Chapter 1
“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”
-H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)
Jerrick felt a slight tingle from the alcohol while seated at the table nearest to the bar and kitchen, the thick darkened stout of ale carried a soothing sensation as it slithered along to cool and massage his raw, dry throat. Such a wonderful feeling that tickled his skin and sent a jolt to his nerves. Within a few seconds after taking a sizable gulp from his tankard, the after taste settles–his taste buds pick up on the familiar sharp, pungent feeling which found its way to his tongue, almost putting him in a momentary bliss of joy and delight. This would be followed by a smoky sensation; the sweet taste of fine yeast mixed with bitterroot. The preferred Ale of choice for Jerrick of Alaron. Although found in Candlekeep and Daggerford usually, Bitterroot Beer is somewhat popular along The Sword Coast. Granted, not a lot of folks really like it. While this variation has a far darker complexion to the formula, it still carries the same signature qualities and characteristics associated with the original product. The Friendly Arm is one of the few places to carry a variation of such a finely crafted brew. Since Candlekeep isn’t too far away, it’s of little surprise to him that the hamlet has access to the brew in general if at all.
The Friendly Arm is a walled hamlet converted to an inn as a place of respite for travelers passing through. The road known as The Coast Way, which this particular place ties into, is a fairly popular trade route between Beregost and Baldur’s Gate. Not too far from the main road nestled up on the bluffs is Candlekeep, which isn’t an easy place to access. Candlekeep generally requires some kind of literature as payment for entry. Scrolls, tomes, journals, poems, sheet music–anything that could be archived in the large library. Although Jerrick had been there before assisting on a few cases that popped up per an Avowed request; it isn’t really a place he could fit into well. To be quite honest, Jerrick felt he couldn’t fit in anywhere and is fairly comfortable keeping others at arm’s length for personal reasons. It saved him the headaches of dealing with the usual riff raff that generally carried the strength of an Ogre and the intelligence of a Neanderthal. In most cases, alcohol played a role in a few skirmishes he dealt with in the past. This included dealing with drunkards lacking intelligence and felt like a Barbarian in a blind rage–resulting in a few overturned tables, broken chairs and the occasional window crashed through. It left Jerrick’s coin purse a few pounds lighter in wake of it all. Thankfully, nothing of the sort had occurred in The Friendly Arm as of yet and he intends to keep it that way. The last thing he needs is the local watch breathing down his neck over a fight he didn’t start.
Overall, most folks don’t bother him unless he gives them a reason to. Even then, there’s a level of fear, discomfort or compassion that surfaced whenever anyone looked into his eyes. This tends to add to the discouragement of instigation and aggression towards the Hunter, alcohol infused or not. While he took his next swig, Jerrick’s ears were honing in on bits and pieces of conversations occurring around him. Most of it idle gossip and casual conversations which didn’t hold his interest. Although most folk would ask the barmaids and servers about any gossip going around, Jerrick felt it’s a lot easier to listen and pay attention. A major advantage he carries against others is hearing isolation–a technique that trains the ears to focus on a specific conversation while drowning out any additional background noise. It’s like a record producer controlling the balance of instruments in a music studio during a recording session; each channel dedicated to a particular instrument or vocal on the mixer and the engineers can adjust the tracks to isolate specific parts. A very simple skill that required some training and discipline, but very handy in most cases. It reduces any suspicion or unwanted attention while eavesdropping on some potentially sensitive topics or material. This skill is quite effective out in the field should any danger present itself. Even if that didn’t work out, he had an alternative watching out for him. That alternative is perched high up in the rafters, observing everything and everyone. A lot of times, it remained out of the way of prying eyes.
Jerrick’s own ears zoned in on a few conversations while he took another swig from his tankard. It didn’t take long for his perception to pick up one particular conversation a few tables back.
“So y’saw it?” one asked. “Th’village?!”
“Aye…” the other responded, “Couldn’t believe it. ’Dere it’d be, in th’flesh.”“Ah thought dat wuz jest a myth!”
“Ah thought so too! ’Til Ah saw it wit mah own two eyes!” Jerrick listened intently to the conversation behind him drawing the tankard to his lips. It sounds like one of them stumbled on a major discovery that was believed to be a myth. He isn’t sure what significance it held, but he kept listening trying to get something out of the conversation.
“Where’d it come from?” the patrons’ comrade asked.
“Ah dunno,” the patron took a sizable gulp. “Awl ah know is th’mahsh levels dropped down t’reveal Dahkmoore. Th’playce is practically a ghost town.”
“Dahkmoore y’say?!” the patrons’ comrade echoed. “So th’rumors’re true!”“Aye, seems dat way.” Jerrick’s ears heard the audible gulp from the patron taking another shot. “Th’strangest thing though,” the patron adds. “Prior t’Dahkmoore ’mergin, Ah ‘eard… singin’!”
“Singin’?” his comrade implied. “Are y’sure?”
“Dun question me! Ah know what ah ‘eard!” The patron paused for a second lost in his thoughts. “Seem’d strange t’me at least. Singin’! In th’Marshes of awl playsus!”
“Y’think it may be ah Siren?” the comrade asks.
“Prob’ly,” the patron shrugged. “But Siren’s norm’ly hang ’round th’sea. ’Twas miles from dat, we were!” the patron took another swig. “In any case, a thick fog billo’d up ‘round th’same time. So, tha’ might’ve sometin’ t’do wit it!”
“Oh come now! Dere’s no way fog could make th’mahsh waters drop!” Jerrick’s curiosity piqued upon this new development. Despite the idle gossip he picked up, little information on the exact location isn’t being addressed plus the name is a new one to him. He may need to pull in a few favors for answers or just directly ask. Within moments of hearing the conversation, a voice spoke to him:
′Did you catch all of that?′ Even though the voice seemed audible enough for others to hear, the conversation is done through telepathy. Jerrick maintained his composure lightly tapping his finger on the tabletop contemplating his next move. Lazily, eyeing his tankard as if attempting to make more Ale appear in it magically by staring at it hard enough.
′Yeah… I did.′ he answered mentally. ’Sounds like a supernatural disturbance taking place.’ ’Should try to at least get more information from him,’ the voice suggested. ’See if you can get a location out of it.’
‘I’m already plotting that move,’ Jerrick responded as he motioned for one of the barmaids to approach. A human woman with flaxen locks and posh tiers greeted him leaning forward some to see what Jerrick required. Her bosom pushed up by the leather corset hugging her hips snug, practically crushing her ribs against her lungs. Some of the employees here tried different things to garner tips and encapsulate the imagination of the weary travelers and patrons.
“What cha’ need, handsome?” the lady asked him in a cheerful, silky-smooth tone–threaded with sultry. Unhinged, Jerrick reached into his pouch and slid a few coins on the tabletop for the maid and motioned for her to come close. He leaned, almost standing from his seat with hands supporting his weight on the table to whisper his request in her ear:
“Another Bitterroot for me young lass,” he said, his accent carrying a melodious intonation with a heavy emphasis on the ‘r’ sound among other specific vowels and consonants in the vocabulary. The words escaped his throat lyrically and rhythmically, his tone a deep baritone with a hint of rasp and growl yet being smooth as silk and luscious like honey to the ears. A bittersweetness oozes out soothing the soul in a low hum. “And if you could,” he adds. “Whatever the gentlemen seated at the fourth table behind me is having.” He slid an extra coin for good measure. “Tell him–it’s on the house.”
“Fer someone who isn’t the most sociable you certainly know how t’cut through the heart,” she smiled, taking the coins. “May find yerself trapped in your room one of these days, love!” Jerrick could see right through the flirtatious remark she made, albeit wholehearted that it is. This isn’t the first time he received such remarks. He’s fully aware that he isn’t ruggedly handsome and he did struggle with some social skills. It’s a constant work in progress for him and he struggles with it every day. His only saving grace being the natural presence his aura carried, the harrowing darkness his eyes foretold and a fair amount of coin. Nevertheless, even if he isn’t the most rugged and charming looking man in the room, he wouldn’t have any issues gaining support or aid from the locals if required.
The Barmaid filled his tankard and left, filling a jug from another barrel. She walked over to the fourth table behind Jerrick and poured the tankard for the patrons. She spoke to the two and both looked at Jerrick’s direction. Jerrick casually took a swig of his bitterroot beer, finding the eternal bliss from the aftertaste tackling his buds and soothing his throat. In his head, Jerrick counts the seconds as if he knew when precisely the patron would approach him and thank him for the free round. Generally, it’s within the first seven to eight seconds after the barmaid drops off the order. A few words were spoken between the two followed by the familiar, high-pitched wail of a chair’s legs grinding against the floor.
′He’s coming your way,′ the voice telepathically warned. Jerrick didn’t bother looking. His trained ears could pick up the heavy footfalls closing in where he’s seated. The patron stopped and took a seat next to Jerrick. He had his own tankard in hand which Jerrick paid for the refill and took a sizable gulp from it, planting the tankard on the table top.
“Wench sez w’gotta free drink on th’ouse,” he said. Jerrick didn’t say anything. He knew the barmaid mentioned who paid for the drink which he anticipated. It also brought the curiosity out as far as this conversation goes. Jerrick takes a gulp from his refilled tankard while the patron continued:
“While ah appreciate the kind gesture, ah can’t ‘elp baht wonder if dere’s a catch to it awl.” The patron looked at Jerrick for a second or two, almost sizing him to see if he could take the hunter. “Sumtin’ tells me ’dere is.” He waited for Jerrick to respond. Noting the silence and how progressively loud it grew. The patron took another gulp of his brew and slammed on the tabletop wiping his mouth with his forearm. “So… Wut ar’y’aftuh from a weary trav’luh like me?” Jerrick casually takes a swig from his tankard:
“Just a friendly conversation and a pint to cover your woes,” he answered the man. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation among the rest of the babble in this place.” The patron eyed Jerrick suspiciously at first then eased his posture taking another gulp. “Well, not many find m’tales dat intriguing,” he said. “Wut makes yer interest in it any diff’rent?” Jerrick smiled somewhat, holding his tankard, swirling the Bitteroot Beer inside, creating a little foam and keeping the mixture together avoiding any separation.
“Let’s just say that the strange, mysterious and unexplained are my specialty,” the Alaronian Hunter responded cryptically, not ready to show his whole hand as of yet. If he wanted to gain the information, Jerrick needed to earn this man’s trust first. Which could be a challenge here. Not many were so open to the idea. The patron scoffs.“Y’sayin’ yer th‘venturin’ type?” the patron asked. “Y’dun look like one o’dem ’venturers,”“Adventurers are in it for the coin, glory, wealth and fame,” Jerrick pointed out. “While some of those things may be true in my circumstance, I’m more interested in unveiling something far deeper.”
Jerrick looked at the patron, his steely eyes piercing into the very essence of this man he was speaking to, utilizing his intuitive skills to gain some insight from his fellow traveler.
From the physical features, Jerrick can deduce this man was no stranger to the risks of the road. The patron had a rigid scar starting from the left side of his forehead a few inches from his hairline trailing through his left brow across his left eye, down his left cheek stopping near his jawline and re-entering along his neck to his left collarbone–the scar jagged and rough like a river flowing to the sea. His left eye, a milk white glazing–possibly from the visible injury he sustained at some point in his life and his right eye chocolate colored. His ghost white hair shoddy with a receding hairline, and a hefty overbite with his teeth sticking out topped off with a permanent curled snarl favoring his left side. The patron towered over Jerrick by seven centimeters when standing–his frame resembled a Columnar tree; thin, narrow with little defects practically swimming in his tunic and trousers. His arms stretched out like tree limbs and his hands gnarled and twisted resting at his knees. His more definitive facial features made him look like a goblin–rounded to a football shape with a strong jaw, the damaged left eye slightly lower than the right eye with full features hiding the high cheekbones and his beak-like nose jagged and offset as though the patron had seen his fair share of fights. Oddly enough, for a skinny patron, there were hints of muscle protruding his leathery skin; his posture sulked with his knees bent slightly and leather boots planted firmly on the surface for balance. His head tilts to the right, bringing his offset eyes level staring down at the hunter. His body language, posture, expression and eyes indicated he questioned whether or not he should trust this generous stranger.
Yet when meeting Jerrick’s eyes with his own, the Patron’s heart skipped a beat and he backed off–hinting that this wasn’t a fight he wanted to get into. While Jerrick’s eyes were enough to convince the man to back down, other clues may have contributed to the hint that maybe testing the Alaronian is a bad idea. Despite the Patron having a seven centimeter height advantage, and maybe a slightly better reach, Jerrick carried a lot more muscle and was broad shouldered in comparison. His lionlike features were a little better than the patrons goblinlike structure; strong jaw, filled cheeks, roman nose slightly crooked, steely blue eyes with a double chin and a slight overbite. His expression was eerie yet confident, powerful, fearless. Jerrick had his fair share of scuffs and brawls over the years he traveled across Faerûn. His face hinted at some damage he sustained that didn’t heal up fully. The most obvious being his crooked nose which looked like it broke a few times. His porcelain skin held a red and ruddy complexion–soft blemishes made Jerrick look slightly sickly as if part of some unknown curse. His double breasted cloak covered his build. The upper breast, a leather jerkin coated by scaled feathers with a fur lining along the collar and the lower portion of the cloak satin material dyed midnight blue with white trimming. Under his cloak, Jerricks left thumb was tied to a belt hugging his waist and holding his trousers, a requirement for spellcasters when setting foot into the hamlet. Most of his weapons were secured on him with a peace tie sealing the blades.
Jerrick watched the patron, then motioned for the barmaid to him, slipping a few more coins for her. “One more round for the two of us,” he motioned. The barmaid refilled their tankards and Jerrick raised his for a toast. “To safe travels.” he stated with the patron raising his in response, clashing then drinking. Setting his tankard down, Jerrick finally made his move. An attempt to get the patron to speak up:
“...Tell me more about this Darkmoore,” he started. “Where exactly did you see this place?” The patron eyed the Alaronian for a second. His response was to be expected:
“Why are y’so int’rest’d in Dahkmoore?” he inquired. “Ain’t nutin’ in th’Thonewash but swa’hmp and mah’sh. Th’playce is flooded and murky at this time o’th’ear.” Jerrick casually brought the tankard to his lips savoring the last bit of the ale within. His mind processed what this man was providing for him while at the same time, leaving an answer for him to comprehend, the one piece of information he needed spewed out.
“My interest in Darkkmoore is of little concern,” he answered cryptically. “The location however, and any information you know of the place would be most helpful.” Jerrick looked into the patrons eyes staring coldly. “The more I know from your first hand account, the easier it’ll be for me to get to the bottom of this experience of yours.” The patron thought long and hard about this. Seemed like the ginger haired man meant well and what did it matter to him? If this person wanted to put his life on the line, it was none of his business.
The patron scoffed. “Fine,” he caved, feeling the stare. “Ah’ll tell y’wat Ah know.” Jerrick pulled some coins from his purse and ordered refills for himself and the patron, then reached into his pouch pulling a leatherbound book–89 millimeters wide and 140 millimeters long. He opened the book to a blank page–his hand reached back into his pouch and pulled out a piece of charcoal, shaped into a square with a sharpened point resting it on the page to take notes as the Patron began:“Dahkmoore was a prospect town from wat Ah ‘eard,” the patron started. “Not sure wat th’folk were prospectin’ for. But dey were close to th’Cloven Moutains so Ah wouldn’t be surprised if ’dere was a connection ‘tween th’two.” Jerrick jotted down the information while it was being explained. The charcoal scratched over the paper leaving an imprint behind with each word written down. The Patron continued. “While it seem’d promisin’, Thornwash isn’t th’most forgivn’ o’awl playces t’settle. Th’upper reaches ‘specially! It’s known for floodin’ durin’ th’rainin’ seasons. Th’mudslides dun make th’conditions ’dere any better.”
“So the place was doomed from the beginning?” Jerrick asked. The patron nodded. “Bloody crazy if y’ask me! Dere’s plenty o’playsus t’settle an’prospect from!” The patron took a hefty gulp of his refilled brew. “Mudslides an’floodin’ from th’eavy rains is a recipe for disastuh if y’ask me! Th’townsfolk learn’d dat th’hard way!”
“What makes you say that?” Jerrick inquired.“Cause dey drowned!” the patron said, slamming his tankard. “Th’ole lot of ’em!” Jerrick seemed a little perplexed. “From the flooding?” he asked.
“So dey say,” the patron answered, taking a huge gulp. “Ah dun know th’specifics, but Ah ’eard it was during that really bad rainfall.” Jerrick made a note on his booklet. He was keen on learning what he could. “So how did you find it?” he asked. The Patron took a hard swallow of his ale. “Ah stumbl’d on it,” he explained. “Ah dun remember how or why, but Ah ‘eard singin’ an’ found m’self standin’ at th’bridge t’Dahkmoore.” He looked at Jerrick. “Fog was thick so Ah couldn’t git much. What snapped me outta it was a blood curdling screech.”
Jerrick paused and looked at the patron. “Screech?” he confirmed. The Patron nodded. “Could you describe it?”
The patron took another shot of his drink trying to ponder his memory. “Th’screech was like… primal, high pitched. Sounded like something hittin’ th’back o’th’throat or sumtin’. Almost… inhuman.” He took a second to collect himself. “Ah do remember seein’ sumtin’ climbing from th’mud. Scared the bejeebus outta, me it did!”
“Did you get a look at what it was?”
“No, Ah was runnin’ for m’life! Didn’t wan’t’stick ‘round an’ find out wat i’twas! Ah got as far away from dat place dat Ah could!”
Jerrick nodded, not wanting to press it further. He knew that the patron wasn’t in the wrong for running away. However, he needed to find out where it was. Taking his map out, Jerrick set it on the table for him. “Do you think you could recall where it was?” he asked. The Patron snorts.
“Dun ’ave to!” he responds. “Ah know where i’twas!” The patron took the charcoal from Jerrick and circled a spot on the map. “Sumwhere ’round dere!” he points. “Upper Reaches of th’Thonewash River. Not sure where ’xactly, but Ah know it’s ’tween two rivers on a peninsula near th’mountains.” He looked at Jerrick. “But Ah wouldn’t venture dere if Ah were you,” he warned.
“Oh?” Jerrick inquired, curious now reaching into his bag. “And why is that, may I ask?”
The Patron took another shot slamming the tankard on the counter. “Cause th’Thonewash is pretty dangerous ’round dis time o’th’ear!” he said. “Tis th’season where th’rains are th’eaviest. Water levels will be up.” He took another swig. “But dats not awl,” he adds. “Th’Cloven Mountains are prone t’mudslides! Pretty hazardous right now! Ah would wait ’till th’later seasons when it’s drier.”
Jerrick made a mental note of this as he applied something over the pages he wrote his notes down in with a charcoal stick. He gave the page some time to set while conversing with the patron. “How convenient,” Jerrick said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” he took a final swig of his tankard, setting it down. “Was there anything else you know about this place?” he asked.
The Patron shook his head. “Only thing Ah can add is th’place looked like it rose from th’ground or th’water levels dropped. Twas ’ard t’tell with th’fog. Aside from dat, not much else.” The Patron chugged his drink and slammed his tankard. “Might ‘ave better luck askin’ ’round f’more information.” he suggested to Jerrick. “Otherwise, Ah would ’ang out ’til th’dry season hits.” Jerrick closed his book once it was dried and put it away along with the solution. He looked at the patron and tossed one more coin on the counter. “Thanks for the info,” he said. As Jerrick started to leave the patron left him with one final note:
“B’fore y’go, dere’s one thing ah forgot t’mention.” Jerrick paused listening. “Not sure if y’eard any rumours, but ’dere’s been folks disapperin’round ’dere–Litches and other ghostfolk.” The patron looked at the hunter. “Seems like haunts are really ’gressive as of late.” Jerrick was silent pondering this. It appears there may be much more than what was let on, but he decided to not press anything else. “I’ll be careful.” he assured the man, shooting a glance from his shoulder. “Take care of yourself and travel safely.”
Jerrick walked away heading out for the night. From the rafters, a bird appeared from the shadows and followed the hunter out the door. Black feathers flapped feverishly as the 63-centimeter bird caught up with its master perching on the hunter’s shoulder. ′I think you could’ve gotten a little more out of him,′ the voice spoke to Jerrick mentally as the hunter made his way towards the house west of the main keep.
‘It’ll be enough,’ Jerrick stated mentally in response. The large black bird gets comfortable on Jerrick’s right shoulder. ′Intuition tells me he was hiding something when you asked him about the place,′ the voice continued with the large black bird craning its head staring at Jerrick. ′It seems a little too convenient how he doesn’t recount a whole lot.′
′This is an investigation, not an interrogation,′ Jerrick reminded the voice as he inserted the key into the lock. ′He isn’t a criminal and there hasn’t been a crime committed or reported to our knowledge. Whatever information he has regarding the place in question is plenty. There are other sources available to aid us with our investigation.′
There was a bit of silence for a second or two–a soft click echoed when Jerrick turned the key to the house and opened the door with a creak. ′I still say a lot more could’ve been gained had you pushed a little further,′ the voice insisted as Jerrick set foot inside the small house. ′Humans in this world tend to keep a ton of secrets close to the chest from what I’ve seen…′
Jerrick huffed a sigh in annoyance freeing his thumb from his belt after hearing the door close. He made his way to the fireplace getting it started. The house isn’t large, but it is an open floor plan. Originally a Bunkhouse, the large space has two wooden posts supporting the trusses and keeping the roof from caving in, a small kitchen on the north wall, a large bookshelf to the west next to a L shaped table and stool. The table had some alchemist tools and a chemistry set on it while attached to the wall was some added shelving for various materials, flasks, vials and other tools. A full size bed wedged up on the north east corner beside the fireplace facing east with a footlocker against the foot of the bed and a writing table further west. Bellows, and a kettle were at the fireplace and another table with an anvil and some tools for crafting weapons and armor positioned to the opposite side of the fireplace near the entrance. A simple dining table and a couple of chairs were in the room leaving plenty of open space for additional decorations. Although this wasn’t his primary home, it worked out for his needs. He really didn’t require much. His Journals held information on his work–understanding and studying the various creatures he encountered in his travels with drawings and illustrations. Next to the corner table was another shelf, smaller in size for displaying samples from fiends, undead, and monstrosities he faced. It wasn’t a huge collection, just a few different limbs, skulls, mason jars etc.
With his hand hovering over fireplace, Jerrick chanted in the ancient tongue he learned from his mother and one of the first spells she taught him:
“Dangiškasis šviesos ir gyvybės saugotojas,” he muttered in a low tone. “suteik man jėgų šią naktį suteikti šilumos...”
With his mother’s amulet clenched firm as he fluently spoke the words, Jerrick felt the sudden warmth fill his open palm while a small ball of light slowly built itself and eventually exploded in a heap setting the kindling and wood ablaze. The fire’s embers illuminates the old Bunkhouse while providing warmth and comfort at the same time. Satisfied, Jerrick stood taking his cloak off hanging it up for the time being. His black feathered companion flaps its wings when he removes his cloak and glides to a bird stand near his desk.
Under his cloak, a Kyrtill shirt covered his upper body with a hefty leather harness hugging his abdominal–the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a belted tabard over his trousers. Brown leather boots covered his feet showing wear and tear from the road and looked like they were redone a few times. Jerrick undoes the lacing on his gloves. A fingerless long glove covered his right hand and an archery gauntlet covered his left. The gloves slide off with ease after un-lacing them and set on the nightstand next to his bed. Jerrick slid the tabard off setting it aside–all of his equipment still attached to the leather strap. The leather harness on his Kyrtill shirt had three gemstones on it, one red and two blue.
’So what’s the next course of action, Jerrick?’ The voice asks the hunter telepathically while he shoves the burning wood around with the poker–his mind already formulating his agenda for the morning, calculating the stops in chronological order.
’Tomorrow, we depart for Candlekeep,’ Jerrick answers, standing up to take a seat on his bed. ’If there is any information to be found about Blackmoore, the archives will have it.’
’That’s a big IF, Jerrick,’ the voice retorts. ’The information you gathered isn’t much,’
Jerrick kicked his boots off of his feet. ’It’s a start,’ he reminds whomever he’s talking to while laying down in the full size bed. ’Some things aren’t supposed to be easy.’
’You make a fair point…’ there was a slight pause. The large bird looking at Jerrick as Jerrick closed his eyes with one forearm over his forehead. ’What happens if Candlekeep doesn’t have the information?’ The voice inquires.
’They’ll have it,’ Jerrick states in confidence.
’Are you sure of that?’
’It’s Candlekeep.’ Jerrick iterates.’They have the entire history of Faerûn,’
’And they are still uncovering things about this world,’ the voice points out. ’What will you do if they don’t have information on this… Blackmoore?’ Jerrick starts to drift off ignoring the question. He can feel the birds gaze piercing through him. ’Great…’ the voice scoffs, ’You don’t have a plan B. I should’ve known…’
’I DO have a plan B,’ Jerrick assures the voice.
’Do you now…’ the voice inquires. ’Pray tell, what this plan B is then should Candlekeep not have the desired information?’
Jerrick opens one eye, giving a cold, hard stare back at the bird. ’When we cross that bridge, we’ll deal with it,’ he emphasizes. ’Stop worrying about it so much and let me sleep!’
The voice went silent, not pushing the topic further. It’s fairly clear that he’s banking on Candlekeep’s archives to have what they needed. While it’s true the largest library in Faerûn contained a treasure trove of information on various topics, placing all of your chips on an unknown is a real crapshoot. There’s a small possibility Candlekeep wouldn’t have anything on Blackmoore if at all. Whatever concerns there were, although valid, it was highly unlikely Candlekeep lacked the necessary information crucial to Jerrick’s investigation.
With the silence finally settling and putting his mind at ease, Jerrick’s eyes slowly closed again and his consciousness dozing off. His chest heaving up and down steadily as the world around him fades to black leaving the hunter to rest for the night.
