Chapter 7: Swift Creek

As the group travels north through the woods, Draggert tells everyone the legend of Vraath Keep.

Draggert: Amery Vraath was young noble with nice castle called Vraath Keep. He live here in Witchwood with other people who follow and live in big castle where different tribe like A'chook cannot attack. Castle so big that Amery get big head and too proud, and he try to kill forest giant tribe. Forest giants big men with tusks like strongest boar, bigger than Draggert's, and green moss skin like smartest toad. He attack forest giant tribe and kill many, but Amery's big head mostly empty because he not know there two tribes and he only kill one. On night when sky was dark and full of storm and rain, forest giants come to keep with big rocks and trees. They break walls like old turtle shell and kill people hiding inside. Amery Vraath never seen again. He still haunts old, ruined keep in the forest until his bones are found and put down into ground.

Keith frowns throughout the story.

Jorr cuts in.
Jorr: Up ahead's Swift Creek. It turns the forest into a nasty swamp for a spell. Keep your wits about you.

Draggert keeps his voice low.
Draggert: Throrin, you can read dwarf letters?

Throrin: I don't ruddy well just look at them and dream.

Draggert rummages in his sagging backpack and withdraws yet another item. It is a bent, old shovel.
Draggert: I have a shovel with dwarven handwords on it. You can have as gift.
He hands the shovel to Throrin.

Keith cuts in, speaking in dwarven.
Keith (Dwarven): I believe Draggert is "a few rivets short of a masterpiece." Is that the saying?

Throrin grins, nodding to Keith as he looks over the shovel.
Throrin (Dwarven): As close as I've heard any of you short-lived folks speak it.

Throrin reads the runes on the shovel closely.
Throrin: Draggert, this is...it's called "the seeking spade." Where did you get this?

Draggert: I help save dwarf men who get buried in old mine shaft that collapse because of screaming woman.

Throrin looks at Draggert for a long moment.
Throrin: You know, you're alright...for a half-orc. I thank ye, Draggert, on behalf of my kinsman, and I accept this noble gift. How did you bend it?

Draggert shrugs.
Draggert: I had to move very big rock.

Throrin sighs.
Throrin: Well, I suppose orcs can't be trusted with nice things, no matter their intentions.

A wide expanse of dark water has flooded the woodland in this low valley. Trees still protrude from the calm, dark waters here and there, but many swaths of land seem to be little more than pools of algae-choked water. The trill of frogs and the whine of insects fills the air. The forest road leads right down to the edge of the bog, up to a rickety-looking causeway made of thick planks of wood lashed together with mossy rope. The wooden causeway runs for several hundred feet through the bog, only a foot or so above the water.

Throrin: Agh, this looks like a good place to get ambushed, if you ask me.
Throrin unhooks his hammer from his belt loop.

Corrigan draws his swords quietly.

Keith: Really? But you can see a long way. There's nothing.

Draggert: Could be enemy under bridge, or hiding in water with flower tubes.

The group pauses for a moment, listening to the trill of frogs and the buzz of insects. Then, they step onto the walkway with Draggert at the front. They haven't gone far when they notice a half-submerged caravan stuck in the muck a short distance out into the swamp, the canvas tarp across its top rumpled and rotting, one wheel protruding from the murk.

Draggert gets as close as he can to the edge of the walkway, peering at the caravan.

The bog below Draggert gives a massive, rippling lurch and a blurred shape bursts upward, sending a murky spray of swamp water into the air. A snakelike head hangs on the end of a long, powerful neck attached to a bloated body, where still more necks attach until the creature stretches out six long, whipping snake heads, all covered in dull green scales, to attack. The monster must be the size of a horse-drawn cart!

Corrigan: HYDRA!

Draggert is caught completely by surprise. The six heads lash down, each striking with blinding speed. Draggert flings his axe up, parrying one of the heads as two more nip at his legs. He stumbles back, and another of the heads bites savagely into his side, its needle teeth tearing through his armor. He screams, beating at it ineffectively with the haft of his axe. The head lifts him from his feet and twists downward, flinging Draggert onto the boardwalk where he lands with a heavy thud and does not move.

Corrigan rushes forward, rolling under one of the striking heads and swinging his sword upward at it, just as it snakes out of reach.

Jorr looses an arrow into the monster's body with a wet thwup.

Throrin mutters a prayer to Moradin that they might triumph. A warm glow suffuses he and his allies.

Keith points his index finger, firing a smoking, black ray that strikes the body of the beast, sapping its strength.

The hydra roars, a peculiar frog-like sound, and surges half onto the causeway, its heavy feet causing the wood to creak and groan. It lashes out at Corrigan, its teeth grazing his shoulder. The rest of its heads batter and smash into the armored dwarf, but Throrin stays on his feet, screaming defiantly.

Corrigan suddenly leaps from the causeway and into the bog, fetid water rising to his chest, he kicks his legs and swims underneath the hydra's body, swords splashing as he strikes up at it.

Jorr backpedals well out of reach of the monster, loosing another arrow.

Throrin steps over the fallen half-orc, fending off the hydra's heads with his wide, steel shield. He speaks a few words of prayer, touching Draggert's back and suffusing him with healing magic. Draggert's eyes open, angry and bloodshot.

Keith follows Jorr, speaking an incantation and sending two burning lances of fire out from his hand. They strike the hydra's body, inflicting smoking, charred wounds in its scaly flesh.

Three of the hydra's heads snake beneath its body, biting and thrashing at Corrigan. The ranger is quick, even deep in the murk, and he twists in the water and dodges them all, frustrating the monster. The other three batter Throrin with savage bites, the third head biting straight down and onto the dwarf's shield where it is raised to catch in the beast's mouth, fending off a devastating bite to the dwarf's head.

Draggert rolls suddenly across the wooden boards, on his back, and swings his axe with the momentum, cleaving a deep, bloody rend into the Hydra's exposed belly. He screams as loud as the monster.

The hydra sags from the force of Draggert's blow, and Corrigan at last finds his mark. His swords flash upward in three beautiful strokes, liver, gut, and heart. He swims out of the way as the beast gives a final, shuddering breath and collapses dead into the swamp.

Keith bites his nails.
Keith: Heck of a job, everyone! Well done.

Jorr: Very impressive.

Throrin: Damnation! I didn't even get to crack a skull.

Draggert stands, covered in fresh blood. The mad look in his eyes slowly subsides.

Corrigan climbs back onto the walkway, and offers Draggert a stoppered potion.

Draggert takes it, drinking it down.

Keith: Draggert, you alright?

Draggert says nothing. He digs in his alligator skin bag, taking out another potion. He drinks it.

Throrin: You took a beating, ye hairy bastard.

Corrigan and Keith move to check out the wagon.

Draggert searches his bag, finds another potion, and drinks it quietly.

The wagon is old and mostly empty. Near the front, you find a few corpses gone waxy from too long sitting in the bog. One of them, completely submerged in the deep muck, offers up a glint of shining metal.

Corrigan reaches deep and pulls hard, withdrawing a beautiful shirt of glinting chain that slides easily from the body of its former owner. The armor looks brand new, completely unaffected by the slimy bog.

Throrin falls on his ass on the walkway.
Throrin: Mithral silver!

Corrigan whistles softly in amazement.
Corrigan: Now this is treasure.
He heads back up onto the walkway, stowing the armor in his bag for now.

Draggert takes a deep breath and then examines the fallen hydra, trying to figure out the best way to skin the beast.

Jorr shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He looks around continually at the swamp.

Keith: What's wrong, Jorr?

Jorr: Just remembering this old bit of woodsman's wisdom that, in summer, hydras sometimes nest in pairs.

Keith: Um, guys! I think we should get going!

Draggert gives up on the hydra corpse. It's too big.

The party swiftly moves down the boardwalk, across the causeway, and deeper into the forest. They traverse a few more miles, until nightfall closes in around them.

Chapter 6: Into the Witchwood

After a hasty breakfast of buttered biscuits at the inn, the party makes their way across Drellin's Ferry to the town's namesake, a large flat-bottomed ferryboat resting on the broad, sluggish Elsir River on the town's western side. Beyond the crossing lies the Dawn Way and the Witchwood. The ferryman tips his hat as the party approaches, accepting no payment from those on official town business. He hooks a draft horse up to a rope-and-pulley mechanism and bids the group climb aboard the barge. The ferry is exceedingly slow, hefting along through the water and passing by several large, stone pylons jutting from the surface.

Throrin: Dwarf-made those pillars, and still strong.

Keith nods.
Keith: A shame the locals let the bridge wash out in the floods.

Throrin touches the stone of his hammer's head and says a silent prayer to Moradin.
Throrin: Aye, it were better when the vale was ruled by my people.

The ferry finally bumps against the bank on the opposite shore, where another ferryman waves goodbye to the party as they travel past the final few outlying farms and houses of the town.

As the group travels, Draggert tells them all the story of the Ghostwood Spoon.
Draggert: Several seasons past I was in lake to remove stench and filth. I removed cloth and armor. I did not kill great gator with Arv'Gallin yet, and cloth and armor not made for water. I walked back and forth in water until no longer feel sticky and tight, when all of a sudden extra smooth is under Draggert's foot. I reach into water and feel stick, but when Draggert pull hand out of water there is no stick, but Draggert still feel stick! Draggert knows his eyes are bad, but not as bad as sick bat or dying mole. Hahahahaha. Draggert think it must be someone trying to trick him, or keep his mind working so they can attack. Draggert runs to land and picks up old Ar'chook tribe axe that was very old and very bad when Draggert finally sees stick! But it is no stick, it is spoon! Draggert figure out that spoon disappear when it gets wet, so Draggert hold extra tight when eating soup.
Draggert nods sagely at that last bit.

The western road leading into town is clear, so the group turns onto a small trail beneath the green canopy of the Witchwood, its broad branches teeming with life in the warm summer morning. Birdsong and the buzzing of cicadas fills the air.

Draggert steps out in front.
Draggert: Draggert can lead.

Throrin nods.
Throrin: I'll take up the rear. Loud as I am, the further from the front, the better.

Corrigan smirks.
Corrigan: Excellent. We'll keep our ears open for your girlish screams in case you are attacked.

Draggert: But Corrigan, he has deep voice.

Keith adjusts his pack on his back, clearly straining a bit beneath its weight.
Keith: No need to slow down on my account.

The group moves through the forest, Draggert loping nimbly around stumps and through bushes as he follows the small trail where it meanders through the high summer undergrowth. Burs snag in your clothes and briars scrape past your faces. More than once, one of the half-orc's "shortcuts" leads you through pools of standing water and over large boulders. After several hours of travel, the temperature rises greatly. By the time you arrive at the small cabin on the side of the trail that must be the woodsman's, you are hot, tired, and very sweaty. A ramshackle front porch is littered with fishing baskets and skinning frames. The cabin overlooks a dark bayou lake, with old gray cedar trees draped in moss rising out of the water. An old skiff is tied up on the shore nearby, and a little smoke curls from the fieldstone chimney.

Keith steps forward gingerly and goes to knock on the door.

As Keith approaches the front porch, the sound of deep, ferocious barking rends the air. Three massive hounds bound from the back of the cabin and come running towards Keith. They stop just a foot away from him and bark savagely, saliva slavering over their jaws and splashing onto Keith's well-tailored robes.

Corrigan's hands go immediately to his blades.

Draggert grabs onto his axe and growls back.

Keith freezes, stuttering something in an attempt at words.

Throrin adjusts his helmet, barely able to see what's happening up ahead.

The front door suddenly bangs open, revealing a rough-shaven, middle-aged man with a balding white pate. He grips a shortbow, arrow nocked, though pointing down.
Man: Oy! Off 'em, louts! Maisie! Carlisle! Boartusk! I say OFF 'EM!

The dogs stop barking, circling around to stand closer to the porch, hackles still raised.

Man: Who are you, then? Out with it quick. The dogs aren't too patient.

Draggert: Draggert, Corrigan, Keith, and Throrin. He is dwarf.
Draggert points at each in turn.

Man cringes.
Man: You're an ugly cuss, and an orc to boot.. What do you want? Armed folks at my door means either thieves or fools or both.

Keith: Please sir, we came here for help! Wiston sent us!

Man: Oh, Wiston, was it?
He relaxes noticeably, and calls the dogs completely off with a sharp whistle. They crawl beneath the porch.
Man: Alright, then. Name's Jorr. If Wiston sent you, you're probably alright. Come on in.

The group cautiously mounts the porch, filing into the small cabin. Draggert remains outside, sitting on the steps of the porch, content to wait in the fresh air, and also to keep watch.

The cabin is close, hot, and smells of wood smoke. Two wooden benches flank a rectangular table covered in scrimshaw art, fletching tools, and tobacco-smoking supplies. Deer heads and stuffed snakes crowd the walls, while a massive boar's head is mounted over a modest hearth. A pot of coffee bubbles over the morning's coals. Everyone crowds the benches and table as they sit down.

Jorr lays his shortbow on the table, next to some arrows he is not quite finished fletching with goose feathers.
Jorr: Alright, what do you want to know?

Keith: The road, mainly. We're supposed to make sure it's clear. It's hobgoblins we're after.

Jorr: Well, the road ain't clear. It's hobgoblins, all right. That and more. I see worg riders raiding the roads at all hours of the day and night. These aren't the stupid, weak variety of goblin. These are well trained, and a decent bowshot. All of them have quality weapons and armor. It's not good, not good at all. The main force of them is in and out of the Witchwood, but I do my best to stay hidden. Still, it's probably only a matter of time before they find me.

Keith: Well, we're here to help, Jorr. Say the word and we can let the sparks fly.

Jorr: They might be holed up at Vraath Keep, about five miles north. Been seeing weird lights up near there at night. But if you ask me, my money's on Skull Gorge. It's an old dwarf bridge across a canyon, half a day north of the wood. I figure they came down out of the Wyrmsmokes, and they're garrisoning that old bridge fort, blocking travel.

Draggert's voice drifts into the window.
Draggert: I heard story about Vraath Keep from Arv'Gallin. Haunted!

Jorr shrugs.
Jorr: Might be worth a look, on the way to the gorge.

Throrin grumbles.
Throrin: It makes me blood boil, thinking of them goblins crawling all over my ancestor's works.

Keith: All of it north, then? Well, it looks like we have some objectives. We can reach that keep by the end of the day. Ready, everyone?

Jorr stands suddenly, grabbing his bow and slinging it across his back. He starts stuffing a backpack full of supplies.
Jorr: I'm coming with you. I don't want these damn hobgoblins in my home. I'd have done something sooner if I'd had the manpower. Now it seems I do.

Keith nods.
Keith: Yes, why don't you!

Together, the group exits the cabin and files down the steps. Jorr stoops underneath the porch and says something to his dogs.

Draggert: You are coming, woodman? You take payment?

Jorr stands and approaches Draggert.
Jorr: I didn't ask for any, but I'll take mercenary coin if you've any to spare.

Draggert nods, digging in a belt pouch for something. He drops three gold crowns and twelve silver-dipped stag's antler tips into Jorr's hand.
Draggert: Three human monies, and twelve Grogor tribe monies. Too bad Grogor tribe all dead now.

Jorr looks with interest at the strange coin, and pockets it all.

Throrin approaches and hands the man ten more gold crowns without saying a word.

Jorr mutters his thanks.

Together, the party sets off to the north.

Chapter 5: A Proposal at the Old Bridge Inn

The Old Bridge Inn is a large and comfortable establishment, all awash in the golden glow of a massive fireplace. The large cooking stone in the kitchen sizzles and gives off delicious smells. The bar itself is of an old and heavy oak, and boasts a fine assortment of ales, liquors, and wines. The taproom seems at least half full, most folks worriedly talking about the town's recent troubles. Still, an atmosphere of cheer and comfort pervades all here. The bartender is a halfling man with an easy demeanor and broad smile. His hair is in neat cornrows. Three maids serve the tables.

Keith sits exhaustedly at a table.

Draggert tests the strength of a chair next to Keith carefully, and sits.

Corrigan sits in a shadowy corner, his hood up.

Throrin climbs a stool at the bar and sits there, letting his feet dangle.

Draggert: Keith.

Keith sighs resignedly.
Keith: Yes?

Draggert: Do you wish to trade, give, or receive gifts or tales?
He waits for a response.

Keith fishes a sunrod out of his pocket. He thinks twice before finally deciding to place it in the giant half-orc's hand.
Keith: You seen one of these?

Draggert: Yes. You snap them and they are sunny.
He seems pleased.
Draggert: Do you read human language, Keith?

Keith: It's pretty much all I do.

Draggert hands Keith a book. The title reads "Elven Ethics."
Draggert: You may have this if you read it out loud. I need what is in this book. I was told so.

Keith scoffs.
Keith: It's comedy, Draggert.

Draggert: My elf friend Lorathaul say I must know book inside and out. Lorathual pull me from sinking death sand. I show him cave of goblin. We kill goblins, count monies, and eat. He give me great big elf axe because his smaller arm no longer work because of sky-colored goblin with invisible mystery power. Lorathaul gave me book and said I must know inside and out or other elves would kill me.

Keith: Mystery power, eh? Come with me, Draggert.
Keith stands and leads the half-orc outside onto the town green. He points a hand up at the sky, makes a few subtle motions and says a few ominous words.

Draggert prepares for trouble.

A fork of blue lightning very suddenly pierced the sky in Drellin's Ferry that night. The locals who saw it said it must have been a bad omen, for there was not a storm for miles.

Draggert jumps, then stares at Keith.
Draggert: You use mystery power, Keith? Did you make lightning?

Keith winks at Draggert, slowly walking back to the inn, suddenly feeling even more tired.
Keith: The answer, Draggert, is that powers are not a mystery to some, at all.

Draggert follows Keith back inside.

The halfling barkeep has stools of his own set up on the serving side of the human-sized bar. He leaps adeptly from stool to stool as he serves drinks.

Halfling Barkeep: What'll you have, sir? I have a dwarven stout.

Throrin: You're reading my stomach, little cousin.

The barkeep smiles and flits between stools, sliding Throrin the mug down the bar without spilling a drop.

Throrin takes several long draughts, then belches loudly.

Corrigan sinks into his chair, overhearing a conversation being held at the table above him, on the small upper-level balcony. A middle-aged man with a serious face and a salt-and-pepper beard talks forcefully with a red-haired woman in a chain shirt. They are arguing about what to do about the town's recent troubles. The man is in favor of speaking to "the strangers" in town, while the woman explains that she doesn't trust them. The man counters that Sergeant Hersk vouched for at least one of them, and that if anyone is going to get hurt, it might as well be strangers.

Corrigan arches an eyebrow, and stands up. He moves to the bar near Throrin just as Keith and Draggert reenter the room. He motions for the others to come close.

Draggert approaches.
Draggert: You drink good, Throrin, like fish dying on land.

Throrin finishes his stout in one long pull.
Throrin: Just lubricating my wind pipe.

Corrigan: I just overheard an interesting conversation up in the balcony. But first, have any of you ever seen this image?
Corrigan withdraws a charcoal sketch of the symbol of the five-headed lizard from the green earlier.

Throrin: That be the unholy symbol o' Tiamat, lad. Or at least damned close.

Corrigan: Tiamat?

Throrin: Aye, the evil dragon goddess. Where'd ye find that?

Corrigan: A friend gave it to me. There must be a connection between this dragon goddess and the symbol of the red hand.
He puts the drawing away, shaking his head and feeling uneasy.
Corrigan: Anyway, there's a man and a woman talking about us up in the balcony. It seems he wants our help, but the lady doesn't trust outsiders.

Throrin: Wise of her.

Draggert: I will be here long season. I can help.

Keith: That might be Norro, the town speaker. I'll go see.
Keith stands and makes his way to the balcony area, the others following behind.

The older man looks up and his conversation stops abruptly as Keith and the others reach the top of the small balcony, crowding around the end of a long table, the only seating available above the common room.

Older man: And here they are at last! Welcome to Drellin's Ferry, strangers. I am town speaker Norro Wiston, and this is the captain of my guard, Anitah Soranna. Please, have a seat. We were just discussing a proposal we may have for you.

Captain Sorannah's expression darkens perceptibly as the group sits down and she shoots Wiston a nasty look.

Keith extends a hand to shake Wiston's.
Keith: Keith Waxloor, apprentice to Immerstal the Red of Brindol.

Speaker Wiston: Ah! Excellent.
He gives Captain Sorannah a superior glance.
Speaker Wiston: We would welcome the help of a talented mage, as any apprentice of Immerstal's must no doubt be. And, to be frank, the lot of you are quite well-armed, and you seem capable. Sergeant Hersk tells me you defeated a sizable force of hobgoblin bandits on the road. Our town is besieged by these hobgoblin brutes. They raid our distant farms and harry any attempts to pass nearby roads. They are a pox on safety, prosperity, and commerce in my lands.

Captain Sorannah interrupts the speaker.
Captain Sorannah: We've dealt with their kind ourselves plenty of times before, but this force is different. It's large and organized. My scouts think it's likely that a large tribe might be on its way down out of the Wyrmsmoke Mountains. It may even be large enough to sack the town.

Keith looks out of the small, square-cut window on the balcony at the quaint, tiny lights of the town at night, hearths and oil lamps burning in cozy cottages.
Keith: A bustling metropolis like this, eh? I certainly understand your concern.

Captain Sorannah frowns at Keith, as the speaker cuts back in.

Speaker Wiston: There may not be an immediate threat to our homes, but the road to the west is our lifeblood. If the Dawn Way is not kept open, trade into all of Elsir Vale will suffer, and we will suffer first. We need to repel the raiders from our town if they come, but we also need to keep that road open. That's where you come in. If you help us, you'd be helping an awful lot of people.

Corrigan: Of course, but what's in it for us?

Captain Sorannah gives Speaker Wiston the most telling look of all. She speaks a touch too loud, a note of bitterness in her voice.
Captain Sorannah: Of course we don't expect you to help us out of the kindness of your own hearts. We can pay each of you five hundred gold crowns.

Keith frowns.
Keith: For a warrior as fine as Corrigan? I'd say seven hundred is more his going rate.

Throrin practically shouts.
Throrin: Noble endeavors are their own reward! Making widows of goblin whores is entertainment, no payment needed.

Captain Sorannah: You'll be facing off against dozens of hobgoblin warriors. I insist you take some payment.

Throrin stands so that he is as tall as the captain is seated.
Throrin: I'm no money hungry mercenary, wench! You insult my honor and the honor of Clan Hammerfist!

Captain Sorannah stands, too, her hand going to the hilt of her blade.
Captain Sorannah: I have not defended this town tirelessly for seven years to be called wench by some up-jumped dwarven sellsword!

Throrin: Sellsword?! I carry the royal blood of Othrek Hammerhand!

Speaker Wiston stands, as well, and speaks with sudden, powerful authority.
Speaker Wiston: Enough! You will take the offer of five hundred crowns, or you will be on your way at dawn.

Draggert watches all of this quietly, his black eyes wet and blinking.

The group slowly calms down, mumbling a general assent to the speaker's offer. Captain Sorannah stalks off to the window as Throrin sits back down.

Speaker Wiston is once more calm and composed. He sits.
Speaker Wiston: Excellent. In the morning, you will head west down the Dawn Road. If you see any brigands, deal with them. The captain's scouts believe the hobgoblins have a base in the Witchwood, an old ruin called Vraath Keep. There used to be a woodsman off the Witch Trail. Jovy might've been his name? I can't remember. He hasn't been to town in weeks, might already be dead. If not, he can show you the way to Vraath Keep. Once everything is clear and dealt with, report back to me for the other half of your payment. Here's the first half.
Speaker Wiston plinks down several pouches of coin, already counted out in advance.

The group grasps the pouches, divvying them out in equal measure. Corrigan counts the contents, just to be sure. Throrin eyes his pouch distastefully, but accepts it.

Keith: Very well. I think I'll retire. I need to prepare for this journey, and there's a map of the stars I need to study. Goodnight.
Keith rises and heads down the steps and into the back rooms of the inn.

Captain Sorannah leaves, saying nothing beyond the scowl on her face.

Throrin mutters.
Throrin: Bloody she-wolf...

Speaker Wiston rises, and accompanies the rest of you down the stairs before taking his leave. Draggert, Corrigan, and Throrin linger a moment more in the common room. It's late, and many of the patrons have gone home, changing the atmosphere to a quiet stillness interrupted only by the crackling of a log in the hearth and the sound of the bartender getting everything cleaned up for the night.

Draggert leans in to the others, nearly whispering.
Draggert: Do any of you wish to trade, give or receive stories or gifts?

Corrigan smirks.
Corrigan: Sure, Draggert, I'll take a gift.

Draggert smiles and rifles around in his pack. He produces a white, wooden spoon. He presses it gingerly into Corrigan's hand.
Draggert: Here. It is made of ghostwood. It disappears when wet.

Corrigan doesn't really believe him, but he takes the spoon.
Corrigan: Thanks, Draggert.

Draggert smiles, and he goes to sleep on the common room floor, by the cozy fire. The others retire to their rooms for the night.

Chapter 4: Meetings in Drellin's Ferry

Keith guides Saula by hand into the town of Drellin's Ferry, Draggert and Corrigan walking abreast of him. A short distance behind, Throrin and Gand guide the decrepit ore-cart, pulled by the exhausted pony.

Draggert: So are you all here to live?

Corrigan shakes his head.

Keith: No, I have been sent to help someone.

Throrin: We're bringing in a shipment of ore, if it isn't obvious enough.

Draggert: Oh. Well, I am only resting in town for the thrill. I will see you.

Draggert waves goodbye as he jogs ahead to the green in the center of town. Corrigan gives a salute to the others as he, too, strides away. Last to part is Keith, nodding his head to Throrin and Gand as he strikes out on his own. Throrin and Gand continue to struggle along the road, drawing nearer and nearer to a large stone building on the edge of the town, near the river. A sign outside reads, "Morlin's Smithy."

The smithy is a sturdy building of excellent dwarven make, and Throrin feels at home instantly upon stepping inside. Hard at work at an anvil is a broad, cheery-faced dwarf with a bright red nose that must be Morlin. His long, black beard is tucked into his belt as he works. Throrin observes his craft for a moment, clearing his throat loudly after a time to get his attention. Morlin stops hammering and looks up, laying down his hammer and wiping his hands off on his black apron.

Morlin advances and clasps hands with Throrin in greeting.
Morlin: Hail, earthbrother! I'm Morlin Coalhewer, servant of Moradin and crafter of metal. You've come with my iron, no doubt! Haa! I just can't work this spit they haul out of the mines around here. I need good, dwarven ore, I do!"

Throrin grimaces.
Throrin: Aye, what's left of it.

Morlin looks surprised.
Morlin: What?!

Throrin: We were ambushed by some blasted hobgoblins. They set fire to the wagon and we had to leave half the shipment on the road. No doubt it'll be gone before we can get it back.

Morlin: Well, Moradin's blessing that half of the ore made it, and that you escaped with your life!

Throrin: Aye, I suppose. The Great Father watched over me, and for that I am grateful. I am Throrin Hammerhand, of the Holds.

Morlin: You must be the son of Othrek! I see it now, his ugly old face is looking at me plain as day.
Morlin gives a sharp laugh.

Throrin smiles.
Throrin: The very vein from which my ore was mined. Half the ore I have is outside, and it's yours. As for the rest, I cannot say.

Morlin: I'll work what you've brought. The town guard have been at my throat for more weapons for weeks. Those damn humans think a surplus of swords is going to save them from bandits when they ain't got the hands to wield them. Foolishness.

Throrin: I take it that troubles like mine are no strangers in this place?

Morlin: Aye, they aren't. We've got hobgoblins, all right, and some say worse. If only my days of battle weren't behind me, I'd do more to help.

Throrin: Worse than hobgoblins? What're the rumors? Your days of battle might be behind, but I feel mine beginning in earnest.

Morlin: Oh, some talk of the ghosts of druids prowling the night. Still others of strange lights that have been seen in the Witchwood. But the only real threat seems to be those hobgoblins. Organized, they are, and armed to the teeth with good craftsmanship weapons, and that's as rare as a toothless dragon.

Throrin: Aye. Before today, I've only ever seen them armed with plundered blades or crude weaponry.

Morlin: Something's happening. The Allfather has gifted me with a vague foresight, and all I see is bad.

Throrin: It seems Moradin may have led me here with the task of ridding his enemies from your land.

Morlin arches an eyebrow at the sturdy, well-armed and armored dwarf prince.
Morlin: That might be, lad. Any help you can give us would be welcomed. The humans are foolish and stubborn, only Speaker Wiston has any sense, but I've still grown kind of fond of them. They mean well. I'll aid ye in any way I can. I've some precious few blessed weapons for sale, and I can provide ye with the Allfather's blessings if you need them.

Throrin: I might have need of them, yet. I'll let ye know. May the Allfather keep your forges hot, Morlin.
Throrin bows slightly to the old dwarf, and exits the shop.

Corrigan walks the small streets of Drellin's Ferry. The town is all fruit orchards and sleepy farmers, a far cry from what Corrigan is used to dealing with in the larger towns of the Vale. He chats with a few of them, learning little except that the folk in this region have a natural distrust of outsiders. After a little while, he moves to the large green at the center of town and rests under a large tree in the dusky twilight. Suddenly, he realizes there is an old man standing next to him. He is tall, garbed in a loose green shift, with a deeply tanned and wrinkled face and a scraggly white beard. He smells strongly of pine.

Old Man: You have the look of a seeker of knowledge.

Corrigan is unfazed by the man's strange appearance.
Corrigan: And you look like the kind of man who might know things.

The old man laughs quietly.
Old Man: I am Avarthel. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am a humble servant of Eth. Tell me, what knowledge do you seek?

Corrigan removes the ragged flag from his backpack and shows the old man the symbol on it.
Corrigan: I was hoping someone could tell me what this is.

Avarthel's forehead wrinkles even more as he frowns. He passes a hand over the grass at your feet, and it withers and dies instantly, disappearing and leaving a small square of dry, brown dust. He takes the tip of a long quarterstaff leaning against the tree and sketches a symbol in the dust before you. It looks like a five-headed lizard.

Avarthel: That is what you seek.

Corrigan squints down at the symbol intently, difficult to see in the fading light, trying to figure out what it might mean, but he has no idea.
Corrigan: What is it?
He looks back up, but the strange old man is gone. He commits the image of the strange symbol to memory.

The sun finally sets, and a chill wind moves in with the darkness of the night. Each of the group finds themselves drawn to the warm, cheerful windows of the Old Bridge Inn, and the smell of hot stew and fresh bread.

x

Chapter 3: Entering Drellin's Ferry

The next hour's work is hard and grim. Gand, Keith, and Corrigan salvage what's left of the burnt wagon, using the wood from the farmhouse to make enough repairs to get half of the ore shipment back on the road. Throrin's terrified pony is recovered and yoked to the makeshift vehicle in the absence of the oxen. Keith insists that Saula is not bred for such work, and he fusses over the mare. Throrin and Draggert stack the bodies of the dead in the abandoned farmhouse. The sun dips low on the horizon.

Draggert regards the farmhouse when the hauling of the bodies is complete. He speaks quietly.

Draggert: There is Achook Tribe, they hide in tiny castle like this and wait for you.

Throrin shoots Draggert a nasty sidelong glance, looking up from a prayer.

Draggert: Trymak has a soft voice and say, "Come in, please." Then Achook Tribe attack. I like Trymak. I not like other Achook Tribe.

Throrin: What in the nine hells are you talking about? Quiet! You disrespect the dead.

Draggert: Would you like prayer with me, dwarven man? For your dead friends?

Throrin turns slowly to the orc. He lets out a long sigh and seems to make a tough decision. He nods. Each speaks a solemn prayer, Throrin in guttural dwarven and Draggert in even more guttural orcish.

Throrin: May Moradin build your departed soul a fitting body for the next life.

Draggert: May they not be ghosts.

Throrin: Humans, I know you'd rather be put in the dirt, and Moradin knows the dwarves would rather be laid to rest on the stone, but we don't have time. Fire will have to do.

Throrin tosses a burning brand into the building, and he and Draggert walk slowly away from the blossoming red flames.

Draggert: So you are dwarf, Moradin is dwarf god. You could have been stumplike human with facial hair.

Throrin ignores Draggert and goes to help Gand drive in the last few nails.

The group heads along the road toward Drellin's Ferry. They arrive at the small human settlement in the last fleeting minutes of twilight. The road descends into the small town built mostly on the near side of the broad, sluggish Elsir River. Six old stone piers jut from the water, marking the spot where a bridge once stood, but the span itself is long gone. Instead, a couple of long, thick ropes attached to flat-bottomed ferryboats span the river. Brown fields and green orchards surround the town. A group of armed townsfolk stands guard just ahead, watching the strangers approach warily. As they near, a man with a thick handlebar moustache and bushy black eyebrows addresses them. He is wearing chainmail and holds a halberd at rest by his side.

Town Guard: It's late! State your business quickly, strangers.

Keith steps forward.

Keith: I need to speak to Norro Wiston. I was sent from Brindol in the east.

The town guard seems to relax slightly.

Town Guard: Town Speaker Wiston, you say? Oh, all right, then. I'm Sergeant Hersk. I sure hope you well-armed bunch are here to help.

Keith: Charmed. Say, Corrigan, why don't you open up that pouch and show the Sergeant what we've encountered?

Corrigan: Without a doubt.

Corrigan swings a large sack from his back and exposes the hobgoblin weapons and armor inside, including the well-made steel blades of the leader.

Sergeant Hersk looks in the bag, bewildered.

Keith: A nest of hobgoblins, on the road.

Draggert leans quietly in.

Draggert: They do not make nests, Keith. You are confused.

Sergeant Hersk: You fought them?

Throrin: No, we played drums for them and told ghost stories.

Sergent Hersk eyes Throrin with a look of distaste. The expression is returned twofold.

Keith: They were goblins, Hersk. There is no fight. If you are alive, you crushed them like bugs. If you are dead, they took you by surprise.

Sergeant Hersk: Bands of those murderous bastards have been skulking the outskirts for days, avoiding our patrols. It's a good thing you got through it! I'd be interested to know exactly where they were so I can send a few scouts. There could be more. At any rate, go on in. You must be tired and hungry. You'll want to head down to the Old Bridge Inn for a room.

The guards wave Throrin, Gand, and the crude palette with wheels passed, while Keith explains the exact location of the ambush to the guards.

Draggert pauses on his way in to the town, and addresses the guards.

Draggert: I will not put your people to death, Sergeant Hersk.

He grins and lopes away down the road.

x