Passing by the surprisingly clean bar top, Trelnir follow the red-bearded fellow through an open doorway and down a short pantry/hallway. At the end of the short hall, the bartender raps quietly at a closed, wooden, iron-bound portal.
After a moment, a hushed voice murmurs through the sturdy wooden frame. "They found his body..." the soft words said.
The bartender, without a pause, quickly finished, "In the tubals o'er the shaye.
Upon his response, the loud clank of sliding metal reverberates from behind the closed doorway. Shortly after, the iron-bound portal opens inward, revealing a well-lit room beyond.
Turning to Trelnir, the bartender motions the half-elf inside.
Trelnir turns to see several quiet patrons hunched over the respective tables. It doesn't appear that there is anything worth noticing.
The stout man behind the counter softly clears his throat before quickly uttering, "Follow me." Without waiting for a reply, he heads to the far end of the short, wooden bar top and disappears through an open doorway. After a moment, you hear a gentle rap, rap, rap, the sound of knuckles tapping on wood, emanate from the doorway that the bartender just traveled through.
As you're raising the glass to your mouth, your thoughts suddenly and inexplicably become erratic. After a split second, their order is returned.
You watch as, for a brief moment, the bartender's eyes dart past you, and then immediately snap back to hold your gaze.
Raising his tankard in response, he nods to you in silent affirmation. He then downs the dark liquid in one swig, all the while never breaking eye contact.
Juxtaposed against the other more animated taverns of Restov, Tubal O’er the Shaye is a mausoleum. Despite several patrons seated at the worn wooden tables, little more than a gentle murmur fills the small bar. The warm glow of candlelight illumines the establishment, and the lingering smell of stale ale hangs in the air.
The burly fellow tending bar greets Trelnir with a mere nod. Upon hearing the half-elf’s request and comment, the red-bearded man’s eyebrows twitch for just a moment, before a thin smile purses his lips. Reaching beneath the counter, he procures a simple, unlabeled bottle. Grabbing two small steel tankards, he quickly pours a small amount of the procured drink into each.
”A fine drink, that. Raise a glass with me for King Noleski Surtova?” Motioning toward the mug nearest you, he regards you casually, though never breaks eye contact.
Make a Knowledge: Local check.
The nights in Restov are, perhaps, even louder and more boisterous than the daytime. For every daytime ware-hocker, town crier, merchant vender, and trade peddler, there are twice as many drunken louts once the sun goes down. Once the sky's natural luminescence fades and shadows begin to pour over the town, every inn, tavern, and "pleasure place" in the city throws open its respective doors and bathes the streets in firelight, music, and ale.
It is on one of these wild Restovian nights that you find yourself traversing the raucous city streets, though by now you've meandered away from the loudest parts of town. A furled piece of parchment in hand, your footfalls echo on the cobblestone paths as you purposely round the next corner. As you past the building's edge, you come across a peculiarly dark and quiet lane. Near the end of the cramped row of buildings, a sign above a doorpost marks your destination: Tubals O'er the Shaye.
As you head forth, you recall again the words of the curled up parchment in hand; the broken wax seal was unfamiliar.
Whoever penned the letter wrote: To the bearer of this letter,
Your presence is most humbly requested to discuss a matter of looming import. Your particular set of skills and prowess have not gone unnoticed and would be most welcome in the distant future. Should you choose to discuss this unspecified opportunity further...
The rest of the letter laid out the details for the clandestine meeting, the one you find yourself en route to at this very moment. Instructed to enter the oddly-named tavern, your directions were simple: ask the stout, red-bearded man behind the counter about his Varisian Vintage 4611, and comment on its punctuality.
Signed cordially at the bottom of the parchment, beneath the quoted words "One land, One people", was the name Donovan Whitt.
One week earlier…
“He’s late.” The terse remark broke the uncomfortable silence that had, to that point, permeated the temple’s interior. The group of noblemen, seven in all, stood gathered around the central brazier staring nervously at seemingly everything but each other.
“You’re without doubt that he is indeed coming?” a second asked, his question pointed in the direction of a large, well-muscled, bear of a man.
The massive human Aldori swordlord stood stone-still, his stoic mask revealing neither anticipation nor indifference. After a moment of strained silence, his gaze slowly shifted to the questioner. “Yes,” came the flat, monotone reply. The response, despite its obvious lack of emotion, was enough to placate the inquiry. After all, the answer had come from none other than Darian Taldric, the Red Shield of Restov.
The Lord Mayor of Restov, Ioseph Sellemius, was a wise man indeed. A fitting ruler of the Free City, the Lord Mayor had presided over the rough-and-tumble city for nearly half a decade. It is commonly held by both gentry and commoner alike that his rule is just and prosperous. Amongst his greatest accomplishments, though, was naming Darian Taldric as the Red Shield of Restov.
A veteran of hundreds of skirmishes and half a dozen wars, Darian Taldric’s prowess in battle was said to rival that of the Sword Baron himself. His reputation as a warrior afforded him all of the notoriety and fame that one would expect to come with the station; despite this, however, an impenetrable air of stillness and peace armored his countenance, his shoulders mantled in silence. His quiet, deadly calm was complemented greatly by his massive frame, the two serving to create one of the most imposing figures this side of Absalom.
“Well, he's still late,” the original man stated flatly. Several others chuckled mirthlessly before the men, eight in total, resumed their silence.
The half-elf's kind words fall futilely to the ground as the man, who by now the party assumes to be Oleg, begins quickly, yet gently, unbridling the horses. A few moments later, upon seeing the group's relative inactivity, he impatiently chides, "Storm's going to come in quick. You got a good amount of supplies on this wagon, and I don't have enough room in the stable to store it. Get it in your quarters, or plan on spending tomorrow morning drying it all out. Makes no difference to me."
As if to emphasis his point, a streak of lightning rends the sky in the distance; a deep roll of thunder follows close behind.
In the northeast corner of the compound, a long, thin building sits quietly. This building, you assume, is the "quarters" that Oleg is eluding to. A single door leads to the interior, and it sounds like this is where the party will be relegated to staying.
The quiet figure.
As Radomir finishes his proclamation, the party can do nothing but watch in mild anticipation as the silent figure slowly rotates the steel spit, his eyes never leaving the roasting substance. As the moments pass, it becomes apparent that no response is forthcoming. In the distance, the peel of thunder breaks the awkward stillness. The nervous whinny of a stabled horse follows the lightning clap, and a low, howling gust drifts over the stake wall.
“Let’s get your things put up before the rain comes,”the no-longer-silent figure states. “I’ll stable the horses. I suggest you take whatever you don’t want soaking wet into your quarters.” This last part he says nodding his head toward the long building in the northeast corner of the compound.
Rising from his squatted position, he makes his way past the party. Turning his head toward the party as he walks, he quickly adds, “Welcome to your new home, my lords.” The last words drip with venom, their disdain impossible to miss.
Yes, the gates are open, and your wagon and horses can fit within the compound. Just assume that the wagon in the picture of Oleg's, the one at A1, is within the stable, or off to the side.
Maneuvering the team of horses and the large wagon through the open gates, you find yourselves within a small, cramped area flanked by a stable and two separate structures. A fourth building, located in the northwest corner of the compound, appears the largest and tallest of all, though is far from physically imposing. Directly in front of the fourth building, a pair of long, wooden tables rest on either side of a fire pit. The delicious smell, seemingly, wafting off of the roasting creature upon the spit, which is itself being rotated slowly by a middle-aged man.
The man, you notice, doesn't even glance your way as he continues about his business. His eyes remain fixed on the dancing flames, a dark, brooding look painted upon his countenance.
Turning the supply-laden wagon down the dusty southbound road, your party begins the short trek to its initial destination: Oleg’s Outpost.
Well-known throughout the region by travelers, woodsmen, and bandits alike, Oleg’s is maintained by its current owner and operator, the enigmatic Oleg Leveton. Little is known about the reclusive Oleg; the notoriety of his reluctance to divulge personal information is frequently discussed by those who have patronized his establishment. Though not unfriendly, there is, no doubt, a tangible air of introversion about the man, one which has garnered the Outpost a reputation of little more than a trading spot, despite its sizable accommodations. Nevertheless, it was to this location that you were directed by your contact amongst the Swordlords, Danil Hannaby.
“It’s nondescript,” Danil had said regarding Oleg’s, “but it sees its fair share of movement. I’m told rumors abound in that place. And Oleg, if you can get him talking, could prove a treasure trove of information about the area. Find out what he knows about those missing caravans on the trade route, and then find a way to deal with it. If it’s within your means, that is.” He had added the last part with an all-too-serious expression on his face.
It was as simple as that. Get to Oleg’s, put an end to whatever was plaguing the trade route through the Stolen Lands, and become kings.
Simple, right?
Rolling along the well-worn path, it was clear that many travelers frequented Oleg’s. The obvious foot, hoof, and wagon wheel tracks were visible even to the untrained eye, all leading directly to the square, palisade-walled fort rising before you. Nearing the trading post, you notice the 10-foot high wooden walls. The structure sports 20-foot tall, square watchtowers on its four corners, each armed with what appears to be a wall-mounted ballista of some sort. The lone entrance that you can see, a 30-foot-wide wooden gate, stands ajar, inviting you into the fort’s interior.
Oleg's Outpost
Minutes later, as you watch the pair of rugged frontiersmen depart along the western road, you can't help but feel a tinge of excitement at the prospect of having nearly arrived at your destination. To the south, down the worn, dusty trail, you once again make out the time-worn outpost, cleverly named "Oleg's Outpost" by the proprietor, Oleg Leveton.
Obviously the party can move on to Oleg's, but is there anything else you'd like to do or say before you head down the road?
Acutely aware that his absent-minded action has drawn the attention of the party, the gangly man quickly slips the trinket back into his breast pocket. Eyeing each of you with a hard, fixed gaze, he continues about his work, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath.
"Bah!" Ivar snorts. "Never you mind him," he continues, clasping Trelnir on the back in a semi-reciprocal embrace. "He only likes puttin' arrows in things what won't fight back, is all."
"Horse drops, ye ole' bastard!" the gangly man interrupts. "I put me arrows into what I's can see, man or demon," he spits out a mass of dark brown saliva and chewing tobacco, eyeing Radomir in particular with a glare. "It's 'em what ye can't see what turns my blood cold, and ye know it to be true." With the last word, he spits a second mass onto the trail and continues his task of readying the horse.
After a short pause, Ivar snorts, rounding on the group. "Keep your wits about you, and, as I said, don't go pokin' around where you aren't welcome. You fellas'll be fine." He smiles reassuringly.
Make Sense Motive checks.
Part 1
The thin plume of smoke danced lazily into the gray afternoon sky. “Oleg’s fixin’ supper, no doubt,” Ivar had said when the black tendril had first been spotted over the grassy crest. The fine poultry that the pair had shared with you hadn’t lasted the trip; the two hunters ate like ravenous wolves, knowing that game in these parts was as plentiful as flies on an old mare. It was fine, though, as your party had packed a weeks worth of rations. Still, the thought of a proper meal cooked over a warm fire was titillating. “Hope he fixed enough,” he had added shortly after, chuckling.
A little over an hour after seeing the rising smoke in the distance, the party finds itself approaching a small cross road, one path continuing west, and the other south. Roughly half a mile down the southern trail, an old, ragged, wooden outpost can be spotted; a rickety palisade surrounds the compound, and four squat guard towers line the corners. The smoke trail that you’ve been following appears to be emanating from a source within the walls.
“Oleg’s,” Ivar states, nodding his matted head in the direction of the station. “Mind yerselfs, like I told you. Oleg’ll put you up, ‘specially with them scraps o’ Swordlord paper in yer pockets, but don’t bring any trouble on him. Rangers and hunters in these parts are special fond of Oleg, and he ain’t short of allies, if you catch my meanin’. Just a word to the wise, not that you look like you ain’t civil or nothin’.”
"If'n you'd be so kind as to pardon us, this is where we part ways," Ivar says, running his dirt-caked fingers through his soiled hair. Approaching the crossroads, your wagon rolls to a gentle stop. Both Ivar and the gangly man dislodge the remains of their hanging hunting spoils, and load their weapons and traveling equipment back onto their lone horse. “Gotta resupply and all,” Ivar smiles apprehensively, his eyes quickly flashing past you toward the southern road. “The ole’ beast slayer’s getting’ restless, too,” he continues, patting his compound bow and flashing a yellow-toothed grin.
Whilst Ivar is getting on with the well-wishing and last minute advice, you notice the gangly man cast a quick glance in the same direction as his companion – down the southern road. A strange look crosses his countenance, as he quickly finishes fastening a saddle bag to their dusty roan.
Everyone make a Perception check.
“Ain’t gonna find many what travel ‘is road,” the gangly man said in his gruff, sour speech. “Wanna get word back to ‘em who sent ya’s, yer gonna need to find yerself a raven.”
“Or a wizard who ain’t gonna turn you into dung for askin’,” added Ivar, chuckling mirthlessly.
A mere four-day’s journey out of Restov, you find yourselves traveling a thin, overgrown dirt trail on the southern border of Brevoy. Dubbed the South Rostland Road by the last sign you’d past, this arrow-straight, featureless, east-west route could hardly be deemed more than a horse trail. The endless sea of hills and forests to the south offer little in the way of scenery; the rolling plains to the north offer even less.
Back in town, you’d been told that you would make Oleg’s within a few days. The 90-mile journey would be relatively easy, so long as the rain and predators stayed away. Hitching the wagon to your team of horses, and laden with all manner of supplies, the three of you left Restov in eager, high spirits. Despite the droll, boring journey, your mood has remained steadfast.
After all, who wouldn’t be enthralled at the prospect of being named Lord Such-and-Such of his own kingdom?
“There’s riders who stop by Oleg’s every fortnight or so, but that ain’t scripture, as sometimes they just ride on past,” Ivar continued, wiping grease fat from his wet lips. Small flecks of spittle and partially-chewed meat could be seen dotting his wild beard, remnants of the meal that the five of you had shared earlier that day. The poultry that Ivar and the gangly man brought with them made the duo’s presence tolerable, despite their unkempt appearances and undignified manner.
Your party had come across the pair the day prior, and, after the customary questions asked when one encounters unknown travelers, decided that it would be best if the respective groups traveled as one. They, offering their poached turkey and other various foul, and you, offering a wagon ride to alleviate their weary feet, had traveled the quiet road swapping stories and information, encountering nothing in the way of misfortune.
“So, don’t go scrapin’ around for trouble and get in too deep. There ain’t none help to be found. It’s just you’n yours, and a whole lotta damned, murderous bastards roamin’ them woods,” Ivar finished.
“An’ worse n’ that,” the gangly man added, his tone low, his eyes staring out across the great expanse to the south. “Much worse.”
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