Chapter Seven: The Stalemate At Loton's Cove

Sitting in the bay window of the Ram and Sedge inn on what was to be her last day in Solyhill, Annganne Anne can hardly believe her eyes when she sees the riders approaching. There are five of them, and yes, that one could well be the brooding barbarian, that other one has a bit of Jermal flax in his hair, and there's one with a bow slung over his back...she supposes the two bringing up the rear are "the handsome one" and the demonspawn, respectively, although she can't get a good look at their faces yet.

She had suspected they might show up here, although she'd not dared hope that her timing would be this perfect. In her planning notes, she had anticipated tracking the Hunters of the Crown for considerably longer before finally catching up with them. They've come here for the same reason she did, no doubt, but she wonders if they too will find this town depressingly bereft of interesting clues...

TO BE CONTINUED

The town of Solyhill has no walls, but the main road has the party pass through a gatehouse, where three guards, the oldest of whom cannot be more than fifteen, question you as to where you came from and what business you have in Solyhill. You have little difficulty persuading them to wave you through.

It's nighttime by the time you're in Solyhill proper, but there are beacon fires burning up by the fort. The town feels empty, but not sleepy -- torch-bearing guards patrol wide, deserted avenues as you pass by a well-lit but quiet inn whose sign depicts a long-horned ram grazing in tall grass. A small gray donkey, the only animal hitched outside, raises its head to glare impassively at you.

The road into town terminates at a two-story holy house nestled against the slope of the hill. Shops and taverns line the last stretch of road, seemingly closed, but smoke rises from the chimney of one tavern, and you can hear the lonely ping, ping of a blacksmith working overtime.

~meanwhile~

Annganne looks around. The spacious common room remains nearly empty. Deach the barman is still fretting over the tables with his dirty rag, while the same quartet of widows she's seen in here every day remain camped out at their usual table, weeping and drinking and occasionally falling into fits of rage or strange mirth. How much better for them were they to follow the grieving process of her people! But they were not her people.

Satisfied, she returns her attention to the adventurers outside. Would they stop here to eat and rest, or were they heading straight for the hillfort?

What are you going to do now, players?

Just to clarify, there's two hospitality establishments that appear to be open right now: an inn nearby and a tavern further up the road.

Domarc, Felor, and Zangua tie up their horses next to the donkey and walk into the inn.

It's quite dead inside. A man with a gruesome old scar running up the side of his head is roaming around the common room wiping off empty tables while four young women huddle together at a corner table, nursing ales. They seem to be the only customers here, although there seems to be a very small child sitting in the inn's bay window with a half-finished platter of food.

The bartender glances up as you enter, stares for a moment, then gestures for you to sit wherever you like.

Mordred and Leth make a side trip to the smithy to see about armor upgrades before joining the others at the inn.

The shop is a cluttered cavern nestled between a potter and a woodworker, full of unfinished pieces and farm tools for sale. Pots and cookware are piled on a table. You see a few weapons and armor pieces -- mostly braced helmets -- on the walls, but even in this poor light you can see that the workmanship is passable at best. The pinging beckons you further into the shop.

The back room opens out into an enclosed yard, and here you find the smith hammering away at what looks like a large axe blade. The smith is a tall, stocky woman with frizzy red hair tied in a topknot. She doesn't seem to notice the two of you until you're a few feet away, at which point she starts, looks up, and says, "Oh...did you need something?"

The barman returns after a few moments with cups and a jug of brown ale. He scoops up the coin as he starts to leave.

Fine with that, sell that vendor trash!

Has Annganne overheard what happened to the windows' husbands?

Felor would know about gnomes and has most likely seen them before, but never in Bload.

Felor takes another look at the other customers. Two of the four women have reddish, puffy faces, like they've been crying within the last few minutes; the other two don't look much more cheerful. They sit closely together and talk quietly, occasionally casting little suspicious glances in your direction.

The child in the window is wrapped up in a hooded traveling cloak. She, too, keeps making furtive glances your way.

Annganne observes the three men more closely and finds nothing to shake her from her initial hypothesis. The handsome one has the warm complexion and agreeable features of a coastal Mezian, no doubt, and there's no mistaking the Jermal countenance and hair color of the earnest-looking man with the spear. As for the lean warrior quietly taking in the room through half-closed eyes, no obvious bloodlines stand out to her; she wonders if he might be one of this land's native humans.

Annganne knows that the four widows lost their husbands about a month and a half ago. They were soldiers stationed at the fort, and when the Hierophant of Hazard secretly dispatched them to confront the Six-Pronged Crown, a white dragon fell upon them as they marched north and killed nearly every one of them.

~meanwhile~

The smith sighs. "All Teav's finished pieces were sent up to the armory already. There might be some wooden bucklers still at Gyman's, but nobody's been in to run the shop this week. If you come back in the morning, I might be able to get someone to open it up for you..." She looks down at the rough blade cooling on the anvil. "I'm not much good with armaments yet, sorry to say. This one's for practice. Going to be a halberd."