Post by spiral on Jul 15, 2008 3:55:03 GMT -5
{Matrox, your haggling comes a little late, but I will allow you to make some impression. It is unlikely you'll see the gold before you come back from Dragon Mountain anyway, unless you never find the place and instead head home early.}
The road to Whitehill is nice and peaceful, and together you enjoy a ride through truly beautiful terrain. Whitehill is a farming village set near a prominent hill composed mainly of a white granite. Near the village is a small swamp, and by the swamp a small hut. According to the bard's directions, this is where Gerdie lives, and you have no trouble in finding the place.
You knock on the door and wait. The chorus of the swamp drones around you as the humidity of the place begins to do its work on you. Flies buzz about your horses and you find yourselves almost wishing for another dead-end so you can go and search somewhere else. The door opens then, and a young woman with thick red hair steps out of the hut. She is dressed well enough, and looks clean and well kept, at contrast with the swamp she appears to make home. You explain you are looking for Gerdie, and she says, "Ah, you must mean mother." She beckons you into the hut.
Inside, the hut is much larger than it looked from outside. You wonder briefly if it's just some trick of the hut's length, but the looks on one another's faces does little to reassure you. It must be five times as large inside, and several doors line the walls, leading only Braben knows where. The young woman makes sure you are all seated before serving drinks and warm bread rolls with honey. To find such custom is surprising. Most people are afraid of you, or indeed, respectful to a fault. The woman does not seem flustered by your presence though. She treats you like old friends, maybe even family. "I'll just get mother now," she says, leaving the room by one of the many doors. Three cats watch you from various spots around the room. Their wide eyes seeming to pierce your very souls. You know you are in the presence of more than some simple hedge-witch, and wonder how the Bard came to work for her.
Thinking on the subject more, those of you inclined to practice magic wonder how you could not have known of such an individual's whereabouts, Whitehill is but four days ride from Cambridge itself.
The young woman returns through a different door a few minutes later, with an elderly woman in tow. The crone doesn't speak to you, or look at you, until she is seated and has called one of her cats over to her lap. When she speaks to you, you see a youth in her eyes that belies here white hair and stooped figure. Her skin is wrinkled, yet her hair is still thick, her lips a bright full red and her hands and fingers slender and untouched by the years. It is hard to place an age on her.
She smiles to put you at your ease. "Well, how can I help you good people?" Gerdie says. "I'm rather impressed you found us!" Her statement is more obviously a question. It's as if she thinks you couldn't have found her without an invite.
The road to Whitehill is nice and peaceful, and together you enjoy a ride through truly beautiful terrain. Whitehill is a farming village set near a prominent hill composed mainly of a white granite. Near the village is a small swamp, and by the swamp a small hut. According to the bard's directions, this is where Gerdie lives, and you have no trouble in finding the place.
You knock on the door and wait. The chorus of the swamp drones around you as the humidity of the place begins to do its work on you. Flies buzz about your horses and you find yourselves almost wishing for another dead-end so you can go and search somewhere else. The door opens then, and a young woman with thick red hair steps out of the hut. She is dressed well enough, and looks clean and well kept, at contrast with the swamp she appears to make home. You explain you are looking for Gerdie, and she says, "Ah, you must mean mother." She beckons you into the hut.
Inside, the hut is much larger than it looked from outside. You wonder briefly if it's just some trick of the hut's length, but the looks on one another's faces does little to reassure you. It must be five times as large inside, and several doors line the walls, leading only Braben knows where. The young woman makes sure you are all seated before serving drinks and warm bread rolls with honey. To find such custom is surprising. Most people are afraid of you, or indeed, respectful to a fault. The woman does not seem flustered by your presence though. She treats you like old friends, maybe even family. "I'll just get mother now," she says, leaving the room by one of the many doors. Three cats watch you from various spots around the room. Their wide eyes seeming to pierce your very souls. You know you are in the presence of more than some simple hedge-witch, and wonder how the Bard came to work for her.
Thinking on the subject more, those of you inclined to practice magic wonder how you could not have known of such an individual's whereabouts, Whitehill is but four days ride from Cambridge itself.
The young woman returns through a different door a few minutes later, with an elderly woman in tow. The crone doesn't speak to you, or look at you, until she is seated and has called one of her cats over to her lap. When she speaks to you, you see a youth in her eyes that belies here white hair and stooped figure. Her skin is wrinkled, yet her hair is still thick, her lips a bright full red and her hands and fingers slender and untouched by the years. It is hard to place an age on her.
She smiles to put you at your ease. "Well, how can I help you good people?" Gerdie says. "I'm rather impressed you found us!" Her statement is more obviously a question. It's as if she thinks you couldn't have found her without an invite.
