Chapter III - Into the Unknown

Tecumseh wrote:

"I recognize that hammer," Emma says to Otto. "The designs are unmistakable. Did you see the dwarves then and trade with them? Did you see my friend Bachan Budur? He's always so joyful and full of life. I look forward to his return." She smiles pleasantly some happy memory involving the dwarves.

Otto's face reddens as he hems and haws trying to find the words. "Sadly, the dwarves seemed to have little interest in friendship. I do not know whether you were familiar with Bachan Budur's companions, especially the one who leads them, but we didn't find them to be particularly hospitable. On the first night, they left us outside to freeze on the mountainside. It did not get better from there."

"We tried to parlay for entrance the next morning, offered services, offered no offense. We received insults, mostly from their heavy-handed leader. He eventually told us to leave, or we would be fired upon from their walls. We mounted. We left." Otto rubs at his temple, pausing. "And that is when they fired at our backs."

He looks at Emma, then at Ignacio, nervous about what he will see in their eyes. Surely they know by now that the story will not end happily.

"They fired and fired as we went down the mountainside. Eventually, Adrasta returned a single shot with her bow. It struck one of the statues on the parapet. And with rumbling from the mountain and the loud, splintering, cracking of stone, a dozen statues sprang to life. The statues hurled fist-sized stones that crashed upon us and our horses. The dwarves took great delight in this, and took that as an opportunity to kill us all with their crossbows, until we'd finally escaped their range."

Otto leans heavily back in his seat. He looks down, mouth half-covered with one enormous hand. "With that, diplomacy had ended. By this time, we'd taken the dwarven response as an attack on our lives, and we responded in kind." He sighs heavily, folds his arms, and looks steadily at Ignatio.

Emma's face falls as Otto relates the story, or at least his side of it. Her mood visibly darkens too.

"I see," she says curtly, her hands folded over her chest. Ignacio's mood is harder to read. He seems fairly blank, as if the story isn't registering, or that he's indifferent to the outcome.

"That is... lamentable," Emma says. "And certainly not our experience. We had never known them to be anything other than cordial and good-natured. Never an insult amongst themselves - even in jest - and certainly none directed toward us."

She stands and offers a small curtsy, an odd formality. "I must excuse myself. I bid you goodnight."

She puts a hand on Ignacio's shoulder. He pats it soothingly and then she leaves. Ignacio remains seated, seemingly contemplating the story.

"Statues come to life?" he asks. His tone is neutral - neither believing nor skeptical. "Hurling stones?" Again, this seems rhetorical as he mulls things over in his head.

"I would have liked to have seen that," is all he says in the end, sounding more curious than anything.

Adrasta tenses up when Emma notices the hammer. While Otto's flustered reaction holds Emma's attention, the medic shifts as nonchalantly as she can to have both her hosts within her field of vision, ready in case things take a turn. Adrasta isn't worried about Emma. Even if she takes the news poorly, she can't be much of a threat. Adrasta keeps her eyes on Otto, but her attention is focused on Ignacio as she waits for the traders' reaction.

She breathes a silent sigh of relief as Emma leaves.

She grins at Ignacio's curiosity. "From a safe distance, perhaps. From within their range, as they bruised your muscles and broke your bones, I wager you would have liked them about as much as we did."

Her grin falters. "If not for my master's art, I'm afraid none of us would have made it back."

moarhair wrote:

"If not for my master's art, I'm afraid none of us would have made it back."

"Aye, that's most certainly the truth." Otto sighs again.

"Ignacio....it was a place of wonder, certainly. Magnificent. Craftsmanship in stone the likes of which I'd never imagined. But it holds no appeal now, just a place of gloom and death at the hands of stone golems. It seemed that the dwarves did not belong there, that they were looting an ancestral palace. But I know nothing of their dwarven history, or the history of that place."

He pauses and looks at his hands. Searching for answers, finding none. "I am sorry for this outcome. How well did the two of you know this Bachan Budur?"

There's a flare in Ignacio's eye, a certain spark of recognition.

He ignores Otto's description of the place, and Otto's question too. He glances over his shoulder in the direction that Emma retired. Not seeing her, he says, "Tell me everything."

He begins to gather forks, knives, cups, condiments, treating them as props. He pushes them around the table in a possible approximation of the battlefield.

"Ranges, elevation, statue placement, available cover. How did you escape their range, how did you respond in kind? Tell me. Tell me every last detail."

Ahh, now you have it: a soldier wants to talk shop.

Ignacio's seeming disinterest in judgment puts Otto more at ease, but the discomfort of it relegates him to part-time observer. If there ever was a time to carve, this was it, and he'd put it off for too long already. He pulls a carving disc from his belongings, settles into his chair with his whittling knife, and begins to cut. He'd already wrestled with the overall theme, and knew how he wanted it to look.

The backdrop challenged him more than expected. The sheer....perfection....of the fortress walls demanded perfectly straight and fine cuts. Ignacio's intense questioning occasionally slices through Otto's concentration, eliciting a grunt or a nod from the large man.

He pauses to listen from time to time, watching the others as they tell their tales.

Adrasta grins. Now this was something she was more at ease with. She was never one of the Phalanx's tacticians, but one thing soldiers loved was to use the benefit of hindsight to scrutinize and complain about their commanders' decisions. Indulge in the habit for long, and you couldn't help but develop a minimum of expertise in strategy.

She shares what she can remember about the tactical situation. Height of the walls, angle of the slope of the trail they were on, distance to the tree line. She moves some of Ignacio's pieces to reflect her description. Once everything is placed to her liking, she begins the tale.

"When it became clear a deal couldn't be reached, we mounted our horses and started riding away following the trail. We couldn't risk another path. Too rocky, too likely our mounts would've twisted an ankle. We hadn't got more than ten feet when the little fucks' shot their first shot."

"It was way off target, landing approximately here," Adrasta says, pointing down the hill on the table. "I figured it was a warning shot. To make sure we didn't change our minds. Like a 'fuck off and keep on fucking right off'. But they didn't stop. They shot again, this one landing close to me. I took my bow and gave them a warning shot. I aimed for this statue," she says, pointing to one of the pebbles they were using to represent the stone golems, "and hit it right in the eye! I told them next shot would be aimed at them if they didn't cut it out. That's when things got fucked."

"The statues came to life and stepped up to the parapet. Otto and Ardan, in a stroke of genius, decided to ride back towards the fort to get a better look. Stones appeared in the statutes' hands, about fist-sized, and they just... threw them at us." She says, mimicking the movement. "I got my shield up in time, but still got pelted pretty good. We resumed our retreat, but the stone poutanas kept throwing these rocks at us. The dwarves joined in, adding crossbow bolts to the mix, for good measure," she says with open scorn. "At first, the statues were aiming at me, but once the dwarves focused on Otto, some of them changed their target to match."

"I kept my shield up and used my master's Art to stay alive. The dwarves mocked us as we fled and only stopped their attack once we were well out of range. I had a concussion, broken ribs, bruises all over my body. I had to get a bolt out of Otto's thigh. He also had a shattered eye socket and numerous deep bruises. I'd had to focus on my own wounds during our flight, so he was hanging on by a thread when we finally made it to the trees."

Adrasta pauses. The memories of the insults and injuries are making her shake with anger. She takes a few deep breaths to regain her composure. "We didn't know how long we had. Were the dwarves going to come for us? What about the statues? Even if they didn't, what would happen if we crossed paths again? We couldn't leave an enemy at our backs. Especially one that had proven to be so callous. Sure, things got heated during our attempts at striking a deal, but to fire on us as we left peacefully? To keep shooting when the statues started firing on us? These dwarves meant to kill us, and would not hesitate to do so in the future. Something had to be done."

Adrasta sits at the table. "We camped for the night. Naesala went back to the fort to scout it. She came across a sentry and fought him, but the statues came and attacked her, so she had to retreat. We scouted the mountain and found another entrance. The fortress, you see, was only the gate to an underground city." Adrasta moves some things around the table, setting the scene for the next part of the tale.

"We climbed up to a large pipe here," she points, "and made our way into the city. We poked around a bit, Naesala leading us along with her elven senses. We eventually found the dwarves camped out in a building with a single entrance. We gave diplomacy one last chance. Their sentry was injured. I offered my talents. They responded with the deafening roar of a horn. Ignacio, I cannot emphasize how loud that thing was. We fell to our knees from the pain."

"Thankfully, the dwarves didn't use the opportunity to attack. They formed a shield wall here," Adrasta rearranges the pieces. "We took a pint of oil and a rag and made an improvised firebomb. We tossed it in, hitting the middle of their wall. The dwarves threw their shields down and we charged in. Without the safety of their fortifications, it was over quickly. Let's just say Otto's carving skills aren't limited to wood."

"We took a moment to catch our breaths. However, the horn had called reinforcements. They came from both sides of the hallway outside the building we now found ourselves in. Statues and dwarves, crossbowmen hiding behind a comrade with a shield and hand weapon. We stayed in, letting the statues come to us. I hold them off with my shield while Otto and Ardan used blunt weapons to bring them down. Again, my master's Art saved my life. Possibly all our lives."

"The statues were down, but the dwarves waited for us. Each group was about 90 feet away, on each side, with crossbows at the ready. We went for the side with only two. I watched our rears while Otto, Ardan and Naesala charged. As we reached the two, the other four broke formation and charged at us. It was vicious, desperate fight. Between a mix of skill and luck, we prevailed."

She pauses for dramatic effect. "But then..." she starts to stomp her foot on the ground. "More bloody statues. We did the only sane thing, and ran. The fucking things caught up to us as we were climbing down the rope. Ardan slipped and fell, but luckily I was already down there. I was able to stitch him back together. Naesala stayed behind to slow the statues down. It's the last time any of us have seen her." Adrasta omits the paper they found in their camp the next morning. Though she believes Naesala escaped and left the thing as a sign, it is possible it was debris that was blown there by the wind. Besides, the uncertainty regarding the elf's fate makes for a better tale.

Adrasta shakes her head. "It didn't have to be this way," she says regretfully, "but they forced our hand. You and Emma might have the right idea, staying on fringes of that lawless place. The Wilderness bears its name well."

Ardan listens quietly to everything that is being said. He does not share the soldiers enthusiasm about the things that happened on that mountain.
Adrastas story brings back all the things that happened during the last days, leaving him deep in thoughts. Not for the first time he questions his decision to leave the familiar surroundings of the big city. It seemed like the safer choice back then. After everything that happened back then, it seemed safer. Safer to roam around the villages, the woods. Live of the land and the occasional purse of a rich merchant. He realises now he was wrong. The Wilderness was just as dangerous as the city had become for him. Or was it worse?
Right now he has the chance to turn around, leave the Wilderness behind and return to what he knew, what he could calculate.
While brooding over the decisions ahead of himself, he watches Otto whittling another one of his disks and Adrasta telling the story. He knows then and there that he won't just leave. It has been a long time that he had real friends. The acquaintances he had in the city, he knew, would turn on him for a coin of gold, if not a few silver and he is well aware that he would have done the same. And had done the same.
But these two were different. Without question they all saved each others lives, more than once, in just a few days.
No. He would stay and go with them. His future was not in the city for now. And if his friends go back to the Wilderness, so will he. A faint smile spreads over his face.

Otto doesn't quite understand Adrasta's enthusiasm for the telling, but is grateful for it, nonetheless. He doesn't much care to talk about it, so her willingness to do it proves as merciful as her healing arts.

Strangely, it lifts his mood, hearing the story told with enthusiasm, and met with Ignacio's rapacious enthusiasm. Clearly, he missed the excitement. Ignacio listened greedily, hanging on every word. Otto had expected Emma's reaction from the both of them, but Ignacio's excitement blunted his anger and guilt.

Not yet, he can't let go of those feelings quite so soon. He has carving to do, and the carving needs the emotion, meted out in tiny nicks of his whittler's blade. He distances himself from the conversation a little more, hangs on to the anger a little longer. The dwarven leader's face begins to take shape, the outline of a head. The first feature, the dwarf's mouth, sneers back at Otto -- a subtle look of derision that he will augment around the eyes, later.  He holds the piece at arm's length. Yes, that's it, just the blank face with the dwarven sneer is enough to get his blood boiling. Otto cautions himself not to snap the disk in two, as he works to finish the face that he had come to hate.

Ignacio listens intently and smiles contentedly. As the evening progresses, he goes into the cellar and emerges with more provisions from his private reserve: salt ham, a fine cheese, and bottles of wine. He's generous in sharing them. Meanwhile, he asks pointed, intelligent questions. He explores various counterfactuals and alternative options. He might not be able to lead grand armies into battle, but he would be a suitable sergeant or lieutenant for almost any fighting force in the land.

He waves off any concerns about Emma. "She understands much, but not war. Law, literature, trade, manners, yes. Practical matters too, like building a home, gardening. A bit of medicine and the natural world as well. Even a spot of magic! ... if only from a theoretical perspective. But not conflict." He shakes his forefinger in the air to wave off the idea, then pours another drink.

"She has a soft soul. It is alright. My soul is hard enough for the both of us." He drains his cup.

He slaps the table. The cups and utensils bounce from the blow. He then stands to excuse him for the night.

"I will comfort her the best I am able."

To Adrasta: "Your gifts are remarkable. I will spread word of them. You may find that they lower people's guard. Not to attack, of course." He winks, suggesting he would understand if you did. "But healers may find warm hearths and welcome smiles where soldiers would only find leaky stables and cold beans."

He says something in Llaigisan that might be "good night" and then retires to the room he shares with Emma.

<<Morning - Day 6 - Early Spring - The Trading Post - Wilderness>>

You rise in the morning to find clouds of your breath puffing with every exhale. The overnight temperatures dropped to freezing and there's a frost on the ground when you emerge from your room. The rooms are stocked with an amply supply of animal skins so sleeping was not an issue; layers of thick pelts weighed you down and kept you warm.

Thistlewick is still here, eating greedily. Breakfast consists of fried hen's eggs along with roasted root vegetables. Emma is curt with you. Civil, but not warm. Ignacio appears neutral while Emma is nearby but there are signs of secret favor. He puts a special salt dish next to you which contains a salt blended with pepper and herbs and spices. It goes wonderfully well on the eggs and potatoes. He also sneaks you a dish of a spicy chili paste, should anyone care for some.

"I must go," Thistlewick announces, his mouth half-full of food. "I have no desire to remain here."

He turns to Emma and Ignacio, not exactly thanking them for their hospitality.

"Help me load up."

You see that the luxury wares he was carrying have been unloaded and sit it the corner of the room, seeming rather out-of-place. The fabric that Emma admired is nowhere around. Perhaps she has reserved it for her own use.

"You will be leaving too?" Emma asks you, a distinct chill in her voice that's as frosty as the morning air. It's a question that's not really a question.

Tecumseh wrote:

"I must go," Thistlewick announces, his mouth half-full of food. "I have no desire to remain here."

He turns to Emma and Ignacio, not exactly thanking them for their hospitality.

"Help me load up."

Two old sayings spring to Otto's mind as he listens to this rude merchant.
 1) You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and
 2) Never wise up a chump.

"The former seems obvious for a merchant, though for whatever reason, Twizzle-dick appears to have missed that day in school." Otto fights the urge to teach him some manners when the second saying comes to mind. Otto doesn't like the man, but why teach him something that would make him better at taking people's money? Otto's mouth stays shut.

Well....it stays shut for a moment. Otto leaps to his feet, putting himself between Emma and Thistlewick.

"Ooh, paying porter's wages, are ye? I've worked as a porter before, they can make good money for helping to load an' unload. I mean, no one expects such services for free, am I right? Should be 3 silver, plus gratuity..." Otto reaches out for Thistlewick's bags and accoutrements, a big grin on his face, one palm upward, expectantly.

Thistlewick looks at Otto with barely-concealed scorn.

"Remove your hand. No wages were offered and none should be expected.

"Three silver, fie! An unskilled laborer commands one silver per day. If you wish to walk me to the Wall I would pay you two as an ordinary guard."

Emma interjects.

"Please," she says to Otto, clearly annoyed. "We pride ourselves on our hospitality; not for commanding every ha'penny from our clients. We wish to encourage more trade, not less, and we will never do so with a reputation for a thousand nicks and cuts to a customer's purse.

"We will gladly assist Mr. Thistlewick with his departure. As well as you with yours."

Neither Emma nor Ignacio are particularly big or strong, but they do not hesistate to hoist and secure heavy bales of pelts onto the back of Thistlewick's bedraggled mule.

"No offense meant, Emma. Only intended to put myself between the two of you and this man's crass lack of manners. Since we saved him from his own mistake in the wilderness, he's treated each of us with scarcely-concealed contempt. He turns to look at the fat merchant. It's not about coins, you lout."

Whatever good humor he'd tried to put on his visage was gone. He draws himself to his full height near the merchant, and snarls "Wipe the scorn from your face, you rude dog, lest it be wiped for you. You've been rude to me, my friends, and our hosts. I do not care how you came to learn your poor manners, but until you walk through that door for the last time, you will show these people the proper kindness and respect."

Otto's jaw juts in front of him like a ship's ram, and he waits for the slightest uncivil word.

Thistlewick cowers under the full height and weight of Otto. If Thistlewick could retreat into his skin or his purple muumuu, he would. He trembles, sweat beading on his forehead despite the frost temperatures.

"NO!" Emma cries out shrilly. She stamps forward, inserts herself between Otto and Thistlewick, and - despite the large size difference - stabs her index finger directly into Otto's chest.

"You DON'T get the threaten our customers!" she bellows in his face. "YOU are the rude dog! I do not care how you came to learn YOUR poor manners, but until you walk through that door for the last time you will show MY customers kindness and respect!"

She shoves Otto toward the doorway.

"You are no longer welcome here! Ignacio, escort him from the premises!"

Ignacio comes up and grabs Otto gently by the elbow to steer him toward the door. There's an oh-so-subtle wink from Ignacio that indicates his continued favor.

"You never worked customer service, did you?" Ignacio asks under his breath as he guides Otto away.

"Please, sir," Emma says with a curtsey to Thistlewick. "Please forgive his impropriety. You are very welcome here. We trust you will return at your earliest convenience."

Thistlewick continues to vibrate, visibly shaken by Otto's presence.

Otto takes Ignacio's cue, accepts Emma's words. She might be mad, but from the look on Thistlewick's face, he's certain that he won't be treating Emma and Ignacio like that again.

He's worked customer service, it's part of the business of building ships. He knows Emma has to make this show, to save face with customers. Oh, she's mad at Otto all right, maybe irreparably so. Maybe she appreciates someone standing up for her, Otto doesn't know. "My apologies to Emma", he says quietly to Ignacio after being escorted out the door. "And thanks for your restraint." He gives Ignacio a slight grin, the flare of his temper fading quickly.

"I am sorry, my friend. I've brought harsh words to your home. How can I make amends?"

Out of earshot, Ignacio waves Otto off.

"She will cool in time. I will remind her that you returned her ring. That bad inputs may yet produce good outcomes.

"Give her a week. She will think nothing of it."

But then, a sly afterthought... Is this for Emma or for Ignacio?

"Bring back seafood. Cod. Octopus. Clams. Shrimp. Mussels. Crab. Whatever you come across and can transport before it spoils."

Adrasta is eating her breakfast in quiet contemplation, when suddenly Otto leaps to his feet and gets into it with the petulant merchant. She watches the scene unfold, with a puzzled expression on her face. When things start to escalate, she goes to stand but Emma is faster, getting between Otto and Thistlewick. Her fury is awe-inspiring. She always seemed like such a quiet, passive person, but such people were often the fiercest once stirred to action.

Once Ignacio starts escorting Otto out, Adrasta gets to her feet and gathers what's left of her meal, figuring it'd be best to give Emma the room. As she passes by the enraged trader, she gives her an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. I'll make sure to have a piece of wood on hand to distract him in the future. At least when he's carving, he's quiet."

Adrasta steps out into the cold morning air and makes her way to Otto and Ignacio's side. "Well, I wasn't quite awake yet, so thanks for that jarring start to the day, malakia" she says with a grin at Otto. "Thistlewick is an ass, but do try to be a bit more diplomatic in the future. The Wilderness is unwelcoming as it is, no need to make sure we have no friends here."

Ardan had gotten up early. An unfamiliar restlessness has overcome him and he is just returning from a walk into the outskirts of the forest when he sees Otto, Adrasta and Ignacio coming out of the trading post. What is the meaning of this? "Is everything ok? Are you guys ready to leave? I... I don't know, I feel like we need to get going."

Thelonius wrote:

"Is everything ok? Are you guys ready to leave? I... I don't know, I feel like we need to get going."

"All is well, of a sort. Ready to leave once we pay for these last items."
Otto turns to Ignacio, "It seems it's time to go, but I'd like to clear the air, if it can be done. Would you please send Thistlewick outside for a moment? I promise, no harm will come to him."

He waits outside, hands clasped in front of him, as he kicks at the dirt. Thistlewick seemed to be in such a hurry, now it takes him an eternity...

....and Otto waits.

And he waits. And he will not budge, in spite of the cajoling from his friends.

"If you'd care to speed this along, please bring me materials for writing, and we can move along presently."

....and Otto waits.

Eventually, somebody procures parchment, ink, and a quill. In Otto's single-mindedness, he doesn't even notice who. Hands appear before him with what he needs, he mutters 'my thanks' to whoever's wrists were attached to the hands, and he steps to the pack horse to use as backing while he writes.

"Mr. Thistlewick.
I apologize. Wholeheartedly, I apologize.
My expectations do not match the reality, and this failure to match hath caused me distress, which I then took out on you unfairly.

My expectations are of courtesy and civility, both of which appear to be in short supply in these lands. I was prepared to accept your lack of grace when we found you in the wilds -- your dismissive demeanor, your lack of gratitude. To each his own -- everyone uses what gifts they are given, and if grace was not your gift, such is life. When that lack of grace was levied against Emma and Ignacio, two whom I hold in high regard, I snapped. I, too, lost my grace. Again, for that I apologize.

Please show Emma and Ignacio all due courtesies, and go in peace. We are certain to cross paths again, and when we do, it is my solemn promise to treat you fairly, with courtesy, and with civility.

Safe travels,

Otto Bjornsted"

With a final flourish, he concludes his writing, and hands the parchment to the first person he sees. "Would you please take this inside? And did we get those final supplies?" He exhales a deep sigh, and readies his horse for departure.

Ignacio retrieves the requested goods while Otto scribbles his note. Then, once Otto is done, Ignacio promises to deliver it to Thistlewick.

"He will not leave," Ignacio says. "Not until he has armed guards to escort him back to the Wall."

How long will it take for someone suitable to arrive?

"Days," Ignacio answers. "Perhaps a week." He says it neutrally. You're not sure if this is good news from the extended room and board that Thistlewick will require or bad news in that Thistlewick's stay will be extensively extended. Ignacio shrugs. He doesn't seem to care.

You settle up with Ignacio. He jiggles the coins in his hand.

"To God," he says as a farewell before returning inside and leaving you to the Wilderness ahead.

<<Mid-Morning - Day 6 - Early Spring - A Few Miles North of the Trading Post - Wilderness>>

The morning stays frosty until the sun rises. You find yourself wanting to ride in the open so that you can stay warm. In the forest, under the trees, it's still shady and cold. Plus, if you're not riding through the trees then you can't be jumped on by something from above, like bobcats or drop bears. Out in the open, on horseback, you have a commanding view of the surrounding grassy plains as you work your way north.

You're a couple hours north of the trading post and passing through a lovely meadow - spring flowers blooming - when Ardan notices something amiss. A vibration in the ground... subtle enough that Otto and Adrasta don't feel it.

"Stampede," he says.

Right on cue a herd of animals races over a low crest not far away. They resemble a small antelope or deer: they're a meter long, maybe the big ones are a meter and a half, and the bucks have sharp horns. The horns are black; some are curved like sickles while others are straight like daggers. Luckily their course won't intercept yours.

"They're running from something," Ardan says. And how do they run! They are incredible fast, easily as fast as the quickest quarter horse that you've ever seen. And, unburdened by any riders, they shoot through the meadow grasses like rockets.

But what are they running from? The answer swoops in seemingly out of nowhere with a ear-splitting screech: IT'S A GRIFFON! The griffon dive-bombs the pack of speeding ungulates but they're so damnably quick that the griffon misses and only tears up the turf for its efforts. The griffon then flaps its powerful wings to rise up in the air to get a better view of its prey. But, as it scans the meadow for its next victim, it sees a much larger, much slower target: you!

"To the trees!"

The shout comes from Otto, after a moment of stunned disbelief at the sight of the griffon. His heels kick into the flanks of his horse. He reaches out to grab the bridle of the pack horse, to give it a quick tug in the right direction. He rides slightly ahead of the pack horse, not leaving it behind.

He glances over his shoulder, unsure of the speed of the griffon. He doesn't relish the thought of being caught on horseback, swinging wildly with a hand axe. If he needs to dismount, he will. "Better to have my feet under me", he reasons. "One good hit will give a griffon pause. Predators don't want prey that fights back, they want an easy kill." Otto desperately hopes he's right, but knows it's guesswork, at best.

He sees the griffon turn towards the small pack of riders as they gallop headlong to the trees, Otto and the pack horse falling behind.

"Gamo ti poutana mou!" Adrasta curses as she sees the griffon turn its attention to them. She looks around and sees the tree line is far. Too far. "Good thing we kept the extra horse," she says with a tense grin. She reaches back and grabs her bow. "Whoever's got the horn, give the fucker a warning!"

Predators like to go for the singled out prey, that strays from the pack. Without much thinking, he turns Wolf to run in a 45° angle from the others. This should buy them some time to get to the trees, with the extra horses. When he hears Adrastas shout, he pulls forward the horn that is slung over his back and takes a deep breath. Then he blows as hard as he can into it, its opening turned towards the attacking creature.

Ardan's plan half-works, although perhaps not the half that Ardan would wish.

Ardan splits off from the pack and, as desired, draws the griffon's attention. This gives Adrasta time to ready her bow and nock an arrow while Otto leads the pack horses toward the trees.

Sensing that the beast is preparing to divebomb him, Ardan readies the horn and BLOWS! But the result is ... underwhelming. It's a horn, yes, and Otto and Adrasta can hear it. Toot toot. But the effect is nothing like what it was in the mountain fortress.

Thinking he might have done something wrong, Ardan tries again. Same result. ^Toooooot.

There's a moment of panic. Did the horn only make that ear-splitting sound in the fortress? Or do you need to be a dwarf to produce that head-shattering noise? Or is there some mysterious technique that Ardan doesn't know? In any event, it's not working as planned.

The silver lining is that the horses aren't spooked. The bad news is neither is the griffon, which has decided to begin its attack!

Otto watches Ardan angle towards the griffon with some dismay. His horse is slower than Wolf, and with the pack horse right behind him, he's having a difficult time covering the distance to Ardan.

"Take the pack horse and make a run for it!" he hollers, aiming for Ardan and the beast converging on him. The pounding of hooves and the screech of the griffon crowd his mind, as he tries to decide between smashing or cutting.

"Pound the thing. Break its bones. Knock its breath from its body." He settles on the hammer, and prepares to dismount as he closes the distance.

He can't get there in time, and Otto watches the griffon close on Ardan. He pulls his horse up short. His hand axe practically springs from the loop in his belt to his hand, and with a savage grunt, he heaves it at the winged predator. The axe tumbles end-over-end at impossible speed before its edge bites into the exposed underside of the horrid thing.

Adrasta takes aim and looses an arrow. It flies true at first, but a sudden gust of wind throws it slightly off-course. It sails just over the griffon.

Left alone with their pack horses, Adrasta leads them forward towards the treeline and away from the beast.

Otto's axe strikes true, and deeply, but it doesn't seem to deter the griffon nor slow it down.

Ardan and Wolf are on the same page, as usual, Ardan looks over his shoulder at the griffon, trusting Wolf to handle the terrain ahead. When the griffon begins its divebomb, Ardan yanks Wolf's reins to the side. Wolf responds instantly, sidestepping the strike that might have broken Wolf's back, or Ardan's back, or both. The griffon tears up the turf and then lands in front, trying to block Wolf's escape. It snaps with its beak but, again, Wolf is too nimble and dodges the assault.

Otto watches the near-miss, as the griffon's talons miss their mark. "Our luck holds, but for how long?" His heels dig into the horse's flanks, breaking into a sprint toward the monster. Otto grabs the haft of the hammer, his arm circling overhead, the hammer's head building speed.

His horse closes on the griffon rapidly. The whirling of the hammer becomes a broad arc as Otto's arms extend, the hammer's head crashing into the chest of the creature. Its forced exhalation comes in the form of a loud squawk of pain and surprise. The horse carries several feet beyond the griffon, as Otto prepares to dismount.

Hitting the griffon after it has landed proves to be an easier feat to accomplish. Adrasta's second shot buries itself into the creature's flank.

She keeps the horses moving at a steady trot, unsure of what it will take to bring this monster down...

Squawkooomph Ardan turns his head when he hears the Griffon exhale forced by the impact of something other than the ground it just tore up. When he sees Otto and his hammer standing next to the big bird, he whirls around Wolf, leaps back toward the beast and sinks his ghostly sword in its temporarily bared flank. The sharp blade slides deep into the side of the Griffon forced forward by the strength of Wolf's charge. Ardan holds onto the blade as long as possible and releases it, just before his own hand is about to snap. Instantly the blade disappears, but the deep wound remains. Blood starts gashing out immediately.

The griffon was clearly not prepared for such an offensive onslaught. Otto's hand axe digs deep, and then his hammer delivers a bone-crunching blow that visibly makes the griffon's eyes bulge. Adrasta's arrow finds its mark and Ardan's spiritual sword carves a deep slice out of its side. Blood pours forth liberally until the beast dies with an anguished cry.

You gather back together and then come closer to investigate. The horses are skittish and do not wish to approach too near. Not that you know much about griffons - evidently they exist - but you try to puzzle out any clues. It seems quite large and stocky - a quick tug leads Otto to estimate 500 pounds, but that could be off by 50 pounds in either direction - but you have little sense if that is big or small for a griffon. Its feathers and fur are somewhat dull; it has many deep scars that have long since healed. Its beak is chipped and its tail is a bit tattered. You conclude that this must be an older griffon. Perhaps it was losing a step, which is why it had missed the small antelope and then Ardan and Wolf.

You go back to explore its missed attack. Where it struck, the griffon's claws had torn up the ground as effectively as an ox and a plowshare. The kinetic force must have been tremendous. Ardan can't help but think that the impact would have broken Wolf's back. It's easy to imagine Ardan being carried off in the beast's talons for consumption elsewhere.

What to do with it? Stories tell of sorcerers who will pay handsomely for the carcasses of rare beasts. The problem is that you don't know of any sorcerers, and the remains are much too heavy to carry around in their entirety. Perhaps the vital organs are more valuable that the rest of it? Presumably, but butchering it would be messy, uncertain work.

Otto looks to the sky for signs of more griffons, silently praying that they are solitary hunters.

"Has everyone survived unharmed?" he asks, squinting skyward.

"Gods, what a monster" he breathes. He'd never imagined such things existing, let alone having to fight such a thing. He leans down, searching the carcass. "Ah, there it be...I thought I'd lost ye..." With a quick heave, he wrenches a hand axe from the carcass, its blade buried between two ribs. He wipes the blade on the grass, and tucks it back into his belt.

He looks again at the griffon, and changes his mind. He pulls the hand axe from his belt again, gets to one knee, and *whack* hacks off the left foot of the griffon. *Whack*, there goes the right foot. He wipes the blade again before inserting it into his belt. He holds both griffon feet in front of him, inverted to let the blood drain, then wraps them in sack cloth -- talons spread wide. He snatches a few feathers for good measure.

Pointing at the head, he says to his friends "Beak, anyone? Or shall we call it done?"

Adrasta brings the horses to a stop as the griffon lets out its dying cry. She waits a few seconds to make sure it has died, before leading the beasts of burden closer. She dismounts and moves in for a closer look. The creature was certainly impressive, even more so up close. She looks at Otto and Ardan, but they both seemed miraculously unharmed.

"I have seen many different cultures during my time with the Phalanx. A great number of them value predators' genitals as an ingredient for potency tinctures and potions. We might be able to fetch a hefty sum for this monster's balls if we can find the right buyer."

Ardan breathes heavily as the bird-lion breathes out its last breath. He watches the others claim their trophies and opts for a handful of feathers. "During my training I learned that a lot of the innards are worth a pretty coin for magic applications, alas they need to be fresh and I don't see how we will get them freshly to a person of the magic profession."

moarhair wrote:

"I have seen many different cultures during my time with the Phalanx. A great number of them value predators' genitals as an ingredient for potency tinctures and potions. We might be able to fetch a hefty sum for this monster's balls if we can find the right buyer."

Otto looks at Adrasta. He looks at the beast's nether regions. He looks at Adrasta. He looks at the creature's testicles. He looks at Adrasta. He looks at the monster's privates. He looks at Adrasta.

"Are you quite sure you wouldn't prefer the tongue?"

He looks at the griffon's plums. He looks at Adrasta.

He says very, very slowly, "Perhaps I could interest you in a nice wing-tip?"

Adrasta sticks her hands on her hips and grins. "I'm not looking for a souvenir, malakia. I'm only thinking about what we could sell. Ardan's got the right idea."

She looks back at their horses. They could maybe tie the carcass to their horses and drag it along... she shakes her head. "Without a buyer lined up, I guess there's no point. The smell will just attract more predators."

Otto laughs, happy that he won't be snipping gonads any time soon. Then, ruefully, "Yes, with the right buyer, this might be a gold mine. Sadly, it will rot under the sun."

He adds, "But if this is our worst regret after encountering an adult griffon, then today is a good day."

He checks his axes and hammer, checks the packhorse to make sure all is secure and nothing was lost in the gallop, then mounts his horse.

"I wonder if there was a nest..." he muses, gazing towards the canopy of the trees.

<<Evening - Day 6 - Early Spring - A Day's March North of the Trading Post - Wilderness>>

The trio leave a perfectly good griffon carcass behind and continue their journey.

The rest of the day is comparatively uneventful. After the hard overnight freeze, the day warms up considerably. The weather turns out to be sunny, cloudless, and quite pleasant. Earlier generations would have called the temperatures 65F / 18C.

The terrain is flat and relatively easy to traverse. There are some woods and small streams but no significant obstacles. From her time in the Crimson Phalanx, Adrasta estimates that you've traveled 33 to 35 miles in a single day. That's good progress and at least double what would have been comfortable on foot. Unsurprisingly, it's the draft horse that moves the slowest. Without it, the pace would have been even faster.

At this time of year, the sun sets close to 8pm. Around 6pm, you reach a river that's at least 150 yards wide, perhaps more. The current is does not seem fast but the water temperature is quite cold, likely from snow melting upstream. The depth is unknown.

You're traveling north. Downstream is west, upstream is east. You could travel one direction or the other looking for an easier spot to cross, or you could try to ford the river here. There are plenty of trees nearby for fuel or to fashion rafts should you feel so inclined. There are even large trees that Otto could turn into canoes with enough time and effort, but even a simple dugout canoe would take a day's worth of work.

Horses are good swimmers but Ardan knows they do best when their hooves can touch the ground. Sometimes a swimming horse will get off-balance and tip over, or get tipped over by force of the current, especially if they have someone or something on their backs. Then it’s difficult for them to get upright and they can drown.

Besides the griffon fight, the day had been downright pleasant. A welcome change to their experiences in the Wilderness so far. Adrasta was getting used to riding and Wanderer seemed to have accepted that she was going away. Or maybe it was just the fact that low-lying branches were hard to come by in the plains they were traversing, so the mare was biding her time. Adrasta liked to think it was the former, and that the two had reached some sort of understanding, but she couldn't be sure until they reached another densely wooded area.

Adrasta hears the river before she sees it. Its current might be leisurely, but its size more than made up for it. The medic looks up and down the flowing river, then up at the sky. "I think we still have a few hours of daylight, but it might be worth making camp. The horses must be tired and can't be eager to cross. Tomorrow, we can go upstream and try and find a better spot to ford. What do you think?"

Otto looks around for a tree to climb, specifically one that would have an unobstructed view of the river. The ones with the best view seem a little spindly to him, but he prefers not to drown, so he takes his chances to find a good place to cross.

He gets about halfway up a young oak, but runs out of options, unless he's willing to try a particularly thin branch. He tests his weight with his foot. "Seems sturdy...", he muses, as he shifts his weight to the branch.

The branch has other ideas, and the cracking from the bough catches Otto by surprise. With a yelp he tumbles from the tree, hitting another branch on the way down for good measure. He lands in the dirt with a *whumpf*, straight on his backside. The kicked-up dust swirls around the disgruntled man.

*cough*

He looks at the tree, gently waggling his finger at it. Hands are proffered to help him to his feet. "No, thank you, I rather like it here." He lays back in the dirt, crosses his hands behind his head. "It's quite pleasant", he observes, clearly lying both literally and figuratively.

Having snarkily commented at Ottos ill attempt, Ardan looks up at a branch high enough to yield a good view and leaps effortlessly directly up into the tree, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Holding himself firmly, he looks around up and down the river to spy a possible ford, bridge or other way to pass the river safely.

While Naesala walking up and down sheer surfaces may give the impression of gravity not applying to her, gravity very clearly applies to Ardan. (As his fall from the rope attests.) But that makes his leaping all the more impressive. He launches himself in a graceful arc, rising before gravity slowly reasserts its dominance and pulling him back toward the Earth. But before he falls he lands on another branch and then repeats the process.

Leaping like this, a thicket of interconnected trees might as well be a vertical highway. Ardan has no trouble skipping from tree to tree, targeting the ideal branches as he rises above it all. Finally, he finds himself perched on top of a tall evergreen tree like an eagle. Indeed, he finds an eagle's nest on his rise to the top.

From there he has a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. The slowly descending sun to the west hampers his vision slightly in that direction, but otherwise he can see all there is to see.

There aren't any bridges. Nor can Ardan see any people or animals, other than birds.

To the west, the river gets wider. This doesn't mean deeper and, if anything, it might mean that the current slows down as the flow spreads out over a wider space.

To the east, the river is narrower. This could mean that the current is faster as the flow is channeled through a constrained space. Indeed, Ardan can see a bit of white water that suggests some rapids in that direction.

Across the river, in the distance, Ardan make out the remains of an old village. It's not the fishing village that you are looking for - as that is a few days away from the trading post and you are only one day into your journey - and, in truth, would be hard to describe as a village at all anymore. The wooden huts - constructed out of tree logs - have collapsed: the walls are in shambles and the roofs have fallen in. A few of them show signs of blackening, which suggests burning. But given that plants have reclaimed the land and are growing in the middle of the huts, it is clear that whatever befall the village happened a while ago, at least a year or more. There's no indication that anyone is living there now, or that anyone has recently.

The old ruins are not far from the opposite side of the river. If you cross the river tonight, the old huts could serve as the outline of some shelter for the evening.

Otto looks approvingly at the more nimble and sure-footed Ardan, clearly impressed by his far more successful foray into the branches.

"With the coming of night, the thought of crossing the river and sleeping in wet clothes has little appeal. Sleep here, cross at the wide and shallow in the morning?" he suggests.

The thought of wet clothes seemed to draw agreement from the band of travelers, who set up camp at the edge of the trees near the river. Tents go up, a fire is started, and the group settles in for a meal of hard tack. Not the most tasty, but good for the wilderness. Food that doesn't smell like much isn't a beacon for wild animals like a roasted chicken might be. The horses, hobbled under the trees, chew on thistles and scrub contentedly.

As the sun goes down, the three congratulate themselves for not crossing the river. There is a distinct chill on the evening air, and a bit of a breeze. A wet camp would have been an unhappy camp, and with a fire going, they discuss their plans into the evening.

<<Dusk - Day 6 - Early Spring - A Day's March North of the Trading Post - Wilderness>>

You're setting up camp for the evening when you hear voices. There's a troop of men - perhaps 20 - who are wearing what looks like a common uniform: metal helmets, green tunics. Half have bows and half have hand weapons, mostly spears and pole axes. The two halves have split up: the ones with bows hide in the woods while the half without bows march forward blithely along the river to be "ambushed".

Adrasta, as a soldier, almost immediately recognizes it as a training exercise. There is an officer of some sort who is leading it and calling out instructions loudly. He's making little effort to be discrete. Strangely, he's speaking in Emedian, which a language more associated with poets and scholars than of soldiers. Luckily, you all understand it.

The officer seems to be instructing his archers on the importance of patience, of holding fire until the enemy is within range. His patter is a strange combination of instruction mixed with color commentary.

As the foot soldiers approach to be ambushed, he narrates to his archers: "Stab my vitals, it is the enemy! Or do my old eyes deceive me?"

One of his archers takes that to mean he should start shooting. He fires a shot which lands well short. The soldiers acting as the ambushers take that as their "cue" to level their spears and "charge" the archers with a war cry. The other archers panic and begin firing; these shots either fly over the heads of the charging soldiers or land well short. It's clear the archers are not very seasoned.

"Cop it for that folly, cop it hard!" the officer bellows. "That's torn it, you've given the whole show away!"

He bonks the errant archer with what looks like a rattan stick. The blow is harmless against the archer's helmet but it's probably loud and embarrassing.

"Silly twerp, I need men who know their onion!" The officer uses his rattan stick to point to the charging foot soldiers. "Now all those frightful-looking blighters have a personal grievance to air."

He waves a hand in the air and the scene resets: the archers return to their hiding spaces in the bushes while the foot soldiers turn around and begin marching along the riverbank again to be ambushed.

"The stage is set: up goes the curtain on Act 1," the officer narrates in a loud stage-whisper. "Pick your targets. Don't worry about dropping them all; we'll attend to the rest after we've put the other fellas on the spot. There, now, you see it? Too close to miss but still far enough to level several shots before they close the gap. Defilade!"

The archers open fire again and the results are much better. Several arrows strike their targets, who fall over theatrically. Clearly no real harm has come to them.

"Now we're getting a little order out of chaos!" the officer celebrates, cracking his rattan stick for emphasis. "And so on to the remainder! Shoot's a treat!" The archers open fire again and "finish" off the enemy.

When all is said and done, the fallen foot soldiers stand, retrieve the training arrows, and regroup with the officer and the archers. The officer gives a speech to the assembled unit.

"Fast is fine, but accuracy is final. You must learn to be slow in a hurry.”

"Sir?" one of the archers asks in confusion.

"None of this 'quick's the word and sharp's the action.' That's for the boys with the blades. Your motions must be as deliberate and consistent as the flow of that river. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. That's the way you teach Jerry the facts of life! Bob's your uncle."

Adrasta grins as the memories of her own training come flooding back. The grueling drills, the long hours, the verbal abuse... Perfection can only be approached through repetition, or so her instructor used to say.  She shakes her head, focusing back on the present. "If they're training here, they must have a camp nearby. Strange that Emma and Ignacio knew nothing of it," she whispers to the others.

She considers their options. Approaching them now was risky, but if they made friends, it could mean a safer night and a hot meal. "I'm going to go say hi."

Adrasta steps out of her cover with her arms out to her sides, her weapons sheathed or stowed. "Hail and well met, sir and company," she says in accented Emedian. "Your swift improvement and subsequent skillful maneuvering was a sight to behold, I say with the weight of experience. May we parley? I was advised that this range was untenanted and I am most perplexed by your unexpected, but not unwelcome, appearance."