"It will?" she asks as she's ushered inside, peering curiously down at the soil in her hand. 

When Big Man pat-compliments the wound, she stumbles forward then beams up at him--her smile all teeth and amber eyes crinkled closed. "Scars make good stories," she says, though her brow furrows and she quietly adds, "sometimes," as she looks down at the old burn scars covering her hands.

Big Ozyre's voice booms towards the wee folk, "Sorry for all the gore. I just figured, better that thing's blood all over you two than your own." He turns over to Lydia. "You've got tea and medical supplies? You must be an angel! Well, what are we waiting for?" As he talks, he slowly shrinks, and by the time he finishes what he's saying, he's back down to his normal, just over 3 foot size. Little Ozyre barely seems to notice the change. Without wasting a second, he trots up to the house in search of tea.

At Ember's touch, [Sound of Cork Popping] snaps out of his stupor.  He rises, and then begins to wipe the gore off of himself, first with the tainted breadstick and then with his bare hands.  He looks longingly at the windmill at the promise of tea, but holds up a single finger as if to say 'one moment.'   Instead, he walks to the least-obliterated corpse and begins to examine it.

Nothing too invasive - no autopsy or anything.  Just quietly circling it, making note of its features, the length of its limbs, etc.  Does it resemble anything he has ever seen, or heard of before?  Investigation:  12

Curious at what [Sound of Cork Popping] is up to, Ember worms out of Lydia's grip and hurries to his side to watch him inspect the creature. She copies his quiet circling, every so often stooping to point silently at something with a curious look up at the kenku.

(Ember will give the Help action to give [Sound of Cork Popping] advantage on the roll if that's okay!) 

[If help allowed:  23 ]

The kenku and the child proceed to inspect the remains of one the creatures. Both of them come to the realization that those creatures were Worgs. [Sound of Cork Popping], this is a fairly common creature back on the main continent. Ember remembers seeing Worgs at her goblin friend’s clan. They were tamed in order to serve as mounts. However, this particular variant seems a lot more feral and larger than its Amarillian counterpart. The fangs are longer and the fur is darker than regular Worgs. Perhaps a Tyrannisian variant?

As the child points out things that betray a deeper wisdom than her appearance might suggest, the Kenku pats her head and gives her a big thumbs up.  

Then he points down to the creature.  Unaware of her own knowledge of the monster, he opens his beak.  Out comes the nasal, somewhat condescending voice he used when examining the halfling man's bite wound.  "Worgs..." he says then pauses before continuing, "... Now, let us delve into the physical characteristics of the worg. Their fur is typically a dark, mottled gray or brown, which grants them excellent camouflage in their preferred habitats, such as dense forests, rugged mountains, and dark caves. Their sense of smell and their hearing are both superb, making them skilled trackers and hunters, capable of pursuing prey with uncanny precision."

"What sets them apart from other woodland predators, however, is the bite. These creatures possess rows of razor-sharp teeth capable of tearing through armor and flesh alike. When a worg bites down on its prey, it rarely lets go, often leading to a slow and gruesome demise for its victim.  Keep that in mind when traveling through worg habitat."

He stops again, looking down at the girl with his black, expressionless eyes, before patting her head again and turning back in the direction of the windmill and the tea.

Ember hangs on each word about the creature with rapt interest--so like yet unlike Weevil's worg, Petunia--and [Sound of Cork Popping] can see the inner gears of her Keen Mind turning as she commits it all to memory. The little pyromancer ducks her head at the praise, the warmth from the gesture spreading across her cheeks and to the tips of her ears as she kicks at a bit of dirt.

She watches the bard head towards the windmill then turns to peer down at the slain monstrosity again. She gently pets the dark fur on its cheek and whispers something in Goblin to it, then carefully pulls back its lip to see the fangs. A moment later, she shoves her foot onto its head and tries to prise one of its canines free.

((Athletics? Or survival for harvesting?)) 
((Edit: she got a 9 for both -_- ))  

From the corpse of the Worg who’s head got exploded from Ozyre’s maul, Ember is able to pluck out a teeth. With the structural integrity of the skull severely compromised, the hard part isn’t to pull it out, but finding one that’s still intact.

Once you’re all inside, Lydia begins tending to your various wounds. She begins cleaning it with fresh water from the river with soap, and then wraps bandages around it to help protect the wound from infections. 

After patching you up, she offers you all a cup of herbal tea. It’s a bit bitter, but it goes down easy.

(If you wish to take a short rest here, this could a good place. Feel free to RP between yourselves in the meantime.)

Personally the massive blonde bearded warrior relished in gore and didn't quite understand what the giant, now turning back into his gnome disguise, was apologizing about. "Worgs? No wonder they were so weak, and squishy." Thurodim scoffs and chuckles, then kneeling by Ember and her worg, forcefully bending it's jaws wide apart with a snap before tearing out a tooth. Still bloody he hands it over to the little girl beside him with an encouraging smile. "You go inside for some tea now little one." He says with a deep soft voice, then getting up to move the dead worgs away from the peculiar tower, even he did not find the smell of carcasses very pleasant. He would then join the others inside, to look after them all, even though he would prefer not going into the strange building with one wheel.

Athletics: 7 Survival: 8

Chattering excitedly about the fight, "And then Ozyre became Bigger Big Man and was smashin' and then Big Man was crushin'! Did you see it? And then the worg snarled at Cork and he snarled right back. Just like it! And then he used his breadstick sword and that made it real mad, but it stopped lookin' at me and I wanted to roast it, but it moved real fast and I thought we were goners but then, out of nowhere, BAM," Ember only seems to stop to take a breath.

When Lydia comes to tend to her injuries, she quiets down and patiently watches as the wound is dressed. There's a prickling behind her eyes and she sniffs, the feeling of being cared for utterly foreign now. But as Ember looks around at each of her companions, turning her worg fang over and over in her small hand, she silently corrects herself: was utterly foreign. 

The little wizard settles into her chair, making a mess of blood and mud on it, and drinks her warm tea. Her lashes flutter as her lids become heavy, the adrenaline from the fight wearing off. The tea cup drifts down and sits on her sternum as her head lolls to one side before she catches herself and blinks her eyes open again. 


((Ember will use 2 Hit Dice and Arcane Recovery during their short rest to recover HP and spell slots respectively. She'll also cast Mage Armor to bring her AC to 16 for the next 8 hours))
((Edit: Will change that to 1 hit die, thanks to [Sound of Cork Popping's] song of rest!))

Ozyre is happy to listen to Ember's retelling of the fight while kicking his feet off a stool. He seems to be quite content with how it went. He adds on to the end of the story, "That's the power of special linguistics!" He takes a sip from his oversized tea cup. He didn't have to get his tea in an oversized cup, what with the person serving him being a halfling herself, but he specifically requested a larger receptacle for his delicious warm liquid.

A keen eye would notice, as Ozyre relaxes, the ashen hue that the runes on his axe became after summoning the chains slowly heats up once again and reclaims its constant, lightly-flickering red.

[Sound of Cork Popping] accepts a cup of tea with a bow.  He opens his wheeled chest and pulls out a small drum, just two strips of leather sewn tight over a wood frame.  As he sips tea with his long, black tongue, he taps out a quiet, soothing rhythm with the drum.  It is almost hypnotic.

Song of Rest -  If you or any friendly creatures who can hear your performance regain hit points at the end of the short rest by spending one or more Hit Dice, each of those creatures regains an extra 1d6 hit points.

He also looks around the windmill, taking in its decorations and making note of any interesting motifs or items on display.

Eventually the massive blonde bearded warrior lumbers inside the peculiar tower on one wheel, crouching down as he carefully moves about inside to not accidentally wreck the furnishings, finding a seat and downing a cup of herbal tea with a content smile, catching the end of the little girl's recount of their heroic battle, frowning as the Wee Folk mentions the power of ling-something, probably witchcraft, then humming softly to the birdman's relaxing rythm. Seeming both calm and serene, Thurodim gently picks up something from his pocket and puts it on the table before him. "This is Mr. Bleeches." He explains in a deep but soft rumbling voice, smiling affectionately at his cute little companion, giving the small white pocket mouse on the table one of the cookies he bought back at Dawn Point which the mouse eagerly starts nibbling at.

(Regained Hp 11 + 2)

Ember gasps, the short rest more than enough to replenish her energy stores. She slides off the chair and onto the floor then slowly approaches the table like a stalking cat, her honey-golden eyes wide and focused intently on the mouse. Sitting just at the edge, she lowers her face down to be on Mr. Bleeches' level. 

"He's so cute," she whispers, gaze lifting to meet Big Man's. "Are you his papa? Where did you find him? Is he like Aggie or is he a--a real mouse?" Aggie chatters his teeth at the implication he isn't a real squirrel and hops down onto the table to sniff at the tiny white creature. His tail flicks once, twice, then he hops down into Ember's lap to retrieve a chestnut from her leather pouch to share. 

The massive blonde bearded warrior laughs heartily at the little girl's question, almost falling of his precariously small chair. "No no, I'm not his father, he's just a friend from the big city, a simple soul much like myself and he keeps me good company on my travels." Thurodim explains, a wide smile still on his face. "Where did you find Aggie then?" He asks curiosuly, taking a closer look at the generous squirrel, although Mr. Bleeches seems too occupied with gobbling up the last of the cookie to even notice the offered chestnut quite yet.

Ember laughs too, though she's not entirely certain what they're laughing at. In her mind, anyone can be a papa or mama or grandpa to anyone else. Even a mouse!

"He's my grandpa's familiar! He's had him for like... four hundred years. Since he was a little boy! When he, um," her expression falters for just a moment, "when he went away, he left Aggie with me so I wouldn't be lonely." She gives Aggie's back scritches as he continues to watch the little mouse, scooting the chestnut just a bit closer with his nose. "He can become other shapes though he likes being a squirrel the best. And he's really, really smart! He has a spell named after him! Grandpa said he created it all by himself."

"I--oh! I should ask," she turns to Lydia, eyes wide and hopeful, "have you seen a gnome come through here? Maaayybbeee three or four summers ago?" Ember looks to Ozyre and grins as she clarifies, "Not an Ozyre though." 

The interior of the mill is cramped but cozy. You remain on the first floor, where there is a small dining room.  Further on the side is a trapdoor currently closed. In general, the furniture seems to be better adapted for halfling sized individuals. This doesn’t seem to be much of a problem for Ember, Ozyre and [Sound of Cork Popping], but Thurodim’s massive frame has more difficulty moving around.

Lydia seems to enjoy listening to your enthusiastic retelling of the battle you just fought. She is however a bit more squeamish at the sight of two rodents eating on her dining table.

At Ember’s question, Lydia thinks for a moment. "That’s a tough question. I’ve been here for only two years. I wish I could help you more. Can you tell me what he looks like, sweetie?"

Ember's shoulders slump ever so slightly before she picks them back up again. Sensing her discouragement, Aganazzar skitters over the table and onto his charge's shoulder to boop her cheek with his nose, which immediately brightens her expression.

"That's okay! You've helped us loads already. But um, he looks llikkkee--" she fetches the same sketch she showed the Big Red Man from between the pages of her spellbook. "That! He has big bushy eyebrows and a long beard that touches the ground. He said it was so his floors would always stay clean, but I think that was a joke," she titters. "Aaaannd he wears a really big wizard hat and always has smoke around because of his pipe!"

The yearning with which she regard the sketch is clear in her eyes. "Maybe he didn't... um... didn't make it here?" Her brow furrows, that possibility occurring to her for the first time since leaving their forest home. She picks at the bandages on her arm, lost in thought.

When Ember starts to worry, Ozyre starts to worry a bit too, and instantly his instincts make him give her a great big smile. "I'm sure he made it! I mean, the toughest part of getting here was the ship. I get pretty seasick, but I don't think anybody gets that seasick. Plus, with a beard that impressive, what'd stop him? Even if he hasn't gone past the watermill, he's gotta be somewhere.

"Tell you what. We do this job, we get famous, everybody starts talking about us, and then your grandpa Zulgrim has to figure out you're here. It's a foolproof plan!"