5. The Wood of Sharp Teeth

Koveras snarls in equal measure, forsaking his merchant prince demeanor and feeding off of Aiwe's aggression. "For vengeance!"

Stella scans over the letter, taking in its contents.

"Expecting an ore shipment...base in Cloakwood—that means there are other bases, if the author had to specify...Iron Throne, stockpiling before an ultimatum...? Rieltar..." she nods in confirmation, glancing at Koveras. "'The band from Candlekeep...Signed Davaeorn."

Koveras was apologizing now and his capture did seem to indicate he was now truthful, but...well, she was having a hard time not hating him right now. She turns to Koveras anyway. She tries to keep the rising anger out of her voice, but her eye stars have turned an embering orange.

"What exactly is the Iron Throne?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. "We see only the occasional trading caravan up in the Dale...when you say 'empire', what do you mean? A merchant's guild led by a murderous mage sounds more like a cult than a business network, " she says, trying to keep from glowering. "And what do you know about Davaeorn?"

"…." dieter is taken aback by the new revelation and for once surprised.

Aldous leans casually against Stella, not putting any weight on her, just being close. He seems unaware of her rising anger. "The Iron Throne is a mercantile organization that operates out of the Eastern Heartlands." He sounds like he's reciting a passage from a history book - which he very probably is. "It controls much of the weapons trade across the realms, though its leadership and hierarchy are close secrets within its ranks."

He breaks the recitation there, and adds in a more casual tone, "Honestly, they've always been thought to be seeking a monopoly in the weapons trade, and there have been rumors about their methods for doing so. But from what Koveras has told me, this plot, this stranglehold they plan to inflict on the region... Aside from ruining the lives and livelihoods of thousands, not to mention Baldur's Gate itself and the lands it protects, such as Beregost and the Friendly Arm Inn..." Aldous pauses, and through the dirt and bruises his expression is especially grim. "...It risks outright war with Amn. Nobody profits from war like armsdealers who sell to both sides. How much blood might be shed, and people killed, all to fuel the Iron Throne's greed?"

He sags, overwhelmed at the thought. "This is worse than anything even the Zhentarim have attempted."

Dieter along with Jorvik and Tilfa go to the hobgoblin encampment and attempt to search the leaders tent. "They might have a legion insignia or standard around here. Check for any hidden chests but watch out for traps"

Koveras takes a deep breath and tries to settle himself before answering. "Davaeorn is one of Rieltar's closest lieutenants. He's another mage..." He glances at Stella. "Take a look into the higher-ups of any organization and you're likely to find magic-users. Wizards, especially, have the intellect to run powerful organizations."

The half-orc nods to himself as he speaks. "I don't know the full details of Rieltar's machinations, but one secret I uncovered is that this secret base in the Cloakwood, it's another iron mine." He lets that important revelation hang in the air for a long moment. "The Nashkel mine isn't the only source of iron in the region. It was built by a clan of dwarves long ago, then abandoned and forgotten. I imagine that Davaeorn has been there overseeing the work for at least a year now. They must have an immense stockpile of iron by now." He glances at Aldous. "Enough to outfit two nations for war, possibly."

Dieter folds up one of the better flags and stuffs it in a pouch. He gathers up the valuables and then throws a burning stick on the left over flags. With their spoils they quickly head back to the others. With the help of the fists Dieter gathers up the two bandit captains and Tazok to make them ready for transport. He sends Vindír and Uldar to retrieve the horses and then with the remaining soldiers he sees if he can piece together a cart from the remains of the camp

Shelur looks at Koveras' bared tusks and Stella's ember eyes. Her own snarl turns to a grimace and she puts a hand to her forehead. "I'll keep watch outside," she says, and flees the tent.

As Aldous leans onto Stella, her face relaxes, glower fading and eye-stars shifting from orange to a relaxed green as she watches Dieter leave to search the camp and Aiwë leaves to keep watch.

"Well...This letter demanded another ton of iron, so maybe they don't have quite as much as they need. I wonder how much is here in the camp..."

She purses her lips, then her eyes widen, the implications of everything sinking in. Her eye stars fade to a frightened icy blue. "Wait. Now we're trying to stop a war...?" She looks around to everyone. Nobody else seemed surprised, just more deeply disturbed. It should have been obvious, she realized. She kept hearing about talk of war with Amn, and how iron might affect that, but she just kept ignoring it. She had been so focused on the surviving and on the immediate task at hand that she hadn't quite noticed the big picture. They went from tourists to prey, to saving livelihoods, to saving witches and nobles...and now...to preventing an intentional breakout of an entire war.

"If this is so big, then certainly we can get other factions and powers more involved, right? We've met Zhentarim and Harper agents. There are more organizations who would get involved too, yes? They likely have more resources and people they can dedicate if we find and tell them what we know..." She shifts uncomfortably. "I mean, we should certainly help with so many lives at stake, but we can't just skate on into their secret mine like we did with Nashkel..."

She shuts her eyes tight and grits her teeth to hide her eye start flickering between emotions as her breath quickens. Anger at Koveras, fear of the war. Shame at both.

Take courage with whatever path you've chosen to follow on your journey. Papa's letter enters her mind.
...I see in the faces...Their eyes brighter, their heads higher, their laughter sweeter, and their lives bettered for you being in them...continue to become a watchwoman. To watch over others. Care for their needs and give them the chance to live and grow. To use your capacity to preserve life and hope. One soul at a time.

She pictured the faces of those they had met. Imoen. Bently. Minsc. Boo. The cook at Nashkel. The smith and his apprentices at Beregost.

No freezing now. No running now. Caution and care, certainly, but she could keep acting in the face of fear.

Hero.

Stella opens her eyes, their stars settling into a determined violet. She turns to Aldous and Koveras. "Okay. We need to stop the operations at Cloakwood. Who do you know that could help?"

Aldous looks at Stella with amazement. "Your eyes... I've never seen them change so quickly!" He blinks a couple of times, then clears his throat. "But yes, when it comes to who I'd send for to solve this Cloakwood issue... Well. I'd send you." He gestures to the group. "All of you. Who better to get in and get things done? You're a small group, but spectacularly skilled. If we were to send in enough Flaming Fist soldiers to get the job done, we'd have to send a hundred, and we'd lose half of them in that cursed forest."

Koveras nods in agreement. "You've proven today what a small, competent group can accomplish. Although..." He allows himself a rare smile. "...you might want to bring along someone who can pick locks."

He rubs his hand across his face, feeling the stubble there. "Actually, if I know anything about the Iron Throne, it's that they'll do anything to avoid doing work themselves. I'm sure the mine will be worked by slaves, possibly people taken captive in the bandit raids. So you'd just have to worry about whatever guards they have in place. And Davaeorn himself, of course."

"What are you going to do in the mean time then?" Dieter asks Koveras

The half-orc closes his eyes a moment, then replies simply: "I have not yet decided, and I need some time to think. If you'll excuse me..."

Koveras leaves the tent, apparently seeking a quiet place to consider his options. As he passes Aiwe, he gives her a nod. "I owe you my freedom, and possibly my life. I thank you for that. And..." He winces. "I apologize for how I treated you back in Candlekeep. I'm afraid I was rather frustrated at the time, and not very good company. Beyond that, I... judged you. Without knowing you. It shames me that I'm guilty of the same closedmindedness with which others have judged me."

Aiwë is cleaning the blood off her now-broken sword, almost inaudibly humming a slow and mournful song. Her hands pause as Koveras speaks, but she doesn't meet his eyes or cease her song. It was the orcish mourning dirge she had sung in Candlekeep the last time she had seen him.

"Of course, Blood. Happy to help. Thank Torm you were with Aldous, or we wouldn't have even known to come."

Aiwë put her sword away with a wry chuckle. "Ah, that? Kish brun." 'A glancing blow.' "No harm done. I'm used to it, same as you." In a rare moment, Shelur hesitates before finally looking at him.

"Did you read my uncle's book?"

Koveras doesn't answer Shelur's question. "How do you do that?" His orcish brow furrows as he squints at her, prolonging the moment that she meets his dark gaze. "You don't have Miss Melerelel's eyes that betray her every mood, but you... change... somehow." He lifts a finger. "Your language, your accent... even your posture, it all shifts. It's subtle, but effective. Very effective." He tilts his head. "It must be deliberate. But that suggests a degree of control beyond the capacity of most people, even professional actors."

He folds his arms and rocks back on his heels, still looking at her. "Which face is the true you?"

The half-orc seems to come to himself suddenly and waves a hand to dismiss the thought. "Forgive me, these are personal questions and you owe me no answers."

Aiwë shifts. She seems to stand lighter on her feet and her hands come up in a flourishing brace against her heart.

"Blood, that does wound me." By her tone it clearly does not. "I am a professional," her posture shifts again to a soldier's casual stance, "and control is everything."

She pulls her braids over her shoulder, picking battle debris from them absently.

"Chaide says it's on account of Khana keeping herself under her own boot for so long, and Ada being a cool-blooded elf—'utmost respect for the Chieftess' honored mate and Lord Torm's Cleric'—" she interjects with a heavy orcish accent weakened by age. "All that energy had to go somewhere, she says. My parents say I belong anywhere and Stella's grandfather says I belong nowhere," she leans in conspiratorially. "He thought I couldn't hear, but don't worry, his wife told him off."

She folded her arms, smiling and meeting his eye easily, but there is heaviness behind them. "Which parts of me do you think are true?"

Koveras can't help but return the smile. "So it is all deliberate. What a gift."

"I feel..." He tries again. "It's like my whole life I've been forced to conform. To be a certain type of person." He points at his own face. "I've had to mask who I am. Bury it. I guess that's a kind of acting. But you..." He shakes his head in amazement. "You have an entire color palette of personalities to express yourself. They're all true. They're all you. You have the depth, the rich layers of your heritage to pick from." He almost sounds frustrated, and perhaps envious. "And the freedom to choose."