers tell me the knights rode north into the Blackcrag Pass, but beyond that, I do not know their fate. Traveling through that damned ravine would be inadvisable with heavy horse and heavy plate, had I known the prince's intentions.”
“Your reasoning is reminiscent of his, Sir Nme'an, and leading a score of heavy cavalry does not grant the same experience as decades of commanding skirmishes and patrols. Tell me this, Sir: can you fight poison with a sword? Does your shield protect you from the winter's chill? I suspect that your court wizard realized that sending twenty knights on this mission was akin to using a sledgehammer to pick a lock, and sought out those skilled outside of combat when the knights evidently failed.”
He raises a gnarled finger at the pair. “And it is much easier for a company of four to travel unnoticed through enemy lands than a company of twenty. If I were to lend two of my men to replace such skills, would it not mirror the Order of the Dawnflower's first endeavor?”
Beorae unclenches her jaw and lets out a long, slow sigh of relief as the Commander shows reason and reinforces the point that Nme'an seems to be missing.
Nodding a small thanks to the Commander for his wisdom, she decides to keep to business, “What can you tell us about this Blackcrag Pass? I'm not familiar with the place.”
Nme'an blinks, not really sure what just happened. His request seemed undeniably strong when he spoke it, yet the Commander maneuvered past it with well practiced ease to a... now... more apparent truth. Nme'an's face reddens in embarrassment as he nods slightly, acknowledging Commander Morgan's wisdom. He even tries to take a small step back, attempting to show extra deference to his angered travel companion as she begins speaking, but only accomplishes bumping into the wall behind himself by accident.
“Bugger your coin and goods, you should’ve come by earlier today!” a rough voice shouts, muffled by the distance from the door. At the following silence, it seems as though Mot is out of luck. A few moments later, a stout, surly man throws open the door, expecting to glare at someone as tall as he. Such is his mood, the grumpy blacksmith is unfazed by the giant of a highlander that waits at his doorstep. “What do you want?”
The druid recalls one bit of lore she heard about the Blackcrag Pass: that the cliffs were once and forever charred by dragonfire ages past. If there is any truth to that lore is unknown.
Commander Morgan nudges his empty plate and utensils away, and answers the druid. “I’ve not been near the pass in a few weeks. If that is where the king’s cure lies, or beyond that, I will tell you that your best chance of survival will be the use of stealth. The Blackcrag Pass is a narrow ravine, walled by sheer black cliffs. Kobold tribes live around the base of Armaag’s Peak, and they watch the pass closely. Little foliage grows between the rock face, so only the seldom stone overhangs and sharp turns in the pass will serve as cover.”
The grizzled officer drains his cup and ponderously returns it to the table. “Stealth is not one of my strongest suits, so I have not personally ventured far into the Blackcrag Pass without meeting opposition.”
Mot smiles down at the man before pointing to the, by now dried, wolf skin covering his head and shoulders. "Ah woold haev coom earlier, but Ah was bein' eeten bah woolves." The warrior states as if it were a normal days chore. Picking at the straps of his armor he continues. "Tha theeves in Thalanial tried ta teel mea tha thes was mastercraaft. But Ah dinnae beleeve tha blaggards! Jus look!" At this Mot inhales deeply and flexes, the still tight leather creaks and groans loudly in protest. "Et haas noo give, Ah need soomething that lets mea moove!" He pulls out a sack, still heavy with his winnings from the tournament. "Naow yoo look lahk ae prooper master tah mea! Ah'll pay yoo handsoomley for et tooo." He jingles the hefty bag in a manner he hopes is enticing.
"Themp, our... rogue... would be able to pull it off undetected and Ms. Sevenstone here along with Mot, our Beserker, might have a chance to sneak past, but I myself would not," Nme'an says, clanking his armor extra loudly for emphasis as he steps back into the conversation. "Commander, might there be some way for me to cause a distraction and draw some of the Koblods out of position while the rest of my party sneaks by unnoticed? If, as you say, each of our four has a purpose, perhaps mine is to provide a means to allow the others to cross safely."
“Hm. So perhaps it is you who is unfit for this mission?”
The twinkling jest in the Commander’s betrays his stern, hard face. After a moment his expression furrows in concern at Nme’ans suggestion. “Passage through the ravine will take several hours, perhaps all day if all of you move carefully. I do not think a single diversion will guarantee the safety of your companions. Though I commend your bravery, if it is your charge to protect your comrades then I encourage you to not be too eager for self sacrifice. The narrow winding road is many miles long, too many places for those nasty lizardfolk to spring from a hiding place. Perhaps your small company can exploit these places and hope for the best.”
“A small, lone kobold is hardly a threat -but they are aware of this weakness and try to overwhelm their enemies with large numbers. Also, be wary of the crude and devious traps they might lay in absence of keeping watch. I’ve lost a enough men to spiked pitfalls and falling rocks in the pass, that I am loathe to allow anyone else to repeat my mistake.”
The plate armor clanks as he rises, standing a hand short of six feet. With the slightest limp he marches to the exit of the mess hall. By his tired demeanor, it is plain he has more business to attend to before getting his much needed rest. He stops and turns to the half-elves. “Do you have any further questions?”
The blacksmith’s scowl deepens as he sizes up the giant before him. Without a word he waves him inside before moving deeper into his darkened shop to light a lantern. “Close the door behind you, it’s bloody chilly out there.”
The walls of the shop display finely crafted swords, axes, and shields. Against the back wall, a set of heavy plate, scale mail, and chainmail hang on display, but the craftsman stoops behind his counter and plops a shirt of woven chain onto the countertop. The highlander does not need to study the shirt for long to know that it is too small for him to wear.
“This will give you the movement you want, just know that it might weigh you down a bit more.”
The blacksmith takes a string with evenly-spaced knots and measures the size of Mot’s torso, neck, shoulders, and arms. “I’ll have to refit the chain, but I can have it ready by morning. Working into the night will cost you extra, though if I take your mastercraft leather armor and wolf, uh, hat, it will discount the price to…” he pauses a moment, calculating with his fingers, “one hundred eighty gold coins.”
As he names his price, the blacksmith glances at Mot’s heavy bag of coin.
"Thank you for your time, Commander." She pauses for a moment, considering whether or not to burden the obviously busy Commander with more troubles. "There's just one other thing that you may already know about, but it would be remiss of us to neglect mentioning that we were set upon by a werewolf and his pack on the road from Thaleniel this morning. Fortunately for us, and thanks to Nme'an here, we were able to defend ourselves, but I regret to say that the werewolf himself fled and I fear that other travelers may not be so lucky."
Propping himself against the wall of the blacksmith, mere inches from the door, Themp patiently waits on the outside, mischievous thoughts no longer filling his mind, now that the chill has gotten to him.
He can't, however, help himself from trying to eavesdrop.