Turn 8
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Fade to the next morning.

The rain stopped sometime early in the morning.  Gathering once more in the common room, you arrange your supplies.

Gwen had previously filled her water supplies and carries some food.  She’s quite convincing about the scarcity of game in these parts and the majority decide to concede.

Kaceubel has his own food supply which is light, small and easily carried, whereas the rest of you decide to load up Nadia’s horse (to within reason).

Setting off through the mud of the town, northward, you start your journey – Ari leading the way.

Late afternoon of the first day, sickness hits the camp.

Kaceubel turns pale, cold and starts sweating, as does Ari.

Balron, Ari and Kaceubel then develop a severe stomache ache.

The worst hit, however, is Nadia.  Not only does she suffer from the above symptoms, but also diarhea.

Kaceubel casts a detection spell, his hands spread wide.  He frowns in disappointment that it isn’t a magical attack – merely food poisoning.

Turning to Kaceubel, Gwen lifts a brow as she tinkers over the campfire. "Maybe you should turn your attention towards checking the food before we eat it."

Balron pulls his hood higher over his head, shielding his face.  He wraps his scarf across his nose and mouth.  Late at night, he sits his watch, still swathed in cloth.  He draws his knife and slowly draws it down the inside of his arm, dark blood slowly welling through.  He bends his head, sucking at the blood.  Some time later he cleans his knife, sheathing it.  Pulling his scarf away, he wraps it around his arm until dawn.

The very first step is to try and identify the illness, Nadia thinks. 

Nadia casts a minor detection spell for this as the range of causes of these symptoms is quite immense.

This apparent self-sufficiency is met with a concerned nurse's ferocity from Gwen who repeatedly shoos Nadia away from the campfire and insists on usurping control over the brewing of all medicinal concoctions. Nadia's instructions, queries, and explanations are met with huffy "I knows!" and "It's already in there!" as the ranger bustles about like a fiend. Cursing under her breath in an amusing tangle of middle and northern human languages, Gwen shifts back and forwards from her pack and the campfire. She sets some of her water to the boil. From a small, royal-blue leather pouch which she extracts from her functional kit, Gwen plucks a pinch of powdered herbs which she scatters into the bubbling water. As she stirs it, her attention drifts repeatedly to where Nadia sits, pale-faced and faded.

At the human woman's insistance, she adds a carefully measured amount of shredded leaves from amongst her possessions. Careful not to set the wooden spoon on the rocks arranged about the campfire, moving gingerly as if the very soil is filth, Gwen scrambles back to her pack and hauls forth another pouch of sunflower-yellow linen. From this comes a few leaves and twigs which get added to the boiling water. "For the cramps and fever" she murmurs. A crisp, fresh scent begins to lilt upon the air. "Nadia," calls the half-elf, ladling some of the hot fluid into her polished wooden beaker, "When this cools, I want you to get it down. It will help, I promise." Gwen hands the brimming cup to her friend, as her eyes meet Nadia's, she can't resist a giddy smile, tinged with worry. It's a strange, but adorable look. Nadia notices the pinched look of concern greying the smooth skin about Gwen's eyes. The ranger's hand tremors slightly - all her experience and professionalism gone to pot at the sight of her lover in such miserable straits

Gwen winks then and reluctantly turns back to the fire, her gaze lifting to encompass the others. "I advise the rest of you get your cups over here so I can split what's left between you. The effects will fade by the morrow - if you abstain from drinking unboiled water - for now, however, we need those fevers lowered. Combined with today's exertions and the way you've been avoiding fluids - the fever will ensure you'll all have headaches fit to split your skulls by dawn, not to mention a thirst that'll get you into more trouble. Drink this, it'll help your pain too, and unless anyone here knows any tricks, I'll start boiling what water you'll need for drinking as we travel tomorrow." Gwen glances back at Nadia. "We will wait. however, if I don't think you're sufficiently recovered."

She tries simple herbs and concoctions she carries with her which already were sufficient to the job.

In between bouts of suffering, she determines that it must have been the water from the well.  Everyone having had eaten from the same source, and only the ranger carrying her own supply of water.  This is most odd, since surely no cleric travelling in such areas would accidentally consume tainted water.

Gwen discusses the source of the poisoning with Nadia and agrees with her assumptions. She filled her travelling water skins in a clean flowing stream some three days from Derisnospewn after a long, dry trek from the foothills of the Lofty Mountains. The ranger also admits to have supplemented that with a skin of wine purchased in the town - she taps a red-capped skin and smiles crookedly. "There's places where even boiling won't clean the water" she murmurs as the party eat some of the supplies from Nadia's horse. "Besides - after watching troops in the siege of Halbad die of the bloody flux, I never drink from unfamiliar sources without precautions." Gwen looks at her calloused hands in embarrassment. "I'm sorry I didn't get on top of the matter here ... but it's been years since I travelled with anyone else."

Each night, Kaceubel wards your camp.  It obviously works, as you all sleep uninterrupted.  Except those on watch, of course.

Balron watches Kaceubel as he wards the camp. He sleeps in mail, his hand on his ax at all times, caressing it even as the night falls.  His eyes become sink wells of darkness at night, seeming to swallow all light before it touches my face.  He goes hooded during the day except when it’s cloudy.

The ranger bears her longsword with casual ease, sheathed diagonally across her back. The strap of her rolled pack crosses her chest in the other direction, creating a rather fetching and balanced bandolier look. She seems a lot more comfortable away from the town, her stride lengthening to such a steady and consuming pace that she finds she has to check herself repeatedly so as not to out-distance the party. Her head is carried high, her attitude is of competant and thorough alertness. The exquisite bow in her hand seems to drink up the sunlight, one could almost imagine the surreal ivory inlay coiling up it's darkly stained length to be twisting and growing luxuriantly in the warm air. Certainly the half-elf seems to relish this new environment.

Nadia remains cheerful for most of the trip, talking with the other members of the group, trying to get them to open up a little while they're on the road.

Not being psychotically cheerful, she does realise when this is a little much and occasionally either walks quietly, or is in quiet conversation with Gwen, or on occasion talking to her horse.  The poor ol' lass isn't accustomed to carrying such a pack. 

As for the horse, every stop Gwen checks her hooves and runs a hand down her legs and across her back, often wiggling her hand unde the packs to feel for friction of pressure points. Humming, she occassionally finds cause for concern and rearranges the load - ignoring mutterings from those instructed to "hold this" and "pull that rope." Every morning, lunch and dinner, Gwen takes a handy stick and cleans the horses hooves. "Would you want this tainted soil shoved up your nails to rot the flesh beneath?" she states when asked what's up.

The long, leather case remains always in one hand, but, since the trip is uneventful, its contents are not revealed.  An observant watcher might note the occasional period of acute depression upon the road or the almost hysterical tenor of some of her attempts at lightening the mood of the trip. 

Gwen often reaches out to touch Nadia's shoulder, distracting her with a childish riddle and a grin when the cleric seems to be getting overly agitated. In those most uncomfortable times, however, Gwen often reaches for her silver pipe, and dropping back, pauses to light her drugged tobacco, her shoulders tense and her head lowered as she pointedly avoids any looks the cleric might cast back at her. After half an hour or so, the ranger usually reappears on the path in front of the party, the light back in her eyes and a deadly keenness to her every move. It's after these times that she returns with the richest finds from her hunting forays into the surrounding forest.

Of an evening, she tries to persuade Kaceubel to share his skill of the flute with the rest of them, and any others to tell a story, preferably something lighter than Ari's earlier, or to just converse.  She absolutely refuses to sing herself, citing public safety.  On two or three occasions she reveals the existence of small boxes of crystallized fruits or sweetmeats or some such to share with the whole party, should they be interested in a little garnish on top of the main meal. Of course, it's hardly her fault if Gwen, should she be of a mind to try them, gets the better pieces.

It is fairly clear that her bedroll is always near, or closer, to the ranger's and Nadia tends to end up facing that direction in her sleep, even reaching out in her slumber for her lover. Each morning upon waking, Gwen discovers, near or upon the head of her Roll a small token.  On at least one occasion, the ranger is woken by the cleric trying to stealthily leave her bedroll, but, suspecting the cause of this 'suspicious' activity, elects to feign sleep so as to allow the smitten young woman her joy, merely watching her through slitted eyelids, clearly reading the terribly serious fun Nadia appears to be having trying to do something for someone so special to her.

For example. A small budding branch, encouraged to bloom at just this time so the Odours of the road this morning are replaced by a sweeter scent.  'Because I feel protected and safe in your arms.'

A bunch of just a few, perfect flowers, wrapped in a couple of long, dark strands of hair.  'Because you are so beautiful.'

A single perfect fruit, practically polished.  'Because you sate me.'

A small pouch containing a tiny, brightly-coloured lizard.  In the background, for once not studiously looking away, Nadia trys not to giggle, hoping for a reaction.  For once, the child she was only a few short years ago shines in her eyes, carefree and joyful.  'For joy.'

On one morning, a morning when Nadia has the last watch, Gwen is woken Very early by a gentle pressure upon her lips.  As she wakes, Nadia leans over from where she kneels and kisses her again, trying to express all the emotion filling her through this single contact.  All the love, the contentment and the fear.  There is the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes and the track of a single shed one running down her cheek.  Very quietly she whispers, "For all the love I hold for you.  I fear that after Sephiroth it will no longer be possible."

Each evening, upon temporarily disappearing, Nadia does a little Searching around the area and one morning, when the sky is clear with just sufficient cloud for maximum effect, she again wakes the ranger before the dawn and just stands there with one hand outstretched, obviously asking the ranger to come with her.  She leads Gwen to a wonderful vantage point, where, together, [snuggling or otherwise] , they watch the sun rising.  If anyone should query her actions, she says simply and quietly, "It's all well and good fighting evil, but sometimes we have to remind ourselves what it is we are fighting for."

One morning Gwen steps forth with a merry lightness to her step, fresh wild flowers bound in her pale hair. She grins at Kacuebel, leans down and places a foolish kiss on Balron's furrowed brow and twirls Ari in a country-dance jig before scooping up her bow and vanishing into the trees like a ghost, silent despite her galivanting.

Kaceubel tells the great story of Kron the legendary warrior who defeated hordes of evil  barbarians in a series of audacious battles and built his great wall to defend against them.

Gwen responds with a shadowy, mesmerising tale of the siren of Lake Bellora who drew Kron's son into a deadly embrace on his twentieth birthday, in revenge for all the blood Kron had spilt into her crystal waters.

Kaceubel grins, vastly amused at the end of the tale. "Kron had a son? I don't remember Kron ever having a son, He was quite ugly you know."

The ranger lifts a brow and fixes a steady look upon the elf. "I didn't think the 'Rape of Ilaria' was a fitting tale for a plesant evening around a fire."

"Yes, well the Rape of Ilaria is a fairly explicit tale and not one that I, for one, would like on my mind while traipsing through some trackless wilderness on my way to a dungeon crawling with insanely evil monsters with nothing better to do than plot our destruction."

"Well, that too I suppose," murmurs the ranger, giving the mage an odd look.

The elf adopts a sober expression "However the legends of Kron stray a great deal from the facts of the situation thanks in no small part to myself. The people who originally built the wall were long dead before most of those legends sprang up and it was only because Kron's symbol was carved into many of the stone blocks that people continued to call it Kron's wall."

The ranger pauses in her fiddling with damaged black and white fletching and looks up, frowning. "Are you telling me you've doctored history? A little presumtuous wouldn't you say?"

Kaceubel laughs, "No, Kron's wall is very old. The most recent crop of legends started "Kaceubel pauses, obviously counting in his head "only 800 years ago or thereabouts. I didn't add to them for a hundred years after that on my last outing to see the western shores. Over the last " another longer pause, Kaceubel now wearing a puzzled expression. "Uh, since the wall was finished anyway there have been something like half a dozen sets of major legends to explain its existence and none of them come close to the truth of the matter."

Kaceubel sits back and starts scratching numbers in the dirt and muttering occasional words can be made out "...third dynasty ... before the war of ... and Stormshaven was before ... and that was 9 before bigtop... so that would make it. Ahah. Which would make me ..." Kaceubel stops talking and just stares at his scratchings.

During the journey, he offers Balron to play a game of Parquitry [dwarven board game based on controlling resources and building a great mining kingdom]. 

Gwen gives him raw meat and says she hopes he likes it rare. She challenges Ari to games of dexterity and wit, laughing merrily in admiration to see the Hobbit's deftness

Kaceubel waves his hand over the meat, mutters a few words and pops the now steaming chunks of meat into his mouth complimenting Gwen on the cut. "it's not that I can't cook, it's just that people are so concerned about food poisoning right now and I did not want to risk giving somebody another bout of flue. Even dwarves" this with a glance at Balron "have threatened bodily harm if I cooked them another meal." 

Gwen smiles. "And here I was thinking you were refusing to cook in the expectation that we were to wait upon you. Astonishing." She turns back to sharpening her skinning blade, humming faintly.

"No, after several hundred years of badgering I finally understood that my cooking was making people ill. I don't like to think I'm slow on the uptake so I usually don't mention it to people." This with a broad smile.

Gwen laughs, "I too am a murder of broths from Skirk to Talark. Its a good thing we can stomach our own chow, even if others can't."

Kaceubel grins at Gwen. "Indeed, it is good to know that I am not alone in the murdering of broths. I wonder if any here can cook? I have often thought that most adventurers have a taste for fine food and an inability to make it themselves." He grins as looks around the campfire to assure that he is merely jesting.

The weather turns sunny with a light westerly breeze.  Occasionally you come across stone circles of previous campfires – all other evidence of previous adventurers having been washed away.  Recognising one of the areas, Ari tells you of the time his party was ambushed by orcs, charging in from the southeast.  It was a fierce battle, the orcs were desperate and hungry.  The mages of the group won the day.  Needless to say, extra precautions are implemented by your party for the remainder of the journey.

There is definitely a path leading northward – probably travelled by the many who have come before you.  Occasionally there is a piece of something brown or white scattered nearby , amongst the greenery.  Possibly bone.  The grass is lush.  Flattened and stunted near the path and campfires.  Dead by the river.

The dwarf picks up one of the pieces and studies it.

The ranger peers over his shoulder and grunts meaningfully, a thumb rubbing her lower lip thoughtfully. She places a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder and leans forward, her braided hair snagging on a barb upon his pauldron. "Now would you say those were human or animal teeth marks on that ... collar bone?"

One the third day, as trees slip past with mesmerising similarity, Gwen drops back to stroll with the dwarf who is taking rearguard at this time. She has an easy grace about her, a slinky sway to her stride that teasingly invites contact and beckons lecherous admiration. Balron's unerringly sharp eyes suggest that he has never quite seen the ranger exuding such agressive or ... damn ... dangerous sensuality. Balron let's his gaze slide upwards. He's not surprised to find the ranger's eyes tipped down to meet his regard with sly fearlessness. There's a hungry darkness to the jewlled depths of those eyes, a wildness of which he's only seen glimmers previously when she's returned from a hunt, black and white fletched arrows stained with thick blood, butchered carcasses slung effortlessly over her lean shoulder. Suddenly the lingering touches he's seen Gwen bestow upon the cleric - the enamoured heat of Nadia's gaze - take on a whole new dimension of meaning. The ranger's lips curve into a beautiful smile and she licks a finger with casual eroticism. Balron feels his hackles rise. He knows a predator when he sees one. Competition ... or, he wonders as he looks to the backs of the three others walking ahead, did the odds just improve?

One morning, Balron, Ari and Kaceubel awake to find Nadia, who was on watch, quite absent from her position. Dawn has come and the three have over-slept fractionally, but further examination proves that the Ranger has certainly been up with the birds. She too is missing.

Both women's bed rolls remain. Nadia's is tidily closed to stop the dew from dampening her blankets whilst she was taking the last watch, Gwen's is rumpled, open, and still warm.

Balron humphs knowingly, stretches and begins packing his belongings. Ari stares off into the trees, his keen eyes spying the trail of two slender, booted feet striking out amongst the trees. Further examination shows one set vanishing with commendable woodcraft, Nadia's tracks remaining visible with a legacy of scaped moss and disturbed undergrowth. No unusual sounds disturb the morning's crisp air. Even Kaceubel seems unable to trace their whereabouts, his brow furrowing slightly as he stands, one foot upon a log, eating delicately his breakfast of fruit.

The horse stands calm and docile near where it was hobbled last night, munching the damp grass lazily.

Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty - then the cleric's horse starts and neighs, looking to the east, and a few moments later, Gwen steps forth, Nadia close behind. The ranger is pale and an anger rests in her lovely eyes. When she stoops to her bed roll with barely a glance at the others, she wobbles slightly and pauses a moment to steady herself with a hand upon the ground. None of the party has ever seen their ranger look even for a moment off-balance since leaving Derisnospewn. But the way Gwen snatches her belongings of the earth and wipes her hands upon her breeches as if revolted by everything around her is certainly familiar. This morning she looks sickened by the earth beneath her feet.

Nadia murmurs good mornings, her eyes straying worriedly to Gwen now and then. She seems a little haunted as she moves to stoke the fire for the morning ritual of water boiling and medicine ingestion. She offers no apology or excuse for her absence at dawn.

Soon, all has been tidied and packs shouldered. Gwen and Nadia meet beside the horse which the ranger seems to be checking with peculiar thoroughness. Nadia touches the ranger's tall shoulder and Gwen immediately relents and ignoring the stares of Balron, Ari and Kaceubel, pulls Nadia's lean frame into her arms for a fierce hug.

"It doesn't matter," is all that can be overheard as Gwen whispers into the cleric's ear. Nadia presses her face into the sun-warmed braids of the half-elf, then draws back, smiling faintly. It's as if her heart has swum forth to her eyes. Her compassion is lovely to behold. Gwen, chewing her lip, pronounces the horse fit, then gathers up her bow and veritably lopes out of camp. For the rest of the day she is barely seen as she scouts and roams to their flanks and far to the front of the party. After that day, the ranger refuses to eat any of the flesh of the animals she shoots for the benefit of the others in the team. When asked why, she responds that as a servant of the Mother, she cannot take sustenance from land in pain. Nothing more can be drawn from her.

Every night after that morning of absence, Gwen and Nadia lay their blankets out side by side and sleep comfortably in the bliss of each other's warmth, snuggled together like children defying the night-time terrors of a strange room. Living on rations, Gwen begins to look thinner, but utters no word of complaint and cannot be convinced to break from her vow not to eat from the land around them. Any roots or wild vegetables she finds she picks at sparingly and boils furiously before touching. Needless to say, her attitude does little for the appetites of some. Nonetheless, her merry stories still come at night, she still bickers with Kaceubel in elvish and common, plays tricks on Ari and goads Balron to unnerving stares with bouts of mischievous teasing. The dwarf's temper seems to become an object of fascination and a favourite diversion - next to Nadia who receives positively 9/10ths of the half-elf's attention. That there is something considerable between them grows more apparent with every day they come closer to the dungeon. When the two women finally look upon the maw of their destination, their faces are bleached with more than simple trepidation. At the end of their trek, Gwen sighs, turns her back upon the dungeon and lights her pipe, filling the air with the sweet smoke of her narcotic. Dimly, her comment can be heard by all. With a heart-felt exhalation, the ranger says, "Dammit all" and puffs intently, her eyes downcast.

Finally after a weeks travel, you come to the gate.