| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Nidintu looks down at Roots with a degree of admonishment. "You cannot rely on an imaginary bear to solve your problems for you, Roots. Only you can prevent forest fires!" As the excitable leshy babbles on about volcanoes, Nidintu furrows his brow. "Volcanoes? We have no volcanoes in these parts, my friend." He laughs. "You are one month old now, yes? I asked the same question to my caretaker when I was... about four hundred and eighty times your age, young one. The Tors have been quiet for all of recorded history. Other places have tales of such events - 'when Mhar Massif calls forth his challenge to the gods, and the skies grow dark with his rage,' say the people of the Kodars - but never here."
Nidintu raises his hands in conciliation at the hermit's confrontational attitude. "Be calm, friend! We're no bandits - not anymore, at least. We just saw the smoke from your fire and wanted to see if you were well. You might have needed tools or medicine, and I thought that it would be a kindness to see if we could bring you something from Restov. Besides, not all hermits in these lands live such a life by choice, and for those that do not, it can be difficult indeed." The massive warrior peers at the wrinkled man, trying to see if he recognizes him - or if the hermit recognizes the tiefling. He steps back, in case the man does indeed wish to continue his isolation.
"You're a month old? Did some faerie sing you to life, plant?" Orlund asks Roots with some incredulity. "Is that normal?" he opens the question up speaking to no one in particular.
Orlund looks at Nidintu-Bel when he says we're not bandits "anymore". He almost opens his mouth to say something but he refrains until the elf is done.
He calls to the unwashed man, "My very large friend speaks true. We mean you no harm. We are only on the road and seek news of these parts. Perhaps we can share your fire and our bread?"
Are brigands the only people who travel in these parts? That is a poor state of affairs indeed. There should be travelers brining you stories from far off places. Xavin says to the hermit and the group. I am sure even our plant friend would agree that some underbrush in these parts need clearing out so new shoots can grow and prosper.
Roots crosses his vine-like arms across his chest. The small Root leshy's expressive blue eyes travel slowly from Nidintu, Orlund and Xavin.
Erastil plucked my Spirit from the River of Souls months prior to making your acquaintance.
The Storm Druid just nods seriously at Xavin's statement about growth, death and regrowth.
It's the Natural way.
"You're a month old? Did some faerie sing you to life, plant? Is that normal?"
Nidintu laughs uproariously. "Normal? My friend, nothing about Roots-Sink-Deep is normal! In fact, if any of us were normal, would we wander through the wild lands like this? Normal people stay at home and learn trades; only the brave, the desperate, or the stupid live as we do!" He considers for a moment, rubbing his upper lip as he thinks. "Now that I think of it, though, I don't recall ever meeting another plant-child like you, Roots. Perhaps your kind live somewhere out here, but if so, I have no knowledge of them." He shrugs. "I suppose I'm not one to talk - elves are rare in these parts, and tieflings doubly so!"
The man narrows his eyes at Nidintu-Bel, pinning him with his scrutiny for several long moments before breaking the tension with a satisfied cackle.
"Not brigands? Then per'aps customers, ey? Looking to buy some tinctures, some potions, I 'ave very good potions, I do. Mix them meself." He opens the door wider, gesturing everyone inside. The space beyond the threshold is a combination of kitchen and alchemy lab, with a cauldron of stew bubbling over the fireplace, an alembic, and bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling. The split log table is a mess of alchemical equipment and dirty plates and bowls, vials scattered among old crusts of bread and apple cores.
"Now, whatcha need? I have curatives and tonics, elixirs to deal with poisons, just don't ask me for love philters, I don't do those. And what 'ave you got to trade, ey? Stories are nice, but they don't fill the stomach, they don't. But, if you like, we can trade stories and news if my wares don't please you."
Roots-Sink-Deep smiles, waves and rushes into the hermits domicile dancing around a cauldron of stew bubbling over the fireplace, and trying to leap to high-five the alembic, and bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling!
Erastil loves what you've done with the place!
The laughing leshy then turns his blue eyes to Nidintu.
Perhaps, I can explain properly how leshys are made. With stew!
Halrod regards this...interesting... person with some alarm, but is willing to wait and see how his potions work.
"I've little coin, good Master, but I'd be willing to trade it for a healing potion. But first, I would know the name of him I deal with. I am Halrod, and these are my several companions. This, our good bard Linzi, is still working on a name for us collectively."
Seeing the man stare blankly at him, Halrod tries a shorter tack. "What is your name, sir?"
"Me name's Bokken, good m- elf! Bokken, yes. And you 'ave coin? Wonderful, most wonderful!" The hermit skitters over to a small wooden box, flipping the lid open and rummaging inside. He removes several vials stoppered with cork, squinting at each one in the light and sniffing them. He replaces a couple in the box, and presents five of the vials to Halrod.
"There ya go, curatives of various potency which I brewed meself from local 'erbs and other floral and, er... 'erbal plants and such. All nat'ral, no magick tricks or artifice."
Linzi giggles as she takes in the interior of the hovel. "So rustic! Very charming house you have here, Bokken." Amiri is currently peering at a large animal skull that is serving as paperweight for a sheaf of scribbled notes, while Valerie looks like she's trying to not touch anything.
Turning back to the others, Bokken looks them up and down, taking in each person in the group. "And who might y'all be, ey? I can 'ardly remember when we've 'ad these many people tramping through this area. I won't ask yer business, I won't." Yet, his eyes gleam with curiosity.
We might end up being just another band of adventurers swallowed up by the Stolen Land for nature and fate are fickle. Xavin says. Should we be successful though then hopefully we might be the ones that stop brigands from bothering you and allow more people to come by your home to trade potions and news. What can you tell us of what's been happening here? Is it all brigands? What sort are they?
Eskra gives a slight nod to the old man, "Well good day to you, Bokken. I am Eskra, my companion is Carageorn."
They look around for where Carageorn might have gotten off to and see him posturing rather pompously at a nearby tree. Though they can't get exact thoughts, Eskra gets the sense that somehow it insulted his honor.
Nidintu laughs uproariously. "Normal? My friend, nothing about Roots-Sink-Deep is normal! In fact, if any of us were normal, would we wander through the wild lands like this? Normal people stay at home and learn trades; only the brave, the desperate, or the stupid live as we do!" He considers for a moment, rubbing his upper lip as he thinks. "Now that I think of it, though, I don't recall ever meeting another plant-child like you, Roots. Perhaps your kind live somewhere out here, but if so, I have no knowledge of them." He shrugs. "I suppose I'm not one to talk - elves are rare in these parts, and tieflings doubly so!"
The laughing leshy then turns his blue eyes to Nidintu.
Perhaps, I can explain properly how leshys are made. With stew!
"Perhaps yes..." Orlund says, smiling and nodding.
He makes a very placid diplomatic smile at the old hermit, noting his odor. He shouldn't be one to complain. But somehow, he thinks, this man is worse to be around than me.
Orlund says regarding the apothecary and everyone else, "Well I'm sure there's something useful we could find here." He examines the bottles one by one, idly as he speaks.
"I am called Orlund the Fair." he smiles hiding his teeth as best he can. "Bokken, we are venturing into the stolen lands. I wouldn't dare to speak for anyone else as to their motives. The question is, what are you doing out here? What causes Bokken to live bravely on the frontier, if I might be so bold as to ask?" Orlund makes sure to turn the question away from himself, but his own curiosity and desire to be heard make it hard for him to stay out of the conversation.
"Perhaps, I can explain properly how leshys are made. With stew!"
Nidintu is examining the alchemical equipment on the workbench, and he only partially hears the little leshy's words. "You want stew, Roots? Wait a minute and I'll make some - don't take the hermit's without asking!" He seems to be lost in thought, as if trying to remember something - he moves slightly to let Amiri get a better look at the morbid paperweight, and he twitches his tail out of the way so Orlund doesn't step on it, but he seems to pay little attention to the conversations going on around him.
"And who might y'all be, ey? I can 'ardly remember when we've 'ad these many people tramping through this area. I won't ask yer business, I won't."
The old hermit's words snap the massive tiefling out of his reverie. He looks towards Bokken and adjusts his spectacles. "Hmm? Oh, yes - I am called Nidintu-Bel." He glances around the other members of the group before continuing somewhat hesitantly. "I think we're the Wildwood Band, right? Did we ever decide, my friends?" The warrior shrugs. "I suppose it doesn't matter what we're called. We're here because they say there's some bandit gang in the area getting too bold - troubling the highborn up in Restov and such. Hopefully, we can knock some sense into them." He returns his gaze back to the crucible. "Plenty of good jobs for those quick with a blade or a bow. Shame to see those kids waste their potential, you know?"
The former bandit changes the subject, gesturing to the alchemical tools in front of him. "I once met a scholar from Zelshabbar who used such devices. He filled up his crucible with sand so it heated his vials evenly. More efficient, he said - stands to reason, too. I think he called it a qadr or some such. You could probably do the same with what you have here." He looks around the small workspace. "If you have an athanor, you can do the same with it, but I don't see one around here." His gaze comes to rest on the unwashed hermit. "Orlund has a good question - how did you come to live here? You one of those religious scholars or some such, or are you local?"