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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Haraash Saan" data-source="post: 4128481" data-attributes="member: 46615">The next two days passed quickly for me. I spent my time between the dwarfs and Zhontell learning all I could of their respective languages whilst I had the opportunity.The countryside had gradually changed from open flat scrub land to the scattered woods we now travelled in, all evidence of the rat plague long gone. It was late afternoon on the fifth day of Burn when we heard voices on the around the bend on the road ahead. “Come now lads. Put your backs into it.” cried Zmrat’s familiar voice. As we rounded the corner we saw that he was standing beside the road and directing the others of the Massive Hand to haul a huge tree that had fallen over the road.We quickly exchanged greetings and salutations and went to work helping the Massive Hand. Manual labour is not my forte but my horse was happy enough to assist.It was dark by the time our task was complete, so we made camp and I swapped adventures with Zmrat until long into the night.The only unusual circumstance of the next few days travelling was a mysterious figure that Zhontell saw hiding in the scrub. Investigation only confirmed that someone had been there. Our observer had quickly scarpered into the brush when he realised he had been seen. Zmrat seemed unconcerned, dismissing the incident. “So the intrigue begins,” he said. “He was no doubt a spy out to see who we are and how much of a threat we are to be in the Games.” The Halfast Games were always dangerous, more so outside of the arena than in. At least in the arena there were rules, when an entrant was not competing all manner of mishaps could befall them. ‘Accidents’, unfortunate injuries, poisoning and even murder were all pitfalls of participation in the Games.Whilst nothing else of particular interest occurred during those hot and dry days, I took all chance to continue my lessons with the Rokana. Dwarven was a hard language to master but I had started to get my tongue and mind around its guttural harshness. It was so different to my native Guernean. Of an evening I took to trying to decipher the books of magic that we had taken from Grisha the dwarf. I spent many candle lit hours scouring through them attempting to discern any patterns or similarities.It was midday on the eleventh of Burn that we returned the town of Thornwood. The stillness loomed thick and demonstrated that even in the forty days since we had last passed this way that the danger of plague still lurked.I was all for passing through town, surely there was little risk now, but others were doubtful. To put our debate to rest Togale gathered us to around and proceeded to bless us in Muhbelung’s name. He reached down and grabbed a handful of earth in his fat palm, then raised both of his stumpy arms into the air, closed his eyes and called out to the skies. In an act of finality he scattered the dirt over us and said, “The great Muhbelung has blessed us. We are free to pass through the village without fear.”Whilst I am always one to be grateful for a divine benediction, I was abhorred to have soil thrown over me. I did well to control my anxiety, but as soon as the cleric had turned away I ferociously brushed myself down and made sure that I removed all traces of the dirt from my person. I caught myself before I verbally damned Muhbelung and his filthy ways. As I have said before, there is no point angering the Gods.So it was with holy intervention that we entered Thornwood. An eerie warm wind whistled down the vacant main street. Buildings had been looted long before we had arrived. Doors were smashed in or swinging on their hinges. Every home or shop we passed had the dishevelled look of a ransack about them. At least the town provided some respite from the biting sun. For days we had travelled with little shelter from its unrelenting heat. With that in mind the decision was quickly made to take a long midday break.One of the dwarves found the smithy and fired the furnace and began to tinker with some of scrap metal that was about. After paying my respects in the desecrated temple of my own God, Laster, I found an empty building with a solid chair and sat myself down to study my magic books. I passed most of the afternoon with my nose firmly planted between their pages with the thin and shrill hammering from the forge as an accompaniment. Some hours later a loud hail roused me from my studies. Strav, rapier swishing menacingly in hand and the others were standing in the street facing an elderly black robed man. No one spoke for a moment, then I heard him say, “Yes, good, all here” as he opened a scroll tube and unrolled a parchment.He hacked through a cough to clear his throat and called out, “I seek a member of the Hydra!”Strav stepped forward, “I am a Hydra. What do you want?” he said disrespectfully.“Yes, good. This is for you.” The old man said as he hobbled forward gently palming Strav’s rapier aside as he handed him the parchment. He then turned on his heel and shuffled off, much to my amusement. None had even thought to ask his name before he had rounded a corner and was gone.We crowded around Strav as he read the paper that he had been given;“To the team from Yorath known as the Hydra.It is with pleasure that we offer you an invitation to participate in the annual Halfast Games.Registration is to be completed in Cassavary Square in Halfast on the Twenty Sixth Day of Burn.”So our official invite to the Games had arrived. How the old codger had known to find us here in Thornwood was a mystery. On inquiring of the Massive Hands’ invitation Zmrat slapped his breast and said “Already received ours back in Yorathton. They must have missed you when you were away on the Baron’s business.”The sun had slowly begun its descent so we decided to move on and journey as far as we could in the pleasant warmth of the evening before settling for the night.</blockquote>

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