The Shrine / An Argument

The party left Dragonspear and traveled the road--now becoming a road, not just a well-worn trail--north towards Melarn's Door. Safad was looking forward to seeing Alicia, sort of. Dala'gse was looking forward to seeing Becky, quivering. They all were looking forward to seeing Rya, very much so. The familiar route wound them past hot springs and eventually to the Boiling Lake where they called for Dartajon, the dragon turtle, and friend of Safad's. The conversed and told them of their trials. He let drop from his gem-encrusted underbelly many of the valuable barnacles. Falka was well-pleased. Then they turned to the comforting sight of Melarn's door. 

As they approached the great hall to announce themselves they saw Dagnar, the groundskeeper, up ahead who hailed them. When suddenly a fiery halfling inserted herself into their line of sight, charging at the party--at Safad. 

"Well hi, SAFAD! Hah! I hope you've been enjoying your 'travels'! Not a word from you since you left! Is that how you treat all the young women you draw in with your sympathetic ear and deep, thoughtful, eyes and insightful questions and your gorgeous lips and loving hands...and ---" Alicia broke down into sobs. Safad comforted her, looking meaningfully at his companions, and steered her toward a private place.

Which left Dalag'se, Ironca, and Falka to their own devices. Always a good idea. They looked at each other. Dala'gse said he had to go to the tavern, something about how Becky might be interested in his new octopus wild shape. Falka went for the eponymous Door. Ironica thought she'd have some fun with some students. 

They each passed the evening in their own way. And so it goes. 

The morning found a great hubbub in the great hall, over breakfast. The High Madame Selani Surnal was piqued and nearly yelling, in her restrained way, at the party. Even in her agitated state she still spoke in measured paragraphs, footnotes almost palpable after each clause. 

"I just don't see how you four can come in here--having turned down a prestigious professorship I might add, Safad--and stir up the student body as you did--and in ways very un-professor-like I might add, Safad! Our tavern-keeper is bawdier than ever, her crassness, once of the charming rustic sort, is now verging on the offensive. If I hear her mention tentacles one more time...One of our star pupils, Alicia, has fallen off in her studies, pining over a rambling sorcerer. And our keenest students now want to give up everything they've worked so hard for to follow you lot around on adventures that will more than like see them dead!"

"True," Falka intoned. "Very, very likely they die. And that would be on them."

"ACH!" Selanie let out an exasperated screech. 

Despite this show from the high madame of Melarn's Door, the next day still saw three students hiking north through the Jooschaggi (formerly Hark) lands. Alicia was absent, Safad having conned her into better serving him through deep study. The Door had been probed yet again, and hearts deemed still malice-holding.

And the students dogged their new cult-hero, Ironica. She had spent that lone evening impressing them with her roguish traits and charm, regaling them with seductive tails of their harrowing adventures,  convincing them that real-world experience was worth 10 Melarn's Door. And so they followed her, trying to avoid Falka's more "tough love" approach to apprenticeship. 

The Jooschaggi lands were much-changed since the party's last "visit". Children, once hidden, now roamed about. The people looked well-fed. They looked happier. There was a lightness. Their old signs and old ways were evident. 

Dala'gse wished he could stop to converse with some of them, but they were keen to head north. Instead, he paused over a stand of berry bushes, knelt down to the earth and cast Plant Growth. Satisfied, they moved on. 

Once they reached the Delimbyr, they met up with Grundelle and Petra, who piloted them along the river toward Unicorn Run. There, they turned up the wild waterway, and left the more tamed corridor that connected Waterdeep and the Western Heartlands to Innesbyr and the Vostewylde. 

The journey upriver was challenging. They faced numerous waterfalls, treacherous eddies, and the untamed nature of Unicorn Run. Unlike the typical rivers they were accustomed to, this river showcased a wild, wildlife-filled wetland, with meandering paths, overgrown banks, and evidence of beaver dams. Birds chirped and bugs buzzed overhead, while fish splashed near the surface. It was a land untouched by humanoid influence, guarded by stone-faced watchers along the banks, who seemed to be rangers silently observing their passage. One morning, they discovered an arrow embedded in the ship's mast with a scrawled note, warning them to announce themselves and not to threaten the land. They complied. They also caught glimpses of horse-like creatures galloping along the western bank, disappearing into the interior. After several days, Petra signaled their approach to a tall rock in the river resembling the a seal or sea-lion.

Continuing their journey eastward from Sea Lion Rock on foot, the adventurers found themselves in an enchanting yet challenging trail. The path was unmarked, overgrown, and seemingly as inconspicuous as a mouse-run. However, the beauty of the sun filtering through the elegant tree canopy, the scent of sap and humid earth, and the sounds of bird-calls and trickling water made the journey captivating. They relied on their survival skills to navigate through the dense forest, encountering a variety of wildlife along the way, including porcupines, moose, deer, lynx, and more. As they pressed forward, the density of trees increased, making passage difficult at times. 

It felt very much like a thicket. 

During their slow progress, a hush fell over the forest, amplifying the party's footsteps, armor-creaking, and breathing. A sense of quiet anticipation filled the air as they cautiously made their way through the thicket. Their keen eyes caught a break in the pattern. They noticed a corridor-like opening within the tangled thicket, curving into an even denser area. In this hidden sanctuary, vibrant pink lady slipper orchids, purple foxgloves, and ethereal ghost flowers adorned the surroundings, creating a surreal and mystical atmosphere. The light took on a penumbral and golden quality. 

And then they were falling into a hole. 

All but Safad, who managed to react in time, somehow, were caught. And it wasn't just a regular hole, but somehow a sack that was now being scooped up by an addled-looking and feral old elf hermit. The companions and their student charges were all roughly knocked about inside. The artificer in Safad recognized it as the magical contraption called a portable hole, that the old codger had used as a trap! He yelled at the wizened old fool who was now scampering, with surprising alacrity, down the curving natural corridor of the thicket. 

"Stop! Stop or I'll--" Safad called. But the man was escaping. "Damnit, I didn't want to do this," Safad muttered to himself, releasing a burst of magical energy that knocked into the old man and sent him sprawling. 

"Release my companions!" 

But the old man was up and charging Safad with a gnarled staff. Safad lifted his arms to let loose another spell. As he did, his robes fell about him, revealing his mark of the goddess, the star sign on his skin. 

The old man froze. Staff raised mid-swing. 

"The-- No! no! How! The Shepherd!" He indicated the mark. Safad nodded. 

"Quick, get them out! Is it the maiden, stag, the heron, the cross, the dagger, the ancestor?" 

Safad nodded. 

The old man unbundled his portable hole, spilling out the companions. There was much commotion and clamoring about. Safad only barely managed to intervene in time for Falka's knocked arrow to misfire. Dalag'se tackled the man. The students were unconscious. 

"Stop, stop!" Safad commanded. "He knows us." 

Now they got a better look at him. He was of medium build but stooped and shrunk in his old age. His skin is leathery and lined. His eyes were sad but the layers of wrinkles around them betrayed a lifetime of smiling. His long silvery hair flowed out of his cloak and down his chest. His clothes were well cared for and mended nicely even if they were simple. A wool cloak. Hemp tunic and loose fitting pants tucked into sturdy leather boots. He has a walking staff that he leans on fairly heavily. He had pouches sprouting out of his waist like weeds, of various sizes and pockets all over stuffed with odd organic matter and strange flora. He smells like dirt and rain. His once green eyes are a little cloudy with some signs of glaucoma. Around his neck was a leather cord and what must be a cross-section of a sapling with the moon, hearth and fire of the Hearthsign burnt into it. It was rubbed smooth and hard and very well worn—like the rest of him. 

"I lost all my spells when she died. But I couldn’t give her up. These many long years…She is my goddess. She taught me so much, she taught me to see, to hear, to feel. I’m old and half-senile now, I know, but I still wanted to take care of these sacred places, they’ve lost all the old Wards and protections. After what happened at the Stone Hearth this is all I have left. And here I made my new home and watched and guarded. I did as she taught, and prayed. 

She said once: ‘It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in the cobbles, or a few small pebbles; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice might speak.’ 

And so I did. And into that silence there was a stirring. Not a voice but a whisper. The Hearthsign inside somehow polished like new but just on the stars and I recalled from some place in my old head, those stars. Your stars. You. I didn’t ever dare touch anything, inside, it felt wrong somehow on my own when this was a meeting place to gather. But I would come and sit and contemplate.

And I’m sorry for my trap. Without the wards, I needed to guard this place. I felt the forest moving at your intrusion and tended my trap—crude as it was without my spells. I hoped it would be effective. But I’m glad you proved too clever!

Come, we're close now. My name is Cymbiir Oh, they used to call me the Druid of the Hearth. And this is Candlestick Thicket."