A Wurzel’s Wanderings

1st of Moon’s Sleep, Year of the Horde

 I had been wandering the shoppes and streets of Tamarin when I first saw him: a short, balding half-elf, clad in a blue robe. He was clearly searching for something. As it turned out, it was for the Company of the Ivory Goat—or rather, adventurers of our type.

When we struck up a conversation he told me of his situation. His name was Omin Dran, and he represented the inhabitants of the northern town of Rolus Keep, located in the mountain foothills near the border with Narog-Nazu. There they guarded the Khyber Pass against incursions from the north. In recent weeks the Orcs had grown ever more aggressive, and the town elders had grown concerned that a full-scale assault was in the works. Moreover, there were troubling indications that the Orcs might have found away around, or under, the fortifications that held the pass, and could threaten the town and villages beyond.

I must admit, I was immediately interested: the town of Rolus Keep and the Orcs of that area had been the backdrop of much of Edgar Stoat and the Underground Orckind Railway. My companions were equally enthusiastic too: Thoradrin, the Defender, was anxious to contribute his axe to the defence of the town, while Dirock felt that its inhabitants would benefit from Kord’s strength (as well, I suspect, some of Dirock’s stern sermons). As for the Viggos—both little and big—they were simply happy to be once more among mountains and woods, and far from urban streets and throngs of slavering zombies. It all seemed straight forward. But was it? Given the delicate peace negotiations between Tamarin and Narog-Nazu, I was anxious that our company not somehow cause diplomatic complications. Accordingly, we sought an audience with the Chancellor Invictad.

There, we learned more that would be of use to us. The wild orcs of this region were largely beyond the control of Urzas Jian and the Orcish warlords, and raids were not uncommon. The Chancellor also added another piece to the puzzle: a group of prospectors were missing in the mountains to the north, where they had been on a secretive mission to investigate possible platinum deposits. If we could bring them to safety, or at least discover their fate, we would be rewarded handsomely.

I must admit that this additional news caused me some discomfort… it seemed rather risky for Tamarin to be secretly mining platinum deposits located in Orcish territory at a time when their truce with Narog-Nazu hung in the balance. Indeed, it seemed rather as if we were being asked to investigate precisely because our mission could be denied, and we ourselves considered expendable should anything go wrong.

Still, as Uncle Rufus used to say, “never shove a weasel down a sewer.” That saying made little sense to me, and even less now as I remembered how happily Little Viggo had scampered among the dark undertunnels of Phirul. Still, it made me realize that there was some opportunity in this situation.

“And what of the ore, Chancellor?”

“Or what, halfling?” he replied, somewhat confused.

“The ore Sir, the platinum ore–surely the prospectors were planning to return with some for testing? I’m not sure we can carry it…”

 Chancellor Invictad clearly didn’t want to be bothered with such details, and moved to dismiss us with a wave of his hand. I quickly kicked Thor in the foot.

“Och aye, its true, sairrr… thaur woods air tae test, quite a lot ay it. althoogh aam nae sure whit Arnauld is gettin’ at…”

“…by which Thor means that our only hope of recovering any ore—ore that might be vital to the national security of the Kingdom of Tamarin, indeed of the entire free word—is to transport it in something like… well, a magical Bag of Holding, Sir. We don’t have one, and we’ll need one. Of course, we could just leave the ore there.. I’m sure the King won’t mind if the Orcs discover the platinum deposits, deposits that could be rich enough to shift the very strategic balance in all Quirm. I mean, he would forgive you for that, wouldn’t he?”

The Chancellor seemed to gulp, but nonetheless he did dismiss us. Ah well, it was worth a try.

We returned to meet with Omin Dran. Had had recruited one other for this mission, a human mage named Skalrag. He seemed quite skilled in the arcane arts, and I think we were all pleased to have him aboard given the continued absence of Kiira and Noctuz from our company. We assembled on a grassy knoll, as Omin prepared the ritual of Shadowalking that would speed our journey north five-fold. Suddenly, two figures approached: the first a mounted messenger of the royal palace, in full regalia; the second, a middle-aged seamstress carrying a package of her own.

The courier stopped, and blew his horn (quite uneccessarily, since I was barely five paces from him at the time). “By the order of Lord High Chancellor Kalos Invictad, this package is provided to Arnold Wurzel and the Company of the Ivory Goat to facilitate their endeavours.” I unwrapped the package as soon as it was handed to me, and grinned as I found within it the Bag of Holding that I had sought earlier. Clearly, the halfling glib played as well in high society as it did among the merchants and river smugglers of my native land!

At the same time, the woman drew up before Viggo. “Oh Master Viggo, I be so glad I caught ye before ye left.. I’ve done finished that special order what you wanted!” Beaming, she handed him a package which, when unwrapped, contained a half dozen magnificent tabards, each bearing the heraldic symbol of an ivory goat rampant. “Oh, Viggo like… is very good… Arnold, you like? Thor? Dirock? I grinned and our dwarven friend chuckled, even more so as Dirock scowled and mutter something about “blasphemy and nonsense.” Donning his tabard, Viggo hugged the seamstress. “For you, special sewing lady, Viggo bring you back special gift—maybe bear milk from north!”

I suspected we would find much more than bears on our journey.

27th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde 

I remember her well, that an old gypsy fortuneteller at the Thurdsnail Country Fair. I couldn’t have been much more than ten or eleven, and I incessantly hectored my mother until she took me to have my foothairs read. The old woman looked at one foot, then the other, plucking at the longest and curliest hairs from each with long fingernails and a practiced hand. “This one,” she cackled as her gold-capped teeth glinted in the dim candlelight of her tent, “this little one will meet Kings.“

I smiled. My mother handed over the few silvers it all cost, and we went home. That night after dinner, she handed me a box of Eberheart King’s Wonder Cleaning Scrubbing Pads and with a grin pointed me in the direction of a large pile of dishes. “On you go, Arnold–time to meet your Kings!”

Today, however, I met another king–a real king, His Royal Highness King Ezgara Diskanal. He didn’t have magic singing bubbles or that lemon-clean scent, but otherwise it was an altogether more impressive experience.

Following the successful rescue of the survivors from Phirul, my friends and I (minus Kiira and Noctuz, who had research they wished to continue on the zombie plague) had been taken to the city of Tamarin for the royal audience. We were escorted on the way by the affable Tasther the Druid, and a small detachment of soldiers led by a Sergeant Cloud. As has often been the case as of late, our trip was far from unexciting. A little more than a day after we had set forth, we came across a small bend on the road where a log and cart seemed to form a makeshift barricade. Segreant Cloud, the leader of the detachment held up her hand to halt the party.

My ranger friend spoke up. “Viggo think it is am-bush. Tree chopped, not falled by wind. No is good am-bush too, is very obvious.”

The sergeant gestured for a couple of her men to scout the obstacle, as Viggo continued his commentary.

“..Me think it be something to draw our lookings….how you say that, Arnold?”

“Ruse? Bait? A distraction?” I offered helpfully, sharing much the same misgivings about the entire situation.

At this point, a huge clawed hand emerged from the obstacle to knock one of the soldiers aside. A vicious looking bugbear clambered onto the log before us, as the wounded soldier screamed in fear and pain.

“…yes, that csúnya lidérc-állat there that is scratching screamy soldier.. he is dis-trac-tion, so we all go forward like silly little lemmings…”

Sergeant Cloud, clearly paying little heed to the considerable derision in Viggo’s tone nor his general disdain for the martial prowess of Tamarinian soldiers, ordered her troops to charge the creature. I swear I could hear him roll his eyes, if eyes could be heard rolling.

“…so that OTHER sneaky creatures attack us from other side. Is obvious, like when bird pretend to have broken wing or when kobold offer to share wine.” With this Viggo drew his swords, and stared into the woods to either side of us. He soon had the confirmation he was seeking as a single black arrow hurtled past us and struck Tasther in the neck. The druid fell to the ground, moaning in pain. Moments later, a half dozen or so hobgoblins burst from cover to charge upon us. Off in the distance, the soldiers and bugbear were now locked in combat.

Thor was in his element, of course. “Ah dornt caur if they think they’re sneaky, as lang as they bleed when they tak’ an axe in th’ heed!” Wielding his mighty blade, he strode forward with a shout, Viggo by his side. Inspired by their example, I hid behind a small embankment, and began to snipe with my sling. Dirock threw his invocation of Kord’s mighty power into the fray.

The first few foes went down easily enough, but the last few proved to be much more formidable opponents. I dashed forward, to assist Viggo with Petunia’s sharp edge, the two of us maneuvering with well-practiced art to disadvantage our enemies.  Finally, our company triumphed, but not before taking some deep cuts and ugly bruises that had need of our cleric’s attentions. Tasther, fortunately, was not badly wounded, thanks to his remarkable regenerative powers. As for the soldiers, they slew the bugbear and were full of self-congratulation at their victory, seemingly oblivious to how their frontal assault had left our flanks unguarded.

The rest of our trip to the capital was largely uneventful, or as uneventful as a trip-to-meet-the-king can be. There were were met by the King’s Chancellor and his staff, and accommodated in a fine stately house upon the Denaw River. This wasn’t my first visit to Tamarin, as Viggo and I had travelled there several times about the Laughing Skua. However, I did view it with a particular new perspective in light of recent events: this city, to my great pleasure, was zombie-free.

Our audience with the King was full of all the pomp and majesty that one might expect: rows of gleaming soldiers and silk-clad courtiers, choruses of trumpets, rows of dignitaries. Viggo, devoid of the slightest regard for—or even rudimentary knowledge of—protocol, enjoyed himself greatly, chatting with confused ambassadors about the value of elk spittle for improving digestive regularity, borrowing the trumpets from surprised trumpeteers to determine their utility as moose-calls, and expressing his concern to the king about his limited royal sexual prowess (evidenced, in my friend’s eyes, by the fact he had but one wife). All-in-all it was quite the day, especially given the royal gifts that we all received.

With our audience over, we found ourselves at a crossroads of sorts. What were we to do? If our small band of adventurers, our Company of the Ivory the Goat, should stay together, to what purpose should we commit ourselves? 

The answer would come from an unexpected source.