A day and a half after leaving Mithral Hall, Brast reaches the confluence of the rivers Rauvin and Surbrin where he gazes upon the village of Rivermoot bathed in the late afternoon sun. To protect against the annual threat of rising river waters all the structures stand upon wooden stilts. As Brast finishes the short climb up the sturdy ladder to Pike’s Plate (the better of the two taverns in town), he finds himself face to face with Pike himself. The friendly but frail old human cannot hide his surprise at seeing a member of Clan Battlehammer.
“Ah..well…ah..yes…evening to you! Good evening indeed! A good day this is!”
Brast is familiar enough with Pike to know the proprietor means what he says.
“Master Battlehammer, what can my staff and I do for you?”
"Baster Habbeltammer!" bellows a heavily inebriated dwarf hunched over a table in the corner. The lone tankard at his table is tipped over on its side, spilling its remaining contents onto the floor.
Brast does not know the drunken dwarf but can surmise the fellow is a miner; his clothes give him away as such.
LYRA RAVENSCALE
“Proceed in patience. Walk in wisdom. Farewell, Lyra.”
With those parting words in her ears, Lyra takes her leave of Shooni, her contact in Rivermoot. The conversation with the seemingly ageless gnome earlier that day didn’t reveal much information: westward-bound travelers from Silverymoon had disappeared, and the only unusual activity of late along Rauvin Road has been the sighting of a few werewolves.
A day after leaving the village on stilts, Lyra comes to a place where a well-worn trail departs Rauvin Road and heads southward toward the Evermoors. Following the trail with her eyes, she sees where it crosses the river; a rudimentary wooden bridge spans the Rauvin at one of its narrowing points.
Reflecting on her knowledge of the region, Lyra suspects this is one of the many paths that lead to the copper mines that dot the northern part of the Evermoors, where stony outcroppings are common.
MALACHI GREYBLIGHT
Confident that he’s gathered all that he can from his network of contacts in Silverymoon, Malachi leaves behind the beauty and tranquility of the Gem of the North. Passing through the Moorgate, he heads west to the Evermoors. Rather than the customary route along Rauvin Road, the wizard opts for a more direct (and more interesting) route: a path along the northern edge of Silverwood.
After concluding his first day of travel, Malachi settles in for a night’s rest. As he does so, he reflects on the words of Istaki, a darkling elder with an uncanny knack for having reliable information a day or two before anyone else.
“The food and drink have been taken from every ambushed caravan, Mal,” explained the fey in his customary harsh whisper. “Yes, the poor, helpless saps were taken--few were slain, by the way--but items of value were…left behind. Apple crates? Gone. Loaves of bread? Gone. Salted pork? Not a shred left. Very strange, eh? Yes, very strange."
Malachi eventually nods off to sleep, but he awakes an hour or so later in a clammy sweat after suffering from a most unsettling dream (or was it a vision?). His winged boots had taken flight of their own volition, and in so doing ripped his legs violently from his body. Malachi watched in horror as his legs, with bones protruding and muscles dangling, retreated farther and farther into a sickly gray sky. Then, looking at the place where his legs should be, he saw segmented tubes, as if his legs had been replaced by massive earthworms.
Shaking off the horror of his dream, Malachi quickly confirms that his two legs are firmly attached and fully functional.
POLO "PIGPEN" GROCER
Within a matter of hours after her departure from Zymorven Hall, Pigpen crosses Rauvin Road and the half mile of open grassland north of the river. The Rauvin fills her ears with a soft, pleasant roar as it tumbles over a mass of rocks. She and her swarm quickly find a navigable route across the water, hopping (literally) from rock to rock and boulder to boulder.
Continuing southward, directly into the heart of the moors, Pigpen gradually leaves behind the tall grasses that thrive near the river bank and enters a vast tract of open land marked by heather and low vegetation. Now and then, she encounters broad, shallow pools of water--pools that are happily received by the swarm of tiny frogs chorusing all around her.
As the sun prepares to disappear in the west, she notices a distinct set of footprints in the mud at the edge of one of the pools. The prints suggest the recent presence of two different kinds of creatures, both rather large, but one seemingly larger than the other.
THELAN GREENSHARD
Several days have passed since Thelan exited the shadows of the High Forest and made his way to Olostin’s Hold. His conversations at the Headless Troll--the Hold’s only inn--revealed nothing unexpected. Tales of the most recent troll attacks, all of which were successfully thwarted, is all he is able to glean from the locals. Pressing for any further information about ambushed caravans between the Hold and Everlund is fruitless; folks here, for now anyway, don’t seem to know or care much for bad news elsewhere.
“The Hold has its share of hardships, Thelan,” bluntly quips Sari, the innkeeper. “For better or worse, those hardships make us indifferent to some of the goings on in other places.”
The food, drink and night’s lodging is on the house (not surprisingly, considering the few times Thelan has helped the Hold over the years), and the next day, Thelan crosses Evermoor Way and makes his way northward, with the Evermoors to his left and Silverwood to his right.
The journey is rather easy and done under the cover of fair weather for three days. As evening approaches on the third day, Thelan spies a pair of vultures circling overhead. As he approaches the open area that holds whatever it is that has caught the birds’ attention, he can discern the aftermath of some sort of skirmish. The outlines of several slain humanoids and two giant humanoids lay scattered among the low grass and sparse shrubs.
"A place near the fire, a pint of your finest and some of your famous fish pie would do for starters, master Pyke. Are y... er, ahum, do y'know this'un yonder?" Brast leans into his hillfolk lilt, knowing it sometimes puts folks at ease. The Battlehammer's do not often travel this close to the moors, and already their stink (in his mind) fills his nostrils with their heavy perfume. Still, the folk here are honest, if not exactly kind, and willing to give good service for coin. Master Pyke's indecisiveness is something to take caution over, however, and Brast's eyes roam the surrounding buildings before coming to rest once more on Pyke's. Does he notice anything that might be amiss? Who else of note is partaking of Pyke's hospitality this evening?
If the unknown dwarf, apparently a miner of some capacity, drools his way any nearer, Brast will imperiously pat his beard and berate the distant kinsman softly in his own language, insulting the dwarf's lack of manners and discipline to be so clearly inebriated by the likes of human liquors. If all seems well, and Master Pyke has nothing more to say about the dwarf in the corner, he will approach to deliver his message personally.
The day had dawned golden for Lyra Ravenscale, just as it had here three decades ago, the light of the sunrise streaming from the east over the moors. The memory had come unbidden. Her mother, a bard in her own right, taking her daughter on one of her first journeys out from Silverymoon. She had recited a poem from some distant plane solemnly to Lyra, still a child then. So long ago.
About the fleeting nature of dawn. Or childhood. Or life itself. For a brief moment, Lyra feels a deep sense of her own mortality.
She murmurs the poem now. Remembering.
"Nature's first green is gold, 'Tis her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, But only so an hour."
"Then leaf subsides to leaf. Thus the moorlands sink to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay."
Lyra had never been one for sentiment. Evoking it in listeners with song and poem and oration, surely, more times than she can remember. But she herself had always remained aloof. Watching and listening as Mirt had molded her to do as she wove her performance of persuasion or deception. She knew before she left that the old man had sensed something changing in her. The young half-elven woman, bard, diplomat and spy - no longer quite so young - could not keep her soul separated any more. Not from this mission.
Mother, I am sorry I seldom thought of you for two decades in and out of Waterdeep. It took your disappearance for me to remember.
She considers of Shooni's words as dawn subsides to day, the ageless gnome from the stilted village. It is hard to walk in patience when you ride a magic broom. Lyra slips off and stands, stretching in her Mariner's studded leather. Slim and graceful, and exceedingly pretty rather than beautiful, she taps the eye emblazoned on her shield out of habit, one of her few playful half-superstitions. Very few details escaped that eye. Or hers.
Around her neck, the harmonica hangs. Deep black and drinking the golden light as ever. Long use having stained her lips like dark lipstick. Always her true weapon, far more than the seldom-drawn rapier and dagger at her hip. Both her true weapon and her true curse. Some things, Mirt may not fully know either, though he surely suspects. The Raven Queen will have her due.
Lyra's eyes briefly flash pitch dark, a hungry blackness overtaking the irises before returning to her own deep blue as she considers her choices. She could use the broom to fly high and scout, but with no way to become invisible, that approach might make her an obvious target. Too early for that. She would need to explore one of these southward paths into the the Evermoors at some point, and this one seems as good a starting point as any.
Nothing gold can stay.
Hopping back side-saddle on her flying broom, Lyra proceeds south along the worn path, towards the bridge over the river Rauvin and the Evermoors. Watchful eyes, blue for now, drinking the sights and sounds around her as her harmonica had.
"Fish pie and a pint," repeats Pike with a nod. Then, motioning toward the drunken dwarf, he says, "That one's Elrik, sir. And I do ask for your forgiveness. Such poor manners! But I must tell you, Master Battlehammer, that Elrik seems to be drinkin' off some real sorrow, some real trouble. He arrived here this morning speaking of a calamity at a copper mine. Some of his tale makes sense. The part about the troll anyway. The rest of it? I'm not sure what to say about that. A disappearing gnome? A frog demon?"
Pike then heads to the kitchen to fetch food and drink.
Surveying the inn, Brast sees only two other patrons: a half-orc and a human engaged in a game of cards.
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Thelan
The elven ranger stands silently in the edge of the woods, just outside the clearing, taking in the scene of carnage the vultures had led him towards. Cloak mottled with greens and browns over well-worn studded leathers, he left no sign of his passing and the casual observer would look right by without noticing him. But his hazel eyes notice everything, searching for any threats remaining in the opening before moving forward. His skin has a reddish, gold tinge and his hair is a fiery orange under his hood. He wears the season of autumn this day, matching his current mood of peace and goodwill.
Thelen Greenshard thinks back on his last words with Sari, the innkeeper in Olostin’s Hold before he left three days ago. It is true enough that you have your own troubles, Sari, and more than usual. That's the problem. I fear whatever is riling things up in the Evermoors led to those Troll attacks. They are either working for it or running from it. I aim to find out what it is before more trouble ends up on both of our doorsteps.
The last three days of travel had been uneventful, and now this. The first sign of trouble. Thelan steps out from the shadows of the forest, inspecting the bodies and studying the field, letting the tracks and remains give up their secrets of what happened here.
As she flies over the Rauvin, her eyes are filled with a thousand bits of sparkling sunlight that have reflected off the water's surface. The beauty of the scene is nearly sufficient to make one forget the perpetual gloom of the moors that are so near. An hour or so later, Lyra comes to one of the rocky outcroppings that are so common in the Evermoors. That she has reached a mining camp is quite obvious; two square openings, roughly 10' by 10' and framed by worn but solid timbers, can be seen in the wall of rock. The mine entrances are approximately 80' from each other. The place is utterly serene, with no signs of activity or life. The only sound to reach Lyra's ears is that of a distant songbird, perched somewhere among the grass and heather.
Examining the prints, Pigpen opens her senses, attempting to draw as much detail as she can about the creatures that made them. Of most importance is where they might be in relation to her; the Evermoors are no place to be caught alone and unprepared. How recent are the footprints? Does she recognize them? From whence did they come and where did they leave to? Did they come together? Is one following the other? Was there a struggle in the vicinity? Could they be related to the imbalance in the moors or are they simply local beasts and beasties? Examining her surroundings carefully, she does her best to blend in with the windswept shrubs and grasses until she knows more.
Within twenty minutes of encountering the battle scene, Thelan deduces the following, not all of which make sense, however:
The dead include six orcs--all of which bear the same scar on their left forearm: a rudimentary image of a hand. Thelan knows, therefore, that these orcs were loyal to Ekrizah, leader of an orc tribe called, quite simply, The Hand. This name is rooted in the tribe's practice of removing the right hands of their foes and displaying them as trophies in their lair. The cause of death for each orc is easy to see: massive slashing wounds, undoubtedly from troll claws.
The dead also include two trolls--both of which have orc javelins protruding from their corpses, multiple stab wounds, and burns (indicating that the orcs knew that fire is required to kill a troll).
Prints indicate the trolls came from the northwest, from somewhere deeper in the Evermoors, and the orcs were traveling directly northward, keeping Silverwood to their right. At least one orc escaped the battle, for its heavy prints indicate it fled northeast (possibly into Silverwood?). There's nothing to suggest that any additional trolls were present in the battle, or fled from the battle.
This battle occurred recently, probably within the last two days.
Nothing of value--other than orc weapons and armor--is visible among the slain.
The puzzling thing about this battlefield is this: trolls and orcs rarely, if ever, trouble one another. Trolls are nasty, hard to kill, and offer little reward; therefore, orcs give them a wide birth. Conversely, despite the fact that trolls have voracious appetites and will eat most things, they have a strong distaste for orc flesh. Thelan cannot help but wonder what caused these two groups to take up swords against each other?
Thelan also knows that The Hand never leave their fallen tribe members to rot on the battlefield. Regardless of the terrain and distance, they will return to gather weapons and armor and, then, place their dead in a pile and set them ablaze. If indeed one of the orcs escaped to tell of this battle, then The Hand will soon return to this place.
Pigpen scrutinizes the prints and the surrounding area and confidently reaches the following conclusions:
The larger of the two sets of prints belong to a troll. They are unmistakable.
The smaller set of prints are wholly foreign to her, but she's certain they belong to a heavy bipedal, but non-humanoid, creature. The prints have an amphibious or reptilian quality to them, almost as if they've been created by a massive, upright-standing frog or lizard. Furthermore, the creature--whatever it may be--seems to be carrying a staff, for small, circular impressions can be seen in the soft earth next to the prints in question.
All signs indicate the troll and mystery creature are traveling together, shoulder to shoulder, and are headed due west. They passed through this part of the moors within the past day or so.
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Pigpen scratches her head, unthinkingly pulling a louse from her hair and eating it as she ponders the prints. "What sort of creature would willingly go somewhere with a troll? There's no sign of struggle or a forced march. More importantly, what sort of smaller creature would a troll want to spend time with, rather than eating it? Strange things a afoot!"
She decides to become a hawk in order to see if she can spot the troll and its companion from the air and, looking to the east, if she can see anything indicating what they might have been up to. She flies to a height of about 100 feet and sees what she can see.
"So what's the first thing you're gonna do when we get to Silverymoon Banji?"The hafling cheerfully asked her companion. "Dunno Franji, go to the Dancing Goat to eat, drink and sing for a tenday." The other halfling answered with a chuckle. The two friends had been traveling the realms for many years now and had seen much on their journeys, and yet, as they came around a bend in the road just north of Silverwood they were more than a little surprised to see an ominous-looking large dark grey tower on a small otherwise pleasant meadow just by the edge of the road that certainly wasn't there when they passed here last time just recently. The tower looked a little out of place spooky as it stood there in the morning sun, small angry-looking gargoyles glaring down at Franji and Banji from the crest of the battlement.
"What are you looking at? Have you never seen a tower before?"A man that just appeared by one of the gargoyles up on the tower shouted angrily down at the two halflings, making them quickly scurry on towards Silverymoon. The man up in the tower was old and wrinkled with grey piercing eyes, almost bald but with a long grey beard and an almost constant scowl on his face. He wore a dark grey mantle, embroidered with arcane symbols over an altogether grey suit and grey boots with small black bat wings on their sides. The old man smiled to himself as he returned to his breakfast on the tower roof, enjoying the morning sun as he finished up his egg, bacon and sausage breakfast by a small wooden table.
As he took another sip of stron black coffee from a small metal bottle Malachi Greyblight accessed the case file regarding his current mission stored in his immense mind vault. He had already sent several groups of expendable agents into the area that had not reported back and his only real lead was that the raiders of the caravans only seemed to steal food. As his remaining option seemed to be to take the investigation into his own hands he had left his comfortable house in Silverymoon to get on the field, as it were, to restore trade along the Evermoors.
As he stood up from his breakfast table again his trusty raven Edgar returned from his scouting mission, reporting that no threats had been observed in the vicinity of the tower. With a content nod Malachi floated down through the tower, letting his unseen servant Allan clean up while he mounted his grey steed Poe that waited in the ground level of the tower. After checking his gear Malachi uttered the command word to open the gate to the grey adamantine tower and rode forth onto the road, then turning Poe to utter another command word making the grey tower disappear in an instant before Edgar swooped down to collect something in the grass that he delivered into his masters hand, a small adamantine cube which Malachi quickly pocketed. Malachi then turned west to continue his journey along northern edge of Silverwood soon reaching the goal of his journey, the Evermoors.
Before Pyke heads off to the kitchen, Brast spears him with one more question. "Heard rumors, Pyke, of lot's of attacks like that recently. What's your take on it all? Been bad for business?"
After waiting for Pyke's response he will join master Elrik and greet him with an appropriately formal bow (appropriate meaning a slight bow, as this miner likely has little standing before a clan like Battlehammer's).
In dwarven, he offers a bit of comfort to the grief-stricken dwarf. "Master Pyke says your mug is as full of tears as ale, friend. What sorrows bring you here today?"
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Lyra has spent the last half of her life navigating the complexity of societies and alliances, kingdoms and cults. The wilderness is not new to her. And yet... witnessing this confluence of beauty and loneliness, something begins to unwind inside her soul. She remembers another agent, a ranger from Neverwinter Wood. A... friend. He had tried to tell her something, once - to explain it - but she doesn't think she has ever truly understood. Until now.
“The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either. And when you see beauty in desolation, it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonize you.”
She shivers and rubs her arms, feeling an intense need for the company and voices of others. For contact. She plays a progression of quiet chords on her black harmonica, the emptiness of the fourths and fifths reflecting the emptiness around her.
The logical part of her mind works away as she approaches the outcropping, stumbling at unraveling natural mysteries where it is more accustomed to civilized ones. Why would the path be well-worn if there is no sign of activity at the mine? She looks for recent tracks or signs of disturbance or struggle. Mass abandonment? Perhaps they retreated inside the mine. Or were taken. What happened here? What is she walking into?
Something else tickles Lyra's senses. The lone songbird. Why alone?
She takes a chance and rises on her broom. Thirty feet, forty. Looking for the bird. Looking for signs of anything living nearby. Is she being watched?
"Bad for business?" echoes Pike. "A bit, yes. Something's amiss, Master Battlehammer. Can't explain it. It's a feeling I have, but a strong one at that."
As Brast approaches Elrik, the drunk miner straightens up slightly. His expression shifts from an empty stare to mild surprise. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Elrik responds in broken Dwarvish phrases. "My mates...beaten...captured. Naught I could do, Masser Hammer. By Moradin's beard I tried. Bloody troll. Demon filth. By Moradin's beard..."
Elrik's voice trails off as he relives whatever nightmare he recently endured. After a minute or so of silence, Elrik resumes his tale unprompted. By the end of it, Brast concludes that a troll, a dark gnome (who eventually vanished), and some sort of frog-like giant raided Elrik's mining camp in the northern Evermoors. One miner was slain; four others were thrown in canvas sacks and dragged away. Elrik escaped.
Soaring high above the moors and viewing the world below through the piercing eyes of a hawk, Pigpen scans the area for clues and information. Far to the west, she makes out a group rocky hills but sees no signs of life. To the east, where the troll and its companion came from, is nothing but miles of bogs and low vegetation.
The mischievous glint leaves Thelen’s eyes and is replaced by contemplation. The tracks and remains told a story, but it lead to more questions than answers. Trolls and Orcs fighting each other? It was rare, almost unheard of. Worse, he guessed his time here was short. One Orc had fled and based on what he knew of the tribe, he knew a party was on the way to recover their dead. With no way to know how much time he had, his curiosity won out and he focused on the shrubs surrounding the battlefield. No way to tell how much they saw or remembered unless he asked.
Thelan lowers his hood and murmuring softly in Sylvan taps into his primal awareness and attempts to speak with plants focusing on the low grass and shrubs surrounding the battlefield. “Awaken and speak to me friends. What did you see happen here? What caused these groups to fight?” He leaned back to hear what his friends had to say while keeping one eye on the direction the lone Orc fled.
(Using primal awareness and casting without using a spell slot)
Nodding in sympathy, Brast thoughtfully munches the fresh pie, savoring the unusual textures incumbent to a heavily pescatarian diet (imagining it to be delivered by about the concluding point of Elrik's tale). He briefly fingers the handle of the pint before looking long and hard at Elrik's blurred features, worn by years of hard labor and indecent indulgence in drink. With a sigh, he pulls out a different mug from his backpack - detailed ornately with stern-looking dwarves - and transfers the content's of Pyke's mug to his. Experimentally, he takes a drink, shudders slightly, then ruminatively sips as he eyes Elrik once more. The Tankard of Sobriety, a Hearth's Time Gift of the last season, seemed much more of a curse to him than a blessing, but for the one who gave it to him, the lovely Hilde. For her, he'd lay off drink as long as needed, though by this point (3 weeks!) the going was certainly rough.
"It seems we are no kin, but I'd have ye know that Mithral Hall is open to all who wish to start anew. Our mountains might not be the wealthiest, but they are ours, safe and clean and very well defended. If you have a mind to put what's passed past you, present yourself there and claim my name to my kin - they will see you cared for, but we do not truck with freeloading in our hold. They will give you work - work to lose yourself in, until you are ready to find your fortunes elsewhere, or to dwell with us under our banners. No need to decide now - you're in hardly a state for it. Master Pyke - "
Brast excuses himself for a moment and converses with the tavern-keep. "This dwarf has seen hard days, especially, it seems, most recently. I will be off at dawn to investigate - this is for the lovely meal, for dry stableage for my pack-pony, Peawise, and for master Elrik and myself, that he might have a roof over his head until he is ready to move on. Will... let's see, I hope this will suffice, times being what they are." Brast digs in his pack and pulls out ten gold pieces, placing them in Pyke's hands when available.
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PIGPEN
Slightly frustrated at the lack of anything obvious, Pigpen decides to fly toward the rocky hills, carefully watching the ground below her to look for signs that the troll and his friend changed direction. Also, carefully looking for small rodents to snack on (flying takes a lot of energy). She does her best to mimic the flight patterns of mundane hawks, as she surveys the area.
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MALACHI
At nightfall of his second day, Malachi is ready to leave behind the cover offered by Silverwood. Before him stretches seemingly endless miles of the Evermoors. Tomorrow, it seems, will his first genuine day of investigation into the land that seems to be causing so much trouble. With that thought in mind, he settles into the safety of his magical tower...
...and for a second night, the wizard shoots up from his sleep to shake off a hideous dream. Multiple facsimiles of himself pin him down and begin carving into his flesh with dull objects: spoons, sticks, fingernails. When Malachi awakes, he feels wholly unrested, mildly wounded (despite having no visible damage to his person). He has little doubt that he has fallen victim to some sort of foul play.
Searching the area outside the mine entrances, Lyra can make out many sets of boot prints, which seem fitting for a place frequented by miners. One other track is distinctly different: that of a large, bare foot. A troll? Or hill giant perhaps? The most notable signs on the ground, however, are wide paths of earth that have been swept clear of any tracks. It seems that something heavy has been dragged across the ground and, therefore, erased all evidence that had been there previously.
With spyglass in hand, Lyra rises into the air, her hair swept away from her face by the gentle breeze at that height. Focusing on the winged songster, she concludes it is nothing out of the ordinary: just a solitary lark declaring itself to the world.
Further observation from her highpoint reveals a narrow path, not very worn, leading away from the mines and southward into the moors. This path is eventually lost from view when it bends around another outcropping of massive boulders.
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BRAST BATTLEHAMMER
A day and a half after leaving Mithral Hall, Brast reaches the confluence of the rivers Rauvin and Surbrin where he gazes upon the village of Rivermoot bathed in the late afternoon sun. To protect against the annual threat of rising river waters all the structures stand upon wooden stilts. As Brast finishes the short climb up the sturdy ladder to Pike’s Plate (the better of the two taverns in town), he finds himself face to face with Pike himself. The friendly but frail old human cannot hide his surprise at seeing a member of Clan Battlehammer.
“Ah..well…ah..yes…evening to you! Good evening indeed! A good day this is!”
Brast is familiar enough with Pike to know the proprietor means what he says.
“Master Battlehammer, what can my staff and I do for you?”
"Baster Habbeltammer!" bellows a heavily inebriated dwarf hunched over a table in the corner. The lone tankard at his table is tipped over on its side, spilling its remaining contents onto the floor.
Brast does not know the drunken dwarf but can surmise the fellow is a miner; his clothes give him away as such.
LYRA RAVENSCALE
“Proceed in patience. Walk in wisdom. Farewell, Lyra.”
With those parting words in her ears, Lyra takes her leave of Shooni, her contact in Rivermoot. The conversation with the seemingly ageless gnome earlier that day didn’t reveal much information: westward-bound travelers from Silverymoon had disappeared, and the only unusual activity of late along Rauvin Road has been the sighting of a few werewolves.
A day after leaving the village on stilts, Lyra comes to a place where a well-worn trail departs Rauvin Road and heads southward toward the Evermoors. Following the trail with her eyes, she sees where it crosses the river; a rudimentary wooden bridge spans the Rauvin at one of its narrowing points.
Reflecting on her knowledge of the region, Lyra suspects this is one of the many paths that lead to the copper mines that dot the northern part of the Evermoors, where stony outcroppings are common.
MALACHI GREYBLIGHT
Confident that he’s gathered all that he can from his network of contacts in Silverymoon, Malachi leaves behind the beauty and tranquility of the Gem of the North. Passing through the Moorgate, he heads west to the Evermoors. Rather than the customary route along Rauvin Road, the wizard opts for a more direct (and more interesting) route: a path along the northern edge of Silverwood.
After concluding his first day of travel, Malachi settles in for a night’s rest. As he does so, he reflects on the words of Istaki, a darkling elder with an uncanny knack for having reliable information a day or two before anyone else.
“The food and drink have been taken from every ambushed caravan, Mal,” explained the fey in his customary harsh whisper. “Yes, the poor, helpless saps were taken--few were slain, by the way--but items of value were…left behind. Apple crates? Gone. Loaves of bread? Gone. Salted pork? Not a shred left. Very strange, eh? Yes, very strange."
Malachi eventually nods off to sleep, but he awakes an hour or so later in a clammy sweat after suffering from a most unsettling dream (or was it a vision?). His winged boots had taken flight of their own volition, and in so doing ripped his legs violently from his body. Malachi watched in horror as his legs, with bones protruding and muscles dangling, retreated farther and farther into a sickly gray sky. Then, looking at the place where his legs should be, he saw segmented tubes, as if his legs had been replaced by massive earthworms.
Shaking off the horror of his dream, Malachi quickly confirms that his two legs are firmly attached and fully functional.
POLO "PIGPEN" GROCER
Within a matter of hours after her departure from Zymorven Hall, Pigpen crosses Rauvin Road and the half mile of open grassland north of the river. The Rauvin fills her ears with a soft, pleasant roar as it tumbles over a mass of rocks. She and her swarm quickly find a navigable route across the water, hopping (literally) from rock to rock and boulder to boulder.
Continuing southward, directly into the heart of the moors, Pigpen gradually leaves behind the tall grasses that thrive near the river bank and enters a vast tract of open land marked by heather and low vegetation. Now and then, she encounters broad, shallow pools of water--pools that are happily received by the swarm of tiny frogs chorusing all around her.
As the sun prepares to disappear in the west, she notices a distinct set of footprints in the mud at the edge of one of the pools. The prints suggest the recent presence of two different kinds of creatures, both rather large, but one seemingly larger than the other.
THELAN GREENSHARD
Several days have passed since Thelan exited the shadows of the High Forest and made his way to Olostin’s Hold. His conversations at the Headless Troll--the Hold’s only inn--revealed nothing unexpected. Tales of the most recent troll attacks, all of which were successfully thwarted, is all he is able to glean from the locals. Pressing for any further information about ambushed caravans between the Hold and Everlund is fruitless; folks here, for now anyway, don’t seem to know or care much for bad news elsewhere.
“The Hold has its share of hardships, Thelan,” bluntly quips Sari, the innkeeper. “For better or worse, those hardships make us indifferent to some of the goings on in other places.”
The food, drink and night’s lodging is on the house (not surprisingly, considering the few times Thelan has helped the Hold over the years), and the next day, Thelan crosses Evermoor Way and makes his way northward, with the Evermoors to his left and Silverwood to his right.
The journey is rather easy and done under the cover of fair weather for three days. As evening approaches on the third day, Thelan spies a pair of vultures circling overhead. As he approaches the open area that holds whatever it is that has caught the birds’ attention, he can discern the aftermath of some sort of skirmish. The outlines of several slain humanoids and two giant humanoids lay scattered among the low grass and sparse shrubs.
BRAST
"A place near the fire, a pint of your finest and some of your famous fish pie would do for starters, master Pyke. Are y... er, ahum, do y'know this'un yonder?" Brast leans into his hillfolk lilt, knowing it sometimes puts folks at ease. The Battlehammer's do not often travel this close to the moors, and already their stink (in his mind) fills his nostrils with their heavy perfume. Still, the folk here are honest, if not exactly kind, and willing to give good service for coin. Master Pyke's indecisiveness is something to take caution over, however, and Brast's eyes roam the surrounding buildings before coming to rest once more on Pyke's. Does he notice anything that might be amiss? Who else of note is partaking of Pyke's hospitality this evening?
If the unknown dwarf, apparently a miner of some capacity, drools his way any nearer, Brast will imperiously pat his beard and berate the distant kinsman softly in his own language, insulting the dwarf's lack of manners and discipline to be so clearly inebriated by the likes of human liquors. If all seems well, and Master Pyke has nothing more to say about the dwarf in the corner, he will approach to deliver his message personally.
The day had dawned golden for Lyra Ravenscale, just as it had here three decades ago, the light of the sunrise streaming from the east over the moors. The memory had come unbidden. Her mother, a bard in her own right, taking her daughter on one of her first journeys out from Silverymoon. She had recited a poem from some distant plane solemnly to Lyra, still a child then. So long ago.
About the fleeting nature of dawn. Or childhood. Or life itself. For a brief moment, Lyra feels a deep sense of her own mortality.
She murmurs the poem now. Remembering.
"Nature's first green is gold,
'Tis her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower,
But only so an hour."
"Then leaf subsides to leaf.
Thus the moorlands sink to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay."
Lyra had never been one for sentiment. Evoking it in listeners with song and poem and oration, surely, more times than she can remember. But she herself had always remained aloof. Watching and listening as Mirt had molded her to do as she wove her performance of persuasion or deception. She knew before she left that the old man had sensed something changing in her. The young half-elven woman, bard, diplomat and spy - no longer quite so young - could not keep her soul separated any more. Not from this mission.
Mother, I am sorry I seldom thought of you for two decades in and out of Waterdeep. It took your disappearance for me to remember.
She considers of Shooni's words as dawn subsides to day, the ageless gnome from the stilted village. It is hard to walk in patience when you ride a magic broom. Lyra slips off and stands, stretching in her Mariner's studded leather. Slim and graceful, and exceedingly pretty rather than beautiful, she taps the eye emblazoned on her shield out of habit, one of her few playful half-superstitions. Very few details escaped that eye. Or hers.
Around her neck, the harmonica hangs. Deep black and drinking the golden light as ever. Long use having stained her lips like dark lipstick. Always her true weapon, far more than the seldom-drawn rapier and dagger at her hip. Both her true weapon and her true curse. Some things, Mirt may not fully know either, though he surely suspects. The Raven Queen will have her due.
Lyra's eyes briefly flash pitch dark, a hungry blackness overtaking the irises before returning to her own deep blue as she considers her choices. She could use the broom to fly high and scout, but with no way to become invisible, that approach might make her an obvious target. Too early for that. She would need to explore one of these southward paths into the the Evermoors at some point, and this one seems as good a starting point as any.
Nothing gold can stay.
Hopping back side-saddle on her flying broom, Lyra proceeds south along the worn path, towards the bridge over the river Rauvin and the Evermoors. Watchful eyes, blue for now, drinking the sights and sounds around her as her harmonica had.
Mud(Paladin2):Frandal's Scourge/Inge(Barbarian1):Krayveneer's After the Fall/Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1):Uhtred's Windward Isles/Shin(Wizard2):Dimir_MTG's Surviving
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric3):Vos' Beyond the Veil/Soren(Druid4):Bartjeebus' Ravenloft/Nivi(Rogue3):Raiketsu's CoS/Lyra(Warlock2/Bard2):BlameItOnWinter's Will of the Ancients
Joren(Fighter5):NotDrizzt's Simple Request/Quyen(Adept1):Constance's Nentir Vale/Rel(Warlock2):Uhtred's Phandelver/Xarian(Fighter1/Wizard1):ShieldHero's Drakkenheim
BRAST
"Fish pie and a pint," repeats Pike with a nod. Then, motioning toward the drunken dwarf, he says, "That one's Elrik, sir. And I do ask for your forgiveness. Such poor manners! But I must tell you, Master Battlehammer, that Elrik seems to be drinkin' off some real sorrow, some real trouble. He arrived here this morning speaking of a calamity at a copper mine. Some of his tale makes sense. The part about the troll anyway. The rest of it? I'm not sure what to say about that. A disappearing gnome? A frog demon?"
Pike then heads to the kitchen to fetch food and drink.
Surveying the inn, Brast sees only two other patrons: a half-orc and a human engaged in a game of cards.
Thelan
The elven ranger stands silently in the edge of the woods, just outside the clearing, taking in the scene of carnage the vultures had led him towards. Cloak mottled with greens and browns over well-worn studded leathers, he left no sign of his passing and the casual observer would look right by without noticing him. But his hazel eyes notice everything, searching for any threats remaining in the opening before moving forward. His skin has a reddish, gold tinge and his hair is a fiery orange under his hood. He wears the season of autumn this day, matching his current mood of peace and goodwill.
Thelen Greenshard thinks back on his last words with Sari, the innkeeper in Olostin’s Hold before he left three days ago. It is true enough that you have your own troubles, Sari, and more than usual. That's the problem. I fear whatever is riling things up in the Evermoors led to those Troll attacks. They are either working for it or running from it. I aim to find out what it is before more trouble ends up on both of our doorsteps.
The last three days of travel had been uneventful, and now this. The first sign of trouble. Thelan steps out from the shadows of the forest, inspecting the bodies and studying the field, letting the tracks and remains give up their secrets of what happened here.
Perception: (Passive 24): 17.
Survival: 27.
.
LYRA
As she flies over the Rauvin, her eyes are filled with a thousand bits of sparkling sunlight that have reflected off the water's surface. The beauty of the scene is nearly sufficient to make one forget the perpetual gloom of the moors that are so near. An hour or so later, Lyra comes to one of the rocky outcroppings that are so common in the Evermoors. That she has reached a mining camp is quite obvious; two square openings, roughly 10' by 10' and framed by worn but solid timbers, can be seen in the wall of rock. The mine entrances are approximately 80' from each other. The place is utterly serene, with no signs of activity or life. The only sound to reach Lyra's ears is that of a distant songbird, perched somewhere among the grass and heather.
Stealth: 26
Tamryn - lvl 4 Wood Elf Rogue - Circle of Light Campaign || Drusilla - lvl 1 Half-Elf Ranger - Sleeping Gods || Grrzark - lvl 1 Goblin Barbarian - Danger at Darkshelf Quarry || DM - LTG - Curse of Strahd
THELAN
Within twenty minutes of encountering the battle scene, Thelan deduces the following, not all of which make sense, however:
The puzzling thing about this battlefield is this: trolls and orcs rarely, if ever, trouble one another. Trolls are nasty, hard to kill, and offer little reward; therefore, orcs give them a wide birth. Conversely, despite the fact that trolls have voracious appetites and will eat most things, they have a strong distaste for orc flesh. Thelan cannot help but wonder what caused these two groups to take up swords against each other?
Thelan also knows that The Hand never leave their fallen tribe members to rot on the battlefield. Regardless of the terrain and distance, they will return to gather weapons and armor and, then, place their dead in a pile and set them ablaze. If indeed one of the orcs escaped to tell of this battle, then The Hand will soon return to this place.
PIGPEN
Pigpen scrutinizes the prints and the surrounding area and confidently reaches the following conclusions:
Pigpen scratches her head, unthinkingly pulling a louse from her hair and eating it as she ponders the prints. "What sort of creature would willingly go somewhere with a troll? There's no sign of struggle or a forced march. More importantly, what sort of smaller creature would a troll want to spend time with, rather than eating it? Strange things a afoot!"
She decides to become a hawk in order to see if she can spot the troll and its companion from the air and, looking to the east, if she can see anything indicating what they might have been up to. She flies to a height of about 100 feet and sees what she can see.
Perception: 20
Tamryn - lvl 4 Wood Elf Rogue - Circle of Light Campaign || Drusilla - lvl 1 Half-Elf Ranger - Sleeping Gods || Grrzark - lvl 1 Goblin Barbarian - Danger at Darkshelf Quarry || DM - LTG - Curse of Strahd
MALACHI GREYBLIGHT
"So what's the first thing you're gonna do when we get to Silverymoon Banji?" The hafling cheerfully asked her companion.
"Dunno Franji, go to the Dancing Goat to eat, drink and sing for a tenday." The other halfling answered with a chuckle.
The two friends had been traveling the realms for many years now and had seen much on their journeys, and yet, as they came around a bend in the road just north of Silverwood they were more than a little surprised to see an ominous-looking large dark grey tower on a small otherwise pleasant meadow just by the edge of the road that certainly wasn't there when they passed here last time just recently. The tower looked a little out of place spooky as it stood there in the morning sun, small angry-looking gargoyles glaring down at Franji and Banji from the crest of the battlement.
"What are you looking at? Have you never seen a tower before?" A man that just appeared by one of the gargoyles up on the tower shouted angrily down at the two halflings, making them quickly scurry on towards Silverymoon. The man up in the tower was old and wrinkled with grey piercing eyes, almost bald but with a long grey beard and an almost constant scowl on his face. He wore a dark grey mantle, embroidered with arcane symbols over an altogether grey suit and grey boots with small black bat wings on their sides. The old man smiled to himself as he returned to his breakfast on the tower roof, enjoying the morning sun as he finished up his egg, bacon and sausage breakfast by a small wooden table.
As he took another sip of stron black coffee from a small metal bottle Malachi Greyblight accessed the case file regarding his current mission stored in his immense mind vault. He had already sent several groups of expendable agents into the area that had not reported back and his only real lead was that the raiders of the caravans only seemed to steal food. As his remaining option seemed to be to take the investigation into his own hands he had left his comfortable house in Silverymoon to get on the field, as it were, to restore trade along the Evermoors.
As he stood up from his breakfast table again his trusty raven Edgar returned from his scouting mission, reporting that no threats had been observed in the vicinity of the tower. With a content nod Malachi floated down through the tower, letting his unseen servant Allan clean up while he mounted his grey steed Poe that waited in the ground level of the tower. After checking his gear Malachi uttered the command word to open the gate to the grey adamantine tower and rode forth onto the road, then turning Poe to utter another command word making the grey tower disappear in an instant before Edgar swooped down to collect something in the grass that he delivered into his masters hand, a small adamantine cube which Malachi quickly pocketed. Malachi then turned west to continue his journey along northern edge of Silverwood soon reaching the goal of his journey, the Evermoors.
BRAST
Before Pyke heads off to the kitchen, Brast spears him with one more question. "Heard rumors, Pyke, of lot's of attacks like that recently. What's your take on it all? Been bad for business?"
After waiting for Pyke's response he will join master Elrik and greet him with an appropriately formal bow (appropriate meaning a slight bow, as this miner likely has little standing before a clan like Battlehammer's).
In dwarven, he offers a bit of comfort to the grief-stricken dwarf. "Master Pyke says your mug is as full of tears as ale, friend. What sorrows bring you here today?"
Lyra has spent the last half of her life navigating the complexity of societies and alliances, kingdoms and cults. The wilderness is not new to her. And yet... witnessing this confluence of beauty and loneliness, something begins to unwind inside her soul. She remembers another agent, a ranger from Neverwinter Wood. A... friend. He had tried to tell her something, once - to explain it - but she doesn't think she has ever truly understood. Until now.
“The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either. And when you see beauty in desolation, it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonize you.”
She shivers and rubs her arms, feeling an intense need for the company and voices of others. For contact. She plays a progression of quiet chords on her black harmonica, the emptiness of the fourths and fifths reflecting the emptiness around her.
The logical part of her mind works away as she approaches the outcropping, stumbling at unraveling natural mysteries where it is more accustomed to civilized ones. Why would the path be well-worn if there is no sign of activity at the mine? She looks for recent tracks or signs of disturbance or struggle. Mass abandonment? Perhaps they retreated inside the mine. Or were taken. What happened here? What is she walking into?
Survival: 23
Something else tickles Lyra's senses. The lone songbird. Why alone?
She takes a chance and rises on her broom. Thirty feet, forty. Looking for the bird. Looking for signs of anything living nearby. Is she being watched?
Perception: 27
Mud(Paladin2):Frandal's Scourge/Inge(Barbarian1):Krayveneer's After the Fall/Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1):Uhtred's Windward Isles/Shin(Wizard2):Dimir_MTG's Surviving
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric3):Vos' Beyond the Veil/Soren(Druid4):Bartjeebus' Ravenloft/Nivi(Rogue3):Raiketsu's CoS/Lyra(Warlock2/Bard2):BlameItOnWinter's Will of the Ancients
Joren(Fighter5):NotDrizzt's Simple Request/Quyen(Adept1):Constance's Nentir Vale/Rel(Warlock2):Uhtred's Phandelver/Xarian(Fighter1/Wizard1):ShieldHero's Drakkenheim
BRAST
"Bad for business?" echoes Pike. "A bit, yes. Something's amiss, Master Battlehammer. Can't explain it. It's a feeling I have, but a strong one at that."
As Brast approaches Elrik, the drunk miner straightens up slightly. His expression shifts from an empty stare to mild surprise. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Elrik responds in broken Dwarvish phrases. "My mates...beaten...captured. Naught I could do, Masser Hammer. By Moradin's beard I tried. Bloody troll. Demon filth. By Moradin's beard..."
Elrik's voice trails off as he relives whatever nightmare he recently endured. After a minute or so of silence, Elrik resumes his tale unprompted. By the end of it, Brast concludes that a troll, a dark gnome (who eventually vanished), and some sort of frog-like giant raided Elrik's mining camp in the northern Evermoors. One miner was slain; four others were thrown in canvas sacks and dragged away. Elrik escaped.
PIGPEN
Soaring high above the moors and viewing the world below through the piercing eyes of a hawk, Pigpen scans the area for clues and information. Far to the west, she makes out a group rocky hills but sees no signs of life. To the east, where the troll and its companion came from, is nothing but miles of bogs and low vegetation.
Thelan.
The mischievous glint leaves Thelen’s eyes and is replaced by contemplation. The tracks and remains told a story, but it lead to more questions than answers. Trolls and Orcs fighting each other? It was rare, almost unheard of. Worse, he guessed his time here was short. One Orc had fled and based on what he knew of the tribe, he knew a party was on the way to recover their dead. With no way to know how much time he had, his curiosity won out and he focused on the shrubs surrounding the battlefield. No way to tell how much they saw or remembered unless he asked.
Thelan lowers his hood and murmuring softly in Sylvan taps into his primal awareness and attempts to speak with plants focusing on the low grass and shrubs surrounding the battlefield. “Awaken and speak to me friends. What did you see happen here? What caused these groups to fight?” He leaned back to hear what his friends had to say while keeping one eye on the direction the lone Orc fled.
(Using primal awareness and casting without using a spell slot)
BRAST
Nodding in sympathy, Brast thoughtfully munches the fresh pie, savoring the unusual textures incumbent to a heavily pescatarian diet (imagining it to be delivered by about the concluding point of Elrik's tale). He briefly fingers the handle of the pint before looking long and hard at Elrik's blurred features, worn by years of hard labor and indecent indulgence in drink. With a sigh, he pulls out a different mug from his backpack - detailed ornately with stern-looking dwarves - and transfers the content's of Pyke's mug to his. Experimentally, he takes a drink, shudders slightly, then ruminatively sips as he eyes Elrik once more. The Tankard of Sobriety, a Hearth's Time Gift of the last season, seemed much more of a curse to him than a blessing, but for the one who gave it to him, the lovely Hilde. For her, he'd lay off drink as long as needed, though by this point (3 weeks!) the going was certainly rough.
"It seems we are no kin, but I'd have ye know that Mithral Hall is open to all who wish to start anew. Our mountains might not be the wealthiest, but they are ours, safe and clean and very well defended. If you have a mind to put what's passed past you, present yourself there and claim my name to my kin - they will see you cared for, but we do not truck with freeloading in our hold. They will give you work - work to lose yourself in, until you are ready to find your fortunes elsewhere, or to dwell with us under our banners. No need to decide now - you're in hardly a state for it. Master Pyke - "
Brast excuses himself for a moment and converses with the tavern-keep. "This dwarf has seen hard days, especially, it seems, most recently. I will be off at dawn to investigate - this is for the lovely meal, for dry stableage for my pack-pony, Peawise, and for master Elrik and myself, that he might have a roof over his head until he is ready to move on. Will... let's see, I hope this will suffice, times being what they are." Brast digs in his pack and pulls out ten gold pieces, placing them in Pyke's hands when available.
PIGPEN
Slightly frustrated at the lack of anything obvious, Pigpen decides to fly toward the rocky hills, carefully watching the ground below her to look for signs that the troll and his friend changed direction. Also, carefully looking for small rodents to snack on (flying takes a lot of energy). She does her best to mimic the flight patterns of mundane hawks, as she surveys the area.
Perception: 22
Stealth: 17
Tamryn - lvl 4 Wood Elf Rogue - Circle of Light Campaign || Drusilla - lvl 1 Half-Elf Ranger - Sleeping Gods || Grrzark - lvl 1 Goblin Barbarian - Danger at Darkshelf Quarry || DM - LTG - Curse of Strahd
MALACHI
At nightfall of his second day, Malachi is ready to leave behind the cover offered by Silverwood. Before him stretches seemingly endless miles of the Evermoors. Tomorrow, it seems, will his first genuine day of investigation into the land that seems to be causing so much trouble. With that thought in mind, he settles into the safety of his magical tower...
...and for a second night, the wizard shoots up from his sleep to shake off a hideous dream. Multiple facsimiles of himself pin him down and begin carving into his flesh with dull objects: spoons, sticks, fingernails. When Malachi awakes, he feels wholly unrested, mildly wounded (despite having no visible damage to his person). He has little doubt that he has fallen victim to some sort of foul play.
(Malachi's HP maximum is decreased by 10)
LYRA
Searching the area outside the mine entrances, Lyra can make out many sets of boot prints, which seem fitting for a place frequented by miners. One other track is distinctly different: that of a large, bare foot. A troll? Or hill giant perhaps? The most notable signs on the ground, however, are wide paths of earth that have been swept clear of any tracks. It seems that something heavy has been dragged across the ground and, therefore, erased all evidence that had been there previously.
With spyglass in hand, Lyra rises into the air, her hair swept away from her face by the gentle breeze at that height. Focusing on the winged songster, she concludes it is nothing out of the ordinary: just a solitary lark declaring itself to the world.
Further observation from her highpoint reveals a narrow path, not very worn, leading away from the mines and southward into the moors. This path is eventually lost from view when it bends around another outcropping of massive boulders.