3. Wyvern Tor

Alex, you silently motion for Boggart to hold still before easing toward the cottage window. Boggart joins you a heartbeat later, equally cautious, and you realize the sound had not been your imagination.

Three figures move through the moonlit yard.

They are unmistakably orcs. Each green skinned creature stands close to six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, with little fat on their frames. They carry bows slung across their backs and a short, broad-bladed sword at the belt. None wears armor.

The three pause, silently studying the farmhouse, barn, and guest cottage.

Then one of them strides toward the entrance to the farm.

He pulls a small piece of coarse parchment from his belt, presses it against the trunk of a large tree beside the lane, and, with a single motion, drives his dagger clean through the parchment and deep into the bark.

Boggart, do we wake the others or wait until the orcs leave and read the paper?

"I'll wake the others, in case violence is part of the message," Boggart whispers, then slinks over to Igrem and Redhawk to rouse them.

Alex, will you keep watching the orcs or enter and help Boggart wake the party?

Alex nods at Boggart's suggestion while he stays alertly focused on the orc raiders, listening for anything he may understand.

Boggart, staying low, you move silently across the cabin and gently wake Igrem and Redhawk.

---

Alex, you remain there, eyes fixed on the visitors.

The orc who drove his dagger into the tree says something to the others in a guttural tongue. Though you catch a few familiar sounds from your travels, the words come too quickly and indistinctly to piece together their meaning.

The three exchange brief glances, then, without another look toward the farmhouse, retreat the way they came, slipping back into the darkness beyond the fields with surprising stealth for creatures of their size.

The farm falls silent once more.

Alex waits until he is reasonably certain the orcs are gone, and then—still being deliberately quiet—slowly approaches the orcish missive. He is careful as best possible not to confuse or scuff the tracks so that Redhawk or Boggart can "read" them. He stops shortly before the tree. He gazes at the tracks and the marks, realizing that Redhawk’s naturecraft is better than his own, but still gleaning what he can. He then looks at the note as it is on the tree. The depth of the dagger thrust holding it. The kind of paper or parchment it is. He examines the tableau as best as he can without interfering with it. If he can, he reads it while it’s still on the tree. Once his companions make their deductions, they can take the note inside and examine it again more closely.

Redhawk will move outside with bow in hand. He will study the scene but he will want to do this in the light of day also. To easy to miss the little things at night.

Igrem wakes up reluctantly and steps out of the cottage but does not move further, letting his companions do the primary investigations. "So what's this about?" he asks Alex, first chance he gets.

The two of you make your way carefully toward the tree. Alex takes pains to avoid the soft patches of earth where footprints might remain, stepping only where the ground is firm or already disturbed.

Redhawk, even before you reach the tree, you know the night is working against you. The first-quarter moon provides enough light to avoid stumbling, but not enough to distinguish the subtle details of overlapping tracks, broken stems, or faint impressions in the soil. You could attempt to follow them now, but doing so would risk overlooking important clues—or worse, losing the trail entirely.

With daylight, however, you're confident you'll have a much better chance. If the weather holds, the tracks should still be there come morning.

Alex, the dagger remains buried several inches deep in the trunk of the tree. It took considerable strength to drive the broad blade through the folded parchment and into the hardwood in a single thrust.

The parchment itself is coarse and cheaply made. It bears large, blocky letters written in Common with thick black ink, as though intended to be read by farmers rather than scholars.

Without disturbing either dagger or parchment, you lean close enough to read.

WE DEMAND TRIBUTE.

SHEEP, FLOUR, AND TOOLS

IN EXCHANGE FOR PEACE.

Beneath the words is no signature.

Instead, someone has painted a crude emblem in black pigment: A broad, black hand clutching a bundle of arrows.

"What's it say?" Boggart says, craning his neck and standing on his tiptoes to try to read the note. "C'mon, don't leave us in suspense!"

PS: Why are there seven arrow heads but only five fletchings?

Alex responds to Boggart filling him and Igrem in on the note's contents. Alex continues to muse aloud. "Orcs and a sigil of many arrows. It hasn't been that long since the War of the Silver Marches, at which the Kingdom of Many Arrows was ruined. Perhaps this tribe is a remnant of that kingdom?" Turning to Redhawk, he asks "Should we leave the note up until morning so that the Tezrin family can see it in context, or should we take it down now? For that matter, should we get a torch and see if there are any other tracks?"

Igrem ponders Alex's question. "If we leave the message, you can be sure men in this farm and those around will gather to seek confrontation. This would be folly, and this will certainly not help us in our endeavor. I vote to hide the message, and walk to the orc camp first thing tomorrow to clarify what is at hand here." He looks at his companions to check their stance.

"We don't want them rushing off to their death, but neither do we want them unawares. Mayhaps we give the message to Narth; he seemed like a wise fellow." Boggart scratches his head while Puck sniffs at the tracks left by the orcs.

"I agree that we should wait until morning to pursue the orcs. The trail should keep, unless there's a downpour," he says.

Listening"I agree with Boggart that we should give the message to Narth. He did not seem ready to run off and make war with the orcs. Also I think Igrem is right about waiting until morning before I track the orcs. Torch light could give us away and it is still easy to miss sign by torch light."

Alex nods as the others speak. "Not a good idea to hide it from the Tezrins. After all, this is their land. But we should bring it in and inform them first thing in the morning. I also wouldn’t mind looking at the note more closely in the light."

So the majority decided: The message should not remain where every passing farmer might see it at first light, nor should all Tezrins be kept ignorant of a threat made against their home.

Alex carefully grips the dagger's hilt and eases it free from the bark with as little disturbance as possible. The parchment comes away intact. Folding it neatly, he carries both note and dagger back toward the guest cottage.

Redhawk gives the ground one last thoughtful look before following. Even in the dim light he memorizes the direction from which the orcs came and the route they took when they departed. By morning, he is confident the trail will be there.

Inside the cottage, the note is laid upon the table to await daylight, when both the writing and the strange black emblem can be examined more carefully. With all things settled, the watches resume.

The remainder of the night passes without further incident. One by one, the stars begin to fade as dawn approaches.

---

Dawn, 29th of Ches
Narth Tezrin's cottage

The first rays of dawn spill across the eastern hills, painting the dew-covered pastures in shades of gold. Birds begin their morning chorus from the hedgerows, while the farm slowly stirs to life. A rooster crows somewhere behind the barn, answered by the soft bleating of the sheep you returned the previous afternoon.

For Alex, ordinarily, he would have begun the morning by flipping a lucky coin into the harbor, murmuring a brief prayer that Lady Luck would smile more brightly than the Bitch Queen of the Sea. Indeed, today marks the opening of the Fair Seas Festival, the final celebration of Fleetswake, when sailors, merchants, and common folk gather along the harbor to feast on seafood and make offerings in hopes of earning calm seas and avoiding Umberlee's wrath during the coming year. The bustling docks, colorful pennants, and laughter of the festival seem a world away from this quiet sheep farm close to the Sword Mountains.

Instead, he wakes to the smell of fresh bread, as Elsa Tezrin knocks and steps inside carrying a wicker basket and two clay jugs.

"Good morning," she says with an easy smile.

"In our cottage, travelers ought to start the day properly."

She lays out a still-warm loaf of crusty bread, thick slices of fresh white cheese, a crock of butter, and a jug of cool milk drawn only moments earlier. The second jug contains fresh well water.

"I hope you all slept well."

She glances toward the brightening morning outside.

"Father's already been out checking the fences, and Tomas is seeing to the livestock. Looks like we'll have another fine day."

Entirely unaware of the night's visitors, she smiles warmly.

"When you've finished breakfast, Father said he'd like a word with you. I believe you wanted to ask him about the orcs near Wyvern Tor. He is eager to tell you."