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Bastard Son of the great-grandchild of the sister's gibbon's friend of the nephew of the Campaign that Would Not Die, now in 3.75e
Møøse Trained By: Hugh Foster
Møøse Trained By: Hugh Foster
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Bastard Son of the great-grandchild of the sister's gibbon's friend of the nephew of the Campaign that Would Not Die, now in 3.75e Møøse Trained By: Hugh Foster |
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Over the next month, the pair recuperated in the comfy environs of the Ol' Boar inn, with copious reading material on hand and personal care from Caron, who had fewer guests now the outlying farmers had returned to their land. They traded with Kerowyn, selling off a fair amount of the lesser loot from the Citadel and replenishing their own supplies. At the end of this, they still had a considerable mass of gear to carry, and Ruby made an offer for Terence the Mule. Kerowyn bargained for a price, despite it clearly being a wrench to part with the good-tempered equine, but as Ruby put the coins in her hand, she suddenly shook her head and passed them back. "Terence is a friend; you're a friend," she said, "he'll be in good hands with you."
Erky Timbers had decided to stay in Oakhurst, not a surprise as he and Corkie had been keeping regular company almost since his arrival in town. Rather disappointed, the Tanks demanded the return of the spell-scrolls he'd been handed during the adventure, and they parted not quite as friends.
The various books turned out to have varying degrees of knowledge to impart. The Mournful Poetry was so bad that it left Ruby stunned for more than six hours. Others were of more use, and she at least managed to gain a working knowledge of the Krultac language, though Borax was still working on that.
Harvest Festival came around, and the whole of Oakhurst gathered to celebrate it with more fervour than most years; they celebrated their salvation from the undead as well as the good harvest. The party were folded into the whole thing like relatives and singing, dancing, games and feasting went on for several days. Meepo discovered a definite taste for cider, and spent a fair amount of time spark out under the table.
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Borax set up his travelling furnace and tools and blew some bottles for the town, whatever shapes and sizes they wanted.
Both were keen for information on the nearby towns, and hoped for someone to travel through who might buy some of the higher-value gear they had for sale, but all that they got were a butcher and a cheese-maker. The cheese-maker was full of rumours of a Guild War in Utkinton, which he described as "a city far side of Two Goats". This sounded mildly interesting as well as a potential site for a weaponsmith, and the party decided to make for there when they came to leave.
Pretty much the entire village turned out to see them off and wish them well, and they strolled out onto the road to Two Goats with promises of welcome any time ringing in their ears. Being heroes was an unusual sensation for the pair, and might take some getting used to.
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Three days north took them into the border country again, as it had travelling to the Citadel, and the difference was obvious. Two Goats, a village around twice the size of Oakhurst, was surrounded by a wood palisade wall, and there was a large building in the town which seemed to he home to quite a few fighting men. One of these addressed them as they went past; "Good afternoon; I am Breghurst. Are you here to sign up?"
To their puzzlement he explained, "To the Unit. We have neighbors," he jerked a thumb northwards - a gesture they were to discover was common on the border near Belamir, "and the Kingdom funds us to be here to defend the town." "We're just travelling through," said Ruby, "can you recommend an inn?" Breghurst grinned. "Vulgar Prince is the best, and charges accordingly; Salty Axe is nearly as good and cheaper. Don't bother with the Unicorn and Beaver." They thanked him and headed off for the Axe. Outside, Ruby stopped and sniffed the air. Like most such places, the Axe had its own brewery, and the smell was satisfactory at least. Reassured, they went inside.
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The decor was a surprise. Here, hundreds of miles from any significant body of water and at least four hundred from the sea, the inside of the tavern was adorned with nets, seashells, glass fishing floats, stuffed fish and ships in bottles. I'm not asking, thought Ruby, and they bellied up to the bar. Over mugs of the very acceptable local brew, Borax asked, "Do you have rooms for four?" The landlord, a robust female half-orc named Tolith, chuckled ruefully. "We're near empty since the assassination," she observed. Ruby blinked. I want to know about that even less... "Why's this place decked out like the seaside?" she asked. Tolith laughed. "I worked a fishing boat on the lake in my youth," she said, referring to lake Malaberg to the south. "Loved it, but I had to retire in the end. Makes it feel more like home." Watching Meepo beginning to get acquainted with a big mug of cider ("it comes in pints?"), she went for broke and asked. "What assassination?"
"Dovim the magistrate, four weeks ago now. Not just our judge but a major mill-owner. Sherrif Borron is doing his nut over it. Nobody to take over, so the Church is running the place now," she finished. "The Triad?" asked Borax, and she nodded. Asking about Two Goats brought the revalation that the founders had brought, yes, two goats - Brill and Brenn - from whom all the myriad goats farmed around the village were said to be descended.
They explained that they wanted to sell some armour, and Tolith directed them to Captain Mansky, leader of the Unit. When they found him, he was supervising training of his men as they sparred two versus two. After the training was done, they explained they had some equipment to sell. Mansky was lean, whipcord tough and sandy-haired. He considered, and then said some of his new recruits had arrived with very little gear; some might be interested. He'd send them over that evening.
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In the end, only one man showed up, a very young lad with a clearly home-made spear. On seeing and trying on the scale armour - once the property of the ill-fated paladin Sir Brafford and still remarkably shiny - he was desperate to own it. Their price was obviously the majority of what he had, but in the end he caved in and paid - in a wide variety of coin, little of it gold - bearing the armour away proudly.
Setting out into the grey autumn the next day, the pair ignored Meepo's hungover groans as they walked north-east towards Utkinton. Progress was good, and as they made camp it didn't occur to any of them that it was Samhain Eve.
As she and Calvis sat their watch, Ruby's attention was caught by faint music drifting on the air. It seemed to be coming along the road from the north of them, and as it became louder she nudged Calvis and sent him to wake the others.
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Gradually, two figures came into view, walking along the road.
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The first was a slender, tall man in green and white clothes, unarmoured though with a slender rapier at his hip. He was playing a small stringed instrument, not with great emphasis but rather the manner of someone playing for the long haul.
His companion was more unusal to behold. In appearance he was a half-orc of middle years (around thirty), with long hair, also unarmoured and with pouches and cases on his belt such as spellcasters usually carry. The main oddity of his appearance was that he was signfificanty transparent - and also glowed with a faint, shining silver light.
Now rather alarmed, Ruby hailed them as they approached, and they stopped, though the bard did not stop playing softly. "Who are you?" asked Borax as he joined them. The bard nodded to him; "I am Neithar, and this was Velsin," he said. The phrasing struck both as distinctly odd. "'Was'?" asked Ruby. "Well, yes," said Neithar rather sadly, "he's dead, of course. Nearly."
Calvis had arrived by then, and was staring at the transparent half-orc. "He's a ghost," he muttered, "and should be trying to feed on our lives by now - or his," he indicated the bard. Borax was looking at him too, and had noticed his eyes; black-on-black, the eyes of a Scorpion elf. "Aren't you..." Neithar bowed his head slightly. "Again, I was," he said. "I didn't fit in with my kind, couldn't quite get the hang of murdering my betters to advance. So I left; and joined an Adventuring Party." A bard's skill invested those words, or his past feeling about them, with sad irony. "I was accepted for the first time; I had friends." Borax and Ruby exchanged glances; they understood this - their own friendship was forged in similar circumstances. Unnoticed by them, Meepo's eyes also widened.
"It was the best time of my life," continued the Scorpion bard. "With such high hopes, we scouted the ruins and plunged into them. We were fools. Everyone died. I managed to catch Velsin's soul before it could escape, and hold him here until we can find someone who can restore him." Desperate need laced his voice as he said this, and the Tanks noticed the ghost of Velsin, who stood slightly behind the elf, staring down at him with helpless compassion.
"You're literally the first people ever to accept us since. Normally we get stones thrown or worse. We avoid settlements now. I can't thank you enough for your company."
Borax and Ruby, hard and abrasive though they were, were strangely moved by these fellow outcasts and this tale of indomitable friendship. They knew how unlikely it was that these two would ever find what they needed, but invited them to travel along in their quest. In turn deeply moved, Neithar thanked them and accepted for the road, but reiterated that they'd be unable to enter even small villages.
Very, very gently, Borax spoke to the bard, trying to get him to see that, admirable though his efforts were, the time had come to let go of his friend. Neithar was in the process of denying this when Velsin's ghost, sliding around and through the landscape, came around to in front of him, and extended his hands towards the elf in mute pleading and acceptance. His face tortured, Neithar stared at him for a long moment ... and stopped playing. Gradually, the ghost of his friend dissolved into silver fragments of sparkling light and faded away. Neithar collapsed, his face anguished. Any normal sentient would have been weeping wildly ... but for the black eyes of the Scorpion elves, there are no tears.
The next morning, Neithar was somewhat recovered, and thanked the two for their compassion. They talked for a while, the friends learning more of the reclusive Scorpion elves than most people in the outer world knew. The eyes were a lasting legacy of what Sabath had done to the elves he had corrupted through the actions of the human Eloy Brackensen, and "bred true" as Neithar put it; he was only a little more than two hundred years old.
He was still exhausted; he'd been playing for twenty-one solid days and nights, and his fingers were raw and bleeding.
They reiterated the offer for him to accompany them, and when he protested his eyes suggested he disguise himself as a blind man. This worked splendidly, and after a little practice with the peeled birch branch he'd made the bard was ready to perform his role.
With Neithar's bow and sword added to Terence's load, the party reached the town of Utkinton. While not the "city" the cheese-maker had described, it was a sizeable town, and better fortified than Two Goats with a stone wall, atop which could be seen similar fighting men. The whole place was built on the top of a hill, with a structure of multiple towers at the top which - if it wasn't - should have been a Mageguild.
As they passed through one of the many marketplaces, they paused at a bronze statue of a warrior. He was depicted as lean, even skinny, though with muscles standing out from his limbs like softballs. Slanted over his shoulder was depicted possibly the biggest sword any of them had ever seen a human-sized warrior carry. A plaque on the plinth bore the words, "Wirren of Bligh and the Father of Swords".
"Who's he?" asked Borax. Ruby and Calvis shrugged, but a garrulous passer-by stopped dead. "Who is he?" he repeated. "He's Wirren of Bligh," in the same way as "that's a tree". Blank looks drew more detail. "The great hero, stopped here on his way to the Battle at the Heroes ... or fought it here, or ... something, but he was a great hero, and the Father of Swords was cursed, he was doomed, yes ... somehow ... a great hero."
"Oh," said Ruby, and that seemed to be that.
Stopping outside The Knave's Helm, the party went in to arrange rooms. Once again, space was plentiful, and Dragasol the landlord was sorting them out when it dawned on Ruby and Borax that he was leaning sideways to stare at ... their feet. When he looked up to realize that they were staring at him, he grinned reassuringly. "You're not shoebangers, then. Good enough!"
Sitting in the common room watching Meepo envelop a mug of frankly awful cider - the little kobold had no taste - they listened to pick up conversations. It seemed that the Guildmasters of the Cobblers and Tavernkeepers had fallen out - it wasn't clear over what - and allegiance to either side was shown by dress and - especially - shoes.
They left Meepo and Calcryx in their rooms, and Neithar settled down with the Stories of the Rude Wizard for a read. Calcryx had been bullied into reading the Draconic Lore - the little dragon was naturally lazy - and had become fascinated once he'd got properly into it.
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After some lunch they headed out to find a trader in books, and were eventually directed to Anormor's Books, down an alley in the trade district. The dusty old man in the dusty shop with its distinctive scents of paper and leather peered over his glasses at them, but became more animated as they unpacked the volumes they had for sale. Several of them he felt he could shift to assorted customers, even the Mournful Poetry; "I know a well-off young lady with some very peculiar tastes," he commented. The Rites of Enchantment he wasn't interested in, as it was half of a set and the useful stuff was in the other half. He also siezed upon the guide to painting miniature wargaming figures, and by the way he tucked it under the counter rather than onto the trolley for shelving, it seemed that he was the customer in this case.
The Rook Legends he looked at blankly. "Is that a language?" he asked. "You'll need magic to read that, and I can't price it if I can't read it."
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On the way back through the market-place, a shop caught Ruby's eye. Anderson's Armaments; they stepped in. A few customers were scattered around, eying the wares which were neatly displayed on the walls; weapons to the right, armour and shields to the left. The proprietor was the surprise. In the centre of the shop was a heavy wooden counter, and bolted to a stand in the middle of it was the upper half of a suit of armour. Unlike all the others, though, this was animate; they could see it moving and conversing with a customer. He also drew the eye; well dressed, rather foppish, and with especially magificent and shiny shoes.
Ruby and Borax sauntered up to the counter. The fop was negotiating for a short sword, with a blade that didn't look anything special but a hilt that dripped with gems and gold and a soft sheath - the kind that sticks sometimes - of doeskin decorated in gold thread. Ruby chuckled. "Do you even know how to use that?" she said. The fop turned, looked at them, and then down at their feet. "Ah; barrelrollers are you? No, of course I won't use it; I have people for that. This is a suitable decoration for a gentleman." "How would you like to be bent over a barrel with your trousers around your ankles?" he asked. The fop sneered, and turned back to his negotiations, ending them with an ostentatiously clinking purse of coin. The armour hefted it for a moment, feeling the weight. "Thank you, sir," it said, dropping the purse into a drawer in the back of the desk. It seemed to fall a long way.
"What can I do for you," it asked them as the fop, nose in the air, left the shop. A pleasant bit of shopping followed, with some of their lesser gear traded in on a pair of improved shields.
When they got back, it was to discover Neithar actually laughing at some of the Rude Wizard's tales. It was not a practiced laugh, but one of someone who had not done so much in his life so far. It was, however, a start.
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Session Date: 27th April 2026 |
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