The shadowed inn stands at the end of a forgotten road, overgrown with weeds and scattered with debris. No smoke rises from the chimney, and no light seeps through the bottle-glass windows. The inn itself, shrouded in ivy and overgrown with grass and moss, appears deserted, but upon closer inspection, you see shapes moving inside, and hear muffled voices. As you move to open the door, a chill runs up your spine—is it a mistake to enter?
The raucous shouts and jeers you’ve come to associate with taverns are nowhere to be heard here. You step inside, worried that they may be closed, but no—the room is actually quite lively. Most of the tables are occupied, and a barkeep slinks around the tavern—their shoes making not a sound—occasionally leaning down and speaking quietly with a patron before returning to the bar to pour drinks. The hearth is shielded by a tinted screen, and the stew cooking in the cauldron releases only a faint scent of potato and carrots. Everyone seems perfectly content with the quiet, the dimness, and the lack of fragrance.
The tavern is filled with everyday people, none out of the ordinary, except for the man seated at the center of the counter. He leans back in his chair as if it is a throne, drink in hand. He talks to no one and no one dares to approach him. But his dark features bear the smirk of a king.
Dismissing the merely coincidental chill rushing down his spine, the lumbering Firbolg made his way into the sleepy inn. He looked rather dirty, and a little parched from the outset, and was determined to quench his thirst at the bar.
Offering a smile to any and all who pass, he made his way to the front of the bar. He tested the stools strength, before chuckling and looking to the barman.
"An ale, Cobbs. 'ppreciate it."
He winked, and offered some coin before moving next to the... rather suspicious looking man. And any other strangers who may have entered the bar.
Brac pushes the wooden door open, it swings hard and hits the wall behind it. Some of the patrons look up, clearly irritated by the noise the brute has produced. Brac, noticing this, turns and tries to slowly and quietly close the door. When he pushes it shut however he once again puts too much force into it and the door slams harder then necessary. The scene before him is odd. It was eerily quite for the amount of people.
Brac had been on the road for quite some time now, trying to leave his past behind him he has ventured to this strange part of the world. He scans the inn which seems normal enough but just a bit off. He notices two peole at the bar.....one who clearly thinks he above everyone else and a Firbolg making itself comfortable with a drink. Brac heads to the bar and sits on the other side of the smug looking fellow...
"I need a drink please barkeep!" As he waits for his beverage to arrive the barbarian stikes up a conversation with the two he was now sitting alongside of.
" Hey there fellas. Know of any work going on? This place is weird, but I am sure the drink is just as good here as anywhere else!" Brac bellows....probably much to loudly for this strange setting.
A young and rather forlorn looking Halfling youth enters the establishment, clutching a worn leather-bound book under one arm -- his fingers stained with ink. He wears simple and practical clothing, tailored to fit his short stature perfectly. With soft hues of cornflower blue, daffodil, and peach embroidered across a leather tunic. He wears a pair of round glasses, far too big for his face. While dull orange pearls dangle from his ruddy earlobes. There's the remnants of a sweet juniper-scented cologne which clings to his form as he gingerly makes his way through the establishment, and towards the bar counter to find himself an empty seat.
A soft voice rings out to the barkeep: "Pardon me, might I ask for a cup of tea?" There's a brief pause as he passes a nervous glance towards the smug man near the counter. "And a bottle of rum if you have any, but anything strong will do." Coin is swiftly slid across the counter, including tip.
The Halfling then cracks open the leather-bound book, along with a set of writing supplies, which he eagerly begins to scribble with. Though the nearby lumbering Human and the Firbolg certainly seem to catch his attention, as the book and writing supplies is slowly packed up. "Are you two-... merchants?"
Eager in his old age, the Firbolg didn't wait for a response from the other man. He looked down at the little thing, his dirt-caked face and beard twisting into a warm smile. His voice felt like it could push the little guy over.
Bardan's figure was cloaked in an old gray shawl, the glitter of a chainmail shirt seen beneath. His large nose framed his entire face, like a snail shell plopped firmly onto the front of his head. A pair of weary, caring brown eyes seemed to not fit his appearance.
"Merchant? No. At least, I am not! We were just waiting to hear from this fine fellow if there was any work in the region. You're welcome to listen!"
Walking up to the tavern i cant help but notice how itnhas become part of the forest itself, as i approach the door i am checking all around to make sure i have not been followed.
Upon entering the tavern, I am a little unsure if this is a place a stranger would be welcomed or not. I stomp the mud from my feet, gently though as to not call to much attention to myself. I walk to the far end of the bar, not only to be away from the other patrons but also to keep an eye on the room, as well as the door. You signal the barkeep to make an order "I would like a glass of ale please barkeep" .
As you sit trying to dry off a bit from your travel through the mirky swamp, you sip on your ale, you can't help but keep looking at the gentleman at the center of the bar. "I wonder what his story is" i think to myself, "is he a noble or just another common folk" . I would approach him as he seems to maybe be the man in charge, but I wait as it looks like he may be involved with some other patrons at the bar. I wait and watch as a set my now empty cup down. "Barkeep, another please!".....
Both hands wrap around his cup of tea as he takes a sip, keeping his attention towards the Firbolg for the time being. A faint but genuine smile painted across his face. "Ah, I see. Suppose some company's welcome. Name's Elyot, seamster and pattern maker for Weavers & Textiles." His mouth twists into a corner, a sheepish looks. "Though I doubt you've heard of us. Came here in hopes of doing a bit of foraging, sadly-... coin's running a bit low."
He quickly shakes his head, adjusting his glasses. "Anyways, what brings the rest of you here?" Just work as well, or simply enjoying a moment of respite?" The youth wears a rather bulky backpack slung over one shoulder with all manner of curious tools dangling from the straps. With the similar wheat motif embroidered throughout his attire. He also keeps dagger strapped to his belt, a plain looking thing, and a crossbow strapped to his back -- which pretty much looks brand new.
As i continues sipping on my ale, I glance towards the halfling, offering a faint smirk acknowledging that I heard him but keep to myself for the time being. I don't want to draw any undo attention.
Time and nature have each done their part to reclaim the trail that leads Galfraen to the ivy shod inn. It's appearance stirs latent memories that dance tantalisingly out of his grasp. Has he visited before? The door whispers as he pushes it open; the small bustle of the oddly busy tavern seeks to quench the vole-like skittering of the barkeep's mocasins and the slow bubbling of the stew on the hearth. No need of ale nor tavern food for sustenance, Galfraen turns his attention to the occupants of the inn, his gaze skipping over the patrons on their way to being in their cups before coming to rest upon the strong featured man at the counter.
Approaching the man with a measured stride he pauses until the man's attention is drawn to the newcomer. "You may not know me, but you knew my father", he rasps.
It is only after he speaks that Galfaen apparently becomes aware of the other strangers at the bar. A Firbolg no less, a bookish looking halfling lad, and one with the look of an outdoorsman. "Pardon me, I did not mean to intrude", are his words, but his tone says he gives not a damn.
The man at the counter gestures at a nearby round table. The patrons vacate it without a word. He points to the 5 of you. "It seems the fair wind of fate has brought what I need. Come sit. I have need of your skills." He lingers for moment when pointing at Galfaen. "I do know your father. The resemblance is uncanny. Well please come sit all the same"
The man is tall with a robust frame. He wears clothes similar to a merchant, but a touch finer in quality.
Alhorn looks at the man with suspicion, then looks to the other 4 to see if any of them are moving toward the table. I dare not make the first move.i will wait briefly and see if others join him first
Elyot gives a rather puzzled expression as he stores the bottle of rum which he had ordered from the barkeep into his bag. Peering across the other men now present by the bar counter, as low eyelids take a moment to observe each one briefly. "Rather auspicious, but i'll entertain the idea." Gives a shrug, finishing up his tea before hopping down to his feet to follow the others towards the nearby table. "Anyone know what this might be about?" Mutters quietly to the other four, outside of earshot from the robust man.
I follow behind Elyot and in a rather deep and rough voice I tell him (under my breath) "fear not little one, I have my eye on him" . I put one hand on my hilt as I walk over to the table. Keeping an eye on the surrounding room. I take a seat directly across from the suspicious man..
"My father...sends his regards. I am Galfaen", offers Galfaen tentatively as he takes a still-warm seat. He spares no apology to the previous occupant, his attention being on the man and these new acquaintances - including a woodsman who had previously escaped his notice, no doubt skulking in the background amongst the other patrons.
He waves at the barkeep, who takes a box from behind the counter and places it on the table. "My name is Nusquam. I need this box delivered to Creepingvale village. Don't worry you will be compensated upon its delivery in Creepingvale village. 200 gold pieces to be exact." He pauses for a moment looking out the window. A frown appears on his face. "Now this is rather time sensitive, so I ask that if you take this job, that you leave tonight. Bring the box to Creepingvale within the next 3 days" He folds his hands and and looks at each of you "Creepingvale village is southeast of here. If you have any questions, then ask"
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Elyot watches as everybody gathers around the table, then leans in a bit closer to glance over the box more closely to see if if there's anything that he might recognize. Like a maker's mark, insignia, some sort of text, etc. Investigation11
Then proceeds to pull out his leather-bound journal once more to start making notes, the text appears to be written in the Halfling tongue. "What makes it so time sensitive, if I may ask?" His soft voice rings out with a rather concerned look painted across his face. Then remains silent for the time being, allowing the others to pitch in.
Bardan shrugged as they walked to the Halfling, not saying a word. Clearly, he didn't know. Each of his steps clinking as he walked, he continued his strange act of smiling at everyone in the room, before taking a seat at the table. He gave the halfling a two-fingered salute and some short words just before turning to face "Nusquam"
"Name's Bardan, cobb."
His head swiveled, an audible chattering coming from his mouth. Were those.. wooden teeth?
"Ah, Nusquam! How 'fortuitious' my friend. We have all among us been looking for work. But... you want us to deliver this tiny thing? What is so important about something so little?"
The way he said 'fortuitious' was heavily enunciated. Like the codger didn't entirely understand what he was saying, and simply parroted the words of the younger halfling earlier.
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The shadowed inn stands at the end of a forgotten road, overgrown with weeds and scattered with debris. No smoke rises from the chimney, and no light seeps through the bottle-glass windows. The inn itself, shrouded in ivy and overgrown with grass and moss, appears deserted, but upon closer inspection, you see shapes moving inside, and hear muffled voices. As you move to open the door, a chill runs up your spine—is it a mistake to enter?
The raucous shouts and jeers you’ve come to associate with taverns are nowhere to be heard here. You step inside, worried that they may be closed, but no—the room is actually quite lively. Most of the tables are occupied, and a barkeep slinks around the tavern—their shoes making not a sound—occasionally leaning down and speaking quietly with a patron before returning to the bar to pour drinks. The hearth is shielded by a tinted screen, and the stew cooking in the cauldron releases only a faint scent of potato and carrots. Everyone seems perfectly content with the quiet, the dimness, and the lack of fragrance.
The tavern is filled with everyday people, none out of the ordinary, except for the man seated at the center of the counter. He leans back in his chair as if it is a throne, drink in hand. He talks to no one and no one dares to approach him. But his dark features bear the smirk of a king.
Dismissing the merely coincidental chill rushing down his spine, the lumbering Firbolg made his way into the sleepy inn. He looked rather dirty, and a little parched from the outset, and was determined to quench his thirst at the bar.
Offering a smile to any and all who pass, he made his way to the front of the bar. He tested the stools strength, before chuckling and looking to the barman.
"An ale, Cobbs. 'ppreciate it."
He winked, and offered some coin before moving next to the... rather suspicious looking man. And any other strangers who may have entered the bar.
Brac pushes the wooden door open, it swings hard and hits the wall behind it. Some of the patrons look up, clearly irritated by the noise the brute has produced. Brac, noticing this, turns and tries to slowly and quietly close the door. When he pushes it shut however he once again puts too much force into it and the door slams harder then necessary. The scene before him is odd. It was eerily quite for the amount of people.
Brac had been on the road for quite some time now, trying to leave his past behind him he has ventured to this strange part of the world. He scans the inn which seems normal enough but just a bit off. He notices two peole at the bar.....one who clearly thinks he above everyone else and a Firbolg making itself comfortable with a drink. Brac heads to the bar and sits on the other side of the smug looking fellow...
"I need a drink please barkeep!" As he waits for his beverage to arrive the barbarian stikes up a conversation with the two he was now sitting alongside of.
" Hey there fellas. Know of any work going on? This place is weird, but I am sure the drink is just as good here as anywhere else!" Brac bellows....probably much to loudly for this strange setting.
"I am sorry my friend, but I am not a local!"
His voice was as large as his presence. He gesticulated with his hands as he spoke, perhaps too much for how old he looked. Like he'd snap a rib.
"Ol'mate, you got anything for this fine fella?"
He clapped the kingly stranger on the back, his voice filled with the sincerity of an old friend.
Eager in his old age, the Firbolg didn't wait for a response from the other man. He looked down at the little thing, his dirt-caked face and beard twisting into a warm smile. His voice felt like it could push the little guy over.
Bardan's figure was cloaked in an old gray shawl, the glitter of a chainmail shirt seen beneath. His large nose framed his entire face, like a snail shell plopped firmly onto the front of his head. A pair of weary, caring brown eyes seemed to not fit his appearance.
"Merchant? No. At least, I am not! We were just waiting to hear from this fine fellow if there was any work in the region. You're welcome to listen!"
Walking up to the tavern i cant help but notice how itnhas become part of the forest itself, as i approach the door i am checking all around to make sure i have not been followed.
Upon entering the tavern, I am a little unsure if this is a place a stranger would be welcomed or not. I stomp the mud from my feet, gently though as to not call to much attention to myself. I walk to the far end of the bar, not only to be away from the other patrons but also to keep an eye on the room, as well as the door. You signal the barkeep to make an order "I would like a glass of ale please barkeep" .
As you sit trying to dry off a bit from your travel through the mirky swamp, you sip on your ale, you can't help but keep looking at the gentleman at the center of the bar. "I wonder what his story is" i think to myself, "is he a noble or just another common folk" . I would approach him as he seems to maybe be the man in charge, but I wait as it looks like he may be involved with some other patrons at the bar. I wait and watch as a set my now empty cup down. "Barkeep, another please!".....
As i continues sipping on my ale, I glance towards the halfling, offering a faint smirk acknowledging that I heard him but keep to myself for the time being. I don't want to draw any undo attention.
It is currently night as everyone enters the Inn.
(I will wait for Buxton to post before continuing. At this time everyone can get to know each other)
Time and nature have each done their part to reclaim the trail that leads Galfraen to the ivy shod inn. It's appearance stirs latent memories that dance tantalisingly out of his grasp. Has he visited before? The door whispers as he pushes it open; the small bustle of the oddly busy tavern seeks to quench the vole-like skittering of the barkeep's mocasins and the slow bubbling of the stew on the hearth. No need of ale nor tavern food for sustenance, Galfraen turns his attention to the occupants of the inn, his gaze skipping over the patrons on their way to being in their cups before coming to rest upon the strong featured man at the counter.
Approaching the man with a measured stride he pauses until the man's attention is drawn to the newcomer. "You may not know me, but you knew my father", he rasps.
It is only after he speaks that Galfaen apparently becomes aware of the other strangers at the bar. A Firbolg no less, a bookish looking halfling lad, and one with the look of an outdoorsman. "Pardon me, I did not mean to intrude", are his words, but his tone says he gives not a damn.
The man at the counter gestures at a nearby round table. The patrons vacate it without a word. He points to the 5 of you. "It seems the fair wind of fate has brought what I need. Come sit. I have need of your skills."
He lingers for moment when pointing at Galfaen. "I do know your father. The resemblance is uncanny. Well please come sit all the same"
The man is tall with a robust frame. He wears clothes similar to a merchant, but a touch finer in quality.
Alhorn looks at the man with suspicion, then looks to the other 4 to see if any of them are moving toward the table. I dare not make the first move.i will wait briefly and see if others join him first
I follow behind Elyot and in a rather deep and rough voice I tell him (under my breath) "fear not little one, I have my eye on him" . I put one hand on my hilt as I walk over to the table. Keeping an eye on the surrounding room. I take a seat directly across from the suspicious man..
"My father...sends his regards. I am Galfaen", offers Galfaen tentatively as he takes a still-warm seat. He spares no apology to the previous occupant, his attention being on the man and these new acquaintances - including a woodsman who had previously escaped his notice, no doubt skulking in the background amongst the other patrons.
Alhorn looks at the man and in a more assertive but not loud voice says "what's this about then" ..
He waves at the barkeep, who takes a box from behind the counter and places it on the table. "My name is Nusquam. I need this box delivered to Creepingvale village. Don't worry you will be compensated upon its delivery in Creepingvale village. 200 gold pieces to be exact." He pauses for a moment looking out the window. A frown appears on his face. "Now this is rather time sensitive, so I ask that if you take this job, that you leave tonight. Bring the box to Creepingvale within the next 3 days" He folds his hands and and looks at each of you "Creepingvale village is southeast of here. If you have any questions, then ask"
Bardan shrugged as they walked to the Halfling, not saying a word. Clearly, he didn't know. Each of his steps clinking as he walked, he continued his strange act of smiling at everyone in the room, before taking a seat at the table. He gave the halfling a two-fingered salute and some short words just before turning to face "Nusquam"
"Name's Bardan, cobb."
His head swiveled, an audible chattering coming from his mouth. Were those.. wooden teeth?
"Ah, Nusquam! How 'fortuitious' my friend. We have all among us been looking for work. But... you want us to deliver this tiny thing? What is so important about something so little?"
The way he said 'fortuitious' was heavily enunciated. Like the codger didn't entirely understand what he was saying, and simply parroted the words of the younger halfling earlier.