Nemble and Doc had arrived at the city of healing nearly a week ago.  Not great friends yet, but growing into a comfortable bond of comrades at arms.  They had completely different experiences during the week, though both had noted, with minor interest, the arrival of four dwarven ponies, carrying what looked like, a rather attractive human woman, a man in robes who seemed cloaked in shadow, and two other men draped over their mounts who most likely were dead.

Doc, who had many, many years ago, before he'd become a full time world traveler, had spent a few months in the Crag.  As a dwarf, none to fond of most kinds of wild magic, he was fascinated by the houses of healing that used no magic at all.  Herbs, salves of minerals, logic, stitching up cuts, doctoring they'd called it, houses known as hospitals.  He'd studied a bit, and this was like coming home.  A few of the older races and faces still were there, and remembered him.  He'd used what he'd learned on the "job" and was quickly invited to share his knowledge, his improvements.

Nemble, was not so lucky.  Having come as a patient, with a ruined withered stump of a hand, that no magic could cure, he was treated.  First, the doctors made a salt and mud cast of his good hand.  Then, they formed a mold of it inside a steel ball, and then, cut his stump off at the wrist (it didn't hurt but it was horrible to watch), they attached the steel mold to his stump (filled with some putty).  It was like walking around with an itchy, slightly painful metal ball on your wrist for a week.

Inas, Marissa, Saliq and Rath spent the first day recovering, learning that Ingelbern had some nasty poisionous stinger removed from his spine, and yet remained nearly mad.  Durien, the doorwarden of the Wizards Guild, had little insight to give them other than to arrange them to be tested and find none of them had been "stung".

Marissa though seemed fascinated by Peryn, and the gardens, and spent much time there, meditating.  The night of the second day, over drinks, she announced that as a member of the Royal family, her life must be dedicated to the survival of Stormhaven, whatever the cost.  That night, she dedicated herself to Peryn in hopes of a clue to healing Ingelbern, and perhaps the Lord Mayor.

The next morning, she asked Inas about a dream she had.  A rabbit had died before her, and laid there, gasping its last breathe, then its eyes had gone flat.  Moments passed, and then, fleas, ticks, and even a burrowing worm had fled the dead body.  Inas confirmed, in his matter of fact way, that parasites that feed off a live body, leave when its dead, they know immediately their "food source" is done.

And so it was that Marissa convinced the doctors to kill Ingelbern, just for a little while, and sure enough, a half dozen little living "stingers" crawled out through his skin. And so,he was revived, he was likely healed.  The cost, Marissa retired from adventuring, to enter into a year of study under Peryn's tutalage.  A fair trade indeed.

It was on this same day, that the doctors, removed the mold from Nemble's arm.  They had been cautious and warned it might not work, or might have side effects, it was bit experimental.  After all, using hydra and troll blood to reform a hand, well. Who knows. When they removed the mold, a perfect and usable hand remained, just the right size, and perfect other than a few scales along the back of the hand.

In the tavern of Clouds Perch, one of the only Inn's in town, and the ONLY decent tavern, five lone travellers in a city of healers sit and order drinks.  Nemble and Doc are celebrating his new hand, what a day to be alive in Peryn's Crag.  Inas, Rath, and Saliq await a meeting in the morning with the recovering Ingelbern, perhaps to guide their next decisions, or unravel the mysteries they've been surrounded by.

Saliq sat down at the inn table. The illusionist still felt weak after his ordeal but he knew he was recovering and as pleasant as this city was he would be glad to be away.

He was a tall and lean man with sharp but not unpleasant features, olive skinned and dark of hair and eye with a trim and neatly groomed beard and moustache adding texture to an aristocratic face. His attire, a kaftan robe of blue and red and a red turban marked him as a son of the distant Empire of the Shifting Sands. As he reached across the table to pick up his ale his hands were visible, with long and dexterous fingers such as might be found in a musician or thief or perhaps a magician. His ring finger bore a ring and his belt a fine curved dagger in its sheathe.

'Gentlemen,' Saliq said to his friends. He raised his ale in toast. 'To our friend Marissa. Our loss is Peryn's Crag's gain. May we adventure alongside her again some day.'

Taking a sup of his drink he sat it down and looked Inas and Rath. 'How are you feeling? I doubt I'm alone looking forward to be on the road again, noble as this place is.'

Across from Saliq, Rath straddled a chair and leaned with his elbows on the table. He was a tall, muscular young man -- not a young as he used to be! -- with a shock of curls on his head and a trimmed beard and mustache -- not as well-trimmed as Saliq's. Rath was accustomed to hanging out in taverns fully armed and armored, always expecting trouble, but here in Peryn's Crag he had peeled down to traveling clothes, a few bits of the lower layers of his armor, and functional dagger at his belt. Had Marissa been at the table, no doubt she would have made some jab about how good Rath could look when someone else shaved and dressed him, and that thought put a sour smirk on his face just as Saliq raised a toast to her.

Rath had torn through his breakfast, still in the habit of eating everything he could when it was available, since he never knew when his next meal might come, even though it had been a long time since he had survived hand-to-mouth like that. He had a bit of his breakfast stout remaining in his cup, and he lifted it to clink against Saliq's. "To Marissa. Still can't believe she picked to stay here instead to roughing it in the mud and blood with us lot." He said it like a joke, which meant he meant it, of course. He hit the empty cup back onto the table a little too forcefully.

"How do I feel?" Rath repeated. "Full of piss and vinegar, ready to rip a whatchamacallit from a golem's gizzard and feed it to whatever sent it after us." It was the one concrete goal that Rath could clearly identify. The mysteries and conspiracies left him dizzy and with a bellyache.  And it was bravado, of course. The golem had smacked him down and left him for dead. Nothing indicated a second encounter would end any differently.

Rathmus had four small items on the table in front of him, each strung on a winding of twine or chain: a rustic, wooden badge of Pelor in the shape of the Sun, painted blue and badly gilded around the edges; the lucky/unlucky coin of fortune, symbol of Avandra; a spiral shell, now cracked, the token of what Rath owed to Melora; and, finally, an odd device -- a dial with a spinning needle. The compass drew Rath's attention, and he rarely went an hour without examining it.

Just a few tables over, Nemble was just finishing his evening supper.  Given that Peryn's Crag was home to so many of the First Folk, his presence — like his appearance — were relatively unremarkable.  Still, though, it wasn't too hard to see that he was a visitor.

He wore loose fitting, traveling apparel.  A dark cloak with a voluminous hood sat folded upon a seat next to him ... as did a small, but finely crafted short sword.

What little hair he did maintain on his head had gone shock white years ago.  A crumpled, well-worn cap covered most of his bald pate.  His weather lined face telling of untold days and weeks spent on the trail. Like most gnomes, he was of an indeterminate age ... well into his hundreds, quite probably.   His beard was well-trimmed and he had a bushy mustache that comically accentuated almost every movement he made with his mouth.

On his recently regrown right hand, he wore a supple, black leather glove.  Every so often, he would flex and unflex his hand a few times ... as if pained by arthritis.  It wasn't actually the case — arthritis, that is — the hand actually felt great.  Rather, it was that it was even a hand there in the first place.  It was still taking some getting used to, for Nemble had lived without it for some time.

Rising from his seat, Nemble walked over to join the table with the two men.

"Greetings."  He said warmly, a broad smile — or at least what passed for a smile when hidden beneath his massive mustache — spreading upon his face.

"Fellow adventurers, I take it?"   He continued, indicating one of the empty seats with a dip of his head.  "What brings you to Peryn's Crag, if I may ask."

He held up his gloved hand, continuing on in a blather of words even though he had just asked a question.  He was a talker, this one.

"A new hand, myself.  Good as new, I say.  Better, even.  Lost it in a foul dungeon some years ago ... had to make due with just the one.  But no longer, praise the gods."

He leaned in conspiratorially.  "That means I'm twice as good, now."

"Nemble's the name."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:00, Sat 18 Apr 2020.

Inas sits and drinks, quietly enjoying the time with his companions if not the setting.  As usual, although he does not appear heavily geared he also appears prepared to depart immediately from the tavern to the wilds.  Indeed, despite the occasion he carries his bastard sword at his side and his composite bow leans against the table.

He wears a well-crafted, hooded cloak.  The hood is pulled over his head and obscures much of his face.  Occasionally, when viewed at just the right angle, one can see that portions of his face are scarred.  The scars do not appear to be cuts or punctures or other results of combat; it as if portions of his face were once badly burned.  While the overall effect is . . . well, "not horrific," and he looks relatively "normal," still he seems to prefer to hide in his cloak's hood.

He states plainly his relief that Rath and Saliq are on the mend.  "I confess that I was quite doubtful of our ability to do anything to help you.  I am glad that we were able to get you to this wondrous place."  As a feeble attempt at humor, the ranger picks up his mug, says "Please don't let it happen again," and takes a drink.

After putting down his mug, Inas addresses Marissa's departure.  "Marissa . . . will be missed.  Greatly.  Still, I am happy for her, as she seems to have found her calling.  At least for now; hopefully our paths will cross again."

________________________________

When the gnome approaches the trio, Inas merely shifts his eyes to take in the stranger as the avalanche of words pours forth.  At first he doesn't say anything, hoping (and expecting) Saliq or Rath to say something.  When they don't do so immediately, Inas ventures:

"Twice as good at what?"

"A little of this, a little of that." Nemble acknowledged with mock-humbleness.  "There isn't a fortress built that can keep its treasures from old Nemble."

Saliq smiled ruefully at Inas's joke about not getting injured again. 'Believe me my friend I intend to stay as hale and hearty as possible.'

The arrival of Nemble and his introduction warranted a surprised raised eyebrow and then a smile from Saliq. Something about the gnome reminded Saliq of Ben even if he lacked the much missed thief's distinctive odour.

'Greetings Nemble, take a seat. You guess correctly we are adventurers even if it seems adventure seeks us out as frequently as vice versa which is why we are here; recovering. I am Saliq, this is Rath and this is Inas.'


He took a draught of his ale before continuing. 'So... am I to guess you are looking to apply your old skills?' Saliq's question was not said with any condemnation. If anything there was a touch of humour to his tone.

"Aye,"  Nemble nodded.  "Replacing this old hand of mine really set me back.  It's time to start rebuilding the old Nemble fortune."

"For the love ov all tha's holy!  Nemble?  What in the unlimited number of hells did I tell you about drinking while you're healing?"  The thick dwarven voice rumbled ahead of the squat fellow that followed.  Built like a barrel under leathers belted to him with more pouches than he could possibly need, Doc stood just a hair over four feet tall and probably weighed close to eleven and a half stone.  His chestnut beard was well maintained but his fingertips were well stained with ink, and maybe sap.  "Do you want new hand of yours to get rot?"

As he walked over to join Nemble and his new companions, he shifted his cloak to the side and deftly lashed it into place with a fluid motion.  It looked like a sashling when it was done.  You could see there was immense strength in his dwarven frame.  Years of toil likely chiseled him from stone like most dwarves.  "Sorry folks, Nemble here is on the mend.  He's not supposed to be drinking until he gets the all clear."  Doc grabbed up a nearby chair, that wasn't being used, as if it was a feather and placed it next to Nemble's.  Then he shifted his hammer so he could better sit.

That hammer looked like it was the kind used in a forge.  Not some overly ornate thing adorned and bejeweled to be envied by every warrior that saw it.  No, this was a simple trade tool for sure.  "Nice to meet you all, sorry for the interruption.  My name's Doc.  I lament the news of your folk.  Never a sunny day when a companion falls.  No matter the reason."

He motioned for the server and offered a round to those at the table on his tab, except Nemble.  "So, since I've so rudely interrupted your conversation and perhaps mourning ... how can I make it up to you?"

"Ah, Doc." Nemble replied, grinning at the chastising — it hadn't been the first time Nemble had broken the rules ... nor likely the last.

"So glad you could join us."  The small gnome went 'round the table and relayed the party's names to the dwarf.

"We're not dead yet, Doc," Rath said with a glowering smirk. He crossed his arms. "What've you heard?" Rath was now on edge and suspicious. At the Crag, his guard had been down and maybe Rath -- or all of them, really -- had been talking too openly about the circumstances that brought them here.

The dwarf seemed gregarious and talkative. He was no Norion, that was certain. Rath had taken Norion as the typical for his race. This Doc character threw those assumptions out the window.

Doc shook his head and was about to speak when an older gentleman came up and tapped him on the shoulder.  The codger had what looked like a broken pinky finger he was cradling.  "Sorry to interrupt, but my boy missed the shoe again.  Do you mind?"  Doc held up a finger to the group at the table as if to ask for a moment's pardon.  "Sure thing old guy."  He took a few things from pockets, a bit of waxed twine, a small metal stick, and some dark green gunk that smelled bad in a small tin.  He applied the gunk, straightened the finger, put the metal next to it, and lashed it in place next to the nearest finger in a matter of moments.  The old man winced initially but seemed pleased with the outcome and wandered off.

Turning back to Aldo, Doc remarked, "Oh, I'm sorry I thought you lot were the ones who brought in one of your team and laid them to rest."  He looked a bit ashamed, "My bad, humans tend to all look the same to me...and my memory isn't what it was once."  Shrugging he offered a warm apology and a smile that seemed to be genuine.  "I'll get the next round too for that mistake."  He nodded again to the server.

The crag isn't on the way to anywhere.  Tucked between the great forest and its denizens, and the Iron Mountains, where a great horde of the dwarven empire lives, it isn't a place traveled to casually.  It is...a destination.  One known for healing, and nothing else.  Thus, it is not unusual that the five adventurers find themselves having several rounds of drink and food in one of the few Inn taverns in the whole of the town with no other visitors.

As the third round of drinks is set down, the door opens and a woman of striking beauty enters.  Wearing long close fitting green robes, her raven hair braided back, and a single silver tiara with an emerald stone adorns her forehead.  Even Inas, Saliq, and Rath do a double take before they recognize their warrior priestess.

Walking up to the table, she pulls up a chair, and borrows Rath's drink, taking a deep drink.  She looks much younger.

"I've been sitting with Ingelbern, he is doing much better and bids you all well.  He has asked me to request your presence, not just in the morning, but before the sun rises tomorrow morning.  He requests you come ready to travel.  He wants you to leave Peryn's Crag before sunrise tomorrow, but wants to wish your journey well.  May I set his mind at ease on this point?".   

'You can Marissa,' Saliq said. The illusionist looked at their friend in surprise and relief, perhaps mingled with uncertainty. 'You look different. I assume you will still be staying here?'

He gestured around meaning not just the inn but Peryn's Crag. 'Can you at least share a drink with us and our new friends? This is Nemble and this is Doc.'

Marissa smiles at the master illusionist, "Several drinks.  And yes, though I will really miss our adventures, my heart and my faith is strongly telling me I belong here, I need to be here for some reason.  At least for a little while.  I'll be back to Stormhaven when the time is right and will certainly let you know when I return."

"Ah yes, Doc, they speak highly of you in medicine halls,  and Nemble, the man with the new hand..." she raises an eyebrow in his direction, at his hand, "...may I?"  In a straightforward request to see the newly formed hand.

"If you have any plans to travel with these friends of mine, I can tell you, you'll never find braver, smarter, or more talented companions.  Great wealth seems to fall into their laps, however, be warned, trouble follows them around like a determined hound.  And right now, they seem to have a few rather daunting tasks before them." 

Nemble considered the request for a moment before acquiescing.  It wouldn't do to start a relationship with any sort of obfuscation or secrets, he decided.

"Erm, yes."  He said, uncharacteristically quiet.  "Of course."

He removed the black leather glove and set it on the table, leaving the whole table to see his newly grown hand.  Midway down his forearm, the skin transitioned from an earthy, walnut brown to a sickly grayish green ... as if he were a potter that had dipped his arm in a clay slurry of some sort.  Along the back of his hand, the rubbery flesh had formed into scaled plaques, and the nails were more than a bit unsettling.  Not claws per se, but the monstrous mien was unmistakable.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:18, Tue 21 Apr 2020.

"It was a trapped chest that had done it."  He said, recounting the tale of how he had lost the hand in the first place.  "Lightning magic."


"After it got me, I knew I was in trouble.  Scorched the end black, it did."


This message was last edited by the player at 01:26, Tue 21 Apr 2020.

Rath opened his mouth to make a snide remark to Marissa, but then he thought better of it and gave her a good, solid stare before figuring it out. She was telling him that maybe he could trust these two as companions. That sure wasn't a conclusion Rath would've come to on his own, but Marissa was a better judge of character than Rath ever would be. That she held Rath in high regard was a perplexing exception to her insight, but whatever.

"Before dawn, eh?" Rath grumbled. "Right, then. I just hope old Ingleborn has some wise words of direction for us, or all this was a wasted trip."

He eyed Nemble's exposed hand openly but he didn't say anything.

Marissa is true to her word and stay for several rounds of drinks.  She is amazed by Nemble's hand, commenting that it was done without the use of magic, a feat she did not believe possible until coming to the Crag.

As darkness falls, Marissa says her farewells, leaving the five men to themselves.

Rath, who has watched at the strange compass over the last few days, noting it has seemed to always point rather Southwest, back towards the great forest or the sea beyond with little fluctuations, glances at it now, it is pointing near due South.

It wouldn't seem that noteworthy, but by chance, or otherwise, moments after he notices this change in position, a deep rumble runs through the tavern, through whole town, followed by several more.  Not enough to damage buildings, but it rattles the plates and glasses on the tables.

It over quick as it began, and the town settles back to quiet, although a few of the acolytes do come round checking for anything that might seem amiss.  Enough of a sign it happened all over the whole town.

And enough of a sign that it is not a typical occurrence.

Inas stops one of the passing acolytes and asks: "Has that happened before?"

If the answer is in the affirmative he inquires further, asking when they started, how often they occur, whether they are occurring more or less often or with more or less intensity, and other such questions.

The acolyte says that it has not occurred before, and they are not sure what it was, perhaps a minor earthquake.

'Perhaps we'll get answers when we speak to Ingleborn?' Saliq muses. 'I have a feeling this is all connected.'