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.