The Final Rest

As the mysterious stranger had indicated a road, newly cobbled with field stone, started just inside the mist. The road was easy to see and follow because the mist didn’t form over it. Instead it flowed around the road like a tunnel, leaving the travellers unobscured. The road was straight and wide. Two good-sized wagons could roll along easily side by side. The stranger who had greeted them was nowhere in evidence even though the group could see hundreds of yards ahead.

The group moved at a steady but unhurried pace down the road. Periodically Pietro stopped and stared at the mist all around. Each time he shook his head and muttered to himself under his breath. For an hour or so they travelled; although, time was a bit difficult to track without the benefit of the sun, moon or stars. The whole time they didn’t see a single other person along the way. From time to time they did hear sounds of movement off the road in the mists but nothing and no one appeared to explain these noises.

After a time a building rose up along the roadway. Once they approached it was obviously an inn. It was two stories and timber framed. The smell of wood smoke came from the chimney though the smoke itself was essentially invisible in the fog. A shingle hung from a hook over the door. “The Final Rest”

Gavinia reigned in Apollo seemingly without any physical direction. The great black tossed his head and snorted. She patted his neck and said, “Apollo doesn’t like this place, might have one thinking he could read. What an ominous name for an inn. Although, the journey here was just as much so. Quite curious. I suppose there is nothing for it but to go inside.” she swung her right leg over her horse and slid gracefully to the ground, patting Apollo again and whispering to him. “Easy fella, I don’t like this any better than you. Keep your ears peeled, friend.”

Pietro wasn’t particularly good with horses, but he thought Bumpo had been practically sullen since entering the mists. Appaloosa’s weren’t the smartest of breeds, but even this one seemed ill at ease. Pietro certainly couldn’t blame Bumpo.

There were many dreams that a caster could bottle. Some conjured up shadows and echoes whose substance was merely enough to fool the senses. They confounded and confused, but ultimately dissipated before a strong will and sharp conviction. Others did the impossible- brought to the waking world things only seen in the world of dreams.

Others imposed on reality. The dreamer saw where something was not and said ‘that will not do’. They changed wholesale what was, and were consequently often limited in scope. They might create a fire, but that fire would behave how fire behaved once conjured.

What troubled Pietro was that this dream of fog did not so constrain itself. It was a complex dream, and a very large one too. Whomever had created it was at least as knowledgable as Pietro. Likely moreso. Even Pietro admitted his talent was born of searching fingers in the dark, and not the hard sliver of pointed ambition.

“The Mistlord keeps his realm tidy.” Pietro said, suddenly. “And we have heard how he is protective of it. Cobbles and stones, mists and rules. Curious and curiouser.”

Pietro hauled himself down from Bumpo, making old-man-noises the entire time. He paused after hitching the horse, taking a moment to light his pipe again before meandering for the door.

Shyleen kept looking around, the tunnel made out of fog was suspicious and could have been used for ambushes. When they arrived at the inn she thanked her goddess silently that they had arrived… somewhere in safe manner. “My lady, Please do not do anything hasty.” She looked at Gavinia with stern look.

“Sir, You are able to detect things unseen forces. Do you feel anything coming from the inn?” She turned her attention to Pietro.

Gavinia looked up at her friend’s stern look with a raised eyebrow and chuckled, shaking her head, “Shyleen, I don’t care how much you feel it is your duty to watch over me, you are not my maternal guardian and I have some small ability to care for and protect myself.”

She walked over to Pietro and awaited a response, a slight frown on her face as she was still unhappy with the man for racing off alone into the mist and obligating her to aid him.

The night air in the mist was colder than anyone had noticed during the journey. The warmth of the fire in the hearth and the cheerful lights of the Rest’s common room put the chill of the night into sharp contrast. The soft sounds of a lute drifted from the far corner of the room completing the scene. The only thing missing was people.

At this time of night a common room should have been filled with men and women in conversation. The sounds of tankards on the tables, voices raised in heated discussion, laughter and perhaps rough singing should have filled the place. No one was there except the slender figure of the lute player in long, colorful robes seated in a simple chair. As the travellers entered the room, soft singing in an unknown language began to accompany the music of the strings. The song pulled at something buried within the listeners, stirring up memories and desires long suppressed. It wasn’t a sad or mournful song. Just deep. The group assumed that the lute player was also the singer since there was no one else in the room but that was just an assumption. The player wore a mask of red and gold glimpsed underneath a hood that covered the player’s head.

Tables, empty tables, were arranged neatly about the area. A bar ran along the back wall with the hearth and the minstrel to the left of it. A stairway up was to the right of the bar. Behind the bar were several tapped kegs and a door which was closed.

Once everyone had entered the room, the door behind the bar opened and a tall, slender man in brown and black entered. An apron, spotlessly clean, was tied neatly about his chest and waist. The group assumed it was a man given the height but if it was his features were hidden behind a simple, aged wooden mask. Eyes of the palest blue regarded them from the eye holes of the mask and golden-blond hair flowed down to the figure’s shoulders.

“Good evening, travellers.” The newcomer bowed. The voice betrayed that the speaker was male. It was a pleasant baritone and carried easily of the music without needing to be raised significantly. “Welcome to the Rest. I am The Host. How may I be of service to you tonight?”

Brighton stayed quiet as they travelled the road and entered the inn. A sense of foreboding bloomed in his heart and grew larger and wider and darker the more and more he saw of this kingdom. The mist was bad enough. It bespoke of someone, or something, powerful on a scale Brighton wasn’t happy considering. But for all that, if a man wishes to cloak his realm in mist, that’s his own affair. But this was more than that. A realm had drovers. Farmers. Labourers. If there’s a road, then people must need to exist to walk upon it. Similarly, an inn is a business. It requires custom. If it’s here, then it’s here because people came here and left currency in their wake. And that lute player. His music was like distant somehow, like the music a mill might make if a mill could make music. And the Host’s voice. Deep, rich, pleasant, but flat. Free of accent or inflection. Like Pietro might say, it was though someone had brought a dream into the waking world. And the fact that there was nothing about this place that made any logical sense implied dark and disturbing things. Not least that this was all placed here for their benefit.

But why?

He stifled his misgivings and put on his best, brightest smile. He sketched a deep, elaborate bow.

“Good sir, good morrow! We are bid enter here ‘pon the word of the Mistlord’s herald his own self. I am Brighton, walker of roads and Spinner of Tales. Beside me is Pietro, dreamer of dreams and weaver of visions. And these two fragrant young misses are Milady Shyleen of keen eye and sharp sword. And Milady Gavinia, her of the keen wit and sharp tongue. I beg you vex neither of them, for ’tis more than you or I are worth to endure their wrath.”

“We seek lodging. Food. Drink. And perhaps news of this wide realm?”

If this was all a show, then by the Gods themselves he’d give them a show.

Gavinia raised an eyebrow at Brighton’s introduction, a slight smile touching her lips. She nonetheless gave a warrior’s salute, right hand over heart then swept forward with open hand as well as a bowing of her head.

She remained silent for the moment, still smiling, to give their host a chance to reply.

“The Host, the Mistlord, the Rest.” hummed Pietro, futsing about the room. He rapped his knuckles on a table. It was solid. Somehow that didn’t seem appropriate. Coagulated air would’ve fit better. “The rest of what, though? The remnant of whom?”

Pietro puffed away at his pipe, the smoke trailing behind him like the laziest of serpents. Something tickled in the back of the old man’s mind. Something he’d read or dreamed. Something important but forgotten. The dreamcaster finished his circuit of the room – pointedly avoiding the minstrel and the music – to stand in front of the Host. He squinted at him. Fine hair, melodic voice. Well-crafted mask, fine clothes. Pietro inhaled sharply, letting the smoke bubble from his lips as he spoke.

“Bread and salt. Traditional symbols of hospitality. Those under, hmm, the auspices of, y’know. Hospitality…” he said, drifting off. Among the Vale, at least, those under the unspoken laws of hospitality were free from harm. Diplomats and refugees couldn’t be cast to the wolves after they’d partaken of the host’s bread and salt. Pietro only hoped the tradition extended to wherever these people hailed.

“You’ve trappings of Elvish, you know. Elven? Elvenish trappings. All very courteous and mysterious and-” Pietro waggled his fingers to demonstrate. “-Dreamy. Dreamlord that I am, I feel at ease. How wonderful.”

He paused.

“Might I see your ears? Or your face. But the mask makes me think not, in that regard.” he said, then paused again. “And the bread and salt, too.”

Shyleen dismounted and sighed heavily at Gavinia’s reaction to the half-elf’s concerns. She walked behind the girl to Pietro, staying behind the two. She looked around, finding the foggy realm to have some eerie beauty in it that made her smile as she appropriated the surroundings. She gave the stranger a silent nod of acknowledgement as a greeting. She again smiled at Pietro, his words were amusing, but there was truth behind them. Eccentric man that he was indeed.

“As you wish.” The Host bowed and left by the door from which he had originally entered, leaving it completely unclear which wish he would be honoring. Once the Host was gone the music and singing trailed away into silence and the minstrel by the hearth stood.

“You are a more interesting group than the last several that have come calling to the Rest.” The minstrel said in a lilting soprano. She stepped over to the bar and took a delicate wine glass from behind it and filled it with what looked like a white wine. “You must forgive the Host. He is taciturn at the best of times and still uncomfortable serving outsiders. It has been some time since we have had guests outside of our own people.”

She motioned to a table. “Perhaps you would care to sit? You have the look of those who have travelled some distance. The Host will return shortly with food and drink… and the bread and salt you requested. You will be relieved to know that we still remember those customs despite the years. Our Lord will honor them. His memory is long and he has a fondness for tradition.”

Taking her own invitation, the minstrel took a seat at the table.

Pietro tugged at his beard, watching the minstrel and pacing. This was wonderful. This was fantastic. It was perfect, and in no way could the old man see fit to improve it. He enjoyed many things. A mild herb for smoking. A hallucinogenic herb for expanding one’s understanding of the universe. Warm bread and cold water. The unbottling of dreams. Above all, though, Pietro savored a mystery. There was, as he saw it, a broad and infinite canvas from which the universe plucked its wonders. To discover a new one was as close as he got to worship.

“The Mistlord respects the old ways. That is good.” Pietro said, digging into a pocket. He pulled out a battered coin, holding it in his palm. “Being old myself, I can’t help but respect them.”

Pietro moved to the table nearest the minstrel and set the coin spinning.

“But hospitality is like a two-headed crocodile, hm? It bites both ways.” Pietro continued, gently puffing on his pipe. “I give you a game. On the side with the horses, a truth from me. On the side with the head, a truth from you.”

Brighton, having delivered his Dramatic Speech, wandered about the room while Pietro offered his game. Brighton approved, in theory, but as he himself might say, the truth was a woefully relative thing. He suspected that anything learned from this… creature… would not be of any use. Not unless the Mistlord wished it to be. And anything he wished them to learn would come in time.

And so he examined the room. Whatever its origin, this room was a real thing. Or was supposed to be a real thing. And could perhaps tell its own tale.

Gavinia stared at Pietro for several minutes as he rambled on in apparently near madness, her right eyebrow raised. Upon realizing she was staring, she shifted her gaze to Shyleen with a questioning look. What have we gotten ourselves into with this one? she wondered.

Gavinia joined the minstrel at the table, sitting across from her with a smile and slight inclination of the head. Waiting for the madness around her to work through and keeping watch for anything askew.

Shyleen shook her head a little in amusement as the old man began to ramble again. Her and Gavinia’s gaze met and she responded to the Lady’s questioning look with a shrug. She followed Gavinia closely, joining rest of the group at the table. She looked at at Gavinia and raised a brow as the Lady was peering around. What was she looking for? The half-elf thought to herself before she began to attempt to follow Gavinia gaze and look for something out of place or of interest.

A careful inspection of the room by Gavinia and Brighton revealed that while neatly kept and maintained it was an older construction. It had probably been part of the original city of Fastormel before it was abandoned. In fact, the parts of the construction that looked newer were probably repairs to the original building. The place might have been odd and mysterious but it was plainly real and solid as well.

As the ladies and Pietro seated themselves, the minstrel reached up to her mask and somehow unclipped the mouth and chin portion from the rest. She laid it aside carefully on the table next to her. It seemed to be constructed of some fine ceramic or porcelain. The removal of part of the mask revealed a delicate mouth and chin of exceedingly fair skin. The woman must have been young as the face was free of age lines or blemishes.

“Be welcome, Ambassador and Captain. And you as well, Dreamer.” The minstrel took a sip of her wine. “Your game sounds interesting, Dreamer. I will gladly pass a few rounds with you. Given the caveat that I can reveal no secrets that are not my own to reveal. It would be most unseemly to betray a confidence over a game.”

She took up the coin and sent it flipping through the air to land spinning on the table. It came to rest with the head facing up. “It seems I must speak the first truth, Dreamer.”

Pietro took a moment to ash out his pipe carefully, giving himself time to think. He didn’t prefer thinking this way, as a general rule. It was all clicks and clambers and clacks and traps. It was a cold, metal way of thinking.

He couldn’t ask ‘why do you wear a mask’ because the answer would be ‘to obscure the face’. He couldn’t ask ‘on whose authority are these lands claimed’ because the answer would likely be ‘the Mistlords’. The obtuse dolling out of truth was very much in the spirit of this particular game, unfortunately.

The old man shot a quick look over at his fellows. Pietro didn’t want to bring them into the game- at least not yet. They had nothing to hide, but it wouldn’t do to be unwise.

Well, it wouldn’t do to be any more unwise than they had been already. Than he had been already.

Clicks, traps, clacks and hinges. Pietro enjoyed thinking in clouds and zephyrs. They were a gentle way to ride towards the godhead. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t speak like a lawyer.

“By what name are those lands known, from whence you have come to what were once the ruins of Fastormel?” Pietro asked finally. Her answer would implicitly acknowledge – confirm or deny – that the denizens of the mists were outlanders. Pietro set the coin spinning in front of him, disguising a quick dreamcast with an elaborate slapping down on the coin. It had been the merest nudge to ensure the horses were face up. The manner of the minstrel’s questions could prove as informative as her answers.

Clicks, traps, brambles and briars.

“That is a question of multiple answers.” the minstrel smiled and took another sip of wine. “The most common name among those who know of it is The Grey Spires. The name our enemies gave it was the Dead Realms. Among the People, that is to say ourselves, it was known as Purgatory.”

The door to the kitchen opened and The Host stepped through followed by two figures in stark, white robes and masks. The Host carried a cutting board with a steaming loaf of bread in one hand and a cellar of salt in the other. The two who followed carried trays of food. It looked to be simple but filling fare; roast leg of lamb, several varieties of vegetables and several cheeses. There were also a couple of jugs of some drink and numerous ceramic cups.

The Host put the bread and salt in front of Gavinia and said, “Be welcome to The Final Rest. We extend guest right to the Ambassador and all your retinue for the duration of your stay here. Be at peace beneath this roof.” After his recitation, he returned to his place behind the counter. One of the figures in white returned to the kitchen while the other took up station in a corner to watch the group dine.

The minstrel tore off a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth. “Eat, friends. Answering questions is hungry work. We should keep our strength up. I believe it was my turn to do the asking. For what purpose was your entourage sent from Fallcrest? After all, Ambassadors don’t wander. They are sent.”

Pietro ripped off a modest chunk of bread, sprinkled it solemnly with salt, then ate it in two quick bites. It was done. Hospitality had been ensured. Though it did not negate all dangers, it put the older man more at ease and he relaxed.

The Grey Spires. The Dead Realm. Purgatory. Purgatory- that word was indicative of something. Pietro strained to discern it. It was a chosen name. They called it that themselves. That told Pietro a great deal. Purgatory. A place of temporary punishment in most religious schemas. More importantly, though, it was a place of purification- those there were being made ready for the higher heavens. Beatified, sanctified, and brought to a state of grace.

Pietro resisted the urge to dig into the greater fare in front of him, at least for now. His stomach disagreed, but stomachs often did that. Pietro had found hunger to be greatly clarifying in the past, and he needed his wits now.

“Fallcrest imagined a wound, and we have been sent both to see if such a wound exists and to provide balm if so. Like a spinster fretting over missing knick-knacks, Fallcrest misses its caravans.” Pietro said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I myself have come along to try the Winterbole herb which, in the past, proved efficacious in, hm. In, eh, expanding certain existential metaphor-sequences in my mindscape.”

Pietro looked past the minstrel, eyes distant. He had traveled for over a hundred years in his last herb-travel. He’d walked through the sun itself to greet the man at its center, only to find the man at its center had left decades before. The sun had died around Pietro, and Pietro had come out of the herb-induced daze feeling cold.

“Ah. The caravans.” The minstrel finished off her wine and replaced the lower part of her mask. “Two caravans have stayed here at the Rest recently. I believe they are the ones about which you are seeking answers. As you can see, neither is here at the moment.”

She turned and gestured Brighton over to the table. “Come and eat, Caravan Master. I assure you the food is quite good and will ease both your body and spirit. Surely you have need of sustenance after a long day’s travel. The People would not have it said that our hospitality is lacking.”

Brighton could not shake the idea that he was being conned. That they were all being conned. That this was all some kind of elaborate set-up meant to distract them while this Mistlord went about… doing something, no doubt nefarious.

Hospitality indeed. What did every huckster conjurer do before producing a dove from a hollowed-out gourd? He pulled up his jerkin and told you ‘nothing up my sleeve’ and while you stared at his pasty-white arms he was dropping the dove in the gourd from a pocket in his pants. That’s what this felt like. Have some bread and salt masters. Have a nice, cozy, warm inn masters. Have some music masters. Our hospitality is not lacking masters. There’s nothing up our sleeves masters.

Pietro loved mysteries. In some ways he was made of mysteries and like always called to like. Brighton, on the other hand, loved solutions. And he was afraid that this mystery had no solution. None that would bode any of them any good anyway. He needed to keep his wits about him.

“I’ll remain standing, Milday, an-it please you. Certainly I’ll say nary-a-word against the welcome of your house, your lands, and lord. Speak to me now, if you will, of these caravans? Where did they go from here? They didn’t reach their ultimate destination. Do you know why?”

All the while his head buzzed with the certainty that this was all just a performance. A dance of sorts, in waiting for whatever came next. Brighton loved a dance. But he preferred to choose his own steps.

“That is actually two questions but since they are very closely related I will answer them as one.” The minstrel leaned back in her chair in order to get a better view of Brighton. “One caravan paid the tithe required and left our lands by the bridge which crosses the Nentir River some short distance to the west. Your caravan was likely making for the same bridge when you discovered these lands no longer unclaimed. I have no knowledge as to what happened to them after they departed our realm. The second caravan ignored the instruction of The Will and violated the rules. That was… unwise. The mists are not safe and decidedly unfriendly to interlopers.”

She slid the coin smoothly across the table towards Pietro and the ladies. “I believe someone needs to flip?”

Gavinia sat up straighter and her gaze narrowed at the minstrel. Games and questions were all good and well but when her fellow Valemen were disappearing it was no time for playing around. She opened her mouth to demand answers but stopped herself. She was in potentially hostile territory with few resources of her own to bail her out should things turn ugly. She was also representing more than just herself. As ambassador for her father the words she spoke carried the weight of Fallcrest behind them and were binding. It was no time to be rash. Starting a conflict with an unknown enemy was not her mission. Her mission was actually to avoid conflict.

She reached over and took the coin, flipping it lightly through the air. It clattered on the table and came to rest with the head visible. “Seems I get to ask a question now.” Gavinia said, trying hard to adopt the tone she had observed her father take when dealing with House Azaer or Naerumar. “Let’s speak plainly. What happened to the caravan that was unwise?”

Gavinia had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer very much even if the minstrel gave one that wasn’t some sort of prevarication. The masks and names of these people seemed to indicate a penchant for subterfuge and misdirection. Gavinia didn’t care for such things. It should be plain who was an enemy and who was a friend. Hiding who and what you were in order to gain advantage just smacked of cowardice to her way of thinking. She’d try not to judge too much yet. Her instructors had always warned her against trying to fit people into boxes, especially too soon after meeting them. It only put you at a disadvantage. So she sat back and took a drink of ale as she waited.

The minstrel sat silent for a moment or two that seemed to stretch into long minutes. “Plainly? That seems to be contrary to the spirit of this particular game but in the interest of goodwill I will comply.” She sat forward and rested her forearms on the table. “I do not know specifically what happened to those who directly violated the instructions of The Will. I do know that they are no longer with us in this world. Perhaps they have passed into another dream, as your friend might say. Those who were not in direct violation of The Will have been taken to the Mist Tower and confined there until their disposition has been determined. The wagons, goods and animals that belonged with the caravan are being held elsewhere in Sanctum. They have been declared forfeit.”

The minstrel gazed around the table at each person and finally rested her eyes back on Gavinia. “Is that spoken plainly enough?”

Pietro’s expression soured as Gavinia asked her question. It was rude, really. Like bringing a crossbow to a tourney melee. All the same, the old man tried to keep his attention on the minstrel rather than his compatriot- the fact was, an unexpected question so crassly spoken might be revelatory.

Pietro did not feel disappointed by the response. The other caravan-folk were alive. Pietro suppressed a grin, then thought better of it and grinned openly. Their goal had been to investigate what happened to the other caravans, indirectly, by speaking with the barbarian tribes. Pietro’s impetuous ride into the mists had cut down on the investigation, it seemed.

The word had been ‘Sanctum’, and on that Pietro felt the minstrel had given something up. There were plenty of connotations to the word, but strongest was sanctuary. A place of refuge. Which begged the question- from what? The old man shook that particular speculation out of his head, making several loud throat noises. There were immediate goals, here, and Pietro did not feel like tarrying.

“Plainly plainly. Plenty plainly. Pah.” Pietro murmured. “No need to put the boot in when a glove would suffice.”

Pietro tugged at his beard, leaning back in his seat and stretching out his legs. Impetuous had gotten them this far, and it wouldn’t do for Pietro do doubt it yet.

“You spoke of, hm, a declaration? Of forfeiture. Disposition. Deposition of disposition.” he rambled, eagerly. “The Mistlord has the full writ-and-thunder, the full weight of his authority as advocate. What advocate have the wayward caravaneers?” Waggling his eyebrows in a thoroughly unsubtle way, Pietro grinned like a fox. Or at least a very self-admiring marmoset. “I am an advocate of many things. In whatever justice whatnow or hootenanny there is to come, you may consider the Dreamlord legal counsilwhatsit to the defendented-and-such.” Pietro said, flipping the coin and slapping it down with finality. “Judged by your laws, after all, but defended by their peers. What say you to that?”

Pietro lifted his hand. It would’ve been a great deal more dramatically apropos if the coin had been a heads, and therefore compelled the minstrel to answer. Sadly, he had forgotten to nudge the coin to that end.

“Oh. Er. Yes. Nevermind the question, then. Ask away.”

Shyleen felt herself bristle at the news that the folk they had been sent to locate may have been executed by these mysterious folk. Whomever this Mistlord was, he was asserting sovereign claims to these lands and enforcing a border where previously there had been none. What rules had the caravaneers broken to incur the wrath of the Mistlord? Were they aware that they were transgressing local laws when they did so? The minstrel’s suggestion was that they did, but that might not have been the truth.

Still, despite her misgivings, aggravated by the surreality of their surroundings as they may have been, information was being given to them, and even the minstrel’s suggestion that they were “no longer in this world” might mean something other than death. For all she knew, they had entered into another world when they descended into the fog. There were still too many layers of hidden meaning, and Shyleen found herself sharing her lady’s frustrations. Yet she forced herself to remain calm and observant as Pietro continued his back-and-forth game. Answers would come in time; they always did, provided one was persistent.

She allowed herself to focus on the delicate beauty of the minstrel’s mask. It was quite lovely, and she wanted to ask more about the crafting of them, but under the circumstances she decided it might be too great a distraction from their current mission. Still, she hoped that a people who created and plainly valued such works of art would also value mercy and compassion.

“I do agree with you, Pietro,” she murmured. “If those traders are guilty of breaking the Mistlord’s law, I should hope that they would be allowed some sort of advocate to defend them. It is difficult enough to defend oneself in one’s homeland. To be charged with crimes in a foreign land may be a bewildering experience. Even if they are guilty, I cannot help but feel pity for them.” She looked at the minstrel and added, “My apologies for speaking out of turn.”

When possible, Shyleen whispers a prayer to Shelyn to open her eyes to the truth behind appearances, and Detects Evil in the room.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:22, Sun 21 July 2013.

Perhaps because he’d seen his homeland, and all its trappings, burn to the ground, Brighton had a more pragmatic view on statehood then Pietro or Shyleen. If you could do whatever you wanted and no one could stop you? Then you were a king, whether or not you had a crown or a throne. They could hope that this Mistlord would be fair and just, but they had no right to expect it.

He waited to see what question would be asked next. And then hopefully they could all move to the next step in this dance.

“Perhaps you misunderstand.” The minstrel stood and flipped the coin back to Pietro. “The people of Fallcrest are in no danger. My Lord was simply considering the best course of action. They are detained because members of their group have shown a propensity to ignore warnings freely given. It seemed somewhat crass to simply show them to the border and leave them without recourse. Now the Ambassador from Fallcrest has arrived. Perhaps the Ambassador and her companions would like to speak to my Lord on the morrow? I feel certain that he would be delighted to turn the remaining caravan workers over to you should that be your wish.”

The Host came in from the back room and cleared his throat. “Your rooms have been prepared. Hot baths are being made ready for those who want them. Simply ask any of those in service here after your meal and they will show you the way.”

The minstrel nodded to the Host. “I will leave you to your repast. Should I tell my Lord to expect you to call upon him in the morning?”

They had at least secured a meeting with the Mistlord. That was auspicious. Very auspicious. Or possibly not. But possibly yes. Or not. Pietro inhaled sharply, forgetting for a moment that he’d stowed his pipe away.

“The Dreamlord would find it most amenable to meet the Mistlord.” Pietro said. He tucked the coin away in a pocket. “Your hospitality has been more exemplary than, eh. Hm. Than something which is quite generally exemplary, I suppose.” Pietro knitted his fingers together in his lap, bobbing his head amiably. Mysteries mysteries. Wonderful mysteries- and caravan survivors, even! Today was a good day. Tonight would likely be a good night. And tomorrow would likely be interesting if nothing else. The godhead had not failed to deliver its suite of wonders, and for that at least Pietro was grateful.

After the Minstrel left Brighton allowed a little more of his frustration to show on his face. His eyes clouded and his mouth settled into a harsh, thin line. He sat down at the table and took some trail rations from his belt pouch and nibbled on them, his stomach growling at the delightful aromas drifting up from the table.

“Does anyone else get the feeling we’re being jerked around? Beside Pietro, I mean, who probably doesn’t mind.”

“Your Lord can expect us to pay him a visit at his convenience.” Gavinia bowed to the minstrel. When unsure the best thing to do was to retreat into the formal niceties. That’s why the niceties existed after all. The minstrel was obviously familiar with such an attitude since she simply returned the bow and then turned to leave by the front door.

Gavinia sat back down and began picking food onto her plate slowly. It gave her something to do while she thought through what had happened so far. She heard Brighton’s thoughts and shook her head. “I’m not sure we’re being jerked around. At least not intentionally. This whole thing reminds me of what my father told me about making contact with the Tigerclaw tribes the first time. It very nearly turned into a battle because of basic cultural misunderstandings. He was young and assumed that because they were human and at least resembled us superficially that they were like us. They weren’t and aren’t. Their cultural has a whole different foundation than ours. He said they actually thought and reasoned differently. That seems like a possibility here to me.”

She took a bite of the bread with a bit of cheese and washed it down with ale. “Does that seem likely to you, my Lord of the Dreams? You seem to have a better handle on these people than anyone else.”

Pietro had kept his eyes closed as Gavinia talked. He was thinking. He was trying to think like the ocean- dark and deep and unperturbed by petty currents. Pietro suspected that the People, whomever they were, were not perturbed by small currents. Theirs was a longer wave. Or current? He’d never quite understood water-metaphors. There wasn’t an ocean handy for them, anyway.

“Cultural humbuggery is, hm.” Pietro began, his eyes still shut. “It is. Hm. It is oil. It is oil on a great machine. A great many young folk think oil a, eh, luxury. But it isn’t.” The old man shook out his limbs, stretching and sighing at several satisfying pops. Some rest would not be unwelcome. The saddle did not always agree with him. Saddles were for young people. “It isn’t. The machine, by itself, does not work particularly well. Thus, the oil. Not a luxury, y’see?” Pietro tugged at his beard. “There are stories of faeries, you know, who bind themselves to certain alien law. A name spoken thrice carries power. True names, maiden’s virgin locks, the last budding of spring.”

The older man stood suddenly, rolling a shrug. In truth he did not have any real clue as to these people or their culture. His was not a straightforward, rational understanding. It was all instinct and hackles. A good hackle could rival the tightest logical syllogism, but at the end of the day, few trusted a hackle. Only the person whose hackle was up trusted it. There was a truism there, somewhere, but Pietro was far too tired to extract it.

“Frivolous to us, absolutely essential to them. The pixies. I wonder, then, how much of us being jerked around is pixie-law. Essential, fundamental.” he said, stifling a yawn. “We are strangers in a strange land. Let each party act according to their custom and hope that doing so is not a violation of pixie-law. Or something.”

Pietro ambled towards the rooms that had apparently been prepared for them. “I shall rise early. I welcome any who would join me in some cold water and warm oatmash.” he said over his shoulder. “Good for the teeth and bowels, oatmash is.”

Brighton uttered a curse and shook his head. “I’m not saying that these people aren’t bound to their roles here. But there’s something about all this that doesn’t sit natural. Something staged. At least some of this is pageantry. And, while I can respect that, it bothers me that we’re worth the effort.”

He didn’t want to sleep in their bed any more than he wanted to eat their food. But he was tired. And who knows what sort of dance they would all have to stumble through tomorrow. “Enough guessing, I suppose. Naught to do but dance till the music stops I s’pose. And hope there’s still a chair left.”

So saying, Brighton retired to his room.

Scouting Out Goblins

Tarrov, Dorsey and Joselyn met early before first light in the stables of the Nentir Inn.  Joselyn used a line of credit with the stable to obtain a horse for Dorsey and though it was a serviceable animal and by all accounts docile, it apparently didn’t like Dorsey very much.  It took a good bit of soothing talk and a comforting words before the animal would let Dorsey get in the saddle.  Even then it gave the man wild-eyed looks from time to time.

Once the group was mounted they crossed the bridge into Fallcrest, wended their way down the cliff road and then left the city by the King’s Gate.  The morning started out miserable and rainy but they rode out of the rain after a few hours as they went further south.  Once out of the Moon Hills and nearly to the Harken Forest they turned off the King’s road along a rough track to the southwest.

As the sun started to get low on the horizon, Joselyn reined to a stop and looked around, concern written on her face.  “I’m getting a bad feeling here.”  She thought for a moment, “There’s a ford up ahead across the White River.  If I were occupying Kalton Manor, I’d have someone at least watching the ford.”

She looked at the two men with her.  “What do you think?”

Tarrov knelt down and surveyed the river.  He loved moving through the grasslands; he could see everything.  It was much better than travelling through the forest, where unseen enemies could be lurking behind every tree.  The best thing was that most travellers felt it was impossible to conceal their movement over the savannah, and therefore made no attempt to try.  This led to two favorable results, in Tarrov’s view.  First, you could see most others from over a mile away.  Second, it led to complacency amongst whatever sentries or scouts might be in the area; their perception that any enemy would have to approach over what seemed like open ground dulled their senses and lulled them into a false sense of security.

Tarrov looked back over his small company.  He had outfitted Joselyn and Dorsey each with a loose-fitting poncho similar to his own, colored with the mottled tans and greens he had found best camouflaged movements in the plains.  The horses were draped with a similar material.  Tarrov had tested the design; it rendered its wearers nigh-invisible at a distance.  Isk, of course, wore no such disguise, but his small stature and natural stealthiness were all that he normally needed.

Tarrov released Kafoih, his hawk, to take a look at the other side of the river.  With a final glance at the terrain, he turned back to his companions.

“Do you see that small hillock slightly to the north and east of the river?”  Tarrov pointed.  “That’s the best vantage point for observing the ford.  If the goblins are watching, my money says that’s where they’ll be.”  He turned his attention to the river north of both the ford and the hillock.  “If the watchers are lax, as most are, they won’t be watching the river north of  where they’re concealed; it would take extra effort from their position.  If we cross there,” Tarrov pointed to a bush-lined spot north of the river, “we should be able to ford undetected and surprise whoever is watching.  It’s an easy swim, even for the horses, and the goblins are, in all likelihood, not looking for a small, stealthy party like ours, but normal travellers or a larger group moving in force towards the Manor.  They won’t be expecting this.”

Tarrov looked at Dorsey and Joselyn.  “Any objections?  If not, let’s head down towards the river.”

Dorsey had been on time for the morning meeting.  A bit bleary-eyed, maybe, and not possessed of a cheerful morning demeanor, but he had been timely.  “Mornin’,” he’d grumbled and then gaped at the horse that had been chosen for him by Joselyn.  The animal wasn’t sure of him and shied away but Dorsey would have none of it.  He grabbed the horse’s reins and pulled it close.

“Listen, you,” he said nose-to-nose with the horse while staring it in the eyes.  “Here’s how its gonna be.  I’m climbing on your back and you’re gonna carry me.”  The horse stared at Dorsey, wild-eyed but still, nostrils flared and puckered.  “I know you don’t like how I smell but get over it.  I don’t bite.  I promise.”  The horse seemed to agree, if surrender was the same as agreement.  At least the poor beast didn’t bolt on the spot.  It did a good job of carrying Dorsey on the day’s journey, following along behind Tarrov who led the way admirably and whose understanding of the plains and grasslands was telling.

When Joselyn halted the scouts, Dorsey sniffed at the air in a curious manner.  “Bad feeling, huh?  Anything more specific?” he asked her as he dismounted.  He gave ‘Crazy-Eye’ a stern look as if daring the horse to run away.  Crazy-Eye seemed rooted to the spot.  “I don’t like feeling this exposed, Tarrov.  There’s nothing to conceal us but the ground itself.  I trust you though, and your ideas are sound.  Hey, looky here…goblin sign.”

Dorsey held up some long stalks of grass that at first glance appeared to have died and broken off naturally.  Upon closer inspection it was clear they’d been pulled and the ends gnawed in a peculiar pattern.  “Goblin teeth make marks like this.  Sharp, pointy, like fat needles.  Goblins are obsessed with chewing because their teeth are always growing.  That’s why you’ll find so much goblin junk has bite marks on it.  Most folk assume its the wolves and wild dogs that the goblins keep, but it isn’t so.  Hmm…looks like it was a small group that passed through here, heading towards that ford you were talking about, Joselyn.  Not recent…several days past at least.”

Dorsey straightened up from kneeling and winced, then rubbed at his inner thigh.  “Gods, I forgot what a pain in the ass it is riding a horse.  Didn’t remember those muscles existed!” he complained.

Dorsey wrapped his cloak tighter as a bit of wind blew it around.  “I say you got a good plan, Tarrov.  Stay in the low ground, hide behind the swells, and come at the goblins where they ain’t looking.  And with the light starting to diminish they might be thinkin’ about dinner and not watching out as well as they should.  Let’s go whack us some goblins!” he flashed his companions a predatory grin.

Joselyn shook her head at Dorsey’s question. “No, not really.  I just have an intuition about these things that I’ve learned to trust over the years.”  She listened to Tarrov and watched him launch his bird into the air.  “I’ve been in this area before once or twice and while you have the right hill, I think, it is actually on the other side of the river.  The ground slopes up and there’s a small bluff on the north bank of the river to the east of the ford there.  From this vantage it looks like it’s all one continuous hill with the river behind it but the river actually cuts through.  The plan to circle will work better if we head over to the west there a ways, cross the river and then come at any sentries from behind.”

Joselyn stood in her stirrups and pointed to the sky south of their position.  “You could ask your bird.  I assume that him circling the hilltop there is an indication that he found something?”  Sure enough Kafoih had taken up circling the hilltop in the distance.  “Of course, if the goblins have eyes just over the ridge line then they may have already spotted us and we’ll want to backtrack out of sight before circling to the west.  But you two are the sneaky, hidey types.  I’m more of a get noticed kind of girl, so I’ll bow to your wisdom in this.”

“That is indeed Kaf’s signal that he’s found something, Tanner,” agreed Tarrov, shielding his eyes as he looked up at the hawk circling the bluff to the southeast.  “And you’re exactly correct; we need to make sure we’re not being watched when we cross the river.”  Tarrov drummed his fingers pensively on his falconry gauntlet.  “While backtracking has the virtue of taking us out of sight, I’m concerned about what any observers might make of us just riding up to the ford, stopping, looking at it, and then turning around and riding back.  It could certainly indicate to them that we’re interested both in the ford and what might be on the other side of it.  We don’t want to raise their suspicions; we want them to think nothing more of us once we’re out of sight.”  Tarrov offered a self-deprecating smile.  “That said, simply wandering off to the east or west on this side of the river could raise their suspicions just as easily.”

“Of course, there’s no guarantee anyone has seen us yet, and given our camouflage I think that’s a pretty good bet.  But I think the best course of action is to proceed as if we have been observed.  That way we’re leaving nothing to chance.”  Tarrov made up his mind and nodded decisively.  “It’s not unusual for Vale Riders to patrol up to the river.  Chances are anyone who’s seen us will assume we are just such a patrol.  Let’s head back until we’re out of sight, and circle around to the west.  We can cross the river there and then come up on the hill from the rear.  Because, as we all know,” Tarrov grinned at Joselyn, “attacks from the rear are the most dangerous!”

 

“Hmmmmm…” Dorsey rumbled thoughtfully.  Joselyn’s clarification altered things slightly, but Tarrov adapted the plan quickly enough.  Kafoih the hawk had indeed spotted something, according to Tarrov, and Dorsey licked his lips in anticipation of the hunt.

“You’re quite the master of beasts, Tarrov,” he complimented his fellow ranger.  “A feat I thought only druids were capable of.  Do your companions speak to you, or do you just understand them instinctively?” he asked with admiring curiosity as the group weighed their next moves.  Gazing at the ford, the river, and the goblin observation post, Dorsey considered what had been suggested.  He snorted – an indication he’d made up his mind.

“Best to assume we’ve been seen and go about our business like we’re just another patrol of Riders checking the main roads and trails.  The goblins will only think we’re up to something if we act like we’re up to something.  I think your plan will work, Tarrov.  We’d best get moving, then!” he agreed wholeheartedly.

Dorsey approached Crazy-Eye and mounted without any fuss.  The horse hung its head low and looked a bit defeated until the ranger tugged gently on the reins.  “There there, a whole day and I’ve done nothing bad to you at all.  Unlike you – your gait is killing my back and legs!” he chided the horse and chuckled as it delivered him another one-eyed crazy stare.  Dorsey’s chuckle deepened to a full belly laugh at Tarrov’s joke.

“Indeed they are, my friend.  Indeed they are!”

 

Tarrov felt sorry for Dorsey; the first day back astride a horse was a killer.  And if Dorsey thought he was sore now, he was REALLY going to be feeling it tomorrow.  We need to engage these goblins before Dorsey is too stiff to move at all, Tarrov laughed to himself.

Time to get to it, then, Tarrov thought.  The party turned about and cantered back up the way they had come until they left the view of any potential spies.  They then wheeled to the west, moving swiftly off the road and through the tall grass.  After a bit of riding, they found the bed of a small stream flowing down to the White River.  Over the years, the stream and long summer rains had hollowed out a small gully; Tarrov and Dorsey both agreed this would shield their river approach from prying eyes.  They followed the channel until it became almost a ravine and emptied out into the larger watercourse.

The crossing itself was more of a hassle than actually difficult.  The White River was not especially wide at this point, and “lazy” would be an ambitious description for its current.  That said, “Crazy-Eye,” as Dorsey had taken to calling his steed, was none too excited about getting in the water.  While Tahksyr was an experienced swimmer and Joselyn’s horse seemed to have no problems with the crossing, Crazy-Eye was apparently convinced that Dorsey had only ridden him this far as part of a master plan to drown him in the river.  It took all of Tarrov’s not-inconsiderable animal-handling skills and the better part of fifteen minutes to coax Crazy-Eye into the water.  But once he took the plunge, Crazy-Eye made for the opposite shore with a purpose, apparently deducing that it was the best way to spend as little time in the river as possible.

Isk, of course, loved the water, and plunged in without a second thought.  Crazy wolf, thought Tarrov affectionately, as he nudged Tahksyr to follow Dorsey and Crazy-Eye.

Once on the other side, the group proceeded to wring themselves out and prepare for some goblin-fighting.  As they restrung their bows, Tarrov turned to Dorsey.  “I wasn’t avoiding your question earlier, just trying to figure out how to best explain it.  All I can tell you are that there are certain animals . . . Isk, Kaf, and Tahksyr . . . with whom I share an unusually strong bond.  We don’t speak to each other, per se; it’s different than that.  I can sense what they are feeling and thinking, and vice versa.”  Isk trotted up and stared at Dorsey as Tarrov scratched him behind the ears.  “Isk, for example, thinks you smell weird.”  Tarrov grinned at his bearded friend, “but you don’t need a wolf’s nose to sense that!”

Tarrov turned to Joselyn.  “You ready, Tanner?”  Seeing her nod, Tarrov looked at the group.  “Okay, let’s head this way.”  He pointed.  “We’ll attack from behind; those goblins will never know what hit them.”  Tarrov leapt astride Tahksyr.  “Let’s go.”

 

Joselyn followed the men as they circled around behind the hill to get the jump on the goblins.  She had no problems letting the two rangers take the lead.  They were better with their bows than she was and if they were attacked their bows would be much better than her light crossbow at blunting a charge.  Meanwhile she was content to keep an eye on their back trail.  More than one ambush had gone horribly wrong when the ambushers had become the ambushees because the enemy came up behind them unawares. She was looking back when she almost ran into Tarrov and Dorsey who had stopped in front of her.

“Hey…”, she started and then went silent as she saw what had made the guys stop.

The backside of the hill wasn’t a couple of goblins around a campfire.  Someone had erected a small field fortification just below the crest of the south side of the hill.  Part of the hill had been dug away to flatten off a “terrace” and the dirt had been used to build a low wall on three sides, the north side using the hill itself as the fourth wall.  Stakes had been added to the dirt walls to discourage any sort of horse charge and it looked like platforms had been built in the corners so archers could fire more easily.  It wasn’t a large fortification but it looked like it could serve a dozen or so and it looked properly designed and constructed.

“Hmmmm…” Joselyn mused. “Is that normal for goblins?”

“No.  That is not typical of goblins,” Dorsey answered Joselyn’s muse.  His eyes swept across the fortifications, especially the corner platforms, searching out any sign of hidden opposition.  He also nocked an arrow just in case.  A low growl issued from his throat even though Dorsey seemed unaware of it.

“But this is typical of hobgoblins.  They are more organized and militaristic than goblins, and have enough wits about them to build fortifications and even siege engines,” he continued with a trace of admiration in his voice.

“I think it would be best to proceed on foot.  The horses would only get hurt if we tried to breach the walls while still astride the mounts.  Tarrov, did you get any sense from Kaf for how many whatevers are occupying this place?”

“I can do you one better, Dorsey.  I can actually see for myself.”  Tarrov closed his eyes and summoned the vision of Kafoih, his bonded hawk.

As Tarrov closed his eyes the world dropped away and then suddenly snapped back into painfully clear sight.  The inside of the fort was visible as his mind soared on gentle thermals high above.  There were 3 goblins doing duty as guards patrolling the walls.  Four tents had been pitched in the open area but no one moved among them.  It was hard to see but it looked as if a hole had been tunnelled into the excavated wall of the hill.

 

Tarrov lay on his stomach, observing the goblin activity.  Dorsey lay on one side of him, Joselyn the other.  The horses were in a small depression just behind the small knoll upon which the three were lying as they took in the unanticipated stockade they now knew guarded the White River Ford.

“Why is it never easy?” Tarrov complained.  “Is that too much to ask?  Just once, I would like things to be easy.”  Tarrov glanced to the skies, wondering if Erastil heard his plea.  Probably, he thought, but Erastil liked giving his followers challenges.  Builds character, the priests said.  Tarrov sighed.  At his current rate he was going to be the most characterful guy in the Vale.

Guess it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.  “All right,” Tarrov said to his companions as he drew a reasonable facsimile of the fortification in the dirt, “looks like we have three guards patrolling and maybe as many as nine others in the tents.  And only the gods know what’s in that hole they’ve dug for themselves, or how deep it goes.”

“So let’s brainstorm here.  Since we don’t know how many goblins we’ll be facing, I think it’s to our advantage to use the element of surprise.  So if we can engage these three guards quiet-like, we should be able to take whoever’s in the tents pretty easily and then figure out what is going on with that dig.”

“Option one is just climbing the wall and surprising them.  The wall is only dirt, isn’t too high, and those stakes would make climbing it even easier.  The guards probably don’t think we can sneak up on them, so chances are they aren’t being too vigilant, especially since it’s likely their main job is to watch the ford.  The only question is if we can close with them without being spotted.”

Tarrov tapped his dirt drawing thoughtfully.  “I think we can pull it off.  It’s not like they’re continually staring out at the plains behind them; we’ve only even seen them every so often.  With our camouflage and other skills, and their relaxed attitude, I like our chances.  And don’t forget we have Kaf and Isk to help out.  Nothing like an angry bird to distract those pigs in there, am I right?”

“Option two is just getting into ranged combat with them.   We might be able to pick one or two of them off before they’re aware of us.  Downside is that they’ll alert whoever else is in there and we’ll have a passel of prepared goblins to deal with.”

Tarrov looked at his two companions.  “I prefer option one, but I’m open to other suggestions.”

 

Dorsey chewed on a blade of grass while Tarrov laid out his ideas.  Chewing grass helped him think like a goblin even if it might later upset his stomach.

“Those are both fine ideas, but they don’t play to our strengths,” he observed bluntly but not disparagingly.  “You’re a fine archer and my guess is that Joselyn here is better at range than up close.  Unless we’re dancin’…” he said through a lopsided grin and winked at the lovely bard.  “My strength is up close, always has been, even if I could put an arrow through a goblin’s eye at fifty paces.  Let me propose a third option and you two tell me what you think of it.”

Dorsey adjusted how he was laying in the grass so he could point with his right hand at the camp model.  That’s one hell of an ability Tarrov’s got, being able see through the eyes of his animal companions.  Right useful, that! he thought and graced his fellow ranger with a respectful nod when their eyes met.

“Okay, we form two groups.  One group to sneak inside the camp, either under the wagon-gate or over a wall, the other to stay out here and snipe the exposed guards when the time is right.  What is the right time?  Well, that’ll either be when the goblins spot one of the two groups and raise the alarm – not ideal – or when the inside group succeeds in taking out one of the roving guards up close and personal.”  Dorsey quietly spat out some grass-juice and selected a fresh blade to chew.

“I figure that me and Isk would form the first group – assuming you can communicate to him what we’re trying to do.  I’ll take down a sentry as quietly as I can, preferably the one furthest from the archer group, which will be you and Joselyn.  Isk is there to watch my back in case the goblins get wise to what’s happening before we strike, and also to help me manage things inside until you and Joselyn can catch up.”  Dorsey looked both his companions in the eyes to gauge their understanding before continuing.

“This plan has its risks, but it plays to our strengths.  It reduces how many of us have to sneak past the maybe-watchful, maybe-not, sentries, and gets some of us inside quickly to disrupt a response from any goblins we haven’t seen yet.  The tricky thing will be a good signal…” Dorsey paused a moment to think about that.

“Maybe I’ll just cut the sentry’s head from his body and throw it over the south wall.  That should get your attention…and maybe even distract the other two guards enough to give you some easier targets!”

The Beast liked that idea and Dorsey’s insides got a little warmer with the thought.

 

Tarrov pondered Dorsey’s plan.  “I have a couple of reservations about that strategy.  I think you might be overestimating my skill with a bow; I’m almost as good with my rapier as my longbow, although it doesn’t generally do as much damage.  But I’m also better with my bow at close range than at long.  If I could get to one of these towers,” he pointed to the three platforms on his drawing, “I would be in a much better position to assist you.  I’m also concerned that the wall might keep Tanner and me from assisting you and Isk.  If you two get inside and reveal yourselves by attacking, every goblin there can gang up on you while the wall keeps us from supporting or assisting you, and there is no guarantee we will have a line of sight to any of them.”  That sounded like a recipe for disaster to Tarrov.

“That said, the idea of you and Isk wading into close combat while Tanner and I provide fire support certainly has its charms.  But I think we need to all be up there together so we can support each other.  And if you can move the cart out of the way, I can call Tahksyr up to help out with the attack.  Aren’t goblins terrified of horses?”  Tarrov looked to Dorsey for confirmation; he was impressed with his companion’s vast collection of goblin lore.  If their conversation during the journey from Fallcrest was any indication, Dorsey’s interest in goblins, and more specifically on the best ways to kill them, bordered on the obsessive.  Given their current situation, Tarrov viewed this as a perfectly fine preoccupation and a major plus for their group.

“As far as timing goes, I think we should rest here now and then launch our attack in the very early morning.  The goblins’ night vision only works for around sixty feet or so, right Dorsey?”  Tarrov gave their goblin expert a questioning glance.  “If we approach to around that range in the night, then close during early dawn, would the fact that there would not be enough light for good day vision but not enough darkness for good night vision give us an advantage?”

Joselyn rolled her eyes at Tarrov and Dorsey.  “You men talk too much.  If you can’t figure out what to do, just follow me.”

She turned and started creeping quickly towards the goblin outpost.  She had barely started when her form blurred into a shadowy spot in the grass.  The spot was very difficult to see unless you knew what to look for, so Tarrov and Dorsey both followed it easily enough.

Isk sat up and perked his ear straight into the air as Joselyn left.  He whined softly and cocked his head to one side while giving Tarrov a look that seemed to say, “What’s the crazy bitch up to?”

Meanwhile Joselyn was moving steadily away from the men and towards the outpost, the setting sun casting a long shadow on this side of the hill that seemed to swallow her whole.

Dorsey grinned widely in definite approval of Joselyn’s behavior.  He thumped Tarrov on the shoulder enthusiastically.  “I like her, she knows how to get something done!  I suppose I have to follow her now, don’t want her to get hurt…” he rolled his eyes and sighed, feigning resigned indignation at her hasty departure.

He rolled over into a low crouch and followed along behind the impulsive bard.  Like her, his form seemed to melt into the dusk-time shadows.  He kept his bow at the ready while he crept up to the wall – just in case.

 

Tarrov grinned and rolled his eyes at Iskuras as he watched his two companions slowly move off towards the goblin encampment; they were almost imperceptible at this point.  “That’s Tanner for you; planning is for the little people.  Bet she’s hoping there’s a bed and a pillow somewhere in there.  Let’s stalk some goblin, shall we?”

Tarrov felt Isk’s approval; it had been too long since they did some good hunting.  Tarrov told Kafoih to be ready for a fight and moved out through the grass himself.  For several minutes he and Isk moved quietly but relatively quickly towards the dirt wall.  At several points he used Kafoih’s vision to determine what was going on inside; he could discern no reaction to their approach.

They ended up against the dirt wall; he could see Dorsey and Joselyn near the gate.  As far as Tarrov could tell, there was still no response from inside.  Tarrov signaled to Dorsey with the hand signs they had learned from Alyr; he was going to be going up and over behind the guard nearest him when that guard walked past the wall.  He shared the plan with Isk, who was fully on board.  The guard came closer, and closer, and then he was past, walking away from them.  Tarrov took a breath, signaled to Dorsey, nodded at Isk, identified the target for Kaf, and went over the wall.  He landed softly, unslinging his longbow and firing at the goblin’s back as Isk closed with teeth bared and Kafoih dived in for the attack . . .

 

Dorsey leaned in close and whispered in Joselyn’s ear once they reached the wall.  “You could have just said I prefer option one, you know…” he teased.  She definitely needed a tactics talk once this fight was over.

He glanced at Tarrov and spotted his hand signals.  Dorsey tensed and took in a slow focusing breath while waiting for the other ranger to strike.  Then Tarrov and his host were on the move over the top of the wall.  Dorsey jerked his head, indicating to Joselyn that it was time to attack (as if she needed the hint), then swiftly made the top of his portion of wall.  He spotted the furthest of the goblin guards and spat an arrow at it from the Tarrov-crafted bow.

The arrow sped away as if launched from a ballista and pinned the poor goblin to the back of the north wall – the arrow had punched clear through its poorly armored torso.

Joselyn gave Dorsey a pat on his shoulder and as he released his arrow she scrambled up the wall.  Once at the top she scanned the area.  She saw Tarrov and his companions take one of the guards down in a silent spray of blood.  At the same time Dorsey’s arrow took out the second guard.

The final goblin stood a few yards away with a wide-eyed look of surprise on his face.  Joselyn knew that the surprise wouldn’t keep him silent for long.  Gathering her will she whispered the words to a spell under her breath and blew several rose petals from her palm in the direction of the goblin.

The goblin inhaled deeply, preparing to scream a warning when his eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled to the ground.  Joselyn smiled and gave Tarrov and Dorsey the thumbs up signal.  Not half bad.  Three guards dispatched without a sound in a handful of seconds.  Of course hers was the only one in any condition to be questioned.  She wondered if the boys remembered that this trip was about information gathering.

She attracted Tarrov’s attention and pointed towards one of the platforms in the corner of the walls.  He could easily give cover with his bow from that vantage while Dorsey and she explored the tents to see if there were more enemies in them.

The goblins fell quickly and that made Dorsey feel warm and fuzzy inside.  The only good goblin is a dead goblin, too bad we have to leave at least one alive, he reflected, a wisftul grin creasing his heavily bearded face.  He quickly flashed his companions a thumbs-up and then was on the move.

He scouted the four tents, padding along confidently on quiet feet, and finished his movement just to the left of the tunnel entrance, his face scrunched up as he sniffed at the air coming from within while his eyes scanned the spoil for tracks.

What the hell did they dig this for?  A kennel for goblin-dogs, or a place to hide when the sun gets too bright?  Maybe it’s their larder, infernal goblins are constantly eating something… he wondered.

 

Good work, guys, Tarrov sent to Isk and Kafoih.  He could feel the exultation of the kill from both of his companions.  Head back up, Kaf, he sent, and the hawk took flight back into the darkening skies.  He looked over at Dorsey and Joselyn.  Looks like Dorsey had actually pinned his goblin to the wall.  That man is STRONG, thought Tarrov to himself.  Joselyn, of course, had put hers to sleep.  Must have been talking to him, Tarrov smirked.

Tarrov got Dorsey’s and Joselyn’s attention and pantomimed tying up the sleeping goblin.  He wasn’t going to stay down forever, and it would be best for everyone if he was bound and gagged when they woke up.  Use your nose, Isk, he sent, asking the wolf to smell out any other enemies in the encampment.  He also directed Tahksyr to join them.  In the meantime, Tarrov moved quickly and silently to the platform Joselyn had indicated in order to take up an overwatch position should they find anyone.

Joselyn looked down at the sleeping goblin.  The thing wasn’t going to stay asleep forever and she didn’t want it waking at an inopportune time.  Unfortunately she had left her rope on her horse which wasn’t likely to be climbing the wall any time soon.  She looked around and saw Dorsey make his way to the opening in the side of the hill.  She noted that Tarrov had taken her suggestion and set up a covering position on one of the platforms.  Isk was making his way across the yard towards Dorsey, sniffing this way and that as he went.

Isk!  That was an idea.  “Isk!”, Joselyn hissed, low but forceful.  “Come here boy!”

The big wolf cocked his head to the side and padded over to her.  She scratched his head in greeting and then led him to the goblin.  She pointed to the sleeping creature and said, “Sit!”

Isk grinned a doggy grin and proceeded to plop 180 pounds of canine on the goblin who promptly woke up from the impact.  It opened its mouth and Joselyn quickly shoved one of her full belt pouches into it.  The creature’s eyes bulged a little wider when she said, “Move or make any noise and the wolf here will pull you entrails out through your throat.  Sit still and we’ll be back to have a nice cup of tea and a chat.  Ta!”  She patted the goblin on the head and hurried towards Dorsey and giving Tarrov the all clear signal.

 

I GUESS that’s all clear, thought Tarrov, responding to Joselyn’s signal with a hand wave of his own.  He felt  Isk’s amusement as his friend pinned the goblin and snarled.  The wolf enjoyed the occasional opportunity to test the bad guys’ bladder control, and according to Isk’s keen sense of smell, this goblin had already failed his test.

“Sit?!?”  Tarrov caught Isk’s sense of bemused outrage.  He smiled and sent back a mental shrug.

You’re the one who sat, you big softie, he teased.  Isk sniffed and indicated that he was just being a good pack member.

Tarrov laughed and continued to watch the tents for any sign of movement.  He was looking forward to figuring out exactly what the goblins were doing here, but first they needed to clear the area.

 

Dorsey shook his head, bemused, at how Joselyn had solved the prisoner problem.  He’d just assumed she had some rope, or twine, or even a belt to tie up the goblin she’d knocked out with her magic.  Securing a sleeping goblin wasn’t high on his priority list – ensuring that nothing else was in the immediate vicinity and ready to jump out at them was.

Once Joselyn rejoined him, he growled out some instructions in a low quiet voice.  “I have twine and rope in my pack.  The twine’s in the side pocket closest to you, and the rope is looped and strapped to the bottom.  Might work better than a wolf-blanket.”

He sniffed again at the opening and looked back at wolf sitting on the very frightened-looking goblin.  “Isk looks happy.  Or constipated.  Not really sure what that expression is,” he joked with the bard.  He risked a look into the opening, his eyes surprisngly capable of piercing the dark interior.

See anything?  Smell anything?  Or is the camp, for all appearances, empty?  Remember, Dorsey has low-light vision, he should be able to see into the hole.  See my previous post for skill checks if needed.

“Nah.” Joselyn shook her head at Dorsey.  “If I tie him up he’ll just squirm around and try to get free.  If he does he’ll make a lot of noise and cause us problems.  With Isk sitting on him he isn’t going anywhere or going to think about making trouble.”

The entrance to the tunnel was crude but sturdy with timber beams buttressing the walls and ceiling.  The tunnel was dim and burrowed straight through the hill.  Dorsey could see light clearly coming in the other side.  It looked like sunlight and not some flickering torch or lantern.  He could clearly hear sounds of movement from somewhere in there.

Joselyn looked down the tunnel and then back at the captured goblin.  “I’ve got an idea.”, she said with a big grin.  “Will you boys come rescue me if I get in trouble?”

 

While Dorsey and Joselyn conversed in front of the “cave” entrance, Tarrov saw Tahksyr galloping up to the palisade’s makeshift gate.  I’ll be right there, Tarrov sent, as he leapt down to move the cart blocking the road into the encampment.  From what Tarrov could tell, it looked as if the exterior camp was clear, and the only question was how to go about dealing with whoever or whatever might be down the hillside’s excavated passageway.

Quiet, Tahk, we’re still not clear, Tarrov sent, as he finished moving the cart.  Tahksyr eyed Tarrov disapprovingly as he moved stealthily into the stockade’s interior.  This was far from his first covert assault; he knew how to conduct himself and was slightly insulted that Tarrov thought he needed reminding.

Tarrov gave his steed an apologetic look and noted with amusement the bugged-out eyes of the captive goblin.  He seemed to recall that goblins were terrified of horses.  Task complete, he moved towards where Dorsey and Joselyn were standing near the tunnel mouth.  “So,” he murmured, indicating the opening, “have you two experts figured out what we’re going to do about this?”

 

“Lady”, Dorsey corrected, a vicious gleam in his eyes, “you’ve never seen how I tie up a goblin!”  He looked again at Isk and the vicious gleam was replaced by hard-edged mirth.

“Isk!  Ohhhh Isk!” he said just loud enough for his companions to hear.  “Did you just pass wind on that poor goblin?!?” he chuckled.  Indeed, the captive goblin’s face was wrinkled up and it was thrashing its head from side to side, and the trapped thing looked to be turning a bit green.  “Well, I suppose that will do nicely.  More than one way to string up a goblin I guess.  You were saying…?” Dorsey directed his attention back to the impulsive bard.

“Rescue?  You?  Hah!” he chuckled again.  “The only thing in need of rescue is whatever’s down in that hole.  But by all means, go ahead.  Between your charming good looks and my bad attitude we ought to be able to handle whatever’s down there.  Just holler if you need me.  Oh, and remember to run back my way, I’m a bit slow in this armor.”

He gave his attention over to Tarrov.  “We guard, she goes inside.  If she needs help, we respond.  Nice move with Tahk, by the way – I think that poor goblin will be having nightmares for weeks!” he complimented his fellow ranger, a toothy grin spreading across his face.

“I know I’m going to regret this.”, Joselyn said as she trotted back to the prone goblin.  She whipped out her rapier and nonchalantly stabbed the goblin in the arm.  The little guy tried to scream through his pouch-filled mouth.  “Sorry buddy.  Need some of your blood.”

Joselyn brought the blade up and dripped some of the blood onto her finger, closed her eyes and chanted a quick spell.  Her body began to shake and writhe.  Then she started shrinking in bits and spurts, her skin mottling and turning greenish.  He head enlarged and her mouth widened and filled with sharp canine teeth.  After a couple of seconds she had transformed into a copy of the captured goblin.

“Ye gods… these things smell bad.”, the Joselyn-goblin said.  She trotted back to the entrance with Dorsey and Tarrov.  “Okay boys, I’m heading down the tunnel.  Give me 30 seconds or so and then follow quietly.  This little disguise ought to at least buy us enough surprise to deal with whatever is down there.”

She smacked Dorsey on the butt as she headed into the tunnel.  “One for good luck.”

 

Tarrov nodded agreeably as Dorsey explained Joselyn’s plan to him.  “So Tanner goes first and takes the brunt of any traps, ambush, or other goblin-related unpleasantness that might lie in wait for us?  I fully approve of this plan!”  He grinned as the red-headed ranger began bloodletting the captive goblin.  Isk cocked his head questioningly and looked at Tarrov, who shrugged.  I really have no idea, he sent.

Tarrov was caught slightly off guard as Joselyn’s form began to change into that of a goblin, but he quickly caught onto the plan.  “You look GOOD, Tanner,” he grinned as the goblin-girl walked up to them, “green is DEFINITELY your color.”  The bard gave him a long-suffering look, slapped Dorsey’s backside, and headed down the passageway.

Tarrov looked at Dorsey.  “I think she likes you!”  He chuckled at his friend’s pleased reaction.  They waited in silence for a few beats.  “It’s been a half-minute.  Let’s head down there and see what kind of trouble she’s gotten herself into.”  He nocked an arrow and began moving stealthily after their goblinesque infiltrator.

 

Dorsey looked horrified as Joselyn transformed into a goblin.  “Just as I was startin’ to like you,” he sputtered.  But his grin popped back quickly for he was unable to maintain the feigned attitude for long.  He just wasn’t a very good actor.  But his horror was part real – he’d never been comfortable with overt magics and seeing Joselyn shrink and swell and change due to her spell was rather unsettling.  It was jerky and false somehow, not at all like the smooth transformations of druids…or were-creatures.

He gave a little start when she smacked him on the rump and he barely managed to stammer “We’ll just be a moment away!” before she trotted, goblin-style, into the opening.

“Don’t be telling anyone I let a goblin smack me on the ass, Tarrov!” he groused.  “I’ll never hear the end of it.”  Then a sour, almost sick expression overcame his features.  “You don’t think…that she sprouted a little green willy, do you, when she…you know?”

Dorsey shook his head to clear the distasteful thought and swapped weapons, stowing his bow and drawing his greatsword.  “You know the drill – just like Alyr taught us.  Stay out of swingin’ range.  Close quarters can get…messy!”  Dorsey licked his lips in anticipation, then crept along after their goblinised companion.

The tunnel cut straight through the hill.  It was rough but well done.  Sturdy beams supported the walls and ceiling and kept the tunnel at a consistent 5 feet in width.  Joselyn wasn’t an expert but she’d run up against goblins before and this construction was certainly out of character for them in her experience.  For one, there wasn’t garbage strewn everywhere.  Goblins were notoriously messy and this place, while not clean per se, was neat.

The light coming from the other end of the tunnel turned out to be the last dregs of sunlight for the day streaming in through a large window cut into the north side of the hill overlooking the ford across the White River.  The window was in the north wall of a large room.  The tunnel Joselyn was travelling emptied into the south wall of the room.  A couple of cots and a chest occupied one corner and a large table covered with what looked to be maps and papers stood in the center of the room with stools arranged around it.

Two goblins were at the window keeping watch over the ford intently.  Two larger humanoid figures sat at the table pointing at the maps and talking with each other.  Although she had never seen them, Joselyn thought she recognized hobgoblins, the larger, more civilized cousins to the goblins they had already encountered.  These particular hobgoblins were certainly well equipped with chain hauberks, steel helmets and scimitars.  Their wooden, round shields leaned against the two bunks in the corner.

When Joselyn walked into the room the two hobgoblins looked up.

“What’re you doing off the wall?”  One of the hobgoblins said with a snarl.

Joselyn did a little nervous dance.  “They’s lights coming up from thata way!”  She pointed to the south.  “I come to tell you.”

The hobgoblin looked suspicious.  “Why didn’t you blow the alarm horn?  Don’t you remember the alarm sounds?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I’s remembering but Dumbshit try blowing horn with nose.  It getting stuck.”  Joselyn pantomimed sticking a horn up her goblin nose.  “We’s be getting it out but it all covered in gooky muck.  Nobody be wanting to blow horn now.  I come reporting.”

The hobgoblins got to their feet and collected their shields.  “You puny runts are too stupid to be even canon fodder.” The one who had been speaking backhanded Joselyn who fell backwards onto the dirt floor where she cowered.  “I’m going to skewer the dumb turd that ruined the horn.  I might do it with the horn.  Come on runt.”

The hobgoblins stalked into the tunnel, while Joselyn got to her feet and rubbed the blood off her lip.  “You are going to be so sorry you did that.”  She muttered to herself.  She shot the two goblins on duty a worried glance but they were only giggling with each other at her predicament, so she trotted back down the tunnel after the two hobgoblins.

The whole conversation there was in Goblin and was loud enough to be easily heard down the tunnel as Dorsey and Tarrov are coming that direction.

Dorsey summarized for Tarrov as there was not much time.  “Hobgoblins, two of them at least.  Heading our way too.  The girl’s ruse worked!”  But the confines of the tunnel posed a problem – his big sword would be mostly useless.  So he held it in a reverse grip with his left hand and drew his dagger with his right.

“Be ready!” he warned Tarrov, a hungry glint in his eyes.

 

Tarrov put a hand on Dorsey’s shoulder, gave him a meaningful look, pulled slightly, and motioned back up the corridor.  If they moved back outside it would give Dorsey the room to use his outsized weapon, Tarrov a bit of range for his bow, and allow Kaf, Isk, and Tahksyr to participate in the.combat, if necessary.  They wouldn’t have to worry about the lookout goblins joining in either.  Get ready, boys, Tarrov quickly summarized the situation for his animal friends, raised an eyebrow at Dorsey, and headed back up the passageway . . .

Dorsey nodded in understanding.  One of Dorsey’s faults was that he tended to rush into action.  A fan of hit and run tactics, falling back to more advantageous position made sense – it just hadn’t occurred to him.  He beat feet back towards the opening, intending to break right and then lay in wait for the hobgoblins to emerge.

Once there, he improvised a ruse of his own.  “Aaaaigh!  They’s got horses!” he cried in his best panicky goblin voice, which sounded very odd coming out of his mouth.  “They’s busted through da gate!  Hurry!  Hurrrrrrry!”

 

What in the world is he yelling about?  Tarrov was rapidly reaching the conclusion that both his companions simply lost their minds in combat situations.  Seeing Dorsey break right, Tarrov turned to the left, moving into a position where he would be able to hit the first hobgoblin through the opening.

He mentally informed Kafoih and Tahksyr of the imminent attack, telling Isk to remain on goblin-guard.  Isk won’t be happy with Tanner for taking him out of the fight, Tarrov thought, but there was nothing they could do about that now.   We should probably try and capture the last hobgoblin, he suggested to all three, they undoubtedly know more than the goblins.  As Kaf began his dive, Tarrov drew his longbow and fired to the beat of Tahksyr’s hoofs . . .

 

Tarrov’s arrow skipped off the shield of the first hobgoblin out of the tunnel and sliced the creature’s cheek open as it passed.  It immediately threw up its shield and ducked its head, protecting itself from the slashing talons and crushing hooves of Tarrov’s friends.

The second hobgoblin took warning from its colleague’s distress and came out, sword drawn and shield at the ready.  Dorsey’s two-handed swing took a chunk out of the wooden shield and Dorsey danced back, avoiding a quick riposte from angry hobgoblin.

“I don’t like being slapped, jackass.” Joselyn said as she rammed two feet of blade into the back of the hobgoblin facing off with Dorsey.  The creature screamed in pain and rage and whirled on her.  Somewhere in the tunnel she had assumed her natural form again.  Her red hair whipped about her face as she spun away from her angry and wounded opponent.

“He’s all yours, Dorsey.”, Joselyn said.  “He’s way too ugly for me.”

“With pleasure,” he grunted at Joselyn.  Dorsey’s eyes were dilating with the excitement of battle and his words came out in ragged, pant-like bursts.  “You’re so ugly…I’m gonna let you live…so my perty friend…can do nasty things to you!” he threatened the back-stabbed hobgoblin as he brought the hilt of his greatsword down in a clubbing blow on top of its head.

 

Tarrov muttered a curse to himself as his perfectly-placed arrow deflected off the hobgoblin’s armor.  I need to find some better arrows, he thought to himself, this quiverfull just isn’t getting the job done.  It looked like Tahksyr and Kafoih weren’t having much better luck, although not for lack of enthusiasm.   Keep at it, guys, Tarrov sent.  He couldn’t even see Dorsey or Joselyn through all the confusion, but the outraged hobgoblin sounds from that general direction suggested that at least one of them was doing well.  Tarrov breathed in, this next shot was going to be tricky between the flying hooves and feathers.  He held the breath, found his spot, and released his arrow, praying that Erastil would help it find a better purchase than its brother.

 

Joselyn spun away from the melee and headed back into the tunnel at a run.  “You guys have this under control!”, she shouted over her shoulder. “I’m going to deal with the two little bastards I left in here.”  With the last dying rays of the sun she disappeared back the way she had just come.

Dorsey smacked his opponent in the side of the head with the flat of his greatsword and the hobgoblin’s eyes rolled back in its head as the thing slid bonelessly to the ground.  The other hobgoblin didn’t fair so well as arrow, hoof and talon overwhelmed its defenses and it dropped dead.

Once the enemy had been dispatched, Kafoih beat his wings furiously and rose quickly back into the sky.  Tahksyr high-stepped it back to the gate and pranced a bit in place there.  It seems he was rather pleased with himself at trampling the life out of the goblinoid.  Just to punctuate his pleasure, he trumpeted a loud neigh and shook his mane at Tarrov.

 

“Yes, yes, you’re a fearsome warhorse, and goblins of all flavors quake at the sound of your hoofbeats,” Tarrov rolled his eyes at Tahksyr.  He looked over at Dorsey, who had taken on a decidedly wolfish mien.  “Good work; you’re quite the swordsman!”  He nodded with impressed approval at the bearded ranger’s unconscious foe.  “Why don’t I tie these two up,” Tarrov glanced at the insentient hobgoblin and the green-skinned wretch who still served as one of Iskuras’ least-favorite cushions, “while you head down and help out our red-haired illusionist?”  Tarrov indicated the corridor.  “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”

Tarrov grabbed his rope from Tahksyr’s pack and went to tie up the comatose hobgoblin.  He had spent an uncomfortable couple of weeks training in the fine art of escaping from these sorts of bonds; his hard-won experience gave him at least a rudimentary knowledge regarding how best to bind a humanoid in a way that made it most difficult to exercise such skills.  After he finished the hobgoblin, Tarrov moved to the terrified goblin, who made little move to resist his efforts.

As he finished up the goblin’s bindings, Tarrov looked at Isk.  Head down and see if those two need any help, he sent, maybe there’s a goblin that needs biting.  He grinned as Isk hastily took off after Dorsey.  And thanks for watching this one, my friend.  Isk’s nonchalant acknowledgement of his gratitude managed to seep through the wolf’s overriding anticipation of imminent combat.

Done with his work, Tarrov looked at the two goblinoids with self-satisfied approval.  What do you think about that, eh, Alyr?  He shot a glance at Tahksyr.  “If either one of these guys starts trying to escape, feel free to step on him.”  Tahksyr snorted with amusement.   Maybe Kaf can peck their eyes out, Tahksyr sent, he likes that.  Tarrov grinned.  “That works too.  I’ll be right back.”  Area secured, he headed back down to give his friends whatever assistance they might require.

 

 

“Goooood…” Dorsey growled as his target collapsed in a heap and he took in what fate had befallen the other hobgoblin.  He flashed a predatory grin at Tarrov.  “That was quick…and therefore good.  You’d make a fine skirmisher…I think…you and your animal pack.  Hah!” he complimented, his words coming out little better than before.  The crazy battle-lust seemed to have subsided from his eyes, replaced by something similar to relief.

He stared daggers at the unconscious goblin.  “That one’s redundant,” Dorsey grumbled.  “This Hobby here will know more about what’s going on.  Was hoping there’d be some Hobbies here, they make worthy opponents.”  It seemed to Tarrov that Dorsey was considering killing the goblin on the spot, but if so, he didn’t act on it.

“You got ’em covered,” he nodded at the prisoners.  “I’m after our surprising friend…” he grinned at Tarrov, “…the little woman may need some help.  Don’t want her breaking any nails or mussing her hair, do we?” he finished with a roll of the eyes and headed down the tunnel.

Joselyn made it back to the observation post but the two goblins were nowhere to be found.  They must have high tailed it out the window when things went badly.  This was disconcerting.  Joselyn and the guys didn’t know where any other goblin reinforcements might be located so they couldn’t guess how long any reaction would take.

Dorsey ran into the room and Joselyn turned towards him.  “Damnation.”, She said. “They took off.  I don’t think either of us are going to fit through that window.”

As Isk and Tarrov ran into the room, Tarrov got an alarmed sense from Tafoih.  It seemed that trouble was on the way.  He wasn’t sure exactly how close they were.  Tafoih’s since of time was rudimentary. There was day and night and now and later and that about covered it.

 

“Welp.  Nothing to do about that now,”  Tarrov said, staring out the too-small window.  “Let’s start by seeing what we can find in this . . .”  He stopped abruptly as his eyes went slightly out of focus.

 

Tarrov’s gaze narrowed into sharpness that saw even through the dusk.  Several miles to the southwest from the goblin outpost on the trail was a large group of hobgoblins and goblins marching.  Two of the hobgoblins rode horses and a couple of wagons followed behind the marching humanoids.  There were at least 20 warriors and some that looked more like workers, including some ragged looking humans.

 

“Huh.”  Tarrov said; his gaze cleared and he looked at his two companions.  “Looks like we have a company of about 20 warriors and a baggage train headed this way.  They have wagons, and are mostly afoot, so they’re not an immediate problem.  We probably have some hours yet.  That said, we don’t know where the goblins are; they might end up alerting the group and getting them to move at an accelerated pace.”

Tarrov looked at Isk.  Think you can hunt them down?  Isk looked insulted.  Good.  Kaf, you and Isk are hunting again.  Kaf was noncommittal; Tarrov got a sense of a beak in the air. He laughed.  Don’t play coy with me, I know how much you like it.

Isk tore off after the goblins.  Tarrov turned to his companions.  “I’ve sent Isk and Kaf after the goblins.  In the meantime, we need to decide what to do.  I’ve got my trapping equipment and some caltrops in Tahksyr’s saddlebags.  We can set up a pretty mean ambush for the hobgoblins, assuming that this is their destination.  I’m hesitant to take on that many, though.”  Tarrov shrugged his shoulders.  “I think the first thing we should do is find out what we can from this room and our captives.  Tanner, if you want to head back there I’ll see what I can find here.”  He shot a glance at Dorsey as he began to examine the room.  “You want to help with her interrogation or my search?

 

“Figures there’d be more goblinoids on the way,” Dorsey replied upon hearing Tarrov’s report.  He’d been standing at the window, sniffing at the air, and had seemed on the verge of trying to force his way through it.  “Good idea sending Isk and Kaf after those runners.  They fight like demons, Tarry…” he complimented Tarrov with an approving smile, implying that the goblins had little chance to escape the pair of animals.

“I’ll help you, Joselyn,” he announced through a wicked grin.  “I think you have unsettled business with that hobby…heh heh heh…” he chuckled in anticipation of seeing her interrogation techniques.  He was almost as interested in that as he was of hearing what the hobgoblin actually had to say.

Dorsey flashed Tarrov a thoughtul look.  “Twenty to six odds seem a stretch.  But they don’t know we’re here while we know they’re coming.  We can try an ambush and if it goes bad, flee on horseback.  It will take them some time yet to cover the few miles between us, so we’ll have time to prepare a suprise.”  The Beast inside certainly found that plan appealing, especially after the little fight had awoken it from its slumber.

“But let’s see what we can learn right here, right now.  If we have to, we’ll set this place to the torch and make the work party waste a whole lot of time rebuilding it!  Joselyn – let’s see what that hobby knows…”

Dorsey heads out of the tunnel to assist Joselyn with the interrogations.

 

“A moment, Dorsey.”  Tarrov had an idea.  “If we are to engage this column, I say we do it in a way that emphasizes both our strengths and their weaknesses.  What are our strengths?  Well, for one we are more mobile than they are.  We are all mounted, flying, or fast; they only have a couple of hobgoblins on horses.  I daresay that, given our recent success, we are also superior fighters.”  He patted his bow and looked meaningfully at Dorsey’s greatsword.

“Their strength is in numbers.  If they can bring those numbers to bear on us we will probably be overwhelmed.  This is why I think defending the stockade is a mistake.  If we do, we both sacrifice our mobility and allow them to easily concentrate their numbers upon us.”  Tarrov walked over to the map-covered table and pointed to the stockade’s position.  “We are here.”  He pointed again, this time to a position a few miles southwest.  “They are there.”  He looked up.  “If we are going to fight them, I say we engage them somewhere along the way,” his finger traced the path between the two points, “rather than hold the fort,” he tapped its location for emphasis.

“I think a great tactic would be to lure the mounted hobgoblins away from the rest of the group by using one of us, and by ‘one of us’ I mean Tanner,” Tarrov grinned, “as bait.  They won’t think much of a lone Vale Rider on the road, but neither will they want her to escape and report their activities, which they still believe are secret.  The mounted hobgoblins will probably give chase, and Tanner can lead them right into our ambush.  Having separated the hobgoblins from their support, we can overwhelm and kill them, further reducing the column’s mobility.  Their horsemen, or horsegoblins,” Tarrov wasn’t sure of the correct term, “will be dead, and they have no other mounted warriors.  Chances are we will have also eliminated their leadership.”  Tarrov nodded in satisfaction; he felt that this idea was turning out to be a good one.

“We can then harass the column from range, picking off goblins with longbow attacks and fading back into the brush if they move to engage us.  We’ll just take whatever they give us.  With any luck some or all of them will break from our pressure and start running for the safety of wherever they came from.  At which point we simply mop them up.  It might even be easy.”  Tarrov knocked on the table for luck.  It was never easy, but there was a first time for everything.  Hope springs eternal.

“Go see what Tanner thinks about our plan and what that hobgoblin has to say.  I’ll see what I can find here.”  As Dorsey headed down the hallway, Tarrov began looking to see what he might be able to discover from the maps and other papers littering the room.

 

 

Dorsey’s mouth scrunched up and he sucked on his teeth while Tarrov shared his tactical appraisal.  “Mhmm…mmph…hmphmph…” he grunted as the ideas flowed out.  Finally dislodging the bit of jerky that had been stuck between a pair of cuspids, Dorsey chewed it into smaller bits, swallowed it, then cleared his throat.

“That’s a fine idea, Tarrov!” Dorsey admitted.  “Couldn’t have thought of something better myself, and I’m the one trained in hit and run tactics.”  He grinned widely.  “I’ll see what Joselyn thinks.  She may even like the idea of being used asbait, the more eyes on her, the better, right?  Haha!”

Dorsey paused for a moment longer.  “If you find any papers with writing, it’s likely to be in goblin.  Penned by the Hobbies, of course – the little ones think writing is the work of the devil.  Wait.  Gobbies are evil and so are devils…so maybe they think writing is of the gods…” Dorsey’s mind turned with the paradoxical implications of what is ‘evil’ to something that happens to be ‘evil’.  It didn’t take long for his eyes to cross up, and he shook his head vigorously to shake out the thought.  “Ah, doesn’t matter!  Gobbies don’t like writing and they treat written words with great suspicion.  Bottom line, Joselyn or me will have to read whatever you find since I doubt it’ll be in common.  Just grab whatever you find that looks interesting.”

Then Dorsey bounded out of the tunnel as quickly as his armor and pack would allow.  He quickly filled Joselyn in with the details of Tarrov’s plan, then shifted topics to the prisoners.

“Well, well…we have two of them.  Maybe we can play them off each other and keep them honest that way.  Main things we need to learn are why these goblinoids are here, what their intentions are, and who’s really in charge of this little outpost.  Oh, and what’s going on at Kalton Manor.”

Joselyn knelt next to the injured and tied hobgoblin.  She patted its head gently.  “You poor, poor creature.”  She said in the goblin tongue.  “I’m so sorry about all this.  Here… let me help you out.”

She rummaged around in her belt pouch and came out with a small vial.  She uncorked the vial and offered it to the hobgoblin, who looked at her suspiciously and shook his head.  “Come on now.” She said, resting her hands on her hips and pouting. “You’re all tied up and if I wanted to hurt you I wouldn’t have to get you to drink something to do it.  This is for healing.  It will make your wounds stop hurting.”

The hobgoblin still narrowed its eyes but it quit resisting as she poured the contents of the vial down its throat.  When the liquid hit its tongue its eyes widened and the tension left its body.

“There?”  Joselyn said, smiling and working at untying the bonds that held the creature.  “Isn’t that better?  What’s your name, friend?  Seems rude to call you, Hey You.”

The hobgoblin nodded. “Yeah. Am feeling better now.”  It grinned a toothy grin and rubbed its wrists where the rope had chafed.  “Name’s Mardrak, 2nd Fist of the Black Death Company.  Thanks.”

Joselyn gave Mardrak a friendly slap on his newly healed shoulder. “No problem.”  She then switched to the Common Tongue. “Okay, Dorsey…  What questions do we have?”

Tarrov gets a disappointed feeling from Taf and Isk.  It seems the goblins went directly to the river and either drowned or hid somehow in the darkness there.  They might not have been the smartest creatures in the world but they were clever and crafty.

Dorsey didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad at Joselyn’s treatment of the hobgoblin, so he simply rolled his eyes while Joselyn made nice with the hobby prisoner.

“I think you could charm the water out of a desert,” he grumbled, albeit admiring of her success.  He gave the hobgoblin his best “don’t mess with me” look (which, incidentally, was how Dorsey almost always looked at people) and got down to business.

“We want to know what in the nine planes of hell these gobbies are doing out here.  What their intentions are.  How many other forts like this they’ve built.  That sort of thing,” Dorsey replied to Joselyn’s question.

“I’m not surprised he gave his name – one has to love that hobby discipline,” he quipped, still thinking of other things to ask.

Dorsey snapped his fingers as a good question came to mind.  “Why so few warriors guarding this fort?”  Dorsey knew that there was a work party on the way to the fort, but the hobgoblin didn’t know that Dorsey and his friends knew, and thus he was very curious to see how the hobby answered.

Then another line of inquiry came to mind.  “And who does this Mardrak answer to?  Hobbies are notoriously organized and maintain a strict chain of leadership.  Or boss-ness-ship, more like.  How large a force do they have out here?  He said he’s the second fist of the Black Death company, what the hell does that really mean?” Dorsey finished, content with those questions as a starting point.

 

Tarrov shared his friends’ disappointment, but it was very unlikely that the escaped goblins, should they have survived the river, would be able to meet up with the column, even if they knew about it.  Head on back guys, he sent, we’re going to go hunting again later.  He grinned as he was almost overwhelmed by their sense of anticipation.

He finished grabbing any papers he could find with writing on them, in addition to the marked maps and design drawings, before heading out to meet Dorsey and Joselyn.  As he was leaving the room, he took one last look around to see if there was anything he missed.  Satisfied that he had everything, he moved quickly to join his companions outside and get their thoughts on the papers he’d found.

 

Tarrov left the observation post just in time to see Joselyn pull her rapier out of Mardrak’s throat.  The hobgoblin slumped to the ground, his blood pumping out of his neck and coating his armor red.  She tossed a look at the bound goblin.  “I don’t really think that one is needed any more, Dorsey.  Unless you’re planning on keeping it as a pet.”

Joselyn wiped her sword on the dead hobgoblin’s clothing.  “Tarrov, seems the group here was just a forward observation post.  They’re expecting reinforcements some time tonight.  They are upgrading and reinforcing their observation posts all along the White River this side of the Harken Forest.  They are bringing an army of hobgoblins secretly across the Vale through a magical portal of some sort.  They came out in a tower and took a quick river trip through the Witchlight Fens to get here.  I’m thinking the tower was that Red Mage’s place between the Fens and the Cloak Wood.”

She turns to face Tarrov and Dorsey.  “I’ve got to get this information back to Fallcrest.  What are you boys planning on doing?”

 

Dorsey didn’t have to be asked twice.  He spun quickly and buried his dagger in the bound goblin’s chest before the creature had a clue it was coming.

“Vermin.  All of ’em.  Best thing for it, really, a quick painless death.”  Dorsey grinned at how savage Joselyn could be.  And here he thought she was just another sweet, soft, pretty face!  Well, she was that, and apparently a whole lot more.

“I think we should torch this place and get word back to Fallcrest,” he agreed, “but we also need to warn the other holdings, like Harkenwold.”  He looked meaningfully at Tarrov.  “We can attempt that ambush.  The loss of a score of warriors won’t mean much to an entire army, but if we could pull it off, why the hells not?  There’s still a lot of fight left in me tonight…heh heh heh…I’m just getting started, really,” he chuckled maliciously.  The dusk sunlight colored his eyes a bloody, reddish hue.

“Learn anything down in that hole?” he asked Tarrov, eyebrows furrowed with curiosity.

 

 

Tarrov was slightly taken aback at the sudden violence, but after a moment he shrugged.  Two less goblins to trouble the Vale, he thought to himself.  He shook his head and turned to Dorsey.  “Yes, in fact, I have found a veritable treasure trove of information,” he raised the maps and papers, “although it is unintelligible to me.”  He looked meaningfully at Joselyn and Dorsey.  “Perhaps you two goblin scholars can find some additional meaning in these?”  He handed the goblin documents to his companions and waited to see what it was they might find.

 

Dorsey took note of the expression on Tarrov’s face but said nothing until he’d accepted the papers and maps from him.  “Ah yes, the prisoner dilemma,” he said softly while perusing the captured documents in the much diminished sunlight.  “It’s better for us that they are dead.”

He glanced up and met Tarrov’s eyes.  There was a hardness within.  “Cold logic, really.  Bringing them back to Fallcrest would only slow us down, and we could ill afford to leave them here.  We, or someone else, would only have to fight them again, later.”  Although his eyes showed hardness, his voice lacked the same level of conviction.  Doubts, perhaps?

Dorsey shuffled through a couple more pages in silence, save for an occasional grunt of affirmation or understanding.

“We definitely need to get these to the authorities in Fallcrest,” he concluded.

 

 

Tarrov nodded at Dorsey’s explanation.  Some things just couldn’t be helped.  “You are right; these must go to Fallcrest.  Banner and Lord Markelhay need this information.  However, Tanner need not run them back herself; we may need her magical skills.  And this would not be the first time Kafoih served as a messenger.  He’s good at it, and enjoys the rewards.  Then both he and Tanner could be present when we attempt to destroy the Red Mage’s gate.”

A glint of determination entered Tarrov’s eyes.  “It sounds like we need to deal with this gate as quickly as possible, lest it transport even more hobgoblins to threaten the Vale.  No doubt they have spies in Fallcrest, and any movement from there towards the tower would be reported and prepared for.  I recommend we move for the tower as quickly as possible in a lightning strike, before the hobgoblin column arrives here.  Let them try to puzzle out what happened to their compatriots.  We will be gone from the Red Mage’s tower, task accomplished, before they put two and two together.”

Hair of the Dog

The taproom of the Nentir Inn was noisy this time of night.  The constant babble of people’s voices, clanking of the metal things they used to eat and the plinking of the wooden thing with thin pieces of what smelled distinctly like cat guts used to really bother Isk.  His alpha liked the place so what was there to do but learn to live with the irritation.  Perhaps Alpha would take them back out tomorrow.  That would be good.

Alpha was currently eating.  The meat smelled good even if it had been burned in a fire.  Alpha was like those other people in that respect.  He liked to burn his food.  At least he wasn’t always noisy like the others.  Sometimes he tossed Isk a chunk of meat and burned or not it was appreciated.

Alpha was eating with the one that smelled wrong.  It was like he was almost a fellow wolf but not quite.  It almost smelled like he was sick but not quite that either.  The sick-not-quite-wolf was quieter than anyone else at least.  Perhaps Alpha would be finished eating and making noise soon.  Until then, Isk was just going to lay under the table and try to doze off…

Tarrov tossed a piece of beef down to Iskuras, who gobbled it down and promptly curled up under the table for a nice doze.  Lazy wolf, though Tarrov, laughing to himself.

Tarrov took a sip of his wine and turned his attention to Dorsey, possibly the most unlikely dinner companion possible, especially after his reported death at Pinesridge so many years ago.  A younger Tarrov had taken the reported death hard, as he had few friends at that age and had counted Dorsey among that select group after their encounter with the Kingsroad bandits.  So it was difficult to overstate Tarrov’s shock when, during one of his regular visits to Winterhaven, Bairwin told him that “Beard” had commissioned the creation of a masterwork composite longbow, and given a description matching Dorsey’s. “Beard” had been Tarrov’s adoptive father’s affectionate nickname for Dorsey a decade ago.

“Beard” had arranged for delivery of the bow in Fallcrest at the Nentir Inn taproom exactly two weeks later, and here Tarrov was, fairly bursting with curiosity.

After the opening pleasantries, and receiving their order from the serving maid, Tarrov pulled out a long, thin package, wrapped in oilskin.  “Here is the bow you commissioned; I am quite proud of it.  But good Gods, man, why the cloak and dagger?  And what happened to you?  Everyone thought you were dead!”

Dorsey chewed his roast pork slowly while he considered the boy…no, not a boy anymore…the man in front of him.  When Bairwen had showed him his superbly crafted bow and said it was made by a Vale Rider surnamed ‘Garrick’, Dorsey wasn’t sure it was the same person.  But when Tarrov Garrick approached the appointed table, followed by a fine-looking ‘tame’ wolf companion, Dorsey knew it immediately.

It was the same Tarrov, no longer the eager but unsure pimply-faced adolescent adopted son of Alyr Half-Elven, but a grown man who walked with the easy confidence of one sure of himself.  Only the sad memories of things lost so long ago kept the grin of reunion Dorsey wore from becoming a fully-fledged toothy smile.  There was warmth enough in his eyes, though, but tinged by a measure of cautious reluctance.

Dorsey wiped oily grease from his mouth with a rough sleeve-swipe of his outdoorsman’s tunic then casually undid the ties on the oilskin bundle.

“For all intents and purposes, I was dead, Tarrov,” Dorsey replied a bit cryptically as he unwrapped the skins to see the treasure shrouded within.  “My family…gone.  Pinesridge…gone, burned to the last.   Me?  Left for dead by the Baron’s men.”

Dorsey’s brows furrowed then raised in pleased surprise, and his lips pursed as his eyes swept left and right and back again.  “Now that is a beautiful bit of work, and even unstrung I can see its grace and power!  I can hardly wait to put it to use.  Bairwen spoke true, you are a masterful craftsman indeed!” Dorsey gave praise to Tarrov and raised his mug in salute to his younger friend.  He then slid a purse heavy with coin across to Tarrov and re-wrapped the bow before setting it to the side.

He adjusted his feet, mindful of the sleep-twitching wolf under the table, and took a deep breath.

“Forgive the cloak and dagger.  Things for me changed after Pinesridge.  I had to go away for a while.  Had to…find myself, you could say.  I’ve only recently settled in the Vale again.”  He held up a forestalling hand and glanced this way and that, checking to see if anyone was paying the pair any obvious attention.  Seeing none, he continued.

“I won’t go into the reasons why I had to go away.  Not right now at least, and certainly not here.  But the night is young, and by Sarenrae it is good to see you again, all grown and a man in your own right!  Tell me of you, and of Alyr…I trust he is still with us and well?”

Dorsey’s mood had shifted from controlled sullenness to a vigorous excitement at the last, but it likely did not escape Tarrov’s notice Dorsey had been purposely evasive concerning Pinesridge.

Tarrov beamed with pleasure at Dorsey’s praise of his craftsmanship as he secreted the purse inside his cloak.  He knew the bearded ranger wasn’t telling him everything about Pinesridge, but figured whatever had happened to drive Dorsey from the Vale must have been terrible indeed.  These were not tidings to discuss at an initial reunion in a public alehouse.

Tarrov smiled at the mention of Alyr, briefly allowing, out of long habit, his attention to stray from Dorsey to survey the taproom.  Satisfied that no imminent threat awaited, he returned it to the conversation.

“The Old Man is well; indeed, better than ever a fortnight ago, when last we met.  As you can see, I have picked up some of his more irritating habits, and cannot seem to rid myself of them.”  Tarrov laughed and gestured to his glass of wine and immaculately-arranged tableware.  Alyr eschewed ale and beer as the bitter dregs of an unfortunate alchemical experimentation gone wrong, and one of his core principles identified manners as the primary characteristic distinguishing men from animals.

“As for me, when I finished training Baron Stockmer extended me an offer to join the Harkenwold Rangers.  I declined.  I wanted to see the world!  Or at least the Vale.”  Tarrov sighed. “I ended up joining the Riders, so have not travelled far, but there has certainly been plenty to do.  If you’ll forgive some shop talk, banditry has been on the rise; it is much worse than when last you were here.  The Kingsroad Bandits were but a minor irritation compared to the problems we suffer now.”

Tarrov absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the table.  “Isk and I . . . oh, that big walking rug under the table is Iskuras, by the way . . . along with Tahksyr and Kafoih, have defeated a few bandit groups ourselves.  But . . . “ Tarrov lowered his voice, “I fear this rise in banditry is not random, but organized, and that from a seat of power here in Fallcrest, or perhaps Winterhaven.”

Tarrov coughed.  “But as you say, perhaps these are subjects best not discussed here.  And my apologies for bringing up such a dark subject!  This is a time for merriment!  Tell me about your plans!  Now that you have returned, what are you doing with yourself?”

Dorsey shared in Tarrov’s self-deprecating humor, his rough barking-style laugh coming naturally when the younger ranger made light of his ‘foibles’.  Dorsey lifted his wooden mug of bitter stout ale in comparison to Tarrov’s wine glass.  “Ah Alyr…he does have a tooth for the sweet and bubbly, while I favor the thicks and bitters.  He just doesn’t appreciate that the bitter things in life make the sweet things all the more so.  Accused me many times of being part dwarf, did you know that?” Dorsey laughed deeply at the irony.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen their tension while listening attentively to Tarrov’s words.  “You turned down an offer from the Baron to join the Harkenwold Rangers?” he repeated with obvious surprise, and a hint of envy.  “But the Riders now…I would not have guessed that!  And good on you for it, too!” he continued with enthusiastic approval.  He downed his mug in honor of his friend’s accomplishment and bonked it on the table’s edge to get the serving maid’s attention.  The noise startled Isk, who raised his head and let out a questioning chuff while his sleepy eyes cast about for signs of trouble.  “Easy there, wolf – I was just enjoying your master’s company!” he said, leaning down and over to catch sight of Isk.  “That’s a fine companion you have there, Tarrov.  A wolf is a good protector and guardian, and often a fine scout, too.  You’re lucky to have his loyalty.”  Dorsey waved his mug in the air.  “Lass, another bitter stout, if you please!”

As talk turned to more immediate matters, and more to the point, the question of what Dorsey had been up to of late, his demeanor shifted.  The older ranger’s eyes took on an uncharacteristic seriousness and his voice dropped to a lower and more rumbly tone.

“I’ve been living off the land, you could say.  Built a place in the Cloak Wood, been hunting for my food and using the hides of my kills to make leather goods for sale and trade,” he confessed.  “I do most of my business with Sandercot’s here in Fallcrest, but I also barter directly with the outlying farmers for things I need.”  He made a weak smile and looked down at the table.  “It’s a living,” he sighed, then leaned forward towards Tarrov so his words wouldn’t travel far.

“In my hunting and trading travels I’ve seen evidence of similar problems as you, but not just bandits,” he confided.  “These past months I’ve been tracking goblin scouting parties near the Kalton Manor ruins.  Their numbers have been too large for me to deal with on my own.  I think, however, that they may be using the Manor as a stronghold.  And if that’s true…” he left the implication hanging for Tarrov to work out.  The goblins normally stayed within the Harken Forest.  For them to come out into the open like this would indicate that they were ready to attempt a push into the Vale again.

Dorsey pulled a draught from his refilled mug and set it down with a heavy thud on the table, then looked Tarrov in the eye.  “Maybe we have some work to do together, for the good of the Vale, yes?” he suggested, a wolfish grin creasing his thick beard.  “I’ve been having the itch to do something different, and maybe Sarenrae put you in my path to do just that.”

Tarrov scratched Isk behind the ears, just where he liked it, and laughed at the memory of the polished-yet-acerbic Alyr’s interaction with the more rough-and-tumble Dorsey during his training.  “You are lucky to have escaped with a mere questioning of your ancestry.  If you weren’t so tall, I’m almost sure he would have taken to calling you ‘Stumpy.’”  He grinned.  “I seem to recall you making less-than-respectful references to his elven heritage yourself.”  Alyr was an excellent instructor, but his training regimen was far from easy.  Tarrov had certainly uttered his share of muffled curses during his tutelage.

Tarrov turned thoughtful as he contemplated Isk, who perked his ears forward and watched a sizzling pig brought from the kitchens to serve a large and boisterous party in the back room.  “Isk is indeed a good and loyal friend.  I wish I could say the same for most people.  I have many friends in the Vale, but, truth to tell, few are human.”  Tarrov re-filled his wine glass from the half-full bottle on the table.  It was probably a terrible vintage, he laughed to himself, but he enjoyed it.  Tarrov had never developed Alyr’s sophisticated palate for such things.  This lack of refinement certainly came in handy given the selection available to him in the Vale.  He was not a regular guest at Lord Markelhay’s table.

Tarrov turned his attention to the greater problems at hand.  “Goblins at Kalton Manor, eh?  Think they’re searching for the legendary Kalton treasure?”  Tarrov grinned at Dorsey’s expression.  “You’re right, probably not.”  Tarrov became more serious.  “Goblins in the forest are annoying and occasionally dangerous.  Goblins in the plains are a real threat.  But I’m unsurprised they are taking this opportunity.  The Riders and most of the available militia are busy protecting caravans and fighting bandits, not patrolling for goblins.  This is a good time for the goblins to move.  Which means they’re being smart.” Tarrov raised an eyebrow. “I can’t decide which is more worrisome.”

Tarrov sipped his wine thoughtfully.  “I think you may be right.  Both the bandits and the goblins are threats to the Vale, and it is possible that their simultaneous appearance is less happenstance than we currently believe.  We would certainly be stronger together.  Perhaps Erastil and Sarenrae should ally to fight these new threats.”  Tarrov couldn’t suppress a grin.  Many in the Vale gave him a hard time about his worship of Erastil, and he couldn’t resist reminding Dorsey, who was (or at least had been) very devoted to his goddess, of his differing faith.  Oh, the theological “discussions” they’d had all those years ago . . . .

“Well, look what the cat dragged in… or wolf in this case, I suppose.” A bright voice interrupted the conversation, followed by a bright, red head of hair attached to an attractive young woman.  She sat down and gave Isk a scratch behind the ears and the big wolf thumped his tail in appreciation.

Joselyn Tanner oozed confidence and apparent good spirits.  Of course, travelling as a lone Rider of the Vale as a beautiful woman in these dangerous lands tended to either make one confident, with good reason, or dead.  Joselyn looked decidedly not dead as she snatched Tarrov’s cup and sniffed at its contents.  “Garrick, you still drinking this stuff?  My kid sister drinks manlier stuff than this.”  She plopped the wine back in front of Tarrov without sampling it.  “I haven’t seen you around in a while.  Where have you been keeping yourself?  I know we’re ‘Riders’ of the Vale but it is allowed to drop into civilization from time to time.  If you keep on the road all the time you’ll start styling your hair like your friend here…”  She jerked her thumb at Dorsey with a wink. “And you’re way to pretty a boy to be hiding behind a beard like that.”

Tarrov rolled his eyes and grinned at Joselyn as he pointed to the chair in which the Rider had so recently seated herself.  “Please, have a seat, Tanner.  We can’t all cower behind the walls of civilization.  It’s a good thing you stopped by . . . we were just talking about how this table was just too darned good-looking.  You’ll help bring down our average.”  Tarrov put on a look of hurt innocence as Joselyn slugged him in the arm.  “What?!?  What did I say?!?”  He looked down at Isk, who hardly concealed his amusement at the two humans’ antics while enjoying Joselyn’s ear scratching.  “Isk, you traitor!  We’ll discuss this later.”

Tarrov looked at Dorsey and gestured to Joselyn.  “My friend, this is Joselyn, a Vale Rider of some (very small) reknown and the only one identifiable from over one mile away.  Joselyn, this is “Beard,” one the finest scouts of my acquaintance.  He smells like a goblin, but you should be used to that.  You guys should get along great, as both of you prefer that bitter swill you call ‘ale.'”  Tarrov raised his glass with an impish grin.  “There is certainly no accounting for taste!”

Dorsey smiled broadly (and a bit lustily, to be honest) as the red-headed Vale Rider blew in like a seashore squall and claimed center stage.  He was glad for his overgrown tangle of a beard – it disguised the fact that his lower jaw hung slack for a few seconds until the cagey scout thought to stuff a piece of bread in it.

Chew…chew…don’t stare…her eyes are up *there*… he thought to himself as he wrestled for control over the ‘other’ brain (hey, it had been a while, longer than he wanted to admit to himself).

“Urmph…*gulp*…yes, I’m Dorsey,” he got off to a stumbling start when Tarrov introduced him.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance!” he finished with a genuine (under control) smile, which coming from him looked like the lopsided south end of a northbound horse.  A very furry northbound horse that smelled…gobliney.

Then he pierced Tarrov with an excited stare.  “I should have dinner with you more often, I rather like your friends!” he said good-naturedly.

Okay, my breeches are a bit too tight now… he thought to himself and a slightly pained expression crossed his brow.  It faded quickly though as recognition dawned.

“Hey!  I’ve seen you around before, Joselyn.  Never had occasion to say hello or anything, but there aren’t many riders who look like you,” he admitted.  “What brings you into town this night?” he asked conversationally.

This night was turning out to be both good and fun, and that was making Dorsey, for the moment, feel happy and forgetful of his troubles.

So much for keeping a low profile, Dorsey, thought Tarrov, shaking his head ruefully and giving his friend a meaningful look.  Go ahead and tell every pretty lass your real name.  Dorsey was clearly quite taken with Joselyn; other than his brief statement to Tarrov extolling her virtues, Tarrov wasn’t sure his friend had taken his eyes off Tanner since she’d made her rather-dramatic entrance.  Tarrov was pretty sure that any of his looks, meaningful or not, would go unnoticed by the entranced scout.

Tarrov chuckled to himself.  Dorsey wasn’t the first man who’d swooned over Joselyn Tanner.  He doubtless would not be the last.  She really was a shameless flirt.

Oh well, what’s done is done.  Tarrov turned his attention back to his red-headed colleague.  “You’ll have to forgive my friend, Tanner . . . I think he just drooled on you.  Here, take this.”  He handed Joselyn a napkin, grinning at Dorsey, who was almost assuredly blushing under that thick beard.  “While you may have just singlehandedly converted Dorsey to Shelyn-worship,” Tarrov smiled broadly, enjoying the fun, “he does raise a good question.  What brings you to Fallcrest?  Last I heard you were up near Winterhaven investigating bandit activity in the Gardbury Downs.”

Dorsey sniffed at the air and his head tilted to the side without conscious direction.  That’s different, he thought, and so he sniffed again.  This time his brows furrowed with concern.

This woman has the strong scent of a predator, not the meek scent of prey, his bestial instincts revealed to him.  But unlike the visual indicators of her strength and martial ability, which his manly nature had utterly bypassed in favor of her womanly assets, the scent of her got his attention.

Dorsey straightened up, took a deep clearing breath, and pushed away his nearly empty mug of ale.

“I think maybe I need to slow down a bit on the ales…they’re getting to my head!” he confessed with an embarrassed smile.  “And don’t mind me, I just had a tickle in my nose…sure hope I don’t…sneeze…” he blurted, then snatched his cloth napkin and honked mightily into it.  He folded the soiled cloth and placed it gingerly on the bench at his side.

“So…where were we?” he redirected the attention to Rider Joselyn, his demeanor more serious with much decreased ogling.

“I came in to have a few days off the road.  Unlike some of my thicker-witted male compatriots, I like sleeping in a bed with a mattress and pillows and blankets… You get the picture.” Joselyn said.

Then she leaned in and lowered her voice a bit.  Not enough to be whispering but enough in the crowded room not to be overhead.  “I also came in to report to Banner.  It seems Tristan ran into trouble in the Harken Forest.  Goblins shot him.  He would have died if Lady Gavinia hadn’t stumbled upon him during one of her rides.  Looks like the goblins are becoming a serious nuisance around Harkenwold while bandits have become a problem between here and the Fiveleagues Alehouse.  Banner doesn’t like it much and the Lord Warden shares his feelings.  Been reports of the Red Mage wandering around both areas of late.”

Joselyn took a drink of her ale as the barmaid brought it over.  She waited for the young lady to leave before continuing.  “You know, that reclusive guy that built a tower out south of the Cloak Wood and just north of the Witchlight Fens?  Banner’s concerned that bandits and or goblins with serious magical support would be a real threat.  He wanted me to check it out.”

Tarrov was shocked; Tristan was one of the Riders’ best goblin-fighters.  “Goblins got Tristan?!?  That concerns me; the man’s practically a goblin himself, he spends so much time in that wood.  Do you know anything about his condition?  There’s quite a distance between ‘not dead’ and ‘healthy.’  Perhaps I should visit him.  Is he recovering somewhere here in Fallcrest?”

A thought occurred to him.  “The goblins must be moving in force within the Harken Wood; there is no way Tristan fell to a simple scouting or hunting party.”  Tarrov shot Dorsey a significant look before returning his attention to Joselyn.  “And you are not the first person at this table to tell me about an increase in Goblin activity.  We were just discussing how the goblins’ actions seemed smart and strategic, rather than simply aggressive.”

Tarrov’s brow creased as he was struck by yet another thought.  He too leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones.  “Dorsey was just informing me that the goblins have established a presence in and around Kalton Manor.  If they have the strength to be expanding there, AND threatening travel on the King’s Road, AND threatening Harkenwold, AND moving in numbers sufficient to overwhelm Tristan, we are looking at a serious problem.  They must have somehow obtained the upper hand in their conflict with the forest giants.”  This thought saddened Tarrov.  Although he no longer spent much time in the forest, he liked the giants, and counted not a few of them as personal friends.

“So Banner thinks the Red Mage might be involved with the Goblins?  Now that you mention him, I’ve obtained some information from bandits that might point to the Red Mage’s involvement with their activities.  Nothing conclusive, but it’s entirely possible he’s the one, or one of the ones, responsible for their increased activity.  And can it be a coincidence that BOTH goblins and bandits are organizing and increasing their activities at the same time?  I have my doubts.”

Tarrov drummed his fingers on the table.  “Banner wants you to check out the Red Mage’s tower?  Or he wanted you to check out the bandit or goblin activity in order to investigate his involvement?”

Dorsey chuckled at Joselyn’s humor, even though he himself was guilty of being one of the ‘thick-witted males’ who didn’t always require the pleasantries of a bed, mattress, pillows, and blanket.  He tried to keep his mind from picturing the scene of Joselyn amidst said pillows and blankets…there were other more important matters at hand.  At least it felt that his breeches had returned to their proper size…either that or he had drunk even more ale than he’d realized.

He smiled at Joselyn but the grin faded as talk progressed to the problems in the Vale.  Dorsey didn’t know of Tristan, or Barren, and had not heard of the Red Mage, but regardless the things that Joselyn said indicated only trouble.  He leaned in close to add his voice to the discussion at hand.

“My friend has very neatly tied all of this together,” he observed, giving Tarrov a respectful nod of approval.  He’d always been quicker of mind whereas Dorsey was rather quicker of muscle and prone to action.  “And it certainly is an alarming situation that bears investigating!  Now, I happen to have no responsibilities to anyone but myself and thus am completely free to offer my assistance with blade, bow, and skill in any scouting you two riders are inclined to do.  I was just telling Tarrov that my life had gotten a bit stale and I was up for something new.  It seems that the gods we follow are working us in interesting ways, eh?” he segued from Tarrov’s final questions, a wolfish and eager grin upon his face.

Tarrov looked chagrined.  “I apologize, Dorsey, I forget myself.”  He had slipped so easily back into a familiar camaraderie with his old companion that he had almost forgotten Dorsey’s decade-long absence from the Vale.  “Banner is the First Rider of the Vale.  He has been riding the Vale and fighting both goblins AND bandits longer than either of us have been alive.  I have found him to be everything his reputation suggests, and more.  He is shrewd, judicious, and perceptive, but humble.”  There were few Tarrov respected more than the First Rider, and to be honest he suffered a bit of hero worship in that regard.

“Each Rider is his own man . . . or her own woman!”  Tarrov threw up his hands defensively at Joselyn’s sudden glare.  “And Banner does not give “orders,” per se.  But it is the rare instance when one of us would ignore his wisdom.”  Tarrov looked to Joselyn for support.  “Back me up here, Tanner.  And on that note, if Banner thinks something should be investigated, I join my friend in offering to assist with that task.  What did he say specifically?”

Joselyn furrowed her eyebrows and got a stern look on her face.  She lowered her voice an octave or so in what Tarrov recognized as a good approximation of Banner, “He said… Girl, we got goblins in the Harken Forest being all upity.  We got bandits being a right pain in the ass between here and Fiveleagues.  And we got some high, muckity-muck wizard been seen hanging around both of them places.  Don’t know where muckity-muck is but do know he’s got a place over next to the Witchlight Fens.  There, kid, you know every damn thing I know and that’s the problem.  Go figure something out and get back to me so I ain’t so damnably ignorant.”

Joselyn sat back and smiled, “And that is pretty much what he said word for word.  Glad you gentlemen want to help.  It’ll make it easier to spread the blame should we screw the pooch on this thing.  I figure there’s three basic ways we could proceed.  First, we could go catch a bandit and stick pointy objects in him until he gave us the information we want.  Second, we could go catch a goblin and stick pointy things in it until it told us want we want.  Third, we could go catch the Red Mage.  Attempt to not get turned into a turnip.  Stick pointy things in him, politely, until he told us what we want to know.”

Tarrov sat back in his chair and laughed.  “That’s Banner for you.”  He raised an eyebrow and grinned at Joselyn.  “You should quit that whole singing and dancing thing and become an impressionist.  You’ve got a certain talent.  People may donate out of pity, at least.”

Tarrov smirked as he caught the wadded-up napkin that came sailing his way.  “I think going after the Red Mage right away is a mistake.  For all we know he is an ally; I think we need to learn more before we make a move that might anger him.  The Fallcrest Guard and others are already dealing with the bandit problem, if somewhat ineffectively.  I say we investigate the goblins.  I’d prefer to go after the ones around Kalton Manor, as I’m more comfortable in the grasslands.  But I’ll defer to Dorsey,” he gestured to his friend, “who I believe is something of a goblin expert.”

“That I am, Tarrov,” Dorsey agreed with a lopsided grin.  It seemed that if nothing else Joselyn was quite an entertainer, and he was beginning to suspect that her charm was something that just came naturally.  And Tarrov played a great counterpoint to her humor; it was a rather nice thing to behold.

Dorsey cleared his throat and nodded approval to Tarrov’s idea.  “I have studied the ways of goblins since my adolescence and know their habits and tactics better than any other man in this area.  I truly despise them; they have few redeeming qualities aside from their ability to fertilize the ground,” he growled with no little amount of vehemence heaped upon his subject.  “I’ve been looking for an opportunity to thin their presence around the Manor but their numbers seemed too many for my liking.  ‘Never send one, always send two’ is what Alyr drilled into my head.  I learned the hard way not to discount his wisdom,” he continued, his voice a bit softer.

He looked Tarrov and Joselyn in the eyes and shared some additional thoughts.  “The grasslands will make it more difficult for an ambush even though lines of sight will be much much longer than in the forest.  Of course you know this, but it may work to our advantage.  You are an accomplished archer, and I’m no slouch at it either, and the rolling hills will make travel much quicker than following goat trails through a forest.  I think we’d have a good chance to spot and attack an isolated goblin party between the Manor and the nearest part of the Harken Forest.  At least, that is where I would like to start.”  Dorsey was focused now; he had a problem to solve and was going at it like a natural predator.

A predatory gleam also appeared in Tarrov’s eye.  “Surprise and run down an isolated party of goblins in the heaths after they leave the Harken Forest?”  He clapped his hands together in approval.  “Dorsey, I like the way you think.  But you spend too much time in the woods, my friend.  Ambushing bad guys in the plains is not as difficult as you might imagine.  Especially when those bad guys are goblins.”    Tarrov was an adept in the art of the grasslands ambuscade, as many bandits were no longer around to testify, and he had trouble believing forest-dwelling goblins were more plains-savvy than the wily outlaws who constituted his normal quarry.  “Combined with your knowledge of their ways, this might even be easy.”  Tarrov knocked on the table for luck.   “I can help you two with your camouflage.”

Tarrov nodded toward Joselyn.  “Tanner here can ask the questions once we’ve captured one or two of them.  As much as I hate to admit this, she’s very good at it.”  Tarrov was pretty sure Joselyn spoke Goblin and several other strange languages; he had never quite worked out how she had come by that knowledge.  And it was the rare captive who could keep information from her; she was famous among the Vale Riders for her skill at interrogation.

“Shall we plan to meet in the stables at dawn?”  Tarrov asked.  “If so, we should probably turn in before long.  I wouldn’t want to deprive Tanner of her precious pillow time.”  He beamed a mock-innocent smile towards his fellow Vale Rider.  “But for now, I say we enjoy the company, the music, and our spirits of choice.”  He grinned, gave Isk a reassuring scratch, and raised his wineglass in a mock toast.  It looked like he was going to need another refill soon.

Dorsey’s grin became rather toothy as Tarrov signed on with the plan.  “Excellent!” he exclaimed and gave the table a boisterous thump.  This was going to be fun, he was sure.  The Beast inside stirred at the prospect of shedding blood and for a moment Dorsey’s deep brown eyes ran a bit to the red, but that could have been just a trick of the light.  “And good that we have her along to do the interrogating,” he flashed a smile Joselyn’s way, “since I’m crap at that sort of thing.  Yes, I speak goblin, but that’s mostly so I can enjoy their pleas for mercy before I slice them head to toe.  And their chicken-scratch is sometimes amusing to read – they really have some clever kobold jokes!” he guffawed.

Then Dorsey shook his head, embarrassed.  “I can certainly meet you at the stables, my friend, but I must tell you that I travel by foot.  Haven’t met a horse that I like for years, unlike you – I swear you were born with a saddle stuck to your buttocks!” he teased, albeit with a hint of jealousy.  Dorsey sighed and continued.  “Usually if I need to travel more than a few hours walk, I hire a porter or ride along with a caravan.  It works.  So, we’ll be moving a bit slower than you may be expecting come the morrow.”

Dorsey waved off the serving girl, directing her towards Tarrov instead.  He’d had enough ale for the night.  He tucked in to the pile of greens which he’d so far neglected thinking that the morrow would prove to be interesting indeed!

“Travel . . . by . . . foot.”  Tarrov looked shocked.  So shocked, in fact, that he lost track of what he was doing and overfilled his wine glass.  He quickly placed the bottle back on the table, looking with dismay at the spilled spirits.  “Come on, Dorsey, you’re no horseman but you used to at least ride!”  Tarrov ruefully wiped up the pooled wine.  “How do you even get around?!?  Look, there are normally one or two horses available at the Chapter House here in Fallcrest.  Given Banner’s involvement, I don’t think we’ll have a problem getting one of them for you.”  Tarrov spent a lot of time in the saddle; he couldn’t imagine traveling the Vale on foot.

“You might remember I have a way with animals.”  Tarrov grinned, then rolled his eyes as Joselyn made a suggestive pantomime.  “Grow up, Tanner,” he laughed, then returned his attention to Dorsey.  “Let me see what I can do about any skittishness on the part of your horse.  If all else fails, I can ride it and you can ride Tahksyr.  I guarantee you THAT self-regarding nag won’t have any fear of you.”

Journey North

Brighton made another inspection of the 4 wagons in his care.  Long experience had taught him that carelessness and inattention caused more deaths on the road than any bandits or brigands.  He had a good team hired and House Azaer’s people seemed to know there business but the caravan master was responsible and that meant checking everything himself.  Twice.  The drovers and carters took it in stride.  This wasn’t their first job and most of them actually seemed to derive some comfort from the fact that Brighton was obviously competent and serious about his job.

Besides, checking the straps and the tarps holding the legal cargo gave him an excuse to discreetly check on the cargo of slightly less legality.  That cargo actually needed more attention than any of the other goods.  After all, he couldn’t exactly complain or accuse anyone of theft when those particular goods weren’t supposed to exist in the first place.  Everything was as he expected to find it though.  All was good.

Brighton checked the sky and noted that the sun was just beginning to peek up over the far horizon where the Tunderspire was just barely visible.  Dawn.  Now he could be on his way if the bloodly nobility would just arrive.  The Lord Warden was supposed to be sending an ambassador and a contingent of guards.  The guards were a good thing.  The ambassador, well, that depended on who was sent.  Some nobles actually seemed to where their asshole was if someone gave them a map and detailed directions.  Others, not so much.  He sure hoped for the first kind.

As if his thoughts had summoned them, Brighton heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestone as a small group of mounted warrior entered the staging area in front of the Knight’s Gate from the direction of the Moonstone Keep.  This must be the ambassador and the entourage.  Things were looking up if this noble actually knew how to be on time.  Now if Pietro would remember to be here as promised his day would be a complete success.

Shyleen fronted the guards and Gavinia as they arrived at the Caravan. She and her group stopped by the Caravan and she looked at Brighton with a smile. “Everything in order?” She asked.

The ambassador arrived, dressed in glistening dragon plate armour over deep green leather gambeson and breeches. A green and gold velvet cloak draped over her shoulders and bled into the green and gold barding on the huge black stallion that all but pranced in time with the guards mounts.  On alternate hips were clearly well used but well loved alchemical silver sabre and dagger.

She rode to stand beside the paladin, her eyes looking over the caravan and the members there-in before coming to rest on the man her friend had addressed.  She smiled at him genuinely and bowed her head slightly in greeting as she tutted slightly at her friend.

“Forgive our interruption of your inspection.  I am Gavinia, this straight-to-business taskmaster is Shyleen.  We shall endeavour to be more aid than hindrance in the coming journey,” she spoke warmly, the friendly smile found in her eyes as well as on her lips.

“Ladies…” Brighton greeted Gavinia and Shyleen with a nod of his head and a smile. “You just made my whole bloody day.  I thought I might get stuck with some perfume sniffing dandy being in charge of my caravan.  Not much more useless in this world than a spoiled noble as thinks they know everything.  I’m right pleased that my fears were baseless and the Lord Warden, gods bless his wisdom, sent you instead.”

Brighton turned his head and whistled.  The shrill sound cut through the morning noises.  “Up and at ’em boys and girls!  We’re 5 minutes from moving out!”  He turned towards Gavinia.  “That is if you are ready, Milady.  The wagons are loaded and stowed.  We’re ready when you are.  I’m missing one member of my team but I’ve always known him to be a resourceful fellow and I figure he’ll catch up to us when he gets it in his head to do so.”

Gavinia raised her hand dismissively with a chuckle, “I am but a humble ambassador, good sir, this is your show!  Military concerns should include Lady Shyleen here, if you don’t mind, but otherwise pretend I am one of those ‘perfume sniffing dandy’s’ aught but decorative… I’m sorry, I missed your name.  How shall we address you?”

Shyleen greeted Brighton with a friendly nod “It’s good to see you as well”. The woman giggled softly at the mans crude remarks, shaking her head a little. “Resourceful you say? Well it would be good to have a such person with us. Me and my men are ready to leave when Ambassador is.” She looks at Gavinia with a smile.

Pietro wandered into the caravan’s staging area with a bright smile and a small knapsack slung over one shoulder. In general, the old man carried little. He had hard break and salted meat. A small book and rough pencil. He had what had once been a pear, but that wasn’t for eating. Pietro hadn’t figured what it was for, but kept he brown and shriveled thing nonetheless. It was for something, of that he was certain.

“Brighton!” he called, meandering between horse and carriage. “Bright Brighton, lad. There you are. Late. Won’t do to be late, m’boy.”

Pietro offered Shyleen and Gavinia a placid smile.

“Ah. Mhm. To come along, then?” he eyed Gavinia with the evaluating squint that seems to come so easily to the old. “A pleasure, a pleasure. The Warden’s, eh, whatsitcalled?”

Pietro paused, coughing lightly into his hand. He couldn’t quite remember how he’d spent the night, though he thought it had been productive. Probably. The herb he’d smoked the day before was still lingering, however.

“We should be off soon. Where’s my horse?” Pietro asked Brighton, then itched under his chin. “Er. Do I have a horse? Surely I have a horse.”

As luck would have it, the weather turned sour not long after the caravan  got under way.  Rain and wind blew in from the west and made travelling less than comfortable.  It wasn’t exactly a storm but it was a good stiff spring rain that still clung to the last of winter’s chill.  What little conversation took place was low, much like everyone’s spirits.  The drovers and carters mumbled about how this wasn’t an auspicious beginning to the trip and how the gods must not be smiling on their mission.  Brighton moved between his men and laughed at their concerns, “It’s not the gods, my lads.  It’s just spring in the Vale.  If it weren’t raining I’d be more concerned.  As it is, the farmers are happy so don’t curse their good fortune.”  While the pep talks didn’t make anyone happy about getting wet they did seem to stop most of the complaining.

The road conditions weren’t bad considering the rain.  The King’s Road and then the Trade Road that close to Fallcrest were well maintained.  There were numerous farmsteads along the roadway and the Lord Warden discounted the taxes for those farmers who kept up with road maintenance near their holdings.  It was late afternoon and the farms and fields were becoming further apart when the road finally started to become muddied and difficult.

Fortunately the rain stopped and the clouds retreated to the far side of the Thunderspire which suddenly loomed on the horizon as the sky began to clear and the sun shown through in the west.  Brighton directed the caravan off the Trade Road and to the north towards Fastormel.  The small track was hardly maintained at all but there was significantly less traffic along it to stir up the mud.

Camp the first night was damp but not difficult.  The carter’s quickly erected tents for the ladies.  Someone started a fire with wood that had been stored in the wagons to keep dry.  Once the fire was started, keeping it going, even with wet wood, proved easy enough.  Soon a cook pot was bubbling and the smell of stew filled the air.

The next morning the workers disassembled the camp with practiced ease, everyone ate a quick breakfast of cold left overs and the drovers expertly hitched the horses to the wagons.  The caravan was ready to roll northward with first light.  The rain of the previous day all but forgotten in the warm spring sunlight.

Just before midday the track led into a forest.  Unlike the Harken Forest or the Winterbole, the wood here was smaller and not as thickly overgrown.  The trees were old, large and spaced far apart with few low-lying branches and very little under brush.  The track ran between the trunks of the trees with plenty of room.  The air was light and sunbeams filtered through the upper branches, speckling the forest floor.

The road exited the forest right after lunch, which was eaten either in the saddle or sitting on one of the wagons.  Dried meat and crusty bread wasn’t the best of meals but it certainly wasn’t the worst.  The warm sun made the afternoon ride pleasant as the road wound around and over the northwest corner of the Old Hills.

The sun was low in the sky when Armsman Derran came galloping up from scouting to the north.  “There’s something strange up ahead.”  He said, panting a bit from the exertion.  “I don’t think I can really explain it and it doesn’t seem to be an immediate danger so you had probably best come see for yourself.”

He quickly switched mounts to one that hadn’t been ridden so hard and led Gavinia and Shyleen (and whoever else tags along) a few miles to the north and over a small rise.  When they crested the rise the north end of the Old Hills levelled out into a small, flat plains area that bordered Lake Nen to the north and the Nentir River to the west.  The road led straight through the plain, into the ruins of Fastormel and then on to Fastormel bridge, which crossed the Nentir river right as it entered Lake Nen.

The problem was that Fastormel and the bridge and most of the plain was gone, swallowed by a thick mist that covered the land like a sullen, grey blanket.  It was obviously unnatural.  It didn’t move or billow in the wind and its boundaries were too well defined.  From the center of the mist a single, white spire glistened in the setting sun.

“I know I haven’t been this way much.” Derran said, “But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t there last time I rode north.”

Pietro leaned forward in the saddle of his horse – a thoroughly cranky Appaloosa that he’d been using for the trip thus far. The old man had taken to calling it ‘Bumpo’. He always called the horse he used Bumpo. To his thinking it was a fine name for a horse and any horse should be happy to get it.

“A curious thing, that.” he murmured, digging out his pipe and clamping his lips around it. It was rare to see something so obviously magical. It was a dreamscape upthrust into the land of the waking. He lit his pipe, squinting at the white spire. “Curious and curiouser.”

Pietro idly fingered a plain iron ring on his right hand, snorting twin plumes of smoke. This was pipeweed, not one of his hallucinogenic blends. He needed to bend his unsullied concentration to the task at hand. Besides, sobriety was occasionally refreshing.

“I need to get close to investigate. A tenth of a mile or so.” Pietro said around his pipe. “I’ve a dream or two which might, eh, shed light into the mist. Lighthouse-like.”

The old man straightened in his saddle, gesturing down towards the mysterious spire and its attendant mists.

“A dream of an unlidded eye, the kind which sees the godhead, would tell us more. I’ve bottled just such a dream.” he continued placidly, tapping his temple with his pipe before replacing it. Pietro rolled a shrug. “An escort might be prudent, though.”

Shyleen stroked her chin as she looked upon the mist. She knew the trip would not be an easy one, but she did not expect something elaborate like this to stand between them. She looked upon Pietro with a curious expression. The man was eccentric to say the least. “Provide him with cover then, if he is able to figure out cause of this thing.” She ordered the men, waving them forth to follow Pietro with her hand.

Brighton stared at the mist and the spire, an unhappy expression on his face. He raised an eyebrow at Shyleen’s order but said nothing. “Mind you don’t go into that stuff, Pietro,” he called. “Just because you have your head in the clouds doesn’t mean you need to put the rest of your body in there too. If the edge of the mist isn’t close enough, come back and we’ll figure something else out.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I think maybe I read about something like this,” he said, mostly to himself.

Sergeant Gilbride gestured two of his armsmen to accompany Pietro at Shyleen’s command.  The two warriors gave each other uneasy looks but fell in beside Pietro as he heeled Bumpo down towards the edge of the mist.  The Sergeant was proud of his warriors for not flinching in the face of something obviously otherworldly and he was equally pleased that Gavinia had opted not to canter down to the mist and take a closer look.  All things considered, while faced with a mysterious mist barring their path, he was about as happy as one could be.

The two armsmen weren’t nearly so pleased.  They were well-trained though and kept a good watch on their charge and the strange billowing mist.  After several minutes of riding they were getting close enough to see the details of the swirling clouds that surrounded what was once Fastormel.  The mist moved as if a breeze was constantly stirring it but no evidence of a wind of any kind existed out here where they were. Besides, a breeze would have caused the mist to travel and it stayed unnaturally stationary.  It didn’t seem to budge even an inch across the grassy plains.

When they were within a few score yards of the edge of the mist a cloaked and hooded figure stepped from the mist and waited for them.  He, if it was a he, was tall and not overly burly but that was about all that could be discerned while the cloak obscured the figure.  The armsmen looked at each other and silently loosened their swords in their sheaths just in case.

Then the figure lifted its head and several locks of platinum hair strayed from under the hood and a shadowed face peeked out at the riders.  The low and smooth voice removed any doubt that the figure was male as it spoke.

“Who trespasses on the realm of the Mistlord?  Halt now and declare your intentions.”

Brighton tensed up with some alarm when the figure stepped out of the mists. Of all the people he would choose to be his emissary to… whatever it was that was going on here… Pietro wouldn’t be the top of his list.

He looked toward Shyleen and Gavina. “Do you think we all oughtta go down there? Probably one or the other of them’s going to need rescuing soon.”

Gavinia was already back on Apollo’s back smiling agreement to Brighton, “Agreed.  But we shant rush down as if charging.”

She leaned over and commanded the huge animal, “Prance” which has him stepping high and arching his neck.  The pair looks regal and more the stuff of a parade than an attacking force as they move to join the others.

Pietro hunched forward, drumming his fingers on the pommel of his saddle. He’d been looking forward to unbottling one of his dreams. It was a special, visceral pleasure to cast a spell. The act of creating in the waking world what usually only existed in the dreaming one was always a thrill.

“The Mistlord, eh?” Pietro re-lit his pipe, which had smouldered low on the short ride towards the white fog. “I am the Dreamlord. I request an audience with his Honor of the Mists. I’ve some excellent nocturnal fantasies and nightmare-wards to gift him.”

The old man offered a smile to the hooded figure. The ruins of Fastormel had been claimed, if the mists and delegate were any indication, by someone with a taste for theatricality.

It was the dichotomy of a mask. The superficial function of a mask was to hide the features of whomever wore it. Its more usual function, though, was to incite curiosity as to what was hidden.

A great magical mist was one thing. A title and a jutting white spire, another entirely. Who or whatever the Mistlord was, it wished to be found. Pietro was not inclined to disappoint.

“My Lord rarely welcomes visitors, sir Dreamer.” the cloaked figure said softly. “You may pass through his realm, for a fair tithe, but a lengthy visit, while not forbidden, is discouraged.  My counsel, freely given, is to either turn aside or pay the tithe and continue on your way.”

The hood lifted just slightly as the figure fixed his unseen gaze on the approaching party.  “If you wish admittance, you will be required to disclose your names and your intentions.”  Despite a group of armed and mounted people approaching, the figure didn’t seem particularly nervous.

Pietro did not speak immediately. Names were powerful. A name and a dream were the recipe for a nightmare, in his experience. The conjuring of demons and devils was best done with their name. The subject of any spell would be better off if the caster did not know his name.

But the old man had long since stopped fearing nightmares. He only ever had the one anyway – a woman, a flash, a shout and a stumble – and its bite was no longer sharp.

“I am Pietro Perdido, the Dreamlord of the Vale.” he said, snorting twin plumes of smoke. “Intentions? Eh, intentions are tricky. Wibbly-wobbly, y’know. Fools and waterfowl intend things. I do. And what I do is see what bounty the world’s wonders offer. The Mistlords realm, I’m sure you’ll agree, qualifies.”

Pietro waggled his fingers, reaching into his own mind for the spell. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, his spell. This particular dream had been bottled in the memory of the last man to wear his cloak- it was a part of the fibers. Pietro released it. It was a dream of a question, and a simple one at that. It was ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It asked ‘is this a dreamer?’ it asked ‘is this of the sleeping world?’. It asked ‘is this magic’.

Shyleen nodded with Gavinia at Brighton’s suggestion, motioning the men to advance with caution. Shyleen kept a close look at the cloaked figure as they came closer towards it, but she held her tongue. Pietro’s words made her crack a smile, but she was suspicious of the cloaked figure, ready to charge in to Pietro’s aid if something went wrong.

“Then, my Lord of the Dream, I give you leave to enter this realm.”, the figure bowed and turned to walk back into the mists.  “A few yards into the mist you will find a road.  It leads to the outskirts of Fastormel and then on the the bridge that crosses the river into the forest.  There is an inn along the road at Fastormel, The Final Rest.  You may stay there, if you wish.  Do not venture off the road and do not enter Fastormel proper.  It would be… unwise.”

With that final warning, he stepped back into the mists and disappeared.

Pietro let the mouthpiece of his pipe click along his teeth pensively, watching the place where the delegate had stood moments before. Curios and curiouser. The old man could not help it, though he at least avoided the tired cliche of a cat and curiosity’s particular fatal turn.

“Hooks and lines. Ominous omens and bric-a-brac.” he murmured, puffing a thin ribbon of pipeweed. Leaning back in his saddle, Pietro squinted at the distant white spire, then glanced at his companions.

“You know, when I’m all…” he waved vaguely. “…esoteric and obtuse, it’s usually because I’m forgetful. Or its because I, you know. Forget things.”

Removing the pipe from his mouth, Pietro pointed it back towards the mists.

“I get the – eh, and pardon if this seems far from the mark – but I get the impression that man was being enigmatic on purpose.”

Pietro once more looked towards the spire. His mandate had been- something about barbarians? He’d been looking forward to exploring his mindscape with a shaman. This seemed more interesting, for the time being. It also seemed, on reflection, most probably related.

“We have to assume they have means to watch us. Sensors and invisible eyes. Astral amenities. That sort’ve nonsense.” Pietro said, staring into the white fog. “We should guard our words, or use cant-speak. A secret code, like the click-tongue of the Pengo-Savoy.”

Pietro paused, watching his companions expectantly. He clicked his tongue against his teeth several times, hopefully.

“Does anyone else know it? They only travel sideways in time, easy folks to miss.”

Brighton arrived just in time to see the hooded man vanish back into the mists. He smiled at Pietro’s ruminations on the topic. He couldn’t help it. The old man made him laugh.

“On purpose, Pietro? Are you implying that someone who managed to conjure enough solid mist to cover an entire plain, not to mention, apparently, a kingdom to go with it, has a flair for the theatrical? You’re such a cynic.”

He gave the wall of mist a careful glance. There wasn’t anything here that he was familiar with, not from his travels nor from his studies. He loved an adventure, but he liked seeing where he placed his feet as well.

“Does anyone sense anything? Or know anything? What says the company? Shall we enter? Or take the long way ’round?”

He was in charge of this operation, nominally. And that meant he was responsible for the safety of everyone here.

“Our original task should become as a priority, but we cant risk our safety either. What ever we do, we should consider the warnings we got. I do not wish for any unnecessary risks.” Shyleen glanced at Gavinia briefly, asking for her opinion before she looked upon the mist again . “What do you think, my Lady?”

She hummed, trying to make sense if there was something she could know about the Mist.

From astride her mount, Gavinia gazed into the mist, a slight frown creasing her brow as she tried to remember anything about a Lord off this direction.

She looked over at her friend’s question and smiled, “Contrary to popular belief I am not completely feckless Shyleen.  I do believe this warrants further investigation, but our duty for father needs take priority.  We can look into this on the way back, unless you folks have other thoughts?” she replied, giving the others a chance to share their opinion.  Unlike some other nobles, however, her offer is earnest and she looks to each to show such.

She shook her head in the negative, she added, “There are only ruins off in that direction. There has been no talk of some lordling reclaiming ancient familial lands or newly inheriting such.  Father needs to know of this.  Derron, I am sorry to do this to you again,” she smiles apologetically, “but can you ride back to the manor and let father know once we’ve sorted out what we are doing here?” she did look at the Sergeant to confirm his approval.

“Hm. Mhm. Mmm.” Pietro murmured, making the kind’ve old-man-thinking noises that came with age. He upended his pipe, tapping out the ashes remaining in the bowl, then stowed it in a beltpouch. “There is an inn, he said. That implies someone is running an inn.”

Pietro glanced over at the others.

“I cannot imagine a better place to find out more information about this Mistlord.”

The old man nudged his heels into Bumpo, urging the beast forward and into the mists. The fact was that whatever mission he’d assumed from the merchant was taking backseat to something far larger and more ominous. Moreover, Pietro did not believe in coincidences. Everything that ever was or could be flowed from the universal font of creation- the godhead. It followed, then, that everything that ever was or could be was inherently connected.

Pietro had pointedly not commented on Gavinia’s statement about ‘duty’. She had a duty to her father, certainly. Shyleen, likely, as well. Pietro held himself to no such duty. If he had to investigate alone, he would have to be careful.

“Hey! Wait!” Shyleen yelled at the man entering the mist. “We can’t just let him go on like this… He might get hurt!” Shyleen looked onward baffled as the mans curiosity took over his sense of safety.

“Gavinia, Mists like these should not go unchecked and there can be always a chance it might have something to do with the disappearances, but my duty is to see to your safety, so I will go where you will. Let me know where you shall take us, but I must say I worry greatly for his safety.” Shyleen voiced her opinion on the situation. Her duty did not allow her to make the hasty decisions.

Gavinia had seen the strange old man head into the mist and simply stared in confusion. And they think I am chaotic she thought, her mouth slightly agape.

Snapping her teeth together at shyleen’s comment, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath then opens them as she releases her breath. “Of course we cannot allow the fool to get himself killed,” she said in clear frustration.  Turning back to Derron, she tells him, “Ride back to the manor and tell father what we saw here and that we will be investigating the mist due to one of the caravan getting himself lost in it.  We will continue our mission to the Tigerclaw clan as soon as we can.  Can you do that, please, Derron?” she asked.

When Derron had left she said between gritted teeth, “Well, let’s go after him.” and under her breath, “damn, damn, damn, folly and frivolity with no bloody common sense.”

Brighton shook his head. Whether this was right or wrong or wise or foolish no longer mattered. This was happening. And, like a good party, sometimes the only thing to do was hold on tight and ride it through.

“Pietro’s a lot of things, Lady,” he said to Gavina as they started forward. “But frivolous isn’t one of them. However odd his musings and obsessions might seem, they are deadly serious to him.”

He paused. Smiled. “But lack of common sense? For certain. Now let’s go before those two get themselves into trouble.”

Gavinia halted her ride into the mist, turning back to look at the Sergeant with a half smile, “Don’t suppose you would consider staying with the caravan, would you?”

She shifted her gaze to the caravan master and asked, “Brighton, do wish the caravan to move a safe distance or head back to town?”

Brighton gave the matter some thought. There didn’t seem to be anything seriously amiss out here. Except for the magical kingdom of magical mist, of course. “They can stay here. They’re as safe here as anywhere. If an army of magical mist monsters decide to show up, there isn’t much do be done about it anyway.”

To the Sargent he said, “Get the wagons in a circle. Everyone form up and stay close, First sign of trouble, and we’re not here, get moving toward town. We’ll try not to be too long.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go get this done. Whatever it is.”

Dinner with Daddy

Lord Warden Faren Markelhay stood as his daughter and her guest entered the dining room.  While he liked to run a more relaxed household than many of the nobles that came from the more metropolitan south, he still observed the niceties of polite society.  Standing when a lady joined the table was still required.  However, his relaxed atmosphere meant that there was only one serving man in attendance so Lord Markelhay stepped from his spot to help the Lady Shyleen into her seat while he let the serving man perform the same function for his daughter.

“Good evening, ladies.”  Lord Markelhay said, regaining his own seat at the head of the table.  “Thank you for accepting my invitation to dinner.  I trust your afternoon has been less… eventful than your morning ride?”

Bowing her head slightly to the servant helping her sit, with a quiet, “Thank you” offered.  Turning to her father she smiled brightly and replied, “Good evening Father! The afternoon has been quite routine, no where near as stimulating as our morning, much to our Sergeant’s relief!  How has your day been?  Have you heard anything on the condition of our new guest? Can you imagine being left for dead so near the King’s Road?!”

“Thank you, my Lord” Shyleen smiled as she was aided to her seat. “I should be the one thanking you for invitation.” She bowed her head at the man. Her attention was turned to Gavinia whose excitement made the paladin smirk briefly. She allowed the Lady speak on their behalf.

“Ladies never have to proffer thanks for an invitation to dinner by a gentleman.”  Lord Markelhay said.  “It is always the gentleman’s privilege.  Your rescued Rider is recovering well.  He’s resting a bit but doesn’t look as if he will have any lingering affects.”

The Moonstone Keep’s cook opened the door and gave Lord Markelhay an inquiring look and Lord Markelhay waved him in with a nod.  The cook held the door as a couple of the kitchen staff began placing plates of food on the table.  There was a roasted turkey that must have been the result of one of the huntmaster’s recent forays, several baked trout from the Nentir River and a variety of vegetables and breads.  Wine was poured and the table set with a minimum of fuss and quick as halfling wit.  The door closed softly as the kitchen staff departed, leaving the Lord Warden and his guests with the lone serving man to look after their needs.

Lord Markelhay gestured to the ladies to begin, “The Rider, his name is Tristan, had news from the south.  It seems there is significant goblin activity in the Harken Forest.  They are putting real pressure on the forest giants that live there and are in large enough numbers to be a threat to Harkenwold in Tristan’s opinion.”

Shyleen nodded to the man. She looked at the plates of food come with an eager smile, but inside she was filled with child like glee, which she was cautious not to show to keep up her exemplar presences for the lady.

Before she got to begun feasting, she listened to the bad news with a frown. “Is there reason for them to be that aggressive? I know they are chaotic by nature, but are they really this suicidal?”

Gavinia didn’t seem to miss a beat during her dining as her father shared his dramatic news, but she tensed slightly and her brow furrowed as she considered what he and Shyleen had to say.

She commented, perhaps too casually, as she carved a succulent piece of pork on her plate, “Goblins are little more than a pack of animals, if left to their own devices.  Some one or something must be leading them.  There is sentience behind such actions.  I am sure you have ideas on whom or what, father?” she queried, delicately removing a morsel of fine meat from her fork with her lips.  She chewed her food, savoured it.

Lord Markelhay shook his head, “Actually, I have no idea who or what is behind the goblins.  Does this surprise you?  I probably have always seemed to have had a good idea of what was going on when we discussed these things before but this time is different.  Care to venture a guess as to why?”

The serving man noticed the Lord Warden was out of wine and quietly refilled his glass.  Lord Markelhay paid the man little attention as he scooped food onto his plate.

“And while you ladies are pondering such unladylike subjects as goblins and the near omniscience of the Lord Warden, spare a moment to consider that all the trade caravans for the last several to the Tigerclaw Tribe in the Winterbole have gone missing.  Amara Azaer is most unhappy.”

“Unlady like or not, it is my duty. If anything has even the slightest chance to be a threat to the city, I must heed the call.” Shyleen stood her ground, rubbing her chin as she looked thoughtful. “Goblins rarely take orders from other creatures, but I would not cancel out that option. Maybe something is driving them out of their normal environment?”

The paladin sighed, taking sip of her wine. “Trade caravans? Do you suspect the goblins might have something to do with this as well?”

“It is doubtful that the goblins are the problem in both places.” The Lord Warden said. “Unless they have learned to travel completely undetected across miles of open plains and hills.  If that is the case, then we might be in serious trouble given the sheer number of goblins it would take to threaten both the forest giants and the barbarian tribes.”

The Lord Warden took a sip of wine and shivered at the thought.  “Let’s hope the explanation is something more… palatable.”

Gavinia smiled over her fork, politely emptying her mouth before replying to her friend, “He was teasing Shyleen.  Or mostly.  He would much prefer we hang up our swords and focus our interest on gardening and perhaps finding a suitable suitor.” she laughed merrily, completely unaware that she wrinkled her nose a little in distaste at the suggestion.

She took a few more thoughtful bites then continued, “Which should we investigate, do you think m’Lady?  I really detest those beastly goblins, so my first choice would be to see what brigands are bothering the caravans.  Though perhaps we should do the more distasteful first.”

“I have long since given up on the notion of gardening, my dear.  Suitors, well, that still remains a pleasant dream.”  The Lord Warden said.  “I had originally intended to put all your training to good use and send you as my envoy to the Tigerclaws.  I’ve promised House Azaer that I would send an ambassador and an escort with the next caravan.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward, “Of course, that was before you lovely ladies decided to take a ride and complicate my life.  With the information provided by our infirm Rider I now have another serious problem.  Since you can only be in one place at a time perhaps you’d like to indicate which you feel most appropriate for your talents?”

“Goblins are bothersome, but I do not think dealing with them first is worth losing an ally. If we are to escort the caravan, we should at least have someone keeping look out for Goblins. Are you able to spare capable men for that?”

Gavinia’s eyes were alight and she dropped her hands a little too hard on the table, making a rather loud clatter as she exclaimed, “Excellent!” before looking a little sheepish, having the grace to blush a little and became suddenly very focused on her dinner, a smile on her lips.

A moment passed, and she looked up at Shyleen, still smiling, “Of course he does!  We shall head off to the Tigerclaws first light for you, father!”

“Well, I think I’d rather you wait on the caravan.  You can hardly command the escort if you’re a day ahead of them.” The Lord Warden said.  “Lady Shyleen, you’ll be in command of the guard contingent.  I’ll draft an order making you an acting Knight-Lieutenant in the Fallcrest Guards for the duration of this mission.”

The Lord Warden glanced over at his daughter, “Gavinia, you’ll be my ambassador.  I have documents already drawn up giving you the authority to make any trade agreements you deem necessary with the Tigerclaws.  My primary concern is to avoid conflict with them and appease House Azaer with a favorable trading arrangement.  If you find brigands along the way who are raiding our trade route, you have the authority to execute whatever justice you see fit.  You will be in overall command.  My suggestion is to listen to your caravan master and your military commander.”  He pointed a fork at Gavinia with a smile.  “They might be able to keep you out of too much trouble, young lady.”

Gavinia laughed merrily.  “That is…possible But more often I get myself in and out of trouble for the most part.  Do you wish me dressed the Lady for this, or can I dress in formal cavalier dress? And more importantly, is there desert tonight?”

“Understood, my Lord. It is an honor and I will see to that everyone will return safely.” Shyleen nodded at the man in acknowledgment, giving a small smile. She sighed heavily at the girl’s giggles. The paladin wished Gavinia would take the situation with little more concern. “If you think of desert that much, you end up not fitting in to your Cavalier dress.” The paladin smirked.

Gavinia grinned at her friend, “Never fear, I get plenty of exercise! And desert is usually only at proper dinner and I don’t get those too often.” She pretended to frown slightly, “…or are you trying to tell me something only a good friend would?”

The Lord Warden laughed. “Daughter, I doubt the barbarians will be impressed with your formal gowns.  They might respond better to a show of martial strength but I’ll leave that to your discretion.  And of course there is dessert…”  He nodded for the serving man to go fetch the sweets.

An Afternoon Ride

Sergeant Gilbride wondered, not for the first time, what he had done to earn the gods’ displeasure.  Armsman for a Lord’s daughter should be an easy assignment.  Watch the door while the young lady does embroidery or walks the gardens or visits the marketplace.  Riding hither and yon across the wilderness while the lady in question got a bit of “fresh” air wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal.  And what was with the “fresh” air thing?  They lived in Fallcrest not the huge cities of the Southern Coast.  There wasn’t any bad air here.  Except maybe right next to the tanner.  That pretty much smelled like the south end of a north bound draft horse.

At least Lady Gavinia could handle herself in combat, if it should come to that.  The sergeant sighed.  That was a good thing, indeed.  Except Lady Gavinia’s skill also meant she was significantly less cautious with her safety.  The sergeant would have felt better that Gavinia had brought along some female companionship, except the companion was a bonafide Paladin of Shelyn.  Paladins were not known for avoiding danger.

The sound of an approaching horse interrupted the sergeant’s thoughts.  He looked around and relaxed as he saw Armsman Derran gallop up.  The younger man nodded back the way he had come as he pulled his horse to a halt. “Hey, sergeant.  There’s a horse and what looks to be a body back that direction.  Mostly hidden by a copse of trees.  Probably would have missed it if the carrion birds hadn’t been circling.”

Gilbride looked over at his ward and immediately dropped the idea of not informing Lady Gavinia.  She and her friend had been studying a particularly scenic view only a few yards from him and the looks they were giving him told him they had already heard.  He sighed again, it was becoming a habit, “Well, Milady?  What would you like to do?”

Shyleen was standing next to Gavinia, looking upon her silently as she waited for her answer to Armsman. The Half-elf was wearing trousers and neat purple shirt with breastplate over it, armed with her Glaive strapped on to her back. She had not brought her backpack and her camping gear with her, but she always had her journal and ink. She never knew when inspiration would strike.

Trouble had bad habit of being around every corner, but this time it was hiding among the trees. She was happy that she was at least prepared to some degree for this kind of situation.

Gavinia quickly turned to face Shyleen trying desperately to hide a smile of amusement at her Sergeant’s long suffering look before the rider interrupted them.  She knew how much he hated babysitting duty, especially outside the city.

At the rider’s news, Gavinia wished she had not allowed her father to convince her she needed to spend more time as a Lady, so the people would know her as such.  She should have her armour!  Leaning forward and tugging the front of her skirt, she seemed to split the fabric in two, tying each half back to reveal a pair of leather breeches beneath what was now a long surcoat.  The folds of her dress had also hidden her belt, which she quickly unbuckled and refastened over the surcoat, revealing a glistening silver sabre on her left hip and dagger on her right.

She smiled at Shyleen and gave her friend a slight nod before answering the Sergeant as he already expected, “We must find out who this poor soul is, of course, and set about finding his or her killer!” before giving gentle knee to Apollo who obediently began to gallop in the direction the rider had come from.

The sergeant caught himself before sighing again.  He was fairly certain you couldn’t die from excessive sighing but no sense in taking chances.  He motioned Derran on ahead.  “Get out front and lead the way.  Try to make sure nothing ambushes Milady.”

Derran slapped his fist to his chest with a grin and wheeled his horse around.  “Aye, sergeant!”, he said as he put the spurs to his horse to get it to overtake Apollo and Gavinia.

The sergeant fell in behind the entourage by several yards.  It gave him the opportunity to see what was coming up and put him between anything that might think of sneaking up behind them.  The sergeant wasn’t an overly paranoid man but long experience had taught him that to not plan for something was the surest way to ensure that it happened.

Derran led the group for several minutes before they topped a rise and he pointed to a small group of trees growing in the draw between two hills.  The Moon Hills were full of such places.

Sergeant Gilbride looked around to get his bearing.  “The King’s Road is just a few hundred yards to the east over there.”, He said and pointed in the proper direction.

As the group approached a horse could be seen grazing on the summer grass just outside the leafy roof of leaves.  Just a few feet away was the form of a man slumped against the bole of a large oak tree.  An arrow protruded high on the left side of his back and his leather armor had several visible rents in it even from a dozen yards away.

Shyleen smirked and shook her head a little. Of course she was worried about the Lady Gavinia, but she could not be helped but be amused by her enthusiasm that borderlines recklessness. Before rushing after  Gavinia, she silently whispered a quick prayer to her goddess.

She headed after Gavinia, allowing space for Derran to pass her as he knew where to go, and there was no telling where the lady in front would end up taking them in such a hurry that she was in.

As the group came closer to their location and Shyleen saw the horse and she slowed down. The sight of the corpse was nothing new to her, but it was sad scene nonetheless. What of his family if he had one?, she worried in her thoughts. It was not too hard to determine the death of this character from afar “An arrow? That should rule out that he was attacked by an wild animal. Worrisome thing, Indeed.” She sighed heavily and looked upon the surroundings with caution, there was always the slightest chance the man could have been a bait.

As they reached the hillock Gavinia slowed Apollo and surveyed the scene and the area carefully before approaching the body.  She nodded acknowledgement at the Sergeant’s indication of where the King’s Road was without comment.

“No stranger to battle, he,” she commented idly, nodding her head from astride her horse. Drawing her right leg over the saddle, she slid down Apollo’s left side to land gracefully on the roadside and slowly moved towards the body, keeping alert.

“It seems like the horse was coming from the King’s Road, Sergeant. Could you please come and help us in inspecting the body?” Shyleen addressed the man and dismounted, making her way to the corpse slowly along side Gavinia. The half-elf felt safe enough to approach the body.

Gavinia moved to the body, touching his neck to see if there was any life left in him, though she presumed Derran would have done when he first found the man.

She looked up at Shyleen and queried, “So was he attacked on the Kings’ Road?  Was he alone?  Derran, can you please ride towards the road slowly and see if there was anyone else who may have fallen with him or if there is sign of his attackers?”

Derran gave Gavinia a quick bow, “Yes, Milady.”  He heeled his horse around and trotted slowly back towards the road, keeping and eye on the trail the man had obviously taken.

Gavinia felt for a pulse, expecting to find none.  She was surprised to find that a flutter of life still existed in the man.  His breathing was shallow, nearly undetectable, and his heartbeat fast and weak.  He had obviously lost a lot of blood and was nearly gone but he wasn’t gone quite yet.

The sergeant knelt beside Gavinia and pointed to the man’s chest. “Look.  He’s a Rider.”  A brass pendant hung from the man’s neck.  There was a stylized horse and rider embossed on the disk.  It was the symbol of the Riders of the Vale.

Gavinia called out to her friend, “Shyleen! He lives! Can you help him?!”

She moved aside, giving the girl room to step near the man.  She cursed her lack of healing knowledge as she nodded at the sergeant’s observation.

Shyleen hurried to Gavinia and the victim on the ground. She dropped down on to her knees, quickly attempting to stabilize the man as she whispered a prayer to her goddess, casting a lay on hands on him and attempted to remove the arrow.

A pale nimbus of light suffused the man as Shyleen attempted her healing and he immediately breathed easier but did not regain consciousness.  This concerned the young woman.  The only reason she could think of that would keep an injured man from waking after the goddess had lent her healing power would be poisoning or disease.  Something besides simple injury must be going on.

On the chance that it was poison, removing the arrow seemed wise.  She grabbed the arrow and pulled firmly.  The arrow held for a moment and then came free.  Blood and flesh came with it and the man groaned loudly before settling down again into unconsciousness.

Gavinia looked up at her friend and gave a weak smile, “Thank you Shyleen, that has eased him some.  We need to get him to a healer for some long term care, though, don’t we?” she asked, fairly sure of the answer.

She looked at Shyleen and the Sergeant when continuing, “Can one of us carry him with us on our horse or should we build him a travois?  There are small trees aplenty and I do have my bedroll if needs be.” she concluded thoughtfully.

Shyleen looked at the man with great worry before inspecting the arrow. “What ever we do, we must do it fast. He is dying of something malicious, A poison if I were to guess. Do we have any anti-venom with us?”

“I don’t have any with me.” the cavalier replied with a sigh, “Sergeant? Do you have any kind of poison antidotes?

I don’t think we have time for a travois at any rate,” she concluded, whistling for Apollo to join them, “I’ll take him. Apollo is the heaviest horse here and the weight wont trouble him.  I can keep our patient steady.”

She leaped up onto Apollo’s back and remembered Derron, looking out towards the King’s Road she called out, “Derron, Find anything?”

Sergeant Gilbride shook his head while hoisting the injured man up to Gavinia.  “No, Milady.  No poison antidotes here.”  He removed the sword and dagger from the man and put them on the man’s horse which he then tethered to his own mount.

Derran galloped back to the group and reported.  “It doesn’t look like he was followed this far.  He must have been attacked some time back and escaped this far towards Fallcrest before going unconscious and veering off the road.  The town is an hour or so ride north so he almost made it to safety.”

“Derran, take point and scout ahead as we go.  I’ll bring up rear guard.”  The sergeant mounted his horse and turned towards Gavinia.  “I agree with Lady Shyleen, Milady.  The wound has to either be infected or poisoned.  We need to get this man back quickly if he’s going to live.  We can afford to push the horses a bit.  If your mount gets tired we have the Rider’s mount as a spare.”

Gavinia smiled at the Sergeant, “Less than an hour at a gallop, though with two of us aboard I may need to scout pace him. 15 minutes gallop, 15 minutes trot shall we say?  The dears will earn their oats and a good rub down tonight. Let me know if your mount needs a break Derron”.  Her grin a little saucy at the last mild taunt before she clicked her tongue and the large horse leaped forward on a gallop.

Shyleen mounted her horse and hurried after Gavinia. She was worried for the man’s life. In her thoughts she begged for her goddess to give the man strength to fight whatever was killing him.

The trip back to Fallcrest proved uneventful if less than comfortable.  The King’s Road this close to the town was well maintained and cut an easy path through the rolling hills.  Within an hour the nearly completed southern wall of the town and the King’s Gate came into view, the cliffs of the Nentir Falls rising behind them.  The Moonstone Keep and the Septarch’s Tower rose prominently as the two highest points in the town.

The gate guards had been warned by Derran and assembled themselves at the gate.  They had procured a hand cart from somewhere and were emptying it of the supplies that had filled it.  A young lieutenant snapped to attention when Gavinia and Shyleen rode up.  He quickly motioned to a couple of his men to help get the wounded man from the horse.

“Milady, I’m Lieutenant Mayrne.”, he stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on her horses withers. “We’ll relieve you of your burden, with your leave.  Do you know where you would like to him sent?”

“Thank you Lieutenant Mayrne.  Please, take him straight to Jacen, our personal healer with haste.  If any will know what to do, he will.  Let him know I will be along as soon as I have tended to Apollo,” Gavinia replied with a smile.

She looked up at Derran and Sergeant Gilbride, “Do you think there is anything to be found following the king’s road past where we found him?  I keep thinking he may not have been alone and there are other victims to be attended to,” she speculated with a frown, though she trusted her guard’s opinion on the matter.  She also included Shyleen in her gaze and added, “I told you it wouldn’t be boring,” with a lobsided grin.

Shyleen was relieved that Derran had done his duty and arranged what he could in the little time. She sighed peacefully knowing that the stranger would be in good care now. “Thank the goddess” She whispered to herself.

She shook her head disappointingly from side to side. “You should not take these kinds of events lightly, Milady.” It was very dangerous if Gavinia ended up loving the excitement of this kind.

A Quiet Deal

Lorat Azaer clasped the hand of Brighton Hatherford and smiled.  Brighton “Hatch” Hatherford didn’t look like much but Lorat had found the man to be quite competent in the past and hoped that judgement would be proven sound.

“Good to see you again, Hatch”, Lorat said.  He pumped Brighton’s hand once and then dropped it.  “Thanks for finding me so quickly.  I appreciate it but it could have waited until this evening at the Alehouse.”

Someone started to step into the stall with the three men but Lorat’s quick shake of the head had the interloper leaving before looking at any of the wares.  The marketplace at Fallcrest might not have rivaled the larger cities to the south but it was the biggest in the Nentir Vale and Lorat’s was the largest of the tent-like stalls hawking goods and services.  Which made it an awkward place to have a private conversation but also an equally difficult place to eavesdrop.

“Is this your expert in all things mystical?”  Lorat nodded towards the man with Brighton.

“Call it a personal quirk, when a client says it’s urgent I like to meet in more… sober and upstanding company.” Brighton responded with a stony expression. He was dressed as most in the market, light and comfortable clothing in natural greens and greys, his bandoleer around his waist like a wide belt and only his quarterstaff in hand.

“I was going to ask if it’s house business or a job I’m doing for someone ‘I can’t remember much about’-” Hatch said “-doesn’t really seem necessary to ask now though seeing as you’re shooing away paying customers. Best to get down to business if that’s the way it is then.” A hint of a frown crossed his face as he turned to the old man, Pietro. “Any concerns, this is your chance to ask before you’re in it for the long haul.”

Pietro closed his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He did it twice more. A fine morning, all things considered. No cricks in his back, no twinges in his knees. His body had forgotten his age, at least for now.

“Hm?” Pietro murmured, opening his eyes and letting his attention drift back to Brighton and the other. “Oh, ah- concerns? No. Concerns are for bumblebees and stableboys. And some fowl.”

The older man drifted around the room, tugging absently at his threadbare sleeves and examining the furnishings. He appreciated fine living, though the appeal was an external one; Pietro himself did not crave a comfortable living room or bedchamber. That they existed somewhere out in the waking dream of life was enough for him.

Hatch grinned at the man before turning back to Lorat. “Odd bird that, but sharp where it counts. As discreet as anyone in the Vale and not interested much in material value either; he’d make for good competition if he had a mind for the business. Speaking of…”

“Well, friend.”, Lorat smiled and offered the two men crude but sturdy stools before taking one himself.  “It’s a bit of both kinds of business.  We have a perfectly legitimate cargo we need hauled and a bit of something extra on the side as well.”

The trader took a small flask of something out of his tunic.  He opened it with a twist and then took a quick gulp of whatever was inside.  He grimaced as the liquid hit his throat and then relaxed into a sigh.  “So, Hatch, how much do you know about the Tribes of the Winterbole Forest?”

He offered the flask to Hatch and Pietro.

“Oh, you know me Lorat. Great at digging information up, piss poor at remembering any of it. Place like that, I’d wager tough as cold-iron nails and less than trusting of outsiders?” Hatch shrugged. “Anything beyond that would just be wild speculation…”

“Shamanstic totemic religious systems, I believe.” Pietro said without prompting. He dug into a pocket as he spoke, searching for his pipe. “Fond of crossing the axis mundo, you know, finding the divinity of within. Their mystics are fond of eidolonic projection from the spirit world, in whose care they believe they are trusted. Which is bugger and rot if you ask me- the worlds beyond this one are about as apathetic as you can get while still wearing trousers.”

Producing his pipe, Pietro clamped his lips around one end and stuffed a pinch of herb into the other. He grinned at Lorat, though his eyes were distant and he wasn’t so much grinning at Lorat as near the man. Pietro snapped his fingers over his pipe’s bowl, igniting the herbs within.

“As I recall their shamans make good use of entheogens and hallucinogenics.” he added, sucking in a lungful of smoke before letting it curl from his lips in a languid ribbon. He’d spent some time among the Winterbole Tribes. Or possibly one of them had visited him in a dream, Pietro couldn’t remember. In any case, he knew for certain the hallucinogenic herb he’d just lit into his pipe was the same kind used by the Tribes.

Pietro sucked in another lungful before politely offering the pipe to Lorat and Hatch.

“Some days I don’t know what leaves me more staggered, the things you know or the fact that I manage to follow most of what you say.” Hatch replied with a smile, before declining the pipe Pietro offered. He’d learned his lesson the hard way after the last time Pietro gave him something to smoke. “So then, natural and innate magic, and those conjurers that can keep their friends around for hours. I’m guessing this has to do with the side delivery?”

Lorat coughed into his fist. “Ah… yes.  Hatch, you always have the most interesting companions.  Your friend though is basically correct.  The tribes are a bit primitive but not stupid by any stretch.  House Azaer has had good trade relations with them for some time.  Our last two traders failed to return to us though and we’re concerned that the tribes might be becoming hostile.  The Lord Warden shares our concern and is dispatching a guard and a diplomat with us on this next trip.”

Lorat waved away the offer of the pipe politely but did take another swig of his flask.  “House Azaer would like you to take charge of the coming trip.  Due to our concerns that the tribes might be getting frisky due to some strange religious beliefs or whatnot we thought taking someone versed in the supernatural along would be prudent.  Azaer wants to know two things: what is the state of things with the tribes and what happened to our previous traders?”

“Oh…”, Lorat grinned, “And there are a couple of items of questionable legality we’d like you to deliver to a specific gentleman while you are there.  The Lord Warden’s contingency doesn’t need to know that particular piece of information, of course.”

Pietro sighed contentedly as he felt the first wave of relaxation from his pipe hit. It was a slow, spreading warmth. It was a blanket being pulled over him- or perhaps, the old man thought, it was being pulled off. Perhaps the herb was, as the shamans claimed, merely opening Pietro up to the rest of reality.

“A dangerous thing, tribes on the spook.” he said slowly, letting smoke trail in a thin ribbon from his mouth. “They do not do so easily. If their spirit world is in disarray, ours is sure to follow.”

The thought was a disturbing one. Civilization – the walls of Fallcrest, the sigils of petty lords – was such a thin veneer and punctured easily. For all its fragility, though, Pietro thought civilization an excellent thing. It was a kind’ve lubricant on a machine that by itself never worked very smooth.

It was around the time Pietro began to taste the color of the air that he forgot payment was involved in the transaction.

“If the great wheel has been trackless or unrutted, all the little ants have best go to ground or grow bigger.” Pietro said, his head spinning pleasantly. “I believe I’m a big ant. Buzz buzz, m’lord.”

Without further preamble, Pietro wandered from the tent trailing pungent smoke behind him like a tail.

Hatch didn’t stay long in the tent after that and soon emerged scanning the crowd for Pietro.  It didn’t take much to see and smell the faint trail of pipe smoke and he fell in beside, Pietro.

“Things are set up to leave the day after tomorrow.  Can you be ready to leave that morning by sunrise?”  Hatch kept a watchful eye out for the Guard.  He and Pietro weren’t really doing anything wrong, it was more a force of habit. “I could really use someone like you on the trip.  You’re a bit on the odd side of things but reliable.  I’d hate to have to hire someone I don’t know.”

Hatch grabbed an apple from a fruit vendor and flipped the young girl manning the cart a silver.  Her eyes widened a bit when he waved off any change but he hardly noticed as he took a bite and waited on Pietro’s reply.  Experience had taught him that sometimes it took a while for Pietro’s weave through whatever twisty, turny places they went and acknowledge a direct question had been asked.

The sunlight streamed down in golden rays on the marketplace. Pietro watched the dappling pattern weave and writhe as the herb in his pipe took hold. Days passed. His skin sloughed off to reveal a luminous creature beneath. It had a hundred eyes and two mouths and when it emerged from Pietro’s skin it took on the name Golgarth.

Pietro blinked, then squinted at Hatch, snapping momentarily to something resembling a sober state of mind.

“You’ll find, dear boy, that I am always prepared to leave.” Pietro said, reaching a hand up and trying to squeeze a beam of sunlight. He smiled in pleasant surprise when he succeeded – the herb making him feel as though he had just touched an ermine made of light. “It is, uh, the coming back which usually presents a problem.”

Pietro clasped both hands behind his back, trying to ignore the cobblestones’ new faces and how they mocked him with writhing, condescending sneers.

“A son’s rise. I am always leaving a son’s rise.” he mumbled. The herb was not giving him the clarity of mind it usually did. In the various twistings of reality, Pietro saw no useful metaphors or images. A shame, really. “When the son rises, north gate, yes?”

Pietro sucked in a lungful of sweet herb, snorting out twin plumes as he ambled away.