You and your companions have spent
the last two days cleaning out Candlekeep. The remaining Bear Gard have been
wending in and out, toting bodies, bones, bloody viscera, and other disgusting
body parts to a pit for burial, while village members, notified of Queen
Mab’s defeat, have been wandering in to claim their loved ones—whether alive
(unlikely) or dead (very likely). Several mothers wailed disconsolately outside
the keep when they found their infant children had been killed; eventually,
Lord Gaspar Sewell stepped in and organized a processional and a respectful
funeral, conducted by the local druid and attended by the entire village.
On the first evening, the Bear Gard
built a pyre and held a solemn ceremony to send their deceased brethren on to
the afterlife. They invited you and Faerith and King Runard (Mish Mash) to
attend, although you noticed they seemed to give King Runard a wide berth. A
number of them grumbled something under their breath when he wasn’t nearby, but
their voices were too low and the wind too loud to be overheard. During the
ceremony the remaining Bear Gard members took turns recounting the heroic deeds
of the fallen before solemnly lighting their pyres. Afterwards, they drank like
only warriors can—deeply, thoroughly, wantonly, and raucously.
You commandeered Murray to help you
with the task of cataloguing and packing the hag’s library into wooden crates
Lord Sewell obtained from the village. Murray was only too happy to be pulled
away from cleaning duty. All told, you
found 46 tomes, 73 books, 19 scholarly scrolls, and various other writings
(including a doodle of a giant crone-like woman rampaging through a village,
stomping on miniature stick figure people). Most seem to deal with forbidden
rituals and blood magic, but there are some priceless tomes about such things
as planar travel, the nine hells, demonology, the mating habits of trolls, how
to drain someone’s life away by giving them nightmares, and a very old bestiary
to name a few.
It was nearing the evening of the
second day when you decided to head into the village for a pearl large enough
to use for an identify spell. As you
head down the last flight of stairs and pass through the front gate, you once
again stop to look at the odd bas relief sculpture on the wall just inside the
door. You run your fingers over the odd maze-like lines surrounding what
appears to be a sizable tome, lines of power emanating outward from it. Outside
you notice a light fog has rolled in off the bay. Murray is standing by the
carriage feeding a carrot to one of the horses.
“Ever driven a carriage?” you ask
Murray as you pass him.
“My mother had an old mule cart
we’d drive to market days, sir.”
You reach up and unlatch the door,
giving Murray a crooked smile. “Basically the same thing. C’mon, drive us into
town.”
The terrain surrounding the tower
has changed drastically since your initial arrival. It seems with the demise of
the hag, the land of Eltur has begun to reassert itself. The swamp has receded,
the trees have put out blooms, and even some flowers have sprung up amidst the
sedge. But the fog keeps returning.
You are staring out the window,
contemplating an interesting passage you had been studying in The Otyugh, Not as Ugly as You Might Think,
when a flash of red cloth snags your attention. Something or someone had been
standing near a tree about 50 feet off the road, but moved out of sight at the
approach of your carriage. Try as you might to pierce the fog, the encroaching
evening and dense foliage make it impossible to see much. Scanning the terrain,
you see nothing but trees, shrubs, and mud.
Murray, oblivious, keeps the cart
trundling on, its rear wheels slipping only slightly in the mud. Shrugging, you
decide not to stop him. It’s probably just some shy villager out gathering
herbs or dung or something. Twenty minutes and a couple of miles later and you
find yourself clattering through the tiny village of Misty Bay. Small waddle
and daub huts huddle together around the only sizable house, a two story
clapboard manor belonging to the Burgomeister.
Boasting a little over a thousand
residents, it takes Murray about two minutes to pull up at the wharf, which
consists of a single dock with about four boats (little more than dinghy’s)
tied up to it. An ancient mariner mending nets points you to the only building,
a rickety shack sitting next to a mound of shucked oyster shells. Faint yellow
light leaks from the gaps of the seasoned boards; voices raised in anger
emanate from within.
Your knock is answered by an old
potbellied Halfling. His skin is weathered and wrinkled, knotty and brown as
old dried wood. He squints up at you, light spilling from the door silhouetting
his diminutive frame.
“Wat kin I doos for ye, M’lord?” he
asks after a silent moment.
“I’m trying to buy a pearl,” you
reply. “I’m told you are the person to talk to.” You then describe the size of
pearl you would need.
He studies you for a moment, tiny,
sunken eyes staring at you from a haggard face. The skin of his lips is
cracked, his greasy gray hair looks like the only thing that combs it is the
wind. “Afurd, I kin’t helps ye, M’—“
“Who is that, pa?” the old Halfling
is interrupted by a melodious voice from within. The door swings a bit wider,
revealing a comely human girl sitting by a small fire, shucking oysters.
“Wh-who…is that?” Murray’s voice
nearly startles you. He had been standing so quietly behind you. You turn to
see a strange look on his face, eyes wide and mouth slack.
“Wat’re ye on abouts?” the old Halfling
grumbles. “Tha’s me daughter. Kin’t ye tells?”
Murray manages a mumbled apology
without taking his eyes off the girl, who returns his look with a shy smile.
“As I was a sayin’” the halfing
continues. “I is outta pearls. Sol’ me whole stock to dat silly wizard guy nie
on a week ago.”
“Wizard?” you ask.
“The strange looking fellow, shaved
head, lots of tattoos. From Thay I think he said,” the girl by the fire
explained. “ Came here about a month ago, shortly before all them troubles up
at the tower, said he was travelling the coast buying up pearls. Bought up all
of pa’s supply.”
“Yeppin’ jus’ as she says, M’lord,”
nodded the Halfling. A startled cootie fell from his thinning hair. “E’ery las’
one.”
“Well…not every last one, pa,” the
girl said, somewhat reproachful.
The Halfling glared at her and
clucked his tongue. “Devil git yous girl,” he said before turning back to you. “Oh,
aye, she speks truth a’ight. I found a big’in yesterday.”
“Well, perfect, sir,” you reply, pleased
with your luck. “I only need one for now. I’ll take it.” And you reach for your
coin pouch.
“Wells, M’lord, tha’s da ting, ain’t
it?” the halflings eyes gleam in the dim light, and he runs a thin tongue over
his dry lips. “Dis is the las’ pearl der is…” his eyes linger on your pouch. “In
fac’, whats was it the wizard said, Rose?”
The girl looks a little
uncomfortable as she shifts her look from Murray to her dad. “What do you mean,
pa? About how he thought you had nice teeth? Or about what a beautiful house we
have?”
The Halfling whirls around at her
and hisses disdainfully at her. “Abouts me teeth, she says! Da Gods saves me
from such a daughter!” He turns back to you and rubs his hands. “Naw, nots
abouts any o’ dat. Abouts how he’s jus’ come down from Caer Rima. Bought all a
der pearls, too, he has.” His eyes gleam a bit more brightly as he shuffles
forward a step towards you. You hear a foot scrape behind you and a muffled gasp
as Murray retreats a step. “Tells ye wat, M’lord, I’ll sells it ye fer 300.”
Okay, what do you do?
