Following the tracks, the trail of blood and the general direction from which the noise was heard the group head towards a small cluster of trees to the east. Breaking through the tangled foliage of the location they come a cross a most curious sight. A small herd of elk gather defensively around one of their young which has been cruelly struck with an arrow in the gut. It was dying and albeit slowly and most painfully as is evident by the continued screaming sound it continues to make. It almost sounded human from a distance.
Meanwhile a group of eight rough-and-tumble men in ragged leathers have surrounded the beasts, laughing and jeering as they mockingly approach the group of elk only to cheer and back away as one of the elk will defensively charge at the men in an attempt to protect its young.
These men are obviously poachers of a sort and particularly heartless one's at that. No proper hunter would take a shot at a creature so young, much less such a painful one as a gut shot which would result in a horrificly slow and painful death for the prey and also possibly ruin a good amount of the meat.
Brental seethes as they approach the poachers and witnesses their cruelty. Hunting was no crime, and these lands were not under anyone's specific protection, but this was barbaric. Still, their actions were not to be met with death. Perhaps they could be put off.
He whispers to his companions from the trees, his usually calm voice betraying his anger and his eyes shifting to a vibrant blue. "I do not wish to resort to violence with these men, but I cannot abide such a brazen display of callous disregard for life. They outnumber us two to one, but perhaps we can reason with them. Otherwise I should easily be able to hamper them."
Signy and Meneas know that when Brental says to reason with them, he is asking if either of them would be willing to do the talking. Brental is worried that he will be more detrimental if he engages with them rhetorically. In these sorts of tense situations he finds he either stumbles over his words or says something to rub people in the wrong way. The Oakstewards had tried to help him be more diplomatic, but it just wasn't his strength.
The druid brings his shield from its riding place on his back and holds it in front of him. A series of weapons lie more-or-less sheathed and ready in his horse's saddle, but his right hand he keeps open in case he needs to use his magic.
Hyalinnea’s glance flickers from Brental to the others questioningly, trying to read their moods. She’s deeply unimpressed by the poachers’ callousness, and pities the dumb beast, but she’s not sure if it’s best to just put the thing out of its misery and set a better example, or what? Even tell the louts off and try to heal the calf? She doesn’t have a healing spell prepared today, let alone the knack with animals to get them to calm down to get close enough.
Still. She translates it into terms that are more meaningful to her. The bastards are probably the like to lop off convenient boughs at random and leave trees to die a lingering death instead of harvesting properly, and the less she thinks about their attitude to flowers, the better.
She nods at Brental's words, takes a breath and calls out, keeping her tone neutral for the moment, “Oh, bad luck! Are you out of arrows?”
The odd young elf considers the men’s quivers curiously, before looking back at the mortally wounded calf. “Shame to let it go to waste, if it stews in its own bile too long. But really, that one’s a bit young anyway.”
Meneas surveys the hunters dispassionately from beneath his hood, one hand lightly resting on his lance as he nudges Veil around to better prepare to do battle. What they have shown of themselves is hardly reason to trust their good intentions. Not enough yet to kill them outright, though.
The poachers quickly turn in the direction from whoch they heard the voice preparing their weapons. One is so distracted he nearly gets gored by one of the elder elk's horns before he returns his attention to the creature.
The rugged man before Lina has one dead eye and a series of scars across his face. He sneers and spits on the ground. "Nah we gots plenty of arrows and you're about right this one is a little too small for us. So that's why we're just havin' some fun with the little one. Once it stops screamin' we'll take care of mommy and daddy and have a proper meal of them."
The poacher then reaches out his hand and gestures to the party. "Now we could see how long you lot would scream too unless you wanna drop all your valuables here and now. See it's tax season and I can't help but notice you haven't paid your fees to our most gracious lord."
Signy steps out from behind a tree.
"Bandits. Thanks for clearing things up. You're really making things easy for us."
She takes the measure of the scar-faced man and launches an arrow at him.
Brental's eyes narrow angrily at the threat before Signy lets loose an arrow. Violence it was, then. Best let them know who they're dealing with, though.
"A counter offer," he calls out from the tree line. "You can surrender and stand trial for your crimes, or you can die where you stand. We have already killed thirteen of your number, including Happs Bydon and your gracious lord's lieutenant Kressle." Brental spitefully hisses gracious lord. "But we are not without mercy. One of your people, a boy by the name of Vlad, still lives having surrendered and recanted this life of ill-repute. Throw down your arms while you still can."
Brental draws his club, ready to bathe it in blood, and puts a steady hand on Vodnykel's flank.
Signy's arrow whirl's by the poacher and he snarl as blood descends from his cut cheek where the arrow nicked him. "Ohhh I think it's too late to exchange pleasantries now pretty boy. You're about to get stuck."
With a signal from their leader the two poachers flanking him charge out recklessly screaming as the thrust their spears with reckless abandon at Meneas and Brental. For all their vigor, however, the charges lack precision and are easily parried by the two experienced fighters.
The poacher to their right then attempts to hobble the male elk adult with a cruel net but despite its previous injuries the enraged parent hooks the net in its horns mid-air and tosses it aside with ease snorting angrily and beating it's hooves into the ground as it stares daggers at the man before it.
The bandit to the right then fires an arrow from his longbow at Lina. The strange elf is quick however and gracefully dips in her saddle avoiding the deadly projectile all together.
Lina turns her dip in the saddle into a slither out of it, grabbing her besom from behind her as she goes. She manages to move quite elegantly, though still more messily than she would like, but then she’s not much of a rider.
It’s an easy thing to miss from a cursory glance, but the thing that appears in her hands isn’t a particularly uneven and bedraggled ironwood broom: however improbably – some of the lower twigs look as if they’re bound to get in the way of a reasonable grip – the thing is some sort of spear, its central branch tipped with a long blade that flashes more visibly when the light into the glade catches its flat, and the smaller branches and twigs that bush a bit below it equipped with their own blades to scale, down to something like glittering arrowheads.
And that, with a small, off-kilter grin, as she takes a pace forward to support Meneas, is what she thrusts in the face of the poacher in front of the cavalier, trying to help clear his way forward.
The peculiar weapon of the elf woman connects with the face of the poachers much to his chagrin. With a scream he doubles back clutching his heavily bleeding face but still standing albeit with enough facial scaring to match his leader now.
Brental easily knocks the spear aside with his shield and sighs.
"You have made your choice. Vodnykel: Anfalla."
Vodnykel closes the distance between him an the blue poacher, bladed tusks ready to do their worst.
The poacher doesn't have time to react after the fierceness of his own charge. He left himself completely open to Vodnykel's charge and the mastodon takes full advantage burying his newly upgraded tusks into the man's chest and piercing his lungs. With a great trumpet Vod tosses the wheezing man to the ground and permanently silences his gasping breath under the weight of his mighty feet.
Witnessing the carnage that has befallen his underling and cursing the one-eyed poacher dashes to the side swinging his net with well trained precision before hurling it at Brental and backing away cautiously.
The older man curses however, as Brental masterfully slides under the net where it is then trampled under Veil's hooves.
Signy takes a step around Vodnykel for better line of sight and looses a second arrow at the bandit leader.
"Really too easy. Bandits here are always all 'we're bandits and we're out banditing so now we're going to bandit you'. No cleverness at all. They might as well tattoo it on their foreheads."
The poacher leader gasps in pain and pulls Signy's arrow loose from his arm tossing it to the floor and stomping it in half as blood dribbles down his wounded appendage. "One of the privileges of having the run of the place means we don't really have to play coy you little runt. Now kill her!" He cries our signaling his men to focus fire on the loud mouthed adventurer.
Two other bandits then loose their shots at Signy.
But Signy ducks behind the small tree before her in time. Two loud thunks later the arrows have buried themselves in the bark of the tree and spent all their deadly force.
The final bandit then tosses his net at the female elk in an attempt to disable the beast.
The poor injured mother issues a scream of frustration as the net snares her, tangling her thoroughly as the weighs rapidly tangle and knot the more the elk struggles.
The poacher cheers and begins moving away from the creature as the male elk lashes out at his companion ferociously in defense of it's calf and mate.
A loud crack is hear followed by obscene cursing as the poacher clutches his now broken arm. The elk had reared up and brought a powerful hoof down on the man in retribution and it had devastating effect on the cruel man.
The mother elk tries to move forward and attack her child's attacker but is far too hobbled by her own injuries and the diabolical net to make any progress and so she is left to her pitiful frustration.
Meneas draws his blade swiftly, slashing at the man with quick, cruel strikes, before leaning back and allowing Veil to lash out at the bandit before him, her hooves swinging down to crush and smash bone. He lets out an unearthly battlecry, barely sounding human.
The poacher before Meneas never even sees Veil raise her mighty hooves to crush him as Meneas' blade carves neatly through the man's shoulder and in a spray of arterial blood, soaking knight and horse. The man collapses unmoving under Veil's hooves.
"Aww hell! That guy owed me money! I'll just have to extract the difference from your bloody corpse!" Growls one of the bandits in back firing a shot at Brental.
The arrow buries itself in the druid's back sending sharp pain through his body as the bandit jeers. "Opps meant to hit tall dark and stupid my baaaad~"
The injured poacher attempts to extract his vengeance upon the male elk before him, lashing out with his spear.
But in his injured state he can barely lift the spear let alone harm the rampaging beast with it.
Seeing a path open up before her, and knowing her spells work best in close, Lina can’t resist. Lifting her spear up, she calls out, half dreaming, “For the dear lady!” With that, she leans forward and charges towards the poachers’ rear line.
Pulling back from her thrust, the mad elf sparkles, "Get it? You have a 'Stag Lord,' so it only follows... And 'Doe' would be too pedantic."
And of course there is a lady in elven lands to whom she would dedicate her exploits, but there's only so much banter she can fit in between parrying and dodging and all that.
Brental takes the arrow with a grunt and a cry of pain. Getting shot was deeply unpleasant. He watches as Meneas and Veil bring a swift and brutal end to the flanked poacher and nods at the hooded knight. He then whirls around and begins chanting in a loud voice, waving his gnarled club around in circles. The very earth responds to the druid's beckons as the plants experience a massive growth surge. The foliage seems to take on a life of its own as blades of grass, scrubby bushes, roots, and weeds animate like limbs to grasp at the bulk of the offending bandits and poachers.
Brental casts Entangle where the spell token is, affecting all plants in a 40-ft radius. I need a DC 14 Reflex save from:
Any of them that fail are Entangled.
Being entangled impedes movement, but does not entirely prevent it unless the bonds are anchored to an immobile object or tethered by an opposing force. An entangled creature moves at half speed, cannot run or charge, and takes a –2 penalty on all attack rolls and a –4 penalty to Dexterity. An entangled character who attempts to cast a spell must make a concentration check (DC 15 + spell level) or lose the spell.
Creatures that make their save can move as normal, but those that remain in the area must save again at the end of your turn. Creatures that move into the area must save immediately. Those that fail must end their movement and gain the entangled condition. Entangled creatures can attempt to break free as a move action, making a Strength or Escape Artist check. The DC for this check is equal to the DC of the spell (14). The entire area of effect is considered difficult terrain while the effect lasts.
If the plants in the area are covered in thorns, those in the area take 1 point of damage each time they fail a save against the entangle or fail a check made to break free. Other effects, depending on the local plants, might be possible at GM discretion.
"Let's see how you like being trapped," Brental breathes as he snaps the shaft of the arrow off with a deft swing of his club. He looks at the entangling vegetation and knows that with Meneas and Lina's reach, they should be able to manage to attack anyone caught in his spell.
The druid strides forward to set up a flank for Vodnykel on the next unentangled poacher in line. The mastodon sees this opening and charges with a blaring trumpet.
Lina's vicious weapon is thrust forward with killer intent. Whether or not her pun was appreciated is difficult to tell as the bandit before her can only gurgle with a plethora of holes in his neck. He falls to the ground choking and sputtering before he is no more.
As Brental completes his spell the grass and vines begin to grow wild and out of control in the area. Bandits and poachers cry out in shock and horror as the vegetation wraps around their legs and tugs at them trying desperately to hold them in place.
The next poacher is taken completely by surprise. As he moves to keep an eye on the approaching druid Brental can see two massive tusks burst forth from the man's chest as Vod rushes the poacher from behind. The man trembles and grasps at the wound before the mastodon throws him to the ground. He crawls only for a few seconds before the Lady of Graves claims him.
"Wh-what the hell is this stuff who are you people?!" The lead poacher curses as he desperately attempts to free himself of the plant matter that surrounds him but it seems the every time he dislodges one vine another two come up in its place holding him still.
"Just some runts come along to kick your pathetic ass and make you think about your life choices."
Signy pops back out from behind her little cover tree and makes the bandit leader sprout another feathered shaft.
Signy's arrow strikes the poacher leader right between the eyes. He's dead well before he can reply to Signy's taunt collapsing into the overgrowing weeds about him. His body soon disappears underneath the foliage.
A split second later male elk then gores the poacher before it on its mighty horns. The elk then flips the man's mangled corpse over his head before looking about wildly to see what the next threat he needs to deal with is.
The mother elk tries to remove the net surrounding her in vain and screams pitifully.
Meanwhile the last remaining bandit manages to pull himself free of Brental's enwrapping vines and brings his own spear to bear against the elven woman. Her own mastery of her weapon far exceeds this petty bandit however and she manages to deftly deflect the blow.
Brental is relieved to see that they have nearly dealt with this problem swiftly. He believes that Veil and Meneas can charge to finish things without risking entanglement in the vines, but he can either dismiss his entanglements or step out of the way should the cavalier need more room.
Although the scarred man who asked the question has since stopped breathing in the moments since his last words, Brental levies his own quip towards the others before they meet their fate.
"We are the justice of the Greenbelt, and your ushers to the Lady of Graves."
Brental casts a glance towards the injured elk. If he can get to them soon and calm them down, he should be able to cut the mother free and heal her calf. And then...well, he supposed it was time to get his shovel out again.
Meneas kicks Veil's sides, charging forwards into the man threatening Lina. Though his blade flashes, he cannot quite make it go where he wishes, instead allowing Veil to take her hooves to the bandit's back.
Meneas's blade is just off of the bandit who is now crammed between him and his new elven companion. The man looks quite panicked as Veil's hooves come crashing down on him. Bleeding and broken he looks like he can barely stand and tears are streaming down his face as he screams and darts his attention wildly between the haunting elf woman and the cowled cavalier.
Brental drops his club to the ground, having not had to swing it this day, and its strengthening wards recede back into the ground. Instead he moves carefully towards the mother elk, entangled in her net. As he moves, he draws a dagger and tries to hold it in as non-threatening of a posture as possible. He is well aware that the creature may see him as as much of a threat as the poachers who were trying to kill her.
"Shh, shh," he says as he moves slowly. "We need to get you out of there so that I can help your calf."
He takes the dagger to the net to try to help get the poor creature out with a few deft cuts, hoping that she lets him do his work without lashing out in fear.
Vodnykel meanwhile tramples over the body of the bandit in front of him and charges forward to finish off the surrounded sole survivor.
The sole surviving bandit is no match for the young mastodon's might and with a quick thrust the man falls dead in the grass. The last of the bandit's finally defeated all that remains is the elks to be tended to.
The mother elk squirms and thrusts about fiercely as Brental draws his dagger but something in his tone and the way he holds himself comforts the beast and he is able to remove the net from her with little difficulty with the help of his razor-sharp dagger. The father elk makes ready to charge but upon seeing his mate tended to by the druid he holds himself still. Unsure of these strangers but sensing that they are here to help.
Now the only sound is that of the suffering young elk still behind it's parents lying in a pool of its own blood.
As Brental frees the cow elk from her captivity, he sighs and moves carefully to her calf. He meets the gaze of the bull elk as he moves, dropping his dagger and shield and walking to the bleeding, bleating calf.
"You are too young to die," he says compassionately.
Brental kneels down to the youngling and begins to work on removing the arrow from its belly. Since they're out of danger, Brental will administer an animal-modified first aid to the creature. Assuming that he was able to get to it in time before it bled out, he then holds his hand over the wound and murmurs a few words. The skin where the arrow struck, hair around it still stained and mottled with its own blood and bile, begins to stitch back together.
It's small, but should allow the calf to live and recover. Brental barely seems to notice the arrowhead with its broken shaft still sticking out of his own back. He sits down from his kneeling position, feeling his magic spent for the day. Well spent. He looks at the elk family, now safe (for now) and reunited alive, and nods his head. "It is not your day," he says. "Go in peace."
After ministering to the wounded animal, he turns and looks to his companions, waving a hand and dismissing the massive verdant growth that had enshrouded this now blood-soaked field. Roots and weeds return to the soil from whence the erupted, revealing the mangled bodies of the dead poachers.
Brental sighs as he looks at his companions. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, his hands stained with elk blood, he looks far less intimidating than when he was striding confidently across the battlefield moments before. Vodnykel eyes the elk family suspiciously and maintains his distance.
"Welcome to the Greenbelt, Lina," he breathes, wrenching the arrowhead from his back. He stretches with a bit of pain and holds a hand over the wound. "Were any of you injured? I can treat your wounds if you were. If you all don't mind, I'd like to bury these men as we did with Kressle and her brethren."
He was turning into quite the gravedigger on this southerly mission. How many more bodies would they come to leave in their wake before striking down the Stag Lord? They were already approaching nearly two dozen, and they had barely received their charter more than a week prior.
Meneas subtly nudges Veil to tread over as many of the bandits as he can reasonably do. Waving a hand, he speaks. "It's not good if the Stag Lord's men are this far north even still. D'you think that these," he gestures at the scattered corpses, "were some of Kressle's lot?"
"Hard to say. They could just be other itinerants taking advantage of the region's anarchy. We should check their bodies to see if any of them have one of those silver amulets."
Once Brental has fully deal with the elk, he will help to search the bodies.
Hyalinnea considers the wreckage with a curious expression, at once somewhat sympathetic, and still rather dispassionate. That last bandit, especially – why didn’t he just throw his weapon down and give up? Maybe it’s easier to throw one’s life away if it’s not likely to last even a single century?
"Hard to say. They could just be other itinerants taking advantage of the region's anarchy. We should check their bodies to see if any of them have one of those silver amulets."
“They did mention their ‘lord,’ without a name, so unless there’s more than one mysterious bandit leader in the area, I’d imagine they weren’t just drifters. Although they could have just latched onto the association to be more threatening, I suppose. If they were his men, it looks like this ‘Stag Lord’ actually is … ‘the real deal?’”
She tilts her head to one side as she recalls the Common expression, as well as Brental’s initial warning to the poachers, “That would make it some score already, of his creatures. I wonder if he’s ever sent an agent, at least, to the Outlaw Council? I’ve never heard so, but that doesn’t mean anything, and isn’t what I started out to say. I do also wonder how many more there are.”
She breaks off as just what sort of bloody work she may have signed up for sinks in.
Resignedly, she helps search the bodies for clues, wondering if it would be easier to just heap up a burial mound next time as Brental breaks out his shovel. She’s not sure, since it might be more earth to have to move than she thinks: she normally plants things that don’t need to be buried so deep.
The calf whimpers cautiously at first but is in no state to resist Brental as he begins to administer his healing. In no time, the wound has sealed itself up and, due to Brental's careful application of magic and traditional medicine, young calf is soon back on its feet. A little shakey but moving about well enough.
The cow immediately moves up to her young and begins tending in with sweet licks and nudging it away from the adventurers and out into the fields. Meanwhile the bull continues to stare at the druid before giving a slow and seemingly respectful bow and heading off with his family.
Inspecting the bodies doesn't reveal any silver amulets. It seems these poachers were too low ranking within the Stag Lord's structure to recieve such an honor. But the party does manage to gather up their loot and bury the bodies within a relatively short period of time. Brental seems to be becoming an expert with that shovel, he may even make a good gravekeeper some day.
The birds chirp joyously around them and the sun is still high in the sky as the party make their decesion as to what to do next.
Meneas looks around at the newly buried corpses. "I'm not sure, Lina. If he was, you'd think that they might brag about it - or at least that there'd be rumors to that effect. As it is, I think it's more likely he's an independent operator. Doesn't make him any less threatening at the moment, but it does mean he probably won't have much reinforcements, and that every one of his bandits we end leaves us with one less to deal with later."
"Alright, everyone. Where should we go next? I suggest we head into the forests now that we've scouted out this area, but we can also head further west. Unless you want to stop for lunch?"
“I’m probably just being paranoid,” the witch admits. “And maybe just a bit jealous. I very much doubt I could convince twenty people to do anything so risky for my benefit, let alone mostly unsupervised. Maybe it is just a question of – I don’t know, vision, self-confidence, charisma. Though I’d like to think I’d do something better than terrorize travelers and husbandmen.”
She shrugs. “I’m always happy to browse through forests, or we could just keep going out in our direction from the trading post. After all –” she thinks back to the group’s charter, not because she feels bound by it as such, but because it does offer a useful way to limit the scope of the exploration “– we’re supposed to go some thirty-six miles in that direction, before turning south, no? We could also use the Thorn as a border. Or we could split the difference, and weave in and out of the woods and west, like a decorative thread!”
The whimsical thought sparks a small smile.
When she sees Brental prepare to pull the arrow from himself, Signy rushes over in distress and swats his hand away.
"What is wrong with you? You know that's not how to treat it.! You'll just tear yourself up, it's not a splinter.
Leaving the arrow in place, Signy uses magic to heal the wound, which pushes the arrow out as it closes the wound without tearing flesh.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Signy helps Brental with the burials. She spills a bit of ale for each man, because people are still people.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"We have a deal with the Kobolds and I'm not sure I'd put much faith in their patience or attention spans. I'd like to tie up loose ends as quickly as we can."
“Dare I ask?” Hyalinnea floats, trying to remember the details from the conversation earlier this morning. "Some clash with the mites, was it? Are we serving as mediators?”
Brental chuckles grimly as Signy tends to him. "Thank you, I...well, thank you."
Brental wasn't used to anyone else fussing over him. Usually he was tending to others. It was a strange feeling. And of course he knew that this was the wrong way, but he was going to sew himself up later. This was better, though.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"I would prefer to treat with the mites as mediators rather than warlords," Brental says as he wipes the sweat from his brow. At least the last deadly encounter had been in the morning before the sun was beating down do brutally, and in the shade at that. As he finishes his labor, he explains the situation a bit more to Lina.
"The kobolds claim that the mites have stolen an idol of their god, Sharptooth. They believe that this has caused anger in their god, who is visiting a plague upon them. There may be more to it, of course, or less. But they are at war. If we could find the idol, and maybe some other stolen goods, we may be able to prevent more unnecessary death."
As they get into a discussion of next steps, Brental adds with a smile:
"A zig-zag would be an interesting way to go. I won't commit to that just yet: we may find some clues to lead us as we go. But it's as good of an idea as any. Let's turn due southwest, into the forest. My magic is mostly expended for the day, but I still have much to offer should we run into the mites. We can eat lunch as we ride."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Brental takes a bit more time to create a circle of stones marking the graves, using his innate magic to create a continual flame in the center. After retrieving and storing his club and dagger, he checks on his mastodon as well, cleaning the blood from his tusks.
"You did well, my boy," he says cheerfully. "And no arrows for you today! That's even better." The mastodon tousles Brental's hair with his trunk, snorting happily. "Yes, I'm fine, too. Thanks for asking." He beams happily at his companion, clean and ready to move on.
As he hops on his horse, he returns to the point that Lina and Meneas are discussing.
"The Outlaw Council would as much legitimize him in the eyes of many people. And I agree we'd have likely heard of such a move. Perhaps he plans to make such a move if he brings this region fully under his control. He could want a more prominent voice on the Council than to feel like some pretender whose kingdom will topple with his death." Which it almost certainly will.
Brental knew that the Archdruid known as the Voice of Wind, the Oakstewards' equivalent of a foreign affairs minister, was as much of a voice on the Outlaw Council as the Mayor of Sevenarches, Esmet Silkenlock. He had never met either. But...maybe this was why the Order had sent him on this mission. Were there rumblings of the Stag Lord's intentions that had whispered back to the Lodge?
"I agree. We should look to the mites..." He pauses. "Though I'm fairly sure they're not terribly bright. As in, they're only a little smarter than your average dog." The knight-errant shrugs after a moment. "That may be a tad unfair to them. In any case, if you wish to try speaking to them, Brental, far be it from me to stop you."
"If everyone's ready to move, we can get everything together and move out." Meneas says, patting Veil's neck.
Brental nods at Meneas' statement. It was quite a bit uncharitable, but Brental understood where he was coming from.
"There's a reason I carry this," he says, drawing his cold iron dagger. "Lower intelligence or not, most fey I know are susceptible to cold iron."
He looks to the others. "Do any of the rest of you possess any cold iron weaponry?"
The party continue out, striking deep into the woods to the southwest and soon the dense forestation all arpund them is all they can see.
All rolls are DC 15
Climb
Diplomacy
Perception
Intimidation
Knowledge Nature
Knowledge Arcana
Knowledge Planes
Performance (Any)
Linguistics
Profession (Cartpgraphy)
Stealth
Sleight of Hand
After munching on some rations supplemented with some berries and wild mushrooms he grabbed during the afternoon's bloody stop, Brental pulls out his journal and resumes his usual go-to of noting important elements of the land they are going through. He also begins to sketch a map as he goes, wondering whether they'll find a good enough tree for him to climb to get a vantage of the whole terrain as the foliage grows thicker.
As he scrawls, he finds himself sketching out far more than the flora and fauna. A narrative begins finding its way into the margins about what he and the others are doing. It's less purely ecological and more of an adventurer's survey. Might have to work on this more from the notes when I have time...
Meneas follows the others, occasionally taking the lead as he guides the party around particularly dense foliage that their horses might have trouble making it through. He keeps a close eye out for anything of note in the forest's wilderness.
Meneas takes note of various bits and shiny baubles strung up and around the tree branches in the area. Being one so closely associated woth the fey himself, Meneas immediately recognizes this as sure signs of a fey nest of some variety. Creatures of the fey did so love their otherwise worthless shiny objects.
In response to Brental's question, Meneas touches the hilt of his sword. "This is crafted from cold iron. My mentor was aware that our duties often take us into contact with... less than pleasant fey."
He looks around. "I think we're headed in the right direction, though." He nods at the various shiny objects. "Either we're in the territory of some extremely dextrous magpies, or there're fey in the area."
Brental smiles at Meneas' comments as he works on his map sketch. "Your mentor sounds wise. Or at least experienced." Maybe the same thing.
Dangerous magpies! Meneas has a better sense of humor than Brental gave him credit for.
"Let's keep going, then. Carefully."
Hyalinnea considers the weapons the gentlemen point out, pleased that she’s got one that won’t embarrass her. Unsurprisingly, Meneas’ sword is the most impressive, and she quite approves of its design, though she still prefers those of her own people, and she faintly hopes not to have to fight too many fey.
“I’ve got something,” she nods, lips pursed at the prospect of needing to use it against anything pretty and/or that should know better. The elegant dueling dagger stays in her boot, though, and her expression soon relaxes. There’s just something so … manly about actually comparing weapons that she finds both bizarre and amusing. A line from an old play, about dandies quietly avoiding a confrontation, flashes across her thoughts, ‘We measured swords and parted.’
She rides quietly along, instinct alert. She hasn't actually prepared the sort of cantrip that would definitively reveal other magic or otherworldly influences today, but with her upbringing and training, Lina's got a surprisingly good sixth sense about such things, or something like that.
That's not to say that she can't also be easily distracted, and she smiles at and briefly reaches out now and again to just touch a confection of flower and feather or bit of bright glass and thread hanging from a tree as she passes. "Pretty."
Lina is instantly attuned to the energy of this place. Definitely there was a strong First World influence here. The plants were more vibrant and grew in bright hues of pinks and purples. The light that pierced the treetops appeared to dance and the shadows were staunchly dark and ever in flux.
"I have this dagger. It's cold iron."
Signy indicates one of the two attached to her belt.
Since the mites are an unknown factor, though based on comments from both bandits and kobolds nobody seems to like them much, Signy ranges out a little beyond the rest of the party occasionally. She moves quietly sometimes forward, sometimes doubling back the way they came looking for anyone trailing them or spying.
When she does this, she places a Guidance orison on herself because luck is mostly made rather than stumbled upon.