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Epilogue of the First Turning of Darkhollow 414 PDF Print E-mail
Written by Mckell McIntyre and Ben Bell   
Saturday, 25 October 2014 17:34

First Turning of Darkhollow 414, Epilogue:
Written by Ben Bell and Mckell McIntyre

“Standing in a circle on the outskirts of Snarg’s Fount, Lord Evergreen, The Cobbler, The Black Goat of the Woods, Pox, Jack of the Patch, Scrumrot, Jespar, Gorehowl, Dagmar and other various Lords of the Hunt convened, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of their kin.

“In tradition with our Hunts, the prey has been decided. Our prey for this Hunt are the Damned!” Dagmar declared and a cheer arose from the crowd.

Gorehowl raised his horn and bellowed out a blast that only a Troll of his size could, and the crowd of Fey roared as they all scattered around the outskirts of Snarg’s Fount to begin.

Standing with Dagmar, Gorehowl was confused and asked “So the Erl King let you declare the Hunt this time, and you devoted it to the Damned? Why?”

Dagmar replied “It’s a favor from the mortals that are currently in Snarg’s Fount, and a prey that we all as Fey can easily agree upon.”

Gorehowl shrugged and nodded, then lumbered off to participate in the Hunt.

Soon after the Fey had encircled the miles around Snarg’s Fount, legions of Damned of all types began to pour forth from all directions. Blinking into the Prime or rising from graves, they wandered towards the Fount where the heroes of the Caravan were engaging in thick combat with the Damned and Felsworn. The Hunt was officially under way.

By the time the sun had risen again, the Fey continued to have a bountiful harvest of the Damned, sending them back to whence they came.”

 

Rufus gazed intently at the Calendar. Even today, with everything they had accomplished, it was still a complete mystery. How could they continue? What would become of Memora? Would it all last? He heard a familiar voice behind him punctuated by mechanical breaths. 

 

“Let’s go” said Tak. “It’s almost time, chop chop.”. 

 

Rufus nodded as Tak readied her power armor and checked her goggles. 

 

“They can’t...” began Rufus, “They can, have some confidence in them” Tak interrupted. 

 

The Calendar shifted slightly, unprovoked. The Sky-bearer blinked out of their vision in an instant. It left the air charged around it almost humming with latent power. 

 

“They don’t know what they are doing, they don’t know what it means” Rufus completed his thought. “They will need that book Tak. They will need the Circle. But it won’t last. How can they defeat him? It’s so futile..” 

 

“You don’t know that” as Tak spoke she readied her weapons. “They’ve chosen their path, it’s in their hands now. Some will choose law, some will choose chaos, and some will choose to make their own way”. As Tak finished, her breather’s quiet hissing was the only sound. 

 

“Without consensus, their choices will mean nothing. Only with their will united do they stand a chance against him. He will break them like egg shells and drink the yoke of their souls”. Rufus stopped, realizing he had crushed part of the table with his glove. 

 

“Then let’s not waste anymore time”, said Tak “Let’s make them as ready as we can for whatever is coming”. With that, Tak threw her arm towards the door and stomped her foot. 

 

Rufus readied himself and followed Tak out through the door. As they reached the road leading to Darke’s Fount they were met by the Scarlet Crusader - Arodor, Mortis, Sygismund, Liliana, and Sochari. The group appeared to be in a silent conversation of their own as Rufus and Tak joined them.  

 

Sochari’s spoke “The Prophecy of light is being written as we speak. My revelation is becoming clearer, with each word.. I understand.. what I must do”. His glazed white eyes drifting off as if to Arodor. It means we will need to expect even more of them. These brave and crazy wanderers are going to carve their names in the stars if they keep it up, I just hope we can give them the time they need to do so”.

 

“How can they?” Arodor turned, his face grim, “Their pride will destroy them. They will be beset on all sides by mistrust, dishonor, and greed. It’s written in the Dark Prophecy. I’m seeing it come to pass. Arodor’s red glow began to intensify, basking his frustration in its radiance. Suddenly his breath took form as Sygismund rested his hand on his shoulder. A visible chill ran down his back. 

 

“Patience champion of Embercrown” Sygismund whispered, “Your brothers fought valiantly and with great honor during the Tournament. They will bring that same honor to you in time. They are young. But one of their lives I have lived manyfold. I know they simply must continue to be tested. I have faith they will prove worthy inheritors of Memora”.

 

With a sigh Liliana turned “Enough talk, we have another battle before us, one that the Caravan cannot win alone. If my children are taken by Oblivion, then the Dark Prophecy will have played another note. The Mortis Council, your allies of the Concordant Council, will be forced to take back the keys we returned. That is.. if your Orders and Organizations fail. Which I hope they do not”. Liliana let her words sink in silence. It wasn’t a threat. It was a possible outcome they all understood as a last resort. If the the Quelling tree would be the end of the Dead, then the Dead would take power and assurance against that threat forcibly if needed. 

 

Her shadows deepened as an avatar of death approached. It was a Reaper, Firstborn of Shadowmaw, Mortis bowed slightly, the extending darkness began to envelope them all. “Come, through the Veil, I will petition mother night to aid us on our next task”, as Mortis Spoke, Sochari closed his eyes and focused his will. In an instant, the entire company vanished. Silence stood in their wake. 

 

Snarg’s Fount stood empty. The Caravan was gone. The terrible hunter Erybus had been vanquished, the Damned had been pushed back, and another turning had been completed. In its wake, Darkhollow had shown the weaknesses of these intrepid few. It bore them out like a fever. The bones of cultist lay broken, the horrid creatures of the vale had burned, and new allies had been made. What’s more, the first wounds in a greater battle had been delivered. Enemies on all sides now baited the Caravan with false promises of power and glory. What knowledge would arm them? What good news waited on the horizon? To battle, glory, honor, and death they marched once more. The stars above, the very faces of the Orisons, looked down on them with hope. 


 
Hollow's Eve - by Spencer McGhin PDF Print E-mail
Written by Spencer McGhin   
Thursday, 16 October 2014 12:46

‘Hollows Eve

by: Spencer McGhin

            “Night boys,” proclaimed Finn Verlaine as, with a flourish of his woolen cap, he shimmied drunkenly out of his place at the large wooden table. It had been a good harvest that year and many of the men and women from Well Westbine had gathered at the small but cozy Tylwyth Inn to drink and celebrate and to forget the imminent short, harsh Grimfrost that would blow its way south from the Fingers. The sounds of revelry permeated the air amidst the many leaves and Jack ‘O Wisps and streamers in all the colors of Darkhollow that decorated the drinking hall. For it was ‘Hollow’s Eve and everyone knew that if you wanted to keep the meddling Pox from your door, it bid wise to keep with the old ways.

Finn stepped towards the old oak door, pulling up his collar and stuffing his hands into his knee length leather coat. The moist, cool evenings of Embercrown had lately given way to the otherworldly chill of Darkhollow, whose dry breezes seem to blow their way up from the very realms of the dead. He leaned against the door with his shoulder and opened it out into a crisp, fragrant evening. The dirt road that led from the Inn wound east and north over hills and into valleys until finally spilling out onto a Memoran trade route that could take one across the wastes as far as the Fingers in the frozen north or to the burning fields of the blighted south. Well Westbine occupied its own little corner of the world, serving as both a haven and waystation to those traversing the wastes and a home to those who worked and reared the land. Finn Verlaine was now mostly the latter. Like most that came to call Well Westbine home, he was once one of the great expeditionaries who roamed Memora in the great Caravan. The dust collected around his boots more slowly these days; the armaments of his youth sitting idly in some dark corner of his attic.

            Finn ambled along the road toward home. He stepped in a lively yet purposeful gait that betrayed his intoxicated state, each foot not quite falling in front of the other. Luckily, he did not have far to travel and the light of the harvest moon illuminated even the most obscured of the valleys before him. It was as he descended the last of these that he first heard the clip clop of what sounded like the beating of hooves on hard packed earth. The sound grew louder and a sudden chill befell him as, from over the hill, he spied a great black horse without saddle or rider. Finn was overcome by some primal urge to duck behind a nearby shrub, yet curiosity got the better of him and instead, stepped just off of the road for fear of being trampled. As it drew closer Finn could make out more and more of the beast’s grim detail. In the moonlight, its onyx coat seemed to shimmer and radiate with a supernatural opalescence; its eyes, large golden sapphires. The black horse continued up the path towards Finn, perceivably unaware of his presence until, just as it seemed the horse would gallop past on its way, it came to a sudden halt just in front of him. The horse reared back its head and snorted, exhaling vaporous, swirling tendrils of hot breath from its flared nostrils. Time seemed to slow around Finn and for what seemed like aeons, the animal just stood there until it turned its head to look at him and then gestured toward its back as if bidding him to climb on. Finn hesitated and then, as if to insist otherwise, the horse reared its head back and then stamped its left hoof firmly on the ground. Finn swung himself over the horse’s back, which seemed to be even higher off the ground than it had looked from below.            

            And at once, they were off. Finn grabbed for the horse’s long black mane, ducked his head and held on tight. They seemed to be heading in the direction of Finn’s house, yet something about where they were struck Finn as odd. Looking to his left and right, he could not seem to recall any such feature as made up the current landscape, be it house, hillock or tree. Horse and rider sped through the countryside leaping over wide brooks and clearing the highest of the walls that marked the many property lines of the Well. Finn became increasingly fearful as the horse seemed to grow all the more energized by its antics. The harvest winds of Darkhollow beat across the rider’s face and whipped the horse’s mane into a devilish frenzy. Closing his eyes, Finn uttered a small exaltation to the Mother. He didn’t quite feel as though he was in any danger however there was something singularly odd about the events at present. It was as though stepping out of the Inn took him somewhere altogether apart from the Well road that he had traversed so many times before. He suddenly recounted a tale he had heard some time ago involving Fey that loved to trick those of the Prime by opening holes to various parts of the Fugue in seemingly random places such that they would walk right into them, unawares. Would he soon round a bend to see the Erl King in all his horned glory, sitting idly, head in hand, upon his throne? Would Jack be standing at the door to his house, blazing lantern held aloft?

            The horse picked up its pace as its hooves increased in their thunderous rhythm, while Finn ducked his head down low and maintained his white knuckled grip upon the galloping stead. When would this maniacal midnight ride end? After what seemed like an eternity, the horse stopped. Finn lifted his head to see the small, cobblestone walk leading up to the candlelit windows of his small cottage. He fell more so than he climbed off the steed and picked himself up to hurriedly make his way to the arched red door that marked the entrance to his house. Just before reaching down to loose the latch, he turned his head around to regard the horse one last time. He, however, did not see quite what he expected. Sitting there, on the small stone bench just outside the low garden wall was what appeared to be a small man, dressed in a dark, woolen coat and long brimmed farmer’s cap. Finn narrowed his gaze and furrowed his brow. Where had the horse gone? Did he really dream all of that in some drunken stupor? The old man stood up slowly, and turned to begin walking towards the front gate. When he reached the threshold, he looked up and gestured a greeting to the dumbfounded Finn.

            “Evening. Lovely ‘Hollows Eve we’re having, eh? Nice place you have here. I used to live ‘round these parts,” he said in an accent Finn could not quite place.

As if in a trance, Finn began to walk slowly towards the old man, elucidating more and more detail as he drew ever closer.  Nothing seemed altogether odd about the fellow save for his eyes. The old man raised his head in such a way that allowed for the light of harvest moon to fully illuminate his strange visage and as Finn looked, he stared into two eyes that were like large, golden sapphires. 

 
Dagmar's Hunt Part 6 -Behind Enemy Lines PDF Print E-mail
Written by Tim Frank, Ben Bell   
Monday, 13 October 2014 20:34

Part 6: Behind Enemy Lines

Written by Ben Bell in collaboration with Timothy Frank

 

As the Concordant Council’s meeting was drawing to a close in the dim lighting of candles, Edict leaned in and said to the Firstborn of Shadowmaw “We have Fomor among us.”

            The Firstborn, startled, said in a loud tone “Fomor are among us?”

            Sensing that the mystery had been revealed, Meridoch seized the moment and announced his declaration. “PEOPLE OF MEMORA, I AM MERIDOCH!”

In an instant, Dagmar leapt upon Meridoch and immediately began to rend his flesh and spirit, hearing no more of the monologue that Meridoch thought he would give. In a matter of seconds, Meridoch freed himself, and Dagmar leapt again.

Grappling the exemplar of the Fomor a second time and burying his powerful jaws into his flesh, Dagmar began to rend Meridoch’s flesh and spirit bite by gruesome bite. Feeling the leeching effect upon his spirit of the Redcap’s magic, Meridoch spun around and evoked his magic upon Dagmar. In an instant, the Redcap vanished from the Prime and was cast into the Deep Fugue where he was encased in an Infernal prison.

            Furious at his circumstances, Dagmar keened the prison and studied its construction for a moment. Noticing a new arrival, a faceless and amorphous being with a golden sheen moved over towards him. Dagmar looked away from the prison at the sign of the creature’s movement and observed the Fomor moving towards him.

            As the Fomor moved closer to the cage, its faceless body spoke. “The mighty Dagmar. Devourer. Breaker of Bones. The Bloody Maw. Eater of the Abyss. Prisoner. Fool. Captive. Here you sit, captured by your desire and bested by our master.”

Dagmar glared at the Fomor as it continued its lecture.

            The Fomor continued. “Did you truly think that you could consume our master so easily? Did you truly think that your trivial war would really be so successful against us? Surely even a simple being such as a Redcap should know that we can be anywhere at any time, in any face we choose to take. Did you really think you could catch us all at the Concordant Council’s meeting? You may have caught one of us, but there were more of us there. To your credit, we didn’t think you bright enough to keen one of your beloved Xsawah. Regardless, you are still a disgrace to be considered a Shining One.”

            Lazily touching the cage, the Fomor’s form transfigured to mirror Dagmar’s own.

            “You know, you really have done a magnificent job of making it easy to infiltrate so many groups of mortals. We thank you for that.” The clone said, as it attempted to assume Dagmar’s voice and speech pattern.

            “Since you’ve already won this game, I suppose I should tell you that there’s one thing you forgot.” The imprisoned Redcap said, with the Fomor repeating every word in unison with Dagmar.

            “What?” The clone asked as it leaned in curiously towards the cage.

            “That I can break these cages easier than you can construct them!” Dagmar and the clone said in unison – when suddenly the Clone realized what it had just stated. Dagmar easily punched through the cage wall, grabbing the Fomor by the skull and burying his black-nailed thumbs into his clone’s eyes.

            Now bound into a form, the Fomor panicked and screamed in agony as Dagmar quickly crushed the skull of his clone with a sickening crunch. The scream echoed throughout the Deep Fugue, where sound seemed to reverberate and reality seemed to ripple.

With a deft movement, Dagmar sprang from his cage on top of the Fomor and buried his maw into the exposed cranium of the Fomor, devouring its brain in a few seconds and consuming it’s essence as it’s form disintegrated.

            Looking around, Dagmar saw a massive hallway resembling a dungeon-like labyrinth containing a multitude of cages being attended by Fomor. As the sound of the screams continued to supernaturally echo and reverberate, the other Fomor looked up and witnessed the aftermath of what had just occurred.

            With blackened fingernails and the Fomor’s blood still on his hands, Dagmar reached into a pocket of his leathery kilt with a wicked, toothy grin. Erupting into maniacal laugher, Dagmar exclaimed “IT’S FEEDING TIME!”

Producing a small charm resembling a Magpie, Dagmar activated the magic item that the Prince had loaned him. The foundation of the prison in the Deep Fugue shook and quaked as a shockwave emanated in all directions from the Redcap.

A brilliant flash of light replaced the shockwave, and when it subsided the entire militia of Fey had blinked into the Deep Fugue around Dagmar. If the Fomor had expressions, it would be one of shock and horror as they gazed upon the group of Trolls, Undergoblins, Redcaps, a Barghest, and the Black Goat of the Woods.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Gorehowl raised his horn carved from the trunk of a tree. With a blast of sound combining the bellowing from the horn as well as a thunderous roar from the militia, the carnage began…

 

OUT OF PLAY NOTE: Players, you can learn about this story’s information via random people in Memora who are freed from cages between the September, 2014 social and the October. 2014 event. Be creative! These random people could be people drunkenly raving at pubs, or even someone close to your character. Friends, siblings, relatives, parents, you name it! Regardless of which method you choose, the story is the same.

 
Manifest Destiny PDF Print E-mail
Written by Jay L.   
Tuesday, 14 October 2014 09:11

    The wagon train rolled to a stop amid a cloud of trail dust. The lead wagon driver, a weary looking man wearing the emblem of the Caravel was overwhelmed by the sense of comparative silence unbroken by the plodding of beasts and the squeaking of axles. He took a look around at the small dark glade and the lodge under construction in its center. To the driver, it looked more like some sort of library than a proper lodge, but these heroes always wanted things their own way. All in all it was a right creepy place, but he had to admit that it had a sense of rightness about it that was hard to identify. This was the second of these new estates that he had been to on behalf of the Caravel. He didn’t know what all the fuss was about with these new things, but it was clear the Concordant Council was throwing in behind these endeavors, and was routing all sorts of materials to help defray the initial building costs.

      The foreman of the workers ambled over and put his foot up on the front wheel while offering up a waterskin. “Afternoon, was expecting you a couple days ago. We are almost completely out of mortar here.”

      The driver gulped down a few mouthfuls to clear enough dust to speak. “Well, you know well enough we are a bit lucky to have made it this far without troubles. Be glad we are here at all. How is this one coming?”

      “Well enough, this one has some sort of section entirely for books, makes the basic lodge plan hard to work, but we’ll get it there. Guess this one isn’t the worst. I heard one place is half buried in a swamp, and no one can sleep there for fear of the worst nightmares. I hear every one of these estates is in the ass end of nowhere”

         The driver laughed at that. “Even worse, some poor bastard is having to outfit a ship of some kind. Bet it won’t hardly float when they are done. Crazy ass heroes. Never will figure them out. Can’t hardly stand when they are around, but no doubt times are changing and we will need them. Caravel is pulling out all the stops these days, even sending loads from the Vault in some cases. I been on a few of these plots now, and let me tell you in the all the places I have been, there is nothing that feels quite the same as these things. It likes like they belong here is some strange way.”

         The foreman gestured at the new tents set up in the distance. “We aren’t the only ones who notice. I don’t think the Heroes have even been here yet, they just send the plans, and tell us what to build and how it ought to look, but see all the people that flock to these areas. Looking to set up new homes and help out around here. In another year, this place will be a small fort of some kind. Had some cartographer come through on behalf of the Wayfarers making sure the local area was mapped out well and proper for future expansion. Times, they are a changin.”

          The two men pondered the implications of their thoughts in silence for a moment. The foreman motioned to the left “Alright pull up over there and let’s unload. I got a feeling this is just the beginning of a lot more work like this.”

Last Updated on Tuesday, 14 October 2014 09:30
 
Dagmar's Hunt Part 5 - Of Blood and Bone PDF Print E-mail
Written by Ben Bell and Melanie Blake   
Friday, 12 September 2014 21:02

Part 5: Of Blood and Bone

Written by Ben Bell and Melanie Blake.

The sentinels stood at the gate of the Necropolis, their unblinking gazes scanning the horizons. The sound of a great horn in the distance echoed over the desolate fields, which raised their alarm. As the sentinels gathered to their armaments, the blast of the great horn came again, this time significantly closer. It was as if the sound had suddenly leaped forward.

Before their ever-open eyes, a militia appeared from thin air. Figures as large as three men tall lumbered over smaller forms.

A third horn blast rose from the largest figure, standing nearly four men tall and wielding an appropriately large two handed axe.

The sentinels clamored over each other as they hurriedly prepared for battle.

From the mass that had recently appeared, a smaller figure, riding on the back of what appeared to be a large canine walked forward. The rider yelled to the top of the gate "I'm here to speak to the Mother of Bones. Open the gates and let me pass."

The leader of the gate's guard, confused by this spectacle and this living creature's bold demand, asked "And why should we allow the living to pass our gates?"

The rider replied "Because she owes me a favor."

The sentry leader laughed at the hilarity, as the rider interrupted his laughter and said "You really ought to get moving and let her know I'm here."

The leader of the sentries stopped laughing and felt rather irritated that this living thing was ordering him around. "And if I don't?" He defiantly replied.

"Then I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate the consequences. She and I had an agreement when she was young, and now a time has come that she must repay the favor. Do not attempt to stop me from collecting on my favor." the rider pressed forward. "Now open the gate and let me pass".

"And whom should I tell her has come to 'collect a favor'?" the sentry leader mockingly inquired.

"She'll know me as Ramgad." he yelled back.

Commotion arose. Some of the sentries stirred and looked over the wall at this statement. One of the older members on the wall quickly rushed over to the sentry leader and whispered in his ear. The sentry leader looked back at his new counsellor with confusion, and back to the rider.

"Why have you brought this force to our gates?" The sentry leader inquired.

"That's none of your business. They won't be entering unless invited. Now hustle and speak to your Mother, the seasons will be changing soon." Dagmar replied.

The sentry motioned for a courier, and sent it to Lilliana. The rotting one quickly scurried throughout the Necropolis towards her throne room.

Bursting into her Throne Room, the rotting one whimpered "Mother, there is --" she interrupted "How are the gates holding? Do we need to supply reinforcements?"

The rotting one groveled "We are not under attack Mother, but a rider has come and says you owe him a favor. He says you will know him as Ramgad."

She rose slowly.

The rotting one whimpered "He wishes to pass the gates and speak with you."

She stood there, staring at the courier with a fixated gaze, then said "... Let him pass".

The rotting one bowed low and scurried off.

Sitting upon her massive ivory throne looking at the door with eyes darkening, Lilliana bluntly states "Ramgad... What a pleasure... It's been a very long time, one might have thought that you had forgotten us. And now... You choose a time like NOW to come riding up on...whatever that *thing* was... And bring mention of favors owed..."

"It's good to see you're still around as well. Before we continue, I need to clarify. I'm not Ramgad anymore. Now I'm back to being Dagmar." the redcap replied.

Lilliana chose a direct approach "Dagmar? If you insist... I'm sure you know that I have much to attend to, so...Dagmar... Why have you come back here, to my home?"

Dagmar began "As I'm sure you remember, I came to your aide as an ally during the Great War of the Damned. I had my own reasons for doing so, and you needed whatever allies you could get. I put down from my immortality to help you with that, but have since regained it." He paused. "Now it's time that a favor is repaid."

Taking a breath, he continued.

"We have mutual enemies. The Damned, the Infernal, the Abyssal, and all of their network. There is a group in their network that I am hunting. There will be Damned, Abyssals, and Infernal surrounding this group, which is where we need to work together." He chuckled, and continued "This isn't exactly a bad deal for you, either -- You're going to have a militia of Fey as an auxillary, and that we are certainly formidable to a great number of foes."

Lilliana tilted her head slightly, then replied "I'm not particularly seeing where this is something I wouldn't do anyway..."

Sensing an opportunity, Dagmar's demeanor shifted as he said "Then maybe this isn't the repayment of a favor after all, but instead an unusual alliance." Curiously, Dagmar continued "So, what has been happening with you? Do you need a favor?"

Lilliana's eyes darken and she rattles "Dagmar, do not attempt to use your wordplay on me. I need few favors, and will ask for none."

Lilliana composes herself and lightens her tone, sounding a bit more 'human'. "It does seem that we have a common enemy. My children and the progeny of the Countess are in great danger. Outside of the shelter of Entros, our kind is being skillfully hunted. The Quelling Tree has many, many minions and they are growing in power. Their tendency for outright murder has increased as well... A war is coming... The time is near that we must strike at the tree itself."

Dagmar contemplates a moment before speaking "...The Quelling Tree, eh? This isn't the first time I've heard of that place. Over this past season I have been eating lots of Damned and they have been talking about that whenever I make them talk."

He pauses for a moment to think, and then continues "It seems that is a major place of operation for them. Are you seeking answers or spirits?"

Condescendingly, Lilliana replies "The Quelling Tree is more than a place, Dagmar. It is a being of a great infernal power...The answer to your question would be both"

"Good. Then we can get answers together." Dagmar replied. Pausing for a moment, he continues "I'm looking for one person in particular, but I don't want you telling your..." he pauses to think for a moment "... children..." he continues "the name of who I'm looking for. Also, it would probably just be best to not mention any names in public."

He continues "We need to find their leaders, and then Scrumrot or myself need to be present for questioning."

Lilliana begrudgingly replies "Concealment of any single fact from, any one of my children... If I do this for you, my debt is repaid. What do you need from --"

Ignoring her question, Dagmar interjects "This concealment is for your own good. We are tracking down a being who can assume any form at any time with the power of a name. We don't mention his name so that we do not get his attention. Your debt will be paid when we find him. Until then, we can have fun eating together." He thinks for a moment, then says "Do you like Hearthbeard?"

 
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