Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon [IC]

[Erelamar]

OPENING SCENE - AFTERNOON TEA

It is a long and winding climb to Beryl University's promontory, jutting out into Silver Lake. Circling the hill three times, each of you crosses a dozen waterfall bridges, passing shops of every color, drinking dens, guildhalls, and shrines. The ingenuity of the College of Engineering is on display. Pumps filtrate lake water, carrying it to the dual hilltops from where it cascades in crystal-clear channels throughout the city.

At the university's gates, tired-eyed guards and tollmen read your invitation and issue you colorful ribbons embossed with code which they pin to your shirtfront. A minor factotum, never the same one twice, ferries you through the grand halls of the castle. It is... chaotic.


https://www.discworldemporium.com/img/cms/BLOG%20IMAGES/discworld-the-unseen-university-illustration-main-david-wyatt-terry-pratchett.jpg

The trip carries you through bizarre libraries and feast halls with books flitting to and fro overhead, through indoor grottos where students with long-handled nets attempt to catch errant memory-bubbles, and even through chambers of dark and whispering emptiness. Everywhere though, in the corridors and classrooms, uneven piles of curios, statuary, old armors and armoires are piled haphazardly and tended to by exasperated and baggy-eyed faculty. The Right of Inventory is well underway.

Twelve flights of stairs and a vertigo-inducing skywalk of many beautiful caryatids brings you from the citadel to the southwestern tower, all of Beryl sprawling hundreds of feet below. Inside, you discover a waiting room of many long couches and thick rugs. The open windows let in the crisp, pine-scented air of the Val Forest. Portraits of famous, dead scholars line the walls.

A single desk, beside a large pair of doors opposite the entrance, hosts a petite woman in a rich tunic of military cut. She dismisses your trembling escort with a glance. She does not rise, but speaks in a voice perfectly modulated to carry across Leopold's large outer office,

"I am Nina, private steward to the Chancellor of the College of Antiquity. I will take your name for the record. Then you will wait."

[Rex500]

An adult figure can be seen walking through the university floor, following a rather nervous, young human escort. Light on his feet and dark haired, he makes his way through the countless halls and corridors of the elaborate structure. He was particularly taken by the water pumps in the lake outside. Technology and nature combined can achieve wonderful things indeed.

You can tell that the visitor is one of the elven people by his features and countenance. The high elf moves with patience and grace, especially in this majestic place. A few humans could do with some of that, he feels, and yet it doesn't diminish his love for the blooming species. The elf keeps his hands hidden in his blue tunic, as he crosses the skywalk to the southwestern tower, admiring the view. Somehow, breathtaking seems like just the right word for it.

Besides him comes a rather large orange striped feline. The tiger never leaves his side, although it is ocassionaly startled by the numerous events around her. She is just as much a friend, as she is a guardian and protector.

Although he retains the dignity of his people, a light smile can be seen crossing the visitor's face, if one pays close enough attention. "Relax, my friend" he tells his young escort. "You might grow old before your time. Learn to take things by stride." Is all the figure says during the trip.

Finally they reach the chancellor's waiting room. "Lady Nina. It is an honor." he says in a slow, soft voice, tempered by the ages. He bows lightly. "Arbondiel Glyn'faren, from the Val elves. The Val people send their utmost regards." adds the visitor, before sitting in one of the couches near the edge.

[HumanTemplate]

The glee in Titus eyes is obvious. He didn't resent his 30 years of mentoring and care over little Ardid, in fact, that time among the elves had been precious to his hearth as anyting in his life so far. But despite the elviness of his looks and demeanor, he was after all, a halfling, and his nomadic nature fell trapped in the drab and quiet life of contemplation elves lived.

Yes, he had attained the rank of Ruathar, but however long he lived, it would never be as long as an elf, and the curiosity of new adventures itched long before Ardid was indepentent enough.

The parting had been difficult, but she would also benefit from Titus leaving.

Beryl was, so far fascinating, and the university even more.

Standing over 3'3 he was tall for a halfling and the elegance of his garments, dark bluish with silvered thread, reminded the elves.

Titus approached the elven figure with the large cat, and uttered the secret word of friendship, in the tone and rhythm only an elf could. Ruathary

Then he politely bowed to Nina.


Titus, the name is Titus, this is a lovely place.

[Frendle]

Aweran makes her way between the tall buildings and low places. The city was a marvel there was no denying that. She was proud to be a citizen of Beryl and that, plus her love of Athena, which fueled her zeal to protect it from corruption and moral decay.

She presents her Invitation at the gate and nods as she receives her ribbon, “Very sensible way to keep folks in the right place. No wandering about on personal whims.” She had not spent much time in the University, it was not, after all, where her services were needed. She nodded to the nameless attendant who was assigned to guide her through the labyrinth that was the University, “You serve well, even though your task is small, thank you.”

The inquisitor portion of her mind made a point to observe the activities of the peoples she passed, less interested in the marvels, which did not go completely unnoticed, but were of less importance. It is the people that give meaning to the marvels of technology and magic.

She steps into the waiting room of the Chancellor the sumptuousness of which is reasonable for one of his high station, if not the pinnacle within the academic hierarchy. Again she smiles and nods to her guide, noticing his nervousness at being here. A reaction she will file away for later, “Thank you again.” Aweran smiles reassuringly to the man while giving a sidelong glance at the assistant behind the desk. She cannot abide the mistreatment of subordinates in the course of performing their duties. It is obvious to her, this has happened before.

Approaching the desk she inclines her head, “Aweran Highstreet.” She informs the woman and turns and seats herself beside the others.

[Rex500]

The elf smiles at Titus, he appears pleasantly surprised by his mastery of the elven customs and language! "Arael’sha everae" he greets the halfling, with a slight nod of the head. "You must be... Ardid's guardian. I have heard great things about you." he speaks slowly, while looking at Titus, who by all accounts would fit right in at an elven council.

Arbondiel then notices the new arrival, who seems to be some kind of priestess, or holy warrior.

"My Lady." the elf greets as Aweran approaches, and bows respectfully.

[Frendle]

Aweran smiles politely at the Elf Halfling as decorum demands. “Hello. I welcome you to the city, that is, if no one else has. My name is Aweran Highstreet , Lady of Truth to our Beloved Athena.” Aweran extends her hand in greeting to the elf and the Halfling in turn.

[Devilfish]

Clamor strikes through the thoroughfare like a brisk bitter wind on a summer morning.

The city of Beryl is a splendor to the world, and its citizens are raised in the shadows of peace and civility. But for all their knowledge, their scholarly achievements and sophistication, it is an occasional grim and worldbreaking day when something from the wilds comes stalking into town.

Typhon lumbers forward with the weight (and musk) of a dire grizzly, gently pawing aside any merchant or wayfarer caught up in his path. Behind him closely follows a wolf with jet black fur, emitting a resonating, baritone growl in the unfamiliar city setting, driving away bypassers even further. This makes room for the four wolf pups which follow playfully in tow- and behind all of these is the poor scout who'd discovered this man, apologizing to everyone that the feral procession passes.

At the city gates, the magistrate overseeing traffic into and out of Beryl demanded to know why he should not have this man escorted under six armed guards and a pair of silver bracelets chained together about his wrists.

The scout replied that the ranger was known to the forest elves; who advise of both his capacity for respect, and overzealous, unrelenting, un-speakable destructiveness... and that it was absolutely imperative not to provoke him.

* * *

"Typhon, of Temple Gaea," he responds to Nina. "I was told there would be tea."

As the black wolf Muru tries futilely to corral the pups, Typhon settles into the room... taking notice of the elf accompanying the sizable southeastern tiger.

"Hail," he strikes a fist across his chest in salute.
[Sylvan] <<"I did not expect another from deep-woods...">>

[HumanTemplate]

Titus greets the elf with a little nod and answers in elven.

Ardid's protector, the Magpie, at your service good friend.


The Athenian cleric unsettles him a bit: rigid, too lawful, ever judging. He greets her back:


Titus, humble servant of the Three times mysterious, Lord Hermes. A pleasure.


As Typhoon comes in with the wolves, Titus takes some time to size him up, and then, offering his tiny hand for a handshake he says:


I guess you qualify as total cover, it would be easy to neutralize any threat with someone like you.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth stares out in amazement at the organised(?) chaos going on around them. Despite living in Beryl all his life he had never been inside and was suitably awestruck. "I should have packed provisions for this climb, no one warned me it would be such a long journey." Gorth snorted nervously.


Arriving at Nina's desk, Gorth says simply "Uhhh well, we were invited. My name is Gorth." he points to his new ribbon. "I seem to have won a prize, best in show perhaps?"

[Erelamar]

Even after Gorth's arrival, you wait for twenty minutes making idle conversation before a cold chime rings. Nina stands from behind her desk and begins,

"The animals and/or familiars will remain in the outer office. They will be... tended to." Even as she says this a few shaky factotums arrive with what appear to be picnic baskets. Nina moves to the double doors and awaits the party as they settle into a rough line before it. "The chancellor awaits," and though she places a hand on the door, she adds over her shoulder, "Everyone should be on their best behavior."

With a touch, the doors swing open into a grand, sunbathed office stretching from the geometric tapestry behind the desk to a sitting area at the far end near a marble fireplace. At regular intervals, various objets d'art sit on pedestals or in display cases: an antique silver caduceus; a bejeweled horn engravened with dragons; ancient crude busts of pre-Olympian gods; alien astrolabes. A powerful telescope points down out a window to the city below. Upon the walls hang framed maps of foreign locales: distant borderlands and their keeps; the nearest coast of the Southern Continent and its slumbering ursine dunes; the Labyrinth; isles of dread. An old half-elf stands behind the desk in gray robes of exquisite cut, diamond-encrusted signet rings adorning both hands. Chancellor Leopold is plump while still being sleek as a Silver Lake Otter. His eyes glow blue.

"Come forward, my friends. Seat yourselves," he says with a welcoming smile. There are sturdy cushioned chairs arranged before his wide desk, and Nina stalks around the office to a serving cart of glass and gold (tipping the telescope upwards as she does so).

Introductions, then Nina offers them a variety of teas, both wholesome elvish greens and more potent human blends. There are plates of sweet cinnamon biscuits. She exits when the cups are full and everyone is situated, and Leopold finally settles into his seat behind the polished ashwood desk.

The Chancellor begins, "Before we discuss the weighty matters in my invitation, let us take this time to get to know one another—dispel any misinformation anyone may labor under. Are there any questions you'd wish to ask me? Hmm?" The old half-elf sips his milky tea, glowing blue eyes flashing from person to person. Over each of Leopold's shoulders, laid atop the geometric tapestry behind him, are two large and menacing patches of mystical runes.

The moment you walk in you recognize that Leopold is under the effect of an arcane sight spell.

On the tapestry behind Leopold are two symbols, currently dormant. Of what type you cannot be sure without a read magic spell. Then again, you do not know what might trigger them.

You recognize the two different signet rings Leopold wears. One is to the Ruste Family, a wealthy mercantile power from the western human city of Redford. The other is House Werlamyr, an elven lineage known for their potent arcane bloodline.

[HumanTemplate]

This room makes the halfling side of Titus tingle! So many objects of interest, he feels rejuvenated already.


As he feels the Chancellor's sight on him, he grins.


Perhaps you can also read my thoughts.



He then sits cross-legged in the oversized chair.


Well, chancellor... he says as he slowly picks a tea and sips on the steaming hot tea It seems you are already dispelling most of your doubts.

He allows the excellent tea to wet his mouth and gives an approving nod. Then continues.


My name is Titus, and as you might now already I am an aspiring archeologist. Or a detective if you want, on behalf of my adopted kindred. I came to Beryl just for the chance of researching into your university's archives. But, Hermes bless me! It seems there's some common interest we share, at least if we are to believe the rumors.

[Frendle]

Aweran accepts the tea from Nina with a polite smile, but refuses the roll. “Thank you no, I am not fond of sweets.” Then, after taking a sip, it is good as could be expected, she turns to address the Chancelor.

“The first question I would have is why have you breached the rules of hospitality by looking for magical auras on our persons? We are your invited guests, not unknown threats.” Aweran settles back in her chair and takes another sip as she awaits the answer.”

[Erelamar]

Leopold tips his tea cup to the halfling. "I very much hope so, Mister Titus."

At the cleric's words, the chancellor smiles.

"Madam Inquisitor, this is Beryl University, and Beryl University is not the Temple of Athena. Invited guest and unknown threat are not mutually exclusive states of being here.

"Also, it is the easiest way for me to take your measure. Some puff up their chests after all; not everyone tells the truth." The half-elf looks away in a breif pause of introspection but plays it off as he continues, "I would be aghast should neophytes wander to their doom because of information I provided."

Despite his flippancy, each of you believes Leopold does not wish to send lesser adventurers into impossible situations.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"I do appreciate the opportunity to speak plainly. This inventory going on..." Gorth gestures his hand back the way he came. "It seems disruptive and almost petty. Is something actually missing? is this a diversion? Are you sore loser or just insane?" Gorth looks down at his tea and considers it for a moment. "Or all of the above?" He gives a big smile.

"Well of course, normally I would leave wizards to their own affairs but perhaps the answer is relevant.." He trails off.

[Erelamar]

"I..." the chancellor begins almost forcefully but blinks his glowing blue eyes, and then slips back into a more pleasant tone, "Am not a wizard, young Master Gromnuts."

Leopold waves back toward where you entered. "As for all that. Do you know when the last Inventory was? Before I was born. The last Arch-Chancellor, in his two hundred year tenure, ordered it only once. Within the first few years of my administration, I would have ordered one anyway."

He almost finishes, but instead adds, "And if the College of Magi continue to think they can hold a monopoly on the Leadership, despite not making one significant discovery in the last century to add to the university's prestige—while I've made nearly a dozen in just fifty years—then, why then..." He jerks his head to and fro, having seemingly lost his own train of thought.

The half-elf collects himself. "Arch-Chancellor Ternian is in much need of a lesson in management." He brings the teacup to his lips where a smirk forms. "Should it cause him vexation... so much the better."

Each of you believe Leopold and can tell this is a very passionate subject for him. He clearly feels slighted, is vengeful, and has completely rationalized what he's done. Whether you agree with him or not is another matter.

Your local knowledge tells you that gossip, intrigue, jockeying for position to acquire resources, and general rivalry is commonplace among the university's colleges, even encouraged by its design. Leopold is also correct that the College of Antiquity in the last half-century has brought the most prestige to the school.

[Rex500]

Before they went into the Chancellor's room, Arbondiel actually got up, and greeted the large, dangerous man with a friendly hug, curiously enough."Great Typhon!" he answers, speaking the language used by nature's creatures "Your pups look more lively than ever. It's good to see you."

Once inside the Chancellor's office, the elf calmly listens to Leopold's words, and takes a sip from the tea brewed by humans. You can tell he finds that blend particularly intriguing. Of the University's situation and the magical defenses in the room, Arbondiel says nothing.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus seems unconcerned by the exchange between the dwarf, the athenian and the chancellor.

Oblivious, he contemplates the symbols behind the chancellor, trying to asses how they work.

When they are done with this, in his eyes, absurd competition of egos, he looks into the chancellor's eyes and says.

Let me be blunt with you, Chancellor, I really have no interest in the politics of the university and the ladder to success and recognition.

I don't care whether the result of this mission would give you an edge or a batch to rub on the other scholars and figures.


He moves his fingers in the air and imitates the sound of something puffing up.

Then he speaks in old Common


Vánitas vanitatum, et ómnia vánitas Everthing is vane Chancellor.

However, I'm certainly interested in the core of your offer. Nina didn't provide much information, but it seems this might be related to my foster child and her lineage. Could we please elaborate on that? What is it that you have found?

[Frendle]

Having made note of the state of the chancellor, which was one of her goals, she now turns to the next.


To which end Aweran looks at the Halfling, and nods as he asks his question, "Yes, you are correct sir, none of that is important to this gathering. My apologies for taking us off the topic at hand."

Then she turns to the Chancellor, "You had some information of mutual interest?"

[Devilfish]

As Typhon comes in with the wolves, Titus takes some time to size him up, and then, offering his tiny hand for a handshake he says:

I guess you qualify as total cover, it would be easy to neutralize any threat with someone like you.

Typhon, draped in heavy furs that added only more to his excessive frame, turned to the man perhaps half (maybe three times?) smaller in size. He scans the halfling with wide-flared eyes that speak of anguish and certain death... and determines, that indeed, the halfling had greeted him with effortless bravery.
A lesser man might have paled away! Dohohoho
Typhon eased, and contorted his face into a smirk.

"I should hope so," he laid two fingers over Titus's hand and pressed it into a ball. He leans in, with a wink. "That is my career."

Typhon fist-bumps the halfling, quite content on their successful meeting.
As he does, one may notice the glimmer of a chain wrapped up around the large man's forearm,
but disappears from view back under a his coat in an instant.


Arbondiel got up, and greeted the large, dangerous man with a friendly hug, curiously enough."Great Typhon!" he answers, speaking the language used by nature's creatures "Your pups look more lively than ever. It's good to see you."

In the woods, Muru might have snapped like a bear trap around the bones of any ambush that caught his human by surprise; however, Muru was so surprised himself that he did nothing but stare jaw-agape at the elf who ran straight into Typhon's arms. He drops a wolf-pup by the scruff of its neck in doing so. This has never happened before.

"Ho-Hm!" Typhon thunders, clapping the elf on the back in turn. "Visited your village, have I? Drove away a Krenshar or two?" he laughs, with a chuckle like gravel. It is good to make the elves feel safe, he thinks, for they are the true denizens of the woods. How strange that many of them look at him as though he were the monster instead...

Typhon dismisses the thought, deciding that he should have to visit this sensible tall elf's town.

* * *

Inside, the ranger squeezes into a chair and sits quietly behind his sips of tea (and wordlessly beckons to Aweran for her biscuit, as it would be a shame to leave it unfinished.) He observes the speakers. For now.

[Erelamar]

"Very well."

Leopold finishes his tea and pushes cup and saucer aside, leaning back in his chair. During the time you have spent speaking, his eyes have lost their blue glow and resumed a more natural pale amber color. The chancellor folds his hands in thought, considering each of you.

"This story begins as all good ones do..." He makes a sudden sweeping flourish to theatrically open, "Thousands of years ago! this continent was recovering from the great elven wars that cleaved their race in twain and drove their wicked half below ground, never to be seen again. Alas, the battles shattered their lands. One large elven tribe called the Ch'thar had wandered lost in those regions we call the Northern Wastes for weeks when their lord, King Thiondar, saw a warm valley in a dream. The next day, they stumbled into an easily ignored mountain pass and were amazed to discover a lush tropical valley in the heart of the frozen mountain chain.

"We can only speculate what horrible tragedy befell them in that valley, and what befell their king. Perhaps he awakened a terrible monster or uncovered a dangerous artifact. From ancient elven histories, we can glean the following: A week after the Ch'thar's arrival, most of the tribe departed the valley and adopted a new name, the Elves of Gray. Following much wandering, the gray elves discovered the Val Forest and the rest of the scattered elven tribes, their long journey at an end. Millennia passed in tranquility, and the sagas of the wars and wanderings slowly passed from the forefront of the gray-elven minds.

"One day, an ancient elf named Anachrin Anias dragged himself into the court of the king of the gray elves and claimed that he was the last of the Ch'thar. Anachrin died soon after his arrival at court, and his possessions were studied closely by the king. Among them, the elven monarch discovered a magical shield. A warrior by training, the king was inspecting the straps of the shield for defects when he discovered a crude map and fragments of two phrases etched into the back of the shield, cleverly hidden beneath the padding. The king sent Anachrin's shield to the most powerful and discreet elven wizard to decipher the hidden map and message, but on the way, the delegation was attacked by a large band of orcs, and the shield was lost.

"One thousand years ago, the high-elven wizard Thanmar—the famous founder of the College of Magi and this prestigious university—discovered the shield in the hoard of an ancient red dragon. Who knows how it got there? Oblivious to the map and message hidden beneath the shield's padding, he hung it in a hall of antique arms... I see some of you are already ahead of me. The shield and Anachrin's secret remained hidden through many Inventories. Until recently. The padding on the back of the shield was so old that it fell apart when the shield was taken down from the wall, my wall, here in the College of Antiquities' Hall of Arms and Armor.

"The elves, an extremely lore-conscious race, have recorded much of the history of their people, enough for us to learn about the founding of the gray elven kingdom and the visit of Anachrin Anias. Much of their travels through the frozen north country have been described in surprising detail as well, but the elven historians never recorded what befell their people in that valley where their tribe was split and King Thiondar was lost. Everything linked to that valley remains a mystery to this day, especially its location... To everyone but me, that is."

The old half-elf, winded from his monologue, goes quiet, but his supreme self-satisfaction is obvious.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus's interest grows and grows as Leopold speaks.

This could be the key. Except for the time. Ardid was only forty or so years old, as old as her parents could have been there was too much of a gap. Nonetheless, it could be the girl's lineage. And the sheer idea of such a mistery arose the halfling's curiosity.


As Leopold finished his account, Titus clenches his fists and rocking about on his chair a little bit he says.


That is indeed a wonderful tale, Chancellor.

Then, playing into the half-elf's ego.

A most wonderful tale, and never such a narrator. How did you learn the location?

[Devilfish]

Typhon sits forward, enamored by the tale. While the link to the elves' history is meaningless to him, he envisions their journey into wilds anew, uncovering untamed grounds and battling off all manner of beasts. His own home ventures into the harrows of Erpus; and he can only envision the monsters and challenges faced further within. His anticipation swells at the thought of embarking to these lands at the Chancellor's request-- and in his excitement he snatches up the next three closest biscuits and scarfs them down while Leopold goes on.

If someone else were to take a pastry, Typhon takes it from their hand and eats it too.

Alas, his enchantment is not to last.

At the mention of the dragon, the ranger's brows furrow forward like great boulders avalanching down his forehead. He keeps listening until it is his turn, but his discontentment is clear.

"And that tyrant you stole that relic from," he refills his piping cup. "Does he know the whereabouts of his missing shield- hm?"

"Dragons," he exhales, with a voice of smoldering magma, "Are beastly, miserly things... and their greed, and their vengence, and their memory of faces can be the downfall of civilizations."

Great and small alike, he adds, taking glances around the fineries of the room. He takes a long sip and raises his eyebrows high, punctuating his inquiry.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth nodded politely as the half-elf explained the inventory. Gorth was able to follow his reasoning and felt a wave of relief and satisfaction.

"Clearly not a doddering fool sending us on a fool's errand and quite reasonably sane. A nice change from my last employer" Gorth thought to himself. He stroked his chin listening to the tale of the lost Elvish kingdom finding himself completely enthralled.

Gorth absently grabs at a treat which seems to disappear before reaching his mouth. He took exception almost immediately with Typhon's characterization of dragons.

"RED... dragons, yes they are a terrible scourge. Dragons are like people, some good and some bad. There is no denying the power of a dragon." A thin drop of acid drips from the roof of his mouth as he speaks. He eye balls Typhon a little and gives him a sly grin. Gorth waits with baited (acid) breath for the Chancellor to speak again.

He makes another attempt at a pastry - which fails utterly.

[Erelamar]

The chancellor's smile warms at the bubbling enthusiasm of his guests.

"Be at peace, great Typhon. The red dragon of which I speak, Nerileth the Destroyer, was slain by Thanmar and his party; only he and the legendary knight Alex de Chandon survived the encounter. Though, whatever became of the latter, none know."

Leopold turns to the halfling. "Ah! Festina lente, Mister Titus. Anything done well has been done quickly enough. There are... certain assurances I require before providing any more information."

He brings forth a document case from a drawer and mumbles something to it, allowing his breath to wash over the lock which produces an audible click. From within he counts out six sheaves of fine paper from the dozens which remain.

As he thumbs through, counting and scanning their contents, he says, "Should any of you feel compelled to seek out the Valley of the Ch'thar, either to further scholarly knowledge or for perhaps more personal reasons, then there are some things I am willing to concede. You may keep any and all 'treasure' you recover from the valley, including any magical items you may discover. This is the site of an ancient elven community after all; its wealth could very well be unimaginable. I will give you a copy of the map and a rubbing of the phrases from the shield of Anachrin Anias, along with my own research in determining the most likely position of the valley."

The old half-elf leans across the ashwood desk, passing around a set of papers for each of you to review. When he is finished he resumes his seat and carefully gauges your reactions.

"I have dealt with adventurers many times over the decades. Always, I have found that plain-speaking in matters is best. Listed before you are my conditions if our current meeting is to proceed. These contracts are of a magical nature and quite binding once you willingly sign them. Should any refuse, then: I thank you for your coming today and must at this point bid you adieu."



I, ________________, hereby agree to the following terms as regards any and all expeditions, journeys, adventures, "quests," and/or missions undertaken as a result of information imparted to me by Leopold Ruste-Werlamyr, Chancellor, College of Antiquity, Beryl; and as regards the contents of the Valley of the Ch'thar: it's peoples, writings, and objects, whether magical or mundane.


I agree to be responsible for any expenditures or damages I may incur on this expedition.

I agree to allow the College of Antiquity, and no other College whether a part of Beryl University or not, to copy any writings or manuscripts recovered from the valley, provided that such copying will not destroy the original (as is the case for some magical books and scrolls).

I agree to allow the College of Antiquity, and no other College whether a part of Beryl University or not, to study, sketch, and identify any objects of historical or archaeological importance recovered from the valley.

I agree to first offer any items for sale to the College of Antiquity, and no other College whether a part of Beryl University or not, before they are offered to outside buyers.

I agree to turn over any magical artifacts or relics which may be recovered to the College of Antiquity, and no other College whether a part of Beryl University or not.


I agree should I violate any of the above conditions, I will suffer an undefined, magical curse which, depending on location and time of the violation, could place my life in mortal peril.

I understand each stipulation and the penalty.

X:________________

[Rex500]

Arbondiel listens intently to chancellor Leopold's words. He seems almost unchanged from before, almost. Yet his eyes are opened a little wider and his attention is now fully undivided. The elf's arm shifts just a little upon the mention of King Theondar.

"Impressive!" exclaims Arbondiel at the end of the tale. He appears quite interested now. "The gray elves and the Ch'thar have been somewhat of a mystery to us... I must confess." he continues, speaking slowly and clearly.

The high elf then watches the curious exchange between Typhon and Gorth. He finishes his tea and places the empty cup on the table, then examines the contract carefully. "Chancellor, you said you were... not a wizard earlier. What... is your arcane field of study, if I may ask?" he asks while reading.

The elf passes through the line I agree to turn over any magical *artifacts* or *relics* which may be recovered to the College of Antiquity. and raises an eyebrow subtly.

"And should I trust any Ch'thar artifacts we find will be properly taken care of, chancellor?" he pauses for a moment, his expression suddenly serious. "The Valliyume would be most upset should anything befall the ancient relics of our people." adds the elf, and stares at the chancellor.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus ponders the offer.

It is indeed good, but he has to agree with Arbondiel. You can't simply expect the elven people to renounce to any artifacts that belong to them.

On the other hand, no one else knows where the valley is, and it would be a shame to leave it like that.


An archivist, is that your field of knowledge Leopold?

He struts his fingers loudly...

I'm affraid I agree with mr Arbondiel. The elven council will take issue if we simply turn in any elven made artifact to you. There must be a point where we can agree on something different.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth


While Gorth didn't have plans to cheat the chancellor, he did not feel entirely comfortable signing the contract.

"Well, I guess there is also nothing saying we have to bring back any relics we find. We could just leave them there. Hmm also nothing in the contract specifies you need to be alive or the chancellor." Gorth throws in a wink and a laugh to indicate he was clearly joking.

"Seems we're taking on all the risks though. The directions could mean nothing or be a mistake or a misinterpreted piece of elvish poetry or from a madman. The mountains could have moved since then. A very real chance exists we come across no loot or some of us die or are unsuccessful in some way. In the event we make an honest effort and come away with nothing, I would like to see us compensated for food, winter clothing and our time. It wouldn't be much money, maybe 100 gold or so."

[Erelamar]

"My magic was inherited," answers Leopold. He taps his right-hand signet ring upon the desk. "The spells came to me slowly over a very long career, bubbling up from my elven blood. I just know them."

"If you should venture to the destination, survive, and still return empty-handed, I will see what can be done to make you whole again." The half-elf brings his hands together, revolving one of the signet rings around his finger, the diamonds upon it glittering in the light. It alone is easily worth more than what Gorth asked for, many times over.

The chancellor's expression sours as questions about artifacts and relics are being raised. Mention of the elven council causes him to crook an eyebrow, though. "I will tell you, the elven leaders are not quite so enlightened. Yes, they speak more softly and pepper their speech with more historical allusions than do the humans, but they are every bit as fractious. I should know, over the years, I've had several relatives sit on the council." Again, he brings his hand down and taps the signet ring upon the desk.

"The reason for the final clause is manyfold. And yes, Master Gromnuts has touched on an important distinction in the contract: it is between yourselves and the College of Antiquity, not me. Even in the event of my death, the contract's magic will persist until all its conditions are met. All of this is for the college and by extension the university itself.

"As to artifacts: Firstly, it is so specific and direct as a benefit for you. Artifacts can on occasion by quite willful. They could have other plans for their new bearers. The magic of the contract will give you a measure of protection from such influence. The College of Antiquity is the safest place to bring such items; we have protocols and safeguards. If you were to take them to the Valliyume, who would you even turn them over to? What if it fell into the hands of the wrong elf?

"Secondly, the university's vaults are one of—if not the—most secure place on the continent. They can only be opened in the presence of all the chancellors together. I am forbidden from going into detail, but there are several historical items of great import to the elves, the dwarves, even the lost kingdom of the gnomes stored within them, each to the satisfaction of their 'owners.' Could such objects even be said to have owners."

"Besides, what is discovered will not remain a secret. Reports and essays, articles and histories will all need to be amended or written anew. When the gray elf descendants read such—and it will be announced quite loudly for all the realms to hear—they know where to come with their questions and claims." Leopold shrugs. "By that point, it won't even be up to me; it'll officially be 'university business.' "

A thought occurs to the old half-elf which causes him to let out a soft laugh. "Of course, as Master Gromnuts fears, you may not find anything at all, much less any significant elven relics. So perhaps we are, as they say, 'putting the cart before the horse.' "

Each of you believes Leopold, though you do have the sense that at least the main body of his explanation was rehearsed. Or if not rehearsed then it is an argument he has made many times before.

At the chancellor's words, combined with his full name upon the contract, you remember the old, noble House Werlamyr, who were known to have produced several powerful elven sorcerers.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth looked satisfied.




If anyone else signs, Gorth will, if no one signs, Gorth won't.

[Rex500]

The elf listens to Leopold's explanation. He seems deadly serious as the elder half-elf comments on his own race's government. "You vastly understimate us, chancellor. The elven people are not to be toyed with!" he speaks coldly. Then, the veteran pauses for a moment, Arbondiel's features suddenly softer. No, Mina wouldn't have wanted this.

He continues, with familiar calmness now. "Although... I must admit your University is a rather magnificent institution. Worthy of respect indeed! And this is a unique opportunity. I watched more than a few skilled mages on the way here, both elves and humans. Perhaps the expedition can indeed work to the benefit of everyone." he makes an effort to smile once more.

"Ruathar, what do you think?"

Arbondiel appears to be willing to sign, for the moment.

[Devilfish]

Typhon reaches delicately into his coat and pulls a pair of minuscule glasses, barely wide enough to sit across his nose. He tilts his head back and squints at the text suspiciously, letting out a series of "Hmmm"s and "Mm-hm..."s as he examines the contract.

"Well this is very will written," he confesses, putting the glasses away. "I refuse."

A man does not grow my age by subjecting himself to magical curses, he chuckles under his breath, sliding the contract back. And they put poor Muru and the pups on such edge...

Typhon smiles warmly (a rarity for the man). A long moment passes where he should have risen from his chair to leave.

He doesn't.

"But. I have decided that your mission is good, and I am going to help you anyway. I am hereby appointing myself as personal bodyguard to anyone who accepts your offer. My services include hunting for fresh meals, navigation through labyrinthine or treacherous terrain, and putting my best effort to ensure your safety from any assailing beast.

"You're going to need those last two," he points towards Leopold's maps up of the unconquered lands on his walls, a glint to his smile and a fire in his eye.


The mountain of a ranger sits back in his chair, arms neatly folded across.

"Do not fret, Chancellor. You will find me very reasonable with your treasures.

"But I am old. And stubborn. And I'm coming."


.


.

.

"May I have some more tea?"

Very rare that a DM offers to skip what I thought was an automatically assumed step! Couldn't help but break the mold

To the party:

Typhon is of course willing to split all treasures equally, and hold by other basic adventuring courtesies, etc
If the party is willing to pool 1,500 more GP my way, I believe I will be considerably more deadly for the adventure ahead. This can also be an advance on the first 1,500gp of my share of the loot we find
While it is highly un-preferable, Typhon is currently vigilant of any offensive action on Leopold's part.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus chuckles at Typhon joke about the chancellor having to be alive for the contract to be valid. Interesting character this ranger.


Titus does not completely buy on Leopold's argument. But, then what? Leopold would look for someone else and offer the same. He had as good a bargain chip as one could hope.

For Hermes sake. I'll agree to your conditions. And I'll take Thyphon as a bodyguard. It is evident that I need one.



I think the DM knows we don't want to skip the mission :-)

[Erelamar]

Leopold collects the signatures of all but Typhon. "This is about the amount of resistance I have come to expect." The half-elf neatens the bundle of papers and replaces them in the magical document case, conspicuously leaving the single unsigned contract out on the ashwood desk. "I just hope, should the expedition come across any of those aforementioned artifacts, that Typhon's willpower alone is enough to prevent him from becoming a danger to the party... Excuse me."

The chancellor stands and walks to a bare spot of wall beside the geometric tapestry. He glances up at the two threatening arcane runes and adds over his shoulder, "While I'm away, it would be wise if none of you employs any spells." He waves and speak and a section of wall disappears leading to a tunnel ending in a dim room where the white twinkle of candlelight is caught and reflected a hundred times by many tall mirrors. Those of a magical bent among you find the chamber to likely be a private divination room.

Leopold is gone only three minutes and when he reemerged he has a fresh bundle of papers. At his wordless command, the hallway disappears behind him leaving only blank stone once more. He unrolls two, crinkly maps laying them one-atop-the-other where they merge to form the lands northwest of Beryl. Beside it he places a parchment with a chalk rubbing: a symbolic map consisting of important landmarks, mainly unique rock formations, but the starting point is a spot deep within the Val Forest not known to contain anything but trackless wilds (not to any of you save the elf and ruathar). Leopold makes no mention of it but instead points to spots along the route crossing both maps.

"Your journey will take you to the far northwest, beyond the boundaries of civilized cartography. Luckily, this direction is the shortest route from the Great Val—two days at most with fleet horses—and into the lands of the Free Commons. Another week's ride will bring you to the Kingdoms Three, which encircle and penetrate the ancient Endormi Greenwood. They maintain well-guarded roads through the forest, so you should go unmolested. But do not seek to visit any of the strongholds. Each of the warrior-lords who declared themselves 'king' are retired adventurers and rumored to be quite mad from boredom.

"At a certain point, here or here perhaps," and Leopold gestures along the marked pathway through the Endormi Greenwood, "you should be able to find a smaller trail, perhaps overgrown, leading north which will take you to a cleft in what the locals call the 'Devil Peaks.' Beyond is the Troll Hills. Of which, I can speak very little other than the obviousness of their namesake and that they are home to a rough breed of men known as witchfolk. And just through that hinterland, are a range these barbarians call the 'Zarko Mountains.' These, after all my research and compiling of ancient explorers' notes, match the description on the shield for the Mountains of the Moon. Somewhere in them, if you can find this formation of peeks," and he holds up the final destination of the rubbing, "is the pass to the lost valley of the Ch'Thar!" The chancellor emphasizes with a loud slap on the empty border region of the map.

From a folder, Leopold produces a smaller, more detailed rubbing. It displays a slender, river valley:

https://i.ibb.co/KzfJ80Q/0001.jpg

The chancellor produces a final piece of paper from the folder. "The translation of these fragments are as near to perfect as can be had," he says. Upon the sheet are two brief if cryptic lines: "Feed the heart of the mountain" and "Adorn the hand of the king." The old half-elf shrugs, "As for what they allude to, I know not."

With that, the chancellor resumes his chair. The same self-satisfied sense returns to him as when he had just concluded his tale of the Ch'thar.

Though it is unmarked, you know the origin point in the Val Forest for the rubbing of landmarks to be the crystal tree of the elves.

Leopold used a passwall spell to enter his private divination chamber.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus smiles at Typhon.

I suspect my bodyguard will take care of a weakling like me.


***

As Leopold shows them the map, he looks intrigued.

This gets more and more interesting with every passing moment.

Leopold. You must understand that we were not specifically prepared for a trip to troll infested frozen lands, would there be a way the University could help us out to gear up for the adventure? Any leasing options of pertinent items would be great, for example.


[roll0]

[Erelamar]

"... would there be a way the University could help us out to gear up..." At this point Titus hears a ringing in his ears which grows; darkness crawls up from the corner of his vision. It is alarming but vanishes all at once when he finishes speaking.

Leopold calmly smiles. "Testing the contract so soon? Don't worry. It will let you know when you're brushing up against its clauses."

The chancellor begins bundling up the maps and notes into a neat parcel for the party. He continues, "Had I limitless means, I would aid you more. But sadly I am not, and have never been an adventurer; I have never had the opportunity or the desire really to collect a magical armory. I have nothing to lend you. And despite my position, I am not at liberty to offer you from the halls of my college more than what I have already. There's a reason I'm not lending you Anachrin's shield itself." He finishes tying a length of twine around the stack of papers. "As for the rest of the colleges, they have no direct knowledge of this expedition, and they won't. So no help there."

"Saying that," and Leopold looks from face to face sitting before him, pausing at each. A brief flutter of emotion—possibly sympathy—crosses his face. "I may have something to assist you. No promises; I will have to see about it first. I know where you are staying in Beryl and will send it to you there if I am able."

[HumanTemplate]

That really freaked me out... lol

Titus shakes his head and looks at Leopold intently.

That was something

He started to regret having signed the contract.


That is some well hidden fine line.

But I get you.

I guess I'll have to sell some of my existing gear and find something more appropriate to the task


Assuming that the meeting is over, except someone else wants to do something drastic, I'd like to use my social skills to see if I can sell my wand of true casting and perhaps the anklets of translocation in order to get some winter related items. Boots of the winterland comes to mind. Or an eternal wand of endure elements. How do you feel about partial charges in wands?

[Erelamar]

"I am sure you'll come up with something clever, which brings me to the final detail: Over the course of the expedition, I will be checking in on the party. So, do not be surprised if you detect a scrying sensor from time to time. Furthermore, I will be using a sending spell to ask for an update on your progress. For this purpose, I've chosen you, Mister Titus. It won't be every day, especially not in the beginning weeks of travel, but it will always come around dusk."

Leopold pushes the parcel of maps and notes across the ashwood desk and stands. His eyes glance over, but do not linger on, the unsigned contract still laid out beside the inkwell and pen. The old half-elf offers each of you his hand to shake, while with the other, he flicks a cantrip at the door. Again you hear the cold chime.

Nina enters, the outer office beyond oddly calm with the animals resting on large blankets: the pups full and dozing, the old wolf Muru gnawing at a bone, and Softpaw lounges have her fur brushed. The stern-faced private steward sees you out and applies a small brass pin to each of the multi-colored ribbons which you were made to wear as guests in Beryl University. A nervous factotum waits to take you to the main gate.

But as the doors close between you and Chancellor Leopold, he says in a strangely solemn voice, "Good luck."

Unless anyone wants to impart one last thing, that will conclude the meeting with Leopold. Titus, I'll answer your shopping questions in the OOC thread shortly.

[Devilfish]

Titus smiles at Typhon.

I suspect my bodyguard will take care of a weakling like me.

Typhon clears his throat.

"You will help yourself," he rises, and lifts Titus neatly onto his feet with him, with the ease one would lift a book. He gives the halfling a heavy clap on the back, and with it the assurance that he can stand steady on his own."And become a weakling no more, mister Trimegistae."

"And I will keep you alive and well until then," he grins


The ranger looks to the contract left on the table, and considers the Leopold's warning... along with the compulsions that lie ahead, and his own violent dispositions.

And his own regrets and mistakes of the past.

He takes it from the table and tucks it into his coat, unsigned; never knowing when he may need 'protection' of his own.

* * *

Typhon looks to his well-behaved pups, astounded. He offers Nina employment immediately, should she ever tire of the university.

I'm liking the look of the road ahead! Apologies for the rushed post, but I'm looking forward to our adventure's beginning. Very well done with the exposition as always, Eralamer

[Rex500]

"Devil's Peak? Witchfolk...? That sounds ominous." tells Arbondiel the rest of the group, and yet he seems more excited than frightened. "Well! This looks to be an interesting trip, most certainly. I look forward to travelling with you."

"Hmm... Softpaw! Have they been spoiling you?" he calls out the tiger, once outside.

[Erelamar]

INTERLUDE 1

Evening has brought a quiet to the cluttered halls of Beryl University, though in the distance there is the rumble from the great hall in the citadel. The students and teachers will carry the dinner feast late into the early morning. But in the dusty corridors of the southwestern tower, stillness reigns. Even Nina has retired for the evening, and the moonlight streams into the chancellor's waiting room. The door beyond is cracked open and emits an orange glow.

Beyond, you discover Leopold's office much the same but oddly different at night. The great shine of Beryl below calmly filters through the windows, and the various trinkets and curios cast crooked shadows upon the walls. A fire crackles in the hearth. Leopold stands at his golden telescope, once again pointed down at the city, and if you'd venture a guess, at the crest of the lesser of Beryl's two hills where the governor's villa resides.

"Ah! Nehwon, so good of you to join me," says the half-elf not yet turned around. He does so and smiles, moving to a sideboard. "Brandy?" He lifts a crystal decanter and pours himself a healthy goblet full.

You both take the tall, wingback chairs in the cozier sitting area beside the marble fireplace. It is a far cry from the imperious ashwood desk, the geometric tapestry, and the looming threat of symbols. The chancellor begins with small talk, asking about your classes and students; how your crafting is coming along. But soon he begins to speak more seriously,

"You know of course about the shield. Let me tell you, that was the Shield of Anachrin Anias. Who? you ask. Let me tell you a tale..." For the second time that day, Leopold monologues the struggles of the Ch'thar, their king, and the mysterious valley. "And the thing is, I have people leaving soon. You've likely heard of them being here today. They are... a varied lot. I have them—all except the old ranger—bound by Contracts of Nepthas, but I am still uncertain... Uncertain they can handle what is out there, I mean.

"But should I give you leave to join them, eh? What would you say to that?"

[Togo]

Nehwon blinks uncertainly.

Yeeees. Well, obviously Chancellor, I'm very flattered that you would consider me for this. While I'm not immediately familiar with the area, it doesn't sound a, well, a terribly *safe* route to travel. Witch men and trolls and bored local lords who are likely to look askance at a party of adventurers. A party to which, they had not been invited. They're surely going to struggle to see delving in dangerous places for lost treasures as more university business than their own?

He rubs his hands together, thoughtfully, his brow furrowing.

So, best that someone go along to keep them out of trouble, certainly, certainly. But, uh... who is going to teach my students while I'm gone? I have three more lecture in the series on Metamagical Distinctions on Applied Transformation Theory, and their Application in Blowing Stuff Up, an entire two weeks of remedial Physical Education classes as part of that swap with the College of Magi, and then there's that compulsory Introduction to Spell Channeling that was insisted on after that terrible accident where we had to reattach all those fingers. I assume we want someone physically capable to take up the slack, yet who isn't going to be too disappointed when I come back. Ah.. It is intended that I come back, yes?

He sits back, holding the brandy with every appearance of being about to drink.

And... well, one hesitates to inquire, but is this a university expedition, or more of a departmental outing? Or is it some kind of private constitutional? Am I running off after these total strangers in a fit of aspirational zeal?

[Erelamar]

The chancellor's smile deepens, and he reaches over to pat Nehwon's wrist in reassurance, though makes no direct mention of the dangers.

"How thoughtful you are, professor, to think of your students first despite the glaring opportunity of sudden, vaulting personal advancement. No, no, as an educator myself for so long—before the droning bureaucracy of chancellorship—I can well appreciate your care for your classes. Those long hours molding young minds, grading papers in 'cozy' shared offices: to think of such brings me a sense of pride." Leopold glances over the vastness of his own office, the tall walls bearing gilded framed maps. The half-elf sips his brandy and continues, "I'm sure your advocate, Administrator Balthon, yes? can find a suitable substitute from somewhere in the university. Though, this must all be kept quite hush-hush...

"As for the other matter, this is unofficially an official College of Antiquity expedition; the principals are bound to bring what they find back to our college... mostly. Within the university now, only you and I know the full contents of the Shield of Anachrin Anias. Even Nina doesn't," which breaks him into a small, grumbling aside, "Not that she would ever ask...

"What I am saying is you are the one I trust, Nehwon, to see this through. The thing is, should any of it leak, the College of Magi, really any of the colleges, will likely follow the same path of research as I and learn what I know, including the location of the Mountains of the Moon. I perhaps left out, that King Thiondar of the Ch'thar was a, shall we say, very prototypical elf, skilled in both sword and wizardry. The gray elves have only the names of spells which were lost with him. Spells he invented like Thiondar's Triple Strike, Thiondar's Permanent Anti-Magic Field, and Thiondar's Evasion. The College of Magi is not so good-spirited as we here at Antiquity. Their cold logic—and hubris—would dictate they must be the ones to recover the lost magic, and I shudder to think at what lengths they would go to achieve success."

The chancellor sets down his empty goblet and folds his hands, a sort of wide-eyed expectancy upon his face. "After these adventurers today, there are no neutral parties remotely competent enough left in Beryl I could trust with such a mission. I am asking you to see its resolution."

While obviously manipulative, Leopold comes across as earnest about his fears the College of Magi would swoop in and take over the expedition. Though your interaction with the leadership of the college was limited (they are in fact far more hands off and shadowy than Leopold in that respect), you at least didn't find the wizard students and instructors to be quite so sinister as the chancellor implies.

[Togo]

Professor Kin leans back, sniffs at the brandy, and takes a quick swig.

Once he stops coughing, he manages a reply.

I'm merely pointing out that the people I teach will know that I've gone, and once they know, everyone will know. Including the College of Magi. Expecting staff not to gossip is rather like training fish to run uphill. Even your visitors earlier are already news that is making the rounds. If we're going to do this, we need to move quickly. I'll need a packmule, tent, food and sundry supplies. Maybe even a horse. I can dust off what I have of these things already, but I trust I can raid college supplies to make up the shortfall, particularly food. Some, I regret, will need to be bought.

He nods thoughtfully, his mind deep in equipment lists and inventories. Then he frowns.

You say no neutral parties? I must confess I was under the impression you already had a team for this sort of thing? Did they prove unsuitable?

[Erelamar]

The chancellor observes your sip of brandy with a wry smile.

"Now-now, professor, I can smooth out any such difficulties about your sudden departure. Administrator Balthon will be sure to help, trust me. I mean with your poignant personal history, who could blame you for taking a temporary leave of absence to deal with private matters? Strictly confidential, of course. The College of Antiquity isn't in the business of gossiping about its prized instructors. Everyone will understand; they all like you, Nehwon!"

Leopold stands and moves around you, pulling from his pocket an envelope and dropping it into your hand. It is addressed to Hollenbach Outfitters on Grandhammer Street. The wax seal bears the Ruste family crest, the chancellor's human lineage.

"That is a letter of credit," says Leopold. He wanders back to the sideboard. "With it, you'll be able to purchase any mundane equipment and a fine horse of your choosing. Do not worry about any queues. Show it at the door, and your order will be processed immediately." It is an odd feeling, but you can perceive, even turned away from you, the chancellor is smirking. The stopper comes off the bottle of brandy and pours.

"... I was under the impression you already had a team for this sort of thing?" There is a brief clatter of glass at the sideboard. Leopold replaces the stopper.

"I used to," mumbles the chancellor as he brings the goblet back to his lips.

He turns to you, "That answer wasn't, ah, satisfactory?" The half-elf takes another gulp of the brandy, topping it off from the decanter. He waves the bottle towards you in offering... Leopold is mute for a long while as he makes his way to his seat. He seems heavy when again in his chair.

"As you know, we discovered the shield a little over three weeks ago. Research, communication, riddles, these are my specialties, such that I solved Anachrin's puzzle in five days. All the information I have produced for you, I had then. So I called up my friend and renowned adventurer, Dirk Derlith. Heard of him? He's a roguish wizard not affiliated with the university at all; bless him, he couldn't be tied down with such things." Leopold gestures at a volcanic island map on the wall. "That's one of his.

"Anyway, we sat like you and I are doing, and I described the whole thing to him. Currently, he has a new team of professionals but said he'd need more than that for something this important. 'Retirement material,' he called it. So I take it he recruited—by whatever means—a few members from his original adventuring party, which I've gathered due to their recent disappearances are Francois Nightchaser and the high priestess of Athena, Ellana.

"A few days ago, I lost contact with them after they reported having pinpointed the valley." Leopold waves a hand in exasperation. "I have been wasting most of my magic on scrying and sending attempts each day since, but they all fail. Perhaps the valley is blocking them, but why wouldn't they retreat for communication? There is a... sadder alternative.

"Now, Nehwon, I tell you this, because someone ought to know. And I couldn't very well inform the 'replacements' that their betters got swamped out there. Not a'one of them would have agreed to go in the first place. That's why this should be kept strictly confidential.

"I promise you, Nehwon, I believe that the original expedition is alive. Who knows in what condition? They are tough and resourceful. Together, I am positive your band and them can secure victory for the Colle... the University!"

[Erelamar]

THE JOURNEY (PART 1)

It is the morning of the second day since your meeting with Leopold. The mists have not yet broken when you rendezvous at the Inn of the Giddy Ghost—when asked about any spirits, the halfling proprietor grins and winks, and offers gin. You perhaps breakfast while waiting for the rest of your companions. The hostess delivers plates of eggs with rashers of bacon, or slices of crusty bread with orange preserves. Some might even choose to down one more pint before the long journey ahead.

Sadly, the first of your group has already fallen. An urgent clan matter forced Torgus to beg off the mission, though he says he will catch up if possible. But just as you lose a dwarf, another adventurer steps forward. Introducing themselves as Professor Kin of the College of Antiquity, he informs Titus the chancellor has fulfilled his promise; whatever that should mean.

It is a strange caravan which departs through the north gate of Beryl. Teamsters loading merchant wagons pause in their work to take in the sight. A couple of humans on horses is one thing, but a halfling riding a ferocious-looking wolf? A tiger prowls through the party's ranks, and Arbondiel himself arrived upon a graceful, long-legged elven steed. Typhon rumbles among you on his cart, like a kind of fearsome charioteer.

Spring has brought violet blossoms to the great Val. The highway from the grand city is marked by crystal glowstones. They are useful as the path can become dark even during the day due to the enormous, twisting boughs of the ancient forest. But here and there, rays of sunshine pierce through to fall across the scattered ruins which squat beside the well-traveled road—the remnants of older kingdoms when the elves were a more numerous race.

Your journey is not a lonely one. Various travelers share the trip with you: elven messengers, traders, a group of rangers, even a squad of the mercenary Shadow Company; there is tension during the night's camp between the latter two.

A couple of days and you break from the woods. Before you, the wide Red River flows. Many take the road west to the human city of Redford, but like you, some wait on the ferryman. The price is one silver per foot, hoof, or paw; the others grumble but produce the coins.

Beyond is the gently rolling farmland of the Free Commons. Armies of adventurers are born and raised here, starting out policing local bandits or worse still, defending against raiding parties of orcs come down from the Dead Peaks far to the north. The rest of your fellow travelers take the larger road to the hub of this realm, the town of Vineberg.

Your party, however, takes a thin trail to the northwest, the farms and hamlets becoming more scarce as the week slowly rolls by. The locals are friendly enough. You even pass a group of humans with halfling and dwarf in tow, their scale mail torn and their weapons dulled, but they grin mightily with the long strands of goblin ears thrown over their shoulders (at a gold a piece, a fine reward indeed).

Now, a persistent chill has crept into the days. The path is overgrown and the fields are nothing but brown grass grown high as a man. Before you in every direction, distant mountains loom larger and larger. The afternoon of the sixth day through the Free Commons, Arbondiel hears a strange movement in the tall grass to your right, a rustling which Titus is next to detect, then Aweran. The rest of you cannot discern the noise, perhaps it is the wind? A chitinous and segmented beast six feet long crashes into view, snipping a path through the grass with its great mandibles. Then another, and another. Spotting you with their alien compound eyes, they begin an angry clacking in unison, and now everyone can hear it being answered in the field behind them.

Giant ants, many giant ants...

Everybody gets two rounds since Arbondiel's first warning to prepare yourself. Three giant ants have intercepted the party perpendicularly to the trail. They are thirty feet away. Behind them is an unknown number of giant ants answering their clacking but are currently out of sight due to the tall grass.

See this post (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=23808985&postcount=48) in the OOC thread for info on how combat will work.

[HumanTemplate]

The journey has been a placid one so far. The company of Arbondiel and Typhon have particularly been pleasing to Titus. One, a remainder of his adopted kin, the other a force of nature so distinct to the Ruathar. And then Tiemblo, the war-wolf pup, barely a year old and with already huge paws and an unending hunger.

As the weather gets worse, Titus hits himself and Tiemblo every morning with the eternal wand of endure elements.

***

Arbondiel warns them. That noise is not the wind.

1st round: Titus takes out his bow and unmounts knowing that with so little room to maneuver he is not a deft combat rider. Then he hushes Tiemblo, preparing to maneuver.


2nd round Move action to Handle Tiemblo so he defends me, taking 10 for an 11 DC 10. Then ready an action to cast Haste on everyone (I can haste 8 creatures) in case something hostile looking appears trough the bushes.

I guess that means that as soon as the ants appear and start cackling their jaws i cast Haste.

If I get an action before the Ants I cast Glitterdust behind the first ants so it affects the ones coming behind.


Titus "Magpie" Trimegistae (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1349797)
m CG Halfling Ruathar(See Below), Level 8, Init 3, HP 54.5/54.5, DR 1/-, Speed 20
AC 21,(Currently 22) Touch 14, Flat-footed 18, Fort 6, Ref 9, Will 11, Base Attack Bonus +4
+1Longbow +9 (1D6+1, )
Throwing dagger +9 (1d3-2, )
+1Mithral Chainshirt, +1mithral buckler (+5 Armor, +2 Shield, +3 Dex, +1 Size)
Abilities Str 6, Dex 16, Con 16, Int 19, Wis 14, Cha 12
Condition
Hasted
Riding a wolf!


SPELLS KNOWN:



0 Level 6/day

Dancing Lights: Creates torches or other lights.
Daze: Humanoid creature of 4 HD or less loses next action.
Detect Magic: Detects spells and magic items within 60 ft.
Ghost Sound: Figment sounds.
Message: Whispered conversation at distance.
Open/Close: Opens or closes small or light things.
Read Magic: Read scrolls and spellbooks.

1st Level 7/day


Longstrider
Shock and awe
Charm Person: Makes one person your friend.
Color Spray: Knocks unconscious, blinds, and/or stuns 1d6 weak creatures.
Comprehend Languages: You understand all spoken and written languages.
Critical Strike:For 1 round you gain +1d6 damage, doubled threat range, and +4 on attack rolls to confirm critical threats.
Detect Secret Doors: Reveals hidden doors within 60 ft.
Disguise Self: Changes your appearance.
Expeditious Retreat: Your speed increases by 30 ft.
Hypnotism: Fascinates 2d4 HD of creatures.
Mage Armor: Gives subject +4 armor bonus.
Obscuring Mist: Fog surrounds you.
Rouse: Awakens creatures in area.
Silent Image: Creates minor illusion of your design.
Sleep: Puts 4 HD of creatures into magical slumber.
Undetectable Alignment: Conceals alignment for 24 hours.
Whelm: Deal 1d6 nonlethal damage +1d6/2 levels above 1st (max 5d6).

2nd Level 7/day Used: 1

Locate object

Blinding Color Surge: Blind subject for 1 round, gain invisibility.
Blur: Attacks miss subject 20% of the time.
Daze Monster: Living creature of 6 HD or less loses next action.
Detect Thoughts: Allows “listening” to surface thoughts.
Fog Cloud: Fog obscures vision.
Glitterdust: Blinds creatures, outlines invisible creatures.
Hypnotic Pattern: Fascinates (2d4 + level) HD of creatures.
Invisibility: Subject is invisible for 1 min./level or until it attacks.
Knock: Opens locked or magically sealed door.
Minor Image: As silent image, plus some sound.
Mirror Image: Creates decoy duplicates of you (1d4 +1 per three levels, max 8).
Misdirection: Misleads divinations for one creature or object.
See Invisibility: Reveals invisible creatures or objects.
Silence: Negates sound in 15-ft. radius.
spider climb
Stay the Hand: Change subject creature’s attitude to helpful for 1 round.
touch of idiocy
Vertigo: Subject creature must succeed on a DC 10 Balance check to move each round.
Whelming Blast: 15-foot cone deals 1d6 nonlethal damage/2 levels (max 5d6).

3rd Level 6/day Used: 1

Fly
arcane sight
clairaudience/clairvoyance
Crown of Veils: Gain +2 to Disguise and Hide, discharge to gain +8.
deep slumber
dispel magic
displacement
glibness
Halt: Subject’s feet become stuck to ground.
haste
Hesitate: Force subject to lose actions.
hold person
Inevitable Defeat: Subject takes 3d6 nonlethal damage/round.
invisibility sphere
Legion of Sentinels: Ghostly swordsmen threaten a 10-foot radius, deal 1d8 damage +1/3 levels (max +5).
major image
nondetection
slow
suggestion
Vertigo Field: Creatures have 20% miss chance and possibly become nauseated.
zone of silence

4th Level 4/day

Dimension door
charm monster
confusion
crushing despair
freedom of movement
greater invisibility
Mirror Image, Greater: As mirror image, but gain an additional image each round.
locate creature
Phantom Battle: Illusion of battle flanks creatures and denies attacks of opportunity.
rainbow pattern
solid fog
Whelm, Mass: 1d6 nonlethal damage/level (max 10d6) to 1 creature/level.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth dismounts and sighs. He ties his horse to the nearest sturdy thing he can find (tree, rock, Typon etc). He interposes himself between the ants and his horse.


Gorth bangs his mace against his shield. "Clank Clank right back at you. Titus, summon your servant. He has a job to do."





Round 1: Dismount / tie off light horse


Round 2:

Change the aura he is projecting to 'Power' All allies get +2 damage on melee attacks.


Ready an action to breath acid on the Ant(s) if they approach only.


30 foot line, DC 17 for half damage -if needed: Damage: [roll0]



STATUS

HP: 72.5
AC: 26 (25+1 haste)


Effects:
Hasted +1 hit/AC/reflex save etc
Power Aura +2 damage on melee attacks
60' movement

[Rex500]

The druid-mage seems to be enjoying the trip. Although the scenery is familiar, having some company gives it a different touch. During breakfast he gladly ate all the eggs, bacon and bread offered to him. He shakes the propiertor's hand and smiles before leaving. Halfling hospitality is always welcome.

"We... had an unfortunate lycanthrope infestation, less than a year ago." he tells Typhon, while riding besides the cart. "The village elder called on temple Gaea for assistance. I remember Muru! And the pups were much smaller then." he continues.

Arbondiel suddenly stops, and dismounts swiftly once he hears the creatures approach. He stares at the overgrown insects, looking rather interested.

"Formicidae, of the giant variety. Let us see if we can dissuade them from this course of action."

The elf calls upon the spirits of nature first, then begins reciting an enchantment from an ancient looking tome.


First round: Dismounts and casts Entangle (http://www.d20srd.org/srd/spells/entangle.htm) centered 30 feet behind the ants currently in view. Reflex DC 15

Second round: Summons a Flaming Sphere (http://www.d20srd.org/srd/spells/flamingSphere.htm) on top of the nearest ant. [roll0] fire damage. Reflex 16 negates.

Arbondiel Glyn'Faren
HP:40/40
AC 19 Speed 20

[Erelamar]

Arbondiel's warning triggers the veteran adventurer in each of you. Danger!

Titus' first spell fills your bodies, along with those of Softpaw and Muru, with a springlike tension. Those more martial characters form up into a battle line to shield the casters from whatever may come. The wait is brief.

The giant ants emerge, clacking, obviously agitated at the intrusion into what they deem their territory. The call echos in the distance, but just as quickly becomes disjointed as Arbondiel's magic causes roots to burst from the ground seizing the ants fast in a large spread of probing vegetation. The tall grass thrashes from the struggles within.

Arbondiel launches a bouncing ball of flame which collides with the front rank of the enemy, badly burning one. Titus works a storm of golden flecks which rains over the insects' reinforcements.

The ants struggle against the roots but make no progress, neither do any more emerge from your right flank, though the trembling grass alerts you to the presence of more. Just then, another trio of the enemy comes crashing onto the trail behind you, venturing near enough in range as to allow Gorth to let loose a stream of potent acid, badly burning two of them. Their formation wheels on the party and begins to advance.

The wolves bark and snap, keeping close at heel. Some party members hover back to corral the startled mounts, while the rest hold the line.


Initative

Arbondiel
Nehwon
Titus
Gorth
GIANT ANTS (currently visible = 6 / 3 of which are bloodied)
Typhon
Aweran


(Everyone is hasted: +1 to attacks rolls; +1 dodge bonus to AC and Reflex saves; +30 ft. enhancement bonus to movement speed (or double base, whichever is less); one additional attack at your highest BAB when making a full attack action.)

All of the ants to your right are entangled and stuck and were unable to break free on their turn. Due to the concealment of the tall grass, you are uncertain the effect of the glitterdust on the back ranks. One of the three visible has taken 8 fire damage.

Behind you, there are three more ants, 20 feet away. Gorth managed to deal 10 acid damage to two of them as they emerged, but now they are standing abreast and approaching the party.

Technically, we're still in this round after the Ants' initiative, so if Typhon/Aweran wants to jump in here, they still can get their turn. Otherwise, people can start issuing their next turn's actions.

[Devilfish]

Typhon inhales the fresh air briskly as the party sets out upon the horizon. He stands atop his cart proudly, cross-armed and broad-chested, while the four pups hang over the side with their tongues lolled and panting in anticipation. You can see his shoulders ease in the idyllic rural scenery, (but true to his nature, Typhon "at ease" remains sharp-eyed and vigilant, for such is the way in the wilds.)

He enjoys the company of the fellow rangers, who he spends time telling tales with. The first shares his story of a massive gorilla, with hair as white as silver, and four arms as wide as the legs of a horse. The second scoffs and speaks of his encounter with two of the very beast, whom he fought off with naught but a dagger in the night. Typhon booms with a mighty harumph, claiming to have fought one ten feet tall, which he took on bare handed, wrestling it to the ground as Muru nibbled at its ear. A long moment passes before the three burst out laughing. For girallons live where it is quite warm, and none of them had ever encountered one.

Far more so does he find common ground with his new companions, despite his old age and fierce nature. With Arbondiel he remembers his Answer To The Call, and asks of the well-farings of his people. The two share conversations in Sylvan, and speak of the ways of the woods. With Aweran he listens intently, enamored of her hunts inquisitions, and he acknowledges the importance of upkeeping the Old Laws. Gorth and he do not always see eye to eye... but their debates are civil and their squabbles are bloodless. Typhon extends a mutual respect (as two sturdy men often do). And Titus of course is always quick with a joke, or a story to keep the party's morale alive; and despite his stoic mask, crossed-arms and best attempts not to, even Typhon cannot help but crack a smirk to many of them.

Nehwon he does not know quite yet; but his eye remains curious of the newcomer.


~


When the cold wind breaks, Typhon's fierce eyes flare open, and his arms unfold with the weight of a landslide behind them. He hulks forward past their procession, and reaches for a potion, which he takes down gingerly. A moment passes as he hacks at it's taste, and he waits for a little to take in its effect.

...Typhon explodes.

Thick fumes of iron powder spew from under his coat, and encompass where the man used to be... and out from the cloud reaches the arm of a giant. There Typhon stands. Ten feet tall.

Prep round one: Position myself a the epicenter of the front line, and use a potion of Enlarge Person


Arbondiel warns them. That noise is not the wind.


"They are but insects," he rumbles. Though he cannot see what comes, he counts the movements in the grass, standing at the ready.

The first ant reveals itself. Typhon scowls, deeply insulted.

"...THEY are but INSECTS," he roars with furious indignation
and attacks with a ball and chain that explodes with thunderbolts and conflagration.

Apologies for the delay!

Typhon:
HP: 73.5
AC: 18
Temp STR: 20
Temp DEX: 14
Reach: 10'
Mode: Maximum overkill

Full attack on the three ants to the right:
Attack 1: [roll0]
Damage 1: [roll1] <- 2d6 (large dire flail) plus 1d6 fire plus 1d6 electricity
Attack 2: [roll2]
Damage 2: [roll3]
Attack 3: [roll4]
Damage 3: [roll5]
Attack 4: [roll6]
Damage 4: [roll7]
Attack 5: [roll8]
Damage 5: [roll9]

If there are any remaining attacks and not enough ants, Typhon smashes the dead bodies into oblivion.

Attack of Opportunity: (if approached by more ants through my 10' reach)
AAO 1: [roll10]
Damage 1: [roll11]

AAO 2: [roll12]
Damage 2: [roll13]

Muru:
Move to attack one of the acid-struck ants.
Attack: [roll14]
Damage: [roll15]


-I am currently leaving Muru as non-warbeasted for now. Perhaps we can advance him when we next level up :smallredface:
-If it pleases the GM, could I exchange my energy crystal from Frost to Fire? I was hesitant as I was expecting a red dragon at the end, but there is the issue of the trolls, and thunder and electricity just look plain cooler together

[Togo]

Professor Kin seemed friendly enough, if a little vague. The academy had promised an academic, and that's apparently what they had sent. He was happy to talk about his studies, something about using transformation magic as a means of increasing magical ability. And he was happy to talk about his travels, with light and somewhat fanciful tales of far distant lands, where flowers grow as big a double fist, and saffron clad monks balance on the end of high poles, and fight without blades

But he's a little hard to place. The fussy manners don't fit with longbow, or the long long blade of the silver grey sword with the elaborate spiky hilt slung on his back, and so many runes carved into it's surface that it resembles a bookmaker's staff, with odds marked down, and down, and down again. His gear is well worn, and he in it.

He looks very little like a wizard.


As the warning is raised however, his College instincts kick in, and immediately starts casting spells on himself. As the chitenous beasts approach, he hangs back, as if not sure whether to advance or not. Instead three graceful hops take him to balancing on top of one of the laden wagons. Now with the higher ground, he looks around, and notes the creatures advancing from the rear.

He sprints across, backflipping over to the next wagon, running down the side and then launching himself into a somersault that brings him to earth, still running as he uses the momentum of his charge to swing his sword in a deadly arc.

Feat of the Day - Combat Acrobat
Focus of the day - arcane

round 1 - mage armour
round 2 - false life, move to the top of the wagon.
round 3 - charge the one ant in the rear not damaged by acid. If for some reason he can't charge, then just move and hit (subtract 2 from to hit, and add 2 to AC)

False life - [roll0] temporary hp for 4 hours

AC 18
Charge and two points of power attack, leading to +2 to hit (arcane steel crystal, haste) and +7 to damage (armbands of might, arcane steel crystal), channeling shocking grasp.
[roll1] for [roll2] magical adamantine damage and [roll3] electricity damage

[Togo]

The professor hits hard, much harder than even he had intended, his blade slicing easily into the creature's torso.

Confirm the threat
[roll0] for an additional [roll1] damage

[Devilfish]

Typhon pauses briefly from his thrashings to stare in awe at whatever in nine-hells just stuck harder than he did.

[Erelamar]

A giant Typhon crosses the thirty feet between the party and the entangled ants in two swift steps. His great reach allows one of the spiked balls of his dire flail to sail over the terrain of grasping vines and shatter the thorax of a fresh enemy in an impact of electricity and fire. The other ants, still held fast by Arbondiel's spell, snap their mandibles in vain. The ranger is beyond their reach.

With his new height, Typhon can peer down and see three more ants behind those before him; they brilliantly glitter with gold and blindly struggle against the ensnaring roots. That is not all: his eyes, trained as they are, peer across the vastness of the landscape and can see movement among the tall grass three hundred feet away—a second wave of insects, but they seem to be in retreat which carries the old man's vision to the horizon where sit four earthen hills. Though they are indistinct from so far away, each of the mounds swarms with activity.

A sudden flash and terrible shake cause the ranger to peer over his shoulder. Placid Professor Nehwon has just vanquished a fresh foe with a dazzling display ferocity, and now engages the two partially melted ants in melee!


Initiative

Arbondiel
Titus
Gorth
GIANT ANTS (currently visible = 4 / 3 of which are bloodied)
Typhon
Nehwon
Aweran


Typhon crosses the thirty feet to engage the right flank ants, pausing at the edge of Arbondiel's entangle spell and using his 10 ft. reach to crush an ant. Two remain before him (one with 8 fire damage).

Behind the right flank of ants, concealed by the tall grass from the rest of the party, Typhon is able to look down and see three more giant ants covered in glitterdust obviously blinded and held fast by the entanglement.

The professor charges the rear ants. Nehwon, though not confirming his critical hit, still easily dispatches the healthiest of the rear ants. He is now within 5 ft. of the remaining two (each with 10 acid damage).

Ready for round two actions!



Switching the energy crystal from frost to fire is fine.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth charges at one of the injured ants in the back. "They almost had us in a .. Pincer attack" Gorth blurts out.





Gorth will charge one of the remaining Ants that was previously injured with his acid. (He's aiming to be standing near the Kung-Fu Wizard)


Attack: [roll0] (+12 normal +1 haste, +2 charge)
Damage: [roll1] (+1 weapon, +4 str bonus, +2 from power aura)


AC: 24 (25 -2 charging, +1 haste)
HP: 72.5/72.5

Effects:
Hasted
Power aura (+2 damage to melee attacks within 30 ft)

[Rex500]

Arbondiel watches the giant ants fall rather quickly, suitably impressed.

"Softpaw..." he whispers to the nearby feline, smiling "Typhon is showing you off."

The tiger leaps towards the remaining enemies!

Softpaw charges one of the ants at the right.
[roll0] 1st claw
[roll1]
[roll2] 2nd claw
[roll3]
[roll4] bite
[roll5]
[roll6] Rake 1
[roll7]
[roll8] Rake 2
[roll9]

The flaming sphere burns the other ant for [roll10] dmg ref 16 negates.

Softpaw

HP: 45
AC: 15 for this round

[HumanTemplate]

Titus learnt a few things among the elves. One of them was that higher ground was a huge advantage. He casts an incantation and rises 20' into the air. Trying to get a clear view of the real threat.


Cast Fly and move 20' vertically.


[/SPOILER]

Titus "Magpie" Trimegistae (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1349797)
m CG Halfling Ruathar(See Below), Level 8, Init 3, HP 54.5/54.5, DR 1/-, Speed 20
AC 21,(Currently 22) Touch 14, Flat-footed 18, Fort 6, Ref 9, Will 11, Base Attack Bonus +4
+1Longbow +9 (1D6+1, )
Throwing dagger +9 (1d3-2, )
+1Mithral Chainshirt, +1mithral buckler (+5 Armor, +2 Shield, +3 Dex, +1 Size)
Abilities Str 6, Dex 16, Con 16, Int 19, Wis 14, Cha 12
Condition
Hasted
Riding a wolf!


SPELLS KNOWN:



0 Level 6/day

Dancing Lights: Creates torches or other lights.
Daze: Humanoid creature of 4 HD or less loses next action.
Detect Magic: Detects spells and magic items within 60 ft.
Ghost Sound: Figment sounds.
Message: Whispered conversation at distance.
Open/Close: Opens or closes small or light things.
Read Magic: Read scrolls and spellbooks.

1st Level 7/day


Longstrider
Shock and awe
Charm Person: Makes one person your friend.
Color Spray: Knocks unconscious, blinds, and/or stuns 1d6 weak creatures.
Comprehend Languages: You understand all spoken and written languages.
Critical Strike:For 1 round you gain +1d6 damage, doubled threat range, and +4 on attack rolls to confirm critical threats.
Detect Secret Doors: Reveals hidden doors within 60 ft.
Disguise Self: Changes your appearance.
Expeditious Retreat: Your speed increases by 30 ft.
Hypnotism: Fascinates 2d4 HD of creatures.
Mage Armor: Gives subject +4 armor bonus.
Obscuring Mist: Fog surrounds you.
Rouse: Awakens creatures in area.
Silent Image: Creates minor illusion of your design.
Sleep: Puts 4 HD of creatures into magical slumber.
Undetectable Alignment: Conceals alignment for 24 hours.
Whelm: Deal 1d6 nonlethal damage +1d6/2 levels above 1st (max 5d6).

2nd Level 7/day Used: 1

Locate object

Blinding Color Surge: Blind subject for 1 round, gain invisibility.
Blur: Attacks miss subject 20% of the time.
Daze Monster: Living creature of 6 HD or less loses next action.
Detect Thoughts: Allows “listening” to surface thoughts.
Fog Cloud: Fog obscures vision.
Glitterdust: Blinds creatures, outlines invisible creatures.
Hypnotic Pattern: Fascinates (2d4 + level) HD of creatures.
Invisibility: Subject is invisible for 1 min./level or until it attacks.
Knock: Opens locked or magically sealed door.
Minor Image: As silent image, plus some sound.
Mirror Image: Creates decoy duplicates of you (1d4 +1 per three levels, max 8).
Misdirection: Misleads divinations for one creature or object.
See Invisibility: Reveals invisible creatures or objects.
Silence: Negates sound in 15-ft. radius.
spider climb
Stay the Hand: Change subject creature’s attitude to helpful for 1 round.
touch of idiocy
Vertigo: Subject creature must succeed on a DC 10 Balance check to move each round.
Whelming Blast: 15-foot cone deals 1d6 nonlethal damage/2 levels (max 5d6).

3rd Level 6/day Used: 2

Fly
arcane sight
clairaudience/clairvoyance
Crown of Veils: Gain +2 to Disguise and Hide, discharge to gain +8.
deep slumber
dispel magic
displacement
glibness
Halt: Subject’s feet become stuck to ground.
haste
Hesitate: Force subject to lose actions.
hold person
Inevitable Defeat: Subject takes 3d6 nonlethal damage/round.
invisibility sphere
Legion of Sentinels: Ghostly swordsmen threaten a 10-foot radius, deal 1d8 damage +1/3 levels (max +5).
major image
nondetection
slow
suggestion
Vertigo Field: Creatures have 20% miss chance and possibly become nauseated.
zone of silence

4th Level 4/day

Dimension door
charm monster
confusion
crushing despair
freedom of movement
greater invisibility
Mirror Image, Greater: As mirror image, but gain an additional image each round.
locate creature
Phantom Battle: Illusion of battle flanks creatures and denies attacks of opportunity.
rainbow pattern
solid fog
Whelm, Mass: 1d6 nonlethal damage/level (max 10d6) to 1 creature/level.

[Erelamar]

Between the flaming sphere and the thrashing of the tiger, the last two of the visible giant ants on the right flank are vanquished. Softpaw can smell and Typhon can see the three additional insects twenty feet inside the line of the tall grass. They still wrestle futilely against the entangling roots. Reaching them would mean entering the area of Arbondiel's spell and perhaps suffering its effects as well.

Gorth charges forward and brings his morningstar down with such force as to crush through the chitin of the wounded ant's head, killing it instantly. He and Nehwon stand shoulder-to-shoulder against the final rear opponent. Confused, the ant lashes out at random and Gorth easily sidesteps the creature's clumsy attack.

From his lofty vantage point, Titus can make out the blind and gold-dusted ants struggling just within the tall grass on the right. Three hundred feet away, he sees perhaps two dozen more trails through the field in an area eighty feet in diameter. They are slightly smaller ants with less pronounced mandibles. Each of them, alerted by the sounds of danger, are retreating from the combat.

In the distance, bringing a hand to shield his eyes, the halfling can make out the four huge earthen mounds upon the horizon. It is clearly the worker drones' destination. No more features than that are presently discernable to him.



Initiative

Arbondiel
Titus
Gorth
GIANT ANTS (visible on the path = 1 which is bloodied plus 3 more inside the field visible to Titus and Typhon)
Nehwon
Aweran


We have just concluded the ants' turn, Typhon and Nehwon are up again. Currently, there is only one giant ant remaining 20 ft. behind the party within 5 ft. reach of both Gorth and the professor.

Typhon and Titus are aware of the three glitterdusted and entangled ants twenty feet inside the field of tall grass. Anyone can enter the area of Arbondiel's spell, but your movement is halved and on Rex500's turn you'll need to make a Reflex save to avoid being entangled yourself.

Typhon's current height and Titus' altitude will allow them to ignore the concealment of the tall grass, but everyone else who enters will suffer a 20% miss chance attacking anything 10 ft. away and 50% miss chance beyond that. Within 5 ft. there is no miss chance.

[Togo]

After his mighty strike, Nehwon burst into a flurry of guards parries and dodges, doubtless choreographed to deflect an immediate attack. But the remaining beast makes no attempt to fight him, instead taking a clumsy lunge at Gorth.

After a beat of hesitation, Nehwon spins, rising up on one leg, and brings the sword around in a downward spiral strike, a manoeuvre awkwardly adjusted at the last moment to strike a creature lower than rehearsals had planned for. The momentum shifts him off his feet, snapping the sword up and around for a downward crushing arc, which turn spins him again, faster this time, sending a strike parallel to the ground, that whistles through the air.

Haste, no power attack.

[roll0] for [roll1] magical adamantine damage
[roll2] for [roll3] magical adamantine damage
[roll4] for [roll5] magical adamantine damage

AC 20
hp 40 + 17 temp

[Devilfish]

"Hm." Typhon squints into the distance, pointing an inquisitory finger and turning to Titus overhead. "Four mounds. You see them, hm? Part of an expanding colony, or perhaps a fledgling hive. Their workers are retreating to rebuild, in any case... and their soldiers will be back in a month.

"Could be trouble for common folk... if we leave them."

He lets the statement linger, the grip on his flail tight and his eyes brewing like thunderclouds on the horizon. He gives Titus a look to invite his opinion, while Gorth and Nehwon and Softpaw turn their ants to confetti in the background.

At last, the moment passes, and Typhon looks down at the blinded, entangled, piteous things before him in the grass.

"Well. Let's not keep these ones waiting," he says, stepping lightly.

Advancing into the entanglement to attack the three ants on the right. I'll keep my 10' distance and position myself for a full attack next round.

Typhon
Attack:
Damage: [roll1] <-- Doubling up my grip on one head for 1.5x STR

Muru:
(If there's anything left, move into flanking position and and attack)
[roll]1d20+7
[roll2]

[Erelamar]

With the professor's first strike, the last giant ant on the trail collapses into a broken, oozy mess.

Everyone takes note of the even deeper-voiced Typhon calling out, pointing over the field to the east. Then, heedless, the ranger wades into the writhing roots bringing one head of his dire flail sailing down causing insect pulp to briefly erupt above the tops of the tall grass.

As you each consider Typhon's words, a note on geography: you are in the northwestern hinterlands of the Free Commons. The last farm you saw—a ramshackle hut set deep off the trail—may or may not have even been inhabited. That was more than twenty hours ago. Only another day's worth of travel should bring you to the boundary of the Endormi Greenwood and the Kingdoms Three.


Initiative

Arbondiel
Titus
Gorth
GIANT ANTS (visible to Titus/Typhon = 2 struggling in the entange spell and blinded from glitterdust)
Typhon
Nehwon


Typhon kills one of the three glitterdusted ants, and is now within 10 ft. of the two remaining. If, on his turn, Arbondiel does not use their action to dismiss the entangle spell, I'm going to need a Reflex Save from Typhon.

The worker drones are now 350 ft. to the east, moving away at 50 ft./round. The four earthen mounds are perhaps two miles away.

We are up to round three (round five after counting early warning turns).


Taking the moment to think about it, you recollect giant ants of this type congregate in hives led by a single queen, likely in a chamber deep beneath the mounds.

The mounds themselves have multiple entrances so as to make bottlenecking the ants inside very difficult.

The warrior ants you are currently dispatching could be the extent of their normal defense force or perhaps as little as half. And while the worker drones do not normally engage in battle, there could be as many as one hundred of them. Should the nest be threatened, they are likely to form up into mobs, pressed close together, climbing on top of one another and rushing over invaders (much like the equivalent of gargantuan-sized swarms).

[Rex500]

The elf follows to the edge of the tall grass. He raises his hand and dismisses the entangling magic with a movement, then considers the situation.

"The ants could prove a danger to the common folk indeed... and yet this is not part of our mission." he pauses for a moment.

"Do keep in mind they will come at us en masse, should we choose to confront them." continues the mage calmly, yet with a clear voice.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"I say let ants be ants and lets move on. Nothing is to be gained by further slaughter - ours or theirs."


Gorth waits for the others to finish off the remaining incapacitated soldiers. He goes back to settling the horses.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus flies around a little more, trying to make out if the ants' path intersects with their own further north. Then he comes back and agrees with North.

You can't go on swinging a weapon at ants, eventually, they'll outnumber you. We either smoke them in their hives, or we leave.

I'm more for the second option, there's no point in killing a whole hive of ants, who are probably important for this place ecology.

[Togo]

Nehwon shades his eyes as he scans the horizon from the vantage of Typhon's cart.

It would be better to dig up those mounds, he says somewhat wistfully but it would be very dangerous. He somewhat absently unwraps a long strip of cloth, ragged but clean, from around the sheath of his sword, and starts cleaning his sword, working the material into the grooves of the carved runes. It's more a job for archers, a lot of shovels, and barrels of naptha. Or a suitably powerful conjuration effect, of course. There should be a number of theoretical applications that could be put to practical use here, hmmm... he glances down at the blade, turning it over twice to makes sure the runes are clear and then starts sweeping his cloth down the length of the blade. Not that we're likely to see any of the College of Magi out here any time soon.

He sighs.

I'm happy to attempt it, but I believe we will take casualties. I suspect we should move on, and focus on our own quest. We have people depending on us, after all.

He looks up and down the road.

May be we could post a head on a stick, one half a mile back the way we came, and one half a mile onwards, to warn travellers of potential hazard? Professional... ah... seekers of trouble, seem fairly common on this particular road.

[Devilfish]

"Just a moment," Typhon interupts Arbondiel from dismissing his spell, so that he may dispatch the remaining ants safely.



Reflex: [roll0]

He smashes one of the remaining ants with his full attack, anihilating its body and scarring the earth.
[spoiler=Oh why not]
Attack 1: [roll1]
Damage 1: [roll2]

Attack 2: [roll3]
Damage 2: [roll4]

Attack 3: [roll5]
Damage 3: [roll6]

Attack 4: [roll7]
Damage 4: [roll8]

Attack 1: [roll9]
Damage 1: [roll10]

Content with his smouldering crater, Typhon rests on the haft of his flail, rasping on its length in deliberation. The stormclouds have passed from his eyes and he is back to his old self.

"Make this one smell like Wickerleaf," he asks of Arbondiel and his natural magics. "It is a natural repelent that gardeners use. When it returns to its hive, the ants won't come this way for many seasons."

"Did you know it was Glendriel, from your village who taught me that?" Typhon tells his elven companion, and positions himself behind the ant to slap it on the rear and send it scampering back to its hill. "Cantankerous old woman. Doesn't take sass from anyone. I may ask to marry her one day. "

[Erelamar]

THE JOURNEY (PART 2)

Easily ridding yourselves of the giant ants, the party continues their journey. The wind increases over the course of the day, and the air grows dry. White-capped mountains crowd in upon the horizon. The land has become vacant, without even the hint of civilization. The trail is thin and overgrown. You have left the fields of tall grass behind; only tufts of ugly vegetation dot the barren landscape. If it weren't for your comrades, you would feel like the last person in the world.

At midday, tall conifers creep upwards before you. They stand alone, quiet, almost pensive, as the only warning of the border which you are about to cross: that of the Kingdoms Three. Your path widens at the foot of the Endormi Greenwood, many tracks—those of horse and men—have stamped down the earth before the entrance to this distant realm. Otherwise, the only noticeable distinction is the paved road which stretches into the forest. Some of those paying less attention are startled by the sudden clop! of horseshoes upon something so manmade and familiar.

The Greenwood is a stark contrast to the fantastical Val with its great twisting boughs of ancient oaks. Here, pine trees, narrow and straight, soar up from the underbrush, and a thin mist leaks into view from between their black trunks. If there are woodland creatures, they move unseen. If there are birds, they perch in silence.

https://happywall-img-gallery.imgix.net/3210/misty_wood_display.jpg

Dusk of your ninth day of travel and Beryl seems like little more than a dream. You've seen no noticeable waypoint, but even as the daylight dies you come to a crossroads. A crude wooden sign marks the paths: to your right is Northhold, to the left is Southhold, before you lies the road to Westhold; of the land from which you've come, it says nothing.

You make camp at the crossroads, but see no other travelers during the night. But, those on watch in the early hours of the morning hear a rush of wind overhead, and the beat of large wings. It comes swiftly and swiftly leaves, never emerging from the darkness of the overcast sky.

Your journey continues. Leopold's map and instructions have you taking the way to Westhold, and you should come perilously close to that castle, within thirty or forty miles, before discovering an older trail north to the Troll Hills. But that is four days away.

Paths begin to branch off from the road to Westhold on your second day of travel. None bear signposts but the evidence of foot traffic is present in their dirt trails. Nearing the afternoon, you hear something welcoming—though, by this point, you would welcome any sound at all.

Men shout and a tree falls: beside the road the forest gives way to a wide expanse of cleared land. Great wagons are piled with trunks, and hollow-faced men are working in tandem on long saws, hewing at the bark of many more. Others, though, stand vigilant wearing blackened chain mail, the bows in their hands already nocked with silver-tipped arrows. They stare into the forest. Only a few turn to watch your progress along the road.

Far to one side, near the dozen tents of their campsite, two griffons with reins and saddle are being tossed chunks of meat by a man in a messy leather apron.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus


The road through the lush forest lifted Titus spirit. The mist, particularly, was something he found comfort in. It suggested mystery and adventure.

Ant the pines, tall and elongated, as columns, presented him a view, unlike anything he was used to. Instead of the twisting canopy of oaks and hays, the trees grew tight together and made the sky seem even further. Man made, probably, pines so tight together were perfect for wood, long straight beams to make houses and ceilings.

Therefore, Titus is not completely surprised by the woodsmen. He does notice the magnificent griffons, and, more importantly, the silvered tip of the crossbow bolts. He leaves Tiemblo behind and approaches the men, while casting an incantation on himself.

"Good men. Have a pleasant day. I can help but notice that you seem wary of the forest. We are on our way to the Troll hills and I must assume that you are men from Westhold. We in no way want to interrupt your work, we are looking to hunt down some of the Trolls of the hills for university purposes.

But by judging the tip of your arrows, I must ask. Are there werewolves in the vicinity?


Cast glibness in case there's a bluff check.

Diplomacy

[roll0]


Bluff

[roll1]

[Togo]

Nehwon follows a little way behind, visibly impressed by the griffons.

And if not werewolves, then... something else, perhaps? It would be good to know what to watch out for...

[Erelamar]

The three dozen men of the logging crew have cleared an area perhaps one hundred yards in diameter. Watching them at work are fifteen guards. More than half the latter turn to appraise Titus and Nehwon as they approach the three standing near the center of the clearing; each is older than the rest with salt-and-pepper hair and beards. The one on the right tucks his thumbs in his belt, where at each hip hangs a handaxe—the edges of which are also treated with alchemical silver. The man on the left spits over his shoulder. All three guards narrow their deep-set eyes at the wolves among your caravan.

Titus speaks, and the man in the middle breaks from his glare to listen. There is the twitch of a sneer at the mention of a "university," but his expression remains neutral. Nehwon poses his question. None seem particularly impressed by your mission, or even inclined to answer. The lead guard says to the others,

"Trolls, eh?" in a voice like gravel.

To which one answers, "Seems so..."

A minute passes between the five of you in silence. They are probing for nervousness, not just from the halfling and man standing before them but from the rest of your party as well.

Just as you are about to interject, the lead guard says, "Why doesn't your leader do the talking?" He inclines his head toward the old ranger in heavy furs riding upon the cart. He continues for his companions' benefit, "That's them southern lords for you. Don't even like to get the soles of their boots dirty."

There collective laugh is more a muted growl.

A flap flutters upon one of the tents. Another man with a long blond beard and curly hair emerges. He too wears blackened chain mail, but wrapped around his is a burgundy cloak. Possessing no visible weapons, he holds himself up on a stout staff topped with a silver pinecone. In his other hand, a thick jug sloshes.

He squints at your party as if inspecting a distant mirage. He looks to his jug, rocking it, and then wanders over. The lead guard rolls his eyes.

"What's this then? Travelers, Baird?" he says coming to stand before you. He leans down close to inspect Titus then swings back to stare eye-to-eye with Nehwon. There is a heavy smell of wine.

"Troll hunters," answers the lead guard, Baird. "From the south."

"From the south. Yes, from the south that much is certain." He drinks from his jug. "Where are your manners, Baird? Introduce me."

The guard folds his arms. "This is Priest Tevic, Ogre-Slayer, Cloud-Stepper, the Violent Vintner, boon companion of Rogthar Roc-Rider, King of Westhold—"

"Bah! We need not stand on ceremony. You may call me Priest Tevic," and his laugh is like a bawdy tavern song.

Luckily, Titus' bonus is high enough he didn't accidentally make the guards hostile.

Titus/Typhon/Arbondiel/Nehwon have identified Priest Tevic by his staff and cloak as a cleric of Dionysus.

You have a hunch these guards have heard a similar line about the Troll Hills before.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus does not have much experience with the manners of northerners.


He feigns to be indignant at the insinuation of Typhon being the leader.


Your Honour. I pray Dionysius and my own patron Hermes! But even a man of your excellence may be confused. He is not our leader, but rather my bodyguard. An excellent and famous hunter I have hired to protect me from the trolls.

It seems that you have seen other travellers interested in the troll hills. If there's any way we could help you with that pest, please let us know. Same goes for any other plague that haunts these forest.



Let me know If I have to roll again for bluff. Glibness is active for the next 80 minutes.

[Erelamar]

"Your Honour—"

"Priest Tevic, I implore you! I do relish in the titles, but..." the cleric makes an exaggerated gesture towards your surroundings, "This isn't the place for all that."

He listens intently, then turns to Baird, shoving him with an elbow. "What have I said? In the South, it's not so easy to tell who's on top."

Gritting his teeth, Baird says, "They were asking about werewolves..."

"Oh?" Priest Tevic gazes out over your party's caravan. He is slow to return his focus to both negotiators, specifically Nehwon. With a steady, easy motion he moves the silver pinecone tip of his staff toward the professor until it finally touches upon the skin of his brow. He allows it to remain a few seconds; the cleric's eyes never stop searching the professor's face. He removes it and smiles deeply. "See! You worry too much, Baird. Isn't there something you should be doing?" He shoos the elder guards away with his staff, poking them about the buttocks.

"Now! About the Troll Hills?" A change comes over Tevic; he assumes a more statesman-like role. "Ha! Hahahaha! You must be joking. They've never been a threat to Westhold, they can't make it past the wall of Endormi monsters which dwell between us and them to the north. At least not enough to ever be a problem.

"But, hey! I am more than willing to give the blessings of generous Dionysus to your mission. I'm not sure why you hate trolls so much to travel hundreds of miles to kill them, but who am I to judge? The strange impulses which seize us are what make us adventurers in the first place!

"I say! the sun is getting low. You have much traveling still until the Troll Hills. Rest here at the camp tonight." Priest Tevic leans in with a hand cupped to his mouth, "Dionysus knows, I need interesting company."

[Togo]

Nehwon reaches up and slowly rubs his forehead where the staff had been.

Do werewolves generally announce themselves as they come in?

He blinks.

I think the point was that you have griffins, and yet you're armed with silver weapons. From my, no doubt incomplete, studies, there are very few griffin-resistent creatures, and still fewer that really need to be tackled with silver. And none of them are things you want to meet in the forest after dark....

He tilts his head to one side.

Or is it just the fashion here?

He carries on, clearly not expecting a reply after their laconic greeting.

Well it would certainly be safer, here, in your armed camp, rather than out in the forest. But we wouldn't want to get in the way of your logging. Or in the way of whomever you're worried about attacking. Silver arrows also work on the Fey, don't they? And, hm.. the restless dead. And hellspawn I suppose, but I've never heard of a legend where they get involved in timber extraction.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth mostly tried to stay away from the serious looking men with the crossbows. "Least there is someone else for those book humping softies to jabber at now."


"You may want to keep a close eye on your friends. Those men seem to be expecting trouble and I suspect you are frequently trouble. In a cross fire, I can't imagine them being too picky about what they shoot at. " Gorth nodded towards Typhon and his animal pack.

[Devilfish]

May be we could post a head on a stick, one half a mile back the way we came, and one half a mile onwards
Typhon's face beams brightly, like a father proud of his prodigal son.

"Come," he says, deeply moved by the idea. "Let us fetch some sticks."

Just as he is about to lumber off, the ranger is caught mid-step, and in an instant of confusion he looks down to find his ankle tied to a rope, with a horse defiantly holding its ground at the opposite end.

"GORTH," he spins around furiously.

(But alas, the man is already up the trail)


* * *

The weather grows colder and the scenery more bare, and for the long while there is nothing to keep the whistling winds from beating at them across the planes. Fortunately Typhon keeps four extra winter blankets on hand... which he promptly bundles around his pups. He considers for a moment, but is quite certain he made the responsible choice.

Muru growls ravenously at the boredom of this place, (and it is a blessing when the misty pines give him something to hunt,) but the pups are a lively as ever, and they take to you well.

To Titus and Tiembo, went Megaer.
To Arobondiel and Softpaw, Tisiphone.
To Gorth, Alector.
To Nehwon, Erinyir.
(And Aweran may have one too if she likes, though she has been awful quiet as of late)

Typhon and Muru pretend not to notice, of course, for fear of spoiling the lot.

Night falls, and the party enjoys meat around the campfire.

* * *


The logger's camp:

The fallen trees stacked one atop the other makes Typhon narrow his eyes silently, and he gauges their druid's reaction at the clearing of these woods. His nostrils flare, as if threatening to billow out smoke like some malevolent djinni, but for this he does not let his infamous anger get the best of him.


"Least there is someone else for those book humping softies to jabber at now."

"We've brought the deadliest wordsmiths and literaries of all the land," Typhon smirks back. "The loggers don't stand a chance."

This is the moment where the two should have exchanged a laugh. But Typhon is quick to spot the narrow-eyed archers, and their fixation upon his pack. His eyes flash back to their diplomats- whom now stand with their necks pressed to the end of Tevic's silver staff. Typhon cannot hear the conversation.


"You may want to keep a close eye on your friends. Those men seem to be expecting trouble and I suspect you are frequently trouble. In a cross fire, I can't imagine them being too picky about what they shoot at. " Gorth nodded towards Typhon and his animal pack.

Typhon's eyes flare wide.

"You're damned right I am," he seethes, and he leaps from his cart heavily, cracking the dried dirt below.


He rises with a great shield in hand, towering as tall as himself, with fangs and death painted about the front.
He lumbers forward with Muru at his side, jet black, hairs on end, head low, and teeth that go back endlessly.
His footsteps are volcanoes and his breath is dragonsmoke,
and the hideous glimmer of the chain up his arm shines wickedly in the sunlight.

"W H A T
B U S I N E S S
I S
T H I S ?"
he bellows upon his approach.

[Togo]

Nehwon steps neatly to one side, to avoid being in the line of fire of any incoming diplomacy.

Well, technically, I think it's a dinner invitation? Potluck supper, bring your own food, and a shared campsite for the night. It provides an opportunity for conversation to alleviate mutual suspicion, which I rather suspect was the point.

He shrugs.

Given the context of the invitation, an attempt to diffuse an armed standoff between our small band and their much larger one, it seems like a generous offer, albeit one laced with the near certainty of ah... pointed...

He glances over at one of the drawn bows.

.. yes, pointed questions about our plans and intentions. I suspect my role in that would be limited to wittering on about the research possibilities of trolls. He frowns in though for a moment, and then nods. .Yes that seems the most likely scenario. Given that our host is a priest of the god of Theatre, it seems likely that the plan is to loosen people up and watch the show.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth approaches the others catching only the last bit of the conversation. "I think its more likely he wants to get you drunk so he can put his rod on your forehead again." Gorth chuckles.




Gorth switches his aura to a presence aura.

Everyone in the party gets +2 Bluff/Intimidate/diplomacy

[Erelamar]

Priest Tevic grins at Nehwon as Typhon rumbles toward them. "My, you have a lot to say... Now, who is this big fellow?" The senior guards stop walking away and regard the old ranger's approach; their expression sours.

The cleric rests the staff in the crook of his arm while stroking his blond beard and squinting at the newcomer, but at the sound of the thunderous question, "WHAT BUSINESS IS THIS?" which causes the senior guards to take a step back, Priest Tevic's ears twitch.

"What is this? Has the drink stolen my vision so entirely that I could not recognize? Yes, the wolves, I see... Typhon, the Landslide! Defender of the Temple of Gaea. You range far from the eastern Val this season, oh Breaker of Men." Calling out over his shoulder, Priest Tevic says, "Baird, you could learn something from this one!

"Yes, I know you, Typhon, though we've never met. In my time, I have traveled and collected many stories from across Eprus, but I confess the border wood of the eastern Val Forest is no place for practicing the Orphic Rites."

He regards Gorth and grins anew at his cheeky words. "I like this one already."

Turning back to the professor, "Now, to be journeying with the Landslide, you must be of a straightforward lot, ah, I did not catch your name? To answer some of your many questions: Lycanthropes of every variety stalk the Greenwood in extended families. Some are of noble spirits like those which serve the Bear King of Northhold. Most are not—werewolves, and rats and boars are a persistent threat. Our aerial patrols," and here the cleric gestures back to the griffons, "Hunt for any wayward fires after dark. Even with their fur, the lycanthropes' young and old require warmth against the chill of a northern night. Folk of the Kingdoms Three tend to stay where they should, so any out of the way camps raise our suspicions. I take it you rested at the crossroads last evening? Smart, to not make your destination known. Had you been on the road for Westhold you'd have likely had your sleep interrupted." He glances up at Typhon and back to Nehwon. "There could have been confusion."

Priest Tevic empties his jug in one long swig and drops it to the ground. He claps his hands and rubs them. "Now! about some supper, maybe even a little wine, eh? As a spokesman for my liege, I cannot let such prestigious visitors go without tasting Westhold hospitality."

[Devilfish]

Typhon, rage-faced and stanced like a boulder, pauses, and blinks twice, astounded that none other than the King of Westhold had known him by name, title, and reputation.

His menacing scowl twists itself upside down- and the fire still burns brightly in his eye.

"Had I known this was how royalty acted...

" I'd have made company of kings years ago."

He sets aside his shield and meets Tevic well- coming in as though to shake hands and latching eachother at the forearm. He grips well and holds eye contact, and though the Lycanthropes will be a reminder of an unpleasant memory, he has no doubts that the revelry of the night will more than make up for it.

If nothing else, Tevic should make for an evenly matched drinking mate.

[Erelamar]

"Well met, friend!" The cleric clasps hands with a firmness nearly equal to Typhon's own. "Here, tie off your animals and come join us!"

The sun sets and the workers drop what they are doing, letting tools and logs fall where they may as they trudge together to the dozen large tents. Long trunks are set around a growing bonfire to be used as benches. A great cauldron of stew is boiling; chunks of meat, carrot, and potatoes float in the dark, rich broth as the cook in the messy leather apron throws in handfuls of red powder. Its potent smell fills your noses with heat.

There is a brief prayer; most of the loggers watch with intent but do not participate. Before Priest Tevic, there are sixteen jugs like the one he drinks from. He casts a spell as he beseeches Dionysus and the containers top up with a potent red wine. The cleric looks back at you and winks.

Cups and bowls are passed around. Two guards eat quickly then mount upon the griffons and launch into the darkness of the overcast sky. The rest of the guards wait for the loggers to finish, ever watchful as they set torches about the perimeter.

The night grows cold, though many a workman's arms are still bare. They warm themselves with wine, laughter, and singing. There are stories to be had: of their King Rogthar who once soared over these woods upon a Roc, the greatest of birds (alas, the beast was felled years ago in one of Rogthar's final adventures); they mention too of the Bear King of Northhold, called such because he can become a mighty bear when he enters one of his terrible moods—such is needed for the northern Endormi is home to clans of wandering minotaurs; far, far to the south, King Kaldycaul reigns with magic as much as steel, and hexes those who displease him.

Priest Tevic speaks fondly of his hometown of Vineberg in the Free Commons, and the many excellent vintages he's sampled there. Later in the evening, when prompted about why such a friend of King Rogthar's is managing a logging camp, the blond man scratches his beard and drinks deeply from his cup before beginning in a sheepish way,

"I am, for the moment, exiled from Westhold." His chuckle is unconvincing. "It seems I beat my noble king one too many times in a row at games of chance. So, he banished me from the stronghold. Such are the tempers of powerful men. So, for now, I travel, taking in the sights of the Kingdoms and ministering to its good peoples. Soon enough, the hunting season shall pass and the snows will come. Rogthar will grow bored and send for me to cheer him up."

You each feel Priest Tevic is being truthful about his current situation.

Tevic's spell is likely a form of create wine which functions similarly to create water but is likely closer in spell level to create food and water.

[Togo]

Nehwon sighs, a little theatrically. Well, then, dinner it is, I suppose?

He glances back at the others. I could try making my cinnamon chilli surpise, if anyone has a proper frying pan?

[HumanTemplate]

The Halfling in Titus is exultant. Wine, food and good stories, like the now distant childhood he once enjoyed among his nomad kin.

He decides to entertain them, and as the men tell stories he asks for details and descriptions and illustrates the stories with major image and silent image. Offering his version of the Bear King of the North and the maestous Roc.

He drinks and talks with ease.

But he is also aware.

For tales and stories of the lands, they will visit. Any mention of elves or legends on their demise, with some skill he tries to mix in questions, suggestions and insinuations on the valley beyond the Troll Hills, specially among the older woodsmen. Never asking explicitly.

And then, he tries to read the mind of those around, the thoughts and nuances that emerge in the collective conscience of the camp.


Using major image and silent image to illustrate the men's most outrageous stories. Then gather info and use detect thoughts alongside the gather info. Trying to be discreete and not revealing any information. Gather info [roll0]

[Togo]

Nehwon, while volunteering to cook, has no particular skill in it. Instead he aims for texture and edibility, and then relies on magic to flavour whatever emerges as a result. Hence he spends a fair amount of the evening producing what he calls "can-happies", small, edible snacks with very strong flavours, some of them pleasant. These he embroiders with tall tales of the far-off lands he first encountered them in. Some of them, like tales of cinnamon and the ferocious drop-bears, seem vaguely plausible, but others, of soy and fermented-rice-wine-vinegar, and vampiric creatures with only one leg who hop at their victims, seem born more of mistranslated ancient texts and giddy academic imaginings than actual travel.

One thing does become clear, is that Nehwon has positioned himself behind a sizzling skillet in part to ward off both wine and questions in equal measure. He drinks a little, and talks a great deal, but not necessarily on the topic asked. When he does talk, he tends to be dry and wordy, such that it's hard to tell how he feels about the subject, even when what opinions he holds appear to inspiring passion, and not a small amount of hazardous skillet-waving. He's also curiously vague about what it is he actually teaches at the College, although he's doesn't hesitate to say how valuable his contributions are.

However, he doesn't hesitate to talk about trolls. How they're poorly understood, and in particular whether they reproduce by conventional means, or by wounding themselves. Whether a bisected troll would simply heal the larger piece back into a whole troll, or whether both pieces would regrow, producing two trolls. Of possible uses in making magical rope, or eldritch mortar, in divination or as a rather nasty surprise to receive in a parcel. Or whether they can used to overturn certain long-held theories of magic and usher in a new era of enlightenment and understanding.

[Erelamar]

The greasy-aproned cook is hesitant at first to allow the professor into his domain, but at a motion from Priest Tevic, he acquiesces. A wire rack is deployed beside the cauldron over the flames and heavy iron skillets are heated. At the butcher station (heavy cleavers situated on a brushed off tree stump with a stool beside), the cook offers a selection of cuts—mostly boar with a smattering of goat. Nehwon is quick to discover the man to be of a simple nature, though his culinary questions display professional wisdom. The wine flows and he becomes more rapt by the tales of seasonings from distant lands. At which point, he shares with the professor his own small traveling shelf of spices, many dented tin jars, each unlabeled which he employs through smell alone.

Through the evening's repast, the party discovers the information is negligible about the Troll Hills, and none of the present company—including Priest Tevic—have traveled those lands. Merely that it is home to a vast array of trolls and trollkin and their hag mothers.

There is an old trail near Westhold which would take one there if needs be; the way becomes shaky the further north you go, but once you pass the cleft in the Devil Peeks and reach Frog Lake, you will have arrived. And unless it has been destroyed, which is not at all unlikely, beside the body of water should be the Witchfort: a garrison of barbarous witchfolk, built and ruled by a warrior woman named Yovera, formerly a henchman of the Bear King of Northhold.

The Devil Peaks? A tall, thin range of jagged mountains dotted with caves. On some winter nights, you can hear the cries come echoing from deep within them: those of the devils imprisoned in their bellies.

Of elves, valleys, or even the mountains beyond the Troll Hills, nothing is known by the loggers, guards, or even the cleric of Dionysus. The latter laughs, "I prefer it if my adventures take place where the wine doesn't freeze in the bottle!"

Choosing an opportune moment, Titus casts without being witnessed and the loggers' minds open to him. They are a mishmash of thoughts. Some genuinely listen to the party and the other storytellers, but most seem disinterested. Instead, they try to distract themselves from the dreariness of their work with bragging and song. Everyone looks forward to their pay and the fun which will come from it. They know little to nothing of your path ahead.

Priest Tevic's mind remains shut, though from him the majority of the above information comes. He admits most of it was learned second hand from King Rogthar.

The guards focus on their watch obsessively. Terrible flashes of past skirmishes with black fur and claws run through a few of their minds. They break only to eat a quick bowl of stew before resuming their duty.

Exception: the three senior guards, led by Baird, stand nearby throughout the night, listening, occasionally yelling a disparaging remark when a pair of loggers become too heated (which puts them back in line). They are remarkable strong-willed, as only one of the three fails his saving throw, but from his perspective alone you can gather they know as little as the rest about the Troll Hills and are surprised by how much Priest Tevic does know, scant that it is.

During the course of the detect thoughts, from your jumbled, single person vantage you do catch this brief, silent exchange: "Didn't Riordan say a group came through here two weeks past, speaking of the Hills?" "Yes." "How many?" "I don't know—" "It was eight. All mounted." "Did he say if they've come back?" "They did not." *chuckle* "How'd you think these will fare?" *pause* "The same."

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth


Gorth limits himself to one drink but does over do himself on the food. He goes out of his way to tell a few bawdy jokes. "...And that is why Zeus's beard is white!"


While mingling, he pauses briefly to talk with the rest of the group. "Given the state of alert, I think we should keep our normal watch rotation." He mingles a bit and shuffles off for a sleep before the party winds down, so he will be fresh for his watch later in the night.

[Devilfish]

Typhon drinks with a terrible heat
And throws back [roll0] drinks, or more
And haunches whole of dripping meat
With a frothing, booming, laughing roar

At last, he thinks some men of Grit!
So muddied, bloodied, full of scruff
And led by a Shakespearian wit
With spirits high, who drinks enough

He brawls with the brandy
And bawls at the plays
(That Titus illuminates, eyes all ablaze)
And huffs at the watchmen,
Avoiding the fun
(For there is still one rowdiness left to be done)

"A CHALLENGE," he thunders, rising again
The mountainous ranger, the Breaker of Men
With the weight of mount Aetna, arms high in the air
(This most terrible of monsters, for all to despair)
He strikes a stance, and roars out with glee,
"The bear king hasn't a THING on me!"


If none take his challenge, he bores of the haitus
And randomly, drunkenly, stumbles at Titus

Unarmed challenge to the entire camp. If no takers, Typhon lunges at Titus in a drunken stupor. I fully encourage all players to make as much shenanigans as they can out of this :p

[Erelamar]

To Typhon's challenge, vigorous loggers jump to their feet but halt at a hard-edged voice,

"Absolutely not," says Baird, stalking forward. "These men cannot work with broken bones—"

"Tut-tut," interrupts Priest Tevic, who has been matching Typhon cup for cup. "Any man can, can take on the Landslide, mighty Dionysus, a man can take on the Landslide, I'll, with the magic given to me... I'll heal any who compete! Don't be ah, a s-spoil sport, Baird."

The guardsman walks away in disgust. The cleric calls out for wagers, as young, hardy men step up to contest the old ranger. Bets are placed, the loggers siding with their own against a smiling Tevic.

After seven brief matches, the loggers grow reluctant as the cleric cures black eyes, broken noses, cracked ribs, and sprains. The competition comes to an end, and Priest Tevic, hiccuping and counting his coppers and silvers, sprinkles each of the losers with wine and says, "Dionysus blesses thee for the uh, tithe."

There was a saving issue and I lost the nearly complete first draft of the next journey post, so it'll be up later tonight sometime.

[Erelamar]

THE JOURNEY (PART 3)

Despite the rowdy evening, the guards kick the loggers awake at dawn. Their breath steaming, they rise and organize tools and take measurements while sipping strong, black coffee. The cook fries shredded potatoes in fat, adding crispy bacon and melted cheese to make breakfast cakes. "Good for sopping up the wine still sloshing in the belly," he says.

A quick meal then everyone returns to their work among the trees. Only the senior guards watch the party's departure. A rumbling snore emanates from Priest Tevic's tent. Baird offers you farewell when you're back upon the road, calling out, "Safe journey, troll hunters!" and the hint of a grin breaks his dour air at last.

For four days you ride the paved, central highway of Westhold. You are no longer alone: carts and foot traffic pass often, and though they have the same hollow faces as the loggers, they are an even more rugged sort: hunters, trappers, and the like, possessed of a universal wariness. They take the frequent unmarked paths which branch from the road, likely leading to wooded hamlets.

Regular waystations conclude each day's march. The first two lie empty, though the nights are still filled with the beating of griffon wings in the darkness above—growing more common the closer to King Rogthar's stronghold you venture. The third evening, you share a waystation with a mounted patrol: fifteen warriors in blackened chain mail armed with silver-tipped spears. They question you, then keep to their own campfire with a wide-eyed and silent watchfulness. You begin to believe, without the influence of the cleric of Dionysus, these are a grim folk indeed.

It is midmorning of your twelfth day since passing through the gates of Beryl. You have encountered two more mounted patrols and gone unmolested beyond their brief queries. Then, the party to a man spots the northbound trail. Typhon comments it has but a couple of weeks of new growth upon it, at most. Chancellor Leopold had suggested it should be many years in disuse.

Either way, you press ahead; the going much easier than expected as proficient woodsmen have already trailblazed the path so recently. Days more of marching, and you begin to miss even the slim community offered by those furtive Westhold travelers and suspicious patrols. The nightly visitations of flapping wings overhead have ceased. Once again, as with the Free Commons, you pass into a realm's hinterland. A forest of quietude. A forest bitter with cold, yet snow refuses to fall.

Upon your seventeenth day of travel, you come to a minor stream. A break in the dark pine trees shows craggy mountains looming near. The Devil Peaks await. This thin waterway will lead you in two days time to the cleft in that range, and just beyond—if what the Westholders say is true—should lie Frog Lake and along its shore, the Witchfort, Gateway to the Troll Hills.

But something distracts you, there is a smell which pierces the omnipresence of the conifers' odor. Death. You set yourselves on-guard, scanning and listening, waiting for danger which does not come. Emboldened, you scout the immediate area and discover a great, putrid carcass. How many heads did it have? Ten, twelve? Many were severed with clean blade strikes. The huge body of the thing, sunken and prone as it is, still rises taller than Typhon. It has been scorched by a powerful flame. These wounds seem weeks old, but around one side, the creature has been gutted, the ribs cracked and the meat extracted. Large, hoofed prints litter the ground.

It's is up to you how you wish to proceed. Survival checks on the tracks? Heal checks to inspect the carcass and its wounds? How do you plan to continue from here? There are still two days until the Troll Hills, how will you make camp at night? Fire? No fire?

You know this to be a standard hydra, twelve heads by the looks of it, though not so many remain at the scene.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus would have liked to say goodbye to Pelvic.

He throws up a couple of times in the woods. Too light to drink as a woodsman.

In general, he finds the trip placid and comments on the forest as a strange place to live. People seem to be wary and danger present, and yet, these people come and go about their business with a in teresting calm.


However, when Typhon mentions the overgrowth, suddenly Titus remembers the conversation of the guards.

I have the explanation, my dear ranger. I found out, back in the comments with Pelvic, that not three weeks ago, a group sent to "hunt trolls" passed by this very campment and didn't come back.

It could be that there's someone else on the same track and that we will face competition.

Something you surely relish.

[Togo]

Nehwon kneels by the trail, getting a ground's eye view of the beast.

Hydra. he says, eventually. Big healthy fellow. There must be a lot to eat around here. Eleven, no... twelve. Twelve heads.

He stands, brushing the dirt from his hands.

A small group, skilled professionals, killed the creature with rather fancy blade-work and some kind of large fire spell.
Probably the other group we were sent to find. I'm not sure I'd rate our chances of killing something this size...

He pauses, frowning.

Something about this doesn't make sense, doesn't fit. I'm going to have a look around, see if I can spot any fresh graves.

[HumanTemplate]

Titus listens to Newhon forensic skills, then he stops at the mention.


The other group we were sent to find?


He confronts the mage.

Excuse me? Were YOU sent to find another group?

I would have guessed that we were not the first sent. But now you confirm it.

What do you know?

[Togo]

Nehwon's eyes widen. Well... that is to say, there's obviously been another group sent. Before us, I mean. I suspect they said they were troll hunters too, judging from Tevic's reaction to our account of ourselves. And obviously someone's recently cleared this path. But, uh, the dead hydra killed in hand-to-hand combat is, well, rather a giveaway, isn't it? We're not the first adventurers up here.

He glances around again, a nervous habit that would doubtless cost him dearly at the card table. But he seems more generally flustered at the attention than scared that Titus might strike him.

What's bothering me, ah.. apart from being glared at quite so fiercely, is whether, if we had come as far as this... He takes a deep breath, then starts again. Ahh... if we had come as far as this, and there hadn't been anyone ahead of us. Would we... ah... would we have gotten any further? Or would this have been it? Would we have ended here?

He stands gazing at the shattered ruin of the beast. A brief gust of wind from the mountains ahead, catches the edge of his cloak, and curls it, before chasing off between the trees.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth


Gorth laughs darkly.

"Actually that isn't the scary thing at all Nehwon. There is something MUCH scarier. A group came through here, killed a hydra like it owed them money and went about their business. THEN they disappeared. Meaning some obstacle is out there tougher then a 12 headed hydra. That is what you need to be worried about."

"What could completely take out a group that could otherwise defeat a Hydra?" Gorth asks rhetorically. "I almost hope we do find some bodies around here, for our sake. Otherwise we are possibly in over our heads."

" I for one, will sleep tonight with one eye open. I suggest you do the same. Sleep tight! Don't let the bedfleas bite. Get your coins ready for Charon's obol. Is there anything else you aren't telling us book-humper?."

Gorth keeps a watchful eye out.

[Devilfish]

Typhon claps a hand on Nehwon's shoulder.

"Nobody is going to die."

He inspects the massive corpse with a sneer, as an artisan might when finding imperfection in a rival's work.

"These are the beasts I have made my career on. The wolves of Temple Gaea can keep most things at bay; but out in the depths, far beyond maps, where magic makes monsters and creatures unnatural... these are the things I am sent to dispose of."

He fetches the contract that Leopold gave, still rolled up and unsigned.

"This is not the agreement I made.

"And I hold my word to all of you."

The old ranger turns to Newhon with an uncharacteristic smile, blooming, and full of reassurance.

"Besiiides. It's not like I haven't killed a hydra before," he laughs heartily.


It is a sorry bluff. And his expression is grim the moment it's out of view.

For the Hydra he killed was half this beast's size- and the fight, at the time, left many casualties.

Gorth is likely to have spotted this. Typhon shoots him a glance, urging his silence.

"Well then, it looks like we're in the real adventure now. It is possible that whomever killed this is still alive... or there more be more dangers about. Muru and I will search for either."

He takes deep swig out of a parting gift from Tevic, and loosens his mighty fur coat. Without it, his frame is (marginally) slimmer, and his clothes blend better in with the wood.

"Do be careful until I return..." he says with chilled breath, and makes his way to the perimeter of the trees.

Using a big Track check to find other clues of what might have happened here; if there is anything that would indicate if anyone had survived, or what manner of things were involved in the fight. Also searching the woods for a safe perimeter, to ensure that they are in no danger of anything else.

Going to be using Muru and my wolves to help me on this- along with their scent special ability to make sure nothing is nearby.

Track [roll0] , plus another +10 if Muru and the pups are able to Aid Another.

And, of course.
Rolls to make sure I am not caught.
Move silently: [roll1]
Hide: [roll2]

[Devilfish]

"An old wisdom from Temple Gaea,"
Typhon offers before he goes.

"Nature is metal.

"Be more metal."

[Erelamar]

To the untrained eye of his compatriots, the large hoof prints are all which stand out, but they are only a few days old. Typhon identifies them with but a glance: minotaurs, at least three but maybe four, come and gone. It is likely they are the ones who carved up the rotting flesh for food. Their tracks converge on the location, and they likely camped here one day, gorging themselves on this foul feast. They scatter afterward, heading off in directions roughly north-northeast.

But with the aid of the wolves, Typhon scours the battle site in earnest and discovers far more subtle signs, at least two weeks old. These paint the picture of a mighty clash in the old ranger's head:

Up from the bank of the stream, four figures come running, alerted to the hydra's presence. They collide with it exactly where the carcass lies now. Both at the center of their line are heavy with plate mail. These two accept the brunt of the creature's wrath while two lighter warriors dart in from the flanks. The battle does not last more than thirty seconds if that.

Following the warriors' charge, another set of tracks saunters up behind—the tracks you see produced by someone on an afternoon stroll. They stop fifty feet from the melee, never coming any closer, then turn and walk away just as calmly. All four of the close-combatants plod away as well, without haste.

At the edge of the stream bank, there are the prints of many mounts, mostly washed away in the ebb and flow of the waters. Perhaps intentionally. Three more individuals corral the mounts; one is a dwarf. They do not participate in the battle. All eight mount up and continue on following the stream northwest, the very same path your party will take.

Typhon begins patrolling the perimeter, fading into the long shadows of the Endormi Greenwood. Despite all the land has told him of this tumult, your surroundings are devoid of life.

Upon a closer look, with your keen understanding of spellcraft and because a traveling war mage demonstrated it once upon Beryl University's test range, you recognize the charring and the way some of the hydra's protruding bones have melted and fused: it was subjected to a maximized fireball.

[Togo]

Nehwon sighs.

Well of course there are things I'm not telling you. It's getting me to stop telling you things that's the problem, or so I'm told.

He sniffs, an academic gesture.

I'm not sure what else you'd want to know. I was warned to avoid the people we just spent the night with. And the other human kingdoms hereabouts. I wasn't sure if you'd had the same warning? It wasn't really something we could raise while we were there.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth sighed heavily. "Wasn't my idea to camp with the loggers either. However Typhon would never pass up the opportunity to play-wrestle with seven sweaty bare-chested loggers. Truly a tale for the bards." Gorth puts 'air quotes' around the word 'wrestling'.

[Erelamar]

THE JOURNEY (PART 4)

You marshall on, following the stream to its source. The Devil Peaks grow larger but of their infamous keening you hear only silence. The cool sunlight wanes into starless night. You camp, keeping warm by the fire—a tiny candle in the vastness of the gloom.

In the middle of the night, your watch picks up a distant noise: a long, throaty roar with a distinctive, angry bovine cadence. It howls as a wolf would at the moon, but that is only what you believe at first. The original roar is answered by another, also far away, but the third is closer. The fourth is loud enough to wake those sleeping.

Groggy though you may be, as seasoned adventurers you know what comes. Weapons are made ready; the battlefield is set. There is nothing left but to wait. You do not wait long. They converge on your position from many angles, and the ground shakes under the weight of their terrible hooves. Their snorting blows clouds of steam about their massive heads which lower with the curved horns, rushing toward your hearts...

The first wave, while fearsome, you handle with veteran skill. The second, these wait; their calls roaring in the distance. It is a quarter hour before they too come charging. Now, you are bloodied. More minotaur warbands stalk the woods, waiting for your spells to run out their duration before attempting another assault.

Upon the realization, the only thing to do is move. The night is filled with furious forced marching and occasional skirmishes until the sun comes up, and the minotaurs, still so numerous, retreat into the pine trees. Their calls continue, giving you no peace and so you soldier on, hoping perhaps they would not pursue you into the Troll Hills.

The final night is worse. A heavy fog seeps from the valley's mouth between the Devil Peaks. The minotaurs come chasing with a terrible speed (perhaps aided by some foul shamanism). They outpace you and harry your flanks. One clash sees your party shatter, losing one another in the gray confusion. The sounds of violence echo through the fog. Each of you, in your own time, pushes forward for the mission and the lost elven kingdom you've begun to curse. Breathless, sore. But at last, the fighting falls behind.

A tall pole stands out through the trees and fog, a landmark where your party reunites: that is, those of you who make it. High above to either side loom the quiet Devil Peaks, and the totem which stands before you is misshapen but clear in its message: It is fashioned from a skewered stack of great, horned skulls numbering twenty or more—minotaurs dare not cross this boundary.

You push on, finding some measure of rest before the sun rises on your first day in the Troll Hills. The mists recede exposing a wide, black lake, its shores a morass of swampy reeds. Following its banks, your party comes upon a rustic settlement—the Witchfort looms before you. Beyond the scant, ruddy-skinned folk casting nets into the waters and others tending to tiny vegetable gardens beside their shacks, there is little life. Many glance at your approach but no alarm is sounded. You are not trolls...

https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/010/965/529/large/paulina-sajniak-week-03-01-done.jpg?1527165433

[Togo]

Nehwon brightens, and there's a sparkle in his eye.

Now this is more like it! Actual houses, tended fields, buildings more than a season old. A bone fide wilderness settlement!

A wave of his hand takes in the waterlogged scene. He cranes his neck around, as trying to beam his approval at each sod hut simultaneously. Minotaurs clearly held at bay through threat of violence. Classic set up for a wilderness holding. We should except some kind of autocratic central authority that wields military power. In theory that could be anything, but given that this place is called Witchfort..

He shrugs

It's tempting, very tempting, to just assume some kind of wizard is in charge, using magic to reply the minotaurs. But that's just prejudice on my part, I suppose.

He goes on, a wave of his hand a not quite convincing attempt at a air of casual unconcern.

In my lessons I warn students about places like this. It's always tempting to see areas of improvement, and try to make adjustments, to what the ruling authority may regard as their own house. Particularly if the students spy something that might strike them as oppressive, or unjust, or overly sanctimonious, or too cruel, or too contrary to the teachings of Hestia, or, well, you get the idea. But in a small settlement there really isn't space for the kind of byplay between ideals and authority that you'd get in a city. Challenging those in charge gets us sleeping in the rain at best, and at worst, well, piles of skulls are a recognised form of communication.

He sighs.

Of course, I don't have to say all this to experienced adventurers like yourselves. he says, in the patient tones of someone who has just finished explaining what he now claims he didn't need to say. But if we can use this place as a base of operations... It's probably the closest form of civilisation to our goal, and the most likely place for our... missing companions to fetch up. He swallows and scans the distant fortress. ...assuming they're still alive.

The air feels heavy, the remnants of the mist beading moisture on clothes and skin. One of the ponies shivers, shaking a cloud of droplets into the air, which hang in the air for a moment, before their inevitable fall.

So.. if we're hoping to stay a while, we should probably agree on, ah.. who we are? Unless we're planing on challenging the entire settlement to a wrestling match, which although not an approach I'm intimately familiar with, did in fact work quite well last time. So I wouldn't stand in the way if we wanted to try it again.

He gives his little fox-fur hat a quick shake, a tiny imitation of the pony.

Or indeed for any other reason - not standing in the way seems to be quite the key skill.

But yes, who we are? Troll hunting will not, I suspect, cut it here, if only because I imagine they will all to happy to lead us to some, which we'd be then obliged to try and pack up in a bag, somehow.

So monster hunters and treasure seekers, perhaps? People who wander around killing dangerous creatures and bringing back gold to spend at the settlement should be fairly welcome. We'd be charged inflated prices, of course.

His tone turns speculative.

Even then we'll need to decided to go high or low. High means we are respectable people, possibly with official positions and religious affiliations. We stay with a temple or in the keep, we have to explain ourselves to the local authority figure, we're far harder to arrest, and we'll be watched everywhere we go. Clean beds though. It is assumed responsibilities will have you up early.

Or we go low. Low means we kill monsters because the money is better and we get to sleep in the warm, and for no other reason. We check into the closest this place has to a respectable brothel, order large meals at odd times, and get through enough ale to be noticed, but not enough to cause shortages. We get far more freedom of movement, we're likely to attract petty theft, maybe one serious attempt at a mugging. But the food and entertainment is better and we're more likely to get hot baths. Beds, not so great. Amongst such people, going to bed is seen as a defeat, not deserving of comfort.

He shrugs again.

I usually go low when I travel, to avoid official entanglements, but I'm happy with either. Of course, I have hygiene spells to fall back on.

He glances around at the party, risking their faces for the first time since they're arrival. He looks upbeat but tired, possibly shaken. The cut above his left eye and livid bruise on his jaw are healing nicely, but still look out of place, somehow, with his tone of scholarly concern.

Again, I'm telling you things you probably already know. But if I lay it all out, then we're all on the same page.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"You might be overthinking this. We should just find lodging and don't go out of our way to attract attention. Mind our own business. Recover for a couple days, get our bearings. Let any of our stragglers come in, then get moving again. If any peasants ask our purpose, just tell them to mind their own business. If someone in charge asks, we're adventurers just passing through. No need to get fancy or lie or elaborate. Probably no one is going to care enough to press us on the details. Clearly they have their own problems. They likely get fools coming through here twice a season. Ignore everyone unless they give you a reason to kill them. Sort of how I view your company. Though the counter point to that is they have built warning totems out of Minotaur skulls, so lets not unduly annoy them lest we end up on the end of a pike." Gorth smiles and yawns at the same time.

[Erelamar]

Depending on how many dwell in the wooden keep atop the bluff, the Witchfort may only be home to a few hundred souls. The unpaved roads are thick with mud, and goats and chickens amble as they may. Though you see paddocks for horses, they are eerily empty. No signboards adorn any structure, and most appear to be family dwellings. Echoing through the hamlet is the ring of hammer and anvil, but of tavern or inn or store there is nothing to be found.

The stern-faced witchfolk are too busy with their day's work to give you more than a cursory glance. They seem unimpressed. In the distance, a guard leads a strange troupe marching up to one of the keep's gates, laden with goods: barrels, buckets, and firewood. They wear featureless wooden masks and wreaths of white flowers about their shoulders. Their movement could not be called walking; they shamble.

You find the largest building beyond the fort itself, a great mead hall if you had to guess; it is much older than the keep upon the bluff. Inside, dust fills it. Stalls line the walls, currently disassembled. Perhaps, it could be some market space for wandering merchants? Perhaps, it was something grander at some point, but that is the case no longer. Either way, it is clearly not the trading season.

Outside, a massive witchfolk man with a mane of dark hair and beard waits for you with three smaller guards carrying wooden shields and half-spears. The leader carries only two kukris tucked into his thick, leather girdle. This large man paws at a piece of parchment pinned to the collar of his hide armor. He scans its message, but he is attempting to read it upside down. When you emerge, he gives up and turns to you.

"Travelers from the Soft South!" he booms, scanning you with black, beetle eyes. "I, Ott-Pwar, Warchief, give your last friendly greeting in these Lands of the Blue Men. I take you now to the fortress," and he points to the dark keep looming over you.

Upon the piece of paper he bears over his chest, hastily scrawled by a sloppy hand are the words,


Ignore what he says
He's just the sergeant of arms
Come and treat with me

It is signed merely, "–Y"

[Togo]

Nehwon nods impassively.

Well, that takes 'mind our own business' off the table. Plan B?

He gives a crisp, deep bow, one hand resting on his sword, to prevent it from sliding free.

Of course, Ott-Pwar, honoured Warchief. We would be delighted to accompany you.

[Erelamar]

Ott-Pwar and the three guards lead you up to the hill and through the gate into the Witchfort. The corridors are long with lofty ceilings, and the narrow windows offer only scant lighting. Witchfolk move to a fro about you carrying silverware and hampers and brooms. Nothing seems familiar about the interior architecture: the hallways meet at odd angles; it's difficult to even remember your path back to the gate. At one intersection, a servant adds fresh coals to a hanging brazier. The ladder she uses is braced by one of the stoic, masked figures, and even the wreath of white flowers can't truly cover the smell of rot.

You are brought to a great hall. Save the arrowslits high above, it is only lit by the hearty flames of three fireplaces. The chamber is vast but currently empty, save for the dais at the far end where a long table is set. At it sit three figures: to the right is a middle-aged witchfolk man with ink-stained hands scribbling in one of three huge ledgers, dozens of broken quills littering the table before him; to the left, a man of much softer, southern features waits smiling, robed in black and adorned with every manner of jewelry, and from one golden necklace hangs a medallion bearing a black ram's head; and at the center is a long, slender woman with a hollow, windburned face in tight-fitting leathers, one leg slung over the arm of her wooden throne.

You approach, and Ott-Pwar calls out from behind you, not entering the room himself, "Lady Yovera! I have brought them!"

She waves it off as she chugs from the stein at her lips. The mug finally hits the table with a thud, the iron lid slamming shut, and your hostess wipes her mouth with her sleeve. She belches, then speaks with a rough voice,

"Let me guess, you are seeking something in the Zarko Mountains?"

The people wearing masks and white flowers are zombies.

The black-robed man with the ram medallion beside Yovera is a priest of Hades.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth bows his head. "Greetings Lady Yovera. We do intend to travel on to the Zarko Mountains. I am called Gorth. This is Nehwon. So far this is a much better reception then the Minotaurs provided us." Gorth smiled and hoped mentioning a common foe would smooth things over. It was obvious he was still a little creeped out by the 'servants'. His sister had talked about magic that could create undead servants - he almost wished he had payed more attention.

[Togo]

Nehwon bobs his head.

Somewhere in the vicinity, certainly. This being the last town before the mountains proper, we had planned to stop here, but in the event the minotaurs made the choice for us. I... ah... hesitate to ask, but are we the only ones to have come through here? Through our various trials and tribulations some have become lost upon the road. This seems like a likely place for them to have fetched up.

He glances nervously about. The white garlanded servants seem an obvious target, but he appears more anxious to keep tabs on the middle aged man with the book.

[Erelamar]

"Not unless your friends had several weeks lead on you," Yovera begins. "Golbar, what were the half-elves' names again?"

The ink-stained witchman thumbs through the tome before him, the parchment dry and crinkly. He runs an index finger down a list and says, "A Dirk Derlith and one Francois Nightchaser; I have here in quotes 'famous bard' for the latter. "

"What about that spooky bastard?"

"There is a notation: additional warrior/bodyguard, black plate, pale of skin, red of eye. He went unnamed, my Lady."

"Though not without rasping a threat, if my Lady remembers," issues from the holy man of Hades, the words slithering from his mouth like so many serpents from the earth. " 'Burn this tindertwig hovel to the ground,' I believe was his utterance if we didn't supply them with the information they sought. Luckily, his friends cooled his distemper, and thereafter he remained silent." A smile curls the corners of his lips.

"Cheeky," says Yovera, though you don't know if she is referring to the quoted man or the priest beside her. She takes another long drink from her stein, again wiping the foam from her lip on the sleeve of her worn leather doublet, and her eyes wander in thought.

Finally, as if remembering, your hostess addresses you again, "Gorth and Nehwon, some introductions for you are in order: you've already met Pwar..." She gestures to the far end of the hall were the sergeant-at-arms lurks. "You know me of course, but this is the locals' headman, Ott-Golbar." Though tidier in appearance, there is a similarity in the arch of the nose and heaviness of the brow between the bookish witchfolk and your brawny escort. Yovera turns to her left, "And this is Minister Groat, my spiritual advisor..."

He interrupts, "In a land of so much Death, it is good policy to ally with one which has His ear."

"Riiiight..." say Yovera with an eye-roll.

You've never heard of Dirk Derlith, but Francois Nightchaser is perhaps the most famous bard in Beryl.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth nods his head at both advisers. "Headman Ott-Golbar, Minister Groat." He repeated the names back acknowledging them and so he could remember their names later.

"Dirk Derlith...hmmm a name I've heard before. Such illustrious company - a tough act to follow. You did bring your Lute right Nehwon?" Gorth joked and nodded towards Nehwon. "Not part of our traveling company, No."

"Any chance you could share what ever information you passed along to them ?" Gorth ask polietely. "Or you know.. umm... I'll burn this place to the ground." He offered meekly and chuckled mostly to himself. "The nerve of some people..." Gorth trailed off.

Gorth sighed in disappointment that none of the group had seemed to make it this far. His face turned to sadness.

He darkly wondered to himself if perhaps the rest of the group had made it this far, and we were now wearing funny robes and were smelling like flowers. He pushed the thought aside as his stomach turned. Perhaps he was just looking for a reason not to like the priest.

[Erelamar]

The warrior woman gives a throaty laugh at Gorth's joke. Yovera sits up from her casual slouch and props her elbows on the great table before her. Without taking her eyes off you, she says, "What was it the half-elves sought?"

Headman Ott-Golbar flips a page and quotes, " 'Specific rock formations, and the alignment of certain mountains peaks with the rising of the moon; each being in the vicinity of the Zarkos.' "

"Alas," cuts in Minister Groat, "We know little of those regions since the witchfolk lost the Mud Keep along the Sapphire and then Little Rock not long after to the hag Blackteeth and her sisters. Which is to say, those are not the only points of contention in a northbound journey: Why one must contend with trolls, both large and petty, river goblins, ghost-haunted woods, and even wandering witchfolk reavers who not yet possess the wisdom to enter the service of our good lady." The dark-clad priest offers Yovera the thinnest of smiles.

She begins, "Yes, well, once the half-elves took over negotiations, they were eager enough to strike up a bargain for a map of the land north, the safest route, and our best guess where they might find better details of the Zarkos. We accommodated them, and they paid... handsomely."

"Though not without more disrespect; they would not stay the night," says Groat, wringing his hands together. "In fact, their clerics of Athena and the rest of their party would not be seen to even step one foot within the Witchfort. Appalling behavior for guests," and for the first time, you feel the weight of this holy man's gaze come to rest upon you.

Yovera leans back in obvious thought, mulling something distasteful as her expression sours at her spiritual advisor's slippery words. She taps the ledger in front of the headman, and he thumbs through it:

" 'Payment: Five hundred gold in assorted coins and gems and a minor magical item (in this case, a partially charged wand).' "

Yovera says, "And what can we expect from you?"

The questions the previous party were asking seem to be lifted directly from Leopold's notes on the likely location of the Valley of the Ch'thar.

[Togo]

Nehwon's eyebrows rise.

Such prices are probably better suited for those who have slain monsters and gained riches. To those who favour the direct approach. His eyes wander over the exposed beams of the hall. Our more subtle tactic of running away from the minotaurs has left our skins intact, but our purses light.

He frowns.

I'd also suggest that perhaps they did not do so well out the deal, as they had hoped. They presumably followed your information, and have not returned. I would factor that into the price. Unless of course you'd be happy for us to pay on our return?

He falters a little, but this is not someone who is used to stopping talking simply because he has run out of suitable things to say.

We could leave a horse or two, if the upcoming terrain is unsuitable for them? Or we could trade spells, assuming we can understand each other's, or riddles, hairstyling tips, recipes, religious observances?

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"Hairstyling tips?" Gorth repeats quietly. He stares down at the top of Nehwon's head for a full three moments. A doubtful look crosses his face "I believe you have nothing of the sort to offer. Sadly, Aphrodite has forsaken you brother."


Gorth puts his hand on his change purse and only feels half a dozen coins in it. "I suspect we can't afford your assistance beyond room and board for a few days, while we wait to see if any of our companions show up. Assuming such assistance is even available."


"I almost wonder if we should backtrack into the troll territory to go look for our friends." Gorth says to Newhon as an aside.

[Erelamar]

"Unless of course, you'd be happy for us to pay on our return?"

Minister Groat crooks an eyebrow at that, a beringed hand coming up to stroke his chin. "Quite an interesting prospect, I imagine. Of course, it goes without saying in such a circumstance we would need a better understanding of just what you seek to find, so as to determine a proper minimum value for your gift."

"I suspect we can't afford your assistance beyond room and board for a few days, while—"

"What?" says Yovera, apparently snapped out of her reverie.

"While we wait to see if any of our companions show up."

"Really?" Headman Ott-Golbar looks up from his ledgers. "Here?

"Well, that's different!" The lady claps her hands together.

"Now, now, now—"

"Don't stammer, Groat," she says with a smile, turning back to you. "As fellow adventurers, as guests of the Lady of Witchfort, Gorth and... Nehwon, here, are to be held in high regard: As would be the case should they visit any stronghold in the Kingdoms Three—even evil-eyed Kaldycaul knows how to be a good host in his hall."

She signals the headman and he rings a small bell. A witchfolk man and woman enter with three of the wreathed, masked figures... "No, not them! Just you two," the lady commands, and the three shambling retainers turn on their heels and exit without a sound. "Gorth and Nehwon are adventurers from the south, and my guests; set them up in a suite of rooms with a lake view. And make the great hall ready for a feast tonight. Ott-Pwar! Have your men be on the lookout for any more stragglers who come wandering into town and bring them to me... And make sure you still have the paper I gave you."

Minister Groat's gaping mouth closes, and his eyes narrow. He leans in to whisper in Yovera's ear but she waves him away, "Later.

"Go and refresh yourselves! After dinner, with a full belly, perhaps more accommodating terms can be—I said later Groat—more accommodating terms can be reached..."

You are taken from the audience chamber, down narrow fortified halls, up steep stairs. You pass several more masked and stinking servants, carrying firewood and pots and barrels. They demurely step from your path as you go. Through open doorways, you see a guards' mess hall, a small servant's kitchen, some sort of trophy room complete with stuffed owl-bear and many sculptures made of horn, a council chamber or war room with a pigeon-holed wall full of scrolls. You are brought to the third level, to a series of three connected rooms with slim windows looking out over the misty black water and the rolling hills which surround the Witchfort. The doors to these chambers do not lock, and while the masked and wreathed guard is dismissed, at least one witchfolk henchman waits outside in the corridor.

You have the hunch Yovera is generally on the up and up; you imagine she may be desperate in some way to prove she is the equal ruler to her old master(s) in the Kingdoms Three. But she clearly doesn't get many visitors up here.

Minister Groat, on the other hand, seems distressed by this.

I've added a post to the OOC thread informing Titus and Typhon they can jump back in at any time. Unless anyone wants to do something sneaky, we can slide through the dinner with diplomacy checks and hopefully get everyone back on the road ASAP.

[Togo]

Nehwon enters the room, moving quickly. He ignores the mist shrouded lake, the white tendrils of the evening melting into the black water below. The inspiring sweep of the majestic mountains, the goal for which they have traveled so far and suffered so much, merits barely a glance. Of the eerie native tracery around the upper walls, and the carefully matched furnishings, he says not a word. His iron determination, his air of a man with a mission, is reminiscent of companions lost, their fate unknown...

Instead he heads directly to a mirror, and stares at it for almost a minute.

The bursts out There's nothing wrong with my hair - a topknot is perfectly sensible style!

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth knocks three times on the door leading into Nehwon's room. He waits for Nehwon to beckon him in.

"I think it would be best if we slept together tonight. Well, in the same room anyways. Perhaps sleeping in shifts. Depending on what we learn at dinner - if anything. If our friends don't show up soon, in the morning I'll make some time with Ott-Pwar - That guy who couldn't read. I'd rather not ask the priest or our host directly for fear of offending someone. I'm sure they wouldn't turn down an extra man on their patrols"




If we fast forward through dinner :

Gorth will wash up before dinner and switch to the 'Presence' draconic aura to give him and Nehwon a +2 bonus to bluff/diplo.

Gorth will try to avoid talking about specifics of their mission and not asking any embarrassing questions. Certainly won't mention the undead slaves which make him very nervous. Gorth will avoid lying where ever possible and show respect to the hosts.

[Togo]

Nehwon nods, still looking at the mirror. A quick examination and spit on a finger reveals that the stain on the side of his face is a bruise, not dirt, and thus won't wash off.

That's probably a good idea. I guess I should deal with her nibs, if she makes herself available, and the priest of Hades, if not.

He keeps staring at the mirror.

Gorth, do you think he's right? That we need help up here? Because we could... you know, I could try and ask for some help. Try a different approach. Learn some different spells tomorrow. That kind of thing. At least until we can hook up with the others?

[Erelamar]

The summons arrives as dusk's light fades into a surprisingly clear night, the gibbous moon closer than you can ever remember. Refreshed, you return to the same great hall where you first held an audience, now converted with long rows of benches and tables. You are asked to join the Lady of Witchfort at her own upon the dais.

Yovera keeps her seat where you first met, the brothers Ott-Golbar and Pwar are joined by a fatter cousin named Ott-Urlo, the brewmaster and judge of the ales crafted by each household. Minister Gallium Groat sits between the lady and a new contingent of three youthful witchfolk and a woman, who despite not bearing a single wrinkle on her smooth face, carries an ancient and regal grace. They wear many trinkets and talismans, and the only masked and wreathed servants in the chamber—seven in total—stand close behind them.

The great hall fills with the common folk, warriors, and foresters. The raucous noise echoes into the night. As the courses of fowl and rabbit and hearty root vegetables are served with black bread dipped in pots of melted cheese, Yovera listens to your personal adventures. Nehwon is casually cut off from time to time when he falls into pedantry. Minister Groat or Ott-Golbar question their lady when her interest begins to slip. She leaps into crude tales of battles with minotaurs and goblins, leaving little to the imagination. Of the older woman and her entourage of young adepts, they only silently pick at their food.

Ott-Urlo, deep into his sixth or seventh stein, leans in to whisper to you, "Mother Tua-Taun. Only these new apprentices are left to her. After our Lady dealt with the previous Warchief and his family, she finished off all the seasoned witches, save the matriarch. Her allegiance to our Lady keeps the rabble in line, you see."

Mother Tua-Taun does not wear visible chains, but you sense the weight of them on her anyway. The priest of Hades' cool smile persists throughout the dinner.


***

The evening grows late and witchfolk, full-bellied, grab one another and wander off for secluded pleasures. Mother Tua-Taun and her party are escorted from the chamber by the silent masked retainers under the supervision of Ott-Pwar. The brewmaster and headman remain at the table, having entered into a belching competition. Yovera and Minister Groat walk you both to the door where the same male and female servants are waiting to take you back to your rooms.

"What fun!" Yovera claps her hands. "I'm told our chief scout Athelwehn will return from his ranging in the morning. He'll have the freshest report of the Hills. We'll meet sometime after that to finish up. Til tomorrow, adventurers! Haha." And, seemingly a little light-headed, she wanders off to the nearest stairs without any personal guards.

Minister Groat remains, and as Yovera leaves sight, six masked servants round the corner and come up behind him. "The Lady offers her sincerest thanks for your enjoyable company this evening. As to the matter of tomorrow, the assistance of the Witchfort must still come at a price. Balance is a necessity. Though, of course, you need not feel required to match the contributions of the aforementioned rude party of Dirk Derlith. You have conducted yourselves quite well. Something perhaps symbolic could be enough."

Here, Groat leans in, "Gossip you know is always so paradoxically the cheapest and most valuable commodity... I leave it for you to decide among yourselves. I bid you good night." The priest and his undead entourage depart.

Your living escorts bring you back to your chambers in the early morning hours, and you make yourselves as comfortable as you are willing... But a tapping is heard an hour later. It comes from one of the rooms you have left empty. Together, you notice the sound comes from a shuttered window. Cautious, you peek through the slats to discover one of the young witches from the feast, spider climbing upon the outer walls of the Witchfort, gently tapping as if requestion entrance...

So I made some rolls and with neither of you being particularly skilled in diplomacy (despite the aura bonus), you couldn't quite make Yovera helpful over dinner. So she still wants something in order to give you the map information, though clearly not nearly as much as the previous party she was unfriendly toward.

You had as much time to get ready for the witch acolyte outside your window as you wanted, casting whatever you wished.

If you motion to her through the window, she clearly wishes to be let in to speak to you about something urgent.

Groat seems far less agitated than when you left him in the initial meeting. And some of the casual conversation he made during the long feast, empty flattery you initially would imagine, seemed to be geared to twisting your stories into making you and Gorth seem more virtuous than you actually are.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"It seems room service has arrived." Gorth whispers to Nehwon. He waits to see if Nehwon wants to cast any spells or do anything before opening the window and letting the witch in.




Gorth switches to his senses aura giving both of them +2 spot/listen/init

[Togo]

Nehwon blinks.

I'm used to students coming in through the windows when the doors are locked. He says softy. Particularly if you have the room nearest the corner, where it's easiest to climb. But this seems like a harsh environment in which to study. By all means we can her in.

Nehwon's eyes flick over to the nearby table, against which his long sheathed blade is propped, but he makes no move to retrieve it. After glancing over at Gorth for confirmation, he reaches out to undo the latch.

[Erelamar]

A frizzy-haired witchfolk lass, perhaps no more than twenty years, scurries into the room, her ruddy skin nearly black under the bright moonlight. The shine of talismans and trinkets which adorned her at the dinner feast are gone. Other than her dark garb, she wears only a beaten iron holy symbol along a strand of wooden beads.

Once inside, she never fully rises from a crouch, one hand still upon the windowsill. The other cups around her mouth and she speaks low, "My thanks, my thanks, wayfarers. I am Tua-Myal, the others—Mother—do not know I have come. I listened to your stories. You are heroes from the south? The real south, not the Horned Woods with their black-eyed and hatchet-faced people? The lands with real elves and real heroes? Have I understood this correctly? Are you good men?"

The door at the far end of the sitting room from the window does show faint candlelight from the hall beyond, but neither of you hears any sound. Outside, is equally quiet.

Her holy symbol is unknown to you, and probably unique to her witch traditions, or even more specifically to Tua-Myal, herself."

[Togo]

Nehwon looks a bit taken aback by the question. Well, yes, yes, I suppose I am. I mean, I live in the South, well past the forest. And we do go out adventuring, fighting on the side of, geo-political practicality aside, the forces of good. Actually, my job is to train the heroes who have gone out, seen a bit of the world, get granted power by the forces of good, and then want to know how to use them. So yes, guilty as charged.

Nehwon doesn't look flattered, he looks vaguely alarmed.

Please get the lady a chair, Gorth. And maybe a bowl of water to rinse her hands, since climbing up the walls was probably a grimy business. I think we're about to get an invitation to participate in the local political scene, so lets keep voices low?

He pads quietly over to the half-open door, glances quickly to left and to right, looking for silent attendants, and then closes it.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"The south, Yes. Good? well, that might be a stretch. Certainly not evil at least. I would be careful with labels like 'Good' or 'adventurer'. They tend to have lots and lots of baggage that gets men killed." Gorth Whispers.


Gorth doesn't move to get a chair or any water. "Wet hands might make clean spots when she leaves. Also, I'm not your man-servant. Besides the metaphor of us cleaning her dirty hands with out knowing what is going on is apt. Perhaps she wants us to get our hands dirty....oh wait maybe she has come for hair tips" Gorth looks dubiously at Nehwon's top knot. Gorth smiles.


"If we have to whisper, she is likely putting our lives in danger if they aren't already. What is it that you want? We'll hear you out but be warned, I'm leary about making promises to someone skulking around in the night."




"Good? Bad? I'm the guy with the gun." - Ash, Army of Darkness


"Mercy is the mark of a GREAT man." *stab* "Guess, I'm a good man." *stab* "Well.. I'm alright." - Malcolm Reynolds (Firefly)

[Erelamar]

The hallway is lit by a small candle half-melted resting upon a stool. The sole servant from earlier in the evening no longer waits there. Back in the room, Tua-Myal hesitates, confused by your interaction. At Gorth's final words, alarm plays in her eyes. "Have I...?" She sets her jaw but continues,

"You must have seen it, them, know what they mean, the Masked? He created them all from our dead. Now none can burn in the hilltop pyres and rejoin our ancestors in the great sky-sea. You know of who I speak: the priest of Hades, the Hadite. He is a wicked man."

Myal looks out the window, scanning the sky, then back to you. "Lady Yovera is a fiend of an archer, but she did the valley a service when she killed the Warchief-Ut. He was a slaver, a reaver, and kept Mother only to brew him potions and read his fortune. The Warchief-Ut double-crossed the Lady and she killed him and his bodyguards. She would have taken his gold and been away, but her companion, the Hadite, fed her ego with his slithery words and so she claimed the old Death Rite and declared herself our ruler; some challenged her, but none survived."

She touches a wall, testing to see the adhesiveness of her magic still held. "I must go soon. The incantation will not last much longer.

"The Lady could perhaps be one of us with the guidance of Mother and my half-brother Tua-Athelwehn. He returns tomorrow. But the Hadite, he is wicked. He has a fondness for Mother. When he tires of her, he says he will begin on the apprentices. The Masked, the foul monsters he creates from our honored dead, they watch we witches day and night—we can do nothing. They are a terror to all the witchfolk. There are dozens of them throughout the keep and village, in the halls and closets, standing vigil over my people's beds at night...

"I have no more time. I must go. I hope you think upon what I have said, Southerners, whether you be heroes or not."

[Togo]

Nehwon nods, and turns to open the window. Then I'll be quick. Are your folk a tribe, a people, a cult? Who are your gods? If you are plagued by by a Hadite, can not your own gods help?

[Devilfish]

The witches of the Witchfort are indeed be a secretive lot, discreet with their rituals and their dabblings in the occult... but it is again an occasional grim and worldbreaking day, when something from the wilds comes stalking into town.

A bestial bray comes booming from the distance, and a shambling sentryman is shoved to the ground by something huge that lumbers past. It is unmistakable, furred, and stands taller than anyone, and a passing cloud lets the moonlight reveal the distinctive silhouette of a minotaur. It raises its horny head and shouts out again, staggering forward while it lashes about.

The monster clutches a wound at its chest, breathing heavily in delirium and exhaustion. Its pace is alarmingly brisk and deliberate, making its way past many in the suddenness and the confusion. It forms a beeline for the center of town, charging past those who are fortunate and swatting away those who are not. It is not long before torchlight finally surrounds it, and the militiamen stand posed to descend upon it in an instant.

It is only at this time that it comes to its senses, and in a surprisingly humane manner, beckons them to stop.

The massive horned head tips backwards, and a familiar voice sounds from underneath.

"I took one of the skulls from the pile," the stranger explains between his pants. "Somebody kindly help me."

Typhon then promptly collapses.

[Erelamar]

Tua-Myal looks bewildered by the Professor's string of questions. "There are many tribes of Witchfolk. Lady Yovera rules over all people living within the Frog Lake Valley. We have little contact with the rest after she came. And these days grow darker with more trolls and hags wandering the land, perhaps we are the only farmer-folk left—the rest could be nomad-reavers.

"Our people have nothing like your Southern Gods. The spirits of our ancestors and the sacred energies of the land grant us what blessings they may. Even Mother has not the magic to confront the Hadite. He has prayer-spells completely unknown to us."

The bell tower above the Witchfort's gate rings once into the starry night. She looks around furtively. "Something is coming. I must go."

She crawls out the window, and clinging to the shadows of massive log buttresses, the young witch departs. Tua-Myal spider climbs down to the second level, avoiding the shuttered windows, and rounds a corner disappearing from sight. In the distance, you can hear the massive main gate groan open...


***

TYPHON

In the morning Typhon will awaken in a small room with a single bed. Judging by the chamber's construction, he is within the Witchfort. Light streams in through the slats of the shuttered window. His wounds have been healed through familiar divine magic, but whose he cannot say. His weapons and equipment await in one corner and a large jug of cool water waits on the table beside him. A chair resting by the closed door, perhaps for some nighttime vigil, is currently empty, though his clean ears detect the absent-minded swaying of a person standing in the hallway outside.

[Devilfish]

Typhon lurches upright, and oaken bed creaks two masses shift forward. He grips his head with a groan, astounded that all the blood has been restored to his body, and that the gaping gore beneath his breast has healed over quite neatly; it joins one of the many scars which dances across his body.

He gathers his things and pokes his head into the hall, clearing his throat an audibly, mighty, hm-hm! But alas the ranger is alone in this part of the Witchfort; and so he searches for sentient life begins, and with it, whom to thank for his miraculous recovery.

"One does not grow my age without kissing death now and then," he chuckles aloud for no one in particular. At last, in his wandering she comes upon another soul, and his eagle-eyes are set at ease. He approaches the figure down the hall, pressing a first into an open palm in a gesture of gratitude.

"Ho, friend! To whom do I owe for pulling me from the brink, hm?"

Were that some cleric in a black robe.

[Erelamar]

TYPHON

The corridors are narrow in this part of the keep. Veering down the rightmost path, you quickly arrive at a long, open hall of many shields—round, square, some tall as a man, of oak and bronze and steel, but each elaborately decorated even though many are faded from age. Beneath each is a graven plaque. You blow a thick layer of dust away before you can even read the first: Warchief-Zarw, Slain by Hyrl-Drún in the Eighteenth Year of His Reign; continuing to the next where it reads Warchief-Hyrl-Drún, Slain by Yui in the Seventh Year of His Reign; and on it goes, thirty shields in all none ending with a natural death. The final shield of remarkable quality, bearing a wailing and bloody bull's head, is labeled for Warchief-Ut, Slain by Yovera in the Thirtieth Year of His Reign.

The chambers beyond are filled with even more dust and cobwebs. Timber and planks and tarps lay jumbled in this partially constructed wing. So, back the way you've come you venture. The air clears as you do so.

At a four-way intersection, there are many doors to your right and to your left a wide hall begins. It is lit by many mirrors and thick, wet earthen odors waft from inside. It is some kind of garden, and white flowers hang from the walls and sprout from the thin topsoil laid over the floor. A figure in a featureless wooden mask and wearing a wreath of the same white flowers stiffly plucks more and places them in a basket.

"Ho, friend! To whom do I owe for pulling me from the brink, hm?"

The servant pauses and turns toward you, and though the person could just be lame or born simple, its utter calm betrays its identity to the old ranger... It is one of the—

"Ho there, Minotaur-Slayer! A door has opened from the right hallway and a great bear of a man, black of hair and beard, steps out to greet you with a callused hand. With the other, he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

The creature returns to its work among the white flowers.

"I am Ott-Pwar, Warchief of Witchfort. It was I carried you in from the night, but Minister Groat healed your wounds. He is always up late of hours. You must be companion to Nehwon and Gorth. We are fond of them here. Come, come away from that place," to which is jerks his great shaggy head at the garden, "Tis no place for great warriors. Come, I shall take you to your friends. They should be breaking their fast as we speak. Then you all meet with the Lady."

[Devilfish]

Though Typhon's features are stern, there is a grin to his eyes as he meets Ott-Pwar, a sentiment from one bear of a man to another. He locks his hand in the other man's grip, and the force unsettles the dust about the room. The ranger raises an eyebrow as if to ask about the the oddity of a servant-man beside them, to which Ott-Pwar will undoubtedly shake his head in response, and lead the two of them away.

"I am known in parts of the world like this, which are sovereign'd by might," he strokes his beard, contemplating the shields on the wall. "Thirteen years is a long reign indeed. Tell me of the warchief Ut... and his successor, Lady Yoreva."

(He briefly envisions how his own greatshield would look upon that wall- but it would be poor manners to thank his hosts by challenging them for rule of the Witchfort)

The doors to the breakfast hall are heavy and vast, and Typhon casts them open like paperweights in a thunderstorm. He enters with open arms, broadcasting his entry to everyone.

"HMMM," he bellows. "Still alive, are we? Stuck around to keep ol' Typhon from getting too lonely up here?" He laughs and collapses upon you like a mountain of pillows, greeting you warmly.

"Thought I'd lost you in the storm. How did you escape? What have you been up to since we'd seen you last, hm?"

He awaits your answer eagerly; but as he does, you can see his eyes scanning the room. There is a holy man whom he needs to thank.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

Gorth leans over to Nehwon and mutters in Draconian "I was sort of hoping he had died tragically." He pats Nehwon on the shoulder as he rises. A huge grin runs across his face. He looks to the door to see if anyone else of their missing friends files in. A quick frown forms and some wind is knocked from Gorth's sail when no one else appears. Locking eyes with Typhon his smile returns.


Gorth tackles Typhon in a huge and quite mascuilne bear hug. He lifts him off the ground for a moment. "AAAH you smell worse then ever, no wonder the minotaurs wouldn't take you." Gorth finally lets go of his friend.

[Togo]

Nehwon's been acting.. differently. A run at dawn, up and down the corridors. Prayer added to meditation. Perhaps a shade more confidence?

Ah! Typhon! I see that the fates have smiled upon us, and brought you here to rejoin us! Nehwon doesn't rise, but his gesture takes in the seats next to him.

He arches an eyebrow.

Did you have a pleasant trip?


Switched to divine focus for the day

[Devilfish]

Did you have a pleasant trip?

Typhon groans and unloads himself onto one of Nehwon's chairs, while his hands explore the table for a proper breakfast meal. "I held them back as long as I could. I remember that third night; weary, battered, being hunted like deer. Got gored very badly, as far as gores go..." he taps twice at the scar that lay just inches from his heart. "Though as the fates would have it, they lost me in the same fog that I lost you."

"I'd have kept fighting them if I had to, of course," he takes a long sip from his pint. "Though when I couldn't hear you three anymore, I was sure you had made it out safe."

The old ranger lets the sentiment settle in, when he notices the glint of despair in Gorth's eyes

"Don't you fret. The Magpie is a clever man, and Muru and the pups have been out looking for him. If any of us survive this ordeal, I'd be placing my wager on him."

"Now then! Have you been around this fort yet? There is a lady of battle who I've yet to meet-- and have you heard of a holy man named Groat? I must thank him properly for saving my life. I wonder, how best to show my gratitude..." he ponders.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

" Holy man " Gorth repeats slowly. "Interesting phrasing. I look forward to watching you give him your gratitude."

[Togo]

Yes, fascinating chap, says Nehwon over a forkful of bacon. Worships Hades. Him and her nibs over there in the big chair, they pulled a little coup, took over this place. He turned all his opponents into the walking dead, that's them over there with white flowers. He pauses, frowning in concentration, to chase a morsel of fried bread around his plate. The opposition leader is around somewhere, mopey lady, wears white. He's been trying to hustle her into bed, whether through passion or boredom or some sense of trying to cap off his victory, it's not clear.

His voice is low, muffled, partly by a need for secrecy, but also by fried mushrooms.

One of her followers broke in last night, told us the whole story. And lucky her, here we are to fight evil and save the day, like true heroes. However...

He pauses, partly for dramatic effect, partly to chew and swallow.

On the other hand, we've also been healed, treated as guests, and generally given refuge in an otherwise unforgiving wilderness. And treated to food, although that was her idea rather than his. Oh, and they claim to have valuable information concerning our quest, or what they assume is our quest given that similar group passed through not long ago, wanting the same information, which they'll trade to us for something... we haven't worked out what yet.

He gives a nod to the table.

So grab some food while it's still here, because we may be out sleeping under the stars again by tonight. Depending on whether we stick to our quest and leave local politics well alone, or do the heroic thing and take a crack at our erstwhile benefactor.

He sighs.

The thing is, I can't shake the feeling that he wants us to take a crack at him. That student, sorry, acolyte, uh witchling... He starts again. That girl breaking into our apartments managed it rather too easily. If security is really that sloppy, why can't they just break their lady out? If it isn't, that means he wanted her to talk to us, maybe prod us into making the first move.

[Ragnarok'n'Roll]

Gorth

"I wish for the days where giant ants were our biggest problem. Seems like only yesterday..." Gorth trails off as he crams more food into his mouth.

"Perhaps the best solution is a strategic marriage. Nothing brings political enemies together like a wedding.
Ty marries Lady Y. I'll take the mopey girl and Nehwon can take the hadite." Gorth was barely mumbling. He was too busy watching for Typhon's reaction.

[Devilfish]

Typhon's eyes sink into narrow slits as he listen's to Nehwon's lay of the situation. You would expect the man to blink at some time, but his attention is locked on the Chameleon like a tiger, as if waiting on the slightest utterance to give him reason to throttle forward. The grip on his cup is crushing, and he chews his food slowly.

Typhon is not a man of inaction. The tides of power are shifting at the Witchfort; and three southern winds have blown in.


"Perhaps the best solution is a strategic marriage. Nothing brings political enemies together like a wedding.
Ty marries Lady Y. I'll take the mopey girl and Nehwon can take the hadite." Gorth was barely mumbling. He was too busy watching for Typhon's reaction.

The ranger instantly blurts out his drink, at the thought of Nehwon and Groat hanging begrudgingly in eachother's arms. He considers his own marriage to the lady of battle (and his eyes perk with a light of curiosity,) but he catches himself and perishes the thought.

"Coups are common in these parts of the world. Keeps the village strong, and a leader at their peak. Some go many years... before an outside force intervenes."

"Regrettably, I am bound by the Old Laws to bring the Hadite no harm," he leans back in his chair, cross armed as he explains. "The Conquering Chieftess Yovera would be my most preferred fight... but then I would be short a wife," smirk, "and she has been so hospitable to us."

He strokes his beard. They need to know more.

"What if we did align ourselves to each of the three? Gather more, and act from there?"

He spies Yovera sipping from her horn... decides she could use a drinking partner.


Typhon approaches the dais, and he is certain to stand out like a war elephant. These are not the gentle folk of Berryl, and they do not hail from the lands of civil men; it is important for them to know that his fire goes untamed.

He lays down his tower shield slowly, gently, a conspicuous reminder of those on the wall.

"You have done a remarkable job with the place, I am told" he lowers himself into a seat with a hearty grin. "But in a place like this, all up here... how do you keep from getting bored all the time?"

[Togo]

Nehwon head jerks up. His stricken expression tells you all you need to know of his enthusiasm for this 'plan'.

Can we not play a little more to our strengths? Maybe a contest of flower arranging, or slam poetry, or turning the whole thing into a dance competition? My superb grasp of political affairs should be amply demonstrated by the fact that, of all my professional colleagues, I'm the one up a mountain with the two of you.

[Devilfish]

"Why Newhon," Typhon rumbles, and he sets his arm heavily upon the table. He peaks his eyebrow and lifts his sleeve... to reveal the familiar chain of one of his flails, wrapped up his about arm.

"Politics here are like a wolves vying to be Alpha."

"We are playing to our strengths."

[Togo]

Nehwon winces.

The thing about being a spellcaster, particularly a non-traditional spellcaster, is that it's very hard to convince people you're dangerous without actually, you know, using magic. Which you then don't have any more. So you're asking me to cuddle up to the Hadite priest, convince him we're too tough and dangerous to fight, even though I suspect he's angling for a fight anyway because, hey, he's bored, but without using the spells that I'd need to actually defeat him if it does turn nasty?

He sighs, and then reaches across the table.

If that's the plan, I'm going to need a second pastry He munches thoughtfully. And an escape route.