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.