Of Treasure and Fish

Hector watched the beams of sunlight filtering through the hole far above the cavern shift and dim with time. Couldn’t be certain for how long the dragon had been settled and napping, but he suspected that his companions might genuinely be concerned. With a long, drawn-out stretch and a mighty, stone-quaking yawn, Vayss eventually rose up from his hoard and dove back into the murky, ochre-hued water. The rogue released a sigh of relief. The time spent waiting had allowed him to partially get the lay of the lair, albeit from a limited vantage. One thing he was certain of was that he would need to climb his way out of the sea dragon’s lair.

Quickly, he emerged from behind the array of shields and scoured the treasure trove for any and all of the chests. While there were a handful, only one of them seemed to pulse with a magical aura. “This has to be it,” Hector hissed as he hoisted it out from the side of a pile of coins and shoved it in his bag. Fearing that he didn’t have long, he quickly grabbed a handful of other items that had captured his attention. Pieces that he was certain Trystan and Ysolt would find useful. Sure, he could have attempted to gather up 500 shards, or managed to secure a full set of plate armor; there was a musical instrument that looked as though it had been crafted by some of the finest artisans. But he knew nothing about how to use it, and he wasn’t about to assume his companions would either. The coins would have been the most universally practical, as who doesn’t need that kind of money? But the plate armor? Neither one of them would have use for that, and he wasn’t entirely certain how much they’d be able to pawn it off for. Not to mention how heavy that could get when it’s not worn.

No. Hector quickly pocketed a gold compass ( Scouting +2 ), a set of magic lockpicks ( Thievery +2 ), which he was looking forward to practicing with, and what he could only assume was a silver holy symbol ( Sanctity +2 ). At least it looked similar to the floral carving that was on Ysolt’s staff.

The water sprayed about the lair as Vayss returned from his errand. By then, the rogue had scrambled out of the hole and found himself on an island in the middle of the lake. He caught sight of a boat off in the distance, and yanked off his scarf and started waving it around in the hopes someone would see him. The Three Fortunes were on his side once more. The boat was manned by Trystan and Ysolt.

ROLL 1 DIE.

Trystan and Ysolt caught 6 Smoulder Fish!

For the better part of the day, Trystan and Ysolt rowed farther and farther out onto the lake, following the direction they believed they had seen Vayss and Hector swim toward. The priestess was relieved to have found the island when they did. She firmly believed that so long as they lingered nearby, Hector would emerge somewhere on its shore. They’d row around the island for a time. Pause and toss the net, because it couldn’t hurt to do a little fishing while they waited. Then they’d rinse and repeat until finally they saw movement on the island.

They went and fetched Hector, who presented to them the spoils of their venture. Have the bag with the magical chest to the freckled wayfarer before presenting him the compass. “A gold compass?!” Trystan was shocked that the rogue would think to pick out something so refined and valuable to give to him. At the same time, he appreciated that the device would greatly help them. “Maybe now I’ll be able to find the Willow Druid,” he sighed as the dark priestess of Maka marveled at the exquisite holy symbol. “Mistress Maka bless this herself! I feel it!” Ysolt cooed with admiration before looking to Hector, who was eagerly rowing the boat, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from the island and lake as possible. “Thank you, friend,” she said with a sincere smile that made the rogue blush beneath his cowl. “Thank me later, with a warm fire and some good stew. Far from the stench here,” Hector muttered humbly. Trystan snorted before assisting with the rowing.

When they returned to Cadmium, the fishermen helped them prepare the six smoulder fish they netted for travel. Though they had little daylight left, the trio followed the western road. Mostly to put as much distance between them and the awful smell of sulfur before they settled for the evening.

Name: Ysolt Ynys
Profession: Priestess
God: Maka
Rank: 1
Defense: 6
Charisma: 4
Combat: 4
Magic: 3
Sanctity: 9
Scouting: 4
Thievery: 2
Stamina: Max – 9/Current – 9
Money: 172 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Staff, Padded Robes ( Defense +1 ), Faery Mead, Enchanted Spear ( Combat +2 ), Silver Holy Symbol ( Sanctity +2 ),
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: Maka’s Blessing - Immunity to Disease and Poison – Ignore 1 instance of being poisoned or diseased.

Name: Hector Athair
Profession: Rogue
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 6
Charisma: 5
Combat: 4
Magic: 4
Sanctity: 1
Scouting: 2
Thievery: 8
Stamina: Max – 9/Current – 9
Money: 0
Possessions – Max 12: Mace, Leather Jerkin ( Defense +1 ), Magic Lockpicks ( Thievery +2 )
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-

Name: Trystan Afon
Profession: Wayfarer
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 9
Charisma: 2
Combat: 5
Magic: 2
Sanctity: 3
Scouting: 9
Thievery: 4
Stamina: Max – 9/Current - 9
Money: 157 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Sword, Chainmail ( Defense +3 ), Bow/Quiver of Arrows, Map, Oak Staff, Gold Compass ( Scouting +2 ), Magic Chest, 6 Smoulder Fish, 
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-

The Lair of the Sea Dragon

Just before dawn, they cleaned up their campsite and ventured back into Cadmium. Trystan paid the boat rental fee, and the three of them rowed out toward the center of the lake. The yellow water was murky, and it was difficult to tell just how deep it went. It was also difficult to tell where the fish might congregate in large numbers. About an hour after they cast their net, the water began to bubble and froth. Hector ducked down low to blend in with the gear they had stored at their feet as the boat rocked from the onslaught of waves created by the sea dragon who emerged from the depths.

Vayss’s head was as large as the boat they rented, set with large, illuminated verdant eyes. His neck was long and sinuous, protected by brown scales and a red crest that flared up from his spine. “It is I! Vayss the Sea Dragon,” the serpentine announced in a luxuriously smooth tone. His eyes gleamed with greed as he leaned in to lock his gaze upon the wayfarer and priestess who dared to face him. “If you so dare to fish within my home, then you must pay tribute. One silver nugget,” he demanded as yellow steam filtered out of his nostrils. “Pay now, or suffer the consequences,” he growled.

Ysolt had been at the ready since they pushed off from the docks. With her arm held high, she presented the silver nugget that glistened in the sunlight. Vayss lips spread to reveal a toothy smile, hissing with pleasure. The priestess tossed the nugget toward the dragon, which he deftly caught with his claws. Hector rose up after hearing the splash as the serpentine creature rolled and dove back below the water’s surface. He and Trystan narrowed their eyes to see if they could focus on the creature’s descent and were shocked to see his finned tail lash at them like an afterthought. Trystan flailed back, but the rogue lunged forward, his swift hands latched onto the fin. Hector choked down a deep breath before becoming completely submerged in the ochre-hued water.

The rogue dared not open his eyes in the murky water and thus could not see exactly where the dragon was swimming. The creature pulled him along at an incredible speed, yet Hector could still get a sense of which direction they were heading. At least, until it suddenly felt as though they were rising up. His head swam, his heart raced, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to hold his breath until he felt the sudden rush of air press against his face. Losing his grip, Hector floated in the water for a moment as he rubbed the moisture from his lashes. Within a few blinks, his eyes adjusted to the ambiance within the cavern. Sunlight poured through a hole far above, revealing the splendor of Vayss’s hoard on what little dry ground was available. Shimmering coins, sparkling jewels, armor and weaponry, and much more.

The dragon climbed onto his hoard and turned around over and over like a cat softening its bed before settling in. The rogue quietly skimmed through the water and found a place beneath a ledge that was out of sight of the serpentine creature. On the ledge above were numerous bottles filled with yellow dust. Trystan and Ysolt told him about the vial of yellow dust that transformed into Oliphard the Wizardly. Were these bottles even more people?

THIEVERY DIFFICULTY – 10

Hector’s Thievery Score: 6 + 1 + 3 = 10 – FAILED!

The rogue noticed how quickly it grew dark around him. Perhaps he had not hidden as well as he thought. He looked over his shoulder, his heterochromatic eyes widening as they rose to meet the dragon’s luminous gaze. “What do we have here?” Vayss inquired rather angrily. “A sneaky little burglar?” His voice snarled as his teeth snapped with rage. “Not in my lair!” Hector flailed and attempted to submerge himself below the water’s surface. It was too late, though. A cloud of acidic gas plumed out from the dragon’s lips and around the young man. He saw part of the treasure he floated near melt away. He held his breath, expecting to disintegrate into nothing more than a pile of yellow dust. Just like Oliphard!

Instead, he felt the weight of the Amulet of Protection disappear from his neck, and with a flash of light, the smoke around him shifted to mask his whereabouts. Hector nimbly pulled himself out of the water and took shelter behind a larger pile of treasure that included a pile of shields that obscured a hollowed-out alcove. As the smoke cleared, all that Vayss could see was yellow powder floating on the surface of the water. “Perfect,” he mused as he grabbed a bottle and gathered the powder into it before adding it to the ledge filled with the other vials and flasks.

The amulet had protected him. Ysolt’s gift had protected the rogue. He owed them, or more specifically her, his life for a second time. She wasn’t a priestess of the Three Fortunes, and yet his fortune felt changed because of her.

Gathering Intel in Cadmium

 The stench of sulfur permeated the air long before the trio arrived at the lake’s fishing town known as Cadmium. As much as it would have been nice to think that they could just ease their way into getting used to the aroma by gradually pacing themselves up to the lake, they were fools for hoping. The lake was filled with ochre-hued water. The color had a way of extending beyond the lake, which in a way made the town aptly named. The adventurers decided to split up while gathering information. The rogue went and chatted with the local fishermen. The priestess checked out the meager market. The wayfarer went to determine the costs of purchasing and renting a boat.

They had only been in Cadmium for a few short hours, but they hadn’t arrived at dawn. They met up at dusk just outside of town and discussed what they had learned while scouting for a good place to set up camp. Preferably as far from the stench as possible. “From what I gathered, their main source of trade here is the smoulder fish,” Hector started, though he wasn’t able to fully explain without being interrupted by Ysolt with a series of questions, “Smoulder fish?” “Yes,” he sighed. “It’s a yellow fish with grey stripes. It’s the only thing aside from that dragon that thrives off of the sulfur in the water. Well, along with the seaweed it ea-” “Where sulfur from?” Ysolt interjected again, barely giving the shorter man the chance to finish his explanation about the fish. “They think it’s either from a volcanic vent or the dragon’s breath.” “Sea Dragon not breathe fire?” Ysolt was full of questions, which caused Trystan to chuckle as he kept his visual focus on the terrain around them. Hector was not amused. “Not all dragons breathe. Especially not dragons that live in the water,” he said, sounding a little irritated before he continued with the information he learned. “Whatever the case might be, those fish are inedi-” “Why fish if inedible?” Ysolt was quickly getting on the rogue’s nerves with how she kept talking over him. “Mages Guild,” Hector stated curtly enough for the priestess to quiet down for a moment.

“That’s right,” Trystan thought aloud, elaborating so their shorter companion could take a moment to calm himself. “The fish are highly sought after by mages. If the rumors are true, there’s something about the sulfur in the fish’s livers that helps with their spells and experiments. Smoulder fish fetch a very high price, which explains why Cadmium manages to survive as a town. The lake and the river attached are likely the only means of catching this breed of fish,” the wayfarer explained before pausing to take in a deep breath. The repulsive aroma still lingered in the air, but it was not nearly as pungent. “I don’t think we should dare tread any further away. Not if we want to get an early start tomorrow,” Trystan suggested before asking their female companion, “What did you learn at the market?”

As they set up camp, Ysolt relayed what she could remember, “Market small. Dismal. Nothing but fish and silver nuggets.” Which meant that it had also wreaked to high heaven. “So that’s where they’re getting the silver,” Hector responded as he unpacked the pot and some of their provisions. “What do you mean?” Trystan asked as he prepared the fire. “The fishermen say that the dragon loves silver, so every month they’ll toss a nugget into the lake,” the rogue explained, sniffing at some dried fruit they happened to have and later wishing that it was fresh and fragrant. “How fortunate for us, then,” the freckled man smirked as he glanced over to Ysolt, reminding her of what they found in the gorlock’s lair. “What do you mean?” Hector asked as the priestess dug through her gear and pulled out the nugget of silver. “Silver nugget!” Ysolt cackled triumphantly.

Over dinner, the wayfarer shared how much it would cost to rent a boat. 15 shards, and it came with a fishing net, because it was assumed that they’d be going out to fish. “It can’t hurt to see if we can catch something while searching for the dragon’s lair. Earn us a little extra cash,” Trystan suggested before Ysolt chimed in, “Or earn us bigger favor from Oliphard.” Slow nods were shared with that thought. Sadly, dinner wasn’t as appetizing as they hoped.

Tranquility in the Farmlands

 It was early in the afternoon by the time the trio of companions headed northwestward toward the Lake of the Sea Dragon. Hector made no objections about traveling off the road, as he knew the commonly traveled routes were heavily patrolled by the country’s militia. It’s not to say that he had a problem with the militant authorities, though in truth he had a problem with most authorities if he ever got caught pilfering something of true value. It may have been how he ended up in the root cellar waiting to be sold to slavers, as the master of the market’s form of justice. Hector openly admitted these transgressions to the man and woman he traveled with as they made camp for the first night of their journey together.

“I won’t filch from you,” he stated solemnly while Ysolt served up the stew they made over the campfire. “I know better than to bite the hand that feeds me.” The rogue would even go as far as to keep other cutpurses from bothering them. Trystan was especially out of his depth when it came to navigating a city. The priestess inwardly felt that Hector was someone to be held in high regard for being so candid with them over such matters. “But why are we going to that stinking lake?” Hector asked, with an obvious expression of confusion and disgust. Ysolt cackled with amusement over his dismay while Trystan quietly explained while they ate their meal, “We rescued a wizard from a fate worse than death, and he’s asked us to fetch a special trunk from the lair of the dragon there.” The young rogue’s dual-colored eyes widened in disbelief. They were going up against a dragon?! How? “Are you serious? There’s no way you’re going to defeat that thing. At least not on its home turf.” Hector quickly assumed that retrieving the trunk involved killing the dragon.

“No, we sneak in if possible,” the dark priestess elaborated concisely, which made the shorter man’s mouth drop in continued disbelief. “Likely not possible. Do you even know where the lair is or how to enter it?” Hector pointed out the obvious flaw in their proposed plan, which wasn’t so much a plan since it involved too few conceivable details about how it would actually work! “We’re hoping the locals might be willing to share some information,” the wayfarer said after washing down some of his stew with a swig of cider. “That’s assuming they even know,” Hector scoffed, setting his bowl down after having consumed its contents in an unexpectedly short amount of time. “And they likely wouldn’t tell you. They have a very delicate agreement with that dragon. They give it whatever it wants, and in return, it lets them fish in its lake. Who in their right mind would disrupt that balance in the hopes of stealing something from a dragon?!”

Trystan sighed, understanding Hector’s point of view on the matter. The young wayfarer wasn’t familiar with the country of Sokara as a whole. When it came to dragons, however, it was a beast far above every other creature on the food chain. “What do you propose we do? The wizard promised us some kind of reward, one of which you will get a third of if you help us,” the freckled man smartly added as an incentive. If one really thought about it, as Hector was indeed so thoughtful, there was a good chance they could swipe more than just a chest. Whatever else they could get their hands on, they would be splitting three ways as well. Now, most other rogues would simply take without sharing, but as Hector had expressed metaphorically before, he wasn’t about to treat his rescuers so poorly. “We gather what information we can from the locals. Don’t ask direct questions; just make general inquiries about how well they do at hunting, fishing, and farming. Someone will let something slip, especially if they’re feeling boastful,” he suggested. From there, it would be a matter of creating a plan utilizing that information.

The other two agreed that it was a good start to a plan.

ROLL 1 DIE.

Score: 4 – Nothing Happens.

In the days that followed, they passed through the farmlands without much hindrance. As they did on their travels north of the Blessed Springs, they helped out in the fields in trade for a dry place to rest and the occasional meal. Hector had not been used to the manual labor, for he had been city-born and grew up running and hiding from those who would bully and beat him. The work under the sun was hot, and it forced him to remove some of the layers he used to cover what he considered to be his deformities. He had grown accustomed to people calling him possessed or glancing uncomfortably away at the way his skin was discolored in large patches, or at how his eyes didn’t match in hue.

However, the young rogue was a helpful hand at each farm they helped on. For the first time in his life, what made him feel so different wasn’t met with fear or disgust. Instead, he was welcomed into the family homes and joined them for dinner at their tables. The younger children of those families would ask why he looked so different. At least one of the children asked if he was born of a cow, since his skin coloration resembled that of the spotted cows they raised. He truthfully expressed that he didn’t know why. He had simply been born that way. It felt weird that such answers satisfied their curiosity without it turning into an argument or accusations. But the weird feeling felt good. Each of those nights, he slept more soundly than he ever had before. A day of manual labor, a hearty meal, and friendly company did wonders toward healing one’s soul. He wouldn’t say it openly, but Hector thought perhaps traveling with Trystan and Ysolt offered an unexpected lease on his otherwise miserable life.

Time would tell how long that would remain true.

Our Third Character

 Name: Hector Athair

Profession: Rogue
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 6
Charisma: 5
Combat: 4
Magic: 4
Sanctity: 1
Scouting: 2
Thievery: 6
Stamina: Max – 9/Current – 9
Money: 0
Possessions – Max 12: Mace, Leather Jerkin ( Defense +1 ), Amulet of Protection
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-
Description: Shaggy, blond hair with dual rattails and bangs, streaked white from being struck on the head by a horseshoe as a child. Abnormal heterochromia eyes, one brown and the other green. Ruddy skin with patches of discoloration, and roughly under five feet tall; his growth was stunted from malnutrition and beatings throughout his childhood. Generally covers himself from head to toe with loose-fitting clothes, held firmly in place around his forearms, calves, and waist; all in a variety of dark colors, including crimson, a darker shade of teal, and black. He was abandoned as an infant, taken in as a foundling, teased by his peers, beaten by his elders, and taught that living on the street and stealing offered a better life. So long as he didn’t get caught. He hides his distinctive features so as to blend in with the crowd. While visiting any major cities, he attempts to veer away from his newfound companions, looking for the next score while keeping them out of his business.

The Man-Eating Blood-Thursday Gob-Gobbler

Instead of heading westward to the Lake of the Sea Dragon, Trystan and Ysolt decided to detour southward to the town known as Venepax. With the Blessed Springs not having a proper market, they couldn’t properly trade some of the extra supplies they were carrying for equipment they actually needed. The road between the two towns was dotted with pilgrims, some sick and injured, heading toward the holy waters to seek relief from their suffering.

ROLL 1 DIE.

Score: 4 – Nothing Happens.

After days of following the well-patrolled road, the farmland became scarce, and the road led through dry terrain. Ysolt and Trystan eventually found themselves approaching what appeared to be a strange-looking sight. The village known as Venefax had no gate and no roads branching out among a scattering of buildings. Instead, it appeared as though the town was one massive building with no doorways or windows at the ground level. Only a handful of ladders provided access to the first level of flat rooftops from the ground, and additional ladders were laid out to reach the higher levels. All the entrances into the separate sections of the massive building were through holes in the roofs.

A guard armed with a bow and quiver of arrows lowered a ladder down to allow them entrance to the village. When they asked why Venefax was set up that way, the guard smiled and shrugged. “It's been our best form of defense against the scorpion men,” he said as Trystan helped him raise the ladder back up. “Scorpion men?” Ysolt inquired as she tried to imagine what such a being might look like. “Yeah. They have the torso and head of a human, and their lower half includes the legs and tail of a scorpion. They have a colony south of here, at Scorpion Bite,” the guard explained further. “They don’t have the body structure or coordination to climb the ladders or walls,” the young wayfarer marveled at the town’s ingenuity.

“Could you give us directions to the market?” Trystan asked, realizing that wandering around aimlessly might find them someone’s private residence and make them a menace rather than a polite visitor. “I’ll give you directions to the local inn instead, mate,” the guard said with a slow shake of his head. “No market here?” Ysolt asked curiously, believing it to be odd that two towns along the coast, with no other notable hamlets in between them, would have no marketplace. The guard gave the lovely young woman a charming smile as he dispelled her confusion. “There’s a market here, but it’s closed today. It’s closed every Thursday, so the Master of the Market, Fourze, can trade with the traveling merchants who won’t risk approaching Venefax and losing their carts and pack animals to the scorpion men.”

“It’s definitely an interesting setup they have here,” Trystan said to Ysolt as they climbed up a third set of ladders that promised to lead to the Scorpion’s Sting Tavern. They agreed that staying an extra day wouldn’t be too big of a problem. However, before they could reach the hole that led into the alcove for the tavern, a boy who could not have reached his tenth year around the sun came racing toward the pair. The wayfarer spotted a flaxen-haired woman following after the boy at a slower pace. Her deep eyes welled with worry. The dark priestess crouched down as the young boy begged for their help. “You’ve gotta help us,” he pleaded, his voice tense with urgency. “The man-eating Blood-Thursday Gob-gobbler took my little sister!” Ysolt and Trystan exchanged looks before her gaze returned to the boy’s and his to the woman approaching. “Blood-Thursday?” Ysolt asked, wondering if maybe the child was still learning how to pronounce the word thirsty. “You heard him right,” the paler woman confirmed once she reached them. “It’s a terrible monster that hunts on Thursdays,” she continued timidly, trembling with fear for the child she was unable to protect. “It took my daughter Haylie just last week, out by the abandoned farmhouse.”

Trystan’s brow furrowed with concern as Ysolt asked, “Where be child’s father?” Which was a reasonable question to ask. Inquisitively speaking, the father could have abducted the child if he and the mother were splitting up for any reason. The mother, however, shook her head, a tear trickling down her cheek as she closed her eyes. “My husband is away with the army. It will be a month before he returns,” she whimpered, kneeling down so she could hug her son close. Another villager who had just climbed up onto the rooftop approached. “Lynn, Mikail,” they said as they approached, wondering what was going on. “Don’t tell me you’re asking these travelers for help. The man-eating blood-Thursday gob-gobbler has probably already eaten Haylie,” they said almost dismissively, which made Ysolt frown and glare at the villager with disbelief. The priestess stood up and slammed the butt of her staff down against the stone roof.

Trystan could see the heat and anger in her gleaming teal eyes. He quickly grabbed and held her staff firmly to ground her and prevent her from lashing out. “We recently disposed of a gorlock that was terrorizing the pilgrims to the north,” he said, turning to face the villager, mother, and child. “We’ll look into this gob-gobbler business while we’re here,” he promised, looking back to Ysolt to find her smiling grimly with determination.

Turning back the way they came, Trystan commented to his companion, “Seems peculiar that this beast only attacks on the same day that the market is closed every week.” The priestess nodded in agreement as they approached the guard they spoke with earlier. “Do you know which direction Fourze went when he left to meet with the merchants?” Trystan asked before Ysolt followed up with, “Where abandoned farmhouse?” The guard’s gaze flitted back and forth between the two travelers, a look of confusion gracing his features. “Fourze usually heads north,” he said with an uncomfortable swallow. “The farmhouse to the west,” he answered honestly, wondering what brought these questions. They quickly asked the guard to lower the ladder down so they could leave the town.

Once the ladder was raised for the town’s safety again, Trystan and Ysolt agreed to track the master of the market to determine whether or not he was truly in the company of merchants.

SCOUTING DIFFICULTY – 9

Trystan’s Scouting Score: 7 + 2 + 1 = 10 – PASSED!

The young wayfarer walked along the northern-bound road for a time, until he found a disturbance along the western slope. Blades of tall grass had been mashed down by the portly steps of a man wearing a sturdy pair of boots. Ysolt kept her enchanted spear at the ready, her teal eyes watching out for potential ambushes as Trystan continued to follow the tracks that made a wide arc through the woods and to what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse. The duo crept low and peered into one of the windows.

Two brutish-looking men were helping a rather rotund fellow into a suit made up of animal hide stretched over wooden framework. The way it was designed, it looked as though the gob-gobbler was meant to be some kind of giant, hairy toad. “That be insult to honest toads,” Ysolt quietly sneered with disgust. “They’re almost ready,” Trystan whispered and suggested that they ambush the trio as they came out of the door.

With her spear and his blade at the ready, one of the thugs opened the door and was looking over his shoulder while chatting with the other two following after him. Ysolt swiftly knocked the blunt end of her spear against his head, causing the first man to crumple to the ground unconscious. The bandit behind him unsheathed a short sword from his belt and pushed the costumed man back, who wobbled and stumbled, falling to the ground with a terrible yelp.

Bandit: COMBAT 4, DEFENSE 6, STAMINA 6

Trystan’s Combat Score: 5 + 4 + 5 = 14 Total

14 – 6 Defense = 8 > 6 Stamina = Bandit Slain!

Leaping over his unconscious comrade, the brutish thug swung his sword wildly, even though he was unsure as to where his opponent would strike from. Trystan had a clean target and quickly stepped in to stab the man through the gut. The bandit's knees went weak from the shock of pain. He slumped to the ground and eventually bled to death. Before the wayfarer could confirm it was safe, Ysolt bolted through the open door into the farmhouse, yelling, “WHERE HAYLIE!?!” as she thrust the spear through the belly of the costume. The man in the costume rocked back and forth within the frame, unable to help himself up. “In the root cellar!” Fourze yelped in fear, practically soiling himself in his vulnerable state. Somehow, the animal hide and framework had protected him from being impaled.

Down in the root cellar, five people were chained together. A little blond girl who looked like her mother was among them, whimpering weakly. Finding the keys to the shackles, Trystan bound the master of the market with the unconscious thug and helped the captives out of the cellar. Ysolt looked about the farmhouse for provisions, and made sure the villagers had their fill. When they all returned to Venefax, Fourze confessed to kidnapping people and selling them to slavers from Caran Baru. The guards hauled him and the surviving bandit to be judged by the local magistrate. They were certain to be found guilty and likely sold into slavery.

Haylie was joyously reunited with her family. Lynn fussed over her daughter endlessly before offering to let Ysolt and Trystan stay the night in their home. It wasn’t much, but it meant they wouldn’t need to pay for a night at the tavern. The village celebrated the end of the gob-gobbler’s terror, and in the morning, Lynn gifted them a sword and a suit of chain mail ( Defense +3 ). While the equipment had been family heirlooms, she expressed how it was all she could offer them in return for rescuing her daughter. She was certain her husband would agree to the exchange, for his children meant the world to him. Trystan thanked her, and Ysolt blessed their house and the humble garden boxes they kept in their window and on the roof.

The town opened the marketplace, quickly replacing Fourze with some trusted villagers to handle the day-to-day bookkeeping and trades. Trystan was discussing the chainmail with one of the shopkeepers in exchange for the gear they needed when a small figure approached Ysolt by the entrance. “Leaving town soon,” the voice of a young, quiet tenor captured her attention. He was unexpectedly short, wearing dark clothes and keeping the shabby cowl over his head enough to hide his face. She recognized the condition of his clothes almost instantly. “Rescued you yesterday,” the priestess pointed out in a hushed, husky tone that reflected a sense of curiosity. “Why not with family?”

“No family here,” the shorter man said in response. “No family anywhere, and won’t be welcome here for long.” He raised his head so that his eyes could lock with the teal hues that examined him closely. Barely hidden by the shade of the cowl, Ysolt could see that the young man’s face was discolored, though she could not tell by what. His eyes didn’t match either, which she found intriguing. “You outcast?” Her question was sincere, and she at least didn’t assume that he was a demon or leper. He shrugged at the question, not giving a complete answer but implying enough that he felt he didn’t belong anywhere. She smiled and gestured for him to follow her over to Trystan’s side.

They could not trade the chainmail, but both the shopkeeper and Ysolt convinced him that it would be best for Trystan to wear it. He would have time to get used to the weight, and it would be beneficial to him through his travels before long. The priestess also explained that the young man they rescued would be joining them on their journey. That he would be quite helpful, though she wasn’t entirely sure how just yet. All she knew was that he would be safer by their side than on his own. He accepted their offer to gear him with a leather jerkin and his choice of a sword or mace. Who in their right mind would pass up free gear? He opted for the mace for now, though he hoped he’d be able to trade it in for a set of daggers later.

Selling the extra sword and jerkin they picked up through their travels for 85 shards, they pooled their funds together to spend 250 shards on rope, a lantern, and most importantly, climbing gear. When they finished up in the marketplace, the trio took a moment to introduce themselves to one another. The shorter fellow called himself Hector. His features were rather distinctive. Both Trystan and Ysolt understood not to pry into Hector’s feelings about how he looked. He hid himself away with how he layered his attire. They understood that looking different could mean death. Or worse, abandonment. As a sign of their budding friendship, the priestess gave their new companion the Amulet of Protection she received earlier from Oliphard the Wizardly. Hector was left speechless by the gift.

Name: Ysolt Ynys
Profession: Priestess
God: Maka
Rank: 1
Defense: 6
Charisma: 4
Combat: 4
Magic: 3
Sanctity: 7
Scouting: 4
Thievery: 2
Stamina: Max – 9/Current – 9
Money: 172 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Staff, Padded Robes ( Defense +1 ), Faery Mead, Enchanted Spear ( Combat +2 ), Silver Nugget
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: Maka’s Blessing - Immunity to Disease and Poison – Ignore 1 instance of being poisoned or diseased.
Description: Long, unruly ebony hair, dark teal eyes, sun-kissed, deep mocha skin, roughly five and a quarter feet tall. Her face has been ritualistically scarred and pierced with tiny gems, a tradition from the Temple of Maka, where she was raised and trained since childhood. Generally wears vibrantly colored robes with gold and black accents, made of comfortable, hand-dyed fabrics, and some gold jewelry she inherited from her mother. Is proficient with a staff, herbalism, and botany. She knows when to listen to the land and how to distinguish between a poison and a disease. She is currently on missionary work, not to initiate new recruits for the Temple of Maka. Many of the other temples have needed outside assistance with various problems. She wishes to assist wherever she can, a show of how Maka is both benevolent and cruel.

Name: Trystan Afon
Profession: Wayfarer
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 9
Charisma: 2
Combat: 5
Magic: 2
Sanctity: 3
Scouting: 7
Thievery: 4
Stamina: Max – 9/Current - 9
Money: 172 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Sword, Chainmail ( Defense +3 ), Bow/Quiver of Arrows, Map, Oak Staff,
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-
Description: Dark, shaggy hair, vibrant green eyes, ruddy, caramel-hued and freckled skin, over five and a half feet tall. His facial hair is in a state of perpetual stubble. Generally wears muted earth tones, made of worn leather and comfortable fabrics. Is proficient with a bow, handy with a sword, and fairly skilled at hunting, tracking, and general survival in the wilderness. The last thing he recalls before waking up on the shores of the Isle of Druids is encountering a band of brigands while tracking a boar. His likely capture, enslavement, and becoming cargo on a ship isn’t as clear in his memory.

A Miracle at the Blessed Springs

 When the wayfarer and priestess returned to the Blessed Ale Tavern, the gorlock meat was added to the hunter’s stew and the skin and other salvageable parts were split between the hunters and craftsmen who had the skills to make use of them. The ale flowed heavily that night, though Ysolt abstained as she wished to be one of the first people to arrive at the gates of the Holy Waters. Trystan agreed that she should be the one to take the yellow powder to the water. She held the most devotion to her faith and the magic it offered to the world. If it took more than simply pouring the powder into the water, she would be the one to understand and figure out what that might be.

The young man nursed his hangover the next morning, helping out with odd jobs around the tavern while the priestess took the vial of yellow dust with her. She tucked it away in one of her pouches before approaching the entrance to the Holy Waters. Two militiamen flanked a desk where a priest sat with a ledger and coin box. He brushed a bit of lint from his blue robes before looking up to meet Ysolt’s gaze. “Good morning,” he said with a rather bored tone. “How may we be of service to you?” The priestess smiled as she pulled her coin purse from a pouch on her belt. “I wish private meditation with blessed water,” Ysolt expressed solemnly. All three of the men raised a brow, but the priest simply held out his hand. “Thirty-five shards for the morning of meditation,” he allowed. She counted out the shards before one of the guards opened the gate for her.

Ysolt followed the signs to the changing room. There, she dressed in one of the simple garments provided for any visitor to wear. She stored her clothing and gear in an available cupboard and left the room with the vial of yellow powder in her hand. She followed more signs that led to the holy springs' vibrant blue water and settled into the lotus position near the edge of the natural pool. In her native tongue, she chanted a mantra to Maka for guidance, strength, and wisdom. “Bless us, for our journey is long and requires much of your counseling,” she prayed quietly as she removed the vial’s stopper. A gentle breeze picked up as she poured the powder out. The air currents guided the yellow dust out onto the water, where it gently blanketed the surface and turned it green.

Electricity crackled over the spring’s surface, and the green foam evaporated into golden smoke. Rising up from the brilliant blue water and emerging through the smoke, an old man with disheveled white hair and a long beard stood before Ysolt. His skin was pasty and pale, exposed, revealing the age of a worn body riddled with a lifetime of training and experience in the magical arts. Yet, he did not cower at his public nudity. Instead, he stood proud and relieved to finally take a breath of fresh air again. “Finally,” he sighed, to which the darker-skinned priestess opened her glowing teal eyes to see who was speaking before her. “Who be you?” Ysolt asked, locking her gaze with his. “I could ask the same of you, as you’re clearly not my apprentice. Worthless fool,” the man grumbled, pinching his nose and realizing that the spectacles he typically wore were missing. He patted his hands down the sides of his torso. A lot more was missing. “He had one job,” he snarled before shaking his head in dismay over what could not be changed.

Ysolt gave the man a small smile as she stood up and offered her hand in assistance. She fetched him a towel from a nearby shelf and guided him back to the changing room, where there were some garments for him to dress in. “Impressively comfortable,” he admired the material of the clothing while the priestess changed back into her own gear. Introductions were made during that time; he learned she was a priestess of Maka. She learned his name was Oliphard the Wizardly. “Please, allow me to reward you for returning me to my living self,” he insisted as she guided him out of the holy sanctuary. “But I not find you. Trystan found you. Reward him,” she requested with a gentle pat of his arm, which was hooked around hers. “He be blessed,” her husky voice whispered into Oliphard’s ear, hoping that he would understand what she meant. The wizard was puzzled by her request, but his questions would be answered once they arrived at the Blessed Ale Tavern.

More introductions were made when Trystan met Oliphard. The younger man explained how he came by the vial of powder, and why he asked Ysolt to confirm the rumors concerning the use of holy water. “Yes, I was aware of this. It’s why I instructed my apprentice to bring me here once I was transformed. The fool clearly lost his wits. It’s a good thing someone else found my vial and passed it along to you,” the older gentleman said with a humble nod. “Your willingness to work together on such an endeavor should not be dismissed. Allow me to thank you with a spell to boost your innate abilities.” Ysolt blushed at the idea that a spell could permanently increase a skill she had spent her life honing, but Trystan knew better than to deny the old man such a reward.

Add 1 to Trystan’s Scouting and Ysolt’s Sanctity.

After paying for Oliphard’s stay at the tavern, he had one more thing to ask of them. “I am embarrassed to say that it was Vayss the Sea Dragon that turned me into that awful powder. He stole something from me. A magic chest where I store all of my magical equipment. I was attempting to retrieve it from him when I was transformed. Retrieve my chest for me and return it to my estate in Trefiolle. I will reward you greatly for the trouble,” the wizard requested sincerely, for he knew facing off with a dragon was a huge ask. “Where we find dragon?” Ysolt asked cautiously, sensing that Trystan was already regretting agreeing to help the wizard further. “Obviously, at the Lake of the Sea Dragon,” the older, bearded man said as if it were common knowledge. Which, when one thought about it, he gave the biggest hint of all by calling Vayss a sea dragon.

With a wave of his hand, an amulet then appeared magically out of thin air. “Take this with you. For protection,” Oliphard said as he placed it in the young priestess’s hands. The innkeeper’s daughter presented the old man with a bag of provisions before he left. While Trystan and Ysolt offered to escort him back to Trefoille, the wizard insisted that this was a journey he wished to make on his own. To help him reconnect with the world.

Name: Ysolt Ynys
Profession: Priestess
God: Maka
Rank: 1
Defense: 6
Charisma: 4
Combat: 4
Magic: 3
Sanctity: 7
Scouting: 4
Thievery: 2
Stamina: Max – 9/Current – 9
Money: 260 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Staff, Padded Robes ( Defense +1 ), Faery Mead, Enchanted Spear ( Combat +2 ), Silver Nugget, Amulet of Protection,
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: Maka’s Blessing - Immunity to Disease and Poison – Ignore 1 instance of being poisoned or diseased.
Description: Long, unruly ebony hair, dark teal eyes, sun-kissed, deep mocha skin, roughly five and a quarter feet tall. Her face has been ritualistically scarred and pierced with tiny gems, a tradition from the Temple of Maka, where she was raised and trained since childhood. Generally wears vibrantly colored robes with gold and black accents, made of comfortable, hand-dyed fabrics, and some gold jewelry she inherited from her mother. Is proficient with a staff, herbalism, and botany. She knows when to listen to the land and how to distinguish between a poison and a disease. She is currently on missionary work, not to initiate new recruits for the Temple of Maka. Many of the other temples have needed outside assistance with various problems. She wishes to assist wherever she can, a show of how Maka is both benevolent and cruel.

Name: Trystan Afon
Profession: Wayfarer
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 7
Charisma: 2
Combat: 5
Magic: 2
Sanctity: 3
Scouting: 7
Thievery: 4
Stamina: Max – 9/Current - 9
Money: 249 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Sword, Leather Jerkin ( Defense +1 ), Bow/Quiver of Arrows, Map, Oak Staff, Leather Armor ( Defense +1 ), Mace,
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-
Description: Dark, shaggy hair, vibrant green eyes, ruddy, caramel-hued and freckled skin, over five and a half feet tall. His facial hair is in a state of perpetual stubble. Generally wears muted earth tones, made of worn leather and comfortable fabrics. Is proficient with a bow, handy with a sword, and fairly skilled at hunting, tracking, and general survival in the wilderness. The last thing he recalls before waking up on the shores of the Isle of Druids is encountering a band of brigands while tracking a boar. His likely capture, enslavement, and becoming cargo on a ship isn’t as clear in his memory.

The Gorlock Encounter

 The village lights of the Blessed Springs radiated with a warm glow, though they did not reflect off the springs they were famous for. Since word spread about the healing qualities of the water, the springs had been fenced off. Structures were built around them to offer guests a limited variety of spa treatments, including daily meditation, massages, and a sweat lodge. It was the hour of twilight by the time the traveling duo arrived, and far too late in the evening to visit the springs. The village appeared to be thriving under the influence of the springs; however, they lacked an honest marketplace. They would later learn there was an alchemist they could visit once her shop opened in the morning.

In the meantime, they paid for a night’s stay at the Blessed Ale Tavern, and bought a round of drinks for the other patrons and guests who lingered in the late hours. While Ysolt asked the innkeeper about the springs, Trystan sat in on a conversation that a couple of older villagers were having. “I’m telling you, it’s a gorlock,” a farmer said with a hard slam of his fist upon the table. “How do you know?” The other countered with a roll of his eyes and a look of disbelief before asking, “What does a gorlock even look like?” Trystan looked a little confused about the conversation he walked into and felt the need to ask, “What’s a gorlock?”

Both older men looked at the younger adventurer, bewildered that he had decided to interject into their argument. “A beast! A foul creature that has taken up residence in one of the nearby caves,” the first man insisted before the second man waved his hand as if to dismiss his friend. “So he believes. He’s never gotten a good look at it, and only assumes it’s a gorlock,” the second man grumbled aloud before downing what remained of his tankard of ale. “Are you worried that it will cause you some kind of harm?” Trystan continued with his inquiries, mostly to understand why these two men were so worked up over the issue.

“It’s been attacking some of the pilgrims,” they both agreed to share the news, as the wayfarer looked as though he might be able to help them with the problem. “And the local militia refuses to do anything about it. They claim it’s not affecting the spring’s or village’s profits,” one man said with a shake of his head. “And if it ultimately did, they would just raise their prices so the handful of people who do make it will just pay more,” the other scoffed, remembering when the spring was freely available to the farmers. “Given enough time, us locals won’t be able to afford to drink the water to cure our winter ailments,” the first man moaned before the second snapped his fingers as an idea popped into his head. “I bet we could afford it if we slew that creature ourselves. There’s no telling what treasures those pilgrims were carrying before it attacked them.”

“That sounds awfully dangerous,” Trystan said before proposing to investigate the gorlock himself. “I’ll see if my friend and I can dispose of the creature for you all. That way, the cost for the springs won’t need to go up.” He had a feeling that if they didn’t, they might not have the money to afford to visit the springs after all. The farmers agreed that he was better equipped to deal with the creature, and gave him directions to the cave where it was known to dwell.

When morning came around, Trystan convinced Ysolt that they could wait another day before visiting the Blessed Springs. “Don’t see how we earn shards to enter,” the priestess protested dismissively, already knowing that even if they combined their resources, there was no way they’d be able to afford for one person to visit the springs. “Well, isn’t it taught by the gods that good deeds will be rewarded?” Trystan asked, his green eyes watching as her teal-hued eyes narrowed suspiciously as she nodded. “What good deed?” Ysolt asked, her earth voice low with skepticism. The freckled wayfarer explained while he led the way out of the town, alongside one of the neighboring farms, and toward a series of hills where the cave in question was believed to be.

He instructed Ysolt to be on her guard with the enchanted spear the faerie folk had given her. Trystan took the lead with his sword in hand as they quietly found their way to a cave entrance that was littered with bones. He crouched down and examined the footprints left behind. In his experience, the three-toed prints didn’t indicate that of a quadrupedal beast. He pointed out the deeper indentations in the mud. “This thing is bipedal,” he explained, while the priestess commented, “They look they walk away.” She turned her head to gaze at the trees and bushes that were a short distance away from the cave’s opening.

SCOUTING DIFFICULTY – 11

Trystan’s Scouting Score: 6 + 3 + 6 = 15 – PASSED!

Trystan reached up and grabbed Ysolt’s arm just as she shifted in her stance to follow the trail. “No! You’re wrong,” he said when she turned to meet his gaze. He pointed out how strange the prints looked. Their depth from toe to heel felt off, as if they were walking backward instead of forward. “For the tracks to look like this, the pressure is being pressed into the singular toe. Which means that’s the front-facing toe, and these two make up the heel,” he insisted, though her furrowed brow revealed that the priestess was having a difficult time processing what he meant. “It’s in the cave. And I’m going to draw it out,” the young man insisted, instructing Ysolt to take cover by a tree. To attack only once the beast was clear of the cave entrance.

Trystan made the sound of a predator that would likely get the gorlock’s attention. He held his sword defensively as he continued to make a variety of noises until a terrifying shriek echoed out from the cave. What followed the cry was as described: the gorlock appeared to be a bird-like beast, with the body of a reptile, a beak, a pair of short forelimbs, and a lizard-like head. Much like the wayfarer had attempted to explain, its hind legs were propped on a pair of feet that looked as though they were facing the wrong direction. As the creature raced out of the cave, Trystan leaped into action with his sword deftly swinging to pierce its scaly skin.

Gorlock: COMBAT 4, DEFENSE 6, STAMINA 7

Trystan’s Combat Score: 5 + 5 + 5 = 15 Total

15 – 6 Defense = 9 > 7 Stamina = Gorlock Slain!

The gorlock did not have a fighting chance against the wayfarer’s skill and determination. He knocked the creature off its feet with a quick blow to its legs, and hacked his blade through the creature’s neck. He did not completely decapitate the gorlock, but the attack was enough to paralyze the beast, allowing him the killing blow. While Trystan took the time to skin the creature and determine if the meat was edible, Ysolt inspected the gorlock’s foul-smelling lair. Among the remains of so many dead people, she collected several shard pouches, a silver nugget, and a mace. Once it was all counted, she split 500 shards between herself and her companion. “Now we can afford both the Blessed Springs and the climbing gear we need to climb Devil’s Peak,” Trystan confirmed with a look of relief and a broad grin.

Passing Through the Farmlands

 As the local patrons filtered out for the night, the common area was divided up among the paying overnight guests. Trystan pulled out the map the druids had given him and discussed with several fellow travelers which route would be best to the Blessed Springs: north or south of the Coldbleak Mountains. “To the south is that nasty-smelling Lake of the Sea Dragon,” one fellow said with a wave of his hand, indicating how rancid the odor tended to be. “Cutting through the farmlands to the north is better on your sense of smell, but can be dangerous. I hear the farmers there are always complaining about wolves,” the innkeeper pointed out. The young wayfarer leaned back in his seat to see how Ysolt was faring. She had picked a cozy corner near the fireplace, and had spent the time preparing their bedrolls. As a priestess of Maka, she was likely used to the smell of manure. The farmers would also offer them a night's shelter in exchange for a blessing on their harvests. “We’ll try our luck with the northeastern route,” Trystan decided before thanking the others for their advice.

ROLL 1 DIE.

Score: 4 – Nothing Happens.

The innkeeper’s daughter parceled out the trail rations among the departing guests, which included dried berries and fruits, jerky, nuts, and coffin pies. Wine and waterskins were also filled. The traveling priestess of Maka expressed her gratitude with a simple blessing of protection against diseases to the young woman and her family. Trystan ushered Ysolt out of Caran Baru, making sure to avoid the market and especially the slave market, so that she would not get distracted away from the goal of reaching the Blessed Springs. He didn’t once consider asking her why the slave market might upset her. He suspected that he had been on a slave ship before winding up on the Isle of Druids; thusly, he lucked out of experiencing what she might have endured before their paths crossed. During the days spent traveling on foot through the wild country eastward, Trystan warned that they needed to be on the lookout for wolves. The howls of such beasts were heard off in the distance throughout the nights as they camped, but they were thankfully not hindered by them.

One day, they walked parallel to a military highway that seemed congested with wagons and patrols. Though they kept their distance, Ysolt wondered aloud, “Is road not safer with patrols?” They were farther north of the mountains to avoid the uneven, rocky terrain of the foothills. However, Trystan had steered them away from the road for a reason. “It’s heading northward, to the forts that border the Eastern Marches,” he explained, pulling out the map so the young priestess had a visual understanding of where he meant. “The Blessed Springs are much further south, and traveling by the road would add far too many days than we have supplies for,” he said as he pointed out the highway routes. “Besides, we’ll have an easier time supplementing our supplies the further we are from the roads.” She could not deny that he made several sound points and nodded in agreement with each of his assessments.

ROLL 1 DIE.

Score: 6 – Find some Leather Armor ( Defense +1 )

The wild terrain gave way to evenly plowed dirt, on which vegetable plants grew, giving praise to the daylight that nourished them from above. Homesteads dotted the land, and the traveling duo took care not to tread on any vegetation while they passed through. They carefully plotted their path, helping the farmers and families in exchange for a night of shelter. Ysolt’s prayers devoted to Maka were believed to dissuade infestations of unwanted pests, while Trystan proved to be strong and capable of any manual labor that had been asked of him.

While much of the harvest fed and supported the military presence at the eastern forts and northern citadel, the farmers were happy to give the young travelers fresh vegetables and fruit to supplement their rations. A widow who had been managing her late husband’s farm completely on her own gifted them a leather jerkin she had no use for. She had meant to give it to her husband on their anniversary, but he had passed from a sudden illness before she had the chance to. Ysolt graciously prayed that Maka would watch and protect the kind woman.

Name: Trystan Afon
Profession: Wayfarer
God: -none-
Rank: 1
Defense: 7
Charisma: 2
Combat: 5
Magic: 2
Sanctity: 3
Scouting: 6
Thievery: 4
Stamina: Max – 9/Current - 9
Money: 4 Shards
Possessions – Max 12: Sword, Leather Jerkin ( Defense +1 ), Bow/Quiver of Arrows, Map, Oak Staff, Vial of Yellow Powder, Leather Armor ( Defense +1 ),
Resurrection Arrangements: -none-
Titles: Outcast
Blessings: -none-
Description: Dark, shaggy hair, vibrant green eyes, ruddy, caramel-hued and freckled skin, over five and a half feet tall. His facial hair is in a state of perpetual stubble. Generally wears muted earth tones, made of worn leather and comfortable fabrics. Is proficient with a bow, handy with a sword, and fairly skilled at hunting, tracking, and general survival in the wilderness. The last thing he recalls before waking up on the shores of the Isle of Druids is encountering a band of brigands while tracking a boar. His likely capture, enslavement, and becoming cargo on a ship isn’t as clear in his memory.

At the Blue Griffon Tavern

Trystan and Ysolt reached the garrison town just before dusk. They didn’t spend much time exploring the streets, for they were both tired and hungry. The wayfarer didn’t feel comfortable with the look of the temples and shops, as it was clear that they catered to the military more than the average traveler. What disturbed them both was the thriving slave market, an obvious byproduct of the mines to the west. Judging by the way she was trembling while forcibly steadying her breath, Trystan suspected that the sight of the market brought up an emotional past for the priestess. Gripping her arm as her vibrantly teal eyes glared with an intensity that could kill, he whispered in Ysolt’s ear, “Not tonight.” With a tilt to the side, she bowed her head in defeat before following him into the Blue Griffon Tavern.

Four shards went into the innkeeper’s hand as they paid for a night’s stay, a meal, a fresh bath, and a round of drinks for the other patrons. Trystan remained slouched over his meal and drink, listening to the gossip and tales shared between mercenaries and soldiers. His companion remained upright and poised, her defenses up as if she expected to be attacked and shackled. She barely caught the hushed tones of a decorated soldier as he mentioned how one of the knights of Baroness Ravayne was plotting against her. Courtly intrigue was not something one idly discussed in such a public setting. But the baronies were all the way in Golnir, not Sokara. Trystan leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Do you think he’s recruiting on behalf of the knight in question?” Proving that he had overheard the same conversation. “Foolish to get outside countrymen involved,” she muttered before taking a long draught of the cider that was served with her meal of stew, cheese, and blackened bread. “Not unless General Marlock wishes to expand beyond these borders,” the young man suggested quietly before the innkeeper’s daughter approached with a warm smile. “Your baths are ready.”

The bath water was hot and soothing. The floral petals that had been added created a lovely, relaxing fragrance that eased Ysolt’s paranoia. While they soaked with a privacy screen set between them, she couldn’t help but notice that a vial of yellow dust had fallen from Trystan’s gear and rolled its way over to her side of the divider. “What that?” He barely heard her speak over the splashing water while Trystan actively scrubbed the sweat and grime from his ruddy, freckled skin. “You say something,” he muttered as he lifted a foot out of the water to closely examine a blister.

Her hair was wrapped in a scarf to keep it from getting wet, and beads of water trickled around her spine as she shifted and leaned forward in her tub to get a better look at the vial. “What yellow powder?” Ysolt clarified before she wetted a sponge to wash with. Trystan had to think for a moment, as he had completely forgotten about the powder while they were lost in the Forest of Larun. “Oh, that,” he sighed before grabbing a ladle to pour some water over his head. His short, shaggy tresses needed a thorough shampoo, though he mostly focused on cleaning and massaging his scalp.

“I followed a guy out of a gambling den and saved him from a pair of thugs,” he explained with a groan, scrubbing behind his ears before continuing. “I escorted him back to the university he lectures at, and he rewarded me with that and some wives’ tale about tossing it in the Blessed Springs.” The priestess on the other side of the screen smiled in quiet admiration. “I hear waters there be healing. Perhaps we go. Investigate tale,” she suggested as she stood up from her bath, dried herself off, and wrapped herself up in a robe before fetching the vial and taking it around to return to the wayfarer.

“What if I just drop you off there?” Trystan countered with a grim smile on his bristly face. “Leave you while you enjoy the spa and go our separate ways.” That was assuming the Blessed Springs was more of a spa resort town than some kind of divine sanctuary, as she suggested. “You be not rid of me that easily,” she chortled with a sly, pearly white smile, looking down on him as she pressed the vial into his hand. From there, she returned to her side of the privacy screen to finish dressing, allowing Trystan some privacy while he finished bathing.