# Supernatural Wood - Last Updated September 17th



## GodOfCheese (Jan 4, 2009)

One day, I got together with some friends from work on a day off and whipped up the seed-adventure.  We had a great time, and the campaign has been running for the past several years.  I've always wanted to Storyhour it, but only recently found the time to try it...

The campaign world uses many 3.5e fundamentals, such as the deities (as a result of the "quick start" nature of the first adventure), though some have slight alterations.  For this reason, some of the explanations may seem... obvious... though it's intentional as not everything is identical to the "canon".


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## GodOfCheese (Jan 4, 2009)

*A Visit to Millington*

“I’m in need of an alchemist,” the man asked.

One of the soldiers scrutinized him.  He was a rather plain-looking man, in his late teens or early twenties.  His face lacked stubble of any kind, so much so that the soldier’s eyes were instinctively drawn to the man’s ears.  He might pass for someone of elvish blood with so clean a complexion.  

But those ears were round, not pointed.  Were there any doubt about his human-hood, the brown eyes would dispel it.  Elf-eyes came in many colors, but brown was not among them.  

Brown was, in fact, the color the soldiers saw in him primarily.  Other than his eyes, his brows, hair, cloak, pack, and boots were all a similar shade of it.  His pack looked heavy and he was sweating in the summer sun.  

He looked suited to travel but out of his element.

“Is alchemy your business in Millington?” asked the soldier suspiciously.  The guard’s posture suggested that the question was official in nature and not small-talk.  He was short, and very wide, yet not obese but massively built: a dwarf.  His long beard was braided tightly before his chest, likely his only concession to the fierce summer heat so notorious here in the Plains of the T’yers.  That, and the fact that he was standing in the shade.

The other soldiers, of whom there were several, were also taking advantage of the shade.  It was a typically hot afternoon.  Here, on the West side of the river, the walls—or remnants of walls—were tall and the shadows correspondingly long.  Shelter from the sun was abundant.  However, the traveler wasn’t close enough to avail himself of it.

The traveler considered the dwarf’s question, but his hesitation caused his companion to speak up, drawing the soldier’s attention.  She was about the height of a human child, but proportioned as a lithe and attractive woman.  Her well-tanned face was round, yet dominated by the massive and unmistakable nose of a gnome.  From her head flowed plentiful wavy hair the color of wheat.  It cascaded down her shoulders to the prominently-worn medallion resting at her breast.  

The medallion was large upon her, and expensive-looking.  It was shiny, likely silver, and shaped like a rampant unicorn.  The dwarf’s eyes wrinkled in recognition: the symbol of Ehlonna, goddess of the forest.

When the gnome’s lips parted, her voice was soft and melodic.  “No,” she said.  “But knowledge is.”  She smiled mischievously.  Her blue eyes sparkled from behind her nose with lighthearted wisdom.

“We’re after information that your local alchemist likely has,” the brown-clad man added quickly.

The dwarf scowled, but seemed satisfied.  “Well enough.”  He waved the two travelers on, though he bowed his head slightly to the gnome.  “You are new to this city, yes?”

The gnome nodded.  Her companion said nothing.

“In that case, be advised that wizardly magic is forbidden in Millington, by order of the Council.”  He paused before adding, “If Alchemy be your craft, practice it _carefully_.”  This last word he enunciated slowly and with great effort, so the intent could not be mistaken.

As he drew breath to deliver additional proclamations, another voice cut him off.  “I’ll take them to the apothecary,” it said plainly.  

The dwarf wrinkled his nose slightly.  “Good.  You do that,” he said.



---

Their escort, as it happened, was a woman.  She seemed to make the brown-clad traveler uncomfortable, though he tried his best not to show it.  His discomfort might have been caused by her being the tallest woman he had ever seen in his life.  

She was easily six feet tall, probably a hand past it even.  As such, she towered over him.  She was intimidating in more than just her sheer height.  Although impossibly lean, she looked ferociously strong.  And upon her back was an enormous, fanged axe, whose head alone must have been four feet across and weighed fifty or sixty pounds.  

Her shoulders were bedecked in chain, supplemented with wide shields to make her smallish shoulders seem broad.  _As large as a man’s would be, of her size_, the traveler thought.  The chain ended at her waist, broadening out in a heavy-looking leather skirt.  Atop her head was long, thick, blondish hair that stuck out over her shoulders like old straw.  

The traveler did his best not to stare as the warrior led him over the cobbled bridge and toward a gap in the city’s massive walls.

The gnome, on the other hand, made no such pretense.  She gaped at the woman openly.  Her thoughts could be no more obvious were they inscribed upon her very nose.  But her attention was drawn to other things for the moment as they crested the bridge’s center.


Beneath them flowed the T’yers; the mighty river for which the Plains was named.  It churned and lapped, ebbing in the summer drought.  But what drew the gnome’s attention was what lay upon the river’s back.

The river bore logs.  Hundreds of logs floated, trapped, just to the right, downstream of the stone bridge.  They were caught up in a series of poles that protruded from the water’s shallows, and they were beached upon its banks.  They congregated close to the city before the T’yers ran on without them, about a mile away and around a bend.

The gnome looked, then rushed to the left side of the bridge to peer over the low wall.  The logjam continued upriver as well, until her eyes lost them around the river’s northern meander.  Her eyes blinked away the reflected sunlight painfully.

“They mill them here,” the traveler said simply, though with a slight wrinkling of his nostrils at the word _they_.  

“Don’t like dwarves?” asked the gnome.  “That doesn’t seem you at all.”

“It’s the attitude,” he replied derisively.  “Especially here.  Dwarves distrust the arcane, always have… but here it’s so magnified.”

The massive axe-woman looked down at him.  “Like it or not, best you not anger any dwarves while you’re here.  Everyone’s touchy, what with the Mill trouble and all.”

The man’s brow wrinkled, though not so much as the gnome’s.  “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“One of the mills is haunted.  It’s been causing no end of trouble.”

The man seemed almost satisfied by this answer, but not so the gnome.  “Haunted?” she asked.  

The large woman stopped and looked unassumingly at her.  She said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” the gnome added, “we haven’t been introduced.  I’m Wikellawyn, of the Waste.”  She jerked her head over her left shoulder, northward toward the distant mountains.  “But you can call me Wik.”

“And I’m Dorin,” added the man without hesitation.

“I’m Jo,” replied the woman with the axe.  “Just… Jo.”


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## strawberryJAMM (Jan 4, 2009)

GodOfCheese said:


> The large woman stopped and looked unassumingly at her.  She said nothing.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” the gnome added, “we haven’t been introduced.  I’m Wikellawyn, of the Waste.”  She jerked her head over her left shoulder, northward toward the distant mountains.  “But you can call me Wik.”
> 
> ...




And thus it started. 

This brings back such awesome memories GoC - I can't wait to see how the rest works up in print.... (You know, should post that illustration you made of Just Jo too.)

-'Wik'


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## GodOfCheese (Jan 4, 2009)

strawberryJAMM said:


> And thus it started.
> 
> This brings back such awesome memories GoC - I can't wait to see how the rest works up in print.... (You know, should post that illustration you made of Just Jo too.)
> 
> -'Wik'




I hadn't thought of that.  Good idea-- posted here.


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## GodOfCheese (Jan 4, 2009)

I have pics of Wik too, but none of them is particularly high-res.  Do you have any laying around?


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## strawberryJAMM (Jan 5, 2009)

GodOfCheese said:


> I have pics of Wik too, but none of them is particularly high-res.  Do you have any laying around?



I'm not sure... I'll poke around my hard drive and get back to you.


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## GodOfCheese (Jan 7, 2009)

*The Haunting*

Jo led them down a main road into the town.  The road here too was cobbled and well-maintained.  Shops crowded for space along the edges of it.  They were diverse without the appearance of shabbiness.  All of them were well-built.

Dorin and Jo took no notice of them.  Wik eyed them curiously, but often had to hustle to keep up with the others.

“Hey, tell us about this haunting,” offered Wik, who was slightly out of breath.  “And how far to the alchemist?”

“The nearest shop is just up there.” Jo said, pointing for emphasis.  

Dorin didn’t look.  “I’m told you’ve a druid in residence.”  He added quickly, seeming embarrassed, “…in the city even.  I know it can’t be the case…”

Jo heel-turned and looked him in the eye.  “I thought you wanted an alchemist?”  Her tone suggested she was about to call him a liar.

“Isn’t your druid an alchemist?” asked Wik quickly.

Jo’s face went blank.  “I have no idea.  And yes, a druid does live here.”  She thought for a second.  It looked painful.  “He’s the talk of local rumor here, I have to say though.  To some he’s crazy.  Others tell that he was excommunicated by the other druids, so he’s forced to live in the middle of a city. 
“Never met him myself though.”  She added abruptly and turned away.  “I’ll take you to him.”

The man looked unconvinced.  “Won’t the other guards be missing you back at your post?”

To which Wik added, “We wouldn’t want to burden you.  We can find our own way.”

Jo didn’t look back.  “I’m not a town guard,” she said, shaking her head slightly.  “I just help out sometimes.”

Dorin and Wik exchanged glances.  The man’s eyes squinted a little.  “Wait, how can you find this druid if you’ve never met him in a city of so many?”

“Everyone knows where Nicholas lives,” Jo replied over her shoulder.  “That’s why nobody goes to see him.”

“So… the haunting?” Wik prompted minimally.  Her smile faded a bit when Jo resumed her lengthy stride.

---

The haunting, as it happened, was the talk of the town.  One of the lumber mills, as Jo had said, was being visited by strange happenings.  Jo’s terse description was only “a lot of bleeding.”  The hauntings had occurred with alarming frequency.  Attempts to exorcise the mill had met with only limited success… whatever spirit inhabited the mill would go away for a few months, only to return.  

The mill’s owners were suitably distressed.  Dwarven culture famously eschews anything supernatural, and unexplained happenings like this do not speak to their collective good sides.  Additionally, having to close the mill whenever one of these events happened was taking its toll on business, not to mention the mill’s employees, who were out the day’s wage.  

Despite himself, Dorin questioned Jo about the details.  No, she didn’t know how often it happened.  No, she didn’t know how everyone knew it was a haunting.  The only description she really had of it was that there was “a lot of bleeding,” which at one point she followed with a simple shrug. 

As conversations went, it was not the most productive one he’d ever had.


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## GodOfCheese (Jan 20, 2009)

*Nicholas*

The place was a dump.

Dorin’s eyes took it in with incredulity.  His crinkled brow said his thoughts clearly enough: _I’m supposed to find help here?  _

Here in Millington, young Dorin expected to find plenty of inconsistency.  Here was a city on the banks of the _T’yers_ inhabited by both Dwarves and Men, living under the thumb of a faraway Elvish monarch.  Here was a place that made its name milling the logs of trees harvested in distant mountains and floated hundreds of miles down the river, when a great forest with so much easily-obtained timber loomed, forbidden by Imperial Decree, right upon its Eastern doorstep.

And just outside the center of this city, with its many taverns and copious windmills, he had come to find the home of an avowed druid.   It made him uncomfortable.

In his earlier days of searching, he had come to accept that he was to find help in this way.  He had come to accept that it was a long shot, that there was not a high likelihood that Nicholas, Millington’s famous oddity of a druid, might help him or his people.  He had internalized the concept that he would have to ask this _outsider _for help with a strictly internal matter.  It shamed him, but he’d accepted it with the rest of the incongruity of this situation.

But the place was definitely a dump.  Among Dorin’s people, if someone had been so pathetic in maintenance, his home would have collapsed in a heap within a month.  And the clan would have laughed as the poor fool fought to rebuild as they rode past.  It’s not so much that diligence was rewarded as laxity severely punished.

The druid’s shack was once a log hut of some kind; small, but sturdy.  In the untold years since, brambles and creepers had intruded into the crevices betwixt the logs, spilling down the sides in a kind of hanging garden-shrine devoted only to noxious weeds.  Where the weeds weren’t, the wooden trunks had been infiltrated by moss and lichen.  

The walls didn’t appear quite vertical.  Not that they had much to support.  From what Dorin could tell, the shack’s roof was merely framing.  He couldn’t see for certain, as it was above his head, but he knew he hadn’t seen any straw or roofing material sticking out.  Whatever was up there couldn’t hope to be waterproof.

Dorin shook his head and reminded himself to be patient of the alien ways so far from his people.  He took a deep breath and rapped sharply at the wooden door.  Its surface yielded gently to his knocks.  Not only was the door badly hung, but its material also felt slightly soft to his touch.  _Ugh.  More mildew.  How hard would it have been for someone to scrape it clean once every few years?  _Surprisingly though, the door felt almost welcoming to his knuckles as he rapped at it once more.  Dorin tried to take this as a good omen.

Welcoming enough, for it sprung open when he reached out to knock a second time.  Behind it stood a robed man with long, feral black hair and wide, busy green eyes that shined in the shade like lanterns.  His circle-beard was thin and scraggly, in odd contrast to the man’s pronounced eyebrows.  Dorin’s initial impression of him was that he must spend all his energy growing hair, but that energy ran out the further down his face it went.

The wild-haired man regarded Dorin briefly, then said, “You’re late, but I suppose you’ll do.”

Dorin had imagined many different directions that a conversation might go if and when he arrived here.  This, however, was not among them.

“Excuse me?  Are you--”

“—Nicholas, yes.”  The Druid waved Dorin and his two companions inside hastily.  He looked to be in his late thirties —_wait, no, with those eyes, he can’t be human, and with facial hair like that, he’s not a full elf either.  Maybe sixty or seventy? _–and seemed to be in a hurry.  When his arm waved wildly past, Dorin caught the scent of rosemary.  “Come inside so I can explain.”

The way the Druid was acting, Dorin expected him to look both ways nervously before slamming the door shut when he got inside.  He didn’t though—he just left the door open and stepped in thoughtlessly.  

Nicholas’s brilliant eyes tracked across Wik and Jo on their way to the man.  He opened his mouth to speak, but the traveler interrupted him.

“Dorin,” the clean-shaven man said, extending his hand as was the way here.  “And this is Wikellawyn, a travelling friend, and… ummm… Jo.”  He wasn’t sure what else to say.  He’d studied local customs, but so far this hadn’t been in keeping with them.  Also, he wasn’t quite sure what Jo was still doing here, having completed her escort task. 

Nicholas reached out as if seeking to shake hands, but didn’t quite touch Dorin’s hand.  His fingertips just hung there, inches away.  “I see,” the druid said perfunctorily, clearly seeing nothing in particular.  His eyes flicked back to rest upon the two women but soon resumed their seemingly-undirected movement.  

Wik smiled brilliantly and fiddled with her silver unicorn conspicuously.  If this was intended as a display, Nicholas took no obvious notice.  He just looked at them, a blank expression on his face, as though he were trying to decide whether the three visitors were real.  Dorin tried to think of what he should say.

In the end, it was Jo who spoke.  “Why are you here?” she asked, facing the group ambiguously as a whole.

Nicholas smiled.  “I’ve been waiting for someone.  He’s several years overdue but evidently well worth the wait.”

Jo scowled.  “I meant him.”  Her head turned minimally toward Dorin.

“I’ve come to ask for your help.”  Dorin began.  He hadn’t exactly memorized what he was going to say but he had rehearsed it in his mind.  It’s just that the words changed every time.  _This all seemed so much easier at home_, he thought as he drew breath.  

“I can’t help you,” Nicholas said abruptly.  

_What?  But I’ve come so far!  _“You… can’t?”  His brows contorted in confusion and anxiety.  “But you haven’t even heard--”

“Right,” came the Druid’s bizarre interruption.

Dorin’s eyes blazed frustratedly at the half-elf.  He gaped silently, trying to think of what to say.  

Wik watched this exchange thoughtfully.

The silence seemed to spur the Druid to speak more plainly.  “I have bigger problems than helping you.  You’ll have to help me instead.”  There was a thick sack hanging by a heavy stake pounded into the wall.  Nicholas began fiddling with the sack as he spoke.  “I must leave Millington to deliver spectacular news.”

Dorin could not react intelligently to this, but merely stared at the man in silence.
Jo appeared not to care significantly one way or another.

Wik’s eyes glittered.  After a second, she said, “Well?  Go on!”

“I’ve been waiting for an initiate of my faith to arrive, but I can wait no longer.  I must entrust you with a secret.”

Dorin wasn’t sure if his eyes could get any larger.  He was familiar with the ways of many peoples, and was certain that this behavior was highly extraordinary, if not outright rude.  At the mention of the last word, however, he found himself listening silently again.  Secrets were interesting.

Nicholas leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered.  “Deep in the forest,” he turned his head to indicate the forbidden woods to the east of the city.  “…dwell a great many trees.  Special trees; darkwood treants, they are.  But they…” he seemed to grope for words.  “They sleep, and I keep watch on them.”

His voice rose substantially.  “Someone has cut one down.”  His eyes narrowed angrily and flicked in that instant from amusingly crazy to dangerously vindictive.  “The other Druids must know what I do.”

“But I have nowhere else to go!” Dorin blurted at last.  

“Then wait here,” Nicholas answered unhelpfully.  “Perhaps my would-be apprentice will have something to offer you in my stead.”  He winked and smiled as he hoisted the thick sack.  “I think his name is Asherandil.”  Without another word, he stepped out the door.

_I can’t believe this!  _“Wait!” Dorin called and rushed out the door after him.

But the Druid was nowhere to be seen.


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## strawberryJAMM (Jan 21, 2009)

GodOfCheese said:


> Behind it stood a robed man with long, feral black hair and wide, busy green eyes that shined in the shade like lanterns.  His circle-beard was thin and scraggly, in odd contrast to the man’s pronounced eyebrows.  Dorin’s initial impression of him was that he must spend all his energy growing hair, but that energy ran out the further down his face it went.



I'd forgotten how wild looking Nicholas was and also how abrupt that first meeting was.... how things changed as time went on, eh?

By the way - did you get the illustration of Wik in armour that I sent?

:-j(enni)


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## GodOfCheese (Jan 24, 2009)

strawberryJAMM said:


> By the way - did you get the illustration of Wik in armour that I sent?




I did!  I'm not sure where to put it though.  It's not right to dump it on my DeviantArt page, since it isn't my artwork.  ;-)


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## strawberryJAMM (Jan 25, 2009)

GodOfCheese said:


> I did!  I'm not sure where to put it though.  It's not right to dump it on my DeviantArt page, since it isn't my artwork.  ;-)



Ah! Good Point!. 

Okay, I've posted it at my SkyDrive. It can be accessed here: 
Wikellawyn.jpg - Windows Live SkyDrive


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## strawberryJAMM (Jan 25, 2009)

{duplicate post}


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## GodOfCheese (Feb 1, 2009)

*Let's get a few things straight...*

Dorin scowled at the empty garden where the Druid had been not a moment earlier.  It was ringed with thick trees that grew at odd angles, forming the impression of a wall or rampart.  Two paths of overgrown cobblestones led out through breaks in the trees.  One led to the main thoroughfare, back the way they came, and ultimately out of town.  The man’s eyes rested on it wearily for several seconds.

“I told you,” Jo said calmly.  “Nobody goes to see Nicholas.”

Dorin frowned again.  “Is it because he’s a jerk?”

Jo shrugged.  “The nearest apothecary isn’t far away.”  She stood and waited for them.

The traveler’s lips pressed tightly together.  “I don’t think anyone else can help.”

Jo turned back to face him.  “You misled me, and you misled the border guard.  You aren’t here for alchemy at all.”  Her face was stern, but not angry.

“Hey,” said Wik calmly but firmly.  “He didn’t say he was here for alchemy.  He said he was here for an _alchemist_.  There’s a difference.”

Jo pointed her finger down at Wik, adding, “And you helped mislead us.”

Wik put her hands on her hips and leaned forward as if setting herself against the force of Jo’s stare.  “Yes,” she said; her sweet voice defiant.  “What of it?”

Jo blinked.  “Nothing.  Just making sure I understood .”

Wik held up one hand dismissively and turned deliberately away from her to face Dorin.  “What do we do now?”

“We?” Dorin whispered briefly under his breath, not quite silently enough to prevent Wik from hearing.  His eyes rested briefly on Wik’s amulet before snapping back to her face.  “We…” he answered aloud.  “We… I…”

Dorin’s gaze had not escaped Wik’s attention to her chest, but she said nothing.  “Hey, I’m pledged to help those in need.  As they say, _the deed you do is the deed done you_.”  She smiled a smile that would light a room, if the room were small and they were in one.  “You clearly need my help.”

Without waiting for a response, she looked up at the enormous woman.  “How about you, Jo?  Interested in helping Dorin out for awhile?”  

Jo shrugged again.  “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Wik wrinkled her nose and rolled her head in a kind of Better-than-nothing-I-guess expression.  She turned back to Dorin and smiled again.  “So you have help.  What do we do now?”

Dorin said nothing, his expression betraying little.  His eyes, however, moved busily as he considered his options.  _I knew it was a long shot, but it still hurts to come all this way only to fail_.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Wik tilted her little head.  “Is it possible that Nicholas is testing you somehow?  Druids can be…” her lips and face wrinkled up, searching for the right words.  Her eyes sparkled incongruously though.  “…perverse, sometimes.”  

Her smile returned.  “I’ve heard of Druids testing people in strange ways.  And nobody knows their true ways… it’s said no one _can_.”

“He’s certainly testing me,” Dorin replied acidly, his nostrils flared.  “Testing my patience maybe.”

Jo, who had been watching their exchange without comment, spoke up.  “What is your problem, exactly?”

Dorin’s eyes flicked to the giant warrioress and squinted as he tried to decide whether to be offended.  He must have decided not to, for his eyes softened and he opened his mouth to speak.  

“It’s… been going on for several years,” he began.  

“Nobody knows exactly when it started, but at least two years ago, my people acquired an unending streak of…” he groped for words.  “Bad luck.

“Horses would go lame or go ill.  Or they trip over unlikely obstacles.  Maintenance problems in the… the wagons.  Supplies go bad before they should.  People get hurt in freak accidents. 

“Nobody has died _yet_, but it’s been getting worse.  My...” he paused abruptly, his lips moving for a split second before continuing hastily and clumsily, “…first paternal man-cousin, once removed--”

So, Wik thought at this, _his native tongue must have plenty of kinship terms_.  But she did not interrupt.

“--broke his leg when his horse had to jump a branch that fell right in front of him, only to land half in a deadfall.  Were he less of a rider, he’d be dead now.”  He quickly added, “The horse is recovering.”

Wik considered this, momentarily touched by Dorin’s obvious concern for the horse in addition to that of his relative.  Jo’s expression was unreadable.

Dorin continued his story.  “We held a… council of sorts.  I was not there, mind you.  I’m too young.  But they decided that I must go out into the world and find help.”  

He looked down bitterly as he continued.  “We couldn’t solve the problem for ourselves, but too many of us are being hurt.”  His jawline flexed uncomfortably.  “So I had to leave home.”

Wik opened her mouth but was overspoken by Jo: “Where are you from, strange man?”

“That’s complicated,” Dorin replied; his expression guarded.  He smiled weakly.  “But that won’t inhibit me from completing my task.  I’m well-prepared for this mission, even if it is a… a crapshoot.  I know or have studied the customs and languages from most towns in the Plains of the T’yers, and much of the Empire to the East as well.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed but her voice was surprisingly quiet.  “I wouldn’t throw that around if I were you.”

“Yeah, I know that you have no love of the Saldasha Empire,” Dorin began, but the axewoman interrupted him again.

“I don’t care myself,” Jo answered hastily.  “But I’m not a Dwarf.”

“That much is certain,” Wik cackled mirthfully, looking up at the enormous woman.  

“I’m saying be careful…” Jo continued sparingly.  “They hate being ruled by the Elves.”  

Dorin took a deep breath.  “To be fair, you’d hate it too if you were in their position.”  His voice acquired a scholarly tone.  “The Dwarven Landhold ceded Millington to the Saldasha Empire a hundred years ago, by most accounts.  None of us could have been alive then, but the Dwarves have long memories.

“I’m amazed they’re angry at the Empire and not the Landhold.  As I understand it, it’s the _Landhold’s _edict that keeps them following Imperial rule.  Like not logging the forest.  If the Empire ruled Millington with an iron fist, you’d see more wizardry here.”  Tightness at his jawline again.

“I see what you mean about having studied,” Wik offered.  She smiled again, but her smile was short-lived when she changed the subject.  “So why didn’t you mention any of this to me when we met up on the New Road?  How did you know I couldn’t help you?”

Jo’s head swiveled to follow the conversation.

“Thank you for trying to help me.  It’s… shameful… to ask for help from… outsiders though,” Dorin answered.  “And I have to be careful whose debts I incur.”

Wik’s eyebrows go up, causing her nose to bob slightly.  She wobbled her head in a _what-do-you-mean-by-that _expression, but evidently decided against probing this bizarre statement.  In the midst of Jo’s predictable silence, Wik took it upon herself to move the conversation forward.

“Well,” she said determinedly.  “Do you have any leads?”

Dorin sighed.  “None,” he said dejectedly.  “None, whatsoever.  We don’t know exactly when the trouble started, or where.  There’s no pattern to when it happens, or to whom or what.  It’s… inconsistent.

“I came to Nicholas seeking advice on _where _and _how _I might even look for leads.  My family… we’ve no idea how to approach a problem like this.  I came seeking his…” his lips and nose twisted angrily at the last word: “wisdom.”

Wik took a deep breath.  “Well, then since we’re here, we should stake out the Cathedral of Pelor.  Even if the priests there can’t help, its beauty is famous.  It’s not even my faith and I’d love to visit.  Surely, you didn’t miss it on the way in…”

Dorin’s reply was rapid.  “No, I doubt they can help.”  He paused before continuing at a more normal speed.  “Besides, I… don’t want to owe them any favors.”

Wik’s face wrinkled as her left eyebrow rose while her right dropped.  She stared at Dorin with her head cocked.  “The priests of _Hai Pelor_, the God of the Sun and Charity you avoid, but the _mad Druid _was okay?”

“I have my reasons,” Dorin replied with finality.

Wik sighed and shook her head.  With a deep breath and a smile, she continued.  “Okay, well as long as we’re here, what _should _we do?”

“Look,” Dorin began, a note of resignation in his voice, but Wik would not let him continue.

“What do you think, Jo?” she interrupted, turning her back on him abruptly.

Jo could not have hesitated more than a second.  “I need a beer.”

Wik grinned broadly.  “Yeah, that sounds like a fine suggestion.  Coming, Dorin?”


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## GodOfCheese (Mar 22, 2009)

*Finnord's Bar*

Legend has it that the god Moradin forged the first dwarves from steel beaten from the very blood of the earth in the elder times, when all was fire.  And when the sons of Moradin reached the skin of the world, sometime between then and the terrible War of the Gods, they discovered beer.  They have been drunk ever since.

Finnord’s Bar was then a shrine to this well-known Dwarvish pastime.  The ceiling was low by human standards, and built of large, unfinished timbers.  Ruddy sunlight invaded through slits in the walls where massive stone pillars joined heavy logs.  Smoke hung thick in the air, creating rusty, marbled veins where the sunset rays cut through.  

The guttural syllables of enthusiastic Dwarven competed with pipe-smoke and beer-foam for dominance of the air.  The Bar’s atmosphere was alive with the scents of tobacco, woodsmoke, sweat and beer hops.  

Squat, broad-chinned women with foamy pitchers navigated the tight-quarters between the dozen or so sturdy-looking tables.  Most were occupied; many to capacity, with bearded patrons of massive build.  These dwarves were for the most part engaged in song.  

Dorin squinted, listening to the singing.  He couldn’t bring himself to call it _music_ per se, but the often brutal-sounding Dwarvish language does lend itself well to some situations.  “It sounds like they’re all singing the same song,” he said.  “…but I don’t understand the words.”

Wik grinned, dominating her own little knee-height area of the room with appreciation.  “They’re singing about how much they love to work.  That…” she listened for a moment, “…that good work done makes you long for more.”  

A few feet away, one of the singers clapped another heavily on the back.  The recipient laughed throatily.  They slammed their mugs together, and foam lashed out, spraying each in the face.  The laughter continued, as did the song.

“This doesn’t sound like the song of people who are angry that the mill’s closed,” Dorin observed.

“No,” said Jo, who seemed unaffected by the laughter surrounding them.  “Not everyone works for the J’Tegh mill, though.”  She pronounced the mill’s name with obvious ease, but without stressing it.

Dorin seemed to accept this.  “So this Jit-Teck--”

“Jih… Tegh,” Jo corrected sharply and slowly.  She stressed the trailing sound of the dominant last syllable and made it a few more times.  It sounded like she was trying to produce phlegm. “Don’t mispronounce a clan’s name,” she added.  She did not elaborate, but a look of wariness crossed her face briefly.

The message was not lost on Dorin.  “So this J’Tegh clan.  They run the mill, right?  Are any of them here?”

Jo looked around.  From her vantage point, the hairy tops of many heads were visible.  She shook her head after several moments.  “I don’t know.”

“Don’t they wear colors or something?”  Dorin asked, but then quickly answered himself: “I was told the kilts symbolized clan membership.”  He turned away from them and scanned the room.  “Bah, it’s too dark and smoky in here… I can’t make out any of the colors!”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” said Wik.  “Dwarves can see in the dark.  But it’s not like how we see.”  She searched for words for a moment but then gave up.  “Something about the pattern of the kilt.  They see the _shape_ of the patterns, not… not what it looks like to us.”  She shrugged.

Dorin nodded sagely to Wik, who just shrugged again.  _Does he know what I’m talking about, she thought, or is he just humoring me?  Humans often think that because we’re smaller, we must be children.  Others think we’re odd little geniuses.  What does this one think?_

“I don’t think we’re going to find one of them without getting a dwarf’s eye view,” said Dorin, his lips tight.  “You speak their language, right Wik?  Let’s ask them…”

Jo interrupted again.  “I wouldn’t.”  At Dorin’s insistent stare, she elaborated: “The other clans are afraid of being tainted by the haunting.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” said Dorin under his breath.  “Do you know any of the clan members?”

She nodded, her straw-like hair bouncing into her eyes.  As she drew the locks away from her face, she added, “But not enough that I could find them without better lighting.

“So we wait outside for them to come out,” prompted Wik.

“They’re not coming out sober,” replied Jo.  

“So?” asked Dorin.  “They should have plenty to say, then.”

“They anger easily when drunk,” added Jo.

Wik chuckled.  “That’s the truth.  And I have quite enough experience with angry, drunken dwarves.  Let’s think of something else.”

Dorin scowled.  

Jo abruptly strode into the crowd, her head turning left and right purposefully.

Dorin’s eyebrows knitted, which had a bizarre effect on his face.  “Jo, what are you doing?”

Wik exchanged a glance with him and spoke up.  “Hey, Dwarves are pretty insular.  Perhaps I should…”

“Jo!” came a guttural voice, unseen.  “Drink with us, you comely ogre!”

A chorus of laughter followed and several cries of “Yes!  Drink!”

Dorin looked to Wik.  She shrugged.  “That was… unexpected,” he offered.  “If Jo works for the establishment, wouldn’t they see her as a pawn of the Empire…?”

Wik looked out into the crowd, smiling.  “I don’t know, but maybe they’re not as simple as you have them made out to be…”

Dorin scowled and joined her in dwarf-watching.  “Nothing’s simple with a crowd.”  

She looked at him.  The dust on his face hid little: _I’ve nothing against dwarves, except that they’ve plenty against me._  Humans were as interesting as dwarves.  Her smile didn’t fade as she turned back to the bar’s patrons.

_There.  Two tables away.  His eyes whisk hurriedly away to contemplate his mug.  But he doesn’t drink it._  “I think we’re being watched,” Dorin intoned, just loudly enough for Wik to hear him over the many voices.

She seemed to have an answer for this.  Her smile didn’t waver, but her voice was abrupt—a command.  “Pick me up, Dorin.  Carry me, so they can see me, and go to the bar.”

At Dorin’s hesitation, Wik fixed him with her gaze.  “I’m not asking you to marry me.  Just put me on your shoulder.”  He lifted her up.  “Not like an infant,” she clarified a second later, her smile widening.  “I assure you I’m quite mature.”

“Sorry,” he muttered at her wink.

The crowd didn’t exactly part for them.  The patrons did, however, shift their chairs out of the way to accommodate Dorin as he carried Wik to the bar.  The stares of the dark eyes around them turned to nods of understanding.  However, Dorin still perceived the weight of suspicious judgment upon them.  Or, more likely, him.

---

Many of the patrons clapped Jo on the back as she approached the bar.  The dwarf behind the counter said something neither Dorin nor Wik could quite make out before either could arrive.  When they did, there was a small mug waiting.  Jo was already drinking.

Wik abruptly took and downed the beer.  Dorin shot her an odd look.  “It was intended for me.  It’s spice-beer.”  

Dorin’s eyes went back to Jo, then back to the barman, who was not looking at him.  “They don’t know her, of course… but they know you?”  His eyes returned to Wik, full of questions.  _I know you came from the Waste, the surface above the Landhold.  Is it you they know, or is it your people?_

She grinned and shrugged, saying nothing.  Her cheeks acquiring a rosy, good-natured hue.  Dorin’s expression was easy to read: _Noted for future reference._ 

“Jo, they obviously know you.  Who can we talk to about this… haunting?”  his voice had a strong undertow of resignation.

The woman reached out and punched the bartender obnoxiously in the shoulder as he passed, a feat only someone of her height could possibly have accomplished.  He turned to face her, his graying eyebrows raised in amused surprise.  Then he slapped her lightly on the shoulder in return; a compromise between the competing social expectations of hitting her and not touching a woman.

Jo’s voice was obnoxiously loud when she addressed the bartender.  “Finnord!”  She grinned toothily, to all appearances having transitioned from Town Guard to Local Drunk with a single mug.


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## GodOfCheese (Apr 28, 2009)

*Heegan*

Jo gave Finnord several names.  The barkeep shook his head several times before pointing.  

The dwarf’s name was Heegan, and he was sitting at a tiny table away from the tap.  He didn’t sing.  He didn’t even seem aware of anything outside his beer.  The other patrons seemed to be keeping their distance from him, lest his misery infect them.

Unfortunately he didn’t seem to know anything of investigative value either.  The mill had closed not but three days ago and with luck would reopen tomorrow morning.  He feared the mill would stay closed if it couldn’t keep up with the rate of incoming timber.  Although this was the third incident this summer, he wasn’t aware of any pattern in the hauntings.  

It was Dorin’s impression that the dwarf was uncomfortably sober and probably couldn’t afford to drink enough.  But there was that feeling again, of being watched.  He fought the urge to look out into the crowd.  _It never works, remember?  Just be aware of it and focus on the task at hand.  If it makes a difference, it’s better to trick the watcher into showing himself than to give yourself away trying to find him._

“So what happens?”  Wik asked curiously.  To reach the table, she was standing on a chair not meant for someone of her small gnomish stature.  “You know.  When it happens?”

The dwarf took an over-long drink.  _Stalling_, thought Dorin.  

“I was there last time.  We were using the cut-off blade first, which isn’t usual because it’s dangerous.”  He paused to drink again.

Before Dorin could prompt him to move forward with the story, Wik took the bait.  “Dangerous, how?”

“We usually rip the logs and then cut off the ends*.  But sometimes we have to cut off the ends first, usually because something’s wrong with the wood.”  He shrugged—a human expression borrowed by dwarves that shows off their enormous shoulders.  “When the wood is wrong, the cut can go wrong.  Pieces fly out very fast, and men can die from it.

“So we cut off the ends when we see problems that will affect the rip-cut.”  He held his left hand, fingers straight up, and hit his right against it, fingers held horizontally.  When his right hand reached his left, he folded his fingers in as if they were being sliced off.

“So what happened?” Dorin prompted.  

Heegan squinted at Dorin and huffed.  “The wood started to _bleed _is what _happened_.”

“Bleed, how?” Wik followed up.  “Like, tree sap shooting out, or…?”

“Like, blood!” the Dwarf replied loudly, his voice sharp with frustration.  He pinched at a scab on the back of his hand for emphasis.  “Like _this stuff_.  I know trees, and this was _not sap_!”  He wiped the back of his hand on his shirt and stared at them.

Dorin noted that the other patrons were subtly shifting away.  

Wik watched Heegan in rapt fascination.  “Tell me more!” she pleaded excitedly, drawing a look of surprise from Dorin.



“I knew something was amiss when we started crosscutting.  It was the way the blade shrieked when it went in.”  He must have noticed the blank looks from his three listeners.  “We have the best blades in Millington,” he added with guarded pride.  “…and we keep them clean and well-oiled.  They just don’t make that sound unless something’s wrong.

“But the blade was lined up just right.  It was the timber.  The wood was screaming at us, I know now.

“Then, when we were about half way through the rip cut, there was blood all down the line where the blade had been.  When we see blood, everyone checks to make sure he still has all his fingers.  But nobody was hurt then.”

He looked to his drink, but didn’t touch it.  “We… we thought it was sap then too at first.”  

Heegan continued to face his mug, but his eyes weren’t focused on it.  “But it pumped and ran when we kept cutting.  Sap doesn’t do that.  It was red, too, when we saw it later in the light.  Too red for a log that’s spent weeks in riverwater.”

Dorin thought of a few questions, but then reconsidered.  _His answers are disorganized_, he thought.  _Humor him and it may make more sense_.

The dwarf’s fingers turned the mug idly by its rim now as he spoke.  “It… it was slick.  Some of the guys slipped in it before we realized.  We sprinkled sawdust on it.  That helped at first, but it was still coming.

“After a minute or so, the blood got sticky like glue.  It drew sawdust and gummed up the blade.”  Then, hastily: “Hey, even our blade gets gummed up sometimes.”

Wik hadn’t blinked yet, or so it seemed to Dorin.  “So what did you do?” she added.

“We did what we always do,” Heegan replied calmly.  “We cleaned it.”

Dorin squinted.  The smoke was starting to get to him.  “It didn’t occur to you to call the guard?”

Heegan squinted back at him, and then just shook his head.  “We didn’t know it was _blood_ yet.  We thought we were just unlucky.

“But everyone who tried to clean the blade was cut that night,” he continued.  “…and badly, too.  It was like a _curse_!”

Dorin tilted his head to view Heegan from a slightly different angle, growing increasingly interested.  “Sounds intriguing, but I still don’t understand why you’d close the mill over this.”

Heegan drank, or pretended to do so.  “The wood didn’t stop bleeding.”

Wik’s eyes actually managed to get bigger.  “No!”

The dwarf nodded.  “It’s true,” he said.  “When we pulled the half-cut rounds out, they dripped.  But when we set them down, they made a pool.  Most of the wood we cut was soaked in blood by the time we saw it.  It’s ruined.

“By this time we knew it was the haunting.  Eyleck went for the Clan Elders.  We had to give it up.”

“Why?” Dorin asked, appearing confused.  “Yes, I know it ruined what you’d already cut, but what --other than the expense-- stopped you from throwing out that wood and starting over?”

Heegan nodded solemly.  “The elders said that all the wood we cut would bleed until at least the next morning.  So we cleaned up and went home.  Or here.”  He saluted with his dry-looking mug.

“And it’s been three days?” Jo asked bluntly.

The Dwarf nodded, his jaw set firmly before he spoke.  “Still bleeding, last time we checked.”

Dorin rubbed his bare jaw, considering.  

Wik, on the other hand, was bent at the waist, leaning over the table.  Her eyes were white with enthusiasm.  “Didn’t Moradin’s clergy do anything to help you?”  Her little elbows supported her as she stood upon her chair, but it didn’t stop her hands from waving outward, like a shrug: a faux gesture of hopelessness.  

Dorin stopped moving.  _She already knows the answer_.

Jo said nothing.

Heegan put the mug down firmly enough to draw the attention of a few patrons.  The mug did not break, but nor was anyone surprised.  Dwarves are not known for their gentleness with drinkware, and no barkeep would assume otherwise.  

“Bah!” he exclaimed, and raised his arms flamboyantly over his head.  “By the time they got there, there was nothing they could do!”  He growled briefly, looking out into the crowd.  “Maybe if they had been there before it started, but we didn’t know when it was going to happen again!”

The dwarf’s eyes fell upon the table as he scowled.  “And they can’t be there all the time, waiting for the next time.  We’re done for… obviously being punished, but for what?  _We’ve done nothing wrong_!”

The four of them were silent for a time, and Heegan continued to stare at the wooden surface before him.  Wik never looked away.

Presently, the dwarf looked up at her and his eyes searched her momentarily.

“Can you help us, good gnome?” He asked hesitantly.  “You and your minions?”

Wik smiled a huge, twinkling smile.

---

* If you know something of medieval log mills and feel like Heegan is utterly ignorant of how logs are really milled, I must apologize on his behalf, since I am utterly ignorant of how logs are really milled.  Corrective comments appreciated


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## GodOfCheese (Jul 8, 2009)

*The Mill*

At night, the J’Tegh mill looked little different than any other well-to-do building.  It was of stone, and its windsails were sufficiently high off the ground that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking for them.  From the road, the place’s only real features were its double doors, which were tall enough to admit a man standing in a horse’s saddle, and wide enough for a carriage or cart.  There were two sets of doors on opposing sides of the square structure. 

On the inside, it was cold, despite the warm air outside, and much darker, as if it were gathering the night into itself.  The smell of nameless lubricating oils, old sweat, and the sawdust of decades washed out the nighttime smells they carried in with them in an instant.  The sound of the sails turning loudly overhead echoed within the place.

By the light of three torches, they could see a spindle turning in the center of the room, attached to a large set of gears that appeared to be disconnected from anything else.  Nearby were two massive, circular saw-blades, which gleamed brightly, as if newly-forged.  These were set into different parts of a long, low table spanning the room, from the entry doors to a second set of doors on the far side.  

Woodchips and sawdust softened the edges and corners of the room.  Conspicuous reddish-brown stains were evident in various places on the floor and table.  Only the one on the table seemed particularly large, which they found strange until Jo pointed out that the cut wood was not stored here.

“No windows?” asked Dorin, in the same tone of voice he might use to inquire as to the missing eyes on a horse he was being offered for sale.

Wik gestured around with her torch.  “They don’t need them,” she said.  “They can see in the dark, remember?”

He nodded before looking appraisingly at the floor.  “Be careful kicking up sawdust,” he said suddenly, holding his torch a little higher.  “Everything in this room can burn.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Including us.”

Wik exhaled, holding her torch up a little higher.

The man went on.  “Jo, aren’t you going to get into trouble?  Impersonating a town guard to get us in here?”

“Not if we can save the mill,” replied the enormous woman calmly.  She shined her torch around, inspecting the walls and the stained floor casually.  Her back was to Dorin, but he thought he caught the hint of a smile in her voice.

_Ahhh, so she wants to be a hero_, he thought.  But he said nothing.

Wik’s expression was blank.  She took in her surroundings with a kind of over-the-top alertness that could make a bear self-conscious.  The little gnome looked quite professional, but at the same time out of place.  

“What are we looking for?” asked Jo.

Wik answered without turning from her search.  “Your guess is as good as mine.  Something that might tie the haunting spirit to this place.”

“Spirit?”  Jo fingered the handle to her axe, as if verifying it was still there. 

“Spirits of the dead like to linger in places they loved in life,” Wik muttered absently.  “Or where they died before their time.”  Then quickly: “So I’ve read, mind you.”

“Jo,” Dorin asked, “has anyone ever died here?” 

Wik continued to look energetically around the chamber.  One of the long walls that didn’t have doors on it had dozens of bizarre tools hanging from heavy nails.  Each nail held a tool (or several of the same kind), and they were spaced out across the wall.  

“No, not here,” replied Jo evenly.  “Not recently at least.”  Her fingertips fidgeted with her axe-handle.  “I’d have remembered the funeral.”  Nobody said anything, so she added: “Dying on the job?  I don’t think there’s a more honorable way for a dwarf to go out.  Well, aside from dying defending his home I guess.”

“Hmmm.  Could it be a hoax?” asked Wik.  She didn’t sound convinced.

“How would you fake bleeding wood?” Jo replied incredulously.  “And why would they want to shut their own mill down?”

Dorin’s answer was immediate.  “Perhaps someone else wanted to shut it down for them?  I can imagine a few ways.  Especially if magic was involved.”

Jo cocked an eyebrow at the word “magic”, but said nothing.

Dorin looked to Wik.  “Can you sense any magic?”

She touched her amulet and concentrated.  “It is present,” she said calmly, looking around slowly.  After a few seconds, she walked slowly to the center of the room.  “These,” she said, pointing to the saw-blades.  

“Could the bleeding be an illusion?” mused Dorin.

But Wik shook her head.  “Transmutation… it looks like a distant derivation of the _Knock_ spell… probably to make it more effective at cutting wood.”  

Dorin grinned in a kind of “gotcha” way.  “So that’s why their temple didn’t get involved!”  He looked at his companions, neither of whom had anything to say, so he continued.  “That spell would be illegal to cast in town.  Hypocrites!”  

He chuckled, but trailed off quickly.  “It doesn’t tell us much about the haunting though…”

Wik crouched to inspect something on the floor.  She was on the opposite wall from the tools, where apparently most of the wood chips and sawdust had been swept. 

“How about dwarves who worked here but died tragically in other ways?”  

All was silent for a moment, save for the turning of the mechanism over their heads by the sails outside.  Dorin looked up at Jo.

“Not a clue.”  She replied.

His eyes didn’t leave her.  Hers, in response, narrowed.  “What?” she replied defensively.  “The shifts at the mills change every few months at holidays.  Then most of them go off to cut timber for a season or two.  Some don’t come back.”

“So _generations_ of dwarves could potentially be haunting this place?”  Dorin seemed less than enthusiastic.  Jo didn’t look much better.   “Wik, if that’s the case, what do we do about it?”

“Help them pass on,” added Wik absently.  

Dorin noticed.  “What do you have?”

“I don’t know.  Bloody wood in a pile of clean shavings?”

The wood, on inspection, was a piece of grey bark about as long as a man’s forearm and about a hand’s width.  The chunk was rough, with deep grooves and crevices.  Its edges were perfectly smooth – the saw’s work – and the cross-section there was deep and black, like mahogany.  Threadlike veins of red ran through it in parallel.  

When she picked it up, there was a red, still-moist mark beneath it on the stone floor, as if it had been stamped with it.  

Wik’s hand was damp and crimson when she held up the object for inspection.  She had set her torch down on a patch of bare floor nearby.  The flickering, orange light of it made her nose look like a lantern.  “Maybe I’m imagining things.  It feels cold to the touch.”

“Of course it’s cold,” Dorin replied.  “It’s been sitting on a stone floor for who knows how long.”

“No, _cold_.”  She blew on her fingertips.  Vapor issued, drawing Dorin’s rapt attention.  She began to move the chip between her hands as one might a glowing ember.

“What do we do?” asked Jo.  “Burn it?”

“Not in here, we don’t!” Dorin exclaimed emphatically.  “Wik?”

“I don’t know.  I’ve never done this before.  I could try channeling it, maybe?”

“What, let it _possess_ you?”  Dorin seemed shocked.

“No, the other way around.  Like casting out the dead or healing… push Ehlonna’s gift… the power of life… into the chip and see if it drives out the spirit.”  She closed her eyes abruptly, concentrating.  The unicorn at her breast glowed subtly.

Dorin backed quickly away from her.  He held out his torch to warn Jo back as well.  The man held his other hand at chest height, palm out, as if preparing to catch something thrown at him.  

Jo threw her torch down to the stone.  She drew her axe outright and held its massive bulk before her in both hands.  Seeing this, Dorin stepped forward, not quite interposing between the two women but certainly giving the warrior a bit more space.  He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Wik’s eyes went wide and she took in breath sharply.  Her lips looked blue.  A second later, the whole room grew uncomfortably cold.  

A low groan echoed through the mill, like a tree creaking in a gale.  It seemed to flow all around the chamber.

Jo whirled to follow the sound, casting bizarre shadows as she did.  Her axe flashed, reflecting the torchlight from the floor as she moved.  Though visibly shaken, her voice was completely calm: “Stay behind me, strange man.”    

“Ever fought a ghost?” he asked nervously, gripping his torch in both hands.  

“No.”  

Dorin blanched.  It is not comforting to see an amazingly tall person look frightened, especially if she is carrying an axe taller than you are.  “Wik, you still with us?” he asked.

The gnome’s teeth chattered.  She looked petrified with shock.

Then the wind came up, and with it the groaning sound.  Small tools flew off the table.  Particles of dust were cast into the air, though strangely the sawdust pile was unchanged.

“What do we do?” Jo yelled frantically.

“Wik, can you find it?”  Dorin asked suddenly.  “Where is it?  What does it look like?”

This seemed to revive her.  “Not yet—give me a breath.”  She whispered a spell and her amulet flared white.  The light radiated outward through the bark, cutting a swath through the dust.  

_Detect Undead_, noted Dorin reflexively.

Where the light touched the stone walls of the mill, the three intruders saw eerily-lit grass instead.  Not even the cobblestones outside, but the sparse grass of a dense forest, tousled by the unnatural breeze that circled the room.  It was as if they were standing in a vast forest, its canopy blotting out the moon, and Wik’s amulet provided patchy moonlight, illuminating the floor as it moved.

“That’s… not how this is supposed to work,” muttered Wik to nobody in particular.

An awl flew past her ear and embedded itself in the mortar behind her.

“Where _is it?_” called Jo urgently over the wind.  

Wik shined her magic about.  The results were the same on all the walls: a forest scene, reacting to the wind.   “I don’t know!  It seems everywhere!”  

A heavy metal file whipped over Dorin’s head.  Jo deflected it with her axe.

“This is bad,” Jo said calmly, to no one in particular.  

Dorin looked at Wik, and then yelled “Out!  Go!”

The wind picked up and began to savage their clothes. They ran to the door.  Jo wrenched it open and the travelers ran eagerly through it.  Once through, the warrior heaved the door closed behind them.  Behind them, the three heard the wind die away inside the building.

“What the _hells_ was _that?_” asked Jo exasperatedly.


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## strawberryJAMM (Jul 8, 2009)

So awesome Cheese.  I love reliving this from the perspective of the story you're creating.


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## GodOfCheese (Aug 7, 2009)

*What the Hells it Was*

There they lingered, upon the weed-flecked cobblestone street, surrounded by the warm night winds, the creaking of the windsails, and the logs stirring in the T’yers.  And the deafening sound of their hearts beating.

“What the hells was that?” asked Jo again.

Wik took a deep breath.  “A powerful presence,” she said ambiguously, her brows crinkled.

Candlelight kindled in a window nearby, catching Dorin’s eye.  “Let’s get out of here before the real...” he took a breath.  “…before the other guards show up.”

Jo, visibly shaken, took care to put her axe away as she stood.  She turned to help Dorin up, but he waved her off.  Wik rolled lightly to her feet.

“Where to, Jo?” asked Dorin with controlled excitement.  His eyes were on the window.

She followed his eyes and said simply, “Away.”  A hazy silhouette appeared briefly in the window.  “Now,” she added.

---

“I don’t understand,” Jo asked calmly, once they were further down the main road.  “What happened to you, exactly?”

Wik sighed.  “Whatever that was in the room with us, its presence was overwhelmingly strong.  I was… lost for a moment.”  She shrugged.  “You know how sometimes you look up at the sky and the sun dazzles you?  Same thing.  I was dazzled.”

Jo looked away with a scowl.  “So the ghost of this dead dwarf is… what?  The king of all dead dwarves?”

“I seriously doubt that ghost was anyone we’ve ever met,” Dorin replied, rubbing his hand against his jaw.  His eyes were distant.  “Really, if that ghost’s presence was enough to overwhelm you, we’re not dealing with anyone _normal_.  We’re talking about a seriously destructive being.”

Wik seemed to consider this, saying nothing.  They walked in silence for a time before she piped up.  “This might rule out any run-of-the-mill exorcism.  Even if I could perform one.”

Dorin grinned for a moment.  “Run of the mill?”

Wik smiled broadly.  “…even if I could perform one, yes.”

Jo seemed unaffected by Wik’s levity.  “So what does that mean?  That the mill is unsalvageable?  The J’Tegh clan is going to be pretty ticked off.”

Dorin sighed and nodded as they rounded a corner.  It was late, but not so late that they were the only ones on the street.  There were still plenty of dwarves staggering about in search of their homes.  Many of them didn’t look like they’d make it, even with help.

“We should probably think about where we’re sleeping tonight,” he said, looking around at the others on the road.  “I’m told the inns in this town never close, but they might yet fill up.”

“I’d rather sleep under the stars,” said Wik just ahead of a deep breath.  “It’s not going to rain, after all.”

Jo watched this exchange, adding nothing.

Wik smiled brilliantly.  “Seriously though, I can think of plenty of places I could just sack out.  We’ve got our travelling gear, Dorin, why pay for an inn?”

Dorin’s face was that of someone who was looking for a polite way out.  “Aren’t you worried about being robbed?”

She looked at Jo.  “Should I be?”

Jo shrugged.

“Then I won’t.”  She looked somewhat intense.  “Come on, Dorin.  I know you’ve slept on the roadside… what’s the difference?”  
“Hey, after so many days on the road, I…”

Wik’s voice dropped to a low whisper, just loud enough for the two of them to hear.  “We’re being followed.  Don’t freak out.”

Dorin blinked.  Jo caught herself reaching for her axe, then scratched her shoulder with that hand instead.

“Uhh, seriously though, maybe we should hit an inn?”  He was clearly thinking his options through.  

Jo made an elaborate show of stretching her arms.  She stopped, turned around, and seemed ready to do a full callisthenic routine on the street before they beckoned her on.

Dorin’s eyes fastened on Wik’s as he whispered, “Nicholas’s grove!”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go.”

---
Their followers were a pair of dwarves who staggered around from alleyway to alleyway, but hustled to catch up in the street when Wik and the two humans rushed ahead.  The dwarves wore stiff, tough-looking kilts and were not masters of surveillance.  Each wore a heavy hammer on his belt, a common enough tool around Millington that seemed likely intended as a weapon, possibly with Wik, Dorin, and Jo in mind.  None of them wanted to find out and risk the town guard’s involvement to boot.

Nicholas’s Grove appeared much more beautiful in moonlight than it was in the daytime.  It looked strangely cleaner, and more of the flowers were noticeably in bloom.  The druid was not there… either he wasn’t back yet from his mad errand, or he had already been and gone again on some other unfathomable business.

“Think we lost them?” asked Dorin, breathing heavily.  The trio had dodged down several alleyways on the noisy pretense of being lost or, at times, drunk, before coming here.  They learned in the process that Jo, for all her unsubtle appearances, was quite capable of helping them carry out that ruse.

“I doubt it,” replied the gnome.  She was winded—her little legs had to sprint sometimes to keep up with the two humans.  Wik bent over, her scarlet face puffing, and put her palms on her knees for support.  
“Why are they following us?” asked Jo, seemingly unaffected by all the running.  “Are you sure they _were_ following us?”

“Must be the J’Tegh clan,” muttered Dorin between breaths.  “Spotted us in the mill and want… wanted to keep their secret.”  

Jo shook her head.  “No… different clan.”

Dorin’s brows raised.  “Whose clan?”

“I don’t know.  The kilts just looked different from Heegan’s.”

A noise outside the grove sent all three of them onto the ground, low as could be, for cover.  The sound of branches bending and underbrush being slowly crushed drifted over them.  It seemed distant, but from their vantage it was hard to tell.

“Dorin,” Wik whispered breathily, “I must… amend… my previous statement.”  She managed a deep breath.  “I’m certain we haven’t lost them.”

The flicker of a smile crossed the man’s face.  He looked to Jo.

Her axe was out, if not exactly at the ready given her prone posture.  The woman’s face looked serious, almost businesslike.  Her eyes did not meet his when she spoke.  “If we have to fight them, we should do it here,” she said calmly.

_She has her game face on_, Dorin realized.  _She might as well be wearing war-paint.  But a fight here will still draw the guard._ 

Wik whispered, “I don’t know that we… have to fight.  If they’re not of the J’Tegh clan, they may be here to talk.”

“No way their business with us is unrelated to the mill,” Dorin said flatly.  “And they’re not friendly or they’d have called out to us.  That is, unless their contact with us should be kept secret from the locals.  I don’t know why that would be, but I doubt it’s honorable.”

“Jo,” Wik asked, “is there another way out of here?”  Her breathing was under control again, but she did not look eager to get on the move just yet.

Jo just shook her head.  “We’d have to climb Nicholas’s tree-fence.”

Dorin shook his head too.  “They’d see us.  They’re staying out of the grove, at least for now, but they aren’t going anywhere and I think they can see both paths out.”

Wik cocked a curious eye at Dorin.  “That makes sense—they don’t know if we’re invited guests, or if Nicholas is home.  They would hesitate to enter his grove without at least warning him, and they probably view this as a magical place, best avoided anyway.  But how did you know they’re staying out?”

He rose to a crouch.  Jo did the same.  Wik remained on the ground.  “I’ll tell you later,” the man said.  “Even if we can get out of here, we have to assume they’ll tail us once we leave.”  His eyes scanned the dark, branchy perimeter as he backed slowly toward Nicholas’s shack.

It was in this way that he inadvertently found the way out.


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## GodOfCheese (Sep 18, 2009)

“I’m surprised you didn’t crack your head open!”  Wik scolded as they descended the cold tunnel down under Nicholas’s grove.  She kept her voice down, but the natural stone of the shaft’s walls echoed.  

She and Dorin each cringed with every step.  The stairwell they were taking was ill-maintained and each stair seemed to have its own individualized creaking sound.  It was as if they were really marching down a ghastly and cavernous xylophone with mismatched bars.  

Behind and above them, Jo pulled the trapdoor shut, separating them from the surface.  Surprisingly, the heavy door was not loud.  Unfortunately, there was no lock either.

Dorin looked back at Wik, his eyes incredulous.  “Hey, you saw it.  The trapdoor was _hidden_—plants had grown over it even.  We’re lucky I found it!”

Jo snickered.

“Okay, we’re lucky I tripped over it.  Can we move on?”

---

“I’m confused now,” Jo said after closing the trapdoor.  “Why does Nicholas have a… a dungeon in his backyard?”  She hustled down the stairs to catch up with Dorin, who had the torch.  The steps creaked loudly with her every footfall, but she paid them no mind.

Wik’s eyebrows knit.  “Good question,” she said.  “If it makes you feel better, I can rule that out though.  It smells more natural than that.”  She took a deep breath.  “More like a cave or a deep tunnel with an opening to the outside air.”


The shaft with the stairs opened out into a cave.  The air was slightly moist and the distant sound of moving water was just barely audible.  Beneath their feet was a dusty mixture of stones.  Nearby, a solitary brick sat upon the dust.

Dorin pointed to this and shrugged.  Wik just shrugged back.  Jo did nothing.

They walked quietly in the darkness; their footsteps marked by the soft crunch of sand and stones.  Dorin, torch in hand, led them toward the water sounds, around natural columns and stalagmites.   They walked for less than a minute before they found the body.

It was human, face-down, half-buried in sand, and covered in dust.  The corpse’s legs vanished into a sheer wall that protruded diagonally from the sand.  Wik inspected the body closely.  “Very old… almost mummified,” she pronounced.  

Jo said nothing, but held her axe a little closer to her body.  “I’ve heard that terrible evils lay beneath the ground.  Do you think Nicholas built that trapdoor to keep them in, or us out?”

Dorin scowled.  “I don’t know about terrible evils…” he stepped gingerly around the body and brushed dust off the wall, revealing masonry.  “That’s what I thought.  These are ruins.”

“Millington’s supposedly built atop the ruins of a long-dead city,” he explained.  “Lore has it that in the time of the War of the Gods, the inhabitants were annihilated in a catastrophe of fire.  The place burned to ashes and was swallowed up by the earth.”

He waved his torch in the direction they’d been walking as he continued.  “Supposedly, the only remains of this city are their great canals, which to this day prevent Millington from flooding.”  By torchlight, his eyes glittered enthusiastically as he looked at Jo.  “You’re from here, right?  Have you not heard these tales?”

Jo shook her head, looking put off.  “I’d heard that there were canals beneath the city, but nothing of a graveyard of ancient blasphemers.”  She strained her eyes to see beyond the circle of torchlight.  “Ugh.  Do you think we’re disturbing them?”

Dorin laughed quietly.  “I doubt it.  They’ve been dead at least a thousand years.”  He paused.  “Tunnels like this must riddle the ground beneath the town,” he mused. 

“Who _are _you?” asked Wik suddenly.  

Dorin whirled toward her in surprise.  Jo looked confused.

“No, seriously.  Dorin, who are you?  You know _way too much _to have gotten it through study, and you’re too smart to wander around the Lawless Lands with naught but a dagger.”  He opened his mouth but she kept talking.  “You said you’re looking for help, but you’re being so careful who you accept it from...  I’ve never seen someone so paranoid out walking with so few provisions either, unless he’s running _from _something.”

She pointed her tiny finger at him.  “If what you’re searching for is so important that you can’t tell us, then can’t you at least tell us where you’re from?”


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## GodOfCheese (Sep 18, 2009)

(removed)


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