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As the half-elf is freed from the cage, he stretches his legs outside of it. He had room to do so in it, but the motion symbolizes freedom for him and he takes his time doing it. It is common knowledge that one has to be smart to try magic and if this half-elf has what it takes he surely doesn't show it. He does reply diplomatically to his captor in his tongue "<I think I may even be getting the better end of this deal, meat sounds good!>" He is bold enough to ask "<Can I have my things? Please?>"
On their way to the kobold inner grounds, he replies to the elf in Elven.
"I'm called Morof, and this has all been a mistake. You are?"
He wants to continue explaining how this has all been a mistake but he is a little unsure about how much he is allowed to do or say.
Some time later, he witnesses a kobold family reunion and is genuinely touched. He decides to stay silent, given that nothing being said makes sense to him. He does cringe when he hears the name Tartuk and looks around to try to find this less-than-pleasant kobold.
Meneas remains quiet for a time, watching the kobolds carefully. At the mention of the purple shaman and the idol, he perks up. "<Where is this shaman? Surely he should explain why Old Sharptooth needs so many sacrifices.>"
The descent into the mines is about what Brental expected (rife with traps), but it takes some prodding and encouragement to get poor Vodnykel to go down further. He was still small enough to squeeze, but the deep underground was no place for a mastodon at any age. While the aasimar works to squeeze himself through the uncomfortable spaces, aware of the eyes constantly on him, he spends a lot of time with soothing whispers to his ward-companion.
Morof seems interesting. Brental keeps an eye on him during the descent and initial meeting. He doesn't seem to present a threat, but now also may not be the best time to delve into what exactly he is doing here. Soon.
Chief Sootscale is a wonder to behold, bearing confidence more akin to true dragons (or at least how Brental imagines they must be). His dire warning melts into the decorum-detached greeting of his missing son, and Lina makes a showy presentation full of diplomatic verve. Mekmek is also high in his praise, and Brental notes the Bright-Eyes sobriquet with a smile. It's all quite impressive to the young druid, and it's clear that it makes an impression on Chief Sootscale, too. A den of prostrate kobolds might be enough to make anyone feel puffed up in importance.
This all-but confirms that the shaman Tartuk is in truth an enemy of the tribe. Many gods demanded sacrifices, but even Zon-Kuthon in faraway Nidal had limits. After Meneas asks his question, Brental adds his own.
<"Chief Sootscale, you honor us. May I ask--is anyone currently infected with this yellow-scale plague? My name is Brental Fenson, and I am a healer from a nearby druidic order. I would like to see your ill and try to cure them.">
Although he may not be able to do everything today, he could ask the earth for restorative magics tomorrow. And he has some mundane means of addressing it before then. Whether this plague was natural, deific, feyborn, or kobold-made, there were always ways of addressing illness.
“<Oh, really, you don’t have to do that! Please rise!>” Lina squirms a bit under all the attention, now definitely wishing Alaïs was present. Her aristocratic friend would definitely be able to navigate the situation more deftly. The witch makes a mental note to ask for pointers in her next letter, if it’s even the sort of thing that can easily be conveyed by writing. If it were as easy as all that, surely manners throughout the Shifting Lands would be at a much higher standard than they are.
But she’s getting distracted, and Meneas and Brental recall her to the present. “<As Brental – er, Bright-Eyes – said, are there any active cases of yellow-scale? Is it so virulent? Or do you have any idea what makes it so difficult to control? Forgive me for being so direct, but if we can, we’d like to help.>”
She exchanges a look with the others, trying to tread carefully, even as part of her wonders if it would have been better simply to crush Old Sharptooth to powder back at the old sycamore. She’s not sure about her (mostly) human companions, but she’s certainly not particularly well-equipped to deal with matters of faith. Maybe Brental, but druids can be weird when it comes to gods.
She turns to Morof and asks,
Regardless, her tone is stern as she supports Meneas, “<Yes, we’ll certainly have to have a chat with Tartuk, I think.>”
As the tribe slowly rise back to their feet at Lina's bidding Morof is approached by Nakpik laden down with the wizard's equipment. The kobold hefts the gear back to the half-elf and bows graciously as he backs away and allows the man to reequip his gear.
Chief Sootscale nods to two of his tribesmen who rush off down the corridor at his bidding. "<No cases right now.. we've kept disease at bay with many kobold sacrifices... many more since Old Sharptooth was taken from us! But Sootscales will allow new friend-kin of tribe to examine bodies... we appreciate offer though Bright-Eyes and Fair-Dragon.">
A few seconds later the two kobolds return with a pair of rotting kobold corpses each of which is covered in scales with a sickly yellow hue.
"<Only Grand Shaman Tartuk could tell you.>" Chief Sootscale sighs a response to the question of why there had been so many kobold sacrifices. "<Only Tartuk can hear the words Old Sharptooth has to speak-say. And Tartuk only say the Old Sharptooth very displeased with us and demand more sacrifice of 'the bad kobolds.' Grand Shaman Tartuk is just to the right out of this way in what used to be Chief Sootscale's private chamber... now Grand Shaman Tartuk's personal sanctum where Tartuk brew many potions and speak-say many things in strange tongue to big ugly black bird. If he saw tall-things here he would want sacrificed as well most certainly.>" The chieftain nods grimly.
Brental kneels down with reverence at the dead kobold's bodies and sets to work examining them. It doesn't take long before he realizes what had happened. His eyes widen as he touches their necks and rubs his fingers on their yellowed scales. He speaks in the feytongue, knowing that Lina and Meneas are fluent.
Meneas responds cooly, his gauntleted fingers flexing slowly and deliberately.
Morof’s equipment suggests he must be a proper mage, and Lina stifles a feeling of inadequacy as a hedge witch whose home port (however delightful) is a decided backwater. She wonders what his specialization might be, and if she could get some pointers.
She is aware that she is latching onto distraction after distraction to avoid dealing head on with the fact that their hosts have been convinced to sapient sacrifice, to say nothing of how desperately she hopes Tartuk’s bird is only a particularly large raven or the like, and not whatever any of the adventurers have seen.
She’s not a healer, but as the deceased kobolds’ bodies are brought forward, she casts about her memories of the oddments she's trained in for anything relevant.
Her glance flickers up to Morof as the others articulate conclusions with which she can only agree, though her racing thoughts prevent her from following the links of their respective reasoning.
“<What do you think?>” she asks her fellow mage, looping him gently into the Sylvan conversation. “<Whoever did this must have been trained in another tradition than I, since I'm not recognizing the signature of the spell. Then again, my focus is mainly on illusions and enchantments, which wouldn't be practical for this.>”
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Morof feels very out of place upgrading his status from prisoner to discussing the tribe's inner worries. Still, his mood improves considerably once one of them brings him his equipment. After making sure he has his spellbook and spell components he thanks the kobold.
As Lina makes conversation, Morof realizes he likes to have someone to talk about magic since he left his master. He replies to her in Elven
"Well, I did study many things about many churches but... I don't really follow any of them. No god has ever done anything for me."
Later, he checks the sickly kobolds. Not because he particularly cares about this tribe, but for mere curiosity.
After identifying what is wrong with the kobold "disease", Morof feels troubled. He has no love for the creatures, but this Tartuk seems to be the epicenter of their problem. It was his decision to imprison the mage after all. He replies to Lina in Sylvan, which he speaks more naturally than Elven "<This does look like what the Aasimar said. The coloring was clearly done by a minor cantrip. This Tartuk seems to be scamming this tribe. Now how to go about telling them is... another problem.>" Morof seems to have forgotten that Lina brought up her magical inclination. He has never been much into scholarly discussion of the weaves of magic and he is somewhat worried that Lina would want to discuss the book Master Iota's Notes on the Mind, an extremely boring discussion on enchantment.
After a few moments of the party discussing amongst themselves Chief Sootscale's booming voice projects through the cavern once more. "<So? Have tall-things discover-found cure for yellow scale? Can tribe-kin be free of curse?>"
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Morof turns to the others and says in Draconic low enough that the chief doesn't hear it "I think you should tell him. You know, that Tartuk is probably the one causing the plague. He probably appeared at the same time or shortly after it broke out.", not including himself as a trusted person from the tribe.
Meneas looks to his companions, a hiss escaping his hood.
Many fey use such tactics to throw foes off balance. The strangling suggests more malevolence than simple mischief... I think Tartuk is probably a mortal patsy, then... The knight-errant looks to the kobold chieftain, replying in the same tongue.
"<We seem to have found significant clues, but we're not positive on the why. I think my companions may be better able to explain it than I.>"
Oh excellent! The half-elf speaks Sylvan as well. That would be very convenient.
He then continues the conversation in Draconic.
"<Yes, we have. Your kin do not appear to have died of any disease. Chief Sootscale, if you are willing to come closer, I will show you what I mean.>"
Brental invites the chief to the body of his fallen brethren and shows him the discoloration around the necks. "<Your fellows were strangled to death. And the color of the scales,>" Brental looks towards Morof for a better explanation than he can offer. "<It is just a trick of magic.>"
Brental lets these twin revelations hang for a moment, seemingly unwilling to publicly implicate the shaman Tartuk in a conspiracy yet. Maybe let the kobolds come to the conclusion on their own. Or let Lina, bold as she was, be the one to drop the final revelation. It would be difficult to accept that their kin had been sacrificed for no reason, much less that Tartuk had pulled the wool over all of their eyes. And for what? What was this shaman's motivation?
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Morof grimaces as the Aasimar comments about the strangling. He was wishing he could create a more dramatic... lie. Still, since he has been given a voice, he says in the kobold draconic tongue "<If I may, chieftain, I know some intricate magic that may show the kobold's last moments. It does not always work, but I believe it may be worth the attempt.>" The part about not always working he added last minute, in case they try to corner him with it.
Morof does a dramatic exaggerated casting of his Silent Image spell. The material component, a bit of fleece, he takes out of his belt beforehand. Once it is complete, he concentrates on remembering the shaman Tartuk the best he can, making the image shimmer and weaken about the parts he doesn't remember very well.
In the magical image, Tartuk strangles the kobold lying before them. He makes the scales that look sickened in the corpse already yellowish in the image of the living kobold, only a blander hue. After the illusory Tartuk finishes strangling the kobold, the image shows Tartuk casting a cantrip to strengthen the hue of the yellowish scales, to make it appear the disease spread further.
After this, he makes the image flicker and extinguish. He feigns feeling very tired and drained afterwards.
Chief Sootscale stands in awe, mouth agap as the rest of the konolds gasp in wonder at the sudden appearance of their hunch-backed elderly purple shaman in full headdress strangling what appeared to be the living version of the kobold before them.
The chieftain just stands there for a time before his expression darkens and his mouth snaps shut. His grip on Old Sharptooth tigthens to the point his hand bleeds as it shakes at his side.
"<All this time... a lie?! So many kobolds... gave so much... such sacrifices... and the war?>" Chief Sootscale fixes the statue now with a glare intense enough to kill. "<For this?!>"
Chief Sootscale smashes the ivory statue on the ground and dtomps on the remains eliciting yet another much louder gasp from the crowd of kobolds.
"<KILL THE USURPER!!!>"
<"Wait. If we know why he is killing this way, we might know if he has any power."> Meneas interjects. <"Do you know why he might want to do this?"> I doubt it, but I should ask.
Regardless of the answer, the hooded knight draws his sword and readies his shield. I suppose this won't take long, unless he has loyalists... At that thought, he shares it. <"Will any of the Sootscales join him rather than you?">
Morof’s dramatic reconstruction of what happened to the false shaman’s victims provokes an understandable response, and into the resultant uproar, Lina raises her voice beside Meneas’.
“<Let us lead the charge, o chief,>” she offers. “<Your warriors, who know your tunnels as we do not, can make sure he doesn’t get around us, while we subdue him so that he faces justice. As Meneas Dark-Savior said, it would be good to know where this evil scheme came from, whether Tartuk himself, or if he serves another.”>
The Narlmarches are proving quite the tangled thicket, and it's beginning to look more and more likely that at least a third, if not a fourth, party is involved in the clash between the mites and kobolds, for reasons Lina can't yet imagine but which she is curious about. To weaken both sides, and then step in to eliminate them with less fuss? But who? And why? And so cold-bloodedly? It suggests a calculated ambition for the forest that she mislikes, and not just because it is obscure and likely to clash with her own vision.
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Morof is actually surprised by the kobold's reaction to his ruse. He does indeed dislike Tartuk, but now, after the deed, he realizes that he might be sending a mob of angry kobolds to their deaths. He has heard and read of mages doing worse.
Lina's words actually dispel the desperate thoughts from his mind. He agrees that there may be ulterior motives involved. He goes with the kobolds to make sure he can try to protect them from any arcane fury. Morof dismisses the thought that he hasn't really focused on protective spells.
In hindsight, Brental supposes that Violence would always be an inevitable end to this conflict. He and his companions had already been a vicious hand in this war, and now it seemed to be coming to its conclusion. Or at least a conclusion. Brental couldn't shake the nagging question of why. There were too many strange omens, nightmares, and coincidences.
"<Do you want us to take him alive if we can, to seek answers to why he has done this?>"
He also adds another concern: "<And does Tartuk use elements like a dragon breath? Is he prone to fire, acid, electricity, or ice?>"
"<No idea why false shaman would lie-deceive us! Never met Tartuk before purple shaman show up one cycle ago...>" Chief Sootscale then shakes his head side to side causing various ornaments to jangle in response to the cavalier's next question. "<All kobold here loyal to Chief Sootscale. Sootscale Laws #1 and #2. Tribe comes first and obey chief no kobold would question this.>" He declares somewhat proudly.
The ebony scaled chieftain then turns to Brental and sighs. "<Never seen shaman breath fire... Tartuk's magic is tricky-sneaky if anything... make kobolds see things not actually there!>" He grimaces. "Tall-things may go first... take shaman alive if they want Chief Sootscale will see flase shaman dead soon either way.>"
With this the group sally forth to bring justice to the purple faker when they round the corner and are stopped dead in their tracks.
The path leading to Tartuk's den has suffered a major cave-in!
Meneas is quite hesitant but the rest of you all realize immediately that this cave in is a simple illusion. The same kind that Morof had just used to trick the kobolds in the den.
As all his companions stride through without hesitation Meneas plucks up the courage to walk through the very real looking wall of debris and emerges unharmed on the other side.
The walls of this cavern are decorated by a rickety wooden frame formed from clean-cut branches lashed together with gut and twine. Banners cut from two-foot-wide strips of old blankets and horsehides hang from floor to ceiling, covering much of the walls. The sloppily painted banners bear dozens of primitive icons and mystic symbols. A large cauldron filled with bubbling red liquid boils in the center of the room and next to it... The bloodied corpse of a puple kobold, his feather headress tossed aside and his chest seemingly torn asunder. His heart is being stood upon by an ugly, molting and wart-covered raven which stares coldly at the party as they walk through the illusion.
"Welcome." The raven croaks out in taldane. "It took you all much longer to arrive than anticipated... Come, sit... we have much to discuuuuussssss." The bird rasps through its bloodied beak fluttering its wings and shedding a few feathers as it does.
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After hearing about Tartuk's favorite method of magic, Morof immediately thinks of his preferences as well. He doesn't know if this helps or not. After walking through the illusion wall, he becomes extra wary. He is sure this isn't the last trick they'll find.
Then they meet the grotesque scene with Tartuk apparently dead. His first thing to do is say to the others "Careful, this could be an illusion as well." He is indeed curious about what the bird thing has to say, but he hesitates to sit. He thinks of a way to break the illusion if there is one, without seeming aggressive.
"A familiar?" Meneas suggests, his blade ready. "Or perhaps something more..." He takes a careful step forwards, placing himself between the rest of his companions and the mysterious bird, wanting to wash away the fear that he'd felt earlier.
"What exactly do you want?" He asks the raven, in Taldane.
“Certainly,” Lina says, answering the raven, Morof, and Meneas all together, before addressing the bird specifically, though she makes no move to sit, staying as comfortably on her feet as she can in the cramped quarters. “Outlived his usefulness, then?”
Without turning her head away completely from the raven, she asks the wizard, “We could check for more active spells?”
For now, for her part, she tries to figure out what might be going on with the beast as best she can, with the working theory for now that it is actually real.
Nonetheless, she can feel a shiver creeping down her spine as she confronts another balefully intelligent corvid of dubious reality in as many days. But she remembers a lesson from her dabbling in a guild apprenticeship: Show no fear. Brazen it out. You'll be surprised what a show of confidence can get you. She resolves, too, that come what may she’ll learn how to shape shadowstuff into what she wills as best she can.
Now free-range familiar, witchcrow (and doesn't that idea suggest interesting possibilities, though with inter-planar travel, unlikely, for the sycamore creature), or something else, Lina continues to chat calmly with the bird. "I would say that's a neat trick, with the heart, but I suppose efficient would be more accurate. Why mislead the Sootscales so horrifically, though? For whose benefit?"
If a raven could chuckle morosely you would swear that is what the creature before you does now. "You suspect I am unreal? Well... given our introduction that is more than understandable. Please, allow me to alleeeeeeeeviate you you of your concerns." With this the raven flutters forth halfway between the party and himself, lands, plucks a single feather from himself, and then flies back perching right back atop the still-bloody heart of the shaman.
"The little trick I pulled before this room was simply to give us some space... I know for extraordinary people such as yourselves it would not prove a great challenge but it will give us some time before the stuuuuuuupid kobolds intrude..." The raven preens himself before continuing.
"Your work at the Old Sycamore was mooooooost impressive... It's safe to say the foothold the wayward fey established here is no more... kudos all around." A whistle escapes the creature's blood-stained beak as it chitters at the band. "I must again, apologize for snatching up your friends like that... I noticed some hesitance for the use of violence in the preeeeeedicament and thought, 'that simply will not do' so I took it upon myself to grant you some extra motivation... seems to have done the trick rather nicely if I do say so myself -RAAAWWWW!" The bird squawks and lets loos some more feathers flapping its wings about. "Besides, I served you up such a fine replacement... and trimmed the fat." The bird's beady little eyes focus on Morof at this point.
"Nowwwwww.... Let's get to the point of all this shall we? You've been sooooo useful so far, my master is most impressed... We would like to keep this relationship mutually beneficial so... I propose a deal... Kill the kobold chieftain and his idiot son... these creatures were so easy to motivate to violence... and saaaaaacrifice they are not worthy of your pity. I can offer you eight hundred gold worth of gem and coin... in addition a strong-well crafted shield, bvolts that will set your enemies aflame, dust which can make you invisible to the naked eye, and some nifty boots of the curious witch's kind." The bird turns his attention to Lina and cawwws a warning.
"More dangerous games are at play here than you imagine girl! I would keep that curiosity of yours in check. Suffice to say that my master has found you quite useful so far and has an interest in seeing your mission succeed gloriously as you would hope... My master only keeps tolls around as long as they remain useful so shall you remain useful? Or do you intend to join the foolish man-turned kobold before you along the path of uselessness?" the creature puffs out its feathers at this point to appear more intimidating.
Meneas looks to his fellows before speaking in Sylvan, his voice low and irritated.
It may be more useful as a source of information, but it's obnoxious and clearly willing to murder for its own purposes. His grip on his sword tightens, but he does not yet strike.
The bird turns to Meneas with dark eyes staring into his soul unflinchingly.
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Morof cannot contain his curiosity and reaches for the falling feather. After taking it and examining it he declares it real "If this is an illusion, it's one of those very powerful ones.", still reluctant to admit lack of capability.
He has a hard time understanding what the bird man means with most things. The part he understands the least is the man turned kobold part. But one part he understands, that he is trying to bribe them to do violence for gold and magic. He steadily replies "You can kick yourself with that boot before I can be bought for some that nefarious, fiend." He is a little late to realize how aggressive and unwise he sounds. Still, it might have been too late.
The raven bristles at Morof's impertinence. "Young man, keep in mind I brought you here and I can have you sent back just as easily AHHHH-AHHHH! This is a great deal of gold we're talking about and besides, was it not part of your charter to clear this region of aaaaaaaaall threats? The kobolds cannot be trusted. Perhaps some of your companions posses more wisdom than you half-elf."
Meneas snorts. "Do you know how many people have threatened me to silence me in my life, crow? Because really, if that's the best you can do, you're kind of failing to measure up."
"Clearly, you have little intention of being courteous, which means you don't care how we view you." The Hooded Knight muses. "You claim to want to ally with us, yet you have shown us no real reason to do so. You say you took our companions because they wanted to deal peacefully with the mites... And you expect us to deal peacefully with you? I'm afraid planning is not your strong suit." With that he strikes out at the crow.
Meneas' blade flashes once, twice! But all they contact is a cascade of feathers as the raven flutters about! "Foolish man! You have no idea the powers you meddle with!" The creature caws.
The raven flies up and out of the room through an escape route in back before the party can stop it...
"Well, two out of three isn't too bad. Best of luck in your continued exploits. See you soon~"
After a few moments there is only stillness... the 'corpse' of Tartuk fades from existence and the 'heart that the raven once stood upon is revealed to be nothing more than a rock with a glamour woven over it.
The pot continues to bubble in the center of the room and a heap of glittering things is noticeable tucked away into an eastern alcove in the shaman's den.
It’s not that Lina’s at all tempted: apart from it just being wrong, she also noticed the way Morof flinched away from her earlier. Laying it on a bit thick, when you’re with someone who doesn’t know you, girl, she reminds herself.
Most immediately, though, there’s a compelling argument against working with the crow just at her feet.
“What, and end up like this fellow when something inevitably goes wrong?” she asks, just as Meneas lashes out with his sword. It’s not particularly reassuring that the carnage proves to have been an illusion as well, but at least the claim to have been the same bird as kidnapped Signy and Wisp seems to have been bluster. But in that case, where’s Tartuk, or at least his body, or what?
Lina immediately calls up her cantrip to scan the room for magic, in case there’s anything – especially a lurking invisible presence, for example – to be detected that way, while also reaching out to check things with her mundane senses.
“You don’t think there could have been some polymorphing mixed into all this mess, do you?” she speculates aloud. She can feel her head about to start spinning from trying to sort out true from false, real from illusory…
No strange lingering magical presence is detected by Lina despite her efforts. She does, however, find several objects radiating magical energy.
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Morof, being completely inapt in combat, is very slow to react to the hooded man charging the bird and it flying away. The half-elf fumbles for his crossbow and by the time he has it in his hand, not only does he mistakenly fires a shot towards the ground, but he does so after a few moments that they were alone again.
Looking embarrassed to the others, he points to the place where the corpse had once been and says "Ah, ha! I told you it was an illusion! Didn't fool me!" He isn't sure what he is boasting for.
After the ordeal has passed, Morof reloads his crossbow in his own personal record time. He then follows Lina's lead casting a magic detection cantrip and scanning the room for anything noteworthy.
No other magic remains in the room, even the boiling pot is mundane stew as it turns out but Morof is able to better asses the pile of objects in the far side of the room. Most of it is worthless, shiny bits of broken weapon and armors, as well as quartz and mica crystal, but there are some mundane valuables within.
Once it becomes clear that she’s not in imminent danger of being shanked from the cloak of an invisibility spell, Lina rushes to the mouth of the shaman’s cave to call to the waiting kobolds in a series of loud, alarmed rumbles and hisses in Draconic that sound strangely with the higher pitch of her Elven accent.
“<Check the traps and exits! He’s gone!>” She whirls to look behind her again, in frustration, before adding disconsolately, “<Probably long gone. If he had any sense, he would have kept one eye open for trouble at any moment, and he did have the foresight to lay down an illusion.>” And of course he’ll know where the traps are, so at best he’ll be slowed down a bit...
“Do you think we could track him?” she asks the others, eyeing the mess and wondering if it would be worth searching thoroughly for more clues. A volume of fiendish plans is probably too much to ask for, but maybe a scrap of something useful could have escaped his attention. And who’s pulling his strings?
Like anyone who’s spent any time in Daggermark, Lina has at the very least a healthy amount of paranoia, so she takes a moment to try to ground herself. The sight of the boots almost sets her off-balance again, because, although she’s offended by the suggestion that she’d betray anyone for them, for lower stakes, they are a very apt temptation to dangle. Could she and the others have been watched, or was it just the cursed black nightmare bird’s doing? But then how did the little crow familiar find out about it? It’s probably all just serendipity: if one has fancy elven boots to try to fill out a bribe with, an aesthetical elf is the natural target, after all.
"They are lovely, aren't they? And not actually to die for," she quips, joking awkwardly as she tries to think of a way forward, and whether their hosts will have any suggestions.
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After briefly eyeing the further treasure he found, Morof comments "Upon careful examination, I have counted exactly 7,420 copper, 2132 silver and 302 gold pieces in this pile."
He can tell that Lina is concerned about the bird. His suspicion of her diminishes somewhat and he says "Well, I don't really know that much about divination and... physically tracking a creature through the air is particularly hard, I imagine." He decides to include his own concerns as well "And where in Nethys' name is Tartuk?"
Never having been one to care much for coin, Morof still can't help but feel a little greedy with so much of it near him. Partly motivated by greed and partly by pity for the kobolds, he says "Well, we could keep most of the coin and these lovely items. But Tartuk acquired them through abuse of the kobolds. I would say they are entitled to some of it. Still, those quartz and mica crystals over there would be more valuable to them than us."
Meneas casts a look at Morof from beneath his hood. "I don't know who you are, but I imagine that Tartuk was the raven. Or at least, was the raven's master. Despite its claims, I couldn't see any sign it was anything more than... Oh." Illusion. Right. "Well, I think he's probably alive and elsewhere, possibly not even a kobold at all. That said, he could just as well be left to rot somewhere." He casts about for signs of the now-vanished kobold shaman's presence.
"Svetlana will want the ring." He points out. "And I'm not sure about you all, but I think we may need to resupply soon. My provisions and Veil's are nearly exhausted. We have to weigh that against whether we want to try to pursue the raven, or Tartuk, or whoever's responsible for this..."
He gestures at the shaman's cave. He turns back to the kobolds. "<I'm sorry we couldn't catch your traitorous shaman, Chief Sootscale.>" The knight-errant bows his head. Now that he's affirmed his alliance with the scaly little critters, he is more eager to help keep relations warm. "<Is there any of this,>" he gestures at the loot, "<that you would like to keep?>"
The kobolds emerge cautiously, one by one until the chamber is full including the three kobolds with whom the group are associated.
"<Take whatever tall-things want.>" The chieftain speaks slowly seemingly still coming to grips with his new reality. His face is tired and burdened.
"<Tall-things deserve whatever they can take-take here for freeing Sootscales of this false curse... Were tall-things able to discover anything useful at least?>"
The whole situation begins and resolves quickly as Brental stands back mostly observant. Illusions upon illusions, and still more questions than answers. He likewise suspects the corvid to be a familiar--though whether it was Tartuk's or belonged to someone else was difficult to say given the brevity of the interaction. Could familiars actually cast magic of their own? Or did it need to originate from their masters? Brental had met some wizards and witches, but knew quite little about their mystical bonds.
The idea that they had been manipulated into slaying the mites was disconcerting as well. How much was true, and how much as a lie? What parties were at work here?
For better or worse, Brental's companions seem of the same mind in denying the bird's offer to betray the kobolds and serve some unseen master. Although Meneas missteps in using the feytongue as an attempt at subterfuge and ends up driving the bird away with a flash of his blade, all ends well enough.
Then there's this two out of three. Two out of three what? Objectives accomplished?
Brental remains stoic throughout the interaction, observing cautiously and trying to make sense of the situation.
But he is too rattled from the strangeness of the situation to really gain much.
Brental joins his companions in looking around as well, once the calamity dies down, detecting magic as he goes. Like Meneas, he immediately pegs the wedding ring as likely belonging to Svetlana.
As the discussion moves to what to do next, Brental nods sagely at Lina's question of tracking. "If Tartuk is alive and not airborne, I should be able to find him. If we aim to look for the corvid, that will be much more challenging."
He also agrees that the kobolds ought to look through the shaman's ill-gotten gains to determine what they want to claim.
"<Tall-things deserve whatever they can take-take here for freeing Sootscales of this false curse... Were tall-things able to discover anything useful at least?>"
Lina takes a moment to shuffle around the pieces she knows about, mostly of information, though she does turn the ring over in her hands too, looking for an inscription or something. She trusts Meneas and Brental to know what they’re talking about, of course, though it’s the first she’s heard of it – it sounds like an interesting story – but she’d hate to announce a triumph only to be informed that they’re returning the wrong ring.
A theory begins to crystallize as she remembers that Oleg and Svetlana had had trouble with the Stag Lord’s creatures before the others arrived, so she supposes… And that means…
“<Before it fled, Tartuk’s familiar claimed he was actually a human. Transmuted, somehow, I presume,>” the witch starts, tentatively, before warming to her theme. “<I know that sounds fanciful, and we have every reason to mistrust it, but… It claimed that Tartuk had a master, for whom he was fanning the flames of war between you and the mites, both of whom that master wanted out of the way. And the mites knew about this ring, and if it’s the one we think it is, then – have you fought any human bandits lately?>”
She pulls it all together. “<Anyway. However it came here, the mites knew about it, and annoyed someone, probably the same someone that wanted the war to drag on disastrously. The Stag Lord is the likeliest candidate, as he seems to want to throw his weight around these woods. We have our own quarrel with him already.>”
She doesn’t add her final conclusion, that even if that is true, she suspects someone must be pulling his strings, because, after all, if she were trying to establish herself as the dominant power in the area and had the magic to throw around for intrigues with mites and kobolds, she would definitely make that level of power part of her cachet. But as far as she knows, the Stag Lord is a mundane thug.
The ring is engraved, "I Choose You" rather unhelpfully.
Upon looking at the ring again, Brental frowns. He speaks in Draconic as this is not something he's trying to hide, but hopes that maybe mentioning the ring and its metal could ring a bell. <"I think Oleg said that Lana's ring was a simple copper ring. This might not be it. But we can still bring it back.">
Brental listens to Lina's pontification about connections between the different plots in the area. He isn't sure of the Stag Lord's connections, but it's not beyond the realm of possibility. Especially if, as Brental's theory went, the Stag Lord's father was a druid cast out of the Green Faith--then he could have developed the ability to change into an animal, and perhaps even maintain his ability to speak and cast spells. But this kind of illusion magic was well beyond what Brental knew of any druids' capabilities. Still, he listens for the kobolds' response to Lina's questions.
Chief Sootscale says that they can take whatever they want. But taking a cache of this says doesn't sit well with the druid. A reward of some kind was reasonable, but surely the kobolds could use something to help them rebuild.
<"We will take a reward offered, but what could you use to help you rebuild?">
The group seems mostly bent on returning to the Fort, but Brental does consider the possibility of seeing if he can find evidence of Tartuk's exit: when he left, how, and what direction he might have gone. Not planning to travel long to find him, unless it seemed clear that they could catch up to him quickly.
Chief Sootscale shakes his head. "<Sootscales have been avoiding tall-things as much as possible though some loot-stealing was necessary to help with war against mites... desperate times... Sootscales have no idea about this tall-thing ring, it was not here before.>"[
He then turns his attention towards Brental and bows. "<Most generous Bright-Eyes but coin of tall-things and over-sized equipment is of little use to Sootscale tribe... Long-term help will be necessary to bring tribe out of this situation... if even possible at all.>"
Whilst investigating the area Brental does take note of a reptilian set of prints in the far corner of the room and trailing out of the secret exit. Following them out through the wall of leaves and vines obscuring the exit to the outside world Brental can see the trail leading off into the south.
Upon looking at the ring again, Brental frowns. He speaks in Draconic as this is not something he's trying to hide, but hopes that maybe mentioning the ring and its metal could ring a bell. <"I think Oleg said that Lana's ring was a simple copper ring. This might not be it. But we can still bring it back.">
Brental listens to Lina's pontification about connections between the different plots in the area.
“<No harm in trying,>” Lina agrees. “<And we could keep our ears open for any other humans with - or rather, without - missing rings.>”
The witch gathers herself for next steps, ready to light the other end of her candle. She slows her briskness briefly to address the chief solemnly, “<I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more immediate aid. If these things are less useful to you – well, if you know the trading post at the edge of the woods, they know us there, and we are often. We’ll be travelling a fair bit, and my strengths in the art tend more to herbs than to anything else, but I am an alchemist, and if laying up some stock of remedies or other concoctions would be helpful to your people, I’ll do my best to see what I can do.>”
In the cramped tunnels, she can hardly draw herself up proudly to her full height, so she makes do with a small, open-handed gesture to show her confidence.
With that, she turns to the woodcraftier gentlemen. “<Any promising signs? Should we try to chase this false shaman down?>”
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Morof wants to pledge a long term aid to this tribe, but he is not sure he can promise such a thing.
As Lina comments knowing about knowing herbs, he raises his eyebrows, curious about her knowledge and what he can learn from her. Everything he knows about herbs he has learned from his mother and he wonders what she doesn't know.
He is quick to answer Lina "I think if we don't follow his track now, we might lose his scent." He is set on chasing the unpleasant kobold or... human... whatever he is. Still, he doesn't want to run off alone and get lost and in prison. Again.
Meneas also surveys the area around the illusory wall, examining the trail closely, and trying to determine how fresh it is.
The hooded knight flexes his fingers once more. "It's likely that Brental and I could keep the supplies up, if we must. The Greenbelt's hardly Iobaria. So if we think we can catch this Tartuk person, it's possible we'll be able to. If we can't, well... I don't want to go with minimal rations, but it would not be the first time I've had to do so." He looks to the others. "Unfortunate that he headed south, though. Makes sense, but... it is the opposite direction from Oleg's."
Meneas can tell that these tracks occurred within the hour.
“<Between us all, I’m sure we’ll be fine,>” Lina says breezily. “<We can slow down to forage if we need to, if we lose that much ground. Shall we?>”
She prepares to take her leave of the Sootscales: there's a scoundrel on the loose, and Mekmek, his father, and the whole tribe could probably use the time without visitors overfoot.