Part 2 - Homegrown

The new tavern and rest stop, Caliban's Haven, has opened in The Freehold of Rivermeet. While the building is still showing signs of further construction needed the tavern bar and dining area is up and running as well as guest rooms to help various merchants and explorers passing through. While the long term plans are still being worked out the co-owners of the tavern have decided that some self-sufficiency wouldn't hurt and give them something to do while things were still a bit quiet. And so they have added A Citrus Tree, A Chicken Coop (with 2 chickens), and A Root Vegetable Garden to their courtyard area in the back.

You might think this to be a trivial development for a team that once righted wrongs and adventured deep into the wilderness, but sometimes the sweetest fruit is grown from hard learned lessons.

Gavril vs. Constance

Rivermeet was quiet on the day the two hens were delivered to Caliban’s Haven. Gavril was the one who received them, the two young chickens, which he was assured were hens. He couldn't tell. The birds would have their home in the small chicken coop, already built and ready to receive them. They weren’t of laying age quite yet, but he was assured they’d start in a week or two, maybe three if they were ill fed. Gavril had plenty of spare corn and the like to throw for them to eat, not to mention they’d keep bugs in check for the vegetable garden’s sake.

Getting them set up was easy enough. Release them from their cages, show them to the small coop, everything seemed fine. Gavril dusted his hands off from an easy job well done, and he went back to cooking for the tavern patrons. He would be counting down the days until he could add fresh fried eggs to the menu.

As the weeks passed, though, Gavril began to have some small issues with one of the chickens in particular. Gavril had advised the group to not bother naming the chickens. There were only two of them, they looked the same (at least to him) and he knew the birds wouldn’t live forever. Getting attached was something that Gavril was reluctant to do, ever since they’d lost Caliban.

It hadn’t stopped Lorigg from naming the chickens.

It was a warm morning when Gavril went to check on the chickens. He lifted the top off of the small chicken coop, and saw one chicken sitting pretty on her nest. Rosey, if he was remembering Lorigg’s names right. The other nest box was empty.

“What the…” Gavril craned his head around, looking behind the chicken coop, between the fence and the back of the chicken coop. Constance, sitting on the ground, feathers ruffled, no nest underneath of her. “Constance. You need to use the nest box,” Gavril chided, reaching down awkwardly to try to scoop up the rogue hen.

He got a sharp peck to the hand for his troubles. “Hey!” He wasn’t wearing gloves, much to his chagrin, and he maneuvered again to try to scoop up the renegade chicken. Another sharp peck, but this time Gavril was ready, and he didn’t flinch backward. “Stop it, Constance,” Gavril grumbled. He got his hands under the bird, but his leverage was compromised by the chicken coop between him and the bird. Lifting up as best he could, he felt something shift around underneath of Constance. Had she laid her eggs back there, the damned bird?

Clearly, Constance was protecting her ‘children,’ but the dumb bird didn’t know better to know that she had no actual children inside those eggs. “There’s no rooster here, Constance, those aren’t your babies,” he said, trying to reason in vain with a chicken. Constance let out an irate series of clucks and fluttered her wings, clearly trying to get back down to warm her eggs. Gavril, fortunately, was stronger than a chicken’s ill-fated desire to warm eggs that would never hatch and only spoil if left alone.

The chicken coop had been built on stilts in case of the river rose drastically at some point in time so that the chickens would have a bit more clearance. Gavril was realizing that this was perhaps a mistake in the design, as apparently Constance was trundling along underneath the chicken coop to get to a ‘more sheltered’ area behind the coop and between the fence in order to lay her eggs.

Fortunately, between Gavril moving Constance into the coop and hurriedly gathering her eggs from behind the coop, Gavril was able to collect the first batch of eggs laid by their chickens. It didn’t, however, stop Constance from sitting on the basket full of eggs that Gavril had collected. It took a bit more convincing to move the temperamental chicken from her chosen nesting spot to the one Gavril and the others had desired for her to use. Of course, all of the while, the ever-placid Rosey sat, still half-asleep as the morning sun rose. She eventually vacated her nest box, revealing a paltry two small eggs, as opposed to the half-dozen that Constance had produced. Nevertheless, Gavril collected the eggs and thanked both of the chickens despite himself, after scattering some dried corn for the chickens to eat. Constance, still apparently irate with Gavril’s behavior and apparent theft, pecked at his trouser leg, making a small hole in it as she did.

“I have slain the elves of my homeland in proving myself to be a true warrior worthy of the name of Kveld-Ulf,” Gavril said, looking sternly at the defiant bird. “I have collected heads of gnolls that pillaged my homeland. I have felled orcs, goblins, undead, and beasts far greater than you.” He set the basket aside, and scooped the ornery chicken up with both hands, holding her at eye level. “I will not be bested or challenged by the likes of you,” he said, sternly, as if his words could reach the simple brain of a chicken.

He got pecked in the nose for his trouble, and he growled at the bird, setting it down. They’d settle this another time. Maybe Rizzex would have better luck with the chickens. Then again, maybe not. Constance seemed to very much be her own bird, all others be damned.

Killian's Green Thumb

Whoever claimed that leaving behind the life of a freesword and Champion-for-Hire would make life easier was either deluded or a brazen liar. In reality you were exchanging one set of challenges for another. One of the first challenges that was traded in was carrying all essentials with you through countless wildernesses and foreign lands. Now here they were in Rivermeet; charming, yes, but so rustic and out on the fringes that hired help was a limited commodity and supplies were taking an epic journey of their own to get here. It is all well and good when you can have a full time wardrobe to store your clothes, but the soaps and mending threads were not exactly stocked any place close.

This wasn’t retirement as some had suggested. The decision for change had been difficult, for them all, but for Killian it felt like the perfect time to perform a Rite of Renewal; the time when a Dhal Dwarf set aside a role they had mastered and took up a new calling in their community. As a freesword Killian’s role had been that of “Slayer of the Arcane”, countering magical and spiritual threats with magical and spiritual techniques. Yet here he was, pacing back and forth behind the bar, trying to figure out why the blasted Ale kegs kept popping their corks. He was growing frustrated not by the mundane nature of the task, but because it felt so far from the magical arts he had thought would serve him so well in whatever role he found comfort in.

Lorigg had found fast comfort in letting her knavish charm shine at the bar. Her grin sometimes made Killian wonder if that claim of Fae blood was just a clever story passed down through the family, for he had seen many a similar one on Imps. Killian’s charm could be said to be her equal, but where he had magic she seemed to have a supernatural ability to position herself just right, ready to lend a hand or complete an ambush with astounding efficiency. Lorigg had managed to stop more than a few epic battles by placing herself in just the right place at just the right time.

So it was that when the young girl arrived with the bundle of papers from the harbormaster that Lorigg was conveniently elsewhere and Killian was the one behind the counter and grumbling as he counted the coin needed.

“Oh it’sth so big! Mistah Talloak was shouting all sorts of curses as the ‘hands waz getting them moved to the carts! They sent me ahead so you could have everything reddy.” The girl was all bright eyes and grins (with a few missing baby teeth adding to her accent) as she ran about the empty tavern bar, peering into the unlit fireplace and rubbing the smooth finished wood of the chairs. She was 9 Summers of age, if that, and a rare sight in Rivermeet. Only a few children had been born here, and rare were the established parents which chose a life on the frontier.

“Why should Harbormaster Talloak waste perfectly fine curses on our supplies? I cannot imagine…”

“It’sth the big warning symbols on the boxesth!!!”

“We need someone to figure out how to make it work.”

Those words still rang in Killian’s ears in this moment. The four-pointed stars on the boxes signified to all (no matter what language or dialect they spoke) that the contents were volatile and magical in nature. For the owners of Caliban’s Haven it meant a long-standing favor had been called in. All members of the Tavern were present when the alchemical supplies were unpacked and laid out; waterproof and shockproof barrels lined up in order of celestial spectrum while the jars were racked into the workbench that came with the strange starter kit. While Killian looked over the inventory list the others had passed around the letter from the Alchemical College of Port Dollan. “Ian, we asked for fertilizer to help the Tavern garden and Rizzex’s trees.” It was Gavril who spoke up, meeting his gaze directly as the last items were checked off. “All of this, well if we found this in a mountain keep in the old days we would…” Sighing, the tall wolfkin handed over the leather-bound tome. “We need someone to figure out how to make it work. You’re the only one that comes close.”

So it was that the stage was set. Never mind that this form of Alchemy was practically foreign to Killian; gone were the delicate distillates of his university training, the lovely catalyst and vapor chambers. This was raw and primal, pulling from the kind of magics that the Dragons of his maternal Clutch called on to nurture and feed the unhatched young of the communal nest. “Prime a barrel of the Vermicore Fermented Moss…” Electricity flew from the alchemical wand that had charged for an hour on the workbench flywheel, causing the once inert ichor in the barrel to twitch and undulate. “Destabilize the quintessential bonds, completing liquefaction…” In went an entire jar of what looked like oily blue pearls, popping with puffs of purple mist as they were engulfed by the ooze, “Then slowly add in the catalyst mixture; 1 dram dried manticore spore, 7 drams volcanic spring salts, 2 drams powdered mandrake…” once the last of the catalyst dissolved into the barrel Killian waited, peering into the makeshift cauldron with suspicion.

“‘The liquid should stabilize into the color of The Water Moon at full ascension’, that is what the damnable instructions say.” The contents of the barrel bubbled and burped until an obsidian-like crust formed. “That isn’t-- wait, is that a Palrathian script 7... or 3 for the volcanic salts? Blast, I always get thos-”

The world seemed to move in slow motion as blue fissures formed on the crust in the barrel, and then came the explosion. Maybe it was the raw magical charge that had run out of control, but Killian swore he could see the shockwave form as the vessel vaporized, protective bonds undone that had stood fast the entire voyage to Rivermeet. He could feel the shockwave hit, seconds feeling like hours as his stout body was lifted up and propelled backwards. There were guests approaching the front door, their weariness slowly wiping away in looks of shock and surprise; the light from the explosion lighting up the chicken coop and causing Constance to squawk in terror; the liquid fertilizer splattering against windows, walls, and freshly tilled soil. All of this played out in a slow motion ballet for Killian as he sailed through the air and into the waters of the Willowmead River.

It is well known that Dwarves are a stout and hardy people. You would need to be to live underground and thrive as a species. Dragons are no slouches in the arena of fortitude either. More than a few times Killian had been more put out about the damage to a favorite cravat or silk ruff than any pain he felt when taking dagger strikes in a brawl. So it was that the arial trip from Caliban’s Haven to the river was not as terrifying for him than it would be for many others. Clothes soaked and stained, his hair and beard caked with alchemical residue, Killian sputtered as he tried to pull himself up onto the docks. Finally Lorigg’s hands pulled him up and out onto his back. Once more she was right where she needed to be exactly when she was needed, and once more Killian was certain that was an Imp’s grin shining down on him. “So, Ian, did you manage to figure it out?”

Rizzex and the Hearth Tree

“Hey Rizzex!” Lorigg said cheerily as she waved an oblong green fruit at him. She bounced through the front door of the tavern, where he had been cleaning the mugs for the coming evening. He looked from the fruit to Lorigg’s face. Rizzex stared a bit, stretching out the silence to an awkward degree.

“What is this fruit? I thought we had an orange tree? Looks kinda unripe to me.” Lorigg said.

“Lime,” Rizzex replied, returning to the mugs as if that was sufficient explanation.

“So it’s a lime tree?”

“That’s a lime. Tree is orange,” Rizzex answered, clearly disinterested in the conversation.

“Oh, so you pulled some druid magic nonsense? It’s an everything tree now?”

Rizzex set the mugs back down and walked around the bar. He picked up the lime and examined it for a moment, giving it a gentle squeeze or two. He nodded and ripped into the rind with his claws. Upon breaching the fruit’s outer skin, he immediately recoiled and held it away from himself. Gingerly, he set the ruptured lime back on the table.

“I grafted a lime branch onto the tree. It can produce both, now,” Rizzex finally explained, lapsing into his native Lizardtongue to explain his little project.

“Ok. And these?” she asked, producing a lemon and a grapefruit from the basket she was carrying and placed them on the table as well.

“Same thing. Lemon, grapefruit, all citrus, really. There’s something about citrus trees that can do that. No magic involved,” Rizzex responded.

“And this one?” Lorigg continued, slipping into Lizardtongue herself. Lorigg tended to do that around Rizzex; her obvious respect for him and his culture has always endeared the woman to the lizard. She placed a red fruit on the table. “It looks pretty weird. Is it even edible?” The fruit was unusual. It was larger than even the grapefruit and looked wrong somehow. It had a slightly spiny exterior that, on closer inspection, looked like it was squirming.

Rizzex balked, then flew into action. He grabbed the strange fruit and ran out the front door of the tavern, towards the rivershore. Approximately two yards away from the waves, he threw the fruit onto the ground. He uttered a few words in Lizardtongue and set the fruit ablaze.

“So, not edible, then.” Lorigg said, catching up to the lizard.

“Devil’s Durian. Invasive. Cursed.” Rizzex replied, watching the smoldering fruit with something akin to worry reflected in his eyes.

He and Lorigg stood there in silence for a bit, just staring at the… purple fire? The fruit sputtered and squirmed in the unnaturally colored flame. After a few more moments of this, Rizzex began to dig a shallow circle in the sand around it, occasionally reaching into a satchel at his waist and sprinkling something into the trench. Once it was completed, Rizzex stood upright and began to chant in his native Lizardtongue.

“By my authority as the Warden, I renounce your presence. Begone from our territory, and may your seeds wither and die, never to bear life again.”

The flames flickered angrily, before something akin to a scream was loosened from the blazing fruit. The unnatural purple hue faded to a more normal orange. Rizzex stared at the blaze for a few seconds in seeming satisfaction before abruptly turning on his heel and marching towards the citrus tree.

“Is the tree gonna be ok?” Lorigg asked, having to run to keep up with the determined Lizardman.

“Yes, but I have some work to do,” Rizzex grumbled.

It had been years since he’d seen a Devil’s Durian. Was his clan’s influence waning? He briefly worried that his self-imposed exile had something to do with it. Or maybe his presence is the reason it was surfacing here. Rizzex didn’t know, but the reemergence of the fruit was a sign that something might be hardening to his clan...

He shook his head, dispelling the worries. Now was not the time for self-reflection. He looked at the tree and the multiple red fruits hanging from one branch.

Good. It’s only one branch, as if it was imitating the grafting I did. the Druid thought.

Rizzex turned back to Lorigg and held out his hand, saying, “Can I have one of the oranges?”

Lorigg hastily handed him one with an excited grin. “Of course, Rizzex.”

Rizzex smiled gratefully and immediately disemboweled the fruit, grabbing a seed. He smiled at it.

“Thank you. You will protect the tree. And us,” he whispered reverently.

The lizard gently pushed the seed into the ground, about ten yards from the entrance to the garden, along the path leading to the tavern proper. He widened his stance and thrust his hands towards the ground, his tail held erect and head bowed.

“I, Rizzex Qixgnals, declare this land the territory of Caliban and his Haven!” Rizzex intoned, “Let this seed serve as sentinel and guardian of our home!”

The orange seed glowed with power before rooting itself firmly to the ground. Rizzex took an enormous step back, gesturing for Lorigg to follow him. A moment passed, and a tree shot up from the ground, tall and proud. It immediately grew green, healthy leaves and petite white flowers. The sheer force of the expanding tree caused tremors to shake the earth, throwing the two onlookers to the ground.

Once the tree finished its explosive growth, Lorigg looked up in awe. “Awesome…” she said, mouth slightly open and eyes full of stars, “Will that one grow oranges too?”

“It will not grow fruit. It will protect our home,” Rizzex replied, looking at the original citrus tree.

The branch bearing the cursed fruit was already beginning to rot as the host tree immediately rejected it. The red fruits withered and fell, spontaneously igniting in midair, leaving only fading sparks to hit the ground. Rizzex smiled in satisfaction before helping Lorigg to her feet.

“I think I finally just accepted that this is home,” Rizzex said, a strangely satisfied smile on his face.

Lorigg looked from Rizzex to the tree and back again. “Warden Flowerfang, huh? Guarding us with flowers?” she asked, a gentle smile gracing her face.

Rizzex smirked, a far cry from his usual dour expression. “Yes. Home is where the flowers are, after all.”