I am Telaverr of Paderul. On the moment of my birth, a baby wyvern was found waiting outside of the birthing hut. Ut’Ullah, the village mystic discerned this was a sign, perhaps a curse or a blessing of the gods. I was taken from my mother to be raised by Ut’Ullah has a mystic. This was proclaimed by our chieftain, Kluman. At the age of 16, I was allowed to take the challenge to procure a wolf cub from the wilds. The challenge nearly cost me my life but I gained my hound, Drogga.
I must learn what the gods have in store for me.
Kluman lied on his back inside his hut. The fire raged in the pit at the center, casting a flickering, red glow upon the scene and making the air as feverish as the chieftain. Ut’Ullah placed her hand upon Kluman’s forehead and loudly pleaded to the gods for a cure. She suddenly fell silent and quickly pulled her hand to her chest.
She gave me a steely gaze, “Telaverr, the gods have spoken! You must travel west to the River of Wrath and find some Owivil. You do remember your studies?”
“Yes, mystic”, I replied. “Red stalks with groupings of three leaves adorned with ruby-tinted undersides. It is only found on the western banks of rivers growing among rock piles.”
“You always had a knack for plants. Please hurry, it is a long trip to the river and back and I can only do so much for our chieftain without the Owivil.”
I crossed my arms so that my forearms and iron braces form an “X” in front of me as I knelt. I placed my forehead against the bracers and said my vow, “On the touch of iron and the blood in my veins, I vow to return with our Chieftain’s cure!”
I walked outside the hut into the bright sunshine and looked at the clear sky. A few of the village folk looked on with worried demeanors. “Worry not my friends,” I told them. “The mystic will care for our leader until I return.”
“Where are you going!?”
The voice hints of worry and anger as Chalia steppped from behind another villager. Although my biological mother was not allowed to raise me and Ut’Ullah is the one I consider my true mother, the fact that Chalia is the woman that bore me was not kept secret.
“I am heading west to the River of Wrath, mother. It is there I will find the cure for the chieftain.”
Chalia lowered her head and drifted off towards her hut without another word as do most of the other villagers. But not Pendry. She is standing there with her arms crossed. “You are not going by yourself,” she said with smirk.
“I’ll have Deris and Drogga with me. If I can’t make it to the river with a wyvern and wolf at my side, I may as well hold a stone and toss myself into the bay!”
“Well I’m coming with you.”
“No! Stay here and practice your drums!” I said as I headed towards my hut to retrieve some supplies and gear. Pendry is a drum matron, skilled in the tempos and beats of our religious rites.
“I don’t need your permission! I want to help!”
I stopped mid-stride and turned to face her. “Fine!” I took three steps towards her, “But you are not in my charge. I take no responsibility if you get killed or if Deris decides to eat you. If you can’t keep pace, I will leave you behind. Do you understand?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a long trip, get what you need. We leave in ten minutes!”
After leaving the village, we headed west along the Hunter’s Trail. Drogga kept pace along besides us while Deris soared silently above. The skies darkened with overcast clouds and the winds slowly ramped from stillness to a cold breeze. The change in weather signaled that summer was finally at an end and fall was upon us, soon to be followed by the harsh winter.
At about noon on the second day, we came upon the remains of a caravan. The dingy brown tarp marked with an “A” made my heart sink in my chest. This is the wagon of Arani, a merchant who is the only one willing to make the trip this far south from Bayfield. We see him in Paderul only a few times each year and village is always kind enough to throw a feast for him.
The side of the road is littered with broken wood and strewn items, some of them bloodstained. I lifted the tarp to see the bloodied body of Arani. His kind face was unmoving and serene in the peaceful embrace of death.
I dropped the tarp to cover his body as I noticed Pendry staring down at him. “Poor Arani. I really enjoyed playing the drums for him. The village will mourn his passing. Should we give him his rites and pyre?”
“We should,” I answered. “But let’s look around first and see if we can find out who did this.”
We sifted the scraps of the broken wagon looking for any inkling of the perpetrator. We noticed anything of value was gone from Arani’s stores and all that was left was either useless or broken. Feeling at a dead end, Pendry and I decide we would build a pyre to put Arani to final rest. We quietly wrapped his body in the tarp and began erecting a pyre from the remains of his wagon.
Drogga gave a soft whimper as she pawed at something on the dirt path. I went over to discover she had found something amidst the pool of dried blood where Arani once laid. It was a bloodsoaked braid of long hair but interwoven within this braid was a green vine dotted with golden thorns. This vine only grows in the Wenade Thicket to the north. An area that is off-limits to all except for one culture. “Varou”, I whispered to myself. As a reward for the find, I fed Drogga and extra slab of venison.
With night almost upon us, we decide it would be best to camp after we put Arani to rest. We laid him softly on top of a bed of grass situated at the apex of the wooden pyramid. Pendry played a slow beat upon her bear-skin hand drum as I set fire to the bottom of the pyramid. We bowed our heads as the slow beat continued and silently said our goodbyes. As the pyre burned into the night, I gazed into the flames and thought about the Varou and Wenade Thicket…
To be continued in the next solo session
If you are interested in seeing the character sheet and mechanics of this actual play, go here.
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