A day and a half had passed since their camp amongst the boulders near the dwarven kingdom's borders. The Sunrise Road had eventually led them to the foreboding crossroads Faelar had mentioned, marked by a gnarled, ancient oak that seemed to twist towards the southern path like a skeletal finger. They had taken that southern fork, leaving the relatively well-traveled highway behind. Now, the wide stone path had narrowed considerably, becoming little more than a dirt track winding through increasingly dense woodlands interspersed with open meadows. The air felt quieter, older, less touched by the hustle of trade and patrols. According to Delores's calculations on the map, which Barin still eyed with deep suspicion whenever she consulted it, they were likely less than half a day's walk from Oleg's homestead.
The journey since their last camp had been blessedly uneventful. They'd encountered no bandits, no threatening beasts beyond a grumpy badger Barin had calmly stared down, and no further attempts at map-reading lessons, much to Barin's visible relief. They had settled into a comfortable, if mostly silent, traveling rhythm. Barin's watchful presence was a constant reassurance, his senses keenly alert to the surrounding wilderness, while Delores found herself observing the changing flora and occasionally humming complex melodies under her breath. The sun was beginning its afternoon descent, casting long shadows that stretched across the path ahead. They crested a small rise, and the trees opened up slightly, revealing a wide, shallow valley below. Smoke curled lazily from a single chimney in the distance, rising from what looked like a sturdy, well-kept farmhouse nestled beside a small copse of trees near a meandering stream.
"Reckon that's gotta be it," Barin grunted, pointing with his chin towards the distant homestead. "Matches the spot on yer... picture."
Delores pulled out the map, comparing the terrain to the markings. "It does," she confirmed, a flutter of anticipation mixing with nervousness in her stomach. "Oleg's homestead. We're finally here."
After days of travel, propelled by a vague summons and the hope of adventure (and coin), they stood on the threshold of the unknown. What awaited them down there? What 'matter requiring discretion' needed resourceful individuals? Was Oleg truly the kindly old sort Barin had heard whispers of, or was this some elaborate trap?
"Well," Barin said, hefting his falchion slightly on his shoulder. "No sense standin' 'round wonderin'. Let's go see what this Oleg fella wants, eh? Hopin' he's got stew on."
Delores nodded, tucking the map away and gripping the strap of her hurdy-gurdy. "Let's hope he does. And that his definition of 'resourceful individuals' includes a gnome musician and a half-orc dwarf guardsman."
Together, they started down the gentle slope into the valley, the lone curl of smoke beckoning them forward like a question mark hanging in the quiet afternoon air. As Delores and Barin descended into the valley, the details of Oleg's homestead sharpened. It was larger than it had first appeared from the ridge. It was a sturdy, two-story farmhouse built of thick timber and fieldstone, with a well-maintained slate roof and smoke puffing cheerfully from a stout chimney. Behind the house stretched neatly plowed fields, currently fallow but showing signs of careful tending. A small barn and what looked like a workshop stood off to one side. Beyond the farmland, perhaps half a mile distant, Delores could see the glint of a wide, slow-moving river carving its path through the valley floor, running roughly parallel to the cultivated land. The entire scene radiated a sense of peaceful, self-sufficient isolation.
"Looks... normal," Delores murmured, slightly surprised. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, perhaps something more eccentric or fortified, given the vague summons, but this just looked like a prosperous farm.
Barin grunted. "Normal's good. Normal means less chance o' trouble jumpin' out from behind the woodpile."
As they drew closer, nearing the pathway leading directly to the farmhouse door, they noticed something else. Tucked away near the barn, partially hidden by a cluster of apple trees laden with late-season fruit, was a small, brightly painted traveling cart. It looked well-made but clearly designed for a single traveler, its canvas cover neatly rolled up. A placid-looking mule was tethered nearby, contentedly munching on grass.
"Company," Barin observed, his hand drifting instinctively towards the hilt of his falchion. "Cart looks recent. Someone else arrived not long ago."
Delores felt a flicker of apprehension. Was this another 'resourceful individual' answering Oleg's summons? A competitor? Or something else entirely? They approached the front door cautiously. Before Barin could even raise a hand to knock, the heavy wooden door swung inward. Standing in the doorway was a man who perfectly embodied the term 'kindly old sort.' Oleg was round, bordering on plump, with a fringe of white hair circling a bald head and a magnificent, equally white beard that flowed down over his checkered tunic. His face was creased with laugh lines, and his bright blue eyes twinkled with warmth and shrewd intelligence. Despite his age and comfortable girth, there was an undeniable strength in his posture, the easy confidence of someone utterly at home in their own skin and domain. He held a wooden pipe in one hand, its bowl unlit.
"Ah! More arrivals!" Oleg boomed, his voice surprisingly resonant and cheerful. "Excellent, excellent! I saw you coming down the ridge. Welcome, welcome!" He beamed at them, radiating genuine hospitality.
Before Delores or Barin could respond, another figure appeared hesitantly in the doorway behind Oleg. This newcomer was striking in a different way. He was a tiefling, tall and lean, with skin the colour of deep burgundy wine and a pair of short, elegantly curved horns sweeping back from his forehead. His eyes were solid gold, lacking pupils, and held an expression of intense, almost painful, social awkwardness. He clutched a heavy tome bound in dark leather tightly to his chest, as if it were a shield. He wore simple, dark clerical vestments adorned only with a subtle symbol Delores didn't recognize that was a perfectly balanced scale overlaid with a crackling spark of raw magic.
Oleg gestured towards the tiefling. "This fine young fellow just arrived himself, not ten minutes before you. Also answering my summons, all the way from the western kingdoms! Rael D'Gar, allow me to introduce..." He trailed off, looking expectantly at Delores and Barin.
Delores found her voice first, offering Oleg a polite curtsy. "Delores Von Pixieheart, sir. And this is Barin Strongsunder. We traveled from Cerindor."
Barin gave a curt, stiff nod, clearly unused to such pleasantries. "Master Oleg."
Rael shifted uncomfortably, clutching his book tighter. He offered a quick, jerky bow. "A... pleasure. Rael D'Gar. Servant of Akrion, Keeper of the Balance and Arcane Truth." His voice was soft, hesitant, his golden eyes darting between Delores and Barin before quickly fixing on a point somewhere over Delores's left shoulder. He seemed intensely uncomfortable with direct eye contact.
Oleg chuckled heartily. "No need for such formality here, my boy! Or with you, Mistress Delores, Master Barin. Come in, come in! Stew's hot on the hearth, and there's fresh bread. We can discuss why I've called you all here once you've had a chance to rest your feet and fill your bellies."
He stepped aside, ushering them into the warm, inviting interior of the farmhouse. The air inside smelled of roasting meat, herbs, woodsmoke, and baking bread. It felt safe, comfortable, a stark contrast to the dangers of the road. Delores exchanged a glance with Barin. The half-orc dwarf sniffed the air appreciatively, his earlier tension visibly easing at the promise of hot food. Rael shuffled inside awkwardly after them, keeping his gaze mostly on the floorboards. Whatever mission Oleg had for them, Delores thought as she stepped over the threshold, at least it started with a warm meal and intriguing company. The awkward tiefling cleric, clutching his book and devoted to a god of neutrality and magical power, was certainly unexpected.
The warmth of Oleg's farmhouse enveloped them like a thick blanket, a welcome contrast to the crisp air outside. The main room was spacious and homey, dominated by a large, crackling hearth at one end and an equally large, sturdy wooden table near the center. The table, clearly handmade with loving care but perhaps not with gnomish or dwarven occupants in mind, stood impressively tall. Its surface was nearly eye-level with Delores and Barin as they stood beside it. Oleg bustled around, fetching mugs and gesturing towards the chairs, which looked similarly proportioned. They were solid, comfortable, and built for someone considerably taller than half the current guests. He paused, looking from Delores's small frame to Barin's stout one, a slightly awkward but kind expression on his face.
"Now, uh… can I offer either of you a boost?" he asked hesitantly, gesturing towards the chairs. "Perhaps a footstool? Built these myself years ago, didn't quite account for… well, for more sensibly sized folk visiting."
Delores chuckled, the sound echoing slightly in the cozy room. "Thank you for the offer, Master Oleg, but I believe we can manage." With surprising agility, she hopped onto the seat, her feet dangling a good foot off the floor.
Barin grunted, eyeing his chair like a potential adversary before simply grabbing the edge and hauling his armored bulk onto it with a determined heave. He landed with a solid thud that made the sturdy chair creak slightly. Rael, meanwhile, had already slid silently into a chair at the far end, seemingly trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, his book placed carefully beside him.
Oleg laughed heartily, the sound warm and genuine. "Excellent! Resourceful indeed! Now then," his expression shifted, the jovial host giving way slightly to the concerned homesteader, "down to business, though I insist we conduct it over a hot meal."
He bustled over to the hearth where a large iron pot hung, ladling out thick, fragrant stew into earthenware bowls. He placed them on the table along with a loaf of crusty, freshly baked bread and a crock of butter. The aroma was heavenly, making Delores's stomach rumble loudly in anticipation.
"Thank you all again for coming, truly," Oleg said as he began setting out plates and cutlery. "It's a long way to travel on just a summons, and I appreciate you answering the call." He paused, his gaze lingering on Barin's battered armor and the massive falchion now leaning against the wall near the door. "Master Strongsunder, if I may be so bold… you carry the look of a guardsman. Is it… permissible for you to be so far from your patrol route? I wouldn't want to cause trouble for you with your commanders."
Barin waved a dismissive hand, already eyeing the stew hungrily. "Nah, don't ye worry 'bout that, Master Oleg. Plenty o' guards walkin' the Sunrise Road. One dwarf-orc takin' a detour for a few days won't break the Citadel's defenses. Besides," he added with a gruff honesty Delores was coming to expect, "patrol's been dull as dishwater lately. This sounded more interestin'."
Oleg nodded, seemingly relieved. He finished setting the table and took his own seat, gesturing for everyone to serve themselves. "Please, dig in, everyone. Help yourselves."
As they began to eat, with Delores savoring the rich flavor of the stew, Barin attacking his bowl with gusto, and Rael picking tentatively at his bread, Oleg leaned forward slightly, his expression growing serious once more.
"The reason I called for help," he began, setting his spoon down, "concerns the river. My lifeline." He gestured vaguely towards the back of the house, where they'd seen the farmland stretching towards the water. "For generations, this homestead has relied on the Green River. Clean water, good fishing, keeps the soil fertile."
He sighed, his brow furrowing. "But lately… things have changed. About two months back, a nasty band of brigands set up camp upstream, maybe half a day's walk from here, right on the riverbank. Led by a brute named Grok. Grok the River-Poisoner, some are starting to call him."
Delores paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "River-Poisoner?"
Oleg nodded grimly. "Aye. They've built some sort of crude dam, diverting some water, but worse… they're dumping waste, felling trees directly into the water, fouling it something fierce. The fish are dying off, the water downstream is turning murky, and my irrigation channels are bringing sludge, not life, to my fields." His fist clenched lightly on the tabletop. "It's destroying the ecosystem, threatening my livelihood. And who knows what other damage they're doing further downstream."
He looked around the table, his gaze earnest. "I'm just an old farmer. Barin here can attest, patrols don't often venture this far south off the main road unless there's major trouble. These bandits… they're dug in. I need someone to deal with Grok, break his leadership. Scatter the rest of them. I need my river back." He met Delores's eyes, then Barin's, then Rael's hesitant golden gaze. "And I'm willing to pay well for it."
Oleg's plea hung heavy in the warm air of the farmhouse, the crackling hearthfire suddenly seeming less comforting and more like a witness to the grim task ahead. Delores carefully set her spoon down, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she considered the situation.
"Master Oleg," she began hesitantly, "your plight is clear, and I want to help. But I must be honest." She gestured to herself. "As a Bard, my primary skills lie in… well, music. And while I possess a certain aptitude for sorcery," she glanced briefly at her focusing stone pouch, "it's largely untrained, unpredictable. Facing down a dug-in band of ruthless brigands, especially their leader… physically compelling them to leave is likely beyond my current capabilities."
Before Oleg could respond, Barin slammed his empty stew bowl down on the table with a decisive thud. "Leave the bashin' to me, lass," he grunted, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Told ye, I was made for fightin'. Point me at this Grok fella and his thugs, and I'll handle the physical persuasion." He turned his gaze towards the quiet tiefling at the end of the table. "What about you, cleric? Name was Rael, right? Any nasty surprises this Grok might have up his sleeve, magic-wise? Can ye handle that side o' things if it comes up?"
Rael jumped slightly at being addressed directly. He clutched his dark tome again, his golden eyes darting towards Barin before flicking away. "I… yes," he stammered softly, but with a flicker of confidence entering his voice as he spoke of his domain. "Akrion grants clarity against deception and mass power to restore balance. If this Grok utilizes foul magic or trickery, I possess countermeasures. And… wards. Healing. Destruction, if needed." He seemed more comfortable discussing his abilities than engaging in small talk.
Delores felt a surge of relief hearing Rael's quiet competence and Barin's blunt readiness. They formed an unexpectedly balanced trio. Still, the thought of immediate violence didn't sit well with her Guild training or her own inclinations.
"Before we resort to bashing and countermeasures," Delores interjected, holding up a small hand, "perhaps we could try talking first?"
Barin scoffed. "Talk? To bandits? They understand steel and fists, lass, not fancy words."
"Maybe," Delores conceded, "but we don't know that for certain. What if Grok can be reasoned with? Offered something to leave peacefully? Threatening Oleg's livelihood is one thing, but perhaps they don't realize the extent of the damage, or maybe they can be convinced to move their camp elsewhere with less… destructive results." It felt naive, even to her own ears, but the thought of initiating bloodshed without exploring other options felt wrong.
Oleg, who had been listening intently, stroked his white beard thoughtfully. "Diplomacy is always a worthy first effort," he said, using her newly acquired title with surprising ease, making Delores blink. "Perhaps you're right. Grok might listen to reason, especially if presented by someone… unexpected." He smiled faintly. "Though Barin's caution is also wise. They are bandits. If they sense weakness, or realize you carry little coin yourselves, talk could turn to violence very quickly. Be prepared for that outcome."
Delores nodded, accepting the reality. "We will be. But I'd like to try words before weapons, if possible."
Barin grunted again but didn't argue further. "Fine. Talk first. But when the talkin' fails, I do the bashin'."
Rael simply nodded, his golden eyes unreadable as he stared into his empty bowl.
"It's settled then," Oleg declared, rising from the table. "You'll need your rest. It's been a long journey for all of you. I have guest rooms prepared upstairs. They are simple, but clean and comfortable." He gathered their empty bowls. "Get a good night's sleep. You can set out for the bandit camp at first light."
He led them up a sturdy wooden staircase to the second floor, showing them to separate, modestly furnished rooms. Each had a simple bed, a washbasin, and a small window looking out over the dark fields. It felt leagues safer than the ruined guard shack or sleeping under the stars.
Alone in her room, Delores carefully unstrapped her hurdy-gurdy, leaning it gently against the wall. She washed her face, the cool water a welcome relief. As she prepared for bed, her thoughts swirled. Baroness Von Pixieheart. The title felt alien, unearned. Yet, here she was, preparing to lead her first real expedition, negotiating terms, planning strategy. The lessons her parents, General Jerome Von Pixieheart and Admiral Mary Von Pixieheart, had drilled into her felt suddenly relevant in a way they never had back at the Guild. Always be prepared. Assess the threat. Consider all options. Protect those under your charge. Even though she had run from their path, their training echoed within her. This wasn't just about sticking it to them anymore; it was about proving to herself that she could handle this world, using her own unique blend of music, magic, and maybe, just maybe, a touch of Pixieheart pragmatism. She needed to rely on that training now, especially when facing down bandits with only a gruff warrior and an awkward cleric at her side. Sleep came slowly, her mind racing with plans and uncertainties, the weight of her new title and the impending confrontation settling upon her small shoulders.