Back to the Moonsea

The party emerges quietly and triumphantly from their familiar wagon.  Faeranal is taken aback for a moment, but quickly recovers his composure with a knowing smile.  The kitchen area has been overtaken with spilled potion components, scorched burn marks from the laboratory equipment, and food left out of storage but there is nothing missing.

Shuos bolts from his sleeping area near one of the wagon wheels, and leaps into Kailute’s chest.  The two fall from the stairs to the ground below tumbling in a hug of playful reunification as the boar howls with porcine delight.
It is clear Faeranal has taken sharp charge of the party since it departed.  The wagons appear well maintained and ready to move, while camoglaughed within the treeline.  The small corner of camp that has been the MAA’s home is tidy and clean.

Noting the heroes return, Sieben moves from the camp to approach DonBrapp somewhat furtively.  The dwarf shifts his backpack from his shoulder intending to task the hireling with adding his bluemoss to the accumulated components.
“Master dwarf…  I have something..  to share with you.” Sieben begins in his stilted and odd intonation.  “The mosses from the tomb have proven to…   be significant.  They…   add potency to many a type of potion.”

“Very good.  Good work.  Now add this bluemoss from Myth Drannor into similar recipes”  DonBrapp directs the earnest human.

“Yes, yes…  I will get on that.  Another thing…” Sieben stammers.  “I have not been very luck around the campfire….”
DonBrapp agrees to settle the hireling’s debts, and hands over 25gp.

Sieben begins to relocate some of the potion equipment to a bench outside and cleaning the kitchen area of his efforts.

DonBrapp separates the items for identification, storage, and precious jewels and directs Faerenal to have the hirelings load the larger items in the storage wagons.  He also corrects Faerenal as to the appropriate parameters for Sieben.

The foreman also delivers to DonBrapp a sealed scroll with a red wax imprinted with a lightning bolt, as well as a hefty pouch both addressed for Dirthax.

“Of note, the messenger was a heavily muscled bald human, shirtless but for bright red trousers with a scimitar strapped across his back.  We may have been too comfortable around the camp-fire, as we did not hear him approach and as suddenly as he appeared and delivered these items, he was gone.”
The script is red, in the long slashing form of auld common more often found far to the east and south, in the old empires.

“10 dalers each for dwarf, orc, and elf.  Tharchion Kress”

In the pouch are 30 solid discs of platinum, each almost the size of a palm and likely worth 10pp each.  The edges of the discs are embossed with an unintelligible script.  The dalers are trade coins in use by Thay.
As night falls, some laughs come up from around the firepit.

“Lo, there’s a queer one!”  “Watchout!”  can be heard muffled through the doors of the shagging wagon…   and a small, but persistent scratching can be heard.

As Quilro begins to gesticulate Kailute opens the door.

Standing approx. 6” at the doorstep is a gray squirrel.  This small creature puffs up his chest and offers as low a bow as a squirrel can give.  He then appears to take a deep breath and begins to twitter and chaw with as much importance as a squirrel can muster.

Shaking his head DonBrapp casts.

“Esteemed Servants of Waymeet;  Protectors of the Convacle.  His lordship of the Moonsea Green invites and summons your return to the coast to discuss developments of great import and serious consequence at your soonest regard.  Please hurry.”

“Indeed, fair dwarf it is Bosmos the Convacle, Lord of the Moonsea Green.  He’s in a lot of trouble.”
Looking around, the gray squirrel asks for some food and refreshment which Quilro happily provides maple-glazed walnuts with salt.

“Truly a creature of Bosmos’…”  Kailute states.

“I AM NO PET OF BOSMOS!”  The squirrel squeaks with exasperation.  “I only serve because I am compelled to deliver this message. That fat drunk dwarf has no respect for anybody!”

The squirrel identifies himself as Cherk, and explains he has a family awaiting near Waymeet and how Bosmos has enraged almost all the inhabitants of the region with exorbitant demands.

Quilro pours some of the Zhent wine into a small hollowed vial stopper, and the group agrees to pay the druid within the month.

After describing Barla’s foray into tubers and mushrooms, Cherk curls up in a corner and is soon snoring quietly.
True to their word, Delnothor and the Feyguard guide the wagons northward to Fendeygo’s shrine.

As soon as the area is cleaned Quilro fires up the table of plenty with a fine skillet of spiced corn and potatoes and a bottle of elven red, settling in to review his tomes and prepare the magics of identification.

After being fully sated, the elf reclines with a variety of the items pulled from the ruins in the elvish city.  The first items are Ioun Stones, magic enablers of powerful dwoemer.  The elf mage also yields some insight as to interplanar travel and how such gates are constructed.

Kailute eyes the stone that absorbs magic, and without any objection puts it in his pouch excited to have such a powerful magic negating item.

After two days of travel, the party arrives at the depression in which the tomb of the dwarven hero Fendeygo lies surrounded by four columns.  The depression is about 8-12 feet below the level of the terrain the wagons are traveling on.  Five marble columns, overgrown with vines make up a square approx. 40X40’ square, with a single, taller plinth in the center.  The area throughout is murky, and filled with a mix of standing fresh water, or overgrown bog.  As you approach the columns, the southern edges are also covered with bright, multi-colored lichens.  These seem to grow exclusively on the columns.  The base of each column is obscured by between 1-3’ of water.

Dropping down into the much with Fyrnlocke, DonBrapp heads straight to the plinth in the center of the depression.
On a carved plate in Thorass the following is inscribed:

Here lies Fendego, defender of Dwarf, Man, Elf, and good
He perished swinging his hammer in battle, as ‘ere a king should
Lost to the hordes, but not forgotten
Let those who disturb forever be rotten
Should thy return that which forge nor infernal could sunder
Rewarded they shall be for reuniting them under

Fyrnlocke dutifully checks for traps on the northern side.  Locating a magical trap, DonBrapp waves the hammer nearby to determine if there is any effect.  So doing he is filled with reverence for the historical import of the non-elven demihumans that gave their effort to save the multi-racial Myth Drannor, even as many elves cut deals or run during the final hours.  Signalling to Fyrnlocke, the thief pops the plate off with a large iron bar.  Inside lays a dwarven skeleton in repose, shield in his off hand but no weapon.

After long moments of reflection, DonBrapp pushes the hammer into the crypt.  Piercing the overcast clouds a piercing sunlight shoots to the main column, then shoots out to the others.  DonBrapp is filled with a righteous calm, and suddenly feels the ability to sense when elemental beings from the plane of earth are nearby, and able to summon and direct them.  DonBrapp is satisfied with the favor of Moradin and the accomplishment of returning a long missing artifact to its rightful owner.

The group makes a side tour to recover the slain auromvorax, leaving one of the wagons sinking several inches in the soft ground with its solid mass in golden ore.

The party moves north slowly, picking its way through the deeper woods until the canopy begins to clear.  Three days out and the undergrowth makes movement much easier, and the small caravan increases speed north.

As the deeper forest canopy recedes, indicators of the changing season begin to appear.  Some of the grasses are turning brown, and many of the tree leaves are beginning to show the changing colors marking the onset of deeper autumn.

One night around the table DonBrapp pries open one of the six platinum tubes, and ancient Myth Drannoran trade coins spill on to the floor.

“Praise and thanks to Clan Eldarym, Leaf-licker!” He cries with a delightful light to his eyes.
The weather turns much colder outside the deep forest, and Faeranal and the hirelings keep the pots and kettles full of stew or roast venison from the abundant lighter woods.

After five days of good travel the group exits the treeline into the rolling grassland hills of the Moonsea south of Waymeet.  A group of green cloaked humanoids are observed moving east, but there is no interest in pursuing them before making camp.

Two days later the group finds itself in the outlying scrub that marks the outer limits of Waymeet.  Approaching the rutted road that abuts Barla and Quilro’s farm, the lines of well tilled gardens are worked by two hunched over halflings while Brad the overseer reclines in a cart with a long blade of grass between his teeth.  Well beyond the fields, to the east of the modest house a large storage barn looks freshly built.

“What!  Who is this now?”  Brad stammers, observing Quilro and the party approach.  The partners direct the storage of the wagons into the barn, and repair to the main house after directing Faeranal to ensure the wagons are secured.
Approaching the house, Barla nearly swoons at Quilro’s arrival, moving to gather his cloak and weapons belt and offer the travelers any food or fare.

“Sheera!  Brew some tea and coffee and get this adventurers immediately!” Barla snaps at a female halfling standing demurely in the corner.  Returning a dismayed gaze to the dwarf and half-orc she states “PLEASE stamp your boots before entering the main house from the fields.”

Sheera delivers a fresh pot of tea and a bottle of local whiskey.

“Barla, send the help to town for the finest steaks and provender they can get.  Tonight we feast for homecoming!”
“I’d love to….  But truth be told the Convacle probably already has the best cuts.”  Looking over the team, she says quieter “I don’t think Bosmos is very well liked here.”

Barla relays how the “Druid” spends most of his time running up his tab and demanding complimentary food and drink at the Fist & Flagon, and that he has been incessantly asking about where and when the companions will return.  Asked to bless the fields of the farm, the dwarf indulged in gluttonous consumption before passing out on the floor.
“Enough with the gossip, Woman!” Quilro says, slapping her rump and sending the help to ensure the men are comfortably looked after outside and in the barn.

The companions enjoy a home cooked meal, and discuss the developments and next steps.  As the night winds down, Quilro invites Barla to join the group at the table.

Fyrnlocke gives a sidelong look, and Kailute issues a bonus to the remaining hirelings and asks them to spread the word about future opportunities.  A hearty cheer is heard from the fire outside, while two sentries patrol the farm.  The wagons are secure within the barn and are not directly observable from the roadway.

The leaders decide to head into town directly, knowing the Fist & Flagon will likely be open well into the late hours.  Kailute proposes sending Faeranal in first to see if the druid is present.  Barla is mildly dismayed the group is heading into town until Quilro tells her to dress up and they’ll be making Belkar serve her mead.
After a short look inside, Faeranal signals to enter.  The common room is warm and familiar, full of almost twenty caravan related customers and a handful of locals.  Two halflings play near the fire, and Belkar’s eyes light up as he sees the group enter.

“Oh, is this a sight for sore eyes!”  Quilro throws ten gold on the bar, and Belkar relates the avaricious taxation that Bosmos has been laying upon locals and caravan alike.  He regularly invokes the name of the Harpers, demands gold, and then drinks his body weight in liquor.  He makes threats of the dark ones, and has likely amassed significant coin.

The group gathers their drinks, and head over to a booth.  Many of the locals cheer at the sight of the companions and the halfling pipers immediately break into a song about the group.  Hunched around the booth, the party plans its next step.

Belkar fills in what a young and inexperienced druid Malcho was before his turning.

There is something very wrong with the druids that get assigned to this part of the Realms.  Belkar reports that many of the villagers feel that all the monies Bosmos is collecting go to the Zhents, and the Harpers are in league.