Session 3: The Village in the middle of nowhere

Krezko is the last town to the northeast for well over 200 miles. Beyond Krezko, there are many paths trod by foot and hooves but that is all, winding briefly through north-eastern Waylan (dotted with individual homesteads / farms but no real settlements) and then vanishing into the interior Wilds and eventually the ice flows of Old Oblidan beyond the mountains, beyond the forgotten lands.   Although not far from Sevgorod as the bird flies – about 150 miles – this place is remote, far from the capitol’s usual sphere of concern.

  The party trudged along the muddy, winding path that led to Krezko, their bodies weary from days of brutal travel through cold winds and sleet. Rolandus , normally the most steadfast of the group, struggled more than usual. The wounds he had sustained during the battle with the Nightreaver were more severe than he let on, and despite his best efforts to hide his pain, his movements were stiff and his breathing labored. His armor bore deep gashes where the creature’s claws had cut through, and dark bruises and dried blood marked his body beneath. Though he’d bound the worst of his injuries, his condition was worsening.   Zenscha, ever observant, had noticed his pained glances and the moments he spent catching his breath when he thought no one was watching. She knew he wouldn’t admit to needing help, but the signs were clear. They needed to find somewhere safe soon. Danyar Saronovik, still weak and feverish from the Nightreaver larva that had torn its way out of him, groaned softly from the back of the cart where he lay, shivering under a pile of blankets. Zenscha’s herbal mixtures were helping to dull his pain, but like Rolandus, he was far from healed.   As they neared Krezko, the landscape shifted. The once narrow path they had followed widened as they approached Krezko’s gate, which was little more than a decorative feature. The walls around the village were crumbling and overgrown with trees, offering little protection from the wilds. Only the remnants of stone sections remained, broken up by trees that had grown up through the ruins.   As they entered the village, the road led to small clusters of buildings that meandered through the quiet settlement. The largest structure sat atop Harrow’s Hill, a central point in the village. Most locals no longer referred to it by its name, and the figure after whom it was named had long been forgotten. The sign hanging outside the largest building made it clear—this was Jorik’s Rest, the heart of the village. Once a chapel, Jorik’s Rest was now a tavern and inn for the rare travelers who made their way through the remote wilderness. The group hoped to find shelter, but first, Zenscha suggested they visit her acquaintance, Lena, a local herbalist who also lived on the hill.   After a brief discussion, the group agreed to visit Lena, a local herbalist and Zenscha’s contact. Zenscha led them to a small, unmarked building near Jorik’s Rest. Inside, the room was dimly lit by candles, filled with the rich scent of herbs drying on shelves that lined the walls. Lena, mostly blind and hunched prematurely from years as a seamstress, worked quietly over a mortar and pestle.   She greeted Zenscha by name, immediately noticing the groaning Danyar. After a quick examination, Lena confirmed that Danyar’s condition was serious. She prepared an herbal tincture to stabilize the boy, but it was clear that without Yanla, a local seer and skin-changer with deeper healing powers, they would be limited in what they could do. Yanla was expected to arrive in a few days, drawn by a rare astrological convergence and an upcoming inter festival, known as Waylen (not to be confused with Waylan).   Lena then turned her attention to Rolandus , who was hiding his injuries as best he could. Though his hardened leather armor had been patched and his wounds bandaged, he was still suffering from the fight with the Nightreaver. After some coaxing from Zenscha, he allowed Lena to inspect his wounds. She applied a thick, pungent salve to keep infection at bay, warning him that he needed to rest or risk worsening the injuries.   With the party’s medical needs addressed for the moment, they thanked Lena and made their way to Jorik's Rest for food and rest.   Atop Harrow’s Hill, Jorik’s Rest towered over the village. The warmth and light from the large central hearth washed over the group as they entered, a welcome change from the biting cold outside. The common room was spacious, with several rough-hewn tables and benches surrounding the hearth, and the air was thick with the smell of stew and bread.   Vargen, the tavern’s barkeep, greeted them with a wide grin. A stout man with a jovial attitude, Vargen made them feel immediately at home. He poured mugs of warm cider for the group and directed Evelia upstairs to settle her children. The group came to an agreement with him for 2 bottles of fine ice wine in exchange for the large room that made up the 3rd floor. They would later discover it was effectively the building's attic, although it was indeed spacious.   Despite his pain, Rolandus chose to remain downstairs by the fire, his hand never far from his sword. Though Lena’s treatments had helped, he was still on edge, scanning the room for any sign of danger.   Several patrons sat scattered around the room, quietly talking and enjoying their meals. Among them was Ren Jorik, the tavern’s owner, namesake, and a veteran of the Border Wars. A grizzled man with scars that covered his body, Ren had "retired" to Krezko after the wars, quietly running the tavern with his adopted daughter, Elara Jorik. They would later discover she was a war orphan he had taken in, and that he had himself been reported deceased in the war to the Regiment, and he didn't bother to correct them on the fact. Elara was "the realm's delight," energetic and cheerful, but she often spent more time chatting with patrons than working. She seemed to have much of the other staff wrapped quite well around her finger. Tonight, she was engrossed in a card game with some of the locals.   At another table sat Serg Niall, another veteran and an old friend of Ren’s. Serg was clearly tense, frequently glancing around the room as if expecting trouble at any moment. He ran the card games at the tavern, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.   Also playing cards was Eiran Ilya, a wiry young man with the nickname “Shifty.” Tonibore immediately noticed him cheating, though the other players seemed oblivious. Eiran smiled slyly as he collected his winnings, his quick hands moving unnoticed.   In the corner of the tavern sat Tashi the Skald, a foreign storyteller from Banqu. Tashi entertained the patrons with tales of the north and news of recent decree against "Witches", which most people knew to be a rather subjective definition for criminality. His stories, though captivating, cast a somber mood over the otherwise lively room.   As the fire crackled and the group settled in for the night, the tension of their journey began to ease. Yet, despite the warmth and comfort of Jorik’s Rest, the dangers outside—both from the wilderness and the brewing political storm—were never far from their minds.