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

[kantikoy]

She comes around to Wysteria's side in order to sweep the hay away from the cowering nug's back and make soft shushing noises in his direction. "You're safe, you're okay." The body of the nug is so small that it takes very little effort to heal its wounds, and Adrasteia tries to be as soothing as possible.

(She'll deal with Wysteria's bloodied clothes later. Possibly by virtue of making her new ones, it'll depend.)

It's a good thing she moved to the side, though, all things considered.

The bang has Adrasteia's shoulders jumping but in the meantime, all the good curses that Adrasteia knows? Are in Orlesian, not in Trade, and thus the words out of her mouth when the nug under Wysteria's other arm belches fire are "mère des démons et des boules du Fabricant dans un panier!" The nug she's touching flinches back and covers his ears again but she continues petting him while looking at Wysteria with an expression that is clearly meant to say 'what the fuck do we do about that?!'

[heirring]

Bang!

The heat is distinct, sharp given the proximity. Wysteria, drawn very pale and staring with abject alarm, stands absolutely stock still as the nug under her arm (facing behind her, for the record) belches out a great torrent of fire. When the heat fades, her eyes--all very big and extremely round--lock with Adrasteia's. She doesn't dare look behind her.

It's fine.

"Perhaps you might take the second one now?" Is a strangled, high-pitched sort of question. "And point it away from you? And then we will carefully take our leave to the edge of the camp?"

[nonvenomous]

There’s a little fiery toot at the back end, just to round things out -- a butane lighter snap of flame, after the primary eruption has waned. Then Wysteria’s nug (Nug #1) sags loose underarm, content (past some residual squirming) to be ferried backwards across the fringes of the fray.

If lifted, #2 will not want to be pointed, but neither does he seem in danger of scorching through his muzzle. The worst of his shivering eases at Adrasteia’s touch. As long as he is kept close and can hide his ears, he seems content to be wrapped up and carried. The more baby-like, the better -- at least until the fire dies down and the fighting stops, and the group can decide how best to handle these fade-touched bundles of joy.

And the bodies.

There are so many bodies.