It is a fine evening in the town of Valarn. The setting sun casts brilliant rays of orange light across the sloping, thatched roofs of the town, which in turn cast their long shadows across the plowed fields beyond. A gentle evening breeze is in the air; chilly but not unpleasant, and the occasional cricket chirps in the grass beside the road. The town is small but not shabby, consisting simply of a main street flanked by sturdy stone or wooden buildings with thatched roofs. The largest of these is a two story wooden building outside which a sign reads 'The Thricehung Bard'. The town hall, general store and the smithy stand beside it. Behind it, down by the river, stands the lumber mill.

A little way out of town stands an old, stone manor. Its walls are completely covered in ivy, and number of tiles are missing from the roof. The garden outside is overgrown and parts of the stone wall beyond have collapsed. The Dranerius Manor. No one lives there anymore, and the townsfolk avoid it if they can. Old Dranerius' son spends all his time in a cabin somewhere in the wood these days. And well he might, the folk all say, given what his father was...

On the other side of town stands a much more well kept manor. The smoke rising from the chimney, combined with the flowering spring garden and neatly trimmed lawn, serve to give it a friendly and welcoming look. Dorin Durendil's Estate. The only dwarf in town (save when one of his many nephews or cousins come to visit), he is well known and well liked for both his generosity and good humor, and equally as a staunch advocate for the poorer members of society.

It is as the last rays of sunlight are retreating over the woods beyond the town that a rider makes his way down the cobbled main street. He is tall and muscular, with curly, blonde hair. A cloak of navy blue is draped loosely over his left shoulder, which does nothing to conceal either his shirt of chainmail nor the gilded greatsword which is strapped to the side of his mount; a white destrier stallion of fine breeding. The farmers on their way to the local tavern glance at him with looks of awe and wonder as he reigns in his charger outside 'The Thricehung Bard' and, after giving the establishment a dubious glance, dismounts, tethers his mount and enters.

The tavern is busy this late in the evening. Farmers and traders alike have gathered there to drink and talk, their work for the day done. A few mercenaries are scattered about the room, the raw lads seated in shadowy corners silently watching and the more seasoned veterans positioned closer to the fire, ale in hand. The atmosphere is a friendly one, and the barman, making his way between tables with six mugs of ale in hand, seems to know most of his patrons by name. Now and then, a snatch of laughter or coarse jest rises above the general noise.

A few men look up as the stranger enters but aside from a few shifty looks from some of the mercenaries in the corner, he attracts little notice.

The warrior approaches the bar, drumming a gloved hand on the counter as he awaits the barman's return.

"You there," he addresses the man as he returns, "I am seeking a war hero who I am informed is a resident of these parts. A dwarf by the name of Dorin Durendil."

"Old Durendil, eh? Aye, a good man he is, least for a dwarf," the barman replies. "Lives in the mansion far end of town, near the lake, though those what have business with him ought to know that. He--"

Before he can finish his sentence, there is a sound from outside as if from a sudden crash of thunder (though all know the evening was clear and fine, and there is no accompanying rain)-- and a moment later, the door is flung open again to reveal a slender, handsome and rather youthful looking varim-- though the arrogant sneer curling his charcoal-grey features and the mud dirtying his snowy hair do much to disguise this. He is garbed in purple-and-black robes embroidered with spiderweb patterns that have clearly seen better days, being also mudstained and with the torn look of robes that lost a fight against Thanian briars, and his left arm hangs stiffly, as if wounded.

He looks between the veterans--whose hands are already hovering over their swords-- to the farmers-- who look as if they would like to be doing the same if only they had swords-- to the bar, where the resplendent warrior stands, red eyes lingering on the chainmail and the fine noble's garb underneath it that mark him as a man who not only clearly outranks everyone else in this room, but may also be able to outfight everyone else in this room, too.

The varim bears down on him, slightly limping.

"Wine for me, barman. You, Paladin. Been waiting long? It's your own fault if you have been. You could have told your men to give me better directions for this place for our trade than just 'the town on the other side of the forest.' The wolf problems you have here in these parts are disgusting."
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:06, Mon 05 Oct 2020.

The paladin, who clutches his greatsword by the scabbard and appears just as inclined to draw his weapon as any other of the men in the room, gives the varim a puzzled frown.

"I believe you have me confused with someone else, varim," he says tersely.

The varim, leaning somewhat heavily on the counter, sends him a dark look as he withdraws a geld and slides it across the counter to the barman, who reluctantly sets racism aside in favour of scooping up the geld and departing to the back room in search of said wine. Once the barman is gone, he replies in a low sneer:

"You think I don't know that? If I'd been meant to be meeting you, human, I wouldn't be calling you 'Paladin'. But since I don't want to be spitted and you don't want me to set off a fireball in here, and, moreover, have codes if you're a knight that demand that you protect innocent people, bear with me and pretend to know me so things in this pathetic cesspool do not escalate. One day of rest is all I need, and then I will be gone and you can move on with your dull, heroic existence and forget you ever met me."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:41, Mon 05 Oct 2020.

The knight appears quite taken aback by this response, opening his mouth, then closing it once more, his brow furrowing even further.

"Who are you?" he manages at length, lowering his voice as he looks the varim up and down, "And what the blazes happened to you?"

The varim sends him a scowl, but seems to decide that his usual default option of 'it's none of your business' is probably not applicable here, since he is making it the knight's problem.

"You may call me Your Lordship or Lord Zaelinor. I'm not from these parts, so I doubt you've heard of me. As for my current state, assassins are what 'happened' to me. One assassin called Mordus Antari in particular, whose entrails I will take great pleasure in feeding to wild pigs once I get hold of the filthy curn. Filthy sxy'rox of a spiderspawn," the varim mutters, red eyes glinting with malice.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:25, Mon 05 Oct 2020.

The knight does not seem to recognise the name of either the varim or the assassin hunting him, but he seems suitably disturbed by the tale.

"Assassins?" he repeats, pausing as the barman shuffles back in with the varim's wine, and continuing once the obsequious man has moved away to a table of rowdy mercenaries, "Who hired these assassins? And why are they hunting you?" he adds, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"How should I know? The one who sends the assassins knows the answers to those questions, not the one being targeted by them," Zaelinor sneers, withdrawing what looks a lot like a thin needle of silver from a sleeve and dipping it in his wine and withdrawing it, eying it for a bit.

Apparently satisfied with the colour of the needle (it stays silver instead of turning poison-black), he puts the needle away and takes a sip, expression souring even more when he tastes it. "Disgusting swill... As I say, one day of rest is all I require, not an investigation on my behalf if that is why you are asking. When not surprised while in reverie, I assure you, I am more than capable of solving my own problems. I assume you are up to providing protection for me for one day, by the way? My uncle tells me Thanian knights are disgustingly softhearted, and I'm sure I'm more deserving of aid than whatever pathetic peasant you actually came to this cesspit to help. If your matters can't be put aside, then I will even volunteer to lend you my extraordinary intellect and services free of charge for the 24-hour duration, which considering standard mercenary rates and my usual consulting fees should be more than sufficient payment for anyone for one day of bodyguarding."

It's said arrogantly, but the knight gets the distinct impression from the tension in the varim's shoulders and the wary look behind his sneer that the varim doesn't actually have a backup plan for the answer being 'no', and certainly doesn't have the means right now for the standard mercenary rates he refers to.

Lastergon watches the varim's wine testing procedure with a curious glance (he isn't the only one), and his brow furrows in concentration as he attempts to follow the varim's grandiloquent speech. His expression morphs into an unimpressed scowl at the suggestion that he is in Valarn to lend aid to some random peasant.

"I am an emissary of the Crown," he sniffs, puffing out his chest slightly, "And am on a quest of some importance for which I hardly require your assistance."

His gaze lingers on the varim's haggard and ragged appearance for a moment and his expression slowly softens. At length he gives a relenting sigh.

"But I suppose if you insist on tagging along I will not stop you. Just try your best not to get in my way if you can help it. I presume you are not familiar with these parts?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:58, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

The varim bristles at the 'get in the way' line, and the knight gets a poisonous look at the phrase 'tag along', but there's a flicker of relief in his eyes, swiftly burried under the wall of spite that seems to be his default emotion, when the answer is yes. He takes another mouthful of wine, and this time does not insult the flavour of it.

"Not really. One hovel of peasants is much like another with you humans. Is there something I should be aware of, beyond the assassin problems?"

"Hmph," Lastergon grunts, not appearing surprised to learn that Zaelinor knows nothing of the local area.

"Nothing that you need concern yourself with," he replies in answer to the varim's question as he turns away from the bar, "You just worry about those assassins of yours. Assuming they actually exist," he mutters under his breath, clearly underestimating the keenness of varim hearing. He pauses for Zaelinor to finish his wine as he adds in a louder voice, "At present I am on my way to meet a dwarven war hero who supposedly resides in this town."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:23, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor sends him a sour look that says 'would I really look like this if they didn't?' but doesn't verbally rebut that mutter. Instead, he tosses back the rest of his wine and sets his glass down. (Though he seems inclined to keep leaning on the bar until they are actually leaving.)

"Your crown is interested in sending knights to meet an old, useless non-human?" Zaelinor echoes sceptically. "Would I be being too nosy if I asked why?"

Lastegon sends Zaelinor an unimpressed glance as he exits the tavern, slinging his greatsword over his shoulder as he makes his way down the main street as the early evening mist begins to descend about them.

"You would," he informs the varim curtly as he makes his way over to the comfortable looking Durendil Manor through the windows of which firelight crackles merrily. The pair pass through the low gate, down the cobbled path and up a couple of steps to the manor entrance. Lastergon approaches the door, gives it three sharp knocks, then steps back expectantly.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:03, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

He only has to wait a moment before the door swings open to reveal an irascible-looking dwarf with a wild red beard and wilder hair above it, largely hidden under a helm that's missing one horn. Like Lastergon, the dwarf is wearing chainmail over a noble's outfit, but unlike Lastergon, the dwarf's noble's outfit clearly wasn't tailor-made and from the smell of him, either Dorin Durendil does not believe in bathing, or the rumours are true that he bathes while exercising swimming in the very muddy and algae-ridden lake that stagnates at the back of his impressively large estate. A battle-axe is strapped across his back, but he makes no move to draw it.

"Eh?" Dorin says. "Bit young, ain't ye, to be a King's Messenger?" he says, squinting up and down at Lastergon's finery.

"Are you sure you have the right address, human?" Zaelinor murmurs, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose.

Lastergon wrinkles his nose in turn but resolutely stands his ground.

"I am Lastergon, knight of the Crown," he addresses the dwarf quickly, "I... *ahem* I seek an audience with your master, Lord Dorin Durendil."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:34, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

"Ain't no masters or servants in this house, young man," the dwarf says, with a rowdy laugh. "If it's Dorin Durendil ye be seeking, ye be seeing him. I'd invite ye in, but I don't much like the look of ye companion there. In my day, good Thanians didn't consort with the likes of them, and I stand where I stand no matter how things may've changed with all ye damn treaties. What do ye need, Sir Knight?"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:35, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Lastergon's eyes widen in surprise upon learning that he is addressing Dorin Durendil.

"Er... right," he stammers, trying to reconcile the appearance of the dwarf before him with the war hero he was imagining, "I have come from Carendisal with an item which Dorclad Redmayne, a relative of yours I believe, was under the impression that you might be of assistance in identifying."

The dwarf's comments about Zaelinor sink in after a moment.

"Oh, this varim is hardly my companian," he says hastily, "I ran into him in the tavern just now."

"That don't make ye judgement any better, young man," Dorin criticizes him roundly, "But so long as yer 'acquaintance' stays out of me house, ye can come inside yerself then. Step in then, and show me yer item."

"Your 'assassins' won't mind if I step away for a moment?" Lastergon asks Zaelinor as he follows after Dorin, maintaining as much distance as possible from the dwarf without appearing rude.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:58, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

"Why would they?" Zaelinor sneers, watching Lastergon leave resentfully. "The less bodyguards I have, the happier they will be. Enjoy your little chat. I hope the odor does not do you permanent damage in there."

Lastergon shoots Zaelinor a resentful scowl as he follows after Dorin. This scowl morphs seemlessly into a pleasant smile as Dorin turns to face him once they are inside.

"I do apologise for imposing on you so late in the day," he says politely as he withdraws an item folded in cloth from the pouch at his belt. He proceeds to unfold the cloth to reveal what appears to be some sort of blue stone, fashioned into the shape of a webbed wing five inches long.

"It may be nothing of significance," Lastergon admits as he passes it to Dorin to examine, "But Dorclad seeemed to recall you possessing an item similar in appearance to this one."

OOC: Lastergon Aravor rolled 2 using 1d20+1. Spot.
Lastergon Aravor rolled 4 using 1d20+1. Listen.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:28, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

If Dorin notices the scowl (or indeed the smile that follows after) he does not show it. He leads the way inside his home, down a long hallway of bare, cold stone to a dining room of sorts where a fire smoulders sullenly in a heath. There is a rug or two, mud-stained and covered with dog hair, in front of the fire, there are various chips and dents on the walls and doorways and furniture that bear witness to a dwarf turning around too quickly with a battleaxe on his back, but aside from this there's not much that's remarkable about the room.

Making his way over to a battered but sturdy table, Dorin sweeps the dust off a chair with a sleeve, and gestures for Lastergon to sit before pulling a chair out for himself that he doesn't bother to dust. (The moment he does, the largest of the hunting dogs slumps like a felled log across his feet.) Stretching out a hand, he takes the object, eyeing it appraisingly.

"Aye. I do. But I can't say it means a lot to me. Found it 'n the back of an estate cleanin' out a vampire nest a few years back, but I ain't seen a thing like it until now."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:30, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

"Vampire nest?" Lastergon frowns, glancing quizzically at the dwarf.

"He is what he is. if he be suckin' blood he's a vampire not a man with an 'unusual diet', like what ye friend Vard put down. Man goes to a lot more trouble than he should to make things mundane for ye magic hatin'royals, Dorin shrugs bluntly.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:22, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Lastergon blinks a couple of times, working hard to maintain his polite smile.

"Uh, yes, of course... And, uh, forgive me, but, uh, who exactly are we talking about?"
This message was last edited by the player at 22:38, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Dorin eyes Lastergon for a bit, before offering the condensed version. (Late Lord of these parts was a vampire, and he was successfully mobbed to death once the town found out about that.)
This message was last edited by the player at 02:06, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

"So this Lord Dranerius had an item like this in his possession?" Lastergon muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "Might I examine your piece?"

"Aye, ye might," Dorin agrees, dislodging his hunting dog from his feet with a grunt and rising from his chair and leaving the room, presumably in search of the object from the rummaging noises.

He returns five minutes later, and puts the item on the table next to Lastergon's.

Lastergon lifts up the second wing, examining it with interest. He runs a gloved hand along a series of grooves on the side of it, frowning thoughtfully.

"I wonder..." he muses to himself. Picking up the blue wing, he holds it beside the other, lining up a matching series of grooves running along its inner side. There is a low click as the pieces latch together and a blue green light emanates from the item for a brief second.

Meanwhile, outside night has completely fallen, and with it a heavy mist. Standing on the porch, Zaelinor is unsure if it is his paranoia or if he senses something moving stealthily across the yard towards him. He is almost certain he can make out a dark shape in the gloom just beyond the edge of the series of rose bushes which decorate the low garden bed beside the porch when suddenly his ears detect the sound of approaching hooves and in a flash the dark shape is gone.

The hoof beats draw nearer, and after a few moments a rider gallops up to the manor, dressed in a thick travelling cloak. Upon dismounting, Zaelinor makes her out as a human woman, youthful in appearance, and dressed in a jerkin of leather. A longsword hangs at her side and a heater shield is slung over the cloak on her back. She makes her way swiftly up the steps to the manor entrance, and gives a start as she notices Zaelinor for the first time, reaching swiftly for her blade.

"What the blazes..." she curses as she draws back a pace, then, in a louder voice, her blade levelled at the varim, "Identify yourself!"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:00, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor, warier with females than males, takes a limping step backwards from the blade, tracking it warily, red eyes scanning the studded leather and the competent way she handles her weapon.

"Whatever you are being paid to kill me, assassin, I assure you I can double if you do not," he tries.

"Assassin?" the woman repeats indignantly, frowning as she relaxes her grip on her blade slightly, "I am no assassin. And I am not the one creeping about someone's doorstep. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:37, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor draws himself up haughtily, apparently more willing to be arrogant when there aren't females trying to kill him.

"I am not 'creeping' on anyone's doorstep. I am waiting, because my bodyguard is temporarily engaged in speaking to the putrid dwarf who owns this place, and I judged it fair that only one of us lost our olfactory senses today. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

The woman raises a quizzical eyebrow, but reluctantly sheaths her blade.

"I am Calsia Lyran," she says with just a hint of haughtiness, "And I am here to call upon my father's good friend, the, uh, 'dwarf who owns this place'."

She shoots Zaelinor a reproachful glance as she says this.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:59, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor relaxes slightly as the blade is sheathed, and returns to leaning against the wall in a semblance of languid ease.

"And what about the shadowy figure who came with you?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. "Were they also here to visit the dwarf? Lord Durendil seems extraordinarily popular today."

"Shadowy figure?" Calsia repeats blankly, sparing a glance back in the direction of her white stallion, "Are you referring to Snowflake here?"
This message was last edited by the player at 04:20, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

"Yes, by 'shadowy' and 'figure' I did mean the large, white warhorse," Zaelinor sneers, rolling his eyes.

Calsia raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Right... Well, if you're happier out here then I won't stop you. However I have rather urgent business with Lord Durendil, so if it's all the same to you..." she makes her way over to the door to give it several loud raps.

Zaelinor's lip curls, but he seems unwilling to admit that he doesn't really have a choice about waiting out here to Calsia, so he stays where he is. He does, however, nod at her warhorse.

"Do you need to tether that thing, or is it going to be a good beast and stay where it is just because you ask it to nicely?"

The stallion in question gives Zaelinor an unimpressed snort.

"Snowflake knows how to stay put," Calsia replies coolly, before knocking on the door once more.

It's opened after a minute or two by Dorin, who greets her with a delighted "Aye, lassie, come on in," and ushers her in.

"Dorin," Calsia grins, accepting the bear hug the dwarf offers her and skilfully avoiding getting a face full of beard, horn or battle axe.

"Um, Dorin," she adds after this, pausing on the doorstep, "I assume you are aware that there is a varim lurking on your doorstep?"

"Still there, is he? Stinkin' pest," Dorin says with a dark look in Zaelinor's direction. "Claims he's an acquaintance of a knight who's here to visit me, but how much truth's in that is anyone's guess. Didn't cast any of his magic spells on ye, did he, lass?"

"He didn't," Calsia assures the dwarf, "But don't you think you should invite him in out of the cold?"

The look on Dorin's face suggests he very much does not think this.

"His kind live in glaciers, lassie."

"But unlike Mereldinor, Thane is a little lacking in the magical heating department," Zaelinor points out with a sneer.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:09, Wed 07 Oct 2020.

Calsia stands her ground, crossing her arms as she glances at Dorin.

"I thought the Durendil Manor was open to all, regardless of rank, race or wealth?"

Dorin sends her a fierce look from beneath his bushy brows and looks like he'd like to point out that that policy is there to help the poor who actually need it, not to allow evil varim noblemen to do what they'd like inside his mansion. However, at Calsia's obstinate look, he relents with a scowl and a sigh.

"Ye heart is too soft, lassie, and that's the truth of it. All right, varim, ye can get ye snivelling arse inside if ye really can't stand the cold, but try anything magicky inside my mansion and my axe goes through your skull."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:24, Thu 08 Oct 2020.

Just what Zaelinor thinks watching these developments unfold is anyone's guess, but his gaze is certainly more appraising than venomous where it rests on Calsia's back while she speaks (at least until the pair of them look back at him, whereupon anything less than hostile is instantly hidden beneath a scornful look.)

"I will not 'try anything magical.' I will be too busy trying not to die from mold spores," he sneers, pushing himself away from the wall and limping towards the doorway with one last, wary look at the shadows where the dark figment vanished.

Calsia seems satisfied by Dorin's gruff relenting, and follows him into the house, grinning as one of the hounds bounds across to the room toward her as she crouches to pet the dog and scratch its neck.

"Hello Torvus," she says, "Who's a good boy, hey? Who's a good boy?"

She glances up as Lastergon appears at the doorway leading to the living room, and quickly straightens up.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:24, Thu 08 Oct 2020.

"My lady," Lastergon says politely, though he frowns as his eyes alight on her attire and the longsword hanging at her side.

He appears to have secreted the winged object in his pack or pouch, as it is nowhere in sight.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:25, Thu 08 Oct 2020.

Lastergon's expression is not lost on Calsia, who's own features cool somewhat as she regards him with a curt nod in response.

"Who's this?" she directs at Dorin.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 21:23, Thu 08 Oct 2020.

"Calsia, and this is Lastergon, a knight what brought along a trinket to show me," Dorin palms off these introductions with ease, clearly approving of Lastergon's sensible viewpoint about hiding objects when there are varim around to snoop. "Speaking of, the man brought a pair of this along to show me, is what it looked like to me, but I can't help the lad as to where it came from or what it does there," he maneuvers his own half of the object, so that his burly body blocks it from view of Zaelinor, and holds it up to show Calsia. "Is it a thing ye recognize at all, lassie?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:01, Tue 20 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor makes a point of looking deliberately uninterested and migrating towards the fireplace, though he does cast one fleeting, curious look at the object, that turns sour when Dorin shifts a bit more to block his view.

Calsia looks at the object briefly before shrugging.

"I mean, I've seen it on your shelf in your study for years. But I just assumed it was some kind of souvenir of yours."

She does not appear overly interested in the object, changing the topic a moment later.

"Actually I came here looking for my uncle. Have you seen him recently?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:31, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

"Ye uncle? Out protecting thankless innocents in some dark corner of a forest, most likely. Saw him a week ago, and he mentioned a pack of wolves'd been causing problems. Why do ye need him, lassie? Anyone whose skull is in need of an axe though it?"

In lieu of a response, Calsia reaches into a pack buried in the folds of her cloak, withdrawing a crumpled letter which she passes to the dwarf.

Putting away the winged object in a pouch, Dorin takes the letter with a grunt and opens it, squinting down at the parchment.

The letter is blotted and appears to be written in a poor substitute for ink, but the hand in which it is written is steady and sure. It reads as follows.

Calnor,

Followed up on the lead you mentioned in your last letter. Seems there may be some truth to your suspicions. Also appears that there might be more to this than just a local cult. Meeting a contact tomorrow who I hope will have more answers. Will keep you informed.

Artivon
This message was last edited by the player at 01:02, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

"This arrived six days ago," Calsia explains as Dorin reads, "My father has received nothing from him since."

Lastergon tries his best not to look too interested as he glances at the pair from the doorway where he stands, then at Zaelinor.

Dorin's brow ceases with worry as he finishes reading the letter."Wolves my foot. If it ain't like your uncle, though, to do these things himself instead of seekin' out help when he needs it," he growls.

Zaelinor, who mostly looks tired and maybe more interested in the winged object he caught a glimpse of than any letters about human uncles, nevertheless musters up the energy to send Lastergon a sneer when he notices he's being looked at.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:22, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

Lastergon coughs awkwardly from the doorway.

"My apologies, Lord Dorin," he says gravely, "I do not mean to appear disinterested in the plight of this 'uncle' to whom you refer, but my quest to find answers regarding these strange objects is of paramount importance. You mentioned that this Lord Dranerius had a son. Do you know where I might find him?"

"Huntin' cults instead of wolves, apparently," Dorin says, jabbing the letter. "Forgot to mention, the lass here is his niece."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:30, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

Lastergon blinks as he glances from Dorin to Calsia, then back again.

"His niece?" he repeats blankly.

Calsia gives Lastergon an exasperated sigh, turning to Dorin.

"If you saw him a week ago then it must have been shortly before he sent this letter. It arrived by falcon. Where did you see him?"

"Here, lassie. Came late evening and was gone morning after without a goodbye, which is just like yer uncle. I'd have gone with him if I'd have known he was huntin' more than wolves though."

"Well," says Lastergon, recovering himself as he strides forward a few paces, "It is clear that we will need to locate him. Some sort of ranger, is he?"

"'We' don't need to do anything," Calsia replies coolly, "Dorin, can you help me find him?"

Lastergon frowns.

"No offense to Lord Dorin or yourself, but it will do neither us nor your uncle any good if you two go galivanting off and get yourselves killed. I am a trained knight of the Order of Carendis and this uncle of yours is clearly in some peril."

"Oh how considerate of you," Calsia says dryly, rolling her eyes.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:20, Fri 09 Oct 2020.

"Aye, this axe of mine be always eager to taste the blood of evil," Dorin says, eyes glinting. "And sure, ye welcome to tag along if ye want, Mr Knight, so long as ye can keep up and don't slow us down."

Zaelinor looks distinctly smug at the 'tagging along' phrase being directed at someone else.

Lastergon looks distinctly less smug at Dorin's use of the phrase. He opens his mouth as if to object, but instead forces a smile onto his face as he nods slowly.

"Very well. I assume we shall set off at first light?"

"You can set off at first light if you wish," Calsia replies briskly as she turns to stride back towards the entrance, "The night is still young and my uncle's life is in peril."

"You won't have much luck locating your uncle in this heavy mist," Lastergon objects as he nevertheless sets off after Calsia.

"We ain't all blind as a bat in the dark, laddie," Dorin snorts, shaking his head. "And if it's a cult we be huntin', all we gotta do is be makin' noise and they'll be the ones finding us."

Zaelinor trails after both of them, clearly having no intention of being left on his own.

"Brilliant," says Lastergon as they exit the mansion, not sounding at all enthused, "Let me fetch my mount."

With this he jogs off into the mist in the direction of the inn. The others hear a dull thud and a muffled curse shortly afterward, and then the resumed sound of clinking armor retreating into the gloom. At length the knight returns, cantering up to the house on his stallion.

"You'd best stable him here for the night," Calsia informs Lastergon as he returns, "Valarn backs onto the forest, and unless you are Lord Morfion you won't have any luck trying to ride once we are inside."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:11, Mon 12 Oct 2020.

Lastergon sends her an unimpressed frown, but he is not Lord Morfion, and obediently dismounts.

"Very well," he allows, walking his mount over to where Calsia is already brushing down her own mount.

A few minutes later both stallions are brushed, fed and housed for the night.

"Right," says Calsia, leading the way out of the yard, "My uncle's cabin is a few miles from here. Hopefully we will either find him there, or at least some indication of where he might have gone."

"I would not object to riding if there are war horses free. If it's the gloom that concerns you, then I, too, can see just fine in this light. I will engage to steer them in the right direction should they see fit to wander into any branches," Zaelinor says, watching two perfectly sturdy war horses being led away to rest for the night with considerable envy.

Calsia shakes her head.

"The forest paths are steep and treacherously uneven. There are also several points at which the foliage is to narrow and dense to fit a horse through, even on a fine sunny morning."

"Wonderful," Zaelinor says unenthusiastically.

If he is wondering whether he is in any condition right now for steep, treacherously uneven climbs, this is something he's wise enough not to voice, given that such a thing is only likely to result in himself being left behind.

As warned by Calsia, the paths are indeed treacherous. The moonlight filters faintly through the branches above them, but in the mist it's questionable how much this helps, and it's not long until the cold mist has soaked through everyone's clothes and left them sodden and chill. The deeper they progress into the forest, the less light there is. Dorin leads the way with a sturdy torch held aloft, walking sturdily along and clearly not struggling at all with either the mist or the gloom, and Calsia herself seems to have few difficulties, her sturdy leathers repelling any trailing thorns, but Lastergon, less familiar with the paths and with a sodden noble's garb hampering him, often finds himself stumbling over tree roots and feels briers tearing at his flowing cloak. (Zaelinor, who seems determined not to be bringing up the rear, speaks little from where he is keeping pace with Lastergon, merely gritting his teeth as he trudges along, though whether this is against pain or cold is anyone's guess. He seems more twitchy than he was inside Dorin's estate, head jerking around at every distant twig snap and every rustle of the bushes.)

After a long, cold, two hours, the trees begin to thin and they can make out the dark shape of a log cabin in the distance. There's no smoke coming from the chimney, and no lights inside. Clearly, either Calsia's uncle is not here or he's already sleeping.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:16, Mon 12 Oct 2020.

Calsia unsheathes her weapon as she creeps towards the entrance of the cabin. Her efforts are thwarted somewhat by an uncooperative twig which snaps loudly beneath her foot just before she reaches the cabin.

OOC: Calsia Lyran rolled 14 using 1d20+2. Hide.
Calsia Lyran rolled 3 using 1d20+2. Move Silently.

Lastergon unsheathes his own blade as he follows after her, managing to step on the same twig which gives another loud snap.

OOC: Lastergon Aravor rolled 11 using 1d20-1. Hide.
Lastergon Aravor rolled 5 using 1d20-1. Move Silently.

Dorin doesn't seem to be bothering to try and be stealthy. Unsheathing his battle-axe, he slams the butt of it against the door, forcing it open.

OOC: Dorin Durendil rolled 17 using 1d20+3.  Strength Check (Forcing Door).
This message was last edited by the player at 05:21, Mon 12 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor, who seems to be assuming there's a reason both Calsia and Lastergon stepped on that twig, makes sure he follows their footsteps and also steps on it, casting a wary glance behind him as he does so, that melts into annoyance at the loud banging that Dorin is making on the door.

OOC: Zaelinor Orthran rolled 4 using 1d20+2.  Move Silently Check (-1, wounded).
Zaelinor Orthran rolled 5 using 1d20+2.  Hide Check (-1, wounded).

The door offers no resistance as it swings open with a bang. The reason for this becomes apparent upon entering, as they find the latch of the door already lying on the darkened floor before them. The cabin, which consists of a single, large room, has been ransacked. Drawers have been opened, bedclothes tossed about the floor and books thrown off the narrow bookshelf which stands in the corner of the room. The rough hewn writing desk which stands beside it has been completely overturned, scattering sealing wax, a quill and sheets of parchment across the floor.

"Looks like these cultists got to him first," Lastergon muses darkly as he nudges one of the books with his boot.

Calsia doesn't reply, frowning as she flips over a lump of quilt to reveal a feather pillow beneath.

"Aye, looks that way, laddie. But what they were looking here for is the question, I be thinkin"."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:40, Mon 12 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor gravitates over to the desk, brushing the papers lightly with dark fingers, and turning a few over to see if there's any chance the ink or indentation of whatever was being was caught on either the desk or other bits of paper below.

Upon some examination Zaelinor finds some etchings on one piece of parchment lying by the wall, making out the words 'just a local cult', 'meeting a contact tomorrow' and 'keep you informed'. However, apart from these words he finds no other signs Artivon's writings.

"No blood or signs of a struggle," Calsia asserts at length as she exits to examine the mossy ground outside, "It looks like he was not here when this place was ransacked. I make out three sets of boots. I'd guess this place was raided a couple of days ago."

OOC: Calsia Lyran rolled 22 using 1d20+9. Survival.

"Well, they must be long gone by now," Lastergon surmises as he crouches beside her, scuffing up several of the boot prints as he does so.

"One gathers," Zaelinor summise with a flick of the papers, either forgetting or choosing to ignore the fact that his insight probably won't be welcomed by anyone in this room, "That he attempted infiltration, and, given the status of this place, likely failed. Speaking as someone who grew up in a cult, he'll be lucky if he is not bound in a dungeon somewhere waiting to have his heart cut out, if they are following typical cult rules."

"Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine?" Lastergon replies darkly, glancing over his shoulder at the varim.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:42, Wed 14 Oct 2020.

"My uncle is more than a match for some cultist rabble," Calsia replies confidently as she rises and begins to pick her way away from the cabin.

"The tracks lead off this way," she adds over her shoulder.

Lastergon rises, but does not make to follow Calsia.

"You said yourself that these cultists are long gone. We might as well return to town to rest, then go hunting them in the morning."

"No one is stopping you from doing so," Calsia replies coolly as she continues to pick her way back into the forest.

"Females," Zaelinor says to Lastergon, in a commiserating undertone.

"Aye, laddie. No one's makin' ye tag along if it's past ye bedtime," Dorin says, ignoring (or not hearing) Zaelinor, and setting off after Calsia, armor creaking and twigs snapping loudly as he goes.

"It is not 'past my bedtime'," Lastergon mutters defensively as he begins to trudge after the pair, apparently in some unspoken twig-snapping competition with Dorin, "Still, we will need to rest eventually."

Zaelinor follows Lastergon with a hint of regret (though no real surprise) that three males are going to follow along and do what a female is ordering them to do, no matter how unwise or unreasonable said female is being. He, too, does not seem to be bothering to move silently, merely following wherever Dorin is stepping

Calsia appears to be a competent tracker, or at least a confident one, leading the others through the forest as she examines the underbrush and bushes about them. (She's aided partly by the fact that the mist seems to be clearing this high up.)

"Definitely three of them," she confirms over her shoulder as she moves ahead.

OOC: Calsia Lyran rolled 24 using 1d20+9. Survival.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:39, Wed 14 Oct 2020.

"So, how does a lady such as yourself know a thing about tracking?" Lastergon asks doubtfully as he picks his way around a series of animal droppings which litter the ground about them.

"My uncle taught me," Calsia replies briskly, not taking her eyes off the underbrush in front of her.

"Of course he did," Lastergon mutters as he continues to devote his attention to negotiating his way across the dropping littered path.

With his better eyesight, Zaelinor seems to be having no trouble picking his way through the gloom to avoid droppings-- something he seems to be taking considerably more care to avoid than sticks.

Dorin, by contrast, seems to be making it a personal challenge to plant his foot in every one of them.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:54, Wed 14 Oct 2020.

"At least it should be easy enough to find our way back should the cultists separate us from these two uncultured swine, hmm?" Zaelinor observes to Lastergon in an undertone, wincing at yet another wet squelch from Dorin's feet.

Lastergon does not respond, his attention fully focused on the ground before him.

He gives a grunt as he clunks his head on a low hanging branch.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:01, Thu 15 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor snorts, only to let out a soft hiss of his own a moment later when he catches his foot on a trailing bramble and jars his injured leg.

The party make their way through the forest for another couple of hours, encountering no signs of life save for the flapping wings of bats, the occasional hoot from an owl, or the distant howl of a wolf. It is nearly midnight by the time the trees begin to thin about them, revealing a rutted, muddy track winding up a hill before them.

"Any sign of your cultists yet?" Lastergon asks Calsia irritably.

Calsia shoots him an unimpressed look, before turning to Dorin.

"Their tracks lead up to the road here, but they disappear into the traffic of prints after that. Farfadal is just up this road, and is the last town in this direction, so there is a good chance that is where they were headed."

OOC: Calsia Lyran rolled 24 using 1d20+9. Survival.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:00, Thu 15 Oct 2020.

"Aye, I trust ye insight, lassie," Dorin says, with the air of a dwarf who'd probably believe her if she said Carendisal lay in that direction. "If ye think they be embedded in the town instead o' burin' themselves in a cave, that's where we be headin'."

OOC: Dorin Durendil rolled 4 using 1d20.  Survival Check.

"Let us hope that they had the good sense to stop at a luxurious inn with decent wine, so that we can do likewise," Zaelinor sneers, lip curling at the sight of the muddy path ahead.

If Lastergon agrees wholehearted with Zaelinor he is not about to admit it. With a weary shrug he trudges up the road after Calsia and Dorin.

Zaelinor follows, casting wary glance back at the forest behind him as he goes.

The town is not far, and after a few short minutes of walking the shapes of darkened buildings come into view. Farfadal is larger than Valarn, with dozens of wooden houses lining its muddy streets. Behind the town a steep cliff face rises, and into the foot of this a large mine entrance has been constructed. The streets are dark and silent at this hour, with not a flicker of a fire or candle visible in any of the houses they pass. Luxurious inns do not appear to be the town's speciality, with Calsia leading the way over to a dilapidated two story building outside which a faded sign reads 'The Miner's Pint'.

"Charming," mutters Lastergon dryly as Calsia raps lightly on the door of the building.

Zaelinor snorts, hanging back out of the range of any torchlight, so as to not trigger any peasants grabbing any pitchforks at the sight of him.

The door cracks open a moment later to reveal a rotund man with a balding head and a walrus moustache, a battered crossbow in hand. He gives a start, lowering the crossbow and opening the door rather wider with a smile at the sight of Calsia and Dorin.

"Well, I'll be smoked. If it isn't your ladyship, traipsin' around at midnight," he says. "Come on in and out of the cold! What brings ye here so late?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:37, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

Calsia grins back upon being recognised by the man.

"Dalgun," she says warmly as she enters, "I wasn't sure if you'd recognise me. Sorry to trouble you so late in the evening. It's a long story. How's business?"

"As if I wouldn't recognise old Calnor's daughter," Dalgun scoffs, not without a gruff smile at having his own name remembered.

He shakes his head though at the mention of business.

"Not so good, lassie. Not so good. There be people starting to say the mines are cursed is what, what with the collapse a while back, and then them tunnels they discovered last month. A cursed crypt, some say. Now, I can't say nothing 'bout no crypt, but they certainly shut down the mine 'til further notice. And there's been strange folk in town since then. Mayor claims he be hirin' mercenaries to investigate whatever be going on down there. But if these folk be honest mercenaries then I'm an aarvul. Dark folk, they are. People daren't go out after dark no more, which is why I be givin' ye a less than hospit'ble welcome just now."
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:38, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"Dark folk?" Calsia repeats with interest as she glances about the darkened taproom which is cosier than its outward appearance would suggest, despite currently having no light save for the candle held by Dalgun.

"Oh, these are my companions," she adds, "Dorin Durendil and uh... a knight and his uh... friend."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:38, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

Lastergon gives Calsia an unimpressed look.

"Lastergon Aravor," he addresses the man imperiously, stepping forward, "Knight of the crown."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:18, Thu 15 Oct 2020.

"And his, 'uh, friend,'" Zaelinor says, smoothly stepping forward as well.

Dalgun sends Lastergon a doubtful look that gets more doubtful when Zaelinor steps forward, but the knight's armor and bejeweled greatsword seem to convince him the man's probably speaking the truth and (in the latter's case), he seems to accept that anyone Calsia and Dorin are travelling around with can't be as terrible as he privately thinks they are.

"Right. Friend," he echoes skeptically, with a dark look at Zaelinor, before turning his attention back to Calsia. "Aye, dark folk indeed. Swarthy men, always goin' 'bout in dark armor and cloaks. They come and go from the mayor's manor into the mine, and don't say nothin' to none of us common folk. But they be a bad lot, that I can tell you. They don't seem to eat nor drink, least not in any o' our reputable establishments 'ere in town. We don't see much o' the mayor either, since then, and when we do see 'im he looks all odd. There be something dark at work, mark me words."
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:43, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"These sorts of things do seem to happen in these rural hamlets," Lastergon asserts darkly.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:15, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

Calsia ignores the knight as she nods thoughtfully.

"It all does sound suspicious," she agrees with Dalgun, "And may be connected to the reason we have come. Have you seen Artivon by any chance? It is our search for him that brings us here."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:16, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"Dinner and your finest room would also not go amiss," Lastergon adds practically if not particularly tactfully.

Zaelinor sends Lastergon an approving look at what he clearly views as an attempt to steer the conversation in the right direction.

"Artivon? He was here not two days ago. Met here with a stranger I'd not seen before, though he didn't order no meal or even an ale. Left in a hurry and that were the last I seen of him. But he's always been a strange one. No offense to ye uncle, but the respectability didn't flow down his side of the family tree if ye know what I'm sayin', lassie. Further you stay away from him the better."
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:24, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"Did you hear anything of their conversation?" Calsia presses, ignoring Lastergon's comment.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:25, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"I didn't want to know nothin' about it, truth be told," Dalgun shakes his head. "You know ye uncle's always stickin' his nose into what he shouldn't, and these times it be 'specially unwise."
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:29, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

Calsia nods thoughtfully.

"Very well," she says, "If we could trouble you for some rooms for the night and whatever you have in the way of bread and salted meats we would greatly appreciate it."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:30, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"Yer a good lass and ye father should be proud o' ye," Durgan says with a gruff smile. "You just be careful and head back as soon as ye can. Now, we're short on bread what with customers bein' slim but I got rooms and salted meat aplenty and some oat cakes that have still got some life left in 'em. I've got a modest parlor upstairs where ye can enjoy your supper and I'll show ye yer rooms on the way."
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:03, Sun 26 Feb 2023.

"Wonderful," says Lastergon dryly as they begin to ascend the staircase into the darkened rooms beyond.

OOC: End of Chapter I...