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Ultimately, through the uproar and salvos of foodstuffs, Daniel manages to give the Three Waters guardsmen the slip. As he races off into the growing twilight, he passes the outer ring of wardposts and approaches the canyon. Well, what now? he asks himself.
As the madness continues, the two guardsmen attempting to bring in Daniel do their utmost to wend their way through the crowd. Brel attempts to wipe the muck of pie from his face while blundering in the direction he last saw his quarry, and his partner tries to dash along the festhall perimeter after climbing out from under the tables.
Brel's vision is still clouded by crust and filling, but only barely. Even so, he still manages to shove past no few of the now-marauding partygoers. It seems that the Three Waters duo divided their responsibilities based upon their own personal strengths, and for good reason. Though he's a fair hand at speaking politely and winning folks over (usually the "good cop" in their work), the spokesman-constable isn't so deft on his feet, and he slips to the floor, and barely manages not to join the Regurgitation Regiment after he notices what caused the slip. Meanwhile, Allvin's jaw has been introduced to Lord Mactus's fist in the most incredible of ways . . .
. . . and the young carpenter drops like a rock to the wood floor. Skill Challenge Scorecard:
Clem's thrown pie falls to the floor, totally missing any possible target, but adding to the gathering residues that will soon make footing precarious. Fitz's quick-step jab completely levels a snooty-looking intermediary who had been sitting at the masters' table. Fitz feels a deep sense of satisfaction as the fellow's overconfidence turns into unconsciousness. Durr begins to strain against his captor, but doesn't make any real progress toward escape. The burly man reacts by trying to turn the grapple into a rib-cracking bear-hug: Purity's giggling fit may feel fun, but the poor girl's drunkenness is doing her no favors in the realm of 'danger awareness'. Albion tries to brace himself versus the oncoming tide of bodies, hoping that he can just stay upright and not be trampled as the former dance floor becomes a mosh pit. Allvin's surprise increases as the Lord of Last Rest himself wades into the brawl, and the middle-aged man aims a left hook at his jaw! Hello there, kid! Best of luck tomorrow! What had been a pleasant evening of conversation turns into a madhouse of shouting, flying food, and random attacks -- this was the worst behavior Daenara had ever seen! Shock upon shock!! Alaros tries to curl up into an even smaller space next to the legs of the trestle table he's under, and is safe . . . but only for a moment. Too many people are hitting the floor for someone to not notice him hiding away under there. Sven's sloppy opportunism may be rewarding him with some tasty treats, but having your hands full and trying to eat while standing in the thick of an ongoing battle (no matter how friendly) isn't such a good idea . . . . Caraya's clothes were absolutely covered with . . . barley broth? Is that what it was? It was going to a true bother trying to get it out in the wash . . . . But in the moment, other things were more pressing! And in the midst of all this, Daniel, still seeking to evade the Three Waters Guard, can't make good progress through the crowd, but does manage to catch Brel full in the face with what may be the best-thrown pie of the night! Blizzard's only advantage in all of this furor is that he'd only just gotten back from visiting his old comrades, and was on the edges of the scene as it went from mildly funny to absolutely hilarious. It's a good thing, too, because his reactions weren't up to speed . . . .
Ye took m'cheese, you scabby lout! cries the old-timer, and with that, he hurls a table knife at the back of Clem's head:
And on the other side of the table, Durr turns to find himself face to face with a . . . well-fed . . . male citizen who looks close to hopping mad. And said big-fella does not try to hug the rascally Durr . . . .
. . . but Durr finds himself tangled up with a man near to twice his size. And as the thrown knife ricochets harmlessly off of the floor at Clem's heel, it plows directly into an elaborate coiffure of an attending lady. Which then plops off her nearly-bare scalp into an oversize bowl of soup . . . . . . and the ensuing eruption of broth douses a host of other persons, who take umbrage at the assault. Hard-baked loaves are launched in fusillade. Bowls of salad, stew, and vegetables are cast spinning through the air, scattering their contents and bludgeoning no one in particular. The last aliments to be thrown aloft are the various steaks, chops, and rib portions, often with sighs of loss and resignation. The Great Food Fight of Last Rest has begun. And seizing upon the opportunity, Lord Mactus waves away his guards and roars over the din:
And he flings himself over the table and into the fray.
Sven:
Growing ever more frustrated with the spiraling chaos about them, as well as their strange inability to grab just one young man, the smooth-talking guard changes his tactics: You should all be helping us, citizens! We are here on business for the Count's city guard! Grab that kid, that Daniel!!
And he drops to the floor and scoots beneath the table, catching sight of Daniel's heels as the younger fellow squirms along the floor and then back into the throng. Daniel's cries of innocence are beginning to have some sway with the crowd, and he begins to hear a murmur of assent. A handful of voices rise up: Let the boy finish the Trial, at least! and You're a long way from Three Waters! Got a writ from the court to chase that youngster all the way here? and A cheap shot, trying to get a collar at a Vale party! Got no class, huh? Brel gets a confused look on his face when he finds his partner staring back at him from under the food-laden table instead of Daniel, so he whips his head back and forth quickly, scanning the hubbub for his mark.
Ha! Not so fast, punk!! Gotcha on the run now! he crows, and bolts after Daniel, bulling his way through the throng.
Alaros might be terrible at hiding (at the moment), but he can tell that it won't take much more to flip this from a crazed pursuit that will be the talk of the town for a few days into a brawl that will leave a mark on the Vale's memory for years. And he knows that Clem and Durr will be the ones that give it that last little . . . push. Skill Challenge Scorecard:
Having rounded the row of tables to advance on Daniel's whereabouts in a pincer maneuver with Brel, the other guardsman catches a hunk of some pungent dairy with his nose, courtesy of Clem. A balding teamster glares at Clem for stealing his favorite cheese, and it's unclear whether or not the townie is actually going go after him!
Throat burning, nostrils burning, ears burning, Daniel has enough sense to keep making efforts to get away, and he starts to crawl along the floor under the row of tables. With any luck, his pursuers won't know which way he went.
Durr manages to "deflect" a thirtysomething woman toward Brel, by the power of both his reflexes and his aroma. But it would appear that she has dealt with her fair share of ghastly bodily (dys)functions, and she shakes off the impulse of sympathetic regurgitation.
Once again, Brel moves with eerie grace or dumb luck and the stumbling woman coasts past him. He leans down to peer between the tabletop and the built-in bench seat, trying to locate his quarry.
And while Durr's quick wits may be serving to cause the lawmen some issues in nabbing their man, he's also drawing some attention that might not go so well for him . . . .
As the Three Waters guard shouts to the bystanders for aid, he is disgusted that no one moves to help -- it would seem that Lord Mactus' decree that he wouldn't lend a hand has carried over to most everyone present, too. Still, he is able to start making up the ground he lost earlier. It appears that the plentiful ale and his womanizing efforts haven't done much for Daniel's coordination -- he plops onto the floor and scoots under the built-in bench seat, but doesn't get much farther. Which is convenient, in way, because at least he's still out of
The guard quickly bends his knee to avoid risking a sprain (or worse), but the blast of vomit proves to be too much for him, and he winds up emptying his own stomach directly onto his own boots. And unfortunately for Daniel, the young man is entirely too close to this stuff of healers' nightmares, and has to try to keep his own guts under control . . . .
. . . and he straightaway adds the contents of his own stomach to the growing puddle of wretched digestion. Skill Challenge Scorecard:
The guard "spokesman" finally shakes off his befuddlement and sees that Brel hasn't gained much ground on their quarry, so he bolts between the tables, heading toward the outer wall of the festhall. He begins to shout as his boots pound the stone floor: Move, people! Move!! Grab that brat!!
Daniel shrieks over his shoulder: They're liars!! I didn't steal anything!! He notices that every walkway away from the guardsmen is gummed up with aghast onlookers, so he decides it's time to risk something a bit tricksy.
Brel dashes to the place he last noticed Daniel and attempts to shove the whole table away, hoping the uncover his target.
As a chorus of muffled guffaws rises from either end of the masters' table at Fitz's declaration of name and family, and his intrepidity at even petitioning Lord Mactus for "More", the Three Waters guardsman next to him gapes at the younger man, dumbfounded. Being clubbed in the face with a corner post would evoke a similar expression; the addled law officer does not wear it well. And so it is, in spite of his shock, and oblivious to the dumped lass at his feet, Daniel begins to spring away, showing an uncanny awareness of the moment. Not too distant, Brel has begun to prowl forward, callused hands reaching forward, intent on grabbing the suspect as quick as a wink.
He's so intent on nabbing the adolescent culprit that he bowls through Clem's splashing ale, and glides over the splattered soup that Durr dropped, as though nothing at all is in his way. Watching all of this, Mactus roars with laughter, putting his discourse with Fitz on pause so that he can savor the shenanigans of this game of 'Constables and Robbers'. Skill Challenge Scoreboard:
As the tumult reaches a crescendo behind him (and threatens to become even louder), Fitz's address to Lord Mactus is met with a chilly smile. Young man, I and my people have organized and held this night's feast and offer of safe rest for each and every one of you. It seems to me that you and the other initiates have had four days to acquire more gear -- and coin will likely be completely useless to you until after the Trial's conclusion . . . . Unless you use it for sling bullets, that is. But as it stands, if you have firewood, climbing gear, torches, and a hatchet, you're far better off than some have been before traveling into the canyon and beyond. So to answer your question: I have nothing further to provide you or your companions. But I appreciate the fortitude it required to ask for more aid. What is your name, initiate? --------------------
Feeling more free than he has in days, Blizzard loiters around the festhall (carefully keeping out of line of sight of the chamberlain) until all of his charges arrive for the meal. And then he eases away from the fairgrounds and back into the town proper, starting to make the rounds with some of the old hands from the Company. And though the first couple of welcomes were rather chilly, it didn't take long for the former Rangers to realize that Blizzard was more sober than they had seen him in years. Perhaps not stone-cold clear of it, yet, but less gruff and foul-mannered. Doors were opened . . . and it wasn't long before a gathering of five of the 'old guard' were huddled together at a table in a nice house in the merchants' district on the south side of Last Rest. The conversation isn't very lively, but it is full of good memories. The friendly grousing and anecdotes of off-duty shenanigans carries on for a good while. But, very naturally, the discussion turns to current events -- the state of things, the Trial, and the tragedy of Dawn Ferren. The retirees ask about Kadmin and his plans, trying to gauge what the wily officer has in the works -- they've been unusually starved for information lately, even from their own old job contacts, so they look to Blizzard to help break that silence. One thing that is mentioned, almost in passing, is that the old hands have heard that Vic Ferren has been seen in town, and that he came to Last Rest via the South Road. Rumor has it that the Count's nephew has just completed his training at the prestigious military academy in the kingdom's capital, but he seems to have taken a very direct interest in what happened to his cousin. As the evening wraps up, Blizzard's old acquaintances give him a lantern, four flasks of oil, a winter blanket, an extra length of rope , a climbing hammer, and ten pitons -- just a few things that might prove to be of help. You take care now, Blizz. Glad to see you getting back into form, chap. Keep on your toes! ------------------
Eventually, Lord Mactus calls for quiet throughout the festhall. The music stops, and the cadence of dance steps stills. He makes a speech somewhat like the one the initiates heard from Count Ferren at the outset of the Trial, reminding everyone present of the importance of tradition, and the sense of community the Trial is meant to build. His words are brief, and to the point, and the gathering realizes that he will soon retire to the keep for the night, even though the festivities will continue for as long as the people desire. Into that waiting silence, a voice calls clearly. My Lord Mactus! I have business on behalf of the Three Waters Guard! May I approach? Daenara's attention is snatched away from Celia's whisperings, and she sees the smooth-talking guardsman draw near to the masters' table. This is it! She scans the crowd and quickly finds Brel staring daggers at Daniel, who has a comely young lass in his lap and a tankard in his fist. My associate and I have been sent to apprehend one Daniel, as part of an investigation into a theft in the County capital that took place the day before the Trial began. Have we your leave to finish our task? Mactus replies, As you well know, guardsman, the Trial has begun. And its participants are to be unrestrained once they reach the boundary of this town after the feast. I will not stand in your way, but, . . . here the nobleman offers a wickedly merry smile, . . . I will not turn my men to support you. If you can catch the youngster before he reaches the wardposts, then the capture is legitimate; but if he eludes you, then you can address this infraction after his part in the Trial is done. The Lord of Last Rest's voice rises loudly: Daniel! Daniel of Three Waters! Your accusers have come to take you before the law!! Unless you wish to wait for five years more to become a man, then now is your time to Belatedly realizing that his name is being called, and in the context of "accusers" and "law", Daniel springs to his feet, unceremoniously dumping his would-be paramour on her teakettle. His expression is wholly dumbfounded -- his mouth opens and closes a few times in silence, and his legs shimmy beneath him, as though he cannot decide what direction to run. He shakes his head furiously, blurts out I DIDN'T DO IT!, and begins rushing toward the exit.
Fitz takes to working the crowd as thoroughly as he can, inquiring about how people have taken the news of the killings on the mesa. There is a great deal of sadness, and nearly as much outrage. And there are rumblings about the political significance of the deed -- young Lady Ferren's trip to Last Rest was an opening of negotiations between the Count and Lord Mactus for a betrothal. The failure of both families to keep Dawn safe may have powerful consequences for both the Vale and the kingdom at large, some think. The "bigger picture" seems too far outside Fitz's scope, though, and he keeps the conversation focused on the physical details of what and the other initiates saw on the way here. The strange clumps of torn wood, the weird outline they formed, the relative neatness within the carriage and the slaughter without . . . and everyone he asks is just as puzzled! However, once Fitz mentions his "friend" (who has continued to make a distraction of himself, if only to help Fitz seem more socially awkward than he is), most folk begin to trade looks of Is this kid serious? before polite yet forced efforts are made to turn the discussion to other things. However! Eventually Fitz does indeed manage to mention the faeling to someone with a bit more open-mindedness, and he is directed to speak to an elder seated at the very end of the masters' table. Proceeding with all the proper deference he should, Fitz approaches Lord Mactus' great table and asks to speak with Sage Harsyd concerning the Trial. The ruler of Last Rest graciously allows Fitz to approach the aged historian, and periodically glances their way as the two speak. Old Harsyd is old. So old that his robes are threadbare, motheaten in a few places, and faded from blue and brown to dull gray and tan. His back is hunched with age so that his narrow shoulders and the bald crown of his head, wreathed with a fantail of frazzled, curly white hairs, are all that can be seen of him, at first. Ice-blue eyes, clouded to near-blindness by cataracts, peer up at Fitz as he approaches. Fitz's greeting is met by a hail of phlegmatic coughing that sets all nearby on edge, as though they expect the wizened old man to fall to pieces and die with each rattling explosion. But the tremors subside, and Fitz makes his pitch. It is swiftly apparent that though Harsyd is physically fragile in the most intense ways, the old man has not lost a step mentally. At all. Within moments, Fitz is fielding a barrage of questions, unrelenting and intense. As the youth offers his replies, Harsyd's titanic eyebrows twitch in sequence, every answer effecting a visual similar to two children playing at seesaw. And as the old-timer analyzes the details, his demeanor changes dramatically, as though something vital and near-forgotten had wakened within him after a too-long sleep. It takes a couple of minutes, some labored breathing, and several shooing motions, but Harsyd rises to his feet, leaning on his staff. Fitz cannot help but notice that in his prime, Old Harsyd had to have stood over seven feet tall. A whipcord arm shoots out and grabs Fitz's wrist, wrenching his hand toward the sage's eyes for inspection. The calluses and scars the young man has earned in his short life are examined, and suddenly those blue-milk eyes are boring into Fitz's. You've been picked, boy! Harsyd whispers. And I don't know whether to pity you or applaud. I don't think it has anything all to do with what happened to young Dawn directly, but this "ouphe" has been keeping close to you for a . At Fitz's confused expression, Yes, boy -- an "ouphe"! Muddy brown skin, long pointed ears, golden-yellow eyes, a too-big mouth, and laughing at everything? An ouphe. I'll wager the ugly bugger is right over my shoulder as we speak! (Fitz doesn't have the heart to tell the wise man that the creature was actually seated on his shoulder.) Harsyd continues: Fourscore and ten years and more I've been alive, young fellow, and never has anything like this happened in living memory. Have a care about what that little beast asks of you. If you ever agree to a favor with it, you should know that it will have to be paid back in full -- and not according to convenience! A favor granted is a debt owed, with their kind. Best not to accept, though the tales say they have ways of leveraging circumstances to get what they want out of you. The geezer's near-sightless eyes take on a mixture of dreadful knowledge, bone-deep fear, and the faintest glimmer of hope as the lorekeeper concludes. They can give you power, boy -- power like the old legends say, the stuff the minstrels sing about in their tavern halls. But the cost! . . . . Walk wisely, young man. I wish you well in the Trial. But if the fae are at last stirring, I have work to do. Enjoy the party. Harsyd dodders up to Lord Mactus' seat, leaving Fitz . . . well, . . . possibly even more confused than before. The historian begs his lord's leave with wild gesticulations, and then stumps off into the night. And the weight of the Lord of Last Rest's gaze rests solely upon young Fitz for many seconds, before a grave nod lets him know that he is free to carry on with the party. Closer and closer, Fitzy! That walking skeleton of yours told truth . . . but he was terribly rude about it. Anyway! See you tomorrow!! Maybe you can meet a friend!
The "party crasher" duo of Clem and Daniel starts putting the moves on the women present, moving among the revelers with focus. Though it soon becomes obvious that Daniel is making the metaphorical sacrificial charge, the partygoers take it with good grace -- after all, tomorrow is the beginning of the truly perilous part of the Trial. Enjoying the moment is paramount! The womanizing pair turns out to be so intent on their goal that Daenara's subtle tip-off goes unnoticed, and she watches Brel start to eye their suspect like a hawk. That's going to be interesting, later, she muses. But then she turns to more discussion with Celia, and spends the rest of the evening having a good time. Durr's doting on the younglings does garner the attention of one merchant's daughter in particular, and she whisks him away for a walk through the fairgrounds' conservatory -- the moonlight and starlight accenting the night-blooming flowers wonderfully. There are more than enough quiet places to sit and . . . "converse" . . . , even with the handful of others finding their way to pleasant trysts of their own . . . . Albion's working the better-appointed attendees proves fruitful: some of the more homely yet well-meaning ladies supply him with a well-crafted winter blanket ("Just in case you get tired."), a full healer's kit ("I remember my Trial! There was some fighting a few times, and a cragcat attack, and -- by the Light! -- a gang of goblins, too!"), and a lantern with some oil ("It gets terribly dark in that thicket! You'll want this!')! As Allvin attempts to make some potential business connections and look for new avenues to expand the carpentry business, he does learn that scaffolding supplies will soon be in demand in Last Rest -- a major building project is in the works, to be launched during the summer. The general attitude toward transportation costs from Cutters' Wash is met with a certain amount of grumbling, but Allvin reminds the masons: the Wash provides the best timber in the Vale! Purity's excesses make for great entertainment, both for herself and onlookers. As she flits from one handsome-looking fellow to the next, sundry mementos find their way into her pockets and belt pouch, to be inspected later . . . . Because suddenly the ale and the stomach acid come roaring back up her throat, and things stay pretty blurry for a time. But in that weird moment of drunken clarity, she has an epiphany concerning her bow-work . . . . That's it!! Just that little adjustment and . . . ! Caraya listens intently to the discussions about others' past Trial experiences, and she finds out that all the previous word about the cragcats and razorhawks are just the tip of the iceberg. Things get much more interesting during the ascent of the rock face near the waterfall: the Boreholes, the Twenty-three Stairs, and the Broken Shoulders make up the greatest part of actually getting to the Greywicker Vast. The Boreholes:
The Boreholes, as they are called, are a network of tunnels in the rock wall behind the waterfall itself. They open up onto the Twenty-three Stairs in odd locations, but there is a way to the top through their narrow confines. While sticking to the Stairs is the simplest path, the Boreholes conceal any number of mysteries -- monsters, the remains of fallen Trial initiates, and the occasional castoff from normal society. Usually only the boldest initiates take their chances going into the tunnels; often, they never come back out. The Twenty-three Stairs:
At some point in the distant past, someone or someones carved out twenty-three flights of stairs in the cliff. They lead from one stone shelf to the next, providing an easily-identifiable path up to the waterfall's crest. Though using the stairs is as easy as it sounds, the complication arises in that sometimes the denizens of the Boreholes emerge from the cave tunnels onto the winding stone walkways. Sometimes those encounters are simply unsettling; sometimes they turn fatal. More than one Trialer has met his or her end by being pushed off from the heights and into the river's torrent . . . . The Broken Shoulders:
Sometimes the most industrious and mountain-savvy Trial participants make use of the Broken Shoulders -- a succession of moderately difficult climbs up the cliff to naturally-occurring ledges along the way. While doing so helps avoid the chance meetings on the Stairs and in the Boreholes, it does leave the climbers exposed to the elements and some of the more territorial mountain creatures. The 236-foot ascent into the mountains proper is the most demanding portion of the Trial of Naming, by nearly all accounts. And yet . . . . . . . Caraya does hear an unnerving tale or two concerning the fact that something or somethings actually live in the greywicker itself . . . . Getting lost in the weird tunnels the "bonecreep" naturally winds itself into is easy enough. But sometimes people just . . . disappear . . . . Turn around, and look for your companion just a few feet away, . . . and now no one is there. The very idea prompts shivers from some of the older townsfolk -- and Caraya can't help but feel a foreboding chill . . . .
Daenara:
There is a brief lull in the exchange as Brel and his compatriot exchange a meaningful look.
Now, now, young woman -- we're not about to keep from going where you want. Brel here was just making sure we'd get to talk rather than send you running scared. We're just here to do out job, not make trouble for you or anyone else. The guardsman makes placating gestures and waves for Brel to move out of the path. But we could certainly use your help. We've only got a vague description of this 'Daniel' fellow -- his accuser seems to know him well enough, but gave us information that might fit any number of the lads in the Trial. If you can tip Brel off as to which one is Daniel during the feast, we'd be much obliged. It'll help us keep the disturbance as brief as possible when we capture him. It's a small favor, but it would be of great help; we'd make sure to note your assistance in the resolution of the arrest -- always helps to have a good reputation with the town guard, right? He supplies an entreating smile. The only other thing we could ask is that you not tip Daniel off about this. If he gets skittish and bolts, there's no telling how much ruckus it could stir up tonight. . . . . Anyway, thank you for listening. Remember -- all the way down this hall, then a right turn, and straight to the end, and you'll be in the court gallery. Let's let her pass, Brel. She's got a party to get to! --------------------
The finishing touches fall into place in near-perfect synchronicity with the commencement. The chamberlain, quite at his wits' end for most of the last thirty minutes, noisily gulps down the largest tankard of ale he can find, meanders to a cozy seat near one of the hearths, and promptly collapses into a relieved, catatonic sleep. Food and drink are abundant, and the crowd of guests (initiates and locals, both) is cheerful as they mix and mingle. Music and dance carry on all the while as the meal continues. Toasts and boasts are shouted back and forth over the tables, to cheers and jeers alike. The fun is well-done: not too lowbrow for the nobles presiding over the event, nor too snooty for the most commonborn attendee to feel out of place -- it's good to be alive; it's good to grow up; it's good to have friends. Metagame Text:
Daenara:
Eh? What's this, then?
Boots clomp on the stone floor, and a pair of men in the livery of the Three Waters Guard round the corner. Ah! Lost your way back here in this maze, have you, girl? Me and Brel can set you right in a flash! He points down the hallway and says, Go straight down that way till you reach the end, then turn right, and follow that hall straight through -- you'll come out in the lower gallery in the main court. Shouldn't be a problem for you to get where you want to go from there!
Daenara begins to nod her thanks when the one named Brel elbows the other in the ribs, hard. What's your problem, Brel?! You know that's the right way to go! Brel doesn't say a word, but stares intently at the waterskin belted at Daenara's waist until his compatriot sees it, too. His pleasant demeanor turns to a no-nonsense flat gaze in a heartbeat. Hmmm . . . A Trialer, too? There is a heavy pause. I wonder just how much you heard, little one . . . . Are you willing to help us seize a wanted criminal? You know -- do the right thing? . . . . Or are you one of those rotten children who go in for theft, taking what isn't yours, like that 'Daniel' rat? As the better-spoken guardsman offers the choice, Brel very obviously moves into the pathway Daenara just learned would get her out of this labyrinth of passages.
Daenara:
For too long a time the only sound Daenara hears are the faint echoes of her own footsteps. Just as she begins to think that she's has started moving in a circle in the back passages of the keep, however, she is able to latch onto a murmur of voices in the distance. As she strives to ensure that she is presentable and has her composure, she is able to overhear some snippets of the conversation.
It shouldn't take us too long to track him down. Small crop of initiates this time around, they say. Good idea ya had, coming here first -- no sense tryin' to chase him down the roads, maybe losin' 'im in the woods if he caught on to us. Thanks! I like more return for less effort! How d'ya wanna play it? You approach the lord and declare purpose after we've worked the crowd a bit to make sure we've got our mark? I can keep t' the edge o' things to snatch 'im if he rabbits? Sounds good. I'll let you do all the running! Ha!! Fair 'nuff. I won't mind thumpin' that thick head o' his for a second or two. Kiddo lifted from the wrong coin purse, 'e did! Just remember: if he gets past the wardposts before we grab him, Vale law says we can't interfere past that point. The Trial, and all. So we may have saved ourselves some trouble by heading him off here, but we'll only get one chance at it. Lay off the ale tonight, Brel. Oi! Keep yer own danged lips off the tankard, y' lout! Realizing that what she's heard deals directly with one of the initiates, Daenara hesitates a moment before deciding that she really does need any amount of guidance to get back to the road, and from there the meal. And then it occurs to her: no Vale badge, and she has that bulky ritual waterskin at her waist . . . . What will these two gruff bountymen do or say? ------------------- Caraya:
------------------- @everyone:
Caraya:
Caraya finds the First Councilor's directions to be impeccable. It is no trouble at all to find the workroom door lit by torchlight. She knocks, and she hears some frustrated mutterings from within. Just as she reaches to knock a second time, the bolt is thrown back and the door snatched open by a scowling thirtysomething man whose robes are spattered with inkstains of nearly every color Caraya has seen in her life.
I don't want anymore of your -- !! Oh! Hmmm. Apologies. The scribe leans into the hallway to peer left and right, as though he expected someone else. He issues a disgusted snort, and then refocuses on the young Ferrytown girl. Let me guess -- in his delayed yet infinite wisdom, the Councilor has sent you to run some messages for me, eh? I certainly hope you're better help than the other girl. Every other writer is holed up in the keep for some strange reason, so I've had to make all these copies all alone! Utter nonsense. . . . . But that's no matter to you. Taking a few breaths, he composes himself and regards Caraya afresh. As it happens, I have only one message to send beyond the keep, and it will be yours to deliver. I do not know which inn it is, but I'm sure it will be one of the finer ones in town -- you'll probably have to try a few to find him -- , but this message . . . a ribbon-bound, wax-sealed roll of parchment is proffered, . . . is for Vic Ferren, the Count's nephew. It's his first commission offer. I suggest you start your search with the Eagle's Roost, just a short way down the road straight out the keep gate. If he's not there, just ask around about the other, nice places to stay -- he's fond of "nice" things. ------------------- Daenara: Having no one in line of sight to follow out of the myriad passageways in the keep, Daenara ultimately comes to herself and realizes she is quite thoroughly lost. It's like the fortress is bigger on the inside than it looks from without!
Clem and Daniel:
More people, more opportunity! Clem roams the streets between the keep and the inner town wall, and finds a few places where folk will pause long enough to hear a funny anecdote and offer a little appreciation for the effort. Daniel's musical backdrops are good enough not to distract from the stories, but not The duo manages to earn copper coins and gold pieces for regaling small clusters of folk with tales before they make their way back to the festhall. -------------------- Sven:
Even in the midst of his uproarious command of goings-on in the festhall, the chamberlain is thoroughly nonplussed with Sven's mere watching. Well, boy? Do you mean to sit there like a lump for the next four hours?! Either pitch in or get out! Light above! This hootenanny is for you, and you're just going to "let it happen"??! Lend a hand or go find an alleyway to stand in! -------------------- Alaros: In a rare burst of total awareness, Alaros roams from specialty shops to grocers' to market stalls and sees both elite operations and atrocious waremongering . Though nothing he does is of particular use to anyone other than himself, he realizes exactly how he'll one day launch his place of business. Now he's just got to finish the Trial to get the legal authority to set his plan in motion!
Daenara:
Daenara makes her way to the keep, but avoids making her presence known in the court itself and follows a harried-looking scribe through empty hallways to his work area, and offers her aid. At first shocked that anyone would come to lend a hand, the amanuensis quickly recovers and presents the young woman with a pile of missives to transcribe in triplicate. He hurriedly scampers to another desk in the candlelit room and begins to work on a significantly larger stack of manuscripts.
But as Daenara settles in to begin the task, she notices that one of the large inkwells before her is filled to the brim with red . . . red like the blood on the mesa, the blood of all those people, the heap of blackened bone and scorched clothing, . . . . What killed them? Something. . . . . some . . . monster . . . . andnooneknowswhatitis -- it'sstilloutthereandmorepeoplearegoingtodie . . . . She faints as images and imaginings rush through her mind's eye . . . . Sometime later, Daenara is shaken awake by a cold-eyed individual who scarcely resembles the man she offered to help. Not a word is spoken as he points imperiously toward the door. His rage is palpable. Daenara struggles to explain herself, but she cannot find her voice. Once she begins staggering down those quiet hallways, though, the sobbing begins, and her tears begin to flow. --------------------- Allvin:
It takes almost no time at all for Allvin to find work suited to his skillset. As a frazzled corps of porters haul long hardwood tables out of storage to prepare the festhall for its guests, one team of movers loses its grasp on the very last table to be set. A particularly weak joint betrays itself with a percussive snap! and the legs at one end break off. As the chamberlain curses a blue streak, Allvin calmly makes his way to the broken furniture and concludes that he can have it made right just in time for dinner. The porters offer profuse thanks, make sure he has all the tools he needs for the task, and flee from the chamberlain as soon as they possibly can! -------------------- Caraya:
Caraya eases near to the chamberlain, who is surveying the hubbub in the festhall with a sharp eye and a razor-edged tongue. When he mutters something about having "no time to tramp all the way to the keep for this", she seizes on the opportunity and offers to go in his stead. Silenced for the space of three breaths, the chief steward then accepts, and provides her with a pass to enter the court. His order is: "Tell that half-wit First Councilor that he was supposed to have sent the damned thing over here three hours ago!" Though not sure exactly who is First Councilor, nor what "the damned thing" is, Caraya gamely dashes into the city center and gains entry to the keep.
A full hour wait later, she is able to trade enough whispers with one of the guardsmen to learn which finely-dressed man is the First Councilor, and with a stroke of luck is able to get his attention. She phrases the chamberlain's message much more diplomatically, but the older gentleman smiles shrewdly and commends her for her tact. My dear, I do have a favor to ask of you, since you're here and available. We must keep to tradition after all, no? See that door there? Go down that hall, take the second left, and then the first right, and knock on the only door with a torch beside it. The scribe there seems to have run into some trouble -- I know he'll have more messages for you to carry. Enjoy the sights while you can! -------------------- Durr:
Looking about for odds and ends to use in making knick-knacks for children, or hopefully something more refined as a keepsake, Durr follows his instincts and goes back out beyond the inner wall, where the true "salt of the earth" are. He entertains a few of the smallest children with little toys and makeshift dolls, but they seem just as interested in the oddly-shaped waterskin at his belt. He's going up the canyon! I wonder if he's gonna see a cragcat!! What if a storm comes? Don't you have a good cloak? It's still cold up there, toyman! And on their chatter goes. -------------------- Fitz:
Fitz begins to help bring in the stacks of firewood intended for the fourth hearths in the festhall. While this sort of simple physical labor is usually no trouble for him at all, . . . today he's distracted. Each time he begins to find his tempo, every moment he gets into rhythm with the other laborers, he sees his fae friend out of the corner of his eye. But each time he turns to see clearly, Fitz tries to convince himself that he didn't just see the strange prankster scampering upside down along the rafters . . . or dancing a jig on the lip of the soup cauldron . . . or dashing over the place settings on the tabletops . . . . Or is the weird little creature actually there?!
Eyes open, little Fitzy! They're starting to notice! And we wouldn't want them to think you'd gone . . .mad, . . . now would we??!! The voice in his head feels like it has taken on an almost predatory air. Waiting . . . for something. Something soon. Something important. --------------------
The miles pass by beneath the travelers' feet, and eventually the land descends to the river plain. As the group emerges from the vastness of the forest, the foothills of the mountain range come into view, the snow-capped peaks beyond rising majestically. As the going becomes easier, Blizzard and his charges see clusters of farmhouses along the roadway, the tiny figures of farmers working plows or herding livestock scattered amid the green fields. The road wends its way northeast, and soon the blue streak of the River Gladden appears. Commonfolk wave welcomingly, ushering the bunch on toward the town proper and the feast that awaits. The bustle of springtime business swirls about them as they draw nearer to Last Rest. Last Rest is a rare place, by its construction. Its wardpost boundary is a Vale commonplace, but it is a fortified town, ringed about with a fifteen-foot-high wall of stone upon which three people can walk abreast. Within the wall, irrigated fields dedicated to staple crops occupy the majority of available real estate. A second wall encircles the town center, a match of the outer wall in every way. Clustered about this wall's gates are a host of inns, stables, alehouses, and other service-oriented businesses. The heart of this town consists of a few residential districts, assorted mercantile zones, and the keep -- a generations-old fortress built up around a tall spire of rock outthrust from the nearby mountain. Stonemasonry and mining make up the lion's share of industry here, but the ready supply of metal ores sustain the greatest part of the Vale's metalsmithing as well. The guardsmen on duty allow the initiates to pass with no comment into the township, and walking the city streets brings them to the festhall quickly. The great meal is but a handful of hours from commencing, and the hubbub of preparations lends a noisome clatter to the area. What to do in the meantime?
The long breath of perplexed reflection is suddenly dissolved. Hey! Kid! Stop right there!! Two of the guards spring forward, longspears brandished, and move to hem Daniel in between their weapons and the ruin of the carriage. Heads crane in that general direction as the crowd gapes. Blizzard, sensing that things are close to going sideways, hustles around to the north side of the scene to find one of his charges pincered amidst drawn blades. The sergeant rolls forward with smooth steps and braces the youth with a cold, no-nonsense glare as Blizzard and the initiates look on helplessly. All right, runt. Show me whatcha found, and do it quick and quiet-like, the veteran orders. Daniel, rather sulkily, reaches out his closed fist and uncurls his grasp from a small silver ring with a deep blue gem in its setting, the fine crafting dappled with blood. He points to a broken chunk of panelling at his feet and murmurs, It was right under that. Spotted it when the sun reflected off the band. . . . . Umm. Sir. There is a quiet gasp from within the gaggle of onlookers as a young woman's voice exclaims, Her favorite ring! The sergeant glances over his shoulder for a split-second at the outburst, and then turns back to the young man. His hand moves very obviously to the grip of his sword, still sheathed. For the moment. Sharp eye, lad. But unless you wanna spend th' next few days strapped to a tree coated in yer own night soil while ye wait for the Count and the regional c'mmander, you'll set it ri' back down next to that block o' wood where ya nabbed it. The veteran sets his feet, and all of his men visibly tense. Or -- ye c'n make a fuss of it, and we'll add your body t' the pile back down in the trees yonder, he threatens, pointing in the direction where the road descends the other side of the mesa.
--------------------- Even the tread of the initiates' feet seems muted as they begin to descend the mesa's eastern end, the shade of the forest rising up to meet them. An almost audible sigh of relief whispers through the group as the ruined carriage passes out of sight at last. But then the smell of burned meat makes itself known, like a pig farm put to the torch, with no survivors. There is a tang of something other -- something wronger -- in the fumes, and some of the youngsters audibly gag as they finally reach the forest floor. Some twenty yards away from the base of the mesa, a still-smoldering heap gives last testimony to the slaughter behind them. With only the most cursory of looks at the pyre's remains, another grisly detail becomes clear: the word "skeleton" cannot apply to what is left of these people. Even amidst the bits of boot leather and fabrics burned to husks, not a single body is whole. Radii and ulnas are snapped in halves, femurs shattered just above the knee, ribcages separated from spines and sternums (where they aren't totally picked apart). What few skulls peek out from the charred remains aren't intact. The victims were somehow . . . shredded . . . into clumps of so much meat. It is only through a massive, and likely last-for-the-day, effort of will that Blizzard doesn't spill his guts on Adric's boots. Keep movin', little ones! Nothing to see here! Steps stuttering, the novices heed his words as best they can. There is much more road ahead.
Still frustrated by his limited access to the coach, Durr tries to visualize the dimensions available and finally concludes that there wasn't enough room for a person-sized concealed compartment. As Fitz walks a wide perimeter around the site, he spots a succession of rings of some pale substance on the gray rock. Just as he begins to follow these strange signs, Gillian jumps up from his crouch and blurts out: It's wood! It's like wood shavings . . . I think. And the two young men communicate with a gesture or three to find that they're both examining the same thing. Fitz:
Following the pattern of tiny fragments of wood, Fitz begins to work his way around the north side of the road, where the sequence ends. But out of the corner of his eye, Fitz notices a small figure hunkered down beside one of the boulders some distance away. With a sudden turn of his head, his vision focuses on . . . none other than his strange woodland "friend"! The perpetual grin is still in place -- rather unsettling, considering the scene -- , and the earthen-hued, pointy-eared, bald-headed being brings a finger to his too-long lips to pantomime "Ssshhhhhhhhh . . . ."
Trying to play down the shock of seeing the creature so far out of his element, and so far from "home", Fitz catches his breath, at which point the faeling points to the other side of the road and nods. That quiet, eerie voice echoes inside his head: Mmmmmmm, yes, Fitzy! You're close, you're close! Go find more questions, child! I'll see you at the party! And the strange fey vanishes from Fitz's sight. Hafnor leads Blizzard to the spot he's noticed, and gesticulates to give the human a better perspective. All I'm pointing out, sir, is that this patch of stone is essentially just as level as the roadway itself. You can tell by the lack of wheel marks that this area isn't used, really, but it wouldn't be any rougher on a wagon or cart than the road proper. . . . . In fact, . . . , The dwarf peers about a moment. If you drove onto this spot, you could turn out onto the roadway easily. Do you see now how smooth the stone is here? No pits or dips that would knock a wheel out of true or make an axle break. Maybe nothing to it, but it's damned odd, I say. Blizzard begins to nod at Hafnor's description, noting the subtle differences in the rocky surface. The pair are looking back at the wagon, the gaggle of initiates and Rangers mostly to their left, a handful of the youngsters moving about, . . . and then Fitz steps across the road to their right hand -- directly along one edge of the space Hafnor noticed, peering intently at the ground. Very quickly, the two find the same pattern of rings of "shaved" wood, almost exactly in line with Hafnor's patch of level rock. As the investigators collaborate, they bring these strange pieces of information together: The patches of wood "shavings" form a shape rather like a teardrop. The only gaps in this outline are where the road cuts through, and at the "point" of the teardrop. Every part of the attack site is contained within its boundaries. And . . . . . . as Daenara wanders about rather lackadaisically, she finds a broken length of iron chain about four feet long, its metallic glint concealed by the pile of . . . ash? . . . surrounding it. I got lucky. These . . . ashes . . . or whatever . . . blend in perfectly with the stone up here! ----------
The Ranger sergeant hears Durr, and replies. Best I know, young'n, there weren't no compartments other'n the ones under the seats. But we've had no orders to akshlee get in there and look. We gathered up the pieces and made a pyre in the woods down the other side o' the mesa. The rest o' wut we's doin'? Leavin' it alone till the Count gets 'ere with his people. Durr mutters grumpily at the restriction, but knows that he'd end up in more trouble than he wants if he climbed into the coach for a closer look. Nobles and their cursed rules! Drailen empties his stomach a handful of yards away from the bloody scene, propping one hand on a boulder. As he straightens and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, he doesn't hear a single grunt of laughter or sarcastic remark from the six Rangers. When he meets the eyes of some in the squad, their sympathy is obvious, but he gleans that their cleanup detail was far worse.
As Gillian makes a wider loop around the carriage, watching Trimbolt wander over toward a tiny cluster of shrubs, he nearly plants his foot on something that contrasts with the dark grey bedrock underfoot. Peering down, he makes out a faint dusting of off-white curlicues in a ring about six inches in diameter. Weird. Trimbolt heaves a sigh of disgust as he realizes the clump of shrubs holds nothing of use to ease Drailen's suffering. Not too surprising, really -- we're on top of a stone plate with too little soil for good seed to take hold . . . . And by the time we make it to the woods again, he won't really benefit much from a medicinal. Blizzard blinks in the direction of Hafnor's gesturing, but isn't sure that he can discern what the young dwarf is going on about. Everybody stay right where you are for a minute! he calls loudly. Nodding to Hafnor, he quips, Maybe you oughtta show me what you noticed. I can't see it like you do, yet.
The bare rock of the mesa has no dirt or turf to speak of, here on the road proper, but there are markings in the bloodstains -- but it is unclear if those signs are the result of the Rangers, the attack, wild animals, or all of the above, as yet. Fitz, Drailen, and Hafnor step forward near Blizzard to survey the scene more closely, and the two humans are overwhelmed -- Fitz impressed by the savagery he perceives, Drailen still shocked by the sheer volume of blood on the ground. Hafnor, though, likely due to his more innate awareness of stone, studies the actual track of the road and the rock nearby, and notices an oddity: there is a broad swath of unusually level natural surface just to the south of the roadway here. Durr moves past the other three to get right up on the wrecked carriage, and only misses marring something Blizzard sees in the blood-spatter due to the older man's warning. He turns his stride a bit to the left and makes his way right beside the ruined vehicle. As he walks the circuit (seeing some of the Ranger guards tense up a bit at his nearness to the crime scene), two things leap out to him: first, that any locks that were present were completely irrelevant; and second, that the interior of the carriage, though obviously vandalized, looks almost "neat" in comparison its exterior. Why were security devices of any kind so useless? Because sheer brute force accounts for the sorry state of the formerly sturdy coach. All four doors were totally ripped from their hinges. The windows set to either side of the double-door entries were smashed inward, their rent shutters dangling from loosened mounts. The metal brace that supported the driver's seat has been bent upward at one corner, with the padding still secured to the now-broken hardwood panel. Both front wheels still have ironshod rims in one piece, but they are twisted out of true, the spokes having been sundered and nearly half of each wheel itself pulled away. How is the inside so different? The bench cushions have all been yanked up to uncover the storage spaces beneath, and they are pitched haphazardly over the wooden supports. The curtains have some bloodstains where they face outwardly, but are free of any such on their inner surfaces. The fine carpet on the floorboard shows tears in places where it meets the doorframes, but is free of damage over most of its area. Scattered throughout the cabin are miscellaneous trinkets and tokens of a well-to-do lifestyle -- oddments of golden jewelry, a fine fur cloak, and a few lovely gowns are strewn about with no rhyme or reason. Within the hurricane of bloodshed that surrounds the young Lady's last ride, her comfortable space seems very much the "eye of the storm".
@Dfsearles: My apologies for neglecting the question you asked earlier concerning your skill bonuses. Here's your answer: Yes, your background skills will grant your proficiency bonuses to the appropriate rolls, but you do not yet have any ranks in those skills. Does that make sense?
"Brisk", most Valers would call a spring morning like this. The wind is kicking up, and the breeze out of the west is chilly. Winter is still nearby, perhaps making ready for one last strike before spring fully takes hold. The birds are singing cheerily as they seek food and mates; a few sleek squirrels dash through branches overhead. A fine morning. But the hills are mounting higher and higher, and the road winds more steeply. Some Trial initiates begin to question the wisdom of choosing the more difficult road toward Last Rest, rather than the easy track along the River Gladden. And then they remind themselves once more: Lady Dawn. As the pack of youngsters plods up a particularly demanding hillside, they emerge from the shade of the forest to the brilliant blue sky overlooking the rocky shelf of land they've summitted. A mesa so vast that the engineers of the Vale and the duchy decided to simply build the road up and over it, rather than circle all the way around it. The grey bedrock of the tableland seems trackless -- what few boulders and small shrubs dot the landscape would make for poor landmarks up here. Fortunately, with the road already at their feet, they can clearly see where the stone was painstakingly graded and smoothed -- an easy path to follow in broad daylight. But in the flat desolation of the mesa, it is all too easy to spot the shattered remnants of Lady Dawn's carriage just a few hundred yards away. From this vantage, even the bright blue dress cloaks of a Rangers guard detail are discernible, and it soon becomes clear that the attack was carried out right on the roadway. Both front wheels of the carriage have been broken, making the conveyance tilt forward at a weird angle. The wood of the doors and driver's seat has been hacked to splinters. Snapped strips of leather and shards of turned wood are all that remain of the tongue and harness. A lone horseshoe rests on the roadside, chunks of hoof still nailed in place. And the blood. Even days later, with no rain to wash it away, the vivid splatters of red make for ghastly "decoration". Welters, spatters, speckles, splashes, films of crusted crimson accentuate and emphasize the tableau. The essence of twenty lives and more is poured out on the grey granite in a thirty-foot circle as though the bodies themselves were used as brushes to make the painting. The heavy scent of copper can be detected from yards away. The flies have come up from the woods to feast on this bounty, and the thrum of their wings provides an inescapable undertone. If anything, the stone has served as nothing other than a baking sheet under the steady sun's glare -- it is certain that the Rangers on duty here have had to face worse than flies. The sergeant steps forward. Blizzard. Any o' yer charges wanna take a look, yew escort 'em about. But they ain't supposed t' touch nuthin'. Nuthin' atALL! Or Kadmin'll have me roasted. The non-com's eyes flick toward Blizzard, but not straight enough to make eye contact. And if'n ye notices sum'thin', yuz s'pose t' tell me, eh?
Clem:
Clem manages to win copper pieces off the other younglings for his late-night stand-up routine just before bed. There isn't much chance of a large audience here, considering how small the community is, but those coins will add up eventually! Fitz:
Fitz wanders to the treeline and scrounges up some firewood and some excellent torch-sized sticks. The quartermaster offers him a whole silver piece for the firewood and twenty torches, and then gives him a small bundle of additional supplies. I do believe there's an apprentice alchemist in your bunch. Go find him, and you should be able to make some torches for the lot of you with what's in the bag. They'll come in handy after you reach the mountains. Durr:
It turns out that every lock at the outpost is in prime condition -- all but one. It takes an hour for word to really get around, but the cook comes looking for Durr and asks for help with one of the storage lockers in the kitchen. After a few minutes' examination, Durr chides the fellow (with polite half-mockery) that his locks are less likely to get gummed up if he'd quit fishing the key out with his hands still coated in batter -- eggs and flour built up in the tumblers! That's why the lock had been stubborn. With a self-conscious frown, the cook hands over an unwanted cooking pot and a ladle. Fair enough, I'll clean my hands better before using my keys, then. Take this pot with you -- you might luck into some fresh food while you're up near the Vast. The man leans in closely, conspiratorially, and adds: And here's another thing -- you see a cragcat up there? You run at that beastie banging on this here pot like your life depends on it -- cragcats hate the sound of iron clanging together. Might come in handy to know that. ---------- The night at the Ranger outpost passes quietly enough, and though there are no beds (and no inn), the fires are warm and the loaned linens clean. When day begins breaking, the troop of young folk and the troop of King's men share another meal -- a warm breakfast of griddle cakes and sausages. Captain Kadmin makes no appearance as the initiates depart, but the Rangers clap a few shoulders and bid the younglings to take care on the way to Last Rest. No more words are spoken, but everyone knows: just a few miles up the road, the group will pass by the place where the Count's daughter and her escort met their end. Ahead lies danger, and mystery.
The Rangers supervising the weapons practice (because, honestly, no one could call it "training") manage to stifle their chuckles -- mostly. A few times some murmurs of approbation rumble amid their numbers, but there are no shouts, not even at the best strikes the novices manage. Through it all, though, they offer sound advice and provide basic, effective instruction. Once the allotted time passes, and everyone takes a short break before the evening meal, a handful of the more energetic initiates scatters to and fro around the outpost, offering help and looking for work in the finest of Vale tradition. Gillian:
Gillian earns some laughter from those waiting by the fireside for their supper, helping break some of the tension that has built up over the day's travel and tasks. The Ferrytowners start warning those from other hometowns about "Perchy", and the legend of the notorious tomcat grows.
Drailen:
It takes just a few minutes, but Drailen remembers that the Rangers won't get paid for at least another week -- their monthly stipend won't be brought from Three Waters till then. And he is in an encampment full of trained warriors and fellow adolescents who might still be willing to watch out for him as the Trial proceeds.
Maybe not tonight, but sometime I might just try to knock off that strongbox on its way here . . . , he muses. Trimbolt:
Trimbolt makes his way to the infirmary to find it nearly silent. The beds are neatly made, the cabinets closed, the countertops clean. The torches on the wall illuminate a medical center fully prepared for service, but with no one to help. Not a single survivor, then. No wonder Kadmin's so . . . pushy.
A brightly-burning candle on a tall stand rests on a desk in the far corner, and the scent of woodsmoke, hot wax, and tobacco wafts over him. The bowl of a pipe glows through the smoke, and Trimbolt discerns a shockingly tall Ranger medico reading a book in the lull before dinner. Help you wi' somethin', lad? Hafnor:
The smith dips his head in acknowledgment of Hafnor's introduction, and replies, I'd heard a family of dwarves had found a spot over closer to Three Waters! Found a place solid enough to build a forge and dig some iron, too, eh? That's good! He steps forward and offers the young dwarf his hand. I'm Direc. Been posted here for three years now, and about the toughest thing I've had to work was a full complement of shoes and nails for the whole stable. Some weird mold, or spore, or something -- rusted 'em right off every horse out here. But that's been a couple years back.
A pair of heavy leather gloves rests on the anvil, and Hafnor can tell that though they're weathered, they aren't worn by frequent, heavy use. The Ranger continues, As for the quartermaster himself, y'can prob'ly meet him at dinner. Cap'n had him tied up in some task or another while you rookies were . . . gettin' your trainin'. A slight pause. I don't really have any work for you to help with at the moment -- I finished puttin' a fresh sharpen on all the blades we got just yesterday. Maybe once you've finished the Trial, you can come back by and see if work's picked up. I dunno about using Ranger fuh-silly-dees for your own work, but sometimes Kadmin turns a blind eye to stuff. Just as like not to, though, too. We'll see! Let's go see what they whipped up for grub 'round here, eh? ----------- Kadmin and Blizzard spend a few minutes reminiscing before they turn back toward the mess hall, trailing behind the ever-growing crowd of growling stomachs. The meal turns out to be a succession of hearty stew, some assorted roast wild game, and freshly baked bread. Mealtime overflows from the mess hall and back out onto the roadside, delighted chatter interspersing pleased munchings. Once everyone has eaten their fill, the cleanup begins. After each plate, bowl, and utensil has been cleaned by its user, the post quartermaster issues the initiates a simple pack, four days' rations, a waterskin (the normal sort, not the weird Trial-issued ones), a club, a sling, and ten sling bullets.
The trial initiates have begun to bond among one another, reaching out beyond their familiar friendships from their respective hometowns, and there are flashes of growing camaraderie among their ranks. As they set out from Bear's Den, the road grows tougher -- the hills are more steep, and the encroaching forest serves as a reminder: the dangers ahead are nearer than before. There may be comfort in numbers, given that there are nearly twoscore and ten wending their way toward the next stage of the Trial, yet whispers are passed among the travelers: We're almost to where the Lady Dawn was killed. And she was guarded by some of House Ferren's greatest knights and warriors! What will do if we're attacked the same way? The Denfolk made sure to provide the novices with enough jerky, nuts, berries and miscellaneous foodstuffs that there is no need for the troupe to pause for lunch on their way forward, and so it is that they arrive at the Rangers' outpost in the late afternoon. Everyone knew that the outpost was a tiny community, so small as to even lack a wardpost of its own, and that finding work according to Vale tradition would prove difficult; but what they find is something altogether different. Rather than keep with the purest form of the old ways, the Ranger captain here has planned something irregular, but no less meaningful, for the youths. As the youngsters come within bowshot of the small tower and its surrounding buildings, they meet two fully armed Rangers watching the road. They are directed to gather behind the stables, where they'll receive new instructions. In little over an hour, all the younglings are clustered off the road, the smell of horse manure and old straw wafting from the enclosures a few yards away. A loud voice rolls from around the building's corner, stentorian, and comfortable with command: You are all in danger. You are young, inexperienced, and unlikely to survive an attack like the one that took our Lady of the Vale. A middle-aged man appears before the gaggle of initiates, a cadre of Rangers behind him all heavily laden with heavy sacks. The captain, familiar to Alice and Purity, is of middling height and build, but moves with a practiced ease that speaks to a readiness for violence at any instant. His dark brown eyes scan the gathered crowd, his gaze searching -- piercing -- through the adolescents. I am Captain Kadmin, King's Ranger, and commander of this outpost. My scouts have been searching both day and night for the young Countess's attackers, and have found almost nothing of use. You may know it in your heads, but I am here to tell you straightly: none of you can hope to survive a thing like what happened to her and her guardsmen. Once more his eyes rake over the young men and women gathered before him. The Trial is difficult enough that not all who begin it survive. But now there is a threat to our people here, where for years long-forgotten we have been able to count on safety, and the honesty of those met on the road. This spring, though, I cannot guarantee your safety between this outpost and Last Rest; indeed, I am surprised that you weren't attacked between here and the Den. I am glad you are safe; I will do what I can to prepare you for the road ahead. None of you will look for work this evening, because I have prepared it for you. I see backpacks, a handful of knives, perhaps a small bow or two among you. In truth, even if you were as well-trained as these Rangers before you, they would not be enough to save you. But we are Valers, one and all -- we know how to pull together in hard times, and we are not the sort to roll over and die in the direst of circumstances. He sweeps his hand toward the turf before him, and his underlings begin to empty their bags and bundles on the ground in front of him. I am sure that both the Count and the Vale Commander will have my family jewels in a smith's vise for this, and may even drum me out of the Rangers altogether, but I will not stick so strongly to tradition that I feel I would be sentencing all of you to a terrible death by doing things as they've always been done. I have emptied the armory of the simplest weaponry we have on hand; I have raided our stores for food and waterskins -- and nearly left our cupboards bare. Today is your first day of weapons training, initiates -- and likely your last until the Trial is ended. My men will work with you to give you some familiarity with these simple weapons for your own defense for the next four hours, after which you'll be provided a meal and place to sleep. Heed them well, young people -- your lives may depend upon it. Captain Kadmin turns on his heel and bellows for Blizzard to accompany him to the tower.
Throughout Bear's Den, a host of hopeful youths fan out and look for good work, trailed by a seemingly disinterested Ranger. The locals prove quite hospitable, and the initiates' efforts are well-rewarded -- well, generally speaking. A minor crisis literally erupts at a charcoal fire stoked too high, but it is dealt with quickly; the rather embarrassed alchemist's apprentice responsible doesn't manage to repeat his previous success with the Butcher Yuginov. Beyond that, the day passes well, but a tension begins to gather in the Denfolk and their young visitors . . . for tomorrow will bring these initiates face-to-face with the hard facts of life, and how suddenly that life was ripped from the Count's eldest child. The adults look on with pity tempered by hope, and those coming-of-age look ahead with expectation curbed with a little fear. But that very revelation is part of what the Naming Trial is about: seeing life for what it is, and finding one's place in enduring it -- or even overcoming it.
As the day draws to a close, and the initiates gather around the wardpost located near the cave entrance, stories are told -- whether favorite fables or tidbits of Vale lore handed down through the generations. Within these stories may lie kernels of vital truth . . . .
And even the gruff and grumbling Ranger escort might have a fireside tale to tell this night . . . .
Bea shares one of the simplest elements of Vale history: the wardposts. Each established community in the Gladden region, depending upon its size and population, has its boundaries set by a series of distinctively-colored hardwood posts, and at least one wardpost positioned near the town center, often in its market area. The wardposts set the jurisdiction of the local governments within, and the authority of the barons and count without. Gulsti recalls something he overheard from one of his . . . "brothers" just a few months back: the nickname some of the oldtimers give the greywicker -- "bonecreep", they call it. The strange plant grows to a height of nearly twelve feet in places, covered by thick, matted yellow-hued foliage that almost resembles grass. But it's the stalks, branches, and roots that give the bonecreep its unusual name. As hard as its name implies, bonecreep doesn't cut easily, burns poorly, and is almost useless for being shaped by a carpenter or woodcarver. The pale stems of greywicker grow together in weird coils and loops that rise from the soil, and their sprawl can form a natural maze of tunnels. It is within these shadowed passageways that the most prized greywicker fruits grow. Daenara tells the other youngsters some mountain wisdom: one of the birds unique to the peaks they will be climbing in just a handful more days is called the razorhawk. Razorhawks are intensely territorial, and even though they're of similar size to eagles and condors, they have a devastating means of dealing with intruders and threats -- though they fly slowly, razorhawks perform dives that can knock a grown man from his feet, and sometimes even break bone. Though their feathers do not contrast with the stark stone of the mountains in a way that makes them easy to spot, they can be discerned by the gleam of sunlight that occasionally reflects off their otherwise plain plumage. Either because going back up to the Greywicker Vast has brought it to mind from years past, or to grace the mewling kiddos with a tale to frighten, Blizzard warns the initiates of the deadliest predator of the mountain passes -- the cragcat. Massive hunting cats of astonishing patience and eerie climbing ability, cragcats have been known to lie in wait for prey for days at a time, sometimes even while clinging to near-vertical rock faces. Escaping from a cragcat is rather easy due to their slowness, but it is rare that anyone struck by one of the great beasts survives that initial attack. Blizzard sends the children off to their rest with the whispered threat followed by a sudden shout, and he chuckles while his charges scamper away, . . . and he heads to find another ale.
Blizzard's efforts to track down an easy drink are apparently doomed to fail. No one seems especially receptive to his cajoling, so he eventually migrates to one of the last pubs on the outskirts of Three Waters and spends a copper for some cheap ale. The barkeep pinches the coin quickly, and Blizzard tries to enjoy the subpar beverage. At least it has an alcohol content, he muses. -------- Purity's work in the Widow Tucks's garden isn't especially impressive, but the old bachelorette passes her a well-wrapped batch of dried fruits and nuts, enough to pass for a full day's rations. She wishes Purity well as she takes her leave. -------- Whether by Albion's grousing or his surprising effectiveness in helping carve the meats for curing, Yuginov determines that it is well worth it to run the young alchemist off with a cured ham, a bit of cheese, and a spare knife. Might be best if we leave our business right where it is, kid. You've got quite a mouth on you, and I'd rather not have my customers overhear it. But you've definitely got a knack for cutting animals up, I'll admit. Take that knife you've been using -- it might come in handy: gotta keep an eye out for those cragcats. Carving Knife:
-------- It seems that Gulsti spotted exactly the right lady to help with her wash, because he gets sent on his way with a day's worth of bread and smoked meat and a scarcely used bedroll. It can still get coolish in the mountains this early in the spring, youngster. Stay warm, and be safe! Gulsti smirks as she tosses him a wink, and he takes to the road. -------- Klin is so addled about trying to make rapid progress on his way that he finds no one to assist. He's usually quite good at speaking with others, but he's having difficulty moving beyond his worry over Baernd. -------- It does indeed seem that word-of-mouth about Adric's training officer has spread. Though the young man has very little self-confidence, his focus on whatever he chooses to do serves him well. He helps a drover unload his wagon of goods, and though the hauler complains regularly about his missing coin purse, he gives the Ranger cadet a parcel of jerky and a surplus flint and steel. Probably need to light a torch or two, fella, before yer trip's done. Since ya's on the South Road, ya shouldn't have no trouble finding some! This'll make sure ye can have a light when ye need it! The teamster heaves a sack of grain onto the loading platform behind the inn. I'll keep an eye out for ye, lad. I'm impressed with yer work. You ever need a thing moved from here to there, ask around fer Randel -- I'd be glad to help ye someday! Thanks for the heavy lifting! --------
Count Ferren's offer of a reward for helping track down his daughter's killers has proven so strong a lure that most of the Trial initiates are ignoring the tradition of taking a different road toward Last Rest. The vast majority are wending their way toward Bear's Den, with the hope that they can find some clue on the South Road in just two more days. The scuttlebutt is that her carriage and bodyguard were attacked less than an hour's ride beyond the Ranger outpost that is situated halfway between Last Rest and Bear's Den, the place Alice and Purity call home.
Gulsti does his best to watch for an opportunity that promises high reward for low effort, while trying to stay out of line of sight of the 'Alehouse Ranger' and his trainee.
---------------------- The healer in the Wash told Klin that there was a type of moss that could be found in the mountain heights that would be helpful to Baernd. He had it in mind to complete the trial as quickly as possible -- skip the feast at Last Rest, make the climb on his own, find the Greywicker grove, get the flower and the fruit, and get this over with. So he looked for drovers and teamsters to assist, always pushing to get further down the road just a little faster.
--------------------- Adric was just glad to get away from Blizzard for a while. He knew the career Ranger had to know something of what he wanted to learn, but that experience had not been forthcoming. So he trailed along behind the pack of youngsters walking down the road that led to Bear's Den, and just offered help wherever it seemed needed.
--------------------
Caraya:
Caraya learned about Wilbur's terrible accident on the way to Three Waters. She rode the ferry his father operates over the River Gladden, and the old man pleaded with her to serve as Wilbur's proxy for the Trial. She knows that he has nothing to offer as reward, but she also knows that his health is failing, and that Wilbur may need legal standing before the next Naming Year. What will she do? Bea:
Raised in a family of servants to the Ferren household, and of an age with Lady Dawn, Bea has known the Count's eldest daughter for her entire life. Now that news has reached Bea that Dawn has been slain, it may bring about some conflicting feelings.
There is also this to consider: the court wizard has frequently enlisted Bea's aid in maintaining the books in his library, and she has learned scraps of arcane theory, history, and general knowledge during her time with him. Though she was never accepted as a full apprentice, the bright young woman often one-upped the nobleborn learners who had paid a tuition to the master wizard. Just the morning of the Trial's beginning, the wizened arcanist asked her to find something interesting and powerful on her trip, and to bring it back to him. If what she discovers is impressive enough, he will accept her as a full apprentice -- free of tuition! Alice:
Purity/Blizzard:
It only makes sense for a fletcher to have a shortbow. And some arrows, too, of course.
Blizzard's attachment to the group as "unhelpful escort" may be a source of . . . something. Celia/Daenara:
Albion/Allvin:
Whether by foot, or horse, or boat, our handful of Valers have arrived at Three Waters just ahead of the beginning of the Trial of Naming. For some, it is a time of excited anticipation; for others, it is tension suspended interminably. And for one King's Ranger, it is swiftly turning into pure punishment. King's Rangers Headquarters, city proper, midday The boy isn't supposed to be the one who keeps you at your post, Blizzard! He's to learn why staying on-post is so important from you, the captain seethes. And so instead of having my most experienced man -- technically speaking -- at the outpost in the south hills, they had to send a rider to retrieve you! I'm just glad that they knew where to look. A sheaf of parchments is thrown to the tabletop with a grunt of pure disgust, and the slightly younger officer drops into his seat. He tilts his head back to appraise Blizzard, and continues. By all accounts, your drinking has become a well-known problem -- from here to Last Rest and back. Common folk are expressing sympathy for that boy, Adric, having been assigned to you for training. And rather than being where you should have been, you were in the Wash, in a stupor. Too-shiny boots clump down on the desk corner. And so it is that you will not be chasing down what happened to the shipment of arms that disappeared between the Wash and Ravenlock. Nor will you be leading the investigation into what happened to Lady Ferren less than six miles from your station! Instead, you get to babysit the initiates in the Trial. You will tag along behind them and simply keep an eye on these younglings for the next ten days or so. Perhaps your trainee will finally get some real field experience, since it's his Naming Year. The sergeant-at-arms has your kit ready downstairs. Dismissed. --------------------- The Godswell, near town, sundown The late afternoon sun is turning a brilliant golden-orange as a pack of young people mill about in the amphitheater at the Godswell. A small host of priests of several faiths draw water from the clear spring, filling a series of wide-mouthed skins as they wait for Count Ferren to arrive. The gathering is somewhat subdued, for the news of the slaughter of Dawn Ferren and her escort has reached every ear. When the count and his entourage reach the assembly, there is no fanfare, and the heraldry of the noble house is concealed behind the sable shroud of mourning. The stern-faced Lord of the Vale mounts the timber stage and calls the group to order, his expression grim and his eyes lit with fell energy. His voice rings clearly through the natural auditorium. Young people of the Gladden! Today is the beginning of your passage to adulthood. Since time immemorial, the people of this valley have performed this rite of to take their place as citizens among the peoples here. The Trial of Naming is meant to be a test of character, ingenuity, resolve, and skill, and succeeding in it grants you a place in this great society. I wish you all well in the days ahead. Each of you will be given one of these consecrated waterskins, filled with water drawn from this sacred wellspring. It is your most critical possession in the journey ahead -- keep it safe. Over the next three days, you are to travel toward Last Rest by a road that does not pass through the place you call home, offering service to the Vale's people, gaining reputation and aid as you go. Your work will be rewarded with advice, or tools, or even weaponry of some sort, all intended to serve you on the way. At sundown on the third day, a feast will be held at the great hall in Last Rest, where you will have your last sleep under a roof for a time. The morning after, you will begin the trek through the canyon toward the great waterfall of the River Gladden. There you will climb into the mountain steeps and find the path to the Greywicker Vast. In that strange yet hallowed location, you are each to find one bloom and one fruit from that sprawling grove, and then bring them back here before sundown on the tenth day. The fruit you claim is to be crushed and then placed within this waterskin, to steep until you return home. That purple flower will then be worked into a badge that confirms your citizenship and right to conduct your own business separate and apart from your family or guardians in the Vale. This Trial is not one of competition, necessarily, but it is one that will test each of you. The journey has its own perils, and some of you might not return. Some of you might survive this test, and yet fail to complete it -- anyone who has not returned by the tenth day hence must wait five more years to make the attempt again. Many who do not attain this goal journey elsewhere to make their living. But those of you who do succeed will have your name recorded in the Rolls now and forever, and will be regarded as citizens of the Gladden. So I offer you this encouragement: on your way, aid one another. Learn the names and trades of the Valers you assist, for their respect will garner favor for you in your lives as adults. Draw upon the knowledge and strengths of everyone around you to bring your part in the Trial to conclusion. Our traditions are of great importance, and keeping them has preserved the health of our community for generations. And as additional motivation, I make this entreaty: should any of you learn some fact or clue that will aid me in seeking justice for my daughter, Dawn, who would have begun this Trial with you today, I will award you fifty pieces of gold. Furthermore, once that justice is done, I will personally bring you another one hundred golden crowns for your part in bringing me peace. I love this valley and its people, and yet I loved my daughter more -- help this father, this family, and you will be favored for it. Go now on your way, and may the gods of light and good keep you.
(continued) Adric / Gulsti / Valentine As Gulsti wanders into the Stone Soup Tavern and Inn, he nearly trips over a prostrate form lying in the path alongside the bar. He is shocked to see Valentine, complexion an ugly, chalky grey and clothing speckled with bits of straw, rigid and immobile on the barroom floor. He leans down to search for any signs of life just as a sandy-haired child dashes out of the kitchens and out the door. I just found this one in the stables. I don't know what's happened, but we've sent for the healer. The unmistakable uniform of the King's Rangers (even with the yellow chevron of a trainee) shocks Gulsti just a little. He surreptitiously slips the freshly-cut purse into his belt pouch, hoping that it was smooth enough to go unnoticed.
I've met Valentine a time or two. But . . . you know . . . alert, and talkative . . . . Gulsti hesitates a moment, and supplies, I'll . . . ummm . . . be over by the hearth, out of the way.
Adric is slightly put off by the other fellow's rather uncaring attitude, and eyes him closely as he walks away. I doubt he's responsible for this, but he seems quick to stay away. Must be the uniform. Soon enough, the healer arrives on her horse-drawn cart and secures the ailing youngster. She looks rather expectantly at Adric with her palm up for a moment before he stammers, Ongoing investigation, ma'am. As soon as my training officer contacts me, we'll meet with you and get you your payment. I'm sure you understand. She utters no word, but quirks an eyebrow at Adric before turning with a huff, and soon the cart trundles away with its burden. With a relieved sigh, the Ranger initiate steps back into the street and begins searching for his wayward superior.
Not long after the novice Ranger departs, the seat opposite Gulsti is suddenly filled with a large, round human who moves with surprising grace. I thought he'd never get out of here! Wouldn't be good for my anonymity if I just loitered in public with a Ranger about. Ha ha! The bulky fellow peers closely at Gulsti and says: So. What have you got for me? The purse hefts nicely as it is passed over, and Gulsti's Syndicate contact instructs, I'll meet you near the lumberyard an hour after sunset with your gear. I know that presses you for time getting to Three Waters, but we've got some riders headed toward the Ferries tonight, and a boat going downstream tomorrow afternoon. We'll get you there, and rested, no worry. See you tonight.
Daenara With the bare rock of the mountains behind her, Daenara stows her cloak next to a change of clothes and a few days’ worth of rations. Closing the pack, she checks that her rope and climbing hook are still secured, and shoulders the burden once more. At least it’s warmer down here. A few more weeks, and warmer still! A practiced eye quickly finds the vivid yellow marker for the path toward town, and the youth sets a steady, leisurely pace along the way. My Naming!
Albion / Blizzard / Allvin It was quickly becoming unclear whose clothing was the more soiled -- Albion’s own durable alchemist’s robes, or the . . . uniform? . . . of the odorous, blithering drunkard that had just knocked him into the mud, vomited across his left shin, and coiled a sinewy arm about the apprentice’s waist. Peering about for the nearest clear spot, Albion begins gradually hauling the incoherent man toward the shade at the corner of Allvin’s father’s lumber mill. Older, stuporous, and heavy. And I still need to gather up the herbs I dropped, too. This is a bother. How can anyone be this drunk this early in the day, and out on the streets at the same time?!
Adric / Valentine Salt-cured ham, eggs, and a bit of cheese served with watered wine made for a rather fine breakfast, Adric had decided. What was not so fine, though typical, was that Blizzard had once more not found his way to his small cot in their shared room. While tracking, forecasting the weather, foraging, and some weapons training were all part of the prescribed training regimen for a Ranger, Adric was gaining more proficiency at tracing his superior’s midnight stumblings through every community in the Vale than at anything related to woodcraft. Draining his mug and standing up from the table, Adric reasoned, The stable first. A bed of hay and horse manure would be his easiest lodging.
Celia Daenara hadn’t spotted her at the treeline. The turf was still damp from the rains two days past, and the leaves still wet. Moving through the underbrush without making a sound (that she could hear) had proven shockingly easy. I’m going to spook the soul right out of her, this time! Celia laughed to herself. I need a good laugh. There’s too little to do between here and Three Waters . . . .
Gulsti The dropped flask had been empty, just like the wineskin an hour before. Disappointed that there was no chance of a free drink while “working”, Gulsti resolves himself to fleece the blundering Ranger of every copper piece before rolling him down the riverbank to a bone-chilling bath. At least he’ll sober up quick, by the time I’m through. But this mark better be worth it -- I want the boss to set me for success before I leave town!
Alice / Purity Purity looks up from the arrow in her lap as a rider nearly pitches headfirst off a workhorse into the Waystation wall. Help! HELP!! The boy, no more than twelve winters old, drenches himself in a puddle as he tries to gain the doorway of the outpost. Fletching is quickly forgotten as voices crescendo from within, and Purity springs up, breath caught in her throat. She sees Alice, the young acolyte at the shrine across the road, poke her head out the daffodil-decked doorframe. Their eyes meet, and both young ladies know -- something has happened to Lady Ferren’s entourage.
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