Freyja sits down next to Mac and Oona and wraps her arms around them. "Trjega, come."
Trjega walks over and smells Oona, then Mac. She recoils briefly from Mac, confused why this man smells like the big smelly dog. Where is the big smelly dog?
It's too bad about Oona. She gave Trjega treats sometimes when her master wasn't looking. Trjega lies down next to the rock woman's body.
Freyja stays as still as she can, gently sobbing, waiting Mac out. She has no idea what is going on but she somehow knows that this is Mac. She doesn't think they are in any immediate danger, so she can wait.
At some point, she waves Grevayne over and whispers to him. "I don't think he understands us, but we have to find a way to communicate with him today. I will be able to speak with him tomorrow, but I have to rest first."
Mac leans into Freyja while he rocks. He begins singing what sounds like it might be a nursery rhyme off-key between hitching breaths and shuddering sobs.
Grevayne frowns as he hunkers down next to them and says quietly, "I only know a couple languages, but maybe he and I share one? It's not likely, but..." He shrugs.
He starts with Tien and goes down the short list of known languages, repeating the same phrase in each one: "Mac, can you understand me?"
To his surprise, he thinks he sees a glimmer of recognition when he speaks in Sylvan. He continues in Sylvan to test the waters.
"Mac, I am very sorry about Oona, but we need to go. If we bring her back to Hearthstone, we can bury her properly."
Mac's low brow furrows. "Bury?" he says in Sylvan. "I... remember bury. Rocks. Rocks over the dead. Heavy, like hearts at death." He looks down at Oona. "No... no bury! Then gone..." He looks on the verge of a fresh bout of tears. "Please help... Make her wake up... please." Something in him knows that's impossible, though, because he doesn't wait for an answer. He simply presses his forehead against hers and weeps.
After a few more minutes, he looks up at Grevayne. "H... home. Go... home..."
Grevayne doesn't trust himself to speak. He simply slnods, then motions Freyja to gather up their things and lead the way. He guesses, by Mac's size, he'll have no trouble carrying the fallen inquisitor.
When they reach the courtyard, Freyja pulls Grevayne aside. "We aren't really leaving, are we? We haven't finished here and we haven't found any sign of the Rangers. We can't go back yet, we just can't." She looks at Mac, then back at Grevayne. "Maybe he can look over her while we finish up?"
Grevayne scowls and crosses his arms. "You may have noticed we are one short. Two, if we leave... him... with the body. Are you so certain if we run into more trouble that only the two of us can handle it? You have--what? One cold iron arrow left?"
He chews on his cheek for a moment before speaking again. "And... have you considered the rangers are no more? The fey took this place from hobs. Hobs, Freyja. I am quite sure the Chernesardo did not just hand it over to them. And we have seen not one sign of them since we arrived here."
He turns away, hands on his hips, and curses quietly but vigorously in Tien. "I do not mean to be so crass. What happened makes me... forget myself. I am sorry."
He sighs and rubs his face with his hand, still not looking at the ranger. "What do we have left to check?"
Freyja's pale face flushes red at Grevayne's chastisement. "I KNOW! I know, Grevayne. But we have to try. And we have Trjega. She and I can be very quiet if need be. We can scout ahead and retreat if whatever we find is too much for us." Tears fill her eyes, and her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "We can't go back yet. Oona can't have died for nothing."
At his final question, she replies, "There is the basement in the kitchen and the southwest tower. I think that's all."
Grevayne manages to hold his tongue, but only barely. She already died for nothing. Death serves no purpose. He pushes the thought away. "I am not terribly stealthy, but I do have several spells left. I will make myself invisible. That way I can come with you."
He twists the fingers of one hand in a sharp motion and utters an invocation. He can feel the invisibility come over him, like warm, thick syrup oozing down him in steady rivulets. Once he's completely vanished from sight, he says, "Let us go. I will remain right behind you. We should start with the southwest tower, but let us make haste. This spell only lasts about seven minutes."
Freyja opens the door to the southwest tower as quietly as she can.
Several training dummies and archery targets stand scattered around this room, which has an ascending staircase to the north and an iron-bound wooden door leading to the east. A bench with four evenly spaced holes sits against the southern wall, partially visible behind a canvas curtain.
Grevayne takes a look around the room, checking the door and the training dummies in particular.
Yep, it's for pooping! And, amidst the poop, you find:
- Masterwork cold iron greatsword
- Cold iron short sword
- Alchemical silver dagger
- 17 cold iron arrows
Your guess is that the fey thought the shitter is where they belonged, given their composition. You're probably gonna want to clean them.
Grevayne blanches, using the tattered curtain to wipe off the items as best he can, then wrapping them in fresh cloth of some sort and keeping them to the side until they can wash them. Thoroughly.
"Onward and upward," he mutters quietly, and follows Freyja and Trjega up.
Several small casks are stacked around this room, each of them open and empty. Stairs lead up and down on the northern wall, and arrow slits pierce the southern and western walls.
There doesn't appear to be anything else here.
Grevayne does a quick glance around to be sure and whispers "Up."
Neither Freyja nor Grevayne find anything interesting here; just a bunch of empty liquor and wine bottles, some broken, others not. Perhaps whoever/whatever was taking up residence here has left.
You ascend to the top level of the tower. Narrow arrow slits in the walls overlook the fort and the surrounding forest. A staircase descends along the northern wall and a large trap door in the ceiling is barred with a wooden beam. The room is empty aside from disheveled bunks, but scratches marring the floor and the walls hint at a battle waged here long ago.
Grevayne looks around the room, trying to figure out what may have happened here.
He glances up at the hatch. "Should we check the roof?"
It doesn't take any special skills to tell that whatever happened in this room happened a long time ago, well before even the Chernasardo held this fort. It's not relevant.
You can peek your head out the trap door. There is nothing up there. The whole fort is feeling pretty deserted at this point, as if word about Halk and the group of people murdering everyone has spread and the stragglers have peaced out.
Grevayne shrugs. "Let us head to the basement. I can think of nowhere else to look. I think I have another minute or two left on the spell."
You rush over to the kitchen to descend the cellar stairs while Grevayne still benefits from invisibility. The spell expires just as you reach the basement and find it deserted.
This low-ceilinged cellar is crammed with bags, boxes, and barrels. Stairs ascend along the northern wall, and a stout door leads to the southwest.
"This door is locked but I'm guessing these keys open it," Freyja says, pointing to the keys hanging on a hook next to the door."[/b]
Freyja also finds the following:
- Various cheap spirits, cooking sherry, and watery ale
- Six bottles of rare herbal liqueurs (125gp each)
- 100 PPs worth of food
Grevayne grabs the keys and opens the door with them, readying a spell in his mind in case they find something nasty on the other side.
This broad cell reeks of death and filth. Several sets of manacles are bolted to the walls and ceiling, apparently much newer than the stone of the cell. Nine of the restraints hold only corpses, but a tenth set contains a weakly breathing halfling.
He looks up as you enter, squinting against the light given off by Freyja's ioun torch. His voice is the barest whisper. "Help me. Please."
Grevayne mutters, "Good gods." He hurries over and unshackles the halfling. He hands him his waterskin. "Sip. Do not gulp."
Once the halfling has taken some water, he takes back the skin and says, "We have cleared this place of the fey, but at great cost. Whoever you are, I hope you have answers. They will wait until we are safely at Hearthstone, however. For now, we will get you out of here."
He glances at Freyja. "I will take him upstairs and get him a little food. Can you look around, see if there is anything that will help us here?"
As Grevayne gets closer, he notices that the halfling is missing his left leg at the thigh. It has been bound and bandaged -- not particularly well, but well enough.
Grevayne helps the halfling upstairs and finds some food for him. While he eats, Freyja and Trjega return from the basement; a shake of the head from Freyja tells Grevayne that she found nothing.
After a few minutes and quite a bit of bread, some color returns to the halfling's face and he begins to speak, weakly at first, but stronger by the minute. "Thank you. I think I can speak now. My name's Cirieo. Cirieo Thessaddin, and I appear at the moment to be the commanding officer of Fort Ristin, on account of my being the only Chernasardo Ranger left alive here. Who are you?"
"Grevayne. That is Freyja, and her companion Trjega. That" he glances warily at the huge man still sitting, blank-faced and coated in dried blood "is Mac. I guess. The woman is..." He swallows. "... was Oona. She died battling the fey here."
He turns back to the halfling. "You have been through the wringer. What on earth happened? The fey said they took this place over from hobgoblins. How did the hobs manage to overtake you?"
Freyja's eyes widen when Cirieo mentions that he is a Ranger. "A Ranger! What a pleasure to meet you, sir. I wish it was under better circumstances. We found a small Ranger cloak and sling staff locked up upstairs. Could they be yours?"
Trjega creeps up to Cirieo and tentatively sniffs him, paying particular attention to his stump. Then a flash of motion catches her eye and she begins chasing a fly around the kitchen.
"Yes! Those are mine. What a relief; my father gave me that sling staff." He turns to Grevayne. "Some two weeks ago, we were attacked by a horde of hobgoblins, along with a passel of trolls and forest animals. No idea where they came from; scouts never mentioned a force anywhere near that size. We held our own, though, until their dragon swooped in, spraying acid and ripping down the north wall. I got in a nice knock on his jaw, and he returned the favor by biting my leg off. The soldiers bandaged up the few of us who survived and tossed us down here." He looks sadly toward the basement. "The Rangers that didn't die defending the fort dropped from infected wounds or because these fey bastards keep forgetting to feed us."
Grevayne closes his eyes and sighs. "I feared maybe a dragon had been involved. We saw a dragonscale earlier when we first arrived." He sends a glance to Freyja, his face clearly showing his apprehension. "I do not know what we can do against a dragon. Especially without the Chernesardo. Your people are the entire reason we came here, to get your help fighting the Ironfang Legion. That... does not seem like an option now."
He leans against a chair and stares at the ceiling. "I do not know what to do. Building armies is not in my wheelhouse. I think Oona could have done it; she was a hardass, but she knew how to get things done. I... I am just a wastrel. I wander and I drink and I fight. I have no hidden talents. I am a brawler with a few spells. There is nothing more to me. And I do not think Mac is much of a leader, either. There is much to do to gather allies and fight back, and this is a serious blow to that plan. I hope you have skill with people, Freyja, because otherwise we are in deep trouble."
He twists the metal rings woven into his handwraps and continues staring off into space.
This is unusual behavior for Grevayne; he nearly always exudes a genuine sense of bemused stoicism. Even when he was on the verge of death from starvation and dehydration--twice--he made quips and seemed relatively unfazed.
Now, though, Grevayne looks... lost. Scared. Defeated. And utterly, bone-deep tired.
Freyja stares at the floor for a few long seconds, then back at Grevayne. "You are right, Grevayne. Oona was our leader. And neither of us are particularly good at the things that she was good at. But we don't need to be. We have Aubrin and now we have a Ranger. We will figure it out. We have to, or we might as well just smother those people at Hearthstone in their sleep. It would be a far more merciful death than the hobs will give them."
Cirieo shrugs. "This is admittedly a setback. But we Chernasardo spread out for a reason. Ristin is lost; with the wall destroyed, we couldn't hold it if we wanted to. But we have two other strongholds in this forest, and I know where they are. And if the worst has happened and they have fallen as well, then the survivors will have gone to ground. No one can find a Ranger that doesn't want to be found in the Fangwood. No one, that is, except another Ranger." He pauses for a moment, then looks at Grevayne. "Did you say Ironfang? They’re a mercenary legion that works for Molthune. I thought I recognized the colors, but this doesn’t feel like a Molthuni operation. Too little regard for the fort's strategic value, and no follow-up from human forces. The Legion started stepping down their forces after that first attack, like they were withdrawing, and then a few days ago we heard some commotion, and that's when the fey moved in."
Grevayne mulls over Freyja's words, then Cirieo's. "This... Molthune? They use hobgoblin forces? Strange. The hobgoblins of Xa Hoi did not answer to anyone. I did not know that was a thing. I only know what this hob army calls themselves because of Oona and Freyja. I was not aware their autonomy was unusual." He grunts out a mirthless laugh. "Any country that fields hobgoblins must be a real treat."
He looks around the mess hall. "Well. If there are two other strongholds, that is something, I guess. It does seem weird that they would fight so hard to take the fort and then immediately cede it to the fey. It is nonsensical, and hobs are many things, but nonsensical is not one of them. There must be a reason." He chews his cheek thoughtfully a moment, then shakes his head. "I think it is time to return to Hearthstone. We need to bury Oona and let them know what has happened."
Cirieo nods. "The Ironfang Legion that I know is basically the vanguard for the Molthuni human forces. A meat shield. But this was different. Hobgoblins are brutes, but they aren't stupid; if they are striking out on their own, they must have something that they think gives them an advantage." He pauses, lost in thought. "We should go to Fort Nunder next. There is a secret stash of weapons there; even if it has fallen as well, it is possible the cache hasn't been found." He looks over at Mac and Oona. "After we bury your friend, of course."
Freyja nods. "We should prepare for a long trip back, especially since we can't risk taking the road. We need to carry Oona and" -- she looks apologetically at Cirieo -- "you can't walk either. We are all pretty strong; maybe we can make a sledge for Oona and take turns pulling it."
About half a day into the journey, Grevayne silently curses and turns to Freyja. "Herge. We are supposed to meet him in a few days."
He mulls it over for a moment as they walk, then says, "When we reach the scorched forest, I will wait for him. You and Mac bring back Oona; Mac can carry her all by himself, I suspect. Once I have spoken with him, I will lead him to Hearthstone. If you can wait for the burial until I arrive, I would appreciate it."
Mac, not understanding a word being spoken and not much caring either way, is already leading her sledge one-handed. He is empty of anything right now. No grief, no rage. Those were all he remembers from before. Now that they are spent, he does not know what to do, so he just walks. His sense of smell comes and goes; sometimes he has human smell, sometimes he can smell like he used to, and things become familiar or new as they pass them. Mostly he can only smell like a human though, and it makes him sad. He is not a smart man, and lacks the self-awareness to recognize the cruel irony of missing his prison. He only knows he was a wolf for so long he does not know how to be a human anymore. Twice Grevayne tried to make him put pants on and twice he nearly ripped the magus' head off.
Pants are for humans. Whatever he is, that is not him.
Grevayne glances at the mountain of a man hauling Oona's sledge. "We really need to convince him to cover up his junk before we get to Hearthstone, and I do not feel like getting assaulted again. Thoughts?"
Freyja looks at Oona for a long time, then back at the group with tears in her eyes. "Guys.... I think we need to bury Oona here. It will take us too long to get back; her body ... won't last."