This is the third post summarizing a campaign I run for a group of three wonderful players.
· Want to read the previous entry? Check out this post.
· Want to learn more about the campaign setting? Check out Dolmenwood by Gavin Norman
(the Necrotic Gnome).
Gwomodom
and Grendel, accompanied by their new friend Lambob, spent the night in the Oaf
and Oast – a rustic tavern in a retrofitted oast-house. The lower floor swarmed
with wooden furniture and off-gassing patrons under a high ceiling. Behind a
circular mahogany bar, the barrel-chested proprietor Heggid poured drinks and slapped
together tavern sandwiches while his two serving girls, Gawda and Blessie,
bussed orders. Up a narrow set of stairs, the loft provided one long, open room
with over a dozen straw beds. A silver piece bought a bed for the night and leftover,
stale bread the next morning. The party slept in the loft, soothed by the
sounds of snores around them and carousing downstairs.
The next day, the party took their
treasure to the local jeweler, Oppiter Emonum. Oppiter was a halfling man with
a pencil moustache. Both the hair on his head and his feet was neatly combed.
Oppiter identified the knuckle-sized gemstones Gwomodom offered as
“chrysoprase.” Altogether, the adventurers sold their treasure for over
four-hundred gold pieces. Gwomodom and Grendel stepped from the jeweler’s store
with their purses clinking. Lambob stepped from the store with a strengthened conviction
to stick with them.
Grendel already had an idea of how
to spend his money. Together, the adventurers went to the house of Druge
Mostlemyre. Mostlemyre’s house rose as a labyrinthine mess of dormers,
decorative spires, and slapdash additions on the edge of town. The whole town
knew Mostlemyre as an eccentric, and his business with magic supported his
expensive tastes.
Grendel knocked on the ebony door. A
shuffling sound came from behind it before it revealed a tall, gaunt man with
grey hair dressed in black livery. He looked down over his hooked nose at the
three visitors, eyeing each of them, and wheezed: “How may I help you?”
“I’m here to speak to the wizard,”
Grendel explained. “I’d like to place an order.”
The man in black’s mouth twitched with
mild disdain before he responded, “His Most Splendorful Mostlemyre is currently
unavailable.” He sucked in air. “However, I can take an order if it suits you.”
It did, in fact, suit Grendel. The
three adventurers followed the man in black as he shuffled inside. They sat
together at a long table in the parlor, where Grendel requested both a
spellbook and a potion of healing. As Grendel described what he needed, the
black-liveried man wrote his descriptions down excruciatingly slowly with a
quill and ink – but with fine penmanship. Once he finished, the man stared at
the sheet for a few moments in silence before giving Grendel an estimate of the
cost.
Confidently, Grendel counted his
coins, placing them in a separate purse, and slid them across the table, proud
of his newfound wealth. The black-liveried man then gingerly picked up the
purse with the tips of his fingers and carefully removed each coin, one by one,
counting them and inspecting each for forgeries. When he finished, he sniffed
and returned each coin individually to the purse.
“It will take two days to fulfill
your order,” he droned. “When you come on the third day, we’ll have it ready.”
With that, the adventurers took
their leave of the man in black and spent the rest of their day mending their
equipment, meandering about town, and mourning the loss of Boots. As evening
set, they returned to the Oaf-and-Oast.
As they enjoyed their drinks, a
crowd drew the adventurers’ attention. In the corner of the room, several
people gathered around a table, listening intently. As the adventurers leaned
over in their chairs, they could see the miller seated amidst the onlookers,
drink in hand, speaking to the audience.
“I just don’t understand it,” he
continued. “Last month, I brought them only half a dozen bags of flour. Still,
they show up every Frisk day with a cart full of pastries. Tell me, how can you
make four carts of pastries with only six bags of flour? You can’t! Unless…
you’re a witch!”
The miller scanned the faces around
him, desperate to find validation. Instead, he only saw a mix of concern and
disbelief.
“Couldn’t they just order their
flour from someone else?” Blessie asked as she stacked drinks onto a tray.
“You’re not the only miller in the wood, you know.”
“Where, from Brackenwold? Surely
not,” the miller retorted, crossing his arms in pride. “He mixes his flour with
sand. And their pastries taste too good to have sand in them.”
“Maybe the flakiness comes from the
skin of scrabies,” an onlooker offered. “I hear their skin flakes like that…”
The adventurers turned back towards
one another.
“I’ve never tried the pastry shop,”
Grendel told them, his eyebrows raised. It sounds a bit suspicious, though.”
“Tomorrow’s Frisk,” Gwomodom replied. “And
we’ve got money to spend… I wouldn’t mind trying a pastry or five.”
“That’s true,” Grendel replied. “We could ask
them where their pastries come from. Maybe pay the bakery a visit.”
“If they’re as popular as I hear, they must
have lots of gold,” Lambob added. His comment sent the three companions into a
listless stupor, thinking about the gold that might be at the bakery, before
retiring to their rooms upstairs.
 |
| Gwomodom the moss dwarf, thinking of all the pastries in his near future. |
They awoke next morning on Frisk day
– market day for Prigwort. The town’s sleepy streets awoke and bustled with
activity. The square filled with carts and stalls purveying sundry aromatic
wares. The clanging of smithies, sound of clinking coins, and chittering of
chatter filled the air. The heroes wandered about until the scent of
fresh-baked pastries rose over the smell of hops.
Their noses brought them to a parked wagon
with a long line of people strung from it. At the head of the line, a single
woman sold pastries from the wagon. She looked young, perhaps in her early
twenties. She stood with proud posture and seemed as tall as a knight. She had grey
eyes and long, dark hair that fell in a braid to her waist. Her face seemed
serious and business-like, though she gave a subtle smile to each customer as
they left.
The adventurers got in line and waited their
turn.
As they stepped up to the young woman, her
cool eyes fell on them. With proper enunciation, she asked, “What can I get
you?”
“We’re not sure,” Grendel told her. “This is
our first time. What all do you have?”
The woman sighed and inhaled a deep breath.
Pointing at each of the pastries laid upon the cart’s tread, she listed, “We
have cherry, peach, blueberry, and apple strudel – each with or without cream
cheese. We also have lemon bars, bear claws, beaver tails, muffins, and scones.
I’ve got hot glaze I can pour on any of it, as well as streusel topping. But
that costs extra.”
Gwomodom’s eyes brightened. Tree sap saliva
dribbled from his mouth. “I think I’ll need a minute…” he croaked.
While Gwomodom’s eyes lapped up the baked goods,
Lambob stepped towards the woman. “So, um…” he began, “where do these pastries
come from?”
“Our bakery,” she replied.
“And where is that?”
“On the east road.”
Lambob paused, unsure of what to say next.
“And, um… where do you get your flour from?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The
miller,” she replied.
“Anywhere else?”
“Do you need to know?”
Lambob started, surprised by her forwardness.
“Well um, no – I guess not.” He shrugged his shoulders and stepped back.
Awkward silence passed. By now, Gwomodom had turned the ground around him to
sticky mud with his drool.
“So uh,” Grendel tried, “what’s your name?”
“Amonie,” the woman replied. “And yours?”
“Grendel,” he responded. “You don’t happen to
have any noble blood, do you? You look like you might.”
Amonie gave a quick, high laugh. “I came here
to sell pastries, not flirt with men,” she told him dismissively.
Grendel’s face soured with horror and flushed
as red as a beet.
Amonie’s face softened as she looked at
Grendel again. “Oh,” she said, “you were being serious? No, I don’t have any
noble blood. That I know of, at least. I only know my Mother. She runs the
bakery.”
Moments of awkward silence passed again.
Gwomodom and Lambob could feel the heat radiating from Grendel’s face.
Amonie bit her lip, her eyes looking over
each adventurer as if seeing them for the first time. “You three seem like Delvers,”
she observed.
“Yes, I suppose you could call us that,” Gwomodom
told her. “Currently looking for work. Our last lead was too fatal. We lost a
good man. Er... half-man.” Vegetable broth squeezed from Gwomodom's eye as a tear.
Amonie thought to herself for a moment, as if
deeply considering what she said next, then shared, “You might consider coming
by our bakery then, sometime. If you’re interested. Mother might have work for
you. Follow the east road towards Brackenwold but take the trail south after
six or seven miles. Just whenever you reach the stone cairn. You shouldn’t miss
it, if you’re paying attention. We take the wagons on it every week.”
“Yes, we might do that!” Lambob replied,
rubbing his hands together. “It sounds like a great opportunity.”
Awkward silence descended again on their
conversation. “Well… are you going to buy something, or not?” Amonie asked,
eventually. “There’s other people in line.”
Gwomodom looked over his shoulder and saw the
impatient face of a larger man leering there, clearly unhappy at the length of
his wait and the tree sap muddying his shoe.
Hurriedly, the adventurers
each bought a pastry and left. Gwomodom got a blackberry twist that was especially delightful. The next morning, they would set out for
the bakery.
