IoK Session 20

“Well, how many lashes do you think you’ll get?  I’m hoping for at least 25… need to be able to outdo the young Rikian.  Gotta admit, he took the lash well.  Would have thought him a disciple of Talivar the way he withstood Shipworth’s work.”

Hardel never really knew Orgren to be a chatterer, but since they’d left the camp he never ceased to express his thoughts.

“The way I see it, you’ll get more.”

“Why do you say that?  This was as much your idea as it was mine.” 

Hardel was half surprised and half flattered.  He would take a harsher count, being the senior miner amongst the crew.  Bolan would whip him to make a point, and then whip Orgren because he could.

It was nearly midday and the camp was sure to have noticed their absence by now. 

“Think they’ll send the scouts after us?  I hear that the hynid can damn near track anything.  What do you suppose is stranger, the beastlings or the flatlanders?  This ‘Mip’ is the first one I’ve actually met, and he appears as much a monster as the hynn.  More so… as he seems a new monster each morning.  How are the Northwinds supposed to know when to shoot?  What if a real monster comes into the camp and they think its Mip and it eats all the bacon?”

Orgren was just rambling now.

“No monster could eat all the bacon… Eland has enough to choke a wyvern.”

Hardel was sick of bacon, but sure enough his pack smelled of Applewood smoked pork bellies.  Some apples, a sack of nuts, and a flask of rye whiskey to round out their diet.  Since they were already breaking some rules, might as well break the best ones.  Besides, neither he nor Orgren really knew what to expect of this hike.  Might as well enjoy it.

Orgren continued to vent every thought and Hardel focused on the woods.  The larger miner was no scout, but his strength was ever useful when things went south.  A shame they didn’t find a suitable axe before leaving, but Orgren carried his pick in hand.  Hardel had seen him shatter boulders with a single strike and hoped he would never see the dwarf swing at something softer.

Hours went by and the two hiked south.  A straight line did not exist in these untamed woods, but Hardel had spent enough time with maps to understand how to navigate.  Besides, this wasn’t a long trip and it wasn’t a straight line they needed.  Fardel could not have traveled far from the camp during his nighttime expedition.  The plan was to head past where he claimed to have spoken with his mysterious elf and find a trail or camp.  Far enough that Bolan wouldn’t find them, yet close enough to find a clue and clear his nephew’s name. 

But the sun continued west and the shadows continued to lengthen.  Hardel and Orgren began to circle the camp in a wide arc, well beyond the eyes and ears of Volimak’s tower.  Orgren seemed to have run out of thoughts to share and the only question to be heard was the one the forest was not answering.  No camp, no tracks, no markings or signs.  Perhaps Hardel’s past hunting trips hadn’t prepared him to be a real tracker, or perhaps there was no elf to track. 

What if Fardel had made it up?  What if this was a fish story so big that even his nephew believed it? 

“Hardel… I was thinking…”

So that’s what the silence was.

“…this elf seems to have taken great care in only being seen by Fardel and only meeting with him after dark.  It obviously doesn’t want to be found.  Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way… let’s let the elf come to us.  It has a story to tell and it’s looking for help.  We’ll make ourselves available.”

With that, Orgren brushed away the foliage from a large stone and took a seat.  From his belt, he pulled a green apple.  Crunching the fruit and staring into the woods, Orgren looked every bit the visage of patience.

“Fair enough.  We wait to be seen.”

Hardel sat on a nearby log, pulled his flask, and took a long drink.  His knees fully agreed with Orgren’s plan, though his mind was at ill at ease with sitting still.  Sure, the elf could see them here in this clearing.  So could everything else.

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“Well… that was that.  Another 3 ravens in my pocket and all I need do is point a srylian towards a mudhole.  I’m not sure I trust this job, but it’s damn easy.”

Regnit smiled and pantomimed tossing three coins into a pouch.  Veldamere smiled while continuing to watch the bubbles of the watery cave entrance.

“Lan… how long can a srylian hold its breath?  They’re not amphibious, are they?  Just water lizards, right?”

The older brother was asking with the air of a concerned onlooker… Not part of the problem, but hesitant to let bad things happen to others.  It had always been Veldamere’s problem.  Couldn’t stay out of the business of others.

“They know what they’re doing.  If not, they’ll learn quickly.”

“The ancients can hold the breath of four men, and they swim better than they walk.”

Landralsine was young for a Deltan.  No more than 35, which put him at the same age as Regnit.  The two had known each other since they were children, and Veldamere had promised his mother that he would watch out for him.  Deltans matured slowly and though Regnit was now an adult Vern, Landralsine still had another inch or two of height and hopefully a few more pounds of muscle.  He was quick though, and still a good inch taller than Regnit.  Maybe two now.

“We never scouted the caves and I don’t know what they will face in there.” 

Veldamere’s forehead formed a wrinkled ‘V’.  It was a recurrent expression of concern that made him look older than his 40 years.  The lines of the older son, worn by most first born.

“I’d say they have…”

Regnit flipped through his journal, fingers tracing pages of text and numbers while silently mouthing the rest of his statement.  Then with a nod…

“1 big one, 5 tall ones, 10 regular ones, and 20 little ones… and that’s just what we’ve seen.”

“Don’t count the big one, I don’t think it’s aggressive.  Lan…”

“Dormaic Ogre… they’re found on the west coast.  Fishing tribes.”

“That would explain how he knows how to swim.  She must have brought him here.  Either way, we shouldn’t be seen.  There are still other golyn in the woods.”

Regnit paused, closing his journal and pointing to the pit.

“Vel… if they are still in there when the golyn scouts return, that would cut off their escape.  The Darian said they would be in and out… a retrieval job.  What if they can’t get out because the others are returning to the hole?”

The ‘V’ deepened.  Their employer had told them not to get involved, just keep an eye on the area.  This changed things though.  As big as that hynn was, nobody stands up well to a surprise at their backs.

“Change of plans then… Lan, start tracking the leechlings.  We can at least cover their rear.  If the Darian asks, we’ll say this band of misfits did it.”

IoK Session 19

“Heading South West, 5 miles.  7 stops to reset snares, spent an hour installing a blast gem, and then returned to the hole.”

Regnit penciled the words as Veldamere recited his report.  It was a nightly routine and provided a comforting order to the strange mission they were on.  Hired several weeks ago, the brothers had found themselves far from Justicar Keep’s roadside taverns.  They had grown bored of escorting merchant wagons across The Ambassador’s Way and had agreed to a short notice scouting job. 

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“It’s simple really… Stay in the woods at the coordinates provided.  Record any activity noticed in a 3 mile block, and stay low.  I’ll return once a week to the coordinates and retrieve the reports.  If we move, we’ll adjust your location.  Otherwise, you’re just living off the land and penning promissory notes with your names on them.”

The Darian never introduced himself, he just made the offer after purchasing a round and asking for a minute of time in return.  This first deal was honest, so Regnit and Veldamere provided their minute of attention.

“I’m not going to ask why we're in the woods, but what are we looking for?  Those coordinates are south west of Vernfelle and I really don’t feel like hiding from Dramic.”

Regnit feigned a concerned look into his empty mug, waiting for the stranger to take the hint.  A raven slid in the direction of the alehouse’s lady and he felt comfortable that the stranger wasn’t clueless… another good sign.

“No Dramic.  There is a hunting party of flatlanders nearby, but we’re not anticipating any problems.  Still, my buyer is concerned about security and would like some additional insurance.  This isn’t a merchant guard job, we already have a crew for that.  We also have a disposable scout party… created ones with a bit of sense, but you don’t want to put too much faith in talking animals.  We need professionals in the wings.”

Veldamere frowned, a common habit which shown on his otherwise young face.  Stirring another honeystick into his tea, the dwarf tediously pulled another question from his beard.

“If your employer is so concerned about security, why hire hynlings at all?  Justicar Keep is full of rangers looking for an extra coin between trainings.  Deltans and Darians make fine security.  Why us?”

“Because you’re Vernish.  We believe this is a job you may appreciate.”

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It was those words that sealed the deal and blackened their thumbs.  The stranger then rolled up the inked contracts and departed, leaving a small sack of ravens as a down payment on their loyalty. 

“Are you paying attention?  Reg… your smearing your ledger.”

Veldamere’s ‘big brother tone’ snapped Regnit back to the now.  Sure enough, his glove had brushed the still wet ink and left a black stain across the notebook.  The ink seemed heavy, blacker.  The gloves had been stained many times before, but this time he may have ruined today’s notes.

“I’m sorry Veld… let’s start again.  We have time”, letting the last few words roll out with a cynical smile.  Boredom had been their greatest enemy of late.  Watching golyn place traps and gather berries was not the most exciting work.  Their instructions did not allow for any ‘hunting’ of their own, so the simply watched as the vermin flowed from the watery pit near the mountains foot.

“At least we’re kinda home for a change, that should give you something to focus on.”  Veldamere kneeled a pulled an apple from his satchel.  “You never got to see the great smelters of Vern as a child.  Father would take me there sometimes… it was a sight.  The Darian smiths never built anything so grand.”

Years ago, Veldamere would finish this same story with an ‘I’ll show you one day’, but that part of the tale stopped about 5 years ago.  The Vernish elders had made no progress procuring aid in reclaiming the city.  The Merchant Kings were slow to move, especially for humans, and the Justicarians couldn’t afford to send troops.  Seemed the old monarchs of Covel were up to something and small raids had become a common event amongst the nation borders. 

“OK… heading south west, 5 miles.  What was the rest?”  Regnit held the pen ready.

“Never mind that… I believe our guests have arrived.  Retrieve Landralsine from watch and meet me near the pit.”

IoK Session 17-18

Norgart stood at Ironsbane’s bedside.  He watched in silence, counting the seconds between each breath.  He searched his face for signs… any clue that the mastersmith still inhabited the body of the broken old dwarf.  Each breath was labored, a struggle, as if the smith still worked the forge.  It was the breathing of exhaustion, of deep and unrelenting fatigue, and Norgart wondered how long his master could keep it up.

While his eyes watched, his fingers searched.  In Norgart’s hands was a pendent of silver and precious stone.  Absently, he ran his finger along the engraved ruins along the worn edge of the pendent.  A habit he repeated often during times of stress or deep thought.  The engravings had nearly been worn smooth, but enough remained to read.  Geonomic script etched with an artistic hand, the pendent told a short story of its orginal owner.  Family name, next of kin, profession… this one once belonged to a young apprentice.  Like Norgart, the young apprentice was learning from a master smith.  Learning the secrets of iron and fire, discovering a long and proud career held by many in his family.  That was all the engravings told, but Norgart new more of the story.  The owner of the pendent would never become a master, because he had died.  When Ironsbane gave it to Norgart, he had told him that it was a common charm for young Vernsfel dwarves.  I sort of marker which was given as to those leaving their families to make a name for themselves.  Like all dwarves, a name was a special gift.  Many would never have one, having never achieved a skill or achievement worth remembering.  Norgart came to these woods looking for his chance.  Hoping that the great Yurgrim Ironsbane would reward him with a great name. 

Today, Norgart feared that his name would never come and ‘Ironsbane’ would fade away.

Outside, the rest of the camp stood silent before the hearing being held for Fardal.  Norgart knew that Fardal had left the camp one night, but that was about all.  Curfew, as well as the prohibition on alcohol and distraction in general, was strictly enforced right now.  The fear of golyn attack had given Bolan Nine Hammers a mission, and he nor the rest of the camp would not rest until a fortress of wood and stone had been built around them.  Fardal was never the most self-disciplined young miner, but his cheer and penchant for stories had always been welcome merriment.   Norgart thought it unfair to whip such a youth for a minor indiscretion.  This seemed more a show of authority than an actual hearing.  The elder dwarves as well as the Srylian Jerule had already discussed the crime and decided the punishment.  Soon, Fardal would stand before them all and offer Shipworth a chance to practice his trade.  Seemed the younger Keymeister would also be taking a whipping… proving some point to the Nine Hammers.  Norgart wasn’t exactly a religious dwarf, but seeing such dedication to the camp would be encouraging.

 

‘They brought back weapons, Hardal, I just don’t know where they are!’

Standing in the shadows behind the cabin, Orgren whispered to Hardel.  The two had set out to recover some of the scavenged gear the scouts had returned with.  It was well past curfew, and they knew that the tower watch was sharp… they had seen one dwarf.  Easier to spot two. 

‘Doesn’t matter… what’s done is done.  What we need to understand is why he left the camp.  This elf he saw… we are miles from the Deltan woods and opposite side of the island from the Darmic.  What did he really see?’

Hardel was determined.  Within him beat a sense of family and duty which would not let Fardel’s beating go without meaning.  If he could find evidence of this elf and determine what was really happening, he could clear Fardel’s honor.  The whipping had gone poorly, and though most felt sorry for the dwarf, others saw him as a child who couldn’t follow the rules or handle the punishment.

‘Orgren… what if it’s one of hers?  What if your nephew was fooled by this Maji and her golyn?’

‘He’s not stupid, Orgren… he’s foolish.  There’s a difference.’

Orgren reached for a large stone near the stump of a tree.  The field around the camp had been cleared of trees, but many stumps remained.  Offered little cover to anything attempting to approach or leave the camp. 

‘Ready?’

With a nod from Hardal, Orgren launched the stone.  It flew far, hefted by the miner’s great arms… slamming into the side of a large crate near Eland’s kitchen station. 

As predicted, Volimak turned in his tower pearch and focused his gaze and rifle on the kitchen.  As the watchmen search intently for critters near the food supplies, Hardal and Orgren took their chance to run across the field and into the woodline to look for elves and other mysteries.