Varien and
Siegfried marched together through the fields of the flood plain, which soon gave
way to rolling hills. They stopped atop a low rise and took in the sight of
Rothé Valley before them. The town
sat astride the intersection of two wagon trails, one likely making a west-to-east
foray from the ruins of Thundertree to link up with the High Road some miles towards
the coast, while the other ran north-south, from the fortified bridge on the
Neverwinter, a link between Helm’s Hold and the uplands of the Crags. Siegfried
smiled as he saw not the tumble-down backwater he’d supposed, but a town on the
brink of delusions of grandeur – well-kept homes and even a storefront or two, with
windmills spinning along in the breeze to grind grain and corn from the
countryside. This was a
town of upstanding, salt-of-the-earth citizens, Siegfried reflected. Taxpayers. He turned
to Varien and clapped a hand on his shoulder pauldron. “Scrap the robbery, I
have a better plan,” he said. With a flourish, he disguised himself as a
bedraggled nobleman who looked like he’d been dragged through a creek behind a
fast-moving carriage. “Allow me
to introduce myself,” he said with a drunken slur. “I am called Dennis, a rich
idiot, and you are my man-at-arms, whose job it is to keep my idiot ass alive.” Varien
shifted and his armor creaked in protest. “Yes, because your last ‘better plan’
went so well?” “Nonsense
dear boy!” Dennis slurred. “You and I are going to march down there like we own
the place and hire a carriage to ferry this important, yet temporarily diminished,
man-about-town to his home in Neverwinter.” “Nobody’s
going to believe you.” “My years
of training as an actor say otherwise,” Dennis said curtly. Radegast
cast a sending spell to Varien. “We’ve
made it to Rothé Valley and will be keeping a low profile in the pub.” Varien responded.
“We’re also here, we’re on the south side, best we don’t get seen.” Radegast
turned to Erwen and the Trevelyans. “Our friends are on the south side of town.” “Maybe we
should link up with them first?” Bob said. Radegast,
Erwen, Bob and Alec crossed the trail and headed into the fields, keeping
whatever hills there were between them and the farming village. Eventually
they came across Varien and what appeared to be a grime-streaked nobleman
slouching beneath the stretching limbs of an oak tree near the western trail. “So, we’re
keeping a low profile by grouping together next to the road?” Erwen asked,
scratching his head. “Quiet, small
man,” Dennis said, patting Erwen’s head. He addressed the group. “Now,
originally our plan was to sneak into town and steal some horses, and then ride
to Neverwinter, but that was before I realized this was a bustling stop of
sorts.” “I suggested
that we buy the horses, not steal them,” Varien interjected.
“Well, now paying someone is back on the table,” Dennis said. “With the
appropriate cover story, we can get what we want.” “Go on,” Bob
said. “We can
bribe someone to keep their mouth shut,” Dennis continued. “After all, in a
place like this, it’s probably not the first time someone has stumbled into town
looking for help.” “Your cover
story had better be a good one,” Varien said. Erwen
looked thoughtful. While the party bickered, he reached into his pack and
pulled out the children’s clothing he had looted from the dungeon beneath
Tresendar Manor, and began changing into hose and a grimy doublet, finishing
with a jaunty cap. “Very well,
just…just look boring,” Varien was saying. Dennis
nodded. “Yes, they can smell a tourist a mile off. Speaking of smells…” he used prestidigitation to conjure the strong
reek of alcohol coming off his breath. As he made
a show of swaying unsteadily on his feet, he felt a tug on his belt and looked
down. Erwen,
dressed as a small child, was looking up at him with round, innocent eyes. “Please
help us,” Erwen said. “My mother’s sick and we need to get to Neverwinter to
fetch her medicine.” Siegfried
nodded approvingly. “The kid’s good,” he declared. “So, son, what’s your mother’s
name?” Without
missing a beat, Erwen replied, “Qelline, sir.” Bob stifled
a chuckle. Dennis
turned to Varien and Bob. “Now then, I think I’m going to need about 300 gold
pieces to do this job right.” “300 gold?”
Bob shouted. “Are you buying the town? I do not understand Western economics.” “Hmmm, yes,
perhaps destabilizing the local economy is a bit excessive,” Dennis admitted. “Us common
folk tend to do business in silver, good sir,” Varien said sarcastically. “Fine then,
I’ll take a bag of silver pieces and be on my merry,” Dennis said. Erwen cast pass without trace on his friends. “Yes, you should
find a place to keep an eye on things at a distance,” Dennis said. “My boy and
I will be along with a wagon in no time.” Radegast,
Varien, Bob and Alec found a patch of tall grass outside of town to hide in while
Dennis and Erwen made their way into town. There were
a few commoners on the trails that served as the town’s major thoroughfare. A
rutted mess of chewed-up sod and turned earth, evidence of wagon travel and the
passing of more than one herd of rothé served as a town square of sorts, where
a communal well and water troughs were arrayed near a ramshackle wooden statue
of some forgotten town father. Most of the
men and women had the hardscrabble look of farmers to them, dirt beneath what fingernails
hadn’t yet fallen out, and sun-seared skin beneath shocks of sun-bleached hair
as light in colour as the sheaves of grain they toted on their backs. Nobody
was armed with anything more deadly than a sickle. The
townsfolk took care not to notice the interlopers. “Hey,”
Erwen stage-whispered to Dennis. “I can conjure animals, you know. Want me to
rustle up some pigs to trade?” Dennis
smiled but shook his head. “Good idea, but a bit too late for that, I’m afraid.”
He called out to a stout woman who was filling a bucket with well water. “Excuse
me, friend!” “Good day
to you,” the woman murmured warily. “Who might
I speak to about an important matter?” Dennis asked. The woman
shrugged. “Well, the Reeve’s house is right on the corner there,” she pointed
at a two-story dwelling of distinction across the square. “You’re a
good one,” Dennis called, and strolled drunkenly towards the manse. Dennis
mounted the steps two at a time and stood on the front porch and began
hammering on the heavy wooden door. There was a
grunt and a curse from the inside. “Who calls?” a deep voice inquired. “A man in
need of aid,” Dennis replied. “Quickly, sir!” There was a
heavy sigh. “Just a moment!” the deep voice bellowed. There was a sound like
heavy furniture scraping along a wooden floor, and then equally heavy footsteps
made their way to the other side of the door. Several deadbolts were thrown,
and then the door itself was thrown open. The Reeve
stood before them, looking much like a prizefighter gone to seed. Tall, with an
expanding midsection, the man was dressed in a fine, if plain cloak, which Siegfried
took to be an attempt to disguise his prodigious girth. A rather downmarket
chain of office was strung about the man’s broad shoulders and neck, looking a
few sizes too small. Siegfried
took a moment to appraise the man. Clearly, this was no ordinary country bumpkin
– the Reeve himself was inspecting the man and child before him with an equally
circumspect eye. The appearance of scars across the man’s calloused hands
indicated he was no stranger to physical contests, and he carried himself with confidence
backed with competence utterly unlike, say, Townmaster Wester of Phandalin. “Well,” the
Reeve harrumphed. “You got me out of my chair. Speak your piece.” Siegfried
decided that this was a man with whom he could deal. He leaned forward conspiratorially
and flashed his signet ring, lifting the face so that it displayed the symbol
of the Lord’s Alliance. “The Crown
has need of your aid, good sir.” The man’s
bushy eyebrow rose up a few degrees. “We carry
an urgent message,” Dennis continued. “Our Lord’s enemies seek to intercept me
and my allies. We require a wagon, and your discretion.” There was a
pause. “My mom is
sick!” blurted Erwen. The Reeve
regarded Erwen and then turned back to Dennis. “You’re rather off the beaten
path, I’d say. How did you end up on my doorstep? Where have you traveled from?” “You may
have heard of some excitement of late in the countryside?” Dennis said hopefully. The Reeve
nodded. “That I have.” “Our
mission is urgent,” Dennis said. There was
another pause, and then the Reeve sighed. “Perhaps I can arrange something,” he
said. “A wagon,
preferably with a cargo to hide behind?” Dennis asked. The Reeve
nodded absently. “We are in
your debt,” Dennis said. “I will speak highly of you when I greet the Lord
Protector.” The Reeve
frowned. “I find that the less attention our town attracts, the better off we
are.” He pointed at an establishment across the square. “Why don’t you wait
over in the Surly Steer while I see what I can do for you.” Dennis bowed
his head slightly. “Thank you, sir. And might I have the pleasure of your name?” The Reeve
straightened up until he towered over the pair. “I am Mayor Gundersen, the
Reeve of Rothé Valley.” “I am Siegfried Thann,” Dennis said. “My thanks to you.” The Reeve ushered them back out onto his doorstep and shut
the door. Dennis turned to Erwen and patted his head while casting message . Run and tell our companions their ride is on the way . Out loud he
said, “Well, son, why don’t you go and get our pigs to trade?” Erwen nodded and took to the western trail. Dennis sauntered across the square and regarded the tavern,
which bore a sign hanging from chains affixed to the veranda of an enraged rothé,
nostrils flared comically and horns delightfully askew, beneath which was
lettered “The Surly Steer.” Erwen walked along the western trail, absent-mindedly
filling his pipe with pipeweed and lighting it.
What he had originally taken to be a tower of sorts near the edge of
town was in fact a grain silo, but Erwen was still impressed with its height
and the way it sagged forlornly as if pining for the better harvests of years
passed. As he passed through the shadow cast by the silo, a voice
interrupted his reverie. “What’s that you’re smoking, child?”