PBM: Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 10

Splitting the Party: A fight in the woods...

Frantiska
Frantiska’s muscles tense reflexively as she rides, something in her is itching for a fight. Once they are about 500 yards ahead of the wagon, she slows Thisteldown to a canter and begins looking around expectantly. Trying to ignore the dull pain still persisting in her head, she focuses her mind, seeking for signs of evil in the forest.

GM
Frantiska hears a low growl nearby. She looks around trying to detect evil and her wariness is rewarded. From the woods to her right…and up, she senses something, or multiple somethings, desiring to murder her, quite particularly, a savage, ravenous kind of evil. Thistledown neighs and shies away, then Frantiska spots it…them. A half-dozen or more creatures stalk through the woods towards her. Looking like some horrible, black-furred cross between a wolf and a hyena with large bat-like wings sprouting from its forelegs.

Frantiska feels a strange sense of excitement coming from Kisakhavar, which seems to squeeze her shoulders like a reassuring hug—though not quite that reassuring given that it is coming from her garments. Her mind fills with images of her standing triumphantly atop a pile of dead flying wolf-things, her cloak flapping dramatically in the wind.

One of the creatures, waiting perched in a tree above the road, lets out a loud howl and springs at her.

Frantiska
Frantiska tugs on Thistledown’s reins, turning the horse headon to the lunging creature and draws her longsword—not her first choice of weapons in most situations, but better reach than the spoon. She watches the thing’s movements, preparing to stab as soon as it is within reach and clicks her tongue, commanding Thistledown to be ready to lash out with her hooves if the ones on the ground close.

Donovan
Donovan sits in the back of the wagon, staring at the ground rolling away behind them. Hearing the howl, he stands up and leans out to look around the side of the wagon, holding onto the canopy to keep from falling out. “Frantiska just rode that way,” he yells to the others, “how far away do you think that sound was? Should we go help?” He grabs one of the loaded crossbows, “Rant, can you ask Hrud if he can safely make this thing go any faster?”

Hrud
“«Hold on!»” Hrud slides his bow and spear out from under the seat, placing them in easy reach; he then snaps the reigns, urging the Oxen to close the distance between them and Frantiska.

Donovan
As Hrud begins to whip the oxen, Donovan realizes that maybe asking him to go faster wasn’t such a good idea. He clutches onto the canopy poles for dear life, hugging the loaded crossbow tight to his chest.

GM
With much howling and snarling, the creatures on the ground charge Thistledown snapping at her legs and hindquarters. The horse manages to dance away from most of their snapping jaws, even sending one flying into the underbrush with a well-placed rear-kick, but two of the creatures get through, one latching onto her foreleg with its jaws, the other tearing a great gash in her rump, ripping away a large chunk of flesh and hair and spraying Frantiska with her horse’s blood.

The winged one, meanwhile, flies strait at Frantiska, but misses as Thistledown dances sideways, avoiding the pack on the ground. The thing whips past Frantiska and she manages to slice deep into its side with her sword, cutting a jagged scar and causing it to careen into a tree. It comes up growling and begins to circle slowly, clearly waiting for an opening to get at the rider when the horse goes down.

As Thistledown screams in pain, the sound has a strangely deep, rumbling quality to it. A second later you realize that the rumbling is not coming from the injured horse, and is getting louder, much louder, and fast. Frantiska, and the pack of gnashers, look up to see the wagon barreling down the road at full speed, bouncing wildly over even the smallest rocks. There is a yelp of terror from the pack as they realize that nearly four tons of wood, steel, muscle, hooves, and horns are headed their way.

Two of the pack break off their attack and run for the woods.

Donovan
As the wagon bears down on the pack of creatures, Donovan leans out of the back and fires the heavy crossbow at the largest of the creatures. As the shot goes sailing off into the woods, he tosses the useless thing into the back of the wagon and grabs on tighter against the inevitable impact.

Frantiska
Frantiska screams almost as loud as Thistledown as the horse’s blood soaks into her cloak. She jumps off the horses back into the middle of the pack of ravening beasts and begins slashing wildly about with her sword, trying to drive them away from her horse. She then grabs Thistledown’s reins and tries to guide the horse off the road, keeping it behind her. As she does so, she begins praying fervently to her goddess: Selune! No, please! I can’t lose Thistledown. Not after everything else. Please Lady, if I have done anything to displease you, let them take my life instead, but please spare Thistledown.

GM
Two of the creatures vanish into the woods, running as fast as they can. Frantiska swings wildly, with her sword, keeping the beasts back just long enough to complete her prayer. She suddenly feels an upwelling of power and blue-white light spills out of her, surrounding Thistledown and curing her wounds completely.

As the wagon nears, Teldicia climbs up on the drivers bench, creeps out to the side, and takes a flying leap through the air towards the winged beast which has positioned itself so as to cleanly avoid being hit by the wagon. It cannot avoid Teldicia however, who lands on the thing’s back, her hands crackling with electrical energy and punches the thing several times in rapid succession.

Howling in pain and rage, the thing rolls to the side, pitching the green-haired girl and her stinging fists off of its back, then turns and sinks its fangs into her forearm.

The four remaining members of the pack, apparently too stupid to be concerned about the wagon bearing down on them, lunge past Frantiska’s defenses, piling onto her. Three leap up and bear her to the ground, while the fourth snaps at her, tearing open her throat with its powerful jaws.

As the beasts pull Frantiska down in the middle of the road, Hrud tries to turn away, but cannot. The wagon jolts as the oxen, plow into the gnashers, knocking them in every direction, then run right over Frantiska, crushing her. One of the gnashers is similarly caught beneath both hooves and wheels, and is trampled with many a horrible cracking noise.

As the wagon passes, Brother Rant rolls off the back and lays about with his mace, finishing off one of the creatures wounded by the charging oxen, and landing a solid blow on another. Thistledown, terrified by the passing wagon and enraged by the attacks on her and Frantiska lashes out with her hooves, beating the third one into the dirt.

The last remaining member of the pack, severely injured by both the wagon and Brother Rant, backs away wimpering—incapable of running due to a broken hind-leg.

The winged pack-leader continues to worry at Teldicia’s arm with its vicious fangs.

Donovan
Seeing Frantiska’s mangled body bounce out from under the wagon wheels, Donovan’s heart leaps into his throat, followed closely by his breakfast. He half-leaps, half-falls out of the back of the wagon, catches himself, then pukes a little. Oh gods! What have we done?! He tries to think, he could maybe help her with the rod of health, but there is that giant, winged dog-hyena thing tearing Teldicia’s arm off, and another one of the things still standing, if only barely. The sword? No, I suck at sword-fighting, I just got lucky with that zombie. A sleep spell? That’s only guaranteed to get the smaller one, which won’t help Teldicia. The scrolls?! He fumbles in his pack and tears out the shroud he took off the wight.

He rushes to stand over Frantiska’s body, hoping against hope that she isn’t dead, then looks at Teldicia. I can’t lose two friends in one day. Donovan growls out one of the incantations written on the shroud, his voice barely recognizable through the rage and the unfamiliar syllables. He finishes the last word then shouts, “Go to hell! You can’t have either of them!”

Hrud
“Frantiska!” Hrud, sick with rage and fear at seeing the elf dragged under the wagon with the beasts attacking her, leaps from the wagon and charges, determined to kill the large winged beast still attempting to savage her bloody, battered – and disturbingly still – form.

Yamtwit
A small creature watches from the woods as everyone leaps off of the wagon, leaving only Amara inside, drying out in terror with the oxen still charging down the road. «Rast look, a wagon, and cows,» the creature remarks to his companion, «and they’ve abandoned it. What a stroke of luck! Poor girlie though.»

The small creature turns and ties his donkey to a nearby tree, «You stay here and be careful Bobbers, there are beasties about.» He then climbs onto his companion, clearly unconcerned about the wagon outdistancing them. «Alright Rast, after them, and try not to run too bouncy this time, I don’t want to mess up the spell.»

There is a flash of fur as something large and canine, not too dissimilar from the creatures attacking the party, bursts from the underbrush, a small, brightly dressed humanoid on its back. «Right Rast, up alongside the driver’s bench, then keep it steady, and no snapping.»

The large wolf does as commanded, racing ahead to catch the wagon, the slowing its pace to match it, running alongside, just out of reach of the bouncing wheels. The rider on its back yells, “Girlie, we’re here to help!”, then stands up in the saddle and begins a calm, steady chanting.

GM
As Hrud leaps off the wagon and begins charging the winged creature, a massive wolf, a goblin on its back, springs out of the woods and races after the wagon. At the same time, Donovan complete’s his spell.

The winged beast opens its mouth, as if readying to snap at Teldicia’s face, then stops, its eyes and mouth both widening. It turns, as if fleeing, then springs at a tree, biting and snapping. It attacks the tree viciously, slamming into it with it’s whole body, again and again and again. By the time Hrud reaches it, the creature has smeared the tree with its own blood and brains, beating itself completely senseless, and is easily dispatched with a single blow of Hrud’s sword. Across the road, Rant drops the cowering one with a swift blow to the back of it’s neck.

When the goblin on the wolf finishes it’s chanting, the oxen immediately calm down and slow, to walk, and then to a stop. The beasts are breathing heavily and sweating, but do not seem the least bit concerned about the predator now circling them.

Yamtwit
«Thanks Rast,» The goblin hops off the wolf, «go keep an eye on Bobbers.» He walks over and pats the oxen, talking soothingly to them and checking to make sure they are not injured. He then turns and walks back to take a look at the owners. He eyes the crushed and manged body of the she-elf on the ground, the other she-elf with the torn arm, and the three well-armed men standing surrounded by the bodies of the wolf things. He waves, both in greeting and to show that he is unarmed, and walks up to the big barbarian. «Nice cows, but your women look like they need some help,» he says in Erakic.

Hrud
Hrud sees the goblin talk to the wolf, and then, to his utter surprise, come sauntering over and speak to him! The barbarian points his sword at the diminutive figure, then to the bodies of the dead wolves surrounding Frantiska. “«Yours?»” His muscles tense, anticipating the answer.

Yamtwit
The goblin’s eyes go wide, «What? No. I’m a simple farmer. I have no business with monsters like that?» He rubs the palms of his hands together, as if wiping something off. «But your women. I can help.» He turns and starts walking back to the edge of the woods, «Let me get some butter and I’ll see what I can do.»

GM
Brother Rant rushes over to Frantiska, he carefully shifts her onto her back, checks her breathing, her pulse, and carefully straitens her limbs, checking for breaks. He shakes his head sadly on seeing her knee, then quickly gets to work—washing the wounds with alcohol from a small hip-flask, and bandaging the worst of the scrapes, cuts, and bites.

Yamtwit
The goblin returns moments later, followed by the wolf and a donkey, and carrying a pair of water skins. «Rast, wait here.» The wolf steps in front of the donkey and sits down. The goblin then walks over to where Rant is working, «No, no, no!» he says in Erakic, presuming that everyone would be able to speak with the barbarian. «Don’t pour that slop on her. Use the butter!» He hands one of the wineskins to Rant. «Rub it all over. Only on the skin, mind. And don’t worry if you use it up, I can make more.» He walks around, bending down and looking at her closely. «You’ll probably want to take that dress and armor off of her in order to get to the wounds properly…»

Hrud
“«She’d probably rather die.»” Hrud mutters in reply, half to himself.

GM
Brother Rant looks at the goblin, eyes wide and face turning red. «You don’t treat abrasions and breaks with butter…» He harrumphs, turning back to the work of bandaging her wounds. «If she had dry skin, or a burn maybe….» He shakes his head, clearly flustered by the suggestion. «Thanks for catching the wagon, but please do not waste my time…»

Donovan
Donovan stands there for a moment, so amazed at the sight of the wolf-beast beating itself senseless against the tree that he completely misses the goblin until it is standing right in front of him. He steps away from Frantiska as Rant rushes up, and only then does he notice the goblin, animals in tow, walking around like he owns the place and speaking in what sounds like Hrud’s language. Since the small creature is not immediately attacking, and Rant seems to have Frantiska in hand as much as possible, Donovan rushes over to Teldicia. “Are you okay?” he says, looking at the bite marks on her arm.

Yamtwit
The goblin looks back and forth between the healer and the barbarian, clearly confused. «You want her to die?» He looks completely appalled. «She is your woman. Why would you not treat her properly. You are no better than gnolls if you do not treat your women well!» He stomps around and points towards Donovan, «White-head knows how to treat his woman at least…well…mostly.» The goblin throws his hands up in exasperation and walks over to Donovan, noticing that the man is clearly not paying attention to what he is saying. “Whitehead,” he says in common this time, “your barbaric friends are refusing to give your other woman proper treatment. Can you please explain to the one with the mace that he needs to tear her clothes off and slather her with the butter.” He looks appraisingly at Teldicia’s arm. “This one is fine. She just needs me to put my hands on her, no butter. Go help the other one.”

Donovan
Donovan’s eyes go wide as he realizes what the goblin is implying. He splutters a few times, clearly unsure of how to react, shakes himself, then finally says, “You actually think that would do some good? Not that I object. It just sounds impossible.” He looks at Teldicia and nods, “Heal her first. If you have power, show us, then we’ll take your recommendations into consideration….” Yeah, that sounds reasonable and authoritative, he shakes himself again. Crazy goblin. Butter? He looks over at Frantiska’s body. It’s worth trying anything at this point…and if it doesn’t work, there’s no harm, right. She’s not even conscious.

Yamtwit
“Okay.” The goblin whispers a quiet prayer and gingerly touches Teldicia’s arm. The wound mends instantly and completely. “Now,” he points at the battered body of the elf, “the butter, and quickly!”

GM
Teldicia smiles at the goblin and examines the clean, pink flesh on her arm. “Wow, that’s good work.” She saunters over the Brother Rant, “This goblin knows his stuff, do what he says.” She kneels down by Frantiska, “Here, you’ve probably never done this have you?” She begins removing Frantiska’s armor and clothing. As she opens the front of Frantiska’s dress, she looks up at Donovan and Hrud, “Rant’s the healer…but there is no reason for you two to stare. Avert your eyes!” She carefully pulls the tattered and bloody dress over Frantiska’s head, piling it under her head as a pillow. “Alright…what’s your name…come show us how to use this butter of yours.”

Yamtwit
The goblin saunters over, looking very pleased with himself. He stands over Frantiska, being careful not to touch her, “Just pop the top on the skin and squirt it on her, then make sure to rub it in good, there,” he points at the shattered knee and the surrounding area, “and there,” he points at her neck, “and there”, he points at a large bruise on her chest which might indicated a cracked sternum. He pantomimes rubbing her chest, “Make sure you rub it in reeeeeeal good, or the magic won’t work.”

Donovan
Donovan shrugs and turns away, I’d rather not see her like that anyways, he thinks. He walks over and looks at the dead, winged, hyena-wolf-thing, poking it with a stick. “Anyone know what these things are?” Hearing the goblin’s instructions he can’t help but peek back over his shoulder, more curious about how Rant will react than what Frantiska’s trampled body looks like under the dress.

Hrud
While the sight of a naked woman, especially an attractive elf, might normally trigger a physical response within Hrud, seeing the damage done to her first by the wolves, then by the wagon – a wagon that Hrud himself was driving – only brought pain to the barbarian. Emotional turmoil didn’t make things any less awkward, however.

Hrud liked it when the course of action was obvious: Is there an enemy? Hit it. Are you hungry? Get food. This situation was … a lot harder to figure out. He didn’t totally trust the weird little goblin standing before him, rubbing himself in a weird way. He didn’t feel comfortable standing over them as they worked to save Frantiska, either. He did trust Rant and Teldicia – or, at least, given the amount of time they’d been together, he trusted them enough to save Frantiska’s life. Besides, he could walk a few feet away and still be close enough to help out if treachery was afoot.

Following Donovan, he eyed the wolf that had appeared with the goblin. Maybe it was different than the ones that had attacked. Or, maybe, it was even more dangerous …

GM
The wolf that came with the goblin, now sitting very calmly right in front of the heavily-laden pack donkey, looks quite different from the creatures that attacked you, now that it is sitting still at least. Whereas the creatures that attacked you have taller shoulders and more muscular forequarters, reminiscent of the hyenas that occasionally appear in the grass sea, and dark, almost black fur—not to mention the bat-like wings on the leader—this one is sleek, muscular, and distinctly canine, with none of the confusion of the other beasts. It’s coat is tawny red, and it is large, much larger than any normal wolf that you’ve seen, almost as big as your pony. There is a spark of intelligence in its eyes as it stares at you intently.

Rant looks back and forth between Teldicia, Donovan, Hrud, and the goblin. “Whatever…” he says under his breath. He takes the skin, squirts a thick stream of the clarified, almost liquid butter onto Frantiska, lovely even in her battered state, and begins to rub the stuff all over her skin, with the practiced firmness of a trained physician. He works as efficiently as possible, keeping his head down so that his companions might not notice the redness suffusing his face on handling Frantiska in this way.

As Rant finishes, Frantiska’s skin is left oiling, golden, and gleaming, good enough to eat. For a while, nothing more happens, Teldicia and Rant both look at the goblin with an expression that says “okay, now what?” Then, ever so faintly, there is a creaking, crackling sound. Everyone looks back at Frantiska to see something moving beneath the skin of her leg. The leg straitens and the flattened knee begins to fill out, slowly resuming its original shape. Within about a minute, the wound on her neck has closed and the leg looks almost strong enough to walk on, almost.

Yamtwit
The goblin smiles and does a little self-congratulatory dance at his handywork. He then kneels down and lays his hands on Frantiska, healing the last of her cuts, scrapes, and bruises. «I’m Yamtwit,» he says in Erakic as he finishes his work. «Can I interest you fellows in some cheese?» There is an entrepreneurial gleam in his eye as he asks this. Frantiska lets out a groan and her eyes begin to flutter. The goblin steps back and admires his handiwork, or the person his hands were working on, not that it makes a difference.

Donovan
Donovan walks over, removes his cloak and lays it over Frantiska, hoping she doesn’t immediately notice the state she’s in when she wakes up. “Brother Rant, can you and Hrud move her to the wagon?” He turns to the goblin and offers him a hand to shake, “If your cheese is as good as your butter, Sir Yamtwit, then I would be glad to have some. So, what brings a skilled healer like yourself out into the woods? And with such animals in tow?” He looks at the wolf and donkey, only just now noticing the bulging saddlebags.

Yamtwit
Yamtwit scurries over to the donkey and opens up the saddlebags, taking out several large bricks of a ripe-smelling, pale yellow cheese. “Well, the cheese won’t heal you like butter, but it is delicious and filling and keeps well, perfect for travelers such as yourselves. You can have as much as you like for six silver pennies per brick.” He smiles broadly, and holds up one of the bricks of the cheese to donovan, waving a hand over it and pantomiming inhaling the aroma. “Smells nice, yes? You should just be able to detect the slight nutty undertones of the rennet.” He waits patiently for Donovan to examine it with the attentiveness of an experienced salesman.

Donovan
Donovan looks carefully at the cheese, then at the goblin’s face. “Six silver, for that rot? You must be mad! Look, it’s moldy! I’ll give you two for a brick.” He smiles broadly, clearly enjoying a break from the killing and the drama.

Yamtwit
“Two? Two?! Are you trying to insult me? Me, with a poor dying grandmother? Two?!” Yamtwit’s face also breaks into a giant, ear-to-ear grin, clearly in his element. “Two?!”

Donovan
“Twenty-five coppers then.”

Yamtwit
“What?! Two and a half? I’ve got a village to feed. Fifty three coppers.”

Donovan
“FIfty three?” Donovan’s voice rises slightly, with a note of feigned incredulity and anger. “I could buy a whole sheep for that! Three silvers a brick.”

Yamtwit
“Three?! It cost me four. I’d be ruined if I give this away for three! I’d starve. My village would starve. My POOR DYING GRANDMOTHER would starve.” The goblin throws up his hands, “Look at this again, this is high quality stuff. The best cheese north o’ the Moonsea. Hand crafted by poor goblin artisans from the finest, organically produced warg’s milk. And you want me to give it away for THREE?!”

There is a growl from the wolf, «Laying it on a little thick aren’t you?»

«Shut up Rast, I’m working here.»

Donovan
“Warg’s milk? Four then, and not a copper more.” Donovan rolls his eyes, “Teldicia, are you hearing this? Warg’s milk. who would milk a warg?”

Yamtwit
“Four? Are you joking? A goblin’s got to make a living.” He walks over to the wolf and lifts one of her hind legs. “Look, Rast here sprained an ankle trying to save your cows and you’re only offering us four?” The wolf makes big puppy-dog eyes and makes a clearly fake whimpering sound. “I could get better than four from an tongue-dead Orc. Five, final offer, I won’t take a penny less or may Lord Argentus strike me dead!”

Donovan
Donovan laughs out loud as Yamtwit brings the wolf into it, “Fourty-two coppers a brick.”

Yamtwit
“Done,” Yamtwit yells triumphantly. “One-hundred bricks of cheese, at fourty-two coppers a brick…” He begins unloading the saddlebags.

Donovan
“One hundred bricks?!” Donovan’s eyes go wide, “No one said we were buying in bulk. I’ll take one brick of your smelly wolf-cheese. Thank you.”

Yamtwit
“Just one brick? You haven’t even tried it yet. Once you taste this delectable dairy delight you will be begging me to sell you the other ninety-nine. Then, of course, I won’t. I’ve got customers from Phlan to Thentia lining up for this stuff! I’m back ordered for three years!” The goblin struts around, waving his arms dramatically. “This is your last chance to get in on this DEAL OF A LIFETIME! Act now and I’ll throw in six doses of MAGICAL healing butter for ABSOLUTELY FREE!”

Donovan
Donovan looks at the goblin steadily, “You already gave us the butter.” He sighs, “But you make a good point, you helped our friend, so I guess I’ll buy all of your stinky cheese…” He opens his backpack and shuffles through it, “Actually, I’ve only got 1 platinum, 3 gold, 1 electrum, and 5 silver pieces to my name.”

Yamtwit
“Fine, fine, fine. I’ll take the 9 gold as a down payment. You can have the rest on layaway…” The goblin takes the donkey’s reins, leads her over to the wagon, and begins stacking bricks of cheese in the back of the wagon. “That’s one hundred bricks, at fourty-two coppers a brick, minus the nine gold down. You owe me thirty-three gold, plus twenty-seven per cent annual interest. Plus a ten gold lending fee. Plus Phlan sales tax…” The goblin looks back at Donovan with a gleam in his eye, “Rast, Bobbers, and I will just have to stick with you guys until you pay up…”

Donovan
Donovan sighs again and mumbles, “Lending fee?” under his breath. “Alright Twit,” he walks over to the wagon, checks to make sure Frantiska is comfortable and climbs up, “welcome to the team I guess.”

Yamtwit
“That’s YAMtwit.” The goblin ties off his donkey to the back of the wagon, then goes and climbs on the wolf’s back. “So…where are you headed with your wagon and your cows?”

GM
Rant collects Thistledown and ties her off to the back alongside the donkey and Hrud’s pony. He then climbs up on the driver’s bench alongside Hrud, «So, the crazy goblin is coming with us I guess…»

Hrud
“«He just happened to be wondering in the woods when those wolves attacked?»” Hrud replies in a conspiratorial whisper “«Someone will need to keep an eye on our money, lest we get gobbed.»”

Donovan
Donovan stands in the back of the wagon, hanging onto a pole and sticking his head out to talk to the goblin. “We’re headed for Melvaunt. We’re carrying a shipment of statuary and other objects d’art from Phlan to sell there, and then picking up a shipment of alchemical reagents and spell components to take back for the Training Hall students.”

Donovan begins rubbing his temples as the headaches of the past day resume. Then screams, suddenly overwhelmed by bizarre sensations. Every creak of the wagon, bump in the road, neigh of a horse suddenly sends cascades of multi-colored light across his vision—pulsing in time with the sounds. The many background noises crash upon each other, like waves of color colliding, mixing, parting, growing and shrinking. He screams again and ducks back into the wagon, unsure of whether to close his eyes or cover his ears. He tries the later and finds that it makes no difference, save to make the colors have less of a reference. He tries the former and finds a brief respite.

He opens his eyes a little and looks around, this time in amazement rather than fright. Oh my gods…I can see sound! He sits down on the floor of the wagon and tears through his backpack, coming out with the hurdy-gurdy. He begins cranking and watches as the deep, steady drone appears before him as a solid line of dark blue emanating from the instrument. This is awesome! He begins to play and sits, completely fascinated for several minutes, experimenting with various tones, pitches, modulations, and melodies, watching the play of colors he is controlling. He pulls a bit of wax out of his component pouch and stops up his ears—coming to the realization that he can still experience the music without even hearing it. So, so awesome! He then brakes down crying, realizing that his audiences will probably never experience this…

For a while, at least, he is so caught up in the experience that he completely forgets the pain in his head, the presence of his friends around him, or the news from Lyra that he should be conveying to them.

Hrud
Hrud hears the music and glances back, only to notice Donovan’s … unusual preoccupation with his instrument. Leaning over to Rant, he asks, “«Dawn-of-man didn’t eat the goblin’s butter, did he?»” Glancing back again, he sees Donovan stuffing his ears while continuing to play.“«Possibly a mushroom from the side of the road?»”

Yamtwit
“Art dealers,” the goblin practically beams, “excellent! Fine cheeses and art go hand in hand, all we need now is a vintner and we could make a killing!” He rides along beside them happily, contemplating all the money he could make selling cheeses at fine art auctions…until he realizes that he just sold his entire stock to Donovan. “Hey! You played me! You just wanted all the cheese so that you could mark it up and resell it yourself, didn’t you?!” There is more admiration than anger in his voice.

GM
Once you are moving again, the going is easy. The path through the woods is hard-packed and relatively clear of debris, save for a few smaller branches knocked down by yesterday’s storm. About a mile from your campsite, not far past where you encountered the gnashers, the road turned almost due south, and now, judging by the smell, is beginning to veer back towards the river. Signs of travel increase as you travel further south, especially to Hrud’s trained eyes—the road becomes muddier and develops a distinct hump in the middle, the beginning of ruts from other wagons, their are more, recent boot-prints in the mud, and even the odd humanoid bone or piece of discarded, broken armor along the side of the road, indicating the site of raids by bandits (or worse). As the sun climbs higher, the day become hot, and muggy, the trees shelter the road from the sun and the worst of the heat, but last night’s rain turns into oppressive humidity.

Yamtwit
The goblin, riding alongside the wagon, begins fanning himself. “This is no good,” he says, “I feel like I’m in a dwarf’s forge or something.” He rides up parallel with the driver’s bench, «Do you smell that, Horse-man. We’re getting close to the river, which means we’re close to the Orc Temple. There is a bridge into the city there and lots of orcs. Can your cows walk not on the road?»

Hrud
«A field maybe, if it’s not too wet. A forest would be impossible with this huge wagon». Hrud thinks for a moment, «Are these the Orcs who shoot arrows into the city?»

Lyra
There is a sudden pop of displaced air near the back of the wagon. Lyra releases her grip on the two women in Tyran white robes, one a dark haired woman with a massive flail strapped to her back holding a crate, and the other, much shorter, priestess holding bolts of cloth. “My apologies for the delay. You might remember Sister Winona from when we arrived back at the city, and this is Sister Ryesha.”

Yamtwit
A colorfully-dressed goblin, riding a large red-furred wolf, circles the wagon and stops beside the three girls. «You have a lot of women!» he calls over his shoulder to Hrud. “Pretty Ladies,” he says addressing the new arrivals, “could I interest you in some cheese?…”

Hrud

«Apparently, they pop out of thin air around here.»

PBM: Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 9

Splitting the Party: Lyra's Story

GM
Lyra appears with a small popping noise of displaced air in the middle of the women’s dormitories beneath the temple of Tyr. She hears a muffled “My! People come and go so quickly here!” behind her, and turns to see a surprisingly young novice, or, on second glance, a halfling novice, seated at the table between Winona and Theymr, looking at a large legal tome. Theymr looks up from the book, appearing only slightly surprised, “Miss Lyra, welcome back.” She rises and walks around the table, “What is all this?” she gestures at the pile of paintings Lyra is holding.

Lyra
“My apologies, sisters. My companions are well, but I have dire news for both you and the council.” Lyra shifts the paintings in her arms. “And a few other errands while I’m at it.”

Lyra takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the account of the previous day. “We rescued a girl in the slums from rapers yesterday morning. The orcs were carrying these, apparently signs of favor from Mace. The swords are forged from an alloy native to Baator that gives it its green tint.” She gestures to the broadsword at her hip. “Secondly, we were attacked by undead in the night. One zombie, one skeleton, one wight. Despite the removal of its arms and head, the zombie spoke. ‘We are for you. We’ll be back’. I’ve not known zombies to be capable of speech, but it is most unsettling, as is what the lady Frantiska had to say of the graveyard itself. No signs of life, not even insects or graveworms. Upturned earth. A sense of pervasive evil, as if the entire grounds were plotting.”

Winona
Winona’s face lights up, “Baatorian iron!? Really?” She practically springs over the table, “May I see it?”

Lyra
“With the symbol of the Xvimlar on the guard.” Lyra carefully unsheathes the sword and, if there is enough room for it, places it on the table for inspection.

Winona
Winona adjusts her glasses and leans down to examine the blade closely. “You said you found more than one of these? I’ve never heard of so much of the stuff in one place….though, I guess you did mention finding a gate to Baator in the slums.” Her arms twitch slightly, as if she is trying to restrain herself from clapping. “You always find the most interesting things,” she pauses, “Well, interesting and also quite frightening for the people of this city.”

She lifts the blade and looks at it again. “Sister Theymr, please inform the Bishop that Rye and I are going to have to engage in some field work.” She hands the sword back to Lyra. “You’ve found more signs of fiendish activity in the area in two days than I have in all the months I’ve been here, Lyra. Let me run to the armory and get my things, then Sister Rye and I are coming with you…”

She turns to the short novice, “Ready Rye?” The halfling’s eyes widen and her face goes start white.

Lyra
“Coming with me? I can tell you where we’d found them, but I hadn’t intended to return there. Of the orcs in the warehouse next to the fortune teller’s stall in the slum market, three had these green-bladed swords. I have one, Donovan and Hrud the others.”

GM
Sister Theymr moves closer to Winona, “While investigation of diabolical influence is your vocation, and the Bishop has offered you much freedom in that area, I am the mistress of novices and I do not believe Sister Ryesha is ready for the the kind of encounters you are implying.” The old woman’s otherwise kindly face looks quite stern as she says this. Ryesha, for her part, withdraws a little, her tiny frame allowing her to easily hide on the other side of the table, just her eyes and ears peaking up over the edge, looking very much like a hare peaking out of a tuft of grass to watch for predators.

Winona
Winona splutters slightly, then smiles, “Sister Theymr, I am entirely within my rights to request an aid for my fieldwork and I can think of no sister better to take along than our little bunnykins here. Her skills will be particularly useful, and she needs some real-world experience, and both Brother Rant and I will be there to watch out for her.” She turns as if that is the final word on the matter. "Lyra dear, we don’t have to go back to where you found the things. The fact that you’ve stumbled upon all of this, apparently by accident, and keep coming back to us can’t be a coincidence. Tyr has lead you to me to guide me to his work. Even that thing you claim the zombie said “We are for you. We’ll be back.” Clearly whatever demonic forces at work in this area are seeking you out Dearie, and I need to be there to stop them."

She pushes her glasses back up her nose and heads out into the hall, “I need to go get my things and we’ll meet you by the main doors. Come on Rye, it’s time to go have some fun!”

Lyra
Lyra carefully sheathes the sword once more. “While her enthusiasm is appreciated, I’m not sure she realizes that I will be rejoining my companions on their way to Melvaunt. Once again, I apologize for the disturbance, Sister Theymr. Aside from some mud and bruises, Brother Rant is well. He was very brave against the undead, and we are glad to have him accompanying us.”

GM
Sister Theymr watches Winona walk out, “Well Ryesha, it seems that you have your first mission, however unorthodox it’s assignment. Please remind Winona that her ability to hold you to sisterly service is limited to two weeks, after which time we will need you back here to resume your studies.” The halfling girl gives a small, almost frightened squeak, hitches up the hem of her robes, and runs after Winona. “It is no disturbance, Miss Lyra, Winona knows her mandate from Bishop Braccio well. Please make sure the Council and the Bishop are acquainted with your findings. Also, while you appearance here today is fine, Vicar General Walleran has informed us that, with the closing of the harbor, we are to limit our hospitality to those in a state of legitimate suffering or who are here on business of the faith in the future.” She bows, “May Tyr watch over your travels,” and returns to her reading.

Lyra
Lyra carefully picks up her stack of paintings again. “Do I need to request an audience with the Bishop, or simply pass on an account of what we have uncovered?”

GM
“The Bishop sits on the Council,” Sister Theymr says. “If you wish to speak with them, you should petition the clerk.”

Lyra
“Thank you, Sister Theymr.” Lyra decided it would be best if she found a buyer for the paintings before waiting for the council to deign to become available.

Lyra proceeds upstairs to wait on Sister Winona and Sister Ryesha, so she could at least inform them that she was heading to the temple of Sune. As she headed to the main doors to the temple, she looked around for any sign of the sister from Half-a-Loaf yesterday.

Winona
Winona and Rye head into the armory and begin suiting up. Winona dons a full suit of double-linked chainmail, along with steel bracers, boots, and an open-faced helm. She then throws her robe and holy symbol on over the armor. She looks around at the weapons hanging on the walls and takes a huge, two-handed flail, the head made of silver and shaped like a pair of intersecting axes. She straps this 25-pound monstrosity to her back, then grabs a pair of metal bars linked by a chain in the center and stuffs this into her belt. She stretches a bit to make sure she can move in the armor, then, satisfied that she is ready to go kick some devil butt, turns and looks at her diminutive companion.

Rye stands looking at her agape, still dressed in just her white robes and ceremonial coif. “Rye,” Winona says, “you should probably make sure you’re ready for a fight. There are devils out there to deal with.” The halfling women makes another frightened squeak, walks over to a weapons rack and grabs a harness with numerous sheaths attached to it. She takes off the robe, dons the harness over her similarly white chemise, then grabs handfulls of knives and begins stashing them everywhere. Finally she takes a large hunting knife, almost a sword for the small woman, and sticks this in a sheath attached to the back of the harness at the waist, then puts her robe back on over all of it, concealing the many weapons. “Ok,” she squeaks, “ready as I’m going to get.”

Winona looks at her incredulously, “You know the quarter-master will let us take our pick of armor, right?”

“Yeah, it’s all just too heavy.” She looks around nervously, “Besides, armor just makes it take longer to get dressed again if I have to…you know…”

“Alright Rye, lets go find Lyra and see what Tyr has in store for us.”

“Oh, Sister Winona,” the small woman squeaks again, “Theymr said to make sure I’m back within two weeks…”

Winona sighs, “Yes Sister. We mustn’t break the rules, musn’t we?”

Winona and Rye come up the stairs into the main entry hall, accompanied by much clinking from the former. Winona waves a mailed fist at Lyra, “So where are we off to first dearie?” She looks at the stack of paintings, “Becoming an art dealer?”

Lyra
Lyra kept her voice quiet. “Among the things in the tower on the weir, these seemed like the easiest to get here. And with funds from that I can replace our ruined food stores and bow. First, finding a buyer, then making my report to the council, or at least an appointment to report to the council. Then shopping.” Lyra perks up visibly at that last part. “Let’s start with the Temple of Sune, they like art, right?”

Winona
Rye pipes up, “Yep.” She pushes hard on the large doors, opening them wide to let Lyra through with the paintings. As they walk out she pipes up, “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Ryesha Whiteears, I was just transferred here last month from the Neverwinter diocese. I just finished my training.” She walks along beside Lyra, with a strangely exited, springy stride—almost bouncing across the square between the temples. She looks closely at Lyra’s dress, “Your clothes are pretty nice, but they’re not in the best of shape, are they? Your dress could use hemming…”

Winona smirks and mumbles, “Don’t be rude Rye. A few days of adventuring and I’m sure our robes will look even worse.”

“Not with me around!” Rye squeaks.

Lyra
Lyra smiles at the young priestess. Her enthusiasm was contagious. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ryesha. I am Lyrathwen Alethiel Beragaion, originally from Waterdeep. This dress is actually one I bought just recently as a spare. Although I do think this shade of green favors my coloring.”

“Sister Winona, how are things in town with the harbor closed? Given what I’ve seen less than a day out of Phlan, I imagine relying on land trade routes is impeding quite a bit.”

The square and the temple to Sune were just as she remembered them. “Would one of you mind getting the door for me?”

GM
You wander across the square, getting some add looks from various passersby, presumably because of Lyra’s unusual burden. The doors of the Temple of Sune are open this morning. Several priestess and celebrants lounge on the steps and you can hear the sounds of a string quartet coming from inside. As you walk up with your pile of paintings, one of the lounging priests, a bare-chested, well-oiled, red-haired man dressed only in a kilt springs. “Ladies,” he says with a sweeping, perfectly executed bow, “what brings you to Sune’s house this fine morning?” He glances at the painting on the top of the stack approvingly, “What a lovely piece, it goes with your eyes…”

Lyra
“I had heard that the Temple of Sune might have an aesthetic appreciation—” Lyra’s eyes drift downward and then snap quickly back up to his face as her ears start turning redder than his hair. “—for such things. As it happens, these are available for the right offer. Some of them are quite striking.”

GM
The priest seems completely nonplussed by Lyra’s embarrassment, instead giving another sweeping bow and gesturing towards the temple entrance. “Excellent,” he says. “I’ll show you to the gallery and we shall see if the Procurator is interested. Follow me.” He pivots gracefully and leads the way with a practiced swagger, flexing far more muscles than should be necessary for the simple motion.

Through the doors you find a large, opulent domed atrium. Beautiful furniture, clearly selected for both comfort (especially when lounging, which seems to be a popular activity around here) as well as for aesthetic value, sits clustered in several groupings designed to facilitate intimate conversations for twos, threes, or fours. Every available nook is filled with statuary, with a particular preponderance of tastefully nude humanoids, or beautiful potted plants. The walls are hung with paintings and tapestries in all manner of styles, as well as with silk curtains, which you can only assume lead to the other areas of the temple. The centerpiece is a large, bubbling fountain depicting a multitude of nymphs and cherubs. The base of the fountain is engraved with the words “Beauty issues from the core of one’s being and reveals one’s true face to the world.” The string quartet you heard earlier sits just beside the fountain playing a minuet. The performers are all priests by the look of them and are surrounded by a group of about a dozen congregants (easily recognizable as such by their not being perfect physical specimens and their inconsistent fashion sense).

The priest who led you in gestures for you to take a seat on a nearby settee and excuses himself to go look for the Procurator.

Lyra
The beautiful music and impeccably dressed and coiffed clergy make Lyra acutely aware of the fact that she is probably a bedraggled, travel-stained mess. Perhaps she should get cleaned up before trying to speak with the council.

Lyra perches on the edge of the settee, carefully setting the paintings down next to her.

Winona
Winona and Rye sit down beside Lyra. Winona looks around at the various artworks, “Sunites have fine taste,” she says quietly, “but not much between the ears. Still, I bet we could get a nice glass of wine out of the deal if you asked politely and fluttered those eyelashes of yours.” She adjusts her glasses, looking her most prudish, then says in a conspiratorial whisper, “Actually, knowing Sunites, you could probably get half-again as much for those paintings if you were showing a little more leg and some cleavage…”

Sister Rye makes a sound that is half tsk and half giggle, “Sister Winona, you shouldn’t say such things.” She hops off the settee and looks around, “Everyone looks so pretty here, though. I wonder who makes their clothes?”

“Why? Are you looking to undercut the kilt market?”

Lyra
Lyra looks moderately scandalized at the suggestion, but then seems to consider it for a moment. “I don’t suppose that would help up speak to the council any faster, would it?”

She looks around at the fine curtains and statuary. “Does most of this come from the ruins, or is it imported?”

Winona
Winona shrugs, “I’m not an art critic. I presume most of it comes form the ruins though. Some of it might also be new. The Sunites usually try to show off the works of local artists whenever possible.”

Lyra
Lyra observes the clergy with their practiced courtesy and easy flattery. “A proper young lady remembers her courtesies, and dresses in a manner that is both flattering and appropriate. A well educated young lady is able to converse on nearly any topic, and can both appreciate, play, and compose music. A dutiful young lady helps those in need, and is mindful of her elders.” She turns back to the Sisters. “I’m sorry, I was just reminded of one of my tutors in Waterdeep, though I could scarcely imagine her in such outfits.” She put a hand to over her mouth, stifling a giggle.

GM
The priest returns, followed by an older woman, perhaps in her early fifties, but still the epitome of grace and elegance. The priest makes his sweeping bow again, “Ladies, allow me to introduce Priestess Poise, Chief Procurator of Sune’s gallery here in Phlan.” He sweeps one more bow for good measure, then excuses himself. Poise, living up to her appelation, stands perfectly tall and strait, looking down her nose at Lyra. “So you are an artist?” she asks, with just a touch of incredulity.

Lyra
Lyra self-consciously sits up straighter, shoulders back, head high, hands folded on her lap. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Lyrathwen Alethiel Beragaion, and I am no painter, but I sing and play the harp, and hope to continue my training with Professor Loughgren. These paintings were recovered from the ruins of the tower on the weir near Veljevo Castle. Some of them have been slightly damaged by the moisture, but I am sure there are none more suited to restoring them to their former glory.”

GM
The woman gives Lyra a distasteful look, “Oh, an adventurer,” she says quietly, and none too politely. “From near the castle you say? Well lets have a look at them.” She picks up the first piece and begins examining it carefully. She stares and mmhms for several minutes, then sets it aside and begins examining the second. This process repeats with each of the four, taking close to half an hour, during which she neither looks nor speaks to any of you. Finally she carefully sets down the last one and looks Lyra in the eyes, “You have a good eye for looting at least. The first painting is exquisite. The man with the parrot is discolored, but in such a way that it actually adds to the composition, one which I am sure Priestess Joy will especially like.” You take a second look at the painting she is indicating and realize that the muscular, bare-chested sailor would fit right in with the rest of the decor. “This one,” she says indicating the tiger, “is more damaged, but represents a style I’ve not seen before, so I’ll take it for the novelty. I can give you fifteen-hundred for the three of them. The whip,” she says the word like it is something obscene, “I have no use for.”

Lyra
Lyra saw no point in haggling with someone who so closely remembered her etiquette tutor. But of course she didn’t want the biggest one. I’ll be lugging it around town all day at this rate. She smiled politely. “I accept your offer.”

GM
“Very well,” Poise makes a small golf clap and the priest from before practically appears beside her. She waves her hand at the paintings, “please take all but the largest of these to the archives.” The priest makes his sweeping bow again, “Ladies,” then scoops up the paintings and disappears with them behind one of the silk curtains. “If you will please follow me,” she says, “we’ll see to your payment.” She pivots gracefully, her long skirt twirling behind her, and heads for another of the silk-disguised side-rooms.

Lyra
Lyra whispers to the Sisters “Any idea who would be interested in procuring a painting of a whip?” Lyra once again carefully picks up the large painting, and follows the priestess.

Winona
Winona looks at the painting tucked under Lyra’s arm, “Actually, dearie, I believe that painting is an archaic holy symbol of Loviatar…”

Rye hops around to Lyra’s other side and looks at it too, “I’m pretty sure Sister Winona’s is right, Miss Lyra. It’s a good thing you pointed out that you didn’t paint it…”

Lyra
Lyra sighed. I hope the others are having better luck than I am. “I suppose that explains her tone. If that’s the case, I’m not sure a motivated buyer is someone I’d be interested in dealing with. Let’s try Aylaran’s Silver Shop then. I need to see if there are any bows there. And of course the clerk’s office. Do you know how long it will take to speak with the council?”

Winona
Winona shrugs, “I guess that depends on what you have to say, dearie. The council should be in session, but sometimes the waiting list can be quite long to see them. You might have to part with some coin if you’re in a hurry.”

GM
Priestess Poise leads you through a bright red curtain into a small, well-appointed office. She gestures for you to have a seat on a divan, then kneels on a cushion in front of a small chest, carefully opening each of three locks. “Do you have a preference of gold or silver?”

She stops and looks back at you, again with that head-held-high, down-the-nose, appraising quality. “Nevermind. You’ll want to carry it,” she puts a rather distasteful emphasis on the word carry, as if that is something that should be beneath Lyra, “so it will have to be gold.” She takes a small, hardwood box from a shelf next to the chest and carefully counts out fifteen gold bars, each about five inches long, and places them in the box. “Thank you for your contribution to our gallery,” she says, standing and handing the box to Lyra. “May you find love and beauty in all your future endeavors.”

Lyra
Lyra carefully sets the painting down, facing away from the priestess as she accepts the box and tucks it carefully into her backpack, and then once again picks up the painting. “Thank you.”

Winona
Winona and Rye duck back out of the curtain. “She didn’t even offer us drinks,” Winona complains once they are out of earshot. She heads for the door, “Silver shop next? So what are you going to do with all that gold dearie?”

Lyra
Lyra nods. “Yes, the silver shop. Frantiska needs a new bow after she fell in the river and hers was ruined, and then we need to replace some of our food in favor of something less … fragile. Then I will split the remainder with my companions once we catch up to them. Beyond covering training costs and getting some extra clothes since I seem to keep having to give mine away, I hadn’t really thought about it…”

Winona
Winona heads out of the temple and leads the way across the street to the silver shop, holding the door open for the others. Rye walks close by Lyra, “If we’re going to be coming with you, I could take care of your dresses. It’s a lot more economical to buy fabric, and needles, and thread than pre-made, cheap, crappy dresses. Not that you have problems with money…”

“…I could make such pretty dresses for you…” Rye’s gets a wistful, far-off look in her eyes.

Lyra
“I’ve half a mind to get breeches, tunic and jerkin if I’m going to be an adventurer.” Lyra grinned, mimicking the procurator’s distasteful tone. “I can only imagine the look on Mother’s face. But I’m rather sure she scries on me, so I should probably refrain. She despairs of creating a proper lady out of me enough as it is.”

GM
As you walk into the silversmith’s shop, the first thing that catches your eye is a beautifully carved, recurved self bow, a full six feet in height and reinforced with silver bands hanging on a display rack on the back wall. Silver goods of all kinds, ranging from mundane plates to brightly polished swords and shields, are lined by on shelves and racks around the room. The center of the space is a workshop, with a small forge, and numerous molds, punches, hammers, vices and other tools. The proprietress, an elven woman with dark short-cropped hair, stands at a bench, armed with a magnifying glass and a pair of small pliers, carefully assembling on a very fine chain.

Lyra
Lyra gazes longingly at the exquisitely crafted bow, trying to remember all of the points Frantiska had made when evaluating bows at Jerome’s. But it’s clearly more than she can afford. She sets the painting down carefully, leaning it against the counter. “I don’t suppose you buy artwork?”

GM
The woman sets down her tools and looks up at Lyra, “I’m sorry miss, I generally do not buy things from people who walk into my shop, but I will take them in trade. If you need to liquidate something you found in the ruins, your best bet is Jerome’s Pawn Shop on the other side of the wall.”

Lyra
Lyra nods. “Very well, then how much would this piece be worth to you in trade? We’ll have need of silver weapons where we’re headed. I suspect the bow is more than I’m willing to part with, but what are you asking for it?”

GM
The lady smiles, “The bow will set you back seven thousand, five hundred gold pieces. It belonged to my late husbands and you’ll not find a finer one in all the north.” She looks at Lyra’s arms, “Though I doubt you’d even be able to string it.” She walks around the workbench, "May I?’ she says, indicating the painting.

Lyra
Lyra props up the frame so she can better see the painting. “Of course. Do you have any other bows, perchance?”

GM
The woman takes her magnifying glass and begins examining the painting, though she seems to spend more time looking at the frame than the actual artwork. “Yes,” she says, still staring through the glass, “I have a couple more bows in the back. I am also friends with a fine bowyer in Eleventree if you would like something specific—though with the harbor closed it may be some months before I could have it here.” She places the glass back on the workbench and finally looks at Lyra again, “I can’t say that I’m a fan of the painting, though I suppose I might be able to find a buyer. The framing is very nice though.” She steps away from the workbench and heads towards a small back room, “Let me get the bows for you to look at and we can discuss trade.” As she goes, you notice that she walks very erect and that you can still see her eyes, reflected in numerous mirrors, shields, and plates set on shelves around the room—and you are sure that she can also see everything going on in the shop.

Winona
Winona yawns and leans against the workbench and looks around the shop, “You know dearie, just judging from the short time I’ve known you, you spend way too much of your life shopping…”

Lyra
Lyra shrugs. “If you’d prefer to travel to Melvaunt with a bowless archer and past wights in the woods without enough silver, I’d rather not stake our lives on the hope that a talking severed head is an oathbreaker as well as a zombie.”

Winona
Winona laughs, “I was kidding dearie. It never hurts to be prepared…and well armed.” Rye’s eyes, meanwhile, get very large, “Did you say wights?!”

Lyra
Lyra nods. “We just saw the one, but I assume there are more. I’m thinking silver arrows, silver crossbow bolts, a dagger for me, a replacement bow for Frantiska, and …” she looks down at Sister Rye. “Do you have something silver, or shall I add something to the list?”

Winona
Sister Rye looks terrified at the thought, “Umm…no,” she squeaks. “You don’t need to buy me anything…I don’t think I could fight a wight regardless…”

“Yeah,” Winona says, “our little Bunny here isn’t really the fighting type.”

Lyra
Lyra concentrates, reaching out to Donovan. After a false start, she manages to find him. “Mr. Donovan? I’m at the silver shop. The Sunites took three paintings for fifteen hundred, and she’ll take the other in trade. I was thinking we’ll need more silver arrows, and maybe some bolts just to be safe. Could you ask Frantiska what sort of bow she’d like?”

Donovan
At the mental mention of Frantiska, Donovan starts crying, No, he thinks. Images of the fight with the wolf-things and of Frantiska’s crushed and mangled body play in his mind for Lyra to observe. We have a new companion tagging along. A goblin cheese-merchant. He was able to repair Frantiska’s leg, though she is still unconscious. We’re trying to make her comfortable. Rant says that she’ll still need several weeks to recover.

Oh, Donovan thinks, we also owe the goblin fourty-ish gold pieces, so don’t spend it all.

Lyra
Donovan gets the sense that Lyra is clearly in shock, and several seconds pass in silence as she fights to keep enough focus to maintain the link. “If I’d been there…” Lyra cuts off abruptly as wherever that thought was going was not being transmitted. More seconds pass in silence. “Two of the Sisters of Tyr have insisted on accompanying me. I won’t be able to come back the way I came, between them and the weight of the bullion. If I rest up, I should be able to take us past the worst of it, and catch up on foot. Elsewise, I might be able to dream travel to catch up where you camp in the morning. I still have to meet with the council. As for your cheesemonger, there’s platinum in the box we recovered from the ruins, and I think some coins from the tower in the extra sacks. If you need me before I contact you again, Hrud should be able to find me, if not actually establish a connection, and I think I should be able to tell he’s doing it.” The thoughts came quickly, almost running into one another, as Lyra tries to get it all out while she’s able to maintain her composure. Donovan feels an almost crushing wave of disbelief and sorrow just before the connection breaks.

GM
Lyra comes to her senses to find the owner of the silver shop standing right beside her, three bows held in her arms, looking very concerned. “Miss? Miss? Are you well?”

Lyra
Lyra’s eyes slowly begin to focus on her surroundings. “I … I’ll be fine, just give me a moment. What do you have in silver daggers and crossbow bolts?” She couldn’t even stand to look at the bows right now.

GM
The woman sets the bows on the workbench. “How many are you looking for?”

Lyra
Lyra places a hand on the counter to steady herself. “One dagger. How much for a case of bolts?”

GM
She places a dagger on the workbench, “Five gold for the dagger, and five gold per case for the bolts.”

Lyra
Lyra nods. “And what can I get in trade for the painting? It did have a lovely frame.”

GM
“Tell you what, you can keep the painting. I’ll give you one of the bows, the dagger, and a case of bolts for the frame.”

Lyra
“Deal. I’ll also take an additional case of bolts and a quiver of arrows.” When did it get so dim in here, everything’s reflective. Lyra rubbed her temples, as if that would stop her head from swimming.

GM
The silversmith gathers up the indicated items, “That will be ten gold for the additional ammunition.”

Lyra
Lyra shrugs her backpack off of her shoulder and carefully removes the heavy box from her bag, and then removes one bar from her box and places it on the counter, before carefully closing the box and returning it to her pack.

GM
The smith suddenly looks much more attentive, “Is there anything else I can get for you, Miss?”

Lyra
Lyra’s eyes scan over what little jewelry is in the shop. “I might be interested in commissioning a gemstone pendant when I get back from Melvaunt, but this will do for now.”

GM
The smith nods, looking a little disappointed. She walks around the workbench and takes out a set of scales, calipers, a diamond-tipped scoring pen, and an axe. She carefully checks the stamps of mint and purity on the gold bar then weighs it. She then measures out one-tenth of the length of the bar, and scores it deeply with the pen, reserving the scrapings. Then makes one clean cut along the score with the axe, the sharpened steel easily cleaving through the soft metal. She then weighs the bar, weighs the piece she cut, weighs the scrapings, weighs them all together, and then weighs them all again. “Would you like to verify, Miss?” she asks, offering the scales for you to look at.

Lyra
Lyra had already decided she liked the silversmith, but looked at the scales and then nodded at her, only vaguely trying to recall what she’d heard about what you’re supposed to be watching out for.

GM
The woman takes the scrapings and the smaller piece and sets them aside, then hands the rest of the bar back to Lyra. She takes her gold and walks back into the back room, this time turning a corner to where you cannot see her in the mirrors. She returns to view a moment later, sans gold, and brings a bundle of silver-headed arrows and bolts from the back room. “Here you are. Did you decide on a bow you like?”

Lyra
Lyra removes the case from her backpack and places the remainder of the bar inside. She chooses the bow that seems most appropriate for Frantiska, strings it, and tests the draw. “This one.”

Winona
Winona smiles, “Great, let’s go kill some demons!” Rye looks considerably less enthused.

GM
The smith then turns over the painting, carefully opens the frame, removes the canvas, and hands it to Lyra. “Please come back any time, Miss.”

Lyra
Lyra places the bolt cases in her backpack, but keeps the bow and quiver easily accessible. At Winona’s outburst, she recalls a winged hyena throwing of Teldicia as the pack surrounds Frantiska, knocking her to the ground and tearing out her throat. Lyra fights back tears as she rolls up the canvas and heads out the door. Outside, she pulls her hood up, no longer able to contain the wracking sobs, but not wanting the Sisters to see her like this.

From the silversmith’s, it was a short walk to the clerk’s office. Too short, Lyra thought. She stood outside for a moment trying to regain her composure before opening the door and heading inside.

Winona
Winona and Ryesha stop on the way out to look at a few pieces of jewelry, “Come on Bunny, we need to keep an eye on that girl. She has a way of coming and going quite suddenly.” They jog out of the store and across the street to the Council Hall. “Hey Lyra dear, were there any other errands you needed to take care of after talking to the Council? Rather than following you around all day, maybe we could knock a couple things off your list?”

Lyra
Lyra sniffles again and looks up, her eyes red and watery. “Oh. Yes. Um.” She focused on her breathing. Deep calming breaths. “We need food that travels a bit more … safely … than glass jars of pickled vegetables. Maybe some dried mushrooms and dried vegetables? At least two sets of extra clothing. Maybe a scroll case we can put this canvas in. And a boot sheath for the dagger. Is there anything else you can think of that we’d need? I’m not sure how long it will take us to catch up to the cart on foot.”

Winona
“Well, dearie, I think I can remember all that. Would you like Rye and me to go fetch those things for you? We could just ask Ian to open a tab.”

Lyra
“I … yes, that would be good.” Deep breaths. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I can, then I can pay and we’ll be on our way.”

Lyra shrugs off one backpack strap and fishes out the box. Leaning over it so her cloak obscures it from passersby, she takes out the gold bar, and places the box back in her backpack. “This should cover most of it.” She slips the heavy bar to Sister Winona. Three more slow, deep breaths, and she opens the door to the clerk’s office, hand trembling. Time to face the council, and likely, her mother.

Lyra was almost relieved to see her mother sitting at the clerk’s desk. She waited quietly as a haggard man with a bandage wrapped around his head and over one eye and a makeshift sling on his left arm finished his paperwork. After he left, she approached the desk. “I have a report for the council regarding the undead in the area.”

Faelana finished writing a note in the large book in front of her. She looked her daughter over head to heels, noting the fraying edge of her cloak, the dried too-dark mud on her boots, her tangled hair, her reddened eyes, the elven bow and quiver of arrows, the sword at her hip, and most importantly, the protective spell still in place. “A written report is sufficient in such cases.” She hands her daughter a form to complete. “I presume this is regarding the matter you mentioned this morning, Lyrathwen?”

“Yes, Mother.” Lyra took the form and sat down to recount the events from both passing the graveyard and the attack on their camp.

“Mr. Leitch’s position as Herald is unfilled if you wish to reconsider this nonsense.”

Lyra hesitated. “No. I’ve accepted a commission and I will see it through.”

“Very well,” Faelana replied, although her tone indicated it was anything but. “You will need another form for reporting the Baatorian iron swords.” Faelana narrowed her eyes disapprovingly at the sword on her daughter’s hip. “I shall examine it to confirm your suspicions.”

Lyra carefully drew the sword, and handed it to her mother hilt first, then picked up the indicated forms. Faelana’s brows furrowed as she turned over the sword, not at all liking what she saw. “You said there were two others?”

“Yes, Mother. It’s all in the report.” Lyra had to keep pausing her writing because her hands were shaking too much. Lyra placed the completed papers on the desk, and resheathed her sword.

Faelana took both sets of papers, and made some notes in her tight, precise handwriting. “There is a reward for information regarding the undead. Wait here.” With a swirl of skirts, she disappeared into the other room. Not long after, she returned with a few gems and a scroll.

Lyra accepts the bag of gems and the scroll. She checks its contents before tucking the bag of gems into her belt pouch. A fire opal, two agate, and a chunk of jet with pyrite inclusions. “Do you know what’s on the scroll?”

Faelana raised an eyebrow as she returned to her seat at the desk. “Two Restoration spells. Do make an effort not to need them.”

Lyra could only nod in agreement. “I will make every effort to return from Melvaunt safely, Mother. I … I should be going. We’ll want to be well past the graveyard before it starts getting dark.”

The door was closed and the sound of the chime fading before Faelana could ask who ‘we’ happened to be.

Winona
Winona and Rye hurry across the plaza and behind the Training Hall to Ian Cockburn’s Grocery. A small bell rings as they enter, barely audible over the clanking of Winona’s armor. Rye bounces into the store behind her. The face of the young man behind the counter goes white at the sight of the heavily armed and armored priestess. “Sisters!” he says with false cheerfulness, “What brings you in today?” He wipes his hands on his apron and starts to come around the counter, “Surely you’re not holding last night against me…”

Winona glares at him over the rim of her spectacles, “Don’t worry Ian, you won fair and square last night. We’re here to give you more money, not take it back.” She walks up and lays the partially chiseled gold brick on the counter. “So, can we get some service?”

Rye looks at him a little sideways. “I don’t know Sister Winona,” she squeaks, “I still don’t believe he just happened to pull that king…” She crosses her arms and furrows her brow, trying, quite unsuccessfully, to look intimidating instead of just cute.

Seeing the gold, the grocer immediately snaps to attention, all business, and not wanting to anger the volatile priestess. “Of course, what can I get for you?” he says, completely ignoring Rye, who was obviously the more attentive card-player but the less obvious threat.

Winona leans against the counter, clearly expecting to be waited on when flashing that kind of cash. “Just a few things Ian. Some vegetables for the road, dried, not canned, a scroll organizer, a boot sheath for a dagger, and…”

Rye cuts in, “And scissors, needles, thread, four yards of silk, the dark blue stuff there, ten yards of canvas, ten yards of linen, ten yards of flannel, and a yard of lace,” she says decisively. “Oh, and four yards of Santolin if you have it.”

Ian grabs a crate from the stack beside the counter and begins gathering up the listed items, “What sort of provisions did you have in mind, and how much?”

“Oh,” Winona follows him around the store, “How much for those mushrooms?”

“Eighty gold a pound,” he says.

Her nose screws up and she adjusts her glasses, “Eighty? Well, how about the beans, those green ones? I think there are eight of us that will need fed.”

“Three gold a pound.”

“Give us all of those then.”

Ian raises an incredulous eyebrow, then shrugs, thinking better than to question someone with a flail with a head larger than his own, even if it is obvious that they have never cooked in their life. He bags up all of the green beans, almost five pounds worth and puts them in the crate, with the other smaller items.

“Oh,” Winona says, pointing at a large, round red thing amidst the fresh produce, “What are those?”

“They’re called tomatoes.”

“Can I get a pound of those too? They look delicious.”

Ian carefully stacks a few tomatoes on top of the other things in the crate, then sets it on the counter. He and Rye disappear down one of the isles and, after a few minutes worth of snipping sounds, return with his arms loaded with several bolts of cloth. “Anything else I can get you, Sisters?”

“Rye?” Winona asks.

“Nope.”

Ian begins pointing at the items collected, whispering under his breath as he counts and calculates, then says, “That will be eighty-seven gold and four pence.”

Winona looks at the mostly intact gold brick on the counter. “Keep the change,” she says, gathering the crate in her arms. “Rye can you handle all that cloth?”

“Yep!” The halfling squeaks happily, scooping up the stack with her arms.

As they exit, Rye, barely able to see over the tall stack of cloth, says cheerfully, “I’m going to make Miss Lyra the prettiest dress EVER!”

Winona and Ryesha come hurrying across the square with their burdens. Seeing Lyra exiting the Clerk’s Office, they make their way there, “That was short, Dearie,” Winona observes. “Council session let out early? We were all set to find a bench and wait a few hours.”

Lyra
Lyra shakes her head. “Apparently intelligent undead aren’t worthy of the council’s considerations in person. I had to file a report. Did you get the … food?” Lyra trails off as she looks at the giant pile of canvas, silk, linen, and … is that lace peeking out?

Winona
Seeing Lyra staring at her, Rye peeks over the pile and pipes up, “They didn’t have any nice dresses, so I bought stuff to make you a few…”

Lyra
“I’m surprised you could afford all that given how much the mushrooms ought to cost. I don’t suppose there’s any change back from that gold bar? Do you have the scroll case and boot sheath? Once I get these put away, we can be on our way. If we follow the river, I … know a shortcut … that would get us past the graveyard and castle safely.”

Winona
Winona looks sheepish, “No change, sorry, and we couldn’t afford the mushrooms, but I got these toe-may-toes, which look tasty. Why would you head by the graveyard anyways?” She says, quickly changing the subject, “That’s on the west side of town. Aren’t you headed to Melvaunt?”

Lyra
Lyra tried to visualize the path they’d taken the previous day. “We left on that side of town. Is there a better route to overtake the cart?”

Winona
Winona points to the east, “There is the bridge right at the end of Old Wall Road. We’d have to go by the Temple of Xvim, but that’s the way most people go.”

Lyra
The Temple of Xvim. Lyra wasn’t looking forward to seeing what kind of reaction they would have to the sword at her hip. “Then let’s take that way. Just stay close to me. If there’s trouble I don’t intend to linger.”

Lyra’s eyes went wide as she considered the implications of the sword — and how it was acquired. “Brother Rant publicly executed one of the Xvimlar yesterday morning. And you both look very….” Her hand gripped the bow tightly. Both priestesses looked splendid in their white robes. And obviously followers of Tyr. “They likely won’t be happy about that. You’ll be in danger, moreso than usual. I … I can get us past the temple, and probably past most of the rest of the way out of the city.”

Winona
Winona shrugs, “Whatever you like Dearie. They may be evil bastards, but they are less aggressive around here than one might think. The Council keeps a heavy guard on this side of the bridge, and the Xvimlar keep their own on the other. Merchants come in and out that way all the time, as do adventurers, and even a few of our order who want to proselytize to the people living on the other side of the river. The worst that happens to most of them is just having to pay a bribe to get across the bridge. Actually, to tell the truth Dearie, the Xvimlar are something of a civilizing influence over there, a little on the ruthless and tyrannical side, but they keep the orcs mostly in check.”

Lyra
Lyra’s eyes narrowed, her anger almost palpable. “There’s nothing civil about the orcs we took these swords from. The only thing we arrived in time to save Ellen from was death. Let’s just get this over with.” She spun on her heel and strode off before stopping abruptly. “Er. Which way to the bridge from here?”

Winona
Rye points a shaking finger, “That way,” she squeaks. Winona hefts the crate and leads the way.

Lyra
Lyra follows close behind the two priestesses, entertaining thoughts of how best to deliver a Xvimlar bribe when she wasn’t carrying much besides trade bricks. Most involved acceleration due to gravity.

GM
The walk to the bridge is short, only three blocks north of the Training Hall and a block east of the Parkside Gate where you first made your way into the slums. The bridge is a large and ancient-looking affair—a single high arch of heavy stone five-hundred feet long, spanning the river with room for a large barge to pass beneath it, and decorated with crumbling statues of long-dead lawmakers. The river-side wall, a remnant of the old town, is breached by a massive iron-latticed gate, and guarded by ten soldiers bearing the crest of Tempus, god of war, whose temple lies just across the street from the bridge. Towers on the temples of Tempus and Gond sport large catapults that are aimed towards the bridge, ready to repel any assaults from that direction.

As you approach, laden with goods, the guards eye you warily. One, seeing the sword at Lyra’s belt snuffs distastefully and moves to open the gate, apparently much less concerned about those going than those potentially coming.

Winona
Winona smiles at the guards, “Having a nice day boys?” She walks through the gates, not really waiting for a reply. Sister Ryesha bounces along at her heals. “So, miss Lyra,” the halfling jabbers, “I’ve never made an adventuring dress before. Santolin seems the ideal fabric, but are their any special features you would like? Should it have pockets? Split skirts? Maybe an armor-plated bodice?”

Lyra
Lyra smiles at the energetic halfling. “I’ve never needed an adventuring dress before. Pockets sound like they would be useful. I don’t think I’d need armor, with the spell Mother cast. A split skirt might be useful, but…” Lyra blushed. “I’m not sure my mother would approve. The color is lovely though.” Lyra tensed as they crossed the bridge. “There were shrieking fish in the river at the weir. They knocked Frantiska in, and we were barely able to save her.”

Winona
“Llamhigyn-y-dwr? Waterleapers. Yeah, they show up pretty often in the river, or so I hear. I’ve only seen them once or twice, but I’ve never heard of the jumping up as high as the bridge here.” Winona walks calmly over to the edge of the bridge and peers over the side at the black water running beneath it. “All sorts of weird things come out of that water, and nothing friendly or edible. No one has detected any magic about it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there is some old gate to the Styx or worse up on Sorcerer’s Island. Especially given your recent findings.” She spits into the water far below, then resumes walking across the long bridge, keeping her eyes open for stray arrows—though it is early in the day for such. “It is already clear that diabolists were out in force here in Phlan at some time in the past.”

Lyra
“Yet you’re following me to Melvaunt. The cart is slow going, so we should be able to catch up. Unless we’ve gotten ahead of them by going this way….” But they’d had to stop. Tears started welling again. “I can look for signs of the wagon on the road, but it … it looks busy enough that might be futile.” Foot traffic on the bridge was busier than she’d imagined. But the ports were closed, and trade must go on. She looked over the far end of the bridge, trying to judge how quickly people got through the far side.

GM
A make-shift barrier has been constructed at the far end of the bridge, a felled, coniferous tree, it’s needles long gone but with a few branches still intact, has been laid across the entire breadth of the bridge, supported by the two of the statues. A pair of orcs stand in front of the barrier, hauling it aside to allow travelers to pass. A man clad in banded armor covered with a tabard depicting the green and black fist of Xvim, his face hidden by a large helm, stands in the center of the bridge, just ahead of the barrier, taking coins and other offerings from those passing through the crude gate. Already today they seem to have acquired a substantial amount of goods from the passersby—weapons, cloaks, foodstuffs, metal ingots, and other items—which have been heaped in a pile to one side of the bridge.

Lyra
“Should I be worried about how they’ll react to the sword? You should probably do the talking when we get to the gate. Xvimlar have been nothing but trouble since I arrived.” Given her youth, Lyra looked more petulant than angry.

Winona
Winona rattles the flail across her back suggestively, “We’ll just have to see how it goes, Dearie. There are only three of them. If they cause any trouble I’m sure we can trouble them back.”

“Ummm, Sister,” Ryesha squeaks, “is getting in a fight with them really a good idea? There is a law against brawling in the streets…”

“That law ends at the gates behind us, Bunny. I don’t intend to pick a fight, but if the Xvimlar are bothering Miss Lyra, then we’ll be sure to make them stop, one way or another.” Winona smiles at Rye, then walks on towards the make-shift gate.

Lyra
Lyra shook her head. “I wasn’t the one in danger. We kept having to stop them from hurting people. Did Brother Rant tell you how we met? He was lying in the street in the slums, his robes almost as much red as white, with orc lepers holding bloody knives standing around him talking about Mace. Even after receiving healing he could barely walk.” So I did what was necessary. Shaddup and Donovan couldn’t carry him. Lyra tried not to think about how handsome he’d looked in his armor and robes the next morning as they approached the gate guards.

GM
As you approach, the two orcs barely look at you. One stands up strait by his post, clearly trying to look officious, but yawns widely. The other leans casually against the make-shift barrier, munching on a pear taken from their pile of “tolls”. The mail-clad Xvimlar, however, turns to look strait at you, his eyes barely visible through the visor, scan over the three of you, finally settling on Lyra’s green dress, dark cloak, and then the sword at her waist. He waves a hand and says something unintelligible to the two orcs, who immediately jump to attention and slide the gate open. The three of them stand out of your way—in fact they stand well out of your way—and wave you through.

Winona
Winona walks cautiously past the orc guards and gives Lyra an appraising look, just now really noticing her choice of clothing. “See, perfectly reasonable…” She tries to look casual, but slightly quickens her pace to get off the bridge faster. “The road goes strait out of town from here,” she says, “but this section of town is crawling with thieves, orcs, and Xvimlar, or so I hear. The last, it seems, are the ones we should be the least concerned about.”

Ryesha follows quietly on their heels, her normally bouncing step considerably more sedate, her face ashen, and casting furtive glances at the heavily armored man twice her size.

Lyra
Lyra barely had to break stride as they scrambled to clear her path. They’re not afraid of me, they’re afraid of what the sword means. Once they were well past, she looked around for a likely spot out of sight.


“I intended to bypass most of the town, although I’d rather be slightly less obvious about it. Here, around that building and we should be fine.” She put a hand on each priestess and steered them towards a likely piece of rubble.

PBM: Chapter 2: Handle With Care: Part 8

In which the party learns to cope with the adventuring lifestyle...

Lyra
Less than an hour after going to bed. Lyra drags her sleeping bag and blanket out of the wagon. She laid out her sleeping bag and sat down on top of it, huddled under the blanket with her back to the flames, watching the forest.

GM
Staring into the darkness, the fire warming her back, Lyra nods, then begins to doze off.

Lyra jolts out of bed. Her bed. In her room in Waterdeep. Tall, strong walls around her. Her door locked. She looks around in confusion.

Not bothering to pull her dress on over the chemise she’d slept in, she strides over to the bookcase. Her favorite is still there, with its rich illustrations. She takes the book and sits on the bed, flipping it open. The illustration of a dragon is so detailed its eyes seemed to follow her.

She throws the book across the room.

As the book hits the wall, there is a heavy thump at the doorway. And then another. No, no, this was home, it’s supposed to be safe. At the third thump, she runs over to the bookcase to tries and push it in front of the door, but only manages to knock the books off.

Thud.

Thud. The door creaks with every strike. She puts her back against it to brace it, but black water begins to seep in from underneath. She can’t remain there, lest it touch her.

There are the curtains but no high window where there should have been, only strong stone walls. She tears down the curtains and throws them down to staunch the flow of water under the door.

The wood begins to crack with each strike. She crawls under the bed, as she did as a child.

With a final mighty crack the door gives way. Black water pooling around the figure standing there…

With a stifled scream, Lyra snaps awake and stares into the darkness, breathing hard, her heart racing. The air is still and cold, quiet save for Donovan’s snoring echoing from under the wagon. The fire has burned low without her tending it, and everyone else remains asleep. Three battered corpses lie by the edge of the clearing, unmoving…

Lyra
A calm, disciplined mind is your armor, Lyrathwen. Concentrate. Think of the safest place you know and picture yourself there. It felt like an eternity before her breathing slowed, the panic rising again with each tiny sound. No one else stirred. Had she fallen asleep on her watch?

Lyra rubs her eyes and gets up to stoke the fire, still half keeping an eye on the undead as if they might rise again at any moment. Before sitting back down, she paces around the camp twice, once with her human sight and once with her elven.

Donovan
About an hour before dawn there is a thump, followed by a groan, as Donovan wakes up, once again forgetting that he is underneath a wagon. After another minute of groaning, he crawls out from under the wagon, dragging the tarp, his bedroll, and his pack, which he had been using as a pillow, behind him and mumbling, “Well that was a bad idea!” He drops the tarp as close to the fire as he can get with Hrud, Rant, Teldicia, and Lyra already there, then goes to the back of the wagon, extracting the shield, scrolls, and other suspected magical devices as quietly as possible. Returning to the fire, he sits down with the collected junk laid out in front of him and wraps his bedding around himself against the morning chill. “G’morning Lyra,” he mumbles, “I’ve got this watch, you should try to get another hour or two of sleep before we head out.” He pulls his spellbook from his pack and begins flipping through it, looking for the spells he will need today.

Lyra
Lyra’s eyes looked red and tired as she nodded at Donovan in greeting. She wrapped her blanket more tightly around her shoulders before addressing him in elven. «I’m not sure if I nodded off and had a nightmare, or if something tried to attack my mind. I remember my safe place from my defense training, something pounding at the door as black water seeped in beneath it. Just as the door shattered to splinters, I found myself back in camp. I patrolled but saw nothing, yet I can’t quite shake the memory of it.» Huddled beneath the blanket trembling, Lyra looks far younger than her sixteen years.

At precisely dawn, the wind picks up abruptly. “Lyrathwen Aletheil Beragaion, I have been sick with worry.”

Lyra stirred, her eyes red and tired, memories of a tower with a dragon painting, its lower level full of black water full of skeletons fading. She covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. “Good morning, Mother.”

“Are you safe?”

More whispers on the wind. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hardly at all. We saved a girl in the slums from rapers, bought supplies and weapons, crossed the black river, raided a dragon’s tower, and were attacked by undead during the night.” Lyra straightened, trying to compose herself. “I have important information that the council needs to hear. Would you be able to convey it? Firstly, Mace is arming the Xvimlar with swords of an alloy originating on Baator. And secondly…

There was no sign of life in the graveyard as we passed, not even insects and grave-worms. Lady Frantiska insists that it is full of pervasive evil, as if the ground itself is plotting ‘foul deeds’. The grass is blackened, and the ground mounded as if things forced their way out of the ground. We were attacked in the night by a skeleon, a zombie, and a wight. Even after the zombie had its limbs and head chopped off, the head rolled up and said “We are for you. We will be back…” Donovan smashed it to bits in panic after, and I’d felled both skeleton and wight. I dropped the skeleton right on its evil smirking face.”
For the first time in her life, Faelana did not know what to say to her daughter.

Hrud
Hrud woke, sooner than he wanted, to the sound of the others stirring around him. He felt like his old self; if the barbarian were given to introspection, he might have realized how disappointed that made him feel.

Rolling up his bedding and securing what little belongings he had to his horse, Hrud sat down on the low wall surrounding the campsite and ate his breakfast in silence, avoiding eye contact with anyone, for fear that they felt like talking.

The events of last night kept playing over and over in his head: Frantiska kissing him had been completely unexpected and thrilled him, even as it robbed him of his newfound abilities, leaving him feeling … impotent. But she had use some kind of healing magic on him, meaning that the source of that power – the river? – was harmful in some way.

But the kiss … Hrud had only been kissed once or twice in his life; occasionally one of the women in his people would find him amusing for a little while; soon enough, though, they wanted him to disappear. It was like people could only stand to be around him for a little bit before his very presence became an anathema.

And then Lyra’s words echoed through his thoughts. The accusation, and the look on her face as she said it, haunted him. The worst part was, Hrud knew she was right, despite his ignorance of the boundaries he’d overstepped at the time. Hrud was not a man of subtlety, nor did he have much grasp of propriety. This was why he’d been sent to live with Skadi outside the city, this was why he wasn’t allowed among his own people – he was too stupid and too dangerous, even without the river-sludge poisoning his brain.

Hrud felt the sting of tears again, but willed them away. He’d been too tired and surprised and unprepared to resist them last night, but today was a new day.

New, he suddenly decided, in more ways than one. Every Eraka needs a tribe, he thought, and he was determined to prove he belonged somewhere.

Frantiska
Frantiska rises much later than usual and quietly goes about the business of perusing her spellbook, and brushing down and saddling Thistledown. When finished, she walks her horse to the edge of the clearing, stopping briefly by Donovan, where he sits examining the various items they have collected. “Mr. Donovan, I am sorry about the disruptions yestereve. I was planning on scouting ahead and wondered if I might take possession of Sir Guy’s sword and the scroll which contains the spell of whispering winds.”

Donovan
Donovan hands Sir Guy’s Spoon and the scroll up to Frantiska, keeping his eyes respectfully down, “If you’re riding ahead, just be careful, we’ve already established that this is not the safest place to be…”

Lyra
Lyra sullenly eats her breakfast before carefully folding her blanket and rolling up her sleeping bag and putting them in the wagon. She still has dark circles under her eyes and and keeps stifling yawns. After Teldicia wakes up and has a chance to eat breakfast Lyra approaches her. “I … something’s been bothering me since last night.” She stops and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Hrud said something that made it sound like you knew, or at least suspected, that he was a telepath.” And you speak Baatezu in your sleep, but this is more important.

GM
Teldicia goes about packing up her meager possessions and smiles, “Yes, I’ve been monitoring him since we met. Not being able to understand what someone is saying is quite annoying, so I had to make a work-around. While I was listening, it became abundantly clear that he was the source of the mental static that has been affecting all of us. It was also pretty clear that he was too dense to be broadcasting it in any intentional or malicious way, so I thought it better to not mention it,” she shrugs as if to say, my bad.

Lyra
“I’d noticed the mental static, but couldn’t pinpoint the source other that it seemed to be moving with our group based on the reactions of others in town. It seemed to go away after Frantiska had been de-cursed, so I hadn’t even thought to associate it with him.” Lyra blinks, not sure she heard correctly. “Monitoring? Listening?”

GM
“Yeah, I can’t ‘mind-talk’, as Hrud calls it, like you can, but I can listen to people’s thoughts. Only surface-thoughts, mind you,” she says apologetically. “I can’t probe anyone, but it does let me get the gist of conversations, tell how many people are around, recognize when something weird is going on in their heads, that sort of thing.”

Lyra
And with no spell components, no less. Handy. Lyra smiles, but looks genuinely concerned. "Please be careful with it. I’ve heard using it around things like that— " Lyra gestures to the shattered ruin of the wight “—can be highly unpleasant or even dangerous.”

GM
“Yeah, my progenitor drove a few people insane that way, or so I hear.” She gets up and throws her bag into the back of the wagon, climbing up after it.

Frantiska
Frantiska takes the items and leaves. As soon as they are out of the clearing, Frantiska turns Thistledown towards the south-easterly road and gallops away at top speed. “What do you think Thistledown?” she says outloud as they ride, as much to herself as to the horse. “Was it a mistake to come to this place? Was joining these people the right decision? Can we really trust them?” She ducks her head to avoid a branch and rides on, letting her body be lulled into relaxation by the familiar rhythm of Thistledown’s stride. “The little girl, Amara, is clearly up to something, though I can’t imagine what. The barbarian, while seeming honorable enough, and apparently curious about Selune, has no respect for personal boundaries, and clearly doesn’t understand his own powers. Mr. Donovan is level-headed, but I dislike the way he looks at Lyra, Teldicia, and myself, or really any woman for that matter—he has a wandering eye about him.” Feeling she is sufficiently away, she slows Thistledown to a canter. “Teldicia is clearly hiding many things. She is definitely no elf. The Tyrran should be a known quantity, as Tyr is said to be very narrow in whom he will accept in his priesthood, and yet he has shown no inclination to rein-in the others. Lyra seems to be the best of them, at once competent and naive, but she is still young, and therefore unpredictable.” She pulls the horse to a stop and looks around cursorily, “At least these people show an interest in our quest, but they are also clearly motivated by profit. We were almost killed three times yesterday, Thistledown, does it really serve our queen and the goddess for us to be here?”

She tugs unconsciously on the reins, turning Thistledown in circles, mimicing her own indecision. “What do you think, Thistledown? We saved a girl from death yesterday, but not from her worse fate, we almost drowned, and our valor broke in the face of the walking dead. I’ve spent a century training for the life of the quest, but one misstep nearly killed me, and one look at that those rotting corpses scared me enough that I abandoned my new companions.” As her rage mounts she pulls harder on the reins, making the circle tighter and faster, and pounds angrily on her leg with the other hand. “Damnit Thistledown! What do I do!” She finally notices what she is doing, relaxes her grip on the reins, and begins to sob.

Donovan
Donovan climbs up into the drivers seat of the wagon after putting away his books and hitching up the team. “Ok,” he says, sounding exasperated, “can anyone else here Not read minds?” He wiggles around a bit to try to get comfortable on the bench. “Do we need to set some ground rules for interaction?” he uses his herald voice, as he likes to think of it, projecting to be heard by everyone in the clearing. “I know we all just met and we’re new at the adventuring thing, but certain baselines of trust need to be established. Getting at least verbal consent before reading people’s thoughts, talking in their heads, or otherwise violating their privacy seems like a healthy minimum…” He sighs and whips the oxen, and tugs on the reins a little too hard to turn them around, almost falling out of his seat when they jerk into motion. Once the team is steadied he continues. “I know we were all a little traumatized by yesterday’s events, but I suspect that’s going to be our new normal. We should at least make sure we feel safe with one another. So, do we need to have an airing of grievances when Frantiska get’s back? Are there any other ground rules that need to be established in order to have a smooth working relationship?” he looks around expectantly.

GM
Brother Rant grabs his bag and leaps on the back of the wagon as it turns away. He hurriedly translates Donovan’s concerns for Hrud, then chimes in. “Phlan is a dangerous place, you all knew that before you came. For my part, I am grateful to you all for my life, and offer that in your defense. You have learned quickly to fight well together and have defended each other, despite your youth or inexperience, and there is little more that I could ask for from comrades in arms.” He stows his bag and sets his mace and one of the crossbows, loaded, near the back opening of the wagon. “For my part, I have no grievance with any of you, and you are free to use whatever means you think is appropriate to communicate with me. Likewise, as invasive as it may be, given the nature of our work, I welcome the use of any tools you may have to aid in our coordination. I also thank all of you for considering these things, many wouldn’t. Your concern for each other’s feelings does you justice, and Tyr smiles on that.” He sits down, his feet dangling off the back of the wagon, looking relaxed, but with the weapons in easy reach. “I pray that the rest of our journey goes more smoothly…”

“Yeah…what he said.” Teldicia shrugs apologetically again, “I’ve got no problem with you being in my head, Lyra, or you Hrud, and I’ll try to stay out of your heads unless necessary. I do ask that you make sure not to let me sleep through another fight…it sounds like I missed all the fun…”

Hrud
Hrud returns Donovan’s pointed look with a blank one of his own until Rant translates, at which point the barbarian rolls his eyes. “«The mind-talk is gone. Frantiska took it.»” Turning his pony around to take up a rear-guard postion, the barbarian mumbles something that only the cleric manages to hear, “Sing wong iku cemburu.”

Lyra
Lyra curls up under her cloak, hugging her knees and staring at the tips of her boots. Her voice is strained and quiet, as if she’s holding back tears. “This is why I’m not supposed to let people find out I’m a telepath.”

GM
As Donovan yanks on the reins and whips the oxen they try to turn quickly as indicated, only to realize that the harness does not allow anything nearing that level of maneuverability. The wagon lurches and starts to tilt sideways, rocking off of two of its wheels…

Lyra
“However, Hrud pretty clearly has latent abilities. I sensed psionic interference in town last night, although I’d misattributed it to other sources, and that well predates the river incident.” Lyra paused as the wagon lurched into the turn. “I might be able to help teach him to control…” Lyra yelps in surprise as the wagon suddenly tilts and scrambles for purchase as she starts to slide down towards the other side of the wagon.

GM
There is much rattling and crashing as the wagon upsets, the carefully stacked statues and goods topple from their purchases, crashing into the canvas sides of the wagon and ricocheting around the hold. Lyra, grabbing hold of one of the bows, finds herself briefly dangling above the debris as it crashes past her. Brother Rant is thrown from the back of the wagon, landing face-first in the mud. Amara goes hurting in the opposite direction, right past Donovan and Teldicia to land on the tongue between the two yoked beasts. Luckily the tongue and yoke hold without breaking, and the wagon settles back onto all four wheels as the oxen complete the turn. Amara and Rant sport some minor bruises, but there are no injuries otherwise. The only significant damage is to the jars and crates which held your stores of food, which have been almost completely smashed by falling statuary.

Lyra
Everything was ruined. Lyra starts sobbing.

Donovan
Donovan curses under his breath, lets go of the reins, and reaches down to help Amara back up. “Ok,” he says with a sigh, “does anyone know how to drive for real?” He sets the brake and goes into the back to help clean up as best they can. He grabs the shield and uses it like a shovel to start scooping up chunks of broken glass and spilled vegetables and dump them outside.

Lyra
Where it had fallen near the food crate, the Simbul seemed to be lying in a pool of strawberry blood. Lyra was thankful the vials of holy water were still in her belt pouch. “Since we have ropes and tarps, we might be able to secure the statues a little more effectively. Is there anything else fragile for which we need to more carefully consider storage?” Lyra looks concerned as the muddy cleric climbs back in the wagon. “Are you alright, Brother Rant?”

GM
Brother Rant shrugs, “I’m fine.” He grabs the statue of the Simbul and heaves it upright. “Donovan,” he says, “if we don’t know how to drive, we might take turns walking ahead of the animals to lead them…”

Donovan
“Sure, It’s not like Mr. Brisket and Sirloin can move that fast anyways.” Donovan tosses another shieldfull of junk outside and then starts looking at the statues. “If we can push all the statuary up against the sides we could lash them to the poles that hold the canopy.”

Hrud
Hrud walks his pony over to the wagon, “«Maybe I should drive».”

Donovan
Donovan listens to the translation then yells, “Sold!” He gestures for Hrud to take the driver’s seat, then goes back to cleaning up,

Hrud
Hrud stows his gear under the driver’s seat and ties his pony off at the back of the wagon. “«Whenever you’re ready.»”

Frantiska
As everyone works to clean out and right the wagon, Frantiska comes riding back into the clearing. She shakes her head as she looks at the clearly upset oxen and the mess and activity in the cart. Seeing Hrud climbing into the driver’s seat she rides up beside him, “Hrud, aku minta maaf tentang semalam. Apa yang saya lakukan adalah sebuah kesalahan. Mari kita tidak pernah membicarakannya lagi.” Hoping that she conveyed her meaning properly she turns Thistledown back towards the road. “Lyra, the road looks clear for the next few miles,” she looks at the sky, “it should be a clear day today, hopefully we will make better time.” She rides out a head and waits for the others to be ready to leave.

Hrud
Hrud is so shocked when Frantiska speaks to him, that he utterly fails to glean the meaning behind her words. However, her tone was not one of animosity, but reminded the barbarian of a focused merchant, ready to do business. If elves were anything like his own people, Hrud doubted they would be discussing the insanity of the previous night anytime soon, which he was perfectly fine with.

Lyra
Lyra looks up from the knot she’s tying, sweat beading on her forehead. “Thank you for checking, Frantiska. We should be nearly done securing the cargo.”

Frantiska
As Frantiska waits for the others, the throbbing pain in her forehead returns. She rubs her temples and looks around impatiently. Not again! she thinks. As the throbbing builds, her vision blurs slightly, small white dots, like tiny starbursts, dance at the edge of her vision, along the horizon. She blinks, rubs her eyes, and looks around. Strangely, the dots move, seemingly of their own accord. She looks around, trying to follow them, and sees them collecting around Lyra, as if attracted to her, until Lyra is entirely outlines by the things. She blinks again—the specks disappear and the pain subsides slightly.

Shaking her head in confusion, she stretches, pats Thistledown’s side, and checks the many swords now collected on her person, making sure everything is ready to leave for real. As the pain and the dots return, she looks around, trying to watch how they move and wondering if they mean anything…

GM
Frantiska sees the dots congregate again around Lyra, but also around Teldicia and Hrud. The specks around Hrud seem fainter than the other two, but also seem to pulse in time with her headache.

Donovan
Donovan tosses one last egg shell out of the cart, double and triple checks the new moorings on the chariot, and takes a seat on the back of the wagon by Brother Rant. “I think we’re all ready to get moving,” he looks up at the sky, “and only two hours or so behind schedule.”

As the wagon jostles back into motion he pulls out a couple of the items he was identifying. “Brother Rant, Frantiska, Hrud, which of you would like this shield? It has the power to turn anyone who strikes you into a friend. This ring is also pretty neat if anyone wants it. It can allow you to move without leaving tracks and to see invisible creatures and objects. It also appears to have some other abilities that could be unlocked if you were willing to shove your hand into a burning funeral pyre…not that I would recommend such actions. I’ll probably hang onto these other scrolls.” He holds up Yargrund, bathing the interior of the wagon with light, “Also, this hammer is awesome, it lets you speak dwarvish. I have no idea how to fight with something like this though. I think everyone has a magic weapon already, so whoever wants the hammer can have it. Otherwise I’ll just stash it up front in case we meet a dwarf.”

Hrud
Hearing Rant’s translation of Donovan’s descriptions, Hrud asks if he could carry the ring. “«Sounds useful for hunting.»” They ride along for a few minutes more before another idea finally germinates within his skull, “«Anybody here speak Dwarf – without the hammer?»”

Lyra
Lyra rubs her head. Of course they’d all stop not talking to each other just as a headache was coming on. Everything seemed so loud. “I can pick out bits and pieces, but not necessarily the whole meaning.”

Donovan
“Sorry, I have a few friends who are dwarves, like Jerome, but I never got around to learning their tongue.”

Frantiska
Frantiska rides ahead of the group, trying to keep pace with the much slower-moving wagon, though this clearly bothers Thistledown. The spirited filly occasionally shakes her head in frustration and prances nervously. Frantiska finally gives the horse its head again, letting her run forward several hundred yards, then turning back and riding around behind the wagon. As the sun moves higher into the sky she finds that she has to squint, the light only adding to the pain in her head. Despite it turning into a warm day, she pulls the hood of the thick black cloak up over her head and suddenly finds herself rearing for a fight as the cloak sends images of glorious battle into her already compromised mind. Still, the mental noise of the cloak’s intrusion is less painful than the light, so she keeps the hood up. Overhearing Donovan’s talk of magic items, she rides a little closer and speaks up, “Mr. Donovan, I usually prefer to keep my hands free for shooting, but, lacking my bow, I could certainly make use of the shield. If I am going to be fighting hand-to-hand, I would not frown upon the added protection.”

Lyra
Lyra peeks her head over the chariot. “I could make a supply run for replacement food, clothes, and another bow if needed, but I’d have to find the wagon again, which would probably involve getting that information from someone here, unless I wait for us to stop. I could turn in the information about the undead to the council while I’m there, I suppose. And unload as much of this stuff as I can carry with me — which isn’t much, maybe twenty pounds.”

Donovan
Donovan nods, “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. So what do you need to get a fix to come back?”

Lyra
Lyra looks sheepish. “It would require mentally contacting one of you, then either using Mindlink to ask you to send me a mental image of your current surroundings, or Sight Link to see what you see directly. Then based on that, I calculate where I’d need to come in based on the position of the wagon at the instant of translocation. Mindlink is significantly less intrusive, since the recipient only transmits what they wish to.”

Donovan
Donovan sits pondering as the wagon rolls along, “You can link with me, in any way you like.” He says this with a a strait, matter of fact tone, but with a slightly playful, suggestive gleam in his eye. “Having you able to travel at a whim and communicate at a distance is extremely useful, so I have no intention of hindering that.” He stands up and walks around the back of the wagon, holding onto the poles for support. “You should take the paintings, they’re pretty light and should fetch a decent price. Make sure you stay in the walled part of town, not the slums, and stay away from Jerome’s if you’re alone, his guards can be surly. You should try the Temple of Sune first for unloading the paintings, as the priests tend to be art-lovers. If that doesn’t work, try the school (the instructors are well-paid), Aylaran’s Silver Shop (she sometimes deals in art, but mostly metalwork and sculpture), or the market by the docks (look for the fattest most ostentatiously dressed shop-keepers). I don’t think there is a proper Bowyer in town but Aylaran also deals in some decent weapons, so you might check there for a bow—don’t trust Petroff’s, his stuff his mostly junk—cheaply and quickly made for hotheaded youngsters fresh from the training hall. You might also ask the Gondsmen, they’re good at crafting all kinds of things. Just don’t let them sell you on any improvements.”

Lyra
Lyra rubs her head again, completely missing the innuendo. “What would be the best place to enter town but not startle anyone? I’m most familiar with the temple to Tyr, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

GM
Brother Rant speaks up, “If you transport yourself to the women’s dormitory I am sure Sister Theymr would not mind.”

Lyra
Lyra stands up and straightens her dress and cloak. She takes the strange green broadsword, but not the bow and quiver, and carefully picks up the stack of paintings. “I’ll contact you when I have concluded my business in town and am ready to return, or if there is an unexpected change in plans. I assume if I will be reporting on the undead to the council, I will be delayed for some time.”

Frantiska

Frantiska starts to say, “Wait, about the bow…” then sees Lyra vanish. She sighs. “I’m going to ride ahead again and make sure things are clear,” she says to no one in particular, though Donovan and Rant are closest. She gently snaps Thistledown’s reins and the horse shoots ahead down the road, mane, tail, and Frantiska’s hair streaming behind them.