We open on the road out of Ravenhome, a sleepy sanctuary to maybe four hundred souls, nestled in the Ravensdale. It is Spring and the fields and orchards around the village are bursting with life. As the land wakes, every hand is turned to working with nature to provide a healthy harvest to see the folk through their next winter. So it is, that we find our band dispatched by the alderman, to assist the Tubroots with their harvesting of the sweet, sicky sap from their orchard and the brewing of the Ravensdale reknowned sapsauce syrup.
Under a canopy of verdant apple trees, the Tubroot orchard at the outskirts of Ravensdale could easily be mistaken for a natural grove with its elder trees scattered by the roots of the hill. Spigots
are hammered into the largest of them, and the sweetness of golden sap rises from the liquid collected in the buckets.
The road curves around dizzyingly until the fellowship’s wagon, booming with its jostling cargo of empty kegs, finally arrives at a clearing facing a barn painted orange. Young farmhands are all around preparing to harvest and process the sap into one of Ravensdale’s most coveted treats: sapsauce syrup.
A large bearded man hails their approach, a few of his children pestering him and running circles around him. This is Lance Tubroot, a stout, bearded man, built like a barrel, with a booming voice and a broad smile. He and his dozen children tend the orchard as farmhands and, while he 🟠indulges his children terribly, he takes the brewing of the sapsauce syrup very seriously, and is 🟠*crtitical of mistakes*.
Our band is bound to spend the next few days harvesting sap from the Sapsauce trees and brewing the valuable sauce. The production process can be precarious for inexperienced brewers and, leading to some notorious antics at the brewery as well as accidental comical 🟢*dizziness* due to sap fume inhalation.
The quality of the Tubroot sapsauce is a result of their tried-and-tested recipe, as well as their generations-old cauldron, an Oldways heirloom. It is Lance’s hope that one of his children takes the family legacy seriously enough to continue the practice.
The first day is spent harvesting the raw sap from the Sapsauce trees. There are many trees around, but only the healthiest are to be tapped to provide the best-tasting sap. Hammering the spigot isn’t so easy either and sore muscles from the hard labour could leave workers aching and 🟢*stiff-1* from all the hammering.
Luckily, our hero, Bumbler is a beekeeper with some experience amongst these orchards. Despite their reputation for drunkenness and tomfoolery, she truly is in her element. With good-natured cheer, she steers the team away from trees that conceal swarms of ill-tempered bees, choosing nothing but the choicest of trees to tap for their sweet sap. All the sap harvested is of the highest quality and Bumbler’s contagious good spirits prevent the workers from flagging despite their efforts.
Meanwhile, Alex has been tasked with keeping the most troublesome of the Tubroot spawn from getting in the way of the work and derailing the process with their incessant pranks. The most notorious pranksters, Ivy, Ollo and Jurard, watch the goings on with a devious glint in their eyes. If they’re not underfoot with some foolishness, they’re tattle-tailing to their father about some failing on the part of the strangers, imagined or otherwise. Alex, takes the reprobates under his eagle-eyed wing, promising to make deadly archers out of them, with bows make from fresh, springy boughs. All seems to be in order, and Alex beams with pride at his protégés progress, which is replaced with gales of laughter when he’s drenched with a skin of glue-ish sap dropped from the canopy overhead, leaving him 🟢*sticky-2*. All said, though, he does a fine job in keeping the children from underfoot of the rest of the workers.
Ivy is often up to no good
The next day sees Lance tasking the hands with gently… gently!… stirring the vats of sap over a controlled flame, fed with a strange green root. It 🟠requires careful attention, and the wise woman, Rosie is the natural choice to head the efforts here. No stranger to the Oldways, she commands the ancient bubbling cauldrons with her hawkish gaze, leaning on her skills in brewing her own potions to know just when to feed the flames or bank them to maintain a constant heat. Her focus, and quickly given calls for attention keep the workers from succumbing either to the heat, or the strange smoke that boils from the fires. Lance seems delighted by the day’s results, proclaiming that he could not have done better himself.
After a long, hot night, it’s a sudden rush to get the bottling done when Lance declares each bubbling vat to be ready! The sapsauce must be bottled quickly before it cools off, and bottles, jars, and flasks are then stacked in a 🟠precarious pile.
Finn comes into his own here, mustering the team to keep up the pace of bottling without breaking anything. Just being near the vats can be enough to make one 🟢*dizzy-2* from the fumes. It would be all too easy to stack the bottles incorrectly, causing them to come cascading down in a 🟢*sticky-3* mess, which would surely make Lance 🟢*angry-2*. None of the possible catastrophes manifests under Finn’s military leadership, however. He even manages to resist giving in to sampling some of the finished goods (mmm, 🟢*sugar-rush-1*).
Where has Morgan been during all of this, you might ask? The Crowbrother is mostly 🟠*ostracised* by the folk of the village, because of his strange practices ad was tasked with organising the end of harvest revelries, largely to keep him away from workers needing to focus elsewhere. Noone actually expected very much of him, to be honest. Yet, Morgan has organised a revel fit for the courts of long vanished Gwyrdolin! The food is excellent, the sapsauce and mead flow freely and even the chants and dances organised by the feather-clad fellow are met with enthusiastic approval. The joy of work done well and together is felt by everyone and even the antics of Morgan’s ever-present crows are greeted with amused laughter.
The next day dawns bright and clear, yet heads are clear and hearts are full of warm feelings instead of drunken regret. Lance is delighted with the work and helps load the wagon high with delicious sapsauce syrup, giving each of the helpers a 🟠clay jug of sapsauce and even some additional 🟢*supplies-1* after such a bounteous harvest. Bumbler, in particular, is delighted to have learned the secrets of brewing Ravenhome’s famous syrup and commits the recipe to memory for future use.
The spring sun peeks through the overcast morning, bathing the golden barley fields with its grey light. Songbirds huddle in their nests, their chorus of chirps filling the souls of the farmers working tirelessly. Ravensdale spreads out before the road, a small but fertile valley where barley fields stretch along the feet of the hills and apple orchards dot the landscape all the way to the snowy peaks of Greyback Mountain. Whether locals or travellers from distant hamlets or beyond the Dales, all are welcome here.
On the road to the village of Ravenhome, laughter catches the ear from the newly harvested stalks. A young girl plays and frolics by the edge of the tall barley; Willow, known by her kind and precocious demeanour. How she’s grown!
Finn, the Red Marshal, drives the wagon along the winding road, but pulls up short at a sudden scream from the barley field just passed. A quick glance behind catches the gleam of bright brass on a helm of tarnished and rusted steel that rises above the stalks in the field… the field where Willow was playing!
Driven by his duty to protect all denizens of the Dales as a deputised Red Marshal, Finn leapt from the cart, rushing headlong through the barley to interpose himself between the Creature of Twilight and poor Willow, who was paralysed with terror. Up close, Finn could determine that the arms and armour worn by the dripping, stinking monstrosity were once-fine artefacts of Old Gwyrdolin, the kingdom gone these many generations. Foul, black, brackish water was oozing over what looked like mummified human remains within the worn battle harness, and a palpable aura of 🟢*terror-3* washed over our bold Marshal, but he stood resolute guard over his ward.
As Morgan’s feathered friends mobbed the creature, the village wise woman, Rosie stood up in the cart, calling on the protection of the Lady for Willow against what was plainly something that had no place in the serenity of the Dalelands.
in the back of the cart, the stern archer Alex, pulled his 🟠*fine longbow* back to full draw… He had still not had time to remove the 🟢*sticky-2* sapsauce from his time in the fields, and this was distracting him. Also hindering his shot was Finn; The Marshal stood not only between Willow and the Creature, but between the archer and his mark. But Alex’s 🟠*cool head* and 🟠keen eyesight did not fail him and his broad headed arrow flew true, whispering past Finn’s cheek to slice through what little solid sinews kept the Twilight creature’s head attached to its shoulders. With a great gout of fetid fluids, the head and neck parted ways, and the armour clattered to the ground. Horrified at the effectiveness of his shot and the disgusting effluent released, Alex choked back 🟢*nausea-2*.
Quickly, the rest of the band rushed forward to join Finn in the barley field. Bumbler’s 🟠*gentle touch* helped soothe Willow and persuade her that it was safe to come with them. Morgan couldn’t help himself when he saw the bright, brass highlights on the Old Gwyrdolin wargear and he quickly started stuffing as much of the old armour as he could in to the depths of his midnight, feathered cloak, his pet murder cawing with delight as they pecked at the leathery remains. Alas, the Crowbrother was not careful in his pilfering and stinking bog water covered his hands, leaving him 🟢*poisoned-1*.
Wiser eyes knew to be more cautious of such a foul thing and the Wise Woman’s experience as an 🟠Oldways Witch lent her 🟠*curses and protections* enough to unbind such a thing. As she set about cleansing the thing, she determined that the root cause of all this was something in the vile ichor that hissed as she poured salt and garlic over it. It was swamp water, sure, like the swamps to the south and east of Ravensdale, but it was suffused with something unnatural.
From there, the band decided what to do. Plainly, Willow could not be left on her own, and Finn felt duty and honour bound to ensure the village itself was not under any immediate threat of more such creatures. He would take the wagon and Willow to the village to warn them of what had occurred and ensure they were safe. Meanwhile, the rest of the band would follow the obvious route of the creature up the hills out of the dale…