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
No comments:
Post a Comment