Those in the wagon aren't bothered by the rats but the rats do go a after the horses let legs as they pass. The vermin also scurry from the brandished torch but quickly return. Thee doesn't seem to be an end to the tide of cat-sized rat.
What is your agenda?
'Let's head for the mayor's place first' suggests Varn. 'We can let him know why we're here and see what he can tell us. Then I'd like to go and speak to the healer. I want to find out what she has been doing to treat the illness - maybe I can find some herbs that we can use to help'.
Looking at the others, he continues 'how do you suppose we deal with the rats? We should be able to find where they are coming from but what then?'. The Saxa doesn't appear too hopeful that the situation can be resolved.
Serin nods.
"Aye, the mayor should be first. We need to present the messenger's body and get more information. What we don't learn from the mayor, we may find out from the healer.
"We should probably also include a visit to any local shrines or temples. Anything this over-the-top seems like a divine curse rather than a freak of nature. Perhaps the mayor and the healer can suggest the right clergy to visit.
"As for the rats... who knows? There seem too many for poison -- where would we get that many herbs? Fire needs fuel, too, and I fear we'd burn down the town before ending the rats. As the guards pointed out, attacking single rats is like trying to drink the ocean. No, I think it'll have to be magic, though of what sort I'm not sure. I know a story about a skald who could lead masses of rats wherever he wished through the magic of his flute... but that's not a skill that I possess."
Rindilnir also nods in agreement.
As Varn steers the wagon to the mayor's abode, Rindilnir gives his blades a few passes with his whetstone.
If we do have to drink an ocean, I intend to drink deeply.
You are shown into the mayor's house by a stern looking woman in a severe black dress. She shows you into the parlor and tells you the mayor will see you shortly. Ferguth wanders over to the sideboard where a decanter and a couple glasses sit.
After a couple minutes, the mayor comes in. He is a short, middle aged man, with muttonchops and a waistcoat whose bulging buttons betray that he is used to eating well. As he walks in he rants, “It’s a disaster! Everything edible is gone! Oh dear gods, what have we done to deserve this
pestilence? And where are the soldiers from Aslov, eh? We sent a messenger to Aslov a week ago, but we have heard nothing! Nothing! They can’t have forsaken us! I’m sorry, I’m sure your business here is important, but I have more pressing matters."
Serin's flashing green eyes and wry smile seem to have little effect on the grim matron who shows the group in. Well, stress does distract one from the finer things in life! He hopes to have better luck in winning the affections of the local authorities....
"Your Honor, we apologize for disturbing you in the midst of such business. Obviously, the town needs your strong oversight and stern hand in this time of trials."
Nothing like buttering up an elected official....
"But we do bring news from outside. We were hired as couriers in Aslov by a farmer of Dalsetter, yet entering these parts we have come to see your troubles as more important than our employer's.
Rodgar's grain, along with "everything edible," is obviously gone. No chance of finishing that contract! Let's see if we can attach ourselves to some new sponsors....
"We found your messenger to Aslov, dead on the road with an orcish arrow in his back. His body lies in the back of our wagon, home again in honor if not in triumph. We also discovered a Roadwardens' tower stripped, with another party of traders struck down, by the same rodent plague as in your town. So, alas, Aslov does not know of your plight, and the rats have overrun more than just the town itself.
"But no! We would not see you forsaken. My companions and I are strong with sword, spear, and bow; apt with magics for attack and defense; skilled in the healing arts and ways of the woods; and keen to make a name for ourselves as heroes."
Now to set the hook and catch this fish....
"What can we do for you? Perhaps we ourselves could bear your message to Aslov? Or, perhaps, a small, elite force might succeed where Aslov's massed soldiers could not, in finding the rotten center whence this plague spreads? Which of your pressing matters would you delegate to us?
We should find out more about what's going on, to boot....
"And what can you tell us of this pestilent scourge? Those in Aslov knew nothing when we left: when did your troubles begin, and how quickly did they arise? Have you priests or paladins who might know anything of the gods' wills for or against this trial? How stands your healer, Flora Godwinsdottir, and what may she have discovered about your opponents? Who oversees Dalsetter's defenses, and what needs may they have that we can supply?"
Serin sees Ferguth already well through the sideboard's decanter, and Rindilnir beginning to fidget about the roof far overhead, and decides to wrap it up.
"In short, honored sir, we are here to do all that can be done, by arcanist's cleaning fire, by elf's flashing blade, by woodsman's stealthy knack, by skald's balm of song, or by the wit and cunning of all of us together. Command us, sir! We are here in your hour of need!"
The mayor's face pales visibly as you speak of the dead courier and the Roadwarden's tower. "Aslov doesn't know of our plight? Alas! We are doomed! What little grain we have left can't be moved because we don't have the wagons, and the outlying villages need that grain to survive!"
The mayor collapses in a comfortable armchair. "They started appearing a week ago now: just a few at first, then more and more each day. We’ve tried everything to get rid of them, but nothing works. Little sods seem immune to poison and the ratcatcher is working overtime.” He stands and walks over to the sideboard beside Ferguth, pours himself a drink from the almost empty decanter, without even really registering that the two bottles of wine that sat beside the decanter were missing. "I really have no idea what you could do about the situation. They just keep coming!" He waves the letter you handed him, plucked from the corpse of the courier. "Our couriers and caravans aren't safe. Our town is overrun!"
The stern looking woman appears at the door with her hands folded in front of her. The mayor turns to you and says, "I really have no idea what you can do, and I really don't have the time to entertain the thoughts right now. I have to tend to some business, and see how we could possibly evacuate all these people. Milgith will show you out."
The stern woman, Milgith, steps out into the hall, expecting you to follow.
Serin smiles so broadly his teeth gleam in the firelight. "Ah, Milgith! A lovely name for an equally lovely woman!" He makes as if to take the matron's hand and, as she hesitates or backs away, turns again to the mayor.
Well, back to Plan A!
"In that case, sir, I have here a signed letter from Rodgar ap-Annwn of Dalsetter, authorizing us to collect his shipment of flour for transport to his baker. If your concern is to supply grain to the outlying villages, in that, at least, we can be of assistance. We have a wagon, and stalwart men with which to guard it. Load up Master Rodgar's grain, and we will be on our way."
Let's keep up the charitable route, at least....
"But is there any news you would wish conveyed to the outlying villages? Or information brought back as to whether they, too, suffer from this blight? It would be a pleasure to be of service to a man of such prominence as yourself, and with such lovely housestaff...."
Rindilnir gives a grand bow as Milgith leads them into the hall, as he bows a single drop sweat falls from his nose. He rises and exits the home half-walking/half-fleeing, avoiding eye contact, his lip bleeding from nervous chewing.
"Perhaps we could lure the fithy creatures into one of these live-in torches then let Ferguth have his way with 'em."
He thinks back to the blessed arbors of his homeland, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the scars on his face.
Varn listened intently as Serin spoke eloquently and passionately to the mayor without getting much in the way of a positive response. He did, however, see his master surreptituously slip a couple of bottles into the folds of his robes, and suppressed the urge to smile - if Ferguth was intent on staying to aid the townsfolk, then Varn would be duty bound to protect him...
He had already decided that a visit to the healer was in order, followed by a brisk walk. Too long sitting on the wagon had made him stiffen up, and a vigorous stroll in the fresh air would be most appealing. If it happened to take him somewhere he might find some Giant's Toes, perhaps a small clump of Longstalks, or even a lone Hayberry shrub, then so much the better!
Aware that Serin was still trying to elicit some information that could be of use, the Saxa listened intently for anything that might assist them.
Milgith gives Serin a cold, dead stare in response to his feigned advances. "You may take your letter to Ulfwyn, Master of the Granaries, and he will see that what you came to get is loaded." says the mayor. "As for news, yes, if your trail takes you to Dalsetter, give them news of our plight. If the other villages in the area have fallen to this plague, then I fear we are all doomed to a doom of biting, crawling chaos."
The mayor turns back to his desk and the stack of reports thereon. Milgith shows you to the door with a curt "Good day" before closing the door and leaving you out in the snowy, rat-infested street.
Ferguth turns to the others, "Well then! If this Ulfwyn can help us get loaded, I am all for that!"
"So, we've got a rat-plagued town, a hapless set of defenders, and some of the last grain remaining uneaten that we've got to protect for another journey of a day-and-a-half. We need information, and we need speed.
"Ferguth, why don't you go give the letter to Ulfwyn, and tell him to hurry so we can get out of town within a turn or two of the hourglass. I wonder if they have any wine left in the warehouse?
"Varn, you're the best bet to speak with Mistress Godwinsdottir. See whether she's any more help in knowing about these rats, their source, or the sickness they spread.
"Rindilnir, you and I will hit the temples, if any. If there's one, we can handle them together. If several, we can split up; you can take the stone shrines, and I'll take the thatched ones. I'm curious about how faithful the residents of town might be and to which gods, whether anyone notable has done anything recently to offend the heavens, what sorts of feuds Dunross might have with other towns that could summon supernatural aid, who might have been thrown out of town and be nursing vengeance -- that sort of thing.
"Any other suggestions, or are we ready to run?"
Rolls follow in case I need them. I don't mean to slow us down (or overwork Chris!) by suggesting to split the party; I'm hoping it will actually speed things up.
Streetwise:
Wild die:
Persuasion:
Wild die:
Notice:
Wild die:
Rindilnir nods, relieved to be out in the cold air again.
"Point the way, my friend." says Rindilnir as he draws his swords, ready to trailblaze through the river o' rats if necessary.
'Right you are' says Varn to the bard. 'Meet back here once we are ready?' he asks.
The Saxa pulls his cloak around his shoulders and heads outside to the wagon where he grabs a couple of torches. Returning, he says 'might help keep those damn rats at bay; can someone light one for me? Preferably away from Rindilnir...'
Then, following the directions to the healer given to them by the guards at the gate, he hurries to find Flora Godwinsdottir, swinging the burning brand at any vermin that get too close.
You all go off your separate ways, Varn to the healers, Ferguth to the granary, Rindilnir and Serin to the temple.
"Mother Agnes, we have three tasks to perform in your temple. First, a funeral; second, an offering; third, gathering some news."
Serin tells the priestess of the body of Dunross' fallen messenger the heroes still carry in their wagon, with no resolution, even after telling both the town guard and the mayor about the poor citizen's fate. No-one has even given the poor man's name. Surely he can find his final rest and welcome here, in the temple of Eostre?
Then, Serin kneels at the altar. After two days on the road, he looks more than a bit ragged: chain shirt unpolished, face bristling with stubble, the orcish sword at his belt betokening more a scavenger's desperation than a warrior's prize. Fumbling around in his backpack, the skald digs from the bottom his single gold coin, and drops it in the temple's wooden offering bowl. The solitary disk makes a hollow sound as it rattles in the big, hand-carved basin. But Serin enlarges the offering in the only way he can, with a prayer crafted in the style of an ancient Anari sonnet:
"I have but one coin counted to my name:
One golden sliver sums up all my wealth.
I have few friends, no land, and little fame.
My livelihood is just enough for health.
"Yet here I offer up this single coin
To Eostre, Harvest-Mother, Barley-Queen.
I know this land is battered: let me join
The fight, though I am small, like offer'ng lean.
"You know, O Goddess, how great things may grow
From little seeds. An acorn is a token,
A promise sent for those with faith to sow.
So, from this coin may evil's back be broken.
Allmother, please take up this golden scield
And may it grow into a golden yield."
With religious business finished, the task turns to more tactical concerns, and Serin inquires diligently about the history and conduct of the rats' assault on Dunross. Would Eostre have any reason to withdraw Her protection from Dunross, or might other deities have reason to strike at the town? Might any persons or other towns bear hatred enough that they would seek out supernatural aid?