Thr Free City of Llandovion breathes a sigh as night approaches. The daily bustle of riverkin lascars and rock gnome traders at the quayside, the hyper-manic patter of kender street hawkers* throughout the town, have all subsided to a gentle buzz; while the players in the great game of night in any city are still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and boiling their first cups of lilac tea to help get the process going a little faster**. In the gentle time of approaching twilight, a mixed knot of beings gathers in front of the Riverkin's Arms to wait out the third part of an hour during which the doors are traditionally held to honor the passage from day to night. You are among them. Some of you have received a token in the form of a small carved pseudodragon, some of you have simply followed rumours and portents, but you all have reason to believe you will find something here on this night.  It might even be just the night's bed and board that you are thinking of ... consciously ... , but somehow you sense this night is different.

The ironically named Riverkin's Arms is in fact as far from the quayside bustle of Llandovion's harbor as one could get. The inn is in fact positioned where most towns would have their citadel, at the very highest point of the braided spiral of streets and alleys twisting doggedly uphill from the quays, which those of you who came from elsewhere will most likely have seen first of all the places in the city. The glitter and dapple of brown water lapping in from the main river has been long left behind in the dusty climb, however; but in one point at least the Riverkin's Arms is well named: there are as many of them around you here as you saw passing silently back and forth on their riparian business there. Llandovion's metaphorically literal crown jewel prides itself on being welcoming to all. Even a tiefling or dragonborn would here occasion no stampede of terror; if anyone in Llandovion is likely to have met such beings before it is the staff of the Riverkin's Arms, and they would view them as just another patron to be greeted with the legendary hospitality of the Arms ... including ejecting any other patrons who went too far in making life difficult for them. And a smiling representative of this same hospitable staff is even now untying the yellow-and-black braided silk tope stretched across the door and beckoning you all to enter.

As you rest your hand (or claw, or tentacle, or whatever) on the curved handle that locals say was made from an actual bacwch pysgodyn, with the sounds of drink-spiced merriment quivering through the wood tantalizing you almost as much as the mingled scents of dwarven ale, spiced maple firewater and metheglyn that tease at your nostrils, you notice a notice tacked neatly up beside it about four feet from the ground. It is written in script that looks like it was copied many times from an original that was once carefully and elegantly scribed. The edges are tattered, but it looks like someone has tried to trim the worst places into something resembling a straight line. Those of you who were sent a token recognize the name that accompanied it signed at the bottom of this piece of time-tested parchment that seems to defy all around it to try and make it do anything otherwise than decently and in order. Almost as if by compulsion, your eyes respect its dignity by leaving the hypnotically florid (not to mention flowingly flourished) signature and traveling up to begin at the beginning. Which consists of the following symbols, hovering all alone above the rippling flow of script which spells out the words below it:

 

 "Wanted: ... <blur; looks like a splash of mead fell on the words, from the honey-amber tinge of the ink stain> with minds as sharp as their blades:

I am in search of the lost Puzzle Box of <blank; literally a neatly sliced rectangular hole where one or more words have clearly been excised>...ng.

I am in a position to reward those who aid me as richly as such a <graffiti scrawled over the following words in Abyssal renders them illegible. The literal meaning would get me banned if I translated it here word for word LOL, but im general it indicates derisive scorn that anyone could possibly be rich enough to pay a billionth part of that, assuming the continued existence of the multiverse>.

Do not mention this notice. Most of them think me mad. Order a dish of laverbread and leek cawl, and whatever you care to drink, and whisper my name to the publican when she asks you for pay.

Until then, I remain:

 

* (who don't, perhaps not so strangely, seem to be asking for actual money.  From what you can gather as you pass by these sometimes rather entertaining scenes of negotiation, the kender will ask you for something that is at least equally interesting.  And leave it up to you to figure out what that kender might consider interesting.  Those of you who have been to the Feywild have a nagging sense of familiarity about this whole concept >;-D )

** (lilac in this world has a similar scent and flavor to the flower we are familiar with, which it superficially resembles, but otherwise is used as we would use black tea and has a similar astringent/puckery taste note and stimulant effect -- if anything the latter is a little stronger, more on the level of a cup of coffee)

As you push open the door and enter, the last light of evening sighs through as well, a breeze of roses and wine from the undiscovered and hopeful west in the skyscape behind you. To the east, the dark bulk of Cricket Tor looms ominously: you almost fancy you can catch faint echoes, as the night sea breeze swells in, of the eternal mad screams of the latest victim drawn by the seductive song of the Raven Queen to die alone in the dark ever madly fleeing they knew not what save to know it would rend their soul scrap from quivering shred if it ever caught them until their final despairing whisper shreds away to silence. But silence is certainly not what you are seeking tonight.

You walk into a spacious common room where the first word that springs to mind is. 'warm'. The walls are paneled in a rich honey-colored wood and somehow, you can't seem to focus your eyes enough to detect a hard edge or even to seem to be able to distinguish the lines that normally tell the eye where wall joins ceiling or floor. Even the shadows seem warm and welcoming, and the murmur of voices that ripples out from some of them is like the secret voice of a brook in some warm memory of the perfect childhood summer, whatever that may be to you. You have trouble imagining anyone starting trouble here, but you would imagine that even that would be warm -- fiery, indeed; hot and passionate and blazing with intensity enough to fully burn itself out and leave no smoldering coals of resentment; the innkeeper probably has traditional glasses that are only used for the parties to have a drink (or fifty) of reconciliation afterwards and stumble out into the night at closing time, leaning on each other’s shoulders and caterwauling out a complete mortal insult to the bard whose song touched the drunken wellsprings of camaraderie and remorse in them earlier that evening after they had absorbed the first dozen or so.

As your eyes get used to the warm half-light, you see about half a dozen time-mellowed round hardwood tables scattered widely between you and a polished bar which seems to be made of green stone. It has a long bench of the same material built into the front with cushions of various greens, purples and reds scattered casually along it to sit more comfortably upon. Each table seats six individuals; one is empty and the others have between one and four seats vacant. There are several similar tables around the edges of the room, but you can’t make out any details about the occupants beyond vague shadowy shapes. There is an arched opening to the right of the bar that seems to lead to a stone staircase leading up; there is just the faintest hint of lingering daylight trickling down it. Two other arches lead out of the room at the left and right ends.

The following beings are immediately noticed by all upon first entry:

⦁ At the far right end of the bar, a minotaur is polishing glasses with a precision that looks so long practiced as to be completely unconscious. She certainly seems to be focusing most of her awareness on talking to the dwarven couple leaning drunkenly into each other from adjacent barstools as they alternately complete and complicate each other’s sentences. There is a long chef’s knife on the counter by the minotaur’s right hand, next to a pile of cubed meat she seems to have been trimming of its caul of fat before the dwarves called for her attention. Behind her, a cauldron bubbles above a hearth built into a small recess in the wall; it is just wide enough to have room for patrons to sit on the benches built into the sides when the gales of winter shake the house and blow in through the crack under the door. A rich scent of cooking red meat, apples and onions wafts over to you from that direction as the air currents in the room swirl.

⦁ The tables seem to have been hastily pushed aside to clear a small space in the center, where a single wood elven woman is dancing alone. Her head is shaved bald and shows the hue of her mottled moss-brown skin everywhere except just above her right ear, where a single green lock curls in a carefully braided ringlet. Her eyes are as light a green as her skin is dark, and she gazes at each of you once as you enter before resuming her dance. The gaze is a dragonfly’s probe, flicking out precisely, precisely returning. Only if any of you has ogrish or frost giant blood does she show any reaction whatever in the process. In that case, her gaze becomes precise and cold. Exceedingly cold. You see the slow death of stars in that scalpeled stare; you see millenia alone in the icy darkness bereft of light and love, bereft of the universe itself. One additional moment only do her eyes dissect your soul; then she nods slowly and appears to suspend judgement – for the moment – and resume dancing. She lingers on any with other sorts of giantish/giantkin blood with extra scrutiny, and perhaps allows a slight suspicious tightening of her mouth to show, but does not otherwise react.

⦁ Two humans, a riverkin and a rock gnome sit in a cozy nook just off the left hand archway performing the music the elf is dancing to. The shadows are even warmer and thicker there than elsewhere in the room, so you can't make out exact details, but you think the riverkin is playing some sort of pipes or flutelike instrument. The humans are playing strings ... one bowed and one plucked ... and the gnome is on drums and cymbals. The music swirls and swells and spirals, swelling up hypnotically and hypnotically fading away, and you sometimes aren't quite sure whether the elf is shaping her dance to fit the music or the other way around. The sound reaches out and draws you in, as welcoming as the warm smells of sinsir and cinnamon, dark mead and juniperberry tantalizing your noses (those of you that have them).

Others in the room are less conspicuous, but might be no less interesting to talk to. Then again, they might not ...

To complete your delight, a neatly lettered chalkboard behind the bat clearly mentions "Drinks". There are some examples listed below that title with their prices, but given the variety and number of bottles and jugs arrayed on the shelves you can't imagine that is the full list, and there is clearly "Food" available that isn't even mentioned on the board. You smile and prepare to surrender fully to the welcoming charms of the Riverkin's Arms as night falls upon the Free CIty of Llandovion.

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Go ahead and get comfortable with each other and anyone else you might want to interact with. And when you're ready to meet your prospective employer, you could do worse than going up to the bar and placing that admittedly rather peculiar order ...

The doors swing open silently, and in walks a figure dressed in a yellow robe in the style of traditional monks in the area. The silent entrance would go unnoticed were it not for the sound of wood on wood, "tok tok," "tok tok," as the figure uses a quarterstaff covered in Gnomish runes to navigate around objects on the floor. If you have not yet figured out his lack of sight, his milky white eyes would give it away. Both his beard and hair are clean-shaven, as it is a tradition for some monk clans. If he passes by you, you will notice two small sacks placed on each side of his hip, and with each step, one makes a clinking metal noise, and the other makes the noise of glass against glass and the glugging noise of liquid splashing around. As he made his way to the bar counter, he reached out and grabbed a barstool before taking a seat. He leaned slightly on the counter, resting his arms on it, and waited patiently.

Somewhat reluctant to leave the preferred setting of the outdoors and the beauty and wonder of twilight, a lone elven figure enters the Riverkin’s Arms.

The slender elf quickly surveys the surroundings of the tavern area to judge the clientele and possible threats. His eyes suddenly become transfixed upon the wood elf maiden who is dancing in the room. It has been many moons since he has seen one of his own kind and the surprise to find one here is palpable.

After several moments of taking in the scenes of the dance and the musical interlude, fatigue from the journey prompts him to pull himself away from the spectacle.

He makes his way to the barkeep while keeping a side eye on the common area of the room.

”Well met, city dweller. Might I order a stew and a tankard of honey mead after a long days travels.”

The urge to place the special order is suppressed in order to better monitor the surroundings of the inn and its patrons. Taking his meal to one of the empty seats that allows the best view of the common room, he enjoys his stew and the elven entertainment.

Morbrukk enters the tavern loudly and his greyish body is covered in scars and wolf hide and sits down at a table and puts his hand up. "Can I get mug of your strongest booze? It's been a rough trip here and I would like to just unwind with a strong drink. Had to fight a wolf on the way here. Morbrukk looks to the dancing elf. "At least there is some nice entertainment."

An eladrin comes into the bar, laughing at nothing in particular as they do. They appear to be paying very little attention to their surroundings, though their piercingly grey eyes do settle for a moment on the elvish woman dancing, a smirk pulling up the corners of their lips. It's difficult to tell wether this newcomer is male or female, their features appearing somewhere between. Their hair is short and wavy, though a little longer on the top than the sides. 

Their outfit seems designed to show as much skin as possible, with no sleeves on their studded leather armour, and their shorts jagged and frayed at the edges, looking as though they cut off the legs themselves. Their pale skin, as much of it as can be seen at any rate, is crisscrossed with a number of emerald green tattoos, various designs and symbols covering a large portion of their body

They smile brightly upon seeing the bartender, sitting at the bar, sliding into a seat at the bar ,greeting the stranger like an old friend.

"Hullo!" They say brightly, pulling a vile of dark blue liquid and putting it on the bar in front of them. "Can I have your name?" They ask the bartender.

Morbrukk looks at the others and smirks to himself  "Well we certainly have some color characters in here today don't we. I'm going to need a lot of strong drinks if things get lively."

The figure in the yellow monk's robe, known as the Black Rose, had been listening to the different conversations in the inn. "I might need a drink myself," he sniffed twice. "Is that dwarven ale I can smell? Barkeep, please bring me one." He looked around at the others sitting at the bar. Although his dead eyes made it seem impossible, he briefly stopped his gaze on everyone nearby. "What brings you fellows to this fine establishment?"

The minotaur behind the bar smiles and turns toward you, seeming to include you all equally in her gaze and words.  "Ah!  I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before!  Welcome to the Riverkin's Arms; I hope your stay is a pleasant one, whether you are with us just for the evening or overnight.    My name is Myrtea, and I and my partner will do our best to make you comfortable."

Now that you are closer, you can hear the faint sound of cymbals or bells as she moves her head from side to side.  At least, you think it is cymbals at first, until you see the small brass discs strung at intervals along the black braids of hair that curl around her horns.  They jingle as she turns her head towards the hearth and calls, "Glyn! We have new guests this evening!"

A moment later, a tall riverkin male emerges from the shadows at the back of one of the cozy fireside benches.  He walks over to the minotaur and confers a moment.  Then he gets a round brass tray from beneath the bar and places on it an ornately carved wooden stein and a more subtly decorated wooden tankard, and fills them.  He brings the first over to Morbrukk and nods to him.  It is not a nod he quire recognizes from his own culture, but definitely a nod of one who understands and wishes to acknowledge strength without demoting himself in the eyes of the one he greets.  "I'm Glyn.  You need any more, just call me.  Have a mighty time, just don't break anything too bad."

He then walks over to Erolith and smiles. "The bees were generous this honeying; I think you'll like their gifts.  As to stew, we have beef and lamb cawls to choose from, or leek and potato.  Those can be ordered with or without: today you can pick either currant or llymru dumplings."  He flicks the minotaur a sly glance and bends to whisper in the elf's ear, "Personally I'd pick the first.  When she gets her hands on oatmeal..."  He chuckles as he walks back to his fireside, seats himself on the closest end of the bench and quietly observes the room.

Meanwhile, Myrtea brings the dwarven couple a new round and then turns to her guests at the bar.  She seems not quite sure which one she finds more intriguing, but after a moment decides to speak to them in the order in which they entered.  She turns first to the Black Rose.

"Welcome, sir!  You seem like a gentleman who can take care of himself, but if you should require assistance with anything please don't hesitate to ask.  I knew a gentledwarf of your order in my younger days, and they had exactly the same taste in drinks, so I've always kept it on the menu since in case they should come wandering by again.  Please accept the first mug on their behalf and tell me what you think."  She hands him a mug and turns to Artifex.

"Hullo, dear.  You are most welcome; you remind me of someone I used to ... ah ... know."  She winks at them with a nostaligc and slightly goofy grin, then seems to shake herself back to the present.

""Would you like anything now, or will this suffice you for the moment?"  She points at the blue vial.

The Black Rose responded, "I appreciate the offer, but it won't be needed - for now, at least. But I must give my thanks for this wonderful gift." He lifted the mug of Dwarven ale up and took a sip, letting out a big sigh of relief. "I needed this. Nothing beats Dwarven ale, and this is quite good stuff you've got there."

Artifex looks down at the vial, as though they're seeing it for the first time. "Oh this? This isn't for me, in fact you'd probably get more use from it than I. As for a drink, I'd like something deceptively sweet, with a kick that'll surprise you. Got anything like that?" It's tone is airy and absent minded, giving the impression of one who's hardly even aware of where they are. It's fingers dance along it's arm, tracing their tattoos.  

Without waiting for an answer, Artifex turns it's gaze to Morbrukk. "That's certainly a very nice wolf skin, ever thought about adding some color to it?"

Quote from McColough >>

Somewhat reluctant to leave the preferred setting of the outdoors and the beauty and wonder of twilight, a lone elven figure enters the Riverkin’s Arms.

The slender elf quickly surveys the surroundings of the tavern area to judge the clientele and possible threats. His eyes suddenly become transfixed upon the wood elf maiden who is dancing in the room. It has been many moons since he has seen one of his own kind and the surprise to find one here is palpable.

After several moments of taking in the scenes of the dance and the musical interlude, fatigue from the journey prompts him to pull himself away from the spectacle.

He makes his way to the barkeep while keeping a side eye on the common area of the room.

”Well met, city dweller. Might I order a stew and a tankard of honey mead after a long days travels.”

The urge to place the special order is suppressed in order to better monitor the surroundings of the inn and its patrons. Taking his meal to one of the empty seats that allows the best view of the common room, he enjoys his stew and the elven entertainment.

The elf pauses when you enter. She raises one eyebrow slightly but does not otherwise immediately react; then she resumes her dance. This continues for some minutes, and she seems to be noting your interest and considering how to react. She waits until everyone has their drinks, then walks over to you and ... not smiles, but at least quirks one corner of her mouth upward briefly.  There are at least the embers of feeling there, as opposed to the absolutely cold ashes everyone else has so far received.  Then she speaks, briefly; nods to you once; and walks over to sit ar a stool at the far left of the bar, close to the small group who had been playing the music for her dance.

"Sae. Ath Tel' /* Ahnvae nai -lys
Salen Arael nha mertel; su hora'tel'quiet Arta Tel' / uvahlura. Na neh eithor.

Sil ... maedol, gwanur"

"Sae, of the Nightbreeze.
My heart is dead; he awaits me on the other side. There will be no other.

Still ... welcome, kinsman"

*in this world, the character which represents the wood elf letter the translators render as (emphasis).

Myrtea smiles at her customers.  "I'm so glad you like it, sir!  And as for you..." she smiles.  "I think a nice glass of raspberry metheglyn would suit you to a T."  She reaches down a bottle and pours some of the contents into a glass.  The rich ruby red of the fluid seems to glow in the light of flickering candles which she proceeds to light and place in empty bottles placed at intervals along the bar as evening deepens into night.  The thick coating of many-colored wax drippings on the shoulders of many bottles tells you this is far from a new custom.  And the metheglyn is all that you could have wished, starting with an innocent-seeming taste of raspberries and summer on the tip of your tongue that quickly blossoms into the full heat of Midsummer as notes of sinsir (ginger), clove, and honey distilled down to fire and light and the glow of golden summer days swirl and play on your palate.  The heat is such, and at the same time, the taste is so exquisite, you almost don't want to swallow, but you finally do, and the full fire diffuses through your whole being and warms you from guggle all the way up to zatch.

Artifex let's out a low whistle, visibly caught off guard by the depth of the drinks flavor, giving the sense that it had no idea what they were asking for.  Their smirk widens into a proper grin as they close their eyes for a moment, as though visualizing the flavors

(By the way, what translator do you use for elvish?)

Morbrukk laughs. Maybe I should add some color but I would want to disrespect it like that. It gave all ot could in our fight and it shall be worn proudly. Morbrukk then downs his drink

After ordering a meal and enjoying the end of the dancing performance, I survey the room once again before rising from my seat and returning to the barkeep.

”Excellent stew and honey mead. However. I feel like my appetite is not yet sated. Do you happen to have any laverbread and leek cawl?”

I watch and listen for any responses or reactions nearby to this request.

"We got a hungry one today. It's nice to see someone eat a feasts worth of food. Means you are strong and healthy."

The Black Rose turned and joined the conversation. "Well, that sounds like a dish I must try myself," he said. "I was told it would be a delightful meal. Let me have laverbread and leek cawl as well if it's not too much trouble."

As she notes Artifex' reaction to their drink, a pleased and satisfied warmth shines from Myrtea's eyes.  "It's so nice  when a patron truly appreciates the finer things on the menu.  I'm afraid we do have some gobblers and guzzlers here even among ...," she trails off as if thinking better of completing the remark.  She turns to begin preparing another, they're not sure whether for herself or for them; then she hears the laverbread and leek orders and her eyebrows rise a little higher.

"Well, now!  We seem to have more connoisseurs here tonight than I'd thought.  That order will take a little while to prepare, but I'm happy to have a chance to prepare it!  So few truly appreciate laverbread any more..."  She pauses, you think a little wistfully, and looks around the room.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that still more fellow gourmets might be present tonight?  In spite of what some  may have implied, we minotaurs don't actually eat THAT much at a sitting, and laverbread really needs to be cooked in large batches to properly shine -- "

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(elvish translators actually turned out to be a bit of a thorny problem for me.  I started out with the 'Common to Elvish (D&D) translator at https://lingojam.com/CommontoElvish(D%26D), which in turn is based off the Elvish dictionary on the larger Candlekeep D&D lore website (http://www.candlekeep.com/library/articles/diction_elf.htm).  The trouble with that turned out to be that a lot of words weren't translated at all just using the literal words, I had to figure out how a Faerun elf might phrase the CONCEPT the word conveys and type in a phrase that meant the same thing.  Since this is a homebrew world I figured it was OK if the Elvish spoken here had words drawn from more than one source, so I supplemented with Sindarin translators from Tolkien's world of which there are a good plenty online.  The one I used first was https://funtranslations.com/elvish which filled in most of the words, and I was able to get the rest of what I wanted from other Tolkien sites.

There;s actually a thread on the forums here which aggregates a lot of good D&D language translators; many of the links default back to the Lingojam site I started out with, apparently they have a lot more than just elvish.  The thread here is https://www.dndbeyond.com/forums/dungeons-dragons-discussion/dungeon-masters-only/54689-comprehensive-d-d-language-translators).

Finally, I appreciate you reminding me about something I meant to decide on and forgot, which is how I would like OOC handled on this thread.  Doubt I'll be too much of a bear about it, but I think the standard way I'd like it handled is to write whatever your character says and does first, and then separate OOC remarks by putting them after a line of ===, ---, ___, or whatever other straightline characters are most convenient for you., like I've done in this post