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After hearing the essence of the discussion, Pick's brow furrows and he lowers his chin to his chest a moment. "Few hours," he echoes Ialia, scratching at his beard. "He maybe problem, then? Maybe he goes.... report, afterwards. Or do something else. Maybe chance to follow him too. But then, cannot follow Tuhrell and Marn, maybe..." He squints up at the sky. "They are on horse. I know part of where they are going. Some could go now, others catch up? I can send bird to you, with message, maybe."
The "magnificent eagle" on the roof of the animal shed watches the conversation between the others for a moment or two, wishing not for the first time that he had the gift of talking without having to become a humanoid again for the doing of it. Ah well. With a hop and a flutter, the bird drops down to the earth with the rest of the group, and then there is a blurring and twisting until the familiar form of Pick is back again. He staggers a bit, his sense of balance always taking a bit of a hit with the readjustment, and uses the wall to steady himself until muscle memory resumes. "The two heading for the river Tesh. A ford. East of White Chalk Hollow," he grunts. "Unless they changed paths later." The dwarf rolls his neck and flexes his fingers, trying to shake the phantom sensation of feathers. "The magic to make him like you. How long does it last?"
Sorry to have not weighed in earlier, it's been a week alright. But I did want to emphasize that I like my character and like the game, and want to continue. Pick is being quiet right now because as far as I'm concerned I'm not really doing anything relevant to the current scene. I do feel that maybe a document where we write down our leads, NPCs, etc might be useful; it also isn't necessarily only the job of the GM to maintain. When a game is slow paced it can be very easy to forget previous information that's been discovered or was mentioned literal months ago in the real world, which is a drawback of the PBP format in a way, though as Drifter says the written and searchable record is great. One question I have for my fellow group members is 'how often do you check Discord' ? That's not a judgment, it's me trying to gather information as to whether that's the best way to communicate. In most of my current PBPs, Discord has become the default for handling table talk (as opposed to the message board), so I just unconsciously assume that everyone else is as chronically plugged into Discord as I am, but that might not be right. If some of us are using Discord to make suggestions and other people only check Discord once in a while, that will certainly cause a communications gap that can create issues. For me, I'm going to absolutely see Discord posts every day, whereas (especially if a game has slowed down some) I may not actually get to the boards every single day- Discord is to me a great way to nudge someone that they might be up in the game, or that there's a moment for them to shine. But that only works if everyone is using it-- if not, then I can certainly make an effort to post here instead. Joreld, glad your computer woes are mostly past. This scene we are in-game right now does seem like a great chance for Joreld's persuasive skills to shine-- I'd hate for us to waste the good opportunity that Ialia's charm gave us by not milking it for all it's worth.
Having a sense of the direction of the two travelers, at least-- all he feels he can afford to gather right now, anyway-- Pick-the-eagle flicks a wing and starts to circle back. He commits to memory the faces and descriptions of the men, at any rate. This will also go in another letter to Dagger Falls. He hopes they are arriving safely there. The dwarf-bird does not know if the bat will keep pursuing, but at any rate, he cannot afford to get too far from the others. This group business is... complicated, he thinks. By the time he wings his way back to the farmhouse, the only person visible outside is Veil. The eagle swoops down to land near to Samara after a visual scan to be sure there are no new observers. Settling onto a rooftop or similar surface near to Samara, the bird lets out a soft small cry to apprise her of its presence, though Pick does not resume his own shape just yet. He likes wings. He always hates the moment of giving them up.
One thing he will never grow weary of is the sensation of flight. The dwarf-turned-bird rides the updrafts with flicks of powerful wings, rising slowly higher as the distance between the two men and the famrhouse increase-- to keep it all in view requires that he keep climbing into the air. But there are limits to this-- eventually the two men will travel beyond his ability to keep an eye on both targets. He'll have to pick. A few more looping circles, then he takes after the men, keeping a good distance from the understandably-anxious bat.
Pick blinks when Ialia strides out from cover to the farmhouse-- but her use of magic seems to have the farmer well in hand... at least for now. He is no charmer; he thinks that his talents might be better served seeing where the two visitors are going. Before Joreld and Calen rejoin the white haired woman, he mutters to them, "I go after the other two. For a bit." ...and then suits action to word.
The dwarf watches..... unable to properly keep an eye on his companions as they disappear from even his senses. He grunts to himself. They wait... and they wait.... and eventually, the two visitors once more depart. The dwarf scratches an itch behind his ear, expecting that his invisible companions will shortly return and relate what they saw.
Pick watches the others start to move.... or doesn't watch, in the case of those with invisibility. He winces a bit to himself at hearing the metallic noises of Joreld's armor, which seem loud to him in the early morning air, but hopefully they are not so audible to those inside. With a little nod, he pushes off from cover and works on edging closer.
He is not as quiet as he'd like to be, himself.
It appears the mystery figures are coming to them, so Pick nods his thanks to Samara for the spell and crouches patiently, waiting to see what develops. Something interesting, the obnoxious youth had said. That is the sort of language that could mean many things.
Pick nods in acknowledgment at Ialia's information of the approaching figures-- he has watched her send the bat off several times so far, envying the ease with which the little creature can take to the air all the time, instead of just for a few hours a day. Alas, to have a groundbound nature. He relates what his beetles observed, vaguely disappointed that there was nothing more damning inside the house, before dismissing them back to their own, beetleish pursuits. (Which mostly involve around eating leaves). Turning to Samara, he says, "Maybe... yizard armor for me? From stick? Good if I change, in fight."
Pick resumes his own shape once he has completed his circuit. He sits with the others who are awake and grunts out a description of the layout as he has seen it, complete with a dirt scratched map. It seems that, short of obvious evidence of something Afoot, they are playing a waiting game of seeing what dawn will bring.... and what 'something interesting' turns out to be.
"Pick. You have night sight?" The paladin whispered. "Do you think you can scout the barn safely?" The dwarf nods solemnly. "I go look. Now maybe best. Dark and quiet. Any magic to... pass words back?"
Pick leads the saddled horses to near the front of the inn and waits with the patience of a tree or a stone, content to be surrounded by the gentle neighing and wicking of the beasts, and out of the room filled with people and noise.
Pick has been wracking his brains trying to figure out the spell that was being cast and then it comes to him as the little group is gathering their things. He freezes for a moment, staring off into space, mind racing. A spell to detect creatures approaching... is it possible he was detected? Is it possible that he wasn't? He thinks back to everything he knows of this enchantment-- it is not his type of magic, but he saw many types of magic in the Feywild, over the years. It only goes out so far from the caster-- about twenty feet. That would have been enough to reach him on the outer wall-- but if it could have reached him through the wall, then it could have also reached many other people in the building. The spell would be useless if it were alerting its master every few seconds of a guest passing in the hall. Further, he cannot imagine that if they had known of his presence, that they would have spoken so candidly of their plans for Morn-- even if they were trying to lay a trap, it would have been a very risky gambit, a surety that he would take the bait rather than leave at once to Dagger Falls. No, it does not seem to make sense that it was all an intentional fake-out with his presence suspected. Still, he he will mention it to the others, once they are on the road. He has nothing truly to pack up. Pick mutters about readying the horses, and then slips out building to the stables to get them saddled. It would be better if their leaving was not seen by the inn's guests, but they are too many and not all of them can manage any sort of stealth, he feels. A covert exit does not seem practical.
I had missed that it was already nightfall, yeah, my bad there. I was thinking we were still in late afternoon. In that case, we can ignore my bit about waiting til dusk, but the rest of the idea of investigating the farm stands. Mostly as Samara said above. We have a group plotting against Morn and we have a missing scout of Morn's and we have the group's information that something 'interesting' is going on at the farm that belongs to someone higher-up in the group. In a best case scenario, that could mean 'they've got Glan there and plan to kill him.' For that alone it's worth investigating, I think. Of course it's entirely possible, even probable, that that's not what is going on there, but it still leads us towards someone (Brownrivver) who is higher up in the organization and who can be questioned as to what they know about Glan's whereabouts if we get the chance.
"Dark is good," Pick assents with a grunt. When Ialia signals her transcription is done, Pick takes it and rolls it tightly, tying it with a thread. He mutters that he will go send the message, tucking it inside his jerkin before he exits the room, goes back downstairs, and goes a decent distance away from the inn just to be sure no prying eyes happen to be catching what he's doing. He whistles low to the birds, begging the aid of a swift or a similar creature that can handle the flight to Dagger Springs with less rests than just any bird. A handful of crumbs from lunch serve as additional bribe. By his sense of the geography, they are perhaps forty-odd miles from Dagger Falls now, having completed a large U shape as they followed Glan's trail. It should be easy enough for his messenger to follow the Tesh River back to the Dale's capital.
With the note on the wing, Pick takes a few minutes to breathe deeply of the quieter air, able to hear the sounds of nature now rather than the voices and clamor of the inn. He sits down on the dirt, runs it through his fingers, touches grass quite literally. It is much more peaceful out here. But he cannot stay forever, so eventually a knock at the room's door heralds his return to the others. "We wait for dark? If so, I take nap. Nearer farm, I ask birds if they see things."
Ialia changes to Dwarvish: "Spare no details." She sets quill to paper. The dwarf nods and closes his eyes again to aid recall. He switches to Dwarven and recites, as near as he can recall it, every detail of the transaction. In Dwarftongue his speech is at least smoother. After this is done he frowns, rubbing his hands together slowly as he listens to the discussion of which lead to pursue, for they are splitting. It seems there are three distinct courses of action-- investigate the farm, follow some others of the 'green stones' like Skairris, or keep seeking Glanwyn. However... are there really three? Their leads on Glanwyn are currently thin to say the least. They know where he last was. They know where he was headed, but everyone there claims he did not arrive. Searching the open miles of wilderness between the two areas is daunting even for one versed in nature. Samara's logic seems to him to make sense-- Glan is known as Morn's agent-- a conspiracy against Morn could easily have entangled the scout in its midst, especially if he had uncovered the treachery and they had wanted to 'deal' with him. "We send message," he agrees with a deep sigh. Intrigues are not his strong suit. "Finding Glanwyn most important. But trail is cold and unclear. If you say, we focus on finding Glanwyn, not whispers: good. So.... how find Glanwyn? The dwarf paces as he talks, a bit restless, and moving may help him get the words out. "Glanwyn was in Dagger Springs. So were green stone people. Glanwyn leaves to go to Goldfields. Green stone people in Goldfields. Glanwyn not arrive in Goldfields-- or he does, and everyone there lies, but that is many lyings. Glanwyn is missing somewhere between Dagger Springs and Goldfields. This is many many places to search. Many open wild." This is a lot of words in quick succession from the dwarf. He pauses, wishing idly for water, then continues. "I think Veil right. Glan is Morn's man. Glan go missing in area where they plot to hurt Morn. Do not think... coincidence." Pick rubs his heavily callused hands together, stopping in front of the window to once again paranoically peer out and make sure they have acquired no eavesdroppers, shapeshifters or otherwise. He continues: "Still hours left in day. Much time to go back to Goldfields, look at Brownrivver farm. Or go in dusk. Not seen."
Moving back into the inn to go in search of Joreld, the group sees Ialia at the bar and Pick gestures at her to follow. In Joreld's room, the dwarf barely waits for the invitation to enter before sweeping in. First he goes to the window, opens the shutters, and checks that no oversize rats, or anything else, appears to be listening to their conversation. A second check back in the hallway, a glance under the furniture in the room.... Only when he feels reasonably confident they are alone does he begin to speak, no doubt with the others gazing curiously (or impatiently) at him. He closes his eyes to better recall the scene as he saw and heard it. "Nine in room," he says in a low voice. "Annika. Jamill. Garril. Hadam. Big beard man... Skairris maybe?" (This said with a slight incline of his head at Samara.) "Others, not know names. They talk and talk. They want to get rid of Morn. Choose who rules. Talking to make the new people join. Want to know if new people will fight. "Make threats, to the new ones, about staying silent. Group uses the green gems to know who is part. 'Brownrivver' part of group. Something happening at his farm, tomorrow, dawn. Something 'interesting.' Did not say more." The dwarf opens his eyes, musing if he got everything. "Oh-- beard knows some magic."
The dwarf sucks his teeth a moment. "Beard and others moving on to... some other place, tomorrow. Not going to farm. I will send note to Dagger Falls by bird. Someone else should do the writing. I write..." he pauses, frowning. "...I write big. Too many words for small paper."
The rat listens... and listens. Ears prick at the idea of changing the leadership of the Dale.... then lower again at the idea of a democracy. The dwarf is not attached to Morn for Morn's own sake. Rulership in the Feywild, such as it was, tended to be this or that powerful fey creature bossing about other fey creatures. He has no particular attachment to even dwarven monarchy, as long as it has been since he lived under it. In short, he does not feel that the people selecting their own ruler might be such a bad thing. However, the talk continues... and takes on a darker undertone. This is not mere idle chitchat, but people prepared to kill. A true conspiracy. And yet there is no mention of Glanwyn; these people are up to no good, but if they have done ill to Glan, they do not speak of it. The rat curls as small as possible as the conversation goes on and on. Finally the meeting breaks up. Pick waits till the room is empty before he dares scurry back down the building. He double and triple checks that nobody else is witness to his transformation before he once again dons dwarven flesh, trading skittering for walking once more. He takes a moment to get his bearings, breathing deeply, then walks brusquely back to the windowsill where Calen and Samara are (he hopes) still present. "Need to talk. All of us. In secret. The others go to rooms?" he says, an unusual flat urgency shading his tone.
Pick sees the table is currently cleared of anything he can easily reach. He brushes some crumbs from his hands and his beard, still mulling over the challenge of the spying. He does not want to become a dog again; the dog has been seen now. If he could be a mouse it would be ideal! But he cannot be a mouse. He has tried before. He is simply too much dwarf to cram into a mouse shape... perhaps with more practice. A rat is similarly too small. However.... Hmn. Pick scratches at his ear, then says to Calen and Samara, "I go try." The dwarf again wanders away from the windowsill and glances around to be sure he is not observed as he finds a place beneath where Basil maintains vigil. At least, not observed by anyone not an ally! Then, he crouches and thinks of rats, skittering claws, lashing tail, questing whiskers, sniffing noses....
Samara marks the people heading upstairs. She looks to the dwarf, taking a moment to make sure they aren't heard. ”Girl and others go up. Is meeting, I think. A bird or animal mebbe go near and hear things, eh?” Pick doesn't answer immediately, reaching through the window to take a seemingly unclaimed drink from the table and quaff from it. He rolls the beverage around in his mouth slowly, brow lightly furrowed as he seems to be considering something, and then a swallow. "Only... some animals. Small animals... hard. Hard to-- to-- squeeze down," he says slowly. "Birds... bigger birds. Eagles. Swans. Easy to notice." The dwarf shrugs and drains the rest of the glass before setting it carefully back on the table. "I try." He walks away from the windowsill.... to see that White Hair seems to have beaten him to the punch, and has a better companion for this tactic. Pick watches silently a moment as the woman and the bat triangulate to the presumably correct room, nods to himself, and returns to the spot at the window. [b]"White Hair's bat listens,"[/b]
Pick had circled the end to no particular benefit, checked on their horses, and finally encounters Samara again as she is leaning partly into the building calling for her tea. The dwarf makes his way over to her, though he cannot comfortably lean on the windowsill, being shorter than the Bedine. "No signs outside," he grunts, then blinks to realize there are more people here at their table.
Apparently, the windowsill is RIGHT in his way of whatever there might be to be noticed.
Inside the One-Horned Helm, Calen nudges Pick and points out the table his friends from earlier have joined, including the woman that he presumes is Annika. At his request for a round, the barmaid demands payment up front but after Calen proves he's good for it, she then makes the necessary arrangements. Around ten minutes later the drinks arrive and judging by the raised glasses, at least a couple of which are lofted in your direction, the gift seems to be largely greeted with enthusiasm. The dwarf grunts at Calen's indication of the table. He looks around for their red armored companion-- so far, the dwarf has noticed that the man seems to be the sort of human who other humans respond well to-- but Joreld is absent from the table. As are White Hair, Veil... For himself, he is not leaving the table until all of his food is all eaten and then inroads made on anything else that seems edible and within reach. The dwarf eats when it is available, and eats enough for the chance that the next meal may be long in coming, or skimpy. Right now there is food, so he eats to satiation. But the din of the conversation and presence of so many people wear on him. He finally pushes his chair back, glad enough to be out of it. "I go... look outside," he says to Calen, and proceeds to do that: circling the building, poking his nose (literally) into a few areas with the benefit of scent , and generally feeling a bit restless. If Glanwyn did not make it to Goldfields, but did make it to Dagger Springs, then the simplest sensible path is to travel again the routes between the two towns, and see where he might have ran into trouble between the two. But that is assuming that he did reach Goldfields and run into some trouble here.... that people are lying to them about. People. Pick sighs.
Pick is not the most social of creatures (gasp, shock). The food suffices to outweigh the people for the first half hour, and the dwarf eats with an appetite that is sufficiently dwarven, albeit with rather poor table manners. But with his belly full he begins to be less than delighted with the press of so many people. He does notice the elf, with a dark snort to himself over all the time they'd spent-- if they had just gone to inn anyway, the elf would have come to them, ha, ha-- and he at least points him out to the others with a brief grunt. This, to Pick, is the time for the people who like talking to do lots of talking. This is not him. He backs into a corner with a stein of the public house's ale and watches. He watches for strange things, for people who seem suspicious, for anything that catches his eye.
Hey, there's worse things to get out of some attempted espionage than a free lunch. Pick will not turn his nose up at the meat scraps; far from it. The height and elven ears of the figure briefly makes him hopeful-- then a sight of fiery red hair dashes it again. This is not Glanwyn anymore than the minstrel was. The dog huffs a sigh into his leavings. Another false lead. The dog stays in town only long enough to get a good glimpse of the man, to confirm, and then trots his way back down the road out of the village, to rejoin the others. *** When he meets up with the others, back out of sight of the village, he performs a complicated stretch that winds up with him back into his own body. The dwarf clambers back onto his horse before speaking, slightly sourly. "Man was an elf. Not Glan. Not sneaking or thieving or anything. Wasted time." *** The inn smells of dozens of people and various food scents, which make Pick's tummy rumble slightly. The scraps from Goldfields were tasty but changing his shape always makes him hungry. He nods an emphatic assent to stew, greens, bread, and cheese. If Samara finds chairs novel, Pick finds them known but not entirely comfortable. He takes a seat, half perched on the edge of it, looking around for, ideally, Glan seated by the fire. Of course that's not likely. But maybe the looking will turn up other things of interest.
When the woman briefly opens the door, Pick does his best to steal a glance inside while it's open, but he has mere seconds for this, it must be admitted. After she's closed it again, the dog slinks around the house, hunting for windows that he might be able to sneak a peek through, or a crack to put his ear at, as surreptitiously as he might be able to. He is just trying to ascertain if the somewhat-unusual figure is still in the building. If none of this is productive, he resorts to his last bit of plan: scratching at the door, whining, and doing his best to look pathetic and hungry when/if the door is opened. A beseeching stare. Puppy eyes. Acting is not his strong suit, but at least he knows the mannerisms of animals.
A mutual sniffing session occurs as the two dogs get to know each other. Pick sometimes thinks it would be nice if two-legged people were open to being sniffed as a greeting ritual. It seems so much more straightforward than trying to talk your way through introductions, with all the potential for misunderstandings and so forth, and of course words can lie... smell doesn't. Usually. After introductions are concluded, Pick the dog wanders, aimlessly, over to the house in question, to sniff around the scent trail that hopefully the tall cloaked figure left in their wake. He wants to get the person's scent if nothing else-- the next step will be to scratch at the door and look pitiful and hungry, most likely.
He doesn't share Ialia's idea that her efforts have been wasted. After all, nobody is going to think twice about a stray dog when there's a flying woman to gawk at.
Pick is skeptically silent to Ialia's assertion that people rarely look up. In his experience of farmers and their ilk, checking the sky to assess the time of day by the sun, or to see if the rainclouds look like they might be clearing up, or to check if that shadow on the ground is a bird overhead or a wyvern... is frequently enough done. But he does not speak his thoughts on this aloud. This is possibly because he is a dog and cannot talk. Instead, when Veil offers to use the wand on him, his canine head tilts to one side, curiously. He had not understood that the 'yizard armor' could be cast on others. Interesting. The dog gives a single bark of assent, and holds still for the casting, before the aforementioned trot back towards the village goes as mentioned.
Pick mulls over the suggestions from both Ialia and Calen. "White Hair up in sky - very... easy to see. No way to hide. If use magic, use for her, I think. You two choose." He shakes his head in the negative in regards to Ialia's question about if he can talk while in dog form. Someday, but not yet. "Three barks is danger, come help." Pick will ride til they are clearly out of sight from any of the villagers, then slide off his horse to the ground. After a moment's thought, he takes various items off his person-- he cannot use them as a dog, after all-- and puts them into his saddlebag, in case the others need access to them . "Lead my horse?" he asks Veil. Then, the dwarf closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Think dog... earthsniffer, fourpaws, wagtail, sharpears, wetnose.... A handful of seconds later and a rusty-colored mutt of no particular breed crouches where the dwarf previously stood. The dog shakes its head once to clear out some lingering dwarf-thoughts. It rolls in the dirt of the trail to get its coat a bit shabbier-looking, and then pads back towards Goldfields and the house in question.
Pick cranes his neck backward, frowning as he catches a glimpse of a person that surely wasn't among those they saw in the village. He shades his eyes with his hands, squinting over the distance, and grunting one of his customary grunts. "Tall figure. Cloaked," he says, though judging by where Calen and Ialia are looking, they also noticed. He scratches his jaw with stubby fingers. "Maybe I go see? In dog-shape. Meet with you at Helm?" he says slowly, looking at the others after a delay. He is not used to working with others, but he supposes having to run plans by the others is, perhaps, part of how it works.
Pick grunts. "We go there, then." The dwarf levers himself back up into his saddle with a little 'oomf' of effort-- the saddle and horse were sized for someone taller than him-- and without further words turns his horse to the west, seeming to feel that that is all that need be said on the matter.
Pick has slid down from his saddle and is in the process of starting to take gear off the horses when the words about the Helm are exchanged. He sighs slightly-- it may not be that far away, but a few miles west is still a few miles west, and their traveling day is not yet over. At least there are good odds that Glanwyn might also have gone to the roadhouse. The dwarf gives an apologetic pat to the nose of his horse before re-tightening the cinch. That done, his eyes move restlessly over the small group of gawking villagers, watching the interactions between the townsfolk and his group.
Pick scratches at his beard as he listens to Samara and Ialia offering their thoughts. Something strikes him as amusing, which is manifested as a short earthy snort. He points between the two women. "Fire...." indicating Samara; "...ice." Indicating Ialia of course. As Owl's human is nighttime, and Horse's human is morning. This contrast, though he doesn't say it aloud, earns another small snort of humor from the dwarf. Where does it leave him? Somewhere in the middle, he supposes. Which probably suffices to sum up much of his existence. Pick shakes away such musings to focus on the matter at hand. "Maybe... is good to know... who can heal? Red Armor. White Hair," (another slight nod of thanks for last night) "and.... me, little bit. With stick." He pats the wand in his pocket. "Can heal... bigger... if I plan to, day before. But better things for magic for me." He throws an enquiring look at Calen to see if the owl's human wishes to weigh in on the matter of healing capabilities. Ialia has brought up a useful point as well, though the dwarf does not think twice about her reluctance in sharing it-- for a person who spent half his life among creatures with otherworldly abilities, his baseline of judgment has little to do with 'human' and otherwise. "I see in dark too. But not very dark. Like I make last night. Nobody see in that."
As far as Pick is concerned, the burying just interrupts the natural order of the predators coming on the dead and disposing of them in a perfectly normal way, and dragging the corpses a sufficent distance from their camp would have been fine.... but the issue is not important enough to him to resist the desires of Owl's Human. It seems meaningful to him. He is silent during the benediction, having little enough space for most of the gods in his view of the world. After all, he had sent many a prayer to Moradin, once upon a time, that had gone unanswered. Fortunately the burial is quick, as these things go, and he wipes dirt from his hands as he prepares to catch a few more winks before they must be moving again.... **** The next day dawns cloudy, but Pick doesn't mind that. It keeps the travel from being too warm. He inspects his person as they ready for the road-- there are nothing more than twinges remaining. Horses are saddled, their fast broken without the bother of a fire-- jerky can be gnawed cold, a handful of nuts and dried berries eaten without any need for fuss. Of the items that their enemies carried, the only one that he has much interest in is the scimitar, especially once Veil explains it has enchantments. "Others want this?" he asks, holding the curved blade aloft with an enquiring look at the rest of the group. *** They have several a half a day of travel to reach Goldfields, and while Pick is hardly verbose, he does break his customary silence a few times on the road: With Ialia, at some point Pick nudges his steed closer to hers on their journey. "You heal me. Thank you. I have debt to you." With Samara, he intermittently points out objects around them in order to briefly grunt the name of each in the Dwarven tongue-- sky, horse, cloud.... hand, eye, hair... It seems he takes their bargain seriously enough. To all of them, when they have taken a momentary pause to water the horses and stretch their legs, Pick clears his throat a few times before reluctantly speaking: "Last night... we do not fight as pack. Maybe we do good to talk. To learn..." he gestures around their loose circle, trying to indicate a need to share information as to their capabilities. "What we do. Travel better. Fight better. Yes?" ***** When Goldfields comes into sight, he lets out a small sigh of relief. It will be good to get off the horse. He likes the animal; he doesn't like riding. He nods once at Calen's words, feeling that the sentiment does not need further words-- it is reasonable, so yes, they do that.
Pick is not expecting Ialia's swift and sudden healing touch; for a moment she sees the dwarf look wide-eyed in startlement at her before he understands what she is doing. He grunts a noise of appreciation, though the white-haired woman is already flying to perform recon. With the magic taking the edge off the pain and with their enemies fleeing, Pick sits heavily down in order to address the arrow still in his person. His teeth bare white in the dimness as he feels the depth of the shaft in his gut and performs the thoroughly unpleasant calculus of whether he should try and pull it back out against the barb or break the shaft and push it through. Neither appeals, but the arrow must come out. Pick grinds his teeth to try and muffle some very unpleasant noises as he does what is needful. The pain will be intense, but brief, and then he can use the stick of healing on himself...
A half a minute later and his superficial injuries have all been closed; the deep gut wound is now mostly a scratch. Pick heaves a sigh as he gets back to his feet and makes a ginger way to the others. "My watch was bad. Will do better," he says uncomfortably. "...others hurt?" The notion of ensuring that the corpses do not draw predators earns a tired nod from him but he goes to assist with the dragging. And the searching. He is not going to take a bite of bugbear flesh, but he will certainly inspect their armor, weapons, and anything else they were carrying. Inwardly, Pick does not think that the would-be bandits will, in fact, rethink their lives and become nice people, but he is not particularly eager to go chasing the creatures back to their lair and likely take more arrows in the gut for his troubles.
Pick had been planning on closing with the two approaching from hiding.... but the blaze of fire, and Calen's bolt, makes that unnecessary. With a grunt that is half satisfaction and half pain from the arrow still buried in his gut, Pick turns to look for other targets, and finds one duly advancing. A rasping whisper speeds his feet, and then he starts towards the bugbear who is foolishly coming closer.
Pick whispers words to harden his skin to the consistency of bark. Then, he braces for the pain as he rolls to his feet and moves slightly closer to their assailants.
Pick hisses as another arrow finds a lucky mark in his flesh. Thankfully not as deep as the one in his gut, but still. Flat as he is, the smell of the earth is strong around him, overlaid by the copper brightness of his own blood. Is this, tonight, where he returns to the earth? In the darkness... He shakes away the morbid thought at hearing Red Armor's cry of readiness. Owl's human also speaks-- a warning of being surrounded. The dwarf curses himself for failing to spot the ambush. Do better, next time. If there is a next time. Red Armor has said he is ready; he must assume the others are as well if no one is telling him to wait longer. The darkness fades to nothing, becoming only the normal dark of the night, albeit lit now by Calen's spell of a few seconds past. Without the benefit of the dark around them, he must consider other forms of defense. Pick envisions the great cats of the Feywild, the silent hunters who seem able to dodge any blow-- even as he reaches one bloodied hand for a more prosaic means of defense, the wooden shield that hangs over his shoulder. It's a somewhat awkward roll-twist-don, as he has not yet stood up, but he winds up on his side, curled small as he can under the protection of the shield, getting ready to get back to his feet in a moment.
Pick is not asleep, but he is, perhaps, thinking of other times, other places, as the night slowly ticks by. The rotation of the stars overhead cannot be seen due to the cloud cover, and he has only his own sense of the passing time to guide him as to when his shift should end and he should wake Samara. He is thinking of time in the other world, the more vibrant world... An arrow wakes him rudely from his woolgathering. Pick's teeth bare in a sudden breathless snarl of pain. Attack-- where-- There. Distant bodies, slinking through the woods, and Pick can testify that their bows are accurate and strong. Nnngh.... One hand moves to the arrow buried in his gut, feeling the depth of it. the dwarf growls loud enough that nobody can justify sleeping through it, he hopes. He dashes forward, drops to the ground trying not to drive the arrow further into himself (ow ow ow), and his fingers of his free hand find a stone in the grass. A single sharp syllable in the secret language of the druids, and a darkness darker than mere night envelops the entire area like a shroud of oblivion. There is a lot of information to convey to the others. Pick hates talking. Hopefully they are all awake now and he does not need to repeat any of this. "Three archers. A longbow shot away to south. Dark is mine-- hiding us! I end it when we ready." If the dwarf's voice is raspier than usual, well, he's got a lot of blood pumping onto his fingers just now.
For the remainder of the day of travel, Pick spends his time scanning the earth as they go, though he knows that each falling raindrop makes tracks that much less likely to have survived even one day's time, let alone ten. But what else is there to do? When they stop throughout the day to stretch their legs, eat dried fruit and meat, and water the horses, Pick always seeks out a spot of high ground from which to observe the upcoming terrain and try to scan for any trouble ahead, or just 'the path' that he imagines Glan might have taken-- a path that allows one to stay hidden yet observe others, that does not force one over arduous terrain when it can be helped, and so forth.
After the hours have grown long and the sun begins its westward slide, Pick joins with Calen in the search for a nice dry place to make a camp, even if it means rather close quarters with one another.
As the other nights, he takes it on himself to see to the horses if nobody beats him to it, and once again he whistles up a bird from the wilderness around them in order to send a third update to Dagger Falls as to their current location and bearing. He volunteers to take the third or fourth watch-- the darkest part of the night. Other than that, he makes no small talk with the others.
The dwarf's eyes narrow a bit at the man. "Hnnhh. Tell all truth, not look like fool." He turns to the others and gives a little shrug. "May be fool, but not crime to be fool. Or many go jail. We keep going? Or more questions?"
Pick gazes steadily at the man, head tilting slowly to the side. "You leave Green Orb.... go west... two days travel on foot, to be here. Enneth is north from Green Orb. One day on foot. Long... way around to get to... Enneth. Why come west so far?" His expression is stony and unsmiling-- which could be distrust, or could just be his resting granite face.
Pick glances briefly in Ialia's direction but his default stony expression does not change. He also feels that if the man has nothing to share they should move on-- but there is the slight issue of 'to where', given that this lead has seemingly dried up. They can resume a general northernly route, of course, but the field of search to hopefully find Glan's trail has now widened considerably again. Pick absently picks his teeth with one sharp thumbnail while he waits to see if there is any response at all from the talkative man. Though he supposes there is one question that has pricked at him-- "Enneth is east. Where you come from, out here? Not many places to play local."
".... Pick." The dwarf would no doubt prefer to leave it there, but he is aware that, unfortunately, he is the only one of them who can provide an actual physical description of Glanwyn, which the man has asked for. Reluctantly, he clears his throat. "Missing man is elf. He is.... this high," a hand in the air to indicate Glan's height, "...hair... this length..." another gesture, "...color of..." Pick thinks a moment, then supplies a suitable natural substance in the world that is the same color as Glan's hair.
Pick asks no questions, at least not from the man. He keeps his eyes on their surroundings, scanning sky as well as the earth below, though he doesn't really expect Glan's footprints to magically appear here. The false trail means lost time... and a much wider swath of wilderness that could be hiding any sign of the scout. Perhaps if he were to wear an eagle's form he could scout more efficiently... but it would mean leaving the others.
The dwarf frowns as he straightens up from his sniffing. The smell is... not Glan. Not obviously. Smells like human. But... this is still their best lead, even if he has a sinking suspicion it is a false one. Pick keeps his brooding thoughts to himself as they work on catching up with the track-maker. Who, Pick notes with disappointment, is not Glan, as soon as they are close enough for him to be able to pick out details. "Not Glanwyn," he says to the others, but does not object to approaching anyway. Perhaps those who are good at speaking can learn something from him.
At Samara's question, Pick duly produces the boot of their missing ranger and compares it. It's nothing conclusive, but it's of a size that it's reasonable to conclude the prints could be Glanwyn's. Seeking more confirmation, Pick focuses for a moment and then spends a minute quite literally nosing around the old campsite. He knows that the chances that any scent lingers this long after Glan's (hopeful) presence are slim, but the attempt costs him little.
After a minute of smelling at the extinguished fire, the flat area where a person might have laid, and the footprints, Pick stands up and shrugs. "Footprints best lead. We follow? Much daylight still."
After staring into the drizzling sky overhead for a few moments, Pick grunts, lowers his face, and wipes a little rainwater away with the back of his arm. A stick serves as a stylus for drawing a quick and dirty (har har) map on the ground to indicate the tree patches, the major hills ahead, and the possible campsite. "Trees here." Stick-poke at his trees, and it's probably good he explained what his squiggly lines are meant to represent, for he is not an artist. "Here... maybe someone camped. Good place for it. There was fire... probably. Also.... some people... here... and here... and.... single people... here." He ponders his crude dirt map, then looks up at the others from his position crouched on the ground. "Go look at camp?"
The dwarf's chanting seems to be a spell to sharpen his already formidable nails. The bone itself sparks with magic to Samara's senses, and she is able to put together that it functions as a lesser rod of extend, prolonging the spell he is performing upon himself.
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