.
The jungle may seem like no place for a halfling, yet umprobably one is apparently ready to go exploring, with an oversided scuffed leather pack and a multitude of tools and weapons. Somehow the halfling's gear is all neatly stowed and lashed and tied down so that it doesn't jangle, and the little fellow manages a suit of armor and a heavy pack in the heat without much complaint, even walking barefoot over most of the rugged terrain. His eyes dart hither and yon, occasionally settling a moment on any movement in the distance - birds, lizards, anything that pops up and could be a threat or perhaps dinner.
Very odd for a young halfling. Even so he seems to have a cheerful demeanor and a clear head. He also has a less pleasant habit of suddenly seeming to appear from nowhere, as he has the usual light-footed way of moving about in total silence.
"Well well well, if it isn't Mosely Terrahap! Intrepid explorer and naturalist extraordinaire!" The smooth, almost musical voice would've caught the young ranger off-guard if he hadn't heard the attractive young black man mindlessly playing his orphica upon his approach, not to mention the beast of burden trailing behind him. Warren turns to the white spotted mule behind him, "What do you think Fencer? Is this the Shadow of the Maplewood in the flesh?" The mule goes on chewing whatever feed was in his mouth, completely underwhelmed by his master's words.
A dry chuckle echoes from the leaves nearby at the "conversation"
Well I can see I hire myself a couple of rapscallions! the tall figure emerging from the trees says. I, Baithro, may well get the creatures I have so desired.
Post
"I knew I was being followed!" says Mosely with a snap of his fingers. He turns on his heel and rocks back and forth for a moment, then approaches Warren and extends his hand. "Good to see someone with a little sense out in these parts. Hard to find in the wild."
After shaking hands with Warren he looks over Baithro, then nods slightly and tips his hat. "No stranger to camping in the wild, certainly," he says.
Nope been there a while and back. I just prefer my creature comforts or I should say I have grown into those comforts right nicely. Baithro chortles.
With a barely noticeable rustle of leaves, a dark figure drops out of a tree about 10 feet behind the halfling. As the creature stands to its full height, a low growl rumbles in its throat.
The Catlike creature slowly circles to the side of the group so that all are in sight and none are behind him speaking in a language other than common.
With tail twitching he begins to speak.
I am Krokkin, what need do you have of our services.?
I have need of beasts to show. I have the largest and will have even larger collections of "pets" from across the lands. I have need of procurers for more.
Meanwhile, in the shade of a large tree, overlooking her favorite part of the nearby valley, Sorogar communed with her spirit animal. Her hands were shaking a bit; this was an important day, the start of an important yet very dangerous undertaking. She would have to look and act the part of a true Witch Doctor, just as Jerrik had taught her, and represent her people to the outsiders as best as possible.
Easier said than done. But she wasn't a growling anymore, and would tackle this problem head on! "Right, Brujah?"
Her bat spirit briefly paused his session of tearing into the tree's nuts with an annoyed look. 'I'm busy. And you asked me that like seven times today.'
They couldn't exactly talk, but she'd been around him long enough to guess.
She smiled a tusky grin. "Sorry. I must be more rattled than I'd thought. Maybe I should go over medicine kit again. Jerrik would flay me twice If I forgot something!"
Wasp venom - check. Replacement rat skull - check. Maggots to eat infected flesh - check. Various healing poultrices - of course.
...Now what was missing...?
The sound of braying donkeys and "roaring" bull elephants is overwhelming to the newcomers as the handlers of the creatures begin to settle them down for evening camp. I have several cages that are magically enhanced to hold even the strongest, atleast the strongest I know of, creatures. Their are elephants and wortels to pull them an we have extras to boot just in case we need them. I also have a party of cavaliers and mounted archers to protect in case of attack by some unfortunate local or hungry beast. I hope you can cook though cuz my camp only has passable food providers. the stone man baithro states with some pomp behind his words.
Ina logal git fud. tumbles out of the mouth of a rushing gnome trying desperately to catch the menagerie owner's attention.
yes yes. go to the locals and git food. he says with a grunt of playful irritation. always trying to take care of me that one is. You'd think I was master the way he fawns over me.
"Brought plenty of rations myself, and I'm not a bad hunter," Warren pats the crossbow slung across his back.
"I've learned a bit about what's edible out here and what's not," says Mosely. "Although partly that will depend on the luck of what we find, and partly on your tolerance for moss and grubs. But game hunting shouldn't be a problem, and I can certainly skin, clean, and prepare just about anything you put in front of me, as long as it's of this world."
A connoisseur of the wilds! How delightful.
turning Baithro gives his attention to Hendricks the human military escort commander whom is rapidly approaching. WIth irritation in his voice Baithro commands Yes I know it is less than you wish but you are moving the camp on the morrow until you have traveled north by a week. Then you will organize scouting parties to find my prizes. The parties will find and then the company will capture. I pay only small amounts for the pelts but you shall be paid well for the living creatures. Remember that when you assign the groups. Now leave me alone!!! He spins his body away from the now frustrated commander and the smile returns to his face. I think he will not be such a worry wart once you get on the trail. He is just worried about several rumors of tribes on the warpath. Nothing but rumors though as far as our advanced scouts have found. Oh well! I guess I pay him to be paranoid with my crew of gatherers. Now if you'll excuse me? with that the towering man turns and quickly heads back to the hustle and bustle of the camp.
What now Warren, you wanted me on this trip with you.
Krokkins tail flits back and forth in a manner that Warren has come to understand is playful no matter if the words sound aggressive.
"Krokkin old boy, you made it! I'm afraid I know no more than you do as far as operations are concerned. It seems we're camping here for the night, then moving North in the morning." Given that understanding, Warren begins to unpack his camping gear from his mule's pack saddle.
Once settled, Warren breaks out his orphica, and begins entertaining his comrades with an upbeat tune.
A few hours later, Commander Hendricks approaches your group. I see that you have made acquaintances with each other. I do not like the situation but I have no choice in when and how we move. I am assigning you 5 together as one of the scouting parties. Tomorrow we will head north as Baithro commanded. On our way, you will take far right side and scout for any locals. Do not engage them if you see them just return here and report to Gril.pointing at a massive ogre magi He will be your link to me and the other troops. A liason if you will. You will get your commands through him. Breaking them is the same as disobeying a direct order from me and will have the same consequences. I will have an orderly camp and structure is part of order. He paces for a moment as if contemplating something else...The first creature we have been hired to catch is a Genchtilian. It is a large carnivorous bird. It's plumage is that of a parrot only it is rumored to be scaled. I don't expect to see one until we reach Norshorn Mountains but keep your eye out. It can do a lot of damage to our caravan should we enrage it. He turns and walks away quickly leaving you in the embers faint light.
Oh good we hunt for tasty treats. Krokkin crawls into his tent, closes the flap, and moves around a little in the tent.
Tomorrow we hunt Warren, Rest well
The deluge of rain is what first wakes you. Your tents are quickly becoming soaked through and through. Mud puddles abound and the animals responsible for hauling the wagons look miserable as they are harnessed in to the wagons. A voice bellows out, Be ready to move out in 30 minutes. All you late risers eat and prepare what you need. Scouts, you leave in 20 min. Gril strides through camp continuing his bellows. He stops briefly before the 5 on you, looks you over with a piercing sign and then moves on grumbling as he goes I can't believe they sent us the runt bunch to be our scouts. Hopefully something takes them out or they screw up so I can get competent scouts. He contines to stomp through camp bellowing his tirade.
The deluge of rain is what first wakes you. Your tents are quickly becoming soaked through and through. Mud puddles abound and the animals responsible for hauling the wagons look miserable as they are harnessed in to the wagons. A voice bellows out, Be ready to move out in 30 minutes. All you late risers eat and prepare what you need. Scouts, you leave in 20 min. Gril strides through camp continuing his bellows. He stops briefly before the 5 on you, looks you over with a piercing sign and then moves on grumbling as he goes I can't believe they sent us the runt bunch to be our scouts. Hopefully something takes them out or they screw up so I can get competent scouts.
Mosely has, stashed in his uncanny pack, a tent (sized for little people) with an oilcloth canvas cover, so he manages to avoid the worst of the rain. All of that gets shaken out and stowed away quickly, then he puts on a wide-brimmed hat over his metal cap, and the rain seems to do little to bother him.
With ten minutes before leaving, he settles for a quick breakfast of dried nuts and fruits with a stick of savory sausage, and he's ready to go with five minutes to spare.
"All right, chums," he says to his fellow scouts. "Let's see what the trail brings to us today."
As Mosely begins eating, Sorogar looks around in her own backpack. The young half-orc's eyes widen slightly and she shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. "I knew I'd forgotten something..." She sighs from between her tusks. "So be it. I will just collect something to eat on the way."
She shoulders her backpack. "Sir Mosely, sir Grenon, it pleases me to see our paths cross again. I know our previous meetings have been rather brief in nature, yet your reputations amongst us remain as strong as ever."
She turns slightly and performs a gesture of greeting, cross her right arm across her armored chest with with a closed fist. "Sir warren and... Krokkin, was it not? I wished I could have introduced myself earlier, but the rapid events from this camp forbade it. My name is Sorogar, and I am a shaman from the Village of Kar'Vall. My skill lies in treating wounds and balancing your innate lifeforce to keep you alive. If you agree, I will prepare a simple spell to that effect before we set out."
From her shoulder, a blue-glowing bat-like creature regards you with interest. Especially the nuts that Mosely just had.
Krokkin is packing up his tent and looking thoroughly miserable in the downpour. He still moves with a quick pace and is finished packing up just after Mosely. To anyone watching, it may have looked like he started moving faster and faster as Mosely got closer to being done.
Krokkin turns to Sorogar as she starts talking and watches the reaction of Grenon. After a moment he seems to come to a decision
Do what you must, but understand you are on borrowed respect.
He walks over to her, stands up straight and tall exposing his throat with his hands behind his back.
If you ruin that respect, this will be the only time you will ever find me submissive.
Grenon woke to the sound of rain. They quickly climbed out of their bedroll and ran outside washing themself in the downpour, with a wide grin splitting their face. Ferratal came trotting through the trees, to stand by Grenon.
As the morning dragged on, Grenon's long red hair and furry fox tail, continued to drip with water, making them look like a drowned fox. Federal and Grenon came back from the nearby wilderness with a load of food for themselves and each other.
Grenon finishes breakfast just as their orders are being handed out.
Grenon shakes their head at Krokkin's demeanor, "Stiff as a trunk this one, eh? Well Krokkin, let's see if I can't help you loosen up through this trip, yeah."
Finally packed up and ready to go, Grenon mounts their fox, Ferratal and looks around at the others, nodding to Mosely as he urges the group on to the trail. "Let's indeed"
Sorogar watches Krokkin's bravado and grins. "Hah! You remind me of our growlings, fresh from their first kill and overly eager to impress their wanted mates - or rivals, perhaps? Still, it is my task to look after those as well. Come, Brujah."
As if in some unspoken understanding, the bat flies up from her shoulder and into her left hand, as she touches Krokkin's throat with her right. A soft haze of blue light moves from Sorogar to Krokkin, disappearing through his skin. Then, after a moment, Krokkin can faintly feel Sorogar's presence next to him, a faint echo of his awareness of his own body.
"Your wounds are now mine. By the pact of the first First, Grishnak the Wise, so it is promised, until unwanted death is imminent."
The further you get from the encampment the quieter it becomes. Soon you are about 10 miles away or so you figure and the natural sounds of the jungle begin to return. The trees and vines begin to thicken in their density and the water from earlier oozes from the nearby vegetation. They have enjoyed the morning shower almost as much as Grenon appears to have.
The humid day slowly creeps towards its apex. The suns blistering heat is intensified by the droplets of mist in the air an on the vegetation. Around midday, the a quiet swooooooooshhhhhh begins to come from the south. Looking back you see a solid curtain of dark water moving towards you. It sounds and looks like the afternoon rain has arrive. Knowing the jungles you are aware that you have less than 5 minutes to seek cover before the deluge reaches your location.
The vegetation also seems to know of the showers on the horizon. Many of the plants have set out their blooms to catch as much as the water as possible. Others have pulled in their fragile petals and flowers to weather the rain better.
The buzz of insects seems to heighten for a few minutes before going silent. Even the warbling of the local birds seems to pause in anticipation or fear of the oncoming onslaught.
Having grown up on a farm the majority of his life, Warren was no stranger to rain-beaten sleep and shouting. Ahead of the oncoming second rains, comes an annoyingly cheery and soaked bard on the back of his mule. "Thought you could leave without me, eh?" Warren hops down off his mule and looks at the rest of the party, seeing the Idylkin, he thinks for a bit and says, "Grenon isn't it? I've heard of you, haven't I? You've aided the militia in my town before, Megaira the Ungiving speaks highly of your skill."
Looking further he sees the half-orc lady, and says "You, though, I know not by name or reputation," he holds out his hand, "name's Warren Motter, musician, farmer, jack of all trades."
Mosely accepts Sorogar's odd ritual. He's seen some weird stuff in his time. Then he hefts his shield, draws his machete for brush-clearing, and moves up to the trailhead to take the lead. For several miles he hacks ceaselessly through the underbrush.
"Downpour incoming," he shouts back when he hears the change in the weather. "We should find some cover on a higher spot - try to avoid any potential mudslides."
You move to higher ground and find yourself entering a small grove some 20 feet across. Mounds of leaves are scattered across the field in an almost uniform manner.
The leaves are covering cairns of small stones.
A feeling of being watched tickles the back of your consciousness.
"Uh-oh. Someone's sacred ground. Sorogar! Come take a look at this," says Mosely, as he pushes a few leaves aside to reveal a small skull.
"Faeries, I think," continues the halfling. "We should be prepared for visitors. Probably unhappy about us tramping around their graveyard."
Alarmed, Sorogar peers around. "I don't see or hear anything, but I will trust your judgment, sir Mosely."
"To whatever spirit, faerie or otherwise is here, know that we come in peace, on my word as the Ninth Witch Doctor of the Goring Spear," she then says in common. "We only seek temporary shelter from the storm, and then we will go. If you wish, we can offer a tribute to your fallen."
Without asking for permission, she rips a ration of dried fruit and nuts from Krokkin's belt. Then, she spreads the contents around the gravesite and speaks a respectful prayer to the fallen children of the Soilmother, while glancing around to see if there is a reaction.
"... shrew skull?" says Mosely, crouching down to inspect it without touching it. "A sacrifice? A victim of redcaps?"
"Sorogar...okay," Warren mutters to himself, un-phased by the apparent distractedness of his new teammate. He jogs over to see what Mosely's looking at.
Since Sorogar lacks the required language, all she hears is tropical wordsalad. Still, she recognizes it for a telepathic attempt at communication, which was at least a good sign.
'I am afraid I can't understand you. Could you please repeat that in a different tongue?'
She thinks the above three times in her languages of Common, Draconic and Orcish. "Whoever they are, they are trying to speak to me. Let's not rush to hostilities." she says to the others, raising her hands in a gesture of peace.
'In my culture, an offering of food to the dead is used as an appeasement to both the local rulers and the spirits of the deceased. We give freely out of respect for the struggles and sacrifices of those who came before us, which allow us to exist - just as the cycle of life and death is the result of the constant struggle between the Soilmother and He Who Rots From Below. If I may ask, who am I speaking to? Would you prefer to take the food instead yourself, and talk with us in the open?'
The bard hears a strange language in his head, so he does what he always does when this happens, just like they trained him in that month he spent with the city council: cast Tongues.
Warren produces a long, thick bit of parchment wrapped in leather, he unties it and begins to read off a spell, "Gaiss Domas Valoda!"
I seek to protect the grove from those that would violate the trust given. What seek you among the dead?
Around the grove the storm begins to abate or atleast move on leaving the aftermath of humidity and water.
"Agreed - thank you, Flit."
She waits for Warren to finish speaking. "As he said, we are only looking for one specific bird - a Genchtilian, and happened upon this place to shelter from the storm. I assume our benefactor wants to help spread them to new lands beyond the sea. As a token of friendship, we can offer to lead the rest of the caravan around this place, so that no one else behind us stumbles upon this site either. In return, could you perhaps not attack us, and only if you know something about these birds, tell us where to look for them?"
A tiny male with green iridescent dragonfly like wings steps out of the underbrush some distance off. He carries a crossbow loaded with 2 quarrels and out of place with his calm demeanor. His auburn hair straggles out from under a thief’s hood style hat. His eyes are piercing and yet gentle. His rather robust stature is underlied with muscles that would make an ogre jealous. A knife is strapped loosely to his belt. It looks as if it has rarely been taken out. His clothing is a mismatched mangle of moderately manicured leather and leaf.
He bows with just a hint of mocking about him. Welcome! Do be careful where you stand you are on hallowed ground. This is a place of the druids. Each buried here has served the jungle well. It would be good to remember them in word and through deed. Mighty were they and yet even they were stopped by time the enchantress of all temptation. What time you have you must use well. How will you use yours? A Genchtillian! Rare indeed and dangerous. Large and colorful they hunt the larger beasts in this land. Why seek you one this far south? Norshorn mountains are a better place to seek such a one. I would not suggest spreading them though. They are ravenous especially during mating season. They will wreak havoc anywhere there is not predator for their balance. I have heard that the ogre tribes sometimes beat them into submission as mounts. Even then losing control for a second is the second to last thing you will ever lose.
Hearing these warnings from the fairy, indeed seeing the fairy in the first place, solidifies and makes real the situation for which Warren's signed himself up. He responds, "Thanks for the tip! I think it was the plan to go north, if I'm not mistaken, but we weren't going to get very far in that storm. These ogres you speak of, they wouldn't be a strangely amiable tribe, would they?" The look on Warren's face isn't hopeful, but he figures it's worth asking.
Are ogres usually amiable to anything but blunt force?And have you ever heard of anything more than a FAMILY of ogres? A tribe would be horrendous.Although rare does it happen, but if one matriarch or patriarch is especially strong or fearsome they sometime force several families under one ruler.I guess that could be called a tribe. Though I would be more apt to call it a slaughter of ogres rather than a tribe. I do know that there are ogre magi among the families. Best just to avoid them they are nasty with both the deserved reputation of the ogre and the feared oni use of magic. the little man states with a shudder.
As Flit continued his narritive, Brujah's eyes grew steadily larger as he shuffled more and more behind Sorogar's head. By the end, what remains of the bat's visage is two large blueish eyes, peeking from below a mass of his Shaman's auburn hair, staring at the Grove Guardian in obvious terror.
Sorogar, in turn, sighs and pats him consolingly as she continues the coversation. "Yes, that was what the guard captain also said. However, it is always good to have it confirmed by a resident of the rainforest itself. If nothing else, it lends food-rights to these instructions we've been following. Thank you, Flit."
She turns around to glance north, to where she suspects the mountains would be. "This description of the Genchtilian worries me, however. It seems foolish to describe them only as 'large meat-eating birds with scales instead of feathers', as we were originally told. If they can carry creatures as big as Ogres, that would make them huger still. It makes me ponder if Baithro really knows what these birds are, and if his means of transporting them over such a large distance would even work."
Then, she rubs her greenish temples with both her hands. "The news about the Ogres, especially a large and structured clan, is also problematic. However, there is one marrowy lining to this. If this clan has the birds as mounts, then perhaps we can simply arrange a trade or some favor to get a few rather than risk catching them in the wild. We'd need to talk to them anyway if we're going to be passing through their territory safely."
She turns around, hands on her hips. "What do you all think we should do?"
Warren, accustomed to being wrong and corrected, listens closely to both Flit and Sorogar. Hearing Sorogar's fear of a large ogre tribe, he chimes in, "I think he was just explaining to me that such a thing as an 'ogre tribe' is very rare, and it's more likely just a gaggle of diffuse families. All the same, best to avoid."
Krokkin has been marching with the group out in front. Mosely's call about rain causes him to stop and turn to find it. No matter how long he has been away from home, he still has not gotten used to the rain here.
He turns back to the path to realize that almost everyone has changed course and he is now at the back of the group. He catches up quickly but is unable to navigate around to the front of the pack. he moves to the side to move back around to the front when the he starts hearing the conversation.
He stops moving and lowers himself into a crouching position ready to strike in the direction of whatever this thing is. Even though he cannot see it. He listens to the conversation but is not really paying attention to what is being said but more the tone of the words and intention.