II: Baerlon

The next morning the sun rose on the peddler’s camp, glistening on early morning dew. The party of six was already packing tents away to be stored in Lola’s massive backpack; she was the near equivalent of a packhorse, except a packhorse that could cook, and, according to the others, could manage quite a whack with her mace too. Özurr was intrigued by this; he had heard Ogiers were very slow to anger, and even then violence was not their way. He made a mental note to watch her fighting next time they encountered enemies, if only to know when to duck.

Packing complete, the party left the peddler’s wagons behind, and headed west. Along the way, conversation between Özurr and the others filled him in about some of their previous encounters; apparently the Ways had been involved, along with Whitecloaks. And Grrth’s masterwork sword used to belong to Morella’s husband; apparently she had given Grrth the fine weapon as thanks for saving her from the Trollocs.

Towards the evening, moving through a lightly forested landscape, vivid patches of colour became visible through the trees. As they moved closer, the vividness resolved itself into garishly painted wagons and people; it could only mean Tinkers. The party strode into the camp, and Giselle arranged for them to stay there for the night. She had told the Tinkers of Lola’s cooking abilities, and they were eager to experience Ogier cuisine.

They didn’t seem particularly taken back upon seeing that Lola had in fact not cooked exotic foods from Ogier recipes, but pies. Özurr found them even better than the previous night, and so an idyllic night of good food and music, along with Giselle dancing with the Tinkers, was had. Along the way, the brightly coloured people talked to them about their Way of the Leaf, which seemed to involve complete pacifism, even if faced with certain death. Morella seemed tempted, considering what violence had done for her husband, but she did not stay with the Tinkers the next morning when they left.

By midday, the town of Baerlon had come into sight. Not a city by any means, as everyone in the group knew, but still a sizeable group of buildings with sturdy-looking walls. Passing through the eastern gate, they drew only passing glances from the town guards, except maybe for Lola, who they stared at a little longer. Morelle guided them to her uncle, Caleb, in his shop. Entering it, they found a decently large establishment with barrels and crates lying around, with a man, most likely Caleb, inspecting one of them; it seemed he was a merchant, and a successful one too, judging by his fine clothing. Despite that, Grrth shivered slightly and narrowed his eyes; he had a bad feeling about this place. Glancing at the others he could see that they had all felt it too.

“My dear niece! How good to see you again... but where is your husband?” exclaimed Caleb, rushing over to Morella

“He... he was killed by... Trollocs... I survived only because of these brave souls... who saved my life!” she replied, half-weeping.

Caleb’s eyes swept over the remaining five, seemingly studying them, and widening upon seeing Lola. “Well, for such an act, they deserve recompense. My fine friends, as a token of my gratitude please accept these gold coins!” The merchant opened a purse, took out a few gold marks, closed it, and tossed it to Özurr. Catching it, he opened it and peered inside. Nearly two dozen golden coins winked back at him, glistening richly. He’d never seen this much money in one place at once. “...And, I shall arrange for you to stay at a fine inn I know of, the White Stallion. The food there is good and rooms are tidy, unlike other inns in the town...” Caleb was now herding them out of the door, saying “Now if you will excuse me, I do have business to attend to, and I must care for my niece. Take care, my friends.”

The merchant’s word was true; by the time they reached the White Stallion, they were shown to large, comfortable tidy rooms. They would have wondered how Caleb had gotten word to the inn so quick, if they hadn’t been stopped every time anything remotely shiny caught Morgant’s attention. Any attempt to make him move off before he was done admiring gemstones or gold resulted in a fierce glare.

In Lola’s room the party gathered around the giant Ogier-sized bed as Özurr poured out the gold from the pouch onto it. The shower of money, even only twenty coins, was impressive, Morgant especially enjoying the cascade of glittering objects. It was all shared out evenly; four coins for each of them. They had decided that any attempt to divide loot or money based on who had done what would lead to bickering; easier to just give everyone the same amount.

With freshly filled pockets, the group descended into the common room to enjoy some ales and gossip among the locals. Giselle and Morgant were particularly effective at catching snippets of information. Over their dinner in a private dining room they told the others of the rumours, particularly the ones relating to their very generous donor;

“Apparently he’s not one to loosen his pouch-strings often, that Caleb... odd, that; he certainly showered us in gold” murmured Morgant. “If I was a suspicious man I’d say he wants us out of the way of something...”

“And he’s been having good luck in the trade this year” added Giselle, “which wouldn’t be cause for rumour, but every other merchant in town has had a bad season.”

“It could be just luck...” intoned Grrth gruffly. “Not everything unusual is suspicious.”

* * *

Later that evening, and the group was in the common room again, listening to someone who must’ve been half drunk attempting to strum a harp. The discordant twangs had been going on for some time now.

Morgant was sitting at a table with three strangers, who had been telling him rumours of a Dragon Reborn. Preposterous nonsense, he thought; those things don’t happen these days. An apple core flew in an arc towards the head of the drunken harpist, to raucous laughter. Glancing at the corner from whence the fruity projectile had come, Morgant saw a pair of eyes meet his. Suddenly the person that owned the eyes shifted his gaze hurriedly, as if caught in an act. The suspicious fellow got up and left the inn by the back door; Morgant rose from his chair unhurriedly and strode after him.

On the table next to the one their fellow had vacated, the other four were enjoying cards when Lola noticed Morgant exiting the inn through the back door. “Our Cairhienin fellow has wandered off again...”

“If he was following something shiny, it’s nothing to worry about” said Giselle absentmindedly, laying down her cards; a winning hand.

Suddenly, the door that Morgant had just gone through shook with a loud bang, as if a man had just been slammed against it. Four chairs scraped as the party abandoned their cards and hurried to the door. Flinging it open, they emerged into a narrow alley and...

...they found two men resembling brick outhouses chasing after the considerably smaller Morgant, who had his rapier out and was ducking and weaving his way between the ambushers. Immediately, Özurr and Grrth drew swords while Lola charged in weaponless, but nevertheless towering over even the large men. Her huge fist swung towards one of the thugs, impacting with a solid thudding noise on the back of his neck. He collapsed in a heap, inadvertently tripping up his fellow, who lunged forwards uncontrollably, right onto Özurr’s outstretched sword. The blade passed through the man’s eye, who twitched and screamed until Grrth's blade found his throat. Morgant flourished his rapier elegantly, before driving it through the chest of the man on the ground. Giselle was still standing near the door; it seemed she had been trying to find a stone for her sling.

“Well, there’s your first kill among us!” laughed Grrth, “even if it was pure luck.”

Heading back inside the inn, all five retreated upstairs to their rooms; Grrth, Özurr and Morgant cleaned their swords of blood, and Özurr wished he’d had his bow with him; he’d left it in his room, but he had kept his sword. A Borderlander seldom went anywhere completely unarmed. He felt a bit uneasy about the killings; his kills had been Shadowspawn, not humans. Trying not to think about the two bleeding bodies in the alley below, he finished cleaning his sword, and went to sleep.

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That's my first paragraph of my notes done... and that includes the first post. Yikes. Oh well... better to have too much than too little. Next part contains more smashing things and people!

I: Joining the Party

Özurr walked in the bright morning light, alongside one of the caravans of the peddlers he was accompanying. They were moving at an easy walking pace, leaving him plenty of time to wonder why he was being paid so well to accompany such a minor convoy... no more than 6 caravans made up this group of peddlers, small fish for any respectable group of bandits. Nevertheless, the money was good, the job seemed easy, and when everything fell together this perfectly... Özurr knew it was too good to be true. He had a gut feeling that by the end of the day, something would happen. Whether bad or good, something was coming.

* * *

Later that day, in a remarkably circular clearing, Özurr inspected his arrows one at a time, checking the fletchings were tightly attached, and properly aligned to give the arrows that little bit of stabilising spin in their flight towards whatever enemy needed turning into a pincushion. The same treatment was given to the arrowheads, checking the steel points were precisely straight and firmly in place. After that was his bow; he made sure there were no cracks in the wood, and the string wasn't frayed. Lastly he made sure to inspect his sword for any oily fingerprints which would damage the blade. If you take care of equipment, it'll take care of you back... so Özurr's father had often said. And he took him for his word, checking his weapons for any sign of wear and tear... the last thing he needed in a battle was for his bow to crack or an arrow to shoot off unexpectedly.

The convoy's caravans had formed a rough circle around the campfire in the centre of the clearing, with Özurr having pitched his tent between the caravans and the fire. Despite it being only nearly evening, it was cool, and the peddlers seemed to need a fire. To Özurr it was the equivalent of a bright and warm Saldaean day. Sighing, he set his weapons down inside his tent, right next to his bedroll, within easy arm's reach. His bow he set down particularly carefully, as he always did; he had ever preferred a bow to a sword, though being nearly as deadly with blade as with arrow. There was something satisfying about getting that perfect shot from a hundred feet away...

Suddenly, a set of voices approached from the woods. Unfamiliar voices... several of the peddlers muttered surprised gasps as the unknown group approached. Then a panicked scream of 'trolloc!' pierced the air. Rising from the mouth of his tent, Özurr approached the direction of the commotion and... an Ogier walked from under the shadows, accompanied by four other definitely human figures.

"Quiet, you, it's only an Ogier. Not even Trollocs march into a camp by themselves like that..." The peddlers knew him to be from the Borderlands, where Trollocs were practically next-door neighbours, so his reassurances calmed down any hysteria.

By now the party had approached one of the peddlers, presumably to ask for permission to use the fire for the night. A woman he could have sworn was from Arad Doman was effortlessly tying the peddler's tongue into knots; women from those regions were scandalously good at that. Özurr immediately recognised the next man, a burly man with hand on sword, certainly a Saldaean. The third human seemed to be a Cairhienin of some sort, rather shortish, and with an elegantly curved rapier; he looked like he could be intimidating when he might need to be, though. And of course, the Ogier, who Özurr could now see to be female, and rather large in both directions. She had an equally large pack on her back alongside a massive mace, although for the Ogier it seemed to be made of clouds for all the effort she showed in carrying it. Lastly, a woman who did not seem to fit into the group trailed somewhat behind the others.

Seemingly having attained the peddler's permission to use the campfire, they now headed towards him and the inner camp. Özurr was slightly nervous; he'd never been exceptional at talking to people; he had a knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

"Greetings, stranger, I am Giselle, and this is our... travelling party. I think you recognised Grrth as one of your own", the Domani woman said, gesturing to the bulky warrior, "and the Cairhienin gentleman is Morgant", indicating the other man, "and our Ogier friend and master cook is Lola". The Ogier had unpacked several untidy bundles of canvas and sticks from her backpack, presumably tents, and was now heading back to the peddler's caravans, muttering something about supplies for pies. "We are accompanying this fine woman, Morella,  to Baerlon, to her uncle; her husband was killed by Trollocs.", continued Giselle, indicating the sad-faced lady.

"So you will be joining us for the meal?" asked Morgant.

"Of course..." said Özurr. "I hope you like pies, Saldaean, for Lola rarely cooks anything else. Most any kind of meat she finds will make its way into a pie, save for Trolloc and human.", declared Morgant dryly. Özurr just about managed to mutter "Yes, pies are fine..." before Lola returned with dough and meat, and incredibly, started using her mace as a rolling pin on the dough. Surely enough, soon the smell of pies was filling the evening air with rather delicious smells. He would have asked what meat it was he would be shortly eating, but remembering what Morgant had said, he decided maybe it was best not to know.

Once the pies were ready, everyone dug in, and Özurr found the food to be even better than he expected. Just as he was finishing a particularly crunchy piece, Giselle leaned over to him.

"Would you be interested in joining our party?"

He nearly choked on his pastry; these strangers had appeared from nowhere and now were offering him employment?

"Of course, we do find ourselves putting our lives on the line rather a lot, but I'm sure it's not a problem for a fine young warrior such as yourself..." The Domani woman seemed to be eyeing him up, particularly his arms, which were well-muscled from years training with a bow, "...and we do occasionally find fabulous riches, such as Grrth's sword over there, a masterworked blade, very rare and deadly." Özurr noticed that Morgant seemed to be eyeing the shiny sword rather enviously.

"Well, my current employers are paying me handsomely for this job..."

"Ferrying around small convoys of peddlers? There is no renown in that! A man such as you certainly desires more adventure!" Giselle's voice painted a picture of him heroically defeating Trollocs, and riches untold falling into his outstretched arms...

"Well... I guess these peddlers are close enough to Baerlon not to be in such danger..." Almost feeling as if he were under a spell, Özurr found himself agreeing to join the party. He told the lead peddler he would be taking his leave in the morning, and the man seemed relieved; perhaps Özurr's habit of compulsively shooting ravens hadn't gone down so well after all.

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Well, that's the introduction done. So... didn't think it'd be this long, it's basically a sentence in my notes expanded to many many words. The next one will be the first adventure, in Baerlon... get ready for some door-smashing, Darkfriend-bashing action!

Well now...

This will (soon) be a blog describing a role-playing game in story format. Basically, we play a Wheel of Time role-playing game (nearly) every weekend, and after each session it shall be dramatised and posted here. Shoop da woop.