#15: Minstrel's Glade

Our rest, thankfully, is undisturbed.  The shadows of Peryton Pass loom behind us, and though we managed to shake the goblins, we are assailed by doubts.  Will Westtower survive the winter without the caravan?  Will authorities in Mirabar hear our tale, and will they react appropriately?  Ultimately, we tend to the matters at hand—caring for Jent’s wounds, seeing to the order of the camp and morale of Erathmar’s men, and planning for our arrival in Mirabar.

Morning, however, presents itself as a shroud of dark, grey clouds in the distance—a sure sign of a coming storm.  Gabrielle is cold and miserable, as is her crying child.  We make what arrangements we can, though when the rain comes, everyone is miserable.  The wagons struggle through muddy patches on the road, and our pace is not great.  Wet blankets do little to warm the men or their spirits.

Ahead, the trail begins to decline, enough that the wagons and men slip and struggle to keep their footing.  Erathmar raises concerns over the condition of the road—should a wagon slide from the road, it could be disastrous—and we are presented with a decision.  Forge ahead with risk, or wait it out in the hopes that the rains will relent.  With no sign of relief from the rain, we decide to risk the first wagon descending.  We all sigh a breath of relief when the driver of the first wagon signals safe passage.

At Audric’s direction, we send everyone down the slope to meet the first wagon before Erathmar and one of his men attempt the second wagon.  For a few long seconds, we hold our breath as the wagon begins to slide in the mud, but over the course of several yards the horses regain their footing and its course is righted, the wagon descending safely.  We decide to press on through the night, and around midnight the terrain begins to level, easing everyone’s labors.

The sun begins to rise on the horizon, and while the rain has let up a bit, it’s still cold, wet and miserable.  I spare a moment to cast a blessing upon Jent’s child, protecting it from the cold and elements for a few hours.  It’s not much, but the blessing of Malar quiets the babe.  Our journey, while hard, is uncontested, and after several hours we reach the tall, imposing stone walls of Mirabar.

We’re hailed by a group of guards who question Erathmar about his business in Mirabar and the group’s travels.  We reveal the fate of the caravan bound to Westtower, and after sharing other news we are granted access to the city.  We find ourselves upon the road leading to Undercity Square, the heart of the citadel.  I ask the guards if there is an authority we should report to regarding the caravan; instead, they let us know that a guard captain will seek us out.  We share our intent to seek accommodations in Undercity Square and make haste to find succor in a warm inn.

The populace is of many races, and the sight of so many dwarves, so many people, and so much bustling energy is a shock after the rustic surroundings of the past several weeks.  Bonie reveals that she has a cottage in the city, left to her by her late parents, and invites us to join her at her home.  We accept our invitation.

Erathmar stays us before we depart, letting us know that our safe arrival is a reasonable conclusion to our arrangement.  Surprisingly, he hands us both a small pouch that contains several chips of gems, bits of ore and other valuable materials as payment for our services.  Audric and I accept, with plans to discuss the distribution of the unexpected windfall later, and part ways with Erathmar and his men, at least for now.  He reveals that they’ll be staying at The Folded Tabard, and we promise to meet up with them again soon.

We arrive at Bonie’s cottage and find it in disrepair.  She laments the condition, letting us know that it will need to be prepared for the winter.  We are surprised by a call of “Bonie!” from across the street, where a young woman emerges and embraces her in a hug.  It’s a side of Bonie we have yet to encounter, and in their greeting the woman’s name is revealed to be Eliza.  They are clearly friends, and though Eliza apparently has business at the moment, they make plans to meet up again later.

I inquire if there’s a place of business to purchase some warm food and drinks, and she sends me and Selben to a nearby purveyor.  We bring back armloads of food, and try to settle in.  The cottage is nothing extraordinary, but it is adorned with several pieces of fine leatherwork.  Bonie tells us that her father was a leatherworker, and apparently one of some talent.  We share a meal and start to discuss plans for the coming days.

We rest like the dead, having spent the last day and a half awake and traveling.  We wake late but meet Bonie with intention to meet her employer, Abbé Lira.  She takes us across town to an aged cottage with a steeply pitched roof where Bonie raps upon a heavy wooden door.  We are greeted by an exotically beautiful woman dressed in lavish robes—Bonie greets her as Kintara.

“I see you have returned,” Kintara says.  “My master will be pleased to know.  Please enter.”  We are led through an antechamber where we wait for Kintara to return.  She leads us into the main chamber with a roaring hearth, where we meet who we presume to be Abbé Lira, though his face is hidden by the cowl of a heavy robe.  We sit, and Bonie begins to relate our tale to Abbé.  After hearing an abbreviated version, from Westtower on from Bonie’s perspective, he asks how he can be of service, and Audric fills in the pieces of Bonie’s story, stretching the history back to Shadfeld, our encounter with Carcerus and the cultists in Carrock, and events since.  Audric goes into a surprising amount of detail, even relating the events surrounding the ring.  At that, Abbé asks to see it, and Audric passes it to him.  Abbé pulls back his cowl, revealing that he’s less than a middle-aged man (likely of Northern bloodline)—surprising, as I expected someone older.  He takes measure of the ring and hands it back to Audric.

“Without fail, your path should lead you to Longsaddle.”  He explains that Audric will find a line of magi there who make study of such items, a family, and that they are the best equipped to help in this endeavor.  Audric questions the integrity of this family of mages, and Abbé provides an explanation that seems to quell any fears of treachery.  The family is called the Harpells—the lands they own comprise the bulk of Longsaddle, which is slightly larger than Carrock.  He instructs Audric to seek out Malchor Harpell, offering to provide us a guide that we might make haste.  Abbé Lira seems rather intent on Audric pursuing this journey soon.

Audric explains Jent’s situation as well, asking if Abbé Lira has some employment or placement for the warrior.  Abbé says he’ll see what he can do.  I take the opportunity to question him—who he is, what his motivations might be.  His answers are cryptic—touching on “helping the citizenry” and pursuing righteous causes, and when pressed, eludes any further explanation.  He seems a maverick, though his disposition towards Bonie and Jent, as well as his seeming forthrightness with Audric make me tend to believe most of what he says regarding his purpose.

The line of questioning seems to make Bonie anxious, and I resist the urge to press Abbé further, so I instead ask her simply if he can be trusted.  Bonie nods, responding “With all my heart, absolutely.”  That’s good enough for me.  We commit to making the journey, but not before Selben’s studies have concluded, and not before I have been able to pursue my own.

Selben

Selben and I spend the week cloistered at the inn, studying and copying furiously.  At the end of the endeavor, Selben has remastered the ability to translate the most basic magic, and I have added several potent spells to my arsenal, though not without disappointment as a few spells escape my understanding for now.  The ability to immerse myself in the arcane is a welcome relief from weeks of stress spent worrying about Korvich, Carcerus, and Kezia’s cryptic reading.

We are greeted halfway through our studies by Oreiron, a sturdy dwarf who reveals himself as our guide to Longsaddle, sent by Abbé Lira.  We make plans to leave in the coming days, and Audric pursues business about town.  Bonie reaches out to us a few days before our departure, explaining that Mirabar holds little interest for her—she offers to accompany us, and we are glad to have her sword and company in our troupe once again.

On the day of our departure, we gather in Undercity Square and make our final preparations.  Our confidence is high—the days of rest, study and preparation have instilled a positive vibe, and we are excited to leave for Longsaddle.  I hope that Audric can find peace among the Harpells, and that we find solutions to the mystery of the ring.

The first day of our trip is uneventful; the travel is easy compared to Peryton Pass.  We make camp for the night, splitting shifts, and Oreiron offers to tell us a tale of the “Minstrel’s Glade”:

“‘Twas named after a minstrel travelin'’ this same road. Went missin’ from ‘is friends an’ turned up along the trail a week later, killed by spirits: hanged from mid-air without ropes... with his ‘ands burned off ‘an ‘is balls ripped out. Not a vision for the faint o’ heart, my apologies, lass. ...I was but a wee dwarf when they coined the place, nearly a hunnerd years ago now. ‘Tis on dark, cold nights like this that ye hear the witches’ wailing o’er the chill o’ the wind...”

I take the opportunity after his tale to get to know Oreiron a bit.  While he is an employee of Abbé Lira, he also shares Abbé’s care for the community, and seems to like serving as a guide for causes he deems worthwhile.

After Audric awakens me for my watch, while the warrior is still awake, we are disturbed by a lulling, melancholy tune that drifts through the darkness of the woods beyond.  My instinct—after determining that it’s not a joke being played by Audric—is to immediately wake the others.  Oreiron, upon hearing the melody, immediately believes it to be the witches from his tale.  For someone who didn’t seem spiritual a few moments earlier, he seems legitimately fearful now.

Audric seems interested in examining the source of the melody, curious that it might be related to his situation with Mystra but doesn’t seem completely convinced.  He explains that he’s hearing voices in his head compelling him to come.  As I can certainly relate to fickle gods using questionable methods to prove a point, we decide to investigate, especially since Bonie seems eager to investigate it herself.  Oreiron reluctantly agrees to follow.

We push through the light woods in the dark and come upon a series of lights in the distance, questioning the intelligence of our pursuit, but ultimately it is Bonie’s curiosity that wins out, and we decide to continue.  When we get closer, the lights are revealed to be a group of humanoid women in luminous silks—clearly inappropriate garb for the temperature—and Bonie says that they’re “not witches, but druids.”  I cast a blessing on Audric, who volunteers to go ahead in answer to the voices in his head, and when he approaches the song stops abruptly.

“We weren’t meant to see this,” Oreiron mutters behind us.  The forms disperse, all except for one of them that appears just ahead of us, brandishing a burning torch.  Her hair is red, deepened by the light cast from her torch, and her eyes blue.  Her face bears a striking resemblance to Kezia, even if everything else seems out of place.

“Who are you?” she asks Audric, to which the holy warrior stutters out his name in reply.  She circles us, almost out of curiosity, taking Audric by the hand, the hand which bears the magical ring.  She warns Audric:

Zeb's Marionette

“You harbor a powerful, dark magic! He wishes you to fight, nay, to kill, that he may return! He will possess you, body and soul!”  On a hunch, I reveal my crude Tarrokka deck, holding up the Marionette card, wondering if the elusive “he” she is referring to may trigger some recognition.  It seems to register, but not clearly, and when I start to lay out the rest of Kezia’s reading it becomes clear that I’m not making any sense.

She speaks to Audric, “What you are seeking eludes you, even as you search.  Your eyes are blind to its passage.”  

“To what’s passage?” Audric asks, but the question goes unanswered.

She turns one last time to look at me, a wistful look in her eye.  “My great-grandmother once used cards like the ones that you have.  She died many years ago.”

“Kezia?” I ask.

“That is my name,” she replies inquisitively.  “How did you know?  I was named after her.”

One of the other figures rushes forth and grasps Kezia’s arm, pulling her into the woods.  I cry out, “Wait, we met Kezia.  We met your great-grandmother!”  Kezia is forced away, and they disappear into the woods.  I rush to follow, but Audric holds me back, throwing words that were said to him early that day back into my face.  “You shouldn’t rush off into he woods alone at night, it’s dangerous.  There might be bears.”  I fail to find the humor in it this time, however, more curious than ever about the nature of Kezia, her reading, and now her apparent great-granddaughter who bears the same name.