Gold in the Wood, Chapter 4
Cairn2e Realplay Adaptation, Session 1
Chap. 3; Chap. 2; Chap. 1; Prologue
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Chapter 4
Mannog opened the door to the Coppershine Inn after a long day of walking to be received by the warmth of a woodstove and the smell of stew. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the Coppershine on Mannog’s first impression, though it did hold the dubious honor of the Last Tavern on the Road before the Valdwood began in earnest. The Valdwood was far vast enough for several taverns on different roads to rightfully claim this distinction. More than once, minor conflicts had broken out between the patrons of neighboring taverns, with friendly squabbles and pranks escalating to the point where the authorities would have to get involved before a bartender was hanged or the forest was set on fire. The Coppershine Inn did not share its road with any rival establishments though, and it was unlikely that one would be built anytime soon in this remote corner of the realm.
Mannog had been the dusty road since sun-up, so he was hoping to make undeterred progress towards a private meal and a bed. To his dismay, the common room sported quite a crowd. It was the evening of the 7th Big Day of Nimickin, and tomorrow the borderfolk would rest. Tonight, trappers and farmers, rangers and soldiers, merchants and pilgrims, and a handful of vagrants communed under Coppershine’s thatch roof. The proprietors of the Inn had not expressed any interest in operating an egalitarian meeting place, it was just the only spot around.
Between Mannog and the host’s counter were several occupied tables and an obstructively wide circle of farmers. The farmers all seemed to hold their hands behind their backs in similar fashion and hrmmphed to each other in call and response patterns reminiscent of birds of the field. Mannog skirted around them and approached the counter, quickly catching the eye of the tavern host.
The host was middle-aged man with a crooked smile and a soiled rag on his shoulder. He expediently acquired three of Mannog’s last remaining gold pieces for dinner, drink, and board, and then began wheedling his new patron for the details of his circumstances while sharing the details of the circumstances of the Inn’s other patrons in an alternating fashion. It was clearly a well-practiced tactic.
“Those guards are watching you,” began the host with a conspiratorial grin.
“For what reason?” asked Mannog, taken aback, “I have done no- have I done any wrong here?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” mused the barman in response, “They’re looking for something on the road, I heard. You were on the road, weren’t you?”
“I was.” Mannog spoke with a plodding, deliberative patience, as if he was plucking his words from a book one by one and carefully laying them out to dry.
“I will talk to them if they require it. I am not concerned.” Indeed, Mannog was anything but concerned. The warmth of the tavern was wonderfully relaxing, and Mannog found himself indulging in a certain ill-founded perception that at last he might have found a place he could rest and recuperate for a while. In truth, his current savings would cover less than a week’s worth of board at the Coppershine Inn. This was his curse causing trouble again. Mannog tried to force himself to become more concerned, but it wasn’t very effective. He yawned.
“You weren’t the only one on the road, so was that girl over there,” continued the host, pointing to a dingy mess of rags piled on one of the commonroom’s shadowy corners. “Maybe you saw her? Did you come in by ways of Fort Lune?”
“Must have come a different way,” said Mannog carefully, gazing at the pile of rags. The pile leaned forward, a person after all.
The host was undissuaded. “Ah I see, are you of the Wake?” The man shined a mug and twirled his thin mustache at the same time. “Them over there, they’re headed up to the Roaring Arch. Are you a pilgrim too? Or are you from the Halfways?”
“I’m from the bordercountry,” Mannog offered tacitly, “Not around here, but similar.”
The barkeep frowned, cleaning the mugs with increasingly frenetic vigor. “Then you may be interested in what’s happening over there,” he offered, nodding conspiratorially over Mannog’s shoulder. Mannog turned to see that the farmers had reorganized and were standing in a loose semicircle around one individual in particular, who appeared to be giving some sort of impromptu speech.
“Oh? What is it?” said Mannog without enthusiasm. He would not stay long enough for whatever the farmer was pleading about to matter. Mannog never did. The host meanwhile had had enough. He took out a glass jar half-filled with gold pennies, and gestured to it. “If you don't have anything of value to say, then you can trade your coin.” The bartender’s tone suggested that he would prefer Mannog’s secrets to gold. Mannog did not want to part with either, but he took out another coin, and placed it in the jar. The host sighed and reluctantly continued.
“Well that’s Mr. Rush,” simpered the host, looking down at his mugs. “Cedric Rush is the best turnip-gardener for leagues around. Except now he wants to move into a new occupation, doesn’t he? I wonder if those reachguards will have anything to say about that.” To be true, a pair of soldiers were watching Cedric Rush from their own slightly-less-shadowy corner. It was unclear if the bigger one was paying attention, but the smaller one was clearly nonplussed.
“I suppose I’ll have a look then”, replied Mannog, taking the opportunity to leave his inquisitor behind. The host shined furiously and glared at his recalcitrant back.
Mannog approached the group, attempting to keep a low profile from behind. Unfortunately, he had the tall, honest face of one who might excel in local politics, and this gaggle was political in nature. As Cedric Rush spoke, a couple of the farmers began sending encouraging side-long glances at Mannog, attempting to catch his eye and somehow reach silent consensus with him. He had no idea what they wanted him to know, how he was supposed to feel, or why he should feel that way.
Cedric Rush was tall like Mannog, and his leathered face and hands spoke of many years spent in the turnip fields. The way Cedric’s shirt was tucked gave Mannog the impression that the farmer was wearing his nicest clothes. Cedric had an earnest voice, but he was not a comfortable public speaker. He frequently faltered over his words and repeatedly deviated from his overall thesis. Luckily he had won over the crowd. They affirmed each of Cedric’s statements with gusto and contributed suggestions in the instances where he struggled to find his words.
“I said it ain’t right,” proclaimed Cedric to impassioned hoots of approval, “The Lords aren’t having- nothing getting done!”
“Nothing done!” responded the farmers, nodding gravely.
“Things are not getting better, and the woods are safer … or aren’t, rather … safer I mean, and also the turnips are behind schedule and often stolen,” Cedric spoke most confidently on matters relating to turnips.
“Stolen!” howled the crowd, the majority of whom were drinking.
“The Lords are supposed to … uh,” Rush paused, searching for what Lords were supposed to do.
“Live in castles!” declared one farmer.
“Give us money?” asked another hopefully.
“Protect us!” tried a third.
“Uh- yes, protect us,” confirmed Cedric, to cheers. “We should be protected- and what’s more it stands to reason. Where are the knights!? The spear and bow!? What about Yog’s promises?” Across the common room, Liort Darvel glowered in her corner and clenched her pewter mug with an iron grip. The lack of gratitude was staggering.
“We need to protect ourselves!” called someone, to roars of approval.
“Yes,” agreed Cedric Rush, “Long ago, we of this wood, we held our protection into our own hands. Now is the time that we … uh … we should do the same. We don’t have time for stolen turnips! Instead, a Warden of the Woods!”
“Warden of the Woods! Warden of the Woods!” chanted the farmers, banging on the tables.
“Who should be the Warden of the Woods?” asked Cedric. The farmers leaned forward in anticipation, ready to heartily support whoever was named, but Cedric was genuinely asking. The momentum of the assembly threatened to spin out of control. Mannog stared at the wooden floorboards, concerned that someone would nominate him. Luckily the tension did not last long enough for that.
“You, Cedric, they mean you,” called the tavern host with exasperation.
“Wait, what?” said Cedric.
“Warden of the Woods!” cried the farmers.
“But I don’t have- I need to tend my turnips,” protested Cedric, but the crowd was not interested. “Please, you have no reason to believe that I can protect you.”
An inebriated woman pulled her head off a table and shouted, “Then prove your worth!” before slumping over again.
“How?” asked Cedric desperately.
“Go on a quest?” suggested a farmer.
“Well I don’t know about any quests,” replied Cedric. Mannog did not think that completing a quest was necessarily a clear indicator of an aptitude for local law enforcement, but kept his mouth shut.
“Find a treasure!” shouted another audience member.
“Where?” asked Cedric, seeming to forget that the locations of treasures were rarely public knowledge.
There was a brief interlude, for the crowd was stumped.
“Well you have to find it,” eventually mumbled the woman with her head on the bar.
Cedric thought for a minute, “I don’t know any treasures,” he concluded with a sigh.
“Find the Ragged Chariot of Roikel!” shouted a young farmhand, raising his mug enthusiastically. His neighbors brayed as they were splashed with mead, but others murmured their satisfaction with his idea. Mannog had heard of the chariot from tales told by his old hermit friend. He remembered her face crinkling with glee as she spoke of a chariot made of a thousand tattered fabrics sewn together and pulled across the sky by flying oxen made of iron and gold. The hermit said that the Chariot belonged to a great queen who lived in the time before the Long Dark Age. To Mannog it was fantasy. There was nothing before the Long Dark Age, and it was clear that poor Cedric would never find it.
Mannog refocused on the scene in front of him, where Cedric was dutifully agreeing to the crowd’s requests. “Well if that’s what it takes, I’ll do my best,” the strong man intoned.
“Warden of the Woods! Warden of the Woods!” cheered the crowd jubilantly, as if they had just accomplished something significant. Farmers offered several hearty toasts in quick succession, and a trio of them started up a drinking song about the Old Goat. Then the unity of the crowd's collective attention waned, and they began to disperse. Mannog found himself standing at the host’s counter next to a glum-looking Cedric Rush.
Cedric looked over at Mannog gradually. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a Ragged Chariot?” the farmer asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mannog tensed, reluctant to say anything he’d regret, “Do you have any leads?”
“No,” said Cedric, and grimaced despondently.
“Well,” submitted Mannog, “If I hear any news of a chariot, I’ll let you know, given the opportunity.”
“A fine gesture,” nodded Rush. He seemed to be comforted by Mannog’s gruff affect. They stood in silence. Cedric tried to avoid thinking about the opaque and unreasonable qualities of his new task, instead dreaming of stern nods and firm handshakes in fields where turnips always grew well. Mannog just wished for bed. The tavern host, further stymied in his attempts to eavesdrop, slammed a mug into the bar with frustration. Several patrons were awakened from their napping places on the counter.
Mannog left Cedric at the bar, hoping to make a quick retreat to his room before anyone else prompted him into saying something he would regret. He was almost there, if not for the pair of reachguards waiting at the bottom of the stairs. As Mannog approached, the tall one pushed a rough hand into his chest, halting his progress.
“Were you traveling on the road today?” inquired the other, eyes narrowed. Mannog thought that she looked fairly road-worn herself. The big guard’s other hand fidgeted with a swordhilt in an unsettling manner.
“Yes, I was,” Mannog responded truthfully. This seemed to further irritate the guard. She clicked her tongue and inhaled sharply, preparing to ask another question, but her large companion beat her to it.
“You see any fugitives on the road?” he blurted, “Two of them, a soldier with a cart and a blacksmith with a broken face.”
Sargent Darvel furrowed her brow, correcting her associate, “That’s not necessarily true. Yes, a guard is missing. They may have stolen and used a cart for transportation, or maybe not. A blacksmith did disappear shortly after, and they may have absconded together. Or maybe not.”
“I haven’t seen anybody like that,” responded Mannog, relieved to be able to offer the truth, “I just arrived today.”
“Well stranger, I regret to inform you that it might not be the best time to dally around these parts. Where are you headed?”
“Oh- uh, I don’t know,” Mannog trailed off. This did not satisfy the Sargent, so he continued, “I suppose I’m headed into the Valdwood. I hope it’s nice this time of year.” He smiled weakly. The reachguards peered at him. The big one snorted and spit on the ground, to the disgust of the other.
“Well, stay alert then,” offered Liort as a form of farewell, “There have been dangers of late.”
“Dangers, like what?”
“Have you ever heard of the mating grounds of the bush-tailed spider?”
“Ah, I'd rather not.” Mannog pushed past the reachguards and plodded up the wooden stairs with heavy legs. He identified the door to his room and entered, found the key on a wallhook, and locked the door behind him with relief. He slowly walked across the room, lit the single candle in the stand on the table, and sat on the small straw bed. Mannog had forgotten to acquire a bowl of soup, a gold coin wasted, but he was not about to go back to retrieve it.
Mannog produced a pair of small objects from his pack and placed them gingerly on the table. In the flickering candlelight sat two trinkets, a miniature silver bell and an hourglass, gilded in gold. The sand in the hourglass radiated a faint blue glow and slid through the trinket’s neck with grace, like liquid moonlight. Almost all of the sand was in the lower chamber. Mannog rang the silver bell one time, and then flipped the hourglass over.
“Not today, friend, not today,” Mannog murmured. He yawned, satisfied, and blew out the candle.