"Ha!  Aidrin, boy!  You lose again, so set us up 'nother round, eh?  An' have one fer yourself, whilst you're at it!"  Guffaws from the teamsters accompanied this pronouncement.  In truth, the dice had not favored the wizard on the eve of the caravan's departure from Deuxchay, but Aidrin didn't mind much.  The price of ales and ciders for the teamsters were but a pittance from his pay for accompanying the caravan, and the evening had proven lively and entertaining.  The gambling, the drink, and the sloe-eyed attentions of a young, buxom, and dark-haired serving girl had made the young wizard's night one to remember.

Aidrin returned with a tray full of clay mugs brimming with various potations, and was greeted with a full-throated cheer from the teamsters.  "A true 'un fer payin' his debts, he is!"  "Ahh, lad!  Th' cider's th' sweeter 'cause I've nae t' pay fer it, but ye've my thanks, an' t' yer health!"  The uproar from the table of his companions almost distracted Aidrin from the floral scent and presence of the young serving girl behind him, the delightful pressure of her breasts against his arm...a seemingly accidental contact.  Her soft voice in his ear, "I can fetch wha'e'er ye might need, me lord.  'Tis me pleasure, an' ye've but t' ask."

Yes, it was a good night, and promised only to be better...soon, and...

"Human!  Awake!  On your feet, or risk permanently becoming a part of the earth upon which you lie."  Aidrin opened his eyes, only to see a mounted group of...of...elves?  Clad in leathers and furs, faces painted with various pigments, and hair woven with bones, feathers, and less nameable items--these were elves?  One leaned down from his mount, spear poised above Aidrin's chest, and smiled without any humor whatsoever.  "Up, human...while I decide if you should die today."

Aidrin scrambled for his thoughts.  What had happened?  Where were his friends?  Why was he here in the midst of a vast plain, at night?  The wizard fought to remember...to no avail.

Resisting the urge to scruff the sleep from his eyes, Aidrin gingerly stands to his feet, desperately hoping not to trip on his robe or do anything to further anger the warriors surrounding him.

Once up, Aidrin shifts his weight attempting to see if he still has all his various pouches and casts his eyes about the encampment. What's going on here?

Trying to keep the waver in his voice to a minimum and his hands in plain sight, Aidrin speaks, "Peace, Masters. What offense hahve I done toh be standing here aht spear-point?"

09:37, Today: Aidrin ap Gynwir rolled 10 using 1d20+2. Diplomacy.

OOC: experimenting... trying to see how best to transmute a "marked brogue" into text :)
This message was last edited by the player at 03:07, Wed 01 June 2005.

Scrambling to his feet, Aidrin finds that at least his body is working faster and with greater alacrity than his mind.  By the Morrigans' hellbrews, what had happened?  Why was he here?  There was no camp, no caravans, and none of his companions were to be seen.  Only Aidrin, his pack on the ground beside him, and a group of ten mounted elves on half-wild horses.  The surrounding countrysided, shrouded in darkness, appeared to roll away into grassy plains to the east, rising to hills to the northwest.

Aidrin stammered out a question, desperately playing for time while he sorted his thoughts.  His head ached with a burning throb, and he suddenly realized he felt nauseous and dizzy as his feet threatened to betray his balance.  Aidrin feels a sense of urgency in his mind, and realizes that his raven familiar is imparting...something...to him.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:33, Wed 01 June 2005.

At Aidrin's question, the elf who had spoken to him barks a short, mirthless laugh.  "You offend by your very presence, human--you and all your kind.  Why are you here, removed from the trade routes you ply?  With whom are you affiliated?"  The elf, tall and scarred, regards Aidrin implacably.

"My Elven lord, you are most astute," Aidrin says flatteringly, "I am indeed one oav a caravan party late of Duexchay. The one, and only, no'w it seems. However, if I ha've stumbled into places claimed by yoar people it is only because my flight from brigands has carried meh here. They set u'pon oar encampment by night," Aidrin moves his eyes about his captors, "Ogre-kind there were, and those who used magic as well. Surely sooch characters doh greater offense toh my lords than a lowly waylaid merchant?"

The scarred elf greets Aidrin's comments implacably.  At the same time, one of the other elven riders speaks softly, chanting syllables in the liquid elven language.  Aidrin recognizes the somatic components and cadance of the spell, having seen it chanted in dingy backrooms in Rimsedge--after a suspect of something or other had been worked over by half-orc enforcers...Detect Thoughts.

Aidrin steels his mind against the magical intrusion.  Dimly-felt tendrils of force explore their way into his head, but the human mage is able to turn aside and foil these questing threads of power.  The elf who had cast the spell shakes his head and murmurs something in elven to the scarred elf.  The scarred elf's face does not change or register any emotion, but he speaks to Aidrin again.  "You ride with us, then, human.  We shall see if your tale is a true one.  If not, your life is forfeit.  Up, and on your feet."  The scarred elf's tone is one of command, and he speaks in elven again.  The elf who had cast the spell swings off of his mount, softly speaking another series of twisting syllables.  A shimmering, gray horse suddenly stands in the midst of the riders, whose horses whinny a bit and edge away from the newcomer.  The elven mage springs astride the ghostly horse, leaving his own horse for Aidrin.

"Mount, human.  You will show us where these creatures you say assailed you were.  Think not to flee, either.  Fealin's horse will not bear you away from the others, and you would die before you ran a dozen steps."  So saying, the elf gracefully reaches down from his mount and confiscates Aidrin's backpack from its spot on the ground.  "Move, human."

Aidrin reluctantly mounts the horse and twists around nonchalantly, trying to get his bearings. He hopes that the elves do not notice that he is woefully lost.

With trepidation, Aidrin mounts the elven mage's horse.  The mage rides close on his ghostly steed, looking levelly at Aidrin.  The elf pauses and whispers a few words to his living horse, and Aidrin feels a relaxing of the horse's muscles.  The elves, and Aidrin, prepare to ride.

Aidrin's raven launches itself into the pre-dawn air.  The animal is deliberately keeping some distance from the riders, keeping its empathic connection with Aidrin, but choosing to remain as far from the elves as it can to avoid detection.  Aidrin is able, by dint of the raven's memory, to haltingly retrace his own, unremembered route.  One of the elven riders passes a skin to the others and to Aidrin--the potation is rich and heady, simultataneously thirst-quenching and invigorating.  Aidrin feels his queasiness and throbbing head fade away to nothing.

The sun rises and steam begins to rise from the bedewed grasses and small shrubs of the plains.  Still the riders journey, kicking their horses into gallops as the sun climbs into the sky.  Aidrin wonders...how far had he come on foot, unremembered?  His familiar sends back a vague sense of two cycles of dark and light.  Two days?  But how...

The elven mage draws near to the scarred elf...the mage on his phantom beast, the other elf on his lean, feral stallion.  Words are exchanged, and the elven leader calls a halt to the war party.  Swinging his mount around, the scarred elf paces up to Aidrin.  "Fealin says that a child of the air has been pacing us since sunrise.  He guesses it belongs to you...mageling.  Tell me true, for you will receive no other chance to do so.  Do you follow the Art?  A lie will leave you here for the wolves of the plains and their coyote cousins to feud over.  Answer."

Aidrin winces involuntarily at the elf's words. Apparently the warrior had never learned to appreciate flattery. He had hoped to earn some favor by leading his captors straight to the encampment with no surprises but their quick elven eyes saw through his plan.

"I s'ppose it would depend on which 'Art' you refer to; but y've no need to fill the air with your warnings. I've been threatened before and u'nderstand: Ye'll kill me," Aidrin says with a tight smile. "Yes, she's my bird, and do'es as I wish. And if I wish her to watch for another ambush, or for scavengers picking the bones of my companions as she leads, she will," Aidrin looks levelly at the leader, "You have nothing to fear, from her or I. I truly am a merchant."

The scarred elf stares levelly at Aidrin as the horsemen ride over the morning-lit plains.  "You avoided answering my question, human.  The child of the air is a companion of yours, either due to friendship or dweomer-craft.  If it is the former, so be it.  If the latter, and you show treachery," the elf pauses, then continues.  "You will wish that the ogre-kind had finished you."  Spurring his horse onward, the scarred elf takes up a lead at the small phalanx of riders, and the sharp hooves of the horses tear small clumps of earth from the grassy ground.  Aidrin's raven sails high in the late morning air overhead, watched carefully by the elven mage on his ghostly steed.  Occasionally, the mage will put on a burst of speed to ride ahead--the phantom beast seeming to fly over the ocean of grass at a rate far exceeding the other horses--and then return.  The morning wears on into midday, and still the party rides.

As the sun reaches her zenith and begins the descent into afternoon, one of the elves calls out something in his tongue, pointing towards the distance.  The scarred leader calls a halt, and a quick consultation ensues.  The scarred one addresses Aidrin.  "Human.  A group of horses graze beyond, and they are neither the wild little breed of the hills and canyons, nor the larger beasts of the plains.  Do they hail from your caravan?"

Aidrin squints his eyes and looks in the direction that the elven leader has indicated, "My eyes are no' so sharp as those of elvenkind. I cannae be certain from this distance, but I believe the caravan to be still further. Perhaps the horses have wandered or perhaps they belong to another unfortunate party."

Aidrin looks back at the leader, "It were seemly of us to collect them if such is the case."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:03, Thu 09 June 2005.

"We ride closer.  If those are beasts lost from some human settlement or caravan, we will keep them with us."  With a short command barked in Elvish, the scarred leader wheels his horse towards the distant group of grazing horses, and his riders follow.  Aidrin is borne along on the back of his borrowed mount.  Soon, the riders close on the group of unattended horses, circling around as the latter attempt to move away from the group of mounted elves.  Closing their circle of riders, the elves manage to bring the group of riderless horses to bay.  The elves approach the horses, talking to them soothingly.  The tactic seems to work, as the animals are soon being led about comfortably by the elves.  Aidrin, himself no handler of animals, can nonetheless see that most of the elves show some skill in this area.

Aidrin watches the sky for the motions of his familiar while the elves gather the horses.

High overhead, riding a thermal updraft from the plains below, Fiach notes movement below and to the west.  Aidrin gets the sense that other no-wings, two-foots are approaching.  He receives the rather confusing idea that there are more of these things approaching than there are those with whom he rides, but less if Fiach counts the four-foots.

Almost immediately after Aidrin receives news from Fiach, one of the elves calls out what sounds like a warning, pointing to the west.  Riders spring into action, urging their steeds to a galloping pace, and unlimbering their long composite bows as they do so.  Aidrin is swept along, whether he wishes it or not, as his mount leaps to follow its companions.  Spread out in a loose line formation across the grassy plains, the elves--and Aidrin--begin a race towards a low line of hillocks and knolls to the west.

Aidrin wildly snatches for the pommel of his saddle as the horses wheel about. Once he regains his bearings, Aidrin mentally calls for his raven to wheel in closer for a good look at these newcomers, but to flitter as if searching for food. Aidrin wants to maintain what advantage he can over his elfen captors and the unencountered host both.

PM