Following Fergus' instructions for testing the wall, Aarnr pushes at it.  Nothing happens.  Then, just to be sure, he throws all his weight into the testing.  There is a grating of stone on stone, and a low rumble.

Aarnr suddenly finds himself sprawled atop a brand new pile of rubble, while the ruined cottage finds itself minus one of its few sections of remaining wall.

The oxen watch the whole proceedings with a look of mild interest in their eyes, lazily chewing the cud.  They do not react to the events, though one of them looks as though it might, just possibly, become the first ox in history to laugh out loud.

Before that can happen though, Fergus leads the animals away and secures them to an ancient fence post...

"This wall was a bit ... unstable," the priest reports proudly as he regains his footing, picking his way carefully out of the rubble, oblivious to the bemused looks from the ox.  "Should be safe now."

"Good stone that, though," Aarnr appraises the pile. "Worth a bit, I'd say."  Certainly it would be in the fens of his homeland where such a valuable commodity was hard to come by.  Still, he's not here to become a trader.

"Time to go hunting ?" he inquires hopefully.

With the oxen secured, and the remainder of the cottage not about to fall down, at least not immediately, Aarnr searches about for a conveniently sized rock, with the intent of committing violence on something small and defenceless.

Which, considering the presence of Aarnr and Fergus, could describe most of the likely inhabitants of the hill.

Fergus winces as both Aarnr and the wall take a tumble.  Aarnr is unhurt, though, and seems quite pleased with himself.

"Sure, I've got the oxen hobbled and... say, that was clever Aarnr.  You've gone and made a handy pile of, y'know, things we can throw.  What's the word?"

Fergus selects a few suitable stones from the pile.  He pockets some and carries the two he considers the best.  Thus armed, Fergus waits for Aarnr to finish any preparation he might have in mind before slipping off into the undergrowth to see if he can scare up some game birds or a rabbit.

Fergus moves stealthily for such a big man, but he's not having much luck finding a likely target.

Turning around and about, Aarnr eventually stumbles over a pile of rocks¹ that might have been placed there purely for his convenience, and searches through them for some suitably smallish ones that will fit comfortably in his fist.

"Rabbits, ducks, deer and pheasant if we're lucky, you said ?" he reminds Fergus.  "where's the nearest water ?  Good place to start - might even find some fish."

¹ the pile of rocks formerly known as "the ruined cottage"

Fergus and Aarnr, laden down with ammunition start down the slope behind the ruin.

The land here is open heath, covered with heather and gorse with the occasional tree, most of which are small and stunted.  Fence posts dot the landscape, though most of the fence itself has long since gone the way of the cottage.

Fergus leads the way, away from Fairhill and into the valley.  Before long they reach a small stream, barely more than a trickle of water, mere inches deep and only about a foot wide.

Still, it's water.

There is a sudden movement at the foot of the far slope, perhaps thirty or forty feet away.

A rabbit!  There's a second, a little to their left and slightly further away.  And a third, further up the hill.  Now that they know what to look for, the two men can see at least a half dozen of the animals moving about...

Aarnr's not the quietest chap around either - both in terms of misplaced footfalls and all but constant muttered oaths.  Might be considered almost fervent in some faiths ...

With a stone cradled in a strip of leather as a makeshift sling, the big priest eyes the rabbits.  A bit smaller than the marsh-rats of his homeland, but enough for a feed, and certainly couldn't taste any worse.

With a prayer to his god, "thou'd better froggin' guide this one true ye rank shard-borne haggard !", Aarnr makes his cast, swiftly fitting a second stone and sending it after the first ...

Fergus moves across the heath with practiced ease.  He does a tolerably good job of staying quiet and out of sight.  He's too polite to call Aarnr up on his constant muttering, though it risks scaring off more wary game.

When they spot the rabbits, Fergus tries his arm with a stone.  Unsurprisingly, it's a powerful throw, but a strong arm can't make up for poor aim.

One thing that Aarnr has learned over the years is that Bowbe can be a funny bugger when he puts his mind to it...

The priest's first stone, aided by the power of prayer, almost kills one rabbit.  But only through sheer fright as it strikes a boulder about three feet to the creature's left, with a loud *crack*.

The second stone, aided by nothing but the power of raw muscle and a certain amount of righteous indignation at the miss, takes down the rabbit as it recovers from the shock and attempts to make a run for it.

Fergus, too, attempts to bring down some food, but the rabbits on the hillside are now all in a state of lagomorphic panic, and have become moving targets.  The stone impacts the hillside, hard enough to embed itself in the dirt.

Aarnr can't believe his first stone misses, and his curses at the rabbit and his god in equal measure swiftly degenerate into the gutteral tongue of his homeland.

Though the success of his second cast does give him no little satisfaction and elicits a "Hah ! Thou see that thou droning, dog-hearted whey-face ?!!  That's how it's froggin' done." to the uncaring skies above.

As he strides forwards to collect his kill, the priest looses another stone, but more for the appearance of it than with any real hope of actually hitting one of the furry varmints, now that they're bounding about like flies fighting over a fresh corpse.

Fergus stands up from hiding.  There's not much point skulking after the rabbits have been spooked.  He doesn't attempt another throw.

"Good shot, Aarnr."

Fergus looks about.  There's not much game to be seen and Fergus decides that he and Aarnr will have to move away if they want to add much more to the dinner pot.

Aarnr bears his teeth in a grin at Fergus' compliment.  "Froggin' right !" he avows.  Having successfully scared away all the rabbits, the priest dutifully follows after the young man in pursuit of the next kill, once he's collected his first victim of the evening, of course.  "At least we'll have meat in our bellies tonight," he tells his companion happily.

The two men continue up the hill as the weather deteriorates again.  By the time they reach the crest it's raining once more.  Visibility is reduced, and the gusting wind carries the rain directly into their faces, sometimes with stinging force.

It also carries something else.

There is a foul stench in the air.  Something that burns their nostrils and makes their eyes water (or that could be the driving rain).

Not far away stand two trees, birches.  Another smaller tree, no thicker than Fergus' wrist, lays on the ground nearby, next to a splintered and broken stump.  Judging by the condition of the lower end of the trunk, it was once attached to the stump, but was broken off by some powerful force.  There is a tarry greenish-black substance smeared on the trunk, and on the ground near the stump, which seems to be the source of the stink.

"Mayhap thy pheasant did this ?" Aarnr hazards.  He'd imagined something somewhat smaller than whatever beast was capable of cracking the trunk of this tree, for all it's barely older than a sapling.

Certainly improves his estimation of the folk from these parts if they hunt such for their tables.  But he suspects something that can do this much damage is not going to be much perturbed by a slung rock as was the rabbit.

The priest swaps his makeshift leather sling for his greatsword, drawing it as carefully and as quietly as he can, while his eyes search the gloom as best he can for any sign of the creature.

"Good eating are they ?" he inquires of Fergus.

Fergus' first reaction to the new smell on the wind is to exclaim "Fwoah!  That stinks!"

As they approach the broken tree and Fergus identifies the source of the smell, he answers, "Pheasants are good eating, yes, but no pheasant did that.  More likely one of your monstrous gribbly-types."

Fergus approaches the tree stump to examine the tarry substance (though he's careful not to touch it) "I dunno if that's sap or blood or a scent mark or sumthin' else but the thing that did it was here fairly recently...the tree's only been down a little while."

As Fergus' brain catches up with what he's saying , he turns to Aarnr "Why'm I tellin' you this?  You'll just get your blood up for some bigger hunt."

Aarnr sniffs dutifully as Fergus comments on the stench, but can only shrug his shoulders. "A bit on the nose," he mumbles but without any real conviction.

He listens carefully to his friend's assessment of the cause, his lips splitting in a grin as Fegus finishes up.  "Froggin' right we're going after it !" the priest insists, though there is a sly note in his voice as he adds, "Can't leave whatever did this wandering around - wouldn't be right to let some fawning, elf-born, reeky farmer fall foul of it, eh ?"

Pleasant driving rain ... hideous beast to face ...

"Bet those common-kissing flap-dragons'll be sorry they got stuck having to visit the town and missed going hunting with us !" Aarnr chortles.

Resting his sword on the ground, the big priest squats as he looks about, seeing if he can find any sign of the creature's passage.

The earth here is fairly soft, due to the recent rains, and there are signs that some powerful animal has torn at the ground, ripping up clods of dirt, and leaving deep gashes.  That creature, whatever it is, has left a faint trail, leading away, down the hill, further away from the shelter of the cottage, and from the oxen.  In that direction lays a sizeable patch of dense woodland, dark and foreboding under the rain-filled sky.

And, as if to confirm that the thing has gone in that direction, a sound reaches the ears of the two men (and, incidentally, sends flocks of birds hurtling up from the trees, filled with panic)... a sort of loud screeching, which repeats three times before fading into mournful wail.  If the volume alone is anything to go by, whatever produced the noise was probably fairly large.

"Found it !"  Aarnr announces joyfully as he looks up from the faint tracks in the direction of the bellowing sound and departing birds.

The priest flashes a grin at Fergus as he sets off, loping towards the gloomy and forbidding woods. "Come on !" he encourages his friend.

"An' thou try and keep up, thou pauncy plume-plucked pumpion !" he raises his eyes to the heavens above as he challenges his god.

Aarnr starts down the slope at a run, with Fergus following a short distance behind.  Many of the terrified birds fly away, heading north, away from both the patch of woodland and the approaching men.  A few though, carrion crows and ravens for the most part, veer towards the pair, and start circling overhead.

Aarnr reaches the base of the slope, and finds himself ankle deep in muddy water.  The whole level area between the hillside and the wood, perhaps some sixty yards across, seems to be marsh.  It is, in fact, vaguely reminiscent of the priest's homeland...

Having moved closer to examine the tarry substance, Fergus can't help but notice the torn earth and the trail leading away.  He is grateful, at least, that the creature appears to be moving away from the cottage; his first thought had been to run back and check that the oxen were safe.

Aarnr's attempt to be sly is poorly disguised, if indeed that was what Aarnr intended.  Fergus' problem was that Aarnr was right: they were better equipped to deal with a dangerous beast than most of the locals.  Reluctantly, Fergus draws his axe and joins the hunt.

Now, standing, on the edge of the bog, Fergus is having second thoughts.  "Yeah, I bet they're real sorry to be warm, dry and comfortable." He sighs.  "C'mon, let's be about it...since I've no chance of stopping you."

I'm not actually sure that Fergus would have taken his axe on a rabbit hunt, but I'm going to take a small liberty rather than insist on going back :)

"Sounds froggin' boring," Aarnr agrees with Fergus' assessment of the plight of those in Fairhill.

"Watch thy step," he warns Fergus as he regards the swamp, thoroughly at home. "The lie of the land can change - try to keep to the raised patches of ground as ye can, lest ye stumble on uneven ground - I'd rather not have to carry thee into battle !"

Humming happily to himself, the priest sets out towards the woodlands, looking back occasionally to check on the progress of his friend.

OOC: After the debacle with the undead, I think it's safe to assume Aarnr wouldn't let his sword out of his sight !  But he's left his pack and waterskin with the oxen, so he's travelling light. :>

The two cross the marshland without too much trouble, though the going is fairly difficult in some places - the soft, slippery ground does not provide good footing for such fine, strapping specimens of Humanity.  Finally though, they are able to step on the sturdier roots of the trees, rather than the muddy earth, and soon after that they find themselves on the slightly higher (and much firmer) ground in the wood.

Now they only have to worry about visibility among the moss draped trees.

Another eerie screech reaches their ears.  At least if the creature, whatever it is, keeps making all that noise it shouldn't be too hard to track down...

While the number of trees is disturbing, Aarnr is nothing if not foolhardy, and so wastes no time plunging into the gloomy woods intent upon the source of that screeching.

"Sounds like a bird," the big priest tells Fergus, glancing towards his fellow hunter, forced to raise his voice over the creature's cries.  Though he doesn't say anything, it's obvious that he hasn't completely ruled out his pheasant theory.

"Dark in here, isn't it ?" Aarnr adds, finding himself forced to slow down lest a root try to trip him or trunk lurch into his path.  "Why do ye think the gorbellied hedge-pigs planted these froggin trees so close together ?  Blocks out all the froggin' light ..."

Fergus pauses at the edge of the woods to scrape some of the muck from his boots.  "D'you think so?  Doesn't sound like any bird I know."

Looking around to see Aarnr already plunging in amongst the trees, Fergus hastens to follow, eventually catching Aarnr as he slows to better navigate the dense forest.

He answers Aarnr (somewhat incredulously), "Nobody planted these trees, Aarnr.  They grew here.  I told you this country was bad, didn't I?  What with the need to drain the bog and clear this lot, it's no wonder no-one wanted to take the old cottage."  Speaking of such matter helps calm Fergus, who seems less than enthused by his current predicament.

Making their way further into the wood, one of them with considerably less enthusiasm than the other, the two men look for signs of their quarry.  The screeching noises appear to have stopped for the moment, but have been replaced with the sound of splintering wood.

And then they both smell it again, faintly at first, but growing stronger... the same foul odour that they had discovered near the broken birch.

A few moments later they catch sight of the source of the noises, and it is possibly a good thing that they are still some distance from it.  Barely visible among the trees a large bear is tearing at a tree with its claws.

Something, some noise perhaps, alerts it, and it pauses, swinging its head around to peer through the woodland shadows, and the full horror of the creature becomes apparent.  Circular yellow eyes glare out from a feathered face armed with a vicious flesh-ripping beak.  It opens that beak and gives vent to the same screeching cry that the men had heard previously...
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:17, Wed 14 Mar 2012.

The monstrous creature goes back to tearing at the tree with its claws for a few moments.  Then it turns away, dropping to all-fours, and starts to walk away through the wood.  After a few steps it stops and raises its head, swinging it from side to side, as if sniffing the air.

It's perhaps fortunate for the two men that they are currently downwind of the thing.

With a curious noise, part way between a cough and a growl, it starts to walk again, heading away from Aarnr and Fergus.

Feathers !  Aarnr grins at Fergus in triumph, though with a hunter's instinct he holds his tongue.  These pheasants seem most unnatural, though - like some enterprising wizard has meddled in things he shouldn't have.  Pretty much par for the course for a wizard.

Still, the big priest supposes he should thank them for their efforts.  After all, he did come a long way to find monsters to fight, so it would have been disappointing if he couldn't find any.  The stench is foul, of course, but that's only to be expected.

"Froggin' feather-faced fiend is getting away," Aarnr cries out, seeing the beast retreat.  "Hie !  Come back here thou noisome, bent-beaked, fur-brained, toad !" he yells, waving his sword about to attract its attention.

Whether the beast heeds him or no, the priest starts towards it, eyes shining.

Fergus freezes as he catches the sight of the strange creature.  While he had taken it, at first, for a bear it seemed to be some amalgam of creatures not entirely unlike that talking...thing the group had encountered on the road.

Fergus breathes out as the creature turns away.  He had been unaware of holding his breath.  He is just starting to relax when Aarnr starts off.  Fergus looks on, horrified, and exclaims in a forced whisper, "Stop!  Are you nuts?"

The creature, which appears to be some hideous combination of a bear and a giant owl starts to move away, apparently unaware of the two men following it...

Then two things happen, in quick succession: first Aarnr yells out a warning that the thing is getting away, and second, the creature stops and looks around, alerted by the priest's voice.  This time it doesn't miss seeing Aarnr moving towards it.  The thing rears up on its hind legs, standing almost eight feet tall, and screams a challenge...
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:45, Fri 16 Mar 2012.

"Do thou want to live forever ?" Aarnr scoffs at Fergus's warning, grinning horribly at the young man before turning back towards the monster.

As the creature screams its challenge, the priest feels the God settle upon him, the forest and all else fading away as the red mist rises, till there is only the creature, his great sword and himself within it.

He starts forward, picking up speed, his lips curled back as a gutteral roar issues from his throat in response to that challenge, the matter now reduced to its most basic - him or me.

OOC: 13:40, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 21 using 1d20+2. Initiative.

"No, but I'd like to see tomorrow, y'know, as a start."  Fergus reluctantly draws his axe and starts after the battle-mad cleric.  He couldn't let Aarnr get himself killed without at least trying.

OOC: Initiative = 3.  Clearly the dice gods understand the situation.  I just hope Fergus' lack of enthusiasm doesn't infect his attack rolls ;)

Aarnr rushes towards the stinking beast, his sword already raised for a death blow.  Fergus follows close behind him, though from the look on his face he's somewhat less than enthusiastic about the idea.

The horrible foul beast (the strange bear-like creature, that is, not Aarnr) shuffles forward to meet them, still on its hind legs, its beak gaping in a hideous screach as it does so...

Conscious thought is beyond Aarnr now, as he flies down towards the monstrosity, his world reduced to the most basic - kill or be killed.

The scream that rises from his spittle-flecked lips as he charges headlong across the ground seeking to best that which comes from the owl-bear's own beak, even as he swings his sword around, grunting with the effort as he smashes into the creature, putting all his battle-frenzy-fueled might behind that blow.

"GRAAAAAAAAAAAHH !"

21:46, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 24 using 1d20+7. Attack (+1BAB+2Chrge,+5Str,-1PwrAtk.
21:50, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 18 using 2d6+9. Damage(+1.5xStr=+7,+2PwrAtk).

Fergus' approach is far more circumspect than that of his enraged friend.  He closes to melee distance at a measured pace, not wishing to give the creature an easy opening.  He briefly considers trying to circle around the bear-like thing but decides that he would prefer to leave it the option of running away.

Regrettably, Fergus' reluctance manifests in a tentative attack, he makes only a weak swing than never looks likely to connect.

OOC: Attack = 8, yep the dice roller still has me worked out.  Go Aarnr!

Aarnr throws everything he has into the attack, hurling himself towards the beast.  The impact as the two combatants collide seems loud enough to be heard in Bard's Gate, and frighten small children in the streets of Reme.

The priest's massive sword, driven with the full force of his mighty thews, tears into flesh and cracks bone, eliciting a scream of pain from the foul creature.  Its claws wrap around Aarnr, ripping at his mail shirt, and deep into the skin below.  Blood flows from the wounds of both fighters, even as the hideous stinking thing fastens its beak onto the man's neck.

And then the thing pushes Aarnr away from itself, pulling the man's blade from its body... 

Fergus moves in close, and the monstrous beak opens to scream at him, spraying him with blood-flecked spittle, even as he waves his axe in the thing's face and distracts it from his companion, at least momentarily.

Somehow, the priest is still on his feet...

OOC:  Ouch!

Combatant         Init
Aarnr Foultongue   21
Owlbear             9   AC=15
Fergus Andarson     3


Characters' Apparent Health
Aarnr Foultongue: Critical
Fergus Andarson:  Good

Aarnr staggers back, covered in blood, but even the terrible wounds he has suffered cannot dissuade him from battle.  Indeed, one look into those glazed eyes shows that very little of the man remains, now the beast is in control, and the beast is angry.

Spitting blood and with a great roar Aarnr swings his sword once more ... but while his will to fight on might drive him, his battered body is failing him, and the sword point slams into the dust at the creature's feet.

OOC: 14:35, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 10 using 1d20+5. Attack (+1BAB+5Str,-1PwrAtk).

Aarnr, dazed and confused, hacks at the monster again and misses completely.  The creature, meanwhile, continues to be distracted by Fergus.  It follows after the farmer's son, blood dripping from the wound that Aarnr had inflicted.

It swipes at Fergus with its paws, and tries to bite him.  One of the massive clawed paws connects, and the claws sink into the young man's flesh, as the stinking creature tries to drag him closer.  Fergus, however manages to tear himself free...

OOC:  Ouch again!

Combatant         Init
Aarnr Foultongue   21
Owlbear             9   AC=15
Fergus Andarson     3


Characters' Apparent Health
Aarnr Foultongue: Critical
Fergus Andarson:  Hurt

Some small part of Fergus is probably pleased to have distracted the owlbear from Aarnr, who appears to be in dire straits.  The rest is all but overwhelmed with sheer panic.

The burst of adrenalin gives Fergus a rush of strength and he wrenches himself free of the creature's claw.  In desperation he hacks at it with his axe, drawing more blood, for all the good it's likely to do.

"Aarnr, please!"

OOC: Hit AC 17 for 8 damage, 5ft step back.  Raging.  Now 10/16HP, AC12

The axe, swung with all the strength Fergus can muster, sinks deep into the creature's shoulder.  It staggers back, pulling away from the blade, and drops to all-fours fore a moment, before rearing up and giving a furious scream, as its head swings from side to side, the yellow eyes watching both men in turn...

OOC: That'll learn the bugger!

Combatant         Init
Aarnr Foultongue   21
Owlbear             9   AC=15
Fergus Andarson     3


Characters' Apparent Health
Aarnr Foultongue: Critical
Fergus Andarson:  Hurt

Though still consumed by a battle-lust that is beyond his control, Aarnr can barely force his broken and bloodied body to move ... yet somehow Fergus' plea rouses him once more and he raises his sword, treading heavily as he lumbers towards the owlbear, swinging his weapon ... only for it to fall from numb fingers to clatter upon the ground.

Swaying almost drunkenly, the priest paws the air as he tries and fails to reach for the foe.

Aarnr, perhaps weakened by loss of blood, stumbles and drops his heavy blade.  When Bowbe desides to pay his followers back, he apparently does so with interest...

Fortunately for the priest, but not so fortunately for Fergus, the monstrous owlbear is distracted...

The beast swipes its massive paws at the farmer's son, whose blood, judging by his yelling is stating to boil.  The creatures claws tear at him, drawing more blood, and sending him staggering backwards... 

Then the creature makes its first, and possibly last mistake.  It lunges at the man, beak gaping... and, somehow, he steps aside.  The thing slams head first into a tree, momentarily dazing itself, and Fergus brings his axe down, hard, across its back.  The monster screeches, and this time it is a cry of pain and, perhaps, fear.  With blood pouring from its wounds, it turns to face its enemies, swaying noticeably...

OOC: So... which one of the three will fall over first?

Combatant         Init
Aarnr Foultongue   21
Owlbear             9   AC=15
Fergus Andarson     3


Characters' Apparent Health
Aarnr Foultongue: Critical
Fergus Andarson:  Critical

Aarnr's eyes glaze as death beckons, and he seems to slump ... then, roused by the owlbear's cry of pain, suddenly those eyes spring wide open, and in their depths is madness.

A low rumble begins in the priest's throat, perhaps spitting defiance in the face of his god, perhaps merely an inarticulate expression of his animal rage.  Stooping, his fingers close on the familiar grip of his mighty blade as he hefts the weight as if it is nothing, his other hand joining the first as he whirls it round above his head, pain and broken bone nothing to him now as he swings at the foul creature with all that he has left within him ...

OOC:

21:24, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 25 using 1d20+5. Attack (+1BAB+5Str,-1PwrAtk).
21:24, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 22 using 1d20+5. Confirm threat.
21:27, Today: Aarnr Foultongue rolled 29 using 4d6+18. Damage (+1.5xStr=+7,+2PwrAtk) x 2.

Aarnr's blade swings, driven by all the strength he still has in him.  It tears across the monsters gut, spilling even more blood on the ground, and pushing the creature back against the tree.  It stands there for a moment, and gives another screeching cry before stepping forward once more, even as the light fades from its eyes.

It topples forward then, and lays still on the blood-soaked earth...

Aarnr and Fergus are victorious.  Though if they were to meet a stranger on their way back to camp and tell him that, it is doubtful that he would believe them.

The cry on Aarnr's lips slowly fades away as first the point of his blade and then the priest himself fall to the ground.  On his knees, Aarnr pants for breath, one meaty fist pressed into the soft ground for support until he finds the strength to lever himself back onto his haunches.

The priest seems almost surprised to find himself alive, and regards the fallen owlbear almost fondly.  Carefully gaining his feet once more, and unable to prevent himself from grunting with pain from his punctured chest and cracked ribs, and gingerly probing the gouge on his neck, pulling back a hand reddened with blood, Aarnr staggers towards the owlbear's corpse, squatting and resting his hand upon its cooling form for a moment.

"Be thou bird or beast, ye fought well, ye goatish, folly-fallen maggot-pie," he tells the owlbear approvingly, respectfully plucking two blood-darkened feathers from the body.

"A victory worthy of the name," he grins now at Fergus as the near escape from death stirs his blood once more.  "Our companions will count themselves froggin' unfortunate not to have witnessed it.  A pity indeed neither minstrel was here to sing of our success !"

"Here," rising to his feet with more ease now, if no less pain, Aarnr offers the young man one of the feathers, "I have thy victory-token - ye may wear it with pride !"

Aarnr and Fergus both rise, albeit more unsteadily than is their wont.  Their foe lays still and, against all odds, manages to look even more hideous than when it was alive.  It's already attracting swarms of inquisitive insects, doubtless drawn by the stench, and the exposed internal organs.

As prey goes, it doesn't have the air of a potential meal about it,  Which is a shame, because if a man could stomach the stinking flesh, there's certainly plenty there for a meal.  Several, in fact.  Unfortunately, where the meat is visible, it has a mottled grey colouration to it, with a hint of brownish yellow.  All in all, in seems less than appetising, unless one happens to be a fly.

Certainly not as tempting as a rabbit or a pheasant.

Fergus sways, axe held loosely in one hand as he staggers from side to side.  His face is ashen, pale from blood loss and the onset of shock.  "We're alive!  You killed it!"  Fergus' surprise is evident in his voice and on his face.

He seems to recover slightly, a flush of colour returning to his face.  He raises his axe in salute with a laugh, "We won!"  He reaches to take the owlbear feather from Aarnr.  As his fingers close around the feather his eyes roll back in his head and Fergus topples forwards in an eerie echo of the owlbear's collapse.

OOC: About 30 seconds after the fight ends, Fergus' rage wears off and Fergus goes from 1/16 to -1/14.

"Frog !" Aarnr swears as Fergus collapses to the ground.  Dropping to his knees, the priest expertly assays the extent of his stalwart companion's injuries, swiftly coming to the conclusion that without a miracle Fergus won't escape from Hel's clutches.

Luckily, such are available ... if on demand.

"Bowbe !" Aarnr's voice is horse, both with pain and need, "thou bawdy milk-livered bum-bailey !  This man fought bravely ... do ye froggin' well gift him with thy clackish healing touch, thou swag-bellied scut !"

Something akin to fear grips the priest, as he commands his god's assistance.  Fergus hadn't wanted this fight, indeed had counselled against it ... but he had not hesitated to join the struggle when Aarnr forced the issue, nor stinted in the skillful wielding of his axe and the giving of his blood.  The final blow may have been Aarnr's but Fergus' axe did more than its share in the battle.

The priest is under no illusion that it was only luck that he yet breathed, that alone the creature would have torn him apart, and it is not fair that Fergus should pay the price of a ... folly not his own.

"Froggin' live, damn ye !" Aarnr places his hands over the worst of the gaping wounds torn by the owlbear's claws.

No, not fear ... but something equally unfamiliar.  Guilt.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:03, Sun 08 Apr 2012.

Aarnr asks, nay demands, a miracle from his god.  And Bowbe responds.  The blood stops flowing from Fergus' wounds, and the flesh starts to knit, albeit imperfectly.  The young farmer opens his eyes and finds himself staring into Aarnr's slightly concerned face...

Aarnr nods his relief as his demands are met (and guilt somewhat assuaged) and grins horribly at Fergus as the young farmer's eyes flicker open.

"Ye're alright," he tells Fergus, thankfully. "Ye lost a bit of blood, but the God is pleased with ye and has spared ye."

"Are ye up to walking now, or would ye rather froggin' sit a while longer ?"  The question seems somewhat strange, as Aarnr himself is on his last legs, with that bloody gash on his neck and evidencing the pain of cracked ribs.

"A good feed and a night's rest will see ye right," he opines, "An' we can try our hand at hunting again on the morrow - see if we can stock up before those lazy fobbers return."

The two men get to their feet, somewhat unsteadily.  After a brief survey of their surroundings, they decide on the correct direction and head back to their camp.  After going about fifty yards, the seem to make a unanimous and unspoken decision to perform an almost perfect right-angle turn and head in that direction instead.

Soon they are making their way across the marshland, then (more slowly) up the hillside.

From the crest they can see the cottage atop the next hill.  No more of it appears to have collapsed...

By the time they make it back to the meagre shelter, they are both looking more than a little tired.

"Why'd they build their froggin' cottage so far from the fobbin' woods ?!!" Aarnr waxes rhetorical, unimpressed by the lack of foresight evidenced by those irresponsible builders of the ruined structure in their inconvenient choice of site.

The priest's first thought upon returning is to find a comfortable spot where he can wait for his dinner.  But a moments reflection has him checking to see if the oxen are alright (on the basis that if they haven't been torn apart by pheasants or the like, then he won't be called upon to kill anything else just yet), then tiredly to starting a fire - something more or less contained that will serve to cook a meal, not raze the woods (thereby exacerbating his concerns about their distance from the campsite) nor threaten Fairhill itself.

The rabbit that was the first thing brought down this evening is much the worse for wear, following recent events, but a spot of yelling at Bowbe soon deals with that, and Aarnr soon turns his attention to rigging a few sturdy branches to support a spit. 

He is less happy when he finds his flask is empty.  The metal one with suspicious and corrosive stains around the stopper.

"Don't suppose ye thought to bring anything to drink ?" the priest inquires of Fergus, holding up a full waterskin with some distaste.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:52, Sat 14 Apr 2012.

While Aarnr makes his way around the camp, checking the oxen (which take the opportunity to study the priest, though with only the mildest of interest), Fergus sits himself close to the unlit fire, apparently too tired to even notice the lack of warmth.

Once Aarnr has the fire going though, even if the damp wood does only burn fitfully, the farmer's son shakes himself, wincing only a little, and watches as the rabbit cooks slowly.  His companions question brings a dull-eyed stare, and a murmured, "Water.  I left my waterskin over there.  By the wall."

Aarnr sighs.  Froggin' water it is then.  The priest eyes his friend, eyes the waterskin, sighs once more, then rises painfully, limps over to the wall to recover the skin, and limps back again to hand it over to Fergus.  "There ye go," he says, trying his very best not to sound put upon.

Duty done, Aarnr settles back down by his fire, turning the rabbit frequently as he tries to hurry the cooking process along by glaring at the unfortunate bunny.  At least damp wood and fitful flames are a way of life for one born and raised in the fens, so he's had lots of practice with that glare.

The smell of the food and the warmth of the fire seems to revive Fergus somewhat.  "Sorry, Aarnr, I was well out of it for a while there.  And look at you, it's a wonder you're able to move.  Gods, I wish I knew some healing.  I can take a turn with the cooking if you want to rest."

Fergus doesn't really believe that Aarnr will accept help but he's willing to pitch in if allowed.  Regardless of the answer he gets, Fergus continues.  He begins, a little shyly, "I should thank you, Aarnr, and not just for helping me after I collapsed either.  See, I've been thinking and I think I'm beginning to understand.  I wouldn't've fought that bird-bear thing if you hadn't gone charging after it.  But, y'know, there was that twisted animal, that was just wrong.  And the wizard, he was bad.  I'm not quite sure where the bird-bear thing fits but I know that if it's wandering about here it could have hurt a bunch of people I care for.  What I guess I'm trying to say is, maybe some things need to be fought."

"Your god, Bowbe, is a god of battle right?  Freya's a bit like that, though you'd not think it.  She's the goddess of love and fer... um, health an' growing things.  But that also means she's goddess of war and death.  I don't understand a lot of it, but they'e connected.  'Cause if you love something, sometimes you need to fight to protect it and you can't have new life without death.  Like how you need to harvest a field and burn the stubble before you can plough and sow.  What's the word, for when one thing follows another that follows the first thing?  Like a wheel going round."  Fergus tries to illustrate his point by making circular motions in the air with one hand.

"Freya has this one servant.  Some people call him the Gardener, because he prunes her garden to make it fruitful and pulls out anything that is barren or bears bad fruit." As he speaks, Fergus stands and makes his way over to the cart, where some of his belongings are stowed.  "But parents in Fairhill, they tell their naughty children," Fergus picks up a large object from the cart and turns back towards the fire, as he does so the firelight catches and flares on a curved metal blade longer than Fergus' arm. "to fear the Reaper."

Having concluded what, for him, is an extraordinary speech, Fergus brings his scythe backs to the fire, sits down and begins to sharpen its blade with long, deliberate strokes of his whetstone.

Fergus's speech takes Aarnr somewhat by surprise, and it takes the priest some time to catch up with the gist of his friends words, but slowly it dawns upon him that his friend is actually thanking him for dragging him into the battle that nearly killed the pair of them !


"Revolution ?" Aarnr offers, vaguely aware that civilised folk know far more about such than he.

As Fergus fetches his scythe and sets to sharpening it, Aarnr chips in with some of his own homespun philosopy, alternatively turning the rabbit or poking  it with a stick, as appropriate.

"Bowbe's more your god of ... fighting," the priest considers it polite to correct any misapprehension.  "Battles are a bit organised for the sort of scrapes my people indulge in."

This doesn't sound quite right either, so Aarnr continues on, hoping to stumble across an explanation for what just comes naturally to him.

"You have to get the god's fobbin' attention, see, otherwise how do they know who to give their favour to ?  And you don't earn their respect by killing those weaker than you since they're no challenge.  So you have to shout and scream to make them listen, and pick a foe worth their notice."

"Who do the pukin' minnows respect most ?  The Gardener or the Reaper ?"  Aarnr nods sagely, happy he's made his point.

"It's not just froggin' life and death," he concludes. "It's much more important."

It's an odd conversation, but maybe not that odd, considering the participants.

One is a half-bestial savage priest from the fog-shrouded cold fens and poisonous marshes beyond the edge of the civilised world.  The follower of a god who respects only those who are prepared to spit in his eye and demand that which they want from him.  Not need, but want, for what man or woman worthy of their name and flesh and bone would ever admit to needing anything from a mere god, who sits lollygagging in the sky while they toil in their harsh land?

The other is a simple farmer's son, raised in a much gentler land of green hills and fertile fields.  A land where the most common weapons are the tools of the farmer, and where a goddess of love keeps a jealous watch over the people she protects, and deals out life and death with an even hand.  After all, who cares more for the land?  The gardener who lets it become overgrown and decrepit, or the one who manages it with scythe and axe and fire?

And somehow, in spite of their differing lives and faiths, there is definitely understanding of a sort growing between the two...

"This Freya of thine sounds alright," Aarnr vouchsafes to his friend.  "Life and death ... that's what it's froggin' all about really, isn't it ?"

Bowbe's priest isn't the slightest bit worried about offending his god by such rash words concerning one of his peers - on the contrary, it might make the dog-hearted lout a bit quicker to grant his favour !

Aarnr shifts his position with a grunt of pain.  The flow of blood seems to have stopped for now, at least as long as he doesn't do anything too energetic to open the wounds again, but his cracked ribs are a constant reminder of just how lucky he was.  Hopefully after a good night's sleep he'll have the strength up to remonstrate with Bowbe and demand the god do something about it.

"Figure this is done now," the priest nods towards the just-cooked rabbit.  With his dagger he saws away chunks of meat, sharing them between Fergus and himself.

The rabbit is tasty, if a little on the stringy side, and a hot, fresh meal does much to make both men feel a little better.

Towards the end of the meal, Fergus stands to fetch his waterskin, and stops in his tracks, whispering a warning to Aarnr.

There is a man walking up the hillside towards them, hidden from view when they had been sitting.  He's dressed all in browns and greens, with a heavy, hooded cloak, and carries a crossbow cradled loosely in his arms.  A large reddish hound follows a little distance behind him...

"Ho !"  Aarnr struggles painfully to his feet to greet the newcomer. "Over here ! If thou were hoping for a feed, then thou are too froggin' late.  Thy dog is welcome to the bones, though.  Is that thy dog ?"  the priest points to the red hound.  "Or is the fly-bitten gudgeon just following thee around ?"

"Well met, friends!" the man calls back, stopping at a respectful distance and throwing back his hood.  More can be seen of him now.  He looks to be in his forties or fifties, with short dark hair, turning to grey, and a scar running down the left side of his face, from eye brow to jawline. "I saw the smoke from your fire and wondered about it.  Not many travellers out this way, what with Fairhill being so close and all.  Most people prefer a comfortable bed."

The hound moves closer to him, "Aye, she's mine, aren't you girl?" The animal wags its tail and rubs against his leg.  "Her name's Hanne.  I'm Martin, by the by.  I'm a hunter by trade.  Do you mind if I come and warm my bones by the fire a little?"

Aarnr is impressed enough by the scar to warm to the old man.  "Plenty comfortable for us," he grins at Martin, waving his hand towards the fire in invitation.  "Froggin' wood's a bit damp, but yer welcome to it, an yer dog."

"She's a fine beast," the priest adds.  At least her colouring is a good omen.

"Been huntin' ourselves," he points proudly to the wads of bloodied cloth plastered on his neck.  "Caught us a fobbin' big one."

Belatedly, "I'm Aarnr ... son of Orgothan."  Not that would mean much around here, but he was nothing if not hopeful.

<backpost>
Fergus is confused.  One moment Aarnr is saying respect is more important than life and death, then he's saying life and death is what it's all about.  None of it makes much sense.  Fergus just nods, to show he's listening if nothing else.

The smell of cooking rabbit breaks up whatever train of thought Fergus might have been able to string together.  Once it's off the spit, Fergus devours his portion with near indecent haste, burning his fingers and mouth in the process.  He goes to fetch his waterskin to clean up the mess but before he reaches it he sees a man coming up the hill with his dog...
</backpost>

Fergus stands back as Aarnr greets the new arrival.  The man seems friendly enough and Fergus' reticence is more a matter of shyness than distrust.  Neither the man nor his dog seem immediately familiar to Fergus but he's still uncomfortable being this close to Fairhill.

"H'lo Martin.  I'm Fergus."

Fergus crouches down so Hanne can get the scent of him or, more likely, the hot rabbit fat on his fingers.

Martin moves in closer to the fire, as Hanne starts licking at Fergus' fingers.  The hunter glances at the assorted makeshift dressings and blood-stained and torn clothes on the two travellers, then at the bones near the fire.

"Judging by the state the pair of you are in, that rabbit put up a bloody good fight." he says, with a grin.  "What was it?  Bear?  Wolf?  Troll?  The tales I heard over in Bard's Gate spoke of some sort of monster killing cattle around here.  Thought I'd come over here and see if I could kill it."  He looks towards the north, though with the drizzling rain obscuring the view there isn't much to be seen in that direction, "We're close to the Stonehearts here.  Supposed to be all kinds of horrors wander down out of the mountains."

Aarnr snorts with good-humoured laughter. "Wasn't a gleeping rabbit did this to us," he explains, "though we're not exactly sure what the creature was.  I still think it was a pheasant, but Fergus here reckons it wasn't."

"Got one of the froggin' thing's feathers though," the priest says proudly, pulling out his trophy and holding it up for Martin's inspection. "Might have been the beast thou were after.  It seemed to eat trees, though, not cows."

"Stonehearts ?" Aarnr inquires.  Perhaps the name of those who claim this land.

Martin studies the feather as he replies to Aarnr, "The Stonehearts are the mountains a couple of days' march north of here.  On a bright day you'd be able to see the peaks on the horizon.  Today, with the mist and the rain, not so much."

"This thing you killed?  How big was it?  I mean roughly, across the wings?"

Hanne finishes cleaning Fergus' fingers and, with a wag of her tail, she moves away from him to rejoin Martin.

"Must've been bored of fallin' down all the froggin' time," Aarnr ruminates like a true Fenlander on the reason for the creature straying so far from its home.

"Bigger than me," the priest tells the hunter proudly.  "Thought it was a beslubberin', big bear when we first saw it !  After that ... wasn't payin' much attention really - far too busy tryin' to stick my sword in its gleepin' gizzards and avoid its beak and claws !"

"It nearly did for us," he points to the wounds on his neck and chest.  "Luckily the god was payin' attention and saw us right."

"Thou fought many motley-minded monsters thyself ?" Aarnr asks eagerly.

"Aye, I've faced a few in my time." Martin replies with a slight smile. "You might say that it's my trade."

He considers Aarnr's description of the creature.  "A bear, you say?  This beast... did it look like a filthy feathered bear, with the head of an owl?  Then you were fortunate indeed, my friend.  An owlbear, as they are called, can be a most dangerous foe.  You should give thanks to this god of yours."

"Mayhap that was the very creature the villagers were concerned about.  In which case you've done them a service, all unknowing."

Aarnr is surprised and shocked that the transparent ruse he tried to entice Fergus into battle (not that his friend needed any other cause than seeing his companion in need of help) seems to have actually been 'the right thing to do' ... so surprised in fact that he completely overlooks the blasphemous suggestion that he should actually thank Bowbe !  Now that's the way to get smited good and proper !

But he is certainly intrigued that one could actually make a living out of monster-slaying, rather than just doing it for the pleasure of it (and as a proper religious observance, of course).

"Thou don't say," the priest muses.

"Froggin' stunk to the heights !" he agrees with Martin. "An' covered in feathers an' all.  Head of an owl ... but a big owl," he feels he should point out.  "Fobbin' thing would look damn silly otherwise !"  So probably not a pheasant then.

"Saved thee the effort, then ?" he grins at the hunter.  "Our pleasure, eh, Fergus ?"

"Vilagers are no match for some of the things that come out of the wilder places of the world." explains Martin, "Sometimes they need a little help, and that's where I step in.  Like I said, it's what I do.  I don't earn much, mind, I generally end up working for meals, or nothing."

Fergus nods his agreement with Aarnr, though he looks a little less sure about there being any actual pleasure involved in defeating the owlbear.  Still, if it really had been raiding farms, then he's done some of his old neighbours a favour.

Martin laughs, "Aye, you saved me the effort, at least for that one.  I'll still hang around for a day or two though, just in case the owlbear wasn't what's been causing trouble."

Aarnr sort of identifies with those motives.  Sure the hunter acts out of altruism, whereas the priest fights monsters for the challenge of it ... but neither of them are in it for the money.

The possibility of there being another monster is appealing, but puts Aarnr in an awkward position.

"We'd like to stay and froggin' help thee," he tells Martin with honest regret, "but we're supposed to be waitin' for our friends so we can escort a saucy, milk-livered clot-pole to some weather-bitten wizard's tower."  The priest looks suitably injured at the injustice of it all, and oblivious as to whether the mission they didn't hire on for was supposed to be kept a secret.

"But if we see any gleepin' monsters on the way, we'll be sure to kill them !" he assures the hunter.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, my friend." Martin says cheerfully, "As I say, we're not far from the Stonehearts, and there's all manner of beasts that come down from there.  If you miss the rest of this hunt, there'll be another, and soon enough I expect."

And then his tone suddenly grows more grim and serious, "This wizard's tower... it wouldn't have belonged to... what was his damned name now?  Ah... of course... Eralion.  Is it Eralion's tower you're bound for?  It lays in a patch of woodland northeast of here, named Grimwood by the villagers.  If it is Eralion's tower you seek, then be warned - there are tales of older and fouler things than owlbears in the deep parts of the forest."

Fergus listens with interest to the conversation, though he plays little part.  It strikes him as a little odd that he has not heard of Martin before.  Everyone local knew that trouble sometimes came wandering in, whether from the Stonehearts or some other wild place, but mostly the farmers took care of their own.  Somebody would call out the local militia or get a hunting party together and they'd make sure the trouble kept on wandering.  This fellow must be quite accomplished if he's more capable than a dozen sturdy farmhands.  Mind you, now that Fergus thought on it, this Martin seemed quite prepared to hunt an owlbear on his own.  And Fergus had thought it folly for two people to attack.

"Told you it wasn't a pheasant." Fergus says with a grin.  In truth he's glad to have a name for the beast.  It makes it easier to think about.

"Aarnr shouldn't have told you that.  But there can't be that many wizard's towers here about, so I guess there's no harm in telling you.  It's Eralion's tower we're after.  The Grimwood, though, that's bad."

Creatures out of the Grimwood were the nightmare of many locals.  They were invoked by parents to scare naughty children.  Fergus shuddered.  Then he remembered that his new patron was also used to frighten children.  That was a strange comfort.  If he was to be a Reaper's man, then he'd be just as scary.

Aarnr cheers up at Martin's warning, almost rising from where he sits in his excitement, though even that little effort causes his vision to swim before him. "The cockered canker-blossom's will have to wait until I can give them a fair fight," he ruminates absently, even as Fergus's words wash over him unheeded.

"Eralion !" the priest exclaims, regaining the thread of the conversation, "That's the hell-hated pignut !"

That both his friend and the hunter are wary of this Grimwood doesn't seem to worry Aarnr overmuch.  "There'll be a few more of us," he assures Martin.  "Our friends have gone into the village - after comfortable beds !  Catch them grubbing around in the dirt !" he laughs at the thought, grinning broadly at Fergus.

"You know Grimwood?  You're a local then?" Martin asks Fergus, "Maybe you can tell me a little more about the area.  I've only been here a little while.  I was thinking I'd have to go back to the village for more information, but if you can help, that'll save me a walk."

"The story, as I heard it from Shandril, he glances at Fergus here, "is that Grimwood used to be called Northwood, and even then it had a dark reputation.  Eralion had his home built there, and things took a turn for the better, at least for a couple of years, until Eralion started dabbling in things that are best left well alone.  After that things got worse than ever, and stayed that way, even though the old fart's long dead."

He chuckles at Aarnr's description of the other members of the group, "Never seen a wild beast other than a rat or a pigeon, I'll be bound."

The places and people that Martin names are for the most part beyond Aarnr, and he looks to Fergus to provide a suitable response to the hunter's questions and remarks.

In all honesty, though, the priest cannot let Martin's last comment pass unchallenged, though he grins to show he appreciates the intent.  "To be fair," Aarnr looks towards his friend as he speaks, "they don't lack courage, and are froggin' handy ... for civilized folk.  Thou would not think it to look at them, but I've seen them sweatin' and bleedin'." He recalls the fight with the undead in particular.  "Took down some carrion bone-bags in short order."

Fergus' head tilts to one side as Martin mentions Shandril, but he lets the man finish speaking before he says anything.  Of course Aarnr jumps in before him, and Fergus must wait again as the hunter replies to his friend, "These friends of yours can fight then?  Then Grimwood might be a little more tolerable."

And then Fergus gets his chance, "You know Shandril?"  He glances at Aarnr, "She's the priestess of Freya in the village."

Martin nods, "Aye, I've known her for a while.  Likely since before you were born and then a bit longer, though you'd never guess that to look at her.  Elves and their long lives.  Back a few years, way back, before even my time, she was an adventurer.  A bit more than twenty years ago I spent almost a year in Fairhill learning from her."

"Well, you can trust what Shandril says.  And what she told you's as much as I know."  Truth be told, it's probably more and what little Fergus can remember of the Grimwood is more than likely to be fiction anyway.

"There was that...mashed-together thing, too." Fergus adds to Aarnr's rebuttal.

Then, as though to turn the conversation back, Fergus adds, "It seems funny to think of her as old.  She's always been so young and... Fergus trails off, looking embarrassed.

"Bit of a looker, eh ?" Aarnr's never been embarrassed in his life.  "Never quite sure about Elves ... they're definitely more in tune with the natural world, of course, but there's something too froggin' clean about them for my tastes !"

"That's right !" the priest had very nearly forgotten about all the fun of the second night out of Reme.

"Thou think these owl-bear pig-nuts are odd," he tells Martin, "this hedge-pig was a mix of deer, badger and lion, with burnin' red eyes.  About yea froggin' high," he holds up his hand at about the four foot mark.

"Now that was one pukin' onion-eyed mold-warp that had a taste for Elves - took a big chunk out of Aramil's leg !"  Never mind that the minstrel is only Half-blooded.  "Took a chunk out of it with my sword," he adds proudly, "but the gleepin' creature ensorcelled a bunch of us and made its escape.  Promised to hunt us down, though," he finishes, a note of hopefulness in his tones as he peers ineffectually into the darkness in case it has come to make good on its promise.

"Shandril is fair of face, yes." Martin confirms with a chuckle, "But I wouldn't try to take advantage of it.  Freya's priestesses are trained to use blades to protect their congregations, and to use them well.  And I've heard tell that Shandril's sword, Valkyria, bears a touch of enchantment about it.  Somebody who saw her using it once told me that the edge burns with a light of its own."

The hunter gazes at the fire, "What did this creature look like?  Over towards Reme, you say?  I wouldn't normally go that far west, but it might be worth my while to take a look around there."

Then he slaps a hand against his forehead, startling Hanne who gives him a disapproving look, "Where are my manners?"  He pats a leather bag hanging at his side, and it sloshes a little, "Would you care for a little wine?  Not the best, but it's drinkable."

Fergus listens intently to Martin's description of Shandril, though he offers no further comment.

"It looked pretty much like Aarnr said.  All bits of different animals crammed into the one body.  But it spoke like a man, that was the really creepy bit.  If you're keen on hunting it you shouldn't have to go as far as Reme, it followed us at least half of the way here."

"I'd like some wine, if you've some to spare.  I'd offer you something in return but with the rabbit eaten I've nothing but trail rations."  Fergus didn't drink often but he was happy to do so now.  There didn't look to be enough in the skin to really take the edge off the discomfort of his wounds but it couldn't make things any worse.

"That was froggin' odd," Aarnr agrees with Fergus's remarks regarding the patchwork creature speaking with the voice of a man, though personally he finds undead a lot creepier.

Perversely, the priest waves away Martin's offer of his wineskin with an equable, "Thank thee anyway ... and I'm sure thou are not tryin' to poison us !"  and a broad toothy grin.

While he appreciates the hunter's gesture, he considers what passes for drink in civilised parts is more like something that's passed through considerably less civilised parts, but truth be told, he's already far too heady from the wounds he has suffered and wise enough to know drink would only make it worse.

"Froggin' pig-nut'll be disappointed if thou slay it before we do," he informs Martin.  "But seein' as we're a bit busy, I'll not begrudge thee the kill."

Martin frowns as he considers the description of the strange beast, and starts to hand the wineskin to Fergus.  He stops, suddenly, "This creature?  Could it speak in different voices?  Like a man who mimics his friends or enemies?"

He resumes passing the wine, nodding as he does so, "I see by your faces that it could.  Then you have, indeed, been lucky.  You've faced an owlbear and a leucrotta, and lived to tell of the meetings."

"Or not lucky, for lucky doesn't even begin to describe it."

As Fergus takes the wineskin, Martin dismisses his concerns about repayment with a wave of his hand, "Nonsense, lad, the warmth of the fire, and a few bones for Hanne is fair exchange.  And if I should happen to meet the leucrotta, I'll be happy to pass on your greetings, as I kill the foul thing."

Aarnr beams as Martin marvels at the luck had in stumbling across these creatures. "Thou are not froggin' wrong !" he agrees loudly with the hunter.  "It's a big world and the odds of us runnin' into not one but two of the fen-sucked gudgeons must be ... well, froggin' unlikely !"

"Shows the gleepin' god must be watchin' out for us."   How could Bowbe do otherwise with his priest's constant litany of insults and demands ?!!

"Look-rotter," that word is an unfamiliar one on Aarnr's lips, though the second part of the name indicates some sort of mouldering creature, undoubtedly Tsathogga's spawn as he had thought earlier.  He looks to Fergus to see if his more knowledgeable friend has heard aught of such a beast.

"Aye," Aarnr laughs, though winces yet again as the pains of his wounds bite once more, though it doesn't dissuade the priest from his tack, "if thou see the hell-spawned drab, give it our regards - in its fobbin' gizzards !"

Martin's eyes narrow as he regards Aarnr, "Should you not see somebody about those injuries.  This one... ", he taps the side of his neck, just where it curves into his shoulder, "... has started bleeding again.  If you went and spoke to Shandril, at the temple, and told her I sent you and what happened, I'm sure she'd take care of it."

Fergus looks uncomfortable, and gazes out across the valley, towards where the owlbear lays dead.

This doesn't go unnoticed, "If you'd rather not, I have a little salve that I made myself.  It won't do much for the wounds, but it will take the sting out of them.  And keep flies from chewing at them while you sleep."

Aarnr has warmed to the fellow, and so tones down his response to the suggestion.

"Not a froggin' good idea," he tells Martin with a snort and a loud laugh.  "My god's Bowbe, and if I go crawlin' off to the priestess of some other gleepin' gudgeon, I might as well cut me own fobbin' tongue out for all the attention the puttock'll pay me afterwards when I'm yellin' at him !  Be alright if she happened to be wanderin' by and offered out of the gleekin' kindness of her pribblin' heart, but I guess that's not froggin' likely !"  He grins broadly.

"I'm a bit tired now," Aarnr reluctantly admits, "but come mornin' I'll be up to catchin' Bowbe's ruttish ear and gettin' him to fix me up ... but if ye can spare some of thy salve, I'll thank ye for it - reeky flies are froggin' hard to kill with this !" he nods towards his greatsword.

Martin opens a pouch at his belt and takes out a small earthenware jar with a cloth cover tied in place over the top.  He passes it Aarnr, "Use it sparingly, a small amount goes a long way, and too much goes a long way to leaving you friendless.  I'd be the first to admit that it smells foul, and you like as not wouldn't want to know what's in it.  There's noyhing that'll hurt you, mind, but some of it's not pleasant."

"Dip your finger in some water, and take a small amount of the salve on the wet finger.  Then rub it on the injury.  The water makes the salve spread a little further, and keeps it from sticking to your finger instead of going on the wound."

From the look of it, Aarnr isn't the only one to struggle with the pronunciation of "leucrotta".  Fergus can be seen mouthing the word to himself until he has a fair approximation of the name.

The thought of returning to Fairhill for treatment at the temple raises a welter of emotions in Fergus.  Part of him would very much like to go home and killing an owlbear would be enough to impress many of those who might otherwise criticise his decision to leave.  But it wouldn't be enough for Andar, Fergus doubted anything would.  Better not to be distracted by comforts left behind.  Fergus would return when his task was completed, not before.

Fergus watched with interest as Aarnr and Martin discussed the merits of Martin's salve.  Fergus didn't think it smelled any worse than some of the home remedies he had encountered as a youth.  But, having taken the wine, Fergus didn't feel comfortable accepting more help from the hunter so he left the salve to Aarnr.  Anyway, the big priest looked more sorely wounded to Fergus (though he would concede that it was a close call).

"I can give you a hand if you need Aarnr." Not that it was likely.  The way Aarnr fought all his wounds were to the fore and easily reachable.

Aarnr takes the jar from Martin, unfastening the cloth cover and sniffing it ... and again, when the first pass seems less offensive than the warning warranted.  The owlbear's spore hadn't done much for him either.  Perhaps being raised in a festering swamp will do for a sense of smell.  Besides, he takes the lack of scent as a good sign, as anyone who's seen the flies that gather around a days-old corpse will attest.

"Thank you," the priest expresses his gratitude to the hunter in the manner of civilised folk.  Truth be told, now all the excitement is over, his wounds are paining him considerably, and he's pleased he won't have to fight to the death for the jar, as tradition demands.

And while his instincts are to smear the salve all over him, on the grounds that if a bit is good a lot must be better, he's seen his mother prepare enough meals to know that's not always true where such as herbs and spices are concerned, and elects to follow Martin's guidance.

On the other hand, since his wounds are stiffening up considerably, Aarnr's not too proud to accept Fergus offer of assistance.  "'Preciate it," he nods to his friend, passing over the jar in turn.

As Fergus assists Aarnr in applying the salve, Hanne suddenly lifte her head, ears pricked, and grumbles quietly as she looks towards the crest of the hill, in the general direction of Fairhill.  Martin reaches out to scratch her head, "You hear something, girl?  What is it?  Rabbits?"

After a few moments the dog lowers her head, though her ears remain raised for a little while longer.

"Can't have been anything too worrying then, or she'd've been a mite more skittish about it.  Probably just rabbits, like I said."

"We could have done with a few more froggin' rabbits,"  Aarnr bemoans the luck of the hunters, gritting his teeth as Fergus applies the salve to his neck.  "Perhaps on the morrow we'll have more luck.  Should have plenty of time.  Like as not our friends will be stuffin' themselves with dainty morsels and puttin' their reeky feet up !"

"Reckon she'd catch 'em," the priest opines, eyeing Hanne speculatively.  "Do thou think she'd share ?"

"By the bat-fowling bladder of Bowbe !" he exclaims as the salve begins to take effect.  "That's fobbin' better !"

Fergus takes the jar and reaches for the salve before belatedly remembering to wet his fingers first.  That done, he does his best to dab the salve on those of Aarnr's injuries that the priest cannot easily, or comfortably, reach.

"I think I got them all."

At Hanne's reaction and Martin's comment, Fergus responds "We could try hunting again?  It's a bit dark but we didn't have a dog before.  We might get lucky." He pauses before briefly explaining "I still feel bad that we couldn't offer you dinner."

Martin chuckles at Aarnr's question about the dog's hunting abilities, "I think she's a bit slow to catch rabbits, but she is good at scaring them out to where I can take a shot at them."

He looks up at the darkening sky, "Damned clouds make it hard to judge.  I don't think it's that late yet, it just looks like it.  Or maybe there's a lot more rain coming.  I think we've still got a little time before sunset.  We can hunt a bit, I suppose.  As long as you two are up to it."  He laughs again, "You youngsters don't have the staying power we had in my day.  Had both my legs bitten clean off when I was no older than him," a nod towards Fergus, "and I carried them home for my old Mum to sew them back on.  Then she gave be a sound beating with a leather strap for letting a good pair of britches get torn."

Aarnr roars with laughter at the hunter's boast. "Well then, if thou could drag  thyself home in that condition, I figure I can stir myself to throw stones at some fearsome rabbits !"

"I'm feeling a lot froggin' better now," he nods his thanks to Martin for the salve and Fergus for his assistance in the application thereof, though he drags himself to his feet less easily than he would like, casting doubt on that assertion.  "Who knows, maybe we'll find another froggin' Owlbear !"

Martin gets to his feet, stretching, "Well, you if you didn't have my admiration earlier, you would have now.  You killed your dinner by throwing a rock at it.  You've a good eye and a strong arm, my friend.  I'll stick to my crossbow, if it's all the same to you.  I know where I am with that."

He looks down at Hanne, who has lifted her head to watch him.  "Rabbits, girl!  Find the rabbits!"

The dog stands, shakes herself, and sniffs at the air.  Then she starts heading down the hill towards where Fergus and Aarnr had killed their own rabbit earlier.

Martin watches her go and shakes his head slowly, "Well, I suppose whatever she heard a bit ago, it wasn't a rabbit then."

"Probably pheasants," Aarnr suggests placidly.  The priest is not one to give up on a thought easily.  Though he is a mite distracted as he gains his feet, only to have the world shift disturbingly about him.  As his vision blurs he sees four ... no eight companions !

"Should make it easier to hit a froggin' rabbit, then," the big man mutters, "if there's that froggin' many of them about !"

Martin gives Aarnr an odd look, then sets off down the hill in pursuit of Haane.  Aarnr and Fergus, in turn, follow the hunter.

Sure enough, there are more rabbits in the vale between the hills.  The dimming light has, it seems, encouraged them to come out of their burrows and have a spot of dinner.

Hanne leads the three men directly to the animals, then demonstrates that she is well-trained by laying down where the rabbits can't see her so easily.

Martin raises his crossbow... there is a thump, and the rabbits stir a little nervously.  Except for one of them, which has apparently decided to stop eating and take a little nap.

"One." Martin murmurs, as he reaches for another quarrel.

The dim light's not helping either, but that's but a small consideration in view of the other afflictions Aarnr's currently suffering.  He's pretty sure the traditional cure for being badly mauled is to rest up a bit and lick your wounds (at least till he can demand Bowbe froggin' well do something about them), and not to set off hunting.

Still, while he's here ... as Martin looses his second shaft, the priest looks around for a suitable stone, cradling it in his hand as he picks a likely rabbit amidst those gathered.  There !  That one looking at him with an upturned nose and big floppy ears ... the surly weather-bitten whey-face !

He hefts his missile ...

"Not bad." Martin murmurs cheerfully, as Aarnr's hurled rock takes down another rabbit.

The second quarrel brings the count up to three, and Fergus manages to bag a fourth with another stone.

The remaining rabbits are starting to look a little nervous as Martin chuckles softly, "And to think I thought you two might need some help hunting down a square meal."

A short distance away, the beasts have clearly decided that something is amiss.  They have all stopped eating, and are busy looking about.  Their ears are pricked up, and their noses are twitching furiously as they sniff the air.

"Hunt froggin' frogs in the fens," Aarnr explains away his considerable talent at chucking rocks at poor defenceless meals, his voice slurring as he gets a little light headed.  Probably all that blood he left in the forest.

"Thou haven't done too badly either," he congratulates Martin, eyeing the hunter's crossbow jealously. It seems a good bet he'll not be satisfied with his bow for long.

The priest garners himself another rock, but decides against another cast just at the moment.  "Looks like the pumpions have grown wise to us," he opines, though in his injured state can't manage much more than a spot of light invective.

"Frogs was it?  They can be good eating.  Taste like chicken if you cook them right." Martin says with a smile, which fades quickly as he continues, "Just got to be careful not to eat the bright coloured ones.  Red or yellow in particular, because they can poison a man and leave him unable to do more than beg his friends to kill him, without the strength to even lift a knife and do the job himself."

"Not a good way to go."

He considers the rabbits which seem to definitely be more alert now, and addresses Aarnr's comment regarding his hunting abilities, "I've got an advantage over you.  I've been doing this since before you were even a twinkle in your father's eye.  Practice makes perfect, as they say, and I've had a lot of practice."

"I reckon you're right though.  We'll have a hard job getting more here.  I think we've enough for a spot of dinner though.  Even one for Hanne.  Maybe we should go and cook them."

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Fergus watches Aarnr clamber to his feet with some concern, though he does his best to hide it; he's pretty sure the priest wouldn't thank him for noticing any weakness.  Though maybe he's misjudging Aarnr.  Fergus hadn't expected him to accept help in applying the salve, either.  Fergus stands for a moment, undecided and confused.

He smiles at Martin's jibe about youngsters, though.  "You must be older than you look, to make a crack like that."

Fergus briefly considers suggesting that they take the time to find whatever first alerted Hanne, but decides against it. He tails along behind the others as they go hunting for rabbits, casting about for stones of a suitable size and shape.

Fergus is very happy to kill a rabbit on his first throw.  It makes up for the disappointment of missing on his hunt with Aarnr.  He smiles broadly but is careful not to be too demonstrative lest he startle the other rabbits.
</backpost>

"Yep, four should be enough.  I doubt we'll have any other guests this evening."

"You really are older than you look then, Martin?  Do you have elf blood?"

"Sorry, that's rude." Fergus looks embarrassed and quickly changes the topic.  "Can you really eat frogs?"

If you ask me, they taste more like fish than chicken, but I've only eaten frogs' legs once.

"Froggin' crunchy," is Aarnr's considered opinion on anuran cuisine. He ponders Martin's words of wisdom regarding the toxicity thoughtfully, though from his expression it is unclear whether he is considering many near poisonings, the fussiness of civilised palates, or his wounds are paining him once more. Still, even.

All in all, another meal of cooked rabbit sounds very enticing, and he nods his agreement, licking his lips.

Fergus' question is a bit rude - fancy implying a skillful hunter like Martin has any Elf blood in him ! - but the priest supposes you can't be too careful nowdays.  And it's not as if the man has denied it or is seeking to cover it up.  Ears.  Ears are always a give away.

"Never kill more than you can eat," Aarnr offers.  Again, it is unclear whether he's talking about rabbits or killing in general ...