"Dangit! Dangit, DANGIT!", Hagazussa exclaimed as she paced around her grandmother. Grandmother couldn't speak but the dutiful granddaughter could tell she wasn't feeling well by her even paler shade of pale.

A couple of the camp children that had been playing with Dora's latest crop of kittens, trotted over to the young sorceress. They told her, swaying slowly side to side all the while, about how the refugees had discovered a mold growing in the nearby graveyard. Hagazussa ran across the stream to the gravesite and the lethargic children followed her. The place was a mess and there was evidence of a recent fire.

Running back into the camp, Hagazussa made a bee line for Trent. He told Hag how the sickly looking mold had been discovered and that they decided to burn what they found growing at the graves. Trent also told her that no one in the camp now felt quite right.

Hagazussa paled, rivaling her own grandmother's color. The seer had dreamt of people being sick but her dreams never revealed who those people were. She now painfully knew. Reassuring Trent that she would find help, the young woman hurried toward Rivermoot.

The moment Sven saw Hagazussa that evening he explained having enough alcohol in the blood would destroy the russet mold infection. Without taking the time to even thank Sven for the information, she immediately went inside the Riverwalk Inn. Sill took the sorceresses order for several barrels of whiskey, brandy and at least a half a pound of sugar to be delivered, without delay, to the refugee camp.

Setting up the barrels in the distribution tent, Hagazussa got to work filling everyone's cups and mugs with whiskey or brandy. Even the children were 'treated' with sugared brandy. Brother Paytham Bross and Rytram Eredis, a knight of Ilmater, happened along and offered to help. If the cure didn't work, at least everyone in the camp that night forgot their homesickness and isolation for a while courtesy of the Hexe's and friends.

Brother Paytham, monk and member of the Broken Ones, pulled his quickly-dampening cloak tighter about himself. This rain never stops, he thought. As though the Crying God himself weeps for these people.

The refugees had been living outside Rivermoot’s gates for too long. It always broke the priest’s heart to see all of them huddled around their meager camps, trying to soak up the last warmth of a dying fire. At least now there was a new kind of warmth spreading through them; the woman that Brother Paytham knew as “Miss Hexe” had seen to the distribution of whiskey to every man, woman, and child in the camp. Keeps the mold at bay, she had intoned when Paytham had offered his help.

He once again eyed the streambed as it wound its way around the western border of the makeshift camp. So this is where they want to build their defenses. He had offered the suggestion of relocating the wagons to the top of the bluff, but Dora had quickly rebuked the suggestion. “It’s too hard on these people as it is without moving them all the way up there,” she said to the mendicant priest, frowning at his apparent naivety. Still, it seemed like a far more defensible place should the refugees ever fall under attack from the west…

And now there was this mad talk of enlisting the aid of some orc warlord! As if those beasts could be trusted in such close proximity to the refugees! It was pure madness to even contemplate…and yet Dora had risen to the suggestion as though it might be a viable option. And all because the strange elven figure in the scarlet robes had reported of being saved – saved! – by an errant marauding orc warlord, just as hobgoblins were about to finish her. And now she had it in her mind to seek this orc out and ask him to move his tribe to the western edges of Rivermoot itself. As protection for the refugees! As far as Paytham was concerned, they might as well just hand Obould himself the keys to the town gates. Still, the little elven woman had seemed so sure about her plan… Maybe there might be something to it that the monk couldn’t see…

Quietly the figure of Sven walked among the livestock, a cup full of brandy in one hand and a bag full of biscuits tied at his waist. As he walked up to each animal he dipped a biscuit in the brandy and held it out for the oxen to gobble up. One by one he saw to all the animals around the camp, the white dog he'd grown attached to following wherever he went hoping for a biscuit, it's slight staggerings betraying the fact it had had one already. When the job was done Sven left quietly, he didn't want the thanks of these people or even the thanks of the animals, he just wanted to do his best to help these people.