IC - Village of Yoblora

Two days riding will bring you to the next village along the veil: Yoblora. There is not a lot of visiting between the scattered villages of this hinterland. No-one can advise you as to current conditions in Yoblora.

Not only the frost is thick this morning, but also the clouds look heavy with snow.

Danill gets himself a thick, fur lined cloak for the road.

He also pays a visit to Ciara to tell her of his new duties, but fear not he will visit her when his circuit brings him back this way.

Finally, he leaves a letter at the inn should his family come to retrieve him. It tells how he saved the village and doesn't need to shake people down anymore.

Danill's cloak is graced him by none other than Ibic Panwol. It's quite a bit short, only a little above the knees, given the relative size of Danill and the village elder. "You've done justice for Tiyem," the old man said as he handed over the heavy soft garment. "I'll miss this wolf-skin, but I have a good warm woolen quilt and hardly go out when it's cold. Safe travel."

Danill thinks on this moment as he saddles his horse. My whole life I've done things to be accepted--roughin' folk up for Uncle Delon when I didn't even like it... And it's not 'til I help in a selfless fashion that I'm recognized for it and made to belong...

The responsibility weighs on him.

Like Danill, Quintus Quail begs a homespun cloak for the colder weather ahead. He also seeks a brace of torches, in case the Guardians need to travel by night; and for himself, should any of the villagers be so generous, a top-up of his tobacco pouch.

Quintus saddles his shaggy horse in silence. His lips are thin where they wrap the stem of his pipe, from which smoke rises and ashes fall, now and then, to smolder unheeded on the arm of his robe. He has been withdrawn since Dommic's death put an end to the spirit's terrible wailing. Quail is unaccustomed to murder, even in a good cause, and can't help thinking himself mean and churlish to have fired on Podreg's brother without even attempting to reason with the youth.

Of course that youth sought to kill the Guardians, and came near enough. But was Quintus, then, any better than he, apart from having enjoyed greater success?

For unexpressed reasons, Ciara is watching the four of you leave. She stands on the frosty grass next to her parents' cottage, playing with her hair. Her breath steams in the dawn.

Danill knows she watches him, sad at his parting now that she sees he's a hero. He likes the drama of it all, and she's too late to win him over.

Ognimir offers his Mirror Wolf shards to the various folks of the town. "I can't promise you for certain, but I would but quite surprised if the next Arcanist that comes through these parts wouldn't give at least 50 silver for this bag," becomes his best sales pitch. He hopes to get a nice thick cloak in exchange. He takes extra care of Maple.

You ride quietly through the forest trails, each pondering the recent events.

The day gradually warms. You stop to eat lunch on a hillside meadow above a chattering stream. Nearby, small birds swirl in a big flock that will not settle for more than a few moments in the bare grey branches of the trees. The sky is crystal blue, the sun is bright. The air smells of fallen leaves.

Faintly, you hear the sound of a horn.

Damir pauses and looks in the direction of the disturbance. He has been thinking about the cursed apparition that has plagued Limm, about how the villagers have stood together to face it and about how the source of all the nastiness had only thought about himself and his hurt pride. The Guardian moves his shoulder and feels for the sore spot. So many good souls almost wiped out by one selfish person.

The horn brings him back and he looks at Ognimir, then the others.
"Something is, it seems, afoot.
Shall we go see, oh gentlemen?
Maybe we can do some good.
Let's finish up and ride again."

Sitting atop Madge, his mighting plow horse turned mount, Danill itches his fresh tattoo.

"Aye, I could do for a bit o'excitment." Bravado aside, Danill is nervous but will follow the lead of his fellows.

"Lead on."

"Quintus, what say you? Does that horn sound like a call of distress?"

Ognimir turns to look enjoying the warm sun on his face.

Quintus' pipe has burned down during the journey. He takes the opportunity of this pause to tap ashes onto the mud and fallen leaves, where the stamping of his horse's hooves may churn them into the soil.

"It could simply be a hunter's horn," Quail counters amiably. "But then, this close to the Veil..."

Given the region, and their charge as Guardians, it would be worth checking out the sound.

The horn seemed to sound from the left side of the trail, ahead, which is the side away from the Veil as your general circuit takes you widdershins along the boundary of Khelia. It is not a trivial matter to guess the distance of a horn blow in a woodland, where the trees diffuse the sound. It was ... distant? A couple of miles, perhaps.

You ride in that direction. Cautiously? Rapidly?

If the distant horn is a call for help, as Ognimir supposes, then they would do well to make haste. With a glance at the others, Quintus wheels his mount to the left, off the trail, and heads for the sound at the best gallop he can make, given the forested terrain.

The horses charge through the drifts of fallen leaves, sending up a cloud of dry fragments that hovers behind and around you on the gentle breeze. The sun shines warm in the chill autumn air. The flock of small birds departs with a clamor, alarmed by your speed.

You ride generally along the stream, and not far from the trail, which bends leftward to follow the watercourse.

It does not take very long for your horses to cover a mile - a few minutes. Even Danill's sturdy plowhorse proves its metal.

You ride to the top of a low rise and behold a scene of strife. Two men wielding swords stand back to back amid a ring of six ... seven ... eight strange creatures, shaped like wolves yet gleaming like mirrored glass. Ognimir immediately recognizes them. He also notes there are three scatterings of gleaming, glinting shards near the feet of the swordsmen. They have made their mark on the pack of mirror wolves.

One man has a hunting horn slung about his neck, clearly it was he who sounded an alarum.

As soon as Ognimir sees the battle, he pulls his horn and blasts a reply, and calls a charge.
He then readies his shield, and his pole and cries out to his mount.

"Run, Maple--let's see if you have more fight in you?"

Well we're off then!

Danill kicks his mount into motion, following Ognimir. He jerks his reigns to the left though, intending to ride in a circle round the men, but between the wolves.

Quintus reins up some distance from the fray. The burly Ognimir might charge boldly into battle, but Quail, an urbane tattooist, is more circumspect. At least, that's the term he prefers to use.

Instead he notes the shards that represent the corpses of deceased mirror wolves. He reaches out with one hand, with the magic that has been itching for days now beneath the marks on his fingers and palm, seeking release. He lets that magic go out to one shattered wolf, willing that it might recall the strange beast to some semblance of order and service, however briefly.

"Attack," Quintus Quail murmurs, to pit the resurrected creature against its fellows.