Session Five: Oakhurst

Leaving behind the fallen ape, the travellers continued on their way down the Northride as the sun fell in the sky. They were nearing their goal now, and soon they began to pass by outlying farms that signaled the proximity of the village. A path veered south off the main road, leading away from the forest and down toward the hills. Yonnis recognized it as the way to Oakhurst. As they marched, they noticed a group of villagers digging a well. They seemed rather rushed, as though they feared the wrath of some feared lord were the well not finished soon. Continuing down the path, the party passed more farms and eventually reached the central crossroads of Oakhurst. Four sentries stook watch, two to either side. Their faces were grim. They asked the travellers who they were, and what brought them to Oakhurst. Yonnis said, “We come to investigate your troubles, and resolve them if we can.” The watchmen looked at them skeptically but hopefully, and one pair led them to see the mayor of the village. On their way there, they noticed a column of smoke rising into the sky somewhere to the south beyond the buildings lining the main road through town.

The mayor was a human with bright blue hair, sitting in an office much more sumptuously appointed than one would expect in such a small place. He was clearly worried to the point of desperation, and welcomed the travellers like a man willing to grasp at any straw in the chance that it will prove his salvation. Upon hearing that Lanatil was a druid come to investigate the plague, he showed great relief.

“Ah, praised be Silvanus! The Circle did hear my plea for help! I had begun to think you would arrive too late. These are evil times indeed. My name is Vernor Leng, and you will have my undying gratitude if you can help us.”

Lanatil asked the mayor to tell him what he could about the plague.

“It first broke out among the miners. There were about forty of them, once. They and their families live—lived—in the southern section of the village, along the path leading to the mine. They used to work in three staggered shifts, each spending two weeks at the mine and then a week at home with their families. About a month ago, shortly after one of the shifts had returned, one of the miners became feverish. By the time their rest week was over, several of the miners in that shift were sick, and many of their family members as well. The second shift arrived back from the mine, but only a few of those who been resting were well and able to take their place. Soon many of the newly returned miners were stricken as well, and before long it had spread to many of their families. The third shift never returned from the mine at all, and neither did the few from the first shift who went back there. We don’t know what happened to them. As for those still here, we had to quarantine the miners’ quarter. We don’t let them come near the rest of the village, but we bring food and leave it where they can reach it. The dead are burned to prevent their bodies from becoming source of further infection. Only a few are left alive by now. There’s a priest over there, Ikthus. A devotee of Ilmater. Saintly man. He was only passing through, but when he saw what was going on he stayed to tend to the suffering. He hasn’t been able to stop the disease, though. Yesterday he told me something terrible. I feel that I must tell you so that you will know everything you may need to help us, but I implore you not to tell anyone, for I am afraid of a panic. Ikthus says that he believes the well in the miners’ quarter is impure, contaminated with some curse. Apparently one of the miners who first had the plague mentioned that the well near the mine itself had seemed foul when last he was there. I am afraid that something at the mine is infecting the ground water, and that soon it will spread to the central well of the village. If you want to learn the source of this plague, it is to the mine you must go. I am afraid we have only a matter of days.”

Yonnis asked whether there had been any other strange happenings of late. Leng sighed.

“These are evil times, friends. Evil times. Strange creatures roam the woods at night, and they sometimes enter our fields. Many farmers no longer allow their livestock to graze freely, as several have been found dead. Pierced with dozens of needlelike wounds. Yet the creatures who do this leave no discernible tracks.”

Ogy piped up. “I heard something about magical healing fruit being sold here. Why don’t you use that to get rid of the plague?”

Leng looked down at the halfling. “If the goblins dare to come back this summer I do not think it will go well with them. Anyway their fruit would save only a few, unless they brought far more than they ever did in the past. But Madame Hucrele can inform you of that matter tomorrow morning. It was she who had dealings with them. But you look tired. Why don’t you take your rest at the Ol’Boar.”

The travellers made their way down the main road, passing a watch barracks and a small jail. As they walked, Ogy and Lanatil debated whether the dead animals they had heard about were the work of vampires. Soon they reached an inn with a sign depicting a much jollier version of the hairy swine they had slain just the day before. Upon entering, they found themselves in a tavern, with stairs leading up to what presumably were the sleeping quarters. At the bar sat a sullen, stocky farmer with two of his friends. They turned around to look at the Ethrils, then the farmer sneered and said something to his friends under his breath that made them laugh.

Lanatil wanted to know what the joke was. The farmer obliged. “Oh, I was just wondering how the two of you can love nature so much when it did that to you!” This led to another round of slightly tipsy guffawing. The lad stood up. He was human, well-built and strong. “You wanna do something about it, you pointy-eared tree hugger?”

The innkeeper interposed himself. “Now Lance, just you have a seat. That’s no way to treat guests in town. Don’t you all mind him, now. Please take a table for yourselves. Name’s Garron. I run this place.”

The others prevailed on Lanatil to have a seat, still bristling. Lance didn’t let up. He sat down, but continued talking in a loud voice to his companions. “You see, that’s the truth about these wandering adventurer types. They like to dress up in fancy gear and act all powerful, but they’re really gutless cowards who would never meet a real man one on one and fist to fist.”

Lanatil stood up. “I’ll meet you.” His companions urged him to sit down. They were here trying gain the confidence of these villagers and help them, not to pick fights, and there was nothing to be gained from allowing this one to picked with them. But for some inexplicable reason, Lanatil’s wisdom failed him. He accepted Lance’s challenge, and removed his armor and weapons to accompany the burly man outside. The two of them started swinging. Though slightly tipsy, Lance was obviously well-practiced at this type of contest, and knew many maneuvers and techniques that the elf did not. And while Lanatil was extremely strong—particularly for an elf—Lance’s labor-hardened muscles matched him. The result was that Lanatil never laid a hand on the lad, and was instead laid flat on his back in a few rounds of blows. Lance and his friends went off laughing in triumph, while Lanatil’s companions dragged him up to a bed in the inn. Garron followed, helping them. “I told you it was better to ignore him. He’s not a bad man, really. He just has it in for adventuring types ever since Myela ran off with that ranger Trannor. He was sweet on her, you see.”

Yonnis asked whether such antipathy for Trannor was widespread. “No, most people are right grateful for the way he helped us get organized to fight off them orcs all those years ago. What, do you know Trannor?” Garron looked at Yonnis closely, as though trying to remember something. Yonnis nodded. “I was his pupil, and I was here with him ten years ago when we destroyed the Tornclaw.” A light dawned in Garron’s face. Ah yes, now I remember ye! A fine welcome back we’ve given you, I’m afraid.” Yonnis told him not to worry about it, and apologized for his brother’s behavior.

The next morning the group—except Lanatil, who was still recovering from his beating of the night before—went to visit Madame Hucrele, whose store was across the road from the Ol’Boar. She was an alert middle-aged woman with well-groomed silver hair. “I imagine you’ve come about the reward,” she said upon seeing the strangers enter her establishment.

Ogy’s ears pricked up, but Yonnis spoke first. “My name is Yonnis Ethril. I was here with Trannor ten years ago when we fought the Tornclaw. I am here now to investigate the goblins to see whether they pose a gathering threat. I’ve been told that you have had some dealings with them.”

The woman looked at Yonnis appraisingly. “Yes, I remember you. You were Trannor’s apprentice or something, weren’t you? Ah, Trannor. That Myela was a lucky girl... Let’s see now. The goblins. Well, it started three summers ago, the day after the solstice. A group of goblins came to town, waving a merchant banner. They wanted to trade. The leader opened this bag and pulled out a beautiful red fruit. Kind of like an apple, but a bit larger. He tells me that the fruit has magical properties, and can heal anything. He wants to sell it to me for several hundred gold pieces. Now naturally, I’m not about to believe a goblin without any proof, so I called my dog Draco. He’d been awfully sick of late, shedding hair all over the place, and I thought he was about to die on me. I said alright, let’s try some of this fruit on Draco here and see if it does what you say. They peeled the fruit open, and it fell naturally into quarter wedges, each wedge with four or five seeds. We fed one of the wedges to Draco, and before you knew it he was back to his old self. Instead of whimpering and dragging himself around, he was back up and running as good as new. So I was pretty impressed. But I still didn’t want to give much money to a goblin, and I drove a hard bargain, paying only a fraction of what they wanted. I sold two of the remaining pieces to people who needed healing. They worked fine. The last one I kept for myself, but by the time I got around to using it the magic had worn off. It only lasts for a while, apparently. I kept the seeds, and planted them out in one of my fields, figuring I’d grow myself a healing tree of my own. The stuff that grew sure didn’t look like a healing tree, though. They were like gnarly little black bushes. Pretty ugly. Then one night, after they were about waist high, they disappered. I figured the goblins must have stolen them to keep their corner on the market.

Just after the next summer solstice, the goblins came back with another fruit, which I again bought, though I still refused to pay a very high price for it. I figured if they were too lazy to take it to the market in Tilverton or Shadowdale, they would just have to take whatever I was willing to pay. And they did, though they weren’t happy about it. That time I sold all the pieces within a few days, and they all worked. I kept all the seeds for myself though, and planted them again. This time, once they started to get tall I hired a couple sentries to keep watch at night just to make sure no goblins came to tear them up again. And wouldn’t you know it! Just a few nights ago they disappeared again! The sentries swear that no one went in or out of the area that night, and there were no tracks anywhere—I looked myself. If those goblins come back this year, they’ll have some explaining to do. That is, if they don’t get lynched immediately by locals who think they’re behind this plague as a way to drive up the demand for their fruit. As a matter of fact, it’ll be the solstice in another couple days.”

The travellers looked at each other. They had all had the same thought as to what was really happening to the black gnarled bushes Madame Hucrele was growing in her fields. “We have reason to believe that those bushes of yours are not being stolen at all. They are getting up and leaving under their own power, and are probably what has been killing your local livestock.” The woman was incredulous, until Yonnis described their battle of two nights ago. “I had no idea,” she said. “Well now those goblins will really have some explaining to do.”

“Enough about goblins,” said Ogy. “I want to hear something about rewards.” Madame Hucrele laughed ruefully. “Why, little man? Do you think you can stand up to whatever it is that has kept four strong travellers from returning home?”

“Who were they, and when did they leave?” asked Yonnis.

“They left about a month ago. They were going to go see if they could find the source of the goblins’ fruit. They went south down the trail toward the Moonsea Ride, the one that passes through Ashardelon’s Waste. That seemed to be the direction the goblins had come from, and they intended to check out the gulch.” She grew somber. “Two of them were my son and daughter, Talgen and Sharwyn. Both had—have—long blond hair, and he has a beard as well. He wears banded mail and carries a shield with a gold dragon emblem. She’s a wizard, wears green leggings and a red half-robe. They have two companions. One’s a paladin of Lathander named Sir Bradford. Tall, dark hair, wears scale mail with the device of the rising sun. Then there was Karakas. A ranger. Brown hair and beard, wears studded leather and a green cloak with an eagle embroidered on the back. I haven’t heard anything since they left, and this has been plenty of time for them to get where they were going and come back.”

She turned back to Ogy. “So to answer your question, Master Halfling, I will gladly give each member of your band here 250 gold pieces for each one of my children you bring back to me alive.”

“What’s this about signet rings?” the hobbit asked. “Seems like they’re almost as valuable as your children.”

Madame Hucrele’s eyes flashed. “Don’t say such things. The two rings are family heirlooms, and I offer money for them to make it worthwhile for unscrupulous characters like you to turn them in rather than running off with them.”

After this, they went to speak with Ikthus. Lanatil had rejoined the ranks of the ambulatory, and gingerly went along with them. There were sentries guarding the opening of the trail to the south from the main road. This was the same trail leading south to the Moonride, and a branch of it also led to the mine. The miners’ quarter straddled the trail just south of where the sentries stood. The sentries told the party they could not enter this area without becoming subject to the quarantine, but that they could call Ikthus if they wished to speak to him.

One of the sentries rang a large bell, and a man who was kneeling in front of a large pyre stood up and began to approach them. He was dressed in white, with a cloth wrapped around his head and covering his nose and mouth. As he drew closer, they could make out a large amulet around his neck depicting two white hands bound at the wrists with a red cord. He stopped about thirty feet away, and they had to converse by shouting. He told them that most of the miners and their family members were dead. Some had contracted the plague and recovered, but this did not render them immune so that several of them caught it again. Most who caught it died, consumed in days or weeks by fever. The time it took varied by individual. Of those who had actually worked in the mine, only three were left alive, all sick. “One of them,” Ikthus told the group, “keeps moaning something about a demon. He may know something of use to you if you intend to venture there. If you want to prevent the rest of the village from meeting the same fate, you need to act soon. The contamination of the water is emanating from the area of the mine. Whatever is causing it must be there.”