EvilJoe1
Group Name: Stone Dogs
The news of the altar are received with guarded alarm. Though the lack of roads will make patrolling that area somewhat difficult, the Captain Of the Guard says he will make sure to send a patrol every now and then to cleanse the place. Allowing evil spirits into the world can have dire consequences not even to most wise can foresee. No thanks is given, nor do you honestly expect any for you actions in this regard; any good and honest dwarf would do the same. But you can see something bothering the Captain even as you walk back to the trading depot. Perhaps he was wondering how such savages could survive out there year-long. Humans are not that hardy, even a goblin stands a better chance at survival and that is without counting the numerical advantage goblins usually have. Filthy, self-centred cowardly pests they are, like the bottom dregs of humanity.
The signing of the trade accord takes place without fanfare. In the end, while it represents the lifeline of trade for you, for Hammerfell it is just yet another agreement in a city known for bargaining, haggling and trading. You do detect a smug undertone in the Broker's voice as she congratulates you for the provisional deal. Indeed, Hammerfell is in no way inconvenienced by it and you are effectively forced to sell enough goods for them, at prices they have some latitude to set as they wish. But moreso, it seems to be a personal victory for her over you. Truly, with such attitude Hammerfell has chosen a suitable Broker, to the consternation of everyone looking to negotiate with them. Perhaps in a way, this was a blessing, that you got a potential long-term agreement by just promising the sweat of your people to benefit this city.
The blacksmiths of the city are quite happy where they are, with their forges set up exactly like they wish. You do see a look of only slightly veiled interest in the eyes of one older apprentice. She does not speak out in vein of tradition of letting her master have the final word on such matters, but you think that this one might just knock on the doors to your fortress once she finishes her proof of mastery.
The trades you made weigh down the wagon a bit, but less so than what you came in with. A proud new owner of two dogs, two donkeys, a set of leather armor and a crossbow, sack of Longland seeds and functional plans for a watermill and four persons larger, your small caravan rolls out of the gates and heads back towards the plains.
The going is about as fast as when you came in. The land now seems more familiar and landmarks in the horizon speed your feet onwards. And with memory fresh, you easily find the altar of gruesome bloodletting. In the light of the sun the scene depicts a truly unholy sight. Blood seeped into stone, revolting sigils and uncouth prayers to malevolent spirits and ghosts of evil gods long dead are carved on it and the ground around.
But curiously, the bodies of the dead men are not there. Not even their bones remain. Hoping animals have dragged the corpses off, you pay more heed to the altar itself. An abomination it is, and gladly will you demolish it. Walking a bit further out, you select a large stone form the ground. And as you walk back, you hope sun has done its job and cleansed the altar from the foul influences you saw on that night a week ago.
With a cry to Moradin, you bring the stone down on the altar. On the next strike, you cry to Armok. On the next, to Palladum, Gatekeeper of Moradin and counter of the dead. On the next, to the hallowed SIlvereye, holy Hunter-Warrior of the Old World. With each strike, you name another god or saint of your pantheon. By the time you have recited them all, the altar lies in ruins, no piece of it larger than your clenched fist.
You leave the stone you used where it lies, thinking it best to leave the place for wind and sun to consume now that the altar no longer remains. In silence, you keep walking.
It is the eleventh day after leaving Hammerfell, nearing Cold Rocks Hold, that you spot something that momentarily makes your heart clench in horror and gut twist in fear. Smoke, rising from where Cold Rocks Hold is. The dogs you bough are alert, and look wary as you continue towards the smoke rising to air like a black pillar. An hour later, you are near enough to see the entrance to your Fortress with plain eyes. A wooden palisade has been erected around the entrance, and set on fire. Bonfires of all sizes surround it and the entrance door, creating a veritable wall of heat and smoke all around you home. The forest around you is quiet as death, with only the river providing an occasional sound.
What could have happened, to force your clan to such stopgap defensive measures? Or is something attempting an attack?
Night is falling, and the fires are a veritable beacon in the night. If you hurry, you could reach your home in a few hours with the wagon, sooner without it.
