Session 213: Iron Guard Motte

The Chronicles of the Crooked Spindle By Vilma of Orlane - Day 2 - 3 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ‘round, you weary travelers and moth-eaten scholars! Old Vilma has a tale that’s fresher than a winter frost and twice as biting. Our very own "Saviors of Orlane" have traded the damp gloom of the Barrel Marsh for the stiff-necked cobblestones of Iron Guard Motte.

They rode out at high noon, leaving behind the graves of companions to trek through the Dim Forest. But oh, the forest isn't what it used to be. It’s a dying thing, twisted and rot-touched by some fell, undead force that makes the very trees grow crooked as a crone’s finger. The birds have fled, and even the rabbits are gunshy—though I hear those elven folk felt the corruption right in their marrow.

When they finally popped out of the woods, they met the high walls of Iron Guard Mott—a place of wooden palisades and men-at-arms who look at a cheerful wave with more suspicion than a cat at a dog show. Before they could even tuck into a warm meal, they were hauled before the authorities and a man of the cloth to endure a "sooth tell"—a truth-telling spell to ensure they weren't just a pack of brigands in hero’s clothing.

And the laws! Gods preserve us from "structured" towns. In the Mott, you can’t even be "too silly"—meaning no dunking yourself in the town well—without risking a run-in with the law. They even tax the air you breathe—or at least any loot you're hoping to sell! Still, the city bigwigs gave them each an electrum medallion for their service to Orlane, though the things are enchanted so you can't go swapping them for ale money.

The party spent their time hobnobbing with the pious. They visited Frier Fergus at the Temple of St. Cuthbert, who was busy worrying about necromancers and ancient "Tablets of Chaos" hiding in the marsh. Then it was off to see Brother Titus at the Temple of Heironius—a man so handsome he’d make an elf double-take—who gifted them a scroll to remove curses.

But the real comedy, my dears, was the return of Chiki. He wandered back into the fold with his chicken, though I suspect the bird has more sense than he does. While the "sensible" heroes stayed at the Leaky Barrel, where the walls are clean and the guards are plenty, Chiki insisted on the Black Dragon—a seedier den of iniquity you’ll never find. He woke up nineteen gold pieces lighter for his trouble! Serves him right for sleeping in a room where the mice probably outnumber the blankets.

Before they rode back to us, they made sure to secure a ten-pound wheel of Limburger cheese for that greedy Myr. I can smell it from here! They’ll be back in Orlane soon enough, three-and-a-half hours by horseback, provided they don’t stop to argue with any more jewelers about tariffs.

Keep your hearths warm and your purses tucked tight—the Saviors are coming home.

— V.