Ch 03: Burning Things Builds Friendships

The Five:
Gherota, Human Fighter, Level 1
Gurnlocke Fisk, Dwarf Warlock, Level 1
Mairrethid, Human Wizard, Level 1
Mez Gobbo, Goblin Rogue, Level 1
Schlobrock, Ork Cleric, Level 1

First Ch 01: Poot's Angels
Previous Ch 02: Semi-random Violence

“Alright, so that’s two votes for burning the bodies, one vote for burying them, and two for mutilating them as a warning to others,” Mairrethid summarizes, sighing with a hint of frustration.

“This is obscene,” Gherota groaned.

“This is an opportunity,” Fisk argued, “to build the Legend of Gurnlocke Fisk. These guys messed up with us because they didn’t know any better. Let’s make sure folks know better next time.”

“We’ve got eleven horses now that we didn’t have before,” Mez reasoned. “Looking like easy prey has worked out well for us, so far.”

“Making an obbering do dhe godz makez powerbul ju-ju,” Schlobrock countered. “And id beedz dhe animalz.”

“I don’t share Gherota’s moral outrage,” Mairrethid said, “but showing disrespect to the dead has its own consequences. There are neutral parties in Red Rock who might be offended by what you two are proposing.”

“Walk softly and carry a big stick,” Mez added.

“Obbended?” Schlobrock said, surprised. “Dhad’z racizd.”

Mairrethid continued. “Don’t forget either that we didn’t pick the fight or the terrain, we were outnumbered more than two-to-one, and we prevailed. The survivors we let escape will do more to add to the Legend of Gurnlocke Fisk than anything we are likely to do to the corpses of their former allies.”

“And playing with your fallen enemies’ bodies is wrong!” Gherota howled.

Fisk folded his arms and scowled, “I’m taking the skinny one’s heart as a keepsake, and I dare any of you to try stopping me.”

Gherota raised a stabbing finger in Fisk’s direction and started to say something, but Mairrethid cut her off.

“Maybe we should take a new vote,” Mairrethid interrupted.

“I’m still against mutilating the bodies, but I’d rather do that than dig holes for the jerks,” Mez said. “So, think of that, Gherota, if this is going to come to a third round of voting.”

“Fine!” she howled. “We burn them, like filthy heathens, if that’s the best I can expect from you savages.”

“Dhad’z racizd,” Schlobrock protested.

“Right,” Mairrethid said, clapping his hands, “that’s at least three-to-two in favor of burning. Does anyone else want to change their vote, or can we move things now in favor of the burning?”

The wizard’s allies shrugged and nodded, but no one said anything.

“Alright, then,” Mairrethid said. “Let’s rifle their bodies and then get to the burning.”

The bodies that were the subject of their conversation belonged to several men who overtook and attacked the five minutes earlier on the road out of Red Rock. Three men were leading the attack, all of whom had developed various grudges with the victorious five. Like most jerks, the three had brought along enough hirelings to give themselves a punishing numerical advantage, though the advantage proved far from decisive. By the end of the fight, all three were dead, along with four of their minions.

The five got to work accumulating loot from the dead. This amounted to several suits of armor, including one of scale mail and another of chain mail, a number of weapons, and a variety of sundry coins. The largest portion of the haul was in all eleven of the attacker’s riding horses, which had been tied up outside of the field of battle before things started. Each of the five took two horses, riding one and keeping the other on a string. The eleventh horse was loaded up with the captured gear and entrusted to Gherota’s care (whom the other four privately agreed was too dull to attempt theft). The coins were divided up, with each of the five getting roughly seventy silver--a modest but respectable purse.

After they were satisfied, the bodies were heaped into a pile, doused with lamp oil, and set ablaze. Fisk managed to get his trophy when no one was looking. The other four pretended to ignore it when they noticed the fresh hole in the skinny one’s chest, though Gherota was visibly frustrated.

They left the burning bodies and proceeded with the few hours of sunlight that were left, continuing up into the hills, following Poot’s map in search of their goblin quarry. They had been hired by one of Red Rock’s leading citizens to recover a lost statue from the goblins who had taken it. They would be compensated with five hundred gold (to be divided five ways, they agreed) and additional work. Though the recovered loot amounted to more than what Poot had promised to pay them, they were still salivating over the idea of Poot’s reward. Further, he had promised additional work once they proved their mettle against the goblins.

As it started to get dark, they started looking for a campsite. Schlobrock demonstrated her know-how as a wilderness shaman and led them to a sheltered, shallow creek under a canopy of trees--the perfect place to make camp. They unpacked and hobbled their horses, allowing them to graze, and started setting up camp.

Mairrethid seemed to enjoy using a telekinetic cantrip to pull together most of the dry wood in the immediate area, then igniting it with a burst of sparks from his finger.

Schlobrock produced a large iron pot no one had noticed her carrying, filled it with water and a pinch of salt, and set it up to warm in Mairrethid’s fire. “I’m going do bind zome more wood and maybe zome mead or herbz or something. Anyone wand do help?”

“Sure,” Gherota offered, following her up the creek.

“I’m coming,” Mez called, hurrying to follow. He prepped his crossbow. “Maybe we can get a squirrel or bunny or something, too.”

Fisk wandered off in the opposition direction, leaving Mairrethid alone to stir and rearrange the embers of his burning fire with more magic. It wasn’t long before Fisk returned with a small armload of additional wood. He dumped it in a pile near Mairrethid.

Mairrethid grinned at Fisk, not being particularly subtle in the attention he was giving to the manual aspect of Fisk’s labor.

“What?” Fisk demanded, half-angry. “I haven’t learned your little Mage Hand trick.”

Mairrethid was surprised by the hostility, backtracking quickly. “No, no. Well... I’d be happy to give you a few pointers, if you would like,” Mairrethid offered.

“Save ‘em,” Fisk snorted. He balled one fist and made a quick gesture towards a small, half-dead tree near the edge of the campsite. A blast of eldritch energy flew to the base of his target, shattering enough wood for the tree to topple over.

“Not bad,” Mairrethid said, genuinely impressed and politely ignoring an opportunity to conjure his own magic missile.

“Can your cantrip drag this tree over to the fire?” Fisk asked.

“Nope,” Mairrethid answered. “But I’ll be happy to lend you a hand.”

The dwarf resisted his own impulse to wave the human off, but shrugged and then nodded.

Mairrethid fetched a hatchet from his pack and the pair set to work breaking down the timber, then stacking it by the fire were it might dry a bit before being introduced to the coals later on in the evening. When they finished, they were still alone in the campsite.

“My friends call me ‘Merry,’” Mairrethid offered.

“Oh,” Fisk said, awkwardly. “I had a sergeant back in my clan’s Junior Guard who liked to call me ‘Frisky.’”

“Huh,” Mairrethid said, nodding. “If you’re not offended, I think I’d prefer sticking to Fisk.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer that too,” Fisk agreed. “It is already monosyllabic, after all.”

“Yep,” Mairrethid answered. “You can call me ‘Merry.’”

“Thanks.”

The two watched the fire for a few quiet moments.

“I’m having trouble figuring something out,” Mairrethid said to Fisk, resuming his position by the fire and adding another log, this time tossing it in with his hands.

“Yeah?” the dwarf replied.

“Goblins tend to come in one of two flavors--city goblins and wild goblins. The wild ones tend to avoid settlements, but prey on travelers and caravans and stuff. If we’re after wild ones, maybe they ambushed one of Poot’s caravans or something.” While he spoke, Mairrethid decided he didn’t like the way the wood had landed, and used his cantrip to rearrange the timber, yet again.

The dwarf was unimpressed, snorting, “I’m failing to see a point.”

“It bothers me that we’re on a two-day hike to catch up with some of Poot’s missing property. Bad guys from way out here are giving him trouble back in Red Rock?” Mairrethid folded his arms. “But that’s not all. If they’re wild goblins who took a caravan or something, why hire strangers to go after them. Everything about how he hired us tells me he didn’t want anyone in Red Rock to know our target except for us.”

“Yeah,” Fisk agreed. “I wasn’t convinced by his whole act at being too busy to give us a decent mission briefing. He was selling it to hard.”

“So, city goblins. These guys have contacts in town, if not family. That multiplies the variables we need to consider.”

“A spot way out in the middle of nowhere like this can be a valuable resource for any thief.” Mez appeared out of nowhere, with a small family of squirrels impaled on crossbow bolts. “It is too far from the target to launch a mission from, but it is a wonderful place to retreat afterwards. If we’re lucky, we may be able to catch these goblins in a drunken stupor, celebrating their haul.”

“And Poot was being so frustratingly cute with us because he didn’t want their Red Rock contacts finding out that he knew about the safe house.” Mairrethid nodded, adding, “That makes sense.”

Fisk nodded, too. “Poot’s little melodrama got me thinking that sneaking would be an important part of making this work, and I’ve been wondering how we should deal with anyone we might run into out here. Travelers, shepherds, woodsmen, that sort of thing.”

“Apart from any more of Tron’s friends?” Mez asked sarcastically.

“Tron?” Fisk asked.

“That was the fat one’s name,” Mez said. “The skinny one mentioned it.”

“Fisk’s question was part of what I was thinking about with my city goblins or wild goblins question, too,” Mairrethid agreed.

“Whoever we might run into, it’ll call for a gut check,” Mez explained. “We could kill anyone we meet, but that attracts attention. We can’t afford to be unsuspicious either.”

“So, we keep our eyes open and take nothing for granted,” Mairrethid echoed, mostly for his own benefit.

“Just another day,” Fisk said, chuckling humorlessly.

Schlobrock and Gherota returned before long, as well. Gherota had her own armload of wood--large, dry logs compared to the scrub Fisk had assembled--and Schlobrock had her own collection of root vegetables and greens. Their reception by the others was quite warm.

Schlobrock’s vegetables and Mez’s squirrels both went into the ork’s pot to make a nice, slow-boiled soup. The five ignored their own hard tack, dried meat, and other trail rations, eating very well and not being shy about expressing their satisfaction.

Conversation revolved around a series of self-congratulatory recitations of the fight earlier in the day, sounding off of the highs and lows. Mairrethid tolerated a long series of good-natured jokes about how he had spent most of the fight, doubled over with sickness from the fat one’s spell. Use of his preferred nickname, “Merry,” proliferated. The laughter was universal and appreciated by everyone.

From that topic, they strayed into a series of stories about what had happened between themselves and their three attackers. Mairrethid’s game of stones with the skinny one and Gherota’s “arm wrestling contest gone bad” were both described in greater detail. Schlobrock explained how she’d returned the fat one’s insult with a backhand to the face and had been thrown out of the tavern where she was staying as a result. Mez had a similar experience with the fat one, but dealt with him more subtly, cutting his purse to steal a small piece of amber that he was happy to show off. Fisk continued to be tight-lipped about his experience with the skinny one, but did admit that a woman was involved.

“Now that we’ve had our first fight together,” Fisk said, changing the subject, “I wonder if we need a name for our little band. Something to reference my time adventuring with you four in the Legend of Gurnlocke Fisk.”

“I’m not sure if we really constitute a band,” Gherota countered.

“Granted, I’m not sure what’s going to happen in the coming days,” Mairrethid agreed, “but based on your performance today, I feel confident that we can work well together. All of us.”

Mez agreed. “And there is Poot’s promise of more work for us, once we prove ourselves getting this statue back. But like Merry says, it depends on how things go.”

“I’m certainly not opposed to Fisk referencing our association under some single name in his chronicles,” Mairrethid continued. “Do we want to go a step further and form a charter, with articles for reaching collective decisions and dividing the proceeds of our adventures?”

“I’m not interested in signing a charter,” Gherota said, shaking her head.

“I don’d habe much inderezd in charderz, eidher,” Schlobrock added, “bud we can all agree dhad we dibide dhingz ebenly and bode widh majoridy rulez and dake care ob each odher. And zdubb.”

“That’s a good argument in favor of a charter, I think,” Fisk snorted.

“I think you’re not going to see any resistance to use of a single name,” Mairrethid said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Deathforge Strikers?” Fisk suggested.

“That’s pretty out of nowhere,” Gherota said, laughing.

“What do you think, then?” Fisk demanded.

“Band of the Free Swords?” Gherota countered.

“I could do Daggerforge Stalkers,” Mez suggested.

“Gnornblud Graudhowerz?” Schlobrock offered.

“I don’t care,” Mairrethid said, “as long as we get hats or cloaks or some other kind of unifying device.”

“I think we need to pause a moment,” Gherota said. “Gnornblud Graudhowerz?”

“Oh,” Mairrethid said, “I actually liked that one best--the kind of name that should strike fear in the hearts of men. Well, hearts of men who can speak Orkish. It doesn’t translate well into Common, but I could explain sort of what it involves...”

“Save it,” Gherota interrupted. “I don’t want to know.”

“On second thought,” Fisk said, “maybe it is a little silly to try to come up with a name for ourselves like this.”

“I don’t know,” Mairrethid said. “It is hard to write the Legend of Gurnlocke Fisk without a good name for our group.”

“Who exactly is writing this legend?” Gherota pressed.

“Nevermind,” Fisk said, retreating from the topic. “It was a stupid question.”

Next Ch 04: X Marks the Spot