Fernwood's Journal

Well, How/why I was in Asura -- Trade goods!

Since I had mentioned this several times during our
sessions, I didn't think it needed repeating for the particular entry
below.  I can, however, certainly go into
further details about trade and background if you like. For the moment, tho, I
would most especially like to work on her reaction to the other characters
within the group. There are things that are just not spoken of when together,
things both in the present and from the past. Still, a person/character might
turn ideas over in their head when alone, puzzling this out.

And, since I had deliberately picked a quieter, moderate
character to get started in this, my first real campaign, the differences
between my character's plain-jane persona and the others' far more colourful
characters really stand out. Delightfully so.

Fernwood Fiddlehead's Plans

Fernwood looked down the rocky staircase that descended into
the split earth.  She rubbed the nose of
her small mule absentmindedly.  Most of
the remaining members of the original party had decided to explore the shaft.

“We’ll just wait here, Jenny” she said, "and get that
wheel fixed.  Odd that it decided to
break when it did.”

She became quiet, thinking that the cart’s wheel – one that
had been fine in the morning - should suddenly snap a brace. It was not the
only odd thing that had happened since leaving the Drunken Lion.  “People just seem to pop in and out,” she
said after a moment, “and I trust each new addition a little less than the one
before.”

She slapped the mule companionably on the shoulder, and
turned back to the cart.  She pounded the
small hammer against the rim of the wheel, gradually fitting the brace back
in.  For a moment, her original decision
to join this group wavered.  True, there
was a deadly evil that needed dealing with, and that was important.  But, her entire farm acreage needed repairs
badly. The only building left standing in good repair was the old Inn, itself,
which Fernwood had left in the capable, dwarven hands of Mrs. Stonecleaver.

Still, Fernwood’s grandfather had always preached “Honour
before profit”. He would have approved of her decision, she thought, although
she herself was not entirely sure it was such a great idea at this point.  And, as admirable as maintaining honour was,
their family had experienced a steady decrease in profit under her
grandfather’s leadership.  It was, she
thought, a fine line, sometimes, a fine line between making things right, and
making ends meet.

“At least I got you, Jenny,” she said to the mule. This
little speckled mule was one that she had raised by hand from a foal, a product
of a fine hill pony mare and a sturdy mountain jack.  The Halflings in her family had raised several
generation of hill ponies and donkeys, and acquired a good reputation for their
reliability and intelligence.  The mule
tossed her head, as if in agreement.

Fernwood slid the repair hammer back into the oblong box
that fit neatly into the side of the cart, and folded down the lid.  She leaned against the cart, and considered
the options before her. “At the very least,” she said, “with you and this full
cart of goods, we can still make a living and get that land repaired.”  She smiled back at the mule, and froze, as
the ground beneath her feet trembled like a shaking leaf and a burst of smoke
came up through the stairwell.