The kingdom of Darion fell to pieces almost overnight. The king was assassinated, leaving behind no heir. No trace was found of the mysterious assassin and in the following months the realm descended into war, as the nobles each desired to take the crown for themselves. Some of them seemed to exhibit uncharacteristic cruelty, others have turned to dark powers to gain an advantage in war.

The war raged on for many months, during which the weakest were conquered by the strong and the land suffered. By now, the conflict has died down, although the kingdom has been split between the victors and it's only a matter of time before they decide they aren't satisfied with what they won anymore.

Worse yet, the weakened realm became a target for it's ancient enemies. Orcs, goblins and other dark creatures grow bolder each day, spreading terror and stealing what little the war still left. The Church of Pelor and Order of Heironeous suffered greatly in the war, while the Church of Hextor rose to prominence. As their patron god has been empowered by the strife, so too were his followers. They are offering protection to the common folk in exchange for their unquestioning servitude and worship of Hextor and establish order where there is none. And so the weak and helpless seek help from those who would enslave them. Their numbers grow each day, as more and more people abandon the teachings of Pelor and either seek protection from Hextor's followers or join them in fear of their might.

You are part of a caravan heading to Selenrad, a large port city to the north untoched by war. It's ruler, Duke Ulric, remained largely uninvolved in the war. Among you are many refugees fleeing there in search of safety and in hope of starting a new life. The duke has promised the refugees food, shelter and protection, but whether his offer is genuine remains to be seen.

The wagons came to a halt as the sun began to set. It was time for the caravan to camp for the night. It's still almost a weeks worth of travel before the caravan reaches Selenrad at this pace. It would probably be faster on foot, but the refugees move slowly, especially with all they took with them when they escaped the rampaging armies that plagued the realm. Due to this situation, you were forced to take a detour through dangerous territory.

Perhaps unexpectedly, forces belonging to the Church of Hextor were much less dangerous than the rampaging servants of the average power-hungry noble vying for the crown. Many of those consorted with demons, necromancers and other such entities in an effort to gain the upper hand on their competition. To many ordinary people, the blood-red robed priests of Hextor were saviors, bringing order where once there was only chaos and death. Many were content with serving them and living under their protection, even if it came at the cost of total and unquestioning obedience to Hextor and his servants.

That is not to say that they were benevolent. Any who refused their generous offers or even opposed them were enslaved or ruthlessly put down, without mercy. When they had a reason to, their acts of cruelty would make even the most ruthless noble flinch in disgust. Yet there was a system and method to their cruelty. That perhaps made it even worse.

As for the nobles... many of them had dealings with the Church of Hextor, even inviting them to their cities and making the Church of Hextor the official faith of their realm. Others kept them at a close distance or even declared them their enemy, be it due to them still worshipping Pelor and other gods of light or purely for pragmatic reasons. Meanwhile, servants of Hextor were playing the nobles against each other, while they slowly grew in power.

Was Hextor responsible for the king's death, or was he just taking advantage of the chaos the king's death brought upon the realm? And if so, was he acting alone, or did he have allies? Or was he too just a pawn in someone else's game? There were many questions and not many answers.

As the sun begins to set and the camp is made, the travellers begin to congregate, eat and rest after a long day of travel. Among those, right of them certainly stand out. And those eight have set up their sleeping spots near each other. Was it fate, or simply coincidence that it happened tonight? You have been on this journey for over a week now, yet there wasn't much opportunity for you to get to know each other. As you sit around the campfire and watch the sunset, perhaps now is the time to remedy that?

The first thing Durgo had done when he and Bhagrim joined the caravan was look for others from their clan.  Perhaps he would stop his stupid deathwish if there were other survivors to protect.  After all, their arms instructor had always said, "In battle, you do not die for your clan.  You make the other guy die for his."
As the caravan moves along, he spends his time learning more about the above ground world.  His training had been almost entirely underground, but now, he is out of his preferred element and he must learn something new.
The campsite had been selected well before the arrival of the caravan by the scouts.  The area had been cleared of detritus (some used for campfires, some as makeshift bulwarks for defense), and food plants foraged, and small game hunted, to add to their food supplies.  Not much different from being a part of the deposit and ore.exploration teams back in the mines.  Fresher, cleaner air, different forage and game, but still much the same.
He knows that because of their ability to see in the dark, he and his clan brother will be on late watch rotation, which is fine by him.  It means he gets to sleep away part of the day in a wagon before going back out with the scouts.
He helps to set up the camp, choosing his own spot near his clan brother.  He knows none of the people around him outside of the scouts, and he does not even know them well.  Probably for the best, in case the unthinkable happens.  Afterwards, he joins Bhagrim in line for this evening's version of stew.
It is not all that chewy squirrel meat tonight.  We caught some rabbits and a sizeable groundhog.  Plus, I located some good mushrooms to add to it, he informs the former smith.

Nedal carried himself quietly in his time with the caravan. He wasn't much use in doing anything with the animals or hunting or anything, though he was easily able to light and maintain all the campfires for the caravan as camps were set each night.

Aside from that, he kept himself to himself. He wore common clothing that were non-descript in the extreme. He seemed every bit a refugee as everyone else on the trail right now.

Still each morning he prayed to Pelor, though he avoided the priest of Pelor and talks or discussions with him at all costs, even awkwardly exiting conversations when he saw the priest approaching at times.

He was pleasant with those who talked to him, though he said much without saying anything meaningful or revealing anything of himself to those he spoke with.

"Hrrrrr." came the customary resenting growl.

Bhagrim Dweomerdelf had made his presence felt around the camp in no uncertain terms. He stomped around the campfire, glaring at the refugees and cast spiteful glances into the distance as if daring any foe to show up. Considering he had been dragged wounded from the battle for the clan hold he had made a remarkable recovery. His chest was marred with numerous fresh scars but it was the nasty gash on his back that had done him in. Indeed, so ferocious his last stand had been that the enemy had to take him down from behind with a blow only a dwarf could recover from. But his honorable death had been denied him and ever since he woke Bhagrim had been a walking avalanche of spite.

It wasn't so much that death had been denied him itself that made Bhagrim such a paragon of simmering rage, it was that the future held no hope to him. Not in his lifetime would his clan be rebuilt. Indeed, it would very likely fade into ignominy. His generation was the one that had failed a line spanning back millennia. Had he died in a brave final stand he would have been welcomed by his ancestors in Moradin's halls. To live out his remaining centuries among the surface dwellers like some cast out fugitive, now there was true shame here and in the afterlife.

And so he had paced like a restless caged animal ever since. Sometimes simply along the caravan, but even as it stopped to let the weak surface-dwellers rest he paced on. In his hand he held a massive battleaxe that looked too heavy for many to lift. Indeed, Bhagrim's physique was gargantuan by dwarven standards. But instead of taller, Bhagrim was wide and barrel-chested. He was heavier then a human yet made of pure muscle, a testament to a century of working a forge like only a dwarf could. Not for decades had he lost an arm wrestling competition. The humans had learned to stay clear of him as well. His swats were likened to the blow of a kicking horse. The fact he had not bathed since the battle did not endear him to the senses either.

Only a dwarf could know Bhagrim's inner pain, and then know it wasn't proper to talk about it. Bhagrim had expressed his lack of belief in a future worth living for to Durgo, and that was that. No need to get mushy about it. And the bare-chested dwarf's perpetual scowl only deepened when Durgo brought up food.
"Who cares about yer stew. It's the ale I'm worried about. We're close to running dry."

Indeed, the only solace Bhagrim had found had been in drink. But someone of his physique and a dwarf to boot required staggering amounts of the weak piss the surface-dwellers called ale to even get a light buzz. It had been tortuous, but that had not stopped him from trying to drain every barrel the caravan had to offer, which hadn't been much to begin with.

"Best we find some more soon. Or I'm going to have ta find other ways to entertain myself..."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:48, Tue 28 Dec 2021.

Life with the caravan was mostly boredom, broken up by occasional bouts of dread.  Nothing disastrous had happened yet, but there had been the usual delays and of course the slow pace had a lot of people on edge.  The sooner they got to Selenrad, the sooner they could all start trying to rebuild their lives.  The problem was that there was no way to get them there sooner, and the delay was weighing on everyone.

It was certainly hard on the children, although in a different way.  They just wanted to be in something resembling a home again, and not have to be travelling all the time.  So Cassidy had fallen into the habit of entertaining the kids with little coin and card tricks to help the time pass more smoothly, both for them and for her.  Though her family had naturally travelled quite a lot, it had never been like this.  Their habit had been sneaking off quickly and quietly in the middle of the night, she thought with a sigh, not roaming around with a huge, slow, noisy caravan that attracted everyone's attention.  And they'd almost never had to keep moving for this long, either, and Cass was beginning to find it wearying.

The good news was that no one here knew her, and as they got further and further from the heart of Darion, the chances of anyone recognizing her grew more remote.  There wasn't any particular crime she was wanted for -- at least not that she knew of -- but any meetings with past marks would still be rather... awkward, to say the least.  Actually, it would be equally awkward to run into a member of her family, now that she thought about it.  But so far, so good, and at least she'd also managed to meet some new people.  New friends were the only kind she wanted right now.

Of course, the people in the caravan were a mixed bunch, to put it mildly.  There was at least one seriously angry dwarf, for example, whom she had developed a habit of avoiding just to be on the safe side.  Cass was fairly sure that he would swat her like a fly if she gave him an excuse, and she didn't want to find out if she was right or not.  But for the most part, she'd gotten to recognize a few faces among the travellers, even put a few names to those faces, and the whole crew was slowly starting to feel like neighbors of a sort.  As she settled in around the fire for the night -- the children had been sent off to bed some time ago, for the most part -- she listened quietly to the conversation as she ate her own portion of stew.  "It's a little bit better tonight, I think," she said, though her tone was doubtful.

This was the best night of his life. They were still celebrating his victory in the common room below, but the man of the hour had retired to his room upstairs, where he lay next to a roaring fire on a bear-pelt bed, belly full of wine and food, and perfumed company in his arms...

Except the fire wasn't so warm, and the bed not so soft. "Dellah, love, throw some wood on the fire, would you?" he muttered, nudging his sleeping companion, only to find no one next to him. Only the hard, unyielding floor of a wagon. He groaned and opened his eyes, heard the clanking and grinding of his armor in his ears, the soreness of badly healed wounds underneath. He had slept in the back of a wagon, in his armor, the entire day. Slept off his wounds, slept off his defeat, and waking up feeling like a broken down champion fallen on hard times.

The Dragon of Darion, the Pugilist of Baker Row, the Giant Bastard of Kord (he liked that one)... Now sleeping in his bloody battered armor in the back of a wagon. Fallen on hard times indeed.

He sat up, reached for his jug of wine, found it empty, tossed it over his shoulder into the forest. Defeated and sober? "Will not do... Will not do," he grumbled and jumped down off the wagon, the wheels squeaking in protest as his weight shifted off. He raised up to his full impressive height, rolled his shoulders and then hacked out a gob of spit flecked with a little blood. He ran a gauntlet over his shaved head, groaned again at the remains of a hangover thudding against his thick skull.

He draped his huge fur-line cloak over his armor and shuffled towards the campfire, looking at those tired, scared faces huddled in their tents and campfires. There would have been a time where he would have thrown his weight into putting on a show to boost morale, use that booming showman voice of his to rally the refugees. But the last time he played the inspiring leader, a lot of people died. So the once proud warrior kept his head down and stood in line for stew, his extravagant armor and height making him stick out among the refugees.

But when he got to his turn for stew, he looked around at the hungry travelers around him, let out a grumbling sigh and stepped away. He had hardtack to eat and a few pounds of easy living to shed, so better some hungry waif get food in their belly.

He wandered over to the fire, looking from the two Dwarves to quiet man to the young woman with bloodshot eyes and a rough face covered in beard stubble. "What does a sober Dwarf do to entertain himself?" he mused aloud to Baghram. That heaping mound of muscles looked downright feral, but he couldn't help prodding him a little. He much preferred his quieter companions.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:11, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

For the weeks on the caravan a young man, always accompanied by his lute and voice walks up and down the wagons singing rhyming and otherwise making up songs. For the most part it is noticed, mainly by the working men, that Jaxson seems talented to get out of manual work. Finding himself thronged by children wanting a song sung using their names, or to hear a funny song about bodily waste. Though, while alone anyone will notice him strumming on the lute with a parchment, you see his mind totally focused on a new song. What he believes could be his swan song, what will make him legendary, build his renown he so greatly craves.

Walking over to the fire he grabs a patch of dirt, crossing his legs he sits down pulling out his lute plucking each string with a hum making sure it is in tone before looking up. "Luckily for us we have a mighty dwarf hunter to make the food better." He smiles looking at the gloom and tired faces. "How about a SONG! That cheers up every heart in my experience and it would be nice to sing about things other then bodily waste, and body parts." Clearing his throat, "Lets see, Ah yes this is a good one."


"We've been on this Caravan for a long time now
Not enough whiskey for the road
And we sure would like some real stew and meat
And we'll keep on tomorrow, what do you say?

When we're gone
When we're gone
We're not gonna miss war torn place
We're not gonna miss the grumping dwarfs
We're  gonna miss sweet women
We're  gonna miss pelor
When we're gone
When we're gone
You're gonna miss me when we get there
You're gonna miss my clothes I wear
You're gonna miss me by my songs, oh
You're gonna miss me when I'm gone

We've been on this Caravan for a long time now
The one with the prettiest of views
It's got mountains, it's got rivers
It's got sights give you shivers
But it sure would be prettier with ale!"

OOC: Credit to Anna Kendrick and Pitch perfect for original song - When Im gone (cups song)
This message was last edited by the player at 06:49, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

Though he'd kept away from the loud dwarves and the fire initially, the bard's odd song had been enough to coax Nedal from one of the wagon backs into this fire light with his bowl of... whatever it was.

He looked at those gathered, each in turn. The hulking man in fine armor was such an odd sight to see on this road south, and the bard seemed too oddly cheery for the road that had bound them all together.

Still, Nedal sat and ate his stew and listened to the other talk as he did so. The night felt more comforting to him these days than the bright light of Pelor's gaze, and so he sat at the edge of the dim light in his light clothing. He seemed unaffected by the chill of night around him even though the fire wasn't near enough to warm his spot.

He looked at the bard and said to him with a soft smile, "do you know any songs of hope good bard? Not ones to make us laugh, but ones to uplift the soul in these dark times? Laughter is hard to comeby for many right now, but a song to kindle hope. Now that might do some good."

Avri had laid out his sleeping spot and approached the fire with quiet steps. For some reason the man who said his prayers to Pelor every morning had taken offense to his presence and the last thing the priest wanted to do was make his trying journey even more difficult on anyone. So he’d tried to avoid the man in turn- but the night was cold and the other fires crowded with refugees even younger or more unfortunate than they.

He found himself nodding agreement to the man’s suggestion for songs of hope, but held his tongue on voicing verbal agreement. The last thing he wanted to do was bring the man’s attention to him and scare off a poor soul during this time of respite.

Like a shifting boulder Bhagrim turned to look up at Fenris Vast's face. Beady eyes glimmered angrily from under a massive brow. Even if the man who had spoken was a warrior, Bhagrim was not a dwarf to let a slight go, and he perceived one in every word not uttered by a dwarf tongue.
"Don't you know human? A dwarf who is sober is either working or sleeping. Since there ain't no forge here worth my time, maybe I'll go to work on yer face instead, eh?"

Durgo sits at the fire, slowly eating his stew as other filter in to enjoy the meager warmth of a fire intentionally kept hungry to avoid being easily spotted.  He looks to Bhagrim and speaks gruffly, deciding to rib the older dwarf a bit.
[Language unknown: Ni strterich stutin ic difipr ndni, ut, uttong, mi ce k ive theesa pr arwhe int lechie.  Reaersnot, ev thuomestr ca stranteen essredfor pl utfo k lealma erathethe chons unpe etre ck ng ers trthen, whice whipa hatoerund'pretha niilpapr.*]
As Cassidy takes a seat nearby, muttering about the food, Durgo looks towards her.  The hares found this afternoon will be a dmned sight better than the mangy squirrels we've had lately.  And the morels, while nowhere near as fine as the mushroom we cultivated in the clanhold, will definitely bring some welcome flavor to the stew, he says with a small smile almost hidden by his mustache.  Now, if you above-grounders would learn how to ferment mushrooms, you might be able to brew ale with a decent alcohol content.  He chuckles a bit with that last.
He looks up as the large fighter approaches.  He looks at Bhagrim and nods towards the looming human.  [Language unknown: Ck o taar ac tasiha, m sonsonted entev te toca hou.]
Then the minstrel arrives, and begins to sing.  Not a dwarven ballad, it is mildly entertaining, parodying the life of caravanners on the road.  He had seen Nedal around, watching as the warlock comes over.  Though he does not know the man or his profession, there seems something a bit off about him, and Durgo had not yet taken the time to become acquainted with him.  He had not really taken time with any of them, except the scouts, with whom he shared some skill, and the others with whom he shared nightwatch duties.
He is about to say something in agreement with Nedal for songs about hope, when another human of indeterminate occupation, when words are exchanged between the mountainous human and his simmering, almost boiling, clansman.
If you want to bandy about insults, he says standing up so quickly he nearly spills his stew, then so be it, you "jobby-flavored fart lozenges".  But, if you want to fight, save it for any bandits we come across.

"Feces tasting suppositories".  A creative Scottish insult.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:21, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

Finishing his song, he again tuning his lute in preparation for his next ditty. He looked on at the exchange between the dwarves. Turning to the men, "I have been working on a few songs recently, I have one that may be to your liking. It is ruff, still needs polish, you all shall be the first to hear it." Uncharacteristically the young mans tune begins slower, with a slight cheer to the stings as the first verse begins, his face filled with reverence.

"It was the sounds of laughter,
Noisy carts pulled on cobble roads,
Children running brushing your cloak,
Feeling the sweet touch of a women's embrace,
Fresh baked bread wafting down the streets,
Lavender, cut cedar, soot, and metal,
It was people dancing, moving to a beat,
Watching die roll and drinks flowing faster.

All these senses let us know there was peace.

It was the sound of battle,
Ringing of metal screaming pain,
Sticky red liquid between fingers,
Leather on a hilt with a sword plunged deep,
Burnt cloth, hair, pitch,
Nauseated by fumes,
Watching family fall,
As Children torn from mothers, fathers bury sons.

All these senses let us know peace had ended.

It is the sounds of wagon wheels,
Singing praises to Pelor,
Clasping hands with strangers,
Blisters burning on heels as a reminder of their chance,
Fresh mountain air,
Unwashed bodies, clothes smelling of nightly campfire,
Its Watching faces change to smiles,
Looking up to knew Horizons.

All these scenes let us know peace can be found.

Remembering, not forgetting,
Those that passed, for as we live,
We can honor,

Their sense of peace."

OOC: An Original, not great, but gets the job done I think
This message was last edited by the player at 19:38, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

Fenris grinned at the Dwarf's threats, eyes shining. A deep rumbling chuckle rose up from his chest, both in admiration and in anticipation. Finally, some fire! Gods, if you could throw down now, bloody his gauntlets, would do his spirit good! "Work my face, aye? Shall I get you a ladder?" he chuckled, cracking his knuckles and digging his heels into the dirt.

But then the songs started up, and he glanced around at the others. It would do no one any good to get into a bloody brawl in the middle of a caravan of refugees, many of which already lost their loved ones. A younger, less wise Fenris would not have cared, but now... By the time Durgo jumped up to ward off a fight, he was already lowering his fists, his battle lust ebbing away. [Language unknown: "Neei, nte miitee. P ssasnc aceediit witastrea din oulicawas. Riilto ous ear Houandome,"] he said in passable Dwarvish, offering only a disinterested shrug. He was too hung-over anyways.

Durgo looks at the large human in surprise, them smiles as he reaches out to clap the larger man on his arm in a friendly manner.  Well, it is good to know that a giant "bawbag" such as you can throw a real and true insult.Even if your dwarvish sounds like a "numpty" chewing rocks.

"Scrotum", "idiot".  But, he can tell Durgo is merely teasing him.

"Shame he's dumb as a rock too. Get up there? One punch and he's bent over, face nice in reach for a little hammering."
Bhagrim would've been happy to get into a little scrap. He thought it almost a shame the human backed down quick enough. Even knew a bit of dwarven, fancy that. That didn't mean his mood improved however. It merely shifted to another target as the dwarf glared at Durgo.
"You need to remind yerself yer not in a bloody mine any more. I'm sure the rats were lovely to swear at, but call me wankstain again, and yer face is going to be the stain on the nearest rock!"

His glare went on looking for the nearest target. It went in the direction of the refugees.
"AND WILL SOMEONE SHUT UP THAT BARD! HE SOUNDS LIKE A CAT IN HEAT!"

Angrily he paced off to find something with a little kick...

There's has been a child size figure with unkempt knot of hair going around the campfire and between the caravans since the caravan stopped, chanting and waving his wand in a integrate patterns. For those who come close, a few glyphs and symbols appear in the air around him and on the ground. He does this at every camp and people have stopped questioning it. All he would say was "Precaution is better than harm.". After about on an hour of work, he stops his chanting and goes to join the others at the fire just as Bhagrim goes off in a puff of anger.

"Some one needs to direct that dwarf towards something constructive before he does something destructive." he says as he sits close to the fire with a bowl of stew. His fancy cloths some what stained but not terribly. While eating, he opens his spellbook for the n'th time today and starts reading. After he finishes the bowl of stew, he starts chanting again in a low voice.

Nedal had noticed the priest's approach, but since he didn't try to talk to him, he didn't dart for elsewhere in the caravan's camp... yet.

The bard's song had been interesting. Somewhat uplifting, but still too real for Nedal's taste. Still it was a start of some hope. Maybe there was hope for the world yet.

He watched the display of aggression back and forth between the large armored figure and the dwarves with some fascination. Not muscled or inclined to physicality himself, it was obvious he didn't understand the need or point. Though he did chuckle over a spoonful of stew at Reobold's statement. He watched the other dwarf Durgo to see what his reaction was to the halfling's statement.

Cass winced at the sound of the dwarf's sudden explosion of anger, making sure that he was headed away from the fire before relaxing again.  "You know, I would not normally suggest this, but in his case, perhaps we should get him roaring drunk.  I'm not sure he can get any meaner, so maybe he's generally a happy drunk.  Sadly, I don't have any alcohol to donate to the cause."

She offered the last of her stew to one of the children who had crept out of a makeshift bed to hear the bard, and the boy took it happily.  "The good news is, I don't speak Dwarven, so I don't have to be horrified at what they're saying to each other," she added with a smile, then glanced over at the bookish Halfling who had just settled in.  [Language unknown: "U no proconmen ore Ousousereiou, virstaday.  Ngckas Anystienc."]

Durgo follows Bhagrim with his gaze, seeming to be astonished.  That's what he gets pouty over?  Not being called "lavvy heeded"?  His common is less accented than his clan brother's.
"Toilet headed", effectively a brain of urine and feces.
He sits back down to finish his stew, looking up at the halfling who has joined them.  Do not worry about him.  He only mostly means it.
He falls silent, eating some of his stew.
But, it is obvious he has more to say.   We dwarves have always been loyal to the kingdom.  Even more than to the king himself.
He takes a spoonful of stew, and chews it thoughtfully before swallowing and continuing.  The "radge, jobby" nobles took exception to our unwillingness to ally with any one of them.  So, they brought their "fecking" war to our doorstep.
"Crazy, fecal matter","if you can't figure it out, I'm not telling you".
He falls silent again, this pause a bit longer as he eats a bit and sips at his waterskin.  One at a time, they set upon us with their armies, then two allied, then three.  And we beat them back every time.  But, it took its toll on us.
 clan of ten thousand, reduced to less than a tenth by attrition.  We knew they were coming again, banded all together, and ready to fight each other over the scraps afterwards.  So, a few of us stayed to put up a token fight and set the halls to collapse on them, while the rest of our people tried to get away.
He falls silent again, this time without eating, as melancholy expression reaches his countenance.  We can only hope some of our people have gotten to safety.  But, we have seen no sign that they even made it from the mountains.
He gen falls silent again, eating his stew and apparently finished speaking for now.

Reobold stopped his chanting but the glyphs remained lit up, unmoving in the air. He looked up delightfully surprised.

 he responds to the rogues use of his native language.

"Dwarves are as stubborn as their stone! It takes two to waltz! I seem to recall the dwarves made some outrageous claims and demands" Reobold snaps back at Durgo's storytelling then calmed down as quick "But that's neither here or there. Ancient history, only a curiousity of dwarves and historians. We have bigger things to avoid the legs of at this moment."

edit: horrific spelling that needed fixing.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:37, Thu 30 Dec 2021.

Avri visibly flinched at Durgo's mention of 'jobby nobles', though what that might be about only a more insightful soul could say.

He felt for the dwarves- he truly did. The scheming and power-hungry had cause so much destruction for so little reason of value. But another part of him wanted to snap at them to shut up already. They weren't the only ones to have lost people in this, and from Durgo's words, at least they still had a hope of getting their back.

But as they'd ceased to be an irritant at the moment, the priest chose to heed his better angels and hold his peace.

"We could all use something constructive to do." He sighed heavily, watching Cassidy and Reobold's conversation with some interest. "Everyone's in a holding pattern with this trip, unable to go back or settle down into new lives. The waiting gets to the best of us eventually."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:36, Thu 30 Dec 2021.

Now it was Cassidy's turn to look faintly uneasy as she replied to the Halfling's remarks, though she quickly shook that off, smiling again.  [Language unknown: "Et, il ichencera sa el wh m setforsomnce latichonestr still t setstacon but,"] she replied, carefully, before switching back to Common so as not to be rude to the others.

"Yes, most of us aren't used to spending this much time on the road, I'm sure," she replied to Avri.  "It makes the uncertainty that much harder to deal with.  Unfortunately we don't seem to have many options for anything constructive to do at the moment, and I'm even running out of card tricks.  I'm Cassidy, by the way, and this is Reobold," she added, gesturing to her new acquaintance.

Nedal scuffed his feet together as Avri spoke, though he didn't get up and dart away this time, he simply listened.

At Cassidy's words, he looked up and said in a surprisingly soft voice simply, "Nedal."

"Everyone on this road and elsewhere are on a dark road right now. Some people deal with that darkness differently, better or worse than each other," he said looking down into the dirt with a shrug as he spoke.

"I just hope Selenrad is still standing when we get there..."

“Im sure you’ve heard my name talked about around the caravan.” He says hopefully, ”I am Jaxson, a humble bard on his way to seek adventure and life.”

It is obvious, just by the way he talks, walks, does things around the caravan. This life on the road is certainly new for him. Though he tries to hide it as much as possible. It has been hard. Not knowing where his family is, if they are okay. Eating food that would normally be fed to dogs. But, alas he puts on a face, sings a good song, and refuses to let the trail beat him. After all this is what he wanted, has been dreaming about doing, going on an adventure. But, the reality is nothing like the stories and poems he grew up listening to and reading.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 08:29, Fri 31 Dec 2021.

Fenris listened to the others introduce themselves, nodding to each. "Fenris Vast," he said, head held up high, and waited for that look of star-struck recognition on their faces at the famed athlete and pugilist of Darion, but kept talking just in case they had no idea who he was. His ego could only use so much battering.

"And I hope the nobles of Selenrad are true to their word, and this isn't just some other ploy by power-hungry nobles," he rumbled, rolling his sore shoulder under his armor. "There were a lot of false promises and betrayals in Darion... And it ended in a bloodbath."

Avri nodded in a genial fashion to the introductions. Fenris' name sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn't know what for. "Avri, Brother of Pelor." He added his name to the list.

"I can't see what they'd gain by taking on the burden of refugees without noble intentions." He said thoughtfully, before amending "unless people start disappearing, or invoking Hextor's name when they did not before." The priest tugged the chain around his neck up to reveal a disc with a sun symbol, tracing it with the slow, absent-minded gestures of one who habitually used it as a worry-stone."If it helps, what I have heard of Duke Ulric is that he is was honorable man, at one point... but people can change."

Avri wished it helped him. For himself, he wasn't sure what to think of the Duke. Pelor knew he'd had his own issues with the King, but if what he'd heard of Ulric was true, the man might have to die. Safer to play least-in-sight and pray until he figured out which path to take.

"The best course of action would be to stay together as a group, not get separated by anything until we are sure we will be safe." Reobold says, agreeing with Avri. "It is not as easy as it would sound. Especially with the whole caravan of people with their own ideas, agendas, needs and wants. We might have to protect the rest of the caravan. Take nothing as given. Send envoys and scouts to Selenrad, and parlay with Duke Ulric.".

"Well, right now we don't have a great many options," Cass said with a sigh, settling herself more comfortably.  "If worst comes to worst, we can always move on from Selenrad as well, I suppose, though I do hope it doesn't come to that.  We're all worn out enough now as it is.  The very least we'll need is a long rest before starting this all over again."

Then she paused, tilting her head as something clicked in her memory and she turned to the very large man who had introduced himself a moment ago.  "Fenris Vast...  The fighter?  Is that right?"

A bloodbath is right and true.  My people, when found, will likely find the ire of the nobles of Darion.  When we collapsed our halls and tunnels, we brought down the mountains within which we had carved them.  Not only did they lose the skill of my people, the mines they wanted so badly were buried forever.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:15, Tue 04 Jan 2022.

Fenris nodded again, standing up a little straighter and crossing his arms, clearly enjoying the recognition. "Fighter, athlete, brawler, prodigal lover. And one day, the Champion of Darion," he said with a grin and a fist over his chest. Then he remembered where he was and how he got here, and he deflated a bit, massive shoulders dropping down. "At least I was..."

Suddenly, fresh anger erupted in his chest, that old fight returning to him! "And let me tell you, Sir Dwarf, you will find none who hates the so-called noblemen of Darion more than I! They cheered me in the arena, they bestow upon me gifts and patronage, they invite me to their dining halls and fetes, where the corpulent noblemen pined for their glory days and the noblewomen tittered and blushed!" He turned his head and spat on the ground. "Pfah! Ever the gracious hosts, ever the visionaries for a prosperous and grand future for the kingdom... Then someone kills the king, and they show themselves to be the jackals and snakes that they truly are. Killing kinsman and citizen alike with their lies and soldiers! If I could go back into the past to those perfumed halls, I would knock the teeth out of every one of those traitors!"

With his rallying speech winding down, he turned to the group. "So yes, I hope Duke Ulric proves to be the exception and his intentions are pure... For his sake."

Nedal is quiet during these outbursts and piques of anger of some of the others.

He had a look of almost visible pain on his face as people talked about the death of the kingdom, the turn of the nobles, and the collapse of society as it was known. Though perhaps a look of pain wasn't out of order in talking about these topics, his might have been tinged with something else. Shame, chagrin, anger, it was hard to tell exactly, but there were definitely tears shining in his eyes even if they didn't fall.

He quickly wiped his eyes and tried to finish his bowl of stew. Sleep and another day of travel couldn't come soon enough,  he thought to himself.

Cassidy's recognition of the fighter provoked a little more of a reaction than expected from him, in more ways than one.  Of course they were all on edge and they had all lost something -- in some cases nearly everything but their lives -- and perhaps it was worse when you'd actually been famous.  Infamous was a better word for Cassidy's family, unfortunately, she thought with a sigh, and that was one thing she was very glad to leave behind.

"We have to keep hoping there are better days ahead," she said, quietly, trying to lighten the increasingly dark mood.  "That we'll all be able to find a place for ourselves in Duke Ulric's lands.  Not that we'll ever forget what we lost, of course, but we can't give up on the future, not yet.  Things can still get better."  Unthinkingly, she pulled out a copper and started dancing it across her knuckles, an occasional nervous habit of hers.

The Caravan slowly fell asleep, some staying up latter to continue their chats, mostly drifting off sooner after supper. All those part of the watch began their shifts, walking around the wagons, throwing on a log or stirring the fires at each location. Fire, was more then warmth, it was used for vision, also used to ward off beasts, and predators. Even more important, it gave their caravan number, which would persuade bandits from attacking, or thinking it would be an easy target.

The next day was more the same, and so was the next, and the next. Trudging along slowly, but with steady pace. This, many that had traveled often, recognized was not a merchant caravan, nor seasoned veterans of travel. The large majority were citizens flee death in hope for life. Women and children not conditioned to the hard life on the trail, men that new only the cushioned life of city living. Each day, a few more would quit. Lay on the ground, and not get up. Many did not listen to the veterans, eating unproperly cooked meats and drank unclean water. Those people died, or wished they could die faster. Even with the divine magic for the few clerics that walked couldn't stop or heal stupidity. Food, was running slowly out, in haste to leave provisions were not properly issued, rationed, or counted. The hunting from scouts and rangers helped the supply, but with the amount of mouths to feed there would be just enough food to get them to their destination.

---
On the fourth morning a slight drizzle gain to fall, with dark looming clouds head south, in your path. It was coming to the end of spring, rain was expected, but not welcome.

To make matters worse, a human scout on his morning range south watching the caravan's rear quickly came into camp, all those with authority or has prove to have skill gathered to hear what has the scout worked up.

"I saw a camp, a half days ride down our trail. I dared not approach to close, as I saw guards posted. But, I was able to count 14, including the watch. And they had a banner posted in camp, Hextor." He pauses to catch his breath, then continues, "I only saw two horses, but the others traveled light, simply, they new what they were doing."

It mattered not what it was. The latest wailing, the ones who refused to get up or the last bottle drained, anything would further sour the mood of Bhagrim Dweomerdelf. He became unbearable to be around and he was fine with this, for he craved not the companionship of others, least of all folk of other races. Only Durgo knew how to approach him safely but even his last clanmate had trouble breaking through the shield of simmering rage surrounding the erstwhile smith.

Still, he had come when the scout returned in an agitated state to hear the latest news. Say what one might, but Bhagrim was a dwarf, and that meant seeing to one's duties in life and not shirk work. He was not surprised to hear it was bad tidings to be carried by the scout. Nothing good had befallen them so far, nothing good at all. The rain drizzled down his beard onto his chest, but the dwarf showed no sign of discomfort. Instead he pondered the situation. Many would think him a rowdy brute, but Bhagrim  was a centuries-old dwarf, and no fool.

"One of those then? No surprise they are watching this road. One or two knights or priests or whatnot, looking for a fresh batch of folk to add to their flock and with enough armed men to back them up most like."
The dwarf spat on the ground and looked at the caravan with contempt.
"Well, this group ain't going to make it cross-country. That means going past the lot somehow. And I don't think we have enough fighters left for a straight-up fight."

Then the scouts sneak around, flank them, watch them, determine their leader, Durgo suggests.  while a handful of our fighters arrive as weary travellers.  We attack from within and without, the scouts picking off what of them they can while the rest of the fighters charge in.  We take out their leader as quickly as possible.  That may well put them into disarray.  If they send out a patrol, we take them down quickly and quietly.

"Why do we need to fight them? Surely a caravan this large won't be pestered by a small contingent of Hextorites?" Nedal said when he listened to the dwarves start talking of ways to attack and destroy the group.

He was obviously unsure of himself and his response as he looked back and forth between the dwarves and some others. He wasn't in charge here though, so if the caravan leaders wanted to attack the Hextorites, he wasn't going to gainsay them.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:46, Fri 07 Jan 2022.

Avri, quite frankly, looked like shit. The priest had been putting in long hours every day and draining every bit of energy he had, both divine and mortal, to try and keep people alive in a neverending battle- and he was losing. He said little these days, but at Nedal's words he shook his head and spoke up tiredly. "They will pick off who they can, because they can. They follow Hextor- it's what they do. And we have a lot of poor, weakened souls to be picked."

"If it is of aid to your planning," he directed to Durgo, "I have a Hat of Disguise. If we can take one without warning the others, I could try to replace him on the inside, or to lure out others."

Fenris smiled grimly at the scout's report. Kord's Might, if there was one group of people he liked to put a fist to, it's a bunch of craven Hextorites. But aware of their numbers and weakened state, he knew better than to rush into the camp fists swinging.

"Avri is correct. They are tyrants looking for thralls, and these refugees are tempting targets. The advantage we have is that they are more likely to enslave than to slay on sight. If we could lure them out..." he rumbled, rubbing his chin. He was no tactician, but could conjure up a few brigand tricks when needed. "Do we have any horses that can ridden? If we sent in someone on horse that would make a tempting target, dressed as a noble, or a priest of Heironeous... Close enough to be spotted by their sentries... And then if he turned back as if to flee, would they not send out their two riders in pursuit? We set an ambush, they're down two cavalry, and they might send out more soldiers to investigate..."

He shrugged, the expression on his face showing his own distaste for such cowardice. "Not the most honorable method, but desperate times..."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:44, Thu 06 Jan 2022.

"We do have a priest of Pelor." Avri reminded Fenris quietly. "But would they think a lone priest would be stupid enough to charge a full camp?"

Hunched down unhappily beneath her cloak, Cassidy hung back as the discussion went on, feeling very much as though she had shown up for the wrong meeting.  Apparently her coin and card tricks had been more impressive than she'd realized, she thought dryly, though it was more likely that someone had just noticed her crossbow.  But she wasn't entirely sure that even the weapon would do much good if it actually came down to a fight -- she was a decent shot in practice, but shooting at a moving target that was also shooting back was another kettle of fish entirely.

"Well, I'm certainly not a tactician," she began, uncertainly.  "But I do know something about avoiding fights.  If we want to make them move, there are two basic approaches: either make them think there's a much bigger, angrier group coming towards them that they won't want to fight, or convince them that there's something they want very much elsewhere and they need to go get it.  And it sounds as if they want our caravan, correct?  So perhaps we can try to convince them that we're someplace we aren't and they need to go after us.  I could -- " Here she paused, blushing faintly.  "Uh, I could put together some official looking orders for them saying that a caravan has been spotted on another road and they should go intercept it.  Or whatever other orders you think might be convincing.  If they believe the orders, we can continue on our way.  If they don't, well, then whoever we send as messenger can try to lure them into an ambush, as Fenris suggested.  It might be worth a try."

Nedal looked at Fenris, "I have some vestments of Pelor that might fit you."

With a quick glance to and away from Avri at those words, he shrugged. "I'm not going to charge a Hextor camp. No good for me or anyone else for me to do that. But you can have them as a distraction."

When Cassidy started speaking he nodded, "deception might work to clear them out if someone can forge documents and play a convicting Hextorite."

Durgo sighs.  If you want to try deception, than at least let the scouts set up around their camp in secret.  That way if something does go wrong, you'll have a better chance of fighting your way out.

"Hmph."
Bhagrim Dweomerdelf did not look impressed, leaning on his axe as he was. And he had no qualms about sharing his thoughts on the matter.
"Try yer trick if ya need to and ya got the balls fer it. I think luring out the bag of shite in charge and chopping him up is the best plan. Then the rest will scatter easy enough I'm guessing."

"Oh, no, of course no one should go to the camp alone," Cassidy said quickly at Durgo's objection, brushing a strand of light brown hair back from her face.  "We'd set up some sort of ambush, some kind of support.  But --"  Again she paused awkwardly and stared down at her toes for a moment.  Her next words came reluctantly, in more ways than one -- both the admission itself and the fact that she was about to volunteer for a decidedly dangerous mission.  But she was fairly certain that few other people in this caravan had anything like her skill set, and if those skills could be helpful, well, she would at least be glad of the chance to put them to good use for a change.

"I've had a fair amount of practice convincing people that I'm someone I'm not.  With the right clothing and equipment, I can probably manage a convincing Hextorite messenger," she explained, though she couldn't help making a face at the idea of pretending to be one of their number.  "Much as it pains me.  But if I insist on giving the orders only to their leader, then at least we should be able to see who that is, and target that person if necessary," she added, glancing over at the apparently still-angry Bhagrim.

If you wish, I will go with you, Durgo suggests, as your body guard.

"And what message would you be carrying? A new order? From whom? Order to do what?" Reobold asks the pleasant human girl.

Bhagrim took exception at the notion of his clanmate sticking his neck out.
"The blazes you are! Yer not risking yer life on that fool gambit!"

The rain begins to grow harder, the road turning to mud. The slow pace of the caravan you are sure will either get slower, or simply no progress will be mad today.

The terrain is covered in sagebrush hills dotted with outcroppings of trees. Some of the hill give way to steeper drop offs, walkable, but not traversable by wagon, and slow going even for horse. Some of the hills are larger creating canyons and gullies, the bottom of these locations filled with noxious weeds with vines and branches that would tie up even the best horses, greatly slowing down a walking man. Even worse now, the canyons are a rush with rain water. The road keeps to the high points crossing at the easiest elevation changes, going cross county, while possible, would be difficult if not trained and in a large weighted group.

OOC:
Keep discussing just feeling in some gaps of knowledge of the surrounding areas.
For a visualization of what I am seeing as the terrain.

https://www.google.com/search?...imgrc=qmEu4s43vRb2oM

Durgo chuckles at Bhagrim's outrage.  I have seen you risk your life against fare greater odds, with less at stake, he responds.  You who were willing to charge a platoon over mines and halls we were destroying anyway.  Then come with.  Maybe you will get the chance you want.

"What do you mean, less at stake? That's our ancestral halls yer talking about!" Bhagrim replies without skipping a heartbeat or care for the feelings of the nearby refugees, even as the idea of getting close to the Hextorite bastard begin to settle in. Right in the middle of a camp of the bastards, just him, his axe and his cousin. And some surface dweller, but who counted those?
"But someone will clearly need to deal with this, and it looks it will have to be me. As usual. Bah!"

Those halls and mines can eventually be dug out and reclaimed, Durgo advises with a sad shake of his head.  His voice is low, almost a whisper, but still heard clearly.  Or, they could be rebuilt elsewhere.  Had we stayed and fought, their would be no one left to reclaim or rebuild our clanhold.  Their orders were to kill every man, woman, and child, because we had chosen to stand against them to defend our home.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:02, Mon 10 Jan 2022.

"No need to remind me cousin, I was there."
The dwarf looked around at the sorry bunch he ended up with.
"Well, that's the plan then? Let's get to it, unless you love standing around so much surface dwellers!"

Durgo responds in a dwarvish mutter.  [Language unknown: Wh etll arital ere korndewhi hicom I u but didin ce ni ichrutdin ill k thudinmen ar ieine chpe illpreard oulproive.]

"If you can forge legitimate-looking orders, let's try an order from Striking Hand Hurdam Dhikum." Avri suggested. "Telling him to send half his men back to the city for a secret mission, the particular of which are to be received from the Hand himself. We can ambush the rest, and perhaps overtake the first half when we're done."

Bhagrim waves away Durgo's outrageous suggestion with a growl.

Edging slightly away from the dwarves, just in case, Cassidy nodded to Avri.  "All right, Striking Hand Hurdam Dhikum," she repeated carefully.  "D-H-I-K-U-M?  Such terrible titles they all have, as though they're each trying to be the most intimidating.  But let me get under some sort of cover," she added, glancing around for a reasonably flat surface that wasn't being rained on.


OOC: 19:30, Today: Cassidy rolled 29 using 1d20+10.  Forgery Kit.  Bonus is based on Deception as the applicable skill, plus proficiency bonus.

We could be bringing word from Whiplar Gabram Barsk, Durgo says, waving a hand to indicate himself and his clanbrother.  He was the last one to attack our clanhold.  I believe he is dead, so no word should actually be forthcoming.

Avri helped Cassidy find an appropriate place to work (not an easy feat in these conditions) and gently touched her shoulder. "I'm afraid I've no further advice, beyond the name and appropriate spelling, but may Pelor's grace guide your hand. Perhaps if it is questioned, you could claim he made a slave or trusted servant write it for him." He suggested, leaving her to her work with one last grim smile. He had his own weapons to prepare and blessings to ask, for he could not leave one of Hextor's ilk alive to plague the people if he could prevent it.

OOC: Avri casts Guidance on Cassidy's forgery efforts. Target adds 1d4 to roll.

Disguised and Flanked by the two dwarfs riding on horse the three make there way toward back down the road toward the mentioned group of Hextorites. Rounding over the hill through the rain a small group of soldiers, covered by cowls and cloaks make there way toward them also. As stated two are on horses the others waling behind.

---

Meanwhile the caravan circles the wagons making a protection barrier from all sides. The rest of the main group, and the ten able bodied men armed with swords and bows follow a distance behind until they find a nice location to lay in ambush. The Road splits between two hills giving a slight, maybe just enough to turn the tides of a fight advantage.

---

As the three approach three of the men armed with polearms rush forward lowering their weapons. "Halt, Elena Hooded Menace of the Third Rank, Priestess of Hextor demand you give her the road." The three are covered in black splint mail, their faces completely covered by a wicked pointed helm. The rest of the group continues your direction about 50 yards off. Each equipped similarly, other then the two on horseback. One, obviously Elena, is where black Plate Armor with robes and cloak covering her. The other is clad in plate armor with gold ornate engravings, his hood is up against the rain, but you can see clearing he is a Red Dragonborn.

Cassidy had not been expecting to see a Dragonborn, in full plate no less, and her heart sank a little at the sight.  Thankfully there was a great deal else to think about just then, and she focused on doing her best to sound tired and flustered, as though the three of them had just finished a rushed and anxious journey.  As the men approached and gave what sounded like a standard, ritual sort of challenge, she pulled her horse up and dismounted, giving what she hoped was the proper salute.

"Elena, Hooded Menace of the Third Rank, Priestess of Hextor," she began, keeping her head bowed a little as though overawed.  Third rank didn't sound all that impressive, but as a mere messenger Cass would be outranked by nearly everyone else.  And she suspected that the best way to flatter one of these people was to behave as though they were far higher ranking than they actually were.  "We carry an urgent message from Striking Hand Hurdam Dhikum."  Still trying to seem flustered -- that seemed a useful way to excuse any lapses in etiquette she might already be committing -- she turned to her saddlebag and pulled out the message, now looking slightly battered, and offered it out.

Bhagrim, still bare-chested and looking absolutely miserable on horseback, glared at down at the halberds with contempt. His hand was on the haft of his axe, almost daring the guards to make a move. But he managed to keep silent for the moment. After all, that dragon-looking one was in charge and that was the first head that should take leave from its shoulders..
This message was last edited by the player at 09:30, Wed 19 Jan 2022.

And we come bearing word from Whiplar Gabram Barsk, Durgo says, indicating himself and Bhagrim, on the attack against out kinsmen of the Skyfall Mountains.
He utters the word "kinsmen" as if he is trying to spit something rotten and distasteful from his mouth.