Xavin tries to learn about the two newcomers.
What manner of spirits do you favour? he asks Harrim. Or will any do?
For Jaethal he asks
You seem like you know the benefits of power, but is it magic or mundane? I used to be far more mundane, but dealings with the fae have recently given me access to at least a little magical power.
Roots-Sink-Deep drinks his morning coffee with his new best friend, Harim!
The Root leshy is seen later politely polishing Jaethal's boots...
At Oleg's, the Storm druid seems a bit wore out and extremely thirsty for water....
The dwarf mulls over Xavin's question. "I suppose I'm partial to a good wine. Or a strong beer. Not the cheap stuff, mind you. I... well, I used to drink a lot. I sank to such lows after my exile. I was a pathetic sot, drowning my feelings of uselessness in cheap drinks... How ironic is it that the teaching of Groetus would bring sense to my life!"
He seems to make an effort to moderate his drinking, only partaking in a mug or tankard before switching to non-alcoholic beverages.
Jaethal seems intrigued by the other elf's approach to categorizing power. "Hm. Power is power, no matter the means to achieve it. I am not a spellcaster, but through dedication to my faith I am granted abilities that few others have." She gives Xavin an appraising look. "Is- hey! What are you doing, you overgrown flowerpot? Don't touch me!"
Eskra tries to assess what might be good at impressing Jaethal, but can't get a read on the uncanny elf.
Not one to give up too easily, Eskra keeps on studying her. It goes a little better, but still not well by any stretch of the imagination.
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"I suppose I'm partial to a good wine. Or a strong beer. Not the cheap stuff, mind you. I... well, I used to drink a lot. I sank to such lows after my exile. I was a pathetic sot, drowning my feelings of uselessness in cheap drinks... How ironic is it that the teaching of Groetus would bring sense to my life!"
At Harrim's words, Nidintu looks up from his own meal, raising his eyebrows. "Exiled, you say? You and I are alike, I think - of a sort, I mean. Never been to Kyonin myself, but my father was exiled from there, he was. Vile sort, he was - demon worshiper, cannibal, all that - but as a result, my brother and I aren't welcome there either - Forlorn, we're called." He grins, clapping the morose dwarf on the shoulder. "Don't worry, friend - the River Kingdoms are the place for our lot, they are! There's an old book I read, talked about how your deeds must match with your own desires, not those of others, how who you are is more important than what you are. Now, it's true all things should end sometime, but what's more important is making sure you make something with the time you have. Take that stew I made last night - you barely notice when you stop eating gruel, right? But a proper meal with all those flavors means something - you'd rather eat that than nothing, yes? I tell you, friend, life's the same way. Everything does end sometime - your god's right about that - but what's important is that everything that ends has purpose, that it can be distinguished from its absence, if you understand what I'm saying..."
As he speaks, Nidintu's grin slowly disappears, and his words begin to falter near the end. After a moment, he continues. "...Forgive me, it's just that... When I talk philosophy, I can't stop thinking of him that raised me, an old priest by the name of Ardeth. More a father to me and my brother than our own, he was. He loved those sorts of books - filled his home with them. One summer, I went through, read every last one of them - I thought if he liked that sort of thing so much, he'd enjoy someone to talk to about it." The massive warrior clears his throat, blinking back tears from his lambent yellow eyes. "...Fever took him that very winter, it did. Those last few weeks, I talked with him a lot, told him what I'd read, how I'd hoped he'd enjoy it. When his eyesight gave out, I'd read him his favorite books, until his mind went. When he talked to me in those last weeks, he told me about how proud he was of me, how he'd count his life a success if he'd helped my brother and me become better people. I tried to follow his example with my daughters, but I don't think I'll ever be as good a father as he was to me."
After a long moment of silence, Nidintu gets to his feet, glancing at the other members of the Wildwood Band. "My friends, after we've started our little town we have, I'll probably be gone for a few days. Every year since him that raised me took ill, I've always visited the grave - buried some books so he can read in the Summerlands, polished up the marker, that sort of thing. This year, I've found a fair few I think he'd have liked - once our town is set up, I'll make a trek to the old burial place. Let him know I still remember him. You know how it is."
Roots-Sink-Deep is seen balling his little blue eyes out as the small Root leshy sits underneath a tree listening to Nidintu....
Jethal is a difficult one to read. She is unlike any elf that Eskra ever met. She seems very focused, and sharp as the blade of her scythe, but what moves her remains a mystery.
Nidintu's words seem to get through to Harrim, who runs his fingers through his long beard thoughtfully as he listens. "Thank you for sharing that story, it has given me much to think about."
Back at Oleg's, the trading outpost seems to be undergoing some transformations. Carageorn's first squires and the other former bandits have been deepening the refuse pits and started building a second story for the guest house. There is now a notice board in front of the trading house, as well. Most notes seem to be written in Svetlana's beautiful script - requests from Oleg or other inhabitants of the area - but a few bear the official sigil of the Swordlords.
There is a new visitor as well, a middle-aged human man with a balding head, bushy moustache and piercing blue eyes who introduces himself as Jhod Kavken, priest of Erastil.
Nidintu raises his eyebrows at the new notice board, but the older man with the Erastilan amulet catches his eye first, and he moves to greet the priest, his face bearing one of the laniary grins he mistakenly believes to be friendly (and that none have had the spine to correct him on) as he extends a hand to shake. "Nice to meet you, Shepherd Kavken! You'll find plenty of faithful in this neck of the woods, though to the best of my knowledge, we haven't had a priest of Old Deadeye in this area for a few decades now. Used to visit old Shepherd Bromar every month regular, see how he was doing - matter of fact, I was raised by Shepherd Ardeth, the one before Shepherd Bromar."
The massive tiefling glances back at Roots, motioning for him to come over. "Come here, Roots - there's a new priest for these parts!" He turns back to Jhod, grinning as he claps Roots on the shoulder. "Plant child here's my ward, of a sort - been raising him in the ways of Erastil, I have! It's great to meet another brother in the faith, though." He nods to the priest, touching the base of one of his horns in deference. "Good day to you, Shepherd."
Jhod Kavken seems a little guarded at first, but the revelation that Nidintu-Bel is a follower of Erastil has him break into a smile. "Ah, I'm glad to see others of the Elk Father's faithful in these parts, although I'm afraid that I'm not familiar with the ones you mention. I- come from far away." He claps Nidintu on the arm and briefly places a gentle, rough-skinned palm on Roots's head. "I've heard there was a temple in these parts, abandoned and grown wild. Have you come across it since you've been here, by any chance?"
Roots shambles up to his vine feet. The small Root leshy shakes and stretches before Striding with purpose toward the Erastil Union Meeting.
Howdy, Shepherd Jhod Kavaken! My name is Roots-Sink-Deep, Hunter for Erastil and Warden of the Greenland's and the Kingdom of Wildwood.
The Storm druid looks serious.
Squinting his stormy blue eyes as the Priest sweaty hands his freshly done roots, the Storm druid briefly considered bringing the lightning down when he remembered why he actually walked over here.
Motioning for Nidintu to lean down, the Root leshy whispers
Roots then smiles holding a thumbs up to everyone.
"I've heard there was a temple in these parts, abandoned and grown wild. Have you come across it since you've been here, by any chance?"
Nidintu's yellow eyes seem to light up behind his thick goggles as the priest mentions the abandoned temple, and he fumbles in his pack for a loose sheet of paper and a pencil - after a moment of searching, he finds a half-finished diagram of a mechanical device; shrugging, he flips it over and begins to sketch a rough map on the other side. "The Temple of the Elk, you mean? You're in luck, Shepherd - we were just there the other day. Some preacher of Sarenrae found it before we did - skinny kid, all the way up from Qadira. Dark magic at that place, there was - twisted the old guardian something fierce, we had to defend ourselves - but it's much better now. Cleansed, even if it's a bit worn-down."
"There - it's done. Not as good as my late Vaniya's work, but it should get you where you're going. It's the planting season now - most folk are liable to be busy, but I was going to see if I could get a few together, try and fix that old place up."
"You realize that face bearing one of the laniary grins that you mistakenly believe to be friendly (and that none have had the spine to correct you on)? Just saying that everyone is frightened of you until I pop up. Who the f%+* has met a walking talking vine person? Exactly! You're welcome!"
The massive warrior's head snaps around to look at Roots in first incredulity and then anger. " Folk think it's a scary smile? Then why doesn't anyone ever TELL ME ANYTHING?!" He shakes his head, scowling. "Here I thought I was making friends all this time - now you're telling me this isn't the 'make-friends' smile at all, but the 'soil-yourself' smile? Would smaller be better, you think? Not quite so many teeth?"
Roots grins up, up, up at his dear friend.
Yes, Nidintu. Less teeth probably could work.
"Blessed news, indeed! I don't dare to go alone, but next time you're heading to the Temple of the Elk I would very much like to accompany you." The cleric of Erastil looks like a great weight was lifted from his shoulders, and spends the rest of the day humming happily to himself.
A messenger is sent to inform Lady Jamandi Aldori and the swordlords of Restov of the Stag Lord's defeat and the other happenings in this strip of the Stolen Lands. A week later, a herald escorted by soldiers, together with a few settlers - early adopters, as it were, hardy men in wagons loaded with building materials and supplies - arrive at Oleg's Trading Post.
The herald seeks out the Wildwood Band, handing them an official document with much pomp and fanfare.
=========================
Kingdom Charter
"Be it known that the bearers of this charter, having delivered the northern reaches of the Greenbelt from the scourge of banditry, having provided detailed maps of the lay of the land, and having done no small amount of work in the exploration of said land and in the removal or pacification of various creatures and local hazards, are hereby granted the right to rule. The nature and laws of rule are theirs to define, and the wellbeing of this new nation is theirs to protect. In accordance for providing a stable nation to the south of central Rostland, let there be a generous stipend of funds, support, and advice provided to this fledgling nation as a token of Restov and Brevoy's goodwill, such that future relations between kingdoms might be mutually beneficial.
So witnessed under watchful eye of the Lordship of Restov."
=========================
Rereading the Kingdom Charter, the Storm Druid begins creative, colorful constructive criticisms while drawing in crayons.....
Roots winks at Nidintu....
As the Wildwood Band works on establishing their fledgling kingdom, the fruits of their labour are already becoming apparent.
In appreciation of establishing peaceful relations with the kobolds of the Sootscale tribe, the Swordlords of Restov send 40 gold pieces. Vekkel the hunter gifts them his composite longbow and three beacon shot arrows, as thanks for slaying the massive boar that took his leg.
Now that they have a charter, the Wildwood Band don't impose on Oleg and Svetlana's hospitality much longer, soon departing to establish their capital on the site of the former Stag Lord's Fort. They leave word at the trading outpost that any wishing to join the fledging kingdom should make their way south to the shores of the Tuskwater lake.
When they reach the stronghold of the former bandit lord, it becomes apparent that at least some of the former bandits have been hard at work clearing the rubble, digging refuse pits and expanding the shelter and kitchen areas.
On the way back to Wildwood Castle, Roots-Sink-Deep gathers a huge bouquet of flowers for Kressel.
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As the group makes their way back to what was until recently the Stag Lord's castle, Nidintu rides largely in silence, thinking. When the group passes the Thorn River Ford, he addresses Kressle, nodding to the worn fragments of cobblestones scattered along the creek's bed. "There used to be a road going through these lands - old even in my time, though it was far better defined in those days. The King's Road, it was called. Some folk say that a king once ruled all these lands as one, that he built the road so his people could come, see the splendor of his great capital, far to the south. They say he was a powerful wizard, capable of bending the weather as he wished - boasted that he had conquered nature, that the world itself listened when he spoke. 'Course, according to the tales, Gozreh wasn't too happy about that. They say the arrogant king's capital was consumed by a great rainstorm that lasted a whole year, that the ground itself parted to swallow his great works. According to the tales, all that's left of that old king is a monument, deep in the depths of the Tuskwater where his city once stood."
The massive tiefling scoffs, spitting in derision of the outlandish tale. "'Course, any fool worth his salt knows that's not true. King's Road weren't built by any one person, no more than the Stolen Lands themselves can be brought under one will. Probably, it was some line of fat highborn, each going out here with some masons, laying down stones until they get tired of sleeping in a tent and eating squirrels, heading back to their great cities, all that. It's a tapestry of dashed hope and shattered ambitions, a child's scribbles on a slate slowly being wiped clean by the land itself." Thinking for a moment, he grins. "...Say, that's not bad phrasing, I don't think. Topper'd like that one - I'll have to tell him."
As the journey drags on, he continues to regale Kressle with tales of her grandmother's thieving days, his mouth splitting into another of his accustomed grins as he tells a humorous story about a particularly canny chicken a merchant gave the bandits as tribute. ...and we couldn't find it anywhere! Well, Tianna gets the idea to look up, and you'll never guess what we saw on top of the wagon! The same damned chicken, I tell you! And as she's staring up at it - ha! - that dumb bird gets the idea to mess on her head!"
Approaching the fortress after a long day's ride, Nidintu practically leaps out of the saddle, his long legs eating up the land around the motley group's soon-to-be base as he examines it from all different angles. Behind him, his tail lashes excitedly as he considers the possibilities for the capital building of their very first kingdom. "Right, we'll want to have space for everyone to sleep in here, especially as we're working. Sleeping rooms into the hill itself might not be a bad idea, actually - keeps it cool in the summer and makes it easier to warm in the winter. I don't see any reason not to keep that palisade, too - damn fool, Stag Lord was, but he made good walls, you have to give him that."
As the group gets to work on their newfound base, Nidintu helps his fellow former bandits moving rubble and doing similar tasks - the massive warrior's strength proves to be a boon, and he frequently is asked to carry massive beams or blocks of stone that would take two of the bandits to move on their own.
Roots is seen dragging a chunk of timber as long as the Leshy is tall...
He appears to be in good spirits.
The druid piles his logs next to Nidintu's log pile. The small Root leshy beams up, up, up at his friend.
Don't touch my pile.
So you are going to be with us for the long haul Tristan, what are your hopes for this fledgling government of ours? Of course Sarenrae's influence will increase here, which I am not opposed to, but what else?
Kressle seems slightly confused as Roots-Sink-Deep offers her the flowers, but once the gesture is explained to her she breaks into a huge grin. "Nobody's ever courted me! Aw, ye're very sweet, lil' one!"
As Nidintu spins his tales, she listens raptly, here and there asking a question or chuckling at a joke or clever turn of phrase.
Tristan smiles at Xavin's question. "I am not versed in politics, but I hope that those ruling these lands think of the least powerful when they make the laws and apply them. I do not seek to convert people, but of course the more open their hearts to the mercy of the Dawnflower the happier I will be."
At the construction site, Topper seeks out Nidintu. "Boss, you said to sig houses into the hill, the trouble is... there's still the restless dead there. And another thing - we found a pit dug outside the walls, like a cellar, only... there was someone inside! Half dead of hunger and thirst, old man covered in bruises and scars. He tried to fight us, but we whacked him around the head a bit until he stopped. He won't talk, though."
Standing tall next to Nidintu (who happens to actually be tall) the small Root leshy listens intently to the reports of restless undead delaying the construction of the settlement, and the founding of the crazy old man kept in a secret basement.
I feel like this has the makings of a real mystery. Why would an old man be sequestered in a hidden basement? Vampire? Werewolf? Emo?
Roots-Sink-Deep ponders the mysterious problem while awaiting the opinions of the others ...
Nidintu raises his eyebrows as Topper Red delivers his news. "Thrice-tenth, I forgot about those twice-deaders! Thanks for letting me know." He glances around at the rest of the group inquisitively. "What do you think? Toss the geezer in that cell what had the ornery chicken, give him food and water, and talk to him in a bit?" He hefts his axe, moving towards the hillside. "First things first, though, let's give those twice-deaders a thumping."
With fearless Kressle lending a hand and Tristian employing the blessings of his goddess, the band makes short work of the restless dead. Afterwards, Tristian performs a service to lay their souls to rest, whoever they were.
The old man struggles a bit as he is dragged out of his musty and smelly cellar, wincing at the sunlight. He is malnourished and sickly, so whatever resistance he puts up is quickly overcome. His voice is croaky with disuse, and he only employs it to curse at his captors.
While tending to the wounds of the crazy old man (whom Roots thinks is hilarious), the Root leshy practices his bedside manner.
Nidintu laughs off the old madman's curses, clapping him on the shoulder as he presses one of his meals into his hands. "Ha! You call that a curse? Here, zae lunamtagga sangdu nutuku - give that a try, old-timer! Drink up - I can almost count your ribs, I can!"
Eskra looks the man in the eye. Their tone is casual, almost conversational, but the razor edge beneath it is plainly detectable, "Listen, old-timer. We can throw you right back in that cellar if we want, so you're lucky we don't. Now, do you wanna behave and treat your saviors with some respect, or do you want to go back to that cellar you came from?"
Between Nidintu's and Roots-Sink-Deep's kindness, and Eskra's threats, the old man becomes a fraction less ornery and begins to devour the bows of stew offered.
Once he's had three helpings and a mug of ale, he asks. "Who are you? Where's that wretched boy?" He raises his two index fingers next to his temples to mime horns or antlers.
Further exploration of the cellar the old man was holed up in uncovers crates of trade goods - pelts, furs, tobacco, iron, bronze, weapons, armour, gear and tools. of 45 gp. In addition, one of the chests contains a pile of coins, while a large bag contains various pieces of jewelry.
”Killed him dead. Long overdue, as far as I’m concerned.”
Roots looks at all the squirrelled away goods.
Probably should make him our Treasurer.
"Dead? No, he- ... Dead." The old man is lost in thought for a long time, his bowl of stew forgotten. "Hm," is all he says in the end, and his weathered face is difficult to read.
Meanwhile, the work proceeds apace around them, the former bandits seemingly excited by the idea of sleeping in a properly sheltered space rather than against crumbling walls and under leaking ceilings. Not all of them work equally enthusiastic, though. Norry 'Gorgon' Driper seems happy to use his considerable strength to lug around heavy bits of masonry and show off to the other bandits; Cragger Kench and Falgrim Sneeg work in silence, the latter showing some aptitude with carpentry; Jeb Megesen has taken up the role of the foreman, directing the others around (and avoiding much of the work in the process), while Topper has become the self-proclaimed architect of the settlement, making clumsy sketches and gushing over improbable building ideas. Meanwhile, Ayles Megesen has disappeared entirely.