Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon [IC]

[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.

Spoiler: Typhon wipes a tear from his eye, and turns his back quickly.

Show

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.

Spoiler

Show

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 (1d20+12)[24] , 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: (1d20+12)[14]
Hide: (1d20+12)[19]

[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.

Spoiler: Nehwon

Show

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...

[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?"

Spoiler: Nehwon

Show

The people wearing masks and white flowers are zombies.

Spoiler: Nehwon/Gorth

Show

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.

Spoiler: Gorth

Show

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?"

Spoiler: OOC

Show

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.

Spoiler: Nehwon

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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.

Spoiler: OOC

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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"

Spoiler

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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...

Spoiler: Diplomacy

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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.

Spoiler: OOC

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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.

Spoiler: Nehwon

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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.

Spoiler

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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?"

Spoiler: Listen

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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.

Spoiler: Nehwon

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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.