DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

To Aldric, "I’se keep both eyes on yer back, sir."
The stout but simple man meant it reassuringly even if his words and expression may fail in their delivery.

"Ready?" Dolsten says, a small pack on his shoulder, a determined look on his face, and his best traveling pants and shoes on. "We're losing light, so this way, please, follow me."

As the group sets off, it becomes clear that no Thegn seems intent on joining them. Ofenloch and Haedrick nod their well-wishes from the market square, and while a lot of other villagers seem more supportive with their back-pats, cheers, and blessings, none seem keen on venturing out of Hirot. Until one comes forward!

"Wait!" comes a voice, and when the gang turns to see who called out, they see Lloré the skald.

"I will accompany you," he proclaims, casting the quickest of sidelong glances at Morgan to make sure she is witness to this bravery and his tiny man-bun.

"And record your exploits and adventures for all to later hear!"

Anora takes the man in as he calls out and approaches. He had slipped away from his doom just the night before, had he not. She wondered if he would repeat that trick at her expense later today…

Yet her band of allies was thin enough. She would summon the witch, if she was not so bound by her rules and rituals. She was sure she could force the issue, if she so wanted, but knew she would pay doubly for it when the spell lifted!

"Lead on!" she simply says to the two Hirotians, waving them to walk before her!

With a slight raising of eyebrows and a little upward curl of his mouth, Dufgal tried to make a pleasant face at Lloré as he approached.

In his mind though, the thief felt guilty. His logic told him that one doesn’t dodge fate twice, so encouraging the skald to join them was entirely strategic. Dufgal had already been scheming a plan. When the hound moved in for the kill, that would give him its back. The burly man’s muscles could almost feel the squelching crunch of the warhammer piercing through to its lungs. It could work.

And yet, he didn’t dare telegraph his intention too soon. So, he did his best at smiling. Words failed him, so he left the awkward face to do its best.

Aldric joins the procession to the tomb, hanging toward the back. When they get to the stream, he will indicate he needs to take a piss, and then go and deliver his silver penance to his goddess in private, hoping that Dufgal will run interference if somebody snoops about.

Tyravasiel meanders along with the group. He has no particular fondness for Hirot, nor for its people, apart from a half-formed notion of the use to which lovely Morgan Haverson might be put. The hound could devour them all this very night, and Ty would sleep soundly enough. No, he's joined the expedition out of hope for gain, coupled with a morbid curiosity about how this grim and tumultuous story will conclude. Or so he tells himself.

Making conversation, the elf comments, "I for one am heartened to have Lloré the skald with us. I'm told he has a bark that can put the demon dog to flight."

"Let us hope! If not that, then perhaps Lloré will share the trick to escaping the hound with your life! As a last resort, we may put that into practice!" she says, at an attempt at light-heartedness.

ACT 3
Exiting the village though it’s stout south gate, the small procession of adventurers winds their way east and then north, walking the edge of Hirot’s sharpened palisade wall. Outside that wall feels very different than in — the air seems colder, damper. The sunlight that filters through the trees seems weaker now than it had just moments before.

The woods north of the remote village are wet and rotten, full of glistening black mosses and green tangles of old man’s beard. Dead wood dominates, requiring a circuitous path forward as orange and white fungi seem to proliferate everywhere. Dolsten leads the way, grim-faced, serious, ever an eye on the sun.

Lloré’s spirits are brighter, and as they walk, he sings traditional songs of warmth and daring exploration taught to him by his grandfather. He also asks more than once for opinions on Morgan, and more specifically, what Morgan thought of him. As they approach a wetland, a wide and murky, slow-moving stream, the man answers Anora’s questions.

"There’s an old tale, a ballad, of The Ulfheonar and the Wolf. I only know fragments. But it told of wolves fearing the savage king and fleeing from his lands, even his tomb." He hesitates as they reach the black water’s edge, and smiles. "So that night — I hid in the wood within sight of the tomb we travel to now. And I was unbothered by the Hound…"

"Surely meaning that we ought to have brought the people of Hirot with us, so that they may be similarly unbothered." Anora says, not a little annoyed by the man’s chirpiness. The woman pulled her robes up in a bundle as she begins to steep in the muck and wet!

Dufgal hangs back with Aldric at the end of the procession, planning to offer cover, distraction, or protection as needed for his penance ritual.

He takes his rope from his pack and ties it around his waist in a clove hitch knot. He hands one end to the Pelagian priest.

Ty quickens the pace at which he prods ahead of him with his cane, so that he'll be sure to detect the water's edge before he reaches it. The moment his tapping becomes splashing, the beggar pauses and cants an ear toward the sound.

"What is here before us?" he asks of no one in particular. "A river, or a rivulet?"

The elf pokes his 'cane' into the turbid water, to gauge its depth. "Dolsten!" he barks, as if he cannot tell that the Hirotian is standing right there. "Are we meant to cross here? This is the best way to the tomb?"

Aldric takes the rope from Dufgal with thanks, and ties it around himself as well. He enters the fast flowing water, and finally feels free of the invisible current he's been fighting against.

He quietly removes the 230 silver coins and places them in his hand as he mutters a prayer to the Bitch Queen.

"The fool who falls must learn to rise,
To face your storms and still survive.
Each bruise a lesson, each wave a guide,
To earn my place, I cast my pride."

He places the coins and lets them be carried away by the strong current. He gives Dufgal's shoulder a squeeze for his support.

Watching Dolsten’s choices as he navigates the crossing, Dufgal proceeds in kind.

Suppressing a sigh, Tyravasiel-Llir sets off across the fen in Dolsten's wake. Every few steps, he sounds ahead of himself with his cane to feel for any troughs or mires beneath the muddy surface. The elf keeps an ear cocked Dolsten's way, as if listening for the human's progress, but of course he's tracking their guide's course perfectly well through his blindfold.

"In safer times, you might appeal to the better nature of the people and ask them to place some timber’s out this way." Anora says, as she tries her best to follow along with the others.

Before they attempt the crossing, Aldric makes his offering. While these fetid waters can hardly be described as rushing, the silver coins plip and plop into the water, only to be whisked away by a current that can only be described as greedy. Silver flashes in the dark water as the priest utters his prayers, and as the sea, so many leagues away, draws it home with a wanting tide.

The obscene weight of the ocean lifts from the waveborn man then... Pelagia's remonstration has faded, he can feel it.

Aldric remains in the freezing water, waiting to see if his prayers are answered. As he feels the weight of her scorn lift from his shoulders, he sighs a breath of relief. He continues on the the journey...