Shrouded Hills
March 7, 1885
The Inn at Shrouded Hills, Early Morning
“Virgil -
I assume you are not alone. As you can see, there are people in Shrouded Hills looking for me. Luckily for me, these fellows were easily dispatched. Do not speak with anyone about the zeppelin crash, or your new companion's involvement with it. When you are able to make your way to Tarant, check the telegram office there. I will leave a message telling you where to contact me.
--Joachim”
We arrived in Shrouded Hills last night after dark. Virgil took me to the room in the inn where Joachim was staying. He was not there. Instead we found the bodies of two dead men, their blood staining the floor. The bodies were cold and rigor mortis had set in; they had obviously been dead for hours. Under their shirts Virgil discovered amulets engraved with an eye inside a hexagram, just like the one worn by the ogre pilot who had shot down the Zephyr. On the bed was a note addressed to Virgil; I have reproduced it above.
Virgil took both the note and the amulets, and we exited the room quickly. Virgil spoke to the landlord, the landlord in turn called the guard, and there was a great commotion as the news of what had happened spread throughout the inn. Virgil and I were questioned; I stayed in the background as much as possible letting Virgil do the talking. Fortunately it was evident that we had nothing to do with the men’s fate; they had been dead long before our arrival. Moreover, it turned out that the dead men had been strangers in Shrouded Hills, suspicious characters that had kept to themselves. The guards suspected the worst of them, and were not overly concerned about their fate.
Needless to say, I was distraught. As the guards left, I began desperately trying to make sense of what had happened. Who were those dead men in Joachim’s room? Had they been in league with those who had shot down the Zephyr, and with the elf that had threatened us as we left the valley? What were they doing here? And what sort of a man was this Joachim? How did he know about the "zeppelin crash" or about Virgil's "new companion”?
I was thinking pensively about all this, not really paying attention to my surroundings, when the innkeeper walked by and I absentmindedly told him we’d be needing rooms for the night. He turned on me and snarled, “We don’t serve your kind here, half-orc. I don’t know what you’re role in this has been, and frankly I don’t care. Get out now, or I will call back the guard and tell him to throw you out.”
In an instant I was nearly shaking with rage. I didn't dare speak. It took all my will just to stand there speechless, like an idiot. Virgil, bless his heart, intervened. I can't even remember what he said, but he made up some story, and we were allowed to stay. Paying twice what the rooms were worth of course, and with a warning we'd be thrown out as soon as he caught me stealing something. I was completely useless after that. I went into my room, locked the door, waited for the rage to pass, and slept fitfully until this morning.
Really, I thought I was beyond that kind of reaction by now. If I let some fool innkeeper get under my skin so easily, there's no hope for me in this world. This is my life now, and I had better learn to accept it.
March 7, 1885
The Inn at Shrouded Hills, After Breakfast
I asked Virgil to tell me more about Joachim this morning. He looked uncomfortable as he began, “Joachim is, well, someone who helped me out when I needed it. I met him in a small village at a Panarii temple. I was, uh, a bit down on my luck.” Here he paused, thinking for a moment before continuing. “He showed me that you don’t always have to take what life gives you. There’s always a better path, and it’s always your choice whether to travel it.”
As I said before, I’m not a religious sort, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with that. It’s pretty much what I live by now. “Virgil, what did you mean when you said you were down on your luck?” I asked him. “What happened to you?”
Virgil shook his head. “I’d rather not talk about it anymore. But Joachim is a great man, well versed in the ways of the Panarii and the ways of the world. If he thinks we’re in trouble, then we are. Let’s get out of here, and get to Tarant.”
Of course I was in no mood to disagree after what happened last night. I must find the constable this morning and tell him about the Zephyr, and we must buy supplies for the journey. Then we will be off.
I suppose Virgil and I will go our separate ways once we reach Tarant. I am grateful for his help, but I'm not the figure he thinks I am, and I have my own life to lead. Somehow I will find a way to continue my studies, either as a Doctor's apprentice or perhaps as a medical student at the University of Tarant. At least I will give everything to trying. What other course is open to me now?
March 7, 1885
The Inn at Shrouded Hills, Afternoon
It appears we will be staying in this charming little village longer than we thought. The bridge out of Shrouded Hills is held by bandits who demand a ridiculously high toll from anyone who tries to leave, and the local constable is too much of a coward to do anything about it. They are constructing a new bridge to the south of the original. I suppose we might leave when it is finished. Or when winter comes and the river has frozen over! The local constable has offered us the princely sum of 50 coins if the pair of us would only rid the village of its problem.
As if to make matters worse, I had a disturbing encounter with a gnome who claimed to be the brother of Preston Radcliffe. He approached me after observing me tell the constable about the crash of the IFS Zephyr. “Excuse me madam,” he said, “but I couldn't help but overhear you telling the good constable that you were a passenger on the IFS Zephyr. Is that true?”
“Yes, it’s true,” I acknowledged.
“Oh, thank heavens!” he exclaimed. “Then there were survivors! Did the others come as well? Where are they staying?”
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “There were no other survivors. I was the only one.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “My brother... he was on the blimp, a gnomish gentleman of some years. Did you happen to see him, madam?”
“I did see such a gnome, yes. I’m very sorry, he died.”
The poor gnome’s face grew pale. “No, not Preston!” He stood silently for a minute, then said, “I see. Thank you madam. You've been most helpful.”
“Wait a minute. He told me to ‘find the boy’ and give him this ring,” I said, holding up the ring. “Do you know what he could have meant?”
"I see," he said, looking longingly at the ring. “It was his... a family heirloom...” His eyes grew moist. “Even in death, he was thinking of his family first...”
“He said some very strange things, something about escaping from somewhere. Do you know what he could have meant?”
The gnome seemed taken aback by this, even nervous. “Really? Yes well, ... Preston was getting on in years... Sometimes he had a little trouble remembering where he was, exactly. He was overseas...,” (here the gnome leaned forward and lowered his voice), “receiving treatments.”
“I see.” Something about all this didn’t feel right. I continued nonchalantly, “Well, if you’ll give me some identification, I’ll give you the ring.”
“ Madam!” he exclaimed, hurt by my doubt, “This is a particularly difficult time for me. I haven't my passport, I lost it on the way here.” He looked frustrated and angry. “I'd just appreciate it if you'd give the ring, please... it belongs to me.”
“Alright,” I continued as I closed my fingers around the ring. “If you could just describe the appearance of the ring in detail?”
His face turned red. “Listen, I've come a long way. It's, it’s been years since I've seen that ring.”
“Yes, how did you get here so quickly, by the way? Tarant is weeks away.”
Now he was furious. “You greedy half-orc whore! Is it money that you want? Name your price and be done with it!”
“I don’t want money,” I said. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. His eyes narrowed, his face grew cold, and suddenly I got the impression that for the first time he was no longer acting with me. “I recommend you give me that ring, half-orc. You're a stranger here, and you can be assured that the town constable will see things that way.”
I wasn't much afraid of Constable Owen, who as I mentioned above was too much of a coward even to take care of the thieves at the bridge. Indeed, perhaps the constable really could sort things out. "Ok," I said, "he's standing over there by the well. Let's go speak with him."
Mr. Radcliffe, if indeed that is his name, became very angry. He took a step forward, and for a moment I thought he was going to attack me then and there. But then he hesitated and stepped back, seeming to think better of it. "Very well, madam. Have it your way. You're making a big mistake. I'll have that ring one way or another." With that he walked off.
March 8, 1885
The Inn at Shrouded Hills, After Dark
Perhaps our enforced stay in Shrouded Hills is a blessing in disguise. I'm beginning to think that our original intention to leave as soon as possible was ill conceived. After all, we've been threatened with violence twice, and may expect to be threatened again on our journey. We should take the time to do whatever we can to better defend ourselves on the road. The constable has persuaded one of his officers to allow himself to be hired by me for melee training; I hope I don't have to use my dagger to fend off more than wolves, but it is best to be prepared. In addition, I’ve begun preparing healing salves from kadura stem I found near the crash site of the dirigible. Finally, we are keeping an eye out for possible companions on our journey.
There is a huge half-ogre, Sog Mead Mug, who seems to live at the bar here in town. I've chatted with him a bit; buy him a drink and he's quite amiable. He's a drunk, but assassins would think twice about attacking us if they saw a giant like him in our party. Like us, he wants to leave Shrouded Hills, but can't cross the bridge on account of the thieves. He's not ready to join with us just yet, though.
I do have an idea of how we might get past the thieves at the bridge. It involves the elixir of persuasion, one of the most basic recipes in the discipline of therapeutics. My education was terminated before I was fully educated in its preparation, but I believe I might be able to remember enough to create it. I have set up a little laboratory in my room and begun experimenting. Unfortunately the innkeeper has complained of the smell from the burner, and I shall have to find a better place for it tomorrow. I do wish I had not lost my medical texts.
The elixir of Persuasion, so I was taught, has a relaxing effect upon the nervous system, much like that of alcohol but without the deleterious effects of inebriation. The result is that under its influence, even the most self-conscious individual gains the facility to lie without any telltale stuttering or hesitation. It frees one from inhibition and gives wing to ones power of invention. In short, it might even turn a tongue-tied woman like myself into a glib persuader and deceiver. Virgil and I had a quick look at the thieves guarding the bridge; a scurrilous looking fellow shadowed by a huge pair of half-ogres. I doubt we can get by them using force, but perhaps persuasion will serve our goals.
On my expeditions to find equipment for my miniature laboratory and otherwise prepare for our journey, I have gotten to speak with many of the local townsfolk. Virgil has been with me for some of this, and he was appalled to see the sort of abuse I have to put up with. He even offered to go out for me, as a lady like myself should not have to endure such treatment. It was sweet, but the sooner I learn to live as a half-orc, the better.
On a positive note, I discovered that Mr. Lloyd Gurloes, the local blacksmith, is a gentleman. I went to see if I could afford to purchase a sword for Virgil from him. He was hammering at a piece of metal when I arrived. He ignored me as I stood there, so I called out to him, “Excuse me sir, could I speak with you for a moment?”
He didn’t even look up, but called out, “Go away, half-orc, I have no time for you.”
“Really sir,” I said. “Can’t we at least speak civilly with one another.”
Mr. Gurloes stopped what he was doing, put down his hammer, and stood up straight. "Please forgive the outburst, m’am,” he said. “Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain."
I was so delightfully astonished that for a moment I couldn’t think what to say. Eventually I found my tongue, and we had a very pleasant chat. Unfortunately, it turns out that swords are rather expensive, but I did get Mr. Gurloes to take a look at Preston Radcliffe’s ring for me. While he could tell me nothing about it, he suggested I should visit the local importer, a man named Ristezze.
Mr. Ristezze turned out to be an eccentric well-dressed gentleman who looked completely out of place in this little town. He had the bizarre habit of always referring to himself in the third person. When I first walked into his little store, he called out, “What are you doing here, half-orc? Ristezze will have no hooligans in his shop.”
“I’m not a hooligan, sir, I’m a customer. I wonder if I could ask you a question.”
He snorted impatiently. “Ristezze is a good man, but he does have his limits.” Another woman who had been in the shop walked out.
“Look, I’m just trying to find someone who can tell me something about this ring,” I said, holding it up.
Ristezze, who had looked as though he had been ready for another outburst, stopped in his tracks, took the ring from me, and examined it with a magnifying glass. After a pause, he rubbed his chin, and said, “Very interesting. What exactly is it you want from Ristezze?”
“Excuse me, you are Mr. Ristezze, aren’t you?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Alright, I’m trying to locate the original owner of this ring. Is there anything you can tell me about it?”
“I'm not quite sure, but Ristezze would say that it is made out of silver. A fine grade as well; note the way it shines. Ristezze would also say it was made nowhere near Shrouded Hills. Nothing of such quality could have come from this place.”
“Yes I see. I don’t suppose you have any idea how I could find out who G.B. stands for? Or where this ring was originally sold?”
“Wait just a minute, miss,” he said. “Perhaps Ristezze has some questions for you? Like how someone like yourself came across a fine piece such as this?
I didn’t like his tone, but I decided to ignore it. “It was given to me by one of the victims of the blimp crash,” I said.
Ristezze’s eyes grew wide. “Blimp crash? What blimp crash?”
“The I.F.S. Zephyr crashed a few days journey north of here. I was one of the passengers.”
“Has no one the decency to tell Ristezze when tragedy strikes? Are you alright? Were there no other survivors?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said sadly. “I believe I was the only one.”
“I see. Well, I hope the damage wasn't too great. Ristezze is a business man, but he has a heart as well. Tell, me, were there any objects there that seemed....well, unclaimed?”
I was completely shocked by the question. Could he really be suggesting what it sounded like he was suggesting? No, I thought to myself, I must be imagining things. “Um,...I would imagine any such items would need to be returned to the families of the deceased.”
“Of course, of course!” said Ristezze. “I’m only asking for the sake of the poor deceased. Ristezze would never think to rifle through the objects of the dead.”
“Of course,” I said, relieved. “I never would have imagined otherwise.”
“Now, if someone else were to bring such things to Ristezze…”
“Please, sir! I’d really rather not speak of such things.” I hurriedly took back the ring and tried to calm down. “Can you at least tell me where P. Schuyler and Son’s is located? I’m trying to find the original owner; perhaps they would know.”
Ristezze smiled. “P. Shcuyler & Sons? A very important piece of this puzzle, eh, my friend? Ristezze has been very free with information, no? What have you to offer Ristezze?”
“What do you want in return?” I asked nervously.
“Well, Ristezze is a collector of strange and wonderful things. Things both magical and technological,” he said, gesturing at this shelves. “Perhaps there are a few objects you could add to Ristezze's collection?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
Looking for supplies for my little lab, I visited the local alchemist. He turned out to be both a magician and a halfling. He stood behind a counter that was barely three foot tall in his blue wizard robes trimmed with glitter. Various potions and alchemical equipment were piled haphazardly on shelves along the walls. “What do you think you’re doing in my shop?” the little wizard said.
“Really sir, are you this rude to all of your customers?”
“Customer? Humph! What could a half-orc want from me?”
“Well, I was hoping to purchase a burner, a mortar and pestle, a few other items. I’m trained in Therapeutics. I’m also looking for some healing herbs, some ginseng and witch bane. I found kadura stem growing a few days journey north of here.”
He looked surprised, but fetched the burner and mortar I requested, keeping a constant eye on me all the while. “You’ll need to see Gaylin for the herbs. She has a shop near the border of town,” he said.
“Is she an herbologist?” I asked.
“An herbologist and a healer,” he smiled proudly. “Gaylin is an elf from a long line of elvish healers.”
I grimaced inwardly, but didn’t say anything. Did he really think I was stupid enough to believe that? “I may be here a few days,” I said. “Perhaps you have some work I could do? I’m trained in both herbology and therapeutics.”
He looked at me appraisingly me for the better part of a minute. “Hmmmmmmm. Yes, perhaps I misjudged you, earlier. I think there is something an outsider like you would be well suited for. You see, there’s been a conspiracy against me here in Shrouded Hills of late.”
This was not what I had expected. “What exactly do you mean, sir?”
“This whole town is out to get rid of me. They’ve been brainwashed by that Constable Owens, and now its only a matter of time before I’m forced to leave.”
“I see. What has Constable Owens done to you?
“What has he done to me? The man has endangered the natural balance which allows me to put bread on my table! He has built a giant steam engine right smack in the middle of town! Do you have any idea what the presence of his bloody steam engine does to my magickal abilities?”
“You’re speaking of the incompatible natures of magick and technology?”
“Of course I am. And that Constable Owens is weakening my powers. There was a time that I was the most powerful man in all of Shrouded Hills.”
“How remarkable!” I said. “Especially in such a big city like Shrouded Hills.” I bit my tongue; I hadn’t meant to let that slip out, but fortunately the halfling took no notice.
“Yes! If only there was someone to do something about it.” He looked at me meaningfully.
I sighed. “What exactly are you proposing?”
He lowered his voice. “If you could find a way to disable that infernal machine, permanently, I might be able to part with a couple of healing potions. What do you say?
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, sir, I prefer to stay on the right side of the law. Now, how much were you asking for the burner and the mortar?”
I went next to look for Gaylin, the herbologist Jongle Dunne, had told me about, and I discovered to my utter astonishment that he had been telling the truth; she really was an elf. Gaylin lives in a beautiful little cottage at the edge of town surrounded by a lush garden full of medicinal herbs. I cannot imagine what an elvish healer like her is doing in a backward little town like Shrouded Hills. I was further surprised to discover she is an expert in both Herbology and Therapeutics; I would have assumed an elvish healer would have specialized exclusively in the magickal avenues of healing.
Of course she was very unpleasant towards me. If anything, elves have even more contempt for those of orcish blood than humans do. In spite of that, I was on my very best behavior with her. After all, herbology and therapeutics were my area of study before my apprenticeship was abruptly terminated. It is almost unimaginable that an elf from a long line of healers would ever deign to apprentice a half-orc, but it is possible, and I certainly can’t afford to ignore any possibility. So I addressed her as “my lady” and thanked her politely even as she overcharged me, no doubt appalled at the very idea of her precious herbs in the hands of someone with orc’s blood in her veins.
I was relieved later to meet a local half-orc named Ben Jacobs. Here was someone I could relax with, or so I thought. True, his manners were a bit rough and uncouth, but I banished my doubts, telling myself I was being a snob which is a ridiculous thing for a half-orc to do. I allowed myself to be persuaded to have a private chat with the man outside the inn. The fool wanted me to join him in some half-baked scheme to rob the local bank. I pray he doesn't go through with it; idiots like him make things harder for the rest of us.
In just under a day, I have been asked to steal from the dead, rob a bank, and vandalize a steam engine. Two of these requests came from "honest" citizens. I'm afraid I'm getting to see a side of the world that was invisible to me when people mistook me for a human.
