Off With His Head!

Accolades ...and curiosities...

Standing on the sloping path looking back at the massive destruction they have just wrought, breathing heavily, our Heroes stare in astonishment.

“What the hell?!”

“Language,” our Paladin Alistair snorts. “That just can’t be. That tree; there’s something.” He starts toward the tree. “I’m only going to touch it,” he says, as the others watch apprehensively. Cautiously he approaches and lays his hand upon the first branch low enough to reach. He is puzzled. “A tree. Just a bleedin’ tree.” He turns and heads back to the group.

While he is busy walking back, Wik decides to remove the ring, (which has caused so much trouble) and after a lengthy discussion as to whether he should or should not, he skilfully pulls the resisting ring off and returns it to the inside pocket in the upper right-hand side of his cloak.

The Heroes continue following the parade of well-dressed people into the Twilight Supper, arriving at the entrance in due time. They are mildly surprised that everyone is being asked to hand over their weapons, but, without too much grumbling, they hand over their weapons. Or, at least the weapons the guards can see...

The pat down following is a mere formality, the guards are aware these are noble persons. The soldier who pats Wik feels a twinge as his hand passes across the pocket containing the ring and he looks oddly at Wik before allowing him to continue.

The group eyes the growing pile of interesting weapons. Morgan nods slowly as he makes eye contact with both Ooma and Wik. Ooma is very careful to put both her Dwarven War axe and her mace inside her rucksack before she passes the bulky sack over.

They are given the go-ahead to proceed, and enter the vibrantly colourful pavilion as a group, minus Jahlo, spying whom, they assume to be, Lord Triton, his massive height placing him head and shoulders above the other guests.

They note to their right, tables groaning under the weight of all fashion of known meats and some they are unfamiliar with; slabs of bison, boar, lamb; winged-creatures of all variety, artfully displayed, some rather risqué; some life-like, arranged with their limbs poised as if still attached!

Bear steaks; badger balls; and fresh fish in delicate jellies or formed on sticks and fried; trays of colourful shellfish displayed like jewels on white-salt beds.

Vegetables and casseroles, steaming, some with pastry-lids, others swimming in delectable sauces offered as well, although they do not seem as carefully considered as the meats and sweets.

The sweet table contains candies, fruit pies, light sponges with heavy cream sauces. Cookies with fluffy-fillings; snowy-white meringues; sugared-nuts and fudge. A spun-sugar masterpiece sits in the centre of the vast square-table, its design stunning – a large, colourful-winged bird with feathers spun so delicately they look real!

To their left, a booze lovers paradise, Meade, ale, wines, and exotic hard liquors being poured freely; mugs and crystal glasses passed swiftly to parched guests, a crowd surrounds this table as men and women snatch up containers of chilled liquids.

Our group is surprised to find such a heavy presence of soldiers attending, but fail to notice the baubles and gems dripping from nearly every lady and most of the gentlemen present. These are the upper echelon of Triton. Servants, (of a shorter-stature), rush quickly to comply with the, sometimes odd, requests from the nobles. These servants barely make eye-contact and, although there is naught to encourage the idea save their stature, a sense of oppression seems to radiate from them.

Jahlo, returning from his sojourn, having to take care of a matter for his gawd, now hustles toward the entrance and explains to the soldier he meets, whom he is and what party he’s with. The soldiers are dubious, but they’ve been around a long time. “Leave the mutt there, hand over your weapon, and go on in,” one squat soldier snarls.

Jahlo, when told to hand over his weapon, he explains that, “it is not a weapon, but a Holy Symbol. And that is not a ‘mutt’, but, in fact, a pure bred Wolf, who was invited as well.”

“Gawd damned nobles,” one mutters non-too quietly. “Listen, you’ll have to get his Lordship’s permission to bring the Wolf in. Follow me.”

The soldier leads Jahlo past the group, who watch curiously, smiling when they see him wink, blow Tessalia and Ooma a kiss, before turning and continue to follow the soldier. Morgan merely nods as he moves forward in the crush to obtain drinks.

Upon reaching Lord Triton and explaining why he’s dragged this guest over, Lord Triton stares intimidating, at Jahlo, “Who’re you?” his great voice booms. Jahlo begins to explain that he is one of the party who rescued his daughters from the alleyway when Jane rushes up.

She explains that this is indeed one of the people who rescued them in the lane. She goes on to confirm that the wolf, Benji, will bring no trouble to the festivities, and begs her father to allow the beast to remain.

The hulking man looks down at his daughter and indulgently nods to her request. She smiles and then drags Jahlo off to meet her husband. Jahlo, upon passing a servant carrying a tray of bird legs, snatches one for Benji, and one for himself as he follows the lovely, swaying, wide-hips of Jane.

She turns suddenly, “Where’s the rest of your group? Surely you didn’t come alone?”

He blushes as he's caught watching her derrière and he points to the crowd, where, if she looks closely, Jane can make out the Heroes, drinks in hand. She waves and pleads with them to follow her. Jane also waves to a couple of servants, indicating they should bring trays of refreshments.

As the group of Heroes comes closer, Jahlo enthusiastically mentions to them “We’re going to meet the husbands,” and, as Jane leads, walking out in front, Jahlo whispers under his breath, “Bloody bird’s gonna drive me crazy, yah?”

About this time, Alistair and Jahlo notice each other and are formally introduced. “Hey! Here Now; Who’re you?” They hit it off as if brothers from different mothers; finding their fondness for a pretty lady and a cool mug a comforting common ground.

Jahlo also lends a friendly counsel to Alistair. “Aye, that’s one to watch for completely different reasons,” as Alistair singles Wik out as one to keep an eye on.

While standing about, making these introductions, Morgan finds himself in a quandary; not enough hands! He ponders for a second, then hands his mug of ale to Lord Triton, standing nearby, while he adjusts his packages. Lord Triton takes the mug in mild surprise and returns it to Morgan when Morgan indicates he’s ready for it. “Thank you kindly!”

“Uh-yah, you’re welcome.” Lord Triton frowns.

They continue strolling over to where the Ladies’ Jane and Jennifer’s husbands are lounging, imbibing heavily in mugs of Meade that are refreshed instantly when drained, by a serving wench standing close by. Surprise etches the Heroes expressions as they are introduced to the foppish men; these are not what they had been expecting; these men are pudgy, soft; dressed in garish clothing, wearing gold chains about their necks and jewelled-rings on every finger.

Jane introduces her husband Jared, and Jennifer introduces her husband, Jingles, she laughs as she says this, “It’s such a sweet nickname for him,” she indulges, her hand patting his ruddy face, “Now, stop,” she admonishes her husband with a smile, the sound of coins ‘jingling’ ceases for a moment.

Jared and Jingles rise to greet the group, but with great effort and not much enthusiasm. They politely speak; lackadaisically thanking them for their great act of courage, but seem to be more interested in the servant passing with a tray of drinks.

Jingles leans forward onto Ooma’s shoulder, slurring his speech, “Hesh... r’ you one of th’ Dwarf from do’n in ‘za minesh?”

“Oh hell no!” Ooma responds emphatically.

He continues his drunken dialogue, “’Ur nosht? Ur a dwarf. What yer doin’ up heresh? Supposhed ta be’s down in the minesh. Dwarfs r’ ‘upposhed ta be in the minesh. Trion’s gonna be pissed!” He leans harder on Ooma’s shoulder.

“I am not THAT kinda Dwarf,” Ooma politely inserts, resisting the urge to thump this fellow into the ground.

“Lord’s gonna be mad,” he continues his utterances. Alistair gently grabs Jingles’ collar and pulls him away from Ooma.

Jennifer takes Jingles’ arm and, red-faced, she rebukes him. “Jingles! Please! Stop! Don’t say things like that!” she hisses at him.

“Dearsh fasher-in-laws, he ha’sh arreshts being made; poor dwarfs. Poor dwarfs; firsht y’re ‘uset’ bysh Cytwris’ whimsh; poor drwfs, poor drawfs...” he continues to shake his head and mumble as he is taken away by an embarrassed Jennifer.

Morgan quickly pushes his dishes at the serving person who has brought the group a tray of Meade, and moves promptly, wrapping his big frame about the almost-girlish frame of Jingles’ and pats his back firmly. Gurgles bubble up as he releases him and bows to the Lady Jennifer, a wide grin on his face.

“He does jingle,” he guffaws taking a fresh mug from the tray handing it to Jingles and taking another for himself, seemingly ignoring Lady Jennifer’s mortified frowns and sighs about him having had enough already.

The two guzzle the ale, belching loudly. Jingles, after splashing half the ale on himself, continues to mutter, “d’rwfs... d’wrfs,” suddenly turning to Ooma, extending a thick hand, “Yoush, yous be carefuls; dwrfs... unnergroun... cap shures...” before Jennifer grabs his arm, “Jingles!” she says firmly, “that’s enough!” and manages to escort her husband away, with him muttering, “Drfs... dwrfs...” The impression being that she wishes she could remove Jingles from the festivities all together. This seems odd as the group were encouraged to meet him...

Jane quickly makes excuses, “I’m so sorry. He goes on and on. Please, ignore him and enjoy the rest of the events. OH! and my mother! Please, you must meet her.” Lady Jane appears to be coming unglued.

Jahlo tilts his head and nods, “Excuse me? What was that last thing he said?”

“Oh, I’m sure it was nothing,” her eyes grow cold. “I wasn’t really paying attention. Just the rambling of a drunk.” Her smile is back.

The group glance at one another, and Jahlo, ever the consummate soother, announces, “We’d be delighted to meet Lady Triton.”

“Please, go, enjoy yourselves, I will find my mother and locate you,” she turns back her head, shaking, as she watches Jennifer and Jingles walk away. She returns to her husband whose head is also shaking. “Not again,” he mutters.

As they encroach on the barmaid for another drink, Ooma hears that, “her relatives have made the Meade and ale.”

“Yah, the ones underground,” Morgan mumbles, accepting another full mug.

“Underground ones?” the barmaid seems surprised. “What underground ones?” And upon learning that Jingles has been speaking with them she shakes her greying head, “Oh Jingles! You mustn’t mind him.”

The enormous pavilion is lively; full of jovial shouts and ribald laughter. As the group moves to the side, they note the Lady Jane returning with, what you can only assume, is her mother.

A corpulent woman, dressed in garish clothing that does not flatter her size, her pale, almost porcelain-smooth skin, nor bright blue-eyes. Her multi-layered dress is obviously made of rich fabrics and fine stitching. The gown sparkles with gems and stones in a floral outline, although, set on the patterned fabric, it is dreadful and clashes loudly! She wears an ornate broach, a snake entwined with a ship’s wheel and an intricate drawing behind the wheel – it appears, pinned to her breast.

The group is polite in their comments, “What a marvellous dress,” Ooma graciously swallows her grin.

“It flatters you so well,” another pipes up.

She sniffs, “Of course.”

“Easy to see,” mumbles Morgan, swallowing another mouthful of Meade.

“Hard to miss you in that, miss,” Alistair tilts his head.

“Well,” her brittle voice snips, “that’s as it should be.”

Lady Jane interrupts smoothly, “Mother, these are the people who rescued us this morning.” She introduces them and pauses, although she knows Alistair’s name and his appearance, “Except you, you were not there, were you?”

“He was not, m’lady, but the tales he can reveal to your discerning ear; the stories he could tell of Triton...” Jahol praises highly his new companion, allowing his gift of gab to imply ideas that may or may not be truthful...

While he has a moment, as Jahlo extols his virtues, a sudden urge overwhelms him and Alistair pulls a poster from his scroll case and compares the facsimile to Wik nodding slowly, saying nothing and replacing the paper in his case and returns his attention to Lady Triton, whom he has heard much about through his days as an apprentice in the order. A good deal of it not flattering. Even the three daughters, he’s heard, are not all they appear, still, he has no personal reason to doubt their veracity and kindness; he is willing to give the benefit of doubt to the insidious rumours being whispered behind the low-stone walls of the monastery.

Morgan leans close to this noble woman and starts rambling to her. “Did I ever tell you about the time I wrangled a bear and drug it under the table? We were staring each other eye to eye and I tipped my mug back, nonchalantly, and then jumped the bear who was twenty-times my size!” his voice slurs slightly. “I shoved his muzzle into a dish and he collapsed... saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” he continues to regal the Lady Triton with his tall tale.

Her breeding has her praising Morgan for his restraint and bravery, all the while looking horrified and silently pleading for her daughter to remove these ruffians from her presence! Her hands are on her ample chest as she gasps and utters mollifying phrases.

Our Heroes eyes stray to the large, ornate broach under her fingers. A gold, you might assume solid gold, snake entwines a ship’s wheel. The eyes of the snake are, what appear to be, rubies or garnets, and, evenly placed around the wheel, are glistening gems with etchings engraved on their surfaces. There is a centre stone of pure black with a clear-red gem beneath it. Seven gems in total, not including the snake’s eyes.

Morgan leans in tipsily, for a really close look, which causes Lady Triton to retreat, “Excuse me!” she utters, her guards stepping forward. “You like my broach do you?” she sniffs. As Morgan nods, she reveals that, “It was given me a few years ago by Lord Triton.” Her voice quivers, “He was out trying to find our son who was on a mission to clear a safe path through the Obsidian. Rumours brought to us speak of attacks and disappearances along a section of the Forest near the Shard Mountains. Lord Triton and his miserable excuses for soldiers travelled...” she is interrupted by Morgan.

“Wait, I think we’ve heard this story before,” he rambles, “It wouldn’t have been a bird creature...?”

The Lady gasps, shrieking, “You know of it?”

Morgan puffs up. “Yeh, I was planning on slaying it, however the bear got in the way or I’d be on my way there now,” he boasts, tipping back his mug.

The Lady is completely flustered; no one has been able to locate these creatures or been able to tell her anything more about her son’s death. She is pale and slumps as if she may faint. “We can find nothing of them. My husband located a single feather, t’was all that remained.”

“Well, I would have left long ago, but, finances to purchase better equipment, you know,” Morgan spreads his hands in a shrug.

Lady Jane, near tears as she recalls the loss of her young brother, pleads with her mother to provide for these heroes. “You must help them, mother.” Her mother waves her hand, suddenly weary of this discussion.

“Yes, yes. Go and find your father. I know he wants to publicly thank these helpful creatures. I’m sure he will provide for their needs.”

Alistair glances at Wik and whispers, “Quick, run!”

Wik, arrogant as usual, snorts, “Sure, now you want me to run. Not with the promise of a reward,” he returns under his breath, grinning.

Morgan and Alistair make their way back to the bar area, imbibing and getting happily plastered, shouting out coarse verses of various songs, with quite a number of the local gentry joining in, causing quite the spectacle; almost challenging the circus acts set up ‘especially for their pleasure.

An agreeable lady, dressed in a plain skirt, with a bejewelled jacket, rushes up to Tessalia and Ooma, grabbing their hands surreptitiously, “Have you seen the fortune teller, Zelmranda? You must come and see her!” her enthusiasm finally winning the ladies over and the group follows, curious. Wik declines, pushing his way to the side of the tent nursing a drink and keeping a low-profile.

They entre, crowding a tent-within-a-tent. A small round canopy holding long, pastel fabric strips, fall to a carpeted floor. A small round table with a cheesy-circular, clear-globe upon a low, three-pronged, curved, black wooden-brace to prevent it from rolling off the intricate crochet cloth, sits in front of a petite, hook-nosed, steely-haired woman of indiscriminate age. Her lips, painted a crimson-vermillion shade, the colour running into the lines around her lips, and her eyes ringed with dark kohl pencil. A jangle from the massive number of thin bracelets she wears along with the tinkle from the gold-bells sewn into the hem of her wide sleeves, silences, before rising again.

“Oh, m’re customers! Please, be havin’ a seat.” The five look at the single seat, as the lady who dragged them in disappears. “Who’d like to be first?” You note a near, almost, hint of Irish? Maybe? If you knew what Irish is/was...

Tessalia sits and the woman takes her hand, eyeing the sorceress warily. “Oh, oh... I see a long life-line...” she pauses, before continuing vaguely, “Everything is cloudy; I see a long life-line, but it is broken – are you involved in anything which would put you in danger?” Tessalia reveals she is an adventurer, to which the lady’s painted eyebrows raise and her black-eyes drive into Tessalia. “I see,” she purses her lips. “I see only a cloudy future, I’m sorry there is nothing else. Oh! Red! I see red.” She reveals. “Something red is coming your way. I don’t glimpse danger.”

Ooma hip-checks Tessalia off the stool, smiling and hands the Fortune Teller her palm and notices the lady looking at her oddly. She takes the proffered hand probing. “You don’t work in the mines?” she questions.

“Very strange. Your aura...” she pauses, thinking. “Not anger. Not discontent.” her face appears to be puzzled. Suddenly she looks at Ooma, her eyes wide. “Oh my!” she is clearly disturbed. “Uhm – yes, yes! It looks as if you shall have a very nice future as well...” she looks away from Ooma, “Who’s next?” she asks, ignoring their obvious disbelief, stuttering and avoiding directly confronting Ooma.

Jahlo leans forward and places his hand up, and whistles for Benji, who startles the inept Fortune Teller. Benji places is paw on Zelmranda’s hand, and a searing sound is heard! The lady withdraws her hand, obviously attempting to make light of the incident, as she pulls her hand back, although she is unable to repress her exclamation of pain! “Ouch!”

Ignoring the wolf for a moment, she clasps Jahlo’s hand and begins by stating the obvious and taking her cues from his companions she reveals an uplifting night of blissful adventures later, to much elbowing from his cohorts.

Morgan elbows his way in and lays his hand on the table, as Jahlo cuts in, “Hey! What about my wolf, yah?”

Zelmranda looks at the canine. “We’ll get to the dog,” she reassures Jahlo, taking Morgan’s hand.

“Oh, my,” she looks up at him, “Had a few pints tonight, have we?” As she examines his hand, a shudder passes through her and the soothing fortune she was about to disclose, changes. “You are going to be in a colossal fight soon...” her voice takes on an ‘other-worldly’ tone as she continues. “You should do what you are not expected to do...”

A quiet ensues. “This is a fight you should walk away from,” her eyes touch Morgan’s. “I see daggers; a struggle, close combat, two figures grappling, and struggling.”

As Alistair pokes his head in the charlatan’s office, he wonders at how they are all fitting inside?!

Zelmranda drops Morgan’s hand and reaches for Alistair’s before her keen mind distinguishes a member of the clergy. When she recognises Alistair, she comments that, “You probably don’t recogniseme.” To which he replies, “I don’t remember a lot of things.” She releases his hand.

She nods and turns to the wolf, taking his paw into her hand, visibly forgoing the obvious pain she must be feeling as steam actually rises from where the animal’s paw rests on her palm. “I see that he will be a great protector, and will need protection soon,” she says, dropping his paw and turning from the wolf.

“Is that supposed to happen? Is that smoke normal?”

Before she can reply, Lady Jane pokes her head in, “Oh! Here you are! Come, Father is ready to chat with you now. Come.”

Zelmranda looks up, her beady-eyes hard, “Lord Triton is here? Please send him in. I have a message for him.” Her cheerful, seductive voice is at odds with her sudden stiff stature.

As Lord Triton pokes his head in, the Fortune Teller urges him to sit, “Let me have your palm.” Lord Triton, not wanting to spoil the illusion for his guests, sits and offers his palm.

Zelmranda takes his hand and ignores it, gasping, turning to her crystal ball, a small smile plying her lips, “I see a feather. Blood red.” she looks at him through lowered lashes. “I see blood; life-giving blood,” her fingers trail down the globe, her long nails tapping, “draining... from you.” She lifts her head and stares into Lord Triton’s eye as he looks at her, paling.

He snorts, a worried scepticism crossing his features.

The Fortune Teller continues, “I see fire. Fire and gems. Lots of gems.” She theatrically leans back, flinging her arms into the air, a gleeful sound erupts from her, “Death is coming. Death is coming!” Before a cloud crosses her face and she slumps in her chair breathing heavily. “No; no, nooo!” she wails.

Lord Triton visible trembles, paling even further, before he takes an unsteady breath and laughs uncertainly. Then with greater vigour, “Such nonsense!” he utters. “Rubbish!”

He turns before he leaves, tossing a few gold coins on the table, “It’s good that you can entertain my guests.” Although the look he gives Zelmranda seems to convey a message being passed.

“Come, let’s give you your rewards,” Lord Triton speaks to the group.

Morgan sidles up next to Lord Triton boasting. “You don’t need to worry about that creature,” he tells him. “If you ever see it again its head will be on a pike; if I owned a pike,” Morgan laments.

Lord Triton nods absently, wringing his large hands, surprisingly free of rings. “Uh, yes. Uh-huh,” he utters walking toward a dais raised a few feet off the ground.

Morgan, watching him come unglued, hands him the mug of ale he’s just lifted off a passing tray, “Here, you obviously need this more than I do.” Lord Triton takes the mug, draining its contents without much attention, passing the mug back to Morgan.

The attractive lady who originally invited our Heroes to the Fortune Teller’s is standing nearby, her eyes following Lord Triton, a smile playing on her lips. Jahlo observes her figure, winks and nods to Tessalia, “Whatcha think?” he comments, “should we talk this one into ritual, yah?”

To which Alistair leans over the comely wench and drunkenly asks, “So, ya wanna see my ...holy avenger?”

To which his sister replies, “ Alistair! You know me!” her face crimson. “What is your problem!?”

Morgan nudges Wik, who has rejoined the group from the side of the tent. “He’s finally worked up the courage to express his feelings for her,” he grins, laughing.

Jahlo tries to diffuse the situation but he barely begins when Alistair looks to the woman, his arm about her, “So is that a no?” Her hand slaps his face hard, leaving a visible red-mark, as she huffs off.

Morgan leans to Wik, whispering, “So is THAT a no?” They chortle.

Lady Jane calls for the Heroes. “Come,” her voice carries, “Come, come; come!”

Alistair comments under his breath, “Well, THAT’S not happening tonight.” As they heed Lady Jane’s summons, Ooma shaking her head in good-humoured disgust.

They climb the dais and Lord Triton gives a short speech, thanking them for their aid in caring for his daughter’s well being. Our group shuffle their feet, sort of like, ‘hurry it up, would you – get to the good stuff...’

Lord Triton goes on, signalling two Orcish-looking men, who drag in a battered and bruised soldier whom our Heroes recognise as the captain of the ones sent to protect the Ladies’ Jane and Jennifer.

Our Heroes gasp. Lord Triton looks down at the man and interrogates him. “You deny you were negligent in your duties?”

Our group goes to step forward in protest of his treatment and are soundly rebuked by the booming voice of Lord Triton, “Silence! I expect obedience from my soldiers and cannot allow dereliction in those assignments.” He turns back to the hapless man. “You have disgraced your family and your post.”

Lady Jane steps forward clasping her husband’s arm, her eyes rove across the guests. “Papa, please. No.”

Lord Triton draws a wicked looking curved sword, an ornately carved snake on the hilt, glittering red-gems in the eye sockets. He raises his arm, “I release you from your duties.” Dispassionately, the blade is dropped, cleanly slicing the man’s head from his neck.

A chorus of shrieks and curses come from an area beyond the pavilion. The pavilion goes silent for a moment before gasps; moans; shrieks and the unmistakable sound of retching floats like a heavy cloud.

Lady Triton looks upon the revolting massacre. “Get some servants to clean that up,” she commands as she disinterestedly walks away.

Lord Triton looks to our Heroes and sighs heavily. “It was necessary, to maintain order.”

One bold Paladin speaks up, “But fear only leads to disorder.”

Lord Triton cants his head, “You would tell me how to run my town?” Unwilling to allow the Paladin to question him.

He stares the group down until they shuffle, wisely abiding their time. Two serving girls walk out with large trays on their heads heaped with gold and silver coins. “I thank you for your trouble, I thank you for looking after the welfare of my daughters, and I grant you Free Reign in my town.”

As the chatter in the pavilion returns to a normal level, people no doubt discussing the beheading, servants are busy cleaning the unexpected consequences of the disciplinary action and Morgan nudges the head with his foot, “You might wanna get a pike for that.”

The nearby guard looks at him in undisguised repulsion. “That was our friend,” he marches off.

 Alistair is indignant and storms to the path intent on retrieving his weapons and stomping away in protest, is stopped by the guards. “We’re sorry, you cannot get your weapons back without permission from Lord Triton.” Alistair shoots them a look that conveys his anger and disgust, making the guards wither.

Lady Jane, her manners and her stiff-back presiding, encourages the Heroes to, “go back to enjoying the events scheduled – sword swallowers, fire-eaters; knife throwing acts! Exotic, wild cats performing amazing feats! Even a high-wire act that is sure to stun you!” Her enthusiasm seems forced.

The group, fills their pockets and moves off; men and ladies come up to them, thanking them for their unselfish act of courage in keeping Lady Jane and Jennifer safe. As they are chatting, Wik notices an Amazon goddess, with flowing black hair and green-eyes staring at him.

Ooma nudges Wik, “I think she’s checking you out dude.”

She is wearing robes with blue flame-tinged snakes embroidered in fine stitching. She walks toward Wik and the eyes of the animals intricately and masterfully carved into her quarterstaff glow brighter as she comes near. She looks at Wik with curiosity, and leans her staff close, waving it in front of him; circling him with it.

Wik’s voice pipes up, “What are you looking for?”

She lifts her chin and nods at Wik, “You have the ring.”

“I have MY ring,” Wik acknowledges. “I do not know if I have ‘a’ ring, but I have MY ring.”

She pulls her staff back, resting the silver capped end on the ground. “You have the ring. May I see it?”

“Uh, honestly. I don’t know what ring you are talking about,” Wik persists. “I have my ring; been in my family for generations,” he tries.

She tilts her head, a wide smile creasing her dark features, “As you wish.” And she sweeps her staff under Wik’s legs, landing his ass on the ground before he even sees her move. She then takes her staff and places the top directly over the pocket containing the ring.

“You have the ring – let me see it.”

Wik, supercilious to the end, “Get your quarterstaff off my ring and I will show it to you.” The Amazon smiles, her teeth gleaming in the darkness as she removes her staff.

Wik jumps to his feet, pulls the ring from his pocket, carefully guarding it so she cannot take it.

As the ring is exposed, the Heroes see an immediate blue ‘line’ run from the quarterstaff to the ring, connecting the two articles. The sapphires along the flames of the ring begin to shimmer and glitter as they connect to the eyes in the head of the carved Roc at the top of her staff. The Badger, curled around the length of the staff, almost seems real. Impossible to deny the force joining the two, she again says, “You have the ring.”

Wik, still pulling at straw-claims, “Yes, and I’m keeping the ring.” He attempts to return it to his pocket, and as he endeavours to do this, she knocks his hand, firmly, the ring tumbling to the ground.

“Do you know what you have there?”

“Yes. My ring. I have MY ring.” He steps forward to retrieve it.

The Amazon places her bare foot over the ring. “Maybe you’d like to know what you have before you cleave to it so dearly.”

“I just fought a bloody tree for this ring, move your bloody foot or I’ll cut it off.”

She ignores his meaningless threats. “So, you saw the Warlock Tree? Did you destroy it?”

“We destroyed the tree but a creature ran from it, now give me back my damned ring!”

“The imp ran!? You didn’t catch it?!” She seems very perturbed the imp escaped. She bends and picks up the ring. Holding it in front of her, examining it, she mourns, “You really don’t know what you have here, do you.”

Wik, petulant now, demands, “I have my ring. Finders Keepers Losers Weepers.”

She laughs, “I’m sorry. No. No. This ring...”

Wik interrupts. “Is worth ten thousand gold.”

“It’s worth far more than that.”

“Even better,” Wik concedes, “give it back.”

Chuckling, she replies, “No. No. Our Order, Iceheart, has been summoned to the area. A fine thread of a plea for help reached our Order a millennia ago. Our mages and weavers have sought through the ages to find the magician who conjured the plea. This ring shimmers with the essence of that plea; either it was worn by the one in need, or it belonged to the one imprisoning them. The image we seek,” she stares off into the distance, “is of a towering stalagmite, smooth and dark – rising to impossible heights – with an orb, a sphere, of thin glass precariously balanced on a flat, kerb-less disk atop the fragile stem. A cry echoes from within the globe; a figure, akin to a genie, paces, as thorns bear down upon the fragile sphere guarded by a mass of writhing red-eyed serpents at its base... we believe it's the Obsidian Forest, but haven't isolated the precise location...” She continues, “This ring, contains the blood Malachite Stone in the centre. Do you still say this is your ring?”

“Yes! I picked it up from the ground,” Wik whines, “It’s mine.” Wik’s friends giggle and smirk, wondering how he thinks he can continue this.

The Amazon requests Wik to show her the exact spot he found the ring.

He points and says, “At the bottom of this hillock.”

“Let’s go.” They return to the weapon area and are refused access to their weapons. As they argue, an agreement is finally reached where Lady Jane assigns guards to accompany them down the hill in place of returning their weapons. Grumbling loudly, they finally agree to this decision.

“Methlynd, Rende, Arthur, Reggie and Corsur please accompany these people and see to their safety.”

They avoid the path and walk through the wood down to the place where Wik found the ring. “Here, some where there.” He points at the ground.

The Amazon leans over and places her hand on the ground. “This is not the place. Where did you locate the ring?”

“Oh it’s there somewhere, I don’t know the exact spot. If you can find it by touching the ground, it’s in the near vicinity; a foot either way.” Alistair admonishes Wik for his attitude, thinking he might be a little more friendly.

The Amazon touches about, and suddenly the Heroes notice the ground glowing blue. Amazed, the group assumes that is the exact spot Wik lifted the ring from. “That is where you found the ring? Very well.” She tosses the ring back to Wik. “You do not know the power you may wield. Please keep that ring in your pocket.”

“Pshaa. I wore it earlier.”

She seems confused that he wore it and asks to see it again. At Ooma’s query she again repeats that her Order received a plea a millennia ago and the ring contains an essence of that plea. “But you are not the ones who sent it.”

She grows excited, “There’s something about this area; this spot; this town! I feel I am close.”

Ooma agrees. “There’s a lot about this area that’s weird.”

“Maybe so, but I am concerned only in the entreaty for help. Okay,” she states suddenly. “Thank you for your help.” She requests, again, to hold the ring one last time, and, as Wik allows this, the ring blazes, the sapphires sending out blue-rays. She concentrates on the ring, staring into it, the rays like direct lines to and from her.

In the meantime, Alistair decides he would like to test this woman’s motivations and begins covertly concentrating upon her auras. He does not detect anything evil about her. She appears to be just as she intoned, a cleric on a quest for her Order, Iceheart.

As she holds the ring, you see her staff’s eyes flare, sending an enormous jolt of blue to the ring, or, sucking it from the ring. The ring lies in her hand, a simple ring, the essence appears to have been drawn forth. She nod’s and returns the ring.

Alistair wonders why this generous person wants to help something that is pure evil. The Amazon shakes her head, “No. We don’t sense evil within the ring. We sense that there is an evil aura holding something against its will, and the ring, or rather the good-aura within it, is pleading for release.”

Ooma mumbles that, “This might be the same person we are looking for. Hey,” she speaks up, “there’s a lady stuck in a Tavern in the forest over there!”

The woman is immediately interested, “What forest? Where?”

“The Obsidian Forest.”

The woman appears beside herself with excitement. “The Tavern! You’ve seen it!?” Ooma responds that they came out of the tavern through the Apothecary, into the town. “You must show me the door! This MUST be what I am looking for!”

They explain where the Apothecary is and try to get her to wait until morning, but she is solely focussed on her quest. She begins to walk in the direction they have told her she will locate the Apothecary.

Several of the group look in askance, determined to follow her, wondering what has made this plea for help different than the hundreds of persons who cry for help daily.

She responds, “This plea came along a little known channel, a conduit used only when the time wheel is threatened. The Autumn Wind brought it to us.”

Morgan wonders aloud that the Amazon must want something as a reward, to which she replies that, “No, just the ability to rescue this person.” Morgan is horrified that she would waste her entire life on this one person and not expect riches! (Especially when there is a world full of people who need help; and would provide rewards for doing so.) He doubts her altruistic motives.

Wik agrees.

Ooma disagrees. “She’s a good guy, dudes.”

The Amazon nods, understanding their misgivings, “as you wish, forgive me for interrupting you. Thank you for your help thus far.” She turns and heads for the Apothecary, pausing, turning back to the group, fluttering her hands in the air, as if grasping strands and pulling them, she nods, “Have a good evening.” She turns and heads up the road.

The group gathers together whispering, arguing about her motives and if they should trust her... Ooma suggests that perhaps she can get them back to the Tavern; thinking she might be able to help find the FireStone.

Morgan still doesn’t trust her and chooses to follow her. Of his own will, or, perhaps, the spell she has just woven?

The Amazon marches up the street, unconcerned with shadows or lurkers. Her gait strong and sure. She sees things they don’t in the night.

Alistair pleads, if he can “NOW have my weapons back, please!”

He is again refused.

Morgan pulls two daggers from his hidden pockets, and is immediately set upon by the soldiers who gently, but firmly attempt to relieve him of them.

Jahlo attempts to bribe them and, after actually considering the offer, they shake their heads, commenting, “it’s not worth our lives.”

Morgan steadfastly refuses to release his worn daggers, and, rather than cause an incident, the guards shrug and release him. “Just keep them hidden.”

Meanwhile, Ooma heads back to the festivities, Methlynd following her. She slows, drawing the soldier into conversation.

Jahlo asks the Amazon her name and she reveals that you can call her Ichabod... as her real name is far too hard to pronounce. (Truthfully, her Order wants no recognition, and so choose names at random to ensure their humility.)

Jahlo goes on to explain that the trouble with going into the Tavern is that you don’t always come out. Or go in the way you expect, “unless some wibbly-wobbly magic happens, yah?” He goes on to explain that, “I actually have a soft spot for the pretty ghost-lady trapped in the Tavern, and I’d like to help her out as she helped me out. But nothing’s going to happen at ‘daft o’clock’ in the night! Let’s go back to the tavern down the street, me and my partner can show you a good time and we can talk magic and hear this out. C’mon, why’ncha come back with me?”

His word fall on deaf ears; save for the ones, “A lady? Trapped? In the Tavern? A ghost lady?” Jahlo confirms this.

“Yah, but we should go back and enjoy the party; and other events for now, because it’s fracken cold out here and there’s fracken hot food back there and presumable nice beds. C’mon, my lady friend Tess and us, we can get together, lay things out on the table and discuss magic together. What say ya, yah? It makes more sense than walking up to a store that’s closed, yah?”

He is persuasive, Ichabod walks to him, cups his chin in her fingers, lifting his face to hers, peers into his eyes, her thumb gently stroking his cheek, “You’re a very sweet man, maybe when this is over we can discuss your offer, but, until then, I MUST follow my quest. You may return to your party, but I must see if this Apothecary is the place I seek. I sense this is the right place. The right area.”

Jahlo persists in wondering what she’s going to do if her staff ‘thinghy’ glows? “You’re going to need back up, right?”

She grins and her shoulders move as she chuckles, “Back up. Yes, right. It would be nice to have backup. Would you be willing to help me out? Tonight? Now?”

They nod and agree, still shaking their heads. As they do so, they notice the soldiers moving together, their whispers reaching the elven ears of the Heroes.

“Lord Triton ain’t gonna be happy ‘bout this. That ring! We’ve got to tell him where it is.”

As one of the Heroes sneaks up behind the soldiers and mutters, “That Lord Triton, he’s never happy!” To which the guards, shaken after being flanked so easily, heartily disagree. When reminded of events earlier, they shrug and agree that the fellow knew his duties and the consequences.

When offered the Paladin’s services for interment, they shake their heads, “Won’t be necessary. Lord Triton has ...his own embalming methods.” They leave no doubt that this method is distasteful to them.

Ichabod sighs, “Shall we continue up to the Apothecary?”

Jahlo grins, “Yes, I for one am glad to have a soldier protecting me when we get transported to who knows where when this finally activates!” slapping his guard on the back and winking at him. The guard looks at him like he’s nuts!

As they grow closer to the Apothecary the eyes of the staff glow brighter. Ichabod is excited, her strides lengthen as she sways the staff before her, attempting to locate the source of the glow. Directly in front of the Apothecary the eyes smoulder brightly.

She tries the door, and, as expected, it is locked. Wik almost tips his hand to the guards as he bends to release the lock. His friends caution him and he thinks better of his actions, right then.

Tessalia suggests a different method of distracting the soldiers as she raises her gown, unfortunately it distracts the group as well. “Uhm, yes...” Every male present fails their will check...

Ichabod allows them to persuade her to return to the festivities.

Ooma on the other hand chatters with Methlynd, curious about these Dwarfs she’s heard about. She starts off asking Methlynd how he enjoys his job and about his employer. She apologises if she sounds like she is disagreeing with him, but she has a hard time believing he enjoys his job, “that’s all.”

She goes on, “Uh, well, I’ve heard some people going on about slave-Dwarves?” she watches him for his reaction.

He is slightly stunned and looks at her. “You’re a Dwarf. I mean, how did you earn your free...; I mean, how are you here, surely you... do you not know of...”

“I am not from around here!” Ooma asserts.

The soldier relaxes a great deal, “Oh, I see, not from around here. This would explain why you are above ground... So you know nothing of the caves? Or the tunnels?”

Ooma asserts again that she knows nothing.

“Oh, hmmm. Well. The tunnels under North Triton are worked by Dwarfs. They work the mines, and Lord Triton markets the gems and metals for them. You’re not aware of this?” He seems surprised that Ooma is unaware, he mutters that everyone has been wondering how a Dwarf got above ground. “Other than the Haberdashers, who earned their freedom...”

They go on discussing this and the soldier seems genuinely surprised that she doesn’t work the mines. “I was raised with humans, I don’t do mines.” The soldier continues to stare at her, he’s simply never met a dwarf who lives above ground.

Ooma asks, half-joking, if she is in danger of being tossed into these mines? She is only partially reassured at the answer; she is safe because she is under Lady Jane’s protection.

Ooma asks him a difficult question, “Would the city fare better with or without Lord Triton? Are you guys being oppressed?”

He shakes his head, “No.” He sounds uncomfortable and begs her not to continue along this line of chatter.

A thin, willowy lady, her blonde locks flowing behind her, walks down the hill toward the two. Ooma takes a moment to realise that this woman’s cerulean eyes are glowing.

As she reaches them, she places her thin hand on the soldier’s arm and asks, “Are you supposed to be down here?”

The tall guard looks up. “I’m guarding one of your guests on Lady Jane’s orders.”

The gleaming eyes fall upon Ooma and, disdainfully she utters, “Oh, yes. one of the Dwarves. Well, would you please come back. I need you up here now.” The soldier stutters, unsure what to do.

“I’m supposed...”

“I don’t care.” Lady Judy says, “I need you now.” She turns and strides back up the hill.

They both follow, Ooma shrugging and letting the guard know she understands. “No harm,” she reassures him as they walk back in the gated area.

As Ooma attempts to show good breeding, and curtseying rather than smacking the Lady Judy, she sees, in the younger sister’s hand, her mother’s broach. The one they’d admired earlier. Turning but not moving, Ooma over hears the insistent whispers from Judy.

Fingering the broach she scoffs, tossing it in the air, "Mother thinks it a pretty piece of jewellery," she laughs, the sound brittle. "She's so insipid,” she tosses the piece behind her, letting it fall to the ground, and storms off, the soldier shaking his head, following her.

Ooma retrieves the broach and tries to give it to the elderly soldier at the gate who is horrified and practically cries when she tries to hand it to him, “Listen I just found this over there...”

“I’m not touching that. No. You take it to the Lady Triton. I’ll have nothing to do with that...” His face is abject horror. He is terrified of that broach...

Of the Broach? or of Lady Triton? These guards have been fairly easy going, why is the broach terrifying this seasoned veteran...

o0o

weaving magic...

Fledgling Dungeon Master,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*