@LostSoul
Benlend was a tiny village nestled deep in the forested hills of Serendipity's southern border. It was some miles off the high road to Arc, but with basilisks and spriggans in the wood it was a place to stay if you had no choice. It was mostly a spiderweb of dirt roads between farms and orchards with a hall, tavern, and some tradesfolk at the center of it all. Contrary to all the grumbling to his father, brothers, and sisters Cian did not hate Benlend. It really was beautiful. It was just the smell of cattle and horses he did not like. That and, in his head, he was always somewhere better: some old witch king's palace in the Wester Highlands, the library of Arca, or the glass oasis of Essryn.
The young male edged his way into The Merry Mule. Two old men sat by the fire stroking a shaggy dog and in the far corner three children sat on the floor, staring ponderously up at an antlered head on the wall. Cian approached the bar where a large, bald, fleshy man sat polishing a mug. "Young Master Cian."
Cian sighed in annoyance at the diminutive. "Hello Gunthyr. No, I wanted to know if anyone replied to my poster..." His eyes flicked across the room to a notice board. Mostly it was farmers looking to pawn off all carts, a local woman trying to find some work for her now 13-year-old son, and the services of a traveling midwife. Neatly written, at the center of it all, was Cian's notice.
"Nope. And I don't expect it. There ain't much in the way of sellswords here. And to be honest, lad, its too wordy. People in these parts don't read so much or so good." Gunthyr was an old guardsmen, had earned his keep, and was not one to scrape and bow before young aristocrats.
"Everyone here knows the old story of Merry and the Moonmaiden. He was farm-boy who tricked a witch into taking him into a magical well, as a human sacrifice, where he gained sorcerous powers to fight her. You'd think there'd be some interest in finding the place and making this town a little more than a place to water your mules!" Usually dour, Cian was suddenly animated as he began explaining how elves believed magical energy to flow along rivers and nearly always built atop ley line nexuses.
"Cian, Cian, we all know you love the story and how old Merry was your ancestor. Or so you've gone around saying since you were yay big." The big man smiled gently, flattened a palm at waist level. "There's a reason your pa never looked and his dad before him. Its just an old tower. Might be there's spirits and magic there. Might not. But some things are better left alone and we do okay here."
"Well I-" Cian huffed. Gunthyr had a way of giving un-asked for advice you could never refute. "I will take it as a no then?"
Benlend was a tiny village nestled deep in the forested hills of Serendipity's southern border. It was some miles off the high road to Arc, but with basilisks and spriggans in the wood it was a place to stay if you had no choice. It was mostly a spiderweb of dirt roads between farms and orchards with a hall, tavern, and some tradesfolk at the center of it all. Contrary to all the grumbling to his father, brothers, and sisters Cian did not hate Benlend. It really was beautiful. It was just the smell of cattle and horses he did not like. That and, in his head, he was always somewhere better: some old witch king's palace in the Wester Highlands, the library of Arca, or the glass oasis of Essryn.
The young male edged his way into The Merry Mule. Two old men sat by the fire stroking a shaggy dog and in the far corner three children sat on the floor, staring ponderously up at an antlered head on the wall. Cian approached the bar where a large, bald, fleshy man sat polishing a mug. "Young Master Cian."
Cian sighed in annoyance at the diminutive. "Hello Gunthyr. No, I wanted to know if anyone replied to my poster..." His eyes flicked across the room to a notice board. Mostly it was farmers looking to pawn off all carts, a local woman trying to find some work for her now 13-year-old son, and the services of a traveling midwife. Neatly written, at the center of it all, was Cian's notice.
"Cian ap Maerwen is hiring sellswords, treasure-hunters, and local guides. This is for an expedition to the Moonmaiden's Tor in search of artifacts of magical and historical significance. You may know it in the local vernacular as 'Frogspit Point.' My study of local literature, and third era elven cartography, has determined isle to very likely be connected to the local legend "Merry and the Moonmaiden." A small stipend will be paid, plus accolades, the favor of House Maerwen, and a dividend of treasure within."
"Nope. And I don't expect it. There ain't much in the way of sellswords here. And to be honest, lad, its too wordy. People in these parts don't read so much or so good." Gunthyr was an old guardsmen, had earned his keep, and was not one to scrape and bow before young aristocrats.
"Everyone here knows the old story of Merry and the Moonmaiden. He was farm-boy who tricked a witch into taking him into a magical well, as a human sacrifice, where he gained sorcerous powers to fight her. You'd think there'd be some interest in finding the place and making this town a little more than a place to water your mules!" Usually dour, Cian was suddenly animated as he began explaining how elves believed magical energy to flow along rivers and nearly always built atop ley line nexuses.
"Cian, Cian, we all know you love the story and how old Merry was your ancestor. Or so you've gone around saying since you were yay big." The big man smiled gently, flattened a palm at waist level. "There's a reason your pa never looked and his dad before him. Its just an old tower. Might be there's spirits and magic there. Might not. But some things are better left alone and we do okay here."
"Well I-" Cian huffed. Gunthyr had a way of giving un-asked for advice you could never refute. "I will take it as a no then?"