The two scholars seem cautious, though not unfriendly. The taller of the two says, "Well met, Samoon." He speaks with the careful, nearly accentless style of a native of Light. "What may we do for you?"
"No requests made of you," says Samoon, flashing a smile. "Any news on the road? We're out of Forge, headed home to Rokerenge."
Wamblee continues plowing through his breakfast.
"All well?", he asks nearby family members in between bites.
Mother smiles in response to Wamblee's question, but her face is worn. "Waking up alone without Hotah was terrible." She reaches for all of your hands. "But having my children here is a blessing. Thank you all for sticking together through all this."
Samoon, the taller of the two speaks again. "We're out of Forge ourselves, so nothing you haven't seen, but I heard the farmers talking," he indicates the oreads, "and there's a tree down on the road northwest, could be the road you'll be on." He shrugs. "Or you could get lucky, maybe it's on a different path. Besides that, just the same rumors of bandits, darkspawn, and phoenixes." He gives a tentative smile.
Albreane comes down last, while Samoon is over at the sylph's table. She seems composed, considering the previous day. She sits next to Marianne. Her brick red hair is worn loose. Rather than the functional dress she was wearing at her office yesterday, she is now dressed in traveling garb with a ruffle here or there.
"So we'll get home this evening. Which means I guess we'll start our little adventure tomorrow morning?"
"The Darkspawn isn't a rumor," says Samoon with a frown. "Be aware out there. Pardon me, I have to go do the rounds at my family table. I hope you'll have another moment before we go."
He trots back and bids Albreane a good morning. "Did you sleep well?" Unsure what to do, he goes and gets bread for everyone and then looks somewhat futilely for a chair.
”Tomorrow seems best, I get the feeling that there is going to be... I don’t know, but I doubt it will be good. Best to poke this particular bee hive while rested.”
Albreane nods, not looking at Samoon. "Well enough." She takes one of the rolls, then stands up. "We should head out soon. I'm going to get my things."
Samoon now has an empty chair to sit in.
Wamblee gladly accepts his mother's touch.
"Of course, mother. How could we do otherwise?"
Samen, you feel the eyes of most of the patrons slide your way one or twice, owing to your tattoos. No one says anything, but their regard is a constant, unwanted companion.
Samen finishes his breakfast in peace. Quiet unwanted attention is miles ahead of active unwanted attention.
When he's done, he goes outside to help prepare the wagon for the rest of the journey.
Samoon slides into Albreane's chair like a very guilty cat, lowering his head and eating silently. He begins to scratch out formulae in his bread, muttering to himself.
Wamblee finishes his breakfast and begins to pack up.
Marianne finishes her meal and helps the others ready the wagon before plopping herself into te passenger seat next to Albreane and starting up another conversation with her.
As you leave the inn, the innkeep gives you a nod at the door. The soldier's rough voices, singing a particularly vulgar rendition of What Can You Do With a Cracked Rusty Pot? play you out the door.
The smell of the pogona's morning meal wafts out of the stables - a mash of old meat, insects, and grain, liberally spiced with the peperoncinos that are known to keep the lizards moving in cold weather. The aroma is eye-watering to those unused to it.
Between the lot of you, the wagon is hitched up in admirable time. The morning is cold, but not bitterly so. The overcast sky hides the darkness above, and mutes Volcano's peaklight to a tepid gray-orange.
Marianne, you notice two things within a heartbeat of each other - first, that one of the pogonas is bleeding slightly, probably from one of its feet; second, you just caught a glimpse of a wolf on a far off (though closer than you would like) hill.
Marianne’s eyes flash towards the woods, watching carefully. ”Everyone out of the wagon! Wolves in the woods, and one of the pogonas is injured,” she calls back, bow ready as always.
Uncle grumbles, hauling himself out of the wagon. After the incident with the poisonous white dream, he knows he is the only one with healing knowledge, so he immediately sets to finding the pogona's injury. "Give me a good earth bull that doesn't spring leaks like this..."
Samoon hops out, his fingers ready to quickly concoct a bomb. "Which direction, Marianne?" he says, quietly, scanning the trees.
Samen raises an eyebrow. "You're suggesting wolves laid an ambush for us? I expect they'll have handlers nearby." Regardless, he hops out too, prepared to hit something with a stick.
Albreane is doing her best to keep the pogonas under control, but they make ugly guttural noises and try to pull away as they smell the wolves and hear the sharp urgency in all of your voices. She tugs on the reins, but-
They suddenly slip from her grasp, and the wagon lurches into motion. Uncle, who was just standing up from binding the wounds of the right-hand pogona, is knocked down by the wagon. He lays face-down, motionless, on the cold ground. Albreane curses loudly and leans over, trying to recapture the reins as the wagon moves.
”I’ve got the pogonas! Try and keep up!” Marianne laughs, launching herself at the runaway cart.
Samen stands motionless as he watches the wagon run away. If there really is an ambush imminent, there's no sense exhausting himself chasing the thing like a fool.
After a bit, he shakes his head and chuckles. He moseys over to his uncle and rolls him over, checking if he's still breathing.
Once in the carriage, Marianne’s hand snaps out, catching at the reins as she awkwardly sits down in the rapidly moving cart. ”Glad you came along yet?” she quips at Albreane somewhat breathlessly.
Wamblee says to the others:
Protect Uncle. I will see to Mar and Bree."
And he chases after the wagon.
Wamblee attempts to dodge the wolves. If he can get clear, he will keep running after the wagon.
Marianne hauls at the reins, trying to get the pogonas under control, but she has trouble getting a good enough grip.
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"... They're not coming back, are they? You think the wolves would leave us alone if we left Uncle for them?"
Anticipating his brother's response, he sighs and raises his stick menacingly toward the wolves.
Samoon lobs another bomb at the wolves.
Wamblee runs for the wagon and leaps onto the back of it, shouting:
"It's Wamblee!"
So as not to scare them.
Marianne laughs as she heard Wamblee’s voice behind her, the wind whipping her hair far more than it should be at their speed. ”Come to join the fun then?!” she calls back, even as she continues to haul at the reins.
Round 2 Results!
Marianne, your attempts on the reins actually seems to agitate the pogona, to the point where it runs off the road. It swerves to avoid colliding with a thick, barren tree, which in turn causes the wagon to careen directly into the same tree.
Albreane rolls onto the ground. She seems unhurt. You hear a grunt of pain and a thud from inside the wagon - Mother likely didn't know the crash was coming.
---
Wamblee had almost caught up with the wagon. It suddenly veers off the road and crashes. A split second later, two more wolves leap out of the brush to the north, flanking and attacking you.
One wolf bites you on the leg, the other snaps at your hand. However, their teeth do not penetrate your skin, and instead make a high-pitched scratching sound, like knives upon a chalkboard.
With a reflex born of your daily training, you strike out with a fist,
but you miss. Your balance seems slightly off, as if your body is heavier than you at used to.
---
Samen, the two wolves in the east flank you. With your readied action, you swing down with both hands, directly connecting with the wolf's skull. It falls limp to the ground.
After a brief hesitation, the remaining wolf attacks you,
but misses, more focused on keeping away from your staff.
---
Wamblee feels the impacts and hears the scratching of wolf teeth against his skin.
It *has* grown harder. But I will need to do more than endure blows to achieve victory here.
He steps back, drawing his double-chained kama as he does so, thus escaping having a wolf on opposite ends of him.
And then he stamps the ground, disrupting the very earth.
Once per day, an oread with this racial trait can will the earth to rumble and shift, transforming a 10-foot-radius patch of earth, unworked stone, or sand into an area of difficult terrain, centered on an area the oread touches. This lasts for a number of minutes equal to the oread’s level, after which the ground returns to normal. This racial trait replaces the spell-like ability racial trait.
As the wolves attempt to close in on Wamblee, they stumble on what had been even ground. And Wamblee sees an opening to use against one of them.
Marianne rolls off the truck, calling to Mother as she does. ”Mother, are you all right?! Albreane and I were both knocked off, so it is likely best if you jump out yourself at this point!” The ranger lands awkwardly, twisting her ankle painfully. Probably should have focused on the landing, she thinks ruefully. Ignoring the injury for now, Marianne picks her target, firing at the larger wolf across the road that hasn’t engaged anyone yet.
"Ah good. They are waiting for us!"
Samen tries to crack the skull of the other wolf.
Marianne, you take a shot at the wolf to the northeast. The beast is indeed bigger than the others. Old Bretrude mentioned this behavior once - the pack leader is waiting for the first sign of weakness in the prey, then going in for a death blow.
At first, your shot seems to be destined for failure; it feels completely wrong, veering sharply to the right. Frustrated, you whisper a name that you have had on your mind and your heart since you read the latest inscription of the Sky scroll. Zephyr. Coming from your anger, it seems half-blessing, half-curse.
A huge gust of wind suddenly blows past you, putting your hair in disarray. Your errant arrow changes trajectory in a lazy arc, headed back towards the leader's eye...