22nd-26th of Eleasis (Highsun) – Summer 1486
Location: Dessarin Valley
In a waking dream, Pinko rose from the feather bed screaming and drenched in sweat. A pair of crushed silken fairy wings lay beside him but he was otherwise alone. What had seemed to be a magical ethereal evening ended abruptly with a vision of his home, the Grove of the Furries, wreathed in green flame. Even with the cure to the transformation lock curse secured, he had been in no real rush to return as he had long expected it was already too late to save anyone. While very unsure which of the previous evening's memories were real, one vision permeated his consciousness vividly. The scene etched in his mind was that of Getafix, the leader of his commune, embodied in his typical Giant Elk form running from their village and pleading with him to return. It was not a recollection of the night of the attack, it was something new. There was still a swarming army of orcs but behind them a wall of green fire lay waste to the forest, not so much burning as withering all it touched and in the middle a shadow of something unnatural, large, and hungry.
He went to knock on Seepage’s door but it opened before him and closed just as quickly as the tiefling stepped out into the hall, gear pack and all. Through the gap in the rapidly shutting doorway Pinks caught the briefest glimpse of what looked like a naked dwarf, missing his beard, gagged and struggling against bonds that held him to the four-poster bed in the middle of the room. A raised eyebrow towards Seepage elicited the simple response “He’ll live. He earned that at least.” As the warlock walked down the hall towards the stairs Pinko detected the slightest waddle in her steps. It must have been a good night for everyone, assuming Smacky had an equally joyous evening. Now he thought about it Pinko had no recollection of even seeing the half-orc after ordering his first roast duck. He needn't have worried, Smacks was waiting outside the Sylth as he and Seepage exited. The barbarian was still covered in muck, bruises and other people's blood. His usually glorious mullet was nearly matted into dreadlocks to rival Pinko’s own carefully curated hairdo but the broad smile indicated all was well in the world of Smacky.
Pinko reinforced his desire to head north towards his home but kept the details of his foreboding dream to himself for now. The party spent the last of their gold on new mounts and hit the road again, Seeps wincing slightly as she swung into the saddle. They rode fast and hard under the first clear skies since leaving Goldenfields, moving north along the Long Road, passing by Rassalanter with its ruined fort peeking from the trees behind its walled farms and reached Amphail after nightfall, nearly as exhausted as their steeds. While drunk in Goldenfields after the battle against the Hill Giants, their friend Miros had suggested to Cockseepage that dropping his name to Arleosa Starhenge, the proprietor of ‘The Stag-Horned Flagon’ would go some way to ingratiating them in town. In the centre of the town square outside the Inn stood a full-sized statue of a rearing black stallion, though it was currently gaudily painted with a large ‘63’ on its flank. The plaque below read ‘The Great Shalarn’, and Pinko recalled Amphail was famous for its equine breeding studs. Smacky noticed the proud animal had been crudely gelded by some local prankster and giggled at its misfortune.
Stabling their horses themselves and ducking in through the low rear door, the cosy tavern was quiet. Only a few farmer-looking types were in and it seemed Amphail was an early-to-bed type of town. Clearing tables was a grey-haired, middle-aged woman who smiled at the travellers as warmly as the fire in the hearth, lit despite the fact it had been a sweltering summer’s day. “I’ll be with y’all in a moment.” she beamed. “Take a seat where it pleases you.” Most comfortable at the bar, the party took up positions closest to the kitchen, Smacky sniffing the air hungrily. “You folk look mighty haggard! Long ride?” the friendly woman enquired. “Are you Arleosa?” Seeps countered directly, but politely, a wicked smile crossing her lips that had Pinko on edge. “I sure am missy, and who might you be?” Arleosa confirmed, taking a step back and placing a clenched hand on each hip. “I am Cockseepage, these are my companions Smacky and Pinko. We have just come from Goldenfields where we met your old friend Miros, and I bring some sad news.” replied Seeps. “Giants attacked while we visited and Miros jumped bravely to the defence of the town. He fought like a man possessed, charging to the front lines before being trampled by one of the huge brutes.” Pinko just stared at the warlock’s faux-pained expression as Seeps' unnecessary deception continued. “I rushed to his side before he passed, and with his final breath he said ‘Tell Arleosa, I never loved her.’ So, here we are.” A genuine-looking tear rolled down Smacky’s cheek and Pinko couldn’t tell if it came from short-term memory loss and him genuinely believing the tiefling's bullshit or if the sheer beauty of the effort Seeps will put into making a stranger's life miserable purely for the sniggles moved him on an emotional level.
Arleosa took a moment, the shock of the tale washing over her. Then she turned, pulled out a small step stool, used it to reach the highest shelf behind the bar and took down a dusty bottle of dark brown liquid. Silently she popped the cork, skillfully lined up four shot glasses on the bar and filled them perfectly to the brim without spilling a drop. “To Miros! That big dumb fool.” she toasted, raising her nip high. The group knocked back the smokey liquor in unison, Smacky crushing his little ceramic cup by slamming it back on the bar. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I ain’t.” Arleosa reflected. “That fella was always a greater adventurer in his mind than in the wild. Fighting giants at his age… and that last quip! Ha! I bet he thought himself the real comedic bard he did." She shook her head slowly and poured another round. "I’ll miss him.” The barkeep faded into silence, then knocked back the beverage. “We are sorry for your loss.” injected Pinko after a moment's respectful silence, thinking it better to play Seeps’ little game than to gainsay it. Having downed his second shot and carefully placed his little container down this time, Smacks eyed off his companion's untouched drinks.
When she didn’t reply Pinks grasped for something to break the uncomfortable tension. “Say, are those Nymphs on that ring?” He indicated to a wooden circle that hung loosely around the neck of the bottle of liquor. “Ha! From one fool to another, yes deary, they are. Beautiful carving isn’t it? They look like their dance is moving sometimes. I got that trinket from another would-be adventurer, though that was years ago. He said his name was Keltar Dardragon, a thief and a scoundrel, but like Miros a lovable rouge. He’d show up, try to woo me, and one day left this ring saying if I ever needed anything, just put it on and say his name. He swore it was enchanted. In all these years I’ve never wanted for much, so I never tried it and it gathers dust on his favourite liquor. He never returned after that visit, and I assume he met his fate in a dungeon somewhere hunting treasure and fame. Here, you take it, my adventuring days are long behind me.” When her tale finished she flicked the ring to Pinko who caught it midair. Smacky was crying again, sipping this time on his successfully purloined shot glass from under the druid's nose. “Thank you for bringing me Miros’ final words. I’ll fetch y’all some grub and you can stay the night on me.” She disappeared into the kitchen and after a hearty meal, the group retired to simple but clean lodgings.
In the morning as the party were saddling their horses, Arleosa appeared once more and approached Seepage. “I must ask a favour as you go, please. At the next large settlement you pass through, could you put this on a wagon bound for Nightstone or find some way to deliver this message? It is my condolences to Miros’ parents who live there.” she requested, handing over a small sealed scroll. Seeps fed it to her horse. “No need for that m’lady!” she called back over her shoulder as she rode off, “They’re dead too! Crushed by a cloud giant boulder last month. Life’s a bitch ain’t it?!”. Pinks shrugged and with a sad look towards the stunned woman simply shook his head in sympathy and plodded off after the tiefling. “Mr Fluffywings is fine.” Smacky added unhelpfully only adding to Arleosa’s confusion as he brought up the rear.
“Dat clouds is following us.” said Smacky to no one in particular. The group had stopped for a short rest in a stand of beech trees after leaving the Long Road and began to head east cross country towards what they hoped would be ‘Bargewright Inn’. As long as they were heading in the general direction of Pinko’s grove in the Neverwinter Wood, a minor detour to report to Shalvis’ boss who resided at that trading post should be worth the time and another Zhentarim connection was always good to have. The terrain was slowly gaining altitude, and the hot summer sun beat down relentlessly making for slow going. Peering out from the shade of a low-branched tree he was slumped under, Pinko inspected the skies. “What cloud?” he asked, as nothing but blue greeted his vision. “DAT one!” the half-orc indicated back towards Amphail where a single white smudge on the horizon drifted. Pinko was aware his friend had exceptional ranged eyesight but failed to see the significance or source of his current bout of paranoia. He had to admit though, by the time they got moving an hour later, the smudge did seem a little bigger.
The night was spent in the wilderness as navigating the hills west of the Dessarin River proved tricky. The insects were out in force, but for Smacky and Pinko, the return to the wild had a calming and relaxing effect. While Cockseepage was never afraid to sleep in a gutter, she was less comfortable away from her preferred urban environs, and she hated the bugs, targeting mosquitos with tiny ecky-blasts like a humanoid bug zapper. Sunrise promised another warm day, with a low band of mist over the river valley to the east burning off quickly as dawn broke. “It’s closer now.” accused Smacky, pointing the opposite direction back the way they travelled yesterday. This time Pinko could not argue. What had been a blur at the edge of his vision was most certainly a solid cloud hanging high and lonesome in a part of the sky it seemed to have no business being in. Though it was a lovely orange in the low-angled morning rays, there was definitely something curiously familiar about its shape. “What youz want?!” yelled Smacks at the top of his voice towards the offending nimbus. He received no reply, Pinko let him be. If clouds had ears, he doubted they could hear even Smacky’s loud bellows from what must be 10 miles or more away.
They spied the walled community of ramshackle wooden towers and buildings on the banks of the river a few miles off and made it beneath the walls of Bargewright Inn by noon. Even from the outside, it reeked of manure and the sounds of stock animals and industry rang from within. After paying the “toll’ to enter the walls of the town, which Seepage only agreed to having noticed the significant number of crossbowmen on the walls above her, they passed the coopers and wainwrights and wandered around until they spied ‘The Old Bargewright’ Inn where Shalvis had told them his Zhentarim boss Nalaskur Thaelond, could be found. They had to wait until the evening for the half-elf to appear, though the busy inn had many staff as well as entertainments to keep the patrons occupied. Well dressed in a black set of leather more suited to a battlefield scout than a businessman and Innkeeper, Nalaskur struck an imposing and confident presence as he entered the common room flanked by two huge human thugs that might have even had a touch of ogre about them. If the Waterdavian Chapter of the Zhents preferred to keep a low profile, the flying snake with an emerald for an eye embossed on Nalaskur’s armour was only slightly less obvious than the actual winged reptile curled around his arm. It seemed the Black Network was out and proud in Bargewright.
“Pinko Neverwash, Smacky Beareagle and the illustrious Ms Cockseepage I presume.” spouted Nalaskur as he strode up to the party’s table. “No need to ponder, it is my job to know things.” he continued. “Shalvis has already sent word of your exploits in Goldenfields and how you arranged his little promotion. If even half of what he said is true The Network owes you a debt of thanks and I see a bright future for you among us.” He dropped a leather pouch on the table which clinked with a very satisfying thud and enough force to bounce an empty flagon onto the floor. Seeps estimated there must be at least 200 gold in there and smiled… they had been basically broke since the indulgences of Waterdeep. “You must of course stay the night, gratis naturally, and tomorrow I have a new task for you should you wish it. I hear you are headed north and it just so happens I have a shipment of, well, let’s say beer, to go to Mornbryn’s Shield. Our chap there Oboth is a sullen fellow, but Jostin and Lessilar,” he indicated to the two broad meatheads half a step behind him who didn’t so much as blink at the reference, “could do with some extra protection on that dangerous road. What do you say? It will of course be made worth your while.”
So it was that the Mickale trio found themselves ‘protecting’ the very uncommunicative Jostin and Lessilar as the thugs piloted two sturdy draft horses hitched to a very large wagon of beer barrels as it rattled eastward across the impressive Ironford Bridge over the Dessarin River, through the village of Womford, and turning north up the Dessarin Road. ‘Jos-les’ as Seeps had taken to referring to them as were firm about not letting Smacky sample the goods which meant she now of course had to plan how to procure a sample of the ‘Beer’ for herself. Her plotting was interrupted by a low whistle quickly followed by the distinct ‘twang’ of a heavy crossbow and the spray of red mist from the back of Lessilar’s head as it exploded with the bolt protruding from his skull, pinning it to the barrel behind him.
“Don’t any of cha’s move! Off dem horses or the other big guy gets it!” came the gruff order from the bandit’s captain as brown-garbed humanoid figures marched forward from the surrounding woods, several of them sporting crossbows trained on Jostin who for the first time since they met him seemed to be showing some emotion, and that emotion was fear. Covered as he was in Lessilar’s brain matter, this was perhaps understandable if out of character for a brute of his stature. “Which is it then!?” called out Pinks from the right side of the road. “Wha’?!” barked the bandit’s leader, obviously not expecting an inquisitive reply to his command. “Don’t move OR get off the horses?! We can’t well do both now can we?” the druid postulated. Taking a moment to process this advanced feat of logic, a skinny underling darted forward, his cowl falling back revealing something between a hobgoblin and a human. Indeed the whole pack of would-be thieves seemed to be mongrel lineages of various degrees. A hushed conversation between the boss man and skinny advisor resulted in the amended demand “Get off ya horses THEN don’t move.” The leader seemed pleased at the revision as his aide nodded and gave two crooked thumbs up. “Or what?!” This time the query came from Cockseepage on the left side of the wagon, still mounted, hand resting on her coiled whip. This was getting all too much for the bandit captain, the victims were not usually this chatty. “Or we kills ya other big fella for starters!” he decreed to general sniggers of approval from his men. Seeps didn't take her eyes off the captain. “What? You mean like this?!” Her wrist expertly flicked her whip out to full extension to the right, a purple charge of eldritch power running along its length terminating in a sonic crack that unloaded the blasts payload into Jostin's left temple, exploding his cranium in the same manner as his recently departed brother but with a far more spectacular flourish.
Feeling like he was quickly losing the initiative of the situation, the confounded captain made an executive decision. “Argh! These guys be crazy, shoot ‘em all!” he cried in frustration. Half a dozen heavy crossbows sprung to life instantly. Pinko and Seeps mounts both fell to the barrage, sending their riders crashing towards the dirt. Before his paws could touch the ground, Pinko had wild-shaped into a Dire Wolf and rebounded from the fall, launching himself towards the captain. Seepage didn’t fare as gracefully, landing heavily and being half pinned by her steed as it collapsed on her leg. Defiant, the leader of the gang unsheathed a pair of kinked short swords and prepared for Pinko’s pounce as the thundering hooves of Smacky’s horse charged forward bearing the raging half-orc on a collision course with the bowman. The battle was short and bloody, the ragtag group of thieves was no match for wolf, rage and a well-placed Shatter from Seeps who ensured there were no survivors… even if it left Smacky with ringing ears for the next few hours and the barbarian’s horse in several chunky pieces spread across the road. The gang carried surprisingly little loot for highwaymen, so Seeps took an ear from their leader instead and added it to her necklace of body bits.
As they cleaned up and Pinko considered what to do next with the wagon, Seeps piled the bodies, Jos-Les included, into a big heap and sang camp-fire songs to herself while scorching them with magical flames and cooking some of the horse meat. Smacky meanwhile tapped one of the barrels on the wagon and skulled a pint of brew, before quickly chundering it up all over himself. “That bad?” asked the warlock between bursts of hellfire. “Dat taste li’e a mouth full o’ methal” said Smacky, tongue extended and scratching at it with a stick to get the residue of the foul liquid off. Inspecting the dregs of Smacky’s mug, Pinko saw there was a thick brown oily sludge that looked more like rust than ale. Cracking the top of the cask and reaching in the druid produced a crude shortsword. The quality was terrible, hence the rust, but there must have been a dozen hiding amongst the cheap ale in this barrel at least. Doing some quick mental calculations, the wagon probably stocked enough weaponry to outfit a small army. No wonder the draft horses had been going so slow, it would have weighed a ton. Morbryn’s Shield must be in need of more than just light refreshment as far as the Zhents were concerned.
From his time as a caravan guard before going in search of his doomed brother, Smacky actually proved to be quite the wagon driver, keeping the draft horses at a steady pace. The smoke of Seepage’s body pyre faded into the distance behind them as the slow miles north fell away, all the while a shadow trailing in their wake. There could be no denying it now, the bloody cloud WAS following them. Ever since they left Bargewright Inn, their slowed pace due to the heavy wagon had allowed the glorified ball of mist to gain ground, until it was nearly on top of them. At this moment it seemed to halt over the small funeral fire and was unleashing an extinguishing bout of rain not 3 miles to their rear. By dinner time as they struck camp, it was only a mile or so away and as they woke the damn thing hovered directly overhead, barely 100 feet off the ground, changing hue as the sun flooded dawn across the land. Climbing atop the barrels on the wagon and drawing a deep breath, Cockseepage used Thaumatugy to send her booming voice skywards. Her profanity elicited no response from the cloud. After a moment’s thought, remembering the attack on Nightstone, she shifted to the Giant tongue and repeated her request for it ‘Please let us know what it is you would like or kindly be gone and stop bothering us.’, though perhaps not quite in that exact phrasing.
Finally, something seemed to stir deep within the misty heart of the cloud. A swirling wind began to blow and wispy tendrils of vapour descended in a broad spiral. The tentacles grew larger and more opaque, knotting together and within a minute formed what could only be called a ramp twisting from the base of this most curious piece of weather to the roadway just ahead of the wagon. “Told yous so! I told yous dat cloud waz following us!” chimed a triumphant Smacky as he chucked his pack in the back of the wagon, mounted the driver's dock and giddy’upped the horses towards the ramp. The two magic users watched on with interest, taking bets as to what would happen when a very heavy cart, pair of horses and oblivious barbarian attempted to ascend an incorporeal spiral of water vapour. Both of them were disappointed as the only seeming change to the scene as the wagon began to climb was that the sound of the hooves clomping against the hard dirt road faded to dull thuds as they found comfortable purchase on whatever the hell that magic misty elevator was made of.
In the absence of imminent death or hilarious repercussions from Smacky ignoring basic physics, Pinko and Seeps ran to catch up, clambered onto the back of the wagon and immediately proceeded to question the sanity of this decision as the spiral cloud ramp seemed to begin to withdraw like a corkscrew back into the heart of the structure above. The end of the ramp disappeared behind them, leaving the road as they drifted ever higher into the bright blue sky. As the light overhead brightened and they progressed through the fog, whatever was controlling this most persistent of stalkers, they were about to find. With, Pinko mused, no way of getting off the damn thing should the owners of this fluffball prove antagonistic.
Next Episode: The Tower of Zephyros
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