Staring at the peaceful looking cottage Arkan frowns, thinking how odd the serene vista looks juxtaposed against the grim totems they passed only a short while ago.

Too serene, he thinks.

He is torn about whether to stop and investigate, but luckily his companions are not as indecisive and press on, Arkan moving along with them.

"It has been a long while since I have tasted mutton. Truly, the food of kings!" he declares wistfully staring back at the goats as they recede in the distance behind them.

Colwyn starts to say something about how Orcus looks a bit like a goat.  Then a vision of Aarnr destroying some poor crofter's home and putting the man to the axe drifts before his eyes, and he thinks better of it.

Instead he follows along, quietly thinking his own thoughts, as the party put the cottage further and further behind them and continue along the road, with its wooden markers every hundred yards or so.

Overhead, the forest canopy grows denser, and the breaks in it more rare.  But through those occasional breaks, it is clear that there can be but an hour or so before sunset.  And they have still not caught up with the mob of murderous masons.

The problem is, to Colwyn's mind, crystal clear.  Both they, and their quarry, are on foot (ox cart notwithstanding), so it's likely to be a long chase.

Not for the first time that afternoon, he sighs, and wishes they'd stopped at the cottage for a short break, a bite to eat, and something to drink...

Erista sits up in the cart, having slipped, in the gentle heat of the afternoon, from pretending-to-sleep into actually-sleeping.  She looks around somewhat blearily for a moment, brushes her hair back, and almost asks if she missed anything interesting or if they've caught the masons yet.

Just in time it occurs to her that if they had caught the masons, then 1) Somebody, probably Aarnr, would almost certainly have woken her up; and 2) If by some odd chance they didn't, everybody is still here so clearly no harm done.

She quietly settles back into her spot, enjoying the tranquility of the day.

Aarnr has by now pretty much forgotten whatever that last city was, never mind the stela and the cottage.  Every twist and turn of the trail brings fresh hope that a group of demon-worshipping masons might hove into view ... and then crushing disappointment when they don't.

Indeed, the priest shares some of Colwyn's unvoiced concerns, though nothing nearly so cleverly thought out ... for one thing, he fears that their prey might have left without taking the time to garner proper provisions and drinking water (for what do masons know of such things?) and may be found dead at the side of the path at any moment without the chance to be properly slain for their crimes.

By the gathering gloom beneath the trees, dusk would seem to be casting its mantle across the unseen firmament.

In the trees on each side of the road, a horde of starlings chatters noisily, as they settle down to roost for the night.  And somewhere, not to far ahead, and a wolf howls.

No, not a wolf, a dog!  For the mournful howl is followed by a bark, and then another, and another, from different throats judging by the sounds.  And soon the evening air is filled with the sounds of perhaps a dozen or more dogs.

And then a voice roars, louder than all the canines, "For Thyr's sake!  I'm trying to get some frogging kip here!  Shut it you lot!"

The dogs fall silent, and are replaced by a babble of human (or near enough) voices.  Laughter too.

The party come around one last bend, and a short distance ahead is a clearing, containing fifteen or so buildings, huddled together in the gloaming.  Lamps burn brightly, providing a circle of illumination which valiantly tries to push back the burgeoning darkness beneath the surrounding trees.

People are moving about between the buildings.

"Oh dear," Eilieen murmurs at the howling and cacophony.  The dogs, as well.  Peering ahead, she studies the 'buildings'.  Are they actually structures, or wagons?  "Perhaps we have found a place for the night," she hazards.

It seems unlikely they would have caught the masons already...and calling out to Thyr does make for a point in the other people's favour.

"Hello?" the priestess calls out.  "Travellers, here!  Might we come to your fire?"  It's always good to give warning; avoids unpleasantness.

Aarnr is less mollified by the mention of Thyr than is Eilieen.  The God of Law and Justice is not exactly a sworn enemy of Bowbe, as is Orcus, but then with their faiths so diametrically opposed, whatever that means, they're not exactly on speaking terms.  Shouting terms, perhaps.

Though his eyes close as he bites his tongue at the priestess's careless warning of the foe, exuding unpleasantness as he stands at her shoulder, hoping they are foolish enough to deny her, even insult her, that he might quite reasonably slaughter some, enslave the rest and claim their fire for his own.

Growing concerned at the approach of the coming dark, yet ready to steel himself for a forced march through the night Arkan is a little startled by the barking of the dogs.

When they turn the bend and come upon the buildings he cannot help but feel a little relieved at the sight of the buildings; not only will they be able to get some news, but they may come across their prey cooling their heels in an inn.

"Most fortuitous. They will likely have a sole inn, I say we make our way there quickly before word of our coming precedes us. We may find our targets therein!" Arkan whispers to his companions urgently.

At the very least, even if they did not find the cultists they might be able to treat themselves to some mutton.

The hamlet, for such it is, is not a wealthy place.  In the light of the lamps, as the group approaches, it becomes apparent that the buildings are ramshackle structures of wood and turf.

The sole exception being at the centre, where a shrine of adobe bricks stands stands.  The shrine has no walls, just four brick pillars which support a wooden roof.  The floor is of packed dirt.  There is no statue of the god, just a simple wooden table to serve as an altar.

The people, at least, seem friendly enough.  An older man smiles, "Welcome, travellers, to King's Hope.  You are, by all means, welcome to spend the night here."

A wheezing laugh greets Arkan's mention of the inn.  "An inn?  Sadly there is no inn or tavern here.  We are but a poor village of hunters and foragers for nuts and berries.  With the exception of Gonder, all here live by finding food from the forest.  There isn't even a priest.  Any who want to use the shrine are free to use it to worship whichever god they follow."

Disappointed at the lack of an Inn, Eilieen brightens a touch at the mention of a shrine.  "Oh, may I see your shrine, elder?  And do you have any followers of Zadastha, here?"  After which comes a slightly lengthily pause as she considers numerous issues, not the least of which being the lack of a bath tonight (normally not so important, but her expectations had risen...).

Finally she leans forward slightly.  "Gonder?  Who might that be?"

Since most shrines to Bowbe are generally now lush fields and introduced by keen historians as "this was the site of the battle of ..." the priest is not impressed by the pile of bricks and less so by the mention of nuts and berries, and not at all to discover there is no Inn, but happily untrouble by the lack of bathing facilities.

As much as he chafes at the delay in the chase, the patience of Fergus seems to have paid off, and Aarnr remembers his friend remarking several times that oxen tend to fall over and die if you overwork them and don't feed them.  They'll be happy with grass ... and so will he be to make his bed upon the ground, since it seems an imminent fight is not to be..

The old man's mirth seems lost upon Arkan, who stares askance at the man, suspicious of his jubilant manner.

"A pity about the inn. I have little need of shrines old man, but I would be glad if you could give us some information. Did a company of men pass through this hamlet recently, perhaps a bare few hours ago? If so, what can you tell us about them?" Arkan asks curtly, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

It could be him just being high strung, but the jovial manner of the greeting from a hamlet resident juxtaposes oddly with the grim stelae they had passed earlier; there has been no mention of the masons even though they may have come through this way only hours ago and most of all, this seems like the perfect place for an ambush for unwary and tired travelers.

---

Spot: 10
Sense Motive: 07

The old man points to the crumbling brick structure in the middle of the rough circle of dwellings - four brick pillars supporting a sloping roof, and an old table standing on a floor of packed earth, to serve as an altar or offering table.  No walls, no statues, no ornate artworks (though on closer inspection, it can be seen that many of the bricks have holy symbols scratched into them.

"That's the shrine.  It serves all gods.  If there are followers in King's Hope, they'll use the shrine to make their offerings."

He continues, "Zadastha's a god for folk with time to spare, begging your pardon.  Soft-handed folk from the cities.  Around here people follow the gods who put food and ale in their bellies.  Tykee and Telophus for the most part, but Freya has a few followers."

"Gonder?  He's our smith.  A dwarf who used to be a mighty hero when he was young.  Not so much now though."

Arkan's question brings a thoughtful expression.  "We've had any number of folk pass through, in both directions.  You see the road there?  The one you arrived on?  Did you see the markers spaced along it?  They mark it as neutral territory.  No battles between the Kingdoms on the road.  Its been that way for hundreds of years, ever since the fall of Tarkanen, and the rise of the Kingdoms.  So the road's safe, and everybody uses it."

"So if you want me to answer your question, you'll need to tell me more about these men."

Aarnr manages  (barely) a strictly blank expression at the old man's comments about Zadastha, though is keenly interested in whether Eilieen will stick him with her spear for his temerity.  The mention of Freya at least is a point in the man's favour, if only for Fergus's sake, as the priest of Bowbe fondly remembers the deeply religious discussion the pair had after the pair nearly died in battle with the Owlbear.

But it is the mention of Gonder that most certainly piques his interest, as his recent pleasant experiences with Sir Galdean showed the worth of such old heroes.

Leaving Arkan to bicker with the old fellow, should he survive Eilieen's likely pointed response, Aarnr's gaze wanders as he looks for the roaring fire of the forge and the clang of hammer upon anvil that will pinpoint the blacksmith's presence as he toils mightily at his craft.

Colwyn scratches at his cheek, "Who the bleedin' 'ells is this 'ere Tarky-what's-'is-face?"

"Tarkanen." corrects the old gaffer, "Not a who, but a what.  A mighty land that used to stretch between what is now Bard's Gate and Derindin.  Rich and powerful, it dominated all of the kingdoms between the Great Sea and the Inland Sea, and traded with realms far beyond both.  You must have passed its boundary stones on the road on your way here."

"Then, eight hundred years ago, Vaedrakil of the Iron Scales fell upon the land like the wrath of gods."  One hand is raised, pointing at the sky as the old man continues.

"He burned the cities, laid waste to the fields, and slew High King Haldir's armies.  For seven days he flew over Tarkanen and burned everything in his path.  Then he departed, leaving the survivors to rebuild."

"But without a High King, Tarkanen fragmented, and in its place a hundred small kingdoms appeared.  Some flourished, some did not, and others huddled in on themselves, like misers jealously hoarding whatever they could hold."

"Fragments of old Tarkanen still remain, like the roads and the boundary markers, which are considered to belong to all of the kingdoms.  And there are the ruined corpses of towns and cities which are claimed by whoever can hold them."

Aarnr, meanwhile, wanders off on his own, looking for Gonder.  As luck would have it, with so few structures, the forge is easy to find.  As is the dwarf who lays on a bench in front of it, snoring loudly.

Soft-handed folk from the cities?

The nerve!  Fuming, Eilieen settles back in silence to let others discuss.  Hasn't she been living in the wilderness now for weeks?  Fighting?  Getting her clothing (and, yes, flesh) torn?  How DARE he?

After her heartrate (and breathing) slows, she begins to consider this from another angle.  Of course, people here have likely only heard of the Zadasthan temple and its...ways.  They remain unaware that Zadastha stands for love, light, and healing.  And against unlife.  They only hear the stories whispered in taverns and alleys.  Negative...there should be a word...negative public attention, or somesuch.

As for the men?

Once the elder is finished his tale of the...dragon? Eilieen steps forward.  "The men we seek are worshippers of evil.  They left deviltry in their tracks, and now seek to escape what it has bought.  They take the guise of masons, but are followers of Orcus, Lord of Unlife."

Her lips part in a bright smile.  "And this 'soft-handed city person' will find them and visit upon them the wrath of the goddess for their profaning of a holy order's burial chambers with vile undead."

Successfully maintaining a straight face at the old man's remark to Eileen about soft-handed city slickers, Arkan folds his arms on his chest as he listens to the man tell the tale of this land and the empire that ruled before it was brought to ruin.

Though quite different compared to the decline of great Raumathar of Old, the tale did strike a familiar chord within the battlemage, and he found himself wishing they had time to learn more about Tarkanen, and the scaly beast of legend that smote it down.

"The lady speaks true, elder one. The men we seek, men if they be at all, may have passed this way earlier today in the guise of honest, hard working folk, though they are anything but. The longer they remain free the greater the danger to peaceful folk in their path, and their wake." Arkan speaks gravely, right after Eileen states the nature of the enemy and the party's true intentions against them.

The Dwarven hero appears to be resting after celebrating some mighty victory, so much is obvious from the volume of the assumedly drunken snoring.

Yet this poses a problem.  It would dishonour Gendor to awaken him, while the alternative of poking around the foundry and taking what he wants might offend the Dwarf, if Aarnr is be believe what he has been told.

However, a solution is readily at hand - dealing with such matters is the sort of thing that the Halflings have proven themselves exceptionally good at.

Looking back, the priest waves either Erista or Ozzie closer, whichever of the pair is the first to fail not to catch his eye, yelling if he must to garner their attention.

Erista smiles up at Aarnr, having slipped off the wagon and followed him on the theory that if there is anyone among her friends who should not be wandering off alone - and she could name six such people - first among them is Aarnr.

"Henrik.  Please, call me Henrik."  The man considers Eilieen's and Arkan's words, then, "We have had a group of men pass through today that would fit those you describe.  They appeared to be labourers, but they didn't speak to anybody here about their purpose, or their trade, so I can't hazard a guess at either."

"They were here about two hours ago.  I'd say they've probably reached Crossroad by now."

The dwarf is muttering in his sleep.  Something about dogs.  Suddenly he sits up straight, though his eyes are still closed, and says quite distinctly, "Frogging mongrel curs!  Gods blast your eyes!"

Then he screams and clutches at this left leg, and his own eyes fly open, as he looks about wildly.

Two hours!  That's all?  "My thanks, Eld...Henrik!" Eilieen exclaims, only stumbling slightly over the words.  "We're closer than I thought!"  Only...it's night-time, now.  They can't continue to journey.  Oh, if only they could!  For all they know, their quarry might leave Crossroads tomorrow, and they'll need to waste precious time working out that fact.

"We must make haste to sleep!" she informs her compatriots, then stops.  "I mean...well, you understand.  If we rise early in the morning and set out as quickly as possible, certainly we might drag down our prey before they escape once again."

And what a splendid thing that would be...unless, mind, they've bitten off more than they could chew.

Aarnr pauses, hand held high, his keen senses enabling him to spot Erista smiling up at him.  He nods as if that was what he'd expected all along.  "I need to ... buy ... a ..."

The priest breaks off as Gonder stirs, his mouth splitting into a broad grin.  While the Dwarf's curses lack the inspiration of the truly divine, they're among the best he's heard from a layperson and confirm that the mighty hero has survived so long by such demands for Bowbe's favour.

"... big sword !" he finishes, eyeing Gonder hopefully.  "Froggin dogs !" he agrees wholeheartedly.

Erista nods her understanding, stepping forward.  Hopefully, his careful emphasis means he understands that `buying' means he will be giving the poor man money in exchange, and not setting fire to his shop.

"I've never been very fond of dogs either," she sympathizes.  "Sorry to wake you, but my friend and I were looking to buy a sword.  The biggest you have, hopefully.  A three-hander, if you've got one," she grins.

The dwarf slides off the bench and limps about in a circle, muttering under his breath the whole time.  Eventually he stops and leans against the end of the bench, standing on his right foot only, and lifting the left off the ground.

"A three-hander, eh?" and he laughs, "Not much call for them in these parts.  Not with most of the kingdoms being so short-handed."

"But let's see what we've got."  He eyes Aarnr up and down before asking him to stretch his arms out to the sides.  "Ah-hah!  I reckon I've got the very thing for you."  Gingerly placing his left foot on the ground, he tests his weight on it before hobbling into the forge.

Henrick nods, "It would be a bad thing if your quarry leaves Crossroad before you catch them.  There are a baker's dozen places they can reach within a day from there.  And unless luck was with you, you might never catch up with them."

Gonder returns shortly with a plain, unadorned greatsword in an equally plain sheath.  "Is this the sort of thing you had in mind?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:20, Sun 28 Aug 2016.

Glancing curiously at the dwarf's proferred greatsword Arkan says to his companions, "The old man says it true. We should not tarry long, lest we lose our quarry. We are tired and need sleep yes, but so will they. While they rest at the Crossroads we can close the distance and come upon them in the dark of the night, and turn their sweet dreams into nightmares."

A hard gleam is in his eyes as he speaks, and a gloved fist clenches and unclenches with abandon, while a vein throbs in his forehead.

His words may sound ruthless, but ruthless times sometimes call for such decisions.