Carageorn gives a mighty whoop as the former bandits agree to his terms before hauling them to their feet, ”Then rise, squires Dalan and Ikke, for thou hast honor like never before!”
For his part, the fey spends his night alternating between patrolling the area around camp, voraciously eating whatever he can grab, and sitting with Eskra, Nidintu, and the bandits by the fire.
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Eskra proves themself to be almost as boisterous as the bandits. Though they can’t keep pace with drinking as well as the bandits, they have no shortage of tales of the hijinks they got into with Carageorn before joining the party. Not just that, they prove to be a rather enchanting tale-spinner, with faint magical effects coming into being as they speak.
They take a swig of whatever’s being passed around before launching into a story, ”Now once, Carageorn and I were utterly strapped for coin. Well, I suppose that hasn’t changed, but it was just us, on our own. As we wandered down the forest roads, hungry as bears, we spied a thicket of berries, lush and ripe, red and shining,”
As they speak, little bursts of red light pop into being around them, ”Before I could so much as make a move Carageorn, strong as a block of wood and twice as dense, proclaims, ’Friend! I shall venture among the berries, I speak their tongue, they shall not harm me.’ And so he charges straight into the thicket. The first yelp came from the thorns that filled the thicket. The second came as he was eating the berries. It seemed these berries were rather poisonous. His tongue swelled up so bad he couldn’t speak, though he sure tried.” Rather than bursts of light, a sound like trying to talk with their mouth full echoes faintly around the fire.
They shrug and chuckle, ”If they could do that to a fey, I shudder to think what could’ve happened to me. I had to spend a week tending to him. Ah, my closest and bravest companion, but gods, he would be a goner without my help.”
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With stories, drink and mostly edible food, the evening passes rather pleasantly. Kressle warms up to the tales being told, and spins one of her own from her time in Mivon.
"...then Yennis puts his hands on the carriage door and fair pulls it out of the frame! Now, Yennis is a big guy, we called him Bear on account of the brown skin and this thick black hair he had all over his body. And very strong, that's why we had him be the greeter for all the fancy marks, to scare them into submission, yeah? But now he's still as a statue and staring inside the carriage, so we start to get worried, we do - is there a frogmaker in there? Did they put a spell on him?"
She pauses for dramatic effect, taking another swig of the herbal liquor. "Then he tosses the door over his shoulder like it was nothing, steps aside and holds out his hand! Like a damn footman helping a lady step out of her carriage. And when we saw who emerged, we thought it was a lady for moment, so pretty was he, all brown sugar curls down to his waist and fine pale skin and these blue eyes you could drown in." She smacks her lips. "Not my taste, but it definitely was Yennis', turns out. And also turns out the noble was a sixth son or something, and so bored with being a noble that he asked to join us! He couldn't fight worth a damn, but we used him as bait for the broken cart, we did!" She laughs uproariously at that, looking at Nidintu and slapping her thigh, probably imagining the huge warrior in a dress.
She sobers out somewhat as the conversation turns to the Stag Lord. "I don't know them well, but there's bound to be malcontents, maybe even among his lieutenants. Dovan used to be his second in command until Akiros joined, and I bet he's none too pleased about that change. And the Stag Lord beat Cragger senseless once, for stealing a bottle of his booze." She hooks a thumb over her shoulder to where the rest of the bottles are. "Yeah, we send tribute mid-month, and there's a passphrase to get into the fort - 'By the bloody bones of Saint Gilmorg, who wants to know?'" She shrugs. "I have no idea who this saint is. But your plan is not a bad one. To attack straight on - you'll most likely be dead, and I won't get to be a countess anymore, so that won't do." She frowns. "Or duchess? Is a duchess better than a countess...?"
As Eskra relates the tale of Carageorn's misfortune, Nidintu laughs. "I've heard of such plants. 'Fool's fang,' it's called, because it's easy to mistake for fangberries, though few make the same mistake twice. Plenty of my friends with the bandits had similar stories - I suspect my brother would call it an 'archetype' or something, but I think it's just a matter of a common shared experience."
Nidintu grins as he listens to Kressle's tale. "I used to be the greeter back in the day, I did. Most of the time, all I had to do was smile at the merchants and pilgrims and such, and they'd wet themselves and hand over their gold. In a way, I suppose frightening them like that was doing them a favor - that way, the band didn't have to fight them and risk someone getting killed. Best thing for everyone, it was." The massive tiefling clears his throat, a sheepish expression on his face. "...On that topic, I should probably apologize, Dalan. I hope you're feeling better after that fright I gave you earlier."
The warrior shifts in his seat, his tail twitching as his yellow eyes gaze into the depths of the fire. "Anyway, I met my late wife in a rather similar way to Yennis and this pretty dandy fellow. We came across a slavers' caravan from Qadira, and Boss Tanith decided to teach those scum about the River Freedoms. In the middle of the fray, as we were cutting free the slaves and giving them weapons, I saw this beautiful Keleshite woman with a blade in each hand, slashing like a whirlwind - lots of enthusiasm, though I don't think she ever had much training. After the battle, I gave her my cloak to help clean off the blood, we started talking, and we were married a year later. She was a natural with the blade, she was, but her dream was to be a cartographer, so she never really joined us bandits."
As the conversation switches to the Stag Lord and his minions, Nidintu nods. "Cragger and Dovan, you say? We'll talk to those two when we bring the Stag Lord his liquor, see if they know any others who might join our cause." He shrugs. "As for the duchess part, I'm the wrong person to ask - lived all my life in the River Kingdoms, I have. I think 'baroness' is higher than both, though. I met a noble, decades ago, during the Second Crusade. Lady Sabrinus, her name was, clad all in iron and with a sword bigger than she was. She was one of those Iomedaeans, and she was very kind to Vanrith and me. Most nobles I've met since then have been dandies who can barely hold a proper blade. They have some special way of fighting or some such - they hit you with a glove, then you fight them somewhere else, and there's a long list of places you aren't supposed to hit them. They call it a 'duel,' they do."
Sitting absolutely still (his hand full of berries, as is his wide-open mouth), Roots-Sink-Deep stares up, up, up at Nidintu and Kressle.
I want ta be un Greeter too!
"I want ta be un Greeter too!"
Nidintu laughs uproariously at the thought of the little leshy threatening merchants. "Truly, little one? Show me your best scary face, then!" To demonstrate, he gives Roots a ferocious scowl. "Like this, little one!" However, he can barely keep a straight face, and after a moment, he bursts out in laughter again, spoiling the effect.
As the night drags on and the fire dies low, Nidintu takes the opportunity to tell a ghost story he recalls from his time in the bandits. His yellow eyes appear almost like distant lanterns in the dying light of the fire, and the raspy hiss of his voice cuts through the still night air as he relates his tale.
"Villages come and go in these lands, they do. Some band of explorers decides they're going to make a new life on the frontier, and one firestorm or hungry beast later, all that's left are ruins and bones. Such was the fate of a lonely town on the shores of Kallas Lake, razed to the ground in a single night by a bandit raid."
"My father always said that humans have a way of surviving, of clinging to life when everything they know is lost. He was wrong about a great many things, but about this he may be right, for on that fateful night, one survivor crawled free of the wreckage, spared death at the bandits' hands. In desperation, she called to any god that would answer, calling for mercy, for justice..." He pauses for dramatic effect as a horrifying grin spreads across his face. "...and for vengeance."
"None know for sure what answered her call, but the legends speak of the bargain she made, a bargain that was old when dragons ruled the lands and humans cowered in their caves. Blood for blood, death for life - the cruel god that answered her would restore her family if and only if she stole blood for him, blood to replace that spilled by the brigands as they razed her home. She opened her mouth to answer, but thousands of mosquitoes poured out, choking her words. Ever since, she has stalked the woods, and it is on nights like these when she roams furthest, always seeking her next victim. So build the fire high tonight, friends, and keep a watchful eye on the darkness, else your last sight may be the thousand servants of... the Mosquito Witch!"
After a moment to let his friends respond, Nidintu's face splits in a friendly grin again, and he chuckles. "A tale, nothing more. It's told around the town of Shimmerford to bring so-called 'monster hunters.' My friend Konstantin used to run in a bandit gang in that area, and he said that all it does is draw rich suckers who want to be a hero. Now, the tale of Cimmera of Lagash, on the other hand... There are those who say it's just a legend, but Two-Shot Elbers from Boss Tanith's band would probably disagree with them - if he still had his face, that is." He smirks, moving towards his bedroll. "Perhaps a story for another night. For now, I'm going to get some rest - after all, we still have to make it to the Old Sycamore tomorrow."
The Fey would appreciate your ability to tell tales Nidintu. Xavin notes. If I had the same ability I would have been able to trade a good story for the gifts I have. But yes, let us rest. I do not expect the ring to be easy to retrieve.
Roots pouts.
I can be scary. There was once this spider that was going for my curds and way and I totally scared the webbing out of him!
The rest of the night passes uneventfully, with the Wildwood Band taking turns keeping watch. Even with the stories and the drinking, come morning there is still some tension among the former bandits, and they tend to stick together as they break camp and load the loot on the spare horses left behind by their dead comrades.
East of the bandits' camp, gentle hills begin to rise towards the mountains. Grasses and scrub replace the ancient trees and lush undergrowth of the forest. Amiri takes upon herself to keep an eye on the new joiners, scowling fiercely at them every time their horses take a step too far. Dalan and Ikke seem terrified of her, but Kressle is entirely unfazed and before long the two women are riding side by side and one-upping each other's stories of outrageous and unlikely exploits.
Twilight is beginning to paint the sky in pastel colours when a glint catches the party's eye. A rocky crag juts from the hills here, at its base a 5-foot-wide crack that opens into a wide crevice, then widens into a cavern. The cave wall directly opposite the entrance catches the setting sun and sparkles slightly.
The cave makes an excellent camp location as well, and the party rests undisturbed save for a swarm of bats taking flight at sunset. The next day they set out again, angling southwest towards the Old Sycamore. Towering atop a hill, the 100-foot-tall tree is visible for miles around. Once reaching it around noon, the party can see that the venerable tree is a graying hulk, clinging precariously to life. On the ground around it, like fallen acorns, are several bodies of kobolds and mitflits, stripped of whatever they might have had.
Several in the party notice that the grass is trampled and the bare earth is packed in a particular area next to the roots of the ancient tree - likely the hidden entrance to the gremlins' lair.
What is wrong with this ancient wonder? Xavin asks, ignoring the bodies. They stride to the tree and kneel next to it, placing their hand on it reverently.
Roots begins rubbing his eyes when a glint catches the druid's eye.
Dere be Gold in dem hills!
Later the small Root leshy is seen playing tag with the bats....
Eskra smiles, ”Gold indeed. I imagine it’ll be quite the boon to our kingdom.”
Xavin can't find that there is anything wrong with the sycamore tree, save that it is very old.
Amiri wrinkles her nose at the sight of the small entrance. "I don't fit in there. I'll guard the horses while the rest of you find those gremlins." Linzi looks fretfully at the dark opening. "I'm... I'm scared of the dark."
As the party makes camp in the narrow cave, Nidintu shrugs as Roots and Eskra discuss the gold. "Never had much use for gold myself, though I understand it has value simply for what it is. I've always thought it's what something does that determines its value, not how it gleams. Gold's too soft to make good tools, and too heavy to do much of anything else - give me solid steel, any day. Still, I suppose some things can be simply beautiful without a use."
The next day, he rides in relative silence, lost in thought. After an hour or so of riding, he addresses Linzi. "You know, Linzi, my brother writes songs, much as you do. His are far stranger, though. More aberrant, and about darker things. How did that one go?" After a minute, he begins to sing in a low voice.
"In realms unseen by mortal eyes,
The ancient ones in slumber lie,
Their dreams of darkness fill the skies,
And whisper truths that terrify."
Oh, ye who seek the dark's allure,
Beware the madness it imparts,
For in its grasp, you'll find no cure,
Only the shattering of hearts.
So let the darkness be a tale,
A myth where only brave dare tread,
For those who pass beyond the veil,
Find not the living, but the dead."
He shudders. "Chilling, isn't it? I think my father's rituals took more with him than they did with me - he's a strange one, and no mistake."
As Xavin approaches the tree, Nidintu kneels to examine the bodies scattered around the foot of the tree. "There was clearly a battle here - I wonder which side won? These folks would have to be heartless not to bury their kin if they had the time, so there must have been some pressing danger that kept the winners from doing much more than looting."
"What is wrong with this ancient wonder?"
Nidintu glances up at Xavin's words, shrugging. "It's probably just dying. All things do, eventually - it's the way of life. Most animals die in ten years, most humans in a hundred, and most elves in a thousand, but nothing lasts forever." He nods towards the disturbed dirt at the entrance. "Still, it looks like the gremlins have been digging into its roots - that can't help matters."
As Amiri and Linzi speak, Nidintu glances down at the narrow hole, grimacing. "I'll do it, but I won't like it. I can see just fine in the dark, but the height..." One hand comes up and rubs at the base of one of his horns. "...I don't have to be a fortune-teller to know that I'm going to have headaches pretty soon."
Roots bravely Raises his Shield and the small Root leshy walks inside the tree....
The root-lined shaft of the concealed den entrance drops 10 feet down to the middle of a tunnel that runs east-west.
Roots peers down the drop to see the tunnel branching. The Root leshy motions for folks to stay put foe 10 minutes. The Druid climbs down the 10' drop and begins examining the immediate area.
Survey Wildlife
Roots can find signs of centipedes, millipedes, spiders, beetles, earthworms and other creatures who live in damp dark places, or burrow into the earth. There are no larger creatures like moles or rats, however.
After spending a minute naming the centipedes, millipedes, spiders, beetles, earthworms and other creatures, the grinning Root leshy signals to the others to descend.
Roots whispers
Nothing but verm8n about. Nothing bigger. Something probably ate the rats.
Raising his Shield, the Storm Druid closes his blue eyes, spins a bunch of times and wobbles...
....West!
Roots and those following him come into an area where the tunnel widens into a small room, its center occupied by three tiny crude workbenches strewn with various little tools, bits of twisted metal and chunks of wood. The ceiling is quite low here, only 5 feet tall, so anyone who isn't small by nature needs to crouch awkwardly
Two mitflits, recognizable by their blue skin, raise their heads from where they are bent over a contraption resembling a miniature catapult rigged out of bones and branches. One of them shrieks as it spots the intruders, while the other frantically cranks up the catapult.
Nidintu waits at the surface for Roots to finish with his survey, humming to himself, but when the little leshy motions him down, he descends the narrow passageway as quickly as he can and joins the rest of the group. The massive cambion has to bend almost double to fit into the tiny corridor, and his progress is marked by muffled thuds and hissed repetitions of "Thrice-tenth!" as his horns rebound solidly off tree roots and overhangs.
As the group emerges into the cavern, he glances around the haphazard workroom with the disdainful eye of a crafter, but his eyes narrow as he spots the gremlins. "We must hold this position, my friends! If these gremlins know we're here, we'll be attacked from both sides until we're dead - better to hold this workroom where we can maneuver!" He advances on the mitflits and swings his greataxe as best he can given the small confines, trying to catch both with one sweep of his weapon. "You call this pile of twigs a siege weapon? I could make a sturdier frame blindfolded! With my hands tied behind my back!"
Eskra focuses for a moment before saying, "Carageorn, kill those little bastards."
The lanky fey warrior grins, "It would be my deepest of pleasures! Impostors, outcasts, wretched things, fear the wroth of the thorn of the flowering vine!"
He strides in, blades aglow, slashing twice at the closest mitflit.
There is a lot more shrieking as both Nidintu-Bel and Carageorn land solid blows on the mitflits. The second blade strike from the fey warrior finishes off one of the blue gremlins. The remaining one wails.
With a desperate shriek, it edges alongside the cavern wall to the left, scurrying down a vertical shaft into the depths of the burrow.
Xavin drops their bow, draws their Flyssa and tries to overtake the gremlin.
As the sole remaining mite flees, Nikolay returns his axe to its sheath, moving over to grab the workbenches and half-finished projects and moving them into crude barricades on the room's exits. "Let that one go. The alarm's already been raised." The massive warrior shrugs. "We can't speak their tongue, and it would seem they can't speak ours - this could all just be a misunderstanding, but I'll be damned if I stop and try to talk it out with someone aiming a siege weapon at me." The cambion thinks for a moment before continuing. "Though in hindsight, I probably shouldn't have been second into the room - I'll be the first to admit that a seven-foot warrior with an axe bigger than your entire body is not exactly a comforting sight for anyone. When you add in the horns and the tail and all that, it's a miracle the folks in Restov and Nivatka's Crossing didn't react the same way."
The elf turns to the rest of the group, his aureate eyes flicking between its various members. "If these tunnels connect further on, these gremlins could cut off our escape by flanking us. We need to hold this room so they don't counter-attack." After a moment, he seems to come to a decision. "Halrod, you're a good archer with a steady head in battle, but I think your arrows are better suited to holding our position here. Would you be willing to stay here, make sure our exit is covered? Once I complete the barricades, we can take one of these passages, try to find Svetlana's ring."
Halrod moves to the western exit, taking sight down the tunnel, and nods. "I can feather them long before they reach me, unless there's very many of them."
Xavin manages to scratch the fleeing mitflit, who continues to scamper away, shrieking all the while.
Roots ignores the fleeing mifit in flavor of examining the Spoils....
Xavin goes to scout mode and stealthily follows the mitflit to see where it's going and what else is there.
In its panic, the mitflit does not seem to notice that it is being tailed. It scurries down a tunnel and into a cavern. Cries of terror and pain can be heard from the space as six other mitflits are tormenting a kobold. The walls of the cavern are obscured by thick tangles of long, pallid roots, and the tormented kobold has been tied into these roots alongside three others, who hang limply by their bonds.
The escaped mitlift shrieks to get the others' attention, then begins chattering rapidly and pointing back and up, towards the entrance of the lair. The six mitflits abandon the sharp sticks they are using to poke the captured kobold, instead drawing their swords and preparing to follow their fellow towards the reported intruders.
Xavin stealths back to try and get out of sight such as around a corner and as soon as they do, starts moving back at full speed.
6 more coming. they say shortly as they pick up their bow.
Roots grins.
As Xavin returns to the group, Nidintu looks up from the scattered tools of the workroom. "What, already? I'm still trying to get the barricades sorted here!" The massive warrior shrugs, grinning. "I'll give them a chance, but if they wish to die, so be it." He moves into the corridor, hefting his axe and calling out a challenge as he waits for the gremlins to approach. "You there! You want to talk, we can talk, but the first one of you lot who draws steel and comes at me dies, got it?"
The six mites come boiling out of the tunnel brandishing short swords and yelling. From behind them, the one who had fled is taking potshots with lone marbles, but they just bounce harmlessly off the cavern walls and ceiling and roll under the feet of the other mites, who curse (probably) at them.
Halrod lets loose at the first one to poke their head up from the tunnel, but his arrows tangle in the mass of roots hanging from the ceiling.
Roots-Sink-Deep peers between those legs that seem to be crowding the Cave. The Druid watches as the mites make more crowdedness
Anyone else smell that sour fear smell?
The Storm Druid casts Mud Pit directly behind the last mite.
He then Raises his Shield.
As the mites advance, Nidintu's grin widens. "Well, we tried. There's nobody can ask for more than that. Now, let's kill these little fools, yes?" The towering pitborn meets the mites' charge head-on, his enchanted axe carving a path of bloody destruction in its wake.
Xavin casts Scatter Scree in two squares right next to the mud, catching two gremlins and creating yet more difficult terrain.
Then casts gravity weapon on their flyssa.
Despite the constraining confines of the cavern, Nidintu-Bel downs one of the advancing gremlins and badly wounds the second. The two behind them manage to avoid most of the sharp stones of Xavin's spell.
Eskra draws their crossbow, letting Carageorn put a plan into motion.
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Carageorn takes a long step forwards and twists his blades in the air as he proclaims, "Even here, in slithering tunnels fraught with pestilent foes, the wrath of the wood knows when to answer the call of it's mighty son!'
He raises both blades triumphantly and a tree manifests from nowhere, crashing down on two mites.
All the mites scream in surprise as the tree bursts from the cavern wall and smashes two of their fellows. One of them is quick and manages to throw itself out of the way, but the other is scratched by the branches.
The mite that has survived both Xavin and Carageorn's spells seems terrified, but the pressure of their fellows behind them gives them little choice. Its eyes flick between the three foes before it as it settles on the least intimidating one. It swings its shortsword at Xavin with a strangled cry, flailing about wildly but still managing to score a shallow cut on the ranger's leg. Another two mitlifts land lucky blows on Carageorn and Nidintu-Bel, but they're no more than pricks and scratches. The mitflit that had fled rearms their contraption, launching a salvo of marbles at Nidintu over the heads of their comrades. The projectiles hit the warrior in the chest and fall to the ground, fouling his footing.
Roots-Sink-Deep's blue eyes crackle with elegant electricity!
The electricity arcs to the two mites in the rear!
The Storm Druid Raises his Shield.
Anyone want to let one go, so he can like get the rest of his friends.
Nidintu smirks as the torrent of marbles rebounds off his armor, but as he steps forward, he slips on the tiny spheres covering the ground and goes down. In an instant, he is back on his feet, his face dark with rage. "Right - you're dead, little fool! When I get my hands on you, I'll kick you half a league, you hear me?" The massive fighter begins to shove his way through the mites, swinging his axe to clear a path.
Nidintu is like a farmer scything the ripe wheat - the gremlins fall left and right before the blade of his axe. The one next to the marble-throwing mitflit shriek and convulses as the leshy's spell hits it with the full force.
Not needed on the front lines anymore, Xavin lets their sensation of their mind splitting open come over them again and the otherworldy lights they demonstrated before appear again, this time right in the middle of the remaning gremlins.
Carageorn calls forth another tree from Eldest knows where to crash down upon the mites.