"What's this you say?" The guard seems quite surprised. "Slain? You did off with the Shrieking Ghost? I'd hardly believe it, but for the bell tower's ring. It told true then!" The guard calls to his side. A younger member of the watch appears on the parapet. They converse in hushed tones for a mere moment. The elder claps the younger on the shoulder and sends him off on some errand. "Open the gates! We've travelers to let in, and they bring good news!" The oaken gates groan and unseen windlasses within the gatehouse clank as the way into Versonton is opened before you. The guard above dissappears for a moment, then comes around the base of the gatehouse, apparently from a door on the other side.
Within you see a wide open swath of dirt, a plaza surrounded on the far side by various shops and buildings. Closer at hand, the near side of the plaza is surrounded by a green sward with many stalls placed here and there, along with a goodly number of tents. The place is crowded with common folk. Many are wrapped against the lingering chill and damp air. Dozens of faces of all ages look out with wonder and curiosity.
The guard calls out as he descends the stairs and comes round the gatehouse. "The Shrieking Ghost is gone! The bell tower rang true! The gods have sent us seven travelers to end the fear!"
A small crowd forms within the gates, waiting to get a look at these strangers and hear more of this odd news. The guard excitedly and absent-mindedly passes out the strips to peacebond the weapons, then ushers the group inside the walls. "Come, come, enter and welcome!"
The folk press in around the wagon, not getting too close (they seem wary of the orc) but obviously restraining their intense curiosity. Questions rise up:
Did you see it? What was it like? Was it terrible? Did it attack you? Did it use magic? Can you take care of the rats in my basement? Was the Shrieking Ghost sent by the Green Wizard? Did you see the Green Wizard?
"What a magnificent town this is. Your 'screaming ghosts' were a true terror to behold. They fairly froze the blood in my veins. But they did seem to die just like any other terror of the wood. They sort-of collapsed in a heap of ash."
"Have you been having trouble with a wizard? What more can you tell us of him?"
Azuma bound his long blade without complaint, not wishing to draw undue attention to himself. Besides, he felt confident in the ability of his arm and his heavy walking cudgel to handle any potential problems. You can't peacebind a stick.
He grinned at the townsfolk as they barraged the group with questions. The taciturn people of his village were very different from the little men and foreigners that the goddess seemed to be entwining with his fate - he felt as though he could barely get a word in, but he found that he enjoyed their company. It was a welcome change.
When the townsfolk mentioned the "Green Wizard" he felt a surge of excitement, though he tried to conceal it from his new companions. He had been right to jump on the little fellow's wagon. Surely this was the beginning of his fate.
Now Harmen thinks to himself I have an audience!
"Hold there good people!" Harmen booms in a deep Leitmotiv, a powerful and difficult bass used in an opera to signify a commanding lead. The sound seems utterly bizarre coming from a being so small as Harmen Harmen grinned. He could never hold one back looking at the faces of tall folk who had never heard what his voice could do.
"Sorry 'bout that folks." He goes on with a loud and clear voice (though lacking the boom and pomp now) "We'd love to tell you everything about the battle with the Ghosts, and listen to your problems wit the green wizard. But we've traveled long and fought hard, could someone tell us of a nice place to rest and eat while we dine?"
The crowd swirls and moves around the wagon, and through the teeming mass a new sight becomes visible. Not far away in the plaza is a wooden stall with a vibrant blue and red canopy. A man in a gaudy blue and red robe stands hawking something to the crowd. He is just audible over their din:
"You all heard the clock tower's toll! It foretells the coming of the Shrieking Ghost! The phantom will walk in our streets tonight! No one is safe; no one, that is, who doesn't have one of my ghost charms! Yes, my ghost charms are enchanted with my most powerful spells, guaranteed to stave off any and all spectres or spooks!"
Then the halfling calms the crowd with his uncanny voice. Those who stood listening to the flashy man turn and walk away. He calls after them, trying to get their attention, but to no avail. Crestfallen, he looks to the wagon. When he hears the claims the heroes are spouting, a cloud of anger passes over his face.
"What is this nonsense?" he asks as he storms over. "What do you mean you destroyed the Shrieking Ghost? Rubbish! How can you be sure? You would need to be schooled in magic. I doubt your feeble minds can comprehend the man says with a flourish and a smile to the crowd. Half of them gasp in awe. Some stare blankly. A couple walk away. Several giggle.
Xendril quickly uses his sorcerous flight ability, flying over the guards to land gently in front of the halfling.
"Do not speak to me of any lack of arcane knowledge on my part. I suspect you are a snake-oil dealer and a flim-flam artist. BEGONE! Unless you have some truth to speak, do not waste our time! Our trail was long and rest is desired."
A smirk grows on Armaros' lips.
"The man knows how to make a point now, doesn't he?" he states to his comrades with a soft laugh.
Azuma gapes at Xendril's feat. "What sort of man is he?"
Marcellus crosses his arms and retreats a bit, content to let the sorcerer confront this particular challenge. The charlatan's words strike a little close to home where he is concerned. He scans the crowd for any potential threats to his flying friend.
He mumbles to Azuma, "They speak of this ghost in the singular. I sure hope we really got this 'shrieking ghost' of theirs, and not something else. If this ghost does make an appearance tonight, we're going to look as much like charlatans as that guy now does."
*addressing the crowd*Describe this "Shreiking Ghost" that you all fear! We have defeated 2 vile hellspawns this hour and I would like to assure that we all speak of the same demons.
*Sings a quick tune...
We heard the screams, fear was it's call
Leathery wings, on a head.. That's aalllll!
Two by air and no bodies on them,
Bravery's blades tore on through them!
Standing frozen
trembling for a time
steeled will
was needed to survive.
Erelune saves us!
They were a demonic head with fangs that were borne upon leathery bat-like wings, and they screamed with a ferocity that sent ice into our veins.
Are these the "Shreiking Ghosts" of which you have spoken?
"Well," says the guard humbly from behind Xendril, "no one has actually seen the Shrieking Ghost. But we heard it! Every night for the better part of this week! And we heard it again today, just before the clock tower tolled. It was the first time we'd heard the shrill cries other than at night."
The gaudy man looks shocked and cowed by the display of magic before him. His eyes dart nervously, seeing how the crowd is reacting. Many have smiles on their faces, enraptured with their new heroes and their strange powers (and singing!). The "ghost charm" dealer cracks a smile himself. "Ah," he says, regaining confidence, the gears in his head turning, "friend wizard! How wonderful to meet a kindred spirit! Why didn't you say so? Surely, such as your company could have done away with the Shrieking Ghost. We wizards are powerful, you know," he says that last bit to the crowd. "What is the Shrieking Ghost before magic?" he waves his hands in a wide arc over the crowd as if to indicate his power. Turning back to Xendril and looking over the others behind him, he introduces himself with a smile: "I am Myril. Myril, the Magnificent! I know, I know, you've heard of me."
Faz chimes in with an unusually simple answer. "Nope."
I have no patience with those who would fleece the innocent of hard-earned coins in return for some fake "charm". As I said, speak truth or begone from my presence!
My eyes....can see the power flowing,
magic light fill my eyes!!!
These peoples seem to be of a hard-working lot and as yet your "magic" has me doubtful of your abilities.
Azuma turns to Marcellus. "You're right friend! Those little beasties did not seem able to terrorize a whole town. Their ghost may be something worse. I hadn't thought of that..."
He looks at the clever swordsman with new-found respect.
A pale young woman in the robes of a Weird of Thetos steps out of the crowd "What you describe are vargoiules, foul creatures from the outre planes capable of spawning more of their kind by their venemous bite. Please, follow me and I shall lead you to the inn."
She is a short and sleight, with slightly pointed ears that give away her elven heritage poking out from her long black hair. Her large green eyes are a little distant, as if she is seeing into another world and they contain some deep melancholy. She smiles, a small, bittersweet smile and says "Welcome to Versonton. I am Talia, Weird of Thetos. We owe you a debt of gratitude for your slaying of these vargoiules."
Azuma recognizes Talia's vestments. A servant of the goddess! He pushes to the front of the crowd and bows deeply to the lady.
"Greetings milady, I am Azuma Stormcloud of Aronoch. I am at your service, and the service of She whom you serve."
Yes but are these creatures the "Shreiking Ghost" that the townfolk have been terrorized by?
Myril listens to Xendril's chanting, watches the sorcerer watch him, widens his eyes in realization that he is being observed through a divination, and tries to stuff the ghost charms inside his robe.
"Yes, well, I certainly don't have to stand here and be insulted in my own home, er, town," Myril stammers, looking around at the crowd and trying to find an escape route. "Obviously my greatness is not appreciated here. Should any desire to purchase a token to remember these troubled days by and the arrival of our 'heroes,' my ghost charms make the perfect memento and will still be on sale in my shop. Good day!" He turns and begins trying to shove his way through the crowd.
The guard approaches Marcellus. "I can't answer for you whether the beasts you slew were actually the Shrieking Ghost or not," he says almost apologetically. "As I said, none of us have actually seen it. But, Laryndis should be able to connect you with someone who can answer you. I imagine he'll be here soon enough, what with all this commotion, but Mistress Talia's already offered to take you there. Water Under the Bridge is his place."
In a whisper, he adds:
The charms, good citizens, are fakes. No magicks grace them at all. Better to save your coins or donate to a church. Surely the grace of one of the goodly gods, such as Erelune, is more protection than a cheap "charm" filled with spices.
I am sorry for your losses, good folk.
At Xendril's announcement Talia sighs and turns to Myril "Please, leave this square at once and never again sell your false charms. Times are hard enough without you stealing these people's gold for a few baubles."
When Azuma presnets himself she bows in return and says "Welcome Azuma Stormcloud. Your service to the Lady is appreciated and welcomed. Versonton and the temple thank you and your companions."
Speaking to the rest ofthe group she says "Please, follow me. I shall bring you to Laryndis."
Finally, a voice of reason. I will follow you. I need rest.
Myril manages to shove his way through the crowd. Complaints and questions arise from the multitude.
Not magic? I thought you said your best spells were in this?
Is this true? Myril? Is he telling the truth?
I want my gold back!
As the guady mad breaks free from the grasp of the crowd, he retreats with all speed back across the plaza, past his flashy stall, to a building bearing a sign that reads "Myril the Magnificent's Wondershop." Myril can be heard saying something to the effect of "I've never been so insulted in all my life!"
Near Marcellus, the gate guard sighs. "Crazy old hack. This won't stop him, you know. He's been up to this kind of stuff for years. Always gets debunked, but then the people always come flocking back to him. Not completely powerless, to be sure. He's the man to see if you need some minor trinket or something. You look like the adventuresome type. You may find yourself in his shop sometime. Just be careful for schemes and scams!" With that, he bids farewell and dissappears back into the guard tower, popping up on the parapet only a moment later. The crowd mostly turns from the heroes, either bidding them good day with an admiring smile or turning to follow Myril back to his shop and pound on the door for a refund.
"Well, that was quite a welcome," Faz says. "I suppose it's over now, so we might as well be getting on. Thank you, mistress, for offering to take us to lodgings. I can't speak for others, but I'm in the mood for some food!" He flicks the reins of the wagons and begins to move onward. At that time, however, a figure jumps off the back.
It is Rugrok, the orc shaman. "I am not going. You have been kind to me. I thank you. But I am called to shrine of Goras. I have own business to see. I do not think we meet again. Not for very long time, if ever. May gods watch over you!"
Azuma nods to the Orc. "And you. Be well."
He turns to Faz. "I'm eager for a feed too. It seems like for weeks I've eaten nothing but biscuits and dried herrings!"
Marcellus offers his hand to both the informative guard and the departing orc priest. "Good luck my friend, and thanks for the healing touch."
He looks back towards Myril's shop somewhat regretfully as he follows his friends out of the plaza. He mumbles to Armaros
"Hopefully another shop of curios will turn up somewhere in this town. I doubt we'll be getting very good prices from him unless we con him somehow."
Harmen watches over the scene with open curiosity as his scheming kinsman retreats to safety. He makes a mental note to investigate what kind of real authority the disgruntled charm-seller carries in this town. Until then he was concerned with learning more of his new companions.
So he followed along. Quickly aware of how the crowd must see him. A small frail thing next to such large and mystical heroes. He he puffs himself up a little. Pulling his cloak to the side so that his weapons are visible. He tries to match the posture and gait of the swordsman Azuma. Not quite sure how to look imposing himself, he settles for impersonating the large mans obvious ferocity. A little celebrity in Versonton might come in handy. So it wouldn't do at all to appear as the side-kick. Letting his new game keep him entertained, he follows the others, awaiting their meeting with this Laryndis. Hopefully he'll have some information.
Talia leads these newcomers to Laryndis.
No better place to hide than in plain sight. Armaros scans the group of "heroes" and smiles, pulling back his hood. If I can hold this image as being one of the "white knights", I might be able to get out of this town once the deed is done without too much suspicion. Hell, if I'm really lucky these guys will kill him for me!
Armaros smile grows a bit more as he watches the halfling, Harmen, do what appears to be a strut. "Want a ride on my shoulder, little man?" he whispers with a wink.
Harmen looks at the boy with puzzlement at first. Then, seeing his broad smile cannot help but laugh at the joke.
"Ya best be careful when you offer a ride to us little uns boy. You just might wake up in a bit and bridle!" Harmen punctuates his comeback with a devilish grin and a tiny playful fist to Aramos' thigh.
Harmen laughs heartily, pleased with his retort. Even more pleased to see some humor out of the quiet street tough Aramos. Truely things were looking up.
Talia seems to pay no attention to the conversations between everyone else and is lost in thought.
"When seven stars fall upon the bridge over Telwynd... Perhaps these are my seven stars. Perhaps the herald's of Death for whom I have been waiting." A faint smile spreads across her face as she considers these possibilities and she quickens her pace. She must know more about these people and the circumstances that bring them here. "What brings a group of heroes such as yourselves to Versonton at such an advantageous time?" she asks as she walks "What twists of fate brought you here, to this town on this morning?". She tries to conceal her eagerness, to seem like nothing more than a curious person but a little bitof her excitement gets through, giving her a more animate expression.
Erelune's praises must be sung for all to hear. I come to this town to raise my voice in the song of her praise. My acts and my deeds I do for her. My power is a gift from her and I shall use it to further her name.
I look to increase her name with my actions. And to sing.
"...and to sing."
The smile vanishes from Armaros lips, his face returning to a rigid mask. The scarred and stained face of the man occupying the cell across from his flashed before him. The sound of the man's prayers echoed through his mind as he remembers the man's voice growing weaker and weaker as he slowly starved...
Armaros slows his pace, pretending to be distracted by the shops and follows at the back of the party, distracting his mind by searching for anything suspicious.
"Singing sounds like a great idea!" Faz says cheerfully. He promptly bursts into some type of halfling song, seemingly for drinking or traveling or both. The wagon trundles through to the far side of the market place, leaving the open sward and moving along the cobble-stone road through the center of town. The other ancillary paths are all unpaved, and the damp grass is trodden and muddy between the buildings.
It takes no time at all to reach the rear of what must be the market district, or whatever nomenclature they use here. The whole section of the town is completely surrounded by a wall, only slightly shorter than those around the town's perimeter. Before you is a small gatehouse with a drawbridge lowered on the far side. The town is well fortified. The wooden planks of the drawbridge lay over a canal; dug in the dirt, it looks almost like a natural stream.
"Well, Versonton may be a big enough place, I suppose," Faz comments as he stops singing, "but nothing like the cities! Thatch roofs, is what I mean. Cities have slate, you know?" Once gain, the halfling has pointed out the obvious. The other side of the canal looks residential, with the many wooden, tatched-roof houses lining winding dirt, now mud, streets and lanes of Versonton around the central cobblestone route. Not far off through the pack of houses, a grand white cathedral towers over the surrounding buidlings like a mountain.
But closer at hand is the inn. It's right there on the left as the wagon rolls over the drawbridge. A low wooden wall surrounds the premises, save for one side which is open to the canal. A sign hangs from an arch over the gate entrance: "Water Under the Bridge" it proclaims in green letters, with a depiction of just that (a river flowing beneath a bridge with a house on it). The gate stands wide open and welcoming. Inside are three buildings; what looks to be the stables in the back, and two in the center of the grounds connected by a covered walk. The foundation and first floors are limestone, transitioning to graying white plaster above. The roof of wood on each building is painted a dark forest green, and ivy twines across all the walls.
"Greetings, masters, kin!" A halfling appears, as if out of no where. The last was added with a nod and a wink to Harmen and Faz. "Welcome to Water Under the Bridge. What can I do for you?"
Marcellus regards his white-haired guide with a touch of suspicion. "What's her agenda?", he suddenly wonders.
"A halfling with a wagon brought me here. That and the smell of trouble, I guess. I seem to have a nose for that. Following it is apparently a subconscious thing for me. Someone once told me to always follow my nose, but now that I think on it, he may not have known me very well."
"What about you? Is this your home? If so, can you tell us if your local haunt is this thing we've slain? And who is this man you're leading us to? A civil authority? Military? A religious man?"
Azuma opens his mouth to answer the Wierd, but Marcellus speaks first. He suddenly feels apprehensive about discussing his destiny with the young woman - something about her is unsettling, and he feels as though the goddess wants him to keep his dream to himself for the time being. He listens with interest to hear how she answers the swordsman.
The whole town is beginning to weigh on Azuma. His companions seem amiable enough, especially the halfling, but it has been weeks since he has seen the ocean or heard the rush of waves. Despite what Faz says, Versonton seems large and intimidating to the fisherman.
"Harmen, what does that sign say?" He asks the cheerful halfling as they near the inn.
"It's the name of the Inn friend. Water under the bridge." Harmen replies to Azuma's inquiry. "And a fine little establishment you have here brother." Harmen calls cheerily to his fellow halfling. "There seems to be somthin you need of us yes?"
Ha! Luck nothin! This has gotta be destiny right here. Who figured things would work out this well?
"Oh, no, kin, nothing I need of you! Ask, "what do you need of me?" That's what Laryndis hires us for. A room? A meal? Take your ponies? I promise to bring them back!" he laughs.
In the halfling tongue, he adds:
I relish the thought of a hot meal in a warm Inn. The days are still chilly enough although it is warming up nicely. The simplest faire would seem a feast now and I look forward to a full belly and warm bed after a bath to wash away the road dust. Lead on, grand sir.
"Actually I do have a trunk with some valuables of mine on Faz's wagon here. If you got a spot to put it where the rats don't get to it I'd be mighty obliged."
She nods in response to the stories of these heralds, pursing her lips slightly at mention of Erelune. "False prophets, though even fals prophets may be herlads."
To their questions she softly responds "Laryndis Elvenblood is the proprietor of the Water Under the Bridge. His sister is married to Count Laryndel, Count of Versonton and he is a respected member of the community. I expect that Count Laryndel will be able to inform you more of the Shrieking Ghost. All that I know is that it first appeared a week after the arrival of the Green Wizard, about whom I know naught. I fear that I spend more time in the Sepulchers watching over the dead than speaking with the living, so I gather litle gossip."
"Oh, no, kin, don't you be worried about rats here at Water Under the Bridge. We keep our guests' things safe from their likes, you can be assured of that."
"Oh good to know friend, Last time I took a stay at an inn some of the little buggers sniffed their way into my things, caused me no end of trouble. But I've got faith in a fine fella such as yourself to look after it."
"Well we came to see this Elvenblood fellow. I don't see the sense in lettin him wait on us. Especially if'n he plans on a discussion over dinner."
Harmen strides into the inn.
Xendril follows into the Inn and scans the area, looking for someone looking like they are in charge.
"Oh, yes, I believe I've heard of rat problems like those before. Never fear, kin! Water Under the Bridge is free of all such pests, you can be sure, but we take special measures to insure the satisfaction of our lodgers nonetheless," the halfling smiles. "I'll be happy to take your ponies and wagon round to the stables and stow your things away. And as for that food you're seeking, it's right through that door!" He gestures to the northernmost building, to a door under the covered walk connecting the two structures.
Harmen swings the door open; a draft of warm air rushes out while the travelers step in. Immediately in front of them is a bar of stone with a counter of wood, carved in the flowing leaf motif of the elven folk. A small stage rises from the floor on the other side of the room, a symbol of Erelune hung on the wall above and behind. But between the stage and the bar rises a bridge!
It arches over the common area of the tavern beneath, just high enough for an orc to walk under and past the round hearth directly beneath. It forms a sort of two-faced balcony, ascended by stairs on each side and set with a few seats to look out over the rest of the tavern's tables below.
The bases of both bridge and walls are made of mortared limestone, polsihed like river stones and decorated with mosaics, carvings, and other symbols to enhance the feel. The wood above is carved to be like trees, sycamore on the walls and willows on the bridge, the beams and rafters above cunningly carved to be their branches. Simultaneously, it offers openness and intimacy.
"Ho, there; well met!" A half-elf stands with a broom in his hand, stopping his sweeping to lean upon it with a hand raised in hailing. "Well if my ears aren't pointed, there's a lot of you! Must be spring at last and the roads suitable for traveling again." Though his face and form is not that of an aged man, his braided hair of shoulder-length is gray with just the slightest hint of a silver sheen; his heritage obviously extends to nearby Nysil. "You're newcomers" he states, appraising the group with a wisdom in his eyes. "I know faces, and yours are new. Save Talia, of course. So you're new to Versonton." He pauses for just a moment as if to think, then sets aside his broom. "Welcome, friends! I am Laryndis."
Talia bows slightly to the half-elf and says "Greetings Laryndis. These are people who defeated two fiend creatures, perhaps the Shrieking Ghost, perhaps not, on the edge of town."
*Xendril looks down at his holy symbol of Erelune and up to the large symbol in the tavern, a wide smile spreading across his face.*
I believe I am going to enjoy it here! Go day, sir, I am Xendril, singer of Erelune's praises and Wielder of Her Arcane Might. 'Tis good to be off of road and in such a fine place.
"Oy now this is a nice place you've got 'ere!" Harmen states with open awe as he cimbs onto the bridge to better look at the tree carvings. "The name Harmen Pinwhistle friend, pleased to make your aquaintance. Now normally I'd not be so blunt but we've had a bit of a strange day. With that in mind, would you kindly share any information you can regarding the green wizard, these shreikin' ghosts that we killed, and why a ringin church bell would have anything to do wit us? In no particular order mind you."
Harmen stands waiting on the bridge. He tries to focus on sating his curiosity first but the smells wafting from what must be the kitchen are appealing to the most fickle to his natures.
"Oh and I'd love to listen over a cup o' tea an maybe a small somthin covered in gravy if you got any handy."
Marcellus removes his hat and wipes his brow. He looks around the rich taproom and nods approvingly, a wide and growing smile on his face. I bet this place has good beer he thinks to himself, and the question stands in his eyes. That was a long, cold road.
As he wanders around the room with his gaze, he keeps his ears focused on Laryndis and his answers. The sorcerer and the bard have such a nice way with words, it would be a shame to spoil the conversation with his unlovely voice.
“Well, now, that’s quite a bit of information to digest! But I prefer food,” Laryndis smiles. “I’m afraid all the gravy’s gone cold from this morning, my small master, but we’ve still some boar ribs left simmering in the kitchen. There’s likely not enough to go around, but the larder has venison as well. I was going to put it on for the dinner crowd soon, anyway, so I might as well get started. Help yourself to an apple from the barrel if you prefer more delicate fare.” The gray-haired half-elf disappears down a stairway and returns a few moments later with the venison. Before busying himself readying the food, he asks “What will you have to slack your thirsts, traveling masters? We’ve local brews, but most with the coin prefer our dwarven stock. I’m afraid there’s no wine left, but a bit of elven nectar is still around here somewhere. Too sweet for most tastes, you see. I’ll have to brew you some tea, small master, but it’s no trouble at all!”
For a moment, Laryndis is a blur of motion as he serves the drinks, disappears into the cellarage once more, appears with some utensils, and begins to work by the round open hearth under the bridge, preparing the food. “And of course, my thanks for bringing me such business, Mistress Talia! It’s a good way to start off the traveling season, I’m thinking. Suppose it’s proper to be delivered such an omen by Thetos’ clergy, though. Remind me to make a donation to the temple,” he smiles.
“Now then,” Laryindis finishes his ministrations, serves the food, and pulls up a chair near the table where the companions are gathered, “we can talk about all your questions. I trust Talia’s given you a little overview already, and her pointy ears are good, but mine are pointier still and closer to the ground,” he chuckles amiably at the Weird.
“You want to know of the Green Wizard. Don’t we all? Two weeks ago, the townsfolk woke up to find a stranger walking down the street. The gates hadn’t been opened at all, but there it was, plain as the moon, someone in a dark green robe with a hood. Even the hands were wrapped. None could make out if it was man or woman, or even the race. Well, that got everyone panicked, you can imagine. Lots of faces peeking out from windows and behind buildings. Whoever this robed figure was never said a word, though. Just kept walking, thumping along with its tall staff. That is, until Sir Tyraval arrived on the scene. He called for it to halt, which it did. Then it whispered something in a strange way no one else could hear, save Sir Tyraval. The knight drew close and held a hushed conversation with it, looked a bit upset, but eventually must have struck some kind of bargain. None of us ever found out what it was, but Sir Tyraval turned and, without a word of explanation, led the robed enigma up to the castle.
"No one in town has seen the Green Wizard since. Some wonder if he, or she, or it; is still around at all. But Laryndel, my sister, is the court mage for Count Verson. I have it on her authority that the Green Wizard is still in Castle Verson, and she’s never heard a word from the stranger. And I do mean stranger.” Laryndis stops for a moment, mulling over what he’s just said while sipping at a cup of the tea he brewed.