“Devinches, I have a task for you,” Sir Horath Yul Jorasco paused, the rumble of his deep voice deepening further like a thundering echo as he continued, “a private one.” It was uncommon for Devinches’s mentor to ask for a favor, preferring to be self-sufficient in most things. Whatever it was, he surmised it must be a rather sensitive matter if the old man was coming to him. There were others in the family who were older and more tested - especially when it came to issues of strength, but there were none more loyal to the elderly martial artist than him.
“Yes, teacher. I am listening,” Devinches bowed respectfully, cupping his hands.
“No, sit. Prepare tea.” The man brought out an ornately carved wooden box from his robes.
“Teacher, you mean … I am leaving?”
“You were born under an auspicious moon, Devinches. The astrologers say that the same moon returns tomorrow, and it so happens that I have an appropriate task for you as well. It is too convenient to be anything other than fate’s guiding hand.” As Sir Horath spoke in his even and calm tone, Devinches couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. There was a finality to his mentor's words as if he knew deep down that he wouldn't see Devinches again. Yet, Sir Horath's composure remained unblemished. Devinches couldn't shake the feeling, for whatever reason, leaving him with a strange sense of sadness.
The sound of the carriage wheels hitting an odd bump jolts Devinches out of his thoughts, pulling him back to the present moment. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and inhales the familiar earthen aroma of the tea he had been drinking just before embarking on this journey. His teacher had gifted him a unique blend, a ritualistic gesture marking his graduation as a competent martial artist. He remembers his teacher's words, reminding him that it is now his turn to venture out into the world and make a name for himself as a son of the Jarasco house, just as his predecessors had done before him. Devinches feels a surge of pride and determination, knowing that he must make his mentor proud and continue the legacy of his house. The carriage shudders to a stop.
Devinches slides the carriage door open, stepping out into the dusk. Looking to his right, he sees that the carriage, leaning oddly towards the rear, seems to have a damaged wheel. Suddenly, a reflexive lunge sends him reeling to his left. A crude crossbow bolt pierces the side of the carriage just where his head was a second before, followed by a screeching warble.
Goblins.
“Goblins!” a voice bellows as if echoing his thoughts as the sole escort sprints ahead, “Shield to the front! Go!” After giving the crossbow bolt an uneasy glance, Devinches rushes forward after the shield-bearing escort knight.
His enthusiastic rush forward is abruptly interrupted as a pair of goblins spring from the underbrush, armed with poorly maintained scimitars. The ambushing goblins jump towards Devinches, swinging wildly. Devinches quickly parries the first strike on his bracer, countering with a string of punches to the creature’s head and finishing with a sweeping kick that sends it sprawling.
He spins to face the goblin’s partner, who has moved to a flanking position, but an incoming strike catches him on the hip. The rough edge of the goblin’s weapon leaves a shallow cut down his leg. The unsharpened weapon seems more likely to leave a bruise deeply than to slice deeply.
Devinches grits his teeth in pain as he stomps forward with his right leg, grabbing the creature’s arm while it is still off-balance. Twisting it around into a joint lock, he pivots, letting the gentle swirling movement of his master’s style carry it off towards its partner as the two goblins collide with a squawk.
He quickly resets his stance, readying himself against his scrambling opponents. The thrown goblin charges again with a desperate leap as the dusk’s fading light glints off the few sections of the goblin’s breastplate not covered in rust and grime. Devinches strikes out with a hand, catching the goblin midair at its neck and severing its spine as it lands on its side in a heap. Quickly preparing for the other goblin’s incoming attack, he raises his guard only to see the escort knight’s sword pierce the goblin from behind.
“That’s the last of them. Good job holding out, young master. Considering it was your first real combat outside the training hall, you did well.” He looks down at Devinches’s leg, saying, “I recommend getting patched up at the carriage. It doesn’t look too bad, but make sure to clean it properly—you never know what kind of disease these vermin might carry.”
The remaining three days of his journey to Oakhurst pass relatively peacefully. With a good washing and an application of some healing ointment, the cut on his leg heals well, leaving only a barely perceptible line of a scar. He looks thoughtfully at the neat rows of fenced crops as they pass the settlement’s outlying farms. As he meditates on his journey so far, it is evident that he will be unable to journey safely alone. If it were not for the presence of the highly trained escort knight, he would not have survived the encounter with the goblins. He may be able to handle two or three goblins in melee, but simultaneously avoiding skewer by crossbow would be impossible.
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He reaches into his neatly organized pack and retrieves a leatherbound journal, another gift from his mentor. Flipping to the first page, he reviews the contact information written there. Kerowyn Hucrele, a matriarch of the human Kerowyn family, is a niece to Leyna Hucrele, a respected business partner to the Jorasco house. She may be willing to assist with hiring a local mercenary or constabulary. Feeling satisfied with a reasonable action plan, he straps the journal shut and lies back to get what rest he can before dealing with business.
Having traveled to his family’s agricultural investments around Neverwinter, he had some idea of what to expect from the small town, although he hadn’t imagined it to be so small. It seems the entire village might fit within a single manor of his hometown’s upper district. Spotting what appears to be the only notable manor in town, he approaches the entrance, which seems to have been renovated into a small general store. Examining the decor as he readies to enter, it seems that although the carpentry appears sturdy, the entire section is woefully lacking in stature and aesthetics compared to the manor proper. Perhaps the owner has fallen on hard times.
The door lets out a dull jingle as he enters, gently shutting the door behind him. He nods at the cleanly dressed gentleman at the store counter, politely introducing himself.
“Good evening. Devinches of Jorasco arriving from Neverwinter. Is Lady Hucrele available to discuss a matter of some import?”
“Jeffrey. I am at your service, Sir Jorasco. However, I’m afraid she is indisposed at the moment. If it is a matter of coin or goods, I may have jurisdiction. May I inquire of the nature of your visit?”
Stepping squarely in front of the sales counter, Devinches appraises the man. Sensing no sign of deception or ill intention, he explains, “I am looking for a merchant who passed through Oakhurst on his way to Neverwinter. It is my hope that Lady Hucrele will assist the Jorasco family in hiring a local escort for a search,” he pauses for a second before adding, “or a rescue if necessary.”
“There was indeed a caravan that passed through two weeks ago. Unfortunately, creating a mercenary party may be impossible at this time. The constable is dealing with an increase in monster activity in the outlying farms, and Lady Hucrele is desperately gathering a band of mercenaries for a rescue operation of her own. You see, her children have gone missing.”
Devinches raises his brows in surprise. This is far from anticipated, but he also sees the opportunity to solve many problems in a single stroke. “I see. I didn’t realize the town was in such dire straits. If Lady Hucrele has indeed gathered a mercenary party, I will join it myself, and perhaps we will find both her children and the merchant I am seeking. Sitting idly in such a situation would no doubt bring shame to the Jorasco family. He was here two weeks ago with that caravan but went missing. Our interests seem to coincide, so it would benefit our noble houses to cooperate on the matter.”
“I’ll have to run this past the mistress, though I suspect she will agree to some level of cooperation. She has already agreed to meet another prospective mercenary on the morrow at daybreak. Perhaps return then, and we shall discuss the matter with the other hires.”
“Very well, I suppose it is getting late. I will return tomorrow morning, then.”
Feeling the matter is resolved for the moment, Devinches turns towards the exit. Just as he is about to push the door open, a woman pulls the door open from the outside. She steps aside politely, allowing Devinches to pass, so he nods politely, trying not to show any reaction to what he has seen. In Oakhurst, of all places, he meets a drow.
Perhaps she is the other mercenary Jeffrey mentioned. If so, I should be wary of her. Drow are largely untrustworthy. He thinks to himself as he trudges toward the Inn to sample the local specialty, whatever it might be.
Obtaining a bowl of fatty boar stew and a local variety of cornbread, he sits at a table to savor it with a mug of the innkeeper’s recommended brew. He spots an armored dragon-kin, nay a dragon-blooded going by the features, and a half-orc entering the Inn together.
There are more mercenaries. Are they all here to join the Lady’s quest, or is something else afoot? In any case, more muscle should make my task easier, assuming the drow isn’t here to assassinate anyone.
He is about to reach for his journal to commit his thoughts to words when an already drunken dwarf pulls open the door and lets out a loud cheer. Holding a barrel the size of her body in one arm, she points at the half-orc and yells loudly, “Hey, orc! I bet I could drink you under the table.”
“Hah! You’re on, pipsqueak,” the lanky half-orc replies with a crooked grin.
“Great. If I win, I want a piggyback ride on the dragon.”
“Whatever. If I win, split that barrel with me.”
“Deal.”
The bronze-skinned dragon-man stares, alternating glances between them before asking, “Hey, shouldn’t you ask me before-”
“CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG,” Devinches finds himself swept along in the cheerful mood, cheering along with the other Inn patrons, ignoring the plight of the entirely sober dragon.
Well, if nothing else, at least these mercenaries aren’t boring.