VEYL: First Campaign Thread

Toil collects some fire wood and makes himself generally useful or at least looking so, without overexerting himself, when people settle down and aubrik asks who might be cooking, Toil gives a laugh, "I'm quite tolerant to poisons which means I'm basically a terrible cook but I also don't mind who does it, I'll have no complaints. Do you think they packed in mugs and cutlery and the sort? Has anyone checked or would that be 'looking through the cargo'? Hey Aubrik what kinda grog do you supply? Is it an ale or more of a spirited beverage? I ask because I'm running low on spell craft supplies and that might just be the thing I need if we find ourselves in a sticky situation. That, and snake tongues, but I've got a few left, I'll find some more when we get chance." Once the food is being made and people are settling in, Toil seems comfortable enough and tries to engage people in conversation. "Heres a curiosity... I've no idea how or why Cork and I have 'made a name for ourselves' but what's all your stories? Any tales of heroics or the like that got you noticed by the warlord sir 'dont call me general'?"

Poems, songs, drums, and set up take over in their own little ways.  A camp full of strangers, or what are essentially strangers still, quickly evolves into a peaceful community.  Toil gathers firewood from dead woody shrubs, and procures enough to create a sizeable enough fire.  Aubrik provides drink.  Some of the rations in the casks are warmed over flames.  

The sun goes down, and darkness settles.  

It isn't long before bed when the party begins to see silver lights in the distance that are slowly making their way down the road in their direction.  No matter how the party responds, it becomes apparent that the lights are silver-flame candles, all held by a mixed group of pilgrims, roadkeepers, and travelers.  The pilgrims themselves carry most of the candles, with each of them tending to one flame at a time, the shaft of the candle held in one hand, the flame protected by the palm of the other from any breeze that may try to snuff it out.  If a candle dies, the pilgrims re-light each other, the symbolic showing of passing of memory from person to person.  

One roadkeeper near the back of the line carries a smoking urn on a chain, hot coals inside meant for use in the event that the candles somehow all catastrophically fail.  The smoke smells like burning incense and cedar.  Another roadkeeper intermittently rings a solitary bell; it is known that this is how the order keeps up with one another when visibility otherwise fails...

Slowly, they approach the camp...

Orvyr keeps pace behind the wagon. He keeps an eye out for any dangerous. He does not like the sand, though. It just gets everywhere! 

As the stop for the night, he helps where he can with setting up camp. He sneezes as Aubrik comes by with the incense. Taking his pack off, he settles down with the others for an evening meal. "I'm no chef, but I can make edible food. If you provide some drink, I'm sure we won't notice the taste Shihehehe." 

In response to Toil, he says "Hmm I honestly have no idea. I just wander about. I mean, I help where I can. Well, I guess I know how to handle myself, so I can help better than most. I mean, I just do what any other person would. Who wouldn't try to stop thugs harassing a poor town?"

Before going to bed, Orvyr takes out the bundle of parchment that he took from Kaelor and looks through them, seeing what he was given. He undoes the red cord, which is when he and the rest of the party notice the lights in the distance. He reties the parchment and stowes it away. Orvyr stands, picks up his great axe and returns it to his back. He unsheathes a handaxe and steps forward, trying to get a good position with the others in his party. "Could be friendly, but best prepare it the aren't." Orvyr relaxes slightly as he see that they are Pilgrims. 

As they walked along, the singing coming from first Solya and then Harper, you heard from the fighter walking in the middle of the pack a grunting, humming tune, meant to be in harmony with the others, but off just a little bit.  A smile came to Rory’s face as he hummed along in time with the singing, clearly pleasing him as they made to transform the journey into something a little more bearable.  His eyes held to the road, he was constantly looking to the sides, the trees, anywhere that an ambush could potentially lie.  Habits die hard, and soldiers know to watch for areas of ambush and attack.  

As they settle in for camp, Rory grunts when Toil mentions his cooking.  “I’m used to the ole rule that if you complain about the food, it’s your turn to cook next.  I’m fine with whatever you can produce, Toil.  And I’m all for sampling your brew, Aubrik.”  Rory pulls out his travelling cup tied to his pack and tilts it toward the cask, indicating his zeal to try.  

When the pilgrims begin to approach, interrupting their rest, Rory sits still, but under his blanket he reaches for his glaive, his hand rests on it under the cover, worn handholds feeling comfortable and reassuring.  He watches to see what transpires.  

"You'd have to check among the rations, I guess", Aubrik replies to Toil. "But I've lived without cutlery before, I am sure I can do it again if needs be", he adds with a grin.

"As for grog, I have a spiced, honey-fortified winter ale or a heavy, ink-dark elderberry wine. Neither have ever been used for spellcraft to my knowledge, but you're welcome to use your portion to try. It's likely a long road ahead, so best to drink sparingly until we know we can replenish the supplies", he adds. "Mind you, if we forage the right ingredients along the way, I can always brew up something with a bit more kick".

He takes Rory's travel cup and taps some of the ale for him before taking out a cylindrical leather-covered tube from his pack. Out of it, he slides a number of smooth, polished animal horn tumblers nested together. "Who else would like a cup?", he asks the others as he separates them.

He turns to Orvyr as the Dragonborn speaks of his past and why he was chosen. "There are plenty who would not get involved, possibly most in truth. The number of times I have heard stories told at the inn of bad deeds, followed by the telling silence when someone asked what they did to help", he says with an approving nod. "As for myself, perhaps Lord Kaelor knew how the rest of you would thirst, and so sent for me", he says with a short laugh.

A little later, with the sudden appearance of silver lights and the sound of the solitary bell, he looks around at the others in camp before standing up. He raises an open hand in greeting whilst leaning on his ironwood stirrer. "They seem harmless enough", he says to Orvyr, but not disagreeing with his warning.

Toil takes a cup eagerly, appreciatively and drinks his fill, leaving enough to spare and nudging Cork to see if she has a vial or something he could borrow for storing a few drops of alcohol.

He listens to the stories the others tell with interest though it seems as more and more contribute that there's nothing especially powerful or dramatic about any of his new travel companions, perhaps it is potential that the warlord sees in this group, perhaps it is only expendables... Toil's memory slips back to Kaelor seeming to size him up, what did he mean by 'there you are'? 

Still, Toil smiles and enjoys the company, his fastened on smile grows when he sees the incoming pilgrims and he climbs the wagon to get a better look, surveying each face shape in the flickering candle light trying to pick out a draconian or goblinoid amongst their midsts.

Cork enjoys the ride on the wagon, happy to not have to walk with the rest, and as she assumed the horses were easy to control.  As they found their resting area, she swatted away the flies and hopped on over to where they were starting to put together a fire.  "Here, let me help." And she started a fire with the snap of her long green fingers.  

She happily takes one of the carved horn tumblers and admires it for a moment before holding it out for the offered drink.  With a now warm, full belly and being heated by the fire, she finds her eyelids getting heavy.  At Toil's nudge she groans, "Now this is why you need to carry your own pack!" she ignores him unless he's very insistent, finally giving up and handing one over.

She doesn't notice the candle light as she stares into the fire, but does see that something is a miss as the others start to focus their attention elsewhere.  She looks between their legs and sees the newcomers.  She digs into her pocket and pulls out a small piece of cured leather and rubs it between her fingers as she waits to see what might happen.

Silver light dances amongst the group that is coming together before the party, playing tricks on the eyes with its unnatural vibrancy.  The pilgrims keep their faces tilted down, but the roadkeepers step forward.  There's three of them, all with lanterns, all carrying light weapons and even lighter kit.  Each carries a different tool, a shovel, a rake, a matic, for plying their trade.  

"Smooth roads and cool winds."  One of the roadkeeper's offers in greeting.  He shows his hands, then clasps them in front of his body in the customary way, showing he means no one any harm.  "We'll be off soon.  I don't suppose the lot of you have any medicine, do you?"  

He looks back over his shoulder.  In the back of the group gathered before them, the party can see a sickly Firbolg woman, her arm draped over the shoulder of an Orc that seems to be supporting her weight as they walk.  She looks very sick.  

"Our road leads west by southwest."  He continues, pointing off in another direction, away from the party's anticipated direction of travel.  "But I am afraid Mirana's health is failing.  If you could offer aid, we could offer our gratitude, and to carry your names with us."  

Solya sits by the fire with the others, smiling and listening to their stories, though she declines the wine. When the soft peal of the bells and the silvery light of the candles catches her attention though, her face changes. An expression almost like she's been caught napping, as she rises to her feet, and turns to face the incoming group of pilgrims. Her own kind, walking endless miles on sometimes treacherous roads. Bearing the silver light of memory. She raises a hand in a pilgrim's salute on the road to the group as they approach. "Good way," she says to them, in the traditional pilgrim's greeting.

But on hearing that they have an ill member of their number, she glances towards the cart. She knows there is medicine in the cargo. She also knows they were told not to touch it. And she herself has no medicine at all. Solya looks to her companions. If they can avoid getting into the cargo, that would be better, but it depends what supplies the others have on them. But Solya considers needed medical supplies to belong first to the common good, if necessity dictates, before they belong to Kaelor or his agents. "I have no medicine of my own," she says, "nor any of the physician's skill. Do any of you have either?"

Harper set the drum down in the sand. He had stopped playing when the silver lights appeared on the road. Now he stood, brushing sand from his coat, and moved toward the roadkeeper without thinking, drawn forward by their greeting "What are her symptoms?" he said quietly as he passed him, not waiting for an answer before continuing toward the back of the group where the Firbolg woman leaned against the orc beside her. He was small enough that the pilgrims barely had to part to let him through. He crouched down to get a better look at her, journal nowhere in sight for once, charcoal tucked away. Just his hands and a healing word.

Cork scrambles up from the fire as the conversation starts.  She walks over by Solya and tries to get a peak at the sick firbolg.  She realizes she has nothing to assist them and looks around at the others.  When Harper is the one that steps up and casts a spell to heal the poor woman, she finds herself quite surprised.  Maybe this halfling is more than he appeared.  She finds herself narrowing her eyes at him as she considers.

Turning towards the one that was talking to Solya, "What happened to her?"

"The Flow remembers", Aubrik says by way of greeting to the roadkeeper, before looking past him to the struggling firbolg.

"I have some skill with herbs", he adds, wandering back across the camp to pick up his still-smouldering bundle of dried herbs and a few choice items from his pack.

With his supplies in hand, he follows Harper toward Mirana, stepping up alongside the halfling to see what can be done for the sick woman.

Rory’s hand under the blanket lets go of his glaive, he stands and starts to walk behind Aubrik and Cork, looking to see more of what is happening.  The old fighter in him rubs his knuckles and hand wrappings, still not completely convinced as he has been sucker punched before.  He walks behind them, watching and observing, looking not to the sick person and their ailments, whatever they may be.  He’s watching the others in the group of pilgrims, watching the periphery, watching how their hands move, their facial expressions.  Old habits die hard.  The fighter is slow to trust any approaching group of strangers, no matter how friendly they seem.  

As the Pilgrims come up to there band, Orvyr will stow his handaxe. They did not appear to be outwardly hostile, which is good. 

Orvyr sees the sick firbog, but has nothing he can help with. He is glad when it appears that Harper and Aubrik knew what to do. And it seemed that Rory had the right idea keeping watch over them. He smiles, glad there is another that knows to stay alert. Better safe then sorry. 

Orvyr will head over to one of the other roadkeepers (not the one who spoke). He nods as he approaches, then say "Smooth roads and cool winds, friend. How have your travels been? Any issues on the road? Any trouble we should be aware of?"