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"This tiding reeks of some evil," the paladin says. "Versonton seems beset by phantoms in these dark days, from beyond the walls to within our own dreams. But no, we did not hear the Shrieking Ghost this past night," Sir Tyraval addresses Marcellus. "Mayhaps the disturbing images were some small curse it laid upon you, or a taint acquired from coming in such close proximity. Legends tell of such ailments. But I am no conjurer, I do not know these things. Laryndis, would Laryndel be able to answer these questions?"

The gray-haired half-elf shakes his head. "Of course not, Tyraval. My sister isn't one for necromancy, curses, or any such witchcraft. No offense, mistress Talia," he adds with a belated nod.

"Well," the paladin eyes the door thoughtfully, "we haven't time to waste on dreams. It's probably nothing." None of you are fooled into thinking the knight truly believes that. "We'll see what Laryndel can make of it, if anything. If not, perhaps you can return to your temple and meditate on the matter, Weird Talia." Sir Tyraval looks more closely at the priestess. "Is everything all right, mistress?"

Harmen:

“Great show, friend,” Laryndis says to Xendril. “Water Under the Bridge hasn’t had a performance like that in a year at least. But it looks like the crowd’s thinning out now. They’ve been leaving early this whole week for fear of the Shrieking Ghost. But the seemed easier tonight. I suppose one way to know if the Shrieking Ghost is gone or not is if we hear its calls tonight. We have every night so far.” The half-elf looks around at the tavern. “I’d best get to cleaning this place up. The halfling who met you outside, Caemus, will be along shortly and show you to your beds. May Erelune smile upon your dreams tonight!”

Laryndis takes his leave. In the moment of quiet which follows, the back door to the tavern opens and in walks the halfling. “Greetings again and good evening to you, masters and mistress. I’ve already shown my kin, Harmen, to his room for the night. Now I’ll be pleased to show you the same.” Caemus pauses for a second. “Wasn’t there another one of my kin with you when you arrived? Driving the wagon?” He looks around. Sure enough, Faz is nowhere to be seen.

“Must be out attending his own business. No matter. I’ll send him along when he comes back. This way, masters and mistress!” Caemus leads the companions off. He picks up a candle as he exits the tavern and lights it, using it to navigate the short walk to the inn and then through the hall, up the stairs, to the rooms on the top floor. “You may be the first travelers of the year, but we expect more soon. The masters will be in this room, but mistress Talia gets a bit of comfort to herself in the one across the hall there. Enjoy the night, masters and mistress!”

Azuma:

Talia:

The dawn breaks bright. Golden sunlight pours into the room, awakening the companions from their rest. Someone knocks on the door. It is Caemus. “Good morning, masters! Sir Tyraval has come to escort you to the castle. I’ve already sent mistress Talia down. I hope you slept well.”

Moments later, the companions enter the tavern and find Laryndis sitting with the knight, Sir Tyraval. He drains a tankard of what looks like milk, then spying the group rises and makes a quick bow. “Well met this morning, friends. I’m glad to see you so early. If you are ready, I shall take you to His Lordship, the Count.”

Bump

Harmen:

Armaros:

Laryndis comes out of his reverie. "Hm? Oh, yes. The Spellguard. I can't tell you if the man did or didn't have anything to do with the Green Wizard. I don't know much about the Spellguard at all, really. He didn't stay here and I never met him in the flesh. He wasn't in town long. There was a bit of talk here and there, though. I imagine you'll find the gossip mongers more than willing to chew your ear off with their addled rumors."

Harmen:

Armaros:

"Well," the gray-haired half-elf says, pulling up a chair for a moment, "I'm not sure where to start. I suppose that's because I'm not sure how I feel about him. I've always thought well of him as a lord. He takes good care of his people, far better than most in these troubled times. Though as I've gotten to know him some, he does strike me as a bit vain. It's a minor flaw for good leadership, though, and one he keeps checked most of the time.

"My sister is a good bit younger than I. I've always looked out for her. The two of us have had no one to rely on save each other for most of our lives. I guess I was just a bit shocked when I turned around one day and found her married. To a noble, no less! I doubt I'd have any reservations at all against Belren, I mean Count Verson, if it wasn't for my reluctance to let go of Laryndel as my little sister. I suppose that's the elf blood in me. Always looking for the past and surprised by the present."

Laryndis looks off in thought, not unhappily, but obviously distracted in his mind by some consideration.

Note to Gadreel: I need you to check the discussion thread. I left a question there for you some time ago that I need to know the answer to before proceeding much further.

"The Count will be pleased, as am I. You have a good measure about you, friends. I assume you shall be lodging here with Laryndis tonight. You're in good hands. I shall come in the morning to escort you to Castle Verson. I wish I could stay to speak longer, but I have other duties to attend, and must return with your answers to the Count. Until the morrow, friends." The paladin bows and turns. "Laryndis, shall I send your greetings to his Lordship?"

The half-elf shrugs. "You can if you wish. Do say hello to my sister for me, however."

"I shall." As Tyraval walks out the door, several townsfolk walk in. After a brief exchange with the knight, they head over to the tables near the heroes.

I thought I saw them come in here!

I bet you folks have some tales to tell!

Laryndis hears Xendril's request to perform. "Yes, friend, I think a song would do us well. Perhaps draw in quite the crowd for the dinner time! I best get busy with some more food. I leave the stage in your hands, which I am certain are more than capable!" The half-elf busies himself, and is not wrong about the sorcerer's abilities. More people file into the tavern. A good half of them sit enraptured by the strangers' songs, though certainly the mystique surrounding his party's arrival earlier in the day draws even more folk than usual. Soon whispered conversations abound in the room under the cloak of Xendril's music.

What of the Green Wizard? Was he seen with the Shrieking Ghost?

None of you know what you're talking about! The Green Wizard is a she, an elven princess fleeing from some trouble in Nysil!

As Thetos would have it....

The hearth flickers and a pale light filters into Water Under the Bridge. At the door is a figure, silhouetted darkly against the light outside for just a moment before striding in, shutting the door as quickly as it was opened. It is a man, clad in blue and green garb. It appears the dress of one in a low noble station. Around his neck hangs a chain, and upon that chain is a golden device. It is a sword whose crossguard form the arms of a balance: the holy symbol of King Arias. The man’s light hair is cut short, almost militaristic, and he sports no beard or moustache. He is perhaps in his early middle years, though obviously still fit and athletic, and he walks in his dark boots with the experience of a seasoned warrior. An elegant scabbard hangs at his side, the dark leather etched and inlaid with silver images of cavalry, and the gleaming silver pommel of an ornate sword protruding from the scabbard’s top.

“Speak of the devil,” Laryndis smiles. “Sir Tyraval!” The half-elf rises and moves towards the man as a friend. “What brings you to my establishment? Here to pay your tab?”

“Not on duty,” the man smiles. “I’ve come on account of your brother-in-law.” He looks to the companions at the table. “Are these the ones said to have slain the Shrieking Ghost?”

“Yes, I believe there was a mention of that,” Laryndis assures him. “News is spreading fast these days, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Sir Tyraval replies. “The guard dispatched a messenger to me as soon as the travelers appeared at the gates. I went straight to the Count and told him of the development. He’s sent me here,” the man strides towards the table, “to meet you, our acclaimed new heroes." He gives just a moment's consideration to Azuma, the Ornathi chewing on his boar ribs. But he continues: "The whole town is buzzing with your news, as I’m sure you are aware by now. Ah, but where is my propriety? Ahem.” Sir Tyraval straightens.

“I am Sir Tyraval de Ganael; paladin of Our Divine Lord, King Arias; sworn champion and emissary of Count Belren Verson, Fifth Lord of Castle Verson and Lord of Versonton County. I officially extend you the Count’s greetings. His Lordship has heard of your victory in the hills this very day and extends his thanks and admiration to you all. As his emissary, I have been charged with delivering to you an invitation to eat with his Lordship the Count in Castle Verson, on the morn tomorrow. His Lordship would very much like to meet each of you in person.” He stops for a moment to consider Talia. “His Lordship did not mention you, Mistress, but considering your status as Weird and the toll of the bell tower, I feel the Count would wish to have you at his table as well, should you desire to be there.” Turning his eyes back to the group in general, he asks “What reply shall I bring his Lordship?”

“Well, now, that’s quite a bit of information to digest! But I prefer food,” Laryndis smiles. “I’m afraid all the gravy’s gone cold from this morning, my small master, but we’ve still some boar ribs left simmering in the kitchen. There’s likely not enough to go around, but the larder has venison as well. I was going to put it on for the dinner crowd soon, anyway, so I might as well get started. Help yourself to an apple from the barrel if you prefer more delicate fare.” The gray-haired half-elf disappears down a stairway and returns a few moments later with the venison. Before busying himself readying the food, he asks “What will you have to slack your thirsts, traveling masters? We’ve local brews, but most with the coin prefer our dwarven stock. I’m afraid there’s no wine left, but a bit of elven nectar is still around here somewhere. Too sweet for most tastes, you see. I’ll have to brew you some tea, small master, but it’s no trouble at all!”

For a moment, Laryndis is a blur of motion as he serves the drinks, disappears into the cellarage once more, appears with some utensils, and begins to work by the round open hearth under the bridge, preparing the food. “And of course, my thanks for bringing me such business, Mistress Talia! It’s a good way to start off the traveling season, I’m thinking. Suppose it’s proper to be delivered such an omen by Thetos’ clergy, though. Remind me to make a donation to the temple,” he smiles.

“Now then,” Laryindis finishes his ministrations, serves the food, and pulls up a chair near the table where the companions are gathered, “we can talk about all your questions. I trust Talia’s given you a little overview already, and her pointy ears are good, but mine are pointier still and closer to the ground,” he chuckles amiably at the Weird.

“You want to know of the Green Wizard. Don’t we all? Two weeks ago, the townsfolk woke up to find a stranger walking down the street. The gates hadn’t been opened at all, but there it was, plain as the moon, someone in a dark green robe with a hood. Even the hands were wrapped. None could make out if it was man or woman, or even the race. Well, that got everyone panicked, you can imagine. Lots of faces peeking out from windows and behind buildings. Whoever this robed figure was never said a word, though. Just kept walking, thumping along with its tall staff. That is, until Sir Tyraval arrived on the scene. He called for it to halt, which it did. Then it whispered something in a strange way no one else could hear, save Sir Tyraval. The knight drew close and held a hushed conversation with it, looked a bit upset, but eventually must have struck some kind of bargain. None of us ever found out what it was, but Sir Tyraval turned and, without a word of explanation, led the robed enigma up to the castle.

"No one in town has seen the Green Wizard since. Some wonder if he, or she, or it; is still around at all. But Laryndel, my sister, is the court mage for Count Verson. I have it on her authority that the Green Wizard is still in Castle Verson, and she’s never heard a word from the stranger. And I do mean stranger.” Laryndis stops for a moment, mulling over what he’s just said while sipping at a cup of the tea he brewed.

"Oh, yes, I believe I've heard of rat problems like those before. Never fear, kin! Water Under the Bridge is free of all such pests, you can be sure, but we take special measures to insure the satisfaction of our lodgers nonetheless," the halfling smiles. "I'll be happy to take your ponies and wagon round to the stables and stow your things away. And as for that food you're seeking, it's right through that door!" He gestures to the northernmost building, to a door under the covered walk connecting the two structures.

Harmen swings the door open; a draft of warm air rushes out while the travelers step in. Immediately in front of them is a bar of stone with a counter of wood, carved in the flowing leaf motif of the elven folk. A small stage rises from the floor on the other side of the room, a symbol of Erelune hung on the wall above and behind. But between the stage and the bar rises a bridge!

It arches over the common area of the tavern beneath, just high enough for an orc to walk under and past the round hearth directly beneath. It forms a sort of two-faced balcony, ascended by stairs on each side and set with a few seats to look out over the rest of the tavern's tables below.

The bases of both bridge and walls are made of mortared limestone, polsihed like river stones and decorated with mosaics, carvings, and other symbols to enhance the feel. The wood above is carved to be like trees, sycamore on the walls and willows on the bridge, the beams and rafters above cunningly carved to be their branches. Simultaneously, it offers openness and intimacy.

"Ho, there; well met!" A half-elf stands with a broom in his hand, stopping his sweeping to lean upon it with a hand raised in hailing. "Well if my ears aren't pointed, there's a lot of you! Must be spring at last and the roads suitable for traveling again." Though his face and form is not that of an aged man, his braided hair of shoulder-length is gray with just the slightest hint of a silver sheen; his heritage obviously extends to nearby Nysil. "You're newcomers" he states, appraising the group with a wisdom in his eyes. "I know faces, and yours are new. Save Talia, of course. So you're new to Versonton." He pauses for just a moment as if to think, then sets aside his broom. "Welcome, friends! I am Laryndis."

Too late now, but that information isn't completely correct. Laryndis is the brother of Laryndel. Laryndel is Count Belren Verson's wife and court mage (Laryndis is thus Count Belren's brother-in-law). S'okay, though. :)

"Oh, no, kin, don't you be worried about rats here at Water Under the Bridge. We keep our guests' things safe from their likes, you can be assured of that."

Harmen:

"Oh, no, kin, nothing I need of you! Ask, "what do you need of me?" That's what Laryndis hires us for. A room? A meal? Take your ponies? I promise to bring them back!" he laughs.

In the halfling tongue, he adds:

Armaros:

"Singing sounds like a great idea!" Faz says cheerfully. He promptly bursts into some type of halfling song, seemingly for drinking or traveling or both. The wagon trundles through to the far side of the market place, leaving the open sward and moving along the cobble-stone road through the center of town. The other ancillary paths are all unpaved, and the damp grass is trodden and muddy between the buildings.

It takes no time at all to reach the rear of what must be the market district, or whatever nomenclature they use here. The whole section of the town is completely surrounded by a wall, only slightly shorter than those around the town's perimeter. Before you is a small gatehouse with a drawbridge lowered on the far side. The town is well fortified. The wooden planks of the drawbridge lay over a canal; dug in the dirt, it looks almost like a natural stream.

"Well, Versonton may be a big enough place, I suppose," Faz comments as he stops singing, "but nothing like the cities! Thatch roofs, is what I mean. Cities have slate, you know?" Once gain, the halfling has pointed out the obvious. The other side of the canal looks residential, with the many wooden, tatched-roof houses lining winding dirt, now mud, streets and lanes of Versonton around the central cobblestone route. Not far off through the pack of houses, a grand white cathedral towers over the surrounding buidlings like a mountain.

But closer at hand is the inn. It's right there on the left as the wagon rolls over the drawbridge. A low wooden wall surrounds the premises, save for one side which is open to the canal. A sign hangs from an arch over the gate entrance: "Water Under the Bridge" it proclaims in green letters, with a depiction of just that (a river flowing beneath a bridge with a house on it). The gate stands wide open and welcoming. Inside are three buildings; what looks to be the stables in the back, and two in the center of the grounds connected by a covered walk. The foundation and first floors are limestone, transitioning to graying white plaster above. The roof of wood on each building is painted a dark forest green, and ivy twines across all the walls.

"Greetings, masters, kin!" A halfling appears, as if out of no where. The last was added with a nod and a wink to Harmen and Faz. "Welcome to Water Under the Bridge. What can I do for you?"

Myril manages to shove his way through the crowd. Complaints and questions arise from the multitude.

Not magic? I thought you said your best spells were in this?

I want my gold back!

As the guady mad breaks free from the grasp of the crowd, he retreats with all speed back across the plaza, past his flashy stall, to a building bearing a sign that reads "Myril the Magnificent's Wondershop." Myril can be heard saying something to the effect of "I've never been so insulted in all my life!"

Near Marcellus, the gate guard sighs. "Crazy old hack. This won't stop him, you know. He's been up to this kind of stuff for years. Always gets debunked, but then the people always come flocking back to him. Not completely powerless, to be sure. He's the man to see if you need some minor trinket or something. You look like the adventuresome type. You may find yourself in his shop sometime. Just be careful for schemes and scams!" With that, he bids farewell and dissappears back into the guard tower, popping up on the parapet only a moment later. The crowd mostly turns from the heroes, either bidding them good day with an admiring smile or turning to follow Myril back to his shop and pound on the door for a refund.

"Well, that was quite a welcome," Faz says. "I suppose it's over now, so we might as well be getting on. Thank you, mistress, for offering to take us to lodgings. I can't speak for others, but I'm in the mood for some food!" He flicks the reins of the wagons and begins to move onward. At that time, however, a figure jumps off the back.

It is Rugrok, the orc shaman. "I am not going. You have been kind to me. I thank you. But I am called to shrine of Goras. I have own business to see. I do not think we meet again. Not for very long time, if ever. May gods watch over you!"

Myril listens to Xendril's chanting, watches the sorcerer watch him, widens his eyes in realization that he is being observed through a divination, and tries to stuff the ghost charms inside his robe.

Xendril:

"Yes, well, I certainly don't have to stand here and be insulted in my own home, er, town," Myril stammers, looking around at the crowd and trying to find an escape route. "Obviously my greatness is not appreciated here. Should any desire to purchase a token to remember these troubled days by and the arrival of our 'heroes,' my ghost charms make the perfect memento and will still be on sale in my shop. Good day!" He turns and begins trying to shove his way through the crowd.

The guard approaches Marcellus. "I can't answer for you whether the beasts you slew were actually the Shrieking Ghost or not," he says almost apologetically. "As I said, none of us have actually seen it. But, Laryndis should be able to connect you with someone who can answer you. I imagine he'll be here soon enough, what with all this commotion, but Mistress Talia's already offered to take you there. Water Under the Bridge is his place."

In a whisper, he adds:

Marcellus sees nothing but the rapt faces of the crowd, gasping in awe of the display before them.

"Well," says the guard humbly from behind Xendril, "no one has actually seen the Shrieking Ghost. But we heard it! Every night for the better part of this week! And we heard it again today, just before the clock tower tolled. It was the first time we'd heard the shrill cries other than at night."

The gaudy man looks shocked and cowed by the display of magic before him. His eyes dart nervously, seeing how the crowd is reacting. Many have smiles on their faces, enraptured with their new heroes and their strange powers (and singing!). The "ghost charm" dealer cracks a smile himself. "Ah," he says, regaining confidence, the gears in his head turning, "friend wizard! How wonderful to meet a kindred spirit! Why didn't you say so? Surely, such as your company could have done away with the Shrieking Ghost. We wizards are powerful, you know," he says that last bit to the crowd. "What is the Shrieking Ghost before magic?" he waves his hands in a wide arc over the crowd as if to indicate his power. Turning back to Xendril and looking over the others behind him, he introduces himself with a smile: "I am Myril. Myril, the Magnificent! I know, I know, you've heard of me."

Faz chimes in with an unusually simple answer. "Nope."

The crowd swirls and moves around the wagon, and through the teeming mass a new sight becomes visible. Not far away in the plaza is a wooden stall with a vibrant blue and red canopy. A man in a gaudy blue and red robe stands hawking something to the crowd. He is just audible over their din:

"You all heard the clock tower's toll! It foretells the coming of the Shrieking Ghost! The phantom will walk in our streets tonight! No one is safe; no one, that is, who doesn't have one of my ghost charms! Yes, my ghost charms are enchanted with my most powerful spells, guaranteed to stave off any and all spectres or spooks!"

Then the halfling calms the crowd with his uncanny voice. Those who stood listening to the flashy man turn and walk away. He calls after them, trying to get their attention, but to no avail. Crestfallen, he looks to the wagon. When he hears the claims the heroes are spouting, a cloud of anger passes over his face.

"What is this nonsense?" he asks as he storms over. "What do you mean you destroyed the Shrieking Ghost? Rubbish! How can you be sure? You would need to be schooled in magic. I doubt your feeble minds can comprehend The Arcane!" the man says with a flourish and a smile to the crowd. Half of them gasp in awe. Some stare blankly. A couple walk away. Several giggle.

"What's this you say?" The guard seems quite surprised. "Slain? You did off with the Shrieking Ghost? I'd hardly believe it, but for the bell tower's ring. It told true then!" The guard calls to his side. A younger member of the watch appears on the parapet. They converse in hushed tones for a mere moment. The elder claps the younger on the shoulder and sends him off on some errand. "Open the gates! We've travelers to let in, and they bring good news!" The oaken gates groan and unseen windlasses within the gatehouse clank as the way into Versonton is opened before you. The guard above dissappears for a moment, then comes around the base of the gatehouse, apparently from a door on the other side.

Within you see a wide open swath of dirt, a plaza surrounded on the far side by various shops and buildings. Closer at hand, the near side of the plaza is surrounded by a green sward with many stalls placed here and there, along with a goodly number of tents. The place is crowded with common folk. Many are wrapped against the lingering chill and damp air. Dozens of faces of all ages look out with wonder and curiosity.

The guard calls out as he descends the stairs and comes round the gatehouse. "The Shrieking Ghost is gone! The bell tower rang true! The gods have sent us seven travelers to end the fear!"

A small crowd forms within the gates, waiting to get a look at these strangers and hear more of this odd news. The guard excitedly and absent-mindedly passes out the strips to peacebond the weapons, then ushers the group inside the walls. "Come, come, enter and welcome!"

The folk press in around the wagon, not getting too close (they seem wary of the orc) but obviously restraining their intense curiosity. Questions rise up:

Did you see it? What was it like? Was it terrible? Did it attack you? Did it use magic? Can you take care of the rats in my basement? Was the Shrieking Ghost sent by the Green Wizard? Did you see the Green Wizard?

Faz shuts up for a minute. He squishes his face up in a funny way, looking around. "Well, the town looks all right," he says. "But, you know you're right, there aren't as many people running around out in their fields as there ought to be. The road's a bit flatter here, I think the ponies can handle some more speed." He flicks the reins, setting the wagon a bit faster (and making the ride over the pitted road that much bumpier).

"Oh, Selwey's stars, let's hope were not running into a plague. That would be rather unpleasant, and I'd rather not get deathly sick so close to spring, you know? Although, it might be a good chance to see some priestly magic, which is always fascinating. I do prefer wizard magic, though, so much flashier! Did I tell you about the time...." Faz continues to rattle on with an outlandish tale as the wagon draws closer and closer to the gates.

The oaken double-doors in the town's stone wall are shut. Two imposing guard towers flank the entryway, watchmen visibile on the top. They look on as the wagon approaches. There are actually a great many watch towers around the walls encompasing Versonton. It looks to be a well-fortified place.

Perhaps fortunately, you reach the gates in a matter of moments and Faz hushes again, drawing the ponies up to a stop. A watch guard speaks from atop his tower:

"Hail, travelers! Spring must be close indeed- you're the first coming by road this season. You look well armed; we still welcome you to Versonton, but you will need to peacebond those. And before we open the gates, we must be certain of our safety. Tell me, what news do you bring of the Shrieking Ghost? We heard its cries within this very hour past. You must have as well. What news?"

Xendril and Armaros notice a strange lack of signs indicating routine habitation (smoke from hearthfires, hands working the land, etc.) at many of the outlying farms, particularly the ones closest to the hills.

"I'll do my best, kin and friends, but with the road the way it is and my pretties spooked, it probably won't be much faster. But on we go!" He flicks the reins and the wagon lurches forward. He works through words and the reins to bring them to a quick trot. The wet wagon wheels squeel softly. It seems that much louder, though, alone on the mist.

Within minutes the wagon clears the two hills. The ground recedes all around, along the sides it rolls out to form the face of the hillsides, running beyond sight to east and west. Below, the ground slopes down, running in the furrow of two arms of the hills protruding into a small river plain. As the wagon descends, it leaves the hilltop mist and the world becomes visible again. The clouds still hang low and gray over the flat land below. Small farms dot the valley, perhaps five miles wide between the eastern curve of the river and a jutting arm of the hills to the west.

“See there, about two miles on is the Telwynd, running right parallel to these hills, save of course that bend to the east it makes around their feet. The river looks very choppy, probably all the spring melt and the rain we’ve been having. Hope you don’t plan to go for a swim,” Faz points out what everyone can see. “And over there, that’s the western end of the valley. The hill bulges out towards that tall pinnacle, a hill all of its own really. It’s like the big hills are a parent reaching out over the cleft towards a child, if you want to get metaphorical. There’s a footpath winding up the hill, see it going past the guard tower and up to that gatehouse above? Then it runs out onto that bridge over to the castle. Not a very story-book castle, is it? Not really tall and majestic, though I suppose it does have some towers. Square and round on the same building, isn’t that a hoot? Humans! No offense to present company, of course. Still, I guess they’re less worried about prettiness and more about invasions here. It does give a sense of solidity and practicality, now, doesn’t it?” Faz beams as he asks the question, never looking to his passengers.

“And there they are; the walls and gates of Versonton! See, road runs straight as an arrow down to them. Can you make out the banners? I’ve seen them before- field of green above and blue below, crossed by the dark silhouette of a bridge. That’s the bridge over yonder, the one the flag represents. Tall thing, isn’t it? The banks rise up and are very steep there, allow the bridge more height, you see. So much so that most riverboats can pass right under the thing with no trouble at all! You’d think dwarves built it, but you’d be wrong,” Faz laughs.

“We can see a bit from this high, can’t we? Look over there, it’s the harbor. Or river port, I suppose. Can you have a harbor on a river, or is that just oceans? No matter; see the big lop-sided tear-drop area in town? Canals! It’s bordered by canals running through town. I think halflings would have just built more along the river’s edge, rather than going through all the trouble of digging a ditch to get water when there’s water a plenty just a short walk away, but to each their own, you know?”

“Well, Selwey’s stars, looks like more luck! See, friends, no demons, devils, or spooks of any sort!” It does appear Faz is right; at first glance nothing seems terribly amiss in the valley below.

Successful Wisdom checks may provide additional insight, however.

Rugrok nods with a grunt. "Let me see your arm," he grumbles, approaching Marcellus. Murmuring in Orcish as he looks over the wound, he shakes his head. Then he chants in a voice like a growling animal, his holy symbol, a wolf's head, glowing for a moment. What blood was seeping from the wound stops, and the pain fades from Marcellus.

"I do not find poison in wound," he growls to the group. "But monsters were not natural. I am young shaman, may not find secret curse if there. We should hurry, reach town, find greater healer than I."

"Ah, we've a bit of luck there," Faz declares. "We're not far from Versonton, not far at all. Should be able to see it once we get out from between these two hills, if the fog clears, that is." The halfling pats his ponies, looking over them to make sure they are all right. "Good girls, good girls, you're fine now," he says, satisfied. He climbs back onto the wagon and takes the reins. "All aboard! We'll be to Versonton within this half hour, barring further misfortune!"

Another sound rings out at that moment: soft, distant, tinny. A lonesome church bell, perhaps? It comes from the direction the group was headed in, the direction of Versonton. The bell rings only once; no more is heard.

Marcellus' blade comes down soundly upon the monstrosity, cleaving it nearly in twain and driving the chunks towards the ground. They never make it, each consumed by the green fire which poured out of the skull cavity when the blade connected. With one last lingering scream upon the air, the foes vanish from this world and silence reclaims the woods.

For a moment. "Are they gone?" comes a voice from beneath the wagon. It's Faz. The halfling crawls out from his hiding spot and looks around with a grin on his face just as the crippling fear fades from the orc, Xendril, and Harmen. "Knew I'd be glad to have you lot around!" he beams.

As the mighty blades of the warriors swing and hit only empty air, the little fiends flapping circles around around the long blades, an unexpected figure leaps to the fore! Coming behind one of the nasty things, he lets its own momentum carry it onto his small blade. But its length is enough to do the job. The dagger pierces the wicked thing's head-body. From the other side, Armaros can see its eyes and mouth open in pain and fear, glowing brilliantly with their green light. The emerald radiance becomes flames, licking around and consuming the tiny thing in but a moment, leaving only a quickly vanishing puff of jade smoke.

Its ally continues the assault, however. It dives at Azuma as the other did before. But the mighty Ornathi brings his sword out back around into a guard. He connects with the flat of the blade, batting the bat-fiend back to a safe distance, to its shrill cry of distress.

Don't worry, there are no fumble rules. The way I've got the map drawn up, they can't flank you anyway. So you're in good condition regarding position.

Marcellus shakes his arm vigorously, throwing off both the wriggling head and the ill feeling creeping through his veins. It is at this very moment the sonic blast hits his ears; but, stealed against the first assault, he struggles mentally through the second. The fear washes over and then fades from him. Azuma wages and wins a similar mental battle. Perhaps Armaros did as well, calling on some reserve of courage, or maybe he just learned how to duck and roll with his mind.

Not so lucky are Harmen, Xendril, and the orc cleric, Rugrok. The shriek fills them with fear of their own death; looking at the floating, severed head, they are consumed with the knowledge that they could come to the same fate. They stand paralyzed with fear.

To recap:

To the right, up the slope of the hill, a flock of crows bolts from the treetops, cawing in panic. Their cries fade into the mist, returning to silence for a mere heartbeat, before an otherworldly cry splits the air. It rings out high and shrill, piercing to the bone. Another follows, closer. Much closer.

The ponies neigh and prance skittishly at the sounds. Faz attempts to calm them, "Whoa, my pretties, easy now!" But the animals look like they want to bolt. Simultaneously, Harmen stands and draws forth a roll of odd-colored paper; “Ho, there now girls, nothing to be afraid of," he says to the animals, but his motion does not match his words and the animals go uncalmed.

Azuma and Marcellus step out of the wagon and peer into the mists, their large blades at the ready. The Ornathi squints his eyes and tilts his head to listen; he seems to hear something and consider the sound for a moment. Meanwhile, chanting behind, Xendril is surrounded for a mere instant by a dark light as the sound of his song echoes strangely in the air.

Armaros, for his part, decides not to bolt along with the horses into the woods, but actually finds himself with Marcellus and Azuma, looking for whatever strange noisemaker comes their way.

The orc leaps from the wagon, wolf-skin cloak whirling behind him. He bares his axe aloft, uttering what sounds like an orcish oath. In Common, he adds "There!"

Just as he points, two figures burst from the treeline, forty feet ahead. Dark, black shapes born aloft by leathery wings, they emit a shrill whine as they veer towards the group, bearing down from above. Closing, the seven companions are met with a sight of terror; they are human heads, hideously deformed to the color of a bruise, covered in writhing tentacles and each sporting a pair of oversized wings. Their eyes are filled with naught but a hellish green glow, same as the light beaming from their rictus grins.

The monsters dart forward in erratic paths with quickling speed. Before any can get a bearing or react, one drives directly at Marcellus, eyes flaring, mouth distending grotesquely to bear its jagged fangs!

Charge attack vs. AC 15 (hit; 1 damage; roll a Fortitude save)

Surprised, Marcellus cannot defend himself properly. The snarling beast flits within his defenses and clamps down firmly on his shoulder. The wound is not deep, but pain lances through the warrior's arm, along with a sickly sense of corruption.

The other terror wings up a short distance before Azuma. From its foul jaws comes another shriek, slicing through your ears like a javelin and piercing your brains. A sense of dread wells up within each of you; you feel your death is near!

Everyone make a Fortitude save.

Certainly, speaking takes no action.

Faz has and is trying to keep the wagon stopped.

For Azuma:

Not that it matters much (surprise! 4 fails), but he does have time to make the Handle Animal attempt, as I'll consder the standing and the drawing of the scroll one move action.

The ponies neigh and prance skittishly at the sounds. Faz attempts to calm them, "Whoa, my pretties, easy now!" But the animals look like they want to bolt.

Dismounting from the wagon requires a move action. For battle grid purposes, the road is about 10 feet wide and runs straight before and behind you. 5 feet to either side of that is light underbrush; beyond is heavy as the land begins to climb up the wooded slopes of the hills. The is not thick enough to provide anything within 100 feet concealment, limiting maximum visibility more than anything.

The rain finally stopped around midnight. But the clouds remained. Day had not broken so much as it slowly faded in, revealing a gray-cast world beneath a leaden sky. The low clouds were even closer for the wagon trundling through the high hills, wooded slopes rising on either side of the highway. It was the middle of March, Monday the 16th in fact. Winter would soon be over. But for now, the trees were still barren, skeletal arms with twisted black and gray fingers. And of course, the road was nothing but soupy earth.

The trees alongside the road seemed to stoop and bend out. Where they sheltering the travelers from some possibility of further rain? Or were they wickedly trying to splatter them with the heavy droplets falling from the leafless branches? It was hard to tell.

The light and trees were not all that was strange. The sound in the hills echoed oddly. Words spoken mere feet away seemed muted and distant, yet far off sounds sometimes came clearly through the mist. But on the whole, the world was quiet, hushed; expectant?

It was hard to see what it might be expecting. It was hard to see much of anything. The hills were shrouded in a ghostly fog, the fallen rain rising back to the sky. The world seemed to disappear at thirty yards in all directions. It was a strange morning indeed.

So perhaps it was appropriate that the six travelers found themselves in the company of such a strange halfling. He simply called himself Faz. To start, he was alone; of course there were the six travelers he’d picked up, one even a fellow halfling (not that they knew each other). But he was not part of a caravan, a clan, he had no family with him. He was traveling alone. He was unusually bright for a halfling, dressed in vibrant yellow with a few splashes of orange. His hair was even odd, a bright dirty-blonde. It had an unusual sheen to it, likely indicating some type of dye.

Faz had another interesting feature: he couldn’t stop talking. He droned on and on, telling of the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, the people he’d met, and often their life stories to boot. It was hard to get a word in edgewise. The exceptions were his off the wall questions: Do you think humans should dance more? What about singing? How do orcs treat their livestock? Even then, he often simply rattled on about his own ideas, rather than actually letting anyone answer his questions.

The travelers themselves; they were a strange lot, too, most carrying with them armor and weapons. Four were human; there was the second halfling; and an orc. They had come to be in this place by a strange way; in the telling, they were like a snowball, growing larger with every stop they made. The Ornathi in the group had first seen it come round a bend, pulled by two ribbon-clad ponies pulling a halfling and an orc, of all things. But he felt the gods spoke to him, so the Ornathi climbed aboard. In Dyn, the second halfling asked where the wagon was bound and climbed aboard. On the road again, the wagon came round a bend and in climbed a human with a wide-brimmed hat. When they’d stopped at some road-side inn, the only place to stay in a nearly nameless hamlet, some sort of mage asked to come along. And just a few hours ago, a tired youth had emerged from the brush alongside the road and asked if he could join the procession.

And so, by choice or chance, the seven strangers rode to Versonton on that quiet morning, the silence broken only by clopping ponies, creaking wagon wheels, and chatterbox halflings.

Until the somnolent spell is broken. To the right, up the slope of the hill, a flock of crows bolts from the treetops, cawing in panic. Their cries fade into the mist, returning to silence for a mere heartbeat, before an otherworldly cry splits the air. It rings out high and shrill, piercing to the bone. Another follows, closer. Much closer.

Prepare yourselves!

Excellent rolls: obviously the boy is very shaken up; he's gone through great emotional turmoil, and sounds like he was fatigued to begin with. Combined with raw inexperience and the rumors floating around East Haven before he set out, he may well have no real idea what he's talking about. He certainly seems to believe it, however.

Technically that's Knowledge (the planes), but I'm pretty loose about the boundary between (religion)/(planes); in either case, you've never heard of anything like this. You may wish to try an untrained Sense Motive check here.

The boy doesn't say anything, but his face lifts into a gentle smile at the comforting words.

Frindel looks aroun, appraising the group with a critical eye. "Very well, then. Seek what companions you can and what weapons you may find, and return to me when you are ready to leave. I will give you my blessings, and then... you can set to your work."

Your awesome Sense Motive pays off- you suspect correctly.

"No... they're in the Blizzard... I lost my way, and don't know where we fought them," the boy says with a fearful look at the intimidating Nedd.

Frindel, on the other hand, continues to glower at Nedd for a moment, but it is not his place to bring any further trouble into East Haven, so he turns to Daeman. "You are really serious about going into that storm, aren't you? Well, I commend your bravery. I would caution you against bringing others into this dangerous situation, but should they be willing to go, I'm certain you could benefit from their help. And, yes, I know of at least one enchanted axe bound for Northwind from Thror that currently rests in East Haven, and the merchant most likely has a few other pieces of armament. However, I doubt he'll be eager to part with them, but it would be wise to see what you could do, anyway."

The boy nearly bursts into a flood of tears at Nedd's comment. Frindel looks over at the man and says, "Would you care to step outside with me for a moment, 'friend'?" He gestures towards the door and waits for Nedd.

Ethras grabs the youth's attention again, however, and he manages to regain his composure. "I... I've never seen a real dragon. But, I know what they look like from the drawings our Elders make. It... didn't look like that, although... I suppose that could have been a tail with a spike coming over the monsters back. But I don't think that's what it was."

At Hrothgar's question, the boy thinks hard. "Hairy. They were hairy. One got close enough that I could tell that much. I... don't know if they had scales also. Maybe it was armor. I think they had horns coming out of their heads, too. They... they came from all sides, completely surrounded us. I don't remember any more than that. I'm... not very experienced in battle."

Within the hour, as promised by Frindel, food is brought out, although Nedd grabbed an early bite. Venison, pork, and fish from the river, along with cheese, were served with water, goat's milk, and mead to wash it down.

As Nedd ate his morsel, Frindel looked dismissively at him before turning to the others. "I will take you to the boy as soon as we are finished eating, but after hearing his story, I urge you, think about this before you decide to go into the Great Blizzard. Many have died already; it would be a shame for any others to share their fate."

The meal progresses from that point, but as it draws to a close and the plates are taken away by the serving boys and girls, Frindel stands. "Now, if you are ready, we will visit the Stormwalker youth." He continues his elaborations as he leads the group the short way to the infirmary, a small outbuilding.

"The Stormwalkers are a tribe that hailed from Chantul. All the men of that land are at ease in the wilds. But, wars with the Fjal and the trolls to their south eventually caused the Stormwalkers to seek refuge. Years and years ago, they finally settled south of here, across the Nasir in the Fyrges Woods. T'wasn't long before they learned they could ply their skills as guides through the Blizzard. They learned that frozen hell like the backs of their own hands."

By this point, the group has drawn close the outbuilding, a loghouse with a thick wooden door. Smoke rises up through a small wooden chimney in the center. Frindel looks to the group once more, says, "The lad's name is Hirtan," and opens the door. Inside, there are several cots around the warm, glowing embers of a fire. One of the cots is draped over, its occupant apparently deceased. From the hand drooping out under the sheet, it looks one of the orcs Daeman had an encouter with last evening.

The priest from the temple of Pelor kneels next to a young man, probably no more than fifteen. The dark-haired lad sits on the edge of his bed. He looks terrible, like he just awoke from a fitful sleep. He listens to the man, who is speaking softly with a compassionate face. Then the priest sees the entourage approach and stands. "These are the ones you spoke of, Frindel?" he asks.

"Aye," the Thror host answers.

"Well, I suppose it is inevitable that I would have met some in such a crowded town as this. If it please you, I will take me leave back to the shrine now. Good day." The priest them brushes past the group and heads out the door without making eye contact. Frindel raises a wondering eyebrow, but turns back to the issue at hand.

"Hirtan, lad, there are some people who want to speak to you about what happened," Frindel says. "They want to see what they can do to help, but first they need to know what you saw. I know you've done this before, but if you can do it just one more time... maybe it will help."

The boy looks tired, weary, with dark bags under his eyes. He looks at each face before him, and then at the floor. With a sigh and unfocused eyes, he begins his tale.

"We... we had heard of the troubles, in our village. The tribe was excited. Everyone wanted to go into the Blizzard and prove their valor. To find monsters or wizards and slay them. But, Junger, our chieftain, he would only allow a group of the best warriors. He chose each one himself. But I begged and begged him to go. My mother is the cousin of his brother's wife, and so they all persuaded him. I had been on hunts before, but a Stormwalker isn't a man until he has passed through the Great Blizzard. Everyone said I was ready...."

"We went into the storm, and my tribesmen showed me the ways of the Blizzard, how to find trails that didn't exist, how to turn so the wind rolls off your back. They were teaching me as much as searching for enemies. Maybe... if I hadn't been there..."

"We found shelter beneath a stand of dead trees, and threw up skins to block the snow and wind. Most people can't spend even one night in the Great Blizzard. We Stormwalkers know how, though. I was excited... and tired. My elders knew how to stay warm, but I was just learning."

"But in the morning, terror. We woke up, and two of our fellows were gone. Their beds, their spears, their bows, all vanished with them. Our leader searched in the snow, and managed to find a trail. A blood trail. He saw the way it lead and followed it, and we followed him. We were scared and angry now. Nothing lives in the Blizzard! There is no food. Or... nothing natural lives there. Sometimes, we hear the songs of dragons from our village. But we did not hear them this time. And I remembered a man here in East Haven. He said that demons could come through the magic of the Blizzard. They knew the trails and paths, and could come to prey upon people walking through."

"I knew in my heart, it was them. We walked for hours through the snow, trying to find our friends or the demons. But they found us first. They came from nowhere, a dozen of them! They... they screamed and yelled. Before we could react, one of them charged us, and he grabbed our leader. It was big, and white with black scales all down the sides. And on the back of it, a black arm reached out with a deadly claw, and stabbed another one of us. The others were smaller, smaller than a man. Imps, I think they're called. They came screaming and started clawing, rending. The men fought back, took a few down, but there were so many of them. I fell into the snow, and when I got my feet back... I ran, like a coward! I should have stayed and died with my tribesmen! Kord has shamed me; by chance I found my way back to East Haven, and now I live. The least that should have happened would be for me to die in the storm!"

The young man hangs his head, wimpering.

Dawn breaks soon enough for the companions. Still the start of August, the days here bear a length not too unlike those of southern climes, but soon that will change and darkness will far outweight the light. Already in the most northern reaches, the Shining Wastes and even parts of Hrothgar's native Fjaldak, the sun slowly sinks towards the horizon, and once it dips below that lines, it will scarcely be seen for months.

But for now, the sun shines brightly upon East Haven. The travelers are roused from sleep by a blast of cold air. From the back of the hall where they spent the night, through sleep-clotted eyes, they can see Frindel standing at the doors, thrown wide, and looking out at the world stretched before him. The two dwarven guards who stood aside the entryway last night now sit drinking and laughing amongst themselves at a table near the front.

Ethras is near the embers of yesterday's fire at the center of the hall, performing stretches and waking exercises in a soldier-like fashion. Just another subtle reminder to the trained eye of his origins in Nysil, beset as it is by demonic forces to its south.

As the sleepers wake, either struggling to clear their minds and cursing the brightness and cold air, or springing lightly to greet the new day, Frindel turns to them and booms out across the hall. "Good morn to you! I hope you found restful sleep last night. Please, come, be at ease until we have eaten a meal. It will be ready within the hour." Almost on cue, the smell of wood fires cooking in the kitchen drifts out into the hall.

As Nedd moves away, Frindel walks back through the mead hall, glancing at the assemly of newfound "companions." Most of the other travelers have moved off to sleep for the night, as well.

"Still waiting? You might as well take your 'friend's' advice and bed for the night," the bearded man says as he passes. "If any others come in looking for you, I'll send them to where you're at. Now, get some sleep."

Daeman bends down to administer a slight touch of healing magic to the wounded orc. The dwarves look at him in a strange manner, and one mutters, "Bah, why bother?" into his beard in dwarvish, but they leave him be. "Well, lad, thank ye fer th' help ye gave us," the lead dwarf says to the young bard. "Ere's a little somethin' fer yer effort," he says as he gropes into a pouch and pulls out a silver coin, then thrusts his hand towards Daeman to give it to him. "We'll be off, back t' our tents fer the night, now. Ye stay out of anymore trouble!" he says with a grin and a wink.

"Puny human! No one can match orc strength! Our blood runs strong!" The orc grins a wide smile and twirls around to look at the dwarves.

"On three," one of the black beards says. "One, two," and he never finishes the count, as all three dwarves make a quick rush in to the orc, surrounding him. The orc tries to assume a defensive position, but the dwarven coordination is too much for him. Before he can act, a hammer smashes his wounded leg, compromising his stability. A half instant later, a blow to the shoulder sends the orc to the ground. The third dwarf raises his axe high and lets it fall on the bloody, bruised body of the orc. The savage was attempting to regain his footing, rolling into a position to stand, but by misfortune, his neck came straight into the path of the axe, which cleanly severed it. In a spurt of arterial spray that stains all the dwarves, the body slumps over and the head rolls into the street.

"Hnh," the beheader grunts. "Tha' was a bit o' luck. Bastard had it comin' anyway." Another stands and, attempting ineffectually to wipe the blood from himself, turns to Daeman. "What was tha' about poison?" He doesn't really sound concerned.

Disarm attempt: Attack of Opportunity? No, because of distance. Orc's opposed roll: 14 + 4 = 18. Attempt to counter disarm: 19 + 4 = 23. Daeman must roll a 20 to avoid being disarmed (+1 attack bonus, +2 for whip = +3 modifier on roll).

Even as that last note continues to hang on the chill northern air, the dwarves advance.

"What? You play a song for us before we kill you? How nic-" the wounded orc begins his taunt, but cannot finish it before a dwarven hammer lands solidly into his back. With an "oomph" as his breath is evicted from his body, and a squishing noise, the brute collapses, unconscious and possibly dying.

The other one whirls and sees his fallen companion. "No one kills Bloody Moon tribe and lives!" he belows out in rage. One of the dwarves charges towards him with a waraxe, but the orc sidesteps and dodges the head of the weapon, then drives his elbow powerfully into his side, sending him off balance and falling away. Another dwarf falls in right behind the first, however, and uses his axe to dig into the orc's exposed leg. The savage belows in pain and twists back again.

Now circled by Daeman and three recovered dwarves, and limping slightly on a gashed calf, the orc draws his own weapon, a battleaxe, and stands at the ready, turning and watching for an approaching foe. "Come to me, pale skins! I draw your blood and laugh while drinking it!" he taunts.

The axe-wielder emits a grunt of surprise and pain, and there is a audible thunk as the dagger flies into his shoulder. Swatting at the wound and coming away with a bloody hand, the orc looks up at Daeman with hateful eyes. "You die!" he yells.

However, unseen behind the orcs are the three dwarves. They had not given up their close watch of the orcish tent, and now they draw hammers and axes and move quickly to join the fight. Though they make no effort to conceal their movements, they refrain from shouting. Distracted the orcs don't notice their approach.

Daeman, quick in foot and mind, finds himself ready and able to strike again before the surprised orcs get a chance to react further, and even before the dwarves get close.

No need to conceal it- orc initiative = 3, dwarven = 9

A large, powerful hand grips Daeman's shoulder. "Where you think you go?" an unmistakeably orcish voice intones. "We want to see dwarves cry and scream as they drink horse piss! You have not delivered promise. You keep promise, or we hurl you into river!" The creature spins Daeman around, his mouth a toothy grin. The other orc stands behind him, tapping one hand with the throwing axe he holds in the other.

"River is very cold," the second one chuckles.

Dwarven sense motive roll: 9 + 0 circumstance = 9. Successful bluff. Diplomacy 2 points shy of DC 15 for their unfriendly attitude.

"What? Ye switched it on us? Bah! This doing's had th' fun leeched out o' it! Get ye away a'fore th' pig there drink his piss and comes t' lop yer head off." He mutters in Dwarven as he turns, "Godsdamned humans! You give them the slightest task and they bungle it all."

One of the orcs steps out of the tent to see how things are going. He looks at the conjured image, grinning and holding his tankard, snorts, and turns his eyes expectantly and still not very warmly at Daeman. The dwarf has his back to the whole thing.

"Wait!" the priest calls from behind her. He quickly jogs up to Lythdrae, and locks her with a an anguished gaze. Then he speaks, softly, forceully, and quickly. "I do not know your story, and I'm not sure I want to. But, I can do this at least: when the roads reopen, get to Northwind. Go to the Pillar of Light. They can do for you, what I cannot. I am but a humble rural priest, and I am sorry that I have failed you, and my god. Now, please, leave me be." This time, he does not turn away, but stands watching with a forlorn look as he waits for the pair to exit the shrine.

The attendant's smile fails, simply vanishing from his face and leaving a look of shock. His eyes rove about the letter, and a look comes into his countenance. Horror? Disgust? "Elysium's waters soothe my soul," he whispers. Then, nervous, he raises suspicious, worried eyes.

"I'm afraid I cannot help you. It is very late, and I must retire. I hope you have somewhere to spend the night. Now, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave." With that, he thrusts the paper back to Lythdrae and turns his back on her and the recently enetered Ian, coming to face the altar again. He takes no steps towards it, but hangs his head with his eyes shut. He seems to wait, tense, to hear the footsteps and the creaking that will let him know the travelers have gone.

------------------

"Aye, lad! Well, then, y'see we been in a 'competion' o' sorts wi' th' gray skins over yonder. We both b'claiming a proud heritage, both o' blood an' o' drink!" He looks back to his companions. They smile and laugh. One waves his hand, as if encouraging the speaker to continue. "Ther' been some 'misunderstandings' earlier in th' day. But, we be of friendly disposition and wish t' make amends. It be the case, tho', tha' th' orcs ain't interested in talkin' t' us 'bout it. So, we would be gracious if'n a third party, such's yerself, could give 'em a kind of 'peace offering.'"

He looks back over his shoulder to another dwarf, and once again speaking in his native tongue, says, "Get the horse piss."