Four mercenaries on the road together, headed through Korvosan territory and on the road to the Bloodsworn Vale. Having gathered at the Four Points in at the last crossroads, the four proceed together to Fort Thorn for their meeting with Sir Tolgrith.
Sven trudged along, whistling happily and out of tune. The dwarf appeared to be simply dressed, with brown wool pants, a gray shirt and a faded cloak the color of which could no longer be readily determined. This was, of course, an illusion. The traveling garb was, in fact, a suit of thick plate armor. It was just that he preferred to not draw too much attention to that fact. What was not covered in an illusion though was his shield. It was round, with a diameter of about 30”. But what made it stand out was the hammer attached to it. He called it a “Toragian Shield”, and he was inordinately proud of it. He was convinced that it would change the nature of warfare forever! And the more people told him that shields and weapons should be in different hands the more stubborn it made him.
His whistling finally stopped as he asked ”Are we there yet?”
"We are a few hours closer from the last time you asked, Sven." the other dwarf replies with only a touch of annoyance. Dressed in gleaming, well-tended armor and carrying a banner atop a tall polearm, Reilarr--former captain of the Silversong company and current mercenary--marches a few steps ahead of Sven. Her dark black hair is ornately braided with six glittering silver rings, and her green eyes are bright and sharp.
"Shouldn't be long now, I think we're in the Vale proper at least. Then we can debrief with Sir Tolgrith and hopefully wash away to grime from the road."
Cyla sits atop her black coated horse. Her blue tinted breastplate clear to see over top her purple and blue-black clothing. The armor seemed to have a substance on it made to cover its sheen. As no light reflected from it well. Her arms were bare, and displayed a lavender skin tone that matched her face and her legs were covered by dark, dyed leather leggings that fit tightly to her skin. She keeps a bow of midnight blue strung over her shoulder, and on many occasions glances back in its direction.
Look, I know you've told me your purpose, and trust me, its one I can agree to. I intend to fulfill it, however in order to do that we need allies, a place to prepare and strike from. And we both need more strength. You yourself admitted that you are not fully at your peak after your transformation. Neither am I. What good would running down there and dying do?
A faint voice seems to whisper in reply.
Fine, as long as we are making progress, I will accept it... We killed the priestess did we not? That is no small feat. You do yourself little credit. You are stronger than you think.
Cyla lets out an exasperated sigh.
Who knew having an item "destined" for you could be so troublesome.
I heard that the faint voice echos back.
Heh. I know.
She turns her attention to the squabbling dwarves.
Rare to find finer companions... right. I'm surprised they even let me come along. What with my heritage. Though, I do suppose that at the very least we can find common ground in our distaste for drow.... and pretentious elves.
By all means, I have heard that if you keep asking, you will reach your destination faster because of it. And if you've grime from the road, that is your own fault.
The edge of her mouth turns up as she says the last sentence. Cleaning a bit of dirt from her boot with with a wave of her hand and a spark of magic to emphasize her point.
She continues.
But, a hot bath is indeed its own reward. And I would not decline one. I would also suggest you get your own horses. They can be a hassle at times, but it makes traveling much easier and quicker than by walking. Better to hoof it.
Indeed -- several hours ago, the group entered dark woods. Still walking on a road built by Sir Tolgrith, the woods loom on either side of the road. You're about an hour away from Fort Thorn, as the dwarf walks.
Stayven follows amiably along with the group, though as they get closer to the Vale he gets visibly excited, "Ah, nothing like the fresh air of a road one's never travelled!"
He thinks for a moment, trying to remember Sven's name before saying, "Sven, is it? It's all in the journey, not the destination. Might as well enjoy the trip there. Besides, if we could skip the road entirely I'd be out of a job."
Eventually, the road comes to an end. The canopy falls away as the forest gives way to a clearing. The rushing of the river can be heard from nearby, and a wooden palisade has been erected in the center of the clearing. Three stone watchtowers rest at irregular intervals around the border of the polygonal wall, and a bit more than a half-dozen buildings shelter inside of it.
A two-story stone keep dominates the inside of the wall, a squat practical building with no windows but arrow slits. When you approach the gate leading into the Fort, a guard standing atop the nearest watchtower calls out. "Hail, travelers! If you are adventurers here to answer the call, you're very welcome. Open the gates!"
At his call, the gates rumble open to admit Reilarri, Stayven, Tallarial and Sven. When the group enters, a second guard approaches. This guard seems older than the rest, with a weathered face and a missing hand.
"Hail there," he says. "Welcome to Fort Thorn. Sir Tolgrith says this'll be a good spot for a town once we've got the inhabitants of the Vale threatened, but for now, it's about the only safe spot around."
He gestures about himself. "We've got a small tavern here -- the Boar's Bones -- if you've need for a meal after your travels. Otherwise, you should head into the keep and speak to Sir Tolgrith. He can tell you what's what recently, give you the keys for the visitors' barracks, and negotiate payment."
hmmm. Yes, I think we should speak to Tolgrith first. We can relax after that. If that is your desire.. Do you have any shops here yet?
She asks, looking at him for a moment before scanning the small "town".
On the way, his spirits lifted by the keep finally being so close, Sven's humming had turned into singing. With songs such as "Orcs and vermin are bleak and sneak, guard your hold, from deep to peak! Down, down, down We go, We'll mine for gold and guard for hold! Win her hands with songs of old, solid steel and hoard of goooooold!"
It was...a less than pleasant performance. Proof that Sven was a much, much smith than he was a singer. Not that it bothered him, given that the songs were for his own enjoyment.
--------
The dwarf grinned at the guard when he saw them. "Oi! A tavern ye say? That'll be a place that appreciates a good drinking song. I can't bloody wait." He exclaimed. "What do ye say, lad n' lassies? Shall we get a stiff drink or two before meeting with the lord?"
the greatest of dwarven songs.
Cyla looks to Sven.
As I said, there will be plenty of time tonight to drink and whatever else, after we take care of the business we need to. Lets at least act professional at our first meeting.
Though.. A hot bath does sound amazing at the moment...
The guard nods at Tallarial's inquiry. "Aye, lass."
He points at a small building nestled up against the corner of the wall. "Bellar Greysalk operates the trading post there. He doesn't have much in stock other than basic supplies, but he's in contact with the merchants' consortium and can order stuff in."
He takes the time to name all of the rest of the buildings in the town, since there are only a few more. "Other than the shop and the alehouse, we've got stables, a shrine to Erastil, Partik's forge, and the Four Wheels Hall, the place the traders use."
He points to a small house close to the middle of the Fort. "That place is the visitors' barracks. You all will get to stay there. The soldiers and builders all stay in the keep."
All equipment worn or carried by a creature is similarly enlarged by the spell. Melee weapons affected by this spell deal more damage (see Table: Medium/Large Weapon Damage). Other magical properties are not affected by this spell. Any enlarged item that leaves an enlarged creature’s possession (including a projectile or thrown weapon) instantly returns to its normal size. This means that thrown and projectile weapons deal their normal damage. Magical properties of enlarged items are not increased by this spell.
Sven sighed. "Fine." With a shake of his head he said "Can't sing of us anymore with a throat so parched. Just so ye know what yer missing out on while we go see the lord." He continued, seeming to think that this would convince them to get a drink first.
With no interest in doing something else first, the one-handed guard leads the group into the keep. Someone has to help him with the door as he drags it open to allow entrance. The entry doorway leads to a rectangular hallway with murder holes in the ceiling. The guard leads the group over to the first door on the right side of the hallway and opens it.
Inside is a mid-sized chamber. The center of the chamber is dominated by a huge oak table. A few shelves and chests are arrayed around the outer borders. Rolled out on the table is a map of the Bloodsworn Vale and there seem to be a scattering of tokens and markers all over the table.
Leaning over the table is a rugged, strong man. He has military-cut brown hair grown out from time in the field, although his face is clear of stubble. His lips and nose are large, and his skin weathered. His cheekbones are small but strong. He wears hide armor, and a sword is strapped to his hip. He looks up when the door opens and the one-handed soldier announces your arrival.
He smiles when he recognizes what you are -- reinforcements!
"Well met, strangers," he says, reaching out a hand to shake for whomever does that. He gestures around the table to indicate that the group should arrange themselves around it. "I'm Gyrad Tolgrith, and I'm glad you're here. We've been working on the road -- so far, we've gotten about halfway across the Vale with little more issue than boars and wolves, but last night we had a new setback. With your permission, I'd like to explain and ask for your help."
He looks around to ensure that everyone is ready, and then he continues. "Two days ago, the road's work crew failed to return for their shift change. I sent scouts to investigate, and found that the work camp had been tossed about, and all the workers killed. Their bodies were riddled with tiny arrows, and all their ears had been removed."
"My soldiers aren't equipped to deal with this kind of threat. Bears and wolves they can handle, but this time I suspect fey, and we have no idea where they're coming from."
His face is grave as he looks around at the four of you. "I've already hired one person. They're waiting for you in the visitors' barracks. This vale will become a trade route, and it will likely also become a small town. The mercenary contract allows for the acquisition of a small plot of land, and a percentage of the profits from the trade for any who settle and contribute. I have been assured by our new monarchs that those who display exemplary performance will be granted titles of nobility and an increased income."
"So -- will you help me solve this issue? Do you have any questions?"
Vague on what constitutes exemplary performance, and the amount of land... She thinks to herself.
Yes, first and foremost, what exactly is the amount of land one can expect? Would a noble gain more land? What percentage are we talking here? 3%? 5%?.. what constitutes "exemplary performance"?
Cyla is rather straight to the point, a trait uncommon among elves.
And you said you suspect fey, do you have any other information on that? Potential types?
Gyrad shrugs a little. "It's hard to say at this stage," he says. "It all depends on the success of the venture. Nobody will be getting anything at all if we don't finish this road, after all!"
"Based on what I know, you should expect a three-digit monthly income in gold," he says. "But that's after the trade has begun, drawn from taxes. And, uhm, exemplary performance... it's when you perform above and beyond the call of duty. My personal judgment is the deciding factor."
Cyla's question about fey brings a shake of the head. "I'm sorry, I'm not an expert on such matters. I made an assumption based on the size of the arrows -- they're really quite small. I don't know much about fey beyond what you hear from stories."
"Fey eh?" Sven said, thoughtfully. "That a'int gonna be easy. But I suppose that if it bleeds, we can kill it." After a moment he added "Made any contact with them yet? And if communication can be opened, what be yer terms? Or is this purely a smash n' break type job?" He asked, not really caring one way or another.
Sir Tolgrith shakes his head again. "As I said, my scouts found the murdered work crew in their camp. We saw no creatures, and there was no warning."
"I expect justice for my murdered men, and I need the work to continue without further delays. If you can solve this without violence, then be my guest, but if whoever did this needs to be put to the sword, so be it."
Stayven smiles when he sees Gyrad Tolgrith, "You're a part of the surveying corps of Korvosa, aren't you?" He extends a hand as he says, "Stayven Vernikas, Deputy Magistrate of Frontier Surveying at your service!"
"Fey. Hm, tricky creatures, but they can often be reasoned with."
Hmmm...
I'll look into your issue. I assume I have leave to deal with whatever the issue is however I... we, desire? It seems we already have work to be done in the morning.
Tolgrith shakes Stayven's hand absently, nodding at his question. "Good to meet you," he says.
Tolgrith frowns. "That's not a question that makes me feel at ease, Miss... I'm sorry, I didn't get your name. Especially after I've already made my expectations clear." Looking at the dwarves, he asks the same question. "And to be honest, I would prefer if you left now, rather than wait for the morning."
Cyla, Cyla Shadowsong. And as you said, if we can use diplomacy do so, if not use the sword. Or bow, in some cases. I'm just making sure I understood we had leave to do as needed.
She pauses a moment.
How far is site from here?
Sven glanced at his kinswoman and then said "I came here for work, and to test me hammer. This be an opportunity to do both! But aye, I'm nay one for killing if it can be avoided. Otherwise, we're nay better than *orcs*, aye? I trust that the compensation will be fair when we're done. Excitin' to be part of something like this! Oh, and where's me manners? Name's Sven! Sven Shieldbearer, at yer service." He finished with a smile.
"Not far," he replies. "The camp is just off the road, about eight miles down."
Reilarri has been intently studying the map while the discussion rages around her, marking distances and landmarks in her mind. "There were no survivors from the work crew? No one we could question about events before the attack? Such ruthless violence may suggest that some sacred taboo of the locals may have been violated--or mayhaps not. Either way the sooner we're begun the better. Are there any other inhabitants of note in the vale?"
"No survivors," responds Tolgrith sadly. "And no marker events from before the attack, as far as anyone can tell. I've put in a requisition for additional workers. I'd like the issue to be resolved before they arrive. Should be a day or two more."
"We know that both bugbears and lizardfolk make their homes here, but our scouts have yet to locate their dens. Other than that, we've seen mostly wild beasts. Wolves, spiders, bears, boars, and the like. Some of our scouts have seen a chimera hunting the plains, and others spotted a shambling mound deep in the forests. We'll discuss future tasks when you've returned from this first one."
"No sense in wasting daylight then. Let's get a handle on what's going on then. Any chance I could requisition a pony?" Regardless of the answer Reilarri gives an acknowledging nod, snaps a smart salute to Sir Tolgrith, turns on her heel, and marches out the door.
Hm. Very well. She says before following Reilarri.
Tolgrith nods. "Head down to the stables, make it known you'd like to buy one, and give them the money they ask for. You'll have your mount in a few days. I'm sorry, but all of the horses that are there already are in use, mostly by our scouts and messengers."
Cyla and Reilarri leave the keep and head outside to the courtyard of the Fort.
Reilerri? I believe you said your name was? Do you know much about fey creatures?
Fey tend to make their homes in forests, and much of the Bloodsworn Vale is forestland. However, not all fey make use of bows. Pixies make use of bows, but they use special powder that doesn't pierce their targets. The most likely common culprit is some type of sprite.
Sprites are Diminuitive creatures who give off natural light. The common breed of sprite reaches heights of 9 inches and is not as intelligent as other types of fey.
”Right. Gonna buy some weapon blanch. Them Fey are resistant to normal steel, ye know.” Sven said as he began to walk out.
"Little and less," Reilarri admits to the elf. "Stories say they live in the forests, have a proclivity towards pranks, and can swing from mirth to wrath in the blink of an eye. But stories say all kinds of things, and it may not be fey in any case. 'Small arrows' isn't entirely compelling."
"Heh, small arrows won't get through this shield. Just a question if we can catch them." Sven replied.
Stayven takes a moment to ponder what he knows about fey. It's quite a lot, actually. One doesn't spend as much time in the wilds as Stayven and not run into those capricious beings.
"Well, pixies often use bows, but their bows don't often pierce their targets. It's probably a sprite in that case. They're small, glowing things, but ironically not too bright in the head."
I don't recall a lot, as most of what I would know comes from reading, but what Stayven, right? says sounds fairly accurate. At least, I think it does.
"Well there's no point in standing around guessing. Let's take a look at the worksite, there may be clues that Sir Tolgrith's people overlooked."
"Excuse me," says a voice from behind you, "But are you additional reinforcements to the Vale?" The voice is soft, although not quite reassuring. It is a surprise then to notice that the voice originates from Gov.
He could be mistaken for a full orc, but upon closer inspection, it can be seen that he is a half orc with strong orcish tendencies. He dresses in ceremonial garb, of particular note is a belt with a single scale from a fire drake, and the creature that the thick leather cords wrapped around his arms must have been very large indeed. The amulet that he touches lightly with one hand seems to be primarily engraved with orcish runes, but there are some sylvan, and the word balance written in both celestial and infernal. He carries a massive wicker basket on his back, and has an adder draped around his neck. A small crossbow hangs at his side.
"I spent many years in the Vale, and I would not see it's gentler denizens trampled underfoot. Nor can I stand for them to trample the innocents of this land. My name is Gov, a priest of the primordial poison. If you'd have me, I would lend my experience and service to your expedition. This is Basil." he says, pointing to the adder, which waves it's tail lazily. "I hope I am not too bold in my request?"
Frowning at the half-orc for a moment, Reilarri shrugs and extends her hand. "If Sir Tolgrith vouches for you, that's enough for me. Reilarri of Clan Graelkyir out of Kraggodan. Can you track a fey?"
"Well met Kraggodanian," Gov bows slightly to the dwarf, turning his eyes to the ground as he does so. "What you ask is tricky. Very tricky. Many can fly, and those who tread upon the ground can often pass without trace. If we go quickly, there may be some scent left still."
Sven's eyes widened at the sight of a tusker, but upon realizing it was a half-orc, he decided that Gov wasn't half bad. He wasn't half good either, but that was neither here nor there. "Aye then. Wasting daylight. Let's be off and see what exactly we be dealing with. And while we walk, how 'bout ye-" he motioned at Gov "-tell us what all them doodads on ye represent. Ye be some kind of shaman? Oh. And I be Sven. Sven Shieldbearer. Also of Kraggodan." He left out his Clan name, preferring to stick with his earned title. Given that he did not yet trust his current company, he saw no reason to give out something which could be used against him.
Gov walks beside the dwarf, slowing his gait to match with them.
He smiles patiently, although it is slightly less reassuring than from another creature due to the size of his teeth.
"I was Gov Shrah, exile of the Gra'rak clan of the Bloodsworn Vale. Now I am merely Gov, servant and priest of Teshallas, great serpent of Pharasma, he whos venom flows through us all, and causes aging. If you are concerned about the infernal script, it has to do with the role that Teshallas plays in maintaining the great balance. I am no orcish shaman, although I understand that apearances can be deceiving." He chuckles good-naturedly.
"In younger years, I was injured and grew ill. My clan exiled me for my weakness, and my heart grew bitter. Age has softened the blow, and given me the wisdom to see that I have grown far beyond what I could have achieved as an orcish clansman. It is the orcish way to take trophies from defeated foes. I do much the same, although my foes are much less tangible than most. Every talisman that you see represents an achievement over weakness of the body or mind, and the subjugation of it. In some cases literally." At this, he loosens a leather strap around his arm for an instant, and staggers, nearly falling to the ground beneath the apparent weight of his wicker basket, before tightening it once again, and straightening up.
"I hope that is a satisfactory answer, and that it puts you at some ease? I know that our peoples are not on the best of terms, but to be a shield bearer is a most respectable thing to be." He holds out his hand to Sven, intending to shake it if offered.
As Gov finished his tale, Cyla smirks.
Indeed, often times being exiled proves to be quite the boon for the strength and growth it forces onto one. She lets her horse walk slightly to the front and side of the others.
Call me Cyla, and tell me, what lead you to worship Pharasma precisely? And know, that I do not intend to let any denizens of this area threaten the.. colonization? Attempts. Not out of malice, but for personal reasons. If they keep out of trouble, I will give them none.
After several long moments, she glances back showing her true colors.
But, who precisely, are you speaking of as far as the "gentler" natives?
At the speed that a dwarf walks (with Cyla trotting alongside on her black horse) it takes about four hours to walk from Fort Thorn to the workers' camp in the forest. Overall, it's a fairly nice walk. The afternoon is cool, the sky is clear, and the Vale's notorious monsters make no move to leap out of the undergrowth and disembowel everyone.
The road has been cleared and flattened, and takes the group over the Petal River (a clear, sparkling waterway with a moderate pace, good depth, and a solid population of fish) atop a fresh new wooden bridge.
Just a few hundred feet past the bridge, the work camp rests in a small clearing to the side of the path. A few torn tents and a long-cold fire pit are all that remain of the camp. Although the bodies have been buried in a single large grave off to one side, dried bloodstains clearly mark the spots where they fell. By the time the group has reached the workers' camp, it is solidly evening. The sun hangs low on the horizon, obscured by the trees. You think you only have about an hour until sunset.
Cyla sighs, finding no signs or clues to what happened. She does repair the two tents however with a mending spell or two. She would stow the dagger into her belt.
You have me, what need have you of that pathetic ornament?
Yes, because shooting something in the face that's directly in front of me is the best solution then?
Sven listened with some distaste at the knowledge that Gov came from an actual orc tribe. He was pleased that the halforc had turned to a more benign deity and seemed like a decent enough sort. But he was still relieved when Cyla’s interjection gave him an excuse to ignore the handshake. In Kraggodan halforcs were a concept more than reality, and all orcs were thought of as being monsters fit only for extermination. Try as he might to be open minded, he wasn’t yet ready to be accepting enough to make physical contact.
——
”Will ye look at this?” The smith said, holding up what looks like an arrow made from some sort of branch or thorn, fletching is made of rose petals, and its point is a wicked rose thorn. ”Found it on the outskirts. Bloody fey have a right peculiar way of making their weapons of war, eh?”
"Not Pharasma herself. Teshallas. I believe you would call them a psychopomp. They are a great serpent, and their venom is age. It is said that Pharasma created Teshallas to allow mortals to welcome death, instead of fearing it. Some hate Teshallas for making their bodies grow old. I welcome the wisdom that it brings. In addition, serpents have always spoken to me you see." and he chuckles at this, and you would swear that the snake around his neck did the same, as well as a faint slithering sound from the wicker basket. "I have met many a gentle creature, both of my companions, Basil and Juniper came from my time in the Vale. Some tribes of lizardfolk are kinder than others. Fey can just as likely be helpful as they are to slip a knife into your back. Intellect abounds in the expanses of the Vale, and to characterize it all as out for your blood is to do it a great disservice."
===
"Tracks, small ones. Trailable."