”Look on the bright side. If this place operates on the logic of stories, then we will catch up to it when the moment is most dramatic. No sooner and no later. Ah, if only we had a bard for a proper montage.” He joked, a smirk on his face.
That night, Eirnar realizes that he could instead use a Phantom Chariot instead to better conserve his spell slots, with Lokhir at the reins and As soon as they get ready to stop, he once again casts forest sense, to see if their quarry is within range after the days travel. The following morning he repeats his preparations, but only a single phantasmal chariot that can seat all of them appears. He specifyings Lokhir as the driver of said chariot, knowing his keen senses will be a boon and that others need to be free to track.
That night the group rests. Once more Eirnar's spells fail to get into any kind of contact with their target, but he does manage to find some berries to enchant. The night is once again uneventful and the next day Eirnar summons a chariot instead of horses. The chariot turns out to be significantly more awkward as the trail doesn't stick to what used to be paths but often weaves through the trees. Fortunately, the group is already slowed significantly but Delroy needing to check for tracks, so the additional slowdown is lessened slightly.
It's getting late in the day with less than an hour left on the phantom chariot when the group finally comes across something other than forest or hedge mazes or brambles: a small open area. Crude, amateurishly sewn banners flutter weakly in the breeze of this otherwise deathly silent clearing in the dense nettles of the briar. At one end of the clearing, an adorable little house painted in garish reds and yellows stands out against the trees.
The silence is cut suddenly as you hear a voice yelling from somewhere in the nearby treetops.
"Greater destinies? Heroes? I love to watch Heroes."
Yattle flits up quietly, skimming through the branches to avoid detection for now.
Delroy puts one hand up to shield his good eye from the glare of the sun and scans for the source of the voice.
Pausing, Kaldwell looked up into the tree and wondered what the person was doing up there. "That will be no issue. We seek to rescue a man brought here against his will, and look to collect the token's required to leave. We will be glad to trade for information on such if you have any."
A furry head pops out of the trees when Kaldwell hails the voice. "What ho? Newcomers?" With incredibly speed the rabbit man you had all been chasing hops down out of the tree and rushes up to the old half-elf. "I say, you're not Storykin are you? No, no of course not! Adventurers then! Well met, well met, wot!" He takes Kaldwell's hand and begins to vigorously shake it. "You must tell me all about your travels! The distant lands that you've seen! What monsters and scallywags you've faced! The drama! The glorious triumphs! The heartbreaking defeats! Come now, you must tell me it all." Still enthusiastically shaking his hand, the man looks expectantly at Kaldwell.
Eirnar offers a trade, “ The old man would love to tell you some stories, but we need something in return. We came here seeking another mortal man, who was taken by the patchwork lord . We need your token to find him. Perhaps stories for the token?” He calls Kaldwell the ‘old man’ yet appears almost identical in age...
Kaldwell was old. And if there was one thing old men loved to do it was to tell stories of there younger days. But Eirnar had a point, and a good plan. "Aye, friend, we're not storykin. And I have many a tale to tell. Indeed, if you can share some tales with us about the tokens we seek then I would be happy to tell you them around our evening camp."
"Suns rise and set. Roots spread. Fires clear away the chaff."
Yattle pokes their head out from the briar, thorns leaving no mark on their lean limbs.
"I could tell the smaller tales too, the squirrels and insects who make their homes, loves, and wars along the bark, and the mortals who toil as they do."
Yattle smiles broadly and honestly, but not warmly.
"If you take the wizened one's trade."
The man's ears perk up and twitch at the mention of the token as he drops Kaldwell's hand. "Oh, is that what you're after then. Jolly good! In that case, let us raise the stakes, wot. Listening to stories is one thing, but what's even better is..." He pauses waiting for the anticipation to build, "Making stories! And what better stories are there then when brave heroes of yore cross blades, locked in struggle and desperately vying for any advantage. Blade against blade! Wit against wit! We shall have a contest of champions! A single combat to..." Once again he pauses for effect, "The death!"
He prances and leaps about, quite obviously pleased with his ingenious plan. "Yes, who will dare to face off against the brave, the bold, the Brableson?" He hops once again over to Kaldwell. " Will it be the old, wizened warrior grown wise from many a woe?" He then jumps over to Delroy. "Or perhaps the one-eyed orc obliterator? Outwardly ornery after others have taken much but offered little?" In a flash, he's next to Yattle. "Or perhaps the nature-talker calling upon...errr...nature's natural nexus of power in times of need!" Then he's brandishing his broken sword at Lokhir. "Or perhaps a devilish duel of daring in our death dance!" With a final jump he lands in front of Eirnar. "Or perhaps the legend, long in the tooth but still secretly just longing for love! Yes, who will face this handsomely heroic hare in what will be someone's final fight?"
Dueling me alone would be about as challenging as hitting a training post, and surely not story worthy. Any of my colleagues should pose a challenge in single combat, but I worry that death is a little more permanent for us than you... Speaking of which, how should we get the token if we win the contest? Perhaps you’ll permit the contest be to unconsciousness, yielding, or death? Those are more typical terms where we’re from. It’ll be a fair fight, if someone falls, I’ll spare their life, but the contest is over, and the victor declared.
"Agreed," Kaldwell said with a nod of agreement. "To the death will make it hard for anyone for anyone to tell any tales at all. Perhaps a less lethal method with a bigger prize would make just as good a tale, and allow for more stories after."
"How about you and I take turns hitting each other in the face?"
Lokhir watched with utter bemusement. At last he said ”You and Delroy...well. Well. This will certainly make for a story worth telling.”
Brambleson jumps. "Egads! You're right, old chap! If I kill you you won't be able to regale me with tales of your escapades!" He adopts a pose of great contemplation as he tries to figure out a suitably epic solution, tapping his foot as he does so. Thump. Thump thump. Thump thump thump. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump "I've got it! A test of speed and agility! Of skill with a blade! A fight to first blood."* He looks around, clearly pleased at his idea. "Well then, am I to take it ol' One Eye is to be my sparring partner?"
As he waits for Delroy's response, Lokhir focuses on his Rabbit Prince tattoo, which fades in another small shower of golden light, causing Brambleson's whiskers to twitch before he sneezes three times in rapid succession.
"If you are determined to cross blades, wouldn't you like someone to fix your sword first?" Delroy asks Brambleson?
"Oh hoo hoo, not willing to take the handy cap, are you? Jolly good! I love it. Sadly," Brambleson strikes a stricken pose. "The other half of my sword was lost ages ago. Who knows where it is now. But never fear! The loss of my blade is an equal trade for the loss of your eye, wot!" He winks at Delroy. Indeed, a closer look at the blade reveals that a large portion of it is missing. Fixing it would either require finding the other shard(s?) or finding some raw metal, melting the entire thing down, and reforging it. The latter would most likely require a forge.
But the timid rabbit decided he liked feeling brave, and so when it came to face the beast, rather than attack its soft underbelly, he leaped up and swing at its shell, shattering his sword and his oaths along with it. This left the formerly timid rabbit free to keep the rabbits' courage and instead gallivant across the world having adventures. All other rabbits to this day have been sniveling cowards.
"Well said, Sir Bramble." Delroy inclines his head to the oversized rabbit.
"If it's a duel you wish, then I am willing to oblige."
"If I land a blow, then you surrender your token, but if you strike first, what is it that you desire?"
”Perhaps it is where the beast was fought?” Lokhir asked, innocently.
"What ho, memory going already? When I win, you must tell me a story of your epic adventures! Perhaps the one about how you lost that eye there, old chap? Plus of course, should I ever come up in one of your other conversations, you should speak of our epic duel and the grace with which I wield a blade!"
Without taking his eyes off of Delroy he then responds, "Not much of a hunter, I'm afraid, wot. Seems pretty bally unlikely some beastie would've taken the other half of my blade."
[dice=Sense Motive21d20+2[/dice]
Unable to tell whether the gallant stranger was lying, Lokhir shrugged.
"Agreed." Delroy says, inclining his head to sir rabbit.
*10 = 60ft
"Excellent, most excellent! Here, we will start off like all good duels, back to back." Brambleson shoos the others away to give them some room and positions himself and Delroy in the middle of the clearing, facing away from each other. "Now, we shall each count out 15 paces, turn, and do battle. Are you ready? 1, 2, 3..." The two combatants start stepping away from each other until they reach their fifteenth step. Then lightning-quick they each turn.
With impossible speed, Brambleson closes the distance between the two of them, swinging his sword, and immediately leaping back out of reach before the half-orc even has a chance to respond. With a cheeky grin he holds up his weapon to show a thin line of red from where he had nicked Delroy's arm.
"Aha! What did I say? I told you that I would be victorious." The banners from the house flutter wildly despite the lack of a breeze. "But never fear, maybe if you make your story epic enough, I'll still see fit to hand the Dancing Heel over to you. Unless any of your companions wish to try their luck against this fleet-footed foe?"
As the wound fades from Delroy and appears on the Eirnar, he plants his boots in the ground and his wounds close in kind.
I suspect it’s the tortoise and the hare, Delroy would have hit back quite hard, but a bets a bet... Maybe after the story you’ll give Kaldwell a shot. I’d suggest our fey but they have a hard time with telling the difference between friendly sparring and situations calling for the earth to swallow a foe whole with magma.
Yattle grins broadly at Eirnar's implied challenge. "I could give it a try. No eruptions. No burning down the briar. No pieces too small for you to put back together." The heat surrounding Yattle coalesces into a blade of fire grasped in their hand. "No need to borrow a sword either."
Brambleson claps his paws together. "Excellent, most excellent! A blade of flames will make for a most...errr...awe-inspiring tale. Just so long as you don't burn yourself with it." He repeats the process of clearing an area for the competition and setting the two of them to be back-to-back. "Alright, another 15 paces each. Then turn and draw!"
*10 = 60ft
They each take measured, even steps. On the final step, their feet barely touch the ground before both are whirling to face the other, Yattle managing to do it a hair faster than the hare.
Yattle hurtles through the air towards Brambleson, gleefully swinging their flameblade straight into their leporine foe's guard with little technique but a lot of enthusiasm, blithely trusting that their opponent's unfamiliarity with kinetic blades will make him think mere steel can stop pure flame!
Seeing Brambleson hit by the flaming sword, Eirnar grins a bit," I warned you that'd sting. Regardless, a deal is a deal" he says as he expectedly looks at both Brambleson's to deliver the token and Delroy to share the tale of his eye.
Eirnar adds," If you'll come here, Brambleson, I can mend those wounds, its why they keep me arround. As far as stories, here is the one about how I was briefly Eirnar Scratchingpost...
About ten years ago, I went on my first hunt. I was greener then than I am now, having spent my entire life studying how to divine and study the fates. I was part of hunting party of three, and the only one of us without a weapon, as I'm not terribly skilled at using one!
The fates can tell you much, and are quite important, but thats not terribly relevant when you use them to track down a sabertooth tiger without properly preparing for when you meet it. The damned thing looked at the three of us, and wisely lept at unarmed one. It pinned me down, and I was probably a few moments from having a scar like Delroy's, when my sister, Gledrel, distracted it. I'm quite good with the fates, but she can commune with just about any beast. First she calmed it enough that it viewed me more like a prized find rather than a tasy treat, then managed to negotate for us to leave safely, so long as we didn't pester it further.
Ulfen tradition dicates that our second name is one based on a recent deed, and is bestowed by your clan or your friends. It isn't one you pick yourself, and I never again went hunting without a shield to help me block and at least appear menacing. A few weeks later we were successful on a grizzly hunt instead, but that cat, per Gledrel's deal with him, was safe from us."
Yattle does indeed manage to hit Brambleson, who laughs in surprise. "Aha, I see where I went wrong! A broken sword may be a fair trade for one missing an eye, but when it comes to magical blades of fire, perhaps I need to make sure I have a better weapon. Very well then, I shall hand over the Dancing Heel as soon as I get my promised story." He turns to look expectantly at the group, waving off Eirnar's healing. A closer look shows his wound has already started healing and by the time Eirnar has completed his story, the only sign he had ever been stabbed was the burnt edges of his clothes around where the wound once was.
He gives a healthy laugh at Eirnar's story. "I guess luckily for you I'm not a cat or your fate would have been doubly sealed were you to face me!" He hands the shaman a tiny shoe carved from green feldspar. "But here, the Dancing Heel, as promised. Let it not be said Brambleson is not a hare of honor! Come new friends, it is getting late. Let us all make camp and share more tales around a roaring fire!" The banners on the small house in the clearing seem to droop as Brambleson announces his plan to camp.
Yattle looks sidelong at their allies, fluttering back up above the thicket floor now that the duel is complete. Do we really have to waste more time with the whims of this beast?
Delroy regards the rabbit's invitation with some suspicion.
(is he setting us up?)
Kaldwell shrugged and broke out the cooking gear. They had promised the little creature stories around a campfire, and there was no reason to break their word to him. Those in stories rarely fared well when they did.
”A deal then. I will tell you a story. One told to me when I was young, many, many years ago. And in return you tell us about who holds the other prizes we seek and where they are. Does that sound fair? A tale for a tale. And to entice, I will say that my tale involves bravery, tragedy and deceit.”
Eirnar agrees, " Indeed Lokhir, We'll be here all night! I suspect most of Brambleson's tales are of this land and will be most welcome, as well as useful for our current quest.
Delroy, what of the eye, the hare was faster than the orc. Or is there another tale you'd prefer to tell?"
Eirnar thinks, I'll never learn what happened to his damned eye.
If it is a setup, Brambleson has managed to be very consistent about it as throughout what Delroy has seen, he's continued to be very interested in hearing other stories.
"Well, I don't know that who has the tokens is really a story, but if that's what you want, sure, I'll trade it for a jolly good yarn, wot!"
Yattle ignites a campfire, and flutters about, curious to hear what Delroy has to say.
”My tale then. It is a cautionary tale, of the price of pride. And sadly, it is a true one.”
"We should turn back."
Lidras didn't pay his second any heed. They had come too far and had lost too much to make it to this place. Of the six elves who had left, they were the last. Their mission had seemed simple enough, to journey to Maztica and to locate the lost tomb of Tor Elthos. Lidras was the leader of the expedition, as was his right as High Born. He was descended from a long and illustrative line of mage and sorceror alike. And it was cruelly whispered, warlock. While he, admittedly, did not have the raw talent of his forefathers when it came to the magical arts, he had the family connections and the guile to take command, and the strength to overpower most of his kin. However, inexperience and overconfidence did not make for the best leaders.
The first had been Sylvae. A half-elf, he had sent her into one of the human villages to learn rumors about the ancient elven ruins. She was young, inexperienced, and not cautious enough. She had been found out, and the first sign that Lidras and his band knew of her peril was the sound of her screams. For the villagers had deemed the ruins to be haunted, and were of the opinion that to allow outsiders to creep in would release the spirits of the dead and the damned onto them.
The second of his company to die was Althas. For Lidras refused to allow any within his charge to be murdered by beastly humans, and he had ordered an immediate assault on the village. And while human villagers were ill equipped to fight against elite foresters, that did not save Althas from the arrow of a human hunter, who fought to defend his home.
When the two bodies were recovered, Lidras had his second interrogate the few humans they captured, for the rest were either killed or driven off. When they had found the information that they wanted, he had the village put to the torch as a funeral pyre for his dead comrades.
The third casualty came when they entered the ruins itself. Out of fear that the human survivors would call upon their lord to raise a host, he ordered his remaining men to enter the ruins without the customary intelligence gathering. Telthalas died to the magical wards left by his own distant ancestors.
And this left just Lidras and Elthaeriel. She was older than he, and more experienced. She had cautioned him to leave the village be, but he had not listened. And Althas had died. She had told him to abandon their quest, and to come back in a few years time when the humans had settled down. He refused to listen, and Telthalas had died. She now told him to leave the ruins be, and he refused to listen. She was not going to be the fourth.
And so it was that she abandoned him, vowing to bring news of his failure back to the council. That he would never lead an expedition again, and that his name would be a stain on the honor of his family.
Words were said that could never be unsaid. Blades were drawn in anger. Accusations were thrown, and soon were spells. To his dying day Lidras would swear to himself that she drew her blade first, though in his private moments he would be forced to admit that it was his harsh words which had caused her to do so. To his dying day he would ponder as to how much fault lay on his shoulders for this kinslaying. But regardless, she was the fifth and final loss. For as experienced as she was, she could not stand against the strength behind his blows, nor could she outlast him.
Wounded, and driven to the point of obsession, Lidras pushed forward into the ruins. He had lost so much on this quest. He had lost his friends. His charges. His innocence. With every step he took he thought he could hear the steps of human pursuers. He could hear their battle cries. He could hear...the clash of steel. He could hear his friends dying. He could hear his sanity breaking.
He stumbled through the ruins, unsure of himself. Unsure of where he was going. He saw an elven mage rush up to him, his entrails spilling out of his hands. The mage had fear and pain written clearly on his face. He was babbling about getting the women and children under ground, into the catacombs. He begged Lidras to take them.
All around him Lidras could see the signs of conflict. This was but an outpost, the trading town of Tor Elthos. They had always been on peaceful terms with the humans. The humans were their trading partners. The humans were their reason for being here. So why were they attacking? The humans attacked with fury and terror in their eyes. But why? Lidras could see Tor Elthos burning. The flames licked up into the sky as humans with axes and leather armor slaughtered the few defenders that the elven merchants could muster. Rushing to the women and children, Lidras screamed at them to follow him into the catacombs. There they could wait out the assault. There he could defend them.
Once inside the catacombs, the doors to the surface were sealed and they waited. Lidras stood there with his bow at the ready. His head was swimming. The faces of the crying children were so familiar, but he couldn't place any names to the faces. He tried to talk, but his tongue felt like it was made out of lead. How long had he been in there? How long...how long?
It was then that water started coming through the doors. He rushed up to open the doors, but they were barred shut from the surface. This was no way for a highborn to die! He had been promised glory. He had been promised prestige! He had been promised by his...his parents? Who were his parents? He looked down at the women and children and saw that the water was already up to their knees. How did it rise so fast? In desperation he banged on the door. He screamed wordlessly. The water rose. There were corpses in the water. Corpses of the innocent. He could hear laughter from outside. The water was pouring in. He screamed until the water filled his lungs. He pushed with all his might against the doors...and that is when he saw the blade. Golden, shining, it called to him. He was drowning, but he knew that if he but picked it up it would save him. With trembling fingers he reached out...
...he touched the blade and a bolt of electricity shot through him. The vision changed. He saw something. A creature that walked among the elves of old. It was winged, and it looked at Lidras with eyes that were old when the elves first learned the secrets of making fire. It looked into his soul. She was as beautiful as she was terrible. And it smiled. Lidras tried to scream as his form was wracked with chance. The color was sucked out of his golden hair and his skin, leaving him as pale as the moon. White wings, like that of a dove, painfully erupted from his back. And the sword, it burnt inself into his soul. Lidras screamed for what felt like an eternity...
...and he woke. He was in the cellar, but ti was empty. Ransacked. The doors were open, and his hand was upon them. It burned with a pain that he could not describe. Sluggishly he walked down the stairs into the cellar.
He could not describe it, but there was a presence in his head. Something that he could not explain. He looked around at the ruins, and he thought back to the dream like visions which had assailed him. Tears rolled down his face and he forced back a sob, as emotions which weren't his threatened to tear him apart. Sadness, fear, desperation, confusion...anger.
That is when he heard it. The voices of humans trying to be stealthy. He could just make out what they were saying. It sounded like 'murderous elves' and 'haunted.' He smiled like a wolf. He took up position to ambush his pursuers, he felt a power flow through him that he did not understand. Without thinking he raised his hand and a bolt of fire flew forth. It hit the first human square in the chest. The humans yelled in confusion. One of them was yelling orders, but Lidras was already moving. The chieftain was the second to die. Arrows flew at him, and in that moment Lidras could see his death. In his mind's eye he saw one of the arrows fly unerringly towards him. He could see it hit him in the back, and he knew that there was no way to dodge it. Instead he willed it to change course, and by some dark miracle it did. And that was when he was among them.
Lidras sat among the carnage, and in that moment he knew that he could not return home. Not like this. The sword was gone, but he knew that it was now part of him. Just thinking of it made a faint outline of the blade form in his hand. Looking into the dim light, Lidras rose to his feet and slowly began walking away...
”And that is how the tale ends. I hope that this meets my end of the bargain.”
Delroy settles himself down, takes a drink from his flask, and tells the story of how he lost his eye.
“I started my career as a soldier. I spent years in the service of a Baron Northridge, learning the trade gaining and I eventually became a sergeant in the city guard. I was good at it and I've always been happiest when I've a code and a set of rules to follow.”
"More than a decade passed in Northridge's service. I was keeping the peace, patrolling the streets, and investigating crimes. That's where I learned the skills I use as a man-hunter today.”
There was a rough time about five years ago, lots of uprising and unrest, The King's army was distracted by other problems in the capital when a band of orcs and giant-kin cae down from the mountains and attacked the town. I stood with my squad on the east wall, holding off waves of orcs with scaling ladders. My men fought well and the attackers were repulsed, but at dusk on the third day I was caught in the blast of an enormous ball of burning pitch, coated with alchemist's fire.”
I woke up in the worst pain I've ever experienced. The priests could heal a lot of the burns, but they could do nothing for my eye.” He reaches up and taps his eye-patch.
Then, a month later, after twenty years taking the Baron's gold and serving loyally, I was told that I needed two-good eyes to watch for the Baron's enemies and I was kicked out of the barracks.”
Nodding along with the others, Kaldwell went next. "As you've been so kind to note, I'm an old man. I've been doing this sort of thing for a while now. Nothing too interesting about how I got started, either - I was big and fast and could move pair of swords in unpleasant ways. There was some trouble with some Orcs nearby. It just grew from there."
Pausing as the coffee pot began to bubble, Kaldwell poured himself a mug and offered it to the others. Once people had the black liquid he continued, "But it does mean I have done some strange things and been to odd places. I think my favourite was a time not dissimilar to this, when a friend wizard tried to use a scroll to teleport us away from danger. In his defence and all fairness he certainly got us out of the danger we were in. Of course, he messed the spell up something awful. Somehow we ended up in First World."
Pouring a spoonful of sugar into the steaming cup of caffeine, Kaldwell continued, "Well, that was a problem. Needless to say we had no scrolls or spells able to do what we wished and return home, and we lacked any real experience of such things. We started to wander with not true idea of what to expect or where to go. Then we heard the sound of fighting."
"Well," Kaldwell amended, "It was more akin to bullying with lethal intent. A trio or Redcaps had surrounded a tiny fae girl. Tough as the boots they wore, but they weren't prepared well for those who didn't care about iron's touch and the girl yelled the secret of fighting them, to remove there hats. Horrible things they were, dipped over and over in blood, but without them the Redcaps were quick to flee from our Healer's blessed symbol."
Adding powdered milk this time, he continued, "Now the fae girl owed us a favour, and wished to repay us. She couldn't send us home, she said, but she could help us. She told us of a stronger fae along the road, and that he needed help with a beast in his fields, so we went to help. The beast slain, he told us that he, too, was not strong enough to send us home, but an old friend in a tower in the woods would surely be able to help. We went, and found the tower, and helped the one inside...who, too, could not help us themselves, but knew of another who would surely be able to help..."
Kaldwell laughed. "Such is the way of the First World. For three months we journeyed, bartering favours and goods for aid that the next person would surely be able to give. Finally we end up in the presence of a noble of there kind...and of course, it is the tiny child we had helped to start with. She could not, of course, have helped us then, for the debt to send us home would be far higher than the debt she had earned. The Redcaps were no true danger to one such as her, after all. But now that we had helped so many...now the toll was paid. She sent us home, each with a small gift and a better understaning of the fae."
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Brambleson listens with rapt attention to all the different stories. He groans when Lokhir's, "But what happened to Lidras? And what was up with that bloody vision?" He sighs. "See, this is why you don't write stories about the mad; you can never tell what happened!"
He nods sympathetically at Delroy. "Love 'em and leave 'em. I know the type. You give a group your all and they just kick you to the curb when they don't need you, wot. You should go back and show them what they're missing out on!"
He slaps his leg and gives a short chortle. "Isn't that so like the fan? You must've seen a lot, getting to visit another world though. I'd love to visit someday, but it's bloody hard to go on adventures when you can " He turns to glare at the house still sitting in the clearing. "Was the gift this weird brown stuff? Kinda bitter if you ask me." He takes a sip but makes a face at the taste.
Seeing everybody looking at him expectantly, he claps his paws together. "My turn is it now? Jolly good! What to tell, what to tell." He tilts his head to one side, tongue sticking out slightly as he thought. Finally, his ears perked up and he started talking. "My story begins as all the best stories do: Once upon a time, hundreds and hundreds of years ago there was an aging bard. With no sons or daughters, she was the last of her long line and feared that with her death, all the stories her family had collected would die with her. To avoid such a fate, she retreated with all of her tales here, to the Hallowed Realm where no one ever ages. Here she found an ideal world, populated by the helpful Storykin and with plenty of nature's bounty to provide sustenance. In return for their hospitality, the bard shared her stories with them."
"As the decades passed, some of Storykin started to wish to leave this magnificent realm, to make the stories of their own. But this scared the bard. If some of the Storykin left, what was to stop the rest from following? Soon all the Storykin would wish to leave and who would be left to keep her company? She kept coming up with new and inventive ways to trick the Storykin into staying. 'Oh, I am feeling unwell. Won't you please stay until I get better?' or 'Surely you wouldn't want to leave before seeing Marzalee's most recent piece of art!' Eventually, the either strongest and most clever of the Storykin cottoned on to her schemes and came together to form a plan. The Ticktock Man made it night and Radiant Sunrise gathered water to create a great storm. With nothing else to do, Balimar offered to entertain her with his puppetry. Bernaditi then used his silver tongue to lure her into sitting on a great throne crafted by Marzalee, so that she might watch the show. With her attention on Balimar, The Nightpeddler and a heroic hare were able to spring the manacles, locking her to the chair. Now captured, the Conspirators triumphantly declared she could no longer hold them here. Furious, the old bard proclaimed that they would never leave her, and began to sing words of power. The world shook, and desperate to avoid whatever curse she was conjuring, Zassrion ripped out the old woman's throat. But alas, he was too late and her spell had already taken hold, trapping all the Storykin here for evermore." Brambleson pauses, letting the end of his story hang in the air before adding with a wink. "Or at least, that how the story goes, wot."
The group continues to chat late into the night, until you resume your nightly watch schedule. Brambleson continues to try to converse with all of you, not seeming a bit tired but finally gives up when it's clear you all intend to rest. By the time morning rolls around, he has left and the clearing with the house is nowhere to be seen.
The next morning Eirnar once again summons a phantom chariot as the group heads in the direction of the mountain looming not too far in the distance. Without Delroy needing to stop to check for tracks, the backtracking and avoiding areas too narrow for the bulky chariot to pass through is more acutely felt though it's still much faster than if you had been forced to walk.
It's early afternoon when you reach the area where the Briar ends. There's only a few dozen feet of clear area before the mountain abruptly starts without so much as a hint of warning that normally comes in the shape of foothills. Odder still, pipes of copper and stone seem to run through it at bizarre angles, as though they were buttresses struggling to hold the mountain upright. Cut in one side is a large staircase.
Yattle looks at the others like they're crazy.
"Uh, I won."
"Have you ever seen a starved lizard out in the desert? Tail-fat's almost gone, and it's so still it almost seems dead until the right catalyst. Something squishy gets too close, and **BAM** it almost explodes into energy! But it's almost out, there's nothing left in reserve, so if the lizard doesn't catch its prey right away, then it'll gutter, it'll slow, it'll die.
"But if it catches? Then it's ready for more. It's moving faster, sniffing at the wind, roaring, ready to add more and more fuel.
"You can keep them as pets if you want, pen them up with stones and earth, keep them from getting at all the food out in the world. If you're a good keeper and give it what it needs, it will hunger and roar for as long as you want.
"Sure it'll die some day, but that's what makes that frenzy, that hunger so fascinating! Even after it feeds that just gives it what it needs to feed again, until there's nothing quite there, and then eventually it's weak and still again, waiting for that spark."
They reached up to toss in another bramble, "So that's the story of this campfire..."
***
"Hmm... what's in these? Could we crawl up them if we wanted?"
Yattle drifts higher, trying to figure out any rhyme or reasons to where the pipes end up.
Yattle takes a closer look at the pipes in the mountain. None of them are remotely big enough for any of you to enter, the largest ones being perhaps double the width of a human's wrist. They seem to be scattered pretty much all over the mountain side, though their purpose is unclear.
Deciding to continue onwards, the group leaves their phantom chariot at the base of the mountain and begins its slow climb upwards. For those without the ability to fly, it's a rather awkward process. The stairs are very irregular and vary in height from roughly 6 inches to several feet. Well after you've lost count of the number of steps ascended, in the distance you can all see a stout, blocky structure near the peak of the mountain. As you approach, you can vaguely see figures moving by the structure. One of the figures takes note of you and seems to wave to their companions, who likewise come to look. They're rather squat figures with brass colored skin and fiery red hair in a wild mane about their heads. They begin yelling at you.
"Better turn back!"
"Yeah, get any closer and we might die from yer ugliness!"
"Or better yet, come here and be our gargoyles ta scare away other visitors!"
"Just make sure ta stay downwind. I can smell ya already from here!"
Above their yelling, you can hear a growing rumbling as warning rocks bounce down the side of the mountain towards you. As you watch, the ground near the structure begins to move at an alarming rate, headed straight towards you and picking up speed.
Delroy says: "This looks familiar...." and uses the Avalanche Card.
Delroy concentrates on his Avalance tattoo. The golden light scatters across the oncoming dirt and rocks, making its movement a little more predictable but not slowing it down.
Eirnar says,” I have no intention of digging you two out... Delroy, Kaldwell, to me, today is not the day you’re fated to be interred.
As the two join him, he picks them up and carries them into the sky.
Still flapping safely* off the path, Yattle concentrates and tries to grab some of the bigger rocks to shunt them away from their party!
Nodding agreement - being buried alive was not for the faint of heart, and Kaldwell just didn't like the idea - the old fighter moved over to Eirnar for a lift.
Eirnar manages to grab Kaldwell and Delroy and fly upwards out of reach of the avalanche. With the elevation, Yattle already has, that only leaves Lokhir in the path of the oncoming dirt. They do their best to prepare for the onslaught and divert it away from the elf should he be unable to come up with some other path to safety.