DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

It's again after dark when the group decides to camp for the night, but this time they are feeling better about their situation. Two miles west of the macabre scene on the hilltop, off into the trees south of the King's Road, Dufgal finds a well-hidden shack. Creeping and spying, then knocking, reveals that the place appears to vacant, if not fully abandoned. It's a modest affair, likely a hermit's hovel, hunting shack or the like, and mouse and rat droppings make it clear the the most recent residents have four legs rather than two.

The place is half-rotten and a heavy rain will likely drizzle through the roof, but there are walls and a small stone hearth where a fire can be made. There are roughly-made cupboards that are bare, a work table, and a single foul-smelling straw mattress that looks like it might be the nest for the rodents. The old floorboards creak and the shutters on the lone window don't keep out the cold drafts, but it is a damn sight better resting place than they have seen west of Muckmire Fen so far.

Outside, the woods are quiet as the moon rises, barely visible through the boughs of the firs, and as the companions discover a splitting stump and broad axe in what passes for a yard. Against one side of the shed is a low, long wooden box with a lid; likely a larder.

The thief busies himself with trying to find a source of fresh or well water. He needs to clean his wounds.

"Ah, splendid find, Dufgal. Splendid." Aldric had been so busy watching the stars for signs that he had completely missed the hovel. He ducks his head as he enters, and inspects the lodge with a "beggars can't be choosers" attitude.

"Looks good. I'll clean up this rat-infested straw. A sad day for the snakes, ha!" Aldric will beat the shit out of the straw with his oar, then haul it outside. "Just like we used to do on the farm."

While he's outside, he'll keep a careful eye on that damned moon. You can never trust the moon. But if it doesn't make a move, he'll help Dufgal gather pine boughs.

Once the boughs are collected and the hut secured as it can be, Dufgal beds down in a dry corner and goes right to sleep. He trusts that if the others seem watch necessary, they’ll wake him. Otherwise, he will take all the rest he can get knowing the hard push on the morrow.

"The rat burrow might serve as a better windshield than a bunk, Aldric. Unless you want to rise with fleas, and your Pelagia knows what else, perhaps we might use to block the chill from the window?" she offers, but isn’t willing to fight on the matter. She wouldn’t be near the thing, wherever it was that it ended up.

"Well look at that, Anora the Blue knows a thing or two about living in a drafty cottage. What were you before you were 'The Blue?'"

Aldric will stack the hay just as Anora said while he listens to her answer.

Beneath the rotten hay is the expected collection of vermin — small rodents scatter, mice or voles most likely, it’s difficult to tell. As those creatures scramble for crevices and cracks, a few three-inch-long brown millipedes snake and wind their way to safety as well… and beneath the wettest part of what was once bedding, fat yellow slugs beneath enacting their slow-motion getaway…

"Doe-Hoof proves his worth again," Ty says, as he squats down to examine the cold hearth. "He'll be an asset to whatever community takes him in after the murder he's committed."

Should they risk a fire, with these walls to hide the light? Probably not. There would still be smoke, and that might attract the attention of brigands-- or a sharp-nosed predator.

"Anora the Quite Unremarkable, I assure you." the wizardess answers, putting a shield up to the question. "Drafty cottages as far as the eye can see, yes. And more besides. Nothing worth telling, I’m afraid. Same as most people, save for my talents that pulled me from the village." she allows herself a short laugh then, and feels the day’s tiredness on her.

"I suppose I’ll have to craft a better story than that if I make a name for myself. What do folk expect of a wizard these days, I wonder."

Aldric is stripping off his squeaky leathers while listening to Anora.

"Wait, you can laugh? I half expected you had traded away your mirth for your magical talents to some laughter-obsessed demon!"

Aldric's teasing is meant to come across as joking rather than mockery, and he flashed her a smile with an aim to help it land that way.

"Though, sharing this grueling, death-littered trail with the likes of us doesn't grant one many chances for a knee slapper, eh? Fucking hell, we're a sorry lot!"

He looks around the hovel as if to indicate

"I bet Ty has a wicked sense of humour. Ty! What passes for a joke in the Elf lands?"

"Everyone in this hovel," Tyravasiel-Llir answers dryly. He seems not to realize that this might be offensive. "Myself included, for winding up here. But such is the will of the Wave-Breasted Wench, is it not, Father Aldric?"

The elf shrugs out of his pack and sets it against the rotting boards of one wall, to serve him as a makeshift pillow for the night.

Dufgal was dreaming of childhood, trusting that he would be wakened as needed.

DAY FOUR - HIROT WITHIN REACH?


Night passes quietly if not uneventfully for the four travelers in the hovel. Each of them suffer dark, troubling dreams of one sort or another, and while none of them discuss their visions come the morning, they are each of them quieter than usual as they get underway in a heavy, low-lying, early morning fog. If good time can be made on the road today they will find themselves at the village they seek before nightfall, they all agree after a quick look at the rough map their benefactor provided to them.

---

Many hours later, the brooding forests and windswept moors that the group has been traversing through gradually blur into an endless grey, wet and cold mists that cling to the ground capped by dark clouds above. They are getting close to the base of the Trolltooth Mountains by now, but there is no sign of those looming, craggy peaks in this gloomy weather. Throughout the day, ravens are seen circling silently overhead on several occasions, and at least twice wolves bay in the distance.

Somewhere, hopefully not far ahead, lies Hirot... and maybe within it, the answers they seek, a warm hearth, strong wine and good company.

Conversation amongst the quartet ceases as muffles screams and voices come to them from ahead, up the road. At first those sounds are disembodied and seem to form from the murk itself, but then, there -- silhouettes, shapes in the mist! Several figures, perhaps driving one before them...