It seemed that you were finally getting some time off for some well-deserved rest, when you got the most urgent request, sending you to the far north-east of Golarion. Thankfully, no ships are involved, but you are traveling by merchant caravan and sharing a cramped horse driven wagon.
In your backpacks is a copy of the letter you received from Urwal, the iruxi stargazer who is also the leader of the Verdant Wheel. You know him, at least by reputation if you haven't worked with him before. He began to earn that reputation by simply showing up at the Grand Lodge the previous year and making himself at home, correcting labels on Mwangi artifacts, sorting insect collections, and painting murals of the night sky as seen from central Garund. He's considered quite the character even by the flexible standards of the Society.
Three months ago, the Green passed briefly beside the Stranger, the two in confluence for a half-turning of a moon. In Finadar’s heart, the spirits run riot. Flesh and flower flow together, and bones walk on limbs of wood. Soon, the Child shall pass beneath the aegis of the Mother. The time is auspicious for the Pathfinders to fix what was broken. Journey to Iobarian Mishkar. At the caravansary beneath, amid the stalls, you will find Jaldan, a shaman of Redpine. She will wait for you there until the moon turns once more.
Do not dally.
The caravan master is a good-natured half-orc and her teamsters, a pair of Ulfen twins which are impossible to distinguish and an elderly elven cook.
As Pathfinders, you are also aware that the Pathfinder Society was involved in a major operation in Finadar Forest in 4718. An ancient cyclopean ritual was accidentally triggered by a group of goblins living in a dragon's graveyard, causing a massive fire. With help from the Pathfinders, the local centaurs and druids managed to stop the fire and since then have been working on the forest's recovery. The goblins in question have since emigrated west.
You can interpret Urwal's peculiar comments and references to rituals from his letter.
25+:Critical Success The Stranger has a particular place in the iconography of Old Koloran, the pre-human empire of cyclopses that included much of modern-day Iobaria, thousands of years ago.15-24:Success The Green is the planet of Castrovel, associated with fertility, while the Stranger is one of the constellations of the Cosmic Caravan, associated with ill magic and typically depicted as a single, staring eye. The Child is another name for Golarion, while the Mother is another of the Cosmic Caravan, associated with protection.14-6:You can't recall additional information.5 & under:Critical Failure The Green is the planet of Castrovel, associated with fey, and the Stranger is one of the constellations of the Cosmic Caravan, linked to evil magic.
You can dredge up the following facts about the Finadar Forest.
25+:Critical SuccessA few obscure legends hint that the blood pines of Finadar were carefully cultivated in a past age by cyclops conjurers, who used the trees as fuel in rituals to summon immense beings of elemental fire.15-24:SuccessFinadar Forest, in western Iobaria, is mostly known for its bruorsivi (or blood pines), a species of pine tree with scarlet needles that burns remarkably well and sparks small wildfires as part of its life cycle. While Finadar's blood pines make the forest highly susceptible to sudden and intense forest fires, the many druids and centaur shamans who reside there typically keep these fires from growing out of control.14-6:You can't recall additional information.5 & under:Critical Failure Finadar Forest, in western Iobaria, is known for its dark and ominous fey, particularly redcaps who
waylay unwary travelers.
You can parse Urwal's references to spirits and primal worship from his letter.
25+:Critical Success These nature spirits are typically confined to other worlds, but with careful effort a druid can construct a physical body for one of these spirits—these are leshys, animated beings of plant matter.15-24:Success Iobaria’s dominant religion is the worship of various nature spirits, who protect harvests, prevent forest fires, and so forth. Most religious figures are druids.14-6:You can't recall additional information.5 & under:Critical Failure Iobaria has an unspoken pact with the fair folk and many fey rule over the more obscure corners of the land.
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As Pathfinders, you are also aware that the Pathfinder Society was involved in a major operation in Finadar Forest in 4718. An ancient cyclopean ritual was accidentally triggered by a group of goblins living in a dragon's graveyard, causing a massive fire. With help from the Pathfinders, the local centaurs and druids managed to stop the fire and since then have been working on the forest's recovery. The goblins in question have since emigrated west.
While the others had a week in between, Inzo immediately headed north. While he'd tell you "I'm just lookin' to make some money on the side" in reality, he was making up for something.
You see, going to a far off land like Osirion means a lot for a Frostfur. There are peddlers with things you don't even know you need as a snow-gob. Plus, fried scorpion and termites are much grander a meal than yellow ringed slugs of Irrisen.
Most souvenirs are legal through customs in the inner sea, or ignored when using private vessels. That sentiment is similar for Pathfinders, as it welcomes all kinds.
Nearly burning down a society vessel, and Captain Vriggdahl's Wandering Hearth with unannounced cargo? Illegal CONTRABAND? A Leopard with flaming quills!?
After performing a job Tymon in penance, and completing the proper paperwork, Inzo is now the proud owner of a fiery leopard.
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After joining up with the group again, and heading North-East towards Iobaria, the first order of business is re-uniting with his uncle.
"Uncle!" Inzo bursts with glee, arms wrapped tight around his fellow Frostfur. "It all worked out, Amsu can stay. Got my papers and everything."
Brandishing papers with Osiriani Hieroglyphics, (a language exempt from stealing thoughts from goblin brains due to it being art, not words), he shares it with Nazgub. "I'm told this means that Amsu can go wherever I go, and even inside lodges. They've noted it as a service animal which makes the wording a lot stronger."
Family isn't all, he's happy to see all of his companions again. "Gabros! I've missed your high class ponsy banter. Ya know, since I did my last job, I found out this is where you live. Err... Lived. Are we going to go by your old home? Gonna show us your childhood school and that?"
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"I'm much older now Naz, plus I've been with Amsu for a few weeks now, and she mostly looks after herself. It's quite liberating really having something you want to protect. Something greater than yourself."
Realising what he just said, he adjusts "It's also how I feel about having friends on this crazy new job I've been on. You know I've only done five or so contracts, I should be getting hazed still really, but I feel a connection to this group. The job I just came from didn't feel the same. There was this other goblin on that job. Funny fellow, didn't talk much. Saved four of the Artume Royal Guard though. Said something about fists were weapons for healing and harm? I didn't believe him until he did all that saving. Maybe we'll fight alongside him, he's still around these parts last I checked."
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During the group's travels Gabros became more unsettled the closer they got to Brevoy.
"Hello Inzo, I have missed you also but I am sorry to say we will not be able to visit my old home. In fact it might be better if we stayed out major cities as much as possible. You see my sister is a rather influential member of the nobility and I was sent to find her daughter, my niece, and bring her home. While I did indeed find her I failed in my mission as a I did not force her to leave the home she had made for herself in the pathfinder society. If my sister found out that I had betrayed her in this way she would have me killed."
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"Hello Inzo, I have missed you also but I am sorry to say we will not be able to visit my old home. In fact it might be better if we stayed out major cities as much as possible. You see my sister is a rather influential member of the nobility and I was sent to find her daughter, my niece, and bring her home. While I did indeed find her I failed in my mission as a I did not force her to leave the home she had made for herself in the pathfinder society. If my sister found out that I had betrayed her in this way she would have me killed."
Looking up at Gabros, Inzo engages the nobl "So you can't see your family either? You know, I thought none of my family would want to see me, but Nazgub has come along, and things have ended up alright. Maybe we can make you influential enough that we should go back to see your sister. Is your niece a pathfinder as well? I shall look for her in my travels."
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Bert stuffs the note into the depths of his backpack, muttering: "Bah, movements of the planets i' the sky? Ain't got time for such nonsense. Big enough problems 'round 'ere as is. Actually..." he eyes the glowing, flickering form of Inzo's new pet, wondering for a moment whether he should just consign the note to the cat's flaming mane. But he thinks better of it and leaves it in his backpack.
"Inzo, where'd yeh get this beastie from anyhow? He? She? Could be mighty handy up north. Can yeh stick a fry-pan on it and get a meal goin'?" He considers the useful possibilities provided by such a companion. "Do yeh have to stoke it with logs like an actual fire?"
Bert chuckles (a little too knowingly) as the conversation shifts towards Brevoy, and Gabros's potentially awkward return to the lands: "Mate, far as I can tell you goblins 'ave emotions like explodin' barrels, hot an' fast an' angry, but just as quickly moved on from. Yeh don't stoke the fires o' hatered an resentment like a human or a dwarf does. An' don't even think of elves: they got centuries to let a grudge fester."
"Lord Gabros, take it from me: is best to just avoid your problems an' never return to 'em. By far the easiest method of resolvin' something is to resolve to leave it unresolved. Shove it 'neath the closet, behind the fireplace, leave it at 'ome with the pesky kids, the naggin' an abuse and betrayal an' never return."
He casts a glance around the stuffy caravan. "Ugh too much o' the serious talkin' I need a drink."
There's some Southern Squall in the back. Courtesy of a certain tengu barowner.
Next time you're in Port Peril, don't come by.
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Uncle makes himself at home during the trip, sitting atop the wagon when the weather supports it and trying to play songs from whatever regions the crew are from to keep their cheer up during the slow days of travel. He has a surprisingly deep library of songs and loves to show it off.
His bardic training is rooted in the Occult and he muses on the subject of the signs and portents in the note.
"Flesh and flower, I don't like the sound of that. A romantic tragedy waiting to happen if those two mingle, I suspect. But if auspices are indeed good for protectors we can fill that role and perhaps navigate with the currents of fate on our side. The Stranger, though, in Iobaria? Could the influence of Old Koloran be felt again, even today? I fear our entanglements with the past are not yet over."
He also has a small supply of dates he brought from the desert and is carefully rationing himself to not go through them too fast, savouring a couple (once again dunked in tea) after the evening meal.
Uncle is still nagged at by the comment Bert made about his playing all that time ago back in the desert ruins, and tries to engage him about his musical tastes during a quiet moment.
"Master Haaland, I do have to ask. I know a fair few songs of your folk and I'm sure I could find something in my repertoire that is suited to your taste. Of the dwarven style, do you prefer Pick music or Hammer music?"
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"Master Haaland, I do have to ask. I know a fair few songs of your folk and I'm sure I could find something in my repertoire that is suited to your taste. Of the dwarven style, do you prefer Pick music or Hammer music?"
Bert is not a subtle dwarf - and while his face is mostly hidden by his beard - the embarrassed flush that reddens his cheeks when Nazgub inquires as to his dwarven musical taste is starkly apparent.
He glances around the narrow confines of the caravan, searching in vain for some method of distracting this apparent inquisition.
"Uh... I don't much know the difference," he mutters. Then he spits out with sudden annoyance: "Look mate, I didn't grow up in no bloody dwarven citadel where I learnt the fancy bits 'bout music an' art an' all that."
He gives Nazgub the cold shoulder for a few minutes after that, retreating to sulk in a corner between some crates. Eventually he returns, tugging on his beard in contrition, and offering up a mumbled: "Sorry mate, just feelin' extra prickly on this voyage. Yeh didn't deserve to get bitfer it. Can yeh tell me the difference 'tween the two, then I might be able to offer an opinion. I got plenty o' those in me but there's always room fer more."
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"Of course of course, no harm done, we're all friends here, I did not mean to offend by inquiring. You probably know a song or two without knowing why they sound like they do! Hammer music is known as such because the beat is derived from the cadence of a hammer striking metal on an anvil. It is quite regular in beat."
He leans back on the wagon's bench and starts tapping with his tail on his drum in a quite fast regular rhythm and mimes hammering with one hand in time with the music.
"A hammer song is actually very clever. The verse is of a specific length, as is the chorus, and they're timed to help smiths manage the heat in the metal - hammer the metal during the verse, heat it again in the chorus, and if you get it right it's at the correct working temperature all the way through. As a smith myself I've found them invaluable. The song aligns with the metal being used, and how fast it cools, and whether you're using a heated anvil or a cold one. Also..."
He realises that the intersection of his skillsets has him rambling a little, and reels himself in.
"This is my favourite, The Forgemaster's Daughter, it has a long verse because it's for adamantium."
He plays the piece competently, although he just plays the notes and doesn't sing, and lets the song drift away after the first chorus.
"Uh, pick music is very different in tempo."
The beat of his tail on the drum changes into a slower 1-pause-2-3 rhythm and he mimes again, this time expansive up and down two-handed gestures.
"It evokes the action of mining. The pick is brought down to strike on one, sliding your hands together on the pick's shaft in the appropriate fashion, then lifted over your head to set in position on two. On the third beat you slide your hands back to spread position, and then come down on the surface again on one. Again there are different songs with slight differences if you're striking at different heights. This is the Gleam of Fresh Silver Ore"
The wagon goes over an unexpected bump and Uncle grabs at his instrument just as he starts to play. The leather strap holding it in place parts suddenly from the body of the instrument and with a resounding crash it falls hard on the floor, with his tail caught squarely underneath. With a shriek he leaps off the bench and yanks his tail out, then dances around in circles with his tail held between two hands and squealing imprecations in Jotun.
From the front of the caravan, the caravan master calls out. "Almost there! Mishka will be in sight in about a few hours!"
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"Look mate, I didn't grow up in no bloody dwarven citadel where I learnt the fancy bits 'bout music an' art an' all that."
Inzo overhears the raucous part, chiming in while he brushes Amsu's fur, using his extended fingers as a makeshift comb. "You still belt out Long day, a hard day, a drinking day to the rhythm of axes just fine Bert. That's fancy enough for me and mine."
The goblin pays no attention to the hushed tones, instead turning his attention to Gabros' discussion on family. "Hey! Share it round." Inzo objects, seeing just how much went down the noble's throat.
"Well, don't have to worry about your sis' then. We're your family now!"
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Orla pokes her head out from the lead caravan driver’s seat at the crash from the musical instrument. ”Is that music from Alkenstar, Uncle? The crash and the bang sound about right!” She chuckles to herself, then returns to sitting next to the half-orc female driving the train. She sits quietly for a few moments, peeling an apple with her knife.
”You’re blaming yourself again, ain’t ya, Tamli?” Orla asks plainly, not bothering to make eye contact as she eats her apple.
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Inzo overhears the raucous part, chiming in while he brushes Amsu's fur, using his extended fingers as a makeshift comb. "You still belt out Long day, a hard day, a drinking day to the rhythm of axes just fine Bert. That's fancy enough for me and mine."
"That's a tune to pass time, ain't a complicated rhythm or anythin', just some words we all know an' do. Don't even matter if it sound good or no, it's just about the singin' it," He shrugs, the difference between the styles of music apparent in his own mind.
Intense musical theory...
Bert nods along to the goblin's descriptions, although his eyes begin to glaze as the complexities of rhythm and tempo come in to play.
"Aye, I get the practical applications an' all that. Certainly helps t' pass the time while workin', an' if'n it makes yeh work better then that's some cunning bardic know-'ow."
He scratches at his beard - his common tic for musing through a thought - until it all seems to slot into place in his head: "Alright, yeh said a lot of words an' the question I got from all of it is: 'ow come yeh know so much about dwarven work-tunes. Underneath all that yer secretly a dwarven smithin' master? Seems you've spent more time around 'em than I ever did."
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Uncle lies on the bench recovering, but looks up at Bert.
"I am but a humble goblin from Irrisen, my bearded friend. I do not know why Desna chose to reach down and touch me with her musical gifts but when she did, she surely set me on a path unique among my kind. I have devoted my life - such a span as a goblin can have, anyway - to the pursuit of musical knowledge. I have spent nearly 4 decades after leaving my homeland traveling around Golarian, finding tunes and tidbits where I can. I've studied, well, everywhere and what I hear," he knocks on his head with one fist after the other, "it sticks in here and stays with me. Haunts me, even. Desna communicates in dreams, after all, and where do they live if not in your noggin."
He glances over at Inzo. "I know this is not typical, and I'm an outsider among even my own outsider kind. And yes, I also studied the art of the forge, although at the side of a gnomish master, not a dwarven one."
Uncle pauses a moment, looking wistful, emotions rubbing up against a memory, then glances at the gnomophone, sighs, and continues.
"I learned the hammer songs after, not before, and in an academy, not a citadel, although the teacher was a dwarven songsmith of the highest caliber. But where music is found, well, I cannot help but mine that vein, if I may be forgiven that expression. So I could tell you about songs from most any race, or culture, but it is all borrowed, not owned."
He shivers, and sits up. "Aside from the goblin songs, of course. Such simple, stupid things, yet they are the only ones I can truly lay proper claim to."
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Uncle knows a song relevant to this caravan.
Let me sing you a song that will fill you with dread
From the Goblinblood Wars, of a man who now is dead
When the goblins rose up, Isger armies defended
But the dark-hearted folks they also befriended
Not all who were foes were green of skin
And here is where the tale really begins
Baron Karniss' troops were all good in a fight
Hobs and gobs and men, hearts black as night
At the Baron's right hand most feared was his scout
By the trail of mutilated bodies you knew he was about
A dangerous man, Black Pavel his name
Wherever he is, many hope it's in pain
His band traveled far, Black Pavel used bow and pick
To blind Isger scout forces was his favourite trick
Their eyes gouged out, some lost teeth and more too
Where he honed his bloody skills nobody knew
7 arrows in the air, before the first landed
On the face of the war his mark was deeply branded
Fortunes changed, the might of Isger carried through
And when the fighting finished one thing no-one knew
Was where the Baron's man Black Pavel could be found
For in the final fight he slew his band, ran and went to ground
Now 15 years pass, but our story is still melancholy
As a caravan pulls into the village of Etran's Folly
Among their number a contracted guard
A veteran soldier, with a face most hard
Telling tales of acidic wolves in the wood
And next thing you know there's poison in the food
I do not have breath to detail all that came to pass
But this hard mans actions reedemed him at the last
His bow and pick and martial skill helped protect his new band
Dealing with all the evil deeds that rampaged across the land
And when the Witch behind it all met her time to die...
It was with an arrow from Black Pavel's bow buried deep within her eye
For his actions in the war he had found no excuse
Years hiding in a swamp had made him a recluse
But a man cannot find redemption from deep in a mire
So out he had come to find good deeds, himself to inspire
And despite the death of the architect Witch there's one thing that he knew
A walking vile bomb marched on Etran's Folly, none to stop it before it blew
So he chased it down and loosed a shaft, an arrow for its head
A massive crash and venting gas and when the cloud settled, Black Pavel was dead
He walked a hard road, with good intentions it was paved
And with his final act the entire town was saved
So listen to my story, no matter who you are, you can atone
And let us all raise a drink to Pavel, the Saviour of Plaguestone
Without turning back to Orla, Tamli tenses for a bit then lets go of whatever anger? regret? she has. "No, but it's hard to let go. He was a good man. Yet songs like the one your friend sings. They help remember the good and the bad", her voice catches for a moment, "and helps with the pain."
She shakes her head as if wanting to clear it and pats the side of the horse. "Best thing we can do is honor their memories, that way they live forever within us." She turns, gives a sad smile then looks back towards the horizon.
"We're here." She says a-matter-of-factly.
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You all jump out of the wagon and pick up your things, the ulfen twins telling a joke while the elderly dwarf just shakes his head. Tamli waves her hand in farewell and the others wave to you as the caravan continues its trail. As the dust clears, you are greeted by the following sight:
Sprawling on a hilltop overlooking a broad caravansary, the town of Mishkar is an eclectic mix of steeply pitched Varisian houses interspersed with the occasional red-tiled Taldan roof. Scars of a recent fire are still visible if one cares to look, seen in the town’s smoke-darkened rooftops and sooted doorways. Mostly, though, you see evidence of new construction and repairs both finished and in progress. Today, it is a city of paint buckets and ladders, of carpenters and surveyors and masons, smelling of sawdust and sounding of workers’ cries.
The caravansary at the foot of the hill is equally bustling. A large caravan of merchants from Brevoy has just arrived, and the building’s yard is crowded with clerks and guards, horses and grooms, with curious children darting between the wagon wheels. Just about everyone seems to be at the caravansary today. There's no sight of your contact anywhere amongst the stalls.
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Making out what was meant about the spirits. He stuffs his notes in the backpack.
"That's a catchy little song Nazgub."
Then relooking at the letter Urawl gave him.
"Ah am able to gleam from the letter that Urawl wrote with dealing with references to spirits and primal worship. That these nature spirits are typically confined to other worlds, but with careful effort a druid can construct a physical body for one of these spirits—these are leshys, animated beings of plant matter.
Has anyone else come up with anything from the letter?"
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”That’s heaps more than I drew from it, honey,” Orla laughs, hefting her pack up on her back. ”Speaking plainly doesn’t seem to be the VC’s gift, that’s for sure.” She peers over the caravanserai.
”Y’all, look.” Orla points out the fire damage. ”You can still see the fire damage from where the elementals attacked the town after them Dragonskull goblins accidentally triggered that artefact of the cyclops. Not surprising - it was just last year.”
The halfling shrugs at her comrades and heads for the large gathering of wagons. ”Them’s wagons from Brevos, Gabros!” she calls out. ”You gonna point out what’s yummy Brevic cart food? Or do I have to taste-test everything myself?”
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Uncle steps down from the wagon, his tail swinging as a counterbalance, its tip wrapped in a bandage. He stretches the kinks out of his back and rebalances the gnomophone on his hip, testing the newly repaired strap's anchor mount gingerly as it takes the load.
He adds his contribution to the discussion about the letter.
"The signs and portents called out are a little troubling. If the Protector's influence is to be felt soon, that implies protection is needed, and there is a threat. What is more, The Stranger has ties to the cyclopses... the cyclopii... the, uh, one-eyed giant civilisation local to the region, so maybe they're related and something is awakened again."
He nods in agreement with Orla's observation.
"Although anyone could have stumbled across that artifact, I don't know why people insist on calling out the Dragonskulls each time it comes up," he grumbles.
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"Although anyone could have stumbled across that artifact, I don't know why people insist on calling out the Dragonskulls each time it comes up," he grumbles.
"Awwwwh, the dragonskulls get to have all the fun. Best we ever got was using kegs full of blackpowder to clear the snow away from spots we were working. Nothing on the scale of 'ploding a whole town.
There is visible jealousy in Inzo's face.
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Once the feeling subsides, Inzo turns to Orla and says "Can't see the contact, race to find them?"
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Talks about his history and musical knowledge.
"Mate, I dunno 'ow it all fits in there," Bert says, tapping the side of his own head. "Probably helps that you goblins are practically all noggin."
A moment of silence reigns, before Bert tries to lighten the mood. He slaps Nazgub hard on the shoulder: "Been to Iobaria before? Could be some new tunes for yeh to pick up on. Maybe somethin' cheerful."
Orla and Inzo scan the caravanserai, bumping and excusing themselves to the other caravan masters and teamsters as they make their way. Several children chase after them, trying to figure out what they're looking for, they laugh thinking it's a game. Horses and Oxen flick their tails annoyed at the sudden intrusion of people. The camels on the other hand, don't seem to care and continue drinking from the trough. Amsu, I imagine stays placidly next to Bert and Nazgub, with several of the children remarking on the leopard.
It doesn't take long to find a set of tracks just like those of the other horses, leading into town.
Perhaps at this point, the others follow the two explorers along.
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Just past the east wall of Miskhar is the peculiar sight of a freckled, teenaged centaur yelling at an apple tree. Upon closer inspection, it is clear that she is actually yelling at a pair of human children who have climbed the tree: a boy and a girl, each about ten years old, with matching red hair and homespun clothes. The girl nonchalantly eats an apple while the boy rifles through a decorated leather satchel.
“You little demons, give that back!”, the centaur yells, flicking her tail in profound irritation.
“Hmm. Nope”, the girl in the tree says, munching on the apple.
“Not until you show us how to make those dead squirrel monsters!”, the boy calls down.
“Sure, I’ll show you! Come on down, I’ll make two dead monsters! Little devils, with red hair!” the centaur yells, then spots your approach. “... Oh no. You’re… did Urwal send you? Oh, no. Um. Can you just... I’m sorry, could you come back in a half hour? Please?”
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"I feel you may need assistance." says Gabros as he walks to the base of the tree. "You two! Descend the tree and return the satchel and we will say nothing more about what appears to be theft. I will not wait, if you do not do as I ask I will retrieve the authorities to do the asking in my place." Gabros pauses to let the threat sink in.
"However I may be mistaken in my old age. Clearly you two are retrieving the possessions of this young lady here that were dropped in the tree by a large bird. How honorable of you! Let me reward your charitable actions." he pulls two silver pieces from his purse and holds them between thumb and forefinger.
"Huh. You talk funny, mister", the boy says tossing an apple core at the centaur.
"Is that silver? But I want an undead squirrel monster!", the girl pouts.
"Yeah!, the boy chimes in, "Silver isn't as cool as your own pet monster!"
Jaldan is too flustered by the two adorable brats to have heard Orla fangirling behind her.
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Bert eyes up the tree and sighs.
"Waste o' two silver if'n yeh ask me. Inzo an' I could have that tree down in a under a minute."
He glances between the children and the ground, then shrugs.
"They're kids, they'll survive that fall. They're durable, bouncy fiends."
"Actually..." he muses, noticing the centaur: "If'n yeh kick like a horse a couple o' hits from us could weaken it enough for yeh to do the honours."
"Booo! Mean dwarf!", the little girl yells before raining several apple cores on Bert's head!
"You grumplepuss! You're no fun!"
They start chanting "♫♪grumplepusss♪♫, ♪♫grumplepuss♪♫" at Bert while making raspberries at him. It's a tune that maybe even Nazgub could sing to. They stop short on hearing him talk about ghosts.
"Ghosts are awesome, mister!", the little boy says wide-eyed. "Bring me the ghost and I'll show him!"
"Uh-huh", seconds the little girl.
"Just give me back my satchel, you brats!", Jalden says, approaching the tree to give it a kick. She gets bonked on the head with an empty satchel, the little boy holding onto her things.
"Nu-uh, you give us an undead squirrel or a ghost", the boy says wagging a finger.
"They're awesome", the little girl says nodding her head wisely.
"BLEH!", the little girl sticks her tongue out at Bert. "♪♫ Grumplepuss is getting mad, getting mad! ♪♫", she chants.
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Orla watches Gabros splutter briefly before swooping in for the save.
"Come, friends. Let us take our leave. It is obvious that this is not the centaur named Jaldan that we were sent to collect. We will need to return to Tamli and her caravan in a timely fashion. The will likely need feeding, soon. I just hope, for Pulura's sake, that we find Jaldan before the enchantment wears off and the monster turns back into a....oh, I've said too much. Let us depart."
Orla turns and begins walking away. She pauses and looks back, as if trying to get her companions to follow.
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"Actually..." he muses, noticing the centaur: "If'n yeh kick like a horse a couple o' hits from us could weaken it enough for yeh to do the honours."
Inzo whips out his axe and brandishes it. "Whaddya say Bert? Will get 'em out the tree. WATCH OUT!"|
Placing the hatched between his teeth, Inzo quickly scrambles up the tree.
Inzo starts taking small branches off in preparation for the felling, all the while saying "So Jaldan, we'll be doing this one for free, but if there are commercial jobs in town, once we finish our current society task we'd be happy to give a quote."
The kids wait to see if Gabros offers anything as cool as an undead squirrel or a ghost... and are disappointed with the nobleman's offering.
"You're just like da' says! Thinking money makes you right!", the little boy replies angrily.
"Yeah, you're a... a... tyran- tyran- a tyrannosaur!", the girl pipes in, "Only not as cool!"
"Hey sis, if these were the River Kingdoms...", the boy begins.
"...he'd be dead! Yay!", his sister finishes
They begin to chant, tossing apple cores to Bert and Hammick's heads at the end.
♪♫ "There was a silly noble, all stinky and fancy,
made a bunch of stinky poop in his, uh, pantsies
Felt silly and stupid, because this silly noble,
Was very very... uh... uhm... unfun!" ♪♫
|----|----|----|----|
The children grow quiet and stutter.
"A-An owlbear!", the little girl shrieks.
"That's so cool!", the boy says wiping his hands on his trousers.
"Lemme see!", the little angel says anxiously at Orla.
Alas, it was not to be. The children begin their overtures to climb down, when the frostfur with an axe begins to climb up and cutting off small branches. The two adorable little gremlins squeal in anguish!
"No fair! Cheater!"
They pelt apple cores at Inzo, "Tyrannosaur" Orlovsky and "Grumplepuss" Haaland and throw Jaldan's things in the mud before jumping down the tree and running away, the little boy shaking his fist. "We're telling mom!"
Jaldan picks up her things, her face a deep shade of red when she approaches. "Uhm, hello. I'm Jaldan, your guide. Uhm, thank you."
"Pleasure to meet you all." She extends a hand to shake yours, but sees its caked in mud, and leaves and thinks better of it. "That would be lovely, Nazgub", she replies, looking at her mud-stained things.
With the bard's magic, everything is as good as new. Once that's done, Jaldan spends a few minutes sorting out her pack, making sure that the children haven’t stolen or broken anything inside. Finally, she relaxes, closing the pack. "I might actually survive." The centaur says. "Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!!! You just saved my hooves. Uhm... when we get back to camp, could you maybe, uhm... not mention this to anyone. Please?"