Rime of the Frostmaiden
A Proposition
Sir, I am always prepared for such thingsHuddled close together, leaning head-down into the howling wind, blinded by the sleeting-snow, six figures edged forward along the barely visible Ten Road atop the Spine of the World. The weather was closing in fast, the wind dropping the temperature minute-by-minute. It was uncomfortably, dangerously cold, and sharp pain from freezing extremities signalled death was only a misstep away.
The group leader, a tall heavy-set man, staggered a few more steps then held up his hand to call the struggle to a halt. Ahead he saw shadows emerging from the whiteout — ‘Finally,’ he gasped into the freezing air.
The shadows resolved into a ice-covered sled being led by a pack of exhausted dogs. The frost-covered driver hauled the sled to a stop as his dwarven companion climbed down to greet the walkers. “Arlington? Arlington Porter–Bainbridge?” she yelled into the wind.
Arlington nodded. The great hunter had been worried this rendezvous had been doomed given the disastrous weather - which would have rather spoiled his reputation in the eyes of his new companions. “We are glad to find you,” he called, eyes glued on the chest strapped to the seat beside the shivering driver. Mother had delivered, he smiled, noting also a collection of empty bottles of his families Special Reserve Vodka. ‘A price worth paying,’ he thought, not begrudging the couriers their warmth.
The dwarf signalled to her companion, who climbed down, stumbling slightly from the cold or drink, and approached Arlington. “Name’s Robson. We have your delivery — but payment first,” he yelled into the wind. Arlington grimaced. “Ah, well, see here’s the thing—”
A shockingly loud roar, like all the thunder in the world, interrupted Arlington. The sound echoed from hundreds of feet up the mountain followed by the cracking of evergreen trees as a huge wave of ice, snow, and debris crashed down to engulf the tiny caravan like a nightmare of white dragon breath.
Arlington rushed — as best he could — toward the sled, waving frantically to his companions to follow, his well-honed outdoorsman instincts insisting that getting under the sled was the safest spot to be. He noted most everyone ignored his sage advice. Eearwaxx hurried to the biggest tree he could find and started scrambling up, not having much success, his beard and wizard hat tangling in the pine needles. Morgan followed the wizard making significantly more progress as he flew up the tree like a rat up a drainpipe. The tiny figure of Octavian dived to the trunk and huddled down, hoping against hope that it would stand once the avalanche hit. Only Jankx saw the wisdom of Arlington’s instruction, diving under the sled and grabbing on for dear life.
Tarquin had other ideas. He leapt over to the delivery-sled and up onto the driver’s seat. He pulled out his blade and started furiously cutting the straps holding the chest, guessing he had only seconds to get it free. Arlington reacted quickly and jumped alongside the poet, using his own knife to cut the other strap. The chest broke free and both reached down to grab it. Arlington shook his head and ripped the chest free, “Get below!” he yelled. “Go!” Tarquin yelled back, turning to face the avalanche just as the entire mountain exploded onto the caravan.
The sled-drivers were swept away instantly. Tarquin vanished from the sled and reappeared half-way up the largest tree, safely above the wave of ice and snow. Those lower down did their best to stay attached, but both Eearwaxx and Octavian weren’t strong enough to stay bound and were buried beneath the snow. Only Morgan managed to keep his grip, using every ounce of his not-inconsiderable strength. He tracked the path of the sled as it swept past off the edge of the roadway and over the precipice, crashing into boulder and rapidly buried in snow.
Tarquin used the momentum of the tree as it bent and rebounded to fling himself through the air. He landed safely back on the submerged pathway and scanned for signs of life. As the grinding roar of the avalanche subsided into the cracks and groans of snow settling, weak cries for help and wails of pain penetrated the snowpack. The sled was gone; only felled trees, tumbled boulders, and mounds of snow remained.
Arlington Porter–Bainbridge leaned back into his seat and sucked down a toke of his pipe, surveying the rowdy patrons of the Wet Trout Tavern in Easthaven. He enjoyed the ribald atmosphere of the Trout, which had been his home now for many a month. A great chimney squarely in the building’s centre with hearths on either side warmed the tavern’s two common rooms. He signalled to the tavern’s crusty Dragonborn proprietor, Nymetra Myskyn, for a round of drinks and food, then settled in to await his invitees.
Morgan pushed open the tavern doors and dusted the snow off his jacket, stamping his feet for warmth and pushing back his hood. Morgan had a pale face, even for the Ten–Towns, which bloomed with the beauty of youth under a shock of dark black hair. On his back hung an enormous scabbarded two-handed sword, almost as big as Morgan at full stretch. A well-protected musical instrument was strapped to his other shoulder, and a pack which he unhitched as he walked to the bar. “Is there a Mr Porter–Bainbridge here? I have an invitation.”
“Of course! Mr Porter–Bainbridge is our guest of honour. Has been for quite some time now,” the barkeep beamed as she pointed to a corner table. Morgan turned to see a crusty figure planted in a booth, who belched as he placed an empty tankard on the table in front of him. The table was covered with maps, documents, inkwells and various accoutrements of adventure. Several maps and diagrams were pinned to the wall in a permanent fashion, making it clear this table was reserved for one man only.
Morgan gathered a drink and approached the table, dropping the pack at his feet. “Excuse me, but are you Mr Porter–Bainbridge?” Morgan was not a local himself, but it was obvious to him that Arlington was not from around here. His cold weather gear was made of the ‘right’ material - quality local furs and leather — but was obviously tailored by someone attempting a colonial adaptation of local garb. Just as effective, but rather better made.
Arlington puffed on his pipe as he regarded the new arrival. “Why yes, how can I help you young — man?”
Morgan’s Tale
Morgan sat on a small stage in the Northern Light Inn. The second-most popular tavern in Caer–Konig was rapidly becoming the most thanks to the superb playing of the new arrival, whose fiddle warmed the room and souls of all who heard it. Morgan played with a beauty that betrayed his tender years, drawing forth soulful music that spoke of great loves and greater tragedies.
As he played the doors were kicked open, letting in a breath of frozen air — and three hulking Reghed Goliath traders. The glared at a local sitting at the nearest table, who scurried away as they plonked themselves down and demanded food and drink. Proprietor Allie Shorard frowned as she started preparing, glancing at Morgan who already had his eyes glued on the new arrivals. He played on, instinctively adjusting his music to reflect the change in atmosphere.
Cori Shorard emerged from the kitchen with a platter of steaming meat which she carried to the Goliath table. “Not enough,” the leader growled. “You’ll wait your turn,” Cori snapped as she walked away. Morgan slowed his playing now, feeling the tension in the room. The same Goliath glared over at Morgan. “Play something better.” Morgan smiled and continued his dirge, not changing a note. “I said stop,” the Goliath repeated, banging the table. Morgan did change his playing this time, picking a jaunty melody almost guaranteed to anger the big barbarian.
It worked a treat. The Goliath leapt to his feet and hurled the table over, growling with guttural anger. Morgan placed his violin carefully to the side, stood, and smoothed his jacked. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the played, sir” he said earnestly, looking up at the barbarian who stood at least two-feet taller and three wider. The Goliath flexed his fist in anticipation as Morgan looked over to Cori and Allie, who gave Morgan the go-ahead. “The proprietors of this establishment no longer wish your custom — would you mind leaving? There’s another tavern just over the rise — The Hook, Line, and Sinker — where the first drink is free!” Morgan smiled.
The barbarian laughed heartily at Morgan’s absurd proposal. “No.” He pulled his fist back and threw it toward Morgan. Who caught the flying punch with one hand, dropped his other fist deep into the Goliath’s breadbasket, who doubled over as his breath vacated his body as Morgan freed his other hand and punched down into the back of the his head. The barbarian collapsed to the floor in a heap as his companions watched in astonishment. Morgan picked up the prone warrior and heaved him through the doors into the icy street, then wiped his hands on his pants before looking back at the remaining barbarians. “As I was saying, if you could please leave it would be much appreciated.”
“My name is Morgan, I believe we have a meeting.”
Arlington looked curiously at the young arrival. He needed muscle for his upcoming hunt and had heard of a relative newcomer who was being used as an enforcer in Caer–Konig. After hearing a recount of an extremely one-sided bout with a local thug, Arlington added Morgan to his list. But this was a very young man and didn’t look particularly strong — though there was something about his eyes that spoke of a hardness belied by his fair appearance.
“Morgan you say, let me see,” Arlington shuffled some papers. “Ah, here we are, yes. Good, good! Take a seat, please, I believe our next guest is arriving too.” Morgan looked over to the door as he slid into the booth, seeing a spindly old man in full wizard regalia stagger through the door. A beautiful white owl perched on the newcomer’s shoulder. An enormously long beard (which seemed to be growing from the cheeks rather than the jaw) hung from the half-elf’s face, who started to immediately hand out flyers and waving to nearby patrons who acknowledged the wizard with knowing smiles whilst obviously trying to avoid entering conversation. “Anything you need fixed, I can fix, you know where to find me,” the wizard grinned as he pitched his services to each table.
“Eearwaxx, over here!” Arlington called the wizard over to the table, recognising him instantly from the flyers that were plastered in every Ten–Town.
Eearwaxx’s Tale
Eearwaxx stood in front of the mirror adjusting his beard, a doubtful look on his youthful face. Behind him stood a teenage girl who watched appraisingly. Eearwaxx removed his pointed wizard’s hat, slightly crestfallen. “I don’t know about the hat — it looks a bit silly?” He tugged on his tufts of wizardly hair and pulled the wig off his head, followed by the beard. He turned to the girl. “This needs a comb — and I think there’s lice in it? Where did you get it from, was it really a horse?” Marta Peskryk, owner of the establishment Eearwaxx stayed in, smiled. “It’s perfect, Eearwaxx, you’ll get used to it.”
Eearwaxx shrugged and ran his hand over his bright red hair. He was a young boy, perhaps in his mid to late teens, with an innocent and welcoming face. He wore a beautiful wizard’s robe, and there were books piled around the room on every available surface. He started combing the knots from the beard as he continued. “Marta I don’t know, this is a bit silly, it’s not going to work. This thing has fleas!” With that in mind Eearwaxx pointed his finger to the fireplace and it burst into flames.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he mumbled again. “You can do it,” Marta said again. “We’ve got to make some money, and god know what else are you going to do?” Eearwaxx nodded and pulled on a few more hats and reattached the beard and hair. He stepped back to the mirror, feeling better with Marta’s encouragement. As he stared at his reflection it morphed into an old, weathered face, aged and wise, a much better match for his outfit. He turned a few times, his walk also matching his new age.
He took a deep breath, walked downstairs and sat at his small table. A queue had already formed, and Eearwaxx the Wizard worked his way through each request, repairing each item as it was presented — armour, tools, children’s toys and tattered clothing. He only charged those that could afford it, and took great care over each, his wise face and kindly eyes setting each petitioner at ease. Eearwaxx smiled. Maybe this could work after all.
Eearwaxx made his way over to Arlington. “Excuse me sir,” he said in a very deep voice that didn’t match his frame at all, “You sent for me?”
Arlington needed magic, but advanced wizardry tended to be eye-wateringly expensive, whereas the flyers made it clear The Wizard Eearwaxx Ravenfire would fit under budget. Well under budget. He glanced at Morgan almost apologetically. “Well we need a wizard.”
“And that I am!” Eearwaxx said enthusiastically, pointing to the central hearth and raising the flames higher — maybe a little too high. “I don’t know my own strength sometimes,” Eearwaxx laughed a little too loudly.
“Quite,” Arlington smiled. “Take a seat, our little crew is just forming.” Eearwaxx grinned and slid in beside Morgan, who watched all this calmly. Morgan had already downed a tankard of ale without thinking, and he noted Eearwaxx choosing warmed water over alcohol as he tucked into the fried wings.
The door burst open again. For a moment no-one walked through, just the chill of the night air and a flurry of snow. Then from out of the darkness an athletic human stepped into view. An extremely attractive young man in simple but well-kept attire paused dramatically on the threshold before stepping inside, attracting more than a few double-takes from the quickly besotted patrons who sat up straighter and smoothed their wayward hair. The man lifted off his dark cape and brooded a few moments more until he was confident he had been seen. He stepped into the room with a confident but affected gait.
“Shut the damn door!” Arlington yelled. “You’ve got to nail it shut!” The man acknowledged the call, kicking the door closed with a balletic move of his left leg. He turned to the room again with a flourish and cast his eye across the rooms before heading confidently to the bar. He leaned insouciantly on the bar as the waitstaff jostled to be the one to serve the newcomer. “And what can I help you with,” the young male winner said, voice wavering. The man locked eyes with the barkeep giving him his full attention, who flushed. “I’m looking for someone,” the man intoned. “Me? Perhaps?” the waiter asked hopefully. The man smiled kindly. “For the moment, the person I am looking for is someone apart from you. But I’ll come back to you…later. For now, I want Arlington.” The barman almost collapsed under the promise, before recovering himself. “You’re the second person asking for Mr Porter,” he said. The man looked slightly wounded, just for a second. “If I show you where he sits will you see me again later?” The man leaned in. “I can but promise — and I am a man who keeps his promises.” The barkeep blushed deeper and pointed a shaky finger over toward Arlington, sliding a whiskey into the man’s hand, and the man traced his finger over the barkeep’s wrist — a promise for more, later.
The man made his way over to Arlington’s gathering. He had a high-quality rapier strapped to his waist, and his clothing was well made but nothing special. He surveyed the table, then bowed — just slightly. “Tarquin Rose, at your service.”
Tarquin’s Tale
The patrons of the Lucky Liar, a run-down tavern in Lonelywood, were spellbound. There was not a sound, nor any movement, as all leaned forward intently, staring at Tarquin who sat at the head of his table, leaning back on his chair. The room was dimly lit and the only thing that gave away that this wasn’t a spell of magical timestopping was the flickering candle flames. Danae Xotal, a raven-haired woman keeping bar, grinned as she watched Tarquin weave his magic, her mind already drifting forward to what he would be doing to her with that same silvery-tongue in a few hours time.
Suddenly a man at a far table stood, scraping his chair back and breaking the moment. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said sceptically. Tarquin leant further back. “Oh, ‘tis all true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent,” he grinned. The patron slapped his hands on the table and shook his head, then started to make his way over toward Tarquin. “We all like a good story, but that’s just bullshit.” Danae quietly moved around to position herself behind the man as he approached.
Tarquin put his feet up on the table, watching the man come towards him. When he was about ten-feet away, Tarquin spoke. “Are you sure?” The man walked on — the people of Lonelywood are people of action, and a golden-tongued pretty-boy wasn’t going to stop that. The man loomed over the idling storyteller, and at the last moment Tarquin disappeared out of view. He barely seemed to move, and suddenly he was behind the gentleman. He tripped the man over causing him to fall flat on his face. “We can leave it at that if you like?” Tarquin offered kindly. The man rolled himself over and flipped himself up — a strong man, not athletic, but strong. He charged at Tarquin. There was a flash of a blade, a flash of light, and Tarquin stepped aside and the body of the man lay sprawled again on the floor.
There was another pause, another moment of stillness. Then people started to chatter again, a couple came over and dragged the man to his feet, blood spilling from a gash down his belly. Tarquin walked over to the bar and skulled the whiskey Danae had already poured.
Arlington was impressed. Tall, young, handsome, and clearly a charmer. Arlington was, if nothing else, a man of culture, and no Great Hunt would be complete without someone to witness and etch it for eternity with words. Thus he had chosen Tarquin Rose, the warrior-poet of Lonelywood. “Well met sir, please sit down.”
As he lowered himself into the seat a tall elf walked through the tavern door, glancing around the room and resting his eyes on Arlington for a moment, noting a patron who walked past and doffed her cap to the great hunter. The elf gathered up two drinks from the bar and wandered over to the table. Arlington looked up expectantly at the well-dressed figure, potion bottles hanging by his belt, intelligence in his eyes. The elf didn’t speak. Arlington didn’t speak. The elf tilted his head. Arlington coughed. “Hello? Octavian perhaps?” he said hopefully.
Arlington had searched hard to find a druid, someone who could make sense of and help survive the frigid nature of this place. The Towners believed, and Arlington was easily convinced, that the Icewind Druids have become corrupted by the everlasting rime and now use their powers for Auril. As luck would have it a timely missive had come to Arlington’s attention, of a newcomer named Octavian seeking information about the druidic structure at Dougan’s. Octavian! The name alone was enough to convince him.
The elf frowned. “Octavian? No. And I take it you’re not Grayhamm?” Arlington slumped back into his seat. “No, sorry, wrong table.” The elf shrugged, turned and walked away. Standing directly behind him was a much smaller figure. Not an elf. Instead it was a giant — at least three-foot tall — kobold. He was a magnificent specimen of kobold. Even those that hadn’t had much interaction with the scaley-race were impressed: ebony black skin where mottled green and brown were the norm, swathed in beautiful leathers that looked remarkably like dragon-skin. And tucked behind his back were two folded wings, much to everyone’s astonishment. “I presume you are Arlington?” the kobold asked.
Arlington had been mid-sip and almost choked on his swallow. “Indeed yes,” he stuttered. “Ah, good. I believe we can help each other. These are you other compatriots?” Arlington took a moment to collect himself, shuffling papers. “Yes, I have quite a stable now,” he stammered. “Octavian Malleus Orichalcum,” the kobold announced, “You’re probably already aware of me?”
“Ah yes, I wasn’t, um, aware of your, um, indeed of your uh—”
“That I’m a kobold? That’s ok, I can see you’re a little bit flustered, a lot of racists are. I am used to it, that’s fine. All of you, if that’s your first reaction, fine.”
Arlington blanched. “By all means sir! Have a seat!” he stammered. Tarquin beamed and moved over to make a space for Octavian taking a side-long glance at the very well-tailored leather armour, noting it was very well tailored. “Your reputation proceeds you, by some long way as it happens,” Arlington continued, desperately trying to regain control of the situation.
Octavian’s Tale
Two very elderly kobolds walked carefully around a dark cave, deep underground. Clutches of eggs were scattered around the chamber. One of the two watchers was clearly of great import, wearing a necklace of dragon-teeth, and together they moved between the egg-caches, checking each carefully. The final clutch they approached contained seven eggs, six of which had obviously died. The remaining egg had recently cracked open, and from inside a black kobold slowly rose forth, chirping. The first thing the two elders noticed was it had wings.
“This one must be taken to the leaders, immediately. He is his father.”
Morgan was interested that none of the other guests in the tavern seemed to pay the kobold much mind. The wings drew the odd stare, but on the whole it appeared kobolds were accepted the same way any were who braved survival in the frozen wastes of Icewind. This mirrored Morgan’s experience in Caer-Konig, but the kobolds he had encountered were far less erudite, and far scrappier.
As Octavian settled in, Arlington felt a tap on his shoulder. “Mr Arlington. I’m Jankx.”
Arlington twisted to see a tall, swarthy middle-aged man standing behind him, ruggedly handsome with a greying beard and dark, non-descript clothing. His swarthy complexion betrayed him as a foreigner to these parts, and he was the kind of generic looking human that the eye would pass over without noticing. “Oh, I see!” Arlington spluttered. He was still reeling from Octavian and now here was another mystery. “So good of you to make yourself known.”
“Is this everyone here now? Good to meet you Morgan, Tarquin, Eearwaxx of course, and Octavius,” Jankx rattled off the names much to everyone’s surprise. Had they met this man before? Arlington grinned — perfect, he thought. The final piece of his puzzle fell into place. The great white hunter was no fool. Sometimes dirty work is required, particularly when money was involved, which it undoubtedly was — both with the incoming delivery and the many IOUs he had amassed during his residency. The tavern-keeper network had recommended someone named Jankx from Bryn Shander, who was said to be expert in resolving disputes and recovering items, be they goods, services, or other. And here he was proving his value immediately.
“Octavian,” Octavian corrected, “But it was a good effort.” Jankx grinned at the kobold as he sat.
Jankx’s Tale
Jankx relaxed into his seat at the Northlook Tavern, the rowdiest and most dangerous place to stay in Bryn Shander. At the same time, its taproom is the best spot in all of Ten–Towns to get leads on profitable ventures, along with the latest news and rumours. The inn’s proprietor, a retired human sell-sword named Scramsax, knew full well the cycles of an adventurer’s life, and he often cut a break for customers who are between jobs, allowing them to stay here on credit and then presenting them with a bill inflated by interest charges to be reckoned with as soon as they make their next payday. Those who don’t settle their accounts discover that the old mercenary still knows how to handle a blade, and that he doesn’t take “later” for an answer. Recently he’s been happy to pass those unsavoury chores over to newcomer Jankx, who has shown a keen ability to track down even the most recalcitrant debtor
As he surveyed the room a dandy-looking young adventurer walked through the front door. His gear was far too well kept, far too expensive, and far too unused. He was immediately met with jeers and howls of laughter from the patrons, most of whom were three-sheets to the wind. Jankx grinned, stood, and hurried over to the newcomer. “Sir, welcome to the Northlook! I can see you are a man of great action and skill — please, listen not to these drunken fools — take pity of them and leave your fine weapon sheathed. Come sit with me!” The adventurer smiled gratefully at Jankx and followed Jankx to his table.
Jankx proceeded to carefully deploy his hooks, quizzing the youngster on his great adventuring plans, what fortune he sought, and giving hints of possibility and encouragement. The adventurer enthusiastically laid out his dreams and ambitions as Jankx reeled in his catch line-by-line. Eventually he snagged his catch for good. “I wouldn’t normally do this, not for just anyone, but I can see you have a great future ahead of you. I have something that I was reserving for another, but I am convinced now that you could make better use of it.” Jankx laid a scroll case on the table and the gormless adventurer leaned in close, eyes shining in anticipation. “The map in this case leads to hidden fortunes in the hills around the Ten–Towns,” Jankx said quietly. “It came to me at great cost, but I am no adventurer. I had reserved a ten-gold price for this, but for you, to reward your keen ambition and obvious talent, I am willing to accept just two — as well as a ten-percent commission on all the wealth you will recover,” he added quickly. The adventurer didn’t hesitate, digging into the pouch on his belt and eagerly grabbing the map from the case. It was a terrible map, embarrassing in its inaccuracy, but the dandy cared not. He was sold, and ready. “Keep this quiet,” Jankx smiled warmly as he ushered the boy out the door.
Jankx walked back inside, spinning the gold coins between his fingers, and the patrons burst into a round of applause.
Arlington looked around at his gathered crew and cleared his throat. “Good, excellent. Well. Who hasn’t got a drink?”
“I haven’t, but I don’t require one right now, Arlington,” Octavian answered formally. “I can go to the bar,” Morgan offered.
“No don’t bother,” Tarquin grinned, raising his hand. As soon as he did two waitstaff rushed over to serve the handsome bard. Arlington raised an eyebrow at the two staff, knowing both well and not having seen either move so fast before. They shrugged, all eyes on Tarquin. “If you could manage to get me a meal, that would be fantastic, and you, a few drinks please.”
“On your tab, Arlington?” the waiter asked. “Of course!” the hunter blustered, “And let Nymetra know that I plan to settle up very soon.”
Arlington’s Tale
A large drawing room, in a large house, in a summery part of the Sword Coast, far from the colds of Icewind Dale. A city sprawled outside the spectacular view from the dormer windows. A man, whose manner was younger than his year, excitedly walked around the room under the gaze of an older woman who stood passive and still. He circled, gesturing to the heads of various animals mounted on the walls, explaining at some length the intricacies of hunting game above the snow-line. He had various piece of parchment and paper arrayed on the antique table in the centre of the room, including maps of various parts of Faerûn, with Icewind Dale circled in red.
Some of the animals on the wall had been here for generations, certainly not collected by the man. He rested his hand fondly on a kobold head as he continued his spiel. “This will be the prize of the collection, Mother! For anyone that comes to our house and see such a thing, it will be a remarked upon for years to come! It’s a small loan Mother, really.”
The woman had a long-suffering but warm smile on her face. She had been indulging this child far too often, but it was too late to stop now. “Of course, Arlington dear.”
“Now. If we are all comfortable, and we have all had something to eat and drink. My proposal.” Arlington unrolled a map and spread it on the table. Jankx quickly looked to see if it was one of his bullshit maps, but this appeared to be the genuine article. Quite an expensive bit of cartography, in fact, Jankx noted for future reference. There were various wooded areas on the map, the ones nearest Ten–Towns all circled in green crayon.
“My proposal, gentlemen, is to mount an expedition to hunt…The Great White Moose.” Arlington paused to let the magnitude of his proposal sink in. He was nonplussed to see the faces of his troupe all but blank but pushed on. “There are several locations where this moose may reside, but I have it on good authority that at this time of year, the wooded areas are most likely to be advantageous to our quest,” he finished, tapping his finger on each marked location on the map. Tarquin was smirking but Arlington wasn’t to be put off. “Um. And with your skills, I would like to, uh, undertake such a quest. If you are willing to join me.”
“An interesting proposition,” Tarquin responded. “You say the ‘wooded’ areas? I myself have been spending some time near a wooded area and have not seen and sign of a ‘moose’.” Arlington wasn’t sure he liked the mocking note of Tarquin’s voice, but he couldn’t afford to lose his scribe. “Perhaps we should be looking further afield,” Tarquin concluded.
“Well. My sources tell me, uh, good sir, that this is the most likely, uh, proposition. Um. Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Well I have no such information, it’s just that I think the woods being so nearby may not be the place to find such rare game.”
“There are woods further afield.”
“And where are you thinking?” Tarquin pressed.
“Oh, uh, perhaps…up…look, to be honest, we may be getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Arlington said firmly.
“Do you mean Good Mead? Or the woods to the south? Or north to Lonelywood?” Octavian cut in, reading from the map. Eearwaxx was leaning in close to the map trying to determine if the map held any magic. Not in the slightest, he concluded with disappointment.
“I had anticipated exploring the woods nearly Good Mead as a, uh, as an initial, uh, exploration. Look, we can discuss all night which woods to explore,” Arlington said with some heat.
Tarquin held his hands up in mock apology. “I have no knowledge of this wood, I have come from up near Lonelywood myself.”
“And Lonelywood you say is moose free,” Arlington confirmed.
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair,” Tarquin smiled.
“Well that makes our task somewhat easier, I would say. But as I say, we get ahead of ourselves. In order to mount this venture into the woods, we must first collect some equipment that is being shipped to me from the South. And it is this particular venture that I feel you would be most useful in assisting me — if you are willing. And I say this to all of you,” Arlington said, looking around the table.
“So we are to lug your supplies for you, first?” Octavian asked.
“It is a difficult and dangerous trail. Lugging will be, with god’s good grace, borne by dogs and sleds. Your assistance will be much more in the vein of—” Arlington stopped, noticing Morgan has raised his hand. “Yes, dear boy?”
“Are the supplies coming up through the Spine pass?”
“Indeed sir.”
“Ok — that’s a very treacherous path, these days.”
“That is what I was trying to express.”
“And you managed to secure someone to come up through it with your supplies?”
“Absolutely. I have various means at my disposal,” Arlington said with satisfaction. Morgan leaned back and nodded, draining his third stein of mead but clearly still stone cold sober.
“And so where do we have to meet these people? Are there supply points that you have already mapped out?” Octavian asked patiently.
“They are coming north across the Spine. It is my intention to meet them as early as possible as they travel in order to secure the materials before they, uh, get lost within the Ten–Towns.”
“Would you meet them at the Red Run, or beyond that?”
“Yes, if we have time to travel that far in the time available.”
“My only concern is, inclement weather, avalanche, things like that,” Octavian said, drawing on his druidic wisdom to foresee the near future. “I assume you have made preparation for such things?”
“Sir. I am always prepared for such things. And the weather has been inclement for twenty-four months now,” Arlington said, then climbed to his feet to call the meeting to order. “So gentlemen. This is my proposition. Assist me in retrieving my goods, and all going well, we will then assess you further employment on the moose hunt. How does that sound?”
“And what are the terms of the employment?” Octavian asked quickly.
“You will be well compensated for your assistance in a number of gold pieces that is to be, um, determined.”
“And you have those gold pieces now?”
“They will be, uh, available to me at the point of rendezvous,” Arlington confirmed. Jankx rolled his eyes at this, knowing this line of excuse well. But at the same time he saw an opportunity ahead. Arlington was clearly a man of means — or had been — and this delivery sounded promising, if nothing else. He resolved to join the expedition.
“I actually don’t care about the money,” Octavian continued, “But I can see your distress. Look the main thing I am interested in is exploring this area, so I will sign on.”
“Well thank you very much,” Arlington beamed.
“Well it’s a vote of confidence, and looking around here—” Octavian glanced around the table “—I think you might need it.”
Arlington was surprised, but delighted, when Tarquin spoke up next. “This doesn’t sound like a mighty quest to begin with, but I’m in. Now if you will excuse me I’m just going to pop over and ask for another drink.”
“Terrific! Let me get that—”
“There’s no need, he’s trying to seduce the homosexual,” Octavian interrupted matter-of-factly. Tarquin grinned, licked his lips and headed for the bar.
“Do you think the rest of us are going to get a drink out of this?” Arlington asked wryly as he followed Tarquin’s sashaying walk. He turned back to the table. “Well. That’s two — how about you three?”
“I can do that,” Morgan nodded. “And me too, of course I will! And the owl too!” Eearwaxx said enthusiastically as the owl scratched its ear.
Only Jankx remained. “So Arlington. Who else — if anyone — are you expecting to have…interest, in what’s coming north as we speak?”
“Why, no-one at all. I am not sure I understand your implication sir?”
“Oh it’s pretty obvious,” Octavian smirked.
“The goods are not of such a nature as to draw attention of that kind,” Arlington said semi-truthfully. He was banking heavily on the delivery containing rather a large sum to refresh his dwindling savings, but decided that was best not mentioned. “Climbing equipment, and, and, various, you know, the accoutrements of a hunt! Trust me.”
Jankx raised an eyebrow. He realised Arlington was hanging by a thread. There may be goods coming, but equally there may not. But Arlington desperately wanted it to be true, and who knows what a desperate man may have delivered. He carried himself like a man of means, upper-class without doubt, so the potential for a score was relatively high. A rarity in these isolated parts, Jankx considered. “I am happy to assist,” he announced, much to Arlington’s delight. “Well thank you! I am sure you will be invaluable.” Morgan watched this transaction closely, realising as he did that Jankx had a secondary hidden interest, and resolved to keep a close eye on the final signee.
Over at the bar, Tarquin had managed to attract a crowd of onlookers, despite merely leaning on the bar — albeit in a very charismatic way. He was resting on both elbows waiting on the gathered crowd. “Oh go on,” someone piped up. Tarquin smiled warmly and stood. The crowd cleared a circle around him as he cleared his throat. “Just one then,” he beamed. “This one I call ‘The Fool’s Path’,” he said, glancing over to Arlington’s table with a grin.
Fame of infamy? What care I?
It matters not a jot.
For time and tasks shall carry me
Toward I know not what.
My years are few, unlike some
But youth shall have its day.
The tiller comes for everyone
In truth, we all shall pay.
As Tarquin had recited his work, Morgan unwrapped his fiddle and started to play along softly, picking up the rhythm quickly and adding some flourishes of his own after each verse. Tarquin looked over with surprise, then gave a tiny nod of appreciation as he continued, adjusting his own intonation and rhythm to match Morgan’s.
So take my lead, and walk along
And hold your head up high.
On wings of steel honed for the fight
Out victory is nigh.
We’ll take this tune and sing along
So all shall know our name.
Those joyous fools who tarried here
In infamy and fame.
Tarquin gave a flourish and bow as the patrons erupted into applause. Several looked over to Morgan and nodded their appreciation, and Morgan bowed primly in response.
“Is it wise to have two bards in your party?” Octavian asked.
Arlington was grinning from ear-to-ear. He couldn’t believe his luck, this was completely appropriate to the level of grand adventure he had pictured ahead. “Excellent! Everyone shall know of our great quest!”
“I’m going to sell quite a few maps tonight,” Jankx whispered quietly to himself.
The area destroyed by the avalanche is nearly a quarter mile across, extending down the mountain, across the valley floor, and a quarter of the way up the mountain on the opposite side of the valley. From his elevated vantage Morgan heard the dogs howling in the valley below, slowly fading as they headed toward Ten–Towns. So much for dogs to carry the load, he grimaced. Not that there was any load left to carry — the avalanche had shattered the crates on the back of sled, burying anything deep below the blanket of fresh snow. Morgan leapt down from the tree into the soft snow and hustled toward the sled. As he slid he spotted a limp hand which he quickly grabbed. He hauled the unconscious dwarf from the snowdrift and lay him safely as he continued toward the sled.
Tarquin couldn’t see Octavian or Eearwaxx. He saw Morgan and indicated the direction he was heading to try and find the crazy old man and the little fellow. He slid halfway down the hill toward a shattered tree where he saw something dangling from the branches. Octavian was conscious, despite being buried. He flexed his wings and worked his way free of the loose snow, emerging just as Tarquin arrived.
Eearwaxx hadn’t been so lucky, lying stunned and buried. Only the beard hanging loose from the branches gave any hint as to his position. Tarquin started furiously casting around, poking his scabbarded rapier into the snow trying to locate the fallen wizard. Octavian looked around and quickly located the mound of snow that covered Eearwaxx. “Actor! Here!” he cried. Tarquin ignored Octavian’s cheap shot as he spun to look — how had he not seen it? - and dug furiously to free the wizard. Eearwaxx appeared unhurt, no broken limbs, but he was unconscious. “Octavian, help!” Octavian looked over Tarquin’s shoulder. “Yes! I agree with your diagnosis!” He leaned over and slapped Eearwaxx hard — too hard. Octavian stepped back, slightly embarrassed, but the slap had some effect as Eearwaxx slowly started to come to. They made their way back to the relative safety of the path, Tarquin carefully handing Eearwaxx his beard as they climbed, holding his cloak up to allow the wizard to replace his whiskers.
Miraculously the sled had stayed in one piece, creating a pocket of air beneath the snowpack. Arlington coughed up snow and ice as he felt around in the darkness, finding the immobile form of Jankx. He quickly pulled out a flask of firewater and held Jankx’s head up to tip a little into his open mouth. Jankx started choking as the liquid caught in his throat.
Morgan slid to the sled, hearing smothered choking from below the mound. The sled was resting on a forty-five degree angle, with the front of the two skids exposed. Morgan braced himself against the boulder the sled had crashed into, leaned his back against the skids and pushed with all his might. The loose snow atop the sled made it surprisingly easy to move, helped by Morgan’s great strength. He lifted it until Arlington and Jankx were exposed. Arlington looked up with surprise — and satisfaction, Morgan was a good choice! Then he remembered Jankx and quickly hustled to pull him free, then grabbed his chest. With some difficulty Morgan and Arlington managed to haul everything back to the path above.
Eearwaxx hurried over to Jankx and frowned as he emptied the brandy from his throat, glaring at Arlington. He quickly revived Jankx, who groaned as he came back into the world. As he did the also recovered dwarf looked around frantically. “Where’s Robson?” she yelled into the wind. Everyone had forgotten the other driver, so Eearwaxx sent Horseradish up into the air to search. After a few minutes it swopped down toward the snow below the path and started circling. Morgan, Jankx, and Eearwaxx started working their way downhill.
Arlington looked sadly down at the wreckage of the sled and its scattered contents. He noticed with a sinking heart that there were precisely none of the adventuring items he had requested. The slopes were covered with smashed bottles and remnants of food and trade goods, but no nets, langlauf skis, or weapons. At least he had the chest. He walked over to it and crouched down, Tarquin and Octavian watching over his shoulder. The chest was locked, but Arlington had the key — confirming that this was indeed his chest. He breathed a sigh of relief as he unlocked it and lifted the lid.
Inside was a knitted pink cap and a pair of mittens, sized just right. Also a packet of cough drops, a pair of leather bootlaces, and a carefully wrapped batch of home-baked chocolate-chip cookies. Many now shattered. Arlington dropped his head. Placed atop the goods was a hand-written note. Arlington grabbed the note and slammed the chest closed as Tarquin cleared his throat and put his hand on Arlington’s shoulder. “I understand,” he said kindly. “Those cookies look a bit stale,” Octavian added sagely. Arlington did his best to ignore both as he unfolded the note and read:
Arlington Dear,
You know better than to ask.
Mother.
PS. Yes Bunty is doing very well — better than you I might say.
Morgan and Jankx glanced over the steep side of the slope toward the spot Eearwaxx’s owl had dived. Both froze, despite the cold. The sled-driver had been torn apart, and all that remained was the bright red blook staining the snow and the limbs arranged in an unusual geometric pattern in the snow.
“Ahhh, ok,” Jankx said warily. He looked around quick-smart trying to find whatever had done this, and searching for the nearest cover, and the next best place to make a defensive stand. Looking further downhill through the blizzard-like conditions he thought he saw the shadow of the mountainside — and maybe shelter. He started working his way down.
“Oh that’s not good. I know. Look at it,” Morgan whispered under his breath as he stared at the remains. Eearwaxx glanced at Morgan, but he wasn’t addressing anyone. Eearwaxx shrugged and turned his attention back to the array of body parts. He pushed his memory to recall anything similar from his books, and whilst he couldn’t pinpoint what the arrangement meant, he was confident that it was some manner of arcane symbol. It wasn’t just random — it had been placed and assembled in this pattern.
Morgan turned his attention to Jankx who was moving away downslope. “Master Jankx, where are you going?” he yelled into the wind.
“Safety!” Jankx was genuinely confused why no-one else was moving as quickly as possible toward shelter.
“Ah. Perhaps we should get the other’s attention then?” Jankx paused, then started waving his arms to the half of the party up the hill. Arlington stood, grabbing the chest under one arm, and signalled his companions to move down toward Jankx.
Eearwaxx had noticed tracks in the snow around the body, which were being quickly covered by the driving snow. He slid down for a closer look just as Arlington’s group arrived. Eearwaxx leaned down close to study the tracks. With a jolt of recognition he flung himself backwards and started scrambling up the hill. “Oh fuck me it’s an Owlbear!!” he yelled frantically. “A big Owlbear! We need to get out of here! Owlbear! Owlbear!”
Morgan had no idea what an ‘Owlbear’ was, but he could hear the clear panic in Eearwaxx’s voice and the terror on this face. He helped Eearwaxx over the lip of the precipice and started scrambling downhill. Arlington of course was familiar with the Owlbear species, having studied the great creatures of the north in preparation for his hunt. He looked down into the gorge at the sigil painted in limbs, and considered: this was not Owlbear behaviour. Not your ordinary Owlbear in any case. But Eearwaxx was right — it was a bear, and owl, combined into one hideous creature. He spun around and looked down the slope for safety. He clearly recalled a sliver of and entry to a cave and pointed down the hill. “Choke point!” he yelled, grabbing Tarquin and shoving him downslope.
He glanced back to the entrails and his eyes went when he saw Octavian leaning down to the remains and licking his tongue over the entrails. The kobold tilted his head for a moment, then clambered back up the hill. “I concur — Owlbear,” he announced, then started jogging down the hill. Everyone followed, a wild scramble toward Arlington’s promised cave.
As the group struggled forward, a scream and bloody gurgle ripped through the howling wind. Everyone spun in time to see a hulking, white and crimson form loom out of the snowstorm, grab the dwarf in a huge, taloned claw, and vanish from sight back into the whiteout.
“HOLY SHIT! OWLBEAR!!!” Eearwaxx yelled in terror.
Octavian looked around. “Let’s go!” he yelled and started running back up the hill toward the Owlbear’s last position.
“Nooo!” Eearwaxx cried, running for his life, Arlington close behind.
“What are you doing?! Arlington!” Octavian cried. “Didn’t that man work for you?!” Morgan and Tarquin glanced at each other, then moved to stand by Octavian’s side, drawing their weapons.
“He sacrificed his life for us, he’s a hero!” Eearwaxx cried as he continued to run.
“I misread the situation, you are cowards! Is that correct?!” Octavian cried into the wind. He spun to face Morgan. “I am still learning about certain human customs. It seems like they are about to kill Arlington’s friend. Now in my tribe we normally try to save a member of our tribe—”
Morgan looked down at Octavian. “If Mr Porter–Bainbridge doesn’t seem concerned, and we’re employed by him now, maybe we shouldn’t worry about it too much. We can’t do anything to save that poor lady now. She’ll already be dead.”
“I see, yes,” Octavian nodded. “She is already dead. But — are we employees? I thought it was more of a contract thing?” Tarquin suppressed a chuckle. Philosophical debates about purpose and employment whilst standing in a snowstorm facing almost certain death from an Owlbear. What was not to love? But it was getting rapidly colder the longer the three stayed stationary. “I think, strictly speaking, we have agency here,” he yelled, “But having said that — let’s not split the party!” Octavian heeded this wisdom, feeling a small bond with Tarquin forming — the poet was clearly a man of some wit. Tarquin stepped forward and paused dramatically: “Follow me!”
Arlington arrived at his cave, scooting into the cave mouth and spinning to face uphill. He pulled his crossbow out to take aim at anything that might emerge from the white. The rest of his companions staggered closer, moving as fast as they could against the gale-force wind. They had just about reached the cave when a vicious gust cleared the drifts of snow from in front of the shelter, revealing an sheet of ice beneath their feet.
A sheet of ice that suddenly gave way with an almighty crack, like the avalanche but this time from below. Arlington looked down at his feet as the ice cracked and everyone plummeted into darkness.
As he fell Octavian turned to Arlington and raised an eyebrow. “Always prepared you say?”
Session played: Jan 18, 2022
