"Aye. And lucky yed be 't were yer nooze."
“Um, yeah, it was a silly idea really,” Beldan is actually looking a little scared – he may be fairly cosmopolitan compared to the folk hereabouts, but he hasn’t entirely escaped that Keolandish fear of arcane magic. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
Beldan
Beldan shivers and looks around, a funny sort of expression on his face. “Did anyone else feel that?” he says, then shrugs. “Probably just the cold. Anyway, um, I need the latrines, did anyone see where they were?”
like pictures of naked chicks in nun's habits.
"Ah think Ahl jooin ye, Ahv goot e leettle pooper jes clammerin te get oot."
"Re Roo!"
spoiler for Beldan, Maechaemmer, whoever floats a biscuit...
"hnnnnng! plooplooploopoopooooopooop! (damn berries...run right through me...) eeeeeew....it's......blue!!!!!
"AH, Blue Frog, kips meh regoolar."
spoiler for Beldan, Maechaemmer, whoever floats a biscuit...
** spoiler omitted **
"So you have special room to do that? Me just go where I feel like. So many things to learn.
"Sorry - me watch you put you off?"
"Sorry - me watch you put you off?"
"Laddy, yer curiousity ell fade quickly. En as loong as I've had me medicine this'll take boot a minute. Blue Frog, kips ye regular, kips ye blue."
<Splooot>
"En remember, laddy, te oolways wipe wi' yer left."
"Rik ralls."
<Tenser licks his balls and chews the dangly-turd from his ass hair.>
“Erg … I don’t need to go anymore, suddenly.”
Wanders back to the rest of the group. “Has Sargent One-Eye told us where we’re sleeping yet? Or what’s for dinner?”
<Stiggy comes back into the stable brushing his palms together like he just did some invigorating labor.>
"Mooch bettar! The oonly prooblem with Blue Frog is if yoo stoop drinkin 'er et kin bind a feller oop real bad, en I mean yer goots el turn to mortar. Noo, noo, I'm noot lookin' forward too this trip, laddies."
<Stiggy comes back into the stable brushing his palms together like he just did some invigorating labor.>
"Mooch bettar! The oonly prooblem with Blue Frog is if yoo stoop drinkin 'er et kin bind a feller oop real bad, en I mean yer goots el turn to mortar. Noo, noo, I'm noot lookin' forward too this trip, laddies."
"We go get Granny stuff now?"
"Sure, why not", Altai replies to the halfling's question. "But before we go, we should check up on the cart. It was in sorry shape when we recovered it, and I didn't exactly fix it. Anyone here know anything about cart maintenance?"
"Aye, lits git."
"You know how in all those epics and bard's tales, you never hear mention of the heroes going to the jakes? There's a good reason for that, turns out..."
One of the soldiers comes up; says he was a prentice wainright before he was pressed into service as a Neheli Barleymuncher...He gets her fixed up in a jiff (2 hours, with the tools at the blacksmithy).
It's about 4 p.m., and this time of year the sun sets at 7 p.m.
Bitha says it's a good 2 hours to Granny's. The rain is letting up.
Are you guys rolling out in the evening, or sleeping off your blue tongued saturnalia?
How does Granny feel about sleep-overs?
"Em soore yed be right welcoome to boonk doon wit 'er en moisten 'er desert, Beldan."
<Tenser lays down and covers his ears, whimpering like a beaten starveling.>
"Es fer me, Ah'l be ootside."
Beldan looks frightened again for a moment, no doubt at the thought of a two hundred year old lady trying to seduce him … or perhaps at the mental image of “moistening her desert”.
“Well, up to you guys,” he mumbles. “I’d as soon stay here and mooch some free bed and board, but if everyone else is eager to go…”
"Ahlright then, Ahl goo askin' aboot room en boord."
<Stig lumbers off looking for Sargent Booger.>
"Ye guys can stay overnight in the barn for free if need be."
"Let's sleep off the Blue Frog in the barn. We'll save Granny and her stuff tomorrow morning."
The night passes uneventfully, although the constant fog and damp conditions make it a chilly nap in the hay of the horsebarn. The group trundles out before sunrise. Bitha rides along to show the way, her crimson cloak quickly dampened by the dew and the fog. The wagon judders a bit, but the wheel holds true; other than a woody groan or two, it seems to be behaving.
The morning is cloaked in fog, past 20 feet or so the world is cloaked in a graying smudge. A chorus of high pitched buzzing from all around heralds the sunrise, the nation of frogs finishing its nightlong opera.
Two hours bouncing along with the wagon, fording a stagnant creekbed with murky brownish-red water.
Intermittently a staccato of drumplay interrupts the frogs.
Moving over the heath, the emptyiness is interrupted by a gnarley little tree here and there. You finally move up into some gentle hilly territory, and find the Peatside Thorp.
It's abandonment only seems right and proper, a mucky little affair of 12 or so wattle and daub huts that a goblin would find lowbrow. One solitary grubby chicken notes your arrival momentarily, and continues the business of pecking at the packed firmament for seed.
Bitha chimes up. Pointing at a higher set of hills a good half mile to the north and east, cloaked in fog, "that's granny's, up there. There's a trail that winds up to the front of the house around the other side of the hill."
You can make out a stout, well-sized two-story abode, cloaked in the mist. The fog seems fenced in, the mist gleaned, and then webbed in by a hearty stand of ancient oaktrees girdling the house on the hill.
"Howdy, Howya'llare?" A rich, mellow-tenor voice floats to the group on the mid-morning breeze. As the group looks hastily around for the source of the voice, a deeply tanned elf wearing dark browns and greens steps from the shadow of the nearby trees. His shoulder-length hair is in disarray, he wears a pack made of deerskins on his back and a scimitar sheathed in the same hide at his hip. He carries a stout oaken staff only a little taller than his own wiry five foot. A single long stem of grass with the seeds still on the end dangles from his lips.
"Sorray, did'n mean ta sceere ya dere'." He says, walking slowly towards the group with a friendly smile. "I ben shado'in ya dis' mornin' sinc yu lef' de foat. You hadda couple'a close run'in, like wit da momma bere ah don tink yu notice, an' da nes' o' viper you almos' step in. Is alrigh', I tol 'em yu wuz jus' passin' tru like, was'n no need to go get all hissy an' bite no body."
He stops his approach far enough back to ensure them that he means no harm, the same easy smile still on his face. At this distance you can also see the short bow he also has slung on his shoulder. He leans lightly on his staff.
"Ya'all look a mite worrie' when da bulyywug music started. I wouldna' worry yer sef aboot dat none too much dere. Da Swamp id like da pond or da lake, da sound travel tru de water fas' like, and make it soun' real near when it still far off. Course, dat also make it hard to tell when da soun' is real close like too. Iff'n ya like, I could travel wit' ya, an make shore yu don' have no more close calls like dis mornin'. All ya gots to do is watch yore step like.Dat's all."
He removes the stem of grass from his lips, and tosses it aside. quickly wipes his hand on his sleeveless leather tunic that can only barely be called 'armor', and holds out his hand.
"I hight 'Elgan', from da Deepwood. What might ya'all be called?"
A robed maid pipes up. "I'm Bitha. These hale follows help me relocate my Granmama to the fort. And greetings to the Druids of Dreadwood! What brings you to the south?"
Altai stares intently at the newcomer as he speaks, trying to get a handle on what he might be talking about. About halfway through, he gives up.
"'Lo thar, Elgan", he says as he shakes the elf's outstretched hand. "My name's Altai. Pleased to meet you."
I know, right?
"I hight 'Elgan', from da Deepwood. What might ya'all be called?"
"Laddy, tha' lat was the first thing I understood yoor sayin'. Ahm Stigwold from the Dreadhold, Woodhill clan. Ahm a MacHammar."
A robed maid pipes up. "I'm Bitha. These hale follows help me relocate my Granmama to the fort. And greetings to the Druids of Dreadwood! What brings you to the south?"
The new arrival bends over the lady's hand and smiles. "Oh, nuttin' much dere chere'. Nuttin' in-particular like, Jus' abou' dat time fer a feller to get out un see da worl' abit. Dat's all."
Elgan rubs his neck, looking sheepish, and adds, "I saw'r dis hee'ya group o' fellah's yestiddy. And notic' hohw dey all seem ta be from differ'n pawts. We don' git much visituh's tru de' Dreadwood. A'n ah'm lookin' ta meet new folk, a'n luhrn abou' udder places."
Altai stares intently at the newcomer as he speaks, trying to get a handle on what he might be talking about. About halfway through, he gives up.
"'Lo thar, Elgan", he says as he shakes the elf's outstretched hand. "My name's Altai. Pleased to meet you."
"Pleesetameetcha suh'." The newcomer pumps Altai's hand vigorously, still smiling. "Altai as it? Whar d'ye hail from suh?"
"Laddy, tha' lat was the first thing I understood yoor sayin'. Ahm Stigwold from the Dreadhold, Woodhill clan. Ahm a MacHammar."
"MahcHaamah" Elgan repeats, shaking the dwarf's hand with the same, perpetually cheerful smile on his face. "Ah'v hea'd of duh sho't fo'k befo'e, Heerd tell uf dem by da trade'ahs wot cuhm tru da woods. But ah've nevah met one befo'e. Da pleasu'es mine suh."
The elf leans forward to the dwarf conspiratorially, and says in a clear voice, "If'n ya don' min' me sayin' so, juve gotta bit o' an accen' dere chere. No offens' suh, jus t'ought yu migh' wanna know, it make yu a bit hard tu unnerstan' suh, dat's all."
He straightens back up. ""Dreadhole'? Whar'abou'ts is dat at suh? Whut's it like dere'?"
Gittik simply folds his arm, narrows his eyes and gazes suspiciously at the new arrival.
"Dreadhole'? Whar'abou'ts is dat at suh? Whut's it like dere'?"
"Nah Dreadhole, 'tis DreadHOLD. Noot th'it matters. 'Tis what oothers callit. Ets not seh hoorible as i' soonds, you know h'us wee foolk take teh livin' in the earth."
"Nah Dreadhole, 'tis DreadHOLD. Noot th'it matters. 'Tis what oothers callit. Ets not seh hoorible as i' soonds, you know h'us wee foolk take teh livin' in the earth."
"Dat's whut Ah say'd chere, Dreadhol'. Ah'd hea'd how da stout folk take ta livin' in da eart'. Ah likes da eart' mahsef', but ah'm no' sur' how ah'd feel bout livin' unner' it. Ah'm a leetle too fond o' da sunshan' mah'sef."