It is the last day of summer in the small, mountain kingdom of Runia. There sits the Dwarf-Lord Rudan the Bronze - great grandson of the great lord Runavald the Deep, a hero of ages past and a legend of the tales and epics.
It is peaceful in this most auspicious time of the year, when the harvest moons hang low and dense overhead in the star-crowded sky, and the warm sun softly fades into autumn bliss. The trees, in their timeless congregations, consider the time of shedding leaves in hosts of brown and crimson in preparation for coming frosts, and many feasts are held across hall and home, celebrating the gods great blessings of harvest and hearth.
One such feast, in King Rudan's own hall, no less, holds rightly that glorious balance of festive and thankful, of goodwill and good cheer in abundance without excess. The carcasses of roast boar - fresh caught in his majesty's deep, dark woods, lie stripped of succulent meats besides mounds of hot bread, deep flagons of rich ale, rounds of cheese, sweet cakes of nuts and honey and a dozen other pies and delicacies besides. The king, brow drooping to a comfortable snooze whilst still seated on his Oaken throne, snaps awake with a startling expression drawn across his creased and bearded complexion. Eyes widen in shock and disbelief, pallor gripping his normally ruddy face, gaze tracking a space between the long tables where his men and dwarves at arms, huntsmen and craftsmen, servants myriad, their wives, children and hounds still feast and cavort. For several minutes, the king remains in this state before he is noticed by his seneschal and the royal surgeon is sent for, hurrying him off to his chambers as the early signs of disorder manifest in more and more distressing ways.
The next day, the king sent for his advisors, and then his wizards.
And then any passerby with a claim to understanding and interpreting dreams and visions here on this mortal plane.
One month later, as the first snows fell, the first monsters appeared, and evil sunk its roots deep into the land.
Dangers lurks within every shadow, and suspicion behind every shuttered door.
It is now five months after King Rudan's incident, the night of the Harvest Feast at Oldhall. The snows have remained on the ground unusually long, icy rivers cutting through unwelcome frost while the woods slowly shed their winter coats in favor of spring's first blooms. A chill rain settles over the city, and travelers once more brave the icy mountain passes to visit the ancient seat of Runia, though now with a wholly new intent. In response to missives sent in panicked script, hurried out of the kingdom before the ice sealed its gates shut, adventurers and vagabonds from nearby kingdoms arrive in droves, only to be turned away at the gate by the dour seneschal and his bureaucratic minions - only those of genuine heroic potential, in the esteem of the public servant, are allowed entry. What awaits them within the walls is a grim sight indeed.
The banners are called. Oldhall bristles with men and dwarves at arms, rallied at the worried behest of their lord; now idle, encamped within the city walls without a clear enemy to fight. Tensions between old rival clans and lords run high, and the streets are filled not with celebration and song, but rather grim faces, worried steps and the slow, drawn out thaw of a city under siege with no enemy in sight. Every tavern is packed with soldiers with nothing better to do than drink, brawl, and patrol the streets for a threat none can see, but everyone feels.
At last you have arrived, given quarters at reasonable prices at Duttersby's Pint, a creaky tavern set upon wide, warm flagstones a few minutes walk from Rudan's hall. It is half an hour before your scheduled appointment with the king, and the four of you nurse thick pints of the local brew - the tavern's own concoction of ruddy texture but not unpleasant effect. The rain continues to fall outside, in that nearly freezing-but-not-quite temperature that is sure to dampen even the brightest of demeanors.
"The beasts are getting more and more corrupted," says Argentus to Vhalens, drinking his brew, seemingly energized by the cooler weather outside. The young but strapping warrior wore his polar bear pelt cloak with its garish hood thrown back as was his wont when the temperature was above freezing. As was also his habit, Argentus kept all his possessions with him, ready to go at a moment's notice, including the long spear with the night-black broad-leafed head. The past few weeks in Oldhall seemed to grate on the Karhu tribesman, as the closeness and warmth of all the other people in the city closed in on him.
His dark brown eyes meeting Vhalens' and his tousled sandy brown hair matted against his forehead in the relative heat of the Duttersby's Pint common room, Argentus describes his latest hunt and attempt to backtrack the corrupted beast once he had put it out of its misery. Gesturing with his mug and his free hand, the warrior describes the combat and the strange tentacles the wolf had grown, revealing a strange, sucker-shaped wound Argentus took during the fight. Having gotten to tangentially know the other two at the table over the past few weeks, Argentus occasionally remembers to include Finn and Frenevir in the conversation.
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Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
Vhalens examined the wound his friend displayed closely with compassion and sadness in his face. He said "I've seen a scar like this once before, when I was young, one summer when my band was camped near the sea. It was snaked along the carcass of a beached whale. The poor thing survived a lashing from some leviathan just to die suffocating on the rocks..."
He took a long draught from his mug, trying to banish the gruesome memory. "Not to imply any parallels, Argentus. I don't mean to be morbid."
He took another drink. His head had begun swimming about ten minutes back and the feeling made him prone to ramble.
"But it is strange. Creatures from the sea come to die on the land. Not just the whale but that wolf of yours, its nature becoming so... Nautical. When you think of it, a lone wolf in winter is already vicious. That in and of itself isn't strange... What's unusual is the... Method. The evils sealed beneath the water, Mossen had said. Do you remember?"
Vhalens went quiet after that, lost in thought. For a moment it seemed as though he might be about to cry after mentioning his teacher, but instead he simply shook his head and laughed nervously. He ripped off a hunk of the sweet brown bread the four of them had to share at the table and said as he began a liberal application of butter "I'm sorry Fin, Frenevir, we're excluding you again. Is truly none of this strangeness effecting the lands to the south?"
"Yes! Huh? What? No, sorry... What was that?" Finn Of'Gren said, turning back to the others at her table. She had been turned around and leaning over to the table next to theirs, sharing a few jokes and insults with several drunken soldiers who, quite frankly, were a lot more laughs than this lot she had fallen in with. Further, she had just gotten the one called Lau'Dec to start telling a rather raunchy limerick that she expected to have the soldiers at that table in tears in a moment, and she had a coin purse in sight she just knew she'd be able to cut free while it's owner was in the throes of such laughter... But alas, the timing has now been thrown off and her attention back at her own table.
"Oh, strangeness? To the south?" Finn summed up, trying to hide her prior distraction. "Well sure, Vhalens, there's also tales and talk of strangeness, isn't there?"
Finn grabbed her mug and frowned to find it empty. She stood and leaned across the table to grab the pitcher, stretching just so to allow her figure to be shown in it's best light. She was by no means as curvy or endowed as other women but she of course knew how to show off what she did have and distracted men were easily manipulated and taken advantage of. "Awwww, we're empty!" Finn cried out in feigned disgust, holding the pitcher on high and turning it upside down to illustrate the truth of her situation. "Waiter?!? MORE!" The call brought cheers and laughter from many of those who had been heavily imbibing at tables nearby.
Once Finn got a nod of recognition from one of the employees, she sat back down in a huff, grabbed her mug and leaned back to the table she had been talking to moments ago. With a quick elbow into the side of one of the soldiers she drew a laugh and a kindly refill from their pitcher. "Thank you, boys..." Finn said with a flirtatious smile and then turned back to Vhalens, Argentus and... Oh, what was their name again? Oh, yes. Frenevir!
"You have to understand," She continued as if there had not been a rather significant interruption in what she was saying. "I spend seventy percent of my time in taverns like this. I spend the other eighty in drink halls, bars, inns and so on. The last thirty-three percent of the time I try to get some sleep, you know? Nature is getting strange, is it? Fellas, nature has always been strange. You don't know the half of it. And that is why I try to avoid it!"
"Take milk... Someone, at some point, saw a goat or a cow or something and thought 'I could go for a drink right about now' and then went and got themselves a drink from that animal! And you are talking about strange?? That guy... That goat drinking guy.... And I promise you, it was a guy... That guy was strange."
"Oh, thanks!" Finn says with a smile as the waiter brings the new pitcher of drink. "This didn't come from a goat did it? No... no, never mind. Ignore me. Here, this is for you..." With a coin slipped to the waiter and her glass refilled once more, Finn looks back at the others with a blank expression on her face....
And waits... And waits... And "Oh! I was talking!" she realizes and bursts into laughter. "Goats and milk and strange... Sorry, sorry. Went mental there a moment..."
"But yeah, ok... So I have heard things. Stories. Strange creatures. Ominous omens. The usual. They're more common these days, I will give you that. And more focused... As you say, they seem to be more watery-ish themed and the stories aren't as remote as they were. Like it used to be 'This happened to a friend's cousin's third uncle' type crap but nowadays it seems like you hear more and more stories that happened to actual people... And who you get the feeling are telling the truth. I don't like it. Nope, I do not..." Melancholy almost seems like it may be about to grip young Finn Of'Gren but then suddenly she is on her feet and raising her mug.
"But we're here now! Vhalens and Frenevir and Argentus and Finn!" she shouts out, much more loudly than the others at the table are likely comfortable with.
"To US!" she screams out again, thrusting her mug as high as possible and yet, amazingly, not spilling a drop....
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We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
"I do not come from as north as you but when I left my home no, it wasn't affected by this. Not yet. " says the elf gesturing to indicate them both that it's all alright about them excluding the other two. "But What have become of my lands during this time. I cannot say. But I am sure that my kin will do whatever is necessary to protect it. Nevertheless, it is here where it all began, and here where we would start to getting answers. " he takes a sip from the wine he has been drinking. "What about your country Finn?" he asks to the fourth member of the table.
(Bit of cross posting there but wish-posh, such things happen and I am sure we all can weave it all together in our heads!)
"Nope, no country," Finn says with a smile and a shrug. "I'm a roamer. Always have been... I'm sure I was born somewhere but far as I know that's the last time I was there and I don't recall much of it."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
He found he liked Finn a great deal. Between the loss of Mossen, his journey away from his home and his family to this strange and disorienting city, and the weight of responsibility he and Argentus had been roped with, it didn't take much these days to turn his mood somber. It was nice to have someone around who could keep him from dwelling on his anxieties. It took quite a force of character to make being bundled in an overcrowded, frantic city preparing for a siege against an unknowable enemy feel like an exclusive party you were lucky to have an invitation to. As Vhalens puts his mug to his lips he catalogues the tone of Finn's voice during her toast for future use in the retelling of some story featuring a dashing hero at a king's feast.
At the thought of a king, Vhalens suddenly remembers what he's here for! He places his mug back down on the table, pushing it away from himself just a bit too hard, accidentally knocking it over and spilling the dregs across the table. "Oh, I'm sorry everyone. But, we shouldn't be drunk when we meet the king!" he said, with anxiety bordering on panic in his voice. He mops up the spill with his napkin while waving down a passing waiter "Sir? Could I please trouble you for a pitcher of water for the table? And some strong tea, if you have it?"
The hour draws nigh, and, having come to grips with your current situations, and your spirits lightened, or at least slightly mulled, but Duttersby's titular brew, you proceed towards Lord Rudan's hall. Above you, in the hall's single squat tower, flaps a drenched and wind-bedraggled flag bearing the green and brown oak-tree of Runia, emblazoned with a series of runes in silver beneath. Approaching the gates to this somewhat segmented city (a highly defensible redoubt, to be sure, each neighborhood sealed with its own gates and watches to keep the peace), you are stopped once by a patrol of rough, iron-armored dwarves - hailing from the more southern reaches of Runia's striking mountain range, from the ironmongeries and forges of Vallestad, who swiftly identify your newly stamped papers and send you briskly on your way, two or three of them yet eying you suspiciously even after barked commands from their lieutenant.
The studded stone gates themselves swing open as you approach, operated by unseen mechanisms from the closely guarded low towers overhead, and you cross an inner courtyard of greenish-grey stone covered in snowy slush towards the far side of the inner space where a familiar face gestures to you - the seneschal himself.
"Greetings, noble adventurers. I trust you are rested and prepared for your audience?"
From behind him, towards another set of studded doors emblazoned with runes of decoration and power, you hear the raucous shouts of what several voices in discontent, nearing upon open riot to the more urbane among your company. The harsh syllables of Runian-accented dwarf overlap with the baritone cries of several humans, all of whom seem to be shouting either expletives or suggestions - you cannot quite tell, and the tone is remarkably consistent for its volume. The seneschal winces as your attentions inevitably slip upwards towards the door.
"The Lords are at table, addressing the needs of the kingdom. It needn't concern the likes of you - come, we shall await his majesty in here." The seneschal gestures towards a smaller side door, to the left of the large studded doors leading, it seems, to Lord Rudan's hall.
"To us" replied Frenevir raising his glass with the others.
When they are at the gates and the great stone slabs are opening, he notices that Vhalens trousers had a beer stain from the previous small incident. Without saying a word, not to worry him, he waves his hand and a small breeze crosses them. The hard northern doesn't even flinch at it but the stain is cleansed by it. Smiling to himself the elf walks in to greet the seneschal.
Relieved to finally be speaking to the chieftain, Argentus strides confidently to the great hall. At the seneschal’s words, he merely says, “Indeed” as he moves to the king’s antechamber, though a perceptive observer might see a tight smile on his face as he hears the vociferous debate emanating from the lords’ chamber.
Looking closely at Vhalens, one might notice that he is actually shivering. His forehead has broken out in sweat. He begins compulsively checking and rechecking the state of his Seanchai's vestments, pleased to see there are no visible stains anywhere, then checking all over again a few moments later. He begins to fidget with his elegant armband, carved intricately from segments of caribou horn to resemble a serpent. He mutters to himself mysterious arcane charms in a quivering half-whisper:
"Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather."
"A big black bug bit a big black bear, a big black bug bit a big black bear."
"My cutlery cuts keenly and and cleanly, my cutlery cuts keenly and cleanly."
"You guys really are the best," Finn says gushingly as she shows her papers to the guards.
"Such diligence and stoicism really makes a girl feel safe, if you know what I mean," she teases, throwing one of the grumpier ones a wink. She doesn't lay it on too thick, it's best to be friendly but not too friendly with guards and such. Even the thickest of them can sense something is wrong if you overstep... And Finn Of'Gren was totally legit this time so it was a nice feeling to be totally at ease under such scrutiny.
Once brought in and ushered around by the seneschal, Finn made no effort to hide her looking around and gawking at everything. She was used to raucous bars, not Lord's Halls. Though, to be fair, there seemed to be a similar amount of yelling in both... Despite her curiosity in her surroundings, she does note that Vhalens seems to be in quite a state, Argentus seems to be fairly comfortable and Frenevir basically indifferent to the upper crust lifestylings...
"The likes of us?" Finn asks quickly, startled out of her revelry.
"And just what is our like, master seneschal?" she asks pointedly even as she hears Argentus dismissing it with a word.
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We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
With a stiff nod, the seneschal leads the way. To Finn's interrogative, he takes a moment to ruminate. He pauses in his step, executes a neat bow towards the four of you. "I apologize on my own behalf. I spoke in haste, and in the reflection of great... tension in Runia, at the moment. Yet you are strangers - that is your like. And guests, for now, until you may prove yourself to be friends and heroes to Runia, or... less than that. This way, if you please."
The seneschal leads you within. From the simple stone-walled antechamber, the voices become a bit more distinct. It seems a great crowd has assembled within - nobles of Runia, each with unique complaints that already seem to fall within a few overall categories. Some complain of disrupted lives, of patterns of trade and finance broken by mountain passes yet choked with snow, despite the efforts (or accused lack thereof) of Runian civil services, such as they are. Others complain of cost of living, rapid inflation of prices by those merchants who are able to smuggle or ship goods into Runia as stores run low and belts slip tight over recently thinned wastes. Taxes, as well, seem to feature as a common complaint.
The tone is one that gives even you foreigners to Runia, and unfamiliar with they ways and government, significant pause. What could it mean that so many Lords take issue with their King, or Chief, and his policy? The seneschal opens a door at the far side of the chamber, slipping into room with a burst of noise, leaving the door ajar and slipping towards the towering Oaken Throne, which you can now just glimpse from this angle and through a goodly crowd of shouting humans and dwarves, seated in various groups around the long hall and in varied panoplies. In the distance, through the bodies, you see a dwarf sitting on the seat, seemingly slouching beneath a great weight of so many claims. The seneschal approaches, bowing and pointedly ignoring the cries and please of the assembly, whispering in the seated figure's ear. With a nod, he stands, a metallic circlet slipping over one ear as he stands. He rights the ornament on his brow and holds up his hands, calling for silence. Only after the seneschal grabs a thick, iron-capped rod and beats the ground with resounding pulses does the audience finally settle to a manageable rumble. In a surprisingly soft voice for a dwarf lord, the figure standing before the throne speaks.
"Your cries are heard by his majesty, and we already move to address the core of the issue. Your concerns are my concerns, and I will see to them at once. I hereby end this assembly to meet with prospective heroes, whose expertise and aid will see to our many and dire needs. I thank you for your..."
Other voices interject with cruel jeers. "With whose money will you pay!" "Misappropriation of the budget!" "Abandoning the Oaths!" "Recall, recall, recall!"
The dwarf stumps down through the assembly and the voices grow louder as he exits the right of the throne. As the door of his exit slams shut you pick out a single shout that gives you pause. "What would you father say?"
A few minutes later, a young dwarf enters by a door on the wall opposite to the hall, still filled with the sounds of jeers and taunts, slowly dwindling as the assembly files out into the drizzling rain with mutters of contempt. He is accompanied by the seneschal - the dwarf is thickly bearded, wearing a circlet of copper above his brow and dressed in fine green robes after the Runian formal fashion (or so you gather, from your short sojourn in the city of Oldhall).
"Friends," he begins, "Let us retire to someplace more comfortable - I feel the need for some refreshment, and more encouraging company." He gestures towards the door he just entered from.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Argentus:
Watching the proceedings impassively for the most part, Argentus becomes visibly upset when the crowd seems to disrespect their chieftain by continuing to prattle on after the seneschal calls for silence. The young warrior glares fiercely at the unruly hecklers his dark visage promising violence if they do not immediately recall their manners.
Intimidate: 16
Later, he gratefully follows the seneschal and the young noble dwarf into the smaller room for a more personal conversation.
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Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
If you were paying attention to Vhalens, you would see that from the moment he first sees the dwarf in the copper circlet, everything about his demeanor shifts instantly. His shaking stops. His back straightens. His face shifts from an expression of tremendous anxiety into one that conveys shrewdness and solemnity. He leans slightly onto one hip, pushing his cloak doubled over his back on his left side, revealing his Seanchai’s armband, on his right side casually resting his arm upon the pommel of his sword. Even his robes, which moments ago seemed folksy, even silly, so totally at odds with the fashion of the Runian court, now seem perfectly suited to the gravity of this meeting, draped so cleanly over the stable, slender frame of Vhalens’ shoulders. You don’t know when between entering the castle and this moment he managed to apply a perfectly even line of blue face paint across his eyes and nose, but he somehow managed it. The trembling boy in an instant has transformed into the perfect picture of a heroic young magician, here to serve the king with wisdom and powers unknown. Vhalens is in the story now. And he knows his archetype. As the king approaches, Vhalens begins the preliminary motions of a perfect bow in the Runian style.
But then the king speaks and Vhalens comes up short.
The stories and the coaching of the chiefs and the other Seanchai prepared him for court functions. He had expected formal introductions and address when he met the king, not to be ushered into a side room by a weary young man battered from the scolding of one hundred minor lords. At the earnestness of King Rudan’s greeting, the freshly conjured image of the wise and arcane Seanchai cracks, and Vhalens feels a sudden pang of tenderness for this young man with all the power of a nation beneath him, whose first word to Vhalens had been "friend." Without really meaning to, Vhalens shifts his archetype once more. His practiced Runian bow, and the primary address he had polished to perfection the night before in his head suddenly seem silly, ingenuine, even manipulative. Suddenly, the only way he can think to speak is with the half-whisper tone reserved for the final lines of a tragedy. The tone all Seanchai employ for folk facing sorrow, seeking hope, wishing to see themselves reflected in more colors than just that of their exasperation.
With the door shut and the companions alone in the private room with the king, the Seanchai Vhalens spoke his first words to his friend Dwarf-Lord Rudan the Bronze, and they went thusly:
“These lords expect much of you, your majesty, to demand cold conveniences in unprecedented times. These are days of high strangeness, and we have become pioneers all. The prudence of a pioneer king will ensure all of our rations in time. They will know it ‘ere we have passed the high mountains.” ((I would like to give bardic inspiration to King Rudan))
The seneschal and the young dwarf share a shocked expression, but quickly burst out in a quick storm of friendly laughter, the tension draining from the room like so much icemelt after the spring thaw. Buoyed by Vhalens' inspiration, the dwarf turns and, grinning broadly. "I'm afraid you have me mistaken, friend - I do not have the honor of being king... At least, not yet."
The seneschal takes over, restoring his usual aplomb and radiating a much greater degree of friendliness. "May I present to you the crown-prince Redrian - King Rudan's son, and the heir to the Oaken Seat. Lord of..."
Redrian waves his hand towards the seneschal dismissively. "Come, friends - I'm not much one to stand on ceremony. Let's get more somewhere comfortable. Have you settled in Oldhall yet? Perhaps some refreshments? Come - let us break bread together, and I will tell all that I know of what you can do for me. My friend the seneschal was quite impressed with you, though I imagine that he didn't show it. Come!"
Spirits restored, he leads the way down a narrow hallway, seemingly built into the stern foundation stone of the hill on which most of Oldhall sits. Rows of narrow windows - arrowslits in case of attack, it seems, let in cool grey light, just tinged with the promise of spring. Towards the end of the hall, and across another small courtyard where servants busily move to and fro in the business of the hall, Redrian pops open a squat, well worn door leading into a warmly lit study, scattered with open books, scrolls, and many different styles of table and chair.
As you enter and get comfortable, the more alert amongst you receive a bit of a shock as a small pile of books towards the far end of the room tumble over, and a slight figure with yellow hair and a blue dress dashes for a door, slamming it behind. Rudrian chuckles as you look around. "My daughter... is young. And still quite shy. Her curiosity might lead her back - or not. Come, rest yourselves, and let us speak of Runia and her future."
Vhalens tries his best to walk it off. He chuckles at his mistake with Prince Rudrian and the seneschal and the others and makes a real effort at not displaying any mortification on his face at the fact that he'd just soliloquy'd at the wrong member of the royal family on their very first meeting.
He tries not to think of the ridiculous way he had created an entire narrative in his mind in moments about forming an immediate brotherhood of souls with the King of Runia and of going forth to bring peace to their two peoples with the power of their legendary friendship.
He tries not to think about how the moment the seneschal left the room the news would start circulating among the staff that that barbarian priest in his silly outfit had said everything short of proposing marriage to the crown prince.
Vhalens tries very hard not to get so caught up in beating himself up and catastrophizing that he completely misses what is said during the first round of conversation he and his companions are having with the Crown Prince on the fascinating and very important subject of saving his people and also Argentus’s people and also Runia and also maybe the WORLD from destruction by an ancient unknowable evil.
He tries very hard to achieve all of those things. Blessedly for Vhalens, when he blushes, his naturally bluish Muintir complexion merely pinkens to the more standard whiteness of your average light skinned dwarf, so perhaps, if he's lucky, the Crown Prince won't notice.
Vhalens makes a vow to himself right then and there to not get so swept up in the damn moment from now on. He's not in a damn story. He has a damn responsibility to his damn people to do his damn job.
By the time Vhalens stops spiraling, they're all in the study and he has no idea how they got there or how much of the conversation he's missed. A slamming door brings him back to the present and he finds himself in a beautiful room full of more books than he's ever seen in one place. More books than are owned by all of the bands of the Muintir put together. Which isn't to say all that many. Booksellers don't often travel that far north. A book to the Muintir is an heirloom cherished for generations. Mossen owned TWELVE books which was more by half than any other Muintir. Vhalens had read and reread them all dozens of times until Mossen had forbidden him from touching them anymore for fear he'd destroy the binding and since he had long since memorized them all anyway.
Vhalens shakes himself back to the present, blinking back the glimmer of tears as he thinks of the days spent in Mossen's tent he'll never be able to enjoy again. He's getting off track AGAIN. Focus, Vhalens. He looks to Prince Rudrian and sees that he does seem to be in a genuinely better mood than he was a few minutes ago. Vhalens takes some solace in that. He decides to spend the next few minutes in polite silence, letting the others handle the conversation for a while lest he be tempted again to try any more melodramatic storybook nonsense.
The young warrior follows along their route, calm but alert. When they reach the library, he is impressed by the implied knowledge contained in the books, but then a figure bursts from hiding and his Doru is in his hands as if it materialized there. As he recognizes a young Dwarven girl and the prince explains, he returns to his ease with an apologetic nod.
At the prince’s words of Runia’s future, Argentus speaks carefully, saying, “Thank you for your hospitality,” and sits down to eat and listen.
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Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
From the moment of first being brought close to the Gall of Grievances the young Finn Of'Gren drew uncharacteristically quiet and reserved. A respectful demeanor, not common to her, took over all but her eyes and ears as she watched, listened and took note of everything while she herself tried to not be the center of attention for once.
As the king departed and the crowd remained - not hostile but... boisterous? - Finn saw the darkening of Argentus' demeanor. What was he going to do? she thought. It's not his place... She almost started to move, to put a restraining hand on his arm, but it was not her place either. While the forces of life seemed to be pushing this small group of four into some kind of bond, that bond was not yet formed and she felt no right to impose her will upon any of the others yet. Not even to strongly council restraint. So she acted not, yet felt a sigh of relief slip from her as the party moved on with no more than a glower from Argentus.
A few steps before entering the study Finn does act. Spying the flood and emotions running across Vhalens face she cannot help but put an elbow into his side to get his attention. "So that's not the king?" she whispers in a hushed voice to ensure none of the other dwarves overheard. "Then why were they all mad at him?"
Finn Of'Gren had indeed jumped to the same conclusion as he had, her saving grace being just that she was more an observer in this part than an active participant. Still, it might help the kid to know it wasn't just him, she figures.
Laughter erupts sharply from Finn as the books tumble in the study and the young girl scatters. "I like her already," she replies to Rudrian. "If she embraces the curiosity and loses the shyness she'll be one to watch out for in the future..." With that said Finn gives a tilt of her head to the knocked over books as a way of asking permission to pick them up. Assuming no objection she walks over and carefully picks up each, takes a moment to read the spine, and then does her best to neatly pile them again upon the table. Conscious of her own proclivities and the knowledge these people may have of her and hers, Finn makes a point to not obscure what she is doing in the least.
"So, I assume we're not here to help with policy making," Finn says as way of opening conversation. She follows it up with a quieter, but still audible "Thank goodness..." Finn looks around the room at the three others in her small group then turns back to Rudrian with a smile. "What job do you have for us then?"
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We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
If there are any thoughts crossing his mind at what they had witnesses at the audience hall, the elf doesn't show it
Frenevir bows his head touching his heart with his right hand when the seneschal introduces the prince of the kingdom but he is caught by surprise by the prince attitude.
He follows them, quiet and studying the surroundings. He seemed relaxed and calm. He lets the young human talk.
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PbP Character: A few ;)
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Tale 1: Portent
It is the last day of summer in the small, mountain kingdom of Runia. There sits the Dwarf-Lord Rudan the Bronze - great grandson of the great lord Runavald the Deep, a hero of ages past and a legend of the tales and epics.
It is peaceful in this most auspicious time of the year, when the harvest moons hang low and dense overhead in the star-crowded sky, and the warm sun softly fades into autumn bliss. The trees, in their timeless congregations, consider the time of shedding leaves in hosts of brown and crimson in preparation for coming frosts, and many feasts are held across hall and home, celebrating the gods great blessings of harvest and hearth.
One such feast, in King Rudan's own hall, no less, holds rightly that glorious balance of festive and thankful, of goodwill and good cheer in abundance without excess. The carcasses of roast boar - fresh caught in his majesty's deep, dark woods, lie stripped of succulent meats besides mounds of hot bread, deep flagons of rich ale, rounds of cheese, sweet cakes of nuts and honey and a dozen other pies and delicacies besides. The king, brow drooping to a comfortable snooze whilst still seated on his Oaken throne, snaps awake with a startling expression drawn across his creased and bearded complexion. Eyes widen in shock and disbelief, pallor gripping his normally ruddy face, gaze tracking a space between the long tables where his men and dwarves at arms, huntsmen and craftsmen, servants myriad, their wives, children and hounds still feast and cavort. For several minutes, the king remains in this state before he is noticed by his seneschal and the royal surgeon is sent for, hurrying him off to his chambers as the early signs of disorder manifest in more and more distressing ways.
The next day, the king sent for his advisors, and then his wizards.
And then any passerby with a claim to understanding and interpreting dreams and visions here on this mortal plane.
One month later, as the first snows fell, the first monsters appeared, and evil sunk its roots deep into the land.
Dangers lurks within every shadow, and suspicion behind every shuttered door.
It is now five months after King Rudan's incident, the night of the Harvest Feast at Oldhall. The snows have remained on the ground unusually long, icy rivers cutting through unwelcome frost while the woods slowly shed their winter coats in favor of spring's first blooms. A chill rain settles over the city, and travelers once more brave the icy mountain passes to visit the ancient seat of Runia, though now with a wholly new intent. In response to missives sent in panicked script, hurried out of the kingdom before the ice sealed its gates shut, adventurers and vagabonds from nearby kingdoms arrive in droves, only to be turned away at the gate by the dour seneschal and his bureaucratic minions - only those of genuine heroic potential, in the esteem of the public servant, are allowed entry. What awaits them within the walls is a grim sight indeed.
The banners are called. Oldhall bristles with men and dwarves at arms, rallied at the worried behest of their lord; now idle, encamped within the city walls without a clear enemy to fight. Tensions between old rival clans and lords run high, and the streets are filled not with celebration and song, but rather grim faces, worried steps and the slow, drawn out thaw of a city under siege with no enemy in sight. Every tavern is packed with soldiers with nothing better to do than drink, brawl, and patrol the streets for a threat none can see, but everyone feels.
At last you have arrived, given quarters at reasonable prices at Duttersby's Pint, a creaky tavern set upon wide, warm flagstones a few minutes walk from Rudan's hall. It is half an hour before your scheduled appointment with the king, and the four of you nurse thick pints of the local brew - the tavern's own concoction of ruddy texture but not unpleasant effect. The rain continues to fall outside, in that nearly freezing-but-not-quite temperature that is sure to dampen even the brightest of demeanors.
And thus our tale begins.
Argentus:
"The beasts are getting more and more corrupted," says Argentus to Vhalens, drinking his brew, seemingly energized by the cooler weather outside. The young but strapping warrior wore his polar bear pelt cloak with its garish hood thrown back as was his wont when the temperature was above freezing. As was also his habit, Argentus kept all his possessions with him, ready to go at a moment's notice, including the long spear with the night-black broad-leafed head. The past few weeks in Oldhall seemed to grate on the Karhu tribesman, as the closeness and warmth of all the other people in the city closed in on him.
His dark brown eyes meeting Vhalens' and his tousled sandy brown hair matted against his forehead in the relative heat of the Duttersby's Pint common room, Argentus describes his latest hunt and attempt to backtrack the corrupted beast once he had put it out of its misery. Gesturing with his mug and his free hand, the warrior describes the combat and the strange tentacles the wolf had grown, revealing a strange, sucker-shaped wound Argentus took during the fight. Having gotten to tangentially know the other two at the table over the past few weeks, Argentus occasionally remembers to include Finn and Frenevir in the conversation.
Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
Vhalens examined the wound his friend displayed closely with compassion and sadness in his face. He said "I've seen a scar like this once before, when I was young, one summer when my band was camped near the sea. It was snaked along the carcass of a beached whale. The poor thing survived a lashing from some leviathan just to die suffocating on the rocks..."
He took a long draught from his mug, trying to banish the gruesome memory. "Not to imply any parallels, Argentus. I don't mean to be morbid."
He took another drink. His head had begun swimming about ten minutes back and the feeling made him prone to ramble.
"But it is strange. Creatures from the sea come to die on the land. Not just the whale but that wolf of yours, its nature becoming so... Nautical. When you think of it, a lone wolf in winter is already vicious. That in and of itself isn't strange... What's unusual is the... Method. The evils sealed beneath the water, Mossen had said. Do you remember?"
Vhalens went quiet after that, lost in thought. For a moment it seemed as though he might be about to cry after mentioning his teacher, but instead he simply shook his head and laughed nervously. He ripped off a hunk of the sweet brown bread the four of them had to share at the table and said as he began a liberal application of butter "I'm sorry Fin, Frenevir, we're excluding you again. Is truly none of this strangeness effecting the lands to the south?"
"Yes! Huh? What? No, sorry... What was that?" Finn Of'Gren said, turning back to the others at her table. She had been turned around and leaning over to the table next to theirs, sharing a few jokes and insults with several drunken soldiers who, quite frankly, were a lot more laughs than this lot she had fallen in with. Further, she had just gotten the one called Lau'Dec to start telling a rather raunchy limerick that she expected to have the soldiers at that table in tears in a moment, and she had a coin purse in sight she just knew she'd be able to cut free while it's owner was in the throes of such laughter... But alas, the timing has now been thrown off and her attention back at her own table.
"Oh, strangeness? To the south?" Finn summed up, trying to hide her prior distraction. "Well sure, Vhalens, there's also tales and talk of strangeness, isn't there?"
Finn grabbed her mug and frowned to find it empty. She stood and leaned across the table to grab the pitcher, stretching just so to allow her figure to be shown in it's best light. She was by no means as curvy or endowed as other women but she of course knew how to show off what she did have and distracted men were easily manipulated and taken advantage of. "Awwww, we're empty!" Finn cried out in feigned disgust, holding the pitcher on high and turning it upside down to illustrate the truth of her situation. "Waiter?!? MORE!" The call brought cheers and laughter from many of those who had been heavily imbibing at tables nearby.
Once Finn got a nod of recognition from one of the employees, she sat back down in a huff, grabbed her mug and leaned back to the table she had been talking to moments ago. With a quick elbow into the side of one of the soldiers she drew a laugh and a kindly refill from their pitcher. "Thank you, boys..." Finn said with a flirtatious smile and then turned back to Vhalens, Argentus and... Oh, what was their name again? Oh, yes. Frenevir!
"You have to understand," She continued as if there had not been a rather significant interruption in what she was saying. "I spend seventy percent of my time in taverns like this. I spend the other eighty in drink halls, bars, inns and so on. The last thirty-three percent of the time I try to get some sleep, you know? Nature is getting strange, is it? Fellas, nature has always been strange. You don't know the half of it. And that is why I try to avoid it!"
"Take milk... Someone, at some point, saw a goat or a cow or something and thought 'I could go for a drink right about now' and then went and got themselves a drink from that animal! And you are talking about strange?? That guy... That goat drinking guy.... And I promise you, it was a guy... That guy was strange."
"Oh, thanks!" Finn says with a smile as the waiter brings the new pitcher of drink. "This didn't come from a goat did it? No... no, never mind. Ignore me. Here, this is for you..." With a coin slipped to the waiter and her glass refilled once more, Finn looks back at the others with a blank expression on her face....
And waits... And waits... And "Oh! I was talking!" she realizes and bursts into laughter. "Goats and milk and strange... Sorry, sorry. Went mental there a moment..."
"But yeah, ok... So I have heard things. Stories. Strange creatures. Ominous omens. The usual. They're more common these days, I will give you that. And more focused... As you say, they seem to be more watery-ish themed and the stories aren't as remote as they were. Like it used to be 'This happened to a friend's cousin's third uncle' type crap but nowadays it seems like you hear more and more stories that happened to actual people... And who you get the feeling are telling the truth. I don't like it. Nope, I do not..." Melancholy almost seems like it may be about to grip young Finn Of'Gren but then suddenly she is on her feet and raising her mug.
"But we're here now! Vhalens and Frenevir and Argentus and Finn!" she shouts out, much more loudly than the others at the table are likely comfortable with.
"To US!" she screams out again, thrusting her mug as high as possible and yet, amazingly, not spilling a drop....
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
"I do not come from as north as you but when I left my home no, it wasn't affected by this. Not yet. " says the elf gesturing to indicate them both that it's all alright about them excluding the other two. "But What have become of my lands during this time. I cannot say. But I am sure that my kin will do whatever is necessary to protect it. Nevertheless, it is here where it all began, and here where we would start to getting answers. " he takes a sip from the wine he has been drinking. "What about your country Finn?" he asks to the fourth member of the table.
PbP Character: A few ;)
(Bit of cross posting there but wish-posh, such things happen and I am sure we all can weave it all together in our heads!)
"Nope, no country," Finn says with a smile and a shrug. "I'm a roamer. Always have been... I'm sure I was born somewhere but far as I know that's the last time I was there and I don't recall much of it."
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
Vhalens echoes Finn's sentiment earnestly, "To us!"
He found he liked Finn a great deal. Between the loss of Mossen, his journey away from his home and his family to this strange and disorienting city, and the weight of responsibility he and Argentus had been roped with, it didn't take much these days to turn his mood somber. It was nice to have someone around who could keep him from dwelling on his anxieties. It took quite a force of character to make being bundled in an overcrowded, frantic city preparing for a siege against an unknowable enemy feel like an exclusive party you were lucky to have an invitation to. As Vhalens puts his mug to his lips he catalogues the tone of Finn's voice during her toast for future use in the retelling of some story featuring a dashing hero at a king's feast.
At the thought of a king, Vhalens suddenly remembers what he's here for! He places his mug back down on the table, pushing it away from himself just a bit too hard, accidentally knocking it over and spilling the dregs across the table. "Oh, I'm sorry everyone. But, we shouldn't be drunk when we meet the king!" he said, with anxiety bordering on panic in his voice. He mops up the spill with his napkin while waving down a passing waiter "Sir? Could I please trouble you for a pitcher of water for the table? And some strong tea, if you have it?"
The hour draws nigh, and, having come to grips with your current situations, and your spirits lightened, or at least slightly mulled, but Duttersby's titular brew, you proceed towards Lord Rudan's hall. Above you, in the hall's single squat tower, flaps a drenched and wind-bedraggled flag bearing the green and brown oak-tree of Runia, emblazoned with a series of runes in silver beneath. Approaching the gates to this somewhat segmented city (a highly defensible redoubt, to be sure, each neighborhood sealed with its own gates and watches to keep the peace), you are stopped once by a patrol of rough, iron-armored dwarves - hailing from the more southern reaches of Runia's striking mountain range, from the ironmongeries and forges of Vallestad, who swiftly identify your newly stamped papers and send you briskly on your way, two or three of them yet eying you suspiciously even after barked commands from their lieutenant.
The studded stone gates themselves swing open as you approach, operated by unseen mechanisms from the closely guarded low towers overhead, and you cross an inner courtyard of greenish-grey stone covered in snowy slush towards the far side of the inner space where a familiar face gestures to you - the seneschal himself.
"Greetings, noble adventurers. I trust you are rested and prepared for your audience?"
From behind him, towards another set of studded doors emblazoned with runes of decoration and power, you hear the raucous shouts of what several voices in discontent, nearing upon open riot to the more urbane among your company. The harsh syllables of Runian-accented dwarf overlap with the baritone cries of several humans, all of whom seem to be shouting either expletives or suggestions - you cannot quite tell, and the tone is remarkably consistent for its volume. The seneschal winces as your attentions inevitably slip upwards towards the door.
"The Lords are at table, addressing the needs of the kingdom. It needn't concern the likes of you - come, we shall await his majesty in here." The seneschal gestures towards a smaller side door, to the left of the large studded doors leading, it seems, to Lord Rudan's hall.
(chance to respond or reply)
"To us" replied Frenevir raising his glass with the others.
When they are at the gates and the great stone slabs are opening, he notices that Vhalens trousers had a beer stain from the previous small incident. Without saying a word, not to worry him, he waves his hand and a small breeze crosses them. The hard northern doesn't even flinch at it but the stain is cleansed by it. Smiling to himself the elf walks in to greet the seneschal.
PbP Character: A few ;)
Argentus:
Relieved to finally be speaking to the chieftain, Argentus strides confidently to the great hall. At the seneschal’s words, he merely says, “Indeed” as he moves to the king’s antechamber, though a perceptive observer might see a tight smile on his face as he hears the vociferous debate emanating from the lords’ chamber.
Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
Looking closely at Vhalens, one might notice that he is actually shivering. His forehead has broken out in sweat. He begins compulsively checking and rechecking the state of his Seanchai's vestments, pleased to see there are no visible stains anywhere, then checking all over again a few moments later. He begins to fidget with his elegant armband, carved intricately from segments of caribou horn to resemble a serpent. He mutters to himself mysterious arcane charms in a quivering half-whisper:
"Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather."
"A big black bug bit a big black bear, a big black bug bit a big black bear."
"My cutlery cuts keenly and and cleanly, my cutlery cuts keenly and cleanly."
"You guys really are the best," Finn says gushingly as she shows her papers to the guards.
"Such diligence and stoicism really makes a girl feel safe, if you know what I mean," she teases, throwing one of the grumpier ones a wink. She doesn't lay it on too thick, it's best to be friendly but not too friendly with guards and such. Even the thickest of them can sense something is wrong if you overstep... And Finn Of'Gren was totally legit this time so it was a nice feeling to be totally at ease under such scrutiny.
Once brought in and ushered around by the seneschal, Finn made no effort to hide her looking around and gawking at everything. She was used to raucous bars, not Lord's Halls. Though, to be fair, there seemed to be a similar amount of yelling in both... Despite her curiosity in her surroundings, she does note that Vhalens seems to be in quite a state, Argentus seems to be fairly comfortable and Frenevir basically indifferent to the upper crust lifestylings...
"The likes of us?" Finn asks quickly, startled out of her revelry.
"And just what is our like, master seneschal?" she asks pointedly even as she hears Argentus dismissing it with a word.
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
With a stiff nod, the seneschal leads the way. To Finn's interrogative, he takes a moment to ruminate. He pauses in his step, executes a neat bow towards the four of you. "I apologize on my own behalf. I spoke in haste, and in the reflection of great... tension in Runia, at the moment. Yet you are strangers - that is your like. And guests, for now, until you may prove yourself to be friends and heroes to Runia, or... less than that. This way, if you please."
The seneschal leads you within. From the simple stone-walled antechamber, the voices become a bit more distinct. It seems a great crowd has assembled within - nobles of Runia, each with unique complaints that already seem to fall within a few overall categories. Some complain of disrupted lives, of patterns of trade and finance broken by mountain passes yet choked with snow, despite the efforts (or accused lack thereof) of Runian civil services, such as they are. Others complain of cost of living, rapid inflation of prices by those merchants who are able to smuggle or ship goods into Runia as stores run low and belts slip tight over recently thinned wastes. Taxes, as well, seem to feature as a common complaint.
The tone is one that gives even you foreigners to Runia, and unfamiliar with they ways and government, significant pause. What could it mean that so many Lords take issue with their King, or Chief, and his policy? The seneschal opens a door at the far side of the chamber, slipping into room with a burst of noise, leaving the door ajar and slipping towards the towering Oaken Throne, which you can now just glimpse from this angle and through a goodly crowd of shouting humans and dwarves, seated in various groups around the long hall and in varied panoplies. In the distance, through the bodies, you see a dwarf sitting on the seat, seemingly slouching beneath a great weight of so many claims. The seneschal approaches, bowing and pointedly ignoring the cries and please of the assembly, whispering in the seated figure's ear. With a nod, he stands, a metallic circlet slipping over one ear as he stands. He rights the ornament on his brow and holds up his hands, calling for silence. Only after the seneschal grabs a thick, iron-capped rod and beats the ground with resounding pulses does the audience finally settle to a manageable rumble. In a surprisingly soft voice for a dwarf lord, the figure standing before the throne speaks.
"Your cries are heard by his majesty, and we already move to address the core of the issue. Your concerns are my concerns, and I will see to them at once. I hereby end this assembly to meet with prospective heroes, whose expertise and aid will see to our many and dire needs. I thank you for your..."
Other voices interject with cruel jeers. "With whose money will you pay!" "Misappropriation of the budget!" "Abandoning the Oaths!" "Recall, recall, recall!"
The dwarf stumps down through the assembly and the voices grow louder as he exits the right of the throne. As the door of his exit slams shut you pick out a single shout that gives you pause. "What would you father say?"
A few minutes later, a young dwarf enters by a door on the wall opposite to the hall, still filled with the sounds of jeers and taunts, slowly dwindling as the assembly files out into the drizzling rain with mutters of contempt. He is accompanied by the seneschal - the dwarf is thickly bearded, wearing a circlet of copper above his brow and dressed in fine green robes after the Runian formal fashion (or so you gather, from your short sojourn in the city of Oldhall).
"Friends," he begins, "Let us retire to someplace more comfortable - I feel the need for some refreshment, and more encouraging company." He gestures towards the door he just entered from.
Argentus:
Watching the proceedings impassively for the most part, Argentus becomes visibly upset when the crowd seems to disrespect their chieftain by continuing to prattle on after the seneschal calls for silence. The young warrior glares fiercely at the unruly hecklers his dark visage promising violence if they do not immediately recall their manners.
Intimidate: 16
Later, he gratefully follows the seneschal and the young noble dwarf into the smaller room for a more personal conversation.
Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
If you were paying attention to Vhalens, you would see that from the moment he first sees the dwarf in the copper circlet, everything about his demeanor shifts instantly. His shaking stops. His back straightens. His face shifts from an expression of tremendous anxiety into one that conveys shrewdness and solemnity. He leans slightly onto one hip, pushing his cloak doubled over his back on his left side, revealing his Seanchai’s armband, on his right side casually resting his arm upon the pommel of his sword. Even his robes, which moments ago seemed folksy, even silly, so totally at odds with the fashion of the Runian court, now seem perfectly suited to the gravity of this meeting, draped so cleanly over the stable, slender frame of Vhalens’ shoulders. You don’t know when between entering the castle and this moment he managed to apply a perfectly even line of blue face paint across his eyes and nose, but he somehow managed it. The trembling boy in an instant has transformed into the perfect picture of a heroic young magician, here to serve the king with wisdom and powers unknown. Vhalens is in the story now. And he knows his archetype. As the king approaches, Vhalens begins the preliminary motions of a perfect bow in the Runian style.
But then the king speaks and Vhalens comes up short.
The stories and the coaching of the chiefs and the other Seanchai prepared him for court functions. He had expected formal introductions and address when he met the king, not to be ushered into a side room by a weary young man battered from the scolding of one hundred minor lords. At the earnestness of King Rudan’s greeting, the freshly conjured image of the wise and arcane Seanchai cracks, and Vhalens feels a sudden pang of tenderness for this young man with all the power of a nation beneath him, whose first word to Vhalens had been "friend."
Without really meaning to, Vhalens shifts his archetype once more. His practiced Runian bow, and the primary address he had polished to perfection the night before in his head suddenly seem silly, ingenuine, even manipulative. Suddenly, the only way he can think to speak is with the half-whisper tone reserved for the final lines of a tragedy. The tone all Seanchai employ for folk facing sorrow, seeking hope, wishing to see themselves reflected in more colors than just that of their exasperation.
With the door shut and the companions alone in the private room with the king, the Seanchai Vhalens spoke his first words to his friend Dwarf-Lord Rudan the Bronze, and they went thusly:
“These lords expect much of you, your majesty, to demand cold conveniences in unprecedented times. These are days of high strangeness, and we have become pioneers all. The prudence of a pioneer king will ensure all of our rations in time. They will know it ‘ere we have passed the high mountains.”
((I would like to give bardic inspiration to King Rudan))
The seneschal and the young dwarf share a shocked expression, but quickly burst out in a quick storm of friendly laughter, the tension draining from the room like so much icemelt after the spring thaw. Buoyed by Vhalens' inspiration, the dwarf turns and, grinning broadly. "I'm afraid you have me mistaken, friend - I do not have the honor of being king... At least, not yet."
The seneschal takes over, restoring his usual aplomb and radiating a much greater degree of friendliness. "May I present to you the crown-prince Redrian - King Rudan's son, and the heir to the Oaken Seat. Lord of..."
Redrian waves his hand towards the seneschal dismissively. "Come, friends - I'm not much one to stand on ceremony. Let's get more somewhere comfortable. Have you settled in Oldhall yet? Perhaps some refreshments? Come - let us break bread together, and I will tell all that I know of what you can do for me. My friend the seneschal was quite impressed with you, though I imagine that he didn't show it. Come!"
Spirits restored, he leads the way down a narrow hallway, seemingly built into the stern foundation stone of the hill on which most of Oldhall sits. Rows of narrow windows - arrowslits in case of attack, it seems, let in cool grey light, just tinged with the promise of spring. Towards the end of the hall, and across another small courtyard where servants busily move to and fro in the business of the hall, Redrian pops open a squat, well worn door leading into a warmly lit study, scattered with open books, scrolls, and many different styles of table and chair.
As you enter and get comfortable, the more alert amongst you receive a bit of a shock as a small pile of books towards the far end of the room tumble over, and a slight figure with yellow hair and a blue dress dashes for a door, slamming it behind. Rudrian chuckles as you look around. "My daughter... is young. And still quite shy. Her curiosity might lead her back - or not. Come, rest yourselves, and let us speak of Runia and her future."
Vhalens tries his best to walk it off. He chuckles at his mistake with Prince Rudrian and the seneschal and the others and makes a real effort at not displaying any mortification on his face at the fact that he'd just soliloquy'd at the wrong member of the royal family on their very first meeting.
He tries not to think of the ridiculous way he had created an entire narrative in his mind in moments about forming an immediate brotherhood of souls with the King of Runia and of going forth to bring peace to their two peoples with the power of their legendary friendship.
He tries not to think about how the moment the seneschal left the room the news would start circulating among the staff that that barbarian priest in his silly outfit had said everything short of proposing marriage to the crown prince.
Vhalens tries very hard not to get so caught up in beating himself up and catastrophizing that he completely misses what is said during the first round of conversation he and his companions are having with the Crown Prince on the fascinating and very important subject of saving his people and also Argentus’s people and also Runia and also maybe the WORLD from destruction by an ancient unknowable evil.
He tries very hard to achieve all of those things. Blessedly for Vhalens, when he blushes, his naturally bluish Muintir complexion merely pinkens to the more standard whiteness of your average light skinned dwarf, so perhaps, if he's lucky, the Crown Prince won't notice.
Vhalens makes a vow to himself right then and there to not get so swept up in the damn moment from now on. He's not in a damn story. He has a damn responsibility to his damn people to do his damn job.
By the time Vhalens stops spiraling, they're all in the study and he has no idea how they got there or how much of the conversation he's missed. A slamming door brings him back to the present and he finds himself in a beautiful room full of more books than he's ever seen in one place. More books than are owned by all of the bands of the Muintir put together. Which isn't to say all that many. Booksellers don't often travel that far north. A book to the Muintir is an heirloom cherished for generations. Mossen owned TWELVE books which was more by half than any other Muintir. Vhalens had read and reread them all dozens of times until Mossen had forbidden him from touching them anymore for fear he'd destroy the binding and since he had long since memorized them all anyway.
Vhalens shakes himself back to the present, blinking back the glimmer of tears as he thinks of the days spent in Mossen's tent he'll never be able to enjoy again. He's getting off track AGAIN. Focus, Vhalens. He looks to Prince Rudrian and sees that he does seem to be in a genuinely better mood than he was a few minutes ago. Vhalens takes some solace in that. He decides to spend the next few minutes in polite silence, letting the others handle the conversation for a while lest he be tempted again to try any more melodramatic storybook nonsense.
Argentus:
The young warrior follows along their route, calm but alert. When they reach the library, he is impressed by the implied knowledge contained in the books, but then a figure bursts from hiding and his Doru is in his hands as if it materialized there. As he recognizes a young Dwarven girl and the prince explains, he returns to his ease with an apologetic nod.
At the prince’s words of Runia’s future, Argentus speaks carefully, saying, “Thank you for your hospitality,” and sits down to eat and listen.
Gerrard Feldren - Human Noble in Ghosts of Saltmarsh
Kerric Brightblade - Elven Warrior in "Apocalypse"
From the moment of first being brought close to the Gall of Grievances the young Finn Of'Gren drew uncharacteristically quiet and reserved. A respectful demeanor, not common to her, took over all but her eyes and ears as she watched, listened and took note of everything while she herself tried to not be the center of attention for once.
As the king departed and the crowd remained - not hostile but... boisterous? - Finn saw the darkening of Argentus' demeanor. What was he going to do? she thought. It's not his place... She almost started to move, to put a restraining hand on his arm, but it was not her place either. While the forces of life seemed to be pushing this small group of four into some kind of bond, that bond was not yet formed and she felt no right to impose her will upon any of the others yet. Not even to strongly council restraint. So she acted not, yet felt a sigh of relief slip from her as the party moved on with no more than a glower from Argentus.
A few steps before entering the study Finn does act. Spying the flood and emotions running across Vhalens face she cannot help but put an elbow into his side to get his attention. "So that's not the king?" she whispers in a hushed voice to ensure none of the other dwarves overheard. "Then why were they all mad at him?"
Finn Of'Gren had indeed jumped to the same conclusion as he had, her saving grace being just that she was more an observer in this part than an active participant. Still, it might help the kid to know it wasn't just him, she figures.
Laughter erupts sharply from Finn as the books tumble in the study and the young girl scatters. "I like her already," she replies to Rudrian. "If she embraces the curiosity and loses the shyness she'll be one to watch out for in the future..." With that said Finn gives a tilt of her head to the knocked over books as a way of asking permission to pick them up. Assuming no objection she walks over and carefully picks up each, takes a moment to read the spine, and then does her best to neatly pile them again upon the table. Conscious of her own proclivities and the knowledge these people may have of her and hers, Finn makes a point to not obscure what she is doing in the least.
"So, I assume we're not here to help with policy making," Finn says as way of opening conversation. She follows it up with a quieter, but still audible "Thank goodness..." Finn looks around the room at the three others in her small group then turns back to Rudrian with a smile. "What job do you have for us then?"
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
If there are any thoughts crossing his mind at what they had witnesses at the audience hall, the elf doesn't show it
Frenevir bows his head touching his heart with his right hand when the seneschal introduces the prince of the kingdom but he is caught by surprise by the prince attitude.
He follows them, quiet and studying the surroundings. He seemed relaxed and calm. He lets the young human talk.
PbP Character: A few ;)