Thirty Six Days.

That is how long it has been since any of you have seen anything approaching civilization. When you left Augustana the leaves had just begun to flush with red and orange. A warning fire of the cold to come. Winter comes quickly in the shadow of the mountains and the ground is now nearly a foot deep in wet heavy snow. Even if some of you wanted to leave fairly quickly this job is the pits. It's cold, its slow, and there hasn't been a road since almost a week ago.
The
caravan master; a stocky man by the name of Rudyard does tell you that Falcon's Hollow shoudn't be more than a few miles away. "with luck, we'll be there by the evening and you'll have your pay." He glances westward with a grim expression. "'Course, luck is a chancy thing."

Luck you see, has been something on everyone's minds recently. At the height of the summer equinox a star had appeared in the sky, two points from where the sun sets. Its steady cold light has been viewed by some as a portent of ill luck. If someone's cat got sprayed by a skunk, if a marriage turned sour, if the laundry just didn't wash out that one stubborn stain. Currently it is all being blamed on the star. Which is ludicrous of course. It has been one thousand odd years since the godfall. One thousand years (give or take) since the power of prophecy was relevant, but the people of Taldor are a superstitious lot.

For you, luck has been a bit of a mixed bag. When the circus rolled into town Valen came with it. Travelling bards, or even the infamous Pathfinders are a dwindling sight so they often draw large crowds. This had been no exception. What was less fortunate was when Lord Jaster Gottheim had come down with a bad case of stomach flu after sampling the roasted boar. He didn't make it through the night.

Even less fortunate was the local crimelord Ulysses Smoke. He didn't last the night either. That tends to happen when you upgrade your glasses with a crossbow bolt. Trust me, Whisper has it on pretty good authority. You can also trust five of the Smokers present at the time of his death. They didn't really get a good look at the girl (moved so fast you could see right through her, swear) but they saw enough to start searching. If Kunrun ever hears about this he's going to be just. so. mad.

And Nori. Well, lucky you! Adventure is right there on your doorstep. Literally. As in you had slept the night on the doorstep of a well to do tavern having spent an unhealthy amount of money on fine cinnamon whiskey the night before and had awoken to the sounds of Rudyard calling for able bodied folk to guard his own on the road. Luckily you were louder than anyone else.

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There are three wagons, each pulled by a team of two horses. There are five people in the first wagon. Five people in the rear wagon. In the middle wagon are you three, Rudyard, and a grizzly wolfhound. Possibly the laziest and mangiest dog that you've ever seen. Each of the carts is laden with hard tack and furs, honey, and jars of pickles. You haven't had to crack into this supply yet as game has been good on the way north. But as the snows crept in, the deer crept away. The time is four hours past noon. If you don't find more you may have to start using the stock meant for sale at Falcon's Hollow which will cut into the profits that Rudyard makes. Profits that may end up paying you.

It will be dusk soon.

It'll probably be a dark one.