Feint Whispers Chapter #6: A Modest Proposal

[jasamcarl]

Three days pass as the fall retreats in anticipation to the coming of winter. That Cold Mother will be especially unforgiving of Duvik's Pass this year, for the town's storage of grain and wheat can be expected to dwindle owing to the refusal of the Lords of the Yellow Valley to sell their produce. Knowledge of the coming war has found its way through even the most distant corner of the South it seems, and the deadly games have begun...

But the folk of the Pass do not stand still in the face of these developments. Defenses continue to be prepared under the supervision of Sheriff Whiteclove and Jericho, who is referred to endearingly by the people as 'the dark finger'. What surplus foodstuffs are available are horded into the public storage building near the center of town.

As everyone readies to defend their bodies, many begin to fortify their souls. Prayers to any number of gods can be heard from the large Miner's wards, the men there having increasing time on their hands as the metals they create no longer have a market in the Yellow Valley. Not surprisingly, most of these begin to pay visits to Father Samuel’s chapel in order to give homage to Telmor, but increasingly many begin to look to Bhartus as the dwarf's adventuring notoriety increases; and while most of these are human, they are very much receptive to Moradin owing to the association of Dwarves with mining and stonework; this reputation is bolstered by the presence of the Crownshields, a small dwarven clan of some 30 or so members who comprise the entire population of stout folk within Duvik's Pass and count some of the most elite blacksmiths and fine potters in the city amongst their numbers. They begin to invite Bhartus to dinner as a pretense to engorge themselves in tankards of homemade Dwarven ale and to flaunt various pieces of armor or vases they have created, symbols of their devotion to the Dwarf Father as well as their prowess.

On the afternoon of the fourth day after having returned from the Order of the Risen Star, guards come out in search of each member of the Fist; Jericho and Tarowyn while they are managing the town's militia, Norri while he is skulking around in an(apparently) vain attempt to find fellow thieves amongst the parochial citizenry of the Pass, Whitney while she is deep in her studies, and Bhartus while he is seeing to the spiritual and physical health of the people....

Sheriff Whiteclove asks that you meet him in the tavern that he had commandeered as his headquarters after the sacking of his magistrate's office.

 

[KaintheSeeker]

Whitney arrives ealier than the appointed time, her appearence a mix of her usual neat self and the innattentive sense of detail she acquires during long periods of study in books. Her outfit is quite well pressed and arranged, but her hair isn't quite perfect and there is a spot of ink on her ear where must have scracted it while writing.

(She's got endurance the feat..so she does a lot of all nighters)

She sips a glass of invigorating tea while she waits for things to start up, but keeps quiet, while her familiar Mist prowls the Inn for attention and snacks.

 

[Mirth]

Seeing Whitney there, Tarowyn strides over and makes small talk until the rest of the Fist arrive, "Looks as if you've pulled an all-nighter... it wasn't with the dark finger was it?"

At the sight of Whitney's flustered look, the elf breaks out in a wide grin, "Just kidding. How did the crass one take it when you turned him down? He won't talk with me about it."

 

[Tokiwong]

Jericho arrives in full military regalia, i.e. his ebon spiky enchanted chainmail, and his enchanted shield with his standard upon it, a stylized fist with a dark middle finger, raised in defiance. His blade nicely kept, and sharp, he enters with a bearing of slight arrogance, and a stern visage, broken a sly grin upon his lips, he removes his helm, and takes a seat. Outside his white mare, Saladin rests fitfully sipping water, and munching on dried oats.

Jericho speaks to Sherrif Whiteclove, "Sherrif, the men, are poised, some a are a little green, but the majority seem to have the resolve to do what is needed. I have little concern for their skill, just their resolve."

Jericho pauses and then continues, "Supplies will be slim though, we will need to enforce a hard ration, to make the supplies last. But I do not think you called us here to talk, strategems, what is that the Fist can provide for you, good sir."

 

[Krug]

Bhartus blesses the craftsmen and their work. "Moradin guide your hammers and the forge. The perfection of your work reflect the state of your heart," says the dwarf.

When he takes his leave to join the Fist, he calls upon the leaders of the dwarven clan. "I take your leave. The Great Forge has called me again to no doubt test my mettle. Peace be to you and remember the ways of Moradin, for it is from his hammer and anvil that we arise." The dwarf priest bows.

As Bhartus enters the tavern he notes the others are here, including Jericho. At least I wll be able to get a drink before we go...

 

[Tokiwong]

As Bhartus enters the tavern he notes the others are here, including Jericho. At least I wll be able to get a drink before we go...

"Welcome, Bhartus," Jericho smacks the serving wench on her bottom, "Fetch us some stout ale, and be quick about it lass," he tossed her a gold for her troubles, and looked to Whitney, "You look well, besides the smudge on yer ear, it hardly befouls your studious beauty, me darling lovely."

Jericho took a drought of ale down his throat in healthy gulps, smirking, "The one thing I will not miss about D'or, in me lands, ale and spirits is all but outlawed... such a pity."

 

[Festy_Dog]

Norri's presence is realised when he pulls up a chair to sit on.

"What mischief we gettin' up to now, eh?" he asks.

 

[Tokiwong]

Norri's presence is realised when he pulls up a chair to sit on.

"What mischief we gettin' up to now, eh?" he asks.

Jericho chuckles upon the site of the wee man, "Da wee man is here, welcome little one, you want a pint? Get the wee man a pint!"

Jericho chuckles, amused by the site of the halfling, and how small he is.

 

[jasamcarl]

The tavern lobby is mostly empty. Whiteclove sits at one of the circular serving tables. As each member of the Fist arrives, he gives a short greeting.

He responds to Jericho, "I'm sure these are all good men, Jericho, but there are but I'm afraid such virtue will not compensate the fact that there are but a scant 600 who are in any condition to put up a fight, and most of those are untrained and are likely to wield little more than a mining pick or shovel...so little to defend the Crown's southern possessions against the thousands of mercenaries and humanoid allies of the Valley Lords...."

When the entire party is present, he continues, now standing... "As many of you may know, our merchants have been unable to exchange our metals for the yields of the Valley's lands that make up the majority of the town's diet. This is an extreme blow against the Pass...but it gets worse. Reports from those merchants give truth to my suspicion that the Great Houses are about to take more 'active' steps to bring harm to my jurisdiction. The Bersk, Nathos, and Aporos are all gathering their forces to march against us. Their full strength will not be prepared for at least a month if my experience tells me anything, but they will surely attempt to take Duvik's Pass before then with what troops they have; the Pass has strategic importance, being the only way for the Valley to access the North. They will want to have the town before winter sets in so as to link up with the Usurper before his army clashes with the King's...."

"That is where the Fists come in, though this time, the most minor of fingers will be the one that presses the hardest.." He looks with a vague smile to Whitney. From the kitchen door emerges a dark haired, brown-eyed beauty, a woman standing some five and a half feet. She wears dark boots visible under her most unlady-like green breeches held tight to her body with a sturdy brown belt. A black cloak with its hood down hangs on her shoulders; the glistening of a blade can be detected under the cloak. She smiles at Whitney and gives a short, deep bow, "Milady.."



Whitney: You recognize the woman as Kyrie Ebonblade, who you have not seen since you began your journey.

 

[KaintheSeeker]

"Lady Kyrie why are you here?" she asks with a look of suprise. "Is it my father? Is he well? His letters spoke of no illness." Mist pounces up on table and looks at the new stranger as her mistress looks worried at the arrival.

Blinks for a second, then it hits her. Whiteclove knows of her linage. "Oh.. no." sighs. "So, how does my father play into all this?"