powered by FreeFind index sitemap

As the riders get nearer, the group can see that they all appear to be human, well-armed, with chain mail, helmets, long swords and either crossbows or long bows, though none are reaching for their weapons at the moment or showing any sign of planning to attack. As they draw nearer, the Unknowns see that the riders wear the symbol of a roaring yellow lion on their armour. "HALT!", the leader of the riders shouts. "This is holy ground. You may not ride farther!"

Grumbling, Larz steps forward, "Well, I'm a holy dwarf, so why don't you stop yelling at us and tell us who you are and what this is all about." To emphasize his point, Larz pulls out his holy symbol of Clangeddin on the cord around his neck and lets it plop to his chest.

Merrell shook his head for a moment as if trying to determine if he was actually seeing what he thought he saw. Why would someone go to all the trouble of masking a half-orc's identity? It really didn't make any sense to him, but he had to somehow warn the others of what he saw.

The half-elf mage smiled to himself then said, "Greetings! We mean your holy ground no harm, we are just passing through friend. We Unknowns, are prepared to travel around your holy site, as our old friend was often fond of saying all is as it should be not. The puppetmaster's game obscures the right of it."

Merrell hoped his jibberish was confusing enough not to make sense to the half-orc and gave his friends the warning that not all was right. Still at the ready, one move set wrong from the orc and his friends would result in a hailstorm of fire being brought down on them.

As Larz steps forward getting his holy symbol out, the well-built spokesman for the riders leans forward in his saddle, peering in the poor light to try to see the dwarf's holy symbol.

"This area is sacred to us - you are not permitted here..." he repeats, his voice more measured now the two groups are closer to each other. As he speaks, he pulls what looks like a scroll tube from his belt and begins to tug at the cap.

"...and we are here to protect this holy area from those who are not." he says finally uncapping the end, from which suddenly streams a beam of light similar to Lucretia's light coin.

Holding the tube, he points the end around the party, illuminating them better so he can see them. "You do not all look holy types..." he starts before Merrell interrupts him. One of his companions seems to spot something and stiffens in his saddle, leaning close to one of his companions and whispering something.

As Merrell speaks, the man looks slightly confused. "Well, you are right - you are unknown to us, and perhaps you should just head off" he gestures off to the south, a direction perpendicular to the direction the group had been travelling in and certainly not towards the slim silhouette of the tower that can be just seen looming over the tree-tops against the moonlit sky.

Larz looks at the wizard near him and grunts, unsure what he was babbling about. As the stranger shines the light at them, he shields his eyes. "Sacred ground, eh? Well, we certainly wouldn't want to violate or descecrate it, but we have a destination that we need to get to. And it's not in the direction your pointing. My legs are weary from all of my traveling, and taking the long route sounds depressing. Is there any way we could get some permission or right of passage to travel through these lands? I swear about the honor of Clangeddin that my party will not violate the sanctity of these lands if you let us travel forward!"

As the light was shone on him, Yvandel squinted back into it, and raised a hand to cover his eyes from the glare. As the beam passed on to the next member of the group, he attempted to slip inconspicuously to the edge of the group, as inconspicuous as one can be with a puppet around one's neck. Clearly something was not right with Merrell, and he wanted to be in a position to do something if things went wrong, as they all too often seemed to do.

All of a sudden, though, a thought struck him and he raised his voice to ask a question.

"Excuse me, yes. I was just wondering why this area is sacred? Which deity is it dedicated to?"

"You will need to go around" the man starts to reply to Larz, as Yvandel speaks up. Turning to address the young puppeteer, he seems to swell very slightly with pride. "It is our honour to do our duty for Torm" explains the man.

Behind him, one of the two companions who had been conferring behind him, goads his horse forward a step to his side and touches his arm.

He turns at the touch, a frown on his face as the other man leans close to whisper to him. "[Private to Ceely; Yvandel: They bear his mark" hisses the second man quietly, barely audible by the party.]

The man turns and shines the 'torch' on the party again, before focusing on Larz, the dwarf holding his hand up to shield his eyes. The man leans forward in his saddle again, peering at the back of the dwarf's hand.

"You bear the mark of Ssessibil Ishahvar" he states flatly, straightening. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands suspiciously. "Why have you come here?"

"Torm huh? And Golden Lions too, if those crests are anything to go by." Thought Yvandel, slipping over to Milo and prodding him in the ribs.

"Oy, you're the one should be talking to these people. I thought Ilmater and Torm were big buddies."

Larz smiles broadly and warmly when he hears the name of Torm, a deity with the same ethos as his own. He bows graciously at those in front of him, and adds, "Hail to the Loyal Fury! I am a cleric of Clangeddin Silverbeard, friends. These marks that we bear are of an evil and hostile magic that has tried to control us. If you don't believe me, feel free to cast your detection magics upon us to see that we mean you know harm and come only with goodly intentions to rid ourselves of these sigils." The dwarf crosses his arms and waits to see if any of the followers of Torm cast some spells upon him to confirm what he says. He further addresses the leader of the party. "I'm sure you've studied your religious history, as have I, and I should not have to remind you that Torm and Clangeddin have been friends and allies of the past. Again, in the name of Clangeddin, I beseech the help of the Loyal Fury and his followers in our quest. We must rid ourselves of these bloody sigils, and our only hope appears to be in going to that tower up ahead. Again, I ask, will you not provide us with passage through this holy land or at least an escort to our destination? Should I invoke the Debt of Persecution that followers of Torm adhere to in order aid those of other goodly religions for Torm's misdeeds during the Time of Troubles? If so, will you help repay the debt by helping us?"
"Yes Yv, I know, but something...", and Milo's voice trails off. He has taken out his notes from his time in the Holdfast Library, and was trying to make the connection that his mind couldn't quite make. Scratching his head, as he looked through his notes on Ssessibil Ishahvar, and his life here. His mind is slightly ditracted by what Merrell had been saying, wondering what the gibberish was supposed to mean, but knowing that his time in the Library might hold an answer.

"Ah ha, " he mumbled as he came across the reference he was looking for. Looking up, he couldn't see the connection, but did think it was worth persuing. At that point, Torm was mentioned again, and Larz began to talk about invoking the Debt of Persecution. Wishing Larz had not mentioned the fact the sigils were evil in nature, Milo stepped forward, his holy symbol in his hand to show him who he was.

"Larz, if I may." Milo says as he turns to the leader, "My dwarven friend here asks for your aid, as do I, a Painbearer of Ilmater. Torm and my god have helped each other, and I ask that you consider helping us in turn. We seek an audience with Ssessibil Ishahvar if that is possible. He is a great Mage, who might know more on the meaning of these sigils that bring us here, and we mean him, and your people, no harm." Wishing at this point he could speak Orcish, he continued, "I will personally vouch that no-one here will descecrate any of your holy sites, or break any taboo's. May you pluck out my eyes if they do."

Several of the men's expressions soften somewhat as Larz offers greeting to one of Torm's aliases, only to darken at the mention of evil magic. As Larz suggests that they cast detection magics, the leader shakes his head. "We have no such magic here" he says, slightly hesitant, his face troubled as his eyes constantly flick between the party members, always drawn to their hands and arms.

As Larz mentions the Debt of Persecution, the man returns his full attention to the dwarf, and inclines his head briefly in acknowledgement. He is about to respond, when Milo also steps forward, annoucning himself as a Painbearer of Ilmater. The man nods his head in respect to Milo, listening intently.

At last he speaks. "Ssessibil Ishahvar is not in his tower at the moment. He is currently at Beorunna's Well visiting Alaric, Chieftain of the Black Lions - about a day's journey from here" he adds. He hesitates for a moment his lips pursed, then seems to come to a decision. "If you wish to stay at our camp - then you may do so, and we can provide you with an escort tomorrow morning."

"That sounds good to me. It's been a long while since I shared stories and debated religious philosophy with patrons of Torm, and maybe we can do so over a roaring campfire with a leg of mutton and some good ale. By the way, my name is Larz." He reaches his worn hand out to shake the leader's hand.

The man's hand handshake is firm and dry. "Well met. I am known as Gundling. You are welcome to join our camp" he says courteously, though it is clear he is uncomfortable. "We can escort you to Beorunna's Well tomorrow morning" he adds.

"Don't worry about the sigil--damn annoyance for me for sure, but it won't bite, and I'm glad for any help to get rid of it." Larz looks to the others to see if they will be joining him and makes introductions as appropriate. When he gets to Blondung, he makes an extra point of praising the man to the newcomers, "And this is Mr. Blondung, a fine wizard who's looked the bowels of evil in the face and cast them aside. One of the smartest people I know. He's a bit sassy at times, but I've come to appreciate his humor, as I hope you will as well." He ends the acclamation with a wink to Blondung.

As Larz introduces everyone, Gundling simply nods to each in turn, ignoring the whispering going on between Milo, Merrell and Yvandel. A couple of his companions do seem to frown suspiciously at the whispering however.

Cleo, standing silently and listening to the entire exchange, kept looking from one speaker to the next. Finally making up her mind that there wouldn't be a fight, she put her bow away and closed to Merrell's side once more.

At the mention of the barbarian clan of the Black Lions, Cleo nods, and whispers to Merrell. "I've heard of them. They are supposedly a pretty tame lot - for barbarians, I mean."

Striding forward as the rest of the group was making their introductions, Cleo raised her hand in a standard barbarian salute to the leader on horseback. "I am Cleo of the Uthgardt. Well met. This," Cleo motions to Merrell, "is my betrothed. He is the mage Merrell Greenwood."

Gundling regards Cleo for a few moments. "You may have the blood of the barbarians, but I think perhaps you no longer run with the tribe" he says, a flicker of a smile crossing his face for the first time.

Merrell smiled to himself, nodding at the men on horseback, "Well met, I am sure gentlemen." Under his breath Merrell added, "Thank you love, but did you have to tell them I was a mage? Better sometimes to let ones advisaries think what they want instead of confirming their suspicions for them."

"Well at least you didn't tell them that I turn into a lion now and again." he said smiling at her before turning his attention back to the mounted men. "We humbly accept your offer of food and shelter, may Torm reward his faithful followers for thier unselfish kindness to weary travelers such as we."

Gundling nods briefly to Merrell, his smile vanishing.

"My name is Milo Davidson, Painbearer of Ilmater, and I also thank you for your hospitality. If you wouldn't mind, as we journey to your camp, would you answer some questions on your Order? I am fascinated in hearing more of its work here. "

Gundling inclines his head in a respectful nod for the Painbearer. "There is not much to tell. For the most part, our duty is to ensure that High Priest Istahvar is not disturbed by barbarian or orc war parties..." He trails off, perhaps not wishing to say more.

Jerking his head, he barks a couple of commands in Northern to his companions, who wheel their horses, taking up a flanking position, two to the north, two to the south, while Gundling dismounts and walks with the group. The last rider is dispatched ahead, breaking into a gentle canter and soon disappearing against the darkness of the trees ahead.

As the group make their slower way, Gundling leads them towards the tower. Passing around an outcropping of trees, the group see what looks like a well ordered semi-permanent military style camp clustered in a clearing on the edge of what must be the Cold Wood. There are a number of bonfires, and the clearing is filled with a number of small thatch huts, a little like those that orcs sometimes build. These are much neater however, and much better kept up than orc's huts tend to be. The top of the needle shaped Lonely Tower stretches up out of the trees into the moonlit sky some distance inside the woods beyond the camp. In the poor light, it is difficult to judge how tall it is or even exactly how close it is though.