At the site of the big trollkin charging up the road, complete chaos erupts. The girl, probably around eight or nine years old, immediately lets out an ear-piercing scream and runs behind one of the women. The scream immediately sets the dogs barking and the sheep into a stampede down the road. The panicked mutton isn't much threat to the big trollkin or even Ibrox, but Snicker's frog eyes open wide in surprise as he rounds the corner only to find six big, wild-eyed sheep and their heavy hooves charging toward him .
The boy, maybe a year or two older, pulls out a knife and stands protectively in front of the youngest woman, who judging from her similar features and hair color might actually be a sister. The young woman pulls the boy to her side and brandishes her own thick rowan quarterstaff, ready for a fight. The second woman puts her single arm around the girl child attempting to offer comfort and protection. The oldest woman, pulls a sturdy looking hatchet from her belt and wears a grim, determined look on her scarred face.
"We'll not yield without a fight you reaver filth!" She says vehemently. "I'll not be a slave to anyone, nor will I let you take these little ones."
Assured by Finnigan's reading and interpretation of Vrindel's sudden desire to hurry ahead, Aterro, Zove, and Trevor let the trollkin and Ibrox run off ahead. All seems well until moments after the two disappear into the trees and around a bend in the road. Moments later the once peaceful forest erupts in a cacophony of noise and shouting. The blood curling scream of a young child is quickly followed by dogs barking and sheep bleating in clear fright and panic. There's at least one raised voice, not that of Vrindel or Ibrox. It's too far to hear clearly, but the word's 'reaver,' 'slave,' and 'little ones' can be heard over the din of noise.
"Oy! On your toes, mates! As your Dancing Bear Wilderness Guide I must inform you, I have clearly detected some danger ahead! Vrindel must have stumbled upon some reaver sheep and their canine slaves whilst answering nature's call. Have your wits about you!"
Drawing his dagger and crossbow and crouching low, he stalks around the bend.
Ibrox skids to stop behind Vrindel and reverently prays, "Ibrox."
Then, his smile broadens and greets the shepherds with raised open hands, "Well, hello there. As you can see, my tall green friend and I are certainly not reavers. My trollkin friend is called Vrindel and thought he heard someone in danger up here, so that's why we've run into you. You can call me Ibrox, and we have four slower companions behind us. Nothing to worry about."
"Are you alright? We're on our way to Nargenstal. We've a letter of introduction to Britta Gleamgaurd, the owner of the Frost Maiden Inn. I'm a magician and cartographer and make maps." He forms a small illusion of a map of the area between his hands in blue lines.
= 18
Once the Trollkin sees the lack of immediate threat, he stops and with his best snaggle toothed smile shows hid empty hands. He starts to say something several times, but each time Ibrox continues his monologue.
Finally he finds opportunity to get a word in edgewise.
"As my friend says... we are not threat to you. In fact we would be of aid if we could. You seem to be on a journey... have these Reavers driven you from you home"?
Persuasion
”Oy there! Point me to the reavers! I bested their leader in bare knuckle fisticuffs once and I’ll do it again, for the good of all freedom loving people!”
Finnigan trains his crossbow into the branches of the trees as if expecting dwarfs to jump out.
The women lower their guard slightly as both Ibrox and Vrindel manage to calm the travelers initial surprise. The little girls screams of terror suddenly transform into squeals of delight and excitement as her eyes catch Snicker leaping high above the the running sheep.
"Oooooh! Froggy!" She exclaims, deftly slipping away from the one armed woman and running up to where the starry-eyed frog landed near the side of the road. Her hand reaches out to try and grab the fascinating amphibian but at that moment Aterro, Finnigan, Trevor, and eventually Zove come racing around the corner weapons drawn and bristling for a brawl.
There's another scream from the girl which judging by how grating and ear-piercing the sound, if somehow harnessed it likely has the power and modulation to pierce the fabric of the entire space time continuum. On top of the scream, dogs resume the mad barking, sheep continue to bleat and scatter, and the older woman curses vehemently rebrandishing her weapon.
"Pretty words trying to make our capture easier?" She says with a snarl as the warriors come into sight. "Should've known not to trust a pair such as you. Troll blood and one of Grandmothers cursed, an evil combination for certain."
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"WHAT? A Troll?! Show him to me! SHOW ME THE VILE TROLL AND I SHALL REND HIS HEAD FROM HIS SHOULDERS IN NAME OF THOR!" Aterro cries, his tactical mind dismissing everything he's facing as Not A Threat and spinning around feverishly looking for the vile eight-foot-tall, bare-handed and regenerating troll.
"I reckon they're speaking about our druid here. Vrindel, mate, I honestly hadn't noticed you were a troll. Marvellous! Fancy that. Well, carry on then."
Finnigan strokes his chin in bemusement. He was learning a lot about cultural and ethnic diversity.
Vrindel looks at the situation, and hangs his head. "If you do not trust me and my motivations then I will make things easy for you... I'll just leave".
The big trollkin looks sad, but he is used to the rejection, and you can't force people to like you or even give you a chance. He skirts the party of shepherds, and continues his journey past them.
The women's eyes all grow wide as Zove steps into the scene, her shadow fey features drawing their attention like moths to flame. First to recover from her initial shock, the old woman delivers a shrill whistle that immediately stops the dogs barking and the child's screaming. The sheep, somewhat more oblivious and obstinate continue to wander about the nearby woods giving off the occasional 'baaaa.'
The woman taps her hatchet lightly against her palm as she listens to Zove's ramblings. Fortunately Snicker manages to muffle the shadow fey before she can go further into details that may not paint your heroic band in the best light. Neither Aterro or Finnigan do much to ease her expression that is easily reflective of her rapidly growing belief that her little group has stumbled upon a band of dark and devious mischief makers.
Her narrowed eyes flick back and forth between trollkin, gnome, shadow fey, bootless, axe wielding teenager, bar ruffian, and crazed worshipper of an even crazier god. Finally she seems to come to some decision. "No, you aren't reavers, I'm fairly certain." She says. "But I doubt you're up to any good. Probably have something to do with the strangeness of last night." She adds, eyes focusing again on Zove and her fey features. "But if you are as you say, you'll let us pass and be on our way. In fair exchange, we'll warn you to avoid Nargenthal if that truly is your destination. Reavers have landed and taken up residence. Likely until the weather turns. Unless you wish to join their slave crews, you'd be best served heading a different direction."
"Actually, we bury reavers..." Trevor says as he steps out of the way to let them pass through, his back still aching and complaining from the stones he carried, while he glares at Vrindel.
"You wouldn't be selling boots by any chance?" he asks feebly.
Aggravated that the woman did not understand him when he clearly said that he had four companions joining him and Vrindel, but he doesn't show it with a cheerful smile. "Before we part ways, would you please describe what 'strangeness of last night' you saw."
The old woman shakes her head when Trevor asks about boots. "No. No boots to sell, just what we've got on our feet." She says. "And before you ask, no we won't go barefoot just because you lost yours gambling or some such thing. Besides it's clear your feet are way too big for anything we'd be wearing."
She then shakes her head and mutters something about shadow fey and end of the world, giving Zove a wide berth as she restarts her march down the road.
The little girl points at Snicker giggling while being scooped up in the arms of the younger woman who moves quickly to catch up with the old woman, dogs and sheep. "Funny froggy." She says with another giggle. "Wanna pet the froggy." She adds trying to squirm away but can't escape the arms of the older girl as they hurry along with the old woman.
Meanwhile the one-armed woman, shakes her head at the others harsh words and apparent rudeness. "Please excuse my aunt." She says in a kind, gentle voice. "She's usually pretty mistrusting of strangers even in the best of times. And well....well...these aren't good times at all. With reavers back in Nargenthal and the fact they killed both my uncle Jonah and my two cousins only a few years ago in another raid...." She trails off with a shrug. "But to be fair, there are trollkin among the crew that just landed, so not so big a mistake when you think about it."
She looks sadly to where the others are starting to disappear around the bend. "You mentioned Britta, she's a friend and I think she is well, although I haven't seen her since the raid. If you find her, tell her that Annolin went south with Tyyrea, Sigreid and the little ones."
"Annie! Annolinn, are you coming girl!" The old woman shouts back over her shoulder. "I'll not wait for your foolish whims girl, we've got miles to go yet."
The girl winces and brushes a lock of dark hair from a tired, but pretty face. Letting out a deep sigh, she shouts back but then looks back at Ibrox. "The hot wind, strange howling or moaning sounds echoing through the woods, then some kind of....darkness....cold, cold, darkness that you could feel passing by heading north." She shivers slightly and closes her green eyes for a moment. "Something evil was about in the night. Fortunately, Lada kept watch over us and it passed us by." She looks ahead as the last animal disappears around the corner. "I must go, but I wish you good luck on your journey. Remember Britta for me."
She rushes off to catch up with the others.
Finnigan shudders dramatically in response to Annolin's description of the cold darkness.
"Shiver me bloody timbers. She tells the tale so well I felt the chill in my own bones. Look, zove my hairs are standing on end like they did when I first saw you with those horns of yours... Golden bloody hells. You might have let the little one pet the frog though. Honestly..."
He contemplates what he's heard.
"So they left Nargenstal fleeing reavers and passed something much worse on the road south. And we're headed right into both..."
"Lots of pairs of boots there," Ibrox comments as the family and flock of sheep pass him. He hopes that his companions assume that he only refers to the sheep.
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Aterro had blundered into the woods, smashing trees left and right, gone blood-drunk at the mention of trolls, one of Thor's chief hated enemies.
Only now he came out, breathing hard and covered with foliage, disappointed that the stupid woman must have seen phantoms in the trees, but sated that there were no trolls about, and at least that is a good thing.
"Well, let's be about it. We'll never get there if we stop to pet every sheep in the road."
Vrindel walks up to Brother Aterro after his fit of rage.
"If you don't quit hurting innocent trees... you and I will have a problem".
He then takes the time to enter the trail of destruction, and do what he can to heal the trees.
The sound of the little band of sheep, women and children slowly fades to the south as they continue on their way.
By late in the day the rain finally stops and there are a few breaks in the dense cloud cover, but the chill wind continues to blow from the northwest. For the last few hours the road has meandered away from the coast over rolling hills and scrublands further inland. Now as it starts to twist back to the west it passes through another stretch of forest. From your current vantage in the hills, it is easy to spot a faint plume of smoke rising from somewhere beyond the wood.
The sun is already well on its way toward the western horizon, but with a hard march there may be enough light left in the day to reach whatever the smoke plume marks before night sets in.
Ibrox happily continues to chart their way by taking notes of landmarks when they take breaks for water and to rest Trevor's toes.
"If that smoke is Nargenstal, we should take our time. Either approach at night, or camp arriving at dawn." The orange-haired gnome suggests.
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"To quote a wise man, 'Why else would me patron, Thor, strike down so many trees each year with his mighty lightnin' if they weren't Evil?'
So too, there is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt," Aterro replies to the tree-hugging druid, all his preconceptions about druids firmly proven.
Later, at the sight of smoke, Aterro nods at Ibrox. "If you be right, and beseems you have the right of it, that smoke has been burning a week or more.
We'll be of no use to the town tired and in the dark.
We could make camp here, get going just before dawn, and arrive fresh and with maximum daylight...
...to measure out righteousness."
"I'd like to rest, yes. That would be great." says Trevor and sets down his kit and sits down in the middle of the trail, exhausted from the long walk, his feet pulsing.
"Trevor, not in the middle of the road, lad. That's no way to camp. I recommend this place off the beaten path..."
>>>Brother Aterro
"There is a balance of everything. The old trees must burn and die sometimes in order to make room for new growth... but unless you have ascended to godhood since the trip began, that's not for you to decide".
The big Trollkin turns his attention to helping Finnigan pick out a camping spot.
Survival
"I don't know Finnigan. This side of the road is much more level, and free of rocks".
Somehow in his spat with Aterro Vrindel misses the giant colony of fire ants in the spot he picked out.
Fortunately Finnigan manages to spot the big mound of debris and the ants crawling all around it. The scouts points out an alternative camp site not far into the woods. It sits near a lovely pool of water partially covered in lily pads and surrounded by lush skunk cabbage and mossy rocks. A picturesque location.
All seems well as evening sets in. Frogs croak as the robins sing their final songs of the day. Dry wood for the fire is tough to find, but eventually enough is gathered to get a blaze burning well enough to cook and stay somewhat warm. As the flames crackle and sizzle, the last rays of sun disappear.
Trevor suddenly feels a bite on his arm and slaps the offending bug. A good sized mosquito that leaves a red splotch where the teenagers meaty hand landed. Moments later, Aterro curses and slaps at his neck feeling the pinprick bite of one of the little bloodsucking creatures. Soon enough everyone is slapping and cursing as the air grows thick with mosquitos. The annoying insects with their high pitched whining and thirst for blood are everywhere biting at arms, legs, necks, hands. Pretty much any exposed skin. The only respite being the smoke from the campfire or simply crawling deep enough into the blankets and hoping the creatures won't be able to reach through the heavier cloth.
Ibrox awakes in the morning and performs his routine camp chores: making water, repacking his gear, and collecting firewood. Now, he magically starts the fire with snap of his fingers.
"No wonder last night was so uncomfortable. We slept on a patch of lemon leaf. We were far more attractively edible than those plants."
Trevor winces and dives deep into the blankets, hugging the fire and the smoke, but he is too tired to care much beyond that. Soon enough, sleep takes him and he snores loudly with pleasure, his feet well off the ground and pointed at the heat of the flame, moved by the same energy that draws mosquitoes to blood.
Finnigan tosses and turns all night, scratching and cursing. Bleary eyed in the morning he misses his drink more than ever.
"Vrindel, what does your green faith have to say about intoxicating libations? Are they frowned upon? No, never mind you. Zove! My dear Zove, have you any charms and incantations capable of making mead from rain water? Surely the courts from which you came are places of indulgent merriment? A little sip is all I require you see... in order to forget the worries of the day and get a fit nights sleep!"
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After slaying a levy of annoying insects, Aterro gives it up as vain. He is inured to more discomfort than they can bring, and he'll get no sleep in the worrying of it.
As he nods off he wonders briefly if Fin's question would not have been better directed at one who actively followed a being known for his ever-flowing tankard of mead. But Aterro had no way of re-producing the feat...though that might be a thing with researching.
And Zove has handled the situation impeccably anyway, so no harm done.
INT: (Nature)
Vrindel is bothered by the most vicious mosquitoes he's ever experienced. Usually his leathery skin protects him, but these are particularly vicious.
"It looks like Aterro should pick our campsites going forward. It seems both Finn and I have failed in this duty".
CON SAVE
However somehow he is able to sleep through the constant biting and buzzing and gets a good nights rest.
[dice=Con]1d20+1
Finnigan tosses and turns all night, scratching and cursing. Bleary eyed in the morning he misses his drink more than ever.
"Vrindel, what does your green faith have to say about intoxicating libations? Are they frowned upon? No, never mind you. Zove! My dear Zove, have you any charms and incantations capable of making mead from rain water? Surely the courts from which you came are places of indulgent merriment? A little sip is all I require you see... in order to forget the worries of the day and get a fit nights sleep!"
Vrindel looks thoughtfully at Finn the next morning, and carefully considers his words before answering.
"Most intoxicating things come from nature itself. As, sweet things ferment they become naturally alcoholic. And some animals find this attractive and themselves become drunk... however, I've always been a fan of having a clear head, and find that reasoning is muddied with that factor added in".
The big Trollkin rises to his feet and extends a hand to help Finnegan rise as well."If you choose to inebriate yourself that is a personal choice, but you must live with the ramifications if your state endangers others. It is natural, so by nature not evil".
Finnigan is still lying on his side propped up on one elbow as he listens to Vrindel while the camp stirs.
"Personal choice indeed! That is what the people of Krakova should have as well. The right to rule themselves! And I've seen what it is you mean about ramifications and consequences. You see, last night in the wee hours before dawn, Mistress Zove gave me a sampling of the mead from the Shadow Courts. I'll tell you something strange you may not have known before now... those shadow fey take their ale in powdered form by the nose! I wonder what else is different in those curious courts. You know, come to think of it, I've never seen her home on any map. Curious indeed. At any rate, I haven't slept so well in weeks. But the bloodsucking drones seem to have drank their fill while I slumbered. My skin is on fire! I tell you, any creature what drinks blood is no friend of mine. I hope Aterro swats that dhampir when we meet him so I can see him go splaaat!"
Although the bugs are annoying and persistent, most of party manages to deal with the pests well enough to get at least a minimal amount of sleep. Morning brings another chilly day, this time accompanied by a dense fog that leaves everything damp and quiet. Or quiet except for Finnigan's constant chatter, which is a bit unusual compared to the scouts usual morning grumbling and moaning.
You set out and the road ahead quickly vanishes into the swirling mists while the trees are ghostly sentinels lining either side. Everything is socked in solid by the fog and it is hard to get a real sense of how far or even in what direction you've traveled. On the brighter side, the fog seems to have driven the mosquitos and other insects away for the time being offering a welcome respite following the previous nights constant annoyances.
Just then you hear the snap of a branch and something like a whisper in a low, rumbling voice from not far ahead. To feint to make out any words, but it had the sound of authority and maybe a bit of menace as well.
Trevor slept deeply, yet, when he wakes, his heart lies uneasy. He recalls strange dreams, drowning, being saved by a tree, only to be hit by lightning, then resurrected as a vampire lord to rule over Krakova...
The truth is that his faith has been trampled. He swore to uphold Khors' tenants and act as the chivalrous paladins that galloped through the pages of the cheap novels that his boss would leave behind when he was done reading. These idealistic knights seemed to do everything right and their swords always missed at the right time to make him worry, and aimed true just as evil was about to have its way. They were clever, handsome, righteous, virtuous, yet they always got some and it was all right because they were knightly about it. They were what he wished to be. They were the opposite of who he was.
Scratching himself, Trevor sits and massages his feet. The last days of walking had taken their tolls and his feet felt flat. Plus, somehow, the mosquitoes had managed to dig through his socks, and his soles were itchy, on fire. Tears welled up, but he pushed them back.
He missed home, but then again, home was gone, he remembered, and that was partly because he had not been like the knights of Khors. He had taken good money and looked the other way.
Taking a deep breath, he looks around and sees Vrindel and Aterro, men of faith, both. They were more like the knights in the books. They were certain, they were clear, they were solid, they were successful, they were... They were what he wanted to be...
Moving from sitting to kneeling, Trevor takes a moment to pray, as the light of the sun filters through the trees to warm his soul, asking Khors for courage.
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As Aterro was patiently re-packing his backpack, he notices Trevor being...what could be called 'unusually introspective'. Quite simply, Attero had never seen him praying, or even being quiet, for that matter.
Moved by such a glimmer of faith, the armored saint moves next to the erstwhile paladin and takes a knee, the head of his heavy hammer upended and on the ground, providing a solid post on which to lean.
"I've had Khors wrong all this time. I know little of that pantheon, and from your example, I had him confused with the one called Mavros-Perun. Apparently Khors is more of a cavalier, and without you exuding an erudite attitude and looking down your nose at all things I had not made the connection."
The conversation isn't really going how he wanted it to, so he tries a different tact.
"Khors is not so different Thor. Both want success in battle, and to bring Light to dark places. So too, you must keep in mind that battle is not -the- purpose. It is but a means to and end. Rejoice in it, yes, but it is only embraced because it can not be avoided. Remember that to attempt to avoid what is necessary only makes things harder--on everyone. Only by embracing the inevitability of battle as the best--the only--way to push out the darkness do we realize what it is that we bring.
We are merchants...
...of Mercy.
Think on that.
Brother."
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Trevor nods, and remains silent. Aterro asked him to think, so he didn't want to spoil the mood.
Bowing his head down, the paladin wonders if all Khorsians are erudites who look down their nose on things...
What's an erudite..?
Vrindel notices that Trevor is very self reflective this morning, and takes extra effort to bring him his breakfast with a toothy smile. He then makes sure the campsite is cleaned up as they leave, and takes the lead. He'd only been walking a while, when he heard something.
"Hold and Beware! Something stalks us... Show yourself or suffer the consequences"!
The big Trollkin readies his staff calling upon the usual magical enchantment.
"Eh? What's that?" Shouts a scratchy, rasping voice from the woods following Vrindel's warning. It appears to be coming from about twenty paces further up the road, just beyond another patch of dense forest and undergrowth. "That you Vadik? This gods cursed fog, can't see a blooming thing. You better get your sorry hide back to town. The chief is a might irked at you three not reporting back yesterday." There's a feint whisper and then the voice speaks up again. "Oh....right. And if you ain't that waste of space Vadik, you best be the ones to surrender and step out here into the open!"
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Conflicting emotions war throughout Aterro. A surge of battle-heart flows through him, but, he reminds himself that these are not the reavers he encountered, and, indeed, he has no intrinsic quarrel with all reavers, in general.
"Might'nt we give them the news that there three scouts were, quite independent from our actions, sacrificed in a ritual?" Aterro mumbles to his companions. "I try to remind myself that the ruling family is erstwhile allies with these...people.
Perhaps one of you with a more silver tongue could converse with him?
If he is not receptive I can always smash his skull," he matter-of-factly concludes.
”Silver tongued! Aterro, you flatter me! I suspected you were an admirer of my aptitude for the social graces, but it’s a nice affirmation to receive your praises first hand! I’d be glad to handle this...”
Finnigan turns to stride off towards the dwarves voice...
Trevor has been silent all morning, mainly watching the sun, even though most of the time it was but a hazy bright circle lighting the fog.
Is this my faith? A haze so thick I can't see my Lord the Sun? he muses, suddenly more pensive than in all the previous years. Combined.
But Vrindel's warning takes him out of his brooding mode. However, Aterro's trange tone takes him off guard. Ignoring the rest, he turns to the warpriest and asks with a whisper: "Are you okay? You seem... Well, peaceful?"