PBEM Orlantia

The Story So Far
Chapter 009

PBEM Orlantia: Love's Destruction.

Alana Sylvester had enjoyed the last months of her life more than she had ever previously dreamed possible. A sense of love and harmony pervaded her being, and the source of that love was none other than the elderly couple who had taken her in when winter had unexpectedly come early that year.

Mr. And Mrs. Lovejoy - Ben and Harriet - were well into their eighties and had lived a happy life together since they had married at the tender age of sixteen. In truth, even back then they knew each was incomplete without the other, and since that time they had only grown closer and more deeply in love.

"Hanali herself has blessed us, my dear," Harriet had confessed to her one cold morning while Ben, still quite spry for a man past 80, was outside chopping wood for the fire. "And this ring, you see?" she asked, holding up her left hand and showing the band of silvery metal. "He couldn't afford this ring at all, leading the simple lives we do, but he bought it anyway. It took him over two years to pay off the debt, and everyday I tell him he shouldn't have, he would only smile and say, 'I'd do it again, that and more, for my only true love.' He swears the ring was blessed by Hanali herself to ensure our love and ward off all our woes. I guess I believe him," she smiled in a sad sort of way.

That confused Alana, so she asked. "You seem sad at that? I don't understand why."

Alana had not confessed to the couple she was a druid of Rillifane and Hanali. She didn't want them treating her with special reverence or in anyway differently than they had been when they took her into their log cabin in the deep woods. But now, if Hanali's blessing brought any sorrow to the couple, she wanted to know why.

"Oh, well, my dear, it's just that . . . You know I wouldn't trade my life or change a thing with Ben, but, well . . . ," she seemed reluctant to confess her misgiving.

"Go on. You can tell me. I can keep a secret," Alana promised.

"Since you came to stay, I'm just reminded we were never able to have children of our own. And we both so dearly wanted a child. Our love would have been complete then. Love isn't like a pie. With a pie, the more you cut into it, the less there is; with each cut, the thinner the slice, and soon it's all gone. Love is just the opposite. The more you share it, the greater and stronger and deeper it grows. We could have been happier with a child to share our love, and I could have passed my ring on to my daughter when she wed, and Ben and I could have watched the blessing endure as our grandchildren were born. We just never had that."

"And Ben feels the same way?" Alana wondered.

"Please dear, don't say anything to Ben. He feels so badly and blames himself, though I don't know why. Who can say why some couples are not blessed with children? But we were still blessed with almost 70 years of wedded bliss together. Few will ever be able to claim so much happiness as that."

"You might have adopted an orphan, Harriet," Alana suggested.

"Yes, we might have, but we are very poor folk leading simple lives, and what few orphans there were seemed to have been earmarked by the king's orphanage for richer folk. I'm not begrudging them that. Children should be safe and happy and well cared for and clothed and fed when possible, and the rich can do that, too, and with love. If they didn't have love to share, they wouldn't want a child, would they?"

Alana had to concede that made sense for most folk, though she suspected some few might have lesser motivations for wanting children, but she still wished that remarkable couple could have had just that one more blessing.

"If I would have had daughter, I could imagine nothing better than if she would have turned out like you," Harriet told Alana.

That took Alana a bit by surprise. She knew they had grown fond of her in the last few scepters, but her? Her own parents often considered her a trouble making, temperamental little girl.

But to be fair, Alana was calmer those days, and deep meditation techniques she had learned in Katana greatly helped control her temper. But it hadn't been a true test since there was nothing in the Lovejoy's life that ever irked her - even in the slightest - so there had been no opportunity for them to see her wild temper, or for Alana to try to control her anger.

"I'm not so special," Alana insisted while shaking her head.

"And modest, too," Harriet smiled with a light laugh just as Ben staggered into the cabin with a load of wood.

"Birthday cake tomorrow, sweetie?" Ben sang as he piled the logs near the fireplace.

"Sorry babe, no. No more sugar for the cake."

"What? I'll not stand for my baby not having cake on her birthday," Ben muttered. That really seemed to bother him, though it didn't faze him a bit Harriet would have to bake it herself, and on her birthday. "I'll go into town and get some," he declared, bundling up his scarf around his neck again.

"Now dear, you do too much. That's a two-hour walk - four, there and back - and you just chopped all that wood. I'd fret so with you gone and trying to wade through all that snow," Harriet pleaded with him to stay.

"I can go," Alana offered. "I need the exercise. Besides, you two have been so kind to me, it's the least I can do."

*And I love cake, too,* she smiled to herself.

The Lovejoys looked at each other and they knew they could hardly deny the fact a healthy young halfelf such as Alana would have no great chore going into town and back.

"And it's been sunny all day. The winter may be letting up," she said, despite the fact Alana sensed the winter was not yet through tormenting the land with its icy grip, yet there was, for the nonce, a capitulation of winter's fury.

"If you're sure it will be all right," Ben said.

"Absolutely," Alana reassured them. "I just need a few items from my pack, and I'll be back around dusk."

"A couple pounds or so should be more than enough, dear," Harriet called to her as she was heading out the door. Alana looked back to see Ben's arm slide around Harriet's waist as he pulled her closer for a kiss.

*Seventy years, and still so in love,* Alana smiled as she bounced along the wintry scene and headed into the small village of Fecklar.

True to her word, a full five-pound bundle of sugar under her arm, Alana returned and neared the Lovejoy's cabin about dusk. But something was wrong. Through the trees she could see a glow, a soft illumination in the distance toward where the cabin sat on the other side of the hill.

*What in the world,* she wondered, but then the slight whiff of smoke and charred wood caught her nose and a sinking fear began to settle in the pit of her stomach. Alana ran, faster than she had in years, almost gliding over the snow banks and ascending the hill.

When she reached the top and looked down, her worst fears were confirmed. The cabin had almost burned completely to the ground, and its dying wake told her it must have happened two or three hours ago, maybe only an hour after she had left it.

She ran down the hill, hoping against hope she would find the Lovejoys sitting nearby and regretting their cabin's loss and only that, but they were not to be seen. Nothing. No one was near.

The front door had burned down, but she could tell it had been closed. She went around to the backdoor to see if some tracks in the snow could be found, but none were. The heat from the fire had melted all the snow in the area. Yet that door had been open when it burned, she could tell.

Scanning the nearby woods, she saw a mysterious gray lump on a bare patch of ground near a tree. Alana bounded over before she quite thought to move, almost on instinct. It was Ben, or what was left of him. But he wasn't burned. He was . . . pulverized, trampled, beaten into the ground as if smashed by several sledgehammers wielded by men with a burning hatred for Mr. Lovejoy. There was nothing she could do for him.

"Harriet!!!" she screamed into the night. Turning, she spied another dark figure in the snow, nearer the cabin, she had missed it before since in was around the corner. It wasn't moving either, and Alana already knew, deep down, it was Harriet.

Her body was not so badly mangled as her husband's. In fact, from where the snow began, Alana could tell Harriet had crawled there, the bright red crimson smears of blood perfectly apparent on the snowy canvas once she had reached the perimeter of the fire's wrath. She had dragged herself there, and then bled to death in the snow, all alone.

*What?* Alana questioned the scene. Her pack was there. Why? Why had Harriet dragged Alana's backpack with her? In fact, her hand was reaching inside the pack. Why?

*Maybe she sought a weapon,* Alana thought, her body numb with shock, but her mind continued to operate. It was the training, the monastic training - act now, mourn later, and think! *I have no weapons in there,* she reminded herself.

Gently, she lifted Harriet's hand from her pack and saw a ring that had been clutched between thumb and forefinger fall into the opening. In her dying moments - though who could say why she had taken the pack with her - Harriet tried to put her wedding ring into Alana's backpack. Her last act on Orlantia had been to give her wedding ring to Alana.

Alana felt warm tears run down her checks, the fire's heat driving them away into nothingness until only dry tightness remained on her face.

"Phlblblblbblbb," came a distant and faint sound. Alana looked. There, up a hill, maybe half a mile deeper into the forest, an eerie and ghostly glow showed brighter than a campfire in the night, but it was moving. Fast, and away, it moved with great speed until the ghostly image of distant flickering fire vanished from her view. She knew it was too fast for her, whatever it was.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: Their Final Rest.

For a few moments Alana just stared in the direction of the retreating light and sound. It was too fast for her to catch, she knew that, but still it took her a moment to fight her urge to rush after it and try anyway.

The old Alana would have done just that - acting without thinking - doing, rather than reasoning her way through. She remembered with fondness Elfrid's exasperation after yet another ill prepared act on her part. It had taken her some time to not only see the wisdom in the monk's teachings, but also live up to them. She could only marvel at the patience the monk had displayed with her.

But she would go after it, that much was certain, or at least investigate in the direction it had disappeared, but not now and not without preparation. It would not help either Ben or Harriet if she got herself killed. And it wouldn't achieve her goal either. And right now she knew what her goal was very clearly - she would find whoever or whatever was responsible for the unspeakable act and bring them to justice.

That thing - whatever it was - was something that defiled both the laws of Nature and Man. It could not be allowed to exist. Even if it weren't for Ben and Harriet's sake, she would have felt the need to hunt it down and destroy it.

Her gaze wandered back to the still forms of her kind hosts. She would bury them. She knew some of her fellow druids considered it proper to leave the dead so nature could deal with them. She herself had thought that it would be fitting if her body would provide nourishment for other creatures one day after her death, thus allowing the hull that had carried her spirit to remain part of the great cycle of life.

But now that she was confronted with the prospect of creatures gnawing at Ben and Harriet's body, she found the thought difficult to bear. They would nourish the soil and in the coming spring, flowers would grow on the place they rested. Thus they still would remain a part of the cycle of life, but in a friendlier and gentler manner, as they had lived their lives.

It would be hard work since the ground was hard from winter, but the labor would help her find a place for her grief and order her thoughts about what to do next.

But first she took the ring Harriet had left her and attached it to the chain around her neck, making sure it was fastened securely so she wouldn't lose it. Her fingers caressed the small item lovingly, until finally she went looking for Ben's tools in the shed.

She found a pick and shovel that Ben probably used to prepare the soil for planting in Harriet's small garden. Alana knew they had to be there from the stories Harriet had shared with her. Once she found them, she set to work. Alana guessed she could have used some spell, but preparing and executing it would have cost her time as well, and frankly she needed to do it the hard way at that moment.

Ultimately, however, she picked a spot within the cabin. The blaze has softened the frozen ground - not that it had been nearly as solid as the exposed ground outside had been to begin with - and what better place to be laid to rest than where they loved each other most?

By the time she was finished, having dug one single grave for the couple so they could be together in death as they had been in life, it was completely dark, save for the dying embers of the cabin's log walls. Only a suitable marker was needed, but that could wait. She vowed to one-day return with some suitable stone to mark the enduring love of her friends.

Alana was breathing hard and sweating despite the cold, but she had finally made up her mind what to do. She would take the chickens in some makeshift cage. They would probably not survive long without someone to care for them, and though animals in the wild would make sure the chicken would not have to suffer long, Alana didn't feel like letting them go that way. She would also take Ben's axe - the one he had used to chop the wood - since it would do as a weapon for the time being, and she would take the time to prepare some spells. Finally she would investigate in the direction she had seen the light and heard the sounds.

She didn't know if Ben or Harriet still had some living relatives who needed to be told about what had happened to them. She guessed no one had remained who had been close; otherwise they probably would have paid the couple a visit on Harriet's birthday. Nevertheless, she would let the people in the town know what had happened to the couple, and they would get word to whoever needed to know, and she would drop off the goat and chickens at that time. The goat would easily be lead into town, she knew. In fact, the goat could help pull the sled already filled with wood, as well as the caged chickens into town, but Alana would have to do a lot of the pulling herself. She didn't mind.

Alana wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to answer a lot of questions though. Still, people needed to know so they'd be warned. This was important since Alana was convinced that the killing would not end there. It had not been an act provoked by anything, of that she felt sure, and therefore she had every reason to assume it would repeat itself - unless she put a stop to it.

- Wilma (Alana)

PBEM Orlantia: The Passing Night.

After the burial was over and Alana had time to rest, the night chill began to bother her. She had been sweating profusely, and she was now wet and cold. Even the ground under the cabin floor after the fire had not been an easy dig. It had taken nearly the whole night before she felt it was deep enough. And gently, carefully, and respectfully covering her friends with dirt was not an easy job either, but her sore muscles still managed it.

Now she rested in the small animal shed that held the goat on one side and the chickens on the other. There was a small stove there where Ben would burn a few sticks at night to keep the animals warm, even though their own breathing usually was enough. Alana started a fire and thought to get a few hours' sleep before the dawn. She didn't mind sharing with the animals at all. In fact, she liked its natural feel. She was about to blow out her candle when . . .

"Grrreeeoooooow," the well-known sound greeted her. It was Lucian. He had returned from his latest 'expedition.' The white booted, black cat stood out in the darkness, the tuft of white fur on his chest further announcing his presence as his eyes reflected the candlelight down from one of the beams above where he was perched.

Lucian was an independently minded cat. Well . . . a kitten really, not yet a year old. Alana had found the kitten when it was merely a few days old. Some ferocious beast had apparently killed his mother - by the look of it, Alana figured it was a grizzly bear gone mad with hunger - but it had not found the kitten some distance away. So Alana adopted and befriended it, and bottle-fed it until she weaned it a while later.

She liked the name Lucian and it seemed to fit him, and that would have been that, except she used her magic to strengthen the bond and draw Lucian closer to her so she could keep an eye on him. There was something peculiar about that cat.

If nothing else, he was inordinately intelligent, for a cat. But he would hide with great skill or disappeared altogether at times, only to show up days later. After awhile, Alana simply accepted the fact that Lucian didn't need to be looked after all that closely, so she gave up worrying about him when he went missing for a few days. To date, he had never been gone longer than seven days. This time, it had only been five.

"Well hello, you," she said to her friend.

"Mrrrrrreeooowww," he replied.

"Is that right? And did you enjoy it?" she asked.

Truthfully, this was only a game Alana played with herself. Lucian didn't share any extraordinary means of communication, nor telepathy or even supernatural empathy with Alana the way a wizard might with his familiar, but it often seemed suspiciously as if Lucian understood her, even if Alana had no idea what Lucian was really 'saying' in return, if anything at all, beyond, 'feed me already, ok?' It didn't matter. She enjoyed his company. Even the chickens weren't alarmed by his presence, so he was an unusual cat, to say the least.

Lucian deftly hopped down and found Alana's lap, and soon, both were fast asleep.

----------------------------------------

Before Alana set out for the village, she prayed to Rillifane and Hanali - especially Hanali. Hanali had blessed this couple, so she would not think kindly about what had befallen them.

What's more, she discarded the clothes she had been wearing. They were filthy beyond description and torn and ripped in places from the muddy job of digging the grave, and they were not her traveling cloths besides. Those had been in her backpack.

With a small fire, she melted some snow in a bowl and bathed herself until she was free of dirt and grime and sweat. Soon, she was finally standing clean and naked in the sun. Lucian watched with interest as the water vapor rolled off Alana like wispy puffs of clouds in the wind. Lucian liked watching anything that moved. It was incredibly cold, true, but the sun beat down on the veil of water and drove it away, its evaporation drawing even more heat from Alana's naked body. Yes, it was very cold, but this was far better than continuing with what felt like several pounds of soil clinging to her - not to mention the fact her spare clothing - which she had worn around the cabin for weeks now - wasn't a good choice for what might lay ahead. She changed into her sturdier gear, convinced the others would never come clean or look good even if she bothered to mend them, so she burned them for warmth while she changed into her only remaining outfit.

Alana then prepared her Cure Minor Wounds, Detect Magic, Flare and Obscuring Mist spells. While doing that, Lucian must have decided to go on another expedition. This worried Alana since unlike most other times, something dangerous was nearby. But she knew she wouldn't be able to find Lucian, even if she tried, so after securing the chickens and goat, Alana Sylvester bid her friends goodbye and headed into Fecklar, laden sled in tow.

- JimGM

PBEM Orlantia: A Stubborn Meal.

Mile after mile fell behind them as Bebe and Jahar followed the southern shore of Lake Dugar and their former trail of jettisoned bales of hay. When the Elowin River appeared, they knew they would soon start the process one more time. They had gotten that far last time when they finally ran out and had to return for their final load.

Jahar hopped up on top the bales and kicked the first one off, watching it tumble to the ground below and coming to a rest at the side of the road.

Just for fun, he jumped for the bale to see if he could make it. He did - barely, but that was to be expected. He knew it would be close. Having made it, the fighter flicked out his dagger and slashed the baling twine that held the bale together, as if he was attacking some monster. Shaking it with his feet, it began to break off in flakes before he stopped. Now the wild animals could finish tearing it apart.

This kept up for most of the afternoon - bale after bale, following the Elowin until they neared the end of their journey - the last bale resting comfortably in the back awaiting its final fall.

"We're pretty far out," Jahar commented. "No getting back before night, that's for sure."

"I understand there's a village up ahead, about six more miles from here - maybe less," Bebe reassured her friend. "We can find a place to stay there for the night."

The last bale went as easily as the first - without whimper or complaint, it fell along the wayside.

"That'll do it," Jahar said happily, now that their job was finished.

"Not quite. One more meal to deliver," Bebe nodded her head toward the mules a bit unhappily. Part of their oath included setting the mules free and leaving them to fend for themselves, and that was doomed to end in only one or two ways, neither of which was exactly a pleasant end for the mules who had worked so hard all their lives. But they had no choice.

They nudged the decrepit wagon into some nook of rocks they found. It wasn't easy to see from the road. Who knew? Perhaps it would still be there should they pass that way again. And then Bebe set the mules free.

"Yeeeooowww!" she shouted at them. One bounded away and was soon gone from sight, having disappeared into the woods. That one had always been more skittish, and the presence of Bebe's wolf, Brambles, hadn't made it relax any more, that was certain. But the other didn't move, despite the wolf. Bebe slapped its rump to make it skitter away, but again it did not move. It refused to move.

"Now what?" she asked. "It won't leave."

"So what? We just had to let it go and let it find its own way. Not our fault anymore, or our problem. I kept my oath to Idun, far as I'm concerned," Jahar affirmed his belief.

Bebe thought about it and had to admit, he was right. As long as they did nothing to save the mule, they had done their part.

"OK, then let's go to that village. We have maybe five or six miles to go, so a brisk three-hour walk ought to do it."

Brisk for her, but not for Jahar. His legs were longer than his gnomish companion's, so he could walk slowly.

They set out for the would-be village Bebe had heard was there, but soon discovered the mule was following them.

"Not our problem," Jahar insisted again when he saw her looking back at it. "Just ignore it."

She did exactly that for the next hour, promising herself not to look back. The gnome counted her steps and looked only ahead.

*Each step, half a yard. 3,520 steps to a mile. Maybe 2 miles per hour. 7,040 steps in two miles, so about 7000 steps in an hour. One, two, three . . . ,* she kept her mind busy and focused.

Nearly an hour passed. *. . . 990, 991, 992, 993, 994, 995, 996, 997 998, 999, 7,000!* she proclaimed, the seventh finger on her left hand flicking forth to take its place, the first six already having kept track of the first six thousand steps. She wondered if she ever bothered to count that high before. She couldn't remember. Bebe looked back, hoping not to see the mule. Alas . . .

"It's still there!" she exclaimed.

"You still worrying about that mule? Forget it," Jahar insisted.

What else could she do?

*One, two three, four . . .*

It seemed a short while after that when they spied a village up ahead. The mule was stubbornly still with them, refusing to lie down and accept its end. She toyed with the idea of having Brambles snarl at it to drive it away, but then she saw a man up ahead and decided otherwise.

Brambles, her wolf companion, she knew, would frighten a lot of people, so she had trained her to stay close outside city limits and wait for her return. She would hunt small rodents and little wild things, and knew enough to stay away from farm animals and hide from people in general, and so far that worked out fine.

"Brambles. Hunt," she ordered her she-wolf companion. That was how Bebe told Brambles to wait for her. Brambles looked around, also saw the man up ahead, and bounded off into the nearby woods. Bebe knew this spot was the best place to call for her return, when she was ready. Maybe Bebe would have a treat for Brambles, too, when Bebe and Jahar returned. Then the pair of adventurers walked up to the man.

"Howdy," a young man said. He seemed to be working on repairing a fence along the road. "You come a long piece?"

"Yeah, and we're lookin' to find a place to stay the night. Any suggestions?" Jahar asked.

"You might try Barney's place. He'll have a room ta rent. Say, zat your mule?"

Bebe was about to admit it was, but Jahar spoke up first.

"Nope! Not at all." In truth, it wasn't their mule.

"Hmmm. Guess I betta wrangle him in and find out who he belongs ta then."

Bebe was actually pleased. They had done nothing to encourage it, but the mule had been spared.

*He has too much fight in him to die, so he might even have a year or two left,* she thought somewhat happily.

It wasn't long after that they both found themselves sharing a room at Barney's, having paid 1 EP each for the privilege. Then the night was upon them.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: The Blue Raccoon.

Nidville was the small hamlet so tiny most would miss it if it were not situated exactly midway between Goldenbow and Fecklar. Only the fact night had fallen and you needed a place to camp would have made anyone look around for a spot, then only to discover there was a tiny hamlet in a valley - more of a minor depression, really, than a valley - just around a small tree-covered hill. And once you found it, it was only memorable because of the bad experience it afforded.

Nidville was more of a way station, a place to stop and resupply with hardtack and water - not very clean water at that - and sleep inside wooden shacks, the weathered boards filled with so many gaps they did little to stave off the wind or cold. At least it was getting warmer with each passing day, and the wind was slight, so that wouldn't be too big a problem just then.

All told, it was barely better than camping out in the open.

The alternative would have been trying to make sense of the pavilion they had taken. Thanks to Tyrulf's mule, they were able to carry it. But by the evening, still not used to marching a full day, none wanted to try to set it up. They were too tired to mess with it. The shacks would have to do.

It was a miserable night, most huddled as close as they dared to the fire they had built in the pit inside the shack. The only redeeming feature was no landlord or innkeeper was there to bother them, or to collect a fee. And the 20 odd commoners that called Nidville their home did nothing to bother them, either. Still, it was a miserable night.

Come the morning, they had decided to breakfast on the trail, the open air and warm sun in their faces seemed to cleanse them of the hamlet's soiled feeling. It would be a warm day, they figured, and they were right.

The day's march proceeded better than the last, their muscles groaning less and less as they became accustomed to the labor. They were also learning more about making campfires and making noontime meals on the roadside. Slowly, they became acclimated to their new surroundings and to each other.

Despite the warmth, only one traveler crossed their path, a merchant of crockery making his way to Tarren from Fecklar. But he had nothing to tell them, aside from the fact he wasn't too worried about the rumors of 'evil.' He hadn't seen anything, or known anyone who had.

'Just stories,' he said. That was about the extent of it.

Finally, the next day came to a close early when daylight still lingered and they came to Fecklar itself. It was a sizable village, and on the outskirts there was a ready-made tavern named The Blue Raccoon.

That was an odd thing about many tavern names - though not all, certainly. But many seemed to bear a random color and a random animal for their names, and never did the two seem to go together. What in the world was a blue raccoon, anyway?

Despite its name, the Raccoon offered what one would expect of the tavern. It was warm, friendly, and offered palatable choices for food, even better choices for liquor - particularly if you enjoyed ales, beers, porters, and stouts - and a fairly decent bed if you wanted. It also had a bathhouse, but was strictly cold-water and minimal in its offerings.

Valin most often enjoyed the meager accommodations of his temple, wherever he may have been, but having come from Alodar, he had once ventured into one of the city's fabled bathhouses.

Steam rooms, hot and cold-water pools, lockers, exercise rooms, swimming pools, and even a wet bar all came together under one roof in some of the larger bathhouses. They were social centers for the wealthy or affluent, though even commoners visited them on occasions. What surprised him most was the public nudity and apparent lack of modesty, and both men and women shared many common areas. Nobody seemed to comment on it at all, as if it had always been that way and always would be. He had even been told some rooms were even reserved for, well . . . 'Getting to know each other,' but he didn't go inside any of those.

The bathhouse at the Raccoon was nothing like that. A few wooden benches and a single square cold water, brick-lined bath with a pump, a few basins on some old tables, and a dirty mirror and razor with a leather strop hanging at its side.

Thankfully, the Raccoon's main room was large and warm and made up for the last day's misery.

As with most villages, tavern life was central to the evening's fare. Drinks, friends, travelers, and news were offered. Gossip for those who were interested in the doings of the locals, games of chance and skill, and the ever-present barkeep that happily looked at each customer as potential profit and tips, if he but did his job well. It was all there.

For a mere 3 EP, they learned, one could secure a small room for the night. Meals and drinks were paid for as they were received, the common practice for most establishments.

Old men played chess and go, two popular games, while younger men played poker, darts, or dice. Predominately male, there were only a few women there, aside from the two waitresses. Perhaps 40 people, all told, were enjoying the Raccoon's main hall.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: If I ever see another dwarf, it will be too soon.

Bebe was feeling good for the first time in several scepters. She was not on the sea, and she was not dealing with dwarves - they had no sense of humor what so ever. She was also happy that one of the mules decided not to lay down to the fate it had been allotted, and followed them to a safe retreat. For a while she thought she would have to sic Brambles on it, to force the mule to flee. Oddly, the mule was not the least bit nervous over the wolf.

*But with the grace of Ehlonna we tread. I guess the gods have other plans for that one,* she thought.

Bebe was considering breaking out the last bottle of wine she had, but Jahar was way ahead of her. After a couple of slugs of fine whiskey, she was ready to settle down and get some well-needed rest. As she pulled her fur cape closer, she was thinking, *With spring newly upon Orlantia, and the motley troop heading south, what could go wrong?*

While she slowly dozed off, she began to dream of the warm, spring sun on her face, and all the happy times to come.

- Shelly (Bebe)

PBEM Orlantia: The Blue Raccoon.

After paying for a room, Tyrulf went up, dropped off his stuff, and changed into some fresh clothes. Taking only his axe, he came back down and looked around the Blue Raccoon, deciding that his best chance at getting into a conversation would be at the bar.

Walking up, he sat down and ordered a drink, listening to the people nearby and trying to hear if there were any strange things going on around town.

After awhile, Tyrulf started a conversation with the man next to him. It turned out that he was a local farmer who wasn't very talkative. Tyrulf bought him and a couple of others a drink and talked about the wonders of magic while still trying to find out if anything strange had happened lately.

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia: The Whispered Sentiment.

Tyrulf had gone through 2 EP worth of drinks in his efforts to get 'friendly' with the locals, but to no great avail. They either said the same thing, or didn't know anything at all.

What little they did say mostly echoed what Mystir had heard back in the Keg before they had set out - that some few people had gone missing. Just four locals, it turned out, but that was a lot for a village. The problem was there were no bodies found, no sign of foul play, no nothing. Family or friends reported a few had set out on minor tasks and expected to return shortly, but they never did. The sheriff had been called in, but he could find nothing. This was over a week ago already.

More direct questions prompted not more information, but seemed to summon greater trepidation in the patrons. They were clearly on edge and most seemed to think the less spoken about such matters, the less real they actually were.

Tyrulf had better luck with his attempts to raise the interest of magic. One man in particular was very keen to hear of magic, but his questions centered on finding out what Tyrulf had seen in various cities across the continent. Sadly, for all his skills, Tyrulf was not a well-traveled dwarf - yet. He knew more theory than had seen actual practice. Once this became apparent, the local bid the dwarf a good night and left the tavern.

"Yo'all wont git 'em to talk much of them what's gone missing," the barkeep whispered as he filled Tyrulf's mug. "They all scared o' what could happen to 'emselves if they speak o' it. But I knowd better. Jes talkin' won't matter. I talk, and I'm still here," he said, but clearly since he was whispering it, Tyrulf could tell he meant, 'if he talked softly, nothing bad would happen.'

"But I ain't got nothin' more ta add, 'cept, well . . . ," his eyes quickly darted about the room to make sure no one else could hear, "thems that gone were some o' the meanest folk I'd even knowd. Ya know, bad tempered lot, them. Always fightin' and bitchin', never happy, never a kind word ta say 'bout nobody. Real loners. Few will say it cuz they 'fraid ta be taken next, but I think maybe someone's doin' us a favor," he nodded his conviction, or what one could hear of it in whispered conversation. Then another patron wanted something, so the barkeep left Tyrulf with a little more than he knew, and 2 EP lighter.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: A Worry Expressed.

The walk from their overnight lodgings thankfully over, Sefarlain settled down into a comfortable chair near the fire. Despite the season's hard grip having eased over the past few weeks, the air was still cold enough to make a good fire a welcome sight at the end of a long day.

The elf smiled slightly to himself, having secured a choice spot for the evening, but he was later told that chair was reserved for the fire tender - that was, anyone sitting there had to stoke the fire and poke at it occasionally with the poker. It was a simple job, but he didn't mind doing it now and again to keep such a warm chair to himself.

His kit was safely stowed up in the somewhat spartan rooms of the Blue Raccoon, and he felt able to relax once more with Alonwë nestled next to him.

His eyes wandered freely over the snug room in the inn. Small groups of what appeared to be local farmers were engaged in small talk around the room. He could see some of his companions talking to each other, and Tyrulf mixing with the farmers with dubious success. This seemed a small community not ready to accept such a strange band of travelers into their midst in one night. Sefarlain was content to remain seated; he felt little need for social chitchat in circumstances such as these. By the look of some of the farmers seated nearby, he might have been considered aloof, but he did not look down upon these people. It was more that he preferred to share his thoughts only if he himself thought they were worth sharing. And one thought had been preying on his mind for some time.

As the evening wore on, Cosher found his way over towards Sefarlain and took a seat next to him for a while. They fell into idle chat for a while, but it soon became obvious to the dwarf that the ranger had more on his mind than the state of their food supplies. Sefarlain admitted as much when pressed.

"You're right," he sighed, "There is something which troubles me, right from our early days at the sage. I was unsure of my own thoughts at first, but I think your challenge to Sir Eric helped focus my thoughts."

The dwarf looked nonplussed at Sefarlain.

"What are ye talkin' aboot?" he exclaimed, a little too loudly for the nearby farmers who shot the pair a few filthy glances.

"I'm talking about this!" He patted Alonwë by his side. "Look at us, Cosher. We are marching into the unknown with what? How many swords do we have at our disposal? I admit we may have other skills in the group, but how many? We could be meeting drow, for goodness sake."

More sharp glances and a few whispers came their way.

"I'm just saying I think we may need a few more strong arms as well as our brains," Sefarlain said with a resigned air as he slumped back into his chair.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: No need tae worry . . . yet!

Cosher topped up his 'jug' of ale from the large pitcher that sat on the table between himself and Sefarlain, musing over what his companion had just suggested. Seconds later, a large quantity of the frothy brown liquid had disappeared down the sea dwarf's throat, the back of a large hairy hand wiping off most traces of froth from the bushy blond beard.

The potbellied sailor settled back in his chair, tilted his head to the side and let his eyes drift to the ceiling, deep in thought. Moments later, he slowly folded his arms over his chest and let his gaze return to the elf.

"To be sure Sefarlain," he began, "Ah do get where yer coming frae. But Ah do think we shouldnae be tae hasty in tryin' tae bolster our numbers. It's no a bad bunch o' folk that we've fallen in with, ye know."

Cosher hoisted Sliobhann up onto the table and gestured to where Sefarlain's Alonwë hung at his belt.

"Now fer starters, that's two fine weapons yerself and Cosher have at their disposal. And Ah would like tae wager that the both o' us could wield those very same weapons with a wee bit o' skill. Agreed?"

Although the ranger nodded his reluctant agreement, Cosher could tell that he had more persuading to do.

"Well, let's take a look at our companions. First, there's Afyanna. Now, we've known her a wee bit longer than the rest, an' there's a lady that Ah reckon could handle herself in a scrap. Mark ma words, Sef-me-lad, that girl could surprise us all, what with her religious fervor an' all that."

"Next, we have Tyrulf an' Mystir. Spell-casters. Let me tell ye, Ah've come across me fair share o' magic-users in me travels, an' they never fail tae amaze me - unpredictable mind ye, but nonetheless capable o' wondrous feats. Of course, we've no seen either o' our companions weave their magic in combat yet, but just ye wait an' see!"

Cosher paused momentarily for refreshments, draining his jug before continuing. He leaned further forward towards Sefarlain, his tone markedly more hushed, even conspiratorial.

"An' Ah've no forgot Valin Quenthal," Cosher whispered. He hesitated, for effect, as if half-expecting his companion to gasp in wonder and disbelief. "Aye, the human. He may still be young, particularly tae the likes o' you an' me, but there's a lot tae that man we dinnae know. Aye, let me tell ye, Ah think he could prove a useful ally, young Valin!"

"So there ye have it!" Cosher beamed, "No a bad bunch, eh?"

Sefarlain still didn't seem convinced.

"Now," continued the sea dwarf, "Ah'm no saying that if Thordargen the Orc-killer came striding through that there door with an axe o'er his shoulder the size o' a keg o' stout, an' arms like tree trunks, that Ah would get up an' tell him he couldnae join in our fun. No, Ah would not. All Ah'm saying is that we would do aright by being choosy o'er who we let tag along. Ah mean, take those farmers fer example."

Cosher nodded to Tyrulf's 'companions' at the bar.

"Ah just don't like the look o' them. Not that Ah'm saying they're who ye had in mind when ye talked aboot 'strong arms,' but nevertheless, Ah don't think they're the sort tae be trusted. An' besides, let's not get too worried just yet aboot our own abilities until we know exactly what we're up agin. Yes, there may be drow out there, but we don't know that fer sure. Let's no jump the order, me nervous friend."

"An' Afyanna's god - hasn't he sent us on this mission? Well, surely he wouldn't send out some o' his followers to their doom? Now would he? Ah admit, Ah know very little aboot that particular god, but Ah can guess from what Ah've heard that he's pretty fair an' just - that must mean this is a task that's within our meager capabilities."

Cosher smiled somewhat less that confidently as he reached again for the pitcher of ale, and looked Sefarlain square in the eyes.

"Ah hope so anyway!"

- Johnny (Cosher)

PBEM Orlantia: The Poker's Chair

Cosher's words soothed what troubles lay on the ranger's mind. He had confidence in the group, even though they were untested as yet. But that sort of confidence bred success - at least that was what Sef's father always used to say. 'Keep your chin up, Sef. And don't stiffen your back so much lad - you'll lose all power in your bow-arm. Now let the arrow go, and don't think about missing; no Anluvior ever misses! If you don't think about missing, you wont miss. Now let her go!'

Captain Anluvior smiled down at the boy as the arrow sunk deep into the target. His son was so young and yet already he had the way. A natural! He'd make a fine Valantaúr - just like his father, and his father before him. Maybe even an officer, if he'd stop that damn meddling in those books. He patted the boy on the head, as his son gazed up at his father lovingly. Yes, an officer in the making here!

"Are yeh going to sit there all day, lad or keep that fire goin' fer the rest of us? We ain't as young as you, ya know."

Sefarlain snapped out of his thoughts to see a gnarled hand poking him in the ribs. The fire was dwindling in front of him, and all around him were staring at the elf and the poker by the fire. It didn't take the ranger too long to realize his error.

"Forgive me - I'll attend to the fire straight away," he blurted, before leaning closer to the farmer. "Although I fear I may be a little older than you, young man."

The farmer gave him a strange look before shuffling away, mumbling under his breath.

"Ruddy elves - didn't need 'em then, don't need 'em now. Good riddance, that's what I say. Ruddy know-it-alls."

"That's Bob Pratcher," piped up one of the younger locals seated near the fire. "He's the fire-tender here." There was a deliberate pause before he added, "Guess he don't like you in 'is chair!"

Various locals snorted into their drinks as Sefarlain looked back at his spot by the fire. He smiled at his error, and then gestured towards Cosher's empty glass.

"Guess we'll both be needing another, then?"

The expression on the dwarf's face told him all he needed to know.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: The Quiet Night.

It wasn't long into the night before most realized they had learned all there was to learn from the locals. They were either ignorant of the events, or too frightened to talk, and those few who would talk could only tell of missing people. No one had seen them go or knew why they went, or what had happened; they only knew it was unexpected.

Since they had to be well rested for the morning's journey, one by one, the party members went to their rooms, leaving the common area behind to the local night owls. The Blue Raccoon's rooms and facilities were nothing to boost about, but they were more than adequate, and soon each of them was under a thick blanket that, thankfully, seemed clean enough and didn't smell, and soon they were all asleep.

The night passed uneventfully for them, each getting their money's worth of warmth, shelter, and above all, security, which allowed them all to sleep in peace without great concern for predators or thieves.

----------------------------------------

Jahar and Bebe didn't sleep so well. The flophouse, Barney's, apparently wasn't meant to be anything more than a place to sleep for the night. Common sailors, never very rich, could at least afford Barney's, and during the spring, summer, and fall, Barney's accommodated them wall-to-wall.

Hay stuffed mattresses lay on the floor, jammed between the walls with no space between many of them. You had to walk on the mattresses to get to your own.

There were no blankets. Anyone traveling carried their own bedrolls and used them on top of the mattress, which were stained and disgusting looking, but they didn't smell too bad and were free of vermin. Bebe guessed they were cleaned now and again, somehow, and perhaps re-stuffed with new hay. The predominant odor did remind her of a hayloft.

Bebe was luckier than she knew, for if it had not been winter, Barney's would have been packed with sailors and the smell would have been a churning hot, stuffy mixture of a combination of sweat, stale urine, and the ever lingering scent of alcohol, as almost to a man, everyone sobered up from a binge. They weren't allowed to drink to excess on board ship or barge, and sleeping conditions below decks were even worse than Barney's, so it was often worth the 1 EP just for a break where they could fully stretch out and enjoy their bottle.

But it was winter, so Bebe would have been surprised to learn she was seeing Barney's at its best. The place was maybe half full and there was plenty of elbowroom and a mattress or two between strangers.

Jahar, on the other hand, was used to far worse, having been a sailor for years. He simply tended to ignore the smells. In fact, he considered himself lucky his olfactory senses hadn't gone dead a long time ago, and he could still smell things when he needed to.

But, like the more affluent, Bebe and Jahar, too, finally lay down and drifted off to sleep.

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Morning came quickly to greet the travelers, and even breakfast was soon behind them. The Raccoon's fare was only a few SP for a steaming bowl of porridge and a glass of milk - probably goat's milk, by the taste of it. There was some cheese, but it wasn't very good.

Bebe and Jahar didn't even have that since Barney's didn't sell food or drink. But just outside, the sound of bells alerted them to a street vender selling baked pretzels and bread. He also had some roasted goat's meat from yesterday that he let go for a song.

Despite that, it was fine, Bebe could tell when she sniffed at it. It was cold, but it made a decent meal when stuffed into a couple hunks of bread. Each spent only a few CP for bread, another for a pretzel, a few more for the meat, each perhaps one or two SP lighter when the man ran out of meat.

"Ah ya, you come back 'round noon and I'll have some more goat, ya," he told them, but they didn't plan on waiting that long, figuring to hit the road early and put a good foot under them if they were reach Tarren in only three days. Something had to turn up in Tarren.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: Tracking Evil

When Alana entered the town, she went to the shop where she had gotten the sugar for Harriet's birthday cake. Had that been only yesterday? It seemed longer. The shopkeeper had been very friendly, and he had even added a little extra sugar when she'd mentioned it was Harriet's birthday.

"Good morning, young lady," the man greeted her while he was still in the process of opening his shop. "You are very early. Did you forget something yesterday? Don't tell me Harriet needs more sugar? I tell you, that Ben has a real sweet tooth. Still . . ."

He probably would have gone on like that for a while had Alana not interrupted him.

"No, I do not need more goods from you," Alana said sadly. Her tone of voice must have carried some extra meaning because the shopkeeper stopped in mid-sentence. "Neither will Ben and Harriet, I'm afraid."

Alana was proud that her voice sounded steady, though speaking the words out loud somehow seemed to make things more final.

"When I returned yesterday, I found their lifeless bodies. They had been murdered and their cabin had been burned down. This is their goat, and these are most of their chickens that I could get into this makeshift cage. I'm sure you can find someone to buy the animals."

The shopkeeper - Mr. Davies a lady had called him yesterday - owned a dog. Alana had seen the animal yesterday, and she had noticed that it had been well cared for. She remembered the dog because she had been glad that Lucian wasn't with her at the time. Lucian, like most cats, tended to be rather prejudiced against dogs and he simply tended to hide so well, Alana herself often lost track of him. At any rate, Alana felt the goat and chickens would be in good hands with Mr. Davies.

He probably also knew most of the people around in Fecklar, so he'd spread the word about the horrible tragedy she had to tell him.

"When I discovered the horrible scene, I noticed a faint sound and a bright light moving away at an impossible speed. There must be a connection between that and what happened to the Lovejoys. So, you probably best warn the people that something evil is lurking in the forest."

Alana noticed some walking staves propped up near the door, but one amongst the common sticks really stood out. It was gnarled and thicker, and quite sturdy.

I'm going after the creature, whatever it was. I'll trade the animals for this staff, ok?" she asked him. He didn't object, so Alana took that as acceptance, but in truth the silence may have been due more to the man's shock at her story.

With that, Alana turned around and left. She had delivered her message. If she stayed much longer she would burst out in tears, and that was not the person she wanted to be. She wanted to be calm and composed and not act like a wailing child.

"What?" Mister Davies called after her. His jaw had dropped open when Alana had told him the news, and now he stared, dumfounded, after the retreating young woman. She was gone before he had totally gained his senses again, but he continued to talk to himself in his shock.

"Ben and Harriet dead? Murdered? That can not be." He stopped a passerby and told the tale, adding that it surely must be a sick joke. Soon most people in the small village had heard one version or another about what had happened, and a few of the hearty and more adventurous and brave set out to verify what they'd heard, despite having been told some murderous creature stalked the night. Most were scared, for it had not been the first such tale in recent months, but a few risked it anyway in the light of day.

Alana made her own way back and was gone before any townsfolk showed up. She had a driving purpose, and hanging around answering a lot of fool questions wouldn't help.

When Alana had reached the place, she opened her senses. Lucian had returned with a mouse in his mouth and offered it to Alana. After Alana politely declined his generous offer to her, he ate the mouse himself and then accompanied her on her journey. Now that Alana was moving again, Lucian would probably stay close since he didn't disappear as much - or for as long - when Alana was on the trail.

Alana made sure to occasionally look at the cat to see if Lucian had noticed anything peculiar. Lucian's senses were often more acute than her own, so by periodically checking the cat, Alana learned how to avoid being surprised as much.

- Wilma (Alana)

PBEM Orlantia: A Cold Trail.

Alana soon discovered something that disturbed her a great deal. There were no tracks where she had last seen the ghostly and glowing apparition. Yet, for some reason, there was a bare patch of dirt amid the snow, like a small area of it had been melted. But there were no tracks.

Lucian stared off toward the southwestern horizon. He wasn't just looking. He was staring at something. What? Alana looked southwest but couldn't see anything. She even got down on her knees to bring her eyes to the cat's eye level, and still she couldn't see anything.

"Lucian?" she questioned him.

The black cat looked up at her briefly, but when more sound or movement didn't follow, he looked back. Not any old direction, like a cat might if there had been nothing worth looking at, but southwest again - directly southwest.

It was all she had - for now.

Backpack slung over her shoulder, Alana and Lucian began to walk southwest.

- JimGM