After several days of traveling, you and your companions are at last approaching the small village of Grimmsgate. The narrow road that leads for miles through this forest is overgrown with weeds, beginning to blend and disappear entirely back into the wilderness.
Indeed, everything you have seen since the last real signs of civilization has had the same feeling of slow retreat and disintegration. More than once, you have passed by strange signs and indications – bones arranged in a circle around a human skull; a small, red-stained wicker basket by the side of the road; an unmarked grave in the dappled shade of the trees.
Finally, though, you see ahead of you the distinctive hill upon which the village of Grimmsgate is built. At the top, there is a small cluster of buildings – you can just barely see the half-collapsed roof of the old Temple of Law that was once said to be the pride of the village. Even at this distance, the place looks run down. Although the village is not fortified, the hill is very steep and only one path leads up to the top.
As you plod ahead, the path up the hill broadens into an expanse of well-trod ground and dried sawgrass. A collection of ramshackle buildings sits spread out over the area. The village of perhaps thirty buildings seems no more than a ghost town, with boarded-up and abandoned houses lining the dirt streets. Shacks are weathered, dilapidated, and beyond repair. Sturdier structures are apparently now used as warehouses for straw and hay during the winter season, and ramshackle farms dot the town’s outskirts.
What seems to be an inn with boards covering its windows is the largest structure - an iron chain dangling from its front door. Houses built around the inn are barely more than one-room shacks, and most are falling down or have been ripped apart for their timber.
A few yards away, and much like the rest of the village, the small whitewashed temple stands in disrepair, with parts of the roof collapsed. But somehow the small cemetery which surrounds it is well tended, and a serviceable low wooden fence keeps out the village’s goats.
A few people shamble between the buildings, eyeing you as they go about their daily routines. Most of the townsfolk are old, stooped by the weight of years of hard work and harder conditions. Their wrinkled faces are mixed with sweat, dust, and tears, the visible marks of their long lives of toil. The few younger folk have a far-off look in their eyes, as if they are dreaming of being somewhere else.
Darcy had finally quit foraying off the trail to puke in the woods a couple of hours ago, but her red eyes, and the way she was sweating made it tll to apparent that she was still trying to shake off the previous night's debauchery.
"So is anybody going to tell me how I ended up sleeping in that dog house last night? I mean it was warm... but I don't know if I'll ever quit stinking like a wet dog".
She then squints shielding her eyes with one hand. "I believe that church there is where I'm supposed to go. Come along".
Ārwulf hides a smile as the halfling’s self-induced purgatory continues thoughout their approach to Grimmsgate. Which on arrival seems to be a living embodiment of a hangover. To say Ārwulf is disappointed would be to say rain is wet. His stare is heavy with disappointment, his eyelids positively brimming with the stuff. Everywhere he looks is…frustrated by the lack of something to blame. Clearly Darkwell would never have received the help it needed. In fact, Darkwell, fusty plagueblown hold in the mountains that it is, looks cheery compared to this…dump.
Ārwulf peels off from the group as they head to the temple and looks for the brightest, most prepossessing young local he can find and accosts them in his typical surly manner.
”Oi. Where’s the magistrate? Who’s in charge of this sty? And that inn? Is it open, or does the chain signify something else?”
"Inn's closed since Imelda died" - the young girl looks sideways at Ārwulf with blue eyes, then behind him at Darcy. She has a thin and frail figure, with dirt and scratches on her face and arms. The long blond hair is very poorly tended, tied up in a greasy ponytail - "Who's asking anyway? I am busy Mister" - she adds, bundling up further the pack of dirty clothes carried in her arms, and staring back at you.
"You should learn to respect your elders young lady. Now tell me where we can find Father Almery Burgand or I'll whoop some manners into you. I'm assuming in the church"?
"Elders?" - the girl sneered, raising an eyebrow - "You can just go look for him yourself, you ugly hag" - she snaps, and runs off - "Leave me alone or I call me Pa!"
”Nice manners yourself there, Darcy. Real charming.” Arwulf mutters drily.
Calhoun watches from the sidelines and chuckles quietly to himself at the interaction between the young girl and Darcy.
Lewill sighs in relief as their destination comes into sight. While a part of him was excited about the chance of finding what he seeked here, a much larger part of him was tired and aching all the way through his bones.
"Must you be so...crude?" he replies tiredly, "We don't need to alienate every one we meet! By the Gods..." His voice trails off, "let's see if we can find Father Almery."
Ārwulf’s intuition tells him perhaps Lewill might be including him in this opprobrium. He fixes the wizard with a dour look, and shrugs meaningfully.
”C’mon Woy. Maybe there’s a cow to tip over…” he says overloudly to his burly friend.
Cordelia shakes her head at the sorry state of the town. "It's definitely a bit of a fixer-upper, isn't it? I've seen worse, though. Let's go check by the temple. Maybe somebody there will know more."
As you approach the church, you notice also a small bell tower sits on one of the corners of the wooden structure.
Inside, rows of pews facing a round altar of stone fill the airy worship chamber, and all around the large shuttered windows are open, even if some actually do not seem to be functioning properly.
A brick fireplace stands against the wall to your right, and a boy busies himself sweeping the floor of the church. He has a lean and nimble figure, with short dark hair - probably no more than thirteen years old.
"Father Almery is resting" - he speaks without lifting his eyes from the sweeping - "Best come back later"
”Bah. Stupid tow…” Ārwulf begins, then remembers Lewill’s words. Standing out of his usual slouch, Ārwulf adopts what his grandfather might call a “stentorian tone”.
”Lad. Where might…visitors to Grimmsgate…wait, while Father Almery completes his repose?” Arwulf gives Woyzeck a wink for good measure.
"Elders?" - the girl sneered, raising an eyebrow - "You can just go look for him yourself, you ugly hag" - she snaps, and runs off - "Leave me alone or I call me Pa!"
"Oh yeah! you little gutter snipe. Go tell your daddy. I'll whoop you then him as a bonus".
I like her. She's got potential.
Darcy starts to speak up at being told she has to wait to speak to someone she's spent months trying to find... but decides to let someone else do the talking... though the boy's suggestion to wait seemed absurb.
Besides that last confrontation caused my headache to return.
"Thanks. I'll just wait right here".
She stretches out in a cool shady spot, puts her pack under her head and prepares to nap.
"Got anything to drink"?
”Lad. Where might…visitors to Grimmsgate…wait, while Father Almery completes his repose?” Arwulf gives Woyzeck a wink for good measure.
"Only place still open is the The Pebble" - the boy stops his sweeping, apparently considering Ārwulf and the remaining visitors for the first time - "Its the tavern" - he adds, looking at the large group, then at Darcy as she stretches in the shade .
"Where are you coming from Sir?" - he asks directly from the warrior, looking at his weapons and armor.
Ārwulf rubs his stubbly chin thoughtfully.
”Lately? Outside. Of Grimmsgate that is.” Ārwulf stifles a grin, before turning thoughtful again. The kid seemed prepossessing…moreso than the other folk.
Could be the effects of faith, I guess.
‘Wulf nodded to himself as if being chastised by an inner voice and continued.
”Name’s Ārwulf. I hail from Darkwell. Up in the mountains. I had….hoped to find help here. But it rather looks like this place needs…well….more than we can give it.”
Arwulf surveys the town from the threshold of the Temple. He takes in a wide sweep of the vista with a gauntleted hand.
”What…happened here?”
The boy pauses the sweeping for a moment, standing at the door next to Ārwulf - "I dunno Sir" - he answers with a shrug - "Me dad used to say things been bad and getting worse for years. Some people say on account of the mines that had none of them ore they were supposed to, others keep sayin' its just bad luck, and that the hills are cursed" - he looks around the village, pausing for a few moments on the well which stands as centerpiece to the place - "Even the well has dried up long ago, and now I heard say foxes is been stealing chickens from the village coop"
"Father Almery says the blessings of Freya will see us thru though" - he goes back to his chores - "And I believe him"
"Aye, keep Freya in your heart, and she will provide what is needed," Cordelia says, touching the symbol of the Lady around her neck.
Darcy rolls her eyes at all the religion talk, and violently turns herself away from the conversation, repositioning her pack pillow.
"I don't suppose your master would appreciate us disturbing his rest. We can come back later. Besides, I am famished!" Lewill motions to the door, "I hope the Pebble has some edible food left in the kitchen."
I… am also hungry, says the broken hulk of a man, recognising the word but unable to think to use it himself. So we go for the galley… I mean kitchen, aye?
Calhoun also feels the rumble in his stomach from a light breakfast and a long road.
"Indeed let us go and see if this 'Pebble" has any fare that will agree with us! Come on Darcy and let us see what me may find at this place.
”C’mon Darce. You’re only keeping company with the late folk of Grimmsgate out here. Let’s find this Pebble dropped in the s*$*e pond of Grimmsgate…”
Ārwulf prods Darcy with a boot for good measure.
"I don't suppose your master would appreciate us disturbing his rest. We can come back later. Besides, I am famished!" Lewill motions to the door, "I hope the Pebble has some edible food left in the kitchen."
"Father should be up and about soon Sir, I will tell him people were looking for him. Visitors"
The Pebble is a shabby wooden hut near the village border, with a worn out, barely readable sign above the door depicting... A rock? At the door you see a nailed, scribbled note - 'WANTED: Fox that been killing chicken!' - the reward appears to be a bushel of potatoes and a jar of vinegar eggs.
The inside is dark and noisy, as several lively discussions seem to be raging on about stolen chicken, whether old man Garr's farm is haunted or not, and what does it mean if ravens are seen flying widdershins over the church.
The smell of cheap drinks and rancid food fills the whole common area, while a portly man with greasy hair is busy with something behind the bar.
A great smile breaks out on Ārwulf’s face as he takes in the aroma of pipesmoke, stale sweat and even staler ale. He claps Woyzeck on the back.
”Better than a galley, ay lad? Let’s…you buy me a drink!” he finishes quickly after some frantic mental arithmetic involving but not limited to: his own coin purse, Woyzeck’s, who owes who what, and available exits.
Grumbling, Darcy relents to going with the others.
"Well it's obvious a person can't get any good sleep with you guys around. I'm jealous of the father... perhaps I should hire my own keeper like Father Almery has".
She brings up the rear kicking rocks and stepping on ants as they approach the inn.
Maybe some hair of the dog would put me in a less sour mood.
The familiar odor of the establishment has other ideas however and Darcy turns green around the gills and dashes back for the way she came in when the smell hits her, spewing forth anything remaining in her belly.
Darcy will prop herself against the wall of the Inn just outside the door as her hangover continues to purge itself.
”Gods, the smell!” Cordelia says with a gag. She follows Darcy out of the inn, holding the halfling’s hair back as the smaller woman vomits. ”Are you alright, love? That place is not for the faint of heart, nor the weak of stomach. I fear we’d find better lodgings in the stables tonight!”
Lewill's face turns a sickly shade of pale as the smell assaults his senses. Quickly discovering his own appetite has fled he steps back outside with the others. "This was not one of my better suggestions, I apologize."
Calhoun recoils from the foul odor of decay and filth that fills the air. He quickly exits the building and breathes in the fresh air outside. He sees the halfling retching and distances himself from the group, hoping to escape the sensory assault of sickness and filth.
He wanders around the village, observing the dilapidated shops and the ragged people. He wonders what calamity has brought this place to such a state of ruin.
A great smile breaks out on Ārwulf’s face as he takes in the aroma of pipesmoke, stale sweat and even staler ale. He claps Woyzeck on the back.
”Better than a galley, ay lad? Let’s…you buy me a drink!” he finishes quickly after some frantic mental arithmetic involving but not limited to: his own coin purse, Woyzeck’s, who owes who what, and available exits.
Its my turn again? Thanks for keeping tally mate, he says gratefully.
Then he sees Darcy puking violently.
Wots up luv?, before catching a whiff himself. Worse than the bilges eh?
”Nar-har!” Arwulf exclaims as the more tender members exeunt. Putting on a little bit of performative piratey goodness seemed to keep Woyzeck happy, and best of all, alert.
Keeping an eye on…as much as is humanly possible while casually sauntering, Ārwulf…casually saunters to the bar.
”So! Foxes and chickens, maaaate!” he mutters to the bartender in what he hopes is a successful mix of interest and consolation. ”What’s to drink hereabouts? And…what is all this about chickens. And…foxes?”
Outside Darcy retches as some locals watch - they keep walking though.
Calhoun wonders off alone, leaving the others in the vicinity or inside The Pebble. He doesn't really find much businesses or shops - most of the constructions are either homesteads (abandoned or occupied), or nondescript boarded up structures.
Keeping an eye on…as much as is humanly possible while casually sauntering, Ārwulf…casually saunters to the bar.
”So! Foxes and chickens, maaaate!” he mutters to the bartender in what he hopes is a successful mix of interest and consolation. ”What’s to drink hereabouts? And…what is all this about chickens. And…foxes?”
"Hello there stranger" - the greasy, overweight man replies with a smirk - "Ale's a penny, unless you wanna barter - will that be two?" - he replies, looking at Woyzeck also - "Anything to settle the stomach? Got some roasted chicken for a sovereign" - he adds.
Emperor – 1 pp (10 gp)
Sovereign – 1 gp (10 sp)
Noble – 1 sp (10 cp)
Silver Penny – 1/2 sp (5 cp)
Penny – 1 cp
"Don't know about no foxes" - he shrugs, turning around to grab a large clay jar - "These fools have been yapping about it the whole day though, for the past few days" - he nods toward the other patrons, who are now having a heated debate about someone who apparently found something in his yard which 'ain't natural', or something along those lines.
"If its not the foxes, its the weather, or the howlings, or whatever" - he shrugs again - "Two, then?"
Finding nothing to catch his attention and clearing his head, Calhoun returns to where the others are, but avoids the foul-smelling tavern. He decides to check on Darcy and see if she has recovered.
Arwulf nods conspiratorially with pursed lips before tapping Woyzeck and giving him a mate’s wink with similarly pursed lips that means “pay up, friend”.
”Two it is ‘keep. A sov for chicken is a bit steep for our budget, and it seems our…delicate…friends outside won’t be joining us.”
Arwulf turns his back to the bar and leans against it as the innkeeper draws their ales. The rugged fighter casts his eye about more carefully as he makes a show of scratching his nose and sniffing as if affected by dust in the road or similar low-level ailment.
Lewill listens to Darcy's retching, grateful he did not partake of such libations. As a mage I must keep a clear head hat all times, but if I don't get something to eat I may drop dead of hunger soon!
Once Calhoun has returned he approaches the elvish guide, "Did you have any luck finding a source of nourishment or are we stuck with what the Pebble offers?"
"There is little here Master Deray. Most of the buildings are either falling down and empty or falling down and inhabited. I do still have trail rations if you are looking for something a little safer than what The Pebble is offering."
He kneels down and opens his pack. Withdrawing some dried meat, several vegetables a couple of apples, and a small wheel of cheese, he sets them out for the others to enjoy..taking one of the apples for himself.
The tavernkeeper pours two mugs for the warriors, though the ale is watery and lacks heart.
To Ãrwulf it seems like most of the congregated folk is humble in origin - he spots some looks of curiosity at the two of them here and there, but most seem to keep to themselves, their drinks, and their discussions.
Just a bunch of local yokels… he thinks to himself.
”Let’s finda table, ay?” Ārwulf beckons to Woyzeck. If no tables are available, Ārwulf will finish his ale and then wait for Woyzeck to finish his and then leave. Otherwise he’ll sit down at a table, relax and take his time to soak up the atmosphere and enjoy his ale.
Darcy opens her eyes and realizes that she now feels a little better.
"Aye! I'm good now. Must have finally purged that possessing devil during that last heave! Let's go in and get a drink. Can't be worse than what I had last night".
Darcy nimbly jumps to her feet and with a smile, heads for the door of the inn beginning to whistle a happy tune.
"Come on in and join us when you get through with your little romantic picnic".
Spotting her friends at a table she approaches. "What! You didn't order me an ale. What kind of mates are ye"?
The big smile on her face and exaggerated wink reveals her true feelings.
The large sailor, albeit a bit out of place in mannerisms compared to his plate armor, seems abashed and a bit ashamed.
Sorreh there Darcy, I figgered you were too sick or didn’t want to come in. I’ll get another round, he says then downs his ale rapidly and orders another round for Arwulf and one for Darcy.
One by one, the group seems to be overcoming their initial reaction to The Pebble's unique aroma and environment, and they gather inside.
Ārwulf has no trouble in finding a table, while Woyzeck orders another round of watered down ale for the three of them.
"So...." - comes an interjection from a nearby table - "You lads and lasses are what they are calling adventurers these days huh?" - a middle aged man, sickly thin and with graying hair addresses you - "Does it pay anything decent?" - he adds with a smile missing several teeth.
Ārwulf turns to face the newcomer, but inadvertently mashes his face into an immovable and painfully unyielding mass. Woyzeck’s bicep, equally and improbably level with Ārwulf’s head.
Having spilled far too much of his ale, and bent his beak, Ārwulf is in no mood for fools.
”Pay?!? Pay?! If wandering the lands in thrice-darned socks and hunting conies for supper were “an adventure” that “paid” I’d be drinking better ale and less likely inclined to offer meself up for investigating chickens and foxes just to eat the one or the other!”
Ārwulf frowns at his own outburst and offers a rueful smile by way of softening.
”Apologies sir, I seemed to have spilled some of my ale and it frets me to no end.”
Darcy doesn't so much spill her ale, as spew it from her nose mid gulp as Arwulf answers the inquiring individual.
"Don't mind us. It's been a long journey, and to arrive here and see what Grimmsgate is... well it doesn't make our mood any better. I hear it pays good... but so far we're still looking for the Chicken that lays a golden egg".
She then turns back to her ale.
"I did hear about something somebody found in their yard that looked. Strange however. Do you know anything about that"?
Woyzeck is happy to drink rather than talk, his mind an almost pleasantly zen like blank, with vague feelings of contentment of being with ‘mates’ while having a beer… a connection to happier days.
His mind stirs with recollection, trying to form more concrete thoughts. Days before…
And then his mind snaps back to blank, the effort of thinking about things beyond the immediate task of drinking too hard.
Lewill settles into the table seat and sips the ale cautiously, face wrinkling in disgust at the smell. Still he keeps quiet here knowing you learned more by listening than by talking here.
”Pay?!? Pay?! If wandering the lands in thrice-darned socks and hunting conies for supper were “an adventure” that “paid” I’d be drinking better ale and less likely inclined to offer meself up for investigating chickens and foxes just to eat the one or the other!”
Ārwulf frowns at his own outburst and offers a rueful smile by way of softening.
”Apologies sir, I seemed to have spilled some of my ale and it frets me to no end.”
"All's good lad, If yer down on your luck then you've come to the right place " - the man chuckles - "Don't think anyone is offerin' hard coin for that fox though, but Jaline's vinegar eggs are the best you ever had for sure"
"I did hear about something somebody found in their yard that looked. Strange however. Do you know anything about that"?
"Hmmm, I'm thinking that was Ulruch" - he ponders, then turns around to the others - "Hey! Lass is asking who was it that found the thing in the yard - t'was Ulruch right?!"
"Was Ulruch yeah!" - snarls one.
"Nah, wasn't it Bronchon?" - replies another.
"Bron had that calf with two heads wasn'it?" - a third adds.
"Thought it was Garrick..." - the first replies.
"He's sick, did you know?" - the third comments.
And their conversation trails on...
"Yeah, I think it was Ulruch" - the man turns back to you - "He found a bent sword or something like that"
”So *Garrick* has the two headed calf? And he’s sick? Or is it Bronchon who’s sick?” Ārwulf struggles to follow along, clearly entranced by the idea of seeing a bicapitate bovine.
”Huh. A bent sword. I’ve had one meself.”
"I believe Ulruch is the person being referred to here," Lewill interrupts, "What you describe to me sounds unusual. When did you discover this?"
"They're all half drunk! I don't understand them myself half the time!" - the man laughs, spittle flowing freely - "But ye, Ulruch was the one who found the thing - he's not here though. Think he's home. Sick or somethin" - he adds.
"Told you it is Garrick who is sick!" - someone shouts from the other table.