Part 1 - Summary
Chapter 1 - Linden’s Field
The village of Linden’s Field was settling in for another lazy summer evening. Sheep herders were returning with their flocks, the small bells attached to the end of their walking sticks ringing softly in the dusk. The flowering vines that had, over the decades, crawled their way up the palisade walls had just reached their full bloom, leaving the aged wood dotted with purple and white petal clusters. Amidst the village crowd, and the returning farmers, there were three other figures. Not out of place; though unknown to Linden’s field. A Dwarf of rather exceptional size and hefting an equally massive travel-pack trudged through the open palisades, projecting a path straight towards the village inn - the Golden Hart. Some paces behind the gruff mountain-dwarf, a whip-thin and rakish young man strode in the same direction, casting a possibly-too-casual gaze across the faces moving past. And finally, rounding out the unknowing party, an easterling woman padded through the dust in the young bard’s wake - following his footsteps, and thus masking her own.
Linden’s Field wrapped itself around a large green meadow, known as the Village Green. Modest wooden homes circle the Green, traced by rough and occasionally cobbled pathways. The villagers were in good spirits, as the farming had been good the season past. A few ventured friendly nods towards the trio, whilst others lazily wound their way home in the pre-dark hours, savoring the sunset and the smell of summer blooms. Torgren adjusted and shifted his worn scale-mail as he walked, loosening it slightly around his sturdy torso in preparation for an overdue ale and plate of vittles. The bard, Charax Lucien had the same thought, and was looking forward to warm food and bed - as well as a safe place to tune and maintain his instruments.
It was not unusual for the Golden Hart to entertain pilgrims or travelers, but the tavern brawl that had erupted this evening was more foreign even than an eastern monk. As the Dwarf, Torgren, bulled his way to the bar, he passed the violent bout with hardly a second glance. A village youth, Perrin was trading fists with another, slightly older man. It was difficult to tell who was having the better of it, as both were brawny and seemingly no stranger to a scrum. The crowd that had gathered was beginning to shout encouragement for the youth - although, as the young bard noted, none moved to intercede. The man sidled past with a bemused, and slightly disdainful look towards the brawlers. It occurred to him that he really needed at least one drink in him if he was going to oblige such company. ‘Two beers, barman! Make that Boar’s Blood, if you please,’. The barman squeaked, and righted his hat. He eyed the village men, still pacing and throwing measured jabs with their meat-hook fists. The bard rolled his eyes and nodded simultaneously, spinning deftly from his stool.
Before he had both feet on the ground however, the Dwarf that he had planted himself next to had pole-axed the boy Perrin, and was carving a hammer-blow into the other man’s ribs. The laconic dwarf entertained what Lucien thought might have been the faintest of sly grins he’d ever seen. ‘Men-folk. Any two are hardly worth one good Dwarven maid when it comes to throwing their limp wrists about’. And with that he climbed back into his seat and cast a nod towards the bard, before wrapping a ham-fist around one of the steins now resting between them. ‘Oh, now; I didn’t say the second was for you, master Dwarf -’
Before further debate could be pursued, the father of the now crumpled youth had arrived - an enormous man, wearing the cracked and heavy apron and boots of a blacksmith. An awkward explanation later, during which time the rather understated young eastern woman in the flowing robes had quietly carried away the other man, propping him up and searching for a pulse. He was thoroughly bludgeoned, but it appeared he would awaken - at some point. As she worked, the woman noted a small set of tattoos underneath the man’s left eye. They resembled teeth. She thought on this a moment, before quietly taking a seat. By this point, the blacksmith had introduced himself, and explained that the Golden Hart had been strained as of late, with the influx of travelers and folk from surrounding villages and farmsteads. Master Ahlvire was lucky to have any rooms available these days.
‘The night isn’t safe, not anymore. That’s what they say. It hasn’t been this way in years - long years. But they come to town, and tell of sounds coming from the forest. Sounds that no creature from this earth was ever born to call.’
On that sombre note, McLuhan retreated from the Inn to look after his son, and check his forge over before turning in. He seemed preoccupied, and not quite as upset as he should have been about his son’s beating.
A short time later, the inn had quieted and resumed its usual lazy pace - the main floor was nearly full of patrons, and a warm glow from the many candles as well as the large hearth washed the already comfortable space in flickering amber. Lucien could recognize a well primed audience, and was making his way towards an open space near the hearth, with Bodhrain in hand. The villagers welcomed the distraction with smiles and copper - much to the quiet satisfaction of Master Ahlvire, the innkeep. He had offered the strange newcomers his last rooms, and after acquiescing to the dwarf’s preference for a clear sky overhead, gone back about his work. All the while, the monk sat at a small private table, with light feet propped against the seat opposite her - alongside the still unconscious form of the scrapper. She wasn’t much fond of leaving a man’s fate to chance or luck, face-down on a tavern floor - despite what he may or may not deserve. She sipped at a light wheat ale, and took the moment to slow her breath.
The evening slid into true darkness. The common room however, was still full of life, thanks to the young bard, who was now happily into his pints, and happy to take the villagers’ coin. Outside, the pleasant evening air was alive with the sound of crickets and singing frogs, as well as the steady hoot of a far-off owl. Torgren was grunting in his sleep, flailing his hand at imagined stingbugs and mosquitoes. He had taken a spot in the stables that stood some twenty feet behind the inn. Suddenly he was blinking heavy sleep from his eyes. Looking up through squinted eyes, he met the gaze of a very blurry, and quite beautiful face. The woman had shaken him awake.
‘The village - Linden’s Field, is under attack. You must waken and travel north! You came here with two others, yes?’
Torgren grunted again, not so much in answer as in groggy confusion. He had traveled alone, although he had noted the other two - the young rake bard of course — but despite his typically aloof exterior, he had been aware of the eastern woman as well. Without prompt, the young woman currently occupying his hazy vision continued.
‘You must head north, the three of you. I will stay here and help these folk, but you must travel north,’
With that, she was off - towards the Village Green presumably. Torgren hauled himself halfway to standing, before some deeply rooted instinct took hold and bid him lay back again. He threw himself down and narrowly avoided being brained by a morningstar, wielded by something that he could only assume to be a bugbear or an enormous orc. With a grating shout, the ranger brought a hand-axe up and towards the brute - a life in the wild ensured that the grizzled dwarf never slept far from a blade. His swing went wide thanks to the awkward position he had landed in, but succeeded in momentarily fending off the monster. With a resigned growl, he rolled on his side and under the stable-wall and into the cool night.
Meanwhile, the inn was still alive with Lucien’s music and the jeers or applause of the now drunk townsfolk. The monk had just leaned over to inspect the now groaning man she’d slumped by her table-side. He was waking, and in the next moment, many things happened at once. The downed man looked up into her face, grew a degenerate smile, and lunged upwards with a knife that her earlier inspection had failed to note. Behind them, Orla - the woman who had awoken Torgren - burst into the Inn, shouting warning. ‘The Wolves are here, Ehrvine’s Wolves - they bring fire and blade to your homes!’
The performing bard looked momentarily taken aback, before awkwardly scanning the stunned townspeople. It took one glance outside to convince them - coils of smoke could be seen, against the rising glow of fire in the village.
The monk meanwhile, had deftly avoided the groggy ruffian’s dagger thrust, and in exchange delivered an elbow to his neck. ‘Really, it is not your day,’ she sighed, and moved to help the woman and the bard file the various townspeople out of the trap that the inn now represented.
Outside, Orla was racing off to presumably assist the rest of the village in repelling the attack, though with what means beyond the short blade she carried, it was hard to tell. She shouted back towards Lucien,
‘North, I told the Dwarf. You must head north - I am Orla Eoain, and I will find you, have no fear of that’
It sounded final. And with those words, Lucien turned to assess his situation. His money, and what was left of his beer had been left behind as he shuffled the folk out of the tavern. ‘Can’t be going anywhere without that.. ’ He mumbled and scratched his head, moving to retrieve his goods. As he shuffled back out of the tavern, with Master Ahlvire in tow, the pair came to a crashing halt - face to face with quite the ugliest man Lucien had ever seen. A lot of firsts this evening, he mused.
No. No, that was not a man. He realized this only as an arrow sprouted from its back - Torgren stood in a nightshirt some paces back, and was readying another arrow. With a drunken shout, the bard displayed a surprising swordsmanship and initiative for one so inebriated, and ran his quickly unsheathed rapier nearly hilt-deep in the side of the bugbear. It snarled wetly, as the young monk landed a bone-crunching blow near the stab-wound. The thing was still clinging to life - admirable, after being shot, stabbed, and pummeled - though it was no threat now. The trio, with Ahlvire ever in tow, bustled northward, into the darkness.
They took a short moment to look each other over, and compose themselves. The dwarf had retrieved his gear from the stable, and in the brief respite had strapped his scale-mail back around himself like a second skin. The Bard smacked his lips and looked around - perhaps mulling over how best to compose this tale into something more savory; perhaps considering the likelihood that Ahlvire meant to gift them the pony-keg of Boar’s Blood that he now lugged on his back, as reward for seeing him clear of the now burning inn. The moment of contemplation was short lived, and out of the gloom that separated the party from the north wall slunk two men, with naked steel catching the increasing firelight.
Lucien, in another moment of surprising lucidity, deftly pricked his finger to draw a drop of blood, and whispered a small, slightly slurred noise into the wind. Torgren meanwhile, growled an exasperated threat and bulled his way into both of their assailants. The monk slipped between the main combat and master Ahlvire, unfazed by the impending violence - though making no move to join. The two men were visible now, and both clad in oiled leather, with heavy gauntlets protecting their sword-hands. They were scruffy, and their eyes harbored a cunning not unlike that of a jackal or a wolf - though perhaps the wild dog was a better fit for these two particular specimen. One of the toughs lunged like a viper into the oncoming dwarf, and scraped leather; his blade failing to find flesh. In the same moment, the second man was overcome with a sudden dread and deserted the fray, loping into the night. Torgren, meanwhile, had capitalized on his foes’ poor strike and deftly planted one axe into the man’s torso, releasing a cascade of viscera and blood over the Dwarf’s arm. A wet cry was cut short with another tree-hewing strike.
They were free, it seemed. Nothing but a tangible gloom stood between them and the northern Volun road now. With a look back at the town, the group reluctantly shouldered their packs and made for the trail. Ahlvire had left them there, returning to defend his home - though in parting, he did leave them with a wrap of dried meat, and more importantly, the ale. A quiet town left in disarray, watched the trio disappear beyond the north palisade.
Defeated: A few ruffians (Dead), a crazy-ugly Bugbear (Not Dead)
Characters met: Master Ahlvire, Master McLuhan, Orla, Drunken village folk
Acquired: Dried meat, pony-keg of Boar’s Blood ale
Quests: Head North (??)
