The party traveled west to their home city of Aquitaine. Home is quiet. Most folks are hard at work every day in fields or on ranches, raising the next year’s food. Nobody has time for side ventures like pie-eating contests or legal trials. They are glad to see The Snafu Guild safely back home, and a few townsfolk show up that evening at the Rusty Dragon Inn to hear stories — especially, who is that cranky fellow you have tied up? Who are these two young ladies? Why is the one wearing a thick veil?
And, of course: Did you bring anything for this year’s Swallowtail Festival? We are starting our preparations for it, you know! Only a month away!
Chaliimriia is not here. Darly Quince has not seen the priestess since last she saw all of you. But no one has heard any reason to worry, either. Darly has some fairly crude ideas on what is keeping the elven woman away … ideas she won’t share if she knows Zhang Sephia is in hearing range.
Somehow, last night, Miro Teague solemnly promised the bakers of Aquitaine that he will bring back a full bushel of rutabagas AND no less than three bottles of “Essence of Lemon”. They entrusted to his keeping a necklace of cavansite stones (cavansite is believed to be petrified shell from some kind of dragon) to pay for these future baking ingredients. They hope Miro can get them a good deal, and not spend all the stones; these are an inheritance from great-great-grandmother, and have long been the bakers’ good luck charm. If he can bring back more than half of the necklace AND everything they need, they have promised him the first of EVERY KIND OF BAKED GOOD prepared for the Swallowtail Festival. EACH ONE. First cinnamon roll. First cheddar biscuit. First chess pie. First bowl of chicken-and-dumplings. First rhubarb tart.
The next morning, off you all went to travel the Warden Road north, bound for Morodar. You have a fresh team of donkeys to pull each vehicle. You have Magus Tillion tied up and tied to the railings of the open-topped cart. You have Mungo the very bitey weasel familiar gnawing on the thick bars of the pet carrier which Marcos hastily constructed during his night in Aquitaine. You have food and camping gear stored in the covered wagon. You have Jana and Sally Demay driving the covered wagon.
It’s still the first half of summer. It rains more often than not. So long as you stick to the hardest-packed parts of the road, everything should be just fine.