Colmarr
First Post
We spent the night ensconced in Meepo’s former throne room, half expecting the kobold king to return in the twilight hours. But the night passed uneventfully, and we set out for Oakhurst early the next day.
Our entry into town was cause for jubilation, and Terren Oakhurst rushed out of his store to usher us into the Sleeping Dragon, where Mathwyn immediately place foaming tankards of ale before us. Townsfolk came from all directions to hear our tale, and even though Mathwyn offered her neighbours a “victory discount” I imagine she did better business that day than any other day before or since.
As Corrin, Skamos and I happily cradled our pints, Tira climbed up onto one of the room’s tables and regaled the villagers with stories of our adventure. The assembled men and women oohed and aahed on cue, and the warlock lapped up the attention like the performer that she was. When she reached the point at which we encountered the dragon, she reached down beneath the table and grabbed the large burlap sack there. The dragon’s severed head spilled out of it and landed with a thud on the tavern’s common room floor, causing the townsfolk to jump back in fright. Even dead, the creature’s visage was fearsome. Mathwyn’s daughter Laurel screamed and staggered backwards, tripping and landing in my lap. She flung her arms around me with terror, but then our eyes met and she jumped back to her feet. She flashed me a smile before disappearing into the kitchen, her cheeks filling with colour.
The celebrations lasted long into the night. When the Sleeping Dragon’s ale and wine stocks ran out, farmer and blacksmith alike vanished to their homes and returned with stores of whiskey and spirits.
Corrin was at the centre of the festivities, dancing with as many women as he could, and boasting to all of the men who would listen. But in between, he sought out the survivors from Waymoot to offer them his condolences and his company. More than once I saw him huddled in some quiet nook with two or three of them, talking quietly as villagers caroused around them. When last I saw him, he was sitting in the common room of the inn with a protective arm around Sofia. The halfling woman’s composure had finally cracked, and she was weeping softly against Corrin’s chest as he whispered soothing words into her hair.
Skamos initially kept to himself within the walls of the Sleeping Dragon and the straight-laced tiefling was largely ignored by the revelers. Only when Terren Oakhurst ordered a bonfire built in the main square did the wizard move outside. The leaping flames kindled his stony heart, and he spent the remainder of the evening conjuring lights and fire for a crowd of drunken spectators. As I wandered through the throng, I stopped in surprise. Despite all of the wondrous and fearsome sights I had seen over the previous few days, the grin splitting Skamos’ face that night was the one that surprised me the most.
Tira was courted by the town’s men, and she left them all with nothing more than a flashing smile and a flick of auburn hair. As if the men were not enough, a horde of women and young girls swamped her whenever she was managed to escape the men. They clamoured for her to re-tell our tale, and she was happy to oblige them. Some of the younger girls stared at her with mouths agape, and I smiled to think of the new generation of female adventurers that she was creating that night. Hours later, Picard appeared in the main square and Tira spent the early hours dancing and laughing with the eladrin ranger. The two of them seemed perfectly suited to each other and when last I saw them they were striding off into the darkness, bodies locked together in a passionate embrace.
As for me, I spent the night moving from group to group, enjoying the hospitality of Oakhurst’s citizens. I rarely went for more than a few minutes without a flagon of ale in my hand. First Terren, then Mathwyn, and then a steady stream of nameless villagers congratulated me on our victory and thanked me for our aid. More than once someone clapped my injured shoulder enthusiastically, only to apologise noisily when I grimaced in pain. But overall, the night was one of revelry and celebration, and I celebrated as much as anyone else.
As the darkness receded and the first glimmers of dawn appeared on the horizon, I found myself standing at the foot of Oakhurst’s statue to Amaunator. Around me, townsfolk drifted off to seek what little sleep they could find before the bland realities of life would call them to move on from their celebration and face the new day. For the first time in hours, silence fell over Oakhurst’s main square and, without meaning to, I found myself thinking of all that had happened since I left Kronos Keep less than a week earlier.
I had achieved much in that short time, perhaps more than most people would achieve in a life time. Many people had called me a hero that night, but in the cold light of that early dawn, my thoughts were instead drawn to the things that we had not achieved. I thought of the devastation in Waymoot, and of the innocents that had died there. I thought of Meepo, slinking through the night somewhere and doubtless planning further atrocities. But mostly I thought of the Ubler family, father, mother, son and toddler daughter lying in shallow graves outside a home that they had believed safe. A tear welled in my eye and then trickled down my cheek as I remembered cradling Ubler’s toddler in my arms as I laid her in the earth.
Movement in the background caught my eye and I looked up toward the shrine on the far side of the square. Olvar stood in the doorway, tired and stooped, but beaming with happiness. Sybil nestled against his shouder, her hands placed lovingly on his chest and the locket that we had recovered from Belazamon’s tomb around her neck. Their body language spoke of intimacy and love, and it was clear that Olvar had managed to cross the emotional distance that had separated them for so long. I returned the old priest’s smile. Perhaps we had made a difference after all.
I felt a smooth hand slide into mine, and looked around to find Laurel standing behind me. She smiled gently and closed her fingers around my unresisting hand. And then she wordlessly led me out of the square and into the Sleeping Dragon. We climbed the stairs to her room hand in hand, and the last thing I saw before I stopped caring about such things was the sun rising above the mountains to the east.
Our entry into town was cause for jubilation, and Terren Oakhurst rushed out of his store to usher us into the Sleeping Dragon, where Mathwyn immediately place foaming tankards of ale before us. Townsfolk came from all directions to hear our tale, and even though Mathwyn offered her neighbours a “victory discount” I imagine she did better business that day than any other day before or since.
As Corrin, Skamos and I happily cradled our pints, Tira climbed up onto one of the room’s tables and regaled the villagers with stories of our adventure. The assembled men and women oohed and aahed on cue, and the warlock lapped up the attention like the performer that she was. When she reached the point at which we encountered the dragon, she reached down beneath the table and grabbed the large burlap sack there. The dragon’s severed head spilled out of it and landed with a thud on the tavern’s common room floor, causing the townsfolk to jump back in fright. Even dead, the creature’s visage was fearsome. Mathwyn’s daughter Laurel screamed and staggered backwards, tripping and landing in my lap. She flung her arms around me with terror, but then our eyes met and she jumped back to her feet. She flashed me a smile before disappearing into the kitchen, her cheeks filling with colour.
The celebrations lasted long into the night. When the Sleeping Dragon’s ale and wine stocks ran out, farmer and blacksmith alike vanished to their homes and returned with stores of whiskey and spirits.
Corrin was at the centre of the festivities, dancing with as many women as he could, and boasting to all of the men who would listen. But in between, he sought out the survivors from Waymoot to offer them his condolences and his company. More than once I saw him huddled in some quiet nook with two or three of them, talking quietly as villagers caroused around them. When last I saw him, he was sitting in the common room of the inn with a protective arm around Sofia. The halfling woman’s composure had finally cracked, and she was weeping softly against Corrin’s chest as he whispered soothing words into her hair.
Skamos initially kept to himself within the walls of the Sleeping Dragon and the straight-laced tiefling was largely ignored by the revelers. Only when Terren Oakhurst ordered a bonfire built in the main square did the wizard move outside. The leaping flames kindled his stony heart, and he spent the remainder of the evening conjuring lights and fire for a crowd of drunken spectators. As I wandered through the throng, I stopped in surprise. Despite all of the wondrous and fearsome sights I had seen over the previous few days, the grin splitting Skamos’ face that night was the one that surprised me the most.
Tira was courted by the town’s men, and she left them all with nothing more than a flashing smile and a flick of auburn hair. As if the men were not enough, a horde of women and young girls swamped her whenever she was managed to escape the men. They clamoured for her to re-tell our tale, and she was happy to oblige them. Some of the younger girls stared at her with mouths agape, and I smiled to think of the new generation of female adventurers that she was creating that night. Hours later, Picard appeared in the main square and Tira spent the early hours dancing and laughing with the eladrin ranger. The two of them seemed perfectly suited to each other and when last I saw them they were striding off into the darkness, bodies locked together in a passionate embrace.
As for me, I spent the night moving from group to group, enjoying the hospitality of Oakhurst’s citizens. I rarely went for more than a few minutes without a flagon of ale in my hand. First Terren, then Mathwyn, and then a steady stream of nameless villagers congratulated me on our victory and thanked me for our aid. More than once someone clapped my injured shoulder enthusiastically, only to apologise noisily when I grimaced in pain. But overall, the night was one of revelry and celebration, and I celebrated as much as anyone else.
As the darkness receded and the first glimmers of dawn appeared on the horizon, I found myself standing at the foot of Oakhurst’s statue to Amaunator. Around me, townsfolk drifted off to seek what little sleep they could find before the bland realities of life would call them to move on from their celebration and face the new day. For the first time in hours, silence fell over Oakhurst’s main square and, without meaning to, I found myself thinking of all that had happened since I left Kronos Keep less than a week earlier.
I had achieved much in that short time, perhaps more than most people would achieve in a life time. Many people had called me a hero that night, but in the cold light of that early dawn, my thoughts were instead drawn to the things that we had not achieved. I thought of the devastation in Waymoot, and of the innocents that had died there. I thought of Meepo, slinking through the night somewhere and doubtless planning further atrocities. But mostly I thought of the Ubler family, father, mother, son and toddler daughter lying in shallow graves outside a home that they had believed safe. A tear welled in my eye and then trickled down my cheek as I remembered cradling Ubler’s toddler in my arms as I laid her in the earth.
Movement in the background caught my eye and I looked up toward the shrine on the far side of the square. Olvar stood in the doorway, tired and stooped, but beaming with happiness. Sybil nestled against his shouder, her hands placed lovingly on his chest and the locket that we had recovered from Belazamon’s tomb around her neck. Their body language spoke of intimacy and love, and it was clear that Olvar had managed to cross the emotional distance that had separated them for so long. I returned the old priest’s smile. Perhaps we had made a difference after all.
I felt a smooth hand slide into mine, and looked around to find Laurel standing behind me. She smiled gently and closed her fingers around my unresisting hand. And then she wordlessly led me out of the square and into the Sleeping Dragon. We climbed the stairs to her room hand in hand, and the last thing I saw before I stopped caring about such things was the sun rising above the mountains to the east.
The End
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