It has been three days since you left Elidir, climbing into the back of one of Bort Bargith’s wagons bound for the faraway Andoran capital of Almas. The smiling caravan master cut your travel cost to only a handful of coppers, so long as you promised to protect the wagons should any trouble arise. Fortunately, your journey through the hinterlands of Isger has been quiet, even if the ride itself has been far from comfortable.
As you broke camp this morning, Bort announced you should arrive at the town of Etran’s Folly by nightfall, and he promised a comfortable bed for the night as a reward for a long day’s travel. The caravan’s teamsters shared a chuckle between them, trading knowing glances and subtle nods, but soon enough you are on the road towards Etran's Folly, the wagon bouncing and creaking along the uneven trail.
This part of Isger is sparsely populated and your passage is mostly through the wilderness with some small rural farms and isolated communities dotted along your path. It is a temperate land, with frequent light rains and the rich smell of damp earth wafting on the pleasant breeze.
The trail winds its way through the lowlands, passing along streams and through small forests. If pressed about their behavior after Bort’s announcement, the teamsters quietly explain that the accommodations in Etran’s Folly are hardly better than the ground outside, and the smell is even worse. Except for Glunda, they all refer to the town as “Plaguestone” due to the virulent plague that nearly wiped out the community 20 years ago, although none are so rude as to use that name in front of the locals.
One of Bort's Teamsters, mutters to himself, somewhat bitterly, loud enough for those in his wagon to hear. "Migh' as well just camp ou'side rather than pu' up with Plaguestone's beds t'night."
Baldur sits quietly in the back of the wagon as he always does, staring out at the dull landscape as it passes by. As usual he has dispensed with any covering thicker than a woolen tunic and merely grunts when asked about it.
"It's not that cold."
As usual his familiar, a tiny fox cub named Loki, is much more lively - rolling around on the floor, begging for treats and tummy rubs, and playing with his newest friend, the tiny leshy who follows the larger leshy around. Loki seems utterly transfixed by the small plant and has been assiduously courting it with gifts of crumbs, threads and the occasional worm when the caravan stops for the night.
A sharp eyed observer would note a tiny smile on Baldur's face as he watches his familiar's antics.
Rashk started the journey stoic and a bit aloof. He usually needs to observe somebody for a while before opening up to them. Then again, few people feel comfortable about a scarred orc nearly seven foot high.
Of course, a certain fox didn't play by the normal rules. On the first morning, Rashk woke up to a little fuzzball licking his face. It's hard to stay stoic when faced with those cute little ears and eyes that begged, "Let's play!"
When he returned the fox to his master, he noticed the tiefling's eyes. But seeing how he cared for his pet was enough for Rashk to feel comfortable with him. It might have gone different if he's have noticed the eyes first, but that was water under the bridge.
Perhaps the most unusual member of the caravan is the leshy who calls herself Nutmeg. A short humanoid being made of leaves and bark, her body has a vaguely feminine appearance. Her face is devoid of feature save for a pair of black eyespots and a pair of juicy berries that dangle on the sides of her head like earrings.
She rides atop the wagon, arms spread to absorb the sunlight. She breathes deeply of the cool forest air.
Nutmeg's companion is an even smaller leshy that resembles a tiny bundle of roots. The roots can coalesce into a humanoid form, and he is often seen tumbling and playing with the fox cub, Loki. "I am Root!" the leshy familiar says happily as he plays.
Loki, who seems well on his way to being the most popular member of the caravan, loves playing with his new friend Root. The leshy's ability to deform and then reform again causes the little fox no end of confusion but that just makes the game more fun!
"Apologies." Baldur says to Rashk when the orc fends the little menace off. "Loki is enthusiastic in all things. I will try to ensure he lets you sleep, but he says you are lots of fun because you're so big. Apparently escaping you is a real challenge."
He cracks a small smile and offers his right hand, the left sitting flat on his left where the missing joints to his three longest fingers are rather visible.
"Baldur."
After some time of rickety uncomfortable travel, wiling away the day on chitter chatter, you hear a call from the front of the wagon. Olf, a human teamster, shouts from the front of the wagon.
No sooner does the call fade from his lips than it is overshadowed by a series of long, mournful howls emanating from the woods to either side of the caravan. Moments later, you hear cries of panic as a pack of mangy wolves descends from the forest with teeth bared!
The wolves seem to have surrounded the wagon with 2 wolves on the left and another 2 on the right all with teeth bared.
"The beasts of the forest have gone feral!" Nutmeg cries. Root squeaks and hurries to her side as the leshy raises her shield and casts a spell, causing lightning to arc between the two smaller wolves!
Nutmeg's lightning causes the wolves' fur to singe, and one collapses to the floor unconscious and twitching.
The pack leader takes a few strides forwards and unleashes a terrifying howl that rattles your bones, however everybody in the wagon manages to hold their nerve.
The wolf still standing on his own rushes in to take a bite out of Rashk, the tastiest looking prey.
The other, inspired by its pack leader, leaps forward to the wagon to take a ferocious bite out of Baldur, who was sitting close to the edge of the wagon.
Anyone bitten by a mangy wolf is sickened 1 for 1 minute unless they succeed at a DC 14 Fortitude save, but they can spend an Interact action to scratch away the fleas and remove the condition.
1:Dying
2:-4
3:
4a:
Like the other passenger-guards the caravan had taken on, the auburn haired Illyria had not been particularly inclined to chat. Not her usual persona, admittedly, but the last few months had been fairly taxing for the usually outgoing redhead. She'd taken this very path with far more awe the other way then, ostensibly to be a squire...somewhat against her will, yes, but the prospect of formal weapons training with a storied knightly order had been tantalizing enough to override her objections. Within months though, disaster and catastrophe had struck, and in the disorder, she had pulled up stakes and determined to just head home.
Every now and then, she might awkwardly glance over at Rashk, as she reflected over the recent months. He was the sort of being she had been taught to fight in the tiresome drills and lectures, but her first and last taste of service with the knights had been against entirely otherworldy horrors. No, no...that was not for her at all. Cries of alarm surrounded her, as her comrades were struggling and striving, crying out to-
No, that was here and now, not then. Her eyes blinked wide open with alarm, having apparently lulled into a half-asleep state by the lolling to and fro of the caravan. Not having time to get both of her preferred weapons out, she tugs loose her larger sword in both hands, and strides over to take a chop at the beast attacking Baldur
Baldur falls slowly and even bleeds slowly as Loki lets out a distressed yelp.
Rashk strikes out at the wolves around him.
Rashk and Illyria manage to heroically fell two more wolves in a single strike, the only wolf still posing a threat is the pack leader, its eyes turning on the little leshy.
Nutmeg once again sends lightning arcing from her fingertips while keeping her shield raised.
Nutmeg's lightning sizzles the wolf's fur, a terrible stench of burnt hair emanating from it.
The wolf spews a burst of bright green caustic acid from its mouth towards its attacker.
-3
Illyria paused for a moment, as she shook her blade to fling the blood off from the slain wolf, pondering what she might do to assist Baldur, when her attention is suddenly drawn over to the inexplicable sight of a wolf spewing acid.
"Well...that's not normal at all." Had she not quite fled her living nightmare up north entirely yet? Well, she didn't fancy her chances striking out into the wilderness alone her in flight, so she supposed it had to be fight. Raising her weapon, she rushed the strange wolf, hoping to hack it down.
Baldur stirs slightly in his unconscious state.
Nutmeg avoids the worst of the acid blast. She sends more lightning at the unnatural wolf!
Rahsk takes a moment to give Baldur a sharp slap. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to sting him back to consciousness. "No time for flirting with Pharasma."
He'll then shift his weapon to two hands to guard Baldur while he gets up.
Yet again, the wolf manages to resist most of Nutmeg's shocking ability however Illyria's blade slices deeply into the wolf's flesh from its shoulder and the wolf lets out a high-pitched whelp as she does so.
It snaps its jaws wildly at Illyria but she is too quick to dodge each of its wild attacks.
You hear warning yells and wolf-like howls further up the path as its clear 1 or 2 more wolves are attacking other members of the wagons.
Standing up shakily Baldur first looks for Loki, and seeing the fox hiding under a bench, continues towards the front of the caravan, lobbing a handful of lightning at the wolf as he goes.
Illyria takes the opportunity in between her weaving and dodging of the wolf's fangs to switch to her more accustomed fighting style,taking her right hand off the hilt to draw the other weapon out at her hip. She then attempts a cross cut with each sword swinging out in opposite direction as she leaned in at the unnatural wolf.
Nutmeg shocks the wolf once more, with feeling!
Now that Baldur is moving again, Rashk steps up to take down the wolf. "You should have run. You might have gotten away."
The wolf whelps as its shocked repeatedly before being sliced deeply by Illyria and Rashk, their swords cutting into its flesh in tandem. It collapses to the floor, its chest rising and falling slower and slower, dark blood pooling rapidly around the body.
Just up the road, you hear Bort's voice amongst the whinnying of alarmed horses. "Is everyone okay? No more of 'em over here!"
"Fine!" Baldur calls abruptly. "Anyone hurt?" He asks in a more normal tone, checking to see if his wagon-mates have any significant injuries.
"I'm well." Illyria says, apparently having to pause and look over herself, just in case she had missed something. She had been in enough fights before to know that sometimes, she didn't recognize she'd been hurt by something until some time after, when things slowed down.
"Yes, definitely alright." She confirms, as she tucks away her second sword, and starts cleaning her longer one, before glancing at Rashk. "Maybe he needs a little help?"
”You look the worse for wear, friend Baldur,” Nutmeg says. She reaches into her leaves and pulls forth a ripe, juicy berry. ”Eat this. It will help.”
"Thank you." Baldur says, taking the berry and eating it slowly with a look of appreciation on his face.
"This is strange." He says once he's done. "Wolves attacking a large caravan like this. Why?"
Rashk will pray (violently) to refocus and add his lay on hands.
Bort is seen moving around all the teamsters and other equipment as he notices you are all well. Eventually, he comes over to check on you.
"I got worried for a moment when I saw Baldur 'ere take the brunt of that wolf's bite, but you all seem right as rain now, Good, good." He gives Baldur a brotherly slap on the shoulder before turning back to him teamsters and points out two in particular.
"Olf and Ulf over there would tell you they lost a leg in that fight if you let'em, two delicate flowers those ones." The twins he points out are ironically heavy-set men with matching 6'6 frame, blonde braided hair and well-developed beards. They are even wearing matching cloaks that show off their well-defined muscular upper arms. "They're gonna try and get outta their duties for a few days now, make no mistake."
Unfortunately, when the wolves charged in, they spooked the horses pulling the smaller wagons. While the teamsters kept them from bolting during the attack, the rear wagon was pulled several feet off the trail into the muck, making it nearly impossible to move. Fortunately, everybody mucks in to upright the wagon again and people start trying to get everything back together to carry on moving.
Just before you get moving, Bort heds back over.
"Right, we're ready to head off now, we aint got far to get to Plaguestone - er I mean Etran's Folly. I know a good inn there - the Feedmill. I'll treat you all to dinner as a thanks for savin' the caravan and not moanin' about it after. I'll even treat you to a few stories of my own deeds if you ask nice enough."
---------------
After dealing with the wolves and getting the wagon back on track, the caravan is free to continue to Etran’s Folly. The journey takes only an hour, and the wagons roll into town a few hours before dusk. All of the wagons head for the Feedmill, the only inn and tavern in the small community. Most of the simple wood-and-thatch homes in Etran’s Folly look identical to one another and are in a similar state of disrepair. A number of the houses clearly look abandoned.
As you pass through the middle of town, the wagons go around the ancient plaguestone, a large, flat, cylindrical rock standing 2 feet high, with a hole in its center and a bowl-shaped depression off to one side. Some of the teamsters tell you that when the plague ran rampant, the townsfolk left food for the sick in the bowl, while the sick left coins in the center hole. Today, the stone is nothing more than a moss-covered relic.
Upon arrival, the teamsters secure the caravan for the night while Bort travels around town to conduct business with the crafters and families that call Etran’s Folly home.
You are all sent off to secure a table and rooms at the inn for the evening with a signed note from Bort in your hand, promising to open a tab under his name.
"I'm more concerned as to how that wolf was able to spit...whatever that was, personally." Illyria mumbles, staring at the relatively normal looking corpse with that idle comment before rejoining the wagons to continue their ride into Etran's Folly.
---
When given some time for the evening, she asks the others, "Do y'all mind if I meet you at inn closer to dusk? Methinks I'll ask around and see if the locals have seen or heard of other oddities like our wolves on the road." If no one objects, she heads off to try and get a sense of Etran's Folly and how things had been since she had last passed through.
Baldur, meanwhile, decides to do Bort a favor and heads up the caravan to speak to the brothers.
"Heard you were hurt." He says simply. "Tell me the problems and I'll heal them up. Still got a little magic left." If they produce genuine injuries he fully intends to heal them, if not then the brothers must be fine and he can let Bort know that fact.
Upon arriving in town, Nutmeg accompanies Illyria and tries to gather rumors. Unfortunately, the friendly leshy’s efforts are in vain.
”Was it something I said?” she asks sadly as another citizen gives her the cold shoulder.
”I am Root!” her familiar says with a shrug, rolling up onto Nutmeg’s shoulder.
You do learn that in this large village the mayor, Delma Fulst, seems to run most business enterprises and people direct you, the outsiders, to her if you need anything. Delma seems to run the town's only Inn and General Store whilst also trying to do her Mayoral duties. Apparently right now, shes probably in the Inn or on her way there.
-----
Meanwhile Rashk and Baldur are taken towards the stables to help take the wagon and caravan towards the Inn's stables alongside the other teamsters before heading inside.
The stable hand, a halfling with dark ringlets framing her face, greets you with her eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Oh my, look at these poor horses, they seem to have had their wits scared out of them. We should get them settled quickly." She fusses a little, all the while talking to the horses as if they understand her.
Upon entering the taproom of the Feedmill earlier than the rest of the caravan crew who have gone to stretch their legs, you find it empty of customers save a gigantic man being served food by a small goblin. Just as the goblin places the steaming bowl on the table, the man grunts, banging his fist on the table, demanding an ale. The goblin squeaks a reply before scurrying behind the bar to do just that.
Rahsk nods at the stable hand, and will explain, "We had a run in with a pack of wolves. Right nasty wolves at that."
In the inn, Rashk will take a seat where he can see the large man and the door. He'll call to the goblin, "Round for the house, such as it is.
Illyria gives a wry smile at Nutmeg, shaking her head, "It doesn't look like they're the fondest of anybody clearly not from these parts in general. I'm surprised I got what I did out of them...or maybe they're just used to giving Delma's name to every foreigner asking questions."
She then heads over to the inn armed with this information, expecting Nutmeg to follow, and inquires of Rashk if he has the note, or if Baldur had it. She figured they probably had to present that to Delma to get the dinner for everyone organized.
Baldur takes a seat at the table with Rashk and leans down to ruffle Loki's fur. The little fox gives a yip and then scuttles out of the door once more. Baldur sits back in his chair and closes his eyes, a man going to sleep after a long day.
"Perhaps you are right," Nutmeg says to Illyria. "I am used to being ignored or shunned, though. My kind is uncommon in most parts of the Inner Sea region. Many villagers have never had a plant come up to them and start talking! I try my best to observe the local customs, but I do not always get a friendly reception."
Things start picking up in the bar in the early evening with many of the locals coming to the only bar in town. The locals seem to be mostly labourers such as farmers.
You're served drinks by a tall lady with chestnut hair, held up in a slightly messy bun who introduces herself as Delma.
Bort waves you over to the table on the dais next to the bard who had just started tuning his instrument.
"Look at Olf and Ulf o'er there already havin' too much to drink and losin' all their money to tha' farmer." Bort says, disgruntled. "I f only they wern't so good with the horses and charmin' the clients or else I'd replace em in the blink of an eye.
As the first dishes come out (wild game and roasted turnips with a side of burnt seed cake, coupled with watery turnip ale) served by Kolnral and Trin two of the waitstaff, Bort makes nice conversation, trying to find out more about each of you and where you come from. He cannot help but slip in some of his own fabulous tales anytime he can find even a tangential link.
"I went travelin' through one of the high mountain roads in the Five Kings when my caravan was caught out by a fire giant! Just as I was bein' put down into is massive kettle, I went an' tricked the giant into using a rare plant called “frostbloom” in his soup, by claimin' it was quite spicy." Bort can't help but laugh to himself before he even concludes the story. It was then when the giant tasted the broth, it froze his mouth shut and I broke free with all ma crew in the cuffuffle. Ah, those were the days!"
Toward the end of the meal, just as a dessert of warm turnip porridge is being served, Kolnral, one of the waitstaff, accidentally bumps into the Farmer who was gambling with Olf and Ulf Eallom as he is sitting down with another ale. Unfortunately, this causes the rather drunk farmer to spill it all over himself.
He yells in anger. Kolnral apologises profusely and takes out a cloth, "Oh Im so sorry Eallom, let me just-"
THUD. Farmer Eallom throws a heavy punch square in the waiter's jaw and throws a table causing the bar to erupt into a large brawl!
Baldur rolls his eyes, takes his drink in hand to lower the chance of losing it in the chaos and settles into his chair to watch the chaos. There's really no point in getting involved and he's not good at hand-to-hand anyway.
Rahsk stands on the table and clangs his vambraces together. He's still wearing his armor from the road and has his weapons slung, including the big sword hilt over his shoulder. "It has been a long day, and I've seen too much blood spilled already this day. Sit down and I will not have to educate you all on the arts of war."
”Can’t we all just get along?” Nutmeg pleads, though her words fall on deaf ears.
Illyria wasn't particularly inclined to get involved in any sort of nasty punch up either, and decides to try and make her way over to check on the waiter, wondering how bad the punch had done him in. Hopefully, he wasn't too injured, because she wasn't particularly confident she actually knew what to do if he were, except maybe drag him out of the fray.
Whilst trying to check the waiter's split lip in the chaos, Illyria manages to prod slightly too hard causing him to pull his face away, "Im alright, leave me alone!" he retorts with obvious embarrassment, before heading out towards the backdoor towards the stables.
One of the farmers standing near Rashk, about to hit another farmer over the head with a tankard, retracts his arm quickly as he glances at the glowering orc before scurrying to the other side of the common room, as far away as possible. Just as he does so, the little goblin lets out a loud high-pitched shriek and dashes back to the kitchen.
The punches continue to fly. Baldur, leaning back and watching the chaos unfold before him notices the drunken dishevelled man previously slouched in the corner get up and quietly slip out the front door just as Delma rushes out, shouting, "Im getting the sheriff!"
Bort strides to the front of the dais and tries the same tact as Nutmeg, calling out for everyone to calm down, but his words fall on deaf ears.
1 NPC - Rashk
Baldur, curious by nature, follows the dishevelled man, slipping out of the tavern behind him and attempting to locate wherever the dubious looking fellow is headed.
Nutmeg continues to ineffectually try to calm the crowd.
Illyria awkwardly apologizes, even though nobody was listening for it anymore, as the man picks himself up and flees. She decides to go after the instigator, looking to glower him down, and perhaps tackle him and keep him from the fray. "That's enough out of you!"
to Grab
to Demoralize
A glass careens through the air slamming the forehead of the remaining waitress, causing a nasty gash above her eye and she flees through the same door as the first waiter.
Nutmeg's efforts continue to fall on deaf ears as everybody ignores the little leshy but Illyria and Rashk both manage to cow another two of the farmers.
Just as Baldur leaves the common room he glances up and down the street and sees the drunken man swaying slowly down the street turning the next corner, seemingly up to nothing unusual.
Fortunately, as a fair amount of people have left the common room in the chaos, the main initial brawling subsides and a couple others start joining in both your and Bort's attempts to stop the scuffle. It only takes a few more moments of your varying interventions to finish the final fight.
Just as the final two scuffling farmers are wrenched apart by Ulf and Olf, the doors to the inn bursts open revealing a man in a sheriff's uniform and Delma, panting behind him. "Everybody STOP what you're doing" The sheriff asserts loudly, a little too late. After a few moments of trying to ascertain who did what, he sits the worst of the farmers down at a table and starts having some stern words with them.
Whilst he does this, Bort heds back over to you all as Delma rushes off to find a broom and some more help to tidy up the mess.
"This shouldn't ruin our night of rest. Shall we at least finish our pudding? Its my favourite in the local area!" Bort asks. Sure enough, your table on the dais was not in the Lion's Den and therefore there are some, bowls of still warm turnip porridge sat on the table.
After helping to right one or two chairs, Bort sits back down at the table with anyone else who cares to join him. Raising a spoon to his lips, he takes in a deep breath, "Oh boy, I've waited ages for Amora's puddin' again! As a chef, she doesn't have much range, but she can sure make a good porridge!"
Just a few minutes into his dessert, Bort begins to cough and choke. Playing this off as a bit of indigestion, he tries to continue his idle chatter of the best desserts he's had on his travels.
A few moments later it is clear, as the coughing returns, that he is in distress. He begins to turn purple and his mouth begins frothing. Seconds after, his eyes roll into his head and a rumble can be heard in his guts. Mere moments thereafter, he collapses onto the table unconscious.
Baldur is beside Bort in a flash and immediately starts checking the mans airway and pulse and then starts trying to make him vomit.
"Someone get that bowl." He growls. "Don't touch the food. Get his ale too! Now!"
Baldur determines that Bort is not choking on anything, but that his windpipe has swollen shut, indicating that he has been poisoned. As Baldur growls, a couple of the remaining farmers at a nearby table glance in your direction, trying to work out what is going on.