New Whispers at the Fire
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The warrior rested, back against the rough stone wall, helmet by his side - his gleaming warsword within reach but resting on the hard floor. A jug of wine resting between his splayed legs. He speaks to his companion after a time as his small fire burns down to little more than glowing embers. Just enough to throw shadows.
"... I don't know why I'm telling you this. Sometimes... I wonder if anyone even listens. Tsk... I know they do. I don't know why I think the way that I think. I used to be so wicked - spiteful - all of the time. Cruel, even. Hmph... still am. I can be anyway."
He laughs to himself and drinks from his wine jug. Raising it to his companion in an odd salute.
"Cruel, like making that mad troll piss herself. I think she leapt to her death. Hrrhh... pretty sure. She didn't even look off the bridge she was guarding, just jumped off the edge into bottomless darkness. That's the kind of fear I see sometimes; in the bones of them that tsk... try to stand in 'my' way. Even -- hmph. Even Seb', you wouldn't know her - how could you? Sebrienne Who-Cracks-The-Sky, I think she might've peed a little too, first time we met. You won't tell her I said so".
He spoke gruffly during those last words, his eyes never leaving those of his companion - deep frowning scowl on his brooding brow. He took a long drink then, two or three gulps of cheap wine. His demeanor softened after taking a breath, he couldn't keep his companion's gaze anymore - couldn't bear it, maybe - and so he looked down at his feet outstretched before him in his lazy slouch; a pair of skulls leering back at him from the toes of his boots.
He finally sighs, and continues.
"...and I'm trying to be better. Hmph... kinder... to people. I know - it's a damned foolish thing - but I'm trying. Even to the half-wit Erilo. Offered him my old ring a while back. He declined. Maybe I'll offer him my old sword, see if a shield won't keep his ugly face out the dirt; maybe he'll stop tripping up over that nasty old spear of his. Ha!"
When the wine is gone, he picks himself up from the floor, slips his longsword back in its scabbard and puts his helmet back on. He looks at the body of the slain Orc that he'd been speaking with; braces the heavy wooden door with his boot, and with a grunt, pulls the blade of his axe out of both of them - the Orc slumping to the ground in a heap afterwards.
"Look, I know we parted on... hmph... well, it could've ended better for you. Just -- thanks -- for listening..."
And with that last line he turns, and laughs darkly - musically - to himself, the horrid deep sound filling the cavern and echoing over the litter of dead bodies that had been left in his wake. His shadow thrown far by the dimming embers of his campfire; his companion's glassy unblinking eyes watching him go....
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Rumbles are felt emanating from Spellweaver Keep. Staff members walking to and from are overheard begrudgingly harping about some of the changes taking place around the keep...
"Yes, exactly, they're training these golems to manage filing the archives. I'd say if they expect that much out of them, they're probably not much smarter than the animated rocks."
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What seems to be the entire population of Norwick emerges from the Grapevine Inn last morning: guards, farmers, lumberjacks, Spellweaver students. Some of which have wet spots around the groin. Labored phrases uttered between some of them...
..."Well I always go when I'm off duty. How much did you even drink?" a guard says to another, "I certainly didn't have enough for my head to hurt this much"
..."Last thing I remember was just getting so tired, I barely made it to the Inn, I fell asleep on the floor"
..."My friend, is that piss?"
The only one in this ragged bunch seemingly unphased, although still with a wet pair of trousers, is an old drunk adventurer. He sits atop a hitching post infront of the inn and sips upon a flagon. The staff eyes him begrudgingly as they mop up the very wet, very fragrant floors and take half filled cups of water back to the kitchens. He shouts out at the recovering townsfolk...
..."Aye happens to the best of us, just means you did yer night right!"
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Unrest within the Militia has started to occur, or so the rumors go, between some members who prefer "the way things are" and those who prefer "the way things can be". The resulting unrest has come at a bad time, with the various goblinoid skirmishes in the Rawlins growing hotter and hotter after Ostromog's death by natural causes of all things. It's a debate many Norwickans have asked themselves quietly. Do they enjoy what Norwick is, or do they long for what it could be?
Time will tell.
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It appears that the Waterdhavian Wizard, Augustus Farthingdale, previously of the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors in Waterdeep has made it to spellweaver again, though the frequent muddy boots he sports perhapos indicates he's fairly well travelled.
While awaiting an appointment with an appropriate member of renown to allow him to join the place of study and experimentation, he's been conducting magical experiments in the grounds, setting up a stick and marking the shadows of the advancing sun during daylight hours, from sunrise to sunset.
He's been making notes, while sat in the warm grass on a pleasant sunny day, and keenly observing, rumour says some things he has summoned, maintaining the appropriate wards to keep them in place and himself protected.
:: What he was summoning would be for those who frequent and are members of spellweaver and who has been spending time there to know; though he assures them he is quite capable of a mundane magical circle of protection. ::
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I tell you the well was constipated! After tossing some roughage down there and fighting the things that came out the well was able to relieve itself of its man sized poop! and you know what it turns out that poop was a mass of gold and gems! No wonder the well was constipated!
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After a terrible explosion broke the casual day of Norwick and destroyed farmland and lives in an instant, there was confusion and hatred. People muttered to each other about what could have caused it. People muttered that Salin Ashald is a cursed man. People even muttered that they should abandon Norwick. But as the Doomsayers preached that the end was nigh, that all evils are because of Salin, and other such nonsense, a strange sense of unity was found
Spurned by charismatic words and preaching, the Norwickans rallied together. Farmers and milita standing side by side against the fear, no more will they let Norwick be destroyed and bullied. They cheered into the night, it's time to rebuild, and [BLEEP] Peltarch!
... Wait what?
Well somewhere along the way the seed was planted and the crowd began chanting that Peltarch sucks and screw Peltarch... uh not really sure how that happened, but everyone was super into it. Anyway the point is, the words on everyones lips are that Norwickans stand together, and the time for feeling weak is over. No more, never again. Norwick will stand tall and proud. And also... you know... [Bleep] Peltarch.
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The priest, crafter, and farmer known only as Z, returns from a hunting trip with a warning to those who venture into the Rawlinswood.
Be wary out there, friends. There be lots o' strange happenin's ta the south. Even more than usual, an' it be a lot worse'n gobbos.
I just returned from deer huntin' an' while I was out there, I ran into a huge wereboar...a tough un.
Goes on to explain how it reverted into an orc when it was slain - apparently, from a non-local orc tribe.
Be careful out there an' travel with friends.
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It started innocuous enough, a curiosity attracting peoples attention though the morning. A new spot in the sky, some kind of magical phenomena of course. But as the day continued and the spot grew larger the people's general anxiety grew. Eventually it became obvious, it was no spot. A great meteor was coming toward Narfell.
However, as the moment of impact appeared to grow ever closer the great mass of rock and earth shattered, shards rained over Norwick but thankfully no one was hurt. Though it seems hallucinations have coincided with the event, as some claimed to see strange sights descending into Norwick as well such as a brilliant blue dragon and a figure riding an air elemental while crying out with joy.
Rumours spread that the day was saved by a coalition of adventurers who had gathered up in Spellweaver Keep, destroying the meteor in a do or die mission against all odds and against the pessimistic advice of looker-ons.
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The talk of Norwick is of course the recent attack on its gates. An army of monsters and men marshaled by a fire giant and announced by a strange skull-headed figure. With giants at their vanguard, they tore through the gate, but the Redcloaks gave them hell. And while Spellweaver seemed to be their intended target, they never breached the doors. Of course, the other talk of Norwick is the churches. The Church of Lathander and Chauntea, pilfered by these raiders, who broke off to steal holy relics. While adventurers arrived to save the Lathandarites precious relic, the relics of Chauntea are still missing. Many wonder if another attack is on the horizon... and why this so called "General" seeks to purge them in flames.
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Nate, who has taken an interest in these statues, spends more time in pubs and inns wherever they appear. He listens to the public remarks. Being at the inn at the same time as Vick, he replies over a mug of ale: "Wizards often see powerful vessels in statues. Perhaps when we peel back whatever veil obscures the origin of these we will not be so frightened."
Though his tone is, of course, somber as he listens to the remarks of nightmare and the rest.
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Evil statues....is murmured in the taverns mark my worlds, they will cause horror and death is heard in the inns.
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Perhaps it is coincidental, perhaps it isn't, but a handful of Norwickans have begun to speak about nightmares. No two are the same, of course, but all are deeply disturbing. From field tenders to lumberjacks, to members of the militia... even the Herald seems rather sleepless. Most chalk it up to stress, overwork, and a freaky coincidence so many people are having these uncomfortable experiences, but some wonder if there is a connection behind it all. But if there is, what is that connection? Who knows...
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Nate, who has otherwise been quiet during the debate, merely peers at the wagons of meat. He walks up to take a free sample of the meat, wrapping it in preservative salt, and then departs for the boats destined north.
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Aye, sir! salutes
To the others as he slowly heads to the Union hall You heard the man, disperse. waves them away
No more debatin'. This be a barbarian town, remember? There'll be no thinkin' an' fancy talkin' here in this town, no sir. Continues to wave them away
I guess we'll just have ta wait n see if sittin' on yer arse fer a year - while stuffin' yer face with free meat provided by our "friendly" Malarite neighbors - makes ya fat n weak or not. Time will tell...
War is comin' and time will tell. Stay sharp my friends...
Heads into the crafting hall and shuts the doors
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The Herald and Acting Chancellor finally speaks up "ENOUGH of this pointless argument from the lot of you. Those who wish the meat may take it, those that don't, it is not mandatory. It is your choice. You are neither weaker or stronger for it. That is the end of it."
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Scoffs Clean out yer ears an listen, fool. Ye get strong by huntin' for yourself and fendin' fer yerself - not sittin' on yer arse and takin' handouts.
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Someone rolling his eyes, passing by maybe, wearing a miner's outfit speaks out of the blue after listening to the commontion:
"so that's what the Chauntea priest wants you to do. You, a former town of relentless warriors. He wants you to grow weak, to starve so you can't defend your homes not even yourselves. After such display of courage coming from one of your kind, they suggest you to dishonor something you truly earned. -- Grow strong? I don't think so. Grow weak: that's a good one grain godess."
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@darkspyr said in New Whispers at the Fire:
The Tormtar Priest, Simon Sgier pulls Master Z aside as soon as he can. He informs him that the so called gift is a boon from one who survived the Wild hunt through the Nars. As such it is freely given; sell it, dry or salt and store it for times of need or toss it away, the promise was made in good faith and would last for 1 year. No strings attached, no debts owed by any, the price had already been paid.
Then I strongly urge folks ta sell it instead of eatin' it. Take the coin an' do some good with it.
They want ya ta git fat, lazy, and dependent on others ta supply yer food. Ta lose yer skills as a hunter and provider for yer family. You gonna let some stranger provide fer yer wife? Yer children? suspiciously Nay...
Do not fall fer the trap...they can't be trusted. It's only a matter of time 'fore they pick another one of us ta hunt...and that one may not be so lucky ta survive. The next one may be you. And, if ya take their "gifts," you ain't gonna be ready...yer gonna be soft.
Sell the meat. Heads towards the campfire to continue to conversation with any who will listen
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"The price for this service has already been paid. We are not ones to back out on a holy promise. Ask among your own kind if you want to know more."
The malarite returns to the woods, and will continue to bring the meat in the following days. Some of the villagers heed Z's word and do not touch the meat. Others make use of it, stating that it allows them to grow more domesticated animals as less will have to be butchered. A certain tree-hating dwarven merchant seem most interested in the meat, for one reason or another hoarding barrels full of salted meat in his house.
