Chapter 2: Mired Waters

Aleera draws her blade and waits for the dogs to close with her. She slashes with her shortsword as soon as one comes within range.

The wild beasts dash uphill and swarm Devon, who's stepped forward to take the brunt of the offensive. Before he can properly swing his blade, the warrior is downed by the pack of hounds! (4 damage to Devon, Unconscious and Bleeding)

Theobald manages to draw the hounds' attention as one of his projectiles connects with its intended targets, causing the wild dog to howl in pain and step back from the fallen warrior (1 Damage to Wild Dog B). That's just the opening the rest of the group need to rush forward in rescue of Devon as they descend upon the beasts. While Hanzel struggles to properly use his staff in the melee, Constantine smashes his against the snout of the strongest looking dog, nearly cracking its skull off (6 Damage to Wild Dog A). Few steps further, Aldeera manages a deft slice, cutting off the back of a dog's neck before she twists the blade in her palm to stab down the wound, right down to the beast's throat (4 Damage to Wild Dog C, DEAD).

Having met a stronger resistance than they might have hoped for, with one down and the strongest among them on the brink of death, the Wild Dogs admit defeat and try to make a retreat.

hot blood splatters across Constantine's face. He grimaces, and then thinks "I'm a hero... a real warrior HERO!" It's all he's ever wanted to be!!

"I thought dogs liked sticks" he says in his best hero voice as he swings his staff dramatically in a wide circle, ready to strike again. As soon as the dogs escape his range, he turns his attention to Devon, hoping he can help.

Aldeera takes a parting strike at the retreating dogs.

With the wild dogs on the retreat, the party takes care to staunch Devon's bleeding and keep him safe as he comes back to his senses. It's only a short march to Haralton and the prospect of a drink, warm meal and nice bed is very much welcome after today's ordeals.

The remaining travel is quite uneventful and "village" is a pretty generous term for Haralton, which lies at the center of a broad belt of farmsteads in what's probably the best arable land of the shire, at the foot of the Terraces. With most of the few locals living spread out in their farms, it is a rather sleepy village with only one tavern/hostelry around, fittingly called the Pitcher and Pitchfork. It's a pretty small place, mainly meant for the locals to have a drink together after a hard day's work in the fields, but it's cosy enough. Likewise, people here seem polite enough, but it's hard to shake off the feeling that one is an outsider here in this small, tight knit community.

Constantine pauses in the doorway of the tavern. He scans from side to side, observing the "regular" folk. Such safe, simple live they have, no idea what the life of a true adventurer is like....

He strides confidently towards the bar, and only struggles a little bit to pull his small frame up on to a stool.

"ale"

he says, as he flips a copper coin onto the bar.

Without moving his head, he tries to see if anyone is looking at him, before he dramatically wipes the dried blood from his face, while doing his best to look like a proper beast slayer.

Aldeera enters the tavern with an air of indifference. She doesn't make eye contact with the locals, but finds an empty table and takes a seat.

Devon groaned as he climbed to his feet. The fresh wounds barely closed. "Thank you." he looked around and noticed one of the dogs there. "Seems the rest of you had better luck than I with the mutts."

---

As they entered the village Devon had to admit that it was not much. As they entered the bar, he noticed he had a slight limp as he favored one leg. He followed Aldeera to a table and lowers himself slowly to a seat. The warrior was feeling a bit light headed and he would have to check his wounds again, but first he definitely needed an ale.

​The rest of the journey was most dull and quiet. The village was a welcome change, even being but a few scattered homes amidst the great, flat fields which lay beneath the high Terraces. Truly, the soil there was rich and dark.

​Theobald noticed that the air here smelled very deeply of turned earth and straw, and that the few folk he did spy seemed to be tanned brown by the sun like old leather. ​This was a sleepy place, with only one Inn for all the farm-folk, aptly named 'The Pitcher and Pitchfork.'

​The company then did enter the Inn. Theobald’s eyes took in the room; it was small, indeed, yet warm and free of any mess. ​The people within seemed of polite manner, yet Theobald could not rid his mind of the feeling that they were all strangers in this small knot of folk. Though his stomach did send forth soft noises of want, he did not dare to call for drink nor food, nor did he choose a seat, but stood waiting, until the grown folk had chosen what they would do.

The return to the village Hanzel grew up in strikes him as vaguely surreal. It's as he remembers it, for the most part, but it also seems so much smaller than he thought it was as a child. He supposes that's to be expected, what with it and the nearby farmland not being his entire world anymore.
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Hanzel follows the rest of the group into the Pitcher, brushing a few bits of leaf off his clothes on the way in. He takes a seat at the same table as Devon, glancing at the warrior as he sits down. He might have to give the wound a proper look later.
He notices Theobald still standing and gestures at a seat. "You can sit down if you want," he says, casually. "The seats won't collapse under you."

The bartender, a middle aged man of receding hairline, plain functional countryside clothing and otherwise unremarkable appearance, puts a palm on Constantine's coin and slides it over the counter, before giving it a quick inspection in case it might be counterfeit. "Ain't seen you lot around before" the man grumbles at the gnome as he grabs a mug and starts to pour in ale from the barrel behind his counter. "Don't seem like the farming types either. Or merchant types, for that matter." The man turns around to serve the ale and notices Hanzel speaking to Constantine. "Wait, I know you... Hansel, innit? Little boy last time I saw you, my, how time flies. You seem quite the woodsman these days. And you're with these armed folks too. Come to check out the New Mire, I bet?"

"It's been a while, yes," Hanzel says, addressing the bartender. "My work has me travelling a lot. And yes, we're here to look into this business with the New Mire."

Devon had not realized they were going to Hanzel's home village. Not that it mattered, but certainly would not hurt as the bar tender might be more likely to open up to someone from around here than with a bunch hired strangers.

The warrior was still feeling his near death, so he slumped into his chair and ordered an ale to take the edge off.

Constantine didn't expect the bartender to know any of them, tall tales probably won't cut it here. He feels a bit deflated, he's never had such a good story to tell before...

He slides off his stool and moves quietly to the table to join the others. "Warrior work is thirsty work eh?" he says as he sits down to nurse his pint. He's never drank a full one before, and now he doesn't think today's the day.

Devon smiled weakly, "That it is my friend." Silently he hoped that this was not a sign of how things would go for the rest of their journey.

"Well it's a good thing someone local's looking into it" the bartender tells Hanzel, as he's pouring the ale for the rest of the group. "Outsiders are only in it for the gold and glory, but I believe you care for us folks here. And you seem to have a decent group with ya. I keep saying, whatever's causing it to flood this fast ain't natural. And if it's magic, it won't be subtle. The trick is surviving long enough in the Mire till you locate the source of it all." As if to emphasize that last point, the man puts down the last of the filled mugs and pushes them towards the druid. "Got any promising leads so far? An idea where to start from? Or you just gonna wander the Mire till you stumble upon whatever's causing the flood?"

The lad doth look from one grown face to another, his eyes clouded with great worry as the man speaks of the dangers within the Mire. Yet, he doth take a deep breath and nods most firmly, his voice ringing out with hope.

"Sir, pray do not fret!" he saith to the keeper of the Inn.

"For these be the finest and most noble adventurers in all the realm, truly! They shall not only smite whatever magic doth cause this flood, but they shall also find my cousin Jelenneth and bring her home to me!"

After he hath spoken these bold words, he doth quickly cast a glance toward his companions, seeking in their faces the proof that he hath indeed spoken the truth.

Devon, who looks literally like something to dogs dragged through the mud, smiled weakly at the bold claims Theobald made.