Roaring and raging, both bones and barbarian. But one's bark is louder than it's bite, and it's not the blade warrior. Jirel may be deafened, but even in her fury she can still see through the flurry, if just barely. Gritting her teeth and gripping her axes, the giantess side steps just out of the pile of finger and jaw in efforts to impose herself protectively over the body before the knight.

"Here's Jirel!" With a flourish of both axes she strikes.

The huntress that she is, Jirel finds focus in the moment. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, all comes together like a practiced dance. Muscles ripple and flex beneath toughened skin, and with precision of a predator after it's prey, she hones in on weak points with each blade.

Movement: I'd like to impose Jirel over the wounded werewolf/between them and the knight if I may

Attack: Nat 20 for 26 Damage: 9 + 6 Cold + 2 Rage
BA: Nat 20 for 26 Damage: 14

[No need to impose yourself between wolf and skeleton, Jirel.]

Finn finds a critical gap in the skeletal knights armor.  Having already earned its attention with his prior spell, Finn feels both of the creature's hollow eyes shift from the crippled werewolf to him.  Its footwork shifts to telegraph that the next strikes were coming for Finn.  

Just then, Jirel explodes forth from the cloud of bone shards, swinging both axes down upon the skeletal knight.  The axes bite, and the power of her crossing follow-throughs rips the undead warrior apart. 

As the skeletal knight dies, the swarm of bones slowly dwindles and drops back to the earth.  The battlefield lies still.   The skeletal knight has fallen, its armor crumbling to rusted ruin, its dark blade turning to lifeless, blackened steel.  Whatever malevolent force had bound it to this world has finally dissipated.

Around the camp, the sounds of battle fade into the night, replaced by scattered cries of triumph and the pained moans of the injured.  A few cautious figures emerge from hiding—merchants, teamsters, and travelers peering from behind wagons and overturned crates.  

The ground is littered with the dead.  The Tempus pilgrims and warriors have fallen to a man.  Also among the dead lie some of the caravan’s own—a few merchants and teamsters who had been too slow, too unlucky.  

Jararaka arrives at a jog, her lizardfolk frame moving urgency that still manages to look relaxed.  Her armor is scratched, her priestly shield bears fresh gouges, but she seems unshaken.  She takes in the carnage, her yellow eyes narrowing.  "Undead threat's passed.  They're back in their graves," she mutters, casting a wary glance at the broken remains of the skeletal horde.  "My guards held, but I need to count heads.  Figure out who's still breathing and who's not..."  She trails off as her gaze lands on the lycanthropes.  Her frilled crest rises slightly in alarm.  "Wait.  Are those gods-damned werewolves?  What in the hells is going on here?"

Meanwhile, the two wolves begin to shift.  Their forms blur and contort, bones cracking and muscle reshaping as fur recedes into flesh.  In moments, they are human once more—two exhausted, battered figures sitting amid the ruined grass.  Akreni rushes to Mirekki’s side.  The younger woman barely holds herself upright, slumped where she sits.  Dark wounds mar her side and shoulder, necrotic corruption still eating away at the flesh.  Her breaths come in short, pained gasps.

All around, the survivors take stock.  Guards check on the fallen.  Those with medical knowledge scramble to tend to the wounded.  Campfires are hastily rekindled, their flickering light casting long, uneasy shadows across the battlefield.  Some begin dragging bodies away from the camp, their expressions grim.  

     "Damn, girl..." Finn says with true awe at the sight of Jirel stepping out of the maelstrom of bits and pieces on animated undead bone and immediately cutting down the Undead Lord who had been conducting this unholy attack upon the caravan.  The scene is forever burned into his brain and there is no doubt he will revisit it time and again trying to compose the perfect song or story to fully capture the might and beauty and terrible epic strength and savagery of the scene.  The bard was truly....  inspired.  

     "I mean... Damn!" he repeats.  

     In his inspired state, Finn's eyes barely leave Jirel to notice everything else going on around them.  He has a sense that the threat has ended and the day is saved but the details of the more mundane chaos that erupts around them is lost to him, at least for the moment.  They are merely background details to the epic ode he is already writing in his head.

     When he does tear himself back to reality, his first thoughts beyond Jirel are for the werewolves, Akreni and Mirekki.  He kneels down beside them and gently asks "How is she?" even as his eyes scan Mirekki for themselves and assess.  "It's over now," he adds, some magic laced into the reassuring and healing words giving her 4 pts of healing.  It'll help, perhaps, but Finn is worried that these dark wounds may take more than time and rest to heal...

     Finn stands and turns to Jararakka with a sharp "Back off!" when their friend gets uppity about the sisters.  "They were not the cause of any of this.  They stood between the undead and the caravaners!" he insists.  He's not sure that is the entirety of the story but he's certainly not going to let the sisters be summarily cut down just to placate the scared and anxious masses.

There are gasps of admiration from the huddled crowd on top of the wagon beside Yeshil, as they watch the blonde giantess burst out of the bony cage and cut down the skeleton. When the battlefield falls silent (beside the cries and groans of the wounded) the crowd begin to chatter more excitedly about the victory and the barbarian hero that saved the day. It doesn't occur to Yeshil that Finn and Tylaerys aren't getting a mention, but it certainly does occur to her that her own contributions weren't recognised. Trying lamely to salvage some dignity and glean some borrowed glory, the girl stands and says as nonchalantly as possible: Oh her? That's my sister, you know. Yeah, she's my big sister, but I taught her some of that stuff.

Then without hanging around to defend her wild claims, Yeshil jumps down and heads over to her companions, to be 'seen' with them...

It is with geat anxiety Tylaerys sees both Finn and Jirel engage the horrid death knight in melee and she almost starts crying with relief as Jirel destroys the fearsome undead warrior with two swift strokes of her twin axes. Passing by Finn taking care of the werewolven sisters, she gives the changeling a grateful and encouraging smile and turns to Jararaka. "Finn is right, they both fought bravely to defend those who wanted them dead simply for being different, we will help you with the wounded, but what about the fallen, they will not come to rest in a place like this." She says, hoping there was a way to bring the bodies to be buried in hallowed ground at least.

She then quickly continues to throw her arms around the waist of the blonde giantess. "Are you okay?" She says quietly, looking up into honey hues. "I'm sorry, I just saw how the death knight felled all that he came near with that dark blade, I shouldn't have doubted you would defeat him."

She then smiles and giggles at Yeshil's statement, but she was not about to correct the greens-haired girl, in a sense they were a family now after all. She then looks down at the fallen tempurans, misguided fools, but brave, the Lord of Battles must be most pleased, and hopefully he would welcome them all at his table tonight.

Jirel stands firm over the remains for a moment after the storm of bones subsides. Her chest heaves in the wake of her fury unleashed as she waits to pounce any bone that dare stir. Teeth gritted and growl grumbling from her core, the giantess hears nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat. It takes a while, many breaths, and the sound of her companions to ease her out of her rage and back to a calmer state of being, but she does. Those who mattered to her were okay. They were safe. 

Rolling her shoulders back and easing her posture, Jirel finally takes a look around. She feels a hint of warmth threaten to build in her cheeks from all the 'fussing' her way, and her posture straightened up in pride. It'd be a lie to say that she didn't kind of allow herself to enjoy it a little. It felt nice to end off with such a flawless execution of the knight, especially when she wears a reminder of her past failure upon her chest. She knew the truth of her early battle fumbles such as if she went the right way in the first place to get to the knight first, perhaps things could have ended sooner with less casualties. It could also be argued from a fighters perspective that she 'stole' the kill. But none of that mattered because to Jirel, they did it as a team. It all came together in the end because they each did their part, hitting their own natural critical stride at key points through out the battle, each deserving of their own honourable mentions. She didn't do it alone. She couldn't have.

Yeshil's words bring a proud smirk to Jirel's lips, muting a low chuckle that causes her chest to bob just barely. With one arm she scoops the Little One up and perches her on her shoulder. "Aye yous saw them spine bustin' snipe shots from this Little One. Proof 'nough of both claims." She encourages.

Ouf. Feeling a sudden bump but familiar bump into her midsection Jirel glances down. Her expression softens with a smile behind her eyes and the giantess would come to wrap her other arm around Tylaerys to envelope her in a warm welcoming embrace. "Everything's okay." Her hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. "It was just a bite. It'll fade." She pets her hair to assure her. Indeed, Jirel barely had a scratch. It was more of a bruise, teeth marks upon her flesh, but not the good kind. Her eyes meet her gaze and she shakes her head no. Tyl had nothing to apologize for. The smile on the giantess' face was comforting. It wasn't doubt. Jirel believed it was valid fear and concern. After all, she barely survived her duel in Greenhest. "We defeated him." She nods. This included the werewolfs and the others who fought. "Together we defeated them." She notes all of the undeath.

"An' it wasn't without loss." Jirel would look up to aknowledge what and who was lost; those still wary about the lycanthropes; and to address those listening in general. "When we judge to divide, we blind ourselves from outside threats, weakening ourselves an' opening up teh bein' exploited." This current ambush being a prime example. The threat was literally beneath their feet.

Jirel toes a bone, kicks it, then looks to Finn, Yeshil and Tylaerys, "So... Do we need to do anythin' teh make sure they don't uh... pop up again?"

Yeshil is somewhat abashed to discover that her companions heard her rash boast, thinking only the small crowd on the wagon could hear it - but that passes quickly as the four (or five with Jararaka) share their praise and relief together. It's true that the big fighters usually get noticed the most, especially the ones that deliver the finishing blow, and although Yeshil is glad that the caravan folk saw Jirel in action, she does recognise that the group will draw more attention now.

The young girl looks again at the bones as Jirel questions how to prevent their return. Perhaps the bones could be pulverised with hammers? Gathered up and cast into the fires? Yeshil looks around at the thousands of bones and tries to think of another idea. 

"Yes, together..." The young blonde half-elf echoes softly, not quite ready to let go of the blonde giantess but looking between Jirel, Yeshil, Finn and the werewolven sisters with a grateful smile. If they could handle evil like this then she truly believed they could handle the cult. "I doubt there is any way to be truly sure in the Fields of the Dead, but destroying that death knight was probably key to still the dead around here for the night at least." Tylaerys speculates. "There seems to be no clergy around to ask for advice on this." She adds with a sigh, again looking at the fallen tempurans. They did their part too in the end, she had to give them that. More calm now, feeling the blonde giantess' strong arm embracing her small frame, Tylaerys chases away the dreadful thoughts about them all joining the dead on these fields. "So you're sisters huh..." The young blonde half-elf says after a moment of solemn silence, looking beween Jirel and Yeshil. "...well now that you say it I can certainly see the family resemblance." She adds with a teasing smile.

     Finn is glad to see the group coming together and enjoying the momentary glory... But he tends to prefer a different kind of spotlight, or to work outside of it altogether.  As such he is more than happy to slink awake from the others and allow them to have the moment.  With Jararaka here now to argue about the werewolves, and Finn relatively sure it'll just be arguing for now, and people tending to the fallen as best they can, Finn decides to do that himself.  Tend to very specific fallen.

     With the knight of... Tempus, was it? fallen, as well as his comrades, Finn figures he should check them first.  Who else do they have to ensure they are set to rights in death?  Who else to ensure that their valuables are well tended to?  After all, Finn feels guilty that the knight was under his magical compulsion when he died.  Not that it stopped him from defending himself, mind you.  So not guilty at all, really.  Still, it would interest Finn much to see what goods and items the good sir had upon him when he fell...

(so yeah, Finn will loot the bodies of the outsides.  Starting with the knight then moving to the lackeys...)

The mob looks shakily at Yeshil.  Her words seem almost absurd, but after what they have been through tonight, no one questions her.

Jararaka's frill flares slightly as she turns to Finn, her sharp-toothed mouth opening to snap back, but she hesitates.  The exhaustion in her posture is plain, her muscles still taught from the battle.  She exhales sharply, nostrils flaring as she surveys the werewolf sisters with fresh eyes.  "Fine," she grumbles, rubbing a clawed hand down her snout.  "Didn't realize they were yours."  Her yellow eyes flick between Finn and Tylaerys.  "Long night.  Too many bodies.  If you vouch for 'em, that's one less thing I gotta deal with."  She shifts her weight, adjusting her battered shield, and casts a wary glance toward the dark horizon. 

She grimaces, at Tylaerys' questions about keeping the dead at rest.  "I don’t know how to keep 'em from walkin’ again."  She crosses her arms.  "My people would just give 'em back to the swamp.  But I’ll pray.  Maybe the storm god keeps 'em in the dirt."  Her voice is matter-of-fact, as if she expects no miracles.  "That’s all I got time for, though.  Camp’s still a mess."

As she turns to leave, Jirel takes a step forward and gives her short speech.  There is a ripple of unease among those listening, but no one speaks against her.  The mobs that had come to harass the werewolves—those that survived—slip away into the darkness, retreating to their own camps and wagons, their fire-forged bravado long spent.

Jararaka nods once, seemingly satisfied.  "You ladies - and whatever Finn is today - Set a watch on this end of camp tonight," she says over her shoulder as she departs, already calling orders to her guards.

Mirekki exhales shakily as Finn’s magic washes over her wounds.  Some of the pain eases, but the dark tendrils of necrotic corruption still linger beneath her skin, spiderwebbing across her side and shoulder.  She looks up at him, exhaustion and gratitude in her golden eyes.  “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice strained but sincere.

Akreni sits beside her sister, one arm protectively draped over her, watching Finn with an unreadable expression.  After a moment, she inclines her head slightly.  “She’ll live,” she says.  “Thanks to you.”  There’s a quiet weight to her words and she looks not just to Finn, but to the others in the party as well.

She hesitates before adding, “But this... it won’t just go away.”  Her eyes flick toward the caravan, where shaken survivors gather their dead and try to restore some order to their shattered camp.  “Your friends spoke up for us, and the guards seem willing to let it be... for now.  But people like us aren’t welcome anywhere.  Sooner or later, there’ll be another mob, another priest, another set of righteous folk with torches and silver.”

Her voice is steady, but there’s a bitterness underneath it.  “We may need to leave before that happens.”

Mirekki looks up sharply at her sister. “Akreni—”

Akreni shakes her head.  “You know it’s true.  And if one of us compromised the location of the village, then it will be our friends and families as well.”

She turns back to Finn, searching his face.  “I don’t understand why you stepped in for us, but... thank you.”  Her jaw tightens.  “We won’t forget it.”

Finn moves through the scattered bodies of the fallen Tempus acolytes.  The knight’s body is the most prominent, his heavy plate armor still gleaming despite the dirt and blood splattered across it.  The red trim and engraved symbols of Tempus—a blazing sword and crossed gauntlets—mark him as a warrior devoted to the Lord of Battles.  Removing it will take effort, and will be noticed, but could be worth the time.

Beside the knight lies his sword and scabbard, a fine weapon though lacking any obvious magical enchantment.  The hilt is wrapped in worn leather, and the pommel is embossed with the same red insignia of Tempus.  The scabbard, equally ornate, is reinforced with iron fittings and dyed deep crimson, bearing golden embroidery of war prayers.

Finn sorts through the belongings of the other acolytes and monks, finding a small assortment of coins adding up to 64gp, likely their personal travel funds or alms collected along the way.  Among their personal effects are items common to those devoted to Tempus:

• Prayer books, some worn from use, containing hymns, battle blessings, and accounts of great warriors who perished in glorious combat.
• A detailed map of the Fields of the Dead, marked with historical battle sites and notes on the major conflicts that took place there.  Some locations have additional handwritten annotations—perhaps insights or warnings left by the pilgrims.
• Leather bound journals, containing personal reflections, prayers, and thoughts on their pilgrimage.  One passage speaks of the acolytes’ belief that the hardships of their journey would bring them closer to understanding Tempus’ divine will.
• A small, plain iron symbol of Tempus, simple yet well-crafted, possibly carried by the knight as a token of faith.

Finn can take what he thinks might be useful.  

As hours pass, the dead are buried, burned, or dragged away unceremoniously into the bushes, depending upon how much those doing the interring cared about those particular deceased.  

The night passes without incident and the caravan gets a very late start the following morning.  

THE PARTY CAN ALL TAKE A LONG REST AND GAIN LEVEL FIVE

As the cold light of morning filters through the thinning mist, the caravan camp somber but active.  The fires, once roaring, have dwindled to embers.  The scent of burnt flesh, damp earth, and lingering blood still lingers, though the ground is now mostly cleared of the dead.  Among the living, a quiet, weary determination has settled over the camp.  Merchants, clerks, and teamsters pore over contracts, deciding the fates of some handful of now-ownerless wagons.  Arguments flare over who takes possession of abandoned goods, but the disputes are resolved with a practiced coldness—this is simply part of the trade.  These contingencies are as old as the traderoads themselves.

By mid-morning, the caravan stirs to life once more, but it is noticeably smaller.  A handful of wagons, their banners once proudly part of this merchant train, now turn south.  Their owners whisper of ill omens, of dark curses hanging over this journey.  They will return to Baldur’s Gate and try their luck another season.

Yet most of the wagons remain, wheels creaking as they prepare to roll northward.  And as the party surveys the shifting faces among the caravan, they notice a troubling pattern—the cultists (or those they suspect to be cultists) remain.  Few of them fought in the battle, and even fewer fell.  With the losses to death and desertion, their relative numbers have grown.   What was once a hidden faction among the many travelers now makes up a significant portion of the remaining company.

It is still many leagues to Waterdeep.

     Finn gives Jararaka a stare. Whatever Finn is?  Whatever?  He had thought their time together made them friends...  Or at least earned him more respect and understanding than that.  He considered making any number of choice remarks about Lizardpeople and the stereotypes and slurs often applied to them but decided against it.  He knows where he stands with Jararaka now.  That is good enough.

     "All of us are something different," Finn replies to Akreni when she questions why he stepped in to defend the sisters.  "Some more obvious than others but if we all stood against the prejudice others faced perhaps we wouldn't face quite as much ourselves, eh?"

     "Unfortunately you are correct, this will not just go away," Finn agrees.  "We will do what we can for you while you are with the caravan and us but honestly each day will be harder.  It's stupid and wrong but also true.  I'm certainly not telling you to leave...  But you two seem to have good heads upon your shoulders,  It would be best to keep them there."

     When Finn gets around to scavenging the dead, he considers the armor but only momentarily.  It is too much hassle and none of the team seem prepared to wear such heavy equipment.  Perhaps some fancy armor will placate the lizard... Of they can bury him in it.  It's no use to him or his.  The coin is palmed and collected and redistributed later to the others.  More or less evenly.  (Everyone gets 15 gold!  Finn keeps 19.)

     Finn also keeps the map.  Maps are always useful.  Specially when they are of the Fields of the Dead and you are within them!  He will also take one of the leather journals.  He will try to grab one which seems used the least.  He is mostly looking to have a blank journal for himself after tearing out some pages...  He tells the others what he found in case they have interest in the items he did not.  Jirel may want the sword as an option, perhaps?  And everyone may want a look at the map...

As Jararaka turns too leave, the young blonde half-elf gives her a concerned look and hurries after the Lizardfolk. "Hey, wait up. You okay Jararaka? I mean I know it has been a tough night but is there something else? We're still friends seeking to stop the cult right?" She asks, placing a friendly somforting hand on the Lizardfolk's arm.

As she returns to the others and finds Finn going through the fallen she decides to talk to the sisters. The gold on the tempurians was probably not theirs to take but they just couldn't afford to do everything by the law right now, she knew that. "Can I speak with the two of you for a moment?" She asks the sisters and sits down beside them. "I hope you are okay after all that happened, you are both very brave. I'm sorry if you feel it is strange of me to ask this, I'm not looking to report or punish anyone but it is important to understand what has happened here recently. I understand you had nothing to do with the death earlier. I can tell you in confidence he was not a good man and he probably deserved that fate for several reasons but we need to understand why he died. Do you have any idea who did it? Whoever did it did so in a way that you would be accused I'm afraid." She points out, hoping to get the sisters to cooperate with her investigation.

Persuasion if needed: 22

Later she would gratefully accept what Finn offers her.

Yeshil would glance at the books and journals when Finn mentions them, but would quickly bore of the contents. Even the hero stories sound a bit too idealised and sanctimonious.

At the first opportunity, Yeshil describes to her companions what she found in the cultist's cart, and shows them the prayer scrolls, the daggers and the vials of liquid (but keeps the statue to herself).

 ------------------------------------

Back to the boring miles. At the least the undead attack was interesting. A bit scary maybe, but Yeshil stayed out of harm's way. Now it was a return to tedious people-watching and monotonous scenery. The girl takes a fresh look at her former suspects: the two wild-eyed rough-looking human women [are these the werewolves?] , the lone, dark, wiry human man, and the four pilgrims [are all of these still present?]. As the day warms up, so too does Yeshil's curiosity, and she decides the pilgrims are the next most interesting target. Once her shift at the reins is done, she extracts her own tooth, wanders over innocently and begins to strike up casual childish conversation. 

I saw those priests or whatever they were fighting the skeletons. Are you like them? Do you fight evil monsters too? How come you don't have a knight with a big shiny sword? Do you think there will be any more skeletons? How much further is it to Waterdeep? Do you have anything to eat? Do you know any games?

If the opportunity presents, Yeshil will attempt to deposit her tooth into a pocket or hood or fold of a robe, in case she wants to listen in later on...

Sleight of Hand: 13

------------------------------------------

If there's nothing else to do, Yeshil will quiz Tylaerys about her spellcasting (especially how she casts invisibility - that's one that Yeshil would like to learn some day), or Jirel about her culture and language, or Finn about his fencing style.

As the caravan moves on northwards, Tylaerys would return to her routines, mostly driving the cart, but also trying to explain to Yeshil what she understands about her own spell casting. "You know, the magic I use, it is not like that of a wizard, more like it is a part of me that seems to alowly grow in power, I am trying to understand and harness it myself and so far I have been able to utilize it in certain ways, like being able to make you invisible." She tries to explain, seeming to ponder what to say as she goes along. "I'm not sure I could teach you anything useful though, it is all my personal way to channel the magic inside me." She says with an almost apologetic tone. "If you feel like sharing now I would like to know more about your time at the Arcane Brotherhood and what their stake in all this is?" She says with a friendly smile.

Yeshil shrugs and looks away thoughtfully. Just when Ty thinks the girl might not respond, she turns back and replies:

My magic is kinda like yours I guess. I didn't really learn it, like from books and stuff. Not at first anyway. I ended up in Luskan after leaving home. It was hard to get by, but... with a bit of magic I managed. I tried to steal something from this wizard guy - got caught - tried to charm him - didn't work. But he wasn't mad. Instead he offered me a job! Work for him - for the Brotherhood - and I'd get a bed, and meals, and he'd teach me more magic. She shrugs again. Pretty good deal. Easy jobs mostly - running errands, a bit of spying. Learned a bit about magic, but Kadmus - that was his name, the wizard - Kadmus the Orange, haha - he kept saying I was impatient or easily distracted, or whatever. Anyway, I'd read all his books, so he told me I should go to Candlekeep and read some more. Probably just wanted to get rid of me.

Wasn't until I got to Baldur's Gate that I heard what happened in Luskan. Dragon attacked the city, the Cult invaded the Hosttower and stole heaps of treasure, assassins murdered a Thayan ex-Red Wizard that lived there. Pretty crazy! So they asked me to snoop around, find out what I could about what happened, see if I could find this other Red Wizard in Baldur's Gate, stuff like that. That's when I ran into you guys. Another shrug. I guess Candlekeep can wait.

The young blonde half-elf listens attentively, nodding along with a warm smile as the green-skinned girl talks. "Thank you for sharing this with me Yeshil. I must admit I was concerned over what interest the Arcane Brotherhood had in all this. Try not to be offended but let's just say their aims and goals have not always been benevolent. What you say makes sense though, you would expect them to gather information about this cult and it's interest in the expatriated red wizards. Any thayan expatriats we find might potentially be turned into valuable allies." She says thoughtfully. "But yes, Candlekeep will be there for you once you decide to leave our company, until then we are fortunate to have you along Yeshil, you are a great gatherer of information and a most valuable member of our little team. Do you think the Arcane Brotherhood would support the opposition to the cult? Is it possible we could draw upon their knowledge and resources to end the machinations of the cult?"

     In the long hours of traveling and/or downtime at nights when stopped, Finn would be more than happy to have Yeshil as a sparring partner.  They could work on footwork and tactics, share tips and tricks, etc...  Tylaerys would of course be welcome to join in if she had any interest though she didn't seem to partake much of swordplay.  Jirel, of course, was welcome though Finn was always a little concerned that Jirel would forget it was just practice!  But Yeshil and himself were both more on the finesse side of swordplay so there was more commonality there, though fighting different styles was of course good practice as well.

The first night after the battle, the werewolf sisters do not stop to make camp.  As the caravan settles in under the cold evening sky, the two of them continue ahead, slipping into the darkness like ghosts.  The younger, Mirekki, still bears deep wounds—dark, necrotic gashes that stubbornly resist healing—but there is an unnatural resilience in her.  Already, she moves with more strength than she should, her sister Akreni supporting her only lightly.  Before they vanish into the night, they stop briefly to thank the party once more.  Though Akreni remains guarded, there is a sincerity in her gratitude.  “We’ll be fine,” she assures them.  “Better on our own.”  They carry most of the wares from their cart - the oxen slain in the battle - on their backs.  They do give four small items to the party... fangs strung up on short cord necklaces.  "For all your help," Akreni says.  "Keep this close, and the curse will not take you.  We owe you more than this... perhaps one day we will cross paths again.  Until then, stay safe, friends."

Necklace of Protection from Lycanthropy:  The wearer has advantage on saves to resist contracting Lycanthropy from the bite of were-creatures.

Then they are gone, leaving only their footprints in the dust of the road.

In the following days, the caravan rolls onward, passing northward from the Fields of the Dead into a valley flanked by the Troll Hills to the west and the Trollclaws to the east.  The land is an eerie, shifting landscape of rolling grassy slopes and dense, mist-shrouded foliage.  The Winding Water, dark and sluggish in the dim light, cuts through the land, and the wagons ford the river at the Trollclaw Ford.  Ruined fortifications dot both sides of the river here, abandoned attempts at carving out permanent settlements.

Despite the region’s grim reputation, no trolls descend upon them in the night, nor do monstrous creatures burst from the shadowed glades to assail the caravan.  The journey is eerily quiet.  The land is still, but from your vantage it is peaceful.

The Troll Hills to the west are dark and forbidding, their thick oak forests strangely devoid of birdsong.  The caravan’s guards murmur of unnatural silence—no chirping, no rustling of small animals.  Only the creak of wagon wheels and the snorting of tired horses and oxen break the hush.  The hills themselves are jagged, with patches of razorgrass cutting through the undergrowth, and strange twisting paths leading up into unknown heights.

To the east, the Trollclaws are just as unsettling.  The landscape rises in steep, grass-covered hills, their tops shrouded in mist that never seems to fully dissipate.  The land feels ancient, watching.  Jararaka's guards keep their hands on their weapons, eyes flicking toward every shadow.

The caravan is on edge here.  Though the undead have been left behind, fear lingers.  Whispers still swirl about the werewolves and the party’s decision to defend them.  Some thank the adventurers for their courage, for fending off the horrors that attacked their camp.  Others glare with suspicion, muttering about “monsters protecting monsters.”  The divide in the caravan is subtle, but it is there.  And the cultists remain.  Always present, always watching, their numbers seemingly untouched by the chaos of the past nights.  For now, they cause no disturbance, just keeping up quietly with the rest of the wagons.

More days pass, and as the caravan pushes past the hills, the land opens up, and the Trade Way stretches wide before them. To the west, the Trollbark Forest looms—an expanse of gnarled, twisted oaks, black ashes, and scrub pines, tangled with thorny undergrowth.  The low vales of the forest are damp and boggy, dotted with treacherous swamps.  At night, mist rolls from the forest like creeping fingers, slithering across the road and pooling around the wagons.  The watchmen grow uneasy, their torches burning bright against the heavy dark.  They share stories of monstrous trees, of slithering creatures that move unseen beneath the fog, of things that hunt in silence.

To the east, the High Moor stretches into the distance—a wild, untamed land of broken terrain and ancient ruins, where old kingdoms have crumbled to dust.  Few dare to venture into its depths, for it is a land of forgotten horrors and lingering magic.

As the days pass, the tension in the caravan slowly eases, though it never fully disappears.  The further they travel from the Fields of the Dead, the more life seems to return to the road.  The merchants are wary, but they are also practical; business must go on.  The guards remain vigilant, knowing that danger is never far on these roads.

And then, after a week of travel, the ruins of Dragonspear Castle rise in the east, just visible from the road.  The crumbling fortress stands atop three low hills, its skeletal remains silhouetted against the gray sky.  The wind howls through its broken towers, and even from this distance, the place exudes an ominous presence.  Dragonspear Castle has been a battleground for ages, a place where infernal forces once clashed with mortal armies.  It is a ruin of blood and fire, and its shadow stretches long over the land.

It has been a full week now since the battle with the undead.

[I need perception checks from everyone, DC 20.]

     I believe we have more horses than we need for our cart?  If I am correct about that then Finn offers the sisters Chomper if he'd be able to pull their cart, even if slowly.  He wants to see the two lose as little as possible from this encounter.  Finn also makes an effort to rebuff the gift of the necklace.  "It is very kind of you but you're condition isn't a curse...  And it is not anything I fear," he counters when they offer it to him.  If they insist he will accept it but advice "I will save this for perhaps one who feels the need for such protection more than I," he offers and puts it safely away in small pouch.  In his next encounter with Jararaka Finn gives him the necklace instead.  "They offered more kindness and defense of this caravan than most any other, yet they were the outcasts.  Still, they had a care about the safety of others..."  and Finn passes Jararaka the necklace.

     Finn has lost most of his lust for entertaining the caravan or lightening the mood.  He has soured on the vast majority of them and feels no need to make the journey any easier for them.  He does still keep an ear open for gossip or general chatter but he doesn't venture amongst them seeking to lure out information.  The whole affair has put him in a bit of a mood that he has some difficulty shaking off.  Misses Binklesworth is his main interaction with others beyond the party, Finn often having her slink around the carts and wagons and listening and watching in through her senses so that he himself need not interact.  Still his moodiness offers some advantages - He feels he's made some breakthroughs on some new spells he has been practicing and he's eager to get into a town where he can go shopping for some much needed components...

((Perception:  18.  Just a 7 from Misses Binklesworth, she's more focused on catching mice it seems.))

* In that case, if Chomper is given up, the two sister leave with their wagon and even greater appreciation for the sacrifices the party made on their behalf.