Roots just smiles the entire time....
"The little green one? I'll be damned!"
Nidintu nods emphatically. "Indeed. Though Roots is a child in many ways - body and mind as well as years - Erastil has seen fit to give him incredibly potent magic." The tall elf furrows his brow in thought for a moment, then shrugs. "I'm not entirely sure why, come to think of it. Still, Roots has a pure heart, and if Erastil deems him worthy, who am I to judge? He's surely doing more good than I was when I was a young boy - after all, he is enforcing the will of Erastil, while I was..." His face falls, and he trails off as his reminiscence dredges up memories he would prefer forgotten. "...never mind. Perhaps a tale for another time." The former bandit takes a long drink from his tankard, as if trying to wash away the unbidden recollections.
As he gets deeper into his cups, the garrulous warrior begins to ramble, his eyes misting with remembrance as he casts his mind back to the happier memories of his early life, in the waning years of the Age of Enthronement. "You know, I remember an age past, when the dead god Aroden walked the earth and the god callers of lost Sarkoris raised their voices in prayer to their innumerable deities. In those days, the highborn everywhere had to earn their place with steel, as they still do here in Restov - in those days, we had true nobles! When I was a child, I once saw a baron of Galt: a man clad from head to toe in impregnable iron, with a sword that cut through the thickest shield as though it were butter!" The tiefling sighs. "But those days are long past. Restov clings to the old ways, but it is an exception - an island of steel and valor in the midst of a sea of weak-kneed dandies more suited to the ballroom than the battlefield." He sneers at the thought. "Heroes like us are a thing of the past - the future belongs to sycophants like Tartuccio!"
At the noon meeting in the Great Hall, Nidintu attentively listens to Lady Jamandi's speech, though he does wince almost imperceptibly as loud noises amplified by the Great Hall's architecture send searing bolts of pain through his aching head. At Maegar Varn's statement, he smiles and nods in acknowledgement. "I look forward to seeing you again, Lord Varn." When the fae pack is called to receive their charter, he performs an awkward half-bow to Lady Jamandi, unsure of what to do in such a formal situation and deferring to a more leader-like companion to formulate a proper response. As he reads the "execution by sword or rope" section of the charter, he grimaces and tugs at his collar, nervously glancing at Lord-Mayor Sellemius to see if the noble shows any signs of recognizing the bandit who robbed him all those years ago. On his way out of the Great Hall, he cranes his neck to see which group his friend Amiri is joining.
Once the last charter is handed out, Lady Jamandi smiles tiredly. "There is still a lot of work to do in the aftermath of last night's attack, and I encourage you not to linger, in case the Black Tears - or whoever hired them - make another attempt. I wish you the best of luck in your travels and your endeavours."
As it becomes clear the partitioning of the Stolen Lands has been done with no thought of his illustrious personage, Tartuccio jumps to his feet, then climbs on a bench. His posture and expression are a picture of indignation as he sputters out. "And what about me?! Do I not receive one of these charters? I, the illustrious, incomparable, inimitable Tartuccio, with an unblemished lineage and astounding intellect?"
The Lord Mayor of Restov clears his throat, interrupting the gnome's ranting. "Master Tartuccio, please. As, hm, incomparable your skills undoubtedly are, how will you pacify a region and establish a settlement on your own? Be reasonable, sir."
"Reasonable? I am the very definition of reasonable! Ohhh, yes, I see how it is, first you call all heroes to explore and tame the Stolen Lands, but when a worthy one finally appears you change the rules! Ohhh no, this will not stand!" He sweeps the hall with his gaze, landing on the few would-be adventurers who are still lingering. "You! This is your best chance to make something of yourselves, under my benevolent and magnificent direction! They say one person alone cannot do all this, so it seems that I need minions! You will be well recompensed, I assure you!"
A few of the lone adventurers avert their gaze, shaking their heads, but some of the others raise their hands - about a half-dozen in all. Harrim grumbles into his beard for a bit before standing up as well. "I don't see why not, all these endeavours are futile in the end, but you seem a learned man at least. Perhaps there is some wisdom to gain in your company." Jaethal nods a silent assent to Tartuccio's proposal.
At another table, Amiri snorts. "You're fools to follow this bag of hot air. I'd rather join those who have proved themselves in battle!" She grabs her gear to come stand next to the fae pack. Valerie also approaches, giving the group a closed fist salute. "I owe you my life, so if you would have me then I would like to come along and try to repay that debt." Linzi pipes up, "Oh, and you will definitely need a chronicler to write down all your extraordinary future exploits! You are true heroes in the making, which means that once I join you I am a famous bard in the making!"
Roots proudly listens to the handing out of Charters. The small Root leshy especially less fidgety than usual. His blue eyes watch, as each Team receives their piece of important dead tree bark.
Those sacrifices shall be remembered in both deed and song!
The Druid seems to be referring to the parchment used for each Charter....
Walking up to the stage to properly receive their Charter, Roots-Sink-Deep seems very professional. Taking the scroll from the Lady Jamandi's outstretched hand, Roots smiles up at her.
The Storm Druid then skips joyfully back down the isle to their table.
How was that?
When Tartuccio begins his predictable behavior by imitating a baby goat, the Root leshy smiles. Walking over to the gnome, Roots pulls on the Talker gnomes coat.
Why not join us? We Fey need stick together for the betterment of our people. Procurement of a proper place picked by people polite to our politics would be perfect!
Roots seems sincere.
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"That baron souns impressive, I'd love to test my strength against such as him!"
Nidintu sighs. "Unfortunately, that noble is likely dead. Thus is the life of an elf amongst humans – to me, fifty years pass in the blink of an eye, but in the meantime, my friends die, and their children grow old." He smiles, but there is no mirth in his eyes. "We are known to the shorter-lived as 'the Forlorn.' The name is fitting, wouldn't you agree?" This memory, like the last, seems to have negative connotations for him, but while his earlier reaction betrayed deep-seated fear of whatever lies in the murky depths of his early life, this one seems to bring him only sorrow.
"I wanted to kick that gnome in the head during the feast, I won't lie. Such an annoying little gnat."
Nidintu grimaces. "You only saw him during the feast – later, during the battle, he hid while those Black Tears pillaged and looted the manor. And he calls himself a scholar! I have known scholars who would fight like demons to preserve so much as a scrap of lore! I have seen a farmer lop a bandit's head off with a scythe to protect his livelihood! Tartuccio lacks committment to a greater cause – his life has no direction. He may be a diligent scholar, but he is not and will never be a leader."
As Tartuccio embarks on his tirade, Nidintu sighs and tunes out the pompous gnome's prattle. Catching Amiri's eye, he discreetly makes the "talking" motions as she did during the previous night's drinking. However, when the two warriors and the bard approach with offers of aid, he greets them with a warm smile and a friendly word.
When Roots begins to move towards Tartuccio, Nidintu puts his hand on the little leshy's shoulder. "Hold a moment, Roots. He's nothing more than a sack of hot air – let him deflate a bit, first. Once he seems what the Stolen Lands are like, his mood may improve." His advice given, he lets the plant child go, though he does watch for any sign of trouble as Roots speaks to the pompous gnome.
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Halrod looks to Jaethal and Harrim. "We must must all make our own choices. If you come to feel that you've made the wrong one, come and find us in the Greensward. We will have need of skills such as yours."
"As for you, Master Tartuccio," he says to the gnome, "Your fate is not yet sealed, but take heed, for I foresee a road of bitterness and anger before you. I hope in the end, you manage to walk that road to a place of humility and redemption. If you find it, know that I at least will welcome you."
He turns his back on the gnome, having glimpsed a tiny fraction of Tartuccio's unfortunate future.
He smiles benevolently down at Linzi and says "Good. You will be a fine historian and the people will wish to know how it all started."
Glancing at Amiri and Valerie, he says "I am grateful you have chosen to join us. There is much to be done which can only be done at the point of a sword and we have need of the best."
To the team at large he says "Have we an initial goal? I was thinking we might strike out for the trading post in the Kamelands and seek rumors of these bandits and their whereabouts."
"We should lend some thought to supplies. There are many things available here in Restov which we shall not find in the Kamelands or the Greensward."
Roots-Sink-Deep saddles up next to Halrod. The Root leshy nodding in all the correct statements, questions and strategies offered by the elf.
Roots even shakes hands (vines) with Amiri and Valerie, as Halrod welcomes them to the Team.
The Storm Druid then reaches out to tug on the elf's pantaloons.
Finding those poachers, bandits, folks by traveling to the Trader's Post seems smart.
The small leshy begins packing for the trip....
Outside Lady Jamandi's manor, the city of Restov is bustling and the rumours are flying. The fae pack stops to buy a few supplies ahead of their long journey, and they find that Lady Jamandi's name opens many doors, despite their group's... eclectic appearance.
By mid-afternoon, they are ready to leave the city through the western gate and set out on the road that follows the Shrike River to Nivatka's Crossing and then towards New Stetven and beyond. Oleg's Trading Post is somewhere along this road.
As they pass the Green Thread, the inn outside Restov, a grey blur descends from a tree to glide towards Halrod, flapping its wings once before settling awkwardly on his shoulders, wings half-unfurled for balance and its beaked head resting on the top of the warrior's own. Flutterkins blinks slowly at everyone from her perch. Valerie watches the creature warily, Amiri bursts out into laughter, and Linzi is immediately enamored. The images and feelings that Halrod perceives from the owlcat are a jumble of anxiety about the big stone buildings of the city, relief at seeing the elf pack again, and snack-related hopefulness.
Late in the day as it is, they won't make it to Nivatka's Crossing before nightfall, but they might camp beside the road.
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Nidintu already owns most of the equipment he needs to survive in the wild, so he busies himself with purchasing the horses. As he haggles with the stable-master over the price of mounts, one of the horses, the runt of a litter of draft horses (that is, just under six feet), kicks at a particularly annoying fly, misses, and hits the warrior, knocking him backwards into a wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. In a moment, the stable-master is helping him up, a look of worry on his face. "I'm so sorry, sir - we can find you another-" He is cut off by Nidintu, however, who grins as he gets to his feet. Despite his injury, his tone betrays good cheer, even a hint of mirth, and it's clear that he bears no ill will towards either the stable-master or the horse. "Another horse? What, are you trying to cheat me? I'll buy this one!"
After finishing his purchases, Nidintu returns to the group riding on his massive bay horse, leading eight other various equines outfitted with tack. Spotting the other members of the fae pack, he waves to them. "My friends! I have purchased mounts!" He looks down at his own steed and pats the horse's neck. "I think I'll call you Rādāni-Tānu - like the steed of Arishaka, yes?" The horse says nothing but continues its plodding gait. Nidintu, however, is not fooled by the horse's seemingly slow turn of speed - having worked with several plow horses in his relatively brief time as a farmhand, he recognizes that the animal can maintain its steady pace for hours, even days on end.
As the group stops to camp beside the road to Nivatka's Crossing, Nidintu checks to make sure his new mount is properly garbed in its horse blanket, then unrolls his bedroll under a tree or shrub or the like - he's clearly not picky about where he sleeps, but remembering the storm of last night, he is taking limited precautions not to be excessively rained on. He volunteers for the midnight watch shift again, as his eyes are keener than most in the dead of night. When his shift rolls around, he spends it in front of the fire , whittling the end of a stout stick with the knife Amiri gifted him. He notes with some interest that it never seems to grow dull, and he glances at Amiri. The table-knife of some great giant, perhaps? The tool of some mighty hero or other? The craftsmanship is certainly masterful - this is no ordinary knife.
The end result is masterfully carved, but quite unusual in its subject matter - a strange conglomeration of spheres, arranged to form intricate, twisting shapes. There is something ineffably disturbing about the eerie congress of spheres, and as his shift ends, Nidintu stares at it for a moment when the next watcher comes to relieve him, his thoughts lost in the alien geometry of the piece. After a moment, he shakes his head as if to clear it, stands up, and throws it into the brush as far as he can. Such things are likely better lost...
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Halrod rarely sleeps, and is happy to take a watch while the others rest. He regards the strange piece carved by his fellow elf and reflects on how different their lives have been heretofore.
When Ndintu hurls the carving away, Halrod is philosophical. "You are a skilled craftsman, sir," he says in elvish. "Though I have not seen its like before, I feel it would fetch a fair price in Iadara or Sevenarches. But artists are ever the harshest judges of their own work, are they not? I wish it were so of scholars. Many a library would be the better for it."
"Get some rest. I do not think the bandits would dare to raid here in Brevoy, but we are close to the Stolen Lands and it is prudent to be cautious. I will watch until morning."
The archer climbs into the boughs of a large elm and alights there lightly amid the foliage, blending into the dappled shadows, his large amber eyes glittering in the reflected firelight.
Sitting astride a magnificent stallion (that the Root leshy named "Flowers), Roots-Sink-Deep's blue eyes roam the countryside as they travel west.
Waving at Flutterkins, the Druid seems at ease.
When we find those poachers, they're gonna get it!
Enjoying himself as he helps set up camp, Roots whistles merrily the entire time.
Nature is terrific!
Later, yawning after a splendid meal, the small Root leshy sleeps under the very tree that Halrod sits.
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At Halrod's words in Elvish, Nidintu looks at the other elf. He responds in the same tongue, though his speech is halting and uncertain, making it clear that Elvish is neither his first nor most frequently used language. «Were the carving of a horse or drake, then I would agree with you, friend Halrod, but such beings as I have carved need no more foothold in mortal minds than they have already. Perhaps it is best that scholars are wary of the knowledge they seek, that others might not fall under the sway of the occult. Tell me, have you ever looked at the night sky? Truly looked? We see the stars and offer to Desna prayers, but they are so far away, and so small. What of the shadowed places between? What do you imagine lurks there, in the Dark Tapestry, my friend?»
The warrior glances in the direction he threw his carving, his yellow eyes seeming to blaze in the light of the fire. «My father was once a scholar of Desna's faith, a good man not unlike you or I. He peered too far into this unknowable abyss and was lost, you understand? His heart was filled with darkness, and he gave his worship to strange beasts from between the stars - it was an image of one of these creatures that I carved, from my father's altar. This is why I fear for my brother Vanrith. He studies the creatures from these dark places so he can fight against them, but I fear that their influence may overcome him in the end.» He looks towards the slumbering Roots underneath the tree. «I do not wish that any should face the same peril - the child least of all. He has so many years ahead of him, and it would be a tragedy were they cut short.»
As Halrod ascends into the elm, Nidintu moves to his bedroll beneath another nearby tree and goes to sleep.
Of course, falling is not quite the correct word. The feeling is there, the strange lightness of the stomach that accompanies a plunge from a great height, but there is nowhere to fall towards, and nowhere to fall from - simply an impenetrable darkness all around. The tiefling blinks, but he can see no less - and no more - with his eyes closed than he can see with them open.
As he falls, he eventually becomes aware of strange beings, spheres and angles and forms that defy description, all around him. They do not appear - he simply realizes that they have been there. They have always been there, even in his waking moments, watching and judging his every thought, every action. This is an old nightmare, but one he has not had in years - not since he entered the hermitage.
However, rather than simply watching as they have in the past, they whisper strange things to him, and he begins to see visions. A stag and a wolf in stag's skin, locked in mortal combat. A great eye, blazing with the light of destruction. A door to places unknowable, at once almost closed and almost open. Nidintu does not know the meaning of these visions, but he knows that the strange beings do nothing without cause... and that there may be a price for the scattered glimpses of what is to come.
The following morning, the fae pack gets on the road once more, following the sun towards their destination. This early in the year, there's still a chill in the air, and the sunlight is thin and watery, barely warming. Leaves are starting to bud on the trees lining the road, and snowdrops and crocuses peek through the melting snow. The horses' hooves plop noisily through the mud of the road, making sucking noises as they come free.
The few other travelers on the road tend to head in the opposite direction, towards Restov - mostly farmers and herders going to buy supplies, or food to last them until the next harvest. In these parts, this is the leanest time of the year, when the provisions set for the winter have all but dwindled away, and the next crop of turnips or winter cabbage feels very far away.
A few merchant caravans are heading the other way, towards New Stetven, taking advantage of the fact that the road is now open and free of snow. They glance curiously at the fae pack as they pass by, and their guards tighten their grip on their weapons.
Just before noon, the village of Nivatka's Crossing comes into view, a few dozen houses huddled around a sprawling inn. Here, the road forks south, crossing the Shrike River and cutting through a line of hills into Dunsward and the Nomen Heights. The inn's courtyard is bustling with travelers and locals alike. Stablehands are just leading a half dozen war horses out of the stables, their tack all black leather and silver thread. A little distance away, a harangued-looking gnome woman is shaking her head decisively at a caravan leader who looks dismayed. The air is ringing with shouts, horses neighing, the clattering of wagons and the strident calls of a rooster presiding over the chicken coop attached to one side of the inn.
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Two figures stand outside the inn. Though not polar opposites, they are different enough to be striking.
Leaning against a railing is a short, androgynous human. Their skin is pale from a life spent in the fog of the Stolen Lands. Their auburn hair has flowers braided into it, and their eyes are a startling emerald green. Though strikingly beautiful, they do very little to accentuate it or downplay it. Whistling a meandering tune, they seem utterly content with their current situation.
Their companion lacks any of their carelessness. Just by his unnatural stature and poise, it’s obvious he’s one of the fair folk. His skin is an odd, almost bone white with narrow eyes like pools of darkness. Horns seemingly carved of living oak protrude from his forehead while a mane of hair the color of autumn leaves spills down his shoulders. Gossamer wings can be seen on his back, and he stands at rigid attention as if waiting for some unknown foe.
The androgynous one speaks, ”Give it a rest, Carageorn. Your enemies of old will not strike as we wait outside a damned inn.“
The fey turns to them, ”Eskra, friend of the glade, you think me as witless as a turtle calling to an eagle? All that walks or swims or flounders could serve them. I stand vigil for I am honor-bound to.”
Based on each of their tones, it seems they have been bickering for a while and show no signs of slowing.
Roots sits a top his mare with the ease of a chicken being chased by a rooster! The small Root leshy bounces and pounces about his saddle, babbles and dappled from the splash and spray, twists and turns forward to backward; side to precarious side, and shouts, laughs, cries with absolute joy the entire journey to Nivatka's Crossing.
The Druid peers about (sitting backwards at the moment) to waves at his companions.
Isn't this the best!
He does turn to look at what all the ruckus is about with a frown...
The next morning, Nidintu rises before daybreak, breaking down the camp quickly and efficiently and preparing to set out for the coming day. A pall seems to hang over the warrior, and he seems to be contemplating something. As he settles into his saddle, he looks at Valerie for a moment before speaking to the armored warrior. "Say, Valerie, you remind me of someone I knew once. An Iomedaean... what was her name? Lady Sabinus of... thrice-tenth, I can't remember. Tell me, did any of your ancestors fight in the Second Crusade?"
On the road, Nidintu rides in silence, lost in his own thoughts. As the farmers and herders pass by, he glances at them, muttering a prayer to Erastil under his breath. "Erastil bring you bountiful harvest, friends." At the caravan guards' confrontational attitude, he returns their suspicious glances, drawing his cloak further around his massive form. What kind of fools do they take us for? No competent brigand would rob merchants without a decent ambush prepared!
As the sun rises in the sky, Nidintu seems to cheer up, and when it nears its zenith, he arrives in town astride his immense horse, riding alongside the other members of Fanderay's band. The fae pack's bright outfits starkly contrast with the silver and black of the other group at Nivatka's Crossing, and while the warrior's clothes are rather drab in comparison to the gaiety of his fellows, the seven-foot man with horns tends to stand out in a crowd in any case. Spotting the distinctive barding of the horses near the inn, he slows his horse's gait to bring it alongside Halrod. "Wasn't Lord Varn dressed like that the other day? Like as not, that's his band - the 'Varnling Host,' if memory serves - headed for the Nomen Heights. They must have started earlier than we did yesterday."
He approaches the inn and dismounts, leading his steed Rādāni-Tānu as he looks for a hitching post. Noticing Eskra and Carageorn, he makes his way over to the young summoner. The tiefling's yellow eyes look Carageorn up and down, but his manner does not seem frightened or insulting, merely curious. "Excuse me, child. Do you or your friend know if those horses with the silver trim belong to Lord Varn? Human, shorter than me, sword at his belt, hair in a bun?"
Eskra shoots a pointed glance to Nidintu. Their voice is rather indignant as they speak to the newcomer, a sneer on their face, "Child? There are no children here. As for the horses, I couldn't be damned much either way. My patrons asked me to meet their chosen here, not to locate foppish nobles. Describe him for me if you wish to jog my mind, old one."
Carageorn sighs and grumbles at Eskra before looking Nidintu-Bel directly in the eyes. As he speaks more, his strange and archaic manner of speech becomes quite apparent, "Bestow thy forgiveness upon my companion. They rankle at suggestions of their youth, of which their appearance suggests a deceiving possession of. The name I hold which I can tell to thee is Carageorn, exiled of the lands of oak and holly, rightful prince to a throne which lies shattered and sundered at the wicked feet of mine olden foes. They are Eskra, the link that bindeth to the world that was and is and will be. Speak of this Lord Varn, and I shall help ye to find him. Eskra, for their part, might be convinced if treated with a modicum more respect."
At the "old one" remark, Nidintu laughs good-naturedly, raising his free hand in mock surrender. "Stay your blade, friend! I didn't know your name, is all - I meant no offense, I assure you, and the fault lies with me." He nods in thanks to Carageorn. "My sincerest apologies to you both, and while I thank you for your offer of aid, my question was one of curiosity, entirely without significance." The armored warrior extends a hand to Eskra. "Let's try this again. My name is Nidintu-Bel. My friends and I are traveling to Oleg's Trading Post, about three days' ride to the west. What brings you to Nivatka's Crossing, Eskra? You said you were waiting for some 'chosen' people of some sort? My friend Roots has been blessed by Erastil, if that's what you mean. I could take you to him, if you'd like."
Carageorn glances down to Eskra who huffs and nods. Something was certainly communicated, but it's hard to tell what.
Eskra reaches over to shake Nidintu's hand. Their demeanor is far more pleasant now, "Fine, I accept your apology. In truth, I am not quite sure why I we have been called to here. I do not know who this Baron is, but I've been asked by a fey sympathetic to Carageorn's cause, which is mine by proxy, to come here and meet some associates of theirs. She has only showed herself as a wolf in my dreams, I know nothing else of her beyond that."
As Eskra mentions a "dream wolf," Nidintu looks concerned. "Lady Fanderay? But..." He shakes his head. "Halrod would likely know more of these matters than I do - my skills lie with the occult, you see." He thinks for a moment, then nods. "Yes, I think I should take you to Halrod. He will know more of the dealings of the fae."
The massive warrior looks around the area, seeking the other members of the fae pack.
Roots smiles.
I, on the other hand, have been given slightly more information. Says a tall, somewhat androgynous elf who steps out of the inn. While they are mostly dressed like an adventurer used to making their way in the wilderness there are accoutrements that speak of nobility such as flared shoulders on their otherwise practical armour, and a helm that's elaborately carved.
There are also elaborate patchworks of colour on their armour in places that seem more fae like than anything from elvish culture, more than anything else though, around the neck, bright blue feathers can be seen.
A pack of fae will make their way
into the Stolen Lands
To fight for right and keep it all
away from dangerous hands
I do believe that you are that 'pack' that we are to join, you are going into the Stolen Lands, yes?
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A voice cuts through in a lilting uncommon tongue. A young male, from the sound of it, apparently addressing the elf.
The speaker is dressed in quality woolen travelling clothes, primarily black, gray and blue. An astute observer may notice the clothes are too fine for homeless vagabond, more like a noble attempting to blend in.
He slips his black hood back to reveal far less fair a face than the fair folk in his company. He possesses mottled brown orcish features with an underbite and tusks and a twisted knobby horn over his right eyebrow. A silver pendant featuring an eye dangles from his neck. The eye might look like the eye of Aroden to older observers, but looking closer will prove it has a black tear rolling from it.
The young traveler does carry a dueling sword - a rapier - and a shield, but he doesn’t appear to have the strength to use either effectively. Looks can be deceiving however.
"You'll forgive me for assuming, Taldane is probably more appropriate. But you did say 'Fae'." he grins boyishly as he says so.
"Orlund... Frost" He dips his head in a slight bow and addresses more broadly the others there. "Orlund the Fair if you're feeling friendly. A mutual friend suggested I might be of service to you, the omens led me the rest of the way to you. I understand you're on a quest to conquest the Stolen Lands? Provided that's the case, I'd like to submit my very competent healing abilities to your company."
As the two new arrivals make themselves known, Nidintu turns to face them. At Orlund's words in Sylvan, he raises an eyebrow, and he gives a reply in the same tongue.
The warrior looks over the four strangers, a smirk twisting his fiendish features. "Be it fate or the meddling of the gods, it would seem that our meeting was predestined. You all seem to be party to our band's compact with Lady Fanderay, and your aid would be appreciated." His smirk widens into a sharp-toothed grin as his eyes rest on Orlund's amulet, and he extends a hand to the youthful half-orc. "The Arodenite priests I recall were generally more... solemn than you seem to be, young man. Still, it's not my place to pry - your secrets are your own."
The tall elf sets off towards where he last saw Halrod, motioning for the others to follow. "I will take you to Halrod. At the moment, he's the closest thing our band has to a leader - I will be the first to admit that many of my skills end at the point of a blade and the head of a blacksmith's hammer, and Roots..." He sighs. "...Roots is not all there. I'm sure you'll see what I mean when you meet him." He grins, demonstrating with his hands the four-foot height difference between the diminutive leshy and his own massive frame. "Indeed, sometimes I look at him and wonder where the rest of him can have possibly gone!" He laughs briefly, but after a moment, he stops, giving an appraising look to Xavin and Orlund. "Eskra there is serving as Carageorn's proxy, but what of you two? You, friend elf, have the air of a noble, and the cut of your clothes is strange." He frowns. "Kyonin, I would guess, but I've never been - I am Forlorn, you see, raised among humans. And you - Orlund, you said? - have the same highborn stance, and you wear the blade of a swordlord at your belt. You say you came to Nivatka's Crossing to join our quest, but what cause have you for aiding us?"
Orlund nods and offers a quick reply in Sylvan,
He grins and laughs as the taller elf continues in common. "Hah! No, this is no Aldori blade. One should be so lucky. Highborn though I may be, with a face such as mine... I could never inherit my father's name or title, hence Frost. " He says as if needing no further explanation.
He pauses and quickly adds, "I- I'm not actually a bas-... nevermind. I was raised in noble halls, but my only real hope at a landed title is here!" He puffs out his chest and gestures with his right arm broadly to the scenery to the south. "On the frontier! Campaigning like heroes of yore. My ambition is to make a name for myself. Fulfill my destiny, as it were. It is of course my hope that our interests are aligned and will be mutually beneficial."
He makes no attempt to respond to accusations of whether or not he is faithful to a lost god. He simply continues to smile knowingly at the Elf.
He looks straight through to the elf's eyes and adds mischievously, "And would you care to share your name and intentions as well, master elf?"
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At Orlund's words, Nidintu turns his head to look at the young priest, but does not break his stride. "You admire the heroes of the old days then, yes? Their lives, their deeds, their tragedies?" He smirks. "Sometime, I should speak with you. The priest who raised me collected tales the way nobles collect titles, and I have seen many things in my one hundred and thirty-three years of life. Tell me, have you ever heard the tragedy of Cimerra of Lagash and his love Ishipal of At? It is an old tale, with a long and twisted history. Or perhaps the parable of the farmer and the boastful priests? Another old tale, and one much beloved among the faithful of Erastil." His smirk widens into a grin. "I suspect we will have much to talk about."
At the mention of a "family name," however, Nidintu scowls. "Names are not heirlooms, to be passed down from father to son. All who have had dealings with the fae should know of the importance of names, and they should not be wasted on trivial things like who your forebears were. Your name should reflect who you are, what you have done. Those nobles who define themselves by their house names are dandies, hiding behind the works of their ancestors because they are no-one and they have done nothing of significance." He slaps Orlund on the back. "If your father will not let you take his name, make your own. Let your deeds define you, young man. Form with your own crafts the future you seek."
"And would you care to share your name and intentions as well, master elf?"
Nidintu halts, turning fully to face the new members of the fae pack. "Of course - how could I forget? I am Nidintu-Bel, warden of Erastil. As for my intentions..." The tiefling shrugs. "I see no real reason to 'tame' the Stolen Lands - I was born there, and I have spent all my life in its wilds. Its people can care for themselves. Still, I have been given a duty, and duty is above all."
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As Nidintu-Bel looks for Halrod, he finds the elven archer engrossed in conversation with Maegar Varn, the leader of the Varnling Host, whom they had met the night of the feast. The swordlord raises a hand in greeting as he sees Nidintu approach, a broad smile on his face.
"Hail, friend, and good to see you!" He points a thumb behind himself, at the inn. "Their offerings do not compare to Lady Jamandi's most excellent fare, but it isn't bad for a place at the edge of civilization."
A group of four exit the inn, looking around until they spot Maegar Varn. They are clearly part of his Host, as they all display the same black and silver theme in their attire. A tall Ulfen woman, her sleeveless hide tunic trimmed with silver fur showing off her well-muscled arms, is whistling a tune off-key, much to the annoyance of the warrior at her side who winces at every discordant note. The portly, elderly man behind them wears simple woolen robes layered with a thick shawl around his shoulders, and is currently busy stuffing several links of cured sausage into an already-full leather satchel embroidered with the symbol of Erastil. The last of the group is an almost dandyishly dressed half-elf, with his long, flowing hair shining in the midday sun as if freshly washed and oiled. An equally resplendent pigeon is preening in the birdcage carried by the man, its crest of black feathers flaring behind its white head.
"Ah, here they are." Maegar Varn inclines his head to Halrod and Nidintu-Bel. "Our ways part here, quite literally. We are taking the south road towards what soon shall be our new settlement, Varnhold!" His enthusiasm is obvious, as is his eagerness to get on the road again. "I believe you are continuing west? I wish you safe journeys, and good luck with your endeavours. Send me a line once you get settled, or even come visit! You will always be welcome in Varnhold." With another broad smile, he takes his leave, joining his companions in mounting their horses and turning out of the inn's yard and onto the south road.
The inn offers simple fare indeed - chunky, homemade brown bread speckled with pumpkin seeds, a mushroom, carrot and onion stew, and a weak, watery ale to wash it all down. After a meal at one of the communal tables, elbow to elbow with farmers, tradesmen and merchants, the fae pack - now counting several additions - is ready to take the road again.
The latter half of the day is uneventful, and those unaccustomed to much riding are starting to find their groove as their mounts' steady pace eats away at the distance. By the time dusk begins to fall, a squat wooden fort is visible ahead. Those familiar with the area, or with maps thereof, know it to be Fort Serenko, a fortification that has stood for years on the southern border of Brevoy.
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Roots looks up at the sound of Nidintu's voice. In the small Root leshy's vine hands is what was once some earthen pottery cookware, although now it seems to be broken and the struggling Storm Druid seems to be trying to piece them back together, using mud.
This was already broken when I dropped it.
Smiling innocently up, up, up at Nidintu, Roots also turns his blue eyes at the approaching Elf and Half-Orc, along with the child? and her sweet-looking horned friend. He absently covered the newly broken pottery in dirt.
Hearing them speaking Sylvan, the Druid replies
Erastil's blessings, friends.
The small Root leshy stands, brushes off his pants (and absently kicking more dirt over the obvious protruding pottery), and offers his vine-like hand.
I am Roots-Sink-Deep! Hunter for Erastil! Friend of Lady Fanderay (he seems to be blushing), Bandit Thumper for the Lady Jamandi, and Giant Slayer; at your service!
The small Root leshy then quickly shuffles his stance to better obscure the broken, buried (mostly) pottery.
He smiles.
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Kyonin yes, but a century out of date with the latest fashions there I am sure. I served as an ambassador to the First World for that time and it was equal parts, a duty, an honour, and a pleasure. Ruffling his blue feathers he continues And there were gifts, which are never granted freely there, and I can only hope that I have been bartered with fairly.
And now I am here, to ensure these lands stay amenable to elves and an easy conduit for the fae, those serving both peoples that I pledge allegiance too. But wilderness can foster corruption and I hope to ensure that there is vigilance. The First World is one thing but there are... other planes as well... but Erastil is not fond of them either and his touch in this place is a boon and a blessing to it. Xavin quirks an eyebrow at his fellow elf.
But where are my manners. You may call me Xavin. I have lost the ability to relay any of my other names. A parting gift from my hosts. Perhaps I will earn some new ones.
Carageorn's extremely expressive eyebrows perk up as Xavin speaks, "An ambassador to the First World, sayest thou? With whom did ye reside with? I am honor-bound by terms beyond my ken not to speak of my home or throne, but I relish hearing of that last which doth sit so far beyond my grasp."
Eskra laughs, "What my exciteable friend meant to say was, 'Hello, how do you do, my name is Carageorn, this is my dear friend Eskra.' He did not say that, so I must say it for him."
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Nidintu listens attentively to Xavin's introduction, nodding once his fellow elf finishes. "For young Orlund here, I have tales of heroes of days past, but you, friend Xavin, should speak with my brother Vanrith. He studies dark things in the hopes of maintaining this same vigilance you seek to uphold." The massive warrior searches in his pack, quickly finding an old letter with a simple clay seal. "The last I heard from him, he was somewhere in old Ninshabur, seeking the libraries of the lost city of Zarrataab." He raises an eyebrow. "He was in Kyonin briefly, but I doubt you would have met him, friend Xavin - he spent most of his time awaiting execution in Siavenian. Demon-haunted lands are rarely welcoming to those who bear the blood of their enemies - it's why I never joined the Crusades."
At Maegar Varn's words, Nidintu smirks. "The edge of civilization, Lord Varn? I suppose it depends which way you are walking. I grew up in the River Kingdoms, and I would readily set their freedoms against the slave markets of Qadira or the heretics' pyres of Mendev - the 'holy lands' of so-called civilization, is it not said? We may have no temples and palaces, but we also have no slave-drivers and inquisitors." He pats Maegar on the back. "Regardless, I wish you well, Lord Varn, and I hope to hear from you soon." He nods to the motley crew of the Varnling Host, then enters the inn for the mid-day meal.
Later that day, as the walls of Fort Serenko come into view, Nidintu reins in his horse and turns to his companions. "The way splits here, friends. The main road goes north, but we could save time if we cut directly across the plains to the west. There's a lone hill about a day's ride from here - it would make an excellent campsite for tomorrow's rest, if we wish to cut across the plains." He gives a nervous glance to the walls of the fort - while it may have a warm fire and a place to sleep, it may also have a bounty poster for his head - something which might lead to rather awkward explanations to his newfound allies. "Regardless, let's camp here for the night. We shouldn't bother the soldiers - I'm sure they're very busy."
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Halrod takes leave of Maegar Varn with warmth. "May your settlement be fruitful, Master Varn. Let there be friendship between the Dunsward and the Greenbelt! We will seek you out when we have settled the bandits. I feel we have much to offer each other."
The elf said nothing of the misgivings he had, some dark sense that trouble awaited the human in the east. "And Master Varn. Do be cautious. You will be on the edge of great Casmaron, and that is a strange and wild place."
Turning to Carageorn, Eskra, Orlund and Xavin, the archer smiles in greeting. "I am Halrod, a sometime wanderer in these lands. You know the redoubtable Nidintu-Bel and these are our companions, Roots-Sink-Deep, Linzi, Amiri and Valerie. Welcome to our fire."
The niceties done, the elf turns to Xavin. "Tell me, Xavin. You spent time in the First World. In your travels there, have you heard of an elf-maid named Falathiel?" The question is asked almost casually, but those who know Halrod can sense the weight of the question, that it means something very personal to him. The tension is betrayed to all by a slight jump, a displacement of only a fraction of an inch, as though the elf were moved slightly without traveling through the intervening space.
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Amiri frowns towards the fortification, pointing. "Looks empty to me. No smoke from fires, no one on the walls." Linzi gasps, reaching for her pen and journal. "Do you think it's haunted? Some great battle not too long ago, a valiant last stand of the outnumbered garrison against... bandits? An army of undead? Pirates?"
Shaking her head at the halfling's overactive imagination, Valerie interjects. "There was no battle. Look, the walls and gate are intact, no scorch marks, no battlefield debris. No, if I remember correctly, the soldiers and scouts stationed here were recalled to Restov." She turns her head to look over her shoulder, towards the road they had taken to get here. "Tensions between Rostland and Issia have been growing, so the various factions are gathering their forces, I reckon." Her expression is closed, but she speaks as one with some familiarity with the matter.
Should the fae pack brave the not-at-all-haunted fortification, they do indeed find evidence that it was abandoned in an orderly manner. The main gate is chained and padlocked, but a postern gate towards the river is less guarded, and with a bit of persuasion opens to allow access to the interior. Within the walls, a multi-level wooden keep served as both barracks, mess hall and office. There's also a small stable and several storerooms, all empty. Moss and lichen has begun to grow on the walls, and weeds choke the courtyard.
Inside the keep, the rough wooden furniture is still there - bunk beds, benches and tables, but all personal items and comforts have been removed. In the kitchen only the stone fireplace remains, and the holes in the walls where once iron hooks held pots, pans and other cooking implements.
Times work differently in the First World as I am sure we are all aware Friend Carageorn and Eskra. As there is no one authority there, my time as an ambassador was spent in many different courts, I was in the realm of Ng first, then Imbrex, The Lost Prince, Ragadahn, Shyka, The Lantern King, The Green Mother and finally Magdh.
Your brother has my sympathies Nidintu, he has chosen perhaps the most dangerous path to combat the evils of the world. If we uncover something here then perhaps he will be tempted to come here and we can meet.
Harold, well met... I will think on what you said, I experienced many things in the First World and it takes time to sift through the memories. Not all of them are reliable either. I will tell you if I recall anything.
It is a bit difficult to adjust back to mortal politics Xavin snorts. The schemes of the fae are on a much different scale.
Halrod listens to Xavin, understanding what it is like trying to collate memories. He speaks seriously. "Please inform me if you should remember anything of her. Even the faintest hint will be more than I have had for some time."
Turning to Fort Serenko, the elf considers. "It is worrisome that the Swordlords should abandon this fort, probably stronger than anything east of Pitax and north of Jovvox. Were it not an affront to Lady Jamandi I would demand we take possession of it now and use it as a base. Still, I fear we may regret leaving so strong a place unprotected in our rear."
"Mark this place well, for we shall return here when we have dealt with the bandits. If Brevoy will not man it, I shall do so."
He points south and west across the rolling sea of grass. "The new trading post is said to lie in that direction and I see here new-made wagon ruts leading that way. It should be easy enough to find. But now we enter the Stolen Lands and leave safety behind us. Let each look to our safety and be sharp of eye and mind."
"Let us be off," he says.
The more you could tell me of Falathiel... the more it would help of course. Xavin nods at Halrod.
After spending the night in the abandoned Fort Serenko, the fae packs sets out again early the next morning, leaving the road and cutting west across gently rolling grass plains. The horses definitely seem to appreciate the change, frequently stopping to nibble on the tender spring grass, or sticking their necks out and nickering, as if eager to stretch their legs into a trot or even gallop. Every now and then, a flash of movement across the open expanse of land marks the passage of a hare or other small animal. The air is sharp, and the sky is huge overhead - layers upon layers of fluffy clouds stretching into infinity between swathes of bright blue.
Nidintu-Bel's estimation proves accurate, and the lone hill he had sighted is reached just as the sun begins to approach the horizon. A thin column of smoke issues from its top, although no structure is in sight.
Once the group explores the abandoned Fort, the Root leshy turns to nod at Halrod's words. The small leshy takes out an unused dagger and begins carving
Halrod says it's ours!
Roots peers at his work. He frowns. Scratches another ! at the end.
He smiles, turns to the group and gives a vine-like thumbs up.
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When the manic Roots carves the brief epitaph into the wooden wall, Nidintu looks at it contemplatively for a moment, and as he hands out the evening meal, he addresses the fellow members of the fae pack. "You know, Roots's carving made me think - we should devise a name for our band. If we are to be remembered, we must have a suitable name. All the bandit gangs in the area have one - the Tanith Outriders, the Megesen Brothers, the Shrike Uplanders - and who can say that they have not heard of the heroes of legend, like the Thousand Blades of Arishaka?"
Later that night, Nidintu speaks to the other watch members. "Have you ever heard the parable of the farmer and the boastful priests? An old tale, and an important one to the worshipers of Erastil."
"Long ago, there was a great and powerful nation ruled by a benevolent queen. The kingdom's scholars were renowned throughout the lands for their wisdom and intellect, and the poorest of the kingdom's merchants had wealth that would make an emperor weep."
"One day, the priests of the land called a convocation to debate the dedication of a massive new temple that rivalled the queen's palace in majesty. In their hubris, all of the high priests arrived early, dressed in stately robes bedecked with gold and jewels, except the high priest of Erastil, a humble man who arrived precisely when he was told to."
"As they waited for Erastil's representative, the priests of the other gods squabbled over which among them would have the honor of overseeing the new temple. 'Mine is the honor of this temple, as my insight was invaluable in determining the most holy proportions of its construction,' said the high priest of the goddess of wisdom. 'Mine is the honor of this temple, as my intellect devised the tools by which this and other temples can be made,' retorted the high priestess of the god of artifice."
"At that moment, the high priest of Erastil arrived, a simple farmer who wore the faded garb of a peasant. At this, the other priests laughed, and the high priest of the god of wealth, the most fabulously appointed of all present, taunted Erastil's messenger. 'Here we all stand, resplendent in the setting that befits our gods' greatness, and Erastil's faithful dares to show his face in these poor rags? Truly, he is the god of naught but pigs and cabbage, and the hunters who dwell in the wild places! We raise vast monuments to our deities, while your god's worshipers crawl in the dust and the dirt, and you have no place among us,' the boastful priest said."
"The old farmer replied to the wealthy priest, 'You say that ours is the god of pigs and cabbage, yet in the end, whose works will remain? You build great temples to your own pride, yet who has plowed the fields? Picked the crop? Truly I tell you, in a thousand years, your monuments will be dust and your gods' names whispers on the wind. The greatness of kings and queens is gone in the blink of an eye, but the peasants will remember, and they will keep the old ways in accordance with my god's teachings. Thus I say to you that true greatness needs no setting, but rather, it shines even in the darkest of places as do the stars in the firmament.' True to the farmer's words, a thousand years later, not even the names of the boastful priests' gods remain, while Erastil's worshipers live as they always have."
The next day, Nidintu seems to respond well to the improved weather - unlike the previous day, which was mostly spent in silence, the warrior chatters almost constantly as his horse rides through the grasslands, commenting on the weather, telling stories, and making small talk with his newfound friends. As the tiefling spots the smoke rising from the hilltop, he reins in his horse. "There must be a campfire of some sort on the hill. Perhaps trappers, perhaps bandits. Either way, I think we should investigate."
Once the group explores the abandoned Fort, the Root leshy turns to nod at Halrod's words. The small leshy takes out an unused dagger and begins carving
Halrod says it's ours!Roots peers at his work. He frowns. Scratches another ! at the end.
He smiles, turns to the group and gives a vine-like thumbs up.
"Close enough!" agrees Halrod.
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The more you could tell me of Falathiel... the more it would help of course. Xavin nods at Halrod.
The elf sighs. "I don't know. I only see her in dreams. She is...was..." He shakes his head, rustling his long white hair. "I only know that I must seek her. Somehow, I remember that. I will find her once more. I know that too. But...but I can remember little else."
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Later, Halrod listens to Nidintu-Bel's parable. "So you're saying nothing we do will be remembered, my friend? If so, why would we need a name?" He smiles wanly.
"What name would you give us? Or should we perhaps ask Linzi, our bard? Linzi, what's an heroic name everyone will remember in a thousand years?"
Linzi jerks her head up from where she is frantically scribbling on a piece of parchment containing a list of short lines, many of them crossed out. "I was just working on that! So, the first rule of adventuring band names, you need to have at least an adjective and a noun. Like, like... The Grey Company. Or, The Ironborn Sons." The bard taps her parchment with her pen. "I think both of those are important for you to figure out, but let's start with the noun. You don't strike me as crusaders, or knights, or a company - or anything very orderly and military-like. You could be riders, or guardians, or protectors, if you like. And while I wholly believe you are destined to be great heroes, it's a little... crass to call yourself that. That's a name you earn from the people you help, rather than one you take for yourself, eh?"
She winks at Roots. "Now, for the adjective. It could express a value you all hold dear, or a common attribute, or it could even be a place. For you, hmmm... You could be 'verdant', or 'chosen', or 'of the Greenbelt'. But, these are not hard and fast rules. Your name could be one word, or five. I'm sure something will come to you in time, something that fits and you will all be proud to bear."
I agree with investigating the smoke, much of what we are doing here is the gathering of knowledge, what we do with that knowledge is not material until we have gathered strength as well. Xavin agrees with investigating the smoke.
Eskra grins and laughs, "Ah, warrior of old, that is an excellent question. I was...well, entirely unremarkable. If not for noble Carageorn taking a liking to yours truly, I would have spent my life as a farmer, pulling tubers from the dirt for the rest of my days." They look up at Carageorn, who's posed dramatically on a ruined parapet, looking out at the forest beyond.
"Well, I'd ask him to come down here, but ruined forts and the like set him in a pit of melancholic solitude. He's normally a fine chap, but he thinks of little other than his lost throne and crown."
On hearing Linzi's pitch for needing a name, a gleam comes to Eskra's eyes, "A name, you say. Well, I've always heard names have great power. We need something fitting, resonant. Something for the people of our future kingdom to look back on with pride. How about...hmm. How about the Wildwood Band?"
Roots' blue eyes folliw the pointed out rising plume of smoke. His demeanor grows cloudy.
Verdant Watchers! And we best be getting to watching whatever that smoke is coming from!
The small leshy begins heading in that direction....
The group leaves the horses tied at the base of the hill and takes the footpath that snakes around it. As they approach the top, two things become apparent. The first to come into view are the cultivated patches of herbs, vegetables and flowers, their edges lined with stones and the occasional rickety wicker fence. The second thing is the absence of a campfire; the smoke seems to issue from the ground itself - which is very curious, until they walk around the next bend in the path to discover the entrance to a sunken dwelling, a burrow dug into the side of the hill. Besides the crude log door, a cleverly concealed smoke hole and several tiny windows covered with oiled parchment are all that indicates a habitation.
"So you're saying nothing we do will be remembered, my friend? If so, why would we need a name?"
Nidintu looks surprised. "I suppose that is one way to look at the story, though I thought it was more about hubris, myself. Actually, I always thought of it as giving the opposite message - they say that the tale dates from the Age of Legend, after all! For ten thousand years, the deeds of one poor farmer have endured, simply because he was pious and humble. If our deeds are virtuous, who can say how long we will live in legend?"
At Linzi's mention of "crusaders," Nidintu scowls and spits. "Crusaders? Bah! Erastil willing, we will never be compared to the kinds of crusaders we have nowadays. Ever since the Third Crusade, virtuous knights have become rarer than platinum - at least, among the leaders, they have. These days, the kind who pass for 'knight-captains' are little more than thugs! When I was a bandit, we robbed people - we even killed people, sometimes - but at least we were forthright, both with ourselves and others. We never pretended we were anything other than thieves, never claimed we were the 'chosen of the gods.' There's a kind of honesty in that, I think. I met one of those new crusaders, once - one of their officers, too! A thoroughly worthless man - a cruel, petty-minded fool who treated everyone else like a servant." He sneers. "Fought like a blind donkey, too. Probably only got his post because his father was a count or a baron or some such. Not like we had in the old days, no si- miss!" He hurriedly corrects himself before continuing. "If you want heroes, though, I could tell you tales of the Second Crusade - then, we had true knights! They were warriors, all of them - they didn't waste time on 'duels' or 'ballroom dancing' or any one of these inventions of honor - the fool's substitute for duty! In those days, if you fought a knight, there was none of this 'honorable fisticuffs' nonsense - they'd bite off your head and spit it in your face! More like those Iron Wraith fellows from the other night. Most of those so-called 'common' crusaders are the only ones in Mendev with a true understanding of duty." As Eskra speaks up, he nods. "The Wildwood Band... I like it. It sounds heroic - truly a name for the ages to come."
Nidintu looks askance at Roots as the little leshy speaks. "Whoever that fire belongs to is probably harmless, Roots. There are any number of perfectly innocent reasons for traveling these wilds. It could be hunters, it could be pilgrims, it could be a merchant caravan going south around the Old Forest - as I mentioned before, this is a good campsite. Like as not, they'll be friendly, and perhaps we can share news of the lands ahead."
The massive warrior climbs the hill and looks around in confusion for a moment before spotting the concealed abode. He looks at it for a moment before speaking. "Probably a hermitage or some such. Still, not all who withdraw from society do so by choice, and it can be difficult to live for years without contact with others. It would be a kindness to speak with this hermit, see if he is well."
If nobody stops him, he approaches the crude door and raps on it with his knuckles.
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Roots looks up, up, up at Nidintu. The small Root leshy shrugging his little vine-like shoulders.
WhatchameanNidintuIwasjustworriedaboutaforsetfire.
The Druid looks disappointingly at the Tiefling before following along.
Besides, if it were some scoundrels the Bear would fine them. He really disapproves of forest fires.
As The group leaves the horses tied at the base of the hill and takes the footpath that snakes around it. , the excited leshy shakes his vines in a variety of directions.
Look leaves! Watch out for snakes!
Practically skipping ahead, Roots-Sink-Deep absolutely swoons as come into view are the cultivated patches of herbs, vegetables and flowers, their edges lined with stones and the occasional rickety wicker fence.
The Root leshy doesn't seem to even notice the absence of a fire.
Pausing in mid-skip, Roots Points at the sm9ke billowing out of the group.
Volcano?
Seeing that around the next bend in the path to discover the entrance to a sunken dwelling, a burrow dug into the side of the hill, he seems disappointed.
A disappointed Roots waves the Tiefling on.
Never a volcano.
A clatter sounds from behind the door as Nidintu-Bel knocks on it, and several stomping steps before the door swings open and a human man peers out at him. The best way to describe the inhabitant of the hilltop abode is 'overgrown walnut'. His brown skin is so weathered by sun and wind that his wrinkles have wrinkles of their own - although he does not seem very old. His grey-streaked brown hair and beard are long, and neither have seen comb or brush in at least a decade. He looks up with dark eyes shadowed by bristling brows, and gasps.
"Away! Away with you, brigands!" the hermit croaks, his voice cracking with disuse. "I've nothing worth taking, and I wouldn't give it to you if I had!"