RP Session 4: "A Halfday's Ride"

Corson: HP 24/31 | HD 3 | Inspiration [✓].
Lancaelad: HP 28/28 | HD 3 | Inspiration | DECIDER.
Rhoderick: HP 19/19 | HD 3 | Inspiration [✓].
Tovrunn: HP 19/22 | HD 3 | Inspiration .

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Available NPCs: Adalric
Total XP: 1,800/2,700

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Deliver Adalric Safely to Halfday: +900xp milestone
Brave the Spiderfell and Live: +350xp milestone
Learn How to Escape Shivhi: +350xp milestone

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Current Initiative Order: Out of Initiative

The Spiderfell was an unnatural realm. The trees grew in gnarled tangles, their ugly boughs wrapping around each other as if battling for the light; the natural tranquillity of the wood twisted into desperate strangulation. The ground beneath was boggy, and the shafts of light that pierced through like spears seemed too harsh, too caustic, casting quivering blotches of bleached earth into razor-sharp contrast. And everywhere thick ropes of web hung pendulous from above, tiny glittering eyes watching the quintet of riders' every move from the shadows.

When the winding pathways allowed, or when Tovrunn's horse stumbled on a pathway that they were certain had not been there a moment ago, they would ride within sight of the border to track their path with distant towns and garrisons. When they spotted the tower called Falcon's Roost (home to the wizard Caine) they would turn due west and ride hard for their destination.

Until then, it was the stifled menace of the wood.

They rode on through the sickly, overharsh light, stopping to send Corson and Tovrunn to scout to the west every so often as the land began gradually to defy even the Rjurik maid's craft to navigate. As they did the pathways narrowed as fat thorny vines and arm-thick ropes of webbing formed walls between the trees. Occasionally the path would dead end, only for a tiny, previously unseen game track to present itself just as they reached the obstruction. It was as if a silent war between the dead ghost of the Old Father of Forests and the vile corruption of the Dark One made silent war in the twisted undergrowth.

Once, twice, three times, four Lan and Rhoderick stood guard over Adalric whilst the woodsman and priestess rode off and returned. On the fifth time though, the pair found their way blocked by a ravine - a maw in the earth that rose up on either side like a gaping wound - the very earth puckered up like withered flesh and the depths completely hidden beneath a blanket of silk that swarmed with malicious arachnid life. Spiders of all manner of vivid and venomous hue waiting below.

Navigating the thing in this maze would take time, and so they returned prematurely to their companions to decide whether to press on not knowing if they were straying east or backtrack into the arms of any fell minion the Spider might have put upon their trail.

It would take perhaps a quarter of an hour for the feathered familiar to pass the ravine and then spot the border over the treetops (that is if they were still on track), and acceptable risk to navigate these cursed woods safely. However when that time passed and more the risk of staying still in the awnsheigh's wood grew.

Had they veered off course? Then Ira's flight might take longer. Or had the familiar fallen foul of the many denizens of the woods that would take an own for nothing more than a tasty snack? Neither was a promising outcome.

Rhoderick meanwhile was beginning to feel... wrong. His temples began to throb and an unseen band seemed to constrict ever tighter around his forehead. Ever attentive to their uncanny surroundings, Corson noticed that the colour was slowly draining from the Nesirite's face and he was beginning to sweat.

In the same moment that Rhoderick began to realise that this fit of pique was more than a passing moment, a sudden thought came to him with absolute surety: He's watching. There was no telling who 'he' was (though a wager on the terrible lord of this realm might be a safe bet) but the thought was as certain as it was vague, as if someone outside the warrior priest had planted it there. The terrible pressure that left him feeling sick and dizzy - it was the attention of something old and powerful and immeasurably malicious. Attention focused through a thousand thousand tiny opal eyes hidden all around them.

"What's this now pets? Chu thinks some mansy riders is about in us woods then?" came a voice, nasal and greasy, from the way they had come. The patter of too-many feet and the crunching of undergrowth came from the way they had come, and a raspy panting, and the hiss of steel. Turning the five travellers saw a small party emerging from the woods.

The speaker was a painfully thin goblin, with mail of a strangely bluish steel hanging limply from razor-blade shoulders and a hood that mercifully hid much of a heavily a scarred countenance. A glint of yellow teeth was enough to evidence a cruel smirk. In his hand he held a pitted glaive, and he sat on the back of massive arachnid the colour of a fresh bruise, its terrible fangs black as night and wet with venom.

At his side loped two towering, hunched figures with shoulders thick with matted fur and the heads of hideous scavengers. Their elongated, dangling arms and dead eyes gave them a terrible menace. Behind this vanguard came five other goblins on foot, each in ragged armour and carrying a mix of weathered bows and barbed spears. A scouting party! Despite his welcome, the goblins seemed as surprised to have stumbled upon their quarry as the Roesonian contingent were and they stood in a cluster at the mouth of the path, but their intentions were clear. No doubt Tal-Qazar sought to bolster his divine blood.

Tovrunn reached out to her God, but Erik's voice seemed somehow muffled in these polluted woods. It was as if another will held sway here, and while no mortal could wholly obstruct a God, the Spider was scarcely mortal anymore. Tal Qazar had fought in that same battle that made Erik a God, bathed in the same divine essence, and the awnsheigh's will alone meant that this place was scarcely still a wilderness in a manner the Rjurik maid recognised. He prayers felt... muted, and the grasping limbs of the woodland faltered - their brittle fingers snapping at even the least force. Only the tracer perched atop the massive arachnid was tangled - an overhead vine snaring his arm and weapon even as he raised it to command his rabble.

With a snarl of frustration that twisted his dagger features the near skeletal goblin wrenched futilely at his glaive, but when it held fast he turned his glare at Tovrunn and thrust out his other hand, palm outward toward her. "Nai Sa Rwatt!" he screeched, and a miasma of sickly flame formed about his hand before streaking toward her, exploding across her chest. Tovrunn's mail blackened and she could feel the metal heat, but it was enough to protect her from all but the greasy smoke that rose to her nostrils.

The sudden divinely-inspired assault must have caught the goblins off guard - clustered together they were an easy target for Tovrunn and Rhoderick's powers, but the creatures seemed uncannily resilient. Not only did they defy capture by the vines and branches, but they also weathered the concussive bellow of Nesirie's damnation. Though many of their number staggered, blood bloomed from their ears, and much of the undergrowth was torn apart, only a single goblin was thrown like a lifeless ragdoll away from the force and into the canopy above.

Tasting their own blood, violence ringing in their ears the pair of gnolls split off and loped around either flank of the party of travellers, each pulling a bow from their shoulders and taking aim as they advanced. Crude arrows flew for both Lan and Rhoderick with the snap of taut sinew.

The first of the gnolls' arrows buzzed past Rhoderick's ear like an angry hornet, but the second's timing was blessed, and it caught Lancaelad squarely in the flank, passing beneath his shield as the knight roared a challenge. The arrow tore a gash in the soft leathers the knight wore beneath his armour and left his ribs exposed where the ruined mail now hung loosely from his belt.

Pushing swiftly past Lan, Corson marched up to the more injured of the gnolls and made a lunge for its stomach. Waiting until the towering creature bent forward to pull away from his lunge the knight of the wodes changed the angle of his thrust, slicing up and into the now exposed chin.

The blade, grimy and tarnished was kept lethally sharp and it bit deep into flesh and found bone, leaving the gnoll a gory flap of hanging flesh where its lower jaw had been. The thing staggered back, canine eyes wide enough that he could see the white ring at their edges, but then its gaze snapped to the warrior's face and it shrieked a gurgling laugh through its ruined mouth, spitting flecks of blood over his simple green surcoat.

The four surviving goblins meanwhile began to circle, retreating from Tovrunn's unnatural thicket to place it between themselves and their foes. The pair with bows sent arrows towards Rhoderick and Lan as the gnolls had, while the spear-armed survivors readied themselves to answer a charge with deadly force.

The gnoll caught the blow on the ragged piecemeal of its armour and managed to stagger clear of the lance's tip, it was glancing but then in the heat of battle all blows were until they weren't. Meanwhile the great spider, easily the side of five men, looked lethargically at the melee breaking out with eight glittering eyes. As ogre thundered by the creature finally decided to move, and with frightening agility it lunged forward leaving the goblin that had been perched on its back dangling from, the vines.

Corson stood a few yards ahead of the monster arachnid, and it slammed its vast bulk into him even as the gnoll spat its hyena howls back at the knight of the green.

The incandescent warrior's bolts both flew true. The enormous spider, intent as it was on Corson who at least for now seemed too canny for it, scarcely seemed to notice the arrow that grazed over it's bulbous abdomen but the nearest of the goblins took the arrow full in the throat even as it waved its spear threateningly at Lancaelad. It died without a sound at its fellows feet.

Now separated from the spider, the bent tracker dropped from amongst Tovrunn's vines but his feet became quickly ensnared. Opting not to struggle further, he spat the words of his spell again and sent an arrow of flame after Tovrunn even as she ducked behind a stack of web-wrapped boulders.

Nesirie was ever listening, and though his opponent caught the blow of the mace on a bracer and turning it aside, the goblin's wince showed Rhoderick that he was beginning the long and familiar process of wearing foe down. The goblin leader snarled and hefted his spear from amongst the brambles. Even as he did the gnoll off to the warrior-priest's right, either sensing its master in danger or simply hungry for a foe, charged into Rhoderick with a cackling howl.

Its fellow with the ruined face, chest already a mass of steaming gore, began raining berserker blows down on Corson.

The colossal spider was a simple creature, and Corson's lightening fast riposte at its feet was clearly not what the thing was expecting. It stumbled back a few steps, off balance and clattering its mandibles in frustration.

The cluster of wounded goblins meanwhile maintained the cover of Tovrunn's spell, circling to the east and once more loosing their arrows at Lan as he wheeled Ogre about. The single survivor with the spear digging his weapon's shaft once again into the earth again a charge. All three glanced back towards the woods as if measuring their retreat.

The remaining spear-wielding goblin had prepared itself against an assault, and as Lan wheeled Ogre around and drew his pick the creature jabbed at him even as the mounted warrior loomed over the horribly wounded trio.

The spider meanwhile scrambled back to its many feet, its barbed feet skittering across the forest floor. Once it had regained its balance the malevolent arachnid once more brought its terrible mandibles to bear.

Still hopelessly trapped by the thorns Tovrunn had conjured, and now beset by Rhoderick, the Spider's Tracer hefted his glaive but instead of lunging at the heavily armoured Nesirite he began hacking at the virulent mass of vines and roots about his feet.

Even as Rhoderick landed a staggering blow against the trapped goblin, the gnoll to his left continued its savage assault. Its fellow, though growing sluggish with blood loss, did the same against a staggered Corson who was struggling against the venom of the enormous spider.

Marshalling near all that he had left in his Corson lunged forward, hacking clean through the foremost of the spider's legs. The limb tore clean away in a spray of foul arachnid ichor and the monstrous frame juddered, staggered, but would not fall.

Meanwhile, faced by Lan and his raging behemoth of a warhorse the remaining pair of goblins broke for the forest the way they had come, ducking easily under his swings as they fell back. Were they fleeing or seeking out a better spot from which to launch their devious attacks? Or perhaps fetching reinforcements? It was hard to say.

Reeling back from the horrific injury, the spider let out a defiant hiss and brought all of its massive weight down on the bloodied Corson. He was outnumbered and the burn of the spider's venom was still hot in his joints, but if he could just hold for a few more moments then Lancaelad and Tovrunn could tip the scales of his dire battle at the centre of the melee.

The monster came down, terrible hairy mandibles dripping with noxious hatred, only to thud with bone-jarring might into the tree emblazoned on the knight's shield. The enormous, alien head was close enough to Corson's face that the knight could see malignant frustration in the thing's many eyes, but perhaps also a blossom of fear?

Seeing the desperate battle in which Corson found himself, Tovrunn marshalled her energies. The towering orb of flame that had decimated the Diemen warcamp once again came forth, but this time instead of forging its sluggish but inevitable path of destruction Tovrunn redoubled her meditative prayers and the flames darted forward into the enormous spider. The creature was immediately engulfed with flame, its brittle limbs bursting and poppling like kindling as it vanished in a pall of oily black smoke.

The shaft of light that flew from celestial bow faded long before it reached the maimed gnoll however, Tovrunn's will was simply too divided to keep the missile in this world.

As the ball of flame roared into being, the vines that entangled the last of the goblins gradually fell back as if returning to slumber limp on the forest floor. With Lancaelad evening the numbers in Rhoderick's bloody melee (even as Ogre thundered after the retreating goblins with a derisive snort), the tracer bared his jagged yellow teeth in a grin, but it turned to a snarl as the spider was consumed by fire. Only two combatants remained from his little raiding party, and yet the pinkskins were hurt too.

Calculating is choices, the hooded goblin whirled his rusty glaive and thrust for Rhoderick's flank. Perhaps with half their number felled he'd make offerings of these trespassers yet.

It was clear that with the spider's demise the tides of battle were turning, and though the tracer and his gnoll entourage fought on. The tracer might have some strategy in mind, but the gnolls knew only bloodthirsty savagery. Without tactic or fear the continued their furious assaults, froth on their lips and hunger burning in their eyes.

The bloodthirsty gnoll took the bait without hesitation, and Corson's sword cleanly skewered the thing's jaw and punched out through the top of its skull. The light went out in its eyes even as it dropped its weapon and clawed at Corson, flecks of foam and blood spattering the squire's face until, with a tittering death rattle it slumped against him and slid down his shield.

If the death of their fellows and the furious warhorse descending upon them wasn't enough to convince the surviving goblins that the fight was lost then the spider and the gnoll falling moments apart was. The pair scrambled into a thorny thicket and Ogre snorted in fury as he tried to stomp his way through the web-choked brush.

Lan's weapon caught the haft of the glaive, but the tracer was fast and the crows bill found no purchase.

"Arrogant mansy-thing" the goblin sneered in its grating rasp "what goblins wins is goblin's own. Did you makes your iron, or the mountain?"

There was no choice - Rhoderick had to get away from the ball of flame that now dominated the small clearing even if the burst of speed made him vulnerable. Even as it capered back from the flames itself the bloodfrenzied the gnoll took a wild swing at him, but the flames made it impossible to make good its attack. In return the son of Nesire unleashed a thunderous report that tossed his attacker past the flames and away, but even as Rhoderick felt his spell take hold over the retreating goblin the enraged gnoll refused to leave him be and exploding in a shower of sparks through the now-smouldering undergrowth it doggedly ran him down.

Whether it was because it had once again been deafened by the voice of the storm or the continued assault of spellcraft, the gnoll wasn't able to brig its savagery to bear, and Rhoderick was able to back-pedal and catch its blow on his shield.

The burst of fire caught the gnoll, eliciting a yap of pain and scorching the flesh of its face and shoulder into a bubbling, semi-liquid mass. It turned raging, feral eyes to Tovrunn only to see its ruin bearing down on it as the ball of fire that had felled the spider claimed another victim. The gnolls screams of pain died quickly as smoke filled its throat, but it writhed and convulsed in agony at the heart of the inferno for far longer until its body turned hard and black like a mass of gnarled coal.

The tracer meanwhile, limbs stiff with resistance, turned and rushed past Lancaelad toward Rhoderick.

The goblin cast about him, his retreat thwarted by the onslaught of magic that had rained down since first this skirmish began. As he did a distant horn sounded from somewhere to the south.

Judging the mounted warrior to be the greatest threat to his escape amongst the encircling enemies, the tracer brought the glaive low, ducking beneath Tovrun's burst of magic and lunging up in an arc of steel at Lancaelad, using his close proximity to catch the knight beneath the shield with a bruising blow.

The goblin staggered under the blow of the mace, the weapon catching it across the collarbone. The howl of pain and the sudden lean to its posture was evidence enough - something had broken. The goblin knew now that these interlopers had no intention of letting him leave. With fighting its only option it continued a fluid path from Lan's flank to lunge with the glaive at the retreating priest.

The blast of blessed lightening arced up the glaive and sent the goblin sprawling bonelessly backward, smoke rising from its burned-out eyes and mouth. It flopped gracelessly onto the forest floor where Ogre's mighty hoof came down and crushed its skull into pulp with a crack like breaking an egg.

Riding hard with the kindling fire at their back the Roesonians pressed north and west, meeting the edge of the shadowed gorge and following it as fast as the tangled and silk-choked wood would allow. Swiftly they spotted a section of gorge bridged by a fallen tree and surrounded by the thickest knots of cobweb they'd yet seen, as thick as mooring rope. Before they could make a swift crossing however, a cadre of bow-armed goblins dashed from the woods on the far side of the gorge.

As Lan and Rhoderick surged forward the goblins on the far side of the gorge, hungry to serve their master by waylaying these intruders, hurried to cut off their advance. Even beneath Ogre's mighty hooves the webbing scarcely quivered, though a thousand-thousand silken strands tried to hold the furious charger in place. Their crude short bows at the ready, the three at the far side of the web loosed shots at the knight as he advanced onto the steel-cord strong web.

Meanwhile, the moment he first touched the webbing Lan noticed a flicker of motion in the gorge far below. There was little time to investigate further though, as the noble knight was forced to employ his shield.

Further down the opposing lip of the gorge the other two goblins, well beyond the optimal range of their weapons, took a pair of shots at Rhoderick.

Lan charged across the gorge, the gossamer webbing scarcely moving under his thunderous passage as if the bridge were made of iron rather than silk. The strands were easily the thickness of one of his thighs, and there were a great many twined around one another.

Reaching the far side he barrelled into the surprised goblin, clearly positioned to take advantage of a far more cautious crossing, and with a screech from the little beast cast it down into the gorge below. The vile little creature caught in a clutch of webbing perhaps ten feet down, its fall broken by the silken net, but its screeching only redoubled in volume and desperation when it realised its salvation. The thing thrashed about trying to get free, but it only grew more entangled as it fought.

Rhoderick similarly made haste across the webbing, the blessings of the Lady of the Sea's Spray guiding his way to the path of least resistance like water flowing down a mountain. Being afoot he was unable to make the same speed as the knight however, and by the time combat was joined he was scarcely half way across the suspended bridge.

The remaining goblins, faced with the knight's sudden assault, scattered and took their shots at Lan. Their bows, ineffectual from the far side of the gorge, were far more suited to these closer quarters.

Buttressed by the ease with which his companions made their crossing Corson too charged out onto the webbing, but curving his path to the right to avoid Rhoderick he quickly felt loose strands of webbing drift upwards on a stale breeze and caress his face. Before he could react to the peril it was too late - his quiet roan's hooves stuck fast, and in shock the animal reared up and tried to turn. The webs tracing his features became a braided net and swiftly both mount and rider were ensnared.

Even as the arrows bit into his flesh a fog as thick and grey as that at the bottom of the gorge rose from the very earth at Lancaelad's feet, enveloping him and falling like a lazy waterfall over the lip of the precipice at his back. It was enough at least that the goblins' arrows would struggle to find the knight again. However it also prevented him from seeing what was happening back the way he'd come.

At the far bottom of the gorge what had moments ago been a mere twitch in the thick tunnels of webbing surged into terrible view. A spider, dull ochre in colour with a broad flat body and long powerful legs emerged in a blink from its den deep in the craggy recesses of the wound in the earth - summoned by the sudden vibrations through its tubular labyrinth of web. Worse still, the thing was colossal - bigger than any living thing that any of the Roesonians had ever seen. Just one of the arachnid's massive fangs was larger than a horse and the whole sinister bulk of its hairy body outstripped most cottages. A row of glittering eyes stared up at the bridge of webbing with a malevolent intelligence, taking the measure of the flies it had caught.

Suspended in webbing part way down the gorge, the goblin Lan had unbalanced felt a ripple through the netting that ensnared him, and his thrashing became all-out panic as he began to screech "Shivhi, Shivhi!" in an ululating scream so terrible it was hard to believe it came from the throat of as living thing.

Much had changed fro the goblins in a matter of seconds. A mist now clung to the earth and obscured their vision, the mounted warrior amongst them had survived their volley and answered it with lightning strikes and the massive arachnid siege engine of The Spider whose awful power they knew too well had been teased from its maze of webs beneath the earth.

Still, the four remaining skirmishers knew that a far more terrible fate awaited them than anything this scene promised should they break away now, and so in spite of the layer of mist they raised their bows and let fly once more before retreating as far from the spot where the horseman had vanished as possible. They too could strike and run.

Shaking his awareness of the colossal arachnid proved harder than Lan imagined. Making lethal use of his greater mobility and the cover provided by his betrothed, the knight was proving more than capable of dominating the skirmish he'd rode headlong into despite his companions being waylaid in their crossing, but he was frustratingly aware of the dozens of ropelike clots of webbing he had to pass as he rode this way and that.

About half way through his most recent circuit he was hacking and pressing past a decent knot of the stuff when he felt... something. It was almost as if the sagging mass of rotting leaves and debris tensed at his touch. Nothing seemed to happen, so he continued his rampage.

At about the same time on the bridge of web that spanned the gorge and its eerily still resident Corson and Rhoderick were struggling to free the squire of the green and his mount (with little success) when both men were immediately aware of a flash of movement. Looking down both swore the massive spider had shifted position. Worse still, the goblin that Lan had cast down into the gorge was... gone.

Keeping a wary eye on the gorge, the pair of goblins to the south moved up to take advantage of the fog now that the knight had vacated it, each loosing an arrow in his direction as they did. The last goblin to the north meanwhile seemed to be making for the log bridge where perhaps the mounted warrior would have less of an advantage, but seeing that Lan was bloodied at least it too paused to loose an arrow.

One arrow thudded into his chest, and Lancaelad felt the arrow puncture his battered armour and bite deep into flesh. He was just reeling with the blow when another tremendously lucky shot caught him just beneath the shoulder blade and the last thing he was cognisant of was toppling slowly from Ogre's back.

Rhod's prayer was fervent, and with a hiss that sounded like both the spray of the sea against a cliffside and a sigh he saw Lancaelad's knotted brow smooth and his pallor warm ever so slightly. The knight remained fallen, but now in the semblance of sleep and not that of a man grappling the shadow.

He only had time to offer a reassuring nod to Adalric before a curtain of pearlescent threads floated gracefully down into view, and then as he realised what was happening the eerily beautiful net tightened and with near instant acceleration he was yanked backwards and found himself swaddled and motionless on the gorge's lip beneath the horse-sized mandibles of the towering Shivhi. Rhoderick could smell the caustic venom that hung in pendulous droplets the size of kegs from the creature's fangs.

Fearful of the emerging spider, and with few enemies with whom to concern themselves, the pair of goblins to the south made a sprint northwards to the cover of the dead tree that anchored one side of the web bridge. Perhaps they planned to advance on Lancaelad, or perhaps they meant to position themselves at the end of the fallen tree that formed the other crossing.

The remaining goblin to the north, narrowly surviving the assault of both Tovrunn's spellcraft and the vitriol of an unrestrained Ogre, made its way out to part way across the log and fired its bow at the Rjurik maid, but defending against Ogre had damaged the bow and the arrow flew well short and simply dropped down into the mass of web below. Cursing in its own black tongue, the creature yanked the bowstring taut again.

Riding hard back the way he'd come, Corson yanked the goblin from its perch on the log as it was correcting its bow, and the wicked creature dropped like a stone into the mass of webbing below, clearing the other crossing. But even as he did the towering spider that had wrapped Rhoderick like a packaged meal struck down with its massive fangs.

Within seconds one of the armoured humans they'd believed fallen leapt to his feet, then into the saddle and disappeared at a gallop into the wood. With one of their quarry lost and half their number fallen the surviving goblins might, in normal circumstances, have fled. However with the humans breaking west and Shivhi watching from the lip of the gorge these were no normal circumstances. Horns were already sounding from the eastern woods, and if they could capture even a few of the intruders they'd be richly rewarded.

The female perched perilously on the log would be easiest to take, and the pair dashed to the western end of the rotting bridge and once more loosed their bows.

Corson thundered out across the web and struck a staggering blow on one of the goblins that brought the cruel creature to its knees for a moment, its scalp split to the gory bone beneath. As he did it seemed at first that the countless strands of web that still clung to his helm and armour were beginning to shift and ripple with his charge. Too late he realised that the strands of webbing were the same net that had only seconds ago captured his companion, and with a sudden jerk the world spun and Corson found himself in the grasp of the impossibly large arachnid.

Now horrifically wounded, and with its fellow scythed through by a scintillating projectile, the final goblin's nerve finally broke. Even the wrath of the Spider was preferable to death here and now.

Ducking Rhoderick's swing (a lethal blow that would surely have smashed its skull to pulp) the archer took up a determined but pained lope and vanished into the undergrowth back the way it had come. The way from which even now the steady beat of drums was drawing closer.

With an almighty WHOOSH the western end of the funnel of webbing burst into a fireball, the flames dying almost as swiftly as they rose but leaving the silken bridge drifting freely into the shallow canyon the the empty sleeve of a fine shirt. With an ear-splitting screech Shivhi scuttled left and back, dropping out of view to evade the explosion of flame that singed the sensitive hairs on her legs, and Tovrunn chose that moment to spur her mount westward after her companions.

As she caught up with Corson, fleeing on foot with tree limbs whipping across his face as he did, Tovrunn spared a glance back and saw the huge legs once more mount the lip of the gorg... no... the burrow, followed by the monstrous head. And on the far side of the gap she could see dozens of small, ragged figures sprinting toward the fallen log. Even as she paused to drag Corson into the saddle behind her the whizz of arrows and hum of bowstrings filled the air.

As she put her heels to her mount's sides and renewed her retreat flashes came unbidden from Ira. All the familiar could see was a cocoon of webbing, inexorably enshrouding him at the leisure of some unseen captor. Of course an owl stood no chance in these woods - it was a miracle that no monstrous arachnid had snagged him before now. Still, releasing the magic that summoned him would be enough to free the owl from his prison.

Ahead Lancaelad rode hard with Adalric clinging to his back and the foreigner's horse in tow and the corpse of the goblin tracer sandwiched grotesquely between them. Ogre was a brick of muscle and not used to riding hard, so the bulky destrier's muscled flanks were heaving at the sprint. When Lan heard hooves behind him he thought for a moment that maybe some as yet undiscovered breed of shod riding spider was at his back, but as Rhoderick gained ground on and then overtook Ogre on a parallel path through the trees he felt a tremendous relief that at least one other of their party had escaped the sojourn Lan himself had counselled with his life. For more than half their small party to ride out of the Spiderfell alive? Why that was the stuff of heroic ballad! A few of the details would need to be embellished of course, but that was normal.

Speaking of the wild fancies of bards, Lancaelad recalled the story of Richard Endier. They said that Endier's first Count and founder made some cryptic bargain with The Spider generations ago that guaranteed his borders. Of course the Endiers had died out a generation or more ago, but it was true that Endier did not suffer the predations of its awnsheigh neighbour in the same way as Roesone... Perhaps they had just to cross the border to find blessed salvation. And not a moment too soon - a cacophony of horns and drums seemed to be drawing closer from the north, the south, and the east, but even as they did the trees were thinning.

Pivoting in the saddle, Corson raised his shield just in time to catch an arrow bound for Tovrunn's shoulder. He could see low, lethally fast shapes loping fast through the undergrowth on both sides. Goblins had a fondness for tamed wolves as mounts, and were more than capable of shooting from the saddle on their animals. Worse still, the wolves were far better suited to the tangled forest than horses. In a contest of pure speed there was no doubt they would lose unless they got out of the woods.

Not knowing how far the others had fallen behind, all Rhoderick could be certain of was that he was now at the vanguard of their small party's flight. The sounds of pursuit in the far distance were apparent, but the woods were thinning. The undergrowth giving way gradually to leaf-littered open ground, and through the trees ahead he caught glimpses of light.

Cracking the reins, his wide-eyed mount needed little encouragement to increase its pace and after only a few more moments the vision gifted him by elven ancestors was dazzled as he broke out of the treeline and onto a long sweep of yellow grassland. The touch of the sun was once more warm on his skin, not faintly acidic as it had been in the awnsheigh's wood and to the south the dark, blocky silhouette of the Falcon's Roost rose like a sentinel from the rippling prairie.

Pausing for a moment, he wheeled his mount to see first Tovrunn's mount with Corson at the back, his shield peppered with a half dozen black-quarrelled arrows, and then Ogre bearing Lan and Adalric and dragging another shrieking beast along by the reigns, break from the wood and gallop into the light.

Perhaps a horselength or two behind Lan a trio of wolfriders scrambled to a halt, and backed away towards the trees, followed by a couple more, where wolf and rider stood in the shadow of the web-draped canopies and glared. Beyond them Rhod could see a disturbance in the canopies. Mighty trees, likely centuries old bent and leaned away from what must surely be the monstrous Shivhi forging a path through the wood.

Risking no more, Rhoderick waited until the first of his companions caught up then he put his heels once more to his horse's flank and rode for Halfday, thanking the Mother of Rain once more for watching over her humble servant.

Feeling more rested even after so brief a respite, the Roesonians found a dusty wagon trail relatively swiftly, and as swiftly it joined Endier's paved highroad. A realm devoted to commerce, the roads were uncannily immaculate and straight as if the topography of the land itself had been waiting for them, and even after the noon meal the southern highroad bustled with wagons and riders.

Bloody and draped with sticky spiderwebs, their armour pierced and battered and their horses exhausted and panicky they drew more than a few glances as they joined the column of traffic.

Though town in name, Halfday might well have been considered a city in less populous lands. To the northwest the vague shape of the massive stone sculpture cut from a mountainside known only as The Monument could be seen beyond the gaily coloured tile rooftops (mainly blues and greens) and cracking banners.

The Lorn Wastrel Tradehouse was one of a handful of walled compounds sitting within a mile of the town. It was a place where caravan guards could be hired, where large convoys could stop for the night without completely disrupting the town, where hard-earned coin could be spent of debauchery or jubilation or in commiseration at the close of a mercantile venture. There were several large buildings within the modest fortifications including two full stables with space for coaches, private lodgings for hire complete with kitchen and servants, a smithy and wagonwright for repairs, a small barracks for the cadre of private guardsmen, and an enormous common hall with a boisterous taproom and a number of private and communal lodgings above.



The guard at the gate looked them over closely, battered and filthy as they were, but clearly saw no reason to waylay so small a party no matter how battleworn. It was clear he'd taken note though, and after they'd rode toward the stables he waved over a fellow and the pair had a brief conversation while glancing back at the Roesonians and gesturing at them. Endier didn't have a bandit problem - not on the highroads - so their state was undoubtedly suspicious.

Turning their horses over to the ostler (a young woman with a round face, a tight bun on her head and worn kidskin gloves) they made their way to the common room. Entering into the cavernous timber hall, it took their eyes a moment to adjust from the afternoon sun outside. There were dozens of tables crammed in, making a space that rivalled Blacktower's feasting hall in scale feel cramped, but few folk were present at so early an hour. Amongst the scent of fresh straw and roasting meat, perhaps seven patrons sat in various spots, most looking like merchants awaiting some meeting or else drowing their sorrows at a venture gone bad, with three servers idly wiping at tables or building the fire in preparation for evening (the youngest girl laying out milk for a handful of plump orange cats), a minstrel tuning a lute by the hearth, and a barman in conversation with a red-cheeked patron.

With ample cause for suspicion - even paranoia - since his arrival in his homeland it was almost second nature for Corson to take in any stranger as a potential foe. Their general state after the battle in the Spiderfell had certainly drawn more attention than he'd've liked, but haste had won out over caution in this last leg of their journey.

Late afternoon wasn't a busy time in the taproom, so his survey was simpler than it might have been and the squire was able to discount a number of faces as friend or foe: The musician and two of the young servers (barely teenagers he judged) seemed to be too involved in their tasks to spare his party a glance and five of the petty merchants, one blind drunk, two playing at cards, one lost in a ledger and the last monopolising the barman's time all spared them little more than a glance and perhaps a frown at their bloody attire - a reaction Corson deemed too natural for subterfuge.

That left four he couldn't so swiftly discount. The barman - a tall and burly sort with a full beard and gay yellow shirtsleeves who looked to be of mixed ancestry kept his eye on them as they entered. Of course that might well be explained by both his job and his blatant desire to escape the conversation that had him pinned, but it might also be more.

One of the serving lads, a gawky and lean-built youth who looked older than the other two with boxy-cut dark hair and piercingly grey eyes, hustled out of the room the moment he saw them. He didn't seem overly concerned or surprised so the timing may have been coincidental though as he did make for the kitchen.

A quite stunning woman in gentile but travel-ready garb, her hands in long olive green gloves and her tumble of auburn hair swept tastefully over one shoulder, raised a cup of wine to them as they entered with an effortlessly sultry smile before returning her attention to a stack of papers that sat on the table before her.

Lastly a hollow-cheeked mercenary who had the bearing of a seasoned caravan guard and the scars to match seemed to be pointedly ignoring them. He wore a nasty looking axe at his belt with dark notches carved up its length, and his posture seemed to offer the weapon to the room in general.

There must be countless others within the walls of the tradehouse of course, but something about these four troubled Corson. One at least, he felt certain, knew their business.

Eager for an escape from the merchant that had him cornered, the barman gave a sharp nod and turned to collect five pewter tankards from hooks above the bar. "Of course m'lord. You, ah, look to have met with some trouble if you don't mind my saying. From where have you rode? Only folk who pass by here are travellers too and if there's danger about..." He left the question hanging as he hauled a fresh keg to from beneath the bar. "Would a Danaroenien stout be to your liking?"

The barman raised an eyebrow at Lan's mention of the Spiderfell, but didn't press the matter. Instead he scanned the room, taking stock of the slim array of patrons. The person serving the drinks always knew his patron's business - mainly because after a point in the night they offered it unprompted.

"A few drowning their sorrows, some others bound for the Free City. Cheaper to overnight here than to bribe your way through the gates after nightfall. Tannen over there's been here a few days-" he indicated the scarred mercenary "-but the rest are passing through."

As he spoke the man filled the five flagons, and he slammed the last onto the bar to settle the head (an oddly Heartlander habit) as he finished. "You came out of Ghoere then?"

"In town?" the man asked. "You don't pass through Endier often then? Halfday has whatever you need. Yorden the blacksmith worked weapons once though I think he just trades in them now. As to armour, old Jofnehl Kjaensson at the garrison takers private commissions. I'm called Bartrem, mention my name should you take business to them - they'll see you right."

Bartrem chewed over the other part of Lan's question. "Not many stay long in Halfday. The nature of the place is that we're destination to few save those visiting the Monument. We had a group of Haelynite pilgrims gathering here who left yesterday. There's a spring Haelyn drank from on the march to Deismaar not far outside town and I think they were waiting for a few of their number before beginning their journey. They took a good number of our smaller rooms. Oh, and the folks from the Ald Essini Company are here as often as not." That last had the sound of a halfling house.

Focusing a chilly look on Rhoderick the man narrowed his deep-set eyes. "Listen neighbour," he said in a low monotone "I run the guards out of the Lorn Wastrel. If you and your motley lot are looking for a contract into Ghoere ride on to the Free City, and don't think I won't run you out of Halfday if I need to."

He paused and gave Rhoderick a meaningful look, searching the church warrior's face for some sign of accord. "Finish your drinks, but don't let me catch you plying your trade here."

While Rhoderick took the measure of the gruff mercenary the others made arrangements for rooms. While Lan was truly short of coin, a signet ring and a noble bearing was always enough to arrange a line of credit and the promise of a proper bath and a bed (albeit one stuffed with straw) was precisely what their aching bodies demanded.

The barman explained that the private dormitories were in a block of buildings across the yard from the taphouse, which only housed the common room (and would offer a view of the stables and the main gate). There was a bathouse off a more private courtyard belonging to the proprietors behind the stable near the cistern where the servants could draw a bath given notice and there was a venison stew with crusty bread and butter to be had for dinner.

A subtle enquiry suggested that there would be newcomers along at the end of the day, and a more crowded tradehouse might present both added security and difficulty if they were to wait out the last of the afternoon.

With an hour or so before the caravans would end their day's travel there was time enough to retire to more private quarters until the evening meal was prepared, though Rhoderick and Corson both kept a close eye on the serving boy as they left - it shouldn't be hard to create some pretext by which to draw him off without attracting prying eyes. Tovrunn meanwhile focused on the more challenging task of decoying the pretty merchant somewhere where her measure could be taken. If the mercenary and barman had shaken suspicion then Corson's gut told him one of these two undoubtedly knew something.

It was an impression so profound as to be premonition.

Not willing to leave Adalric entirely unattended, they took four private rooms on the upper level of the dormitories that overlooked the yard. The rooms were comfortable - more than comfortable given the average wealth of the Endieran merchant class - with goosedown mattresses and porcelain pitchers of water for cleaning on a small table in each. Handwoven Tuor carpets adorned the floors and each chamber had a small writing desk and a supply of papyrus, ink, pen and a blotter. The north-facing shutters stood open, and along with a crisp breeze they offered a view of the distant City of Endier crouched darkly against the horizon and the riverstone-bounded highroad curving effortlessly through the plains like a fat black serpent.

Watching from the narrow outdoor landing that led to their doors, Tovrunn kept her pale eyes fixed casually on the bathouse. A lady who held her appearance in high regard would bathe before the evening meal, and she doubted that her mark would call a copper to her room if the comforts of the bathouse were on offer. Anuireans were an oddly modest folk, and baths tended to be taken in screened-off alcoves but it would be simplicity itself to happen to be awaiting her own bath when the merchant emerged and to share a few pleasantries unseen by any but perhaps a young maid.

Rhoderick meanwhile kicked off his dusty boots and slumped onto the soothing downiness of the bed. It was true that still-bleeding wounds, darkening bruises, dried blood and the rigours of days in the saddle had taken their toll on his mood and manner. He left Corson keeping watch - if the serving boy emerged on some errand or another they could likewise conspire to waylay him.

Lan had been battered worse than the others, and his armour was barely holding together. he was also convinced that the chain that he had liberated from the goblin tracer was more than mere woodling steel. There were enemies at their back, and it was not certain that they would be safe from reprisal simply because Adalric had been sent off to his eventual destination. Gods it would be good to be rid of the man, and free from this odd sense of obligation he couldn't quite explain.

Leaving Ogre to the hostlers (he wasn't certain that the foul-tempered charger wouldn't maul him if he were to try to re-saddle him so soon) he shouldered both suits of mail and trudged the quarter mile to Halfday to reach the armourer before the garrison shut its gates for the day.

It took perhaps twenty minutes of casual vigilance, but as was the nature of such things serving lads always found themselves on some errand or other before the evening crowd arrived. With the sinking sun in his eyes, Corson almost missed the lankey boy as he slipped from the back door of the taproom and made for what must be a wood shed. Firewood - that would do it. There was little chance that some observer had secreted themselves amongst the kindling to overhear their brief chat with the boy, and if he were a little long in getting back that would no doubt be chalked up to sloth.

---

Meanwhile Lan had reached the garrison with a spring in his step. Had a few days of harsh treatment steeled his muscles more than months spent in the sparring yard? The ache in his back and arse certainly suggested that the punishment his body had sustained, beyond the obvious, might well see him the stronger for it.

With his noble bearing and commanding manner, the guards were quick to recognise one of their betters. Though it was Rhoderick around whom the presence of divine blood most unmistakably all scions of had a certain distinction that common folk felt in their waters.

With a shallow bow the sergeant led him to the rear of the garrison where a small forge stood beneath a shingled awning. Here he presented Lan to a pale-skinned and red-headed giant, his bare arms blistered red by the sun and the forge, was quenching the fires for the day, shovelling white-hot embers together towards the back of the furnace with a short metal spade and wetting down the exposed stone from a bucket. His hair and apron were spotted black with scorch-marks and he reeked of smoke and burned steel.

"Hail and welcome m'lord" the man who must be Jofnehl Kjaensson greeted Lan with his own low bow "what service do ye seek at m'forge?"

The little woodshed was narrow and deep, crammed as it was into an alleyway between two stone buildings and consisting of little more than a rough shingle roof and a pair of heavy doors. In an effort to appear casual Corson and Rhoderick took up a position a couple of yards away, between the shed and the taproom but as they did the warrior-priest, whose brief rest had been both a blessing and a curse since it only underscored the aches in his muscles and wounds, caught what sounded like a brief snatch of hushed conversation. Was it just the boy? No. There were two distinct voices, with one being the adolescent murmur he'd expect and the other, though higher pitched, was undoubtedly that of a grown man.

Before he could alert Corson or make much of his thoughts the lad emerged with an armful of logs and seemed surprised to find two armoured and still-bloodied men baring his way.

---

Jofnehl put aside Lan's hauberk without examination, offering only a businesslike nod, but as he accepted the suit of filthy mail the smith pursed his full lips. "Ye'r raiment I can make a'new m'lord. Ye hail from an order a ways distant, but so lofty a patron would yet honer m'forge. This though..." he fingered the links of the mail with a touch more delicate than his thick frame suggested possible.

"This be old lord. Older than the Gods I'd wager. Tis sidhe, but not sidhe like I've seen a'fore. And to be untouched by the centuries? Mayhap there's sorcery about it? Where came ye by such a treasure lord?"

The lad's brows unknotted as the force of Rhoderick's divine blood washed over him - an invisible benevolence that bathed the hearts of mortal men. His bony shoulders lowered and he smiled unbidden. "I don't talk much t'merchants bout such things ser, only me da ses I ain't got the mind fer'it." He looked sheepish, and his face reddened. "And t'ain't no one else in there ser, I swear by Haelyn an'all."

Uncertain but still with a smile on his face that was vapid with Rhoderick's enthralling blood, the boy glanced behind him and lowered his voice. "T'ain't no person in there, I swear it." His voice took on a playful tone. "S'just a bit of fun. Lotsa folk give us a coin'r two t'watch the comings and goings here. No harm in it. When I saw you come in I knew you was the ones."

He jerked his head toward the back of the little firewood store. "See fer yerself."

The woodshed was dark by contrast to the encroaching dusk - the serving boy had doused the candle before exiting (it still smoked atop a jutting flagstone in one wall) which left pools of murky shadow everywhere. It was indeed as deep as it had looked from the outside as well, stretching back perhaps twenty log-cluttered feet to the stone wall that ringed the whole tradehouse. By the rotting double doors a hefty axe leaned.

There was only space enough to advance in single file, and so they went in first the boy, then Rhoderick at his back, and Corson at the rear, picking their way around haphazard piles of firewood and crunching on the bark-strewn floor until they reached the very rear of the narrow alley-turned-shed. Here the boy gestured high up the wall to a stone outlined by the orange glow of sunset.

"See?" he asked simply, aiming a thumb at the loose stone, dumb grin still stretched across his face so wide it must surely ache before long. "No one in here."

The boy shrugged in Rhoderick's grasp, looking sheepish. "Nothin' special. He looks like any merchant's guard. Scruff of his face, road leathers n'such. He's missin' a finger though... don't remember what hand."

Corson's uncertainty was palpable as he reached carefully forward and slid the loose flagstone as silently as he could from the wall. It came away easily thanks to a pool of tallow coating the stone below, and a shaft of russet sunset cut into the narrow shed. Crouching to see out, the squire could see the walls of Halfday to the north and the plains around.

The youth looked genuinely sorry and once more shrugged. "Just any folk who wasn't merchants, looked to be in a hurry, weapons. Lots of folk gimme a coin to watch for other folk. That's why I got this spot set up. I just light up the candle, they come here and I tell 'em what I seen."

Lan examined the note. It did indeed look to have been tucked in a pouch for some time - the folds were deep and worn. When had he last reached into his purse? Unfolding it carefully revealed a neat message in expensive ink.

Wastrel not safe. Find spy or new rendezvous. We are watching.

The few minutes that Corson and Rhoderick had waited outside for the serving boy would have been enough for his client to slip away - lurking by a wall for longer than absolutely necessary would certainly elicit suspicion. Some tracks might be evident on the other side given the season, but following this watcher might just land them in the trouble they were seeking to avoid.

It was galling that even with all of the risks their party had taken, all of the blood spilled and all of the dice rolled against fate that only barely fell in their favour, that they still found themselves a step behind pursuit. It was as if someone had known their destination all along, but then why harry them so? And why meet them with a single observer and not the army that had come for them in Abbadiel? Perhaps it was here as in Bardenhold - a wide net spread thin was wise to lay across houses of lodging. But a tiny town at the heart of Endier?

The fact that they were free to choose to leave must at least be a sign of their success at evading capture.

Both Lan and Rhoderick (the latter of whom regularly found cause to be at large on the waters of the Maesil) concurred that Rivervale was the best way to go. Michael's Bluff felt too much like backtracking, and both western nations offered a sprint across the border to Avanil should a force of any size arrive. The borderguard of the Prince would make short work of even a large mercenary host if it came to pitched battle.

They would have to ride through the evening and into the night, but they'd make the town before midnight. If they truly were watched by whichever party passed Lan the note (assuming that party was friendly) then they'd have to trust that they could be tracked. Perhaps they'd be met by morning?

Still weary, their resources depleted by their flight from the Spiderfell, the Roesonians once again took to their saddles.

The Wastrel's stables were bustling. Many merchants whose goods were bound for the City of Endier and who didn't care for Halfday's gate tax were making their way in to the establishment, while others ended their day's travel just short of the city's caravan curfew. Corson was shouldered more than once as the expansive coach house became cramped and chaotic.

No one arrested the weary warrior's attention as malicious, but with so many coming their departure would be worryingly obvious. Any casual, seemingly innocent enquiry of where the party of bloodied warriors who arrived an hour or so ago had gone would almost certainly be answered with 'they rode out just before dark' and might even include 'bound west I think.' Not to mention the ostler would need to clear passage for their animals.

"In the warm of the spring
Did the Milk Maiden sing
That she dreamed of the day
She would wed."

"But until that day,
She would wile away
Taking any she could
To her bed."

"And the cows of the field
Would most solemnly yield
To speak ne'er a word
Of her trysts."

"With a welcoming wink
And her mouth soft and pink
She would spare any
Fine fellow's wrists."

And so it did go in the sun or the snow, the maid's welcome would always be warm.
Till into the town with a shadow-ed frown came the awnsheigh that could choose his form."

"HUH!"

Voices boomed with bawdy glee across the tradehouse yard as the third round of the song began. The poor minstrel had rolled her eyes at Lan with the same scorn he might expect if he'd invited her back to his chambers. If ever a mere look said 'you filthy pervert' it was this one, but coin was coin and it seemed she was honest enough to play until her breath gave out.

In truth the lyrics were rather more... graphic than Lan recalled.

They met Rhoderick in the stables where he'd persuaded the young informant to retire. The suggestion to 'take a nap' when there was coin to be made through the busiest part of the night likely would not have found traction, but the lad was so addled by the priest's power that he'd convinced himself there might be another coin in it for him.

Having taking the lay of the place, Corson saddled the horses without bothering any of the ostlers who were in high spirits at the music in the hall and all looked set, but they found their exit barred by a large team of fractious oxen who hadn't been properly dealt to before the knight's diversion began.

Moving swiftly to clear the animals from their path, Corson and Lan dismounted and found bags of oats to coax the things with, but in their haste the foul tempered animals sensed something was amiss and put up a terrible din. By the time they cleared a path out of the stables and once more made for the gates the singing had reduced in enthusiasm and the full team of the Wastrel's stable staff as well as a few road-worn men, their cheeks rosey with merriment, who were presumibly the animal's owners were all staring daggers at the party.

A plump merchant pushed out past the ox-handlers as Tovrunn spoke. He had rings on his fingers and a velvet hat perched atop a wild mass of thick hair, though his beard was neatly combed and waxed. "Now listen here-" he began with the flawed refinement of new money "-these oxen are to be stabled by the hostlers." He emphasised the 'h' sharply. "And they're to unstable your mounts too. You barge in here and think you can disrupt everyone else's business just because-" he looked the party up and down "-look to have robbed some petty nobles? This is Endier. Open your purse or wait your turn."

The merchant took Rhoderick's measure and seemed impressed enough with what he saw. "Ah, religious types. I know the sort. My own mother's feverishly devout. Nothing bars her venerations to Haelyn morn and eve. Why, were The Gorgon himself at the gates of the Free City no doubt she's bustle him aside before gloaming."

"Still-" the man added "-there's little enough space in those stables as 'tis, and those beasts are foul tempered in their sleep." He waved a glittering hand at the small group of ostlers. "Let these folk tend their own business in future."

"Amongst the quiet herd
Without even a word
Came the monster
With lust in its eye."

"But he failed to see across the green valley, where the old bull had noticed him pass.
Heed should he have paid but he fixed on the maid, and the bull came and mounted his arse!"

"HUH!"

Mounting up to the sound of still-fractious oxen and enthusiastic song, the Roesonian contingent made their way out of the tradehouse's gate and into the early evening. Hoping that this at last would be the final leg of their journey.

Riding south as they might to turn to the east and circling around the walled compound out of sight, they paused until the oxen calmed and then, assured that the people inside were now distracted, broke west at a gallop. None of their horses were pleased to be saddled or pushed to such speed, but these were more than mere farm nags to obey was bred in them for generations. Lan suspected however that Ogre would claim his revenge when it came time to once more unfasten tack and harness. He had no doubt that the big mean animal was even now planning just how hard to bite him, and the knight wasn't sure he begrudged his mount a little ill-tempered violence.

Endier was an uncomfortably flat realm, and the ability to see for the leagues and leagues across the fields and pastures that flanked the road to Rivervale made them feel exposed, like the eyes of the whole domain were on them. It also promised a view of any pursuer, but the night was young enough that the roads were still busy and any of the caravans about might be foemen in disguise. The hirelings of the Prince of Rabbits had proven adept at blending with common folk in the past after all. Worse still, where the wilderness was Tovrunn's ally, these settled lands cared little for hampering her should they stray off the road.

Once the Lorn Wastrel and Halfday were outside of casual view the riders slowed - haste only made them conspicuous. Bringing up the rear, Corson siezed on the moment to scan the road for pursuit, and behind them there were indeed riders behind them moving at a brisk pace but he couldn't tell whether they were pursuers or merely travellers hurrying to outpace the night. The absence of cart or caravan amongst them was at least a cause for concern though.

As they continued the sun merged with the horizon, spreading out into a scarlet blanket across the horizon ahead. The sailor in Rhoderick knew that this was a portent of fair weather from the Mother of Storms - a blessing in the form of a blood-red reminder of the sacrifice of the Maesetians - but fleeing unknown pursuers, exhausted, with nothing but hope that some ally waited beneath that gory sky. the red and deepening night felt more like an omen.

Slowly the Wastrel shrunk at their backs until eventually it vanished behind a field of barley. By the time they passed their third party of travellers going to opposite way - a party of farmers and their sheep heading to new pastures, headless of the sleepless and openly paranoid looks the Roesonians gave them - the weight of the hours and miles and tension of the past few days was becoming crushing. An impossible burden that would bury each and every one of them: Tovrunn, Lancaelad, Rhoderick and Corson in a grave of mental and physical exhaustion.

They scarcely heard the whistles of the shepherds at the rear of the flock. Scarcely noticed the shaggy heartlands sheepdogs as they circled the sides of the road, barking. Scarcely noticed that a wall of bodies a dozen deep had formed around them until Ogre drew up, throwing his massive head left and right as he searched for a way past.

But there was no way.

From the side of the road well beyond the prison of sheep, a figure leading a panting horse emerged from the shadow of a stock shed and approached hastily.

[ +- ] Vital Info

character	HP	HD	inspiration	notes
Corson	24/31	2	[✓][x][x]
Lancaelad	28/28	1	[x][x][x]	DECIDER
Rhoderick	19/19	2	[✓][x][x]
Tovrunn	19/22	3	[x][x][x]

---

Available NPCs: Adalric
Total XP: 1,800/2,700

---

Deliver Adalric Safely to the Contact at Halfday: +900xp milestone
Brave the Spiderfell and Live: +350xp milestone
Learn How to Escape Shivhi: +350xp milestone

---

Current Initiative Order: Out of Initiative

"Greetings Ser Knight and fellow travelers! I have ridden hard to catch you!"
The stranger holds up his empty right hand in greeting. He is of average height and build dressed in mud splattered traveling clothes. Three things make him stand out; his bright red hair, a ring on the third finger of his right hand and a scar running continuously from his hairline and down his left cheek to his jaw sparing his eye.
"Let us separate you from the flock then have a brief rest by yonder shed."

So far, the stranger has not used anyone's name but his demeanor is non-threatening. There is a sense of urgency in his speech and manner and he glances down the road from where the travelers have come several times while he converses. His eyes flick between the shepherds in a meaningful way.

Dismounting and pushing his way through the dense throng of sheep with no little difficulty, Corson managed to accept the note between two fingertips, and then struggling back to the armed knight he offered the folded parchment to Lancaelad.

The seal was definitely a familiar one - four black crescents, each of their cusps turned upward, upon a jagged pily. It was the badge of the cadet branch of the Bellamie line that, at least in theory, Paidrig claimed though he'd never known his squire either carry a seal or use his family arms (there was some bad blood with his uncle that caused the lad to distance himself from his lineage.)

Cracking the seal he opened the message and found it to be written in a neat hand:

My Lord Noelon,

They have asked that I write this lest your meeting in the town for which we were bound before we parted go astray. Mhairie, Geremie and myself reached Halfday upon the 7th day of Faniele by way of Ghoere and were concerned to find you had not yet arrived. This man, Master Coleburn, approached and assured us that he was a friend who knew of our situation. At present we are safe and have our liberty at the location to which he will lead you. Master Coleburn has asked that I pen this message to assuage your suspicions should your meeting prove tense, but has cautioned that I reveal as few specifics as possible. I know my word will do little to convince you my lord, but I urge you to trust these men. They are who they claim to be.

Your Servant,
Paidrig

Did Paidrig know their secret sign? Tovrunn couldn't remember. She'd had her suspicions about the boy as far back as the Bjornding's lodge (Erik's mossy beard, had that really only been four days ago?) but no... no, he'd not attended the clandestine meeting that gave them their mission. The boy was quick thinking, he might even be clever, but try as she might she couldn't find any hidden code in his missive. The script was neither hasty nor strained, and she could hear the words in his own cracking voice.

By the time she looked up again the man who'd called himself Coleburn was dismissing the shepherds, handing each a handful of coin that would likely represent a year's work or more for these simple herders. Then again, this was Endier - it might not be the first time they'd taken a bribe. He kept glancing over their shoulders with genuine discomfort, which seemingly confirmed her worst suspicions about the large party behind them.

If he meant to waylay them, then why not do so? There was little enough chance that those in pursuit were friends after all, and Halfday had promised a friend of some kind. Why should he not be that one promised ally? Even Biersen hadn't known to whom they were leading Salien.

With a few sharp barks the sheep began to file back towards their pasture, and the moment that the flock was thin enough to ride through the six riders once more spurred their steeds to as much haste as they dared, praying that this would indeed be their final flight from overwhelming peril. The night was growing dark and the farm trails were uneven, rugged, and full of rabbit holes and tough tufts of grass, and they were forced to balance caution against haste with every step.

Worse still, at their backs the party of riders coming up from the distance stopped by the shed where they'd been waylaid by the shepherds, and then the party divided, with a small group returning they way they'd come and the bulk riding into the fields behind them. Their horses were fresh, not burdened with travelling provisions, swift. With every minute that they rode these pursuers were slowly gaining ground on them.

They rode for a couple of miles as evening finally turned into night, following the newcomer's urgent lead. But too often Rory found himself reigning in his steed to wait as the grimly determined riders caught up. Only the squire called Corson, who looked more than comfortable with long rides in rough terrain, was keeping pace.

As they passed over a low fence however Tovrunn's high-stepping mare stumbled on the landing and fell, rolling onto her side and pitching her rider into the mud on the far side. The hardy Rjurik was wise enough to roll with the momentum, with only a few scrapes and bruises to show for the spill, but righting Fegrð and making sure she wasn't injured cost precious time.

Every time Rory glanced back their pursuers were closer.