Tess and Delnin exchange a quizzical glance.
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The night is long, weaving between camps in the hills, huddling together for a short spell when a patrol passes by and finding what cover you can when new logs are added to the bonfires. As the first hints of dawn begin to creep over the horizon in the east, you descend into the box canyon where Gozrek once met his end. The camp is much as you left it, nestled against a cliffside at the edge of a stand of elms by a small stream. Tent flaps flutter in the light breeze, some now broken free of their bolt-ropes, and the bodies you felled here have been picked over by scavengers and left to the elements. The vast metal cage where Tamary and her fellows were kept creaks in the wind. Clearly, no one has come to check on those who waited here. The darkened cave mouth, notched in the cliff, beckons to you.
Navigating between the dispersed encampments is relatively easy in the dark, and Tess is careful to time her spell for getting through the most well-lit paths among the hills.
As before, there are hundreds encamped here, spread out across the hills in smaller gatherings. With night coming on, most are engaged in preparation for the evening meal, and the inviting smell of roasting meat wafts in your direction. Many are armed, and a few seem alert to the surrounding hills, but this vigilance seems no more than a gathering encamped for months without incident might mount. The animal population is thinner in these hills, an account of the hunting parties that have fed these tribes for some time, but it is still quite healthy---enough to sustain this force some while yet.
Two days' travel on the road brings you past the burnt watchtowers on either side of the East Sellen river and the Marchland Shields encamped on the west side of Wyvernstone Bridge. Jon and Gozrek Fletcher share a long embrace, and father and son talk long into the night. You also hear the reports of Jon's scouts: the Tiger Lords are still camped in the Glenebon Hills to the west, and have made no sign of preparations to march either east or south. In the morning you make your way westward, first through the cloudberry fields dotting the plains and then up into the Glenebon. At the end of the third day (12th Erastus), as night falls, you see the campfires of the Tiger Lords spread out in the hills to the west.
With the help of Bytor and the Duke, Tess determines this long rod of smooth iron to be a lesser silent metamagic rod.
Taranis gives the yet unnamed cub scritches. He speaks to the cub as if capable of conversation, "Well girl, that settles it. This is definitely something we need to do. When I return I'll channel a bit more of Nature's Might and ask you what your name is." After a moment, Taranis remembers the name: Khrabryy. grave figure armored from head to toe in jagged iron, two red eyes smoldering like witchfires from within his helm Gorum?
Taranis retreats, alone, to his secret grove. The stones loom tall above him, casting long shadows onto the stretches of bare earth between the trees. In their center, the duke settles in, letting his bare toes dig into the cool grime of the forest floor and feeling the light tug of playful winds on his sweeping beard. He drinks in the waning sunlight, the warmth of the summer air, the endless creaking stillness and furtive life of the teeming forest. He waits. The hours pass. The stars circle overhead. The woodland nightsongs hum their cries and calls at the edge of hearing, but the duke pays no mind. By now he hears little but the thrum of hidden power that pulse through the stones, letting their rhythm direct his attention where they will, when they choose to call. Light begins to grow in the east when the first vision comes. A woman robed in black, a cowl covering her face but not the bloodshot eye that hangs on a chain beneath it, flees a camp lit by fires and familiar stars, a nude babe clutched desperately in her pale arms. Drums beat, and cries fill the air. The woman deftly slits the throat of the first who tries to stop her flight, splashing deep red blood on the child's face. Two more figures rush forward towards to contest knife, but another black-robed woman slips out of the shadows to cut them down, then follows her sister into the dark cover of night. The vision fades. The sun has crested the treetops, sending blinding rays into the druid's gaze. He heeds them not. Three black-robed women stand behind a young man, no older than Gozrek. The man, clad in furs and leathers, holds a long blade with ease in his powerful grip. Blood runs slowly down the edge, dripping onto a shattered corpse at the young man's feet. The man lets out a cry of rage and plunges the blade into his enemy's chest, then hefts a mighty boulder and slams it into the corpse's skull. Blood and bone shrapnel spray into a crowd of stunned onlookers. The three women all speak one word, with pride: "Armag." The sun approaches its zenith. A deer cautiously approaches the grove, but the twig-snap of an owlbear creeping closer allows it to scurry off. All that Taranis can hear is the thrum, growing louder with each passing minute. Years have passed. The man, longer in tooth but still in his towering prime, stands before an assembly of mighty warriors. Scars cover his body, deep and hard-earned, marks of pride. Red banners marked by three pale stripes twist in the wind all around. The man wears a magnificent cuirass of ancient make, thick bone with scrimshaw carvings on every face. An iron crown in the likeness of thorns rests on his proud brow, and a belt of thick iron studded with blood-red jewels circles his barreled waist. Two black-robed women look on as war drums beat and Armag raises his sword. The shadows grow longer, the earth warmer with the heat of the failing day. The thrum is weaker now, nearly spent. But somewhere, just before the sounds of the forest push the thrum beyond the limits of hearing, he hears an echo of that drumbeat one final time. But this vision feels different. The man at its center, though similar in stature and strength, bears a different visage and walks under unfamiliar stars. Fires rage all around him, illuminating the countless fallen that litter the battlefield in every direction. Blood flows freely from the man's dozen wounds, and though he strides forward with confidence and pride, an immense grey-green greatsword held raised and ready, at length he falters and stumbles. The last thing that Taranis sees---almost at the limits of vision---is the faint image of a gaunt ashen-skinned lady with wild white hair glowering to one side of the fallen champion, a dagger held at her side, while opposite towers a grave figure armored from head to toe in jagged iron, two red eyes smoldering like witchfires from within his helm, an immense blade planted firmly at his feet. At the same moment, the steel on both sides flicks forward at lightning speed--- Sight comes back to Taranis. Night has fallen. An owlbear sits patiently before him, watching him curiously. After a moment, the creature lumbers to its feet, pads over, and nuzzles against him. The stones, still looming in the moonlight, fall silent.
Augrym hears some chatter about a tribe of strange, intelligent insects known as bog striders that live in the Hooktongue Slough. They are said to be at war with the region's much more prolific boggard tribes---perhaps they might be a useful ally. He also gets the impression that many of the more moneyed individuals in the court are tiring of the table, lodging, and entertainment to be found in this backwater town, and are complaining that the Duke insists on keeping this temporary seat with the war to the west so well in hand now. Delnin has no trouble finding a carpenter for his bee boxes, though he does get an earful about how kleptomaniacal the bears are in the Narlmarches. Tess learns that none here have met Armag. He is known only by reputation. Gozrek, eager to prove himself and to banish those unsettling vestiges at the edge of memory, of standing mute and miniscule before the discerning eye of a pale woman seated on an immense throne of bone, hurries off to find the cleric of Old Deadeye. Borzaki is ecstatic to see the wings. "So fresh! And remarkably intact, too. These are just what I need!" He urges Gozrek to return the next day. When he does, the priest presses a shimmering, gossamer cloak into his hands. Meanwhile, Taranis retires to his secret grove, searching for the wisdom of elders...
As you wind down your courtly duties for the month, a missive arrives from Satinder Morne in Fort Drelev. Letter:
Most noble of clients, Word reaches my ears that the great barbarian still roams in the north, and my hall, though calmer of late, is full of talk that he may yet turn south to clamber over our unfinished walls. Perhaps you might look into the matter sooner rather than later? I would so hate to see your name fall from its high esteem here, and get dragged through the mud before hearts and minds are securely won. Yours truly,
You gather for council on 8th Erastus.
Income Phase Step 1 - Withdraw from Treasury: Withdraw resources from the treasury for personal use, if desired.
Event Phase
Oleg heartily accepts the Duke's mead and asks only that Svetlana be permitted to join him. The revived trading post feeds the economy, and the disused caverns beneath the Old Sycamore tree provide a convenient place to stockpile grain, store arms, and provide shelter in times of trouble.
The meet-and-greet among old faces and new continues into the evening, over a fine meal of roast pheasant and summer corn at Abel's Inn, and over the next several days as the town grows increasingly crowded.
Within the week, the newcomers are given first-hand experience with holding court. Tatzylford's small, fortified town hall, the temporary western seat of the Marchlands, is a rather cramped space with courtiers jostling for position and a long line of petitioners stretching out the front doors. Three audiences in particular concern your immediate decision-making. The first is Mayor Loy Rezbin of Tatzylford, who comes forward with a proposal to extend the partially-built road from Tatzylford all the way to Wyvernstone Bridge. "...if this unpleasantness with Fort Drelev can be resolved, and a serviceable roadway established, I believe that Tatzylford and the Marchlands can benefit extremely from trade with the river traffic on the East Sellen, both north to Brevoy and South to the Mivon, Tymon, and so on." The second is a courier from John Fletcher, the commander of the Marchland Shields occupying Wyverstone Bridge. He wishes you well and asks after his sons---particularly Gozrek---but writes that he feels unable to adequately fulfill his more clandestine duties in the capital and eastern reaches of the Marchlands while he and the Shields are actively deployed in the field. As such, he begs that you will find a suitable replacement. Third, old Oleg Leveton comes hesitantly forward, encouraged by smiles and small gestures from his wife Svetlana. "My lord Duke, I'm come to ask that you might find another treasurer. I'm getting on in years, and I'm more 'ccustomed to running a shop than a duchy. City life don't agree with me, and though this here Tatzylford is homely enough, the trees make me a bit uncomfortable. I want to go back to the open plains and open sky around my trading post... though I still hope you'll consider that part of your duchy someday too."
Upkeep Phase Step 0 - Ruler: Declare the Duke's modifiers (Economy, Loyalty, or Stability).
Edict Phase
The journey back to Tatzylford takes only a day or two. With the court still removed to the wooded town, more folk from Solasgaard and elsewhere in the Marchlands have made the journey to speak to the Duke here. Every bed available for rent has long since been claimed, and some have set up tents along the roadway both east and west out of town. But standing by Mayor Rezbin at the door of the fortified town hall is at least one familiar face... one you have not seen in many, many moons.
The Duke's best guess is that these fey planned to swap these for normal toys in unsuspecting households for their personal amusement. It does not take more than a day to finish mapping the area, bringing you to the bright and hot morning of 22nd Sarenith.
Taranis finds naught but a few unstamped gold coins ( ) and some twisted, macabre-looking children's toys.
FAIL, FAIL, SUCCESS, SUCCESS, FAIL, FAIL
Unrak quickly cuts down a pixie, then steps to the south and ends another and its worg in two decisive strokes. His brother calls on the cleansing fire of the wilds to end the pranksters once and for all. Some high-pitched screams and anguished barking herald their final end.
Point of Order: since I can see, did the pixie adjacent to me draw an AoO?
Bytor strikes once with his blade! Round III
Taranis:
These are pixies. One question. Augrym cuts down another worg, leaving its invisible rider rather indignant. The worgs snap at the Huntsmen and their riders send dusters arrows flying. HIT plus nope
MISS
Round II
Riding atop the nearest worg the Huntsmen can now see small winged figure ringed with harmless flames and cackling with delight. Round II
Unrak grants himself new vision and spots a small brightly gossamer-winged humanoid riding each of the worgs, though one is now dusting itself off on the ground. Each his holding a small bow and sporting a wicked grin. Round II
Toth easily shreds one of the worgs. There is a soft *wump* as something else hits the ground, along with some cursing in Sylvan. Round II
Augrym knows these are not wolves---they are worgs. All five spring forward from the cover of the trees, most skirting the rock-strewn ground as best they can, but one picks its way straight through. Unrak puts an arrow through that one and the shaft buries itself deep in the creature's chest. Only one gets close enough to take a bite. plus nope However, from the backs all five worgs sparkling arrows fly into existence alongside some mad, high-pitched cackling. MISS MISS HIT HIT MISS Round I
There is some mild cursing and a few whimpers as the stones rain down. Unrak readies his bow. Round I
All Taranis hears in reply is some wicked-sounding cackling and the word "noob."
GM:
On the second day of exploration---20th Sarenith---the swamp gives way entirely to less waterlogged terrain. Trees grow more frequently, providing plentiful shade along fast-moving creeks. Sunlight streams through the canopy of leaves overhead and birds chirp to one another somewhere among the boughs. Somewhere ahead, Bytor thinks he catches a few words of Sylvan among the birdsongs, though it is hard to be certain. Something like "---pepper juice!" Or perhaps "---spoilt milk"? The he feels more confident about the words "shaved bear crib." Heading for the sounds, the Huntsmen step in a bright clearing with a little brook running across it. But from the underbrush on the far side of the clearing come the howl of wolves, and you can spot a few red eyes poking out from between the leaves. Initiative!:
+2 if Surprise +2 if Surprise Round I
On 18th Sarenith, the company turns southeast. Over the next day or so of travel, the swamps and marshes of the Slough slowly give way to sun-dappled forest glades here, a welcome change.
Bytor determines the diadem to be a headband of mental prowess +2 (Wisdom/Charisma).
In the naga's lair, Taranis finds naught but bones---the bones of hundreds of creatures, mostly men and boggards. Upon the brow of Ngara herself, however, he spies a copper diadem set with a small yellow diamond in its center.
Faced with the powerful jaws of death, Ngara draws on the last of her mightiest powers to unleash a torrent of ice shards at the tiger.
Inches from death himself, Toth cannot be stopped. He shreds the naga as she screams. A moment later, you all come to your senses.
Just barely hanging on to his wits, Taranis keeps his litter focused on the snake.
She slips through another dimensional doorway into her lair and fires off a quick healing spell, the muffled noise coming from within the Swamp Scar.
Round 6
"Hhhyyyaaaeee!" Blood now running thick from her scales, Ngara hisses furiously at Taranis. "Callll off youuuur catssssss!!!" After a moment's hesitation, Taranis obeys, calling Toth to heel and a moment later dismissing the leopards, and the naga frantically casts a few light healing spells. Curiously though, Ngara does not begin to eat you one by one. Instead, she starts to talk with you, learning about who you are, where you come from, about the growing kingdom to her east, the kinds of people living there, the burgeoning nation's spirit of exploration. After some hours of conversation, she simply sends you on your way---with one small favor to ask. "Much gooood wooood to be found here, yesssss! The Sssswamp Sssscar has much tiiiimber, and would make a prettyyyy pennnyyy. Tell your loggerssss, bid them come. I willll heeelp themmmm, yesssssss!" Her friendly countenance brooks no argument, and you promise to do just that when you get home.
Bytor and Unrak both come hustling over to Taranis with questions and admonitions. Augrym begins swiping at Toth with a scrap of papyrus.
Surrounded by angry cats, the naga speaks a word to slip through an extradimensional portal, appearing directly behind Taranis. The naga stares hard at the Duke with her huge glowing eyes... Round 5
The leopards have little hope of harming the naga---indeed, not a one pierces her scales---yet they may still prove a valuable distraction. Ngara ducks the thunderstone at the last moment, and it lands just southeast of her with a deafening bang. Toth, straining to his utmost limit against Unrak's mighty grip, gets one good chomp on the tail of the naga, whose wounds are beginning to mount. Round 4
Round 5
Toth already had a nap today, so he does not need one now! Round 4
Round 5
It all becomes clear to Bytor in a moment. The naga is not someone to fear, but rather someone to worship! A generous lady who provides for the land and culls only the weak. "Yessss, gooood!! Shhhhhut your mouth and give your chanting friend a niiiiicccccce tight hug." Meanwhile, Augrym's admonishes continue to do little to distract Toth. Unrak, on the other hand, somehow gets hold of the massive tiger, holding him in place. Ngara turns to face the held feline. "Yeeessss, ssssleeep now kittyyyy!" A wave of drowsiness washes over Toth. Round 4
Round 5
Bytor moves... closer... and gets a good look at the naga's furious, feral, friendly, cheerful, smiling, inviting expression. Round 3
Round 4
Bytor, still coming to, takes the fire full in the face. Round 3
Taranis ducks just in time to avoid the worst of the flames. Toth maneuvers around Augrym to again bring tooth and claw to bear on the naga. Round 3
Both Toth and Taranis are too distracted to pay much attention to Augrym's admonitions. "Two issss plentyyyyy," Ngara hisses, again slithering out of Toth's reach. "That leavessss two for eating, yessssss. Niccccce and crissssspyyyy....." A huge plume of fire erupts over Bytor and Taranis.
A moment later another quintet of force-bolts slams into Toth.
Round 3
The big cat shakes off the redbeard with ease. Round 2
Round 3
Unrak licks his lips, unbothered by the poison. At the same time, something stirs in him... he would not mind licking those lips again. And those eyes! "Resssstrain the tiiiger!!!" Ngara hisses at him. The tiger, paying no mind, launches another assault---this time finding his every move foiled by the naga's quick defenses and hardened scales. Meanwhile, Bytor is startled awake by Taranis's swift kick in the ribs. Round 2
Round 3
Taranis's pleas fall on deaf ears, for the half-orc is already rushing forward. Augrym looks into his foe's eyes, studying their intent, and his expression soon registers surprise. This is not a foe---but a friend! A kindly naga, all alone in the wilderness, only in need of an attentive ear in this big, cruel world. Augrym moves closes to his new-found companion. "Keeeeep the tiiiiiger off meeeee..." she hisses. Augrym steps over to obey. The naga intones a muttering of arcane power and snaps forward to lick Unrak's face, leaving a potent green slime on his lips. SUCCESS
She then slithers back out of Toth's reach and an instant latter fires off a set of magical bolts at Toth.
Round 2
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