Settled on a course, the villagers reluctantly form a delegation to visit the nearby thorp of Harlton.
Parella tearfully gifts you all a half-loaf of freshly baked honey waybread;
"Fresh from the ovens this morn... was Jen's favourite... Best give you lot strength now... Bring her home... please."
Her father nods stoically as he supports his wife;
"They will Par, they will. Remember her cloak was made 'ere in Haranshire. A gift from the folk... fine blue cloak and silver from the mines. Her betrothal ring was the same Blanryde silver. Might be someone seen them not knowing its our Jen..."
With the blessing of the Milborners assembled, you set off toward Kuiper's Farm some 20 miles further down the river.
UDM's Rolling of Bones:
1d100 ⇒ 52
Hugging the bends, you pass the odd fisherman trying their luck in the Churnett River who wave from the opposite bank. As the river moves closer to being flanked by the Thornwood and The High Moor in the distance, you collectively hear a strange squeal ahead, followed by rasping croaks...
Ahead, through the reeds and bush, you spot a [url=Settled on a course, the villagers reluctantly form a delegation to visit the nearby thorp of Harlton.
Parella tearfully gifts you all a half-loaf of freshly baked honey waybread;
"Fresh from the ovens this morn... was Jen's favourite... Best give you lot strength now... Bring her home... please."
Her father nods stoically as he supports his wife;
"They will Par, they will. Remember her cloak was made 'ere in Haranshire. A gift from the folk... fine blue cloak and silver from the mines. Her betrothal ring was the same Blanryde silver. Might be someone seen them not knowing its our Jen..."
With the blessing of the Milborners assembled, you set off toward Kuiper's Farm some 20 miles further down the river.
UDM's Rolling of Bones:
1d100 ⇒ 93
Hugging the bends, you pass the odd fisherman trying their luck in the Churnett River who wave from the opposite bank. As the river moves closer to being flanked by the Thornwood and The High Moor in the distance, you collectively hear a strange squeal ahead, followed by rasping croaks...
Ahead, through the reeds and bush, you spot a pair of Giant Frogs, one of which has a strange blue arm hanging from its maw...
Wandering Monster encounter :) Map up - Blue Frog is one with the strange dinner... Party up! Frog's are unaware of your presence (so far) - Movement is halved in the boggy ground. Place your tokens wherever you wish - mule and horse will stay at edge of map.
Alright then. Let's get this game moving again... appreciate the patience.
The town moot continues for some minutes as the crowd continue to murmur and mull the best course of action.
In addition to the townsfolk, a unfamilar face to you all also joins. A young man, wearing the silver shield emblem of the god Säith - The Protector.
He introduces himself as Brother Semheis of Säith, the local priest of Milborne. The young cleric clearly commands respect (or is it fear?) from the throng and speaks with a fiery zeal urging the townsfolk that communal prayer to his god at his kirk will grant her protection and righteous vengeance upon all those who had a hand in her vanishing.
What is decided is that Haldelar will lead a delegation of the townsfolk (including Andren) to nearby Harleton to seek their kenning on any wing’ed daemons or fell hauntings that could lead them to the missing lass.
As Vagabondi better equipped for the wylds of Haranshire, the party are implored to travel first to the Ranger Kuiper’s farm (marked on the map). The purpose of such is two-fold: alert the local network of rangers to the evil that haunts the lands, and press for leads on where Jenneleth have been abducted to. The folk of Milborne offer up a collection of 100 gold coins for you all to fund this mission.
Garyld hobbles into the midst of the throng, highlighting that Jenneleth’s maester in Thurmaster should also be informed. The wizard Tausthäuser is the most powerful wielder of magick in the region, and may have divinations that could assist in tracking down his apprentice, and it would allow the party to fulfil their original mission, freeing them to search for Jenneleth without impingement or obligation.
In Thurmaster, the party could petition to see Count Parlfray. Should the dark path of the Gleaming Glade be their destination, Garyld suggests that the stories of the old warrior’s ancestral victory against the Necromancer Ahlaksiz could inform such an endeavour.
He also assures you Kuiper is a competent ranger who knows the land perhaps even better than him.
The old woodsman then takes you all aside assuring that he will also will keep the captured outlaws in safe keeping until the party return.
Andren for his part only asks you find his love but implores you to show the blackguard who stole Jenneleth no mercy...
So decision time gang. Haranshire is essentially a sandbox region, so while I'm laying some crumb trails you all have carte blanche to go wherever you desire...
The burly miller scowls, but seems cowed, but still has his say;
"What village do ye speak of Master Dwarv? We would go there at haste... and as for our past - it is that. The Necromancer's bones were buried by Lord Palfray's Great-Grandsire Eorl Lothar and his goodly host. That evil is gone..."
The mob murmur in agreement, but Ping's words quiet them as quckly.
Haldelar rubs a meaty hand over his red forehead as his wife seeks to comfort him;
"Risen dead... Me daughter gone... Ah Jen what has become o' ye..."
Further murmurings spring forth from the villagers;
"Vagabondi always bring ill luck..." "What can we do? Let these incomers go into the wyld. Let them face the gobelins, boggebears an' these risen dead!"
The Miller looks to the group;
"If servants of the God Reaper were at large then the Rangers will know... An' not Garyld - them that ward the land now!"
"Aye! Kuiper will know!" "Let them seek his counsel..."
Eireachdail:
Nothing springs to mind on the Gleaming Glade but you vaguely recall the name Ahlaksiz as a Necromancer of some infamy who was defeated some 200 years ago.
"Nay. Tis deep within the Hardlow Woods... near the Great Rock Dale... Opposite way..."
He whistles through his teeth as his tattooed brow furrows;
"Dale been hame to Orc, Goblens an' Hobbegoblen o'er the years. Dangerous place. They haunt the Hardlow's along with Worg an worse... Best avoided I reckon, even fir well-heel'd vagabondi like yerselves..."
His words die off as a commotion approaches - Jenneleth's Da; Haldelar at the head of a mob of townsfolk. His face red with anger and tears.
"WELL DID THE DRUNKARD TELL YE NOWT? OR JUST BABBLE ADDLINGS FROM HIS CUPS?"
Grizzler hand strays to the handle of his fish knife and he recedes back into his doorway. His eyes affix on Ulf;
Dwarven Mutterings:
"I'll not be a scapegoat for this crime Deeprunner of Glorigirn. There is still honour in these old bones an' I'll gut the first of them to question like an eel."
The Old Dwarv nods slowly, nothing in Eireachdail's tale registering with the greybeard.
"Aye... Harleton is but a wee thorp. Nothing happens there - save the odd argument o'er crop pricing. Reckon yer leg was pulled Skald."
He shrugs, not sure what to make of fables nor rumours.
"Course if it be the risen dead, then reckon Ahlaksız'll have some connection to it. That bastred dēaþcrafta (death crafter) was put down centuries back, but I reckons he haunts this realm still... from his rotten grave in the Glǣming Glode (Gleaming Glade)!"
The old dwarv pauses, tattooed brow furrowing, then points back toward the half-made bridge known locally as The Folly that ends partly across the Churnett River. [Map updated]
"It flew off yonder... into the nyght. She were stiff, like an old corpse and it took 'er... an' I just let it..."
Auld Grizzler's croaky voice wavers, and his aged eyes become dewey. Mos' question he composes himself;
"It were the size o' a man Little Maester. Not a big 'un... but not a little 'un neither. Wings o' a bat... an' the whiff o' an odd smell. See since retirin' from the mines I heard the callin' o' Rissinis - The Catcher. So's I fish... Fish 'em all I do - Churnett, Oldscutt an Cutter Brook... So I knows my fish... What I smelt were rotian fæsc ... rotted fish..."
He eyes your company, shaking his head
"Ye think me mad..."
Eireachdail:
Nothing specific springs to mind - many demons, monsters and creatures of the night exhibit bat wings and ability to charm or silence their victims - but rarely together. Throw in Auld Grizzler's assertion of a rotten fish smell and your completely draw a blank.
What does trigger in his library of rumours, tales and lore picked up through countless nights of debauched entertainment is the obscure mention that the nearby village of Harlaton is rumoured to be haunted by a murderous bat wing'ed winter daemon every 9 years. The villagers call it Burbalæng... though it is likely little more than a bogey-man to scare children and keep vagabonds and the like away...
The old dwarv listens intently to Ulf, shaking his head slowly before Ping's posed logic breaks his melancholy with a brow raise and waving on his pipa;
"Disappear'ed? NAY! Lass I wish it were so... I do! A shadow did approached her an' it thought it one o' the newcomers the taprooms 'ave spoken of. Then it spoke, low an' whisper'ed like... Then she froze, like a toad in wyntertide..."
He pauses, grappling with his memory;
"... Then it grabbed her... an... an spread great bat wings from its back as it flew off with fair Jenneleth! I thought it a man afore then... Now I fear it was a daemon or one o' the risen! A creatyre o' the nyght!! Here! In Haranshyre!"
The old codger's eyes fill with fear as every shadow becomes a threat...
He wears boots of rags, simple miner's garb, worn with age and the tartan trews showing clan colours long since faded... like the clan tattoos upon his brow and head.
At his waist a simple Puukko fishing knife sits.
He blinks, peering at you all with a scowl, his gnarled hand gripping a battered old pipe.
His voice is weary and Common haltering and accented;
"I'll nei invite ye in. I'm nei one fir guests..."
The old dwarv shakes his head, blinking at your assembled number;
"What I saw makes nei sense... Ye'll think minn addled, drunk or worse... wrong in minn heid. Now leave me to minn pipa!"
Absolutely mate - we're all on a go-slow at the moment. August looking much clearer for me so in a week or so I'll fire this one up - see where we're all at.
That'll probably align with my timings Adam - will try and really kick this one on over the next couple of weeks - your collective patience is appreciated!
Work's kicking me in the backside a little here gang - got an 8 well campaign kicking off with my team on rotation here in North Sea so week's been busy buttoning up procedures and all sorts.
Will try and get us shifted up a notch over coming week or so.
"Leave me be Deeprunner of Glorigirn. My nyght eyes are not what they were. My cups were deep. What I saw makes nay sense to me nor will it to you... least of all these langshanks who cast aside me... a Master Pickman! I carry nay weight here, so let them fret and hunt. Leave this white beard to draughts with his ghosts Ulfbrecht Thragimthal."
Most puzzlingly there appears to be booted tracks that arrive from half-bridge The Folly, (by boat perhaps??) but then at the sight of the possible abduction the same tracks also just disappear just as Jenneleth's do...
Auld Grizzler's Hovel
This small and ramshackle hus strikes you like a peasant's hut, nestles beside the Churnett river, where folk say its occupant can be found fishing when he isn't in the Silver Crown drowning himself in ale.
Universally known in Milborne as Old Grizzler, the white-haired dwarv is a former miner is of uncertain age. He's obviously old, and walks with a gnarled pick-axe handle as a walking stick, but he can still walk home after downing an awful lot of ale. Tho' aged, his ability to see in the dark means the town employ him as a nightwatch... albeit an unreliable one.
At Ulf's hail, a grumbling voice answers from within;
Dwarven:
"Who is it that spoils the sleep of Grizlündur with words of my people nay long spoken?"
Alright - in the interests of plot development I'll move this along.
After making enquiries around the town you discern the following:
- No-one up and about has seen or heard Jenneleth since she left The Baron of Mutton last night. They all speak highly of her, and show genuine concern for her well-being.
- You've not roused the night-watchman yet - the drunkard dwarf - Old Grizzler.
- Spiro's canny eye locates a piece of jewellery that was Jenneleth's - a small enamelled locket that bears a portrait of Andren and a lock of his hair. It lay discarded in the muddy thoroughfare from the ford into the village... Map Updated
- The captives no nothing (in the case of Marko) or are saying nothing (in the case of the groggy Carlanis).
The Locket:
Andren has an identical locket which you can assume carries a matching portrait of Jenneleth...
As calmness prevails, for at least a time, Andren bids his brother to hold at the Inn and send word if any patron hears of Jenneleth, or, God's Willing she walks through the door.
Bereft of his bellicose bluster Haldelar looks a smaller man - one resigned with worry as he knits his heavy hands against his floured apron.
It is Parella, who remains calmest;
"So we go to Garyld and the prisoners. What of Auld Grizzler - should we at least speak to the dwurv? Perhaps too we should ask Nafton? He may have hounds that could find my dear daughter..."
Her voice on waivers at the end...
All eyes turn to your company - as vagabondi your ilk are know as both heroes and sellswords. It is clear Jenneleth's family need the former...
Between Ping's protestations, Hûnidark's Korddian wisdom and Spiro's calm interjection, the burly baker releases his grip on Jenneleth's beau.
Face still flushed he sighs heavily;
"I should have came an' got her. Escorted her home... I went abed thinking she'd be there in the morn, ready to tell us more o' her friends and love for Andren..."
His voice cracks as Parella squeezes his forearm. She looks to you all with worried eyes;
"If she's taken... and may the Gods prove us wrong... Someone will have seen her! Milborne is so small... Perhaps one of the guards or Auld Grizzler..?"
Haldelar scoff's at the notion;
"Bah! That old dwurv is so deep in his cups he'd not know what he saw to be real or a figment o' the mead!"
Supported by his twin brother, Andren too looks shaken, not just by being set upon, but also the realisation his betrothed could be missing...
"W-what about those prisoners of yours! They'll know! We need to make them speak! They must know something!"
And so it is that Jenneleth takes her leave, Andren and his brother continue to see to patrons (and your company) before the numbers dwindle and the fire's embers dull.
Even old Dirkaster has his fill, slipping into a grumbling slumber in his chair, one gnarled hand still clutching his drinking horn.
While Andren makes the old man comfortable, his twin Barthelew , shows you to rooms either private or common and bids you "A Good Nyght good patrons."
The night passes without incident (save any of your company's making)...
6th Shriventīd 1400CY - The Baron of Mutton, Milborne
The dawn has barely broken, when you all waken (some perhaps more easily than others) to the sound repeated thumping upon the door of the inn.
When answered, muffled voices are raised in anger or alarm!
Should any of you leave your rooms to investigate...:
As you make your way down the stairs you are met with scene of commotion;
Jenneleth's father; Haldelar, bulky form stands at the door, his face is beet-red and he has Andren by the his throat! He bellows angry words, calling Andren a "Lothario and feckless rake!"
Parella, clearly upset is trying to calm her husband, while Barthelew stands, angered holding a knife still bearing butter from the breakfast preparations.
Dirkaster for his part slumbers on, oblivious of the scene.
As you appear Barthelew hails you, his tone worried;
"Friends! Help him - Elder has gone mad! Accusing him of taking Jenneleth's honour, of besmirching his family! Breaking our traditions, but she ain't here... You all saw her leave... but the old bull won't listen, and he's choking my brother!"
Great stuff guys - waiting to see if the rest of the group chime in, if not I'll do some chasing up. Been a while for some of the others - know
Eireachdail has some RL stuff kicking his ass, and my slow post rate probably hasn't helped... :S
Ping/Ulf - please continue, I'll also move things along in the background. Will presume a rendezvous with Jenneleth at the Baron on the morrow.
Jenneleth bids you all good night and parts from Andren with a mutual longing and whispered affections. Even old Dirkaster seems to approve, with a proud smile creeping across his weathered features;
"Hah. Madefireachotherthemtwowas."
For his part the bar-keeper returns to your table, slightly abash but thankful;
'My gratitude for keeping Jenneleth safe on the road. She told me of the foul villains who laid hands upon her. I'm no man of arms, but upon the day of their trial I shall bid Squire Carmen punish them most severe for what they have wrought upon my love."
He composes himself then smiles;
"Jenn said I should be merciful. I am not. Just thankful for your protections. So a final round on the house?"
As Mos ups to leave, Jenneleth spots him and breaks from her chatter with her betrothed.
"Good night Master Smallbarrow. My friends I'll be staying back with my parents tonight... tongues will wag if I remain her with Andren, and Da won't abide that. I'll meet you all here or at my parents if you wish?"
Was planning on letting you all roleplay a little to draw the various threads together - Ulf kicked it off nicely, but if you'd rather we press on I'll draw a veil o'er the reunion.
As the Elder departs, Garyld nods toward the prisoners.
"Elder there won't let this lie, most likely e'll petition the Squire this eve to have these two dealt with."
The ranger settles in;
"If sleepin' beauty there is indeed in league with bandits and followers o' The Reaper, then Capella will be swingin' her sword or tying a noose. She runs the Boathouse... an' doubles as town executioner... Good woman. Strong. "
He mulls the situation (or Capella), then turns to Ulfbrecht;
"More than welcome to keep me company Brodir. Or head to your friends. Most likely billetin' at the Baron of Mutton - only place to put them up unless they're sleepin' rough in the granary!"
The ranger chuckles as Marko sobs at the mention of executions;
"Pipe down lad. You'll not be for the blade or noose. Just your fat friend..."
Mos does the deal netting 43 Gold for the goblin-gear, bandit arms and the well balanced Baselard.
Walright nods at the departing Mos and Semeren gathers all the wares up in his mighty arms;
"Please doing business with you Little Master. You come across any more such items bring them back to me an' Sem. We'll do you a good deal. Honest like."
The Baron of Mutton S**t. Apologies gang - dunno where the week went!
As the group come together, any chance of a low-key reunion is stymied by the effervescent performance by Eireachdail!
The skald's rousing performance attracts plenty of eyes, some wonderous, some wary... one or two even appreciative with a toe-tap or two.
Hûnidark meantime eyes the throng for any sense of ill-intent... but finds none, save to half-blind scowl of the ancient man nursing an empty drinking horn;
As Andren breaks from his beau's embrace, he apologetically acknowledges the big brawler's order...
"Of course! Of course my friend! Plenty of fare for a Brother of the Brawler!"
Jenneleth seems to glow, happy that her betrothed has met this motley collection she has become very fond of.
"Andren... Could you also bring us a bottle of that fine City League Red. I wish to toast my friends here..."
He smiles and grins;
"On the house my dear. For these are your friends... which makes them mine!"
As he heads to the kitchen, his charitable gesture does not go unnoticed - causing auld Dirkaster to bluster and bellow;
Can I assume the chest & saddlebags are safe – either with us or at the bakery – so I can ignore them for a bit? Or do I need to play this ‘real world’, in which case Huni is on guard duty and pretty much out of the RP?
Yeah you can assume they are safe at the bakery mate. Don't want you missing out :)
As Andren waits on if Spiro and Elyan wish more fare, his expression lights up as new customers enter the room.
"Jen!"
The aelf-blooded pair watch as their innkeep rushes toward the newly arrived Jenneleth, who enters the place with Eireachdail, Ping and Hûƞidark in tow.
Even the drunken curmudgeon Dirkaster grins when he sees the betrothed pair reunited.
For her part Jenneleth blushes as Andren sweeps her off her feet;
"An-Andren! These are my friends... and we are not married yet!"
He sets her down with a besotted smile and nods toward your collective;
"Ah more newcomers! Welcome! Any friend of Jen's is a valued customer of mine!"
She jabs his ribs and beckons you all follow. Across the bustling tavern Spiro and Elyan are seated at a table with empty dishes and charged mugs.
The inn is busy, mostly with locals. The air thick with sound of chatter, tipsy banter and fishy aroma of the local dishes...
@Mos: Did you ever pick a Secondary Skill? While not Appraise a skill such as Weaponsmithing would grant you keener insight into the worth of the blades
Smithy
As Mos converses with the two men, neither react to his Thieves Cant inclusion, bringing him to conclude, if they are dishonest men, then are not Guild dishonest.
The ranger nods in agreement at Ulfbrecht's assessment, tipping his pipe toward the gaol;
"As the good Master said Elder, there's two of them in our custody. One perhaps a paid patsy. The other a more blackhearted villain if these good folk are to be believed. However Squire Carmen will decide their fate."
Haldelar's flushed face ebbs slightly at the joint wisdom of the pair of rangers.
"Aye... Well... I shall be speakin' with the Squire too! Justice will be served... By the Gods it will!"
He glowers at the gaol, then nods his thanks toward Ulf;
"My thanks Master Dwarv. Our Jenneleth is our only childe, our pride and joy. I'm fierce protective of her, and to think of someone doing her harm..."
The burly baker clenches his meaty fist, then bids you both good eve.
Apologies gang - will get a post up on the morrow... just clocked that the boards ate a large post that would have seen the majority of you reconvened at the Baron of Mutton and I've not the energy to try and rewrite it tonight.
All good - will get everything back on track shortly.
Yeah the store credit gives you better value, but the cash will also bring you XP (to be shared) as treasure. Tis a trade off of sorts.
Remember also that expert items confer a bonus - so in the case of a weapon it could be +1 to hit or +1 damage (or in the case of exceptional items both). Worth remembering when you weigh up the trade value vs the adventuring value.
Walright grins at Mos' story and nods toward his apprentice;
"Sem here has had his fair share o' run-ins with the little basterds afore..."
The hulking man nods also flashing a wide toothed grin;
"Uh-huh. See Gobelins, they mostly pick up broken arms and armour. Cobble it together. Rusty an' run down like this helm."
Walright picks over the rest of the booty;
"Pot helms, cleavers and daggers are all likely for the smelt. Give you 6 gold for the lot... Ringmail is rusty and has some loose links but we can fix that... so 15 gold. Them 3 dirks are decent - 2 gold for all of them... So 23 gold all in."
Semeren lifts the two remaining daggers up, feeling their weight and checking their edges with an appreciative nod.
"Good ones these Master."
The Smithy takes them, smiling in agreement at the assessment;
"Aye Sem. That they are... Back to the forge lad, keep them bellows going..."
He turns his attention back to Mos;
"Poignard and Baselard are both expert crafted Little Master - good weapons. Them we'll take for what they're worth - 20 Gold each... So 63 Gold for the lot."
