- Markshire PCs:
Somewhat older and wiser, much leaner, quite covered with whiskers, and definitely very, very thirsty, Kurmet Reyer passed wordlessly through the gates of Foothold, re-entering his adopted home of several years past.
To say that he had failed in his quest is sufficient. Despite wandering for years in the frozen mountains of the north, he had not caught one glimpse of the supposed Ivory Spire. Starved, beaten, deprived, and nearly frozen to death several times, he had clung to life with not just his characteristic stubbornness but also a manic desperation…Perhaps brought about by his fervor and obsession with the stolen Banner of Poultrix.
In time, however, the obsession faded. The stubbornness and mania still persisted, it was true. But the hold of Poultrix had weakened over time. Whether that was for good or ill, Kurm hadn’t the faintest clue. But at least he knew (or at least he felt he knew) when it was time to quit. Besides, there was no one there to help him, and everyone he knew thought he was crazy for doing it anyway. The only person he would be disappointing would be himself.
Wonder if Master Whilrblurr might errmember me…? , Kurm thought to himself as he walked up to the front door of his former home.
Without the scarcest glance at the Foothold Temple, Kurm grasped the heavy bronze door handle of the brewery, kicking the snow from his patchwork boots before stepping inside.
Kurm cleared his throat. “Yer home in ‘ere?” the young man called out.