ForceUser
Explorer
-Falco-
The weather favored them as they journeyed west from Chendl and passed through the headwaters of the river Att. The land around sang of misty mornings and bright afternoons, and flocks of anvilheads and cranes lorded over the shallow, burbling waters of their summer home. Shreds of white cloud clung here and there to the vast blueness above, and watching over it all sat the Shining One on his fiery throne. For a brief moment Reverend Falco glanced at the orb overhead, then quickly away; mortal eyes cannot long endure the sun god’s radiance. He smiled and thought, “From time to time, we’ll try anyway.”
Mordecai led them along a dusty road rutted with wagon-tracks and hardened mud divots shaped like horseshoes. They passed few merchants; the aftermath of the Greyhawk Wars had steadily eroded trade in the region. From time to time they glimpsed a hamlet or thorp in the distance, often enclosed within a precarious wooden palisade, and occasionally the ruin of a roadside inn. Furyondy’s loss of prosperity saddened Falco, though he was no stranger to such troubles. In the north Iuz, in the south the Scarlet Brotherhood and their allies, what was the difference? Evil forces craved dominance everywhere, and good men must oppose them.
When the sun climbed to its zenith Falco rode up to the druid. “Excuse me, Mordecai. Can we bide here a while? I must seek Pelor’s blessings for the day.”
The druid looked surprised. “Right now?”
Falco nodded.
“It’s midday. You don’t pray in the morning?”
“No. Do you?”
“Er, yes.”
“Interesting. Among the blessed of my faith, we renew our vows when the Shining One is highest in the sky.”
“Huh.” Mordecai stared out across the rolling hills. He seemed bothered.
“Is it a problem?”
“Well, no, I guess. It’s just…strange.”
“Is it?” Falco asked, genuinely curious.
“Everyone I know prays for spells at dawn.”
“How unusual.”
Mordecai gave the priest an unfathomable look, then slowed his horse and announced, “Reverend Falco needs to pray. Let’s rest in that copse ahead.”
“Right now?” exclaimed Dera from the rear of the column, “It’s midday.”
Mordecai shrugged.
--
The day had marched on into early afternoon when Falco completed his preparations. He could tell that his new companions chafed at the journey’s interruption, and he imagined how he’d feel if his mornings were put on hold for an hour every day. A bit irritated, he decided. Falco was an early riser and usually spent the time before breakfast helping the novitiates with their lessons, or attending to administration duties, or teaching the history of Sunndi to the children at the orphanage.
On the other hand, if Mordecai and Dera were going to spend an hour every morning preparing their spells, Falco could use that time to update his journal. There’s a thought. Happy with himself for the neat solution, he collected his things and walked to his horse. The other adventurers were already mounted and waiting; he could feel their eyes upon him as he swung up onto Lord Delorn’s mare. Undaunted, he smiled pleasantly and said, “Shall we go?”
They went.
Eight days later they arrived at the Free Town of Highfolk, nestled comfortably against the foot of a mountain range called the Lortmils along the banks of a wide, lazy river known as the Velverdyva. The free town – in truth, a city – lay on the far side of the glittering brown waterway, but an outpost on the eastern bank provided lodging and provisioning at a fare rate, in exchange for news from Furyondy. As Falco listened to Mordecai exchange information with a local trader, he surveyed the black line of forest to the north that the nature priest called the Vesve. Dense, he noted.
An unfocused shape approached him from the riverbank, and he looked away from the horizon to see the voluptuous young sorceress, Dera, drifting toward him. He muttered, “Pelor,” in a desperate sort of way and hesitantly returned her fey grin. Several times she had engaged him in conversation during the trip, speaking at length about her home, her adventures and, ah yes, her many suitors. Most of these “conversations” were one-sided; he nodded a lot and weighed in with an occasional “yes” or “of course” when he sensed that she sought an affirmation of some kind. He suspected she knew quite well the effect she had on men, which made her attention all the more uncomfortable. While he felt they had little in common intellectually, his body responded to her nearness with a shamelessness that embarrassed him. Although the clergy of his faith were not forbidden to marry, they were held to a high moral standard in every aspect of their lives. One did not engage in wanton behavior, no matter how lovely the temptation.
After the second day on the road, Falco began to realize why the other men spoke with her as little as possible. By then, of course, he was trapped. He took to sleeping in his armor so the discomfort of it would occupy his nights instead of inappropriate dreams.
However pleasurable they might be.
When he awoke the morning after the first miserable night spent sleeping in his hauberk, he overhead Garlok mutter, “Great, now there’s two of ‘em.”
Falco braced himself as Dera skipped up to him and said, “So, Jon, what was your quest? The one that brought you here originally?” She asked with apparent curiosity, but he was distracted for a moment by the way her hair fluttered across her face in the breeze from off the river. He tore his gaze away and answered.
“The head of my order had a prophetic vision about a danger to the Flanaess. She couldn’t interpret it, but she felt a sense of urgency so profound that she trusted the oracle despite its vagueness. Acting on faith, she sent three others and me to the four cardinal directions to find whatever we may find. I was sent west, but on foot from Sunndi that’s more of a northwesterly direction. I considered buying passage on a ship across the Azure Sea to Keoland, but the journey seemed to be what was important, so I walked.”
“Is she pretty?”
“What?”
“The head of your order, is she pretty?”
Off-guard, Falco returned, “Um, I don’t look at her that way. She’s a Reverend Mother…”
“Oh, so she’s older?”
“Well, I mean…”
“She has gray hair? And wrinkles?”
“Dera. Reverend Mother Diesa is a legend among those of my faith. She’s a paragon of virtue and an example to all who would walk in the Light of Pelor. I’ve never regarded her on a, a…personable level. That’s not what’s important.”
Archly, Dera replied, “I see. So she’s not really a person to you?”
“What?”
“Never mind. We’re used to it.”
“What?”
Dera strode off.
As Falco struggled to discern what exactly they’d been talking about, Mordecai approached with Garlok in tow. He said, “Don’t try to understand. Just accept. It’s easier that way.”
Falco sighed and doffed his hat. The breeze felt deliciously cool upon his sweaty head.
The druid held a hand up to shield his face from the glare off the river. “I don’t see much point to lingering here. There’s been little word out of the Vesve for some time, so there’s no telling what the situation is.”
“Ah, right,” said Falco. Mordecai had warned them previously that parts of his forest were overwhelmed with the Old One’s minions, as well as various and sundry other humanoid tribes.
Garlok growled and spat a glob of greenish phlegm into the dirt. It squatted there like some oozy beast. “If we find any orcs, they’ll meet the sharp end of my axe.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” countered Mordecai. “There are far more of them than us.”
He continued, “I think we should make for Verbeeg Hill. It’s an elven community deep in the forest, and members of my circle pass through from time to time. Also, we’re going to need directions on the best way to approach the part of the Clatspurs where we need to go. I suspect the entrance to our dwarven hold is in a fairly inaccessible place.”
Garlok nodded, “Aye, if they were smart about it.”
“Do you know the dwarves who built the place, Garlok?” asked Falco.
“Nay, I know little of the northern clans.” The dwarf hooked his thumbs into his thick leather girdle.
“Oh. Where are you from?”
“Sterich. We’ve troubles enough without worrying about far-away relatives.”
“Orcs?”
“And giants down from the mountains, may the Allfather curse their beards.” He spat again.
“Anyway,” continued Mordecai, “there’s no reason to lodge here. We can make another two leagues or so before nightfall.”
“Let’s be on our way, then,” declared Garlok.
“Two leagues?” opined Falco. “We’ve made as much as four in the afternoons since Chendl.”
“Yes. However, I think we should leave the horses here in Highfolk. They’ll have a rough time of it in the deeper parts of the forest. The ground is uneven and the trees are densely packed, so in many places it’ll be easier to go on foot. I suspect we’ll make better time without having to backtrack for the sake of our mounts.”
“Ahh,” said Falco. He knew enough to leave the wilderness planning to the druid.
It took them a while to track down Travis and Erak, who they found in a seedy riverside alehouse. Once reassembled, Mordecai explained the plan, and there was a general agreement that whatever he thought they should do would probably be in their best interests. They paid in advance for a month’s worth of stabling for their steeds and set out by mid-afternoon toward the dark expanse of trees that stretched across the northern edge of their vision. By nightfall, the High Forest of a thousand tales had welcomed them coolly, like a former lover you’d rather have not seen again.
The weather favored them as they journeyed west from Chendl and passed through the headwaters of the river Att. The land around sang of misty mornings and bright afternoons, and flocks of anvilheads and cranes lorded over the shallow, burbling waters of their summer home. Shreds of white cloud clung here and there to the vast blueness above, and watching over it all sat the Shining One on his fiery throne. For a brief moment Reverend Falco glanced at the orb overhead, then quickly away; mortal eyes cannot long endure the sun god’s radiance. He smiled and thought, “From time to time, we’ll try anyway.”
Mordecai led them along a dusty road rutted with wagon-tracks and hardened mud divots shaped like horseshoes. They passed few merchants; the aftermath of the Greyhawk Wars had steadily eroded trade in the region. From time to time they glimpsed a hamlet or thorp in the distance, often enclosed within a precarious wooden palisade, and occasionally the ruin of a roadside inn. Furyondy’s loss of prosperity saddened Falco, though he was no stranger to such troubles. In the north Iuz, in the south the Scarlet Brotherhood and their allies, what was the difference? Evil forces craved dominance everywhere, and good men must oppose them.
When the sun climbed to its zenith Falco rode up to the druid. “Excuse me, Mordecai. Can we bide here a while? I must seek Pelor’s blessings for the day.”
The druid looked surprised. “Right now?”
Falco nodded.
“It’s midday. You don’t pray in the morning?”
“No. Do you?”
“Er, yes.”
“Interesting. Among the blessed of my faith, we renew our vows when the Shining One is highest in the sky.”
“Huh.” Mordecai stared out across the rolling hills. He seemed bothered.
“Is it a problem?”
“Well, no, I guess. It’s just…strange.”
“Is it?” Falco asked, genuinely curious.
“Everyone I know prays for spells at dawn.”
“How unusual.”
Mordecai gave the priest an unfathomable look, then slowed his horse and announced, “Reverend Falco needs to pray. Let’s rest in that copse ahead.”
“Right now?” exclaimed Dera from the rear of the column, “It’s midday.”
Mordecai shrugged.
--
The day had marched on into early afternoon when Falco completed his preparations. He could tell that his new companions chafed at the journey’s interruption, and he imagined how he’d feel if his mornings were put on hold for an hour every day. A bit irritated, he decided. Falco was an early riser and usually spent the time before breakfast helping the novitiates with their lessons, or attending to administration duties, or teaching the history of Sunndi to the children at the orphanage.
On the other hand, if Mordecai and Dera were going to spend an hour every morning preparing their spells, Falco could use that time to update his journal. There’s a thought. Happy with himself for the neat solution, he collected his things and walked to his horse. The other adventurers were already mounted and waiting; he could feel their eyes upon him as he swung up onto Lord Delorn’s mare. Undaunted, he smiled pleasantly and said, “Shall we go?”
They went.
Eight days later they arrived at the Free Town of Highfolk, nestled comfortably against the foot of a mountain range called the Lortmils along the banks of a wide, lazy river known as the Velverdyva. The free town – in truth, a city – lay on the far side of the glittering brown waterway, but an outpost on the eastern bank provided lodging and provisioning at a fare rate, in exchange for news from Furyondy. As Falco listened to Mordecai exchange information with a local trader, he surveyed the black line of forest to the north that the nature priest called the Vesve. Dense, he noted.
An unfocused shape approached him from the riverbank, and he looked away from the horizon to see the voluptuous young sorceress, Dera, drifting toward him. He muttered, “Pelor,” in a desperate sort of way and hesitantly returned her fey grin. Several times she had engaged him in conversation during the trip, speaking at length about her home, her adventures and, ah yes, her many suitors. Most of these “conversations” were one-sided; he nodded a lot and weighed in with an occasional “yes” or “of course” when he sensed that she sought an affirmation of some kind. He suspected she knew quite well the effect she had on men, which made her attention all the more uncomfortable. While he felt they had little in common intellectually, his body responded to her nearness with a shamelessness that embarrassed him. Although the clergy of his faith were not forbidden to marry, they were held to a high moral standard in every aspect of their lives. One did not engage in wanton behavior, no matter how lovely the temptation.
After the second day on the road, Falco began to realize why the other men spoke with her as little as possible. By then, of course, he was trapped. He took to sleeping in his armor so the discomfort of it would occupy his nights instead of inappropriate dreams.
However pleasurable they might be.
When he awoke the morning after the first miserable night spent sleeping in his hauberk, he overhead Garlok mutter, “Great, now there’s two of ‘em.”
Falco braced himself as Dera skipped up to him and said, “So, Jon, what was your quest? The one that brought you here originally?” She asked with apparent curiosity, but he was distracted for a moment by the way her hair fluttered across her face in the breeze from off the river. He tore his gaze away and answered.
“The head of my order had a prophetic vision about a danger to the Flanaess. She couldn’t interpret it, but she felt a sense of urgency so profound that she trusted the oracle despite its vagueness. Acting on faith, she sent three others and me to the four cardinal directions to find whatever we may find. I was sent west, but on foot from Sunndi that’s more of a northwesterly direction. I considered buying passage on a ship across the Azure Sea to Keoland, but the journey seemed to be what was important, so I walked.”
“Is she pretty?”
“What?”
“The head of your order, is she pretty?”
Off-guard, Falco returned, “Um, I don’t look at her that way. She’s a Reverend Mother…”
“Oh, so she’s older?”
“Well, I mean…”
“She has gray hair? And wrinkles?”
“Dera. Reverend Mother Diesa is a legend among those of my faith. She’s a paragon of virtue and an example to all who would walk in the Light of Pelor. I’ve never regarded her on a, a…personable level. That’s not what’s important.”
Archly, Dera replied, “I see. So she’s not really a person to you?”
“What?”
“Never mind. We’re used to it.”
“What?”
Dera strode off.
As Falco struggled to discern what exactly they’d been talking about, Mordecai approached with Garlok in tow. He said, “Don’t try to understand. Just accept. It’s easier that way.”
Falco sighed and doffed his hat. The breeze felt deliciously cool upon his sweaty head.
The druid held a hand up to shield his face from the glare off the river. “I don’t see much point to lingering here. There’s been little word out of the Vesve for some time, so there’s no telling what the situation is.”
“Ah, right,” said Falco. Mordecai had warned them previously that parts of his forest were overwhelmed with the Old One’s minions, as well as various and sundry other humanoid tribes.
Garlok growled and spat a glob of greenish phlegm into the dirt. It squatted there like some oozy beast. “If we find any orcs, they’ll meet the sharp end of my axe.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” countered Mordecai. “There are far more of them than us.”
He continued, “I think we should make for Verbeeg Hill. It’s an elven community deep in the forest, and members of my circle pass through from time to time. Also, we’re going to need directions on the best way to approach the part of the Clatspurs where we need to go. I suspect the entrance to our dwarven hold is in a fairly inaccessible place.”
Garlok nodded, “Aye, if they were smart about it.”
“Do you know the dwarves who built the place, Garlok?” asked Falco.
“Nay, I know little of the northern clans.” The dwarf hooked his thumbs into his thick leather girdle.
“Oh. Where are you from?”
“Sterich. We’ve troubles enough without worrying about far-away relatives.”
“Orcs?”
“And giants down from the mountains, may the Allfather curse their beards.” He spat again.
“Anyway,” continued Mordecai, “there’s no reason to lodge here. We can make another two leagues or so before nightfall.”
“Let’s be on our way, then,” declared Garlok.
“Two leagues?” opined Falco. “We’ve made as much as four in the afternoons since Chendl.”
“Yes. However, I think we should leave the horses here in Highfolk. They’ll have a rough time of it in the deeper parts of the forest. The ground is uneven and the trees are densely packed, so in many places it’ll be easier to go on foot. I suspect we’ll make better time without having to backtrack for the sake of our mounts.”
“Ahh,” said Falco. He knew enough to leave the wilderness planning to the druid.
It took them a while to track down Travis and Erak, who they found in a seedy riverside alehouse. Once reassembled, Mordecai explained the plan, and there was a general agreement that whatever he thought they should do would probably be in their best interests. They paid in advance for a month’s worth of stabling for their steeds and set out by mid-afternoon toward the dark expanse of trees that stretched across the northern edge of their vision. By nightfall, the High Forest of a thousand tales had welcomed them coolly, like a former lover you’d rather have not seen again.
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