Chapter Six: The Muster of Caltlikrath

So, consensus then: you're all leaving on horse?

Do any of you want to do anything else in this area, or should we proceed with the long trip back to Hazard?

The journey back to Hazard will take twelve days. I want each of you to make one ability check of your choosing. Don't worry about why, just pick one and roll it.

The party heads back to Hazard, following the Ophid on its north side. By the end of the first day, they reach the outskirts of the copperwood forest that spreads vast and dark to the north; there are logging villages here, and the party opts to spend the night at an inn known as the Clobbering Club, distinguished by the massive novelty club carved from a thick copperwood trunk that leans against the side of the building. Diverse graffiti, much of it cheekily profane or blasphemous, covers the club. There are charcoal drawings up on the walls inside the inn's common room that purport to tell the story of how the club's original owner, a wicked giant, was cleverly tricked out of it by the wily founder of the Clobbering Club, but after a few drinks one of the regulars is more than happy to tell the party that the story is horseshit and that the club was commissioned specifically for the inn less than a decade ago from a trunk of wood too beetle-eaten to be sold as lumber.

The house ale is dark and pleasantly bitter, and the party is solicitously attended by a barmaid with a gummy smile and a lazy eye. She generously brings the party a few extra rounds of drinks, and when Zangua is called upon to settle their bill for the night, he does not notice the creative mathematics in her recounting of the charges, and ends up paying the cost of those "free" drinks several times over.

Deduct 5 GP from party funds.

The next day brings rain, cold and heavy.

Domarc, Felor, Leth, and Mordred, please give me an ability check of your choice.

The next day, as evening approaches, the party rounds a bend in the river road and comes upon a pair of highwaymen holding up an ass-drawn peddler's wagon. Domarc descends his horse with sufficient swagger and bravado to scatter them immediately, and is rewarded with a bottle of honeyed wine and a small sack of spiced dried pork strips.

Along the way, Leth gathers up wild pulses, chicory, blackoats, and sedge-mallow. Should the party experience headaches or intestinal distress on their journey, they will be well-prepared.

Felor, meanwhile, meditates on the mysteries of his goddess, attempting to commune with her and perceive signs from her. To his dismay, he feels only an aching distance. It is as though this land of Bload itself is alienating to the goddess, and repulses her even as he tries to find her presence in his heart.

Mordred, I need a check from you!

The rain abates as night falls on the second day of travel, and the party makes camp in an abandoned round barn. Domarc shares the peddler's reward with the party while Mordred practices magic trickery. Leth finds some unfamiliar-looking poppies gone to seed on the north side of the barn, and picks several bunches for later study. Unable to sleep, Felor takes a long watch, still troubled by the distance between himself and the goddess whose presence he felt so closely and so powerfully in the cold mountains of Jerma.

Zangua falls easily to sleep and dreams of a long march through ice and wind. At the end of the dream he slips and falls down a crevasse, tumbling against the sheer frozen walls without fear for himself, never landing.

The third day greets them with rain in the morning and clear skies in the afternoon. At dusk the party passes through a small village where the dour-faced locals curl their lips back and make prophylactic hand gestures against evil when they see Mordred, so the party elects to push on a little further and make camp outdoors, in the shade of a massive, leafless gripping-oak tree. On the midnight watch, Leth sees several pairs of yellow eyes observing the party from a distance, but after a few tense moments they depart.

On the afternoon of the fourth day the party reaches a bustling town watched over by a whitewashed bailey. Some sort of village festival is in session, and there are tents and stands and firepits and musicians and dancing. On a mound of earth at the center of it all stands a tall figure made of wood. There is straw piled at his feet, chickens clucking in the hollow cage of his chest, wool draped over his outstretched arms, and gourds of varying size and color piled in the empty bucket of his head. His eyes are huge dried sunflowers, his nose a long brown gourd, his vacuous smile painted on in bright red.

Would the party like to check out the festival, or keep moving right along?