Journey to Greenville
Early in the morn, our friend Tristin received a message by courier.
The sheriff of Greenville was seeking assistance –
The message was not specific as to the problem.
From Caithal’s Keep we set out in Tristin’s flying house.
The land below us sped past fast –
Three days journey become but an hour’s flight.
Beneath us the lovely town of Greenville lay
With full fields about and a lush garden at its heart –
A pond to the south and deep forest to the west.
Tristin set the house down near the pond.
We set out to find the sheriff, by way of the tavern –
Sensible action for any traveler.
The inn grew quiet when we entered
And the barman made it clear we were not welcome –
He offered free wine to leave town by sundown.
When Tristin met the sheriff, the man was wary.
He claimed the letter was not in his hand –
Though the seal it bore was authentic.
Something was amiss. This even I could see.
Cormac and Tristin, my companions and cohorts, agreed.
We each set out to discover what we could.
I went to the market, where I was not welcome –
Not one merchant offered me his wares.
A blacksmith I met there begged off sharpening my blades.
Not even the offer of silver could sway the man –
The first time greed did not hold power over heart.
Cormac visited the house of the healer,
A woman whose skin was dark and alien –
Not the ivory skin of an Eirean lass.
Tristin visited the sheriff with a goal to ply more story
To fit the sullen glances of the citizens of the town –
To explain the strangeness all around.
Not one tongue yielded an additional fact,
Yet each denial told us there was more to be known –
A mystery had begun to unwind and unfold.
Cormac had noted all about town there swarmed large beetles,
The sort that live off dung and are held sacred by the Gyptians –
So the druids had taught me when I was young.
Were I a brighter man I might have seen the connections then.
But my wits were obscured by my passions, as is my wont.
Cormac and I returned to the tavern, each of us fond of drink.
We sought out more information from the men who were gathered –
The innkeeper called Cormac aside into confidence.
The healer was a witch, the tavern-keeper claimed.
The beetles were her agents, her spies amidst the village –
Keeping watch for loose tongues and spiteful ways.
We returned to tell Tristin, who led us to the house of the healer.
From the door an orc emerged, armored and armed –
Orcbane sang as I drew it from its scabbard.
Tristin held my ire at bay, seeking to speak with the healer inside.
The woman emerged, wary and fearful, staying near her orc guard –
As I also edged closer to the beastly foe.
She refused to give answer to Tristin’s queries, and sought to away,
When the horrible orc touched his blade, his intent to harm apparent –
I rushed forward, neglecting my own defense, and brought Orcbane swinging.
The blade struck the beast’s arm, but he was powerful and quick,
A punch and his blade found my ribs, no armor to soften the blow –
I staggered and heard the great axe of Cormac sing past my ear.
Cormac the stout Celt warrior, his great beard fierce and flowing.
Many times his axe and arm have saved his companions.
The orc staggered, the axe buried in its chest, heart heaving its final beats.
Again I swung Orcbane, without regard to where my blow might land –
His torso struck, the creature fell to the ground.
Tristin held the woman from fleeing. She protested her innocence,
Claiming the sheriff would be enraged and hold us accountable for our crimes –
Our punishment would be severe and just, she threatened.
We sought the sheriff, sleeping at this late hour, and brought him.
He defended the healer, dismayed by our killing of the orc-guard –
His wife was enthralled by the witch, it seemed.
But the townspeople were pleased. The tavern applauded when I told them our deed.
The orc is slain, and the witch is held, but the sheriff wishes to hold us judged –
They followed me back to the house of the healer.
The woman protested, Have I not healed each of you and all?
Your children? Your mothers? She pleaded with them to believe her story –
The sheriff sent her to jail to await the morning in safety.
Then Cormac in the garden made a grisly discovery.
Beneath fresh earth was buried a decomposed body –
A victim of the witch and her beastly orc companion.
The truth was becoming more apparent. The sheriff could see.
Evil events had transpired in this small village.
The woman protested her accusers. It was the orc, she claimed.
Her defense to blame a dead beast did not impress Tristin and Cormac –
For my part, I searched the dead orc, and took his head.
Near the healer’s house stood a barn I’d not noticed before,
My wits no doubt occluded by my passions, as is my wont –
I called my companions over and kicked in the door.
A hideous odor emerged from the darkness of the barn.
Inside a great pile of dung, swarming with beetles –
Tristin could not enter, the smell affected him so.
Cormac observed the scene within and concluded:
The orc beast had been devouring travelers and defecating their remains –
The great vileness of the orcish race knows no limit.
With the story now full the sheriff sent for the local druid,
Who would come and adjudge the evidence, and conclude the events –
Bringing the healer to justice, either gentle or severe.
The townspeople rewarded us the price of a horse,
Equivalent to the fine the sheriff had levied over the dead orc –
All accusations against us cleared, all transgressions forgiven.
Thus ended my first adventure with the clan Loegaire,
Whose travels are known to me, and whose guard I keep.