Feargus
Feargus looks at Goshawk and Mardan Cy, and then at the mercenaries, where his gaze lingers longest.
"As I see it, we are full of speculation still on where we are. We need to explore just to straighten a few things out. That said, there is wisdom in marking this spot so that we can back track. My recommendation there would be to leave a permanent marking - perhaps a cross sticking out of the ground or a cairn of stones and that we bury beneath that something specific. That way, perhaps with a little aid from some of the more mystically minded membes of our crew, we can perhaps locate whaterver object we leave behind.
Either way, we need to mind our words around the mercenaries. I'm pretty sure they didn't sign up for adventuring to a new world."
Looking around, the mercenaries actually look pretty relaxed. They're laughing and joking, and if they're aware there's a good chance they are no longer in their native dimension they don't seem discomfitted by it. The horses seem skittish, but that's probably just because they're anxious to get moving again.
Swinging his horse around a bit, Gardo looks to the north as his intended path of travel. He looks to the mercs and then looks back up and down the road again. His gaze settles on the south for a few moments. "Okay, so let's get this place marked so we can find it again. Maybe pull up a stone or two from the road? Whatever it is, we should do it quick. I'm getting a bit thirsty in this heat. Also, I think the road south looks better and we will probably have more luck going that way. Wouldn't it be great if there is an inn that direction? Something big enough that we can get those guys into it as well? They probably could use a good drink or two. I might even buy them a round myself!"
It's hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally.
Newton guffaws "That's the spirit. I'm sure we can set up multiple markers so we can find our way back. Us scouts have been marking trails for generations"
Sixthmonth, Twentyfirstday
Hex 229.117? Actually, who the hell knows anymore.
Maybe 4:00 pm?
Bolstered by this entirely rational and logic, the adventurers gird their loins and head south, following the road. The mercenaries cheer upon hearing Gardo's offer of ale. The companions travel for perhaps a half hour before they behold a most miraculous sight. The forest ends -- or at least opens into an enormous clearing large enough that, while they can see the trees curve around to the east and the west, and then curving further south, they can't quite see the edge of the wood at the far end. The leaf-strewn ground under the trees becomes a lush, well-manicured lawn so green it almost hurts the eyes to behold. Before them, perhaps fifty yards away, a tall hedge, perhaps twenty feet in height, curves away into the clearing.
Set into the hedge is an wrought iron gate, arching above the top of the hedgerow, peaking at perhaps 35 feet above the ground, and nearly as wide. Visible beyond the gate, off in the distance, is a truly ginormous palace, almost impossible to determine how tall without some sort of context. Flanking the gate are two humans, dressed in green and red surcoats and green hose. At a second glance, the adventurers realize the guards are ogres, and only appear small due to the massive gate they stand in front of. As the adventurers leave the clearing one of the ogres raises a horn to its lips and, after two squeaking raspberries, manages to toot a somewhat passable tune. Neither Mardan Cy nor Horation are impressed by their musical prowess.
The opulence of the place is stunning; surely Lady Luck must be smiling upon the adventurers to bless them with such a bounty. No doubt a feast awaits them within the gates, with absinthe cooled with ice blocks hauled from the distant mountains, smoked ducks, pigs fed on naught but the plumpest chestnuts and stuffed with crisp fall apples, and, then after gorging themselves on the most succulent food, feather-stuffed beds with cool silk sheets to fall asleep in.
"I'm not usually one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this seems too good to be true."
Marden Cy
"Oh, I don't know about that," says the young bard. "This is Faery. The stories are filled with stuff like this. Not doubt the owner is a kindly Fae lord who wants nothing more than to wine and dine us and then see us safely on our way, perhaps after filling our coin purses with gold and gems." This statement is met with rousing cheers from the mercenaries.
Sixthmonth, Twentyfirstday
Hex 229.117? Actually, who the hell knows anymore.
Maybe 4:00 pm?
As the adventurers discuss what to do, they become aware that there is a party or celebration occuring behind the hedgerow. The companions can faintly hear bubbling conversation, the tinkling of glasses, and the lilting strands of a waltz, and see shapes twirling and dancing through iron gate. The two ogre guards look bored; one of them scratches his belly idly while clearly waiting for the adventurers to make a decision. The two guards are dressed in such foppish finery such as to make a Rhea's Ford dandy blush, but in clothing several sizes too small; they look like twenty pounds of sausage squeezed into ten-pound casings, and both have faces powdered white with some substance.
"Look!" calls out one of the mercenaries, "they's got an ice sculpture in there!" Sure enough, what looks to be an ice sculpture of a swan or some other bird can be seen through the bars, and the adventurers can see guests approach and fill their glasses with some liquid spilling from the sculpture's beak. The rest of the mercenaries murmur at the obvious good taste of their potential host.
Y'all seen that Shrek movie where they get him all dandied up for the royal ball? That's what these two guards look like.
"Oi!" calls out one of the guards, "We'se got stables for your mounts in the palace, we do. No need to leave them outside where's they could get et by wolves or worse." This sounds like a perfectly reasonable suggestion, even if the guard's manner does not match his attire. Of course a palace of this size would have stables they could use.
Sixthmonth, Twentyfirstday
Hex 229.117? Actually, who the hell knows anymore.
Maybe 4:00 pm?
Thus decided, the adventurers ride forward, followed by the mercenaries. The ogre guard blows another series of flatulent blasts on his horn, and the gate is pushed open. The party rides through, and beholds a magnificent sight. A verdant lawn stretches for what seems miles, all soft, undulating hills of neatly trimmed grass. In the center stands the palace visible through the gates, all rosy marble and lofty towers and minarets. A trio of musicians plays off to one side, as nearly two score guests spin around a dance floor; it is hard to tell what races they are, although it seems to be predominantly human. Maybe some elves? It's hard to say, as elves are seen rarely in Absalom itself. Here and there the companions espy some non-humans: short kobolds or goblins, a bearded individual that could only be a dwarf, and there, a human-sized squirrel in fancy dress. All are dressed in a style unfamiliar to the adventurers -- or, at least, to the Scarlet Principality. Those better traveled amongst the adventurers recognize the style to that similar to what folk from the Jade Principalities wear; tall top hats and tailored jackets with long tails for the men, elaborate hoop skirts and corsets for the women. They espy several more ogre guards standing at attention around the perimeter of the dance floor.
Dominating the scene, slouched in a chair on the far side of the dance floor, is what can only be described as a giant. An enormous man, with a singular eye centered on his forehead, easily three times the height of Gardo, watched bored as the dancers waltz in front of him. The giant perks up as the horn sounds again, and one of the ogres announces the adventurers as the gate clangs shut -- in totally not an ominous fashion -- behind them. "Your honour, travelers have arrived! Mortals fresh from the crossing, by the smell of them!" The ogre turns to regard the party. "You are in the presence of Prince Nacknosh, the ruler of the Lower Seven, Sultan of the Sultry Summer, Duke of Happenstance. It is customary to bow and tug one's forelock in the presence of such eminance!" The ogre speaks the last sentence in a softer tone, and demonstrates.
All of the dancing ceases as the revelers look with interest at the new arrivals.
Feargus moves forward and attempts what he thinks should be a stately bow and tug of his forelock...although truth be told he is not positive what a forelock is. "Your Grace, we have traveled from the mortal realms and seem to have arrived here much by accident...or perhaps by Happenstance. We kindly request lodging and wise council so that we may plan our future travels."
His gaze going back and forth, Gardo notes all the ogres. "This might be too many of them for me to take if things go wrong," he mutters to himself. Eventually, he espies the giant. He continues his muttering, "Oh, big guy probably needs big guards. Right." He realizes the ogre near them has spoken and it takes a moment for the words to finally sink in.
He looks to the ogre. "Wait, you said crossing, right? We crossed into the fey realm or something? Did you hear that, Feargus? We did.." A swift smack on the leg from Notai's spear brings him back to his senses. "Oh, right." He quickly dismounts and turns back to the mercenaries. "Off! Bow!" he calls out. He turns some more, "Wulfka, go ahead and... oh, you already did. Good."
Gardo takes two steps forward, stops and imitates the ogre's motions. "Your honour," he calls out for his voice to carry. Holding his position, Gardo tries to stay alert to anything threatening.
It's hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally.
Svenn bows and scrapes before the giant. "Also, your magnificence, if you have interest in commercial dealings with our realm, we could help to facilitate that."
