Two weeks have passed since the horrible events of that took place in the early darkness of the last day of the Festival of the Falling Leaves.
A number of problems arose from that fateful night, all of which fell on the shoulders of poor Sheriff Whiteclove. The loss of the Magistrate's office forced him to move the seat of government as well as an improvised jailhouse to the Hunched Miner's Inn nearby. The slaves that Daris had ruthlessly devalued through his many schemes and then purchased (only to abandon) had to be cared for. The Sheriff has been moving cautiously towards restoring their status as freemen, settling them on plots of nearby land made empty by the Burning Plague on the condition that they serve in the defense of the Pass. Such a defense would be needed given the precarious position occupied by Duvik's Pass in relation to the Lords of the Yellow Valley, notably the Aporos and Evenwood, both of whom lost their first suns in the tribulations othe Festival.
But all that is set aside for now, as the members of the Fists of Duvik find themselves mounted on horseback or in wagon, waiting for the long delayed aid caravan bound for the Order of the Risen Star to set out. Sir Whiteclove stands on foot near them. The small, blue-furred creature who has revealed himself through telepathy as simply Last, the only one of his kind to escape abduction at the hands of the redheaded slaver, clings to the Sheriff's breast plate. Whitelclove gently unhinges its claws and places it in a wagon behind the party.
The Sheriff speaks, "I'm sure the Order will see fit to provide this poor creature sanctuary. Given what that sand scum Salum was willing to employ and sacrafice to kidnap its brethren, it is not safe for either it or this town to have it continue to reside here. You should set out now. The All-Father might have given the monks of the Order infinite patience, but my more earthly sense of tact will not stand for further delays. Good luck to you. You are all my friends, even if you acted to restore my burdens along with my wretched life." He gives off a wry smile.
A number of problems arose from that fateful night, all of which fell on the shoulders of poor Sheriff Whiteclove. The loss of the Magistrate's office forced him to move the seat of government as well as an improvised jailhouse to the Hunched Miner's Inn nearby. The slaves that Daris had ruthlessly devalued through his many schemes and then purchased (only to abandon) had to be cared for. The Sheriff has been moving cautiously towards restoring their status as freemen, settling them on plots of nearby land made empty by the Burning Plague on the condition that they serve in the defense of the Pass. Such a defense would be needed given the precarious position occupied by Duvik's Pass in relation to the Lords of the Yellow Valley, notably the Aporos and Evenwood, both of whom lost their first suns in the tribulations othe Festival.
But all that is set aside for now, as the members of the Fists of Duvik find themselves mounted on horseback or in wagon, waiting for the long delayed aid caravan bound for the Order of the Risen Star to set out. Sir Whiteclove stands on foot near them. The small, blue-furred creature who has revealed himself through telepathy as simply Last, the only one of his kind to escape abduction at the hands of the redheaded slaver, clings to the Sheriff's breast plate. Whitelclove gently unhinges its claws and places it in a wagon behind the party.
The Sheriff speaks, "I'm sure the Order will see fit to provide this poor creature sanctuary. Given what that sand scum Salum was willing to employ and sacrafice to kidnap its brethren, it is not safe for either it or this town to have it continue to reside here. You should set out now. The All-Father might have given the monks of the Order infinite patience, but my more earthly sense of tact will not stand for further delays. Good luck to you. You are all my friends, even if you acted to restore my burdens along with my wretched life." He gives off a wry smile.
