In reply to Caile (msg # 60):

Then we have two men headed to the slavers via this cave.

Points in agreement with Caile.

Who else is with us?  Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Turning to Caile, Brander replies, "Orcs... Roka Clan.. But I do not know if they would have kin at the cave, or exactly how large the cave is."

"I can provide supplies, to anyone joining you, though in return I would ask for your help in rebuilding the wall and helping us when needed.."

"Orcs... Fearsome adversaries, those beasts. And none to friendly when it comes to more 'civilized' kin. It may be worth a try to ally with them though. Their history as slaves to both humans, elves..." Caile throws a glance at Eins. "...and dwarves could make them sympathetic to our cause. If they'd hear us out, that is."

The minstrel raises his tankard and takes a swig, contemplating their options.

"Master Brander, I fear we cannot stay for these games, time is fleeting much too fast. But we are in dire need of supplies, so we will aid you in repairing and securing your wall before we leave. If we all pitch in it shouldn't be more than half a days work, no?"

In reply to Caile (msg #63)

Eins snorts. "Ain't nothing wrong with bein' a little uncivil in my mind. Folks are only civil when they got somethin' to hide. I think we got a shot talking a few orcs into our cause."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:23, Fri 12 June 2020.

Harinder has been quiet, but now stares at the dwarf skeptically.

"I have ever been avoiding orcs. You have been talking to Orcs?"

He turns tot eh half-elf minstrel with a disapproving look.

"I fail to see why we are in haste, but I do agree preparation is crucial"

Caile stares incredulously at the old druid. He can barely contain his anger and disbelief.

"You fail to see why... you... our brethren are held captive by slavers, their lives numbered in days, maybe hours, and you FAIL to understand the need for urgent action?!"

The half-elf slams his fist on the table, toppling the empty mugs of ale.

"YOU may have forgotten what oppression feels like, old man, but I assure you that I have not! Rescue cannot come too soon for those caught in the cruel hands of slavers!!!"

He stares at Harinder, his body almost trembling with pent up rage. With a sudden burst of speed he swivels around and storms out of the Traveller's Rest, into the dark night.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:48, Fri 12 June 2020.

In reply to Eins Heold (msg # 64):

I hesitate to knowingly head into an Orc camp, but these are the days.  As Eins said, we have a chance they'll hear us out, especially given the relatively intact temper of the Roka.

Turning his eyes to Harinder, Brevis' body tenses underneath his red cloak.  Two large scars that span his upper back, one with particularly painful adhesion to the rib cage, ache as he draws in a long slow breath.

If you fail to see, then please understand there are invisible forces at play now.  I cannot expect you to see what I have seen, to see what I feel (the dull ache of his scars begins to subside as the lungs empty), so I ask you to reflect on what you value most in your life.  Take that away, and what do you have left?  This is not a threat, but a cry for help.  If these cries fall on deaf ears, then I'll know Brander's wall is all the better for it.

He stands, averting his gaze to the door.

Would time but stop, I'd muster an army.

Brevis dashes out the door to find Caile.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:42, Fri 12 June 2020.

Lothar hearing the outburst from the elves makes his way to Brander.

"You say supplies will be offered in exchange for some help with the wall? I've not entirely made my mind of what to think of those two" he points towards the door where the two elves left thru, "but I can hear the pain in their voices and the sincerity of their cause... what do you need me to do? I'm no mason but will not shy from hard labor. Perhaps our Dwarven friend here can be of some assistance as well? Allow us to get a head start while the elves sort their affairs."

Brander, replying to Caile before the half-elf storms out, says "Aye, after a half day it will be a good deal better than before.."

After the Brevis follows his kin outside, the old stablehand turns to Lothar and Eins, "Your help would be much appreciated kind sir, and certainly if a dwarf were to lend his skills, it would be even better."

"A good night's rest and a half day of labour... Then you are free to do as you wish, be that join the others in their quest for vengeance or stay for a while longer." Brander shrugs his shoulders.

"Yeah, I don't have much to lend, but I do have my skills. Just give me a hammer and show me where to swing it. I will admit my training has been mainly in... sieging walls rather than repairing them, but the concepts are the same."

"Elfspawns ... " Hardiner mutters "You'd think these frailers would be hammered by a rough childhood to mature faster. It seems not so. Not unlike the elves of the forest, by the way. But ... while naive, willful... unpredictable as young, the half bloods grow up to be men with cunning and ambitions beyond that of the commoner. They are assets, brother."

He puts a hand on Branders shoulder in passing, turning to leave.

"My friend!" the stablemaster bursts out. "I have prepared a bed for the night, here, just up the stairs. My long lost friends and brothers need not ..."

Harinder is only shaking his head and mutters something about the stars and runestones, before he, too is gone into the spring night.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:53, Mon 15 June 2020.

As Caile rushes into the night the cool air has an immediate effect on both his temper and his temperature. His racing heart slows and he stops in the middle of the square outside the inn, still angry but mostly ashamed over his loss of control. He sits down on a rickety bench next to the smithy, forge still burning through the night. Facing the forge he stares into the flames, mesmerized.

In reply to Caile (msg # 72):

Brevis sees Caile near the smithy and calmly walks in his directly until he is standing near the rickety bench.

I'd ask to have a seat, but I'm not sure the bench was designed for one person let alone two.  Brander is doing his best, yet Runething seems inexorably pulled down toward the land from which it came. Perhaps that is why Harinder is so hesitant to leave here.

Crossing his arms over his chest, the skin on his back crackles with pain.  Stretching the tight scars grants welcome relief after short moments of pain.

What are we to do?  Without help, we're no better off than the Ghosts of our past.  Without help, neither are our enslaved Brothers.

Brought out of his reverie by his old friend's words, Caile continues to look into the fire, a fire of his own building to roaring flames in his eyes.

"Then we must not go without help, Brother. But I'll be damned if I stay here one breath longer than I have to. They'll have our aid now, this very night, and on the morrow we leave for the south."

The minstrel gets up and picks up a hammer from the blacksmith's workbench.

"Come, let's gather those who'd join us. There is work to be done."

Fervent purpose now shining like a beacon from his eyes, the Frailer strides back towards the inn, kicking the door open.

Eins looks over his shoulder at Caile bursting back into the inn.

"Wonder what the evening air can do for a man's spirits."

He nods slightly to Brevis when he returns as well.

"What'll it be then, Sir Caile? Are we off to save the world or Nae?"

The old druid walks a not so well trodden path from the northern edge of Runething, trying to avoid stepping in the mud pools or getting caught in the spidery roots of trees. The trees, some dead, some just twisted, line the path and grow sporadically in the landscape of lose rocks and bushes.

The path leads from one small island to another, bridged with wooden planks, to a clearing among the trees, upon a rocky outcropping. Beyond the hill, the Gargan Marshes spread out far and wide. A thick mist prevents the eye from catching the horizon line. A white mist, not red, praise the gods.

As if the place wasn't gloomy enough, the sky starts to to weep. A gentle sprinkle at first, but soon it pours.

Harinder climbs the rock plateau carefully. At the peak, he bends down. There, in the rock surface, the gods have made their mark. Deep lines engraved, wide as a man's hand is thick, filled with moss and rainwater, shaping runes. Still readable, if you know the language. Harinder can only read one sign. The rune that means Clay. Another, he thinks, was made for Horn. And yet another, perhaps, is Raven. He reaches out his hand to touch Clay, but suddenly gets a fit and ... hisses like a snake.

A moment passes while he seemingly struggles with something in the cup of his hand, or perhaps his chest. Then he laughs, back to being himself again.

"Not to your satisfaction, much, no?" he asks himself. Or some self, within him.

"It is." says a female voice. "But to see you here, is not, wicked one"

Harinder gasps and turns around, surprised to see a strange woman there. He did not hear anyone approach. She is standing on the path behind him, unbothered by the rainfall. An elf in a long red robe. A full blood this time, really? This far from the Dankwoods? Slender and short - a girl or a woman? Hard to say with forest kin. He cannot see her face clearly, hidden as it is behind a maiden's veil and covered by the deep shadow of the hood of her robe, but the elven ears can be suspected by the shape of the hood. The veil and the cape are dark red. Like the blood mist was, he reflects.

"My ... fair lady" the old man finally gets out. This one is not young, he decides. There is an aura about her, one that can be felt by others who share her element. It is the calmness of the oaks. The stillness of the pines. All that harmony, mixed with a spark of the fire in Horn's breath, which once gave it life. Or so he likes to believe. That fire can very well come from other sources. "I did not mean to address YOU, I did not even ..."

"Nor was I addressing you, mortal" she cuts in. A sudden laugh lets out from under the hood, muffled by the veil. Now she sounds more like a girl. She moves, and her robe moves with her and at the same time, independent of her, seeming to float and sweep over the mud. It does not touch the ground. Nor does her feet, he suspects. The robe is velvet, but not natural. Some artifact. A sorceress?

"No, I was speaking to the other" she says softly. "The one who sounds like a snake and moves like a willful flame in your dreams. We call them the wicked. Oh, I know of your dreams. Your nightmares appear loud and are reaching wide and far. For those who listen. She must be hard to contain, that lost soul. But I am impressed by you, human, keeping a Wicked contained for so long. Caged and bound, even. That must have taken it's toll"

Harinder thinks she is smiling, but it is hard to see for the darkness of the hood. She starts to leave, floating down the path, her robe moving like a stream of water, downhill. He is dumbstruck by the unnatural sight.

"The runes won't help you. Did you think so?" she says and he cannot find any words to reply. "The gods cannot or will not help against Wicked. But ... "
she pauses halfway down the path. Somehow her voice carry over the smattering of the rain as if she was standing beside him still. "... the Redrunners may know a way. Or they used to know, I have been told"

She waves at him with a small hand. Not a girl. It is a woman's hand. A detail disturbs him - the nails are long and curling, as if left to grow with abandon. Like branches on a tree.

Harinder rises quickly to go after her, about to find his tongue again, but a loud crack and a sudden shake of the ground forces him back down to his knees.

Beneath him, a crack has opened the rock and split it's surface.

He finds his footing again, with effort. But the elf woman is already far down the path and gone in the mist. The event has left him with pain in his gut and taste of bile in his mouth. She. Contained within. The ... Redrunners? This was too much.

Harinder is staring at the rock surface of the plateau. His hair and coat are drenched, his knees muddy. The crack has forked and cut through each of the runes. All but one. The one that his childhood tutors taught him, the elven rune for Clay.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:13, Thu 18 June 2020.

In reply to Eins Heold (msg # 75):

Tossing the hammer to Eins, Caile adresses Brander with the confidence of a man used to having his orders obeyed. It is a guise he wears with a peculiar sense of shame.

"Gather all your torches and all your able-bodied workers. We build your wall this very night, on the morrow we leave to seek out the Roka clan of the Arina forest. Then, Grindbone will suffer."

In reply to Caile (msg #77):

Eins catches and looks down at the hammer. He flips it through the air once and nods slowly.

"Not like I was planning on sleeping tonight anyway."

He stands up and turns to Brander.

"You got a foreman or somethin' I can talk to? Who knows the wall the best?"
This message was last edited by the player at 16:13, Fri 19 June 2020.

Caile heads over to the innkeep and asks him to stash his gear while they work. He then strides up to Brander and Eins, rolling up his sleeves.

"We're going to need more tools as well, master Brander. Maybe your blacksmith could provide what we need? I intend to give Eins here a run for his money as master craftsman of Runething."

He winks at Eins and gives him a firm pat on the back.

Eins raises an eyebrow at Caile and elbows him in the side. Or rather, the hip, as Caile towers a few heads over Eins.

"We'll see about that, Frailer."

Has anyone seen Harinder?  I could swear to have seen someone with his gate wandering outside the tavern?

The old druid, still on the Rune rock plateau, spends some time trying to figure out the implications of the various runes.

Harinder rolled 14 using 4d6 ((6,5,1,2)) - 1 Success.

He also drinks from the rainwater from a small traveller's cup of wild boar leather, before retreating to the edge of the village, falling asleep in the shelter of the wall, huddled up against it, some wooden planks covering partly from the rain.

It was worrying that the elven rune for Horn had been broken by the sorceress, or perhaps by Clay himself, given it was upon his rock those had been written? But either way, Clay was standing tall in whatever conflict was at hand. He should pay homage, somehow. Tomorrow.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:41, Sat 20 June 2020.

In reply to Brevis (msg # 81):

"Never mind the old hermit. We have work to do, and the night and the rain isn't going to make it easier. Let's see what can be done."

Caile heads out of the inn, into the wind and the rain. The minstrel stops by the blacksmith and picks up an assortment of tools while he waits for the others to organize.

Brevis labors at the rock with nothing but determination and a beat up old hammer found among the town supplies.

There are times he seems to be striking the wall out of blind fury.  He does not sleep.

In the end, his forearms are scraped and bruised, hands blistered.  The wall is only slightly improved if at all, but the drive and willpower to press on have increased further still.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:39, Sat 20 June 2020.

As the night wears on, Caile realizes he is in over his head. He is rushing around all over the village, trying to act as some kind of manager of the working crews, but in the end he just manages to get in the way of any actual work being done.

After having had a near scrape with death when a large section of the crumbling old wall collapsed, almost crushing him beneath the rubble, he withdraws to the Traveller's Rest to lick his wounds. Exhausted, he falls asleep in a chair next to the fireplace as dawn is fast approaching.