A hand before New Sun, Jak Crimmy treats the companions to his locally legendary cinnamon-crusted flapjacks. All necessary preparations are performed and then the companions leave Falcon's Hollow to reach the cut yard where Milon resides. The trip to the cutyard is just over eight miles and the walk takes them almost three hours to make that distance. The sun is nearly three hands into the sky when they see the cut yard ahead.

The Lumber Consortium Camp cuts an ugly scar of stumps into a dense stand of proud darkwood trees. Five sturdy-looking log buildings— seemingly a bunkhouse, meal hall, office, barn, and smithy— stand with numerous wide carts and sleds amid the sawdust-covered clearing. Owned and operated by the local Lumber Consortium, the camp appears as callous and unrelenting as the men who work it.

The first persons you meet are a group of burly cut yard workers sorting, straightening and culling logs in a field which the wagon rut road follows along side.

They glance as you approach along the road, but otherwise ignore you.

Another group farther away are more animated and jilting laughter can be heard.

Ahead, on the road appears two thuggish looking fellows in leather armor and brandishing weapons. Their sour dispositions seem permanently etched in their features.

"Alright," Karok gritted out of the side of his mouth. "One of you charming types talk to them. I'm gonna concentrate on looking tough."

Jhaelin thought about that for a moment. He could speak, but perhaps this was a time to use resources they have available as a group. The elves are known to be more refined...

"Perhaps Tynia should speak to them."

He hoped his statement would not come across as offending, but she is female, attractive, and the allure of elves might be an advantage with these hardened men.

Tynia turns her head to glance at Jhaelin in question, a brow rose though she did have the hood of her cloak up about her head hiding her profile from view.

"What is it you wish that needs to be answered, then," she inquired of Jhaelin. Normally, she wouldn't do such a thing, preferring to let the others ask their questions and putting things together herself, but this time... she figured she would help out a bit more in that respect.

The next time, Brett yawns as he walks with the group. He heard Jhaelin's query and said, "Hm, you think that's wise, sending the elf maiden to talk with them? They seem a bit rough around the edges, so to speak." He said. He was hesitant about the whole thing, thinking that Tynia wouldn't be able to fend them off if things get hairy.

"She's not goin' on a day trip with them," Karok, again, said through a clenched jaw. "We just need someone they'll respond to when we ask them where the guy is we're supposed to get to guide us!"

"Ask for Milon Roddham," Jhaelin responds, letting Tynia move past him. He will follow behind her and beside Karok. They are followed by Brett and Durwe striding aside. Ordil follows last on the wagon rut road.

"And if they should respond to her in a way that is detrimental to harming her, what then?" Brett asked, his voice coming in low enough for Karok to hear. He didn't want anything like that to happen to Tynia. After all, she is one of their comrades. "Will we be able to deal with that, hmm?"

"Hope for the best, be ready for the worst," Karok murmured back to him. "You got some spells to defend us with? I've got a sword. We use those, if things get, uh, deter-mental."

"Milon Roddham, right," Tynia said and walks over to the men. She kept the hood of her cloak up only until she reaches them.

Now, usually, she would stay away from them, but not this time.

"Excuse me, Gentle Folk, I wonder if you could direct me to a Milon Roddham?" She inquires of them. Though her first instinct continues to clammer at her to run away, she ignores it and awaits to see what they say.

Without a word, Dûrwë strides forward to fall in step next to Tynia. He glances at her and flashes a smile, but then turns his gaze toward the two men in leather armor.

The two men stop short just ten yards away when the elves present themselves. The men's dispositions become rigid and cautious. Elves... and elves meant magic. Hands grip weapons and they instinctively separate from each other by several feet, not knowing what to expect but preparing for the worst.

"Camp foreman Jarlben doesn't like strangers poking about his camp. Yeh all be in the wrong place or lost I be thinkin."

The first band of four surly loggers nearby keep busy, but anyone keeping a wary eye can tell they are paying ambiguous attention.

"Turn tails 'n get on out o'ere," the camp guard says.

Tynia smiles a brilliant smile, the hood of her cloak falling to her shoulders, so they could see her more clearly. "Ah, but I was just looking for a Milon Roddham. We need to talk to him, please." And she put all the charm she had in those words.

She reaches up to toss aside a lock of hair while smiling at the men in a beseeching manner.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:35, Mon 14 Nov 2022.

Dûrwë smiles at the men and says casually, "well, gentlemen, perhaps you should let foreman Jarlben decide if our business here has merit nor not, eh? I mean, if you cost the company a loss of revenue based upon your rash decision here, then there might be repercussion that fall squarely on your shoulders, right? Now as to your cold welcome, I can understand as it's part of your job, but meaningless threats are not only unnecessary, they are foolish given the fact that you do not know my mind or disposition. Now, would you please contact someone of higher authority than yourselves so that we may continue with our business here this day?"

Normally, the guard would have pressed for a bribe from strangers on the road, especially if they wanted to see the foreman. This instance however calls for more prudent thought in the order of self preservation. There are six of them, and two are elves.

The two guards look at each other, unspoken words passing between them, then they move aside to let them pass.

"Follow tha road. Shack wit the bear-hide door."

The companions make their way further into the camp, passing several shacks before coming to one with a bear's hide stretched across its wooden door. The inside is just a one room living space, barely twenty by twenty feet wide. A rectangle table occupies the middle space of the log cabin with a lit lantern sitting atop it. The lantern holds a stack of parchments in place. A bone handled hunting knife holds a stack of parchments in place. A barker's knife rests near a stoppered inkwell and quill stand. The walls of the small office is littered with trophy heads of various wild animals and one large fish.

A sinewy man with tattered long black hair gapes up at you from the other side of the table when you enter, stopping his pouring of an intensely aromatic, steaming hot beverage from a tin pot. This is Jarlben, the camp foreman.

Upon questioning him about Milon Roddham, the man says, "Now mebbe I know him 'n mebbe I don't."

He sips from his cup, eyeing the group of adventurers with hawkish eyes.

Brett looks at the man icily and asks, "Well, do you or don't you?"

He wasn't really up for these kind of games at the moment, ever since his family (father) would do this whenever he wanted to know something and it was kind of old now, for him.

Dûrwë nods and smiles at the man as he says, "if that tea there doesn't help your memory momentarily, then perhaps something else might jostle your memory? Perhaps something we currently have in our possession?"

Brett speaks and the man gets to his feet slowly, hands resting palm down on the table.

"What do you--" his words are broken by Durwe speaking up and the gangly man listens to the longer lived elf and the wiser of the two by his opinion. He turns his attention away from Brett and meets the elf's eyes. At the mention of possessions, the foreman's eyes glance at Tynia. Seriously? he questioned inwardly. Surely he didn't mean...

The foreman's eyes examine each of the people before him, excitement building at a new prospect, but his thoughts are dashed quickly at the sight of Jhaelin. A priest of Heironeous, he muses with disappointment. Now the elf's words were more clear with intent.

"Ahhhhh... yeh's got an idea-pot on yeh long liv'n elves... Yeh ain' no cony-catchers either (thieves looking for a peel)."

"Aight... Here's the dark of it." he says. "Milon's meh best. Cutters that bang 'round cost meh in jink. Bob up the deed (make it worth it) or yeh can come back at new moon."

Dûrwë smiles at the man, reaches into his pouch, and produces a single silver piece.

"We only need five minutes of the man's time, and then he can get back to work," Dûrwë says smoothly with a knowing wink as he place the silver coin on the table between himself and Jarlben.