Sarea reels back from Auch's attack, but despite the pain she has a definite sense that things could have been worse.
She takes another deep breath and tries to push some fire onto Auchs.
Not her finest thrust... maybe the wound has her on the back foot?
Eskra takes a moment to focus. With the Stag Lord dead and their tale of Carageorn concluded, all that was left was the mop-up. Reaching out to their bond with the fey warrior, they focus on protecting him from harm.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The fey warrior whoops with glee and triumph. It was his blade, his overwhelming prowess, that had killed the Stag Lord and paved the way for his kingdom's grand rebirth. Riding high on that, he turns to Auchs and bellows, "Mightily have I slain thy lord! Thou have not stood down, so ye shall share his bloody fate!"
He makes three quick strikes at the hulking bandit.
Carageorn strikes down another bandit leader (after he had been softened up by the others, but probably not something the fey warrior would want to acknowledge right now). The sight of the huge man being felled gives the other bandits pause.
Besides, they have bigger problems to worry about. The plant creature the Roots-Sink-Deep has summoned manages to somehow smash the padlock holding the jury-rigged gate to the owlbear pen closed, and the majestic beast seems ready for a little rampage, as a treat.
It bursts out of its enclosure with a roar that shakes the fort and sends a few loose stones tumbling from the ruined walls. It struggles a little with the mud pit, and lets loose a blood-curdling shriek out of frustration.
Somehow, the bandits do not wet their trousers and faint; perhaps they are too stupid to comprehend the hell of beak and claw that is about to be unleashed upon them, or perhaps they are braver than anyone gave them credit for. Still, they are not foolish enough to try and fight the owlbear, so they make a prudent retreat for now, heading for the gates. Two of them manage to get it open, and the rest wisely flee through it. Akiros stands his ground, but Dovan's already pale complexion goes bone white and he staggers backwards half a step, almost dropping his rapier.
Sarea whimpers, "I don't wanna be guano..."
She decides to take a turn getting set up for the future instead of rushing in headlong.
First, she casts Shield.
Somewhat reassured by the dancing, semi-translucent field of force interposing itself between her and her enemies, she enters Arcane Cascade.
Finally, she Recharges her Spellstrike.
"This is... this is fine..."
Roots watches in child-like fascination the stupendous roar of the freed Owlbears!
Then the roar reaches the smiling leshy 's ears!
Someone may need to put him back now...
The Storm druid notices that the bandits were escaping the realm of the owlbears!
Shit turds in a garden hose! I know that I should have memorized 2 Mud Pits!
The frustrated and frightened Root leshy frowns at his options...
Having thoroughly thumbed through his many options in this type of situation, circumstance, fun time, the Root leshy 's blue eyes crackle with lightning.
Owlbears scared of the fires, right?
The Storm druid points at the Lady in Red!
Flaming Sphere
Roots then Strides 25' West....
Nidintu blinks as the massive owlbear roars. "Thrice-tenth, this one's ornery!" After a moment, however, he smiles, shaking his head. "Reminds me a lot of you, Roots!" He glances over at Sarea, raising his eyebrows. "You think this is scary, you should have seen that pack of krenshars a few years ago. F***ing things peeled their faces back, I tell you!" His aureate gaze returns to the owlbear as he looks it up and down critically. "This overgrown chicken's about as frightening as his little cousins - as thousand pound killing beasts go, I've seen worse."
The massive fighter strides over to Dovan, grinning cheerfully as he lays into the much smaller man with his greataxe. "Right - five minutes ago, I would have said something like 'draw steel and die' or 'not so tough without your friend,' given you a chance to surrender or something. However, seeing as how you're a creep and we're a bit pressed for time, I'm going to jump right to the 'chopping you into little pieces and feeding you to the owlbear' part. Just easier for everyone, it is - except for you, I mean."
Xavin repeats his skirmish trick.
He moves in
Strikes
He moves out.
Both Eskra and Carageorn power through the worst of the fear. Owlbears are frightening, but Carageorn's bluster that he's more frightening still helps the both of them stand fast.
Eskra moves to get a better angle on the two remaining foes, letting Carageorn seize the moment.
Hoping to keep up his excellent bandit-murdering streak, Carageorn moves in towards Dovan to flank with Nidintu-Bel and takes a vicious slash at him.
"Thy tyrant master and thy dull companion now both lie dead by the razor kiss of my blade. Thou shalt be next!"
The remaining lieutenant manages to avoid the worst of the fiery ball, but he stands no chance against the combined might of Nidintu-Bel and Carageorn. Probably for the best, as burning to death or being eaten by an owlbear are not nice ways to go.
Akiros sighs and sheathes his blade. "Let's just stand back. The owlbear has done us no harm, and it is understandably angry for having been kept captive. Let it go free, and if on its way it makes a snack of some of the Stag Lord's former minions, they brought it upon themselves."
The rest of the bandits continue to run, and once the owlbear gets free of the mud pit it gallops after them on all fours.
Roots proudly dismisses his spells. The druid looks satisfied.
After a few false starts, Nidintu manages to release his death grip on his weapon, dusting off his hands and smiling as he sees the fleeing bandits. "Right, I think we're done here. Let's look around the place, see what we can find. There was that shallow grave at the edge of the hill - we could dig it up, give the body a proper burial. After that..." He grins, nudging Carageorn in the ribs with his elbow. "We killed the Stag Lord, he did! Those Restov people will want to make us all gentry-folk, I'm sure."
After getting her breathing under control following the departure of the owlbear, Sarea starts scanning for anything useful. While she investigates (keeping an eye out for the rumored magic mask in particular), she chats with the party, still semi-strangers to her:
"Gentry-folk? For squashing a bandit? Are you all aspiring knights errant or somesuch?"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
As he slays the final bandit leader, Carageorn lets out an ululating roar of triumph, halfway between the clarion of a hunting horn and a vicious battle cry.
”Yes, yes, YES! Glory and rule awaits, the crown upon my brow once lost but soon to be reclaimed, the new blooming of the rose upon which the bloody briar rests, the flowering vine’s sweet and heady smell of blossom-birth.”
Eskra nods to Sarea, ”Kinda sorta, best as I understand we have a charter from Restov. If we were able to take out the Stag Lord and his toadies, which turned out pretty easy, they’d make good on the charter and help us get some sort of kingdom off the ground.”
The first priority is to establish control of the fort and the bandits. See who we will bring into our fold and see who we don't. Then, we send messages to Restov.
The bandits who are not dead have scattered in mortal fear of the enraged owlbear; faint screams and roars can still be heard from towards the forest line. Perhaps some of them will return to the fort, or perhaps they will try their luck elsewhere.
Searching the fort itself and the bodies of the Stag Lord and his lieutenants yield a few items of interest.
Roots-Sink-Deep walks the compound. The serious faced Root leshy seems to be properly surveying the goods, the folks, the pigs, the stables, the housing, the laundry and the best place to catch a nap while others think that you are actually walking the compound.....
Nidintu takes a look around the ruined fortress, his brow furrowing in concern. "There's... not much here, really. When the Restov-folk talked about the 'Stag Lord's fortress,' I kind of envisioned... four walls, more than one room, that sort of thing." He glances at the nearby hillside. "Besides, Kressle, didn't you say something about twice-dead all over the hillside?"
After a moment of more contemplation, the massive warrior shakes his head. "It's up to everyone else, but if it were up to me, I'd just start fresh - maybe near that river ford we crossed earlier? Where the three rivers meet? It's near enough the Sootscales, and they're decent folk. Besides, this area isn't called 'the River Kingdoms' for nothing - if we can get a ferry service running or some such, we'll have our pick of lands to visit - we can reach the Temple of the Elk, the old lake, even back to Restov if we need." He grins, resting one arm on the handle of his axe as he gesticulates with the other. "Anyway, I know the area better to the north a ways. You remember that flimsy bridge across the river? That's new, but there's been a bridge there since I can remember - once part of the old Holtaksen Road, it was! You should have seen the old one - dwarf-made stone, stronger than steel."
"About a century or so ago, there was some bandit gang that set up around it - made a berth for riverboats, set up a little encampment at the banks of the river. Their leader was friends with Boss Tanith, so I visited a few times - it was quite the nice little place, it was! Merchants going from river to land, travelers passing through - there were never hordes of people there - there never are, in the Stolen Lands - but they had enough to live comfortably." He nudges Sarea with an elbow. "Think of it, yes? Merchants from Restov, pilgrims bound for Erastil's temple, fisher-folk off the lake - I'd have to talk to some of those crafter-folk from Restov, but I might even be able to get a waterwheel made up! I've seen a few before - they aren't hard, if you know how to make them."
There is no reason why we could not build in multiple places. This place is more defensible, and is a bit apart from the forest which I feel should be left unsullied as much as possible. Like Greengold in Kyonin is a way to interact with the wider world without allowing it to interfere with the important places. My vote is to start fresh here and then expand our influence to the other places you mention Ndintu.
Roots listens intently to both Nidintu and Xavin.
The Three Rivers Kingdom does have a nice ring to it! This could be a good Entryway into the Heart of our Three Rivers Kingdom!
The druid thinks.
Besides, isn't that active mine closer to there?
Akiros listens with interest. "You're looking to build a place? Start a new kingdom with support from Restov, talk about trade and industry... you're not really bandits, are you? That's... better, actually. I wouldn't mind a fresh start, if you'd let me join."
Almost as an afterthought, he reaches a hand up to the slim chain around his neck and snaps it off, letting it and the stag amulet fall to the ground. "I know we haven't known each other for long, but you seem..." He hesitates, about to say something, then lifts one shoulder in a sort of shrug. "You seem to have a purpose beyond drinking yourselves into a stupour."
Roots-Sink-Deep walks up to Akiros. The small Root leshy looks up at the neatened bandit.
We plan to build our kingdom by making ourselves for everyone.
The Storm druid then whispers
If you in then I can show you the secret handshake.
Eskra smiles broadly, ”Well, I suppose you’re right on one front. At least for myself, I have a purpose, but having fulfilled a major goal along the way to that, I fully intend to drink myself into a stupor to celebrate. But yeah, not bandits, though I can’t say we’re the straight and narrow types either.”
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Nidintu grins, clapping Akiros on the back with a solid clang as his hand meets the warrior's armor. "You're welcome to it, friend! Although I do have a plan for the next day or so that I think Eskra will like. First, we'll get drunk on the beer here; then, we'll go to Lady Jalori's city and get really drunk on that beer that's gone all funny; and finally we'll go to Oleg's and get unbelievably drunk on the good stuff from Bokken!" He rubs his hands together. "We've killed the Stag Lord, we have, and we'll have our own lands before long! I've always dreamed of running a tavern..."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Sarea watches the celebration with a gimlet eye. She turns to Nidintu, smiling and skeptical all at once at his vision of a thriving community growing up on the frontier.
"A waterwheel, and then a kingdom! If it's not hard to make them, you should--it'll save labor in the long run. It feels strange that I've fallen in with noblefolk and soon-to-be-noblefolk, but I'm happy for you all. Can I tag along and see what you make of this new land?"
Then, taking Eskra and Nidintu's suggestions literally, she gingerly steps over the bodies, finds the ale, and starts pouring frothing tankards for anyone who'll take one off her hands. Taking one for herself, she savors a sip so long that a second like it will have her heading back to the casks.
"Not half bad, actually! I taste rich malt, hops, and herbs. I think it's a smidge of wormwood and probably a touch mugwort to add some tooth to the bitterness. If I'm right, we'll have lovely dreams tonight. You should keep this recipe in mind for your tavern, Nidintu!"
Kressle looks dubious at the idea of heading to Restov. "They'll prob'ly try ta 'ang me even if ye put in a good word fer me." She smirks. "I'd rather we go back to Oleg's, so's I can work my feme- f- womanly wiles on 'im." She twirls both her hatchets and sinks the blades in a nearby log with a flick of her wrists. "I jest, I jest."
Tristian rubs his neck. "I'm relieved we got out of that fight earlier without any of you getting seriously hurt. And I will be glad to offer my services as a cleric to your newfound kingdom!"
As the newly expanded Wildwood Band celebrates their victory, the bandits who fled earlier return with various degrees of sheepishness - all but one. As one could expect, the Stag Lord's favourite snitch has wisely decided that the death of his protector is not a healthy development for him and has decided to seek his fortune elsewhere. The rest are winded after being chased by an angry owlbear, but also curious to get a better look at the ones who defeated their much-feared leader with such seeming ease.
A lot of decisions to be made, but I think they can all wait. We have much to celebrate!
As the bandits return, Nidintu grins, rubbing his hands together. "You lot want to throw in with us? More the merrier, I've always said!" He glances over the bandits contemplatively for a few moments before nodding to Topper Red. "Say, I think I heard one of your poems once. 'Mother, Don't Cry for Me' - that one of yours?" He nods appreciatively. "It's good, it is. Banned by that Boss Castroccio or some such in Pitax, I heard, so you can tell it's quality - he only bans poems that have a better meter than his s***. When we get to Oleg's, you'd want to talk to Linzi, I think. She's a tale-teller, but her songs don't scan quite so well."
He turns to Backhanded Jeb, sizing him up. "You know, only ever met one person talked so fast as you - a merchant, he was, and a good one, too! He sold half my friends horseshoe polish and was gone before they realized they didn't have a horse. Ever considered swapping sides? You'll get only good, honest skimming from us, not that whole 'plunder and kill' bit."
The massive warrior stops for a moment in front of Falgrim Sneeg, peering closer at the Varisian man...
"Say, your beard's real nice. I've always wondered about 'em, but I can't grow one - elf blood, probably." He strokes his beardless chin demonstratively. "Ever have trouble with it? Food gets caught in it, it snags on a wagon axle, that sort of thing? There was an old dwarven drinking song... can't quite remember it..." He shakes his head, scowling as he makes his way back to the others, humming the (roughly translated) chorus to the old song. "Damn, now I can't get it out of my head."
"Bend ye down, beard like candle,
Sit ye down, like a torch,
Kneel ye down and pray!
The gods get up in the morning!
Jump now, ye skitter-beast,
Over the sinkhole lightly!
Walk ye for a forgeday,
Then take ye a break!"
Eskra and Carageorn survey the bandits together. The human looks up at their fey companion, "So, Carageorn, any of them seem fit to be squires? I'm fine with having any of them as henchmen, but I figure I'll give you first pick."
Carageorn grins, his smile just a bit too wide to avoid being unsettling, "Eskra, friend of friends, how magnanimous you ever are."
He closes the distance between the two of them and the bandits in a few loping steps and looks each in the eyes before striking an imperious stance and saying, "Many have sought to number themselves among my squires, to seek in time the vaunted seal of knighthood alongside their questing lord! Few have the moral fiber, the iron will, and the spark of greatness that doth require."
The horned fey points at two of the bandits, Topper Red and Cragger, "You...and you! I have seen the spark within each of you, dimmed by tyranny and service to a cruel master, but burning ever yet. Will you join me as squires? To fight at my side and in time, attain knighthood and the honor and burden of nobility?"
Roots-Sink-Deep stands in awe of his friends...
"Kn-knight?! Me? Oh yes, sir, I would like that very much! Sir Topper, that's me! Sir Topper the Red!" The poet-turned-bandit clears his throat.
"Knights of the flowering vine,
Drink deeply now of the ruby red.
In our veins the courage of wine,
We shall not die lying in our beds!"
He grins at Carageorn. "A two-for-one deal, sir! A squire and a troubadour, to sing of your noble and heroic deeds!"
Kressle and a few of the other bandits snort at the bald-faced flattery. Cragger is silent, seemingly mulling over the offer. "A-alright," he says in the end. He holds himself sideways, his shoulders hunched, as if expecting a blow at any moment.
Backhanded Jeb seems happy with the change in leadership, and Norry Driper's only concern seems to be that Auchs is dead and he now claim the nickname "Ox" - which he's apparently wanted for a long time. Falgreem Sneeg starts giving Nidintu-Bel beard-grooming tips and everyone seems to be getting along for now, although the soft smile on Ayles's face as he watches them is somewhat unnerving.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully. The bandits don't post any guards, by all appearances leaving the responsibility for security and defense to the new management. They do huddle together to sleep, though, after divvying up the meager possessions that Jex the Snitch had left behind.
In the morning, the group is ready to head back to Oleg's trading post. Kressle comes up to Nidintu-Bel, pulling him aside. "Look, chief, best I stay behind with the rookies, eh? Old Oleg's not gonna be too 'appy to see me, and with a new batch o' bandits in tow, so's I stay 'ere and we get this place into shape, 'ow 'bout it?"
Tristian, on the other hand, is more interested in meeting Oleg and Svetlana, as well as the rest of the companions waiting at the trading post.
Roots-Sink-Deep Strides purposefully toward Kressel. The small Root leshy looks up at her. He smiles.
Let's come up with a secret handshake for when we meet back up. Imposters abound!
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The fey claps his hands together in delight at Topper Red’s poem before striking an imperious pose and reciting his own verse.
”On victory’s tender flesh feast we
warrior’s passion burns the heart like fire
for promises forged in soul and bone
by the doom-driven blade of the bloody briar
the crown long broken shall once more be.”
Seeing a pointed look from Eskra he sighs, ”Blast and damn. Noble and full of potential that ye new squires be, our hosts to the north would consider us poor houseguests should we bring what they consider bandits in our wake. Stay here and man the fortress, let not fire or ruin or war or the world’s bones unmaking cause it’s walls to fall.”
Eskra nods, ”I’m game to hit the road whenever. Can’t say I mind the vagabond life, but gods will a bath and a bed do me wonders.”
They do a once-over of the fort, returning with a few jugs of moonshine and a large cured ham, ”Gonna be a long trip, might as well enjoy it.”
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Look, chief, best I stay behind with the rookies, eh? Old Oleg's not gonna be too 'appy to see me, and with a new batch o' bandits in tow, so's I stay 'ere and we get this place into shape, 'ow 'bout it?"
Nidintu nods, giving a sympathetic grimace. "You're a good sort, Kressle, and I think the same can be said of most here, but Oleg isn't going to see it that way. Tell you what - we'll bring you back some of Svetlana's stew, how's that sound?"
As Eskra returns from the examination of the fort with food and drink in tow, Nidintu's face lights up, and he nods vehemently. "Might as well enjoy it indeed! Say, is that the good stuff old horn-head was hoarding?" He takes one of the jugs and uncorks it, giving it an experimental sniff and coughing as he waves away the foul fumes from the Stag Lord's moonshine. "...Look at it this way, after an hour or so, we won't care how it smells!"
As the group sets off towards Oleg's Trading Post, Nidintu hums to himself, though from his utter lack of any form of pitch or rhythm, it is impossible to tell what song he is thinking of. A few hours and half a jug of moonshine later, he bursts out into song - somehow, in addition to lacking pitch and rhythm, the unholy trifecta of his singing voice is completed with a complete and total disregard for volume control. Soon enough, the hills (and the eardrums of his friends) are ringing with a half-remembered folk song from nearly two centuries ago. "Oh, the merry old sage of Abrodain, the sage and his sons all three; They went them out in a merry old ship, across the rollicking sea; 'Till they came to a land full of fire and sand..." Fortunately for the rest of the group, he breaks off here, scowling as he scratches at the base of one of his horns. "Damn - I can never remember how that ends!"
Just then, he notices Cawsper in his perch on Sarea's shoulder, and whether due to the corvid's attitude towards the former bandit or his own state of inebriation, he perceives the bird as glaring at him as he preens his plumage, and he shakes an admonishing finger at the magus's familiar as he slurs out a challenge. "Don't think I don't see you staring at me, chicken. You know, if you tried to mess on my head again, you'd regret it. I'm still one of the best archers in these here hills, even if I am a bit preocipated... inopizated... intop... really f***ing drunk."
Roots-Sink-Deep enjoys the travel across the country side. The Storm druid breathes in deeply the fresh air, the aromatic foliage, the weird smell coming from Nidintu as his chaperone imbibers that strong smelling stuff during the early portion of their trek.
Walking in step (not really. He actually steps real fast twice, jogs and repeats to keep up) with his Erastil brother, Roots listens happily to his stories.
Oh! Tell them the story about how you single handedly fought off seven giant caterpillars using only a rolling pin and a flag.
The druid does glance over at Casper looking at the Tiefling as if a bit put off.
Flock of Seagulls is staring you down...
It is nearly midday when the Wildwood Band awakens, some of them sore-headed from the revelry of the night before. The rest of the not-quite-bandits are in a similar state, and protest at Kressle's efforts to get them on their feet - some going so far as to question her right to leadership before a swift flick of her axes reminds them why she's in charge. Fortunately, the damage does not seem to be permanent.
With provisions replenished from the Stag Lord's pantry, the group sets out northwards back towards Oleg's outpost. It's quite a ways, almost a week of travel in the absence of roads and most of the terrain being sparsely wooded hills.
On the third day, soon after stopping for the night, two figures approach the campfire. The contrast between the burly dwarf and the tall elven woman is almost comical, but there is nothing amusing about these two. Under their disheveled appearance, those who were present at Lady Jamandi's banquet recognize the dour worshipper of Groetus, Harrim, and the forbidding scythe-wielding elf, Jaethal. They were last seen leaving in the company of Tartuccio, the arrogant gnome - now deceased.
"Hallo, travelers, have a you a drop of wine to spare? Ale, perhaps?" Harrim is first to speak, and Jaethal scoffs. "You haven't eaten in three days, but the first thing you ask for is booze? You're pathetic."
Then the flicker of recognition passes over the dwarf's features. "Oh, I remember some of you. You still cling to this pointless existence, I see." The pale elf narrows her dark eyes. "You are not wrong. But I see some new faces as well." She inclines her head in greeting. "I am Jaethal. My exceedingly depressing companion is Harrim. We have been wandering these wilds for what feels like weeks, yet you are the first people to cross our path."
Eskra nods, ”Name’s Eskra. You two are in luck…”
They reach to their side, producing the jug of moonshine they’ve been nursing the past few days.
”If a drink’s your request, then consider it granted.”
They nod over to Carageorn, sending a glance that says, ”Introduce yourself, big guy.”
The fey warrior stands and bows to the newcomers, ”Fine and fair evening, wanderers through darkened wood! I am Carageorn, patron and lord of the Knights of the Bloody Briar, and a king uncrowned, but soon to be again, should fate’s tides and twists see me through.”
As the two approach from the woods, Nidintu waves to them, but as he recognizes the two, his yellow eyes narrow, and he scowls. "I thought Tartuccio knifed you two in the back, left you for dead somewhere." He turns to Eskra, Carageorn, and Xavin, nodding to the two travelers. "These two were some of the other heroes who wanted to tame the Stolen Lands with Lady Jalori, a few weeks ago. Signed on with that little snot Tartuccio, they did!"
After a moment, however, his face returns to its accustomed genial smile, and he motions the two wanderers over. "Still, no shame in all that - I've fallen in with plenty of stupid folk over the years. Hope you two have learned your lesson, that's all I can say. Come and sit by the fire - I've made up a nice stew. Some venison... some carrots... a few potatoes... hearty stuff, I tell you. Might even get some color back in your face, lady!" He grins, filling two mostly clean bowls from the stew pot and handing them over to the wanderers. "Try it - there's a few spices in there, too. Little secret of mine, that mixture is! Take a bit of it with me everywhere I go, in case I need to cook something up nice. Goes with anything, it does - normal stuff, at least. Don't know about those fancy highborn foods, but on good hearty meals to get you through the day it works miracles. Took me almost two hundred years to get it right, but that's how it is with alchemics sometimes." He taps the side of his nose knowingly. "Big secret, yes? Don't tell anyone! All goes well, I'll be opening a tavern soon - folk will love it, they always do"
As the group eats, he tries to make small talk with the new arrivals. "You know, after he left you lot behind, Tartuccio went and set himself up as a shaman for a group of kobolds just a little ways over, but we helped them get rid of him. Nice folk, you know, even if they do worship devils and all that. Can't say I approve, but it's none of my business how they worship." He nudges Roots in the ribs with an armored elbow, raising his eyebrows. "You hear that, Roots? That's a lesson, it is! Being nice to folk never cost anything extra. Besides, Erastil gets on well with most gods, I always heard. Except for a few, I mean - that plague-bringer one Aracoda, for one - but there's no pleasing some folk." He turns back to Jaethal and Harrim. "Anyhow, we went and killed old horn-head, reached an understanding with the bandit folk who are left. Fulfilled that paper from Restov and all that. We've got ourselves our own little town starting - they'll need someplace to dry their throats surely as they'll need a smithy!"
Glancing back and forth between the two, his eyes narrow, and he peers at them through his thick goggles. "Say, either of you any good at smithing?"
Roots heartily enjoys his stew as the two former attendees of Tartuccio come calling on their fire. The small Root leshy act looks them both up and down (mostly up) before continuing his supper.
At the nudge coming from Nidintu connecting with his ribs (a feat that is), the suddenly prone Root leshy takes another spoon of stew.
It is good!
Scrambling nonchalantly back to his previous sitting position next to Nidintu, the Storm druid just grins.
Perhaps the denizens of the forest don't care to make your acquaintance? It seems like you have made some poor life choices in the last little while. Xavin notes.
"I thought Tartuccio knifed you two in the back, left you for dead somewhere."
Harrim sighs and nods ponderously, wipin his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a healthy swig from the bottle handed by Eskra. "Aye, that he did, but it seems that this world is not done with us after all. A pity, I was rather looking forward to the cessation of all this pointless toil and suffering..." Jaethal doesn't quite roll her eyes, but her expression is entirely devoid of patience at the dwarf's dispirited ramblings. "I am a little vexed that you robbed me of my vengeance, but also pleased that the arrogant knob found his end so soon after betraying me."
She gives Xavin a sharp look. "Poor life choices are my domain of expertise, but I do not care to make the acquaintance of some thylacine or bear, thank you."
Eventually, the two newcomers settle around the campfire, eating Nidintu's stew and stoically suffering through attempts at conversation - save if one stumbles by chance upon a topic that is of interest to them.
Roots is seen wearing an eye patch and walking with a limp towards the surly dwarf.
Aye! Tis be not da time fer regret! Tis be da time fer rum! Drink up me hardy we're home!
Later that evening, the Root leshy is seen wearing a tuxedo. He approaches Jaethal.
Nice night for a seance.
It could not be said that Harrim perks up, for surely such a thing is physically impossible for the morose dwarf. He does, however, look a sliver less depressed at the mention of rum, and gladly accepts the alcohol offered 0 even though it turns out that it was not, in fact, rum.
Jaethal seems almost offended by Roots-Sink-Deep's attempt at conversation. "Seance? Do you take me for some superstitious fool?"
Coming to the conclusion that, if not strength, at least some measure of protection lies in numbers, Harrim and Jaethal join the Wildwood Band on their way towards Oleg's. Two more days of travel see them safely at the trading outpost, where both Svetlana and Oleg seem relieved that no more bandits have been adopted - and that Kressle is nowhere to be seen.