A week's ride of Astenvale Monastery, at the foot of the northern Rangan peaks of the Mheara range, Isander found himself enjoying a drink in a wooded hollow betwixt the babbling of a nearby brook. The sun cried crimson tears on its journey to dusk, casting long shadows across the hollow. The knight, decked in tabard covered maille ill-fitted for his current travels (it sported stains of sweat and muck at the cuffs and collar) and a pair of heavy leather gloves that rested in his lap, rubbed soot from his face.
He sat before a small cookfire that billowed wet pine smoke straight into his eyes. A copper pot hung over a bed of coals, boiling away its contents as he tended the flames. Nettle and needles and a fixture of leaves swirled madly in the pot. It left a heady, pleasant aroma in its wake. A simple, earthy tea. After a passing fashion he donned one of his gloves and poured the concoction into a pair of clay cups.
"We've some ways yet," he said, rolling the kinks out of shoulders sore from hunching over a saddle all day, "and I still haven't the faintest idea what to do about this 'king of the mountains' we were tasked to investigate."
He rummaged the missive from his pouch and smoothed it out over a knee. The parchment was fitted with a neat scrawl that said: Mershawl locals levied complaints of failing crops attributed to a disturbance in what they call the king of the mountains, possible shroud fiend influence. Signed in a perfunctory hand and posted on a board outside the mess, Isander had the misfortune of this assignment as penance for his last outing. A bit of gambling gone bad, as it happened.
He handed the parchment over to his companion with a heavy sigh.
"What chance this is all a hoax to get us to help set up some festival or another? Would be nice."
He sat before a small cookfire that billowed wet pine smoke straight into his eyes. A copper pot hung over a bed of coals, boiling away its contents as he tended the flames. Nettle and needles and a fixture of leaves swirled madly in the pot. It left a heady, pleasant aroma in its wake. A simple, earthy tea. After a passing fashion he donned one of his gloves and poured the concoction into a pair of clay cups.
"We've some ways yet," he said, rolling the kinks out of shoulders sore from hunching over a saddle all day, "and I still haven't the faintest idea what to do about this 'king of the mountains' we were tasked to investigate."
He rummaged the missive from his pouch and smoothed it out over a knee. The parchment was fitted with a neat scrawl that said: Mershawl locals levied complaints of failing crops attributed to a disturbance in what they call the king of the mountains, possible shroud fiend influence. Signed in a perfunctory hand and posted on a board outside the mess, Isander had the misfortune of this assignment as penance for his last outing. A bit of gambling gone bad, as it happened.
He handed the parchment over to his companion with a heavy sigh.
"What chance this is all a hoax to get us to help set up some festival or another? Would be nice."