Idea
The Pun Tyrant
Storm Over Rivayle
Nearstream Camp
Nearstream Camp
Travel by cart might not be the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was certainly easier than having the whole group come by horse and without question more affordable than either that or taking the Magitrain to get here. That later point was especially relevant to your whole purpose in coming here: You needed funds. They weren't easy to come by when you were attempting to oppose the very man who made all the coin in Rivayle, but nonetheless even thieves needed money.
Their arrival was an uneventful affair. There were a few hired guns going around, mostly around the perimeter of the camp of beige tents or standing guard at one of them(notably the ones walking around the perimeter wore the buttoned blue uniform one would associate with Iceschillendrig's staff, while those inside the camp wore more mish-mashed clothes of rough leather and cloth), but even accounting for the miners and other personnel resting on crates while making small talk to pass the time, or having lunch in one of the tables, it was hard to tell if their number or the number of tents was fewer. One of the people from inside the camp signaled one of the guards on the perimeter, who nodded back to them, and the gunner from inside came to greet the new arrivals.
You explained to him that you came because of the offer the owner of this mine had sent to various towns, a desperate request for help with talks of a generous reward, or as generous as feasible given his circumstances. What those were, well, those were yet to be explained. The guarded responded he expected folks like you to arrive, and led you inside. Gazes followed you, you could feel them judging you head to toe, while others mutter among themselves or exchanged slips of paper while pointing at each of you in turn, sometimes giggling as they did. When you arrived at the largest tent in the camp, right at the center of it, your 'guide' gestured at you to stop.
"Another party is here to deal with the mine!" He shouted.
"They may come in!" A rasp voice called out from inside the tent, followed by a fit of coughing.
The two guards at the front nodded to the 'guide' and moved a bit aside. He in turned to you all.
"Alright, you can come inside. I'll come in after you."
The tent was a bit less spacious than it seemed from the outside, on account of the furniture crammed inside of it. There was a soft bed on the left, and about three tall shelves that almost reached the lanterns hanging from the supports of the tent. They were nearly surrounded by crates and leather bags stuffed with something that gave them round protuberances in places, and the ground wasn't much better, being littered with shredded or mashed parchment all the way to the desk to the right, which faced the entrance alongside a comfortable-looking chair, decorated with a number of colorful pillows.
At the center of the mess there was a man sitting on an elaborate iron chair, pudgy arms seeming to spread across the armrest. He had heavy eyebags, and his hair was in patches around the edges, a smile with teeth barely cleaner than any of the miner's and a poorly shaven beard. While his clothes were certainly of the better sort, made of fancier materials and including such things as a lace jabot and a second-hand tuxedo, it was evident they were loose on him even if he was far from thin. Across from him on his right side was a small table likewise made of iron, with its contents hidden by a single piece of white cloth. Two hired guns stood on his left and his right, hands on the holster. They looked a bit meaner than the ones outside, with their unkept hair, sturdier-looking clothing and a couple of scrs on one of them. As the man in the center saw you enter, his hand began moving towards the cloth on the table, only to be stopped and tremble back onto the armrest.
"So you're the ones this time. Buncha... misfit-looking fellas. Well, I'm long past the point of caring about backgrounds. I don' care if you are men of the angels or you came right from Nahtnaught's darn rear end. All that matters is you get the results. You clean up that mine for me, you walk out with bags of gold. You don't, then you better get walking out of here, cause it can be a little hard to walk six feet under. It's up to you. But let me make one. Thing. Clear." As he stated that, he pushed the armchair, lifting himself out of it, revealing himself to be surprisingly tall, though your party had no shortage of people who could tower over others. "This place here is my property, as is the place I'm asking you to clear out. I catch you with a pebble's worth of my gold that I didn't give you myself and the deal's off, you hear?"
He sat back down, practically throwing himself into the chair.
"Now, then, before you make your decision, I suppose I oughta give you a few more details. Well, if you read the poster you already know most of the story anyway. My name is Don Nearstream I own that goldmine over yonder, and we'd barely been a few months working on it when those darn wretches showed up. We didn't realize what was happening at first. Everybody thought there was a darn ghost making the miner's disappear. Then someone managed to escape an encounter with one of them and we got the proper news. We tried dealing with them ourselves, but frankly I ain't got the manpower to be sending on suicide missions. Now I don't know if you folks are some kinda experts on the 'paranormal' types or just crazy enough to throw yourselves at a problem until you dealt with it or it dealt with you, but as I told you, that's none of my business. I ain't gonna sugarcoat it: You are not the first to go in to do this job, but you may yet be the first to come out, if you don't count those who gave up less than an hour in. As for your payment..." He reached towards one of the bags on the floor behind him, which clinked as he shook it. "A whole fifty gold coins for each of you. Double that if you can find the cause of whatever brought those wretches here and deal with it. And before anyone asks, there won't be any advance payments. You either make it out alive and clear that place of those wretches or you aren't getting paid."
He adjusted himself on the chair.
"So, what will it be?"
Kiwikat PixelSymphony