Someone summons a couple of appropriate creatures and gets them into the alcoves. The ancient spells woven into the structure of the dam come alive, draining the creatures of the vital energies needed for the floodgates to function, and with a grinding sound more felt than heard they open. The sound of the gates opening is quickly drowned out by the rushing of water through the spillways, a controlled flow that is easily handled by the people of Turtleback Ferry. The next time the waters rise volunteers may be needed, but that's a problem for another day--as is the repair of the dam where Black Magga was carried over it.
Trox shakes his head.
"Seems like this should be manageable for them. Either prisoners or pay someone to do what we just did. Honestly, makes the whole devil thing seem kind of silly and, I guess, cruel." He thinks a moment. "That person with the clearly evil name must have been a real sh*t."
If we have two dangling threads hopefully they are related. The Captain seems more approachable to me, at least we have people we can ask questions who we know knew him. I am good to start with either.
"We need to tell people what they will have to do to power the damn, lets at least start with that."
The people of Turtleback Ferry are grateful for the party's handling of the flooding. It doesn't take much investigation to learn that Whitewillow is part of a nearby marsh known as the Shimmerglens. Based on what you hear from the locals, the Shimmerglens is rumored to be inhabited by all sort of unnatural fey folk--a path known as the Wicker Walk is supposed to be the safest way to travel between Sanos Forest and the hamlet of Bitter Hollow, but stories abound of travelers baffled by nixie traps, or plagued by petty theft by unseen hands.
Skarn shakes his head, "in my experience, the safest way to travel in any forest, is not to travel in it. Perhaps under it, or over it, but through the forest can not hardly be the best."
"What kind of weapon works best with fey folks? My blade is strong but adamantium might not be the right choice."
Trox is less concerned about the journey but would prefer to be well armed.
"Cold iron."
"Walking it is then!"
"Cold iron."
Druamin nods. "Yep. That's it. Those fey can't handle the stuff. I'm going to check the shops here and see if I can't find an axe with a cold iron blade."
Druamin examines the new axe. It isn't as well made as the one he normally carries but it will be better against any fey they may encounter.
"I'm ready to head out when the rest of you are.
Trox finds a cold iron long sword to add to the collection and beyond that is ready to see what the group gets into.
While the group's in town, Reynard will try to find a cold iron weapon for himself as well.
As Cordwin is falling asleep, a thought crosses his mind: Why would anyone try to destroy Turtleback Ferry?
The next morning, the party sets out for the Shimmerglens by way of Bitter Hollow. It's a cool fall day, the louring clouds promising more rain to come. There's an inn in Bitter Hollow that pours a decent enough ale, so the group doesn't cross the Willow River into the Shimmerglens until mid-afternoon. The party's clear militant competence does not go unnoticed, however....
You're only a quarter-mile into the swamp when a lone figure, a winged humanoid only a couple of feet tall, flits on multicolored wings through the scrub foliage towards the Wicker Walk.
"E-excusemeIneedhelpplease...."
+3 to identify creature abilities and weaknesses
Skarn shifts his gaze to the flitting figure, brow furrowing beneath the brim of his hat. He takes a chew on his stogie, then glances at his companions. “Aye, that’s a pixie. Not so surprising to find one in a place like this, given their knack for the forest.” He pauses, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution. “Now, I may not know much about pixie folk, but if this one is leading us into some forsaken muckpit, I’ll be none too pleased.”
He clears his throat, raising his voice to the tiny creature. “Right, well, you’ve found yourself a capable bunch here. I’m Skarn Hornfels, follower of the Drunken Hero himself. So, what exactly is the nature of this help you’re needing? No tricks, mind you.” He gives the pixie a pointed look, eyes narrowing. “Swamps like this are tricky enough without us marching headlong into fairy foolery.”
Skarn glances back at the group, muttering to himself, “Can’t say the lack of rats here isn’t a welcome sight, though.”
As the flying creature approaches, Drumain stops and leans on his axe. He doesn't know much about pixies but he recognizes it none the less. Skarn seems to have more familiarity with the fey creatures so Druamin relaxes and waits to see where the conversation goes.
At Skarns mention of the lack of rats Druamin takes a look around. He doesn't see much evidence of any of the small forest animals he'd normally see.
Druamin doesn't like the feel of the area at all. It's not really that bad where you are, but the prospects ahead seem worse.
The pixie wrings his hands in agitation. His eyes are swollen and red, apparently from crying, his clothes are disheveled, and he seems to have neglected to groom his wings. “My mistress, she is… ill. Very ill. Death would have been a kindness. The land sickens with her heart, and it cannot be cleansed until her misery is purged. I cannot do this myself. Please, you must help her! You know of her human lover, yes? He wouldn’t want her left like this! I can take you to her—maybe you can do something. I have tried everything to cure her forlorn heart, but to no avail. She wails and moans in Whitewillow, and the trees and plants and nixies and frogs and everything are dying or worse! I can take you there! Please!”
Reynard quickly identifies the creature as a pixie, and exactly where to put his new cold iron spear, should the need arise. Fascinating anatomies, such creatures have. Amazing that such tiny organs can even function. I would like to dissect one, if I ever get the chance.
Torx watches the interaction not convinced it is not a trap but at the same time not opposed to helping as long as someone else does the talking.
Skarn takes a deep breath, his gaze softening just slightly as he takes in the pixie’s clear distress. He removes the cigar from his mouth and tucks it into his pack, then looks back at the creature with a nod.
“Alright, lad. We’ve seen enough suffering in these parts already, so we’ll help your mistress. Just lead us to where she’s been resting.” He pauses, frowning as he wrestles with the names. “We understand this all has to do with her human lover, this… Commander Tamalar? Or was it Tamadar?” He scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Aye, I think it was Tamadar.” He nods as if certain.
Skarn looks back at the pixie. “And your mistress… Miryala, was it?” He frowns, muttering to himself. “No, no… I think it was Mylara… something along those lines.” He waves a hand. “Anyway, you’ll correct me if I’m off, but tell us, what happened to the fellow? I’d heard he vanished, but do you know more about what came of him?”
His expression turns resolute as he readies himself to follow. “Take us to her, little friend. If anyone can bring some relief to the land and your mistress, it’s this crew.”
Cordwin is excited to see the pixie.
The pixie looks a little doubtful. "Are you sure you know her human lover? That's not his name, and that's not her name, either."
Cordwin's greeting in Sylvan seems to help your credibility, but there's still some lingering doubt in his expression.
Skarn shifts his weight, rubbing his beard as he chews over the pixie’s words. He lets out a short chuckle and waves a hand dismissively.
“Aye, you’ve got me there. Names like that don’t come easy to a dwarf. Human and fey names—no offense meant—always seem like they’ve got too many flourishes and not enough good, solid consonants. Now, give me a name like Durnak or Grimslog, and I’ll remember it clear as a mountain stream.” He taps the haft of his heavy pick against the ground for emphasis, a wry grin curling under his beard.
“But truly, we’re here to help. It’s plain as day you’ve been through a rough time, and I can see your mistress’s suffering has spread to the land itself. If we’re going to set things right, though, you’ll need to help me with these names.” He gestures toward the pixie encouragingly. “Remind me, what are they? The commander and your mistress? If I’ve got them wrong, I’d rather know before we meet her.”
He straightens, his expression softening just a touch. “Lead us to her, friend. We’ll do what we can to ease her pain and bring balance back to this place.”
Druamin shifts his weight to the other foot and keeps leaning on his axe. Skarn is pretty good at talking with this pixie creature.