The Kingdom Mine - Let's Play Betrayal at Krondor!

The Inn

((Note: There are about half a dozen variants of the "how did you sleep" messages at inns, and a couple dozen different conversations and interactions you can have with different male and female patrons, depending on whether they want to gamble with you, or whether they want to talk or not period. I'm not going to show you guys every last one, I don't think, so go ahead and play this game when you can.))



Owyn smiled. Still feeling light headed from his well-earned sleep, he waited patiently as the nightmaster stirred from his office behind the counter.

"You seem to be in a good mood," the burly man said, picking up the guest register. Owyn only nodded noncommittally, knowing the innkeeper might increase his rates if he seemed too pleased with the service. "Seeing as how you slept so well, how about another night?" the nightmaster asked. "And just to show you how generous I am, I'll keep the same rate. 7 sovereigns per night. What do you say?"

Owyn shrugged, moving past the nightmaster to the common room, then blinking as he heard Locklear's voice raised in laughter. After a few moments search, Owyn found him in conversation with a well-dressed man at one of the corner tables.

After a string of bawdy tales about mercenaries and blushing maidens, the merchant launched into a tale about a lord's daughter he'd once tried to win, though with quite a bit of resistance from a man named Luc.

"He demanded to arm wrestle you for the girl?" Locklear asked, still chuckling.

"Actually, no. Alas, it was the girl's idea," the man sighed.

"I'd have strangled her!" Locklear said with a laugh, holding his sides. "Ah well, I don't suppose you can win them all."

"Oh but I did win," the man continued, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "The girl knew Luc was the strongest man in the village and so did I, had known it for several days once I'd found out who all her possible suitors were. Any way, I had visited an herb shop and picked up a vial of some wonderful stuff called Fadamor's Formula, a potion which I'd heard mercenaries say helped sustain their strength during long fights. I waited until a few moments before the contest before downing it because I knew it would last only a short while. I marched in, sat down at the table, and very nearly took the poor fellow's arm off. When it seemed his personal honor was at stake, I took him aside and told him I would let him soundly beat me in front of everyone and let him have the girl if he gave me half the amount of the dowry. Half an hour later, I was a very wealthy man."

Owyn smiled a little, thinking of some of the "ladies" his father had attempted to attach him to, and then reached out to tap Locklear's shoulder. He glanced up at Owyn, still grinning as he bid the merchant a farewell and moved to the door where Gorath waited.

"We'll do a little asking around," Locklear said, "and then be on our way. With a little luck we can reach Sarth in just a day or two."

The three moved through the town slowly, watching as merchants unlocked their shops, fishermen headed south to the sea, and bakers set out the first completed batches of bread to cool. Finally, they picked a house towards the eastern edge of town at random, and knocked.

There were stirrings inside the house. After a short time a stout lad of about thirteen came to the door, opening it wide. "If you're looking for my brother, he's not here right now."

"Actually, no," Locklear replied. "Are your parents about?"

The boy paused for a heartbeat. "My folks were killed a year back. Mitch and I moved here several months ago to study swordplay with Tad Questor. We're gonna find the bloody brigands who did it and feed em their own hearts!"

Locklear was about to offer some fatherly advice about leaving such work to those older and more qualified, but seeing the boy's expression he decided against it. Instead he asked, "Is Tad good with a sword?"

"What, are you kidding? He's the GREATEST! Lives right over there." The boy motioned toward a large house just a few yards away, then excused himself, closing the door behind him.

"Questor?" Gorath asked, raising an eyebrow. "A descendant?"

"That, or an affectation," Locklear replied, shrugging. "I doubt that Questor himself would've chosen to settle his family here, but perhaps a descendant might have come here to benefit from the cachet of his name."

Gorath knocked loudly at the front door of the large home. Presently a finely dressed man greeted them. "Fine day, don't you think? I'm Tad Questor. Have you come for a lesson?" He asked, his eyebrows raised in a hopeful arch as he mopped sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief.

"Lesson?" inquired Locklear. The man disappeared into his house and returned with a blunt tipped fencing foil. "Have you come to learn the finer arts of swordsmanship?" he asked, punctuating his question with several impressive maneuvers. "I could give you all a quick lesson for only 75 sovereigns. How does that sound?"

Locklear watched Questor's motions for a few more passes, then nodded. "I think we might take you up on that," he murmurs, undoing his belt pouch and giving the dandy the needed amount.

"Wonderful! Oh, I am so pleased you have accepted my offer," he said, almost bouncing with excitement as he led the three back into the house.

As they followed, Gorath shot Locklear a skeptical glance. This strutting little peacock looked as though he had never been in a fight in his life. Their doubts were quickly dispelled as Tad took them through the finer points of sword use. Though he may not have had much experience in the field it was evident to all he was a master of his art. He was even able to offer Owyn a few pointers on how best to use his staff in hand to hand combat.

The lesson lasted several hours and they were exhausted when they finished, but all agreed the money had been well spent.



The last house out of town provided little in the way of useful information, but was lucrative enough in other ways. "Come in! Come in!" chimed a courteous young woman in a brightly colored apron. She held the cottage door open. Kneeling in front of a stone fireplace a young man was placing several small logs into a crackling fire. The man looked up with a smile. "Yes, please! We just finished eating, but I had some luck fishing today so there's plenty to go around."

Locklear's nostrils flared as he welcomed the smell of the barbecued sea bass and fresh bread still lingering in the air. "Its a tempting offer, but I'm afraid we must be going," he said. A drink of fresh water will suffice."

"Of course. But won't you take some food with you then? I could have Loralyn prepare a small package for each of you - good for two days at least. She's quite a cook, you know."

Locklear shrugged, smiling. "How can we say no?"

With a smile, the young man motioned to his wife. He moved next to her and helped prepare the rations, stopping only long enough to act out several key moments in a somewhat credible fishing story about a big one that got away.

When they were through they handed several packages to Locklear who accepted them graciously. "You have been too kind," he said.

((Score 2 Ration packs for everyone, and 7.5% to everyone's Accuracy: Melee from that training. 5% x 1.5 for having only that skill tagged while training. That's it for tonight, so I'll continue tomorrow. ))

The day's light was beginning to fade behind the Calastius Mountains as they approached the outskirts of town once more. Gorath glanced back over his shoulder, then gestured the others to halt. "We should examine the graveyard," he said. "Delekhan's spies are in the area, and so there will be caches."

Locklear was still unhappy with the idea of digging up graves, but the memory of the equipment they had found on earlier expeditions kept him quiet this time as they made their way between the irregularly scattered headstones.

Two graves proved valuable. The first, reading 'Baylor Dalatail: Drank his milk everyday', yielded several vials of dalatail milk which Owyn slipped into his belt, while the second, 'Todor Milbo: The Townsfolk Strung Him Up', produced a surprisingly thick crossbow string.



"If we can ever get our hands on heavier crossbows," Gorath said as he slipped the oiled string into a pouch, "this will be useful."

Even as he spoke, Locklear was well into a shallow grave marked 'Timothy Weyant: Suffers no More'. As he worked, grunting with each shovelful of dirt tossed aside, Owyn suddenly felt a strange chill. He twisted, trying to call out, but the chill seemed to still his voice as it deepened, and now Locklear felt it too, stumbling back out of the partially-opened grave.

Gorath gasped, gripping his sword tight and fighting the terror rising within him as that icy wave passed through him and yanked the breath from his lungs. Then, even as the moredhel fought to catch his breath and gather his nerves a swirling cloud of darkness rose from the broken ground and twisted towards him...

It's a Trap



The wraith's amorphous form twisted again, swirling forward as if bowing towards Gorath, and then shuddering as a ball of that same cloudy darkness streaked from its form to his, wrapping him in a sickly white light. Gorath moaned in pain as frost crackled across his sword and his breath froze into sparkling crystals in his beard.

But then Owyn was ready, and the young mage all but screamed the incantation that lit the night with fire to counter the creature's ice. Normal flame might not have touched the thing, but Owyn's spell made it howl and writhe while Locklear and Gorath both readied crossbows.

"Keep it off me with your crossbows while I get the next spell ready!" Owyn shouted, breathing hard as he began to marshal his will again. Gorath's bolt flew wide, but Locklear's traced a coruscating blue trail through the wraith's body, and it seemed to flinch back just as Owyn cast again. Again his spell crackled through the intervening space and again the wraith screamed as it burned...and then it sank into the ground, swirling back into its grave.

Gorath stretched, tendons creaking and joints popping as he slowly shook free of the chill. Despite the creature's disappearance he was wary to drop his guard, but a quick survey of the area seemed to confirm that it was gone for now. "I think it's gone," he said. "Not destroyed, but driven off...let's get moving. Now."

They returned to Babon's Hostel that night, and though Owyn played for the crowd once more he made no money. The night passed quietly enough, but when they left the next morning and headed for the crossroads where one of the eastern roads crossed the Calastius towards Eggley, they found their way blocked.



Owyn frowned as they eyed their opponents. "Why is there a human with them?" He asked, pointing at the hard-looking man in a loose white tunic and a bright red sash.

Locklear sighed. "Quegan. Mercenary or pirate, and either way willing to take Delekhan's gold to fight the Kingdom."

Gorath glanced to Locklear. "You fight amongst yourselves almost as much as we do. It is only sensible for Delekhan to take advantage of this."

Locklear glared at Gorath for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, they're blocking the way, and I don't see any way to slip past without being noticed," he said, loosening his sword in its scabbard. "Let's get this over with."

Fight to the Death



They kept the distance long this time. Owyn's first spell caught one of the two moredhel squarely, sending him flying backward in a charred and useless heap, but as Locklear and Gorath started to exchange crossbow fire with both quegan and moredhel, the rest of the mage's spells missed, whistling into the hills until he had to collapse to his knees, gasping for breath.

Locklear sent bolt after bolt at the Quegan freebooter, whistling shafts digging into the thug's body until he turned to free, while Gorath abandoned his crossbow and drew his blade, closing on the last moredhel as the dark elf charged Owyn. Gorath ended his opponent with three quick blows, then turned in time to see the Quegan retreating in a stumbling and uneven run.

"Stop him, Owyn!" Locklear yelled, even as he frantically reloaded. Owyn moaned with the effort, but his invitation went winging to the fleeing human and enveloped him, drawing him backwards to meet Locklear's final bolt as it thudded into his chest...



Owyn slowly gathered his strength, resting while Locklear and Gorath stripped the corpses and glancing up only when Gorath spun some heavy piece of gold into the air.



"Interesting," the dark elf murmured, examining the key before tucking it away. "I wonder what a rogue like this one was doing with this sort of key."

"Well, we can keep an eye out for any expensive locks. A lot of these are made in sets, so this might open a lot of doors for us," Locklear said, nodding as they finished and began to gather themselves for the trip south.

This thread is still fantastic. Probably my favorite LP to date. It's convinced me not only to re-read REF's books but I also picked up the Conclave of Shadows and Darkwar Saga trilogies.

You'll have to let me know if those are any good (that and the Serpentwar Saga, or really ANY of the books aside from the Empire trilogy and the core trilogy).

As a side note for people who have read the books and are wondering how wraiths are handled in the game, it works like this: They're immune to cold and resistant to normal weapons, but take normal damage from other spells. It's implied (but not stated in the game) that you drive them off but don't kill them, which is consistent with the books (where they cannot be damaged except by magic, but hate the touch of steel, iron, or fire and will flee from it.)

Ch1 Introduction, Part 2

A farmer was ahead of them. Debating for a moment whether it would be more prudent to hide before they were seen or to behave normally, Locklear decided that the man was probably of no immediate threat to them.

"This is a bad time for travel," the thin, greasy-haired man said, glancing almost nervously out to the west.




"Surely you have heard," the farmer said, glancing west again. "The learned monks of Sarth have predicted a terrible storm is coming this way and I would hate to think of anyone caught out in it. Why a man could catch his death of the fevers. If you would like, you may ride it out in my barn."

"And what profit would you turn in this enterprise, farmer...?" Locklear asked, raising an eyebrow and letting his voice trail off in inquiry.

"Rowe, good sirs, and all I expect are five golden sovereigns, a reasonable sum you must admit, and the guard over my cows. You can sleep in the hay loft of my barn," he suggested, then shot a dark glance at Gorath, "but my wife and I don't take in elves."

Locklear scowled, recognizing a bargaining ploy when he heard it. "Seven gold pieces," he offered, "the elf stays with us and we each get a hard roll for breakfast."

Rowe considered for a moment before replying. "My wife's a decent cook, and we're charitable folk, but food's been dear this year. Ten sovereigns, the elf can stay, and you'll get a hot meal, but lot of you milk cows the next morning. That's the offer. Take it or leave it."

Locklear and Gorath exchanged a glance, and then the elf mimicked the nervous farmer's repeated glances west, seeing nothing but clear blue skies. Not a single cloud or even the hint of a storm building over the Bitter Sea. He glanced back at the strangely restless farmer, then gave Locklear the faintest shake of his head.

"I think we'll try our chances on foot. Good day to you, farmer," Locklear said, offering a hand even as he shook his head to refuse the offer.

Rowe just shrugged jerkily and turned away, heading north towards Questor's view as they continued south towards Sarth.

Once more, Owyn began to pause their progress every few hours to cast his scrying spell, revealing not one but two chests on the road from Questor's View to Sarth

The first was a battered and unlatched chest tucked into a crevice in one of the upthrust boulders that rimmed the coast. Owyn approached carefully, but another scrying revealed no signs of tampering, and the young man carefully lifted the lid and examined the contents.




"More shells," Gorath noted, glancing at Locklear. "I suspect you were right about my people's uses for them."

The squire shrugged. "The chest's unlocked and unguarded. It may be a peasant's cache, in which case I'd rather we left them in place."

"We need the money more," Gorath said evenly, moving over Owyn to take the shells, ignoring Locklear's uneasy expression.

They continued southeast after that, and the second chest proved of more obvious origin. Another wordlocked moredhel cache, whose contents also proved to be far more valuable than a trio of cracked shells.




Owyn grinned as he cracked the wax on the scroll and began to read quickly. "This one's new!" he cried, glancing at Locklear and Gorath. "It's called 'skin of the dragon', and should allow me to sheathe one or all of us in a sort of magical armor."

Locklear nodded. "Excellent. I'm more and more certain that dragging you along to Krondor was a good idea, Owyn," he said, smiling slightly at the younger man's blush. The squire examined the etching near the base of the broadsword's blade, but concluded that the blessing was a weak one that couldn't compare with his current blade.

Just then they heard voices speaking in low, harsh tones, and Gorath's eyes widened and then narrowed. Wordlessly, he drew his sword and gestured for Locklear to do the same before he slipped behind a tree and was still. Locklear and Owyn scrambled to follow, and were just settling behind cover when a moredhel war band lead by a yellow-cloaked magician approached the chest. The magician snapped a few orders to his guards, then crouched before the wordlock, one hand reaching out to begin spinning the wheels.

The mage's eyes widened as he realized that riddle had been solved and that the chest's lid was swinging free, and he leapt to his feet, screaming orders in moredhel even as the three companions charged from around the trees.

Charge into Battle



The moredhel magician was fast. Too fast for any of them, and even as one of his guards locked back the string of a crossbow and the other whipped his blade free there was a stunning, blinding flash of light. Owyn cried out and stumbled, flailing as his eyesight deserted him. The crossbow-wielding moredhel was nearly as quick, bouncing a bolt off of Locklear's shoulder. Locklear gasped with pain even as the quarrel glanced upward off his armor and snapped into a tree in a shower of pine needles.

Gorath charged forward, engaging the other moredhel swordsman with a series of fierce swings and thrusts even as the enemy spellcaster wove another spell. This time a swirling mass of fist-sized, rainbow-colored balls sprang from the dark elf's hands, moving to wrap Locklear and merging into a white nimbus before reversing themselves and streaking back to strike the caster, who stood straighter and breathed deep even as Locklear sagged, gasping under the weight of his armor.

The squire shuddered, suddenly feeling limp and lifeless. He moved, but slowly, and the blade he usually wielded with a deft speed and subtlety felt like a six foot chunk of solid iron in his shaky grip. Still, he forced himself to move forward, to close with the crossbowman, and even when his blow slid weakly off his opponent's arm he managed to knock the crossbow from the dark elf's hands, forcing him to defend himself.

Owyn recovered his sight, but by then Gorath's opponent was too close, and the young noble was forced to come to his companion's aid, his staff cracking soundly across the back of the moredhel warrior's knees, sprawling him onto his back where Gorath's downward blow finished him.

From there, it was chaos and confusion. Locklear, Gorath, and Owyn all rushed the moredhel spellcaster to take advantage of his weakened state. The spell might have stolen Locklear's strength, but it still sapped the mage's life force, and soon a rain of blows cut the spellcaster down. It was only a matter of time before the final dark elf fell as well, and then the roadside was silent once more save for the occasional cry of a gull as it swooped in from the sea.

Here's the last batch of Moredhel Wordlock riddles for this Chapter. Have fun!

1)Walnut
4)Hangman
5)Fire
7)The Dead
8)Arrow

Wordluck jumbo pack today, eh.

#1: [Some kind of nut. Six letters, so WALNUT?]
#2: [TRADE MARES], if only because the latter word shows up in the clue.
#5: [FIRE]
#7: [THE DEAD]. I mean, come on.
#8 (last): [ARROW], because of "pointed head".

EDIT: Heh, and for #6, how about [STAIRS]?

((Ok, I'm going to do two more posts tonight if I can, one covering the normal parts of Sarth, and another covering the discussion with Brother Marc. After that, I pause while people guess the wordlocks and I decide which of the rest of the combats in this chapter I actually post in .gif form, which I just write so as to be a bit more creative, and which I simply skip over entirely for the sake of keeping things moving. After the riddles are guessed or people give up, I'll move on to a small bit of mine under Sarth, then following up on Rowe's offer before doubling back to Eggley, Tannerus, and the temple of Silban between Eggley and Hawk's Hollow.))



Once the three were rested, Owyn was the first to begin searching the dead this time. Carefully he sifted through the moredhel magician's belongings in the hopes of finding a spell or some other scrap of arcane knowledge. While Gorath secured the mage's heavy two-handed blade and began to examine it, Owyn found a strange leather pouch attached to the dead mage's belt.




As Owyn secured the pouch, Gorath smiled and tossed his blessed lamprey to Locklear. "You'll do better with that than I," he said. "This will do nicely."



The path turned. After a few minutes of travelling the roadbed began a steady rise, spiralling around the base of a sheer, rock faced hill.

"Sarth," Locklear said. "We probably have enough time to drop in for a brief visit, and it might break up the monotony of the road. Want to take a look around?"

Owyn stared up in awe at the ancient fortress. "Yes," he murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face. "If nothing else, we need to sell these scrolls I've acquired at the Stardock Annex."

Locklear took one look at the increasingly avid mage and resisted the urge to cuff him. "A short visit," he emphasized, frowning. "I'm not losing you in the archives."

Sarth




Locklear was interrupted in his study of the strangely unfinished mandala by the rapid approach of the abbot. A man of advancing years, his hair and beard seemed like a snow drift, starkly in contrast to his dark skin which was wrinkled like carefully crafted mahogany. Shaking Locklear's hand, he greeted them as if he had known them all their lives. "Welcome to Ishap's Abbey, travellers. I am Father John. How may we be of assistance to you?"

"We thought while we were passing through that we would come and visit the famous Abbey of Ishap at Sarth," Locklear said. "You've done impressive things here."

The abbot's eyes crinkled as he gave them a prideful glance. "We hope to do more. We've only begun our work here, but thanks to Brother Anthony and Brother Marc, we have come a long way."

Locklear bit his lip, hesitant to ask his question. "Could we impose on your hospitality a bit? We have a few questions..."

"I would love to, though alas, I have services to attend at the moment. But if you have questions, Sarth is the place to come. We have books on many things, and if you seek out Brother Marc, he can help you with a good many other questions. Good day to you!"



Owyn stared. He moved slowly between the groaning shelves, attempting to divine the principles on which the vast collection was organized. Then, he found what he was looking for. While many of the titles on the shelf were either too faded to be read or printed in foreign tongues, most of the subject matter seemed to be related to magic.

Snatching the closest volume at hand, Owyn began scanning the pages of A Gramarye of Magycke Inn The Kshyan Reallm. Flipping pages, he was nearly oblivious of the priest who marched down the aisle and snatched the volume from his hands, carefully replacing it from where it had come.

"These books are restricted," the priest said sternly. "Long ago, we learned the wisdom of making sure an initiate has some training before embarking on reading our magical themas."

"I've had some training," Owyn began, but was silenced by a hard look from the priest.

"You are more than welcome to visit our other collections, but this is restricted," the priest said, his tone indicative that he would tolerate no argument. "I am sorry."

((There are a TON of different book messages depending on what section you search, 4-6 for each of 4-5 shelves. If you want to see them all...well, you know what I'm going to say.))



While Gorath and Locklear waited, Owyn began to dispose of all the equipment they'd acquired since they left Hawk's Hollow for the last time. Swords, Armor, shells, spells, and crossbows, the Annex had need of them all. The more practical equipment, according to the shopkeeper, was used in various experiments by the Stardock Academy or provided to its small garrison, while the spell scrolls would further Pug's long-term dream of Kingdom where understanding of the basic principles of magic was universal, and where the study of magic was encouraged and systematized by a network of magicians cooperating for the good of the realm.

So, in order to overcome the prejudice many merchants and individual craftsman harbored towards practicioners of magic, the prices offered by the Annex were some of the best in the Western Realm. Whatever the reason, when Owyn returned to his companions he was grinning and hefting a large purse stuffed with sovereigns.

"Well done," Locklear said, nodding sharply. "Now, let's get going. The abbot said Brother Marc's somewhere outside Sarth's walls, and I want to speak with him before we return to the road.

((Indalecio: on one of those is close, but wrong.))



Elvandar

A garden was nearby. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of fresh fertilizer, Owyn pointed out a small cloud of dust that rose off the roadside. Within the cloud a mushroom shaped man was hard at work, his hoe rising and dipping over a row of budding pink potato eyes. Grinning as a sudden fancy struck him, Locklear crept up behind the monk until he was a mere foot or so from the brother's back.

"Good day, brother," Locklear said clearly, and struggled to hide a grin as the monk jumped a good two feet vertically.

"Ishap!" he cried, spinning to face the trio before taking a deep breath and letting out a little chuckle.




"No, no," the monk said, brushing dirty hands across the hem of his thick, coarse robe. "I was about to leave the garden anyway. Busy hands set the mind to work you know. On your way to Sarth?"

Locklear shrugged. "Perhaps, brother...?"

The monk of Ishap grinned and offered a dirt-stained hand, and when locklear took it his grip was surprisingly firm. "Brother Marc of Sarth. Glad to meet you. We don't get many illirati here. Books don't seem to interest the commoners as much as gold or wenching. But we have scholars enough, all going blind from reading worm eaten books and a dozen boys scribbling away their youth in our vaults. It is an unusual place."

"I've a friend who visited here once," Locklear said as he nodded his agreement. "He told me that you worship the god of Knowledge."

"They do say that, yes," Marc said, chuckling as if at some private joke. "I suppose after a fashion it is true. If there is a question that can be answered in no other place, your best hope is to look in our vaults."



Owyn stepped forward, frowning as he remembered his experience in the vaults below Sarth. "Is it permitted for outsiders to browse the books in the vaults? I would be interested in looking them over," he said, and carefully ignored Locklear's glance his way.

"Oh, It's fine with me," Marc said, shrugging, "but it's Brother Anthony you may have to convince. He doesn't like strangers wandering around down there without supervision. We have a number of rare and valuable books and it would be the worst kind of tragedy to lose them to a casual browser. I'll warn you though, you may have difficulty finding what it is you want. Many of the books have never been cataloged and unless you know very specifically what you are looking for either by the scribe's name or the title of the work, you might not find anything that will be of any value to you."

Owyn seemed crestfallen, then looked up again, his eyes bright and his face regaining some of the avidness that Locklear had noted when they first approached Sarth. "Do you know anything about spell-casting?"

The monk seemed surprised, raising an eyebrow at the young noble. "I know a little of it, though Brother Dominic knows more about it than I. As soon as he finishes his studies on Quegian civil codes, I'm certain he would be more than happy to sit down and talk to you about it. He should be only another two or three months at it I would think."

Locklear broke in, eager to move the topic along to more practical matters. "I'm afraid we don't have two or three months to wait. Why don't we leave the brother alone, nephew?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk! Now don't discourage the boy from asking questions or he'll become afraid to question anything," Marc said to Locklear, lifting one hand. "I think I might have some time to teach him a bit about focusing if you can spare a few sovereigns, say fifty. Is that acceptable to everyone?"

"More than acceptable," Owyn blurted before Locklear or Gorath could intercede again. "Where do we start?"

Marc grinned, clapping his hands together. "Ah, an enthusiastic student! Delightful. This will be a pleasure to teach."

******************

Owyn blanched. He had been assigned a simple enough task; cast a telekinetic spell to move his satchel closer to him. Instead, his satchel had remained obstinately stationary while hurling Brother Marc backwards into his well-tended crops...

"Are you all right?" Owyn gasped. "I didn't mean for that to happen."

"You are still depending on your eyes." Brother Marc sighed, brushing a stalk of corn out of his face as he struggled to his feet. "Concentrate. If you ever find yourself in a situation when you can't see what you're affecting, all the spells in the world will be utterly useless to you. Instead of trying to see your target, try to feel it. Now let's try this again. I know you'll learn this eventually..."

"We don't have any more time to waste," Locklear said, and this time it was his turn to ignore a pointed look from Owyn at the word 'wasted'. "Why don't you pick up your things and we can finish discussing other things with the brother, Owyn?"

Again on his feet, Brother Marc went to console his downcast pupil, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Remember, feel the target. That's the key. Until then, I suggest you stock up on a good supply of Lewton's Concentrate to get you through your exercises."

Owyn nodded, then shot a quick and almost guilty glance at Locklear as he thought of one final question. "Now that I know a little more about spell casting, perhaps there's a simple spell you could teach me?" He asked.

"Owyn..." Locklear muttered, his teeth showing in an expression that seemed nothing like a smile.

"Just something simple, so we can defend ourselves in case we run in to anyone hostile on the road," The young mage added hastily.

"I don't know what you imagine is waiting out there for you," Marc murmured, "but I believe I have just the thing. I will have to run up to the Vaults to search for it, but it is a little spell called Flamecast. Of course, there will be the matter of a fee, say 30 sovereigns. I know precisely where it is if you want me to run and get it. Shall I?"

"You can be quick about it?" Locklear sighed, knowing that he wouldn't win this argument. Besides, at that price they could sell it right back to the Annex for a considerable profit.

"I won't be a moment," Marc promised, headed uphill towards the fortress-turned-monastery. "I will return as quickly as my little feet can move me."

They waited. When at last it seemed the priest was never going to return, he appeared waddling down the hillside, a beribboned parchment missive stuffed beneath one of his arms. Collecting the money owed him from Owyn, he cheerfully handed over the scroll.

Locklear waited impatiently while Owyn stored the scroll, then stepped forward to speak to the monk himself. "Are there any hazards on the road south from here to Krondor? We are in something of a hurry and I would hate to run into any unexpected delays."

"Mmmm, I haven't heard any complaints from the travellers that have been through here in the past few weeks. I don't think the mercenaries that stopped by to speak to Brother Dominic said anything of it," Brother Marc said, running fingers through his tonsured hair.

"Mercenaries? They're not in Quegian press gangs, are they?" Locklear asked, his brow furrowing.

"Not to my knowledge, no," Marc said, still in that thoughtful tone. "These lot landed just south of Questor's View on a ship called the Foamspinner. As much as they've been up and down the road, I assumed they were in on a shore leave."

All three of them exchanged slow looks. "Were there many of them?" Owyn asked.

"Many of them? If you laid them head to foot, I imagine you could walk across the Straits of Darkness without getting your feet wet. It seems one of those Quegan galleys can carry a small village from one place to an other!" Marc said, chuckling to himself and missing the dismay that the three couldn't hide for a moment.

Something about the monk's response bothered Owyn. He considered for a moment, and then it came to him. "You said no dangers...so when is the storm going to hit? We're a little concerned about finding a place to stay so we don't get soaked," he asked.

Marc blinked, looking even more puzzled than before. "Storm? It is the first I have heard of such a meteorological disturbance. Brother Gierom didn't mention it to me before I left the abbey this morning..."

Locklear's brow furrowed further. "That's strange. We met a gentleman named Rowe who said a storm had been predicted by the brothers at the Abbey."

Marc shook his head. "I wonder why he would tell you such a thing. Of course," the brother added after a moment, shaking his head sadly, "he has been acting peculiarly since his wife died. Terrible tragedy, and striking at such a time when he had to give up his farm. I really must feel for the poor old soul."

Elvandar

"Mmmm, well, even if there is no storm we may need shelter," Locklear said even as Gorath and Owyn moved back to exchange quiet words. "Do you know of any good inns in the area? I think I might sleep a little better if I could bed down on something other than cold ground tonight."

Marc thought for a moment before replying. "There are a few. You might try Babon's Hostel in Questor's View or the old Bywater Inn. If it weren't for my duties here, I would be half inclined to join you." The brother sighed. "Some acolyte somewhere has been trying his hand at dream sendings, and I've not had a good night's sleep in weeks."

"Dream sendings?" Owyn asked.

"It's a way to send messages over long distances. Only certain magicians have the talent for it. Whoever it is, they can't be too far away because his images are fairly strong," Marc said, shrugging.

"What do they seem to be trying to say?" Locklear asked the monk.

"I'm not certain," Marc said, frowning a little. "The images are too disjointed, though now I think of it, I thought I had seen your elf friend's face before. Now I know why. His face was in the sendings."

"Seems we have quite a few things to think about," Locklear said as he made a slight gesture for Gorath and Owyn to begin moving. "Thank you, Brother Marc."

"Always a pleasure to help," said the monk, waving cheerfully to the other two as they retreated. "Come back and visit me again!"

"Perhaps we will. Goodbye, brother, and good day," Locklear said before the three turned to climb the trail to Sarth once more.

((And that's it for tonight. Still need more guesses on those Wordlocks, so speak up while I prepare the next few updates.))

#3: [RAIN]

Sarth



Locklear was preparing to castigate Owyn for his over-eager pursuit of magical knowledge as they left Sarth's Stardock Annex several hours later. But even as he arranged the words he would use to chastise the younger noble Gorath distracted him, lifting a hand to point to what looked to Locklear like perfectly ordinary stretch of mountainside.

"What is it?" Locklear asked, frowning as he squinted in the direction of Gorath's finger.

"A tunnel mouth," the moredhel said.

The squire frowned at Gorath, raising an eyebrow. "I think you're seeing things," he muttered, but by then the dark elf had already left the trail and began to cut cross-slope towards whatever he had seen. Owyn shot Locklear an apologetic glance and a shrug, then turned to follow.

"Damn," the squire cursed, moving to bring up the rear.

Trees whipped at their faces. Mumbling about the inconvenience of castle engineers, Gorath lead the way down the fir covered slope, arriving at last at the mouth of a large cave. "As I said. A cave mouth."

Locklear nodded, sighing again. "You were right. Let's have a look," he said, taking a torch from Owyn's pack and lighting it with flint and tinder before they descended into the black passage.

Under the City




"This bracing seems similar to the Mac Mordain Cadal" Gorath murmured as they slowly moved down the passageway. "But older and less well-maintained."

Despite the apparent age and dis-use of the tunnel, the structural supports seemed strong. The dampness that permeated the upper level of the Mac Mordain Cadal was totally absent here. Indeed, the air had a dry, stale flavor to it, as if nothing living had been lived here in a very long time.



As it turned out, that last impression proved inaccurate. The first side passage led to a heavily reinforced door sealed with a lock that Locklear quickly sprung, and as the door slipped open a new odor filled the air. A strange, pungent odor that slipped through the gap of the opening door along with a rustling, furry sound.

Gorath stared into the dim expanse of the room in front of them, and then swore loudly as a spider the size of a small pony rushed them, hairy legs brushing against the hard-packed earth of the floor and against each other while its chelicerae made a constant, low scraping noise.

It's a Trap



Owyn reacted first, practically screaming his spell as he thrust his hand spasmodically towards the approaching horror. The gout of flame missed, and in its blazing passage the ball illuminated a second spider skittering towards them. Gorath moved to intercept the second beast, a cry of revulsion in his throat while Locklear's first crossbow bolt dug into one of the first spider's leg joints. The thing hissed, shaking the bolt free and writhing for a moment before flashing up to the squire and coming to a sudden and abrupt halt.

The sudden starts and stops of the spiders' movements combined with their speed made Locklear faintly ill, and even as he let his crossbow fall aside and went for his sword the harsh bristles of the spider's forelegs were dragging at his ankles while fangs the length of his hand scored painfully down his greaves. Gorath, meanwhile, was simply keeping his own opponent at bay as best he could, using long lunges and broad sweeping arcs of his blade to force the spider back until Owyn was ready to cast a second spell. This time the flame took the giant insect directly in its thorax, and it's writhing legs cast obscene shadows on the wall that danced and twisted while it burned. The moredhel spat another curse in his own language, then drove his blade through the half-dead creature's head to finish the job.

While Gorath finished the second spider, Locklear continued to struggle with the first, taking another painful gouging from the thing's fangs. He was saved a possible poisoning or worse by the elven steel, but once more it dug deep against muscle and bone. But the squire gave better than he got, his blade severing one of the spider's legs, then another, making it crouch back and hiss threateningly before the squire lunged to drive his blade nearly to the cross-guard in one of its many clustered eyes. The spider convulsed, and was still.



While Owyn tended to Locklear's gouges Gorath explored the low, broad chamber. He found several tumbled masses of silky egg sacs that he torched with a shudder and a very old moredhel chest that, after a moment, he had open.




Gorath nodded and moved back to Owyn, handing the young mage the vial of blue liquid before he glanced towards Locklear. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," the squire hissed, wincing a little and massaging his legs. "It didn't get through my armor. Let's get moving."

Under the City




They pushed deeper into the abandoned mine. Down other side passages they encountered other nests of the giant spiders, but the application of Owyn's flames and Locklear's and Gorath's quarrels soon killed them or drove them back into cracks in the walls that seemed far too small to fit their bloated, hairy bodies. They found the occasional human corpse, too, dessicated things with a torch or two or a length of rope or a few scattered silvers to mark where it had fallen. Then, in a large chamber behind a particularly well-locked door they found a new threat.

Charge Into Battle



Scorpions. Huge ones that clattered and clacked forward in the dimly-lit chamber. It seemed almost as if they were guarding the large moredhel chest visible behind them, for when Gorath slid sideways to try and flank one of the beasts it moved with him, always keeping its body between him and the ancient container.

The scorpions' glistening red stingers lashed out at the companions again and again, and soon they were forced together, each fending off the claws and tail of one of the beasts. Locklear and Gorath grunted with effort, their blades ringing off the scorprions' thick carapace and doing more damage from blunt impact than from their edges. Owyn was almost totally incapable of fighting back, and soon resorted to simply blocking blow after blow, crying out in pain as ragged claws dug painfully into his hip or side, leaving jagged furrows in his armor.

And then there was a chance. Gorath moved in to come to the mage's aid, his broadsword neatly severing a scorpion tail and sending the wounded creature skittering back away from the fight...and giving Owyn the space he needed to focus on his magic. The young noble's words filled the room, echoing as his hand lifted and then filled with flame that rushed to engulf them all. Even he was singed and deafened by the blast that followed, and even as the scorpions crackled and died, juices hissing and spitting from their baking shells, Gorath and Locklear were rolling to put out the myriad tiny fires that had caught in their clothing.



They rested then, re-locking the door and taking watch in shifts to ensure that their rest was not interrupted by any more monstrosities slipping through other, less obvious entrances to the chamber. It was impossible to tell how long each was able to sleep, but it did not seem long before all were ready to examine the moredhel chest and continue.




They stared at the chest's contents, and Gorath let out a low whistle as he lifted a narrow-bladed sword of magnificent workmanship from the chest. "Dwarven make," he murmured, making a few passes with it before passing it to Locklear. "I'll stick with the heavier blade, but you should keep this."




While Locklear sheathed the sword, Gorath examined the other prize, a subtly-worked set of armor he handed carefully to Owyn. "You need protection most at the moment. It will have to be let out some, but should fit you better than it will Locklear," he said.




Owyn nodded, carefully donning the dwarven armor, blinking in surprise at its lightness. "Amazing," he murmured, twisting and stretching to test its flexibility. And then Locklear was there, helping to strap Owyn in a bit tighter before turning to Gorath. "Alright, we can push a bit deeper, but then we should keep moving south," he said.

And sure enough it wasn't more than half an hour before they came to a steeply sloping passage that seemed to lead to a more complex part of the passages. Locklear left them behind for a time, then returned shaking his head.

They moved east from Sarth, passing brother Marc's field at a distance, and stopping only when Locklear spotted what appeared to be another cluster of chests set in a field to the north of the road.

"They're not even hidden in the trees," Locklear muttered, glaring at the apparently clear ground in front of them. "I know there's another trap there."

"Still, all the ones we've seen so far seemed designed with a way out for someone who understood them," Owyn pointed out. "I think that they're more like obstacles...they might kill the unwary, but for the clever they're just meant to slow you down while help is summoned."

"If so," Gorath said, gesturing to where familiar shapes were rising into view, "I suggest we deal with this one quickly."

Fight to the Death



Owyn studied the strange, crystalline constructs that spun slowly in the air between the fire trap and the two crystal-tipped poles. "I think..." he muttered, reaching out slowly to push the opaque crystal until it bobbed away. "Yes, I've got it now."

The young noble smiled a little at his two companions, then pushed the clear crystal between the fire-spitting device and the nearest of the rods. Once more the fireball flew from the device, but this time it passed through the crystal and struck the rods, and when the smoke and sparks had cleared the rods' crystals had gone from a sullen glowing red to a dull grey.

"It should be safe to pass through now," Owyn said. He tried to put as much confidence in his voice as he could muster, but couldn't help sighing in relief when Gorath passed safely between the de-activated poles. The other two quickly followed and began to open the chests.



"Hangman" and "Fire" turned out to be filled with small pouches of gold, swords, and several light crossbows, but the chest that opened to "Rain" proved to have the most interesting contents.



"I've heard that a few of these charms are blessed by priests working for the Mockers and the Upright Man, and give a thief a lighter touch with a pick," the squire said. He looked a little self-conscious, but slipped the small amulet around his neck before dropping it down his shirt. "At this point, I'll take all the luck we can get," he said.

Way back when, I remember trying to save the Grey Tower Plate for when a Dwarf would join. Sadly, none joined. Perhaps not the best choice on my part.

Dwarf's seem to have been all but forgotten in the later books. I'm kind of surprised so many appeared in this game.

(( Well, it's based more or less on the earlier books, and there -aren't- many Dwarves except for around the Mac Mordain Cadal and Caldera (A Dwarven village near Elvandar which we'll see in Chapter 6). As far as the racial mod goes, I've never really gotten a handle on just how much difference it makes or even if it's a bonus for matching it or a penalty for not matching, but it doesn't seem to be big enough to make a difference in armor choices.))



Temple



They'd only been on the road another few hours when Locklear called another halt, this time at a temple just a half-day's travel from Krondor. "Marc mentioned the priests at Ishap being disturbed by dream-sendings," he said as they passed between the high columns of the entrance. "I want to know if this temple has been affected as well."

The squire soon had his answer when the high priestess failed to respond to his polite ringing of the bell.

"She can't see you."

Turning, they noticed a hawkish looking priest half-hidden in the shadows of the colonnade, his eyes rimmed red. He rubbed vigorously at his face before rising to stand next to the antechamber attendant. "Mariah and I just put her abed about half an hour ago. She awoke screaming this morning."

The two priests exchanged a significant look, and Gorath raised an eyebrow. "Is she ill?" he asked.

"No, no." the taller priest said with assurance. "It is only a symptom of things that have been going on here for a short while. It will pass."

"You sound very certain, Kellan," the other priest said angrily.

"None of us has slept well in weeks. Our healer is so exhausted that he may not even bind so much as a finger pricked on a spindle! There is something evil at work here." Spat the one named Mariah before shaking his head and lifting thin fingers to massage his temples.

Bemused, Locklear looked to Kellan. "Why would someone be trying to keep you from sleeping? Who could do it?"

Both priests shrugged. "The purpose is beyond us, but we know that whomever is responsible is a magician and very close by," the shorter priest replied. "I have also sensed in his dream sendings that he has others with him, soldiers perhaps. I don't actually believe he means to communicate with us, but instead with someone far away. Either way, I don't believe any of us shall have an hour's rest until he is dead or we've discovered what he wants."



When they returned to the road, Owyn was the first to say it.

"You remember our talk about mind speech and the way these moredhel bands always seem ready to ambush us?" the young noble asked, eyes bright. "Their commander, or leader, or whoever is giving out those assignments must be nearby!"

Gorath scowled. "That is no cause for celebration, Owyn," he said. "You are probably correct, but this simply means that we are in even greater danger than we would be otherwise."

Locklear nodded. "We'll have to be careful," he agreed before pointing to a small farm tucked into the hills east of the road. "I believe that's Rowe's farm," he said, smiling a little as some of his good cheer returned. "I don't see any signs of a storm, but perhaps he'll be willing to put us up in his barn anyway."

Charge into Battle

Then, just as Locklear was preparing to down his pack, the air between them and the barn rippled as if the world about them were nothing more than a curtain to be yanked aside, and four figures warped into existence before their eyes. They were all moredhel and all well-armed. One of the assassins, dressed in finer clothing than the three who flanked him, bared his teeth as he spoke.

"Gorath, lwychan choi nekkad sedu Delekhan! Baka'al eledhel!"

"What's the bastard saying?" Locklear hissed at his companion, drawing his blade and watching as the moredhel withdrew his own weapon, his dark gaze fixed on the others of his kind arrayed before them.

"It does not matter. Defend yourself," Gorath rasped, his voice gone cold and strangely formal. The dark elf was badly shaken. "No moss trooper this, but a sorcerer. Nago. Of those that are said to have served Delekhan before the coming of the Six, he is known as the most powerful magician of my kin. Only we three or he and his will see the next morn..."



Nago's voice rose in more unfamiliar words, and even as Owyn began to marshal his will the moredhel spellcaster's hand lashed out, a tumbling mass of sooty ice spinning towards him. Owyn didn't even have time to cry out before the frigid mass struck him, shattering into a cloud that seemed to suck the heat from the air, fogging the space around the young mage with flash-frozen moisture.

Locklear gasped as the cloud cleared to reveal Owyn's frozen form, a thin rime of ice locking him into immobility, sparkling with blue-white glints that seemed to buffer the ice from the heat of the air around him. Then the squire turned to face the enemy, shouting a challege and charging towards the moredhel. Gorath did the same, taking a glancing cut to his cheek as he deflected one of the swords of Nago's bodyguards, twisting away from another, and lunging at the mage.

Nago twisted away, backing off quickly and shouting orders to his guards. One turned towards Owyn and sneered at the helpless mage, sword raised high as he stepped in to finish him. But then Locklear was there, leaving the other two to Gorath while he interposed his slim dwarven blade between Owyn and his attacker. The squire struck again and again, his blade ringing off the moredhel's and then biting deeply into the dark elf's side before its third thrust clanged uselessly off a wall of invisible force. The squire glanced back to see Nago grinning at him as the mage gestured for another of his guards to flank Locklear before he took another step back, regathering his spent will.

Gorath followed, and even as Locklear fended off his two opponents, Gorath slipped behind one and brought his own heavy blade down in a blow that opened one warrior's back to the spine, dropping him to the ground before he even had time to scream. The two companions spun away, matching the other unshielded guard, blades flashing to cut him down before he had time to muster his defenses, Gorath battering his defenses aside as Locklear's slim sword drove clean through the dark elf's body.

Gorath lunged back towards the shielded moredhel then. He couldn't damage the dark elf while the spell lasted, but he could keep him off Owyn while Locklear dealt with Nago. But Nago wasn't done yet, and even as Locklear charged the sorceror he prepared a final spell, another of those swirling clouds of rainbow lights spilling out to sap Gorath's strength until it was all he could do to defend himself from the shielded moredhel's attack. But Nago had a made a mistake, and even the strength drained from Gorath could not replace the energy spent in his spells. Locklear moved in, his sword opening Nago's forearm in a welter of blood, disarming the sorceror before the squire's backstroke opened the mage's throat.

The last moredhel warrior gasped, staring for a moment as Nago crumpled, and then he was on the defensive again, Locklear and Gorath forcing him back from Owyn while Nago's spells finally started to unravel. The protection faded first, and as Gorath's strength returned both he and the Squire struck, swords opening their enemy's side and shoulder and ending his life.

((Yeah, it's really hard to keep these narratives interesting while staying constrained to what you see happening in these .gifs. The writing feels very repetitive to me. I'm going to start using them less, I think, unless there's a huge public outcry.))

Owyn blinked slowly, then shuddered as the magical frost released its grip on his body. He gasped, nearly collapsing before Gorath stepped in to catch an arm.

"I'm fine," the young noble panted, still shaking from the aftereffects of the chill. "Or I will be, I think. The effects are temporary. I just need...a rest."

"We all need a rest," Gorath said, lifting a finger to brush at the gash on his right cheek. "We'll see if that damned farmer is in the area, then the barn should be safe enough. Without Nago to coordinate their attacks we should have a measure of security here."

They spent two days resting in the old building, patching their wounds, sorting through their enemies equipment, and recovering their strength.



While Gorath read the note Nago had been carrying, Locklear examined the strange wand-like device that had been tucked in the mage's belt.

Master,

We have placed the false notes concerning an attack to the south of Tannerus in the chests you requested. Providing they gain access to those messages, they should fall most blindingly into your elegant trap. I applaud your stratgems.

-Fedrayh



"I don't know how many times this can be used, but I'll hold onto it for now," Locklear said, stuffing the thing in his belt, "and now I think it's time for us to get going."

Ch. 1 Introduction, Part 2

Locklear paused before the large wooden barn. The memories of combat still fresh in his mind, he pushed gently on the door and slipped into the quiet darkness. Finally convinced it was indeed empty he came out shaking his head, then motioned for them to leave.

"We should return to the temple of Sung," Gorath suggested. "It would be good to confirm that with Nago dead, the dream sendings have ceased."

Temple



Kellan greeted them.

"You look a little more lively than the last time we met," Locklear said. "Have you gotten a bit of rest?"

"The first I've had in a while," the priest admitted. "As I suspected, the dreams plague us no more. I've even heard our healer is once more on his feet. Our high priestess is still tired as yet, but I assume she will be back about her duties in no time. Things return to normal as by the will of Sung..."

Gorath hissed through his teeth at the bowing priest. "Like all priests, you credit those who watch and not those who do."

Snapping abruptly upright, a Kellan glowered at the moredhel. "What do you mean?"

"He means," Owyn interjected, "that we found the person responsible for the dream sendings. There was a moredhel magician and we took care of the problem."

Sensing that the boy might go too far in his glory-hounding, Locklear seized Owyn's arm in a tight grip. "Please forgive my companions for their outbursts. They have been on the road for quite some time and have forgotten their manners."

"No apology is necessary," the priest said, removing Locklear's grip on Owyn's arm. "They are quite proper in asking acknowledgement. How may I reward you?"

"Do you have any spells I might learn?" Owyn asked, eyes lighting at the prospect of new arcane knowledge. Seeing the anger flaring in the seigneur's eyes, he quickly amended, "If there are other magicians like them, it might be prudent for us to be better prepared to meet the challenge."

Kellan nodded. "I have one such spell I can teach you that will allow you to protect yourselves. If the others will stay here?"

Fuming, Locklear nodded his reluctant assent, taking a seat next to the reflection pool, motioning for Gorath to do likewise. Wordlessly, both sat down and prepared for a long wait. After several hours Owyn returned, a light smile flickering on his lips, but in the intervening time, Locklear's anger had not abated. Thanking the priest as graciously as he could, Locklear turned and stormed from the temple's courtyard, his charges following quickly behind him.



Locklear's angry silence continued as they headed south, and Owyn matched him, the two exchanging angry glares every mile or two until finally Gorath's patience was exhausted. Stopping the party and leading them off the road.

"Even if Delekhan's agents in this region are scattered and out of communication now that we've killed Nago, there are still those Quegan pirates," the moredhel snapped, gripping both his companions shoulders and squeezing hard.

A tense silence followed, and Locklear was the first to break it. "Damnit Owyn, I took you along for your own protection, and I'll admit that your magic has helped us, but this is not your personal tour of the scholars of the West Gorath must get to Krondor and we do not have time to waste to indulge your idle curiousity!" the squire snapped at Owyn, fists clenched and shaking.

"We've had money to make the journey for over a week now, and yet you had us track down that Tsurani magician's ruby!" Owyn snapped right back, bristling as he turned to face the older noble. "That one errand took more time than all the practice and searching for spells I've done put together! Like you said, my magic has helped keep us all alive!"

Locklear seemed ready to snap right back and his lips were even framing the first words, and then he suddenly seemed to deflate. The squire sighed, nodding slowly before looking back at Owyn. "You're right. The blizzard that shut the Inclindel gives us time to gather information and resources as we travel, and your magic is every bit as useful as knowing that grey warriors are moving into the Kingdoms. I'm sorry, Owyn."

Owyn glared for another moment, the he sighed as well and reached out his hand. "I'm sorry too, Locklear. For what it's worth, I'll keep myself to only pursuing magic that will directly help your mission for as long as I'm with you."

"Fair enough," Locklear said, chuckling a little as he took the young mage's hand, shaking it firmly. "That should work out fine."

Gorath's concerns about Quegans proved prophetic. No less than three small bands of the freebooters patrolled the King's Highway. Twice they were able to slip past unnoticed, the pirates' lack of experience with land-based fighting working to their advantage.

The third time they weren't so lucky, plunging through the trees off the road late that evening only to stumble directly into a pirate camp, and their blades were out of their scabbards even as Locklear kicked out the small fire to spray sparks and flames into the face of one of the pirates before the small camp was plunged into near-darkness.

The fighting was quick and messy, and if Owyn hadn't wrapped his companions in the Skin Of The Dragon it could have gone very badly. Using the spell's protection, Locklear moved in fast, the short dagger in his off-hand deflecting the clumsy blow one of the pirates launched at his body. There was just enough light to allow the squire to see the outline of his opponent, and his sword-arm lashed out in a low arc even as his dagger drove the pirate's blade out and high, forcing the Quegan's body square to him.

The fine dwarven steel cut deep, gutting the pirate, and Locklear whipped his sword free in a fine fan of blood before kicking the dying man aside. Gorath was less elegant, but just as effective, his two-handed broadsword crushing as much as it cut when the Moredhel battered the second Quegan's guard down. The dark elf hammered on his opponent's lighter blade, driving it back and in against the man's chest, exposing his neck to a brutal sideswipe that more than half decapitated the pirate.



They pushed further south the next day, but the sun wasn't even fully risen when they ran into more serious opposition. A large band of moredhel and Quegans was stretched across the road just north of the crossroads that marked the end of the King's Highway and the beginning of the road to Krondor proper.

"Damn," Locklear murmured, eyes scanning the enemies arrayed ahead of them. "At least two to one odds. What do you think, Gorath?"

"I think that are guarding the King's highway, and that we might be able to slip past to the east," The moredhel replied. "If we rush them now, the odds are not in our favor."

"But that will add at least another week to the trip!" Owyn said. "We'd have to go all the way back to Questor's View and then down past Eggley and Tannerus."

"Do you have another option?" Gorath asked the young mage.

"No, but...."

"Then we move north," Locklear said. "The way should be clear, at least. We'll make good time."

((And we're onto the final stretch. One more sidequest, an explanation of the working of those traps you've been watching me do, and a final dungeon and that's it for the Chapter! Which is....maybe 10% of the game....))

Well, Dwarves keep to themselves, and as the action moved further and further south away from the Crydee/Elvandar/Grey Tower area, it only makes sense we'd see less and less of them.

Poor dwarves.

They passed Questor's View quickly, turning east past a small way-station and making good time. As they travelled, Gorath and Owyn spoke quietly. The young noble described the life of a younger son of an eastern moble, while the moredhel described a little of life in the Northlands beyond the Teeth of the World.



Locklear stayed mostly silent, his own thoughts fixed on what else waited in the Northlands, and was only startled from his musings when Owyn's scrying revealed a hidden chest tucked on the far side of a saddle to the south of the road.






Gorath hefted the potent little weapon and made an appreciative noise when he tested its draw, the laminated wood almost silent despite the pressure applied to it. "This will do nicely," he said, smiling as he replaced his light kingdom crossbow with the new acquisition before carefully unfolding the parchment that had accompanied it. The dark elf's lips tightened as he scanned the note, and when he read it aloud for the others his voice was harsh, flat, and strained.

We know now Gorath of the Ardanien to be on a path to the capital of Krondor. We advise you to continue your duties, but suggest you lie in wait for him on the eastern roads into Krondor, as it is likely they will take an indirect route there so as to avoid your patrol. He must move no further south. Halt him before he reaches the Kingdom settlement of Tannerus.

-Delekhan

Locklear frowned, raising an eyebrow at Gorath. "What do you think?"

"I think that I would not trust Delekhan if he proclaimed that the sun would rise in the east or that this winter there would be snow on the ramparts of Sar-Sargoth," spat Gorath, shredding the note in quick, hard motions and tossing the scraps back into the empty chest.

"Still, if there's a chance they're waiting for us between Eggley and Tannerus..." Locklear began before Gorath interrupted him.

"A message from Delekhan would have been in Nago's hands," Gorath said, shaking his head, "and we would have taken it from his corpse, not found it in a chest in the wilderness."

"Still," the squire said, frowning as they headed back for the road and turned east once more, "we should be careful."

Passing a large farm and turning south, the trio soon found the path that led to Eggley. There was something odd about the town and the fields that surrounded it, and Locklear was the first to put a name to it.

Silden

"The fields are deserted. It's early yet, but there should still be people working them if only to harvest rocks and repair their fences," The squire said, frowning at silent fields and still trees. "Something's wrong."



Gorath and Owyn watched along with the squire, and as they approached the outskirts it became increasingly obvious that Locklear was right. The day was chill but the only smoking chimney was that of the large inn at the center of town. They even split up, but found the houses either locked up tight or open to the elements. In one, Owyn startled a squirrel that had slipped through a half-open door and was opening a bag of grain.

Gorath was wearing a puzzled expression when he rejoined the other two.



"Something is very wrong here," Locklear said, repressing his urge to shiver before he pointed towards the smoking chimney of the Inn. "Let's see if there's any inhabitants left there."

Silden

Locklear sniffed. Stepping just inside the inn's doorway, he detected the faint but familiar scent of lye and the more pungent aromas they were meant to erase. It would be a foolish tavern keeper who neglected to have a cleaningboy close at hand where men drank to excess. Still, the scents were faded, and the common room was silent save for the crackling of the fire as the three spread out just past the doorway and stared.



The rangy man reached up to adjust his eye-patch, then stood with a grunt and moved towards them. "Welcome to nowhere, sires," he said in a mockery of a dishonest innkeeper's obsequious tones, lifted scarred arms to encompass the inn's emptiness. "I'm Devon, and I'll be your barman, innkeeper, bouncer, jongleur, cook, and fucking nightmaster this evening in The Stranger."





"Everyone is elsewhere," the man said, shrugging and then turning, snorting, and spitting into the fire before continuing. "With the exception of Rake, myself and a handful of boarders that have wandered in from off the road and are cowering upstairs now for fear you're a bunch of freebooters come to sack what's left of this sorry shithole there's not been another soul in town since the Festival."

"Is that all?" Owyn asked, still staring around the nearly deserted building. "Why? What happened here?"

"Come the eighth hour of an evening about a week back, a cloaked gentlemen entered through that same door there and took a seat," Devon said, settling back onto one of the tables with another grunt and taking up a tale he'd obviously had a chance to practice at least once or twice before. "He ordered a joint of beef, a loaf of bread and a mug of ale. I remembered these things because I'd had the same. Soon as he had finished his meal he went to the tavernkeeper and tossed down fifty golden sovereigns, turned round and was gone by the door. Before the first of those coins stopped their spinning on the counter, the rest of the people in the tavern rushed out after him like they'd all come down with the bloody flux and the nearest privy was in LaMut. The keeper didn't even latch the damn door!"

Locklear frowned. "Some sort of deal?" he asked.

The hard-looking man let out a short bark of laughter. "Nope! Some sort of damn local ritual. It seems I arrived in the middle of a ceremony called the Festival of the Stranger. Apparently the elders of the town gather in the tavern, draw lots, and the one with the longest lot is dubbed The Stranger. On the first night of the festival, The Stranger comes around and offers the members of the town fake sovereigns - they called them nimptos - and then the citizens of the town leave to sleep in the fields. Of course, I didn't pick this up until later, except the bit about the coins being fake. Thought I'd had a nice little windfall when I saw the pile left on the counter."

Locklear canted his head in puzzlement. Land's End was a farming barony and he had thought he knew most of the festivals, but this one was new to him. "And they're supposed to stay in the fields?" He asked.

"No, no, no!" Devon said, waving his hand at the squire and seeming annoyed to have had his story interrupted. "Listen. The next morning, the elected Stranger was to circle the village three times while swinging a strand of hemp over his head. When he finishes up, he cuts the length of rope and sets it on the road to let the people know that they can come back. They then know that Silban is looking with good fortune on their township and that she won't strike their fields dead. No hacked up bit of hemp? Why, it means she's right pissed, and any citizen that attempts to return gets struck dead."

It was Gorath that spoke this time, and his voice was dry when he asked "Was the Stranger killed by Silban, then?"

Devon grinned, showing where he'd lost three teeth and cracked two others, probably in one fight or another over the years. "Nope. Killed by a man called the Collector. The damn fool who ended up Stranger owed money, and the Collector either didn't know about the festival or didn't care. It didn't matter to the townsfolk. They still figured it was sign from Silban and the buggers haven't been back since. They think the place is cursed and won't return until the curse is lifted. The whole damn town's scattered to Tannerus, Hawk's Hollow, Malac's Cross, and who knows how many little family plots around this part of the Calastius mountains. They all believe they've done the right thing and have given me permission to do whatever I wanted here."

Devon grinned again. "Out of respect for them, I've decided to keep the old town name of Eggley."

"I don't know," Locklear murmured, stroking his moustache. "It seems people would have to be pretty thick to believe all of that."

The mercenary's good eye glittered. "Would they? Would you have the nerve to spit on a shrine of Ishap?"

Locklear grimaced, shuffling his feet and looking away before he answered. For a foul-mouthed freebooter, Devon had a way of cutting to the heart of the matter. "No...but...I guess I can see your point."

The newly-minted innkeeper shrugged. "Everyone has their beliefs. Most around here either are farmers or come from farmers, and it's a damn hard thing for a farmer to turn his back on the earthmother. They require her blessing before they can go on to new lives. You should remember that before you judge something to be ignorant. So - as my new job as bartender of this tavern, I suppose it's my duty to see if you need anything? Can I set you up?"

Silden



Locklear settled in with the others, and once Devon had drawn a pint of ale for each they began to talk again. "Which god did you say this Festival of the Stranger was in celebration of?" the squire asked.

"The fertility goddess - Bringer of Harvests, The Earth Mother, Silban. Pick a name, they all mean the same thing," Devon said, spitting into the fire again and making it hiss. "She's the wench to whom ma and pa ugly pray to have little runt ugly and enough wheat to eat through the winter. Can't say I have much use for her. Tith and Dala, maybe, but the last thing a mercenary needs is fertility." He paused, then shot them all a grin that was so knowingly obscene that Owyn turned nearly purple in embarrassment. "Leads to complications in a man's life if he leaves a trail of squalling brats in his wake, eh?"

Locklear's lips thinned slightly, but he tried to plaster on a game smile before he replied. "Is there a temple of hers nearby, or...

Devon snorted. "Straight west of Eggley, then north at the crossroads. Big white building with the columns, smells like a whore's bedchamber. Hard to miss."

Gorath looked up, remembering the tracks he'd seen just outside town. "Someone we ran into up the road told us they had seen a moredhel near here," the moredhel murmured. "I don't suppose you've seen him have you?"

"Him?" Devon asked, snorting in amusement. "I've seen enough moredhel to start a barrel ball city league. Whole fucking clump of them came by here a few weeks ago heading south in packs of twos and threes down the road towards Tannerus."

"Armed?" Locklear asked, focusing more closely on the scarred mercenary.

"Like Tith's own legions," Devon agreed. "Looked like they might be out to sign up as caravan guards, but who would hire their kind this far south?"

Gorath stirred at that, but a motion from Owyn beneath the table stilled him, and the moredhel settled for asking "Did you get a look at any of them?"

"None of them came close enough to the Stranger that I could get a good look at them," Devon said, then frowned, looking thoughtful. The expression seemed out of place on his weathered, pock-marked, and heavily scarred face. "Now that I think of it, it's kind of peculiar. On the off occasions when moredhel will crash through a town, they'll usually kick up some kind of ruckus with the locals to prove who's the toughest bunch of bastards. These just marched through town like they were in a parade review, like they were expecting someone to watch them come through."

Locklear and Gorath exchanged looks for a moment, the squire nodding very slightly before he turned back to the other man. Devon was on his third or fourth tankard now, and the accent that Locklear had been trying to place became a little thicker with each pint the mercenary tossed back.

"One of the brothers from the Abbey at Sarth has seen several mercenaries on the move through the principality, and he said they looked Quegan," Locklear said, glancing over the mercenary's furs before adding, "with a good Quegan name like Devonius I was thinking you might know something about them."

Devon said something in his native tongue that sounded foul even to Owyn's untutored ears. "Bah! I haven't had anything to do with the Dauphiness of Queg or her bastard father-in-law for over three years now. I burned my Writs of Passage the day Spitzer and I boarded the Dauphiness' war galley Storm's Master and sunk King Lebeus' flagship with all hands on board. Since that day, I've only worked for me," he proclaimed, slamming his mug into the table for emphasis. "Me."

Owyn sighed. "Then you have no idea why there would be so many mercenaries wandering free in the Kingdom?" he asked, his apparent innocence a contrast with the squire's more studied tones.

Devon chuckled, eying them all. "You don't get more than three Quegian mercenaries together in one spot unless you're paying the bastards to be together," the mercenary said, grinning once more. "Small little island like that, most of us have killed a member of another mercenary's family. Hell, I've killed more than my share since I'm never going back to that fucking island. Anway, pay them well, they'll put their personal vendettas aside long enough to do what's asked of them before they start on one another. Whoever's funding them must have gods-be-damned fortune in rubies somewhere."

"Rubies?" Owyn asked, thinking of Locklear's old friend and the nervous gem merchant in Loriel.

"Sovereigns from your damned Kingdom of the Isles won't buy you a thing in Queg except a month underground in King Lebeus' pain pens, boy. Rubies. That's all they'll take," Devon said, chuckling as he finished his mug and then fished a deck of cards from a pouch on his belt, raising his thick brows at Locklear.

The squire snapped his fingers, nodding sharply. "Now I think of it, a man we know told us he lost at pokiir to a Devon here in Eggley. Would you be he?" Locklear asked.

Devon grinned again, but there was a certain alertness in his eye this time as he scanned them, and despite the mercenary's seemingly limp and lazy slouch the squire had an idea that he could probably move damned fast when he wanted to and wasn't half as drunk as he seemed. "Depends on why you're asking, now doesn't it?" the mercenary-turned-innkeeper asked in return. "If you're interested in playing a hand or two, then I might say I'm the same man. If, however, your friend decided to send round a few bravos to collect what I rightfully won from him..."

Locklear raised his own hand and shook his head. "What's yours is yours as far as I'm concerned," he said, smiling. "I was just wondering how good a player you were. Isaac said that you had an unusual talent for it."

"Isaac?" Devon said, sitting up slowly. "Isaac said I had an unusual talent for it? Now if that's not the pot calling the fucking kettle black, I've never heard it at all. While we we're playing, it was as if that whoreson knew every thought I had in my head. Every time he would fold he'd just look over at his elven friends with a big smile."

Locklear started, unable to hide his surprise. "Elven friends? Like Thorgath here?"

Devon eyed the dark elf, then turned back to Locklear. "They could have been brothers by the look of them. Yeah, he looked kinda like your friend, but he damn sure wasn't one of the ones from Elvandar. He was wearing moss-trooper clothes, the sort Delekhan's scouts go about in. Moredhel. No doubt about it."

Locklear nodded slowly. "Mmmmm, I see. Thank you, Devon. I might take you up on that game another night, but for now I think we should get to bed if you've a few to spare. We've a ways to go on the morrow."

Devon laughed. "A few to spare my pox-scarred ass! You can each have a room to yourselves, providing you pay for it."

"Done," Locklear said, smiling. "And we'll see you in the morning."

((And I will post more in the morning as well, if all goes well. Seems like it's time to go have a little chat with our good buddy Isaac again, don't you think?))

"Silban's Temple is between here and where we last saw Isaac," Owyn pointed out as they moved north. "It's worth the time to see if anything can be done for Eggley."

"No," Locklear said, shaking his head sharply back and forth. "Perhaps if we knew for certain just what role Isaac has in all this, but we can't afford to risk the chance that he's involved in something that we've only a limited time to affect."

"But-" Owyn began, and Locklear cut him off harshly this time.

"No, Owyn! Perhaps we can look into Eggley's problem after we speak with Isaac, but NOT before," he snapped, sighing. "Look, for all we know Isaac was Nago's eyes and ears near LaMut, Loriel, and Hawk's Hollow. We need to find out and find out fast."

"Unlikely," Gorath pointed out. "He directed us to Devon by name. He must have known that Devon noticed that he traveled with moredhel."

Locklear sighed, nodding. "Still, I'll not be easy again until we've braced the rogue and gotten the full story out of him."




Locklear led them west, neatly trumping Owyn's desire by skirting south of the road around the temple of Silban and passing it in the night. Unfortunately, this meant that when they encountered another small band of Moredhel warriors there was no time to back away.

Two of the warriors rushed them while the other two drew crossbows, and only Owyn's quick casting of flame into the grass at the moredhel archer's feet prevented them from pinning Locklear and Gorath where they stood. Still, the swordsmen were unengaged, and soon both the squire and the dark elf were locked in combat, blades flashing and bodies blocking Owyn's aim.

The young mage cursed, moving sideways carefully until he could see the archers. One was down, writhing in agony as he burned, but the other had put out his own flames and was lifting his crossbow once more. Owyn spoke again, and with a flash his spell stole the archer's sight. With that accomplished the mage rested, watching his friends strike down their opponents before moving to finish the final crippled foe.




As they examined the moredhel chest the small party had apparently been either stocking or looting, Locklear sighed.

"So much for your former countrymen being distracted and disorganized after we killed their leader," he said.

"Distracted and disorganized forces may still be encountered on the road, and may still prove dangerous," Gorath replied, lifting the small bundle of oilcloth-wrapped crossbow bolts and inspecting the strange sheen on their tips. "These were probably expecting us from the north, not the south."




Gorath carefully secured the poison-tipped bolts in a second quiver beside his primary one, and they continued north, until on the afternoon of the second day out from Eggley they caught sight of Isaac, still wandering the region looking for work, headed south towards them.

Jimmy the Hand

"Locky!" Isaac cried, grinning as they approached, the expression barely flickering even when Locklear's face darkened.






The squire's face darkened further, and as Gorath moved to flank him he grabbed Isaac's swordbelt and yanked him foward. "I'm not in a mood to be trifled with, Isaac. Talk!"

Isaac flinched a little, then shrugged extravagantly. "Seeing as how they've seen fit to dismiss me, I can't see it will hurt matters. They're operating out of a barn near Yellow Mule. I found an old farmer there who wasn't particular about who rented his land and harbored loyalty to neither his lord nor to the Prince. A moredhel named Nago moved in there and has been using it as a base of operations to hire Quegan mercenaries."

Locklear just nodded. "And Quegans can move deeper into the Kingdom without drawing too much attention. We know that much already, Isaac, what are they planning?"

The former squire shrugged again. "I made it a policy not to know," he said, lifting his palms and patting the air. "Knowledge has a tendency to shorten your life, especially when you're working with lunatics. Think what you like, but this was purely a business transaction. They paid me and I made the pick-ups and drop-offs to the moredhel lockchests. That was all I did for them."

Gorath watched as Locklear and Isaac locked gazes for a good long time, but finally the squire looked away and snorted. "Fine, Isaac. You're a liar and a rogue, but gods help me I believe you. You said this Nago fellow was using a barn as a base of operations. What could we expect if we run across him?"

"Trouble," Isaac said, his tone serious for the first time in the conversation. "He's a magician, well armed, and was carrying enough gold in sovereigns to hire several dozen Quegan Mercenaries for months. Rowe nearly fainted when Nago handed over a pouch with four hundred golden sovereigns."

Owyn raised an eyebrow. "Rowe?" he broke in, glancing at Gorath and Locklear.

"The old man who owns the barn. If Nago is half as ruthless as I suspect, the old fellow's probably dead now, but I can't be certain."

"What were your last orders before Nago released you?" Locklear asked slowly, eying Isaac.

Isaac grinned. "I released myself, really. I had the feeling I was coming to the end of my usefulness to the moredhel and I made my plans accordingly. When they asked me to pick up a ruby from Keifer Alescook and deliver it to a specific moredhel lockchest, I realized they were planning to take care of two problems at the same time. The moredhel courier would an assassin. They had planned to kill me and, at the same time, erase any evidence to whom the ruby had been delivered."

"You're wrong about the gold, you know," Locklear said. "Quegans demand pay in gems, and it seems that you and Kiefer were the moredhel's suppliers. You've been helping to finance the scouting party for an invasion of the Kingdom."

Isaac blanched. "What?"

"You heard me," Locklear said, his face grim. "Now get going, Isaac, and if I get word of you in ANY more trouble, let alone doing business with enemies of the Kingdom, I'll see to it the court at Krondor puts a price on your head that'll have every sellsword from the Northlands to the Keshian Confederacy hunting you down!"

They turned, heading south once more and away from the still shaken Isaac.

"Are you sure it was wise to leave him breathing?" Gorath asked Locklear after they'd been on the road for awhile.

"Not entirely, but I don't think Isaac's a traitor at heart," Locklear sighed. "Not that that excuses his deeds, of course, but....hell, he was a friend for a long time and perhaps I feel I owe him something for the way he was ejected from the prince's court. Whatever it was, though, that debt is well and truly paid now."

Gorath nodded, then produced the note they had acquired from the lockchest west of Silban's temple.

I am requesting that as many moredhel soldiers as possible be moved into position into the town of Tanneurs immediately. We are anticipating the arrival of Gorath and have orders to kill him. Make certain he dies if he attempts to move down the eastern roads.

-Narab

"Another note in another lockchest on the eastern roads, warning of how dangerous the eastern roads are. Between that and Rowe's kind offer of his barn, I'll bet you the Grand Duchy of Krondor against a silver royal that Nago wanted us herded west to that damned barn," Locklear said.

"Most likely, yes," Gorath agreed. "Still, there may be some resistance on the eastern road. We should be cautious if we continue past Eggley."

The squire nodded. "Of course. Still, I think we have time to stop by the temple of Silban" he said, offering Owyn a little smile. "We'll see if there's anything we can do."



As they approached the temple, Owyn gasped. Arrayed outside its columned entrance was a small crowd of panicked and angry-looking people, lead by a trio of the same Quegan mercenaries that had been searching for them up and down the coast! Everyone in the little mob looked sick, with pale sweat-streaked faces and red-rimmed eyes. Even the mercenaries, who still had their weapons, seemed disorganized and thoughtless as they bayed at the temple.

Locklear shouted to the trio. Taking advantage of their upper hand, he continued more calmly.

"Hey there, calm down. We don't want any trouble. Surely we can come to some kind of peaceful agreement and pass through, don't you think...?"

Unfortunately, the mob seemed quite insane...

Fight to the Death



The moment Owyn's first fireball heated the air around them most of the mob scattered for the trees, shrieking. The Quegans stood, however, retaining some semblance of their battle discipline. Still, the Quegans were weak and uncoordinated with whatever plagued them, and even though Locklear's first crossbow bolt missed, Owyn's first spell had killed one of the three and Locklear and Gorath quickly dispatched the other two. It was almost sickeningly easy.



"We should get inside now," Gorath said, "and have ourselves seen to by their healers. If that mob was sick with something we may have caught it."

Temple



A priestess escorted them. Expecting a chamber in keeping with the rest of the grandeur of the Temple, Locklear was startled when they were led into a cramped room where an old woman sat reading through a sheaf of papers. Glancing up, the high priestess squinted at them, then shook her head.

"You will excuse me, but I was expecting someone else," she said, laying aside the papers she had been reading. "A few days ago I sent a summons to one of our faithful, a Franklin that lives to the north of Eggley."

"I doubt he would have been able to get to you," Locklear replied. "We ran into a band of men just outside the temple who seemed bent on killing any that came up the road."

The priestess exhaled loudly. "The Quegian fever is spreading here, and likely those were more men infected with it. If you were to go to him and tell him the way is clear, I would consider it a very great favor." Looking back down at the tracts scattered in her lap, she rubbed at her eyes. "You'll forgive me, but I really must get back to work on these. Please see yourselves out. Goddess' blessing on you."



They moved south quickly, and within two hours had reached the Franklin's farm, the large one they had passed on their way to Eggley. At their knock, the door swung open.

"Good day to you fine sirs," said the man at the door. "My name is Franklin Hurley, how can I be of service to you?"

Owyn cleared his throat. "We were told at the Temple of Silban that you might want to see us."

"You've spoken to the priestesses?" he asked incredulously. "I wished to speak with them of next year's crops but three howling idiots wouldn't allow me to pass."

"You won't be having any more trouble with those three," said Locklear.

The franklin excitedly retreated into his house and returned a moment later with a pouch of coins that he demanded they take as a reward. Owyn tried to turn the money down, but the man insisted. They thanked him for his kindness and generosity, and soon the Franklin was ready to travel back with them to the temple.

An acolyte was waiting for them, and ushered the franklin off to his own business while the high priestess was summoned. In a few moments, a tall, proud looking woman limped from under one of the arches, her long grey hair hanging lank around her face as a plump woman trundled at her side for support. When Locklear hailed them, the shorter woman wheeled angrily. "The high priestess has been through a terrible ceremony," she snapped. "She has no time for..."

"Belandra!" The high priestess jerked her arm from her assistant's grasp, silencing her with a cold stare. "I am neither so old, nor so ill in the goddess' favor that I cannot spare a moment to speak with these gentlemen. If you were to remember the spirit of our catechisms more often than their letter, I think you might replace me someday. Our place is in service to both the earth mother and those who worship her. Remember."

Locklear bowed his head. "That is very gracious of you, high priestess, but if another time would be more convenient..."

The old woman chuckled. "Speak, noble one."

Sensing that brevity was in his best interest, he quickly related the things Devon had told him during their visit to the Stranger Tavern in Eggley. When, at last, he had finished, a grave expression was on the high priestess face.

"There is no curse upon the town, whatever this man Devon may have told you," she said. "But we share fault in this. The ritual of the Festival never was intended like this, and now it has brought shame on this Temple and misery up on our faithful of Eggley. Never more shall there be a Festival..."

Belandra gasped. "High priestess! the Festival..."

"Silence, child," she said, turning her glare on Locklear. "I will also see this Collector brought to justice! If you can find him, send him to us with word that we have a reward to give him. I will see you very well remunerated for your efforts. Goddess' blessing on you." Turning, the high priestess moved across the courtyard, followed quickly after by her plump assistant.