Copperheads: Betrayal and Strange Runes and Burning Dead, oh my (short update 02/12)
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arwink
Clockwork Golem
Wednesday, September 20th
The Cuthbertite initiate that rides into Bellhold goes unnoticed. His blue and white tabard is streaked with red mud, his face red and sweating beneath his helm. He clenches the small pack to his chest tightly as he rides, silently chanting the precepts of duty and obedience under his breath as his horse canters through the city streets.
When he reaches the courtyard of the Bell and Clapper, he slips from the horse. There is a patch of soot on the ground, a scorch mark as though someone has lit a fire hot enough to crisp and burn the very cobblestones. The initiate notices, but doesn’t think too much on the matter. Y’Dey had said that there was trouble in town, that some strange magic or psionics had been involved. Melting stone was likely another manifestation, a sign that the group the church sent here had done their job.
With a final recital of the precepts, the initiate pushes open the doors of the inn.
“I’m searching for Geoffrey Cromwell,” he tells the bartender. The half-elf simply nods, points to a sandy-haired man sitting at a nearby table. The initiate watches him closely. The cleric is drinking a cup of tea, his eyes trained on the initiates blue robes and Guardian’s Cross. A half-orc, a dwarf and a kobold surround him.
“It’s time to create the Warding Bell,” Geoffrey says simply as the initiate approaches. The young boy nods, offering the small message pouch.
“The ranking Justicars have arrived,” he says. “Y’Dey requests your aid in the crafting.”
“Head to the temple,” Geoffrey orders. “Rest there.”
“Time to go?” Blarth asks. There’s a false note of eagerness in his voice, as though working for the temple may not be the foremost reason in his mind for leaving. Geoffrey waves him off, reading through Y’Dey’s letter.
“We’ve got five days,” Geoffrey comments. “You aren’t required to come, but Y’dey has recommended you make the journey.”
“Why?” Halgo asked. “I thought we were told to stay here? I’ve got research I could be doing.”
“She wishes to discuss a request we made when I last reported,” Geoffrey tells him. “We may not be coming back to Bellhold for some time.”
He pauses for a moment, aware of the expectant look on his comrades’ faces.
“It appears we may be part of the delegation being sent to Bor.”
There’s a moment of quiet contemplation at the table as everyone considers the news. It had been something of a passing fancy, the lure of the unknown continent to the north. Tales of goblin hordes, ice and snow drifted down from the new country. It was a wild country, a place that had known the civilizing touch of the Empire for little more than two decades. A place where fortunes could be made, and reputation carved out of the ice that covered the continents mountain ranges.
Blarth grins, pushing himself free of the table.
“Where are you going?” Halgo asks.
“Blarth go say goodbye.”
They can hear the half-orc whistling as he exist the inn.
later
“You should have given her more,” Geoffrey grumbles.
“Blarth gave her lots,” Blarth says. “Blarth give lots of gold. More than she need to care for Blarth’s child. She not have to work for years, and Blarth might be back by then.”
“It just doesn’t seem right,” Geoffrey says. He sigh’s heavily, feeling partially responsible for dragging Blarth away from his pregnant lady-friend. Even if it is only a very small part.
The afternoon air is crisp, although the promise of a storm lies on the horizon. The group has made good time, their enthusiasm and dedication to duty prompting them towards a quick exit from Bellhold. As Blarth and Geoffrey argue about the morality of leaving behind an unborn child, Halgo and Yip walk quietly behind. Neither feels the need to become involved in the mild argument.
“Drink?” Yip chirps suddenly, pulling a small flask of mead from the folds of his robe. Halgo raises an eyebrow in surprise.
“Where did you get that?” the dwarf asks.
“Tokket-elf give to Yip.” He pauses, searching for the correct word. “Is gift?”
“Ah,” Halgo says. He sniffs the open flask, the smell of mead strong inside. “How are the other brothers going to feel about you carrying around drink?”
Yip shrugs.
“Not know,” he says reasonably. “Other Yip’s maybe not notice. Yip is very quiet, very sneaky. Hide things well.”
A momentary flash of disgruntlement passes across his face.
“Sometimes Yip think that why he here. Serving Cleric-Geoffrey, not running with others.”
Halgo contemplates the obvious internal conflict the kobolds is feeling for the space of a few breaths. The small creature is obviously distressed by his current mission, the solitary feeling of being separated from his kin. On the other hand, it also has mead, which means it’s a good thing he’s here right now. With what could almost be a supportive smile, Halgo accepts the flask and takes a hefty swig of the golden liquid. It runs like liquid velvet over his tongue, washing away a days worth of road dust, and brings a smile to the dwarf’s bare cheeks.
Yips. Sometimes they were handy to have around.
Then he notices that Geoffrey and Blarth have stopped talking, stopped moving even, and Yip is looking alert and tense in the expectation of danger. A set of bushes just to the side of the road are rustling quietly, and everyone is looking at it with tense anticipation.
A lean face pops up from behind the greenery, a face with vague elf-like features and a shock of read hair. It grins like a feral cat, momentarily flicking a short and very pointed moustache.
“Afternoon travellers,” the redhead says. “Don’t suppose I could trouble ye for a moment of your time, no?
The Cuthbertite initiate that rides into Bellhold goes unnoticed. His blue and white tabard is streaked with red mud, his face red and sweating beneath his helm. He clenches the small pack to his chest tightly as he rides, silently chanting the precepts of duty and obedience under his breath as his horse canters through the city streets.
When he reaches the courtyard of the Bell and Clapper, he slips from the horse. There is a patch of soot on the ground, a scorch mark as though someone has lit a fire hot enough to crisp and burn the very cobblestones. The initiate notices, but doesn’t think too much on the matter. Y’Dey had said that there was trouble in town, that some strange magic or psionics had been involved. Melting stone was likely another manifestation, a sign that the group the church sent here had done their job.
With a final recital of the precepts, the initiate pushes open the doors of the inn.
“I’m searching for Geoffrey Cromwell,” he tells the bartender. The half-elf simply nods, points to a sandy-haired man sitting at a nearby table. The initiate watches him closely. The cleric is drinking a cup of tea, his eyes trained on the initiates blue robes and Guardian’s Cross. A half-orc, a dwarf and a kobold surround him.
“It’s time to create the Warding Bell,” Geoffrey says simply as the initiate approaches. The young boy nods, offering the small message pouch.
“The ranking Justicars have arrived,” he says. “Y’Dey requests your aid in the crafting.”
“Head to the temple,” Geoffrey orders. “Rest there.”
“Time to go?” Blarth asks. There’s a false note of eagerness in his voice, as though working for the temple may not be the foremost reason in his mind for leaving. Geoffrey waves him off, reading through Y’Dey’s letter.
“We’ve got five days,” Geoffrey comments. “You aren’t required to come, but Y’dey has recommended you make the journey.”
“Why?” Halgo asked. “I thought we were told to stay here? I’ve got research I could be doing.”
“She wishes to discuss a request we made when I last reported,” Geoffrey tells him. “We may not be coming back to Bellhold for some time.”
He pauses for a moment, aware of the expectant look on his comrades’ faces.
“It appears we may be part of the delegation being sent to Bor.”
There’s a moment of quiet contemplation at the table as everyone considers the news. It had been something of a passing fancy, the lure of the unknown continent to the north. Tales of goblin hordes, ice and snow drifted down from the new country. It was a wild country, a place that had known the civilizing touch of the Empire for little more than two decades. A place where fortunes could be made, and reputation carved out of the ice that covered the continents mountain ranges.
Blarth grins, pushing himself free of the table.
“Where are you going?” Halgo asks.
“Blarth go say goodbye.”
They can hear the half-orc whistling as he exist the inn.
later
“You should have given her more,” Geoffrey grumbles.
“Blarth gave her lots,” Blarth says. “Blarth give lots of gold. More than she need to care for Blarth’s child. She not have to work for years, and Blarth might be back by then.”
“It just doesn’t seem right,” Geoffrey says. He sigh’s heavily, feeling partially responsible for dragging Blarth away from his pregnant lady-friend. Even if it is only a very small part.
The afternoon air is crisp, although the promise of a storm lies on the horizon. The group has made good time, their enthusiasm and dedication to duty prompting them towards a quick exit from Bellhold. As Blarth and Geoffrey argue about the morality of leaving behind an unborn child, Halgo and Yip walk quietly behind. Neither feels the need to become involved in the mild argument.
“Drink?” Yip chirps suddenly, pulling a small flask of mead from the folds of his robe. Halgo raises an eyebrow in surprise.
“Where did you get that?” the dwarf asks.
“Tokket-elf give to Yip.” He pauses, searching for the correct word. “Is gift?”
“Ah,” Halgo says. He sniffs the open flask, the smell of mead strong inside. “How are the other brothers going to feel about you carrying around drink?”
Yip shrugs.
“Not know,” he says reasonably. “Other Yip’s maybe not notice. Yip is very quiet, very sneaky. Hide things well.”
A momentary flash of disgruntlement passes across his face.
“Sometimes Yip think that why he here. Serving Cleric-Geoffrey, not running with others.”
Halgo contemplates the obvious internal conflict the kobolds is feeling for the space of a few breaths. The small creature is obviously distressed by his current mission, the solitary feeling of being separated from his kin. On the other hand, it also has mead, which means it’s a good thing he’s here right now. With what could almost be a supportive smile, Halgo accepts the flask and takes a hefty swig of the golden liquid. It runs like liquid velvet over his tongue, washing away a days worth of road dust, and brings a smile to the dwarf’s bare cheeks.
Yips. Sometimes they were handy to have around.
Then he notices that Geoffrey and Blarth have stopped talking, stopped moving even, and Yip is looking alert and tense in the expectation of danger. A set of bushes just to the side of the road are rustling quietly, and everyone is looking at it with tense anticipation.
A lean face pops up from behind the greenery, a face with vague elf-like features and a shock of read hair. It grins like a feral cat, momentarily flicking a short and very pointed moustache.
“Afternoon travellers,” the redhead says. “Don’t suppose I could trouble ye for a moment of your time, no?
Last edited:
arwink
Clockwork Golem
“Afternoon travellers,” the redhead says. “Don’t suppose I could trouble ye for a moment of your time, no?
Twigs and leaves crackle beneath the redhead’s feet as he climbs out of the scrawny bush he was using as a hiding spot. He proves to be a short man, standing only a little over five feet. His cloak and tunic are the color of rust, while his pale leggings are streaked with dirt and grass stains. All in all, he looks like a particularly short elf that has lost weight and developed a sense of humour. His grin is wide and infectious, his eyes gleaming happily as he looks the four travellers over carefully.
“Sorry for surprising yeh,” he says. “But ye can’t be too careful on the road these days, ye know what I mean? Dangerous things happen to lone travellers, particularly those of us that don’t go runnin’ around in tin suits or carryin’ long-blades, yeh?”
“No problem,” Geoffrey says. “Although you have little to fear from us.”
“Good to hear, good to hear,” the redheaded man says. “The names Relmarn. Well, it might be Relmarn. At the very least, Relmarn’s the name I’m usin’ while I’m a-travelin in yer fine lands. Could use another, I suppose, or tell ye if Relmarn is real enough, but ye can’t be too careful in the wide world these days, no?”
“Indeed,” Geoffrey says. “My name is Geoffrey, and my companions are Blarth, Yip and Halgo. Those are our real names, and we’re bound for Hommlet if you’re in need of travelling companions.”
“’Unfortunate,” Relmarn says. “I’m a-headin’ the other way myself. A small place called Bellhold, lookin’ for a friend who may be there.”
“We’ve just travelled from there,” Geoffrey says cautiously. “And we were there for many months. Name your friend, perhaps when can offer some assistance.”
“Well, her’ name was Valea,” Relmarn says. “She was the..ah…lover of me master, the Duke Wintermoon. She’s been a-missin’ for quite some time, and he’s sent me to ensure she’s okay.”
Halgo is standing at the back of the group, Yip’s flask still in his hands. He squints at the animated face of Relmarn, notices the shifting colour of his eyes for the first time. Closer examination shows that Relmarn’s feet don’t quite touch the ground, and there is a strongly fox-like twitch to his knows when he talks. Fey Halgo thinks. He takes another swig of Yip’s flask to hide his surprise and concern, trying to remember everything Milo had told him about fey lore. It was an area that had never interested Halgo, and he curses his ambivalence now.
Geoffrey squints at Relmarn cautiously, not noticing the tell-tale signs that mark him as something other than human, but easily guessing revealing all he knows about Valea’s fate is a bad idea.
“I’m afraid the name is unfamiliar to me,” Geoffrey offers cautiously. “Do you have any way she could be identified?”
“Well, she’s a-beautiful and probably stayin’ close to a lake or somethin’ like it. Probably wearing a silver anklet, a present from me master before she went a’travellin’”
“And how long as she been missing,” Geoffrey asks.
“I’m not rightly sure,” Relmarn admits. “We only really noticed a few decades back, but maybe a century or two. Not long.”
Geoffrey nods, a quick half-truth is forming on his lips. Unfortunately, Blarth speaks before he can say it aloud.
“Blarth know that name,” the half-orc muses. “Wasn’t that girl beneath mountain? Water-woman with no clothes?”
“Ah, ye know her then?” Relmarn asks, brightening visibly.
“Yes, I believe so,” Geoffrey says wearily. “I assume you were aware she was fey.”
“You don’t say,” Relmarn says, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I think Wintermoon said somethin’ along those lines, yes.”
“And I’m afraid she’s dead,” Geoffrey says. “She was being held captive by a dragon, and she died in the fight to defeat the lingering legacy of the wyrms evil.”
Relmarn looks crestfallen, but there’s the faintest edge of a smirk beneath his expression.
“That’s bad news, to be sure,” he says. “The Lord will be mighty unimpressed with me, unimpressed indeed. ‘Don’t suppose you know who did the deed, do yeh? So I could placate his Duke-ship with news of where his vengeance could be focused?”
“I believe it was a goblin who cut her low,” Geoffrey lies blandly. “He was under the control of the dragon’s spirit, and he cut her down with magic.”
“Aye, that ain’t gonna be good,” Relmarn says, his face aghast. “Ah well, nothin’ for it. Should have started a-lookin earlier than I did an’ all. Me thanks for yer help an’ all, an ‘ good luck in your journey.”
Relmarn settles onto the side of the road, a look of perplexed fear plain on his features. The copperheads look at him for a few seconds, trying to gauge the creature’s motives, but soon take the chance to move on down the road. Relmarn watches them go, his nose twitching. When he’s sure they’ve stopped looking back, he lets out a grin and leaps to his feat. He starts walking back towards the bushes, his form shimmering and shifting to that of a fox as he moves. His keen fox ears can hear stern words being exchanged between the cleric and the half-orc as they leave, an exchange that confirms what Relmarn already expects. Letting out a yelp of glee, the fox sprints across the hills until he enters a small clearing.
“You have found them,” a cold voice rasps through the clearing. Relmarn transforms back into his humanoid form and bows low before a patch of empty air.
“I believe so, lord,” he says. “They are either her slayers, or they are lying to protect those who dealt the blow.”
A cold breeze cuts across the clearing, and a small hunting party of fey surrounds Relmarn. Lithe goblin hunters chatter and shriek with joy at being on the prime, while a three foot tall rat wearing human garb and a silver loop through one ear makes tentative thrusts with a rapier only barely large enough to be called a dagger.
Relmarn keeps his head bowed, looking at none of them, until he feels a cold hand upon the back of his neck. When he looks up, it is into an elf-like face of indescribable beauty. Golden eyes flash in amusement as they drink in Relmarn’s quail of fear at the sight of them, and a goblin jester at the sidhe’s side makes a crude joke that sets his comrades laughing. Relmarn pretends he hasn't heard the barbed comment, his attention focused on the terrifyingly perfect face that seems to fill his field of vision. Even when the thin, pale lips twist into a smile and the chill hand is removed, Relmarn can't allow himself to relax.
“Excellent, Relmarn” Duke Wintermoon rasps, an icy rapier appearing in his delicate hands. “You have done well. Lead us find them, and let us punish them for their impudence.”
Twigs and leaves crackle beneath the redhead’s feet as he climbs out of the scrawny bush he was using as a hiding spot. He proves to be a short man, standing only a little over five feet. His cloak and tunic are the color of rust, while his pale leggings are streaked with dirt and grass stains. All in all, he looks like a particularly short elf that has lost weight and developed a sense of humour. His grin is wide and infectious, his eyes gleaming happily as he looks the four travellers over carefully.
“Sorry for surprising yeh,” he says. “But ye can’t be too careful on the road these days, ye know what I mean? Dangerous things happen to lone travellers, particularly those of us that don’t go runnin’ around in tin suits or carryin’ long-blades, yeh?”
“No problem,” Geoffrey says. “Although you have little to fear from us.”
“Good to hear, good to hear,” the redheaded man says. “The names Relmarn. Well, it might be Relmarn. At the very least, Relmarn’s the name I’m usin’ while I’m a-travelin in yer fine lands. Could use another, I suppose, or tell ye if Relmarn is real enough, but ye can’t be too careful in the wide world these days, no?”
“Indeed,” Geoffrey says. “My name is Geoffrey, and my companions are Blarth, Yip and Halgo. Those are our real names, and we’re bound for Hommlet if you’re in need of travelling companions.”
“’Unfortunate,” Relmarn says. “I’m a-headin’ the other way myself. A small place called Bellhold, lookin’ for a friend who may be there.”
“We’ve just travelled from there,” Geoffrey says cautiously. “And we were there for many months. Name your friend, perhaps when can offer some assistance.”
“Well, her’ name was Valea,” Relmarn says. “She was the..ah…lover of me master, the Duke Wintermoon. She’s been a-missin’ for quite some time, and he’s sent me to ensure she’s okay.”
Halgo is standing at the back of the group, Yip’s flask still in his hands. He squints at the animated face of Relmarn, notices the shifting colour of his eyes for the first time. Closer examination shows that Relmarn’s feet don’t quite touch the ground, and there is a strongly fox-like twitch to his knows when he talks. Fey Halgo thinks. He takes another swig of Yip’s flask to hide his surprise and concern, trying to remember everything Milo had told him about fey lore. It was an area that had never interested Halgo, and he curses his ambivalence now.
Geoffrey squints at Relmarn cautiously, not noticing the tell-tale signs that mark him as something other than human, but easily guessing revealing all he knows about Valea’s fate is a bad idea.
“I’m afraid the name is unfamiliar to me,” Geoffrey offers cautiously. “Do you have any way she could be identified?”
“Well, she’s a-beautiful and probably stayin’ close to a lake or somethin’ like it. Probably wearing a silver anklet, a present from me master before she went a’travellin’”
“And how long as she been missing,” Geoffrey asks.
“I’m not rightly sure,” Relmarn admits. “We only really noticed a few decades back, but maybe a century or two. Not long.”
Geoffrey nods, a quick half-truth is forming on his lips. Unfortunately, Blarth speaks before he can say it aloud.
“Blarth know that name,” the half-orc muses. “Wasn’t that girl beneath mountain? Water-woman with no clothes?”
“Ah, ye know her then?” Relmarn asks, brightening visibly.
“Yes, I believe so,” Geoffrey says wearily. “I assume you were aware she was fey.”
“You don’t say,” Relmarn says, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I think Wintermoon said somethin’ along those lines, yes.”
“And I’m afraid she’s dead,” Geoffrey says. “She was being held captive by a dragon, and she died in the fight to defeat the lingering legacy of the wyrms evil.”
Relmarn looks crestfallen, but there’s the faintest edge of a smirk beneath his expression.
“That’s bad news, to be sure,” he says. “The Lord will be mighty unimpressed with me, unimpressed indeed. ‘Don’t suppose you know who did the deed, do yeh? So I could placate his Duke-ship with news of where his vengeance could be focused?”
“I believe it was a goblin who cut her low,” Geoffrey lies blandly. “He was under the control of the dragon’s spirit, and he cut her down with magic.”
“Aye, that ain’t gonna be good,” Relmarn says, his face aghast. “Ah well, nothin’ for it. Should have started a-lookin earlier than I did an’ all. Me thanks for yer help an’ all, an ‘ good luck in your journey.”
Relmarn settles onto the side of the road, a look of perplexed fear plain on his features. The copperheads look at him for a few seconds, trying to gauge the creature’s motives, but soon take the chance to move on down the road. Relmarn watches them go, his nose twitching. When he’s sure they’ve stopped looking back, he lets out a grin and leaps to his feat. He starts walking back towards the bushes, his form shimmering and shifting to that of a fox as he moves. His keen fox ears can hear stern words being exchanged between the cleric and the half-orc as they leave, an exchange that confirms what Relmarn already expects. Letting out a yelp of glee, the fox sprints across the hills until he enters a small clearing.
“You have found them,” a cold voice rasps through the clearing. Relmarn transforms back into his humanoid form and bows low before a patch of empty air.
“I believe so, lord,” he says. “They are either her slayers, or they are lying to protect those who dealt the blow.”
A cold breeze cuts across the clearing, and a small hunting party of fey surrounds Relmarn. Lithe goblin hunters chatter and shriek with joy at being on the prime, while a three foot tall rat wearing human garb and a silver loop through one ear makes tentative thrusts with a rapier only barely large enough to be called a dagger.
Relmarn keeps his head bowed, looking at none of them, until he feels a cold hand upon the back of his neck. When he looks up, it is into an elf-like face of indescribable beauty. Golden eyes flash in amusement as they drink in Relmarn’s quail of fear at the sight of them, and a goblin jester at the sidhe’s side makes a crude joke that sets his comrades laughing. Relmarn pretends he hasn't heard the barbed comment, his attention focused on the terrifyingly perfect face that seems to fill his field of vision. Even when the thin, pale lips twist into a smile and the chill hand is removed, Relmarn can't allow himself to relax.
“Excellent, Relmarn” Duke Wintermoon rasps, an icy rapier appearing in his delicate hands. “You have done well. Lead us find them, and let us punish them for their impudence.”
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