Post by hubertbartels on Sept 30, 2023 13:20:28 GMT -5
Into the Grey Mists
The next morning, we prepared to leave the cavalry outpost of Kenrun and enter the Grey Mists of the Mournlands. A few miles away, they filled the horizon, rising to block the sky. The Grey Mists were supposed to be anywhere from a hundred feet to a mile in depth – a span in which all sense of direction, any anchoring to fixed locations, any feeling of place – was missing. Only the road and the iron pilings punched into the ground every 10 yards gave guidance to the travelers passing through.
The caravan entered. Draglin, the caravan master, advised us against wandering away. Stay close to the wagons and keep at least one other person in sight at all times, he said. And if you feel about to be overcome by feelings of loss and despair, go get on the wagons, he added.
The air inside the Grey Mists was stifling. Heavy, oppressive and hot without actually being warm. Visibility dropped to a few yards, with only vague dark shapes marking where the wagons rolled. Trouble was relieved when the Grey Mists parted to reveal the landscape of the Mournlands. The sight was not promising – the land was barren, baked hard clay with almost no vegetation. Nothing moved. There was no sound. The air was still with a faint scent of hot iron.
Now that we had come through the Grey Mists, the dangerous part of our journey had started. Draglin warned that we should expect attacks on the caravan. We placed ourselves in front of the wagons and prepared for any ambushes.
About twenty minutes from emerging from the Grey Mists, they set their ambush. Two hobgoblins blocked the road forward. Torbrand noticed more ambushers, hiding behind screens of false rocks. The two standing in the road looked wounded, as if they had escaped an earlier attack.
Kadrin sprung the ambush by leaping into the attack, dropping the two hobgoblins blocking the road. Then two more hobgoblins, one riding a worg, rode up and starting attacking our monk. In the meanwhile, Torbrand had dropped a Fireball on top of the hidden ambushers, forcing them out onto the road to take us down. Kara, Emrys and Trouble were soon fighting with hobgoblin soldiers.
Because the hobgoblins were already injured, they slowly started dropping. The leader on his worg tried to rally his forces behind his tower shield fortress but Kara emptied her magic wand of Magic Missiles into him, killing him and dispelling the steel wall. Then we finished killing the survivors.
Continuing on to the Trading Post, we came across the sound of metal gears grinding. Curious, we left the caravan and went over a ridge to find out the source of the noise. We found a group of Warforged moving across the desolate landscape. They were guiding a damaged Warforged Titan that was missing a leg. The group of Warforged would soon come across our caravan so we returned to tell Draglin what we had found.
Once the group of Warforged had approached the caravan, one stepped out and asked if we had come across any hobgoblin raiders. We told him we had destroyed a group of hobgoblins. He replied that the group of Warforged had fought the hobgoblins led by a lieutenant of Baalo One-Eye, but they had escaped. With the news that the hobgoblins were no more, they asked if they could accompany the caravan to the Trading Post.
The Trading Post was a fortified outpost in a barren land, surrounded by a earthen berm, topped with pylons taken from an abandoned Lightning Rail line. It had about 800 people living in brick structures, wooden shanties and tents. The caravan moved through the Trading Post’s gate and halted at a caravansary. Each of us received four gold coins as wages and told the caravan would leave for Kenrun in three days.
After getting rooms at the appropriately named “The Last Resort” inn, we were free to explore the town. Trouble heard the Sovereign Host had a tent as a church so she went there to check in. The local priest, a Warforged named Father Boros had been entertaining a cleric of Jorasco so he invited her to join them for tea. While there, Trouble inquired about the missing Dragonmarked Heirs. Father Boros did not know much other than they had been taken North, deeper into the Mournlands. Asking about Gustave Hecate, she learned that they had fallen out of favor and their people had left the Trading Post. However, William Compten, their agent, had been seen in town recently. After getting Compten’s description, she returned to the inn.
At the Last Resort, Trouble learned that Torbrand had made similar inquiries at the Dragonmarked Enclave. He had been given the name of Ikar the Black, a half-orc, who might be willing to sell or trade the information we were looking for.
The next morning, we prepared to leave the cavalry outpost of Kenrun and enter the Grey Mists of the Mournlands. A few miles away, they filled the horizon, rising to block the sky. The Grey Mists were supposed to be anywhere from a hundred feet to a mile in depth – a span in which all sense of direction, any anchoring to fixed locations, any feeling of place – was missing. Only the road and the iron pilings punched into the ground every 10 yards gave guidance to the travelers passing through.
The caravan entered. Draglin, the caravan master, advised us against wandering away. Stay close to the wagons and keep at least one other person in sight at all times, he said. And if you feel about to be overcome by feelings of loss and despair, go get on the wagons, he added.
The air inside the Grey Mists was stifling. Heavy, oppressive and hot without actually being warm. Visibility dropped to a few yards, with only vague dark shapes marking where the wagons rolled. Trouble was relieved when the Grey Mists parted to reveal the landscape of the Mournlands. The sight was not promising – the land was barren, baked hard clay with almost no vegetation. Nothing moved. There was no sound. The air was still with a faint scent of hot iron.
Now that we had come through the Grey Mists, the dangerous part of our journey had started. Draglin warned that we should expect attacks on the caravan. We placed ourselves in front of the wagons and prepared for any ambushes.
About twenty minutes from emerging from the Grey Mists, they set their ambush. Two hobgoblins blocked the road forward. Torbrand noticed more ambushers, hiding behind screens of false rocks. The two standing in the road looked wounded, as if they had escaped an earlier attack.
Kadrin sprung the ambush by leaping into the attack, dropping the two hobgoblins blocking the road. Then two more hobgoblins, one riding a worg, rode up and starting attacking our monk. In the meanwhile, Torbrand had dropped a Fireball on top of the hidden ambushers, forcing them out onto the road to take us down. Kara, Emrys and Trouble were soon fighting with hobgoblin soldiers.
Because the hobgoblins were already injured, they slowly started dropping. The leader on his worg tried to rally his forces behind his tower shield fortress but Kara emptied her magic wand of Magic Missiles into him, killing him and dispelling the steel wall. Then we finished killing the survivors.
Continuing on to the Trading Post, we came across the sound of metal gears grinding. Curious, we left the caravan and went over a ridge to find out the source of the noise. We found a group of Warforged moving across the desolate landscape. They were guiding a damaged Warforged Titan that was missing a leg. The group of Warforged would soon come across our caravan so we returned to tell Draglin what we had found.
Once the group of Warforged had approached the caravan, one stepped out and asked if we had come across any hobgoblin raiders. We told him we had destroyed a group of hobgoblins. He replied that the group of Warforged had fought the hobgoblins led by a lieutenant of Baalo One-Eye, but they had escaped. With the news that the hobgoblins were no more, they asked if they could accompany the caravan to the Trading Post.
The Trading Post was a fortified outpost in a barren land, surrounded by a earthen berm, topped with pylons taken from an abandoned Lightning Rail line. It had about 800 people living in brick structures, wooden shanties and tents. The caravan moved through the Trading Post’s gate and halted at a caravansary. Each of us received four gold coins as wages and told the caravan would leave for Kenrun in three days.
After getting rooms at the appropriately named “The Last Resort” inn, we were free to explore the town. Trouble heard the Sovereign Host had a tent as a church so she went there to check in. The local priest, a Warforged named Father Boros had been entertaining a cleric of Jorasco so he invited her to join them for tea. While there, Trouble inquired about the missing Dragonmarked Heirs. Father Boros did not know much other than they had been taken North, deeper into the Mournlands. Asking about Gustave Hecate, she learned that they had fallen out of favor and their people had left the Trading Post. However, William Compten, their agent, had been seen in town recently. After getting Compten’s description, she returned to the inn.
At the Last Resort, Trouble learned that Torbrand had made similar inquiries at the Dragonmarked Enclave. He had been given the name of Ikar the Black, a half-orc, who might be willing to sell or trade the information we were looking for.