Chapter 3 - The Missing Delegation

Dazzle loudly applauds Mhorva's speech, barely able to hold back his tears. It brings me a profound solace to know that death is not an end, merely a milepost in the great cycle of life.

Now that our lives have been forever changed with this grander perspective on the impact our lives can have on the world around us, can we please shelter ourselves from the baleful glare of the sun and the spiteful sting of the wind. Just to throw out a suggestion, perhaps we could find respite inside that tower over in the distance, which by my estimation, possesses at the very least a roof and walls?

Sorgrimm relaxes his position slightly, though still skeptical, he begins to soften slightly to the Druid. He turns and begins to inpsect the area, looking at the tattered grey cloak and attempting to identify the direction the tracks lead.

As Dazzle speaks, Mhorva casts a skeptical eye over him, unsure whether or not she's being mocked. She decides for the time being that his comments are benign enough.

Aye, I s'pose the tower is our best chance of learning more o' these folks. She straightens and squints into the distance at the tall stone structure. I'll naught spout falsehoods - I've a grim feeling about that place. There's something about it that twists my gut into knots. An' these people too. So much violence shrouded in mystery. The druid huffs a sigh, turning back to regard the group. Shall we then?

Balak replies gruffly, We shall. He then puts his warhammer away, pulling one of his javelins, and takes the lead of the group.

Something bothering you, Balak? Dazzle asks nonchalantly.

Nope. That armor's design is very, very interesting. I am hoping that I will be able to embellish on the design a bit and wear something so beautiful.

Felicia continues walking along, her batty companion perched on her shoulder.

If need be, I could ask my new friend here to scout out the towers while we continue our approach. See if there is anything of particular interest?

Felicia, please instruct your new friend to be on the lookout for pastries, preferably warm, and cider, preferably cold. Thanks!

Frustrated by the lack of usable information, Sorgrimm readies himself and follows along behind the others on the path towards the tower.

Larmon bids you good day, and begins the trek back to Red Larch alone. You journey cross country under an azure sky, but as you travel the wind grows stronger, gusting in spurts that rifle your cloaks and then are gone.

Feathergale Spire rises from a pillar of rock high into the air, the tallest point for miles. Built from white limestone and embellished in marble, the spire resembles a gleaming sword that pierces the sky.

The gatehouse faces the opposite cliff, its drawbridge the only apparent point of entry. Tall, wide windows encompass the bottom level of the tower, absent only upon the gatehouse side.

A circle of open stalls rings the tower’s foundation where it meets the rock. Above each stall, the sculpture of a hippogriff in flight leaps from the tower’s base.

Beneath Feathergale Spire to the east, a wide gusty canyon yawns through the hills.

A steep trail leads to the drawbridge over Feathergale Moat and to the keep’s main entrance

Balak heads up the path to the entrance of the tower.

Mhorva plods along overland with the group, the swift gusts throwing the edge of her worn shawl about like a plaything. The druid walks mostly in silence, occasionally muttering something under her breath as part of a conversation playing out in her head. Her footfalls are soft, feet wrapped in thick marsh grass, a sharp clack of the foot of her quarterstaff occasionally hitting a stone on the path.

As they approach the tower, Mhorva pauses a moment and cranes her neck back to take it all in. Amazing how a people could build a structure so massive and sturdy that it could endure incredible winds like these. A thought occurs to her:

The druid outstretches an arm and waves her hand to invoke an aspect of her Druidcraft cantrip in an effort to foresee the weather at the tower for the next day or so.

Mhorva conjures a small globe of swirling fog.

Balak, wait! Mhorva is performing a divination of some kind! Tell us, oh druid, what does nature portend?

"Well look at that beautiful sculpture over there! Lovely, isn't it! All the stonework is exquisite, really."

Mhorva gives Dazzle a quizzical look. She points at the floating sphere. Fog. She gestures to the area with a casual swipe. Around here. Sometime in th' next day or so, I reckon.

Personally, the druid wasn't bothered by mist of fog of any kind - after all, she was used to living in thick banks of the stuff for days on end back home. As I'm sure yeh know, th' trouble with the stuff is that it can get yeh turned 'round in yer trails, walkin' in circles and falling off cliffs, she grunts. I say it's just as well we be headin' in t' that tower. She looks around the group. Or so I'm thinkin'.

So it's safe to proceed, then! Dazzle concludes from Mhorva's explanation.

Dazzle marches confidently across the bridge and calls out in a booming voice. Greetings! We are but weary travelers seeking respite from the harsh and unforgiving elements. Will you grant us refuge?