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

Chapter 2: The Farmhouse

The midday sun beats down upon the figures standing in the road. A light wind stirs the leaves in the scrawny trees to either side of the dusty track, a merciful reprieve from the oppressive heat. The buzzing of insects is periodically drowned out by the rushing sound of the wind. The bodies of dispatched hobgoblins lie strewn at the men and dwarf's feet, their blood mixing with the dust to form a cruel, red paste. The trio breathe the scorched air heavily, and remain wary. Their enemies have only just fallen. A small distance up the road, they can make out an abandoned farmhouse. They're still a few miles from the small town of Drellin's Ferry, and the question on everyone's mind is: What were bandits doing so far within the Vale?

Keith: I haven't been here too long in the Vale, but this isn't usually a problem around here, is it?

Corrigan: I don't think so. Why were they so keen on attacking us?

The driver of the wagon, the dwarf Gand, picks himself up out of the dust, his grey beard and eyebrows scorched, and his clothes ruined by dirt and flames.

Gand: Gods! I never seen the like!

Throrin walks to Gand and briefly inspects his wounds.

Gand: Ah, I'm fine, Throrin. A sight better 'n them damn goblins, at least.

Throrin slaps the elder dwarf on the back good-naturedly. Gand steps a short distance from the road and sits down in the tall grass near to a tree to rest.

Corrigan: Well, friends, best we'd try and figure out why we almost died here today, eh?

He cleans his blades and resheathes them, then checks his bowstring for good measure.

Keith nods.

Keith: Traveling around here wasn't supposed to be an issue.

He begins to search the bodies of the slain monsters, looking for some clue to their intentions. He gathers together a small pile of loot, including a few flasks of colorful liquid. He sits down next to it, and removes a leather-bound book from a small bag he carries, cross-referencing the liquids on an alchemists's chart.

Corrigan skirts the perimeter of the battlefield, noticing a vine-choked farmhouse a short distance from the road with a well-worn dirt path leading up to it.

Corrigan: There's a farmhouse there, to the south.

Keith looks up from his book.

Keith: Ah. Well, should we have a look?

Throrin isn't paying attention. He's bent over the alive, unconscious hobgoblin, trying to slap the prone creature awake. The hobgoblin coughs and rolls over, and begins to come to. Throrin places his boot over the goblin's upturned throat, and his hammer directly above its head. It awakens, staring up with its beady black eyes, unmoving.

Corrigan moves closer to Throrin.

Corrigan: Well, what do we have here?

Throrin: I haven't had the chance to ask, have I, Scrawny?

Corrigan raises an eyebrow at the insult.

The hobgoblin attempts to spit and curse, but Throrin's boot prevents it from uttering more than a gurgle.

Throrin speaks in guttural goblin once more.

Throrin: Who are you, worm?

He lets his boot up just enough to allow a reply.

Hobgoblin: I'll tell you nothing, filth!

Throrin: Will you, now? I could have both of your eyes out, one by one, and keep you alive. What do you say to that?

Hobgoblin: It matters not. I serve a master greater than pain.

Throrin: Aye, and I bet he's nothing more than an incestuous ball of the worst shit to crawl out of a demon's ass on a day of the runs!

Keith doesn't understand the language, but the aggressive tone of the dwarf makes itself plain enough to him.

Keith: Ahhh, perhaps you'd catch more flies with honey, master dwarf?

Throrin glares at the wizard.

Throrin: I am using honey, boy. You don't want to hear my insults.

There is a sudden rustle from off of the trail, and all heads turn to the source of the sound.

A figure emerges from the brush, tall and broad with muscle. It is a half-orc, and a hideous one, at that. His brown, leathery skin is covered in long, white scars, giving it the appearance of cooked bacon. He moves with an awkward, loping gait onto the road, his eyes black and squinted as if the sun were always shining directly into them. Chest-length black hair drapes over a series of dream-catcher necklaces and onto his armor, which is made of thick alligator hide. His ears are wide and long, more goblin than orc, and are covered in piercings and tattoos. Several bags and flasks hang from his belt, and in his hands is a wide greataxe of obvious elven design, filigreed with decorations of twining leaves and vines. His eyes are fixed on another figure in the road.

One of the hobgoblins has regained consciousness, and is attempting to surreptitiously make his escape into the undergrowth.

The half-orc steps forward, and sends his greataxe through the air in a wickedly-curved arc where it buries itself into the fleeing hobgoblin's back. The monster drops, and the half-orc strides over to pluck the weapon from between the body's shoulder blades. The half-orc turns and waves to the others in the road.

Draggert: Hello?

Throrin's eyes are wide in surprise.

Throrin: Gods, you're a big, ugly cuss!

He casts a final glance at the hobgoblin on the ground, and steps down hard with his boot almost as an afterthought. The hobgoblin's neck crunches inward with finality.

Draggert: I heard too much noise and came fast.

Keith motions to the half-orc and the hobgoblin he has just slain.

Keith: We missed one, I guess. I don't suppose you could have helped earlier? You're a half-orc, eh?

Corrigan has a strange expression on his face.

Corrigan: He looks familiar to me...

Throrin: All orcs looks the same, lad. Half are male and half are female, but the difference is wee.

Draggert smiles.

Draggert: Yes, haha. Most orcs do look the same.

Keith stifles a laugh, trying to maintain propriety.

Draggert looks at all of the corpses littering the road. He bends down to check one.

Draggert: Not sure if I seen these before. My eyes are much older than my body allows.

Corrigan: Are you a woodsman?

Draggert: Yes, I am a woodsman. I am Draggert.

Keith: Um, can we get out of here? We've turned this road into a graveyard.

Corrigan: I think we should check the farmhouse.

Throrin: What's this "we" stuff, junior?

Keith: Why are you so insistent on taking us to this farmhouse? That's a classic bandit ploy. I'm beginning to think you're a bandit, yourself.

Corrigan: I take only what I earn, my friend.

Draggert: Oh, we friends, then?

Corrigan: Besides, the only thing suspicious in that fight back there was your terrible aim with those spells.

Keith: Regardless, I'm going with you. I don't want you knocking off some kindly old lady and taking all of her possessions.

The group begins to move down the road toward the farmhouse.

Corrigan: Kindly old woman...

He nudges Draggert in the shoulder as they walk.

Corrigan: Can you believe this guy?

Draggert smiles.

Draggert: You all speak with so much speed.

Corrigan: It's a fast world, big guy. Gotta keep up.

Throrin: Bah, it's his tiny orcish mind. They can't keep up with anything.

Draggert: But I have a very large head.

Everyone regards Draggert's head for a moment, and they are again impressed with just how ugly he is.

Corrigan: True enough, and one that looks like you fell from the ugly tree and struck every branch on the way down.

In the distance, Gand waves at you as he settles against the tree and lights a pipe.

Draggert points.

Draggert: Who is that?

Keith: That's our driver.

Throrin: Our? Our?! What is with ye humans and wanting to group us all together!

Draggert: Who are your names?

Keith: My name is Keith.

Corrigan: I am Corrigan, most recently of Marth Forest.

Throrin: Throrin Ironhand, and I...

He mumbles a bit.

Throrin: I suppose I owe you all thanks.

Corrigan: What was that?

Throrin: You ruddy well heard me!

Corrigan: So, Draggert, are you from a tribe around here?

Draggert: I am from all tribes, Corrigan. I never stay rooted. I have been to Marth Forest many times.

Corrigan: I knew you looked familiar! I think we've met at some of the trading hubs there, on the outskirts.

Draggert: Yes. I remember one time I helped you clean an owl.

Corrigan: Of course! Well, it's good to be in your company again.

Draggert: Keith and dwarf man, this is Corrigan. He is very nice. I am very nice as well.

Throrin: I'll not be taking my opinions from the likes of you.

Keith is paying little attention to the conversation. He is referencing another book as he walks.

Draggert: Are you eating good meal and taking long sleep, dwarf man, Corrigan, and Keith? I see you still leave little tracks to follow, Corrigan. You are like spirits and the elven. They sound like orcs who are sick.

Corrigan looks like he has no idea what Draggert is talking about.

Corrigan: I can see you haven't lost your sense of humor.

Draggert laughs.

Draggert: You, Keith, you look very tiny like a hatched bird. That is a sign of soon death, useless body, or mystery power.

Keith looks doubtful.

Keith: I suppose I'll go with useless body?

Draggert: That is sad, Keith. I am pardoned for your fate.

The farmhouse is obviously long-abandoned, and the structure sags on weak supports. Its entire surface is covered in thick, knotted vines. The front door stands open, and the foul odor of sweat and grease that accompanies a cramped living space emanates from within.

Draggert sniffs.

Keith: Eww, that old dowager must be quite senile to live here. Easy pickings, eh, Corrigan? A shame there'll probably be no tea and cake.

He calls loudly.

Keith: Excuse me, ma'am!

Corrigan motions for Keith to shut up.

Keith smiles discreetly.

Corrigan and Throrin enter the structure.

The interior of the farmhouse looks more like a campsite than anything else. All the walls have long since been knocked down, and a crude fire pit has been hacked into the floor. The remains of a cooking fire, complete with iron pot, hangs over the pit. All around the room lie pallets and sleeping bags covered in hobgoblin fur. In one corner, several bodies of dead caravan guards lie heaped upon each other. On the eastern wall hangs a yellow banner, an old battle standard, with a wide, red hand painted upon it in what could be blood.

Corrigan turns the room over swiftly, grabbing a few things and snatching the banner from the wall. He heads back outside.

Throrin moves to the dead guards and says a few words over them, touching the hammer-shaped holy symbol of Moradin around his neck before he follows the human.

Corrigan displays the banner for everyone to see.

Draggert: Hmm. Their giant must be hurt to make blood handprint. Probably feel little pain.

Keith: It's an...orcish battle standard? How curious. The only thing with battle standards would be...

Corrigan: Armies. This is very, very bad.

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