Do you know these people Kressel? Xavin asks.
"Whoa, whoa, who are you? I don't recognize you..." The bandit driving the cart bristles at Nidintu's confident approach, just as the others bristle at the term 'bandits'.
At that moment, Kressle strides forward, unslinging her axes and twirling them in her hands menacingly. "Ya wouldn't recognize yer own mum, ya festering turd-picking rot-brain! These people are with me!"
The three bandits back down immediately, as Kressle's reputation apparently precedes her. "Aye, mam, new recruits eh? I see you snagged one of them noble-borns as well, gods know why they're suddenly traipsin' all over this land." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the woman tied to the cart. "We're bringing the monthly tribute to the Stag Lord." He eyes the obvious lack of cart or heavily laden mounts that the other group exhibits, but wisely refrains from commenting.
Roots calmly walks, nay Strides with purpose straight at the bound woman. The Root leshy looks her over, lifting her foot to check her shoes, opening her mouth to check her teeth, tapping and prodding her arms and her legs, before turning his lightning blue eyes at the trio of bandits.
How much?
Nidintu ducks as the crow darts between his antelope-like horns, narrowly avoiding its 'payload' as he scowls up at the bird. "Thrice-tenth! Anyone have a bow? I've some spices with me - could do that snooty chicken up nicely." He glares at the crow. "You hear that, you dumb bird? Buzz off, or I'll cook you!"
When the other prisoner remarks on the 'new bandits,' the towering pitborn raises his eyebrows. "HA! Lady, this is the only life I've known for..." He stops, making a valiant effort to tally the decades as his lambent yellow eyes fog with the mists of remembrance. "Let's see, it's more than a century, 'cause I remember young Makrab's hundredth birthday - but it can't be more than three... can it?" He clears his throat before focusing again on Bithisarea. "...Well, it's the only life I've known for a damned long time. Way I see it, most camps can use someone like me." He raises his voice so the other bandits hear him. "I know my way around a fight, I can make a feast out of salted meat and hardtack, and I can forge any metal you can name - except cold iron, stuff burns my hands something bad."
When the leshy grabs her biceps, Sarea doesn't flinch. But when he grabs her face to check her teeth, she waits till he gets reaaaal close, then growls so only he can hear, "I don't need my hands free to cast ignition, bud. Keep your blighty bug-nibbled twigs off of me or I'll start a forest fire."
To Nidintu, she says, "Three hundred years, old fella, and still looking for a new boss to tell you how and when to rob people? Grow up. If I live three hundred years, I'll have a kingdom. I've seen adventurers go on just one dungeon dive and come back with enough loot to buy a farm, hire some workers, and retire. Why are you still on the road, with that much time to get ahead? I bet the only significant rewards you've ever won as a bandit were for attendance and 'most likely to try try again.' And you're a smith, to boot? That's a high-value skill. You're probably being robbed blind. Take it from me: if you're adding more value than you receive from an organization, it's time to renegotiate your role. And if you can't figure out who's robbing you, here's a hint: it's probably the richest-looking robber."
Inside, she's...
...terrified.
Oh gods... I don't actually think anyone could ransom me in any feasible timeframe, but I could be sold into slavery real quick. I gotta get out of here.
From the trees, a raucous voice calls, "Caught, caught, caught."
Having dismissed Carageorn for the time being, Eskra plays along with the ruse of being bandits. They give the bandits a quizzical look, ”New recruits? That’s really what you think we are. Nidintu there was slitting throats and taking coin back when your granddaddy was still staining his trousers brown. Nah, we’re some tough bastards, come north at the request of the Stag Lord to whip all the incompetent bastards that call themselves bandits into shape. Now here’s the deal I can give you. Hand over your prisoner, we take both to the Stag Lord ourselves. In return, when we start training you louts, we’ll go easy on you.”
Roots smiles at the nice tethered lady.
We're the good guys. Play along...
The Root leshy winks using his left eye...
The driver looks at the Wildwood band with newfound respect. He grumbles a bit about handing over their prisoner, but eventually complies, cowed into submission by the imposing figures of Nidintu-Bel, Kressle and Xavin, Eskra's unnerving words, and the plain strange presence of Roots-Sink-Deep.
Kressle pulls Nidintu apart to whisper. "Look, boss, we can't have these three come to the fort with us. If there's a fight, that's three more on their side. We can't cut them loose neither. I say we kill'em here."
Roots smiles at the nice tethered lady.
We're the good guys. Play along...The Root leshy winks using his left eye...
Sarea whispers to the leshy, "I take it all back. I may be from the city and the sea, but I love trees! I'm rooting for you, bud."
Then, louder, she hollers "UNHAND ME YOU WOOD-LOUSY LOUT!"
"Look, boss, we can't have these three come to the fort with us. If there's a fight, that's three more on their side. We can't cut them loose neither. I say we kill'em here."
Nidintu thinks for a moment, stroking his beardless chin in thought. "Good point... give me a minute here." He hops off his rather sluggish horse (which, being somewhat oblivious, continues on its way as though nothing had changed) and walks up alongside the cart's driver. He puts a friendly hand on the bandit's shoulder, displaying his nightmarish array of teeth. "You know, after talking with you lot, I'm feeling a lot better about the story we'll tell the Stag Lord. Thanks - you've been a great audience."
With this said, he headbutts the driver in the face as hard as he can...
With a stunned expression on his face, the driver topples sideways on the seat, unconscious. The other two take a few moments to realize what happened, during which time they are also taken out - one way or another.
Roots begins discussing the virtues of subterfuge while tying up the unconscious bandits....
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As the party knocks some heads together (some using their own heads) and subdues the bandits, Sarea bends around so her hands are facing the where her bonds are tied to the wagon, snaps her fingers, and points (as best she can).
"Damnation! These ropes make it hard to aim!"
The second shot burns the rope to cinders, and it doesn't take her long to wriggle out of the rest of her bonds once she has a start. Once free, she kicks out any wayward sparks or flames left over from her spell.
She anxiously pulls herself up onto the wagon and starts rummaging through it for her branched spear. Finding it, she sighs with relief. Then, she twirls around with a not-untheatrical twist of robe, hops down, and faces the party, smiling.
A few seconds later, Cawsper swoops down, pulls up into a momentum-killing banking climb, and lands smoothly on Sarea's shoulder. In her Western-accented common, she starts talking:
"Thanks so much, all of you! I'm sorry if I heaped too many insults on you--I didn't know you weren't bandits or that you were going to save me, and I get mean when I'm nervous. I'm Bithisarea Carnacki, a woman of Riddleport and a magus in the service of the Cyphermages. My name's a handful and a half, so call me Sarea, sa-Ray-uh. How shall I address you?"
Cinching tightly the twin twine twisted around the last bandits ankles and wrists, the small Root leshy approaches the Magus.
Howdy, Sarea! I am Roots-Sink-Deep. Hunter and Druid of Erastil. We are the Wildwood Band. We will be firing a certain Stag lord next if you are interested? Reckon you're interested?
Eskra nods, "Well, afternoon then, Sarea. Name's Eskra. Got a big fey fella who hangs around me most of the time named Carageorn. You might meet him. For all you know, we might be worse bandits than the Stag Lord?"
They laugh, "I'm kidding, we aren't, don't worry."
A few moments pass and their face grows serious, "Unless I'm not kidding, hard for you to know."
A few more.....
"Nah, I am kidding."
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As the rest of the party dispatches the remaining bandits, Nidintu makes his way back from the wagon's front, walking somewhat unsteadily as he blinks the stars out of his eyes. "I really have to stop doing that..." Shaking his head to clear it, he approaches Sarea with an unnaturally wide grin that resembles more a small armory than anything belonging in a living creature's mouth. Behind his thick goggles, his lambent yellow eyes glow like the flaming wicks of lanterns as he laughs off the insults while giving her a bone-shaking clap on the shoulder. "Not to worry, lady, not to worry - I've been called far worse than 'old fella.' Name's Nidintu-Bel, by the way; means 'Spirit of Vigil' in the Hallit tongue. Most of what I told those bandits is true - I'm a great cook, a good smith, and an adequate warrior."
He nods to the branched spear in the magus's hand, eyes widening appreciatively. "You fight in the old style, then? My father used to drill me in those things. My brother, too, but he never was much good with them. Taught my youngest girl when she set off for the Worldwound, though, and it was natural as breathing for her. From the looks of it, you're a skilled warrior with that thing, just like my youngest. Where'd you learn?"
Just then, the bird flies down and lands on Sarea's shoulder, and the massive warrior scowls at the corvid. "That snooty chicken with you, then? Tried to mess on my head earlier, it did." He shakes a finger at the crow. "Look, the whole 'cooking' thing's still not off the table, chicken, so watch yourself!"
Sarea says, "I'm game! Going after the herbivores, are you? Take down the Stag Lord and his deer gang, then the forest belongs to the trees?"
"Please stop where you are with the kidding! I'm not sure what I'd do if you're actually more bandit than the bandits. Probably try to join you? Thanks for saving me."
Then she does a quick double-take as she catches on to the massive Charisma bonus and radiant magnetism of the androgyne.
"You're just lovely, aren't you! How should I address you? As a girl, boy, man, woman, neither/something else, a mix, doesn't matter, or does it change? Apologies if asking's rude in these parts, but in Riddleport, it's considered polite--a city of pirates and wizards, you know, lends itself to variety. I look forward to meeting your fae friend! I'm very interested in fae matters just now."
Cawsper says, "Caww Cawwww CAWWW." He flips first one wing, then the other, then preens aggressively, then glares.
Sarea, whose own smile tightened as Nidintu-Bel's broadened to reveal serried ranks of teeth, now chuckles. "He can talk. He's just choosing not to talk to you. Please don't roast him if he tries again. He uses his waste rhetorically--I think it's a cultural thing among birds. And he did think you were a bandit."
Then, Sarea whirls the branched spear in a few easy windmills, somewhere between wuxia and baton twirling, chanting softly. A line of frost climbs the branches of the spear, only to quickly melt into steam. "Old style, new twists, but yes, it's a great tool for someone who is quick, but light. I learned how to use it from some friends of my da's. If I had to go to the worldwound, it'd be my first companion. Must be a fascinating place, but not the top of my travel plans. Is she ok, your daughter?"
You may call be Xavin. Before we 'fire' the Stag Lord our plan is to infiltrate as new recruits and weaken his defenses as much as possible. Ideally by turning his followers to our side.
They ruffle their blue feathers and consider what Sarea has said. And what brings you here sa-Ray-uh?
They shrug, "Truth be told, never thought about it much. The whole concept of it...well, never mattered to me. Might be polite where you're from, but out here, we live and let live."
They raise their eyebrows, "You want to meet Carageorn? Fine, let me see if I can rouse him."
The vine shaped birth-mark on their arm glows with soft green light and a hazy outline of a humanoid form comes into being beside them. Stepping out of it is a tall, somewhat human figure, horns protruding from his forehead and gossamer wings from his shoulders.
The almost disturbingly tall fey gives a look down to Bithisarea before bowing deeply, "Most cordial greetings. I am Carageorn, the bloody briar upon the rose, the thorn of the flowering vine. Thy name has rung through the mind of my companion here, and I know thee to be Bithisarea. Well met, madame."
"You might be surprised how much the nuances of language and modes of address matter to some people, but I'm all for living and letting live."
As Carageorn apparates, Sarea's eyes sparkle with delight and the half-surprise of someone who is always ready to be amazed by magic. "Most cordial greetings to you, bloody briar of the rose, thorn of the flowering vine! Are you telepathic with Eskra and live in her birthmark? That's pretty amazing! I'd love to hear more about that as we travel."
I will call you Xavin! Thank you for saving me.
Going after the herbivores? Take down the Stag Lord and his deer gang, then the forest belongs to the trees?
The Root leshy frowns.
The Forest belongs to everyone actually. Erastil provides it and we enjoy it!
Roots then turns to the Wildwood Band.
Well that's three less bandits to deal with at the Staglord Asshat place.
At Sarea's response, Nidintu shrugs off the rudeness of the self-important chicken. His eyes seem to light up as the new arrival begins to talk about the intricacies of the seven-branched spear, and he nods at the elven blade. "It's a good weapon, that spear - well made, I mean. Treat it well, and it should carry you through most challenges you face. I'm not as good with those mobile styles as I am with a good maul or the like, but I used to use a meteor hammer - a lot of the same principles, but a lot of the motion comes from the weapon." As the Worldwound comes up, however, a look of worry crosses his features. "Safe? I... hope so, I really do, but she never writes. Closest I get is a trader from Hajoth Hakados who comes by every so often, talks about what he hears from the crusaders who pass through his city. I hear Kenabres - that's where she's stationed - has avoided the worst of the fighting, but apparently, it got taken over by the nutty 'purity' sort during the Third Crusade, and Elarsa's got the demons' blood in her, same as me."
The fey abruptly stands as his onyx eyes narrow, ”It is they. Eskra is neither sir nor madam, neither questing maiden nor prince in distress. Speak of them as such again, and thou shalt learn why I carry such appellations of murder-make.”
Eskra gives Carageorn a solid whack on the shoulder, ”Lay off her, you damn lun! It was an honest mistake.”
Oddly, they wince slightly as they hit Carageorn, as if it affected both of them.
Erastil is a good god. I was just joking around about the asshat's name.
"I hope her comrades recognize her for her actions, not her blood. Least we can do for each other, I think, but so hard for some people!."
"Eskra said it didn't matter how I addressed them! I will use 'they' if 'they' is right, but I did ask, just before you showed up, and they told me the whole concept doesn't matter to them and 'out here we live and let live.' 'Live and let live' followed by a death threat, my gods! And I'll have you know that not every woman out here is a damsel in distress. I'll admit I was playing that role a minute ago, but the scene might have changed. I've been eavesdropping on these bandits and had just about formed a plan..."
To Eskra, "So, you prefer plural reference? You should have told me."
They shrug, "Figured I did by saying that gender and all that nonsense didn't matter to me, but it's water under the bridge."
Eskra gives a sharp look to Carageorn, who huffs and strides off.
They then lean in to Sarea, saying softly, "Don't worry 'bout Carageorn. He's prickly to strangers, all the more so to folks who he thinks have infringed on my honor. We're...how should I put it, we're bound by soul. What he thinks is a slight to me, well, it's a slight to him too. I've got my own more subtle ways of dealing with things but Carageorn's pretty single-tracked. If something can't be solved by the application of blade or bluster, it's out of his conception. Don't know how familiar you are with the fey, but they've got no tether to their emotions, no half-measures. It's all or nothing and it changes on a whim."
Eskra straightens their collar, "Sorry about the rocky start. I'll make sure Carageorn knows there's no bad blood."
At the mentioning of Fey, Roots grins.
With introductions made, the Wildwood Band plus one Varisian witch, Kressle and Tristian make the rest of the way to the Stag Lord's fort. A narrow path of hard-packed earth winds up the hillside approaching the Stag Lord’s fort, about 30 feet wide and 300 feet long which provides no cover. The remaining hillside surrounding the fort is devoid of shrubbery save for isolated thorny vines and a few large boulders. Kressle tilts her head towards the hillside. "I wouldn't step off the path if I was you. There's unquiet dead lurkin' in the dirt. Don't right know the story of what this place used to be, maybe an old battle or somesuch." Indeed, the bandits standing watch in the peak-roofed tower to the left of the gate does not bother keeping an eye on the hillside, instead focusing all their attention on the road.
A 15-foot high palisade surrounds the fort, consisting of vertical logs sharpened into spikes at the top. A large, double gate opens in the southern wall to meet the path. Just southeast of the fort, Eskra and Nidintu notice something odd with the ground - a slightly sunken section.
At the mention of the undead that infest the hill, Nidintu shudders. "Dark magic, that - the twice-dead, I mean. Battle's bloody enough with the mindfog as it is - you know, how people can go get stabbed eighteen times and still walk halfway off the battlefield before they realize 'oh f***, my arm's off!' I tell you, if half the dead folk I've seen could walk despite not having a face or some such, I'd hate to imagine what they must be feeling."
Shaking off the disturbing thoughts, Nidintu keeps to the road as he guides the wagon up the narrow path. Noticing the sunken section in the ground, Nidintu nods subtly at the patch of disturbed dirt. "Something there. Shallow grave, maybe, or a back entrance buried in a landslide. Could be useful if we need to leave in a hurry." At the gate, he hops off and raps on the walls of the palisade with the flat of his axe, shouting up at the watch towers. "By the bloody bones of Saint Gilmorg, open the damn gate so we can get some warmth!" He tugs his cloak further around himself, scowling. "It's still Pharast, you know - they say the last breaths of winter are the hardest. We've tribute for the Stag Lord, and news from the north Kamelands, too."
The lookout in the tower signals to someone behind the palisade, and soon enough the double gates scrape open, pulled by two bandits, allowing passage inside the fort.
Past the gates, the layout becomes more apparent. The palisade is built around the remains of a rectangular building. The thick stone walls support a platform of heavy stone that has partially collapsed long ago. Sediment collects in the cracks of the remaining roof, sprouting clumps of grass, patches of moss and here and there a flowering weed.
The palisade is built around this structure, and wooden walls and walkways have been added. Three watchtowers, each about 20 feet high, stand in three of the corners of the compound except for the northwest one. Peaked roofs shelter the bandits standing guard inside, and raised walkways connect them.
In the yard, two horses are hitched in cramped conditions under the tower to the left of the gate; they both seem skittish and nicker anxiously as the cart trundles inside.
"That tribute better be booze, he's almost through the last of the liquor," grumbles one of the bandits who had opened the gate, then stops short as he lays eyes on Nidintu-Bel. "Whoa, you're a big one and no mistake! Who recruited you?"
We're the Fey Pack. Had a run in with Kressle here and decided to join up and be more organized. Xavin jerks his head towards the former bandit. Got some hostages and everything.
"That tribute better be booze, he's almost through the last of the liquor. Whoa, you're a big one and no mistake! Who recruited you?"
Nidintu smirks, patting the side of the wagon. "There's some of the good stuff in here, it's true - even if the Stag Lord drinks like a fish, it's probably enough to keep him good and sauced for at least a few days." At the bandit's question, he laughs uproariously, clapping the man on the shoulder with knee-buckling force. "Recruited me? Child, I've been a bandit since before your great-grandfather was old enough to spit. Knew Kressle's grandmother back in the day, too - if anything, I recruited her!"
Behind his thick goggles, his yellow eyes sweep the camp, glancing over the palisade and the ramshackle structures within. "There any sort of kitchen around here? Time was, every bandit in the Sellen Hills knew about my venison pasties - my cooking skills haven't gotten any worse since then, and I'd be happy to make some of them for your crew here." He shrugs. "It's late enough that we might as well stay the night, and if I'm here, might as well treat you lot to a nice meal, yes?"
Roots-Sink-Deep boldly struts inside the palisade, pass the open gates and to the remains of a rectangular building. He begins surveying the place.
Sediment collects in the cracks of the remaining roof, sprouting clumps of grass, patches of moss and here and there a flowering weed. This structure is unsafe!
The Root leshy walks purposefully up to the guard at the gates.
You people planning to fix that dump swamp?
The bandit speaking to Nidintu backs away while rubbing his shoulder. "Alright, old timer!" He brightens up as the former brigand mentions cooking. "Well, there ain't any sort of real kitchen, but I'll show you around to the firepit. About time we ate something other than Topper's slop!" He offers a hand to shake. "I'm Jeb. Backhanded Jeb, they call me, on account of me powerful left hook, see."
"Don't lissen ta him! 'e's called that 'cause 'e talks outta both sides o'is mouth!" bellows down the bandit in the guard tower, a giant of a man.
Soon enough, the commotion attracts the Stag Lord himself. He emerges from his room, a towering hulk made even taller by the antlered helm on his head. His bare torso is covered in scars and fine dark hairs. He wears mostly leathers and furs, with a sword sheathed on his belt. Almost nothing of his face is visible under the bone helm, save for the glimmer of his eyes and glimpses of a full-lipped mouth nested amidst a lush black beard. His hair hangs unbound in greasy curls on top of the fur cape on his shoulders.
"Kressle! Once again, she delivers! Take note, you lazy scum, this is how you do banditry." His speech is a little slurred, but his deep voice booms across the camp. A scrawny bandit rushes to hand the Stag Lord a jug of booze, his posture servile. "Ahhhh, that's more like it! And I see you got new recruits, well done! The hostages I have no need of, you can kill them." With that, he turns around and begins to stride away, only to stop halfway and glance over his shoulder. "Oh, right. See Akiros for your reward. He'll find you a spot to spend the night as well. He's my second in command."
Backhanded Jeb grins up at Nidintu-Bel. "Boss likes you. Most importantly, he's got his booze now and will lay off our backs for a day or two. Come, I'll give you a tour."
The space underneath the intact stone ceiling has been converted into a common area of sorts. The edges of this drafty room are crammed with small goods. Dirty bowls and utensils lie on the floor next to a few crumpled bedrolls, and a chamber pot sits tucked into a corner. Despite the draft, a noticeable stink of unwashed bodies and stale food lies heavy in the air. A large iron gate is wedged behind a ten-foot-wide gap in the western wall. Chips of ancient plaster flake from the walls, exposing the stone construction; whatever plaster still clings to the stonework is covered with strange and erratic scribbles and pictographs. The floor is hard-packed earth. In the southeastern corner, a pile of rubble fallen from the platform twenty feet above blocks passage to another room.
The other half of the stone structure is a space mostly open to the elements, where the ceiling has almost entirely collapsed although the walls are still standing. The only remaining bit of roof covers a corner that is being used for storage. Past that, a shallow, stone-lined cooking pit contains as and partially burnt logs.
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Nidintu takes Backhanded Jeb's hand when offered, shaking it vigorously. "Real pleasure to meet you. Name's Nidintu-Bel - means 'Spirit of Vigil' in the Hallit." As the Stag Lord appears and takes his tribute of rotgut, Nidintu stands by impassively, nodding as the drunkard praises Kressle and her 'new recruits.'
As the bandit lord stomps off to his quarters, Nidintu dusts off his hands, moving to the back of the wagon and effortlessly pulling a heavy crate off the back. "Right - first thing's first, I'll get these crates unloaded. Pick up the stuff for dinner, too, while I'm in the storeroom. How many in your band, by the way? I need to know how much to make if I'm to cook a meal for the whole group."
His fanged jaws split in a massive grin as he unloads the cart, making small talk with Jeb as he brings the boxes into the storeroom. "Battle's all well and good, but cooking's one of the two great joys of this world - besides smithing, I mean. It brings people together, you know - once met a flagellant from Pangolais, I did. Huge guy, covered head to toe with scars, drove a nail into his body every day - to prove his devotion to the Kuthites, I think. One bite of that Nidalese dish - those spiced sausages with onions, I can't recall the name - and it was like the Shrike Cascade, it was. Tears running down his face, blubbering, everything. He said it was just like his old grandmother used to make, dead those forty years." He shrugs. "He joined our band, eventually. 'Nails Jessop,' we called him, on account of how he still hammered the nails into himself to prove his faith. Utter terror in a fight, he was, but in all the years I knew him, he could never keep from crying whenever he ate that Nidalese dish."
Roots pouts as the Root leshy 's structural engineering advice goes unheeded. He flings mud at Nidintu in jealous petulance.
He then grudgingly trudges the long pouty trudge of one who's soul purpose is to trudge after the popular Tiefling.
Betcha if I blasted the lightning pants off someone they notice me... perhaps gets some lifts...
The small Root leshy is seem balancing on his vine-tip toes....
"I certainly didn't intend to dishonor you. I'll be careful around Carageorn, with attention to his all-or-nothing nature, and I'll try to be more careful with my words, too. Sorry I caused a kerfuffle!"
Sarea tells the party what she learned about Aikros: "So, keep an eye out for the second-in-command, Aikros. He's probably competent and disgruntled, which might be useful for us. Maybe we can start civil strife among the bandits?"
...she also retrieves her leather armor and dons it, integrating it with her robes (they were made to work together). She's hoping to look more like a passable bandit and less like a captive.
Sarea keeps her mouth shut (at last, for now) and her eyes open. At the mention of Aikros, she perks up and looks for the lieutenant, hoping to make some kind of deal with the bandit.
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Backhanded Jeb is all too happy to run his mouth and prove the suitability of his nickname. Through him, the Wildwood Band learns a little about every bandit currently in the fort. Aside from Akiros, the Stag Lord has two other lieutenants. The rank-and0file bandits usually follow orders from these three without hesitation; only when an order directly contradicts the Stag Lord's commands (implied or otherwise) do the bandits question a lieutenant.
Akiros Ismort (L): Akiros doesn't talk about his past, but the other bandits figure he's not from the River Kingdoms, by his accent. He has only been with the Stag Lord for a few months, but already his commanding presence has earned the leader's favour; Akiros is now second-in-command.
Dovan from Nisroch (L): The previous second-in-command man of the Stag Lord, Dovan is a mystery to the bandits - a dark, tattooed figure with an obvious taste for pain and cruelty. All they know of him is that he claims to hail from Nisroch.
Auchs (L): A lumbering lummox of a man, Auchs is the biggest one among the bandits. Illiterate and rather simpleminded, he takes pleasure in "disciplining" other bandits when the Stag Lord or his other lieutenants order him to. Auchs is rarely far from Dovan' side, the two having travelled together for a while before joining the Stag Lord.
Ayles Megesen: Ayles is a soft-spoken man whose calm demeanor should not be taken for passivity. Ayles enjoys the act of torture the most among the bandits,
and often spends hours after a fight "exploring" surviving victims. He is already eyeing Tristian and Bithisarea with a smile that might seem friendly - if they didn't know any better. He is Jeb's older brother.
Cragger Kench: A former cutpurse, Cragger was beaten senseless by the Stag Lord for stealing and drinking a bottle of his liquor. His injuries have left him resentful and cautious with concern to provoking his leader's wrath - causing him to take long pauses before speaking.
Falgrim Sneeg: An older Varisian man with graying hair and an unruly beard. A former mercenary, he possesses an unnerving calm in the face of violence.
Norry "Gorgon" Driper: Smaller than only Auchs, Norry tends to snort and rumble like an enraged bull, and sports rancid breath that his fellow bandits claim
could easily petrify the living. He wanted "Ox" as his nickname in the band, but alas, it was already taken.
Jex the Snitch: The least popular with the men but perhaps the Stag Lord's favorite minion is this aptly nicknamed man. His penchant for reporting the other
bandits' mistakes to the Stag Lord is likely to earn him a shallow grave before long.
Topper Red: Topper Red was a struggling street poet from Pitax. He fled that city when an affair turned sour, and he eventually joined the Stag Lord's ranks while romanticizing the thrilling life of a lawless brigand.
As the half-ruined building is explored more, a surprising discovery is made on the eastern side. In an area that is little more than an atrociously smelling cave dug out of a pile of rubble, an owlbear paces back and forth, occasionally scratching at the thick portcullis blocking the exit. Large, bloody bones, likely from horses or elk, lie scattered on the ground. Noticing the attention on the creature, Backhanded Jeb is all too happy to make the introductions. "Oh, that's Beaky! We brought it down during a week two weeks ago, but the Stag Lord took a liking to it, and instead of killing it ordered us to haul its unconscious ass back here. Do you know how much an owlbear weighs? Word of warning, at night it likes to roar and hoot, you can hardly sleep a wink."
Roots smiles at the caged Owlbears.
Could be worse. Could be they have a Cave Troll.
The druid will begin making friends with the cute Owlbears.
Seemingly his attentions are being utterly ignored....
Eskra goes to find Topper Red. A rogue with pretentions of heroism, exactly the type of person they could play like a fiddle.
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Nidintu moves through the storeroom with confidence, grabbing the supplies he needs for the meal.
"You've got a lot of salted meat here... I see some deer, some boar - a few parsnips, too! That's good - a meal like this needs a hearty filling, everyone knows that."
"That grain there's tainted - see the little black specks? 'Daughter of Blood,' it's called - be glad you didn't eat that! This stuff's fine, though."
"Not too many spices here, but there's enough salt to cook with. Say, you keep any lard around here? Venison pasties are a treat with gravy, they are!"
With his ingredients gathered, Nidintu gets to work on the meal itself, his labors only occasionally interrupted as he chases Jeb out of the kitchen for trying to sneak bites of the food. "Thrice-tenth, out with you! It will be done when it's done!"
The finished product is simple but delicious - hearty pasties filled with a mixture of gravy, meat, and parsnips. Nidintu presses his simple wooden amulet carved with Erastil's holy symbol into each one as it bakes, imprinting it with his god's mark as he whispers a minor prayer that the meal will strengthen the community.
As he eats, the massive warrior makes small talk with Cragger, as his behavior seems resentful of the Stag Lord. "Cragger Kench... any relation to Vasilo Kench? He was a local boxer, in his prime a few decades ago." He rubs his jaw, his eyes misting with remembrance. "Mean right hook, he had - knocked me flat on my back! He was more or less the boxing champion in this area. Spent most of his time in Risa's Inn, he did, taking on challengers - Risa did good business whenever someone faced him, because they needed a few drops of 'liquid courage' before the fight. Vasilo matched them drop for drop, though - said he didn't want an unfair advantage. Good man, he was. Had a sweetheart, I think - one of the trappers in the area - and he was always a perfect gentleman whenever she was around."
Sarea will keep an eye on things and see if her memory is sparked by anything going on in the camp. If these people are living at all like the bandits back west, maybe she can learn something useful.
The owlbear seems rather unfriendly, perhaps on account of being held captive for several weeks now. It hisses menacingly at Roots as the leshy approaches.
Cragger warms up to Nidintu-Bel, even though he is not related to Vasilo he enjoys listening to the stories, especially the ones involving booze. The meal is a success as well, and the bandits praise the food as they ask for second and third servings.
Even the lieutenants come to get some venison pasties, giving the Wildwood Band an opportunity to assess them from up close and perhaps talk to them.
Sarea's observant eyes notice the patterns - the deference that the rank-and-file bandits show Akiros, the newest lieutenant; the venomous glances that Dovan, the previous holder of the Stag Lord's second-in-command title shoots Akiros; how Auchs, the third lieutenant, seems to be wavering between Akiros and Dovan, much to the latter's annoyance. All of this she notices, as well as the the patterns of guards and patrols - there are two guards in the watchtowers at all times, taking turns among themselves every couple of hours.
Roots takes some stew (he mashed his pastries in a bowl) over to sit with Akiros, the newest lieutenant, takes a seat and offers the bowl to him.
I heard that you are the new law in town. Congratulations. Roots-Sink-Deep. Bandit in training! That rather tall fella is my mentor. How is bandit life going?
Xavin smoothly sits on the other side of Akiros and picks up right where Roots left off. Yes, we are especially marveling at how organized everything is here. You seem to be responsible for much of that... what is your story?
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Sarea backs up Xavin by talking with Aikros too. She mentions what she heard from the bandits on the road quietly, making sure the deets are fresh.
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With a handful of the rank-and-file bandits listening to his stories, Nidintu tries to shift the focus to the Stag Lord's incompetence, filling the quiet night air with tales of the bandit lord he once worked for and his magnanimous tendencies. "Back in the day, Boss Tanith controlled this whole area, you know! Now there was a real leader! Some Kellid warrior exiled from the Tiger Lords, the way I heard it - he never much talked about his past, and with someone like Boss Tanith, you respect his wishes."
He shifts slightly on his sleeping roll, twitching his tail slightly so he is more comfortable before continuing. "We did things differently in those days, let me tell you! Time was, Boss Tanith had an arrangement with every caravan master along the old Holtkasen Road from dwarven lands. 'Never kill the sheep with the golden fleece,' he once told me. 'Take everything a merchant has, he'll just find another route. Take a little, though, and he'll come back forever.' It was a good setup, it was! We took a twentieth share of their money and goods, and in return, the road was kept in good repair, we drove off wild animals, everything. We were the better for it, too - some of the Boss's people had husbands or wives - myself included - and sometimes even little kids. We sometimes got trouble, but we didn't go around looking for it."
The massive warrior gives a nightmarish grin. "You know, it wasn't always peaceful. There was always some uppity kid who wanted our spot or some fat highborn with a group of soldiers and some dream of 'taming the Stolen Lands' - those were the days, I tell you! Boss Tanith was a real leader, though, always at the front of the charge, always setting a good example for his people." He scowls and spits. "'Course, now we do things differently! We live in 'modern times,' I'm told. Pah! A few decades and they never look quite so modern as all that."
He glares occasionally at the Stag Lord's chambers. "Boss Tanith used to eat with us. He never locked himself away in a room or anything - he'd come sit with his people, eat, tell jokes, all that. He was one of us, you know? Not some drunken sot who rules his people with an iron fist. Almost as bad as being a lackey for some of those fat highborn, I think sometimes. 'Modern times!' Ha! Maybe Stolen Lands folk are richer now, but they were happier with the old ways." He eyes a few of the nearby bandits as if they are responsible for the degradation of society. "You kids will learn soon enough that money isn't the whole world. You've got to have respect - from others, but from yourself most of all."
Bithisarea watches Nidintu work the crowd with increasing respect. She finds herself nodding along with his points. She goes back over everything she's learned about this place so far and decides to try to chip in some info.
She helpfully (hopefully helpfully) Clues In Nidintu, offering a detail from her investigation that might prove useful as he rallies the bandits: "I bet ol' Boss Tanith would never get involved with outlandish magic, right, Nidintu? Wouldn't wear it on his face, at least."
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Nothing wrong with outlandish magic. Xavin mutters.