(069) Pilgrims & Practicalities

[waysoftheearth]

Morgan and the pilgrims are still standing in the rain on the outskirts of the column, separated from Dorgan by a knot of mounted men and 60 or so yards of muddy tussock...

Meanwhile.

The knight with the panacea takes Dorgan's quarter of the bejewelled necklace and holds the flashy thing up to the light so that he might assay it. "Now that's a pretty thing, indeed..." he mutters with some interest as he inspects the numerous sparkly stones...

"You walked with young Helmut, you say," continues the senior knight, while his collegeuge examines Dorgan's piece. "A jolly fellow, wouldn't you say?"

Morgan is is unable to contribute is able purse to Dorgan's offer due to the distance between them.

[sully]

Dorgan replies, He may be, but I wouldn't know. He was all business when I dealt with him. Having the lives of a dozen pilgrims in his hands, well, after this trip I know why he was so serious. Dorgan gestures back toward Morgan and the pilgrims as he speaks.

[waysoftheearth]

"Ah see," replies the knight dryly. Further questions are forthcoming about the young templar Helmet, and about the recent doings of Dorgan's company, which he answers in his apolitic dwarfish manner. He's beginning to feel this is all a waste of his limited time, when at last the third knight--a steely fellow--steps forward in the drizzle.

"Enough!" he declares abruptly, dashing the first fellow's panacea to the mud and crushing it under his boot. "The dwarf has convinced me well enough. He is a rare ally in these striken parts, let us hear him honestly." The other two knights nod slowly their ascent, and the first fellow hands the necklace back to Dorgan. "The phial was naught but a ploy, Master Dwarf," he declares, "To learn the truth of your tale,"

"Bring the Meister!" hails the senior Knight to the column at large, "And fetch yonder pilgrims to the train! They can find comfort among their own there."

Seeing that Dorgan scored an uncertain reaction last time, the ref dices again: 2d6=6, so still uncertain. Poor Dorgan can't catch a break!

The ref presumes that these negotiations will continue at length until either a positive or negative reaction is ascertained, so decides to just keep rolling. 2d6=6 (again!), 2d6=9. Ahh, so at length the Knights react positively...

[sully]

Dorgan waves to Morgan, to let him know it's safe to approach.

As he waits for the Maester, Dorgan speaks with the senior Knight. Was I right in assuming yer here ta retake Ket? Or is the fall of the city news ta ya? If'n it was just goblins that sacked the city, I'd have faith in your knights to stick it to 'em, but with the giants there as well...

Dorgan leaves unsaid his opinion that the force is too small to achieve success.

[waysoftheearth]

Up on the ridge, Morgan's picket must have got a signal from the column, for one of the riders suddently grunts "Right, you can join the dwarf," and then raising his voice to address the pilgrims, "and you lot to the train."

The riders then spur their mounts into a trot and head back to the column, through the mud and drizzle. Morgan shrugs before marching down the muddy slope to where he sees Dorgan near the head of the column.

By the time Morgan arrives, the Miester has found Dorgan. He is an absurdly old and gaunt fellow, his bald pate is a hash of freckles, sun sores, and liver spots. He is bent and white, and accompanied by an orderly who holds a large umbrella aloft to shield the ancient from the rain. Dorgan could hardly imagine a more frail figure.

The Miester wears tiny specticales upon his hawk nose, fogged in the rain so that his eyes are invisible, and is constantly chewing his gums and muttering to himself. "the dwarf, the dwarf is it? the dwarf is ill, is he? the dwarf, the dwarf..." he mutters as approaches. The beefy orderly has a great black physicaian's bag slung over his shoulder.

Without further introduction The Miester begins to examine Dorgan as if he were a piece of livestock, muttering to himself all the while. He checks Dorgan's eyes, ears, teeth, tongue, and fingernails, and presses him awkwardly around the neck and spleen, chewing his gums and mumbling as he does so, and indirectly asking no one in particular "is he ill is he? and how did he take ill, hmm? was he careless, was he? will he live? will he die? was it posion hmm? what poison was it hmm?" and so on and so on...

[waysoftheearth]

Meanwhile, the senior Knight continues to converse with Dorgan as he is poked and prodded by The Miester...

"Our Mission is to investigate reported heresies, and the disruption to our Order's interests in these parts." he says. "I didn't expect to find the abbey or the town overrun but, by Thuul's Fist, I assure you we will sort the righteous from the wicked before we are done here."

[sully]

Dorgan first addresses the Meister. It's poison, ta be sure. I sampled a potion, unknowing the contents, and I'm payin' the price now. I don't have the rest of it on me. I was out of sorts after the Miss... uh, I mean Josiane, cast Slow Poison on me and I didn't think ta save the bottle.

To the senior Knight, Well, I mean ta return ta the Abbey and help clean out the rest of the werewolves so mebbe we can take that off yer to-do list. Still, I'd like ta help with the recovery a' Ket. Do ya mean to assault the place as soon as ya get there?

[waysoftheearth]

The Miester scarcely seems to hear Dorgan, continuing his examination and muttering all the while, "...Poison was it? Poison, hmm? Tasted the potion, the potion. The dwarf tasted the potion. Posioned. Poisoned, hmm? ..."

Meanwhile while the senior Knight replies: "If what you say is true, it hardly seems we'll recieve a warm welcome from Ket! But our orders are clear: our first duty is to reach our Brothers at the Temple. We will soon see the mettle of any foe that stands bewteen us and our objective, and then we may strategy. Like as not these Heathens" (he almost spits the word) "will faulter and flee before Thuul's righteous mission!"

By this time the Miester has scrounged and loaded a nasty looking medical seringe with a clear fluid, and without warning jabs it into Dorgan's belly while he is distracted in conversation.

Yeeowwwgh! That hurt! Before Dorgan knows it the Miester has injected him a cold shot in the gut and, with a practised ease, withdrawn his assassin-needle.

"He'll live, he'll live," mutters the Miester as he begins to pack his paraphenallia, "the dwarf will live, the dwarf, the dwarf..."

[sully]

Dorgan says, I hope you're right, Sir Kni-oooowwww! By the All-Father, what was that?

The dwarf pauses to see how he feels, and if the cold venom in his veins is fading or not.

[waysoftheearth]

"Ha har!" laughs the senior knight, clapping Dorgan heartily over the shoulders. "The Meister's cure has a wee sting in it, eh?" The knights enjoy a chortle at Dorgan's expense, but no genuine harm is done. Dorgan waits, uncertainly, as the rain continues to patter down. Gradually, gradually, with cold water dripping from his nose and beard, he feels the weakness in his limbs ebb, and his natural vigor returning. Within minutes he is feeling as hale and redoubtable as any dwarf; ready to take on all of Ket!

"We could use a handy dwarf, where we're going," remarks the third and least talkative knight. "Are you sure you will not reconsider, and accompany us?" he asks. "By your own tale there will be goblin heads to crack, and what dwarf would not delight to take a the goblins down a few pegs?"

Somewhere within the broader column, a shrill whistle is blow, and all the Men there begins to shoulder there respective loads and come to order. it must be the signal to get moving again...