Chapter Six: The Muster of Caltlikrath

OK, moving forward!

With the village of Bray having little to offer in the way of rewards and the party having absolutely nothing to offer in the way of proof that the black beast has been defeated, the party opts to get some sleep and continue on to Hazard in the morning.

The next two days pass without incident. The weather is clear and the party makes good time on the road. They spend one night at a pig farm, and the next night at an inn run by a woman with a somewhat obsessive devotion to Semla, who prays loudly and extensively for the party's safety upon their departure.

Midway through the third day, the party comes across an oxcart stopped on the roadside. The ox is attached to a large covered wagon with a broken wheel. Two men seem to be in the process of trying to fix the wheel while two other men and three women stand nearby, watching. A grotesque grinning mask is painted on the side of the wagon. One of the women is singing a repetitive, nonsensical song. She stops as the party approaches, and all of the people standing to the side watch the party warily as they approach. The two men crouched down by the wagon, oblivious, continue bickering and fussing with the wheel.

The men at the wheel look up. This is a fairly diverse group of people: one woman is tall and blonde, one dark-haired and olive-skinned, the third short and fat. One of the men down by the wheel is tall and broad-shouldered with a gray beard, the other slim, handsome, and brown-haired. One of the men standing and watching is short, stout, and curly-haired, with a trimmed and oiled black beard, and the other is young, red-haired and freckled.

Mordred doesn't recognize the mask, but it does look like the sigil of an actor's troupe.

"Ho, sellsword," the man with the gray beard replies. "Have you nails? We seem not to have restocked when we left Hazard." He casts a dirty look at the man with the black beard.

The black-bearded man nods appraisingly as Mordred produces several pitons seemingly out of nowhere. "Cleverly done, devilkin. I noticed your misdirect, but my eye is well-attuned to such things." He reaches up to take one and holds it out for the others to see.

"Too thick," the gray-bearded man says. "It'll just split the wood further."

"We need a new wheel entirely," the fat woman says. "Any fix will just break again before we're halfway to Mosstower."

With a flick of the wrist, the black-bearded man makes the piton disappear. He then hands it back to Mordred with his other hand.

Mosstower was maybe a day's travel from Bray, the village the black beast was menacing. It's not on the river road, so you didn't pass through it.

"We are the Most Unready Players, and my name is Lutchi," the black-bearded man says, giving a little theatrical bow. "We hail from Gurmar. We've performed for audiences in Hazard, Molta, Banwod, Drat, Norholen..."

"We're on our way to Mosstower, since we left too late for the Festival of the Bridegroom," the blonde woman says.

"Those extra days in Hazard were more profitable than the festival would have been," Lutchi says. "My wife, Thalanora," he adds, gesturing back at her. "Hazard loves a good satire, and after the latest scandal...I would say the play very nearly wrote itself, but I suppose I deserve a little of the credit. I believe I managed to fit in every salacious rumor. It was delicious." He kisses his fingers.

"Lunch with us if you like, we won't be going anywhere for a while," the gray-bearded man says testily. "One of us should go on ahead to the next village to buy a new wheel."

You're a few hours between villages in either direction.

"Yes, yes," Lutchi says. "Oh, where to begin, and who knows how much of it is even true. Apparently, the Hierophant has been in a love triangle for some time with Lord Gahmez and a rich Mezian widow. One night, the Gahmez mansion burns down while the widow is there. Everyone in the city seems to believe that a pair of flying, shapeshifting warlocks are responsible, and that they kidnapped the widow. Then, many days later, word reaches the city that an entire cohort of soldiers has gone missing. The Hierophant sent them to march on the warlocks' castle to rescue his lover."

"I play the Hierophant," the red-haired man interjects.

"Yes, and the Hierophant did this without alerting the military commanders or the lords of the noble houses. Next, people are saying that one of the warlocks transformed into a dragon and slaughtered the cohort when they reached the castle. Then, rumor has it that the Hierophant himself hired the warlocks to kidnap his lover and ruin Lord Gahmez, but they kept her for themselves either because the widow seduced them, or because the Hierophant wouldn't pay up."

"They're going to hang him," the fat woman says matter-of-factly. The red-haired man immediately pantomimes being strung up by the neck, tilting his head to the side and sticking his tongue out as he yanks upward on an imaginary rope. "It's only a shared pretense that props up their strange little charade of a government anyway. Hazard will have a king again before the year is out, and it will be one of the Cronim. Mark my words."

"The Mezian faction will never allow that," the gray-bearded man mutters.

Lutchi shrugs. "Who can sort it all out? All I care about is that the story has sex, death, a corrupt head of state -- all of the most cherished elements of a good narrative. The audiences loved our play."

"And the time to tour it is now, while rumors are spreading and the country folk hunger for fresh news," the gray-bearded man says. "I suppose it falls to me to get the new wagon wheel." He grabs a backpack and a walking stick out of the back of the wagon, then gets down to pry off the broken wheel. "If this lot doesn't rob us, you might want to pay them to guard the wagon until I return. I doubt I'll be back before nightfall."

No helpful magic here.