The journey back along the cliff tops is slower than your approach of the morning due to a combination of fatigue, wounds and plunder, but it is at least without significant incident. The rain clouds have moved off inland, leaving only a patchy, ragged rearguard to occasionally pass across the face of the reddening sun as it sinks into the West at your backs. The evening’s balmy warmth would be welcome, if the loads on the backs of many of the company were not causing them to break into a sweat, further begriming skin, clothing and armour.
It is closer to six o’clock in the evening, and dusk is beginning to make its first serious inroads into the sky by the time the company is again standing at the fork in the cliff path looking down on the gently-winding river and the pleasant green vale encompassing the village of Mirane[/color]. In the distance can be heard the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep being driven to byre and hut, a flight of black-winged rooks is making its noisy progress to its roosting within a copse of weathered oaks, and in the windows of both the outlying farms and the village proper, the first glimmer of lamps being lit can be seen.
You can make the village in a little under half an hour. Your intentions, please.
Last Edit: Jan 16, 2013 15:46:55 GMT -5 by doctorx
He passes fields, ditches and some four or so farms located in the near-distance before the path converges with a wider dirt road lined with hedgerows showing an early promise of blackberries that runs roughly South-West to North-East – very probably the main road linking the village to Kendor, Finnegan surmises.
Another five minutes travel brings him to the outskirts of the village proper. Mirane[/color] appears to be quite a long settlement strung out along the main thoroughfare. It is overwhelmingly residential – the small, humble cottages of farm labourers cluster close to each other along the roadside. Finnegan spies a blacksmith’s forge close to the shallow river that bisects the village, crossed by means of an ancient-looking stone clapper bridge. Directly beyond on the Northern side can be seen the pale stone and domed roof of a small church of the White Temple[/color]. A dutifully religious Hobbit like Finnegan scowls at it suspiciously.
Beyond the church, the village seems more brightly-lit. Some larger buildings of many lamps are in evidence, and Finnegan fancies he can hear the sounds of laughter and the clinking of raised cups somewhere in the middle-distance...
The party cross the bridge and enter the Northern part of the village. The air is heavy with the scent of cooking fires as evening meals are prepared. A few people (all humans) are out and about, and you are aware of a few anxious glances, not to mention the occasional outright dark look cast and Holy Sign made at the sight of Flick and Ruby's presence in the company, but nothing more unwelcoming than that is forthcoming.
You pass the church and continue up the street. On your right a large, two-storied building with courtyard and stables comes into view, illuminated by a welcoming blaze of lamps. A large sign hangs above the front door emblazoned with a weather-worn picture showing an ox, a plough and a surprised looking-ploughman standing in front of a large tree, before which a beautiful, lissome maid stands, one hand raised protectively. It is from behind this door that the sounds of merry-making are issuing.
Finnegan's sharp eyes also note a similar blaze of light further up the road on the right. Another inn or tavern perhaps?
Last Edit: Jan 20, 2013 17:38:36 GMT -5 by doctorx
Post by ProfGremlin on Jan 21, 2013 0:40:14 GMT -5
The village of Mirane, outside The Ploughman...
"This seems as good a place as any," Banoc says eying the inn. "de Morsac and I could go in first to have a look. If anything seems a miss we'll try someplace else."
Flick lifts off of Banoc's shoulder where he has spent the better part of the journey from the ruins. The overwhelming darkness that clamped bands of pain across his brow has lessened, his skin no longer feeling like stretched parchment illuminated by shadow. Images of the marwolaeth chysgod still make him shudder with memories of the unknown other somewhere in the tempting, seductive darkness. Flick looks up at the bands of color across the darkening sky. He suppresses another shudder by spinning in place as he hovers in front of Banoc. Memories of the last inn, the Dragon's Eye, briefly intrude upon his search for calm.
"If you don't mind, I will wait out here. Perhaps if I stay up on the roof for the moment my presence will be less," Flick looks around him, "remarked upon. I may be able to see more of the village from up there as well. Just whistle when you need me."
With that, Flick loops and swirls and zips up to the roof of the inn. Once there, the little mage walks the roof's edge and surveys the village below. His herbalist's eye scans the roof and the window boxes of the buildings below on the chance that he would find some remedies to help his friends and their various ailments.