CLOSED | Nug Quest

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Adrasteia, Holden, Jone, Joselyn, Sawbones, Val de Foncé, Wysteria, and Dick.
WHAT: Poachers run afoul of a Riftwatch research expedition.
WHEN: Cloudreachish. Time is a flat circle.
WHERE: Minranter River, Free Marches
NOTES: Animal cruelty, some gore.

JOURNEY:

Their trek north across the Free Marches to the Minranter is light and mild: Jone’s mule, Loghaine, hauls the bulk of any heavy gear. The wind stays brisk beneath steady cloud cover, only rarely committing to rain, and there’s an inn to curl up in once they reach the river. Have a drink, rent a bunk with a moth-eaten blanket, splurge on the “luxury” suite upstairs.

For those that aren’t willing to cough up the coin, there’s always the stable.

Further into the wilderness, the white noise roar of the river at night makes for restful sleep and long watches, where the crack and rustle of a bear through the underbrush or the sound of approaching horses might go unheard until it’s too late. At times flashing eyes reflect the watch fire from the treeline, only to melt away without incident. Pawprints pressed into the river sand and traces of bone-littered scat hint at the nature of their nightly visitors -- more fascinating to some than others.

DESTINATION:

Vultures spiral overhead -- an ill omen, easy to mark at a distance. Far below, hoof-beaten grass is streaked with gore where a herd of nugs was pursued out onto the river flats, blood still wet despite the wind, one little body left broken underfoot on the trail. They never had a chance.

Ravens squabble and hop between flayed corpses left to stiffen on the beach. Flies zip from haunch to haunch, spoiled for choice.

There are a dozen nugs here, most of them quite young. Their skulls are crushed, the sand churned with tracks where they struggled.

A few still have their hides. The leather is mundane, for anyone who has the heart to check.

Further west across the river, campfire smoke drifts skyward over the trees where the sunset fades orange to purple. A pained squeal carries across the distance, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter on the wind. Eventually a few of their voices rise in song.

The killers are close, and night is falling.

AFTERMATH:

An earlier drizzle keeps the fire from spreading into the surrounding wood: by the time the battle is dying down and the nugs are freed, the flames have dwindled to a forlorn lick across blackened canvas and crates of supplies. And the corpses: some burnt, some on the beach, one bobbling slowly downriver.

Something should probably be done about those.

The two fade-touched nugs they’ve rescued need tending. They are wild and distrustful, but they are also exhausted, and injured, and desperately thirsty.

Near the remains of the campfire, a spit-roasted nug still has attracted a fly or two, but still has meat on the bone. There are fade-touched nug hides to be found on the wagon that survived.

A few dazed mounts linger where they were tied off at camp or tangled in the woods nearby -- at some point, a dracolisk had plunged past Jone into the battle-darkened water. Like the armor of their previous owners, they’re rugged and diverse -- beasts captured, won and stolen. A great, shaggy white Avvar horse has taken to Adrasteia, lipping at her sleeve.

Let them roam free or round the others up for an easier ride home.

Comments

[acreage]

He only pauses long enough to drag a hand down his face, then nods.

"It's a good idea."

She's small, quiet, could easily go unnoticed. And even if she is seen, why question a funny-looking animal out in the wilds around here?

[nonvenomous]

"You're welcome to shadow her if you're feeling especially distrustful."

Silas furrows his brow for that dragged hand. 'Accidents' have been known to happen while Thot is scouting. Occasionally problems solve themselves before the opportunity for an ethical debate arises.

But it's hard to imagine even a very industrious and intelligent owl snuffing seven bandits all on her own.

"It is what she's here for."

[acreage]

Just to clarify,

"You think I'm worried that your cat is going to murder several men before we get there?"

[nonvenomous]

“It’s difficult to imagine how little you think of us,” says Silas, with a logic-driven innocence of affect that can only mean he’s open to the idea of having her try.

“But she can be creative.”

[acreage]

Surprisingly easily, given the tone of this conversation —

"I trust you. And that means I trust her, too."

So, no, the idea of Silas having his cat preemptively kill a bunch of guys hadn't bothered Jim. He'd considered the possibility, of course; he'd have to be stupid not to. But he also doesn't think Silas brought him along for this job only to go behind his back on a moral quandary that'd obviously matter to him.

"Once she brings back some more information, we can make decisions about what comes next."

And almost certainly argue about it, y'know.

[nonvenomous]

“Hm.”

Hm, and a shadier level at his brows, as if he’s suspicious this has been clocked as some kind of test, and that’s where this well of confidence in his moral integrity is sourced from.

His cat is currently an owl, but only in the sense that she is ever anything other than an uncommonly affectionate blend of serpent and feline features with talons or wings or tentacles. She swoops silently from a tree at the riverbank -- a dark shape ghosting low across the water, already on her way to the far shore.

“It shouldn’t be long, provided she isn’t destroyed.”

[acreage]

"Would you know if she was?"

He watches her fly off, then looks back to Silas. Like, would he be able to...tell, or would they just know when the owlsnakecat failed to return in a timely manner?

[nonvenomous]

“Yes.”

More matter-of-fact now that they’re onto simple matters of curiosity, he further clarifies:

“I feel her absence when the connection is severed. Likewise, were I to be destroyed, she would almost certainly vanish in the same instant.”

Food for thought. A dry crook at the corner of his mouth is cheerless, even for him.

“We should make camp.”

[acreage]

Well that's deeply morbid.

He considers that, then makes an assenting sound to the notion of camp. "No matter what we do, we'll be here overnight."

Visit the scenic Minranter River, you might find evidence of animal massacres.

But before moving on to the logistics of setting up, he asks, "When something happens to Thot, how many times can you bring her back?"

Is he concerned for her safety, and about taking her respawning for granted? Maybe. Is this surprising.