Your adventure begins on the road to Solace, the sky is overcast and grey clouds close across the horizon. Solace is unusual for a town, all buildings apart from the forge and the stables are situated in the mighty Vallenwood trees due to the frequent goblin raids when the town was founded. Although the raids have gotten rarer the town grew in the trees. Solace is also home to one of the most famous inns in Krynn and your destination, Inn of the Last Home.
You trudge up the pathway towards Solace as rain starts to drop turning the dirt road into mud, your only guide the lights of the town in the distance through the giant trees.
*OOC: Feel free to introduce the characters and say what they’re doing.*
Ulrich Gotthammer is a bear of a man. To look at him, four inches over six feet in height and with a chest like a barrel and forearms thicker than some men's legs, you would never think that he was the baby of his family. Under a once-white tabard bearing the bison's horns of Kiri-Jolith, god of honour and war, he wears his chain mail as easily as if it were a robe of gossamer. Whilst the tabard marks him out as a servant of the gods, the shield, spear, and warhammer (named Zorn, or 'Wrath' in his native tongue) slung on his back along with his pack mark him out as no ordinary priest. He has the look of a trained and experienced fighter. A closer look would identify the signet ring on the smallest (but still sausage-like) finger of his right hand as bearing the sigil of the von Hohenberg family. Ulrich's childhood of privilege has instilled in him the natural arrogance of nobility, but a decade or more of campaigning with the Solamnic knights has grounded as well as toughened him. His resilience is bolstered further by his eternally optimistic outlook and his faith in Kiri-Jolith to see the righteous guided to victory. If that guidance happens to be channeled through Zorn, all the better.
Today, his wild beard is split by his customary grin as he strides toward two of his three favourite things: food and ale. Not even the rain can dampen his eternally buoyant spirits, blessed as he is by the gods with an insatiable appetite for life and adventure. He claps Hrothgar on the shoulder with one meaty hand, an act that could almost be considered assault. His voice booming (Ulrich has seemingly never heard of subtlety), he says,
"There it is, my boy! Solace! Our journey nears its end and before us lies food, warmth, and ale.' He turns to address the rest of the group. 'Brothers and sisters, we will soon be fed and watered and ensconced in the warm bosom of the Last Home. I for one will be judging the legendary ale as soon as we arrive. What say you?"
“We’re sure to find ale in Solace, and, I presume some of us will find solace in ale before the end of the day, too, ha ha,” responds Myrla to Ulrich with a grin on her face. The lithe woman at the end of her twenties chortles coyly at her own joke but everyone who knows her, wouldn’t doubt that she herself will be deep into solace by the end of the day, by both meanings of the word, naturally.
She’s not nearly as strong as Ulrich, Brock or Hrothgar, but as hard as nails in her own right. The relentless training of the knights of Solamnia made sure of that. Only what most knights solve with muscle, she meets with nimbleness, shrewdness and a disarming smile. The type of qualities that pay off when you need to sell goods that could raise concern over their origin. Though, of course, not many people know that she makes good use of that particular talent.
’Legendary ale, he claims. Can’t wait,’ she thinks while striding along her companions towards the end of the day’s journey.
Image of Myrla:
Edit: added image (credit to Brock [Wreckzors] who was first)
Brock slogged through the mud towards his home town of Solace. His heavy boots felt as though they were filled with bars of lead, prompting him to occasionally pause and remove the mounds of mud and dirt clung to his feet. "Although I ain't too excited about being back home... I am looking forward to getting out of this storm." The muscular brawler would answer back before wiping some of the mud from his hands on to the front of his pants. Brock stood a little over 6' tall with a well trimmed beard and a deep set of scars that spread across his left eye... a permanent reminder of the dangers of his profession. His face was hard and sported a well kept beard in addition to his various scars. His normally vibrant and well kept hair currently left him looking like a partially shaved wet dog... as the rain flattened his signature hair style.
The 35 year old fighter's armor occasionally clanked and squeaked in the rain as he trudged forward towards their destination. Although Brock was a rough and capable fighter, he normally took care to ensure that he always maintained his "look". Being a gladiator meant that he had his to sell himself... The brand that was "StoneFist". His combination of leather and chainmail that he wore served as both his armor and his uniform. If his face were to ever appear on a tapestry outside of a colosseum somewhere... he wanted to make sure that there was no confusion between the man in the picture and the man pushing through the rain right now.
The mud soaked road was very familiar to Brock. He had traveled these roads countless times in his youth when taking goods from his family's farm into town to sell. He had traveled them numerous times since then as well... as he traveled to new locations to participate in bigger and more lucrative fights. Looking towards Solace, a moment of worry would wash across the hardened brawlers face. He had been away from home for a while and was hoping to avoid running into family... While returning home would normally fill a person with hope and joy, Brock felt only guilt and worry.
"First round of Ale is on me lads!" Brock would exclaim as he shook the worry from his mind. After wiping the rain water from his eyes with the back of his heavily calloused hands, he would begin to move faster towards the inn.
Tandri stands at nigh on 4 ft tall which is tall for gnomes. She is 23 winters years old and though she dislikes how each step in the muddy streets feel like either she may slip or may be rooted on the spot as her boots make a wet slopping sound as she heads to the famous Inn of the Last Home. She mulls over that name. I wonder what makes this the Last Home. Was it the last place lived by some famed explorer or was it due to some local folk lore. I guess there is only one way to find out. Even the rain cannot dim her smile as she looks at all the structures tucked away among the trees themselves. Now that took some clever carpentry to grow a community and not kill tree at the same time. Tandri Pogglteggle actually likes the dizzying heights as growing up within a dormant volcano made her appreciate the far-flung vistas and the lightheartedness of standing on the edge of a cliff.
Tandri carries a large pack on her back which holds her precious tinker tools. She affectionately pats her pack as she walks. "I don't know about the quality of ale, though I am more interested in what makes this Inn famous and the origins of the name itself." Underneath her long coat you see a metallic sheen from her scale mail. Tandri wanted to maintain that approachable look as to not ward off potential townsfolk who may divulge interesting tidbits of information. Peeking out from under her armor is her purple shirt which happens to be her favorite color.
Walking towards Solace Hrothgar looks up to the skies as the rain starts, he sighs and keeps walking. Just a bit shorter than Brock and pushing to the end of his twenties in age he carries himself with grace, keeping his head high. Despite the clouds covering the skies his shield can be identified from afar. Strapped to his back its emblem of a red griffon on the greyish shield is a clear mark of his heritage.
As Ulrich claps him on the shoulder a hail of raindrops fall off his armor. He stops a moment, as hard as the clap was it was a welcome relief to get a moment to rest. He smiles as they all seem happy And i am sure they will welcome such thirsty customers.
After his moment pauze he grimaces as he pulls his right leg out of the mud as the stop caused it to sink in a bit. However he does not complain and keeps moving, keeping pace with Ulrich. He then looks back to Tandri making sure everyone is staying within a short distance of eachother.
Hrothgar looks at the giant trees in awe A marvelous sight, may the gods bless us with the same prosperity. he says
Sturma Swiftcaller brings up the rear, last in line of the Knights and their entourage.
The worsening rain patters against the wax-coated brim of her pointed hat, but where it should leave her cloak and clothes soaked, droplets veer at the last moment to curve and miss her, all except against her downturned face. There, she lets the rain land so as not to draw attention when they reach the Last Home Inn. The flush it brings to my cheeks will keep Ulrich from thinking too deeply about our chance encounter, when next he looks upon her.
Besides, beloved of the storm, the cold stinging rain is warm and gentle for her, motherly and tender.
Sturma’s eyes flick to Myrla, her contact, fence, and now greatest liability. Too friendly and sociable for a fence. Too damn reliable to ever go to anyone else
Paid and legitimate employment without a plan to scam at the outset is a novel experience, to be sure, but already it pinches at Sturma. Six sisters and two brothers can’t survive on a portion of the small stipend Myrla negotiated for Sturma, on her former Master’s youngest Brother unannounced discovery of them mid-sale.
Sturma curses her youthful face, if only for a moment. At 19 springs seen, she still has enough resemblance to her younger self to be recognisable it seems.
Sturma when first working for Ulrich’s family, as a younger girl:
As you all walk up the pathway you can hear the faint sounds of a horses hooves splashing in the mud. You turn around and can see a shape riding towards you accompanied by five humanoids on foot. As they draw closer to you through the rain pelting down you can make out more detail. They have wicked short swords hanging by their sides and ragged leather armour. They all have dirty black hair, pointed ears and teeth and mischievous and malicious grins splitting their sharp faces.
Brock would squint towards the direction of the sound, holding one hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain. "So what are the odds that those folks are just passing through?.." The brawler would ask as he slides his free hand towards the whip on his belt.
Sturma’s eyes are fixed on the shine of their blades and the white of their wide smiles. Suddenly her heart is in her mouth, and the rain is not so pleasant. Isn’t it strange, a detached part of her thinks, how a brush with death can have no warning, no omen, at all.
It’s almost like someone else’s voice in her head. As the last in the line, she’s the closest to the approaching horses.
“Ser Ulrich!” She shouts. Though if she has noticed then surely he has. “Ser! Raiders! Villains!”
Her father’s broken wand is in her hand she finds. Strange. She doesn’t remember taking it from her backpack, but it is there all the same.
Her relationship with the party may be about to change. She has no time to think anything more than that.
With the sound of the approaching horses Hrothgar takes his shield from his back as a precaution. He raises it up a bit to block some of the rain to get a better view of who are on the horses.
He looks behind him to see where everyone is and tries to position himself between Sturma and the approaching humanoids. Hearing Brock he sees him prepare himself. Perhaps they are just travellers like us.
He holds up his free hand with his open palm towards the humanoids.
Greetings, The road behind us is clear and should provide safe passage. He says to offer some usefull piece of information to them. Hrothgar does not move to close, keeping enough room to prevent them from feeling threatened but close enough to act if needed.
Like everyone else, Myrla turns to inspect who’s approaching and mirrors Hrothgar’s move to take his shield. You never know who’s riding up to you and when they declare themselves, it might be too late. “Perhaps.” She replies to Hrothgar’s optimism and remains near Ulrich as not to give the notion that they are too eager to fight.
Brock would grip his whip and pull it free from his belt. He would give it a quick flip, causing the tip of the weapon to split many drops of rain on their way to the ground. "I'll take the one on the horse if things get exciting..." He would say with a small grin.
Tandri turns to see the looming rider and its fellows. She backs up a few steps. Bandits she thinks but then chides herself, now Tandri don't jump to conclusions. They could be weary travelers who have a lack of taste when it comes to weaponry and clothing.
In a loud voice she calls out to the rider as her heart beats as fast as the rain drops that are falling around her. "Who are you and what business do you have in Solace?"
She puts her hands behind her back and softly says "Igni" summoning a blossom of flame in her right hand.
As they get closer the riders slow down their hands falling to their swords. A larger humanoid gallops forwards to meet you, you can see he is a hobgoblin and clearly the leader. “Halt, in the name of the lord, I should be asking the same thing. Who are you and what’s your business here.” he has a pompous air and clearly thinks highly of himself, he hasn’t seemed to notice your weapons.
"We are here for the famed Inn, and I think it not too strange for travelers to head to such an establishment" says Tandri feeling a little more at ease.
"The name's Brock Stone... but my fan's call me Stonefist." he would reply with a grin as raindrops drip from his hair and nose. "I grew up around this town... and we're just looking ot get out of the rain. Preferably somewhere that has some food and ale as well... Just like the lady said. No one here's looking for trouble." he would add as he kept his hand on his whip. the end of it laying in a small puddle at his feet.
Sturma pulls her hat down low, and turns her face towards the ground.
"Beg yur pardon, sir," she says. She walks to place herself on the far side of the rest of the party from the hobgoblin and his band, head bowed deferentially. The red tip of her father's broken wand remains in her hand, partially obscured within her sleeve. Her walk is that of a serving girl. Her posture endeavours to look harmless and small. Worn down by life. It requires less acting than she might prefer.
Slowly gravitating towards the flank of the hobgoblin, Myrla keeps a watchful eye on the rider's companions without drawing or even touching her own weapon. There's nothing to be added to her friend's words, in her mind the hobgoblin should explain why they would ride up on them like they did.
Your adventure begins on the road to Solace, the sky is overcast and grey clouds close across the horizon. Solace is unusual for a town, all buildings apart from the forge and the stables are situated in the mighty Vallenwood trees due to the frequent goblin raids when the town was founded. Although the raids have gotten rarer the town grew in the trees. Solace is also home to one of the most famous inns in Krynn and your destination, Inn of the Last Home.
You trudge up the pathway towards Solace as rain starts to drop turning the dirt road into mud, your only guide the lights of the town in the distance through the giant trees.
*OOC: Feel free to introduce the characters and say what they’re doing.*
Skyrim!
Also I will cripple your bank accounts.
Ulrich Gotthammer is a bear of a man. To look at him, four inches over six feet in height and with a chest like a barrel and forearms thicker than some men's legs, you would never think that he was the baby of his family. Under a once-white tabard bearing the bison's horns of Kiri-Jolith, god of honour and war, he wears his chain mail as easily as if it were a robe of gossamer. Whilst the tabard marks him out as a servant of the gods, the shield, spear, and warhammer (named Zorn, or 'Wrath' in his native tongue) slung on his back along with his pack mark him out as no ordinary priest. He has the look of a trained and experienced fighter. A closer look would identify the signet ring on the smallest (but still sausage-like) finger of his right hand as bearing the sigil of the von Hohenberg family. Ulrich's childhood of privilege has instilled in him the natural arrogance of nobility, but a decade or more of campaigning with the Solamnic knights has grounded as well as toughened him. His resilience is bolstered further by his eternally optimistic outlook and his faith in Kiri-Jolith to see the righteous guided to victory. If that guidance happens to be channeled through Zorn, all the better.
Today, his wild beard is split by his customary grin as he strides toward two of his three favourite things: food and ale. Not even the rain can dampen his eternally buoyant spirits, blessed as he is by the gods with an insatiable appetite for life and adventure. He claps Hrothgar on the shoulder with one meaty hand, an act that could almost be considered assault. His voice booming (Ulrich has seemingly never heard of subtlety), he says,
"There it is, my boy! Solace! Our journey nears its end and before us lies food, warmth, and ale.' He turns to address the rest of the group. 'Brothers and sisters, we will soon be fed and watered and ensconced in the warm bosom of the Last Home. I for one will be judging the legendary ale as soon as we arrive. What say you?"
“We’re sure to find ale in Solace, and, I presume some of us will find solace in ale before the end of the day, too, ha ha,” responds Myrla to Ulrich with a grin on her face. The lithe woman at the end of her twenties chortles coyly at her own joke but everyone who knows her, wouldn’t doubt that she herself will be deep into solace by the end of the day, by both meanings of the word, naturally.
She’s not nearly as strong as Ulrich, Brock or Hrothgar, but as hard as nails in her own right. The relentless training of the knights of Solamnia made sure of that. Only what most knights solve with muscle, she meets with nimbleness, shrewdness and a disarming smile. The type of qualities that pay off when you need to sell goods that could raise concern over their origin. Though, of course, not many people know that she makes good use of that particular talent.
’Legendary ale, he claims. Can’t wait,’ she thinks while striding along her companions towards the end of the day’s journey.
Image of Myrla:
Edit: added image (credit to Brock [Wreckzors] who was first)
|| Tryncaryn - Halfling Monk/Wizard - Dragon of Icespire Peak || Berry - Fairy Barbarian - Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver || Taya - Mysterious Fighter - Echoes of Empire || Myrla Stardust - Wood Elf Rogue - After the Fall ||
Image of Brock:
Brock slogged through the mud towards his home town of Solace. His heavy boots felt as though they were filled with bars of lead, prompting him to occasionally pause and remove the mounds of mud and dirt clung to his feet. "Although I ain't too excited about being back home... I am looking forward to getting out of this storm." The muscular brawler would answer back before wiping some of the mud from his hands on to the front of his pants. Brock stood a little over 6' tall with a well trimmed beard and a deep set of scars that spread across his left eye... a permanent reminder of the dangers of his profession. His face was hard and sported a well kept beard in addition to his various scars. His normally vibrant and well kept hair currently left him looking like a partially shaved wet dog... as the rain flattened his signature hair style.
The 35 year old fighter's armor occasionally clanked and squeaked in the rain as he trudged forward towards their destination. Although Brock was a rough and capable fighter, he normally took care to ensure that he always maintained his "look". Being a gladiator meant that he had his to sell himself... The brand that was "StoneFist". His combination of leather and chainmail that he wore served as both his armor and his uniform. If his face were to ever appear on a tapestry outside of a colosseum somewhere... he wanted to make sure that there was no confusion between the man in the picture and the man pushing through the rain right now.
The mud soaked road was very familiar to Brock. He had traveled these roads countless times in his youth when taking goods from his family's farm into town to sell. He had traveled them numerous times since then as well... as he traveled to new locations to participate in bigger and more lucrative fights. Looking towards Solace, a moment of worry would wash across the hardened brawlers face. He had been away from home for a while and was hoping to avoid running into family... While returning home would normally fill a person with hope and joy, Brock felt only guilt and worry.
"First round of Ale is on me lads!" Brock would exclaim as he shook the worry from his mind. After wiping the rain water from his eyes with the back of his heavily calloused hands, he would begin to move faster towards the inn.
Tandri Poggleteggle appearance
Tandri stands at nigh on 4 ft tall which is tall for gnomes. She is 23 winters years old and though she dislikes how each step in the muddy streets feel like either she may slip or may be rooted on the spot as her boots make a wet slopping sound as she heads to the famous Inn of the Last Home. She mulls over that name. I wonder what makes this the Last Home. Was it the last place lived by some famed explorer or was it due to some local folk lore. I guess there is only one way to find out. Even the rain cannot dim her smile as she looks at all the structures tucked away among the trees themselves. Now that took some clever carpentry to grow a community and not kill tree at the same time. Tandri Pogglteggle actually likes the dizzying heights as growing up within a dormant volcano made her appreciate the far-flung vistas and the lightheartedness of standing on the edge of a cliff.
Tandri carries a large pack on her back which holds her precious tinker tools. She affectionately pats her pack as she walks. "I don't know about the quality of ale, though I am more interested in what makes this Inn famous and the origins of the name itself." Underneath her long coat you see a metallic sheen from her scale mail. Tandri wanted to maintain that approachable look as to not ward off potential townsfolk who may divulge interesting tidbits of information. Peeking out from under her armor is her purple shirt which happens to be her favorite color.
Walking towards Solace Hrothgar looks up to the skies as the rain starts, he sighs and keeps walking. Just a bit shorter than Brock and pushing to the end of his twenties in age he carries himself with grace, keeping his head high. Despite the clouds covering the skies his shield can be identified from afar. Strapped to his back its emblem of a red griffon on the greyish shield is a clear mark of his heritage.
As Ulrich claps him on the shoulder a hail of raindrops fall off his armor. He stops a moment, as hard as the clap was it was a welcome relief to get a moment to rest. He smiles as they all seem happy And i am sure they will welcome such thirsty customers.
After his moment pauze he grimaces as he pulls his right leg out of the mud as the stop caused it to sink in a bit. However he does not complain and keeps moving, keeping pace with Ulrich. He then looks back to Tandri making sure everyone is staying within a short distance of eachother.
Hrothgar looks at the giant trees in awe A marvelous sight, may the gods bless us with the same prosperity. he says
Hrothgar (once he gets plate armor that is)
Sturma Swiftcaller brings up the rear, last in line of the Knights and their entourage.
The worsening rain patters against the wax-coated brim of her pointed hat, but where it should leave her cloak and clothes soaked, droplets veer at the last moment to curve and miss her, all except against her downturned face. There, she lets the rain land so as not to draw attention when they reach the Last Home Inn. The flush it brings to my cheeks will keep Ulrich from thinking too deeply about our chance encounter, when next he looks upon her.
Besides, beloved of the storm, the cold stinging rain is warm and gentle for her, motherly and tender.
Sturma’s eyes flick to Myrla, her contact, fence, and now greatest liability. Too friendly and sociable for a fence. Too damn reliable to ever go to anyone else
Paid and legitimate employment without a plan to scam at the outset is a novel experience, to be sure, but already it pinches at Sturma. Six sisters and two brothers can’t survive on a portion of the small stipend Myrla negotiated for Sturma, on her former Master’s youngest Brother unannounced discovery of them mid-sale.
Sturma curses her youthful face, if only for a moment. At 19 springs seen, she still has enough resemblance to her younger self to be recognisable it seems.
Sturma when first working for Ulrich’s family, as a younger girl:
Sturma now, at campaign start:
As you all walk up the pathway you can hear the faint sounds of a horses hooves splashing in the mud. You turn around and can see a shape riding towards you accompanied by five humanoids on foot. As they draw closer to you through the rain pelting down you can make out more detail. They have wicked short swords hanging by their sides and ragged leather armour. They all have dirty black hair, pointed ears and teeth and mischievous and malicious grins splitting their sharp faces.
Skyrim!
Also I will cripple your bank accounts.
Brock would squint towards the direction of the sound, holding one hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain. "So what are the odds that those folks are just passing through?.." The brawler would ask as he slides his free hand towards the whip on his belt.
Sturma’s eyes are fixed on the shine of their blades and the white of their wide smiles. Suddenly her heart is in her mouth, and the rain is not so pleasant. Isn’t it strange, a detached part of her thinks, how a brush with death can have no warning, no omen, at all.
It’s almost like someone else’s voice in her head. As the last in the line, she’s the closest to the approaching horses.
“Ser Ulrich!” She shouts. Though if she has noticed then surely he has. “Ser! Raiders! Villains!”
Her father’s broken wand is in her hand she finds. Strange. She doesn’t remember taking it from her backpack, but it is there all the same.
Her relationship with the party may be about to change. She has no time to think anything more than that.
With the sound of the approaching horses Hrothgar takes his shield from his back as a precaution. He raises it up a bit to block some of the rain to get a better view of who are on the horses.
He looks behind him to see where everyone is and tries to position himself between Sturma and the approaching humanoids. Hearing Brock he sees him prepare himself. Perhaps they are just travellers like us.
He holds up his free hand with his open palm towards the humanoids.
Greetings, The road behind us is clear and should provide safe passage. He says to offer some usefull piece of information to them. Hrothgar does not move to close, keeping enough room to prevent them from feeling threatened but close enough to act if needed.
Like everyone else, Myrla turns to inspect who’s approaching and mirrors Hrothgar’s move to take his shield. You never know who’s riding up to you and when they declare themselves, it might be too late. “Perhaps.” She replies to Hrothgar’s optimism and remains near Ulrich as not to give the notion that they are too eager to fight.
|| Tryncaryn - Halfling Monk/Wizard - Dragon of Icespire Peak || Berry - Fairy Barbarian - Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver || Taya - Mysterious Fighter - Echoes of Empire || Myrla Stardust - Wood Elf Rogue - After the Fall ||
"Villains?" says Ulrich, turning in response to Sturma's shouted warning. "Perhaps the gods mean to make us work for our dinner."
"Hrothgar! Brock!" he bellows, "Stand fast, let's show these fellows we're no easy mark, should they have nefarious designs."
He unslings his shield from his back and hefts Zorn in his right hand. "Kiri-Jolith, bless us with your favour."
Brock would grip his whip and pull it free from his belt. He would give it a quick flip, causing the tip of the weapon to split many drops of rain on their way to the ground. "I'll take the one on the horse if things get exciting..." He would say with a small grin.
Tandri turns to see the looming rider and its fellows. She backs up a few steps. Bandits she thinks but then chides herself, now Tandri don't jump to conclusions. They could be weary travelers who have a lack of taste when it comes to weaponry and clothing.
In a loud voice she calls out to the rider as her heart beats as fast as the rain drops that are falling around her. "Who are you and what business do you have in Solace?"
She puts her hands behind her back and softly says "Igni" summoning a blossom of flame in her right hand.
As they get closer the riders slow down their hands falling to their swords. A larger humanoid gallops forwards to meet you, you can see he is a hobgoblin and clearly the leader. “Halt, in the name of the lord, I should be asking the same thing. Who are you and what’s your business here.” he has a pompous air and clearly thinks highly of himself, he hasn’t seemed to notice your weapons.
Skyrim!
Also I will cripple your bank accounts.
"We are here for the famed Inn, and I think it not too strange for travelers to head to such an establishment" says Tandri feeling a little more at ease.
"The name's Brock Stone... but my fan's call me Stonefist." he would reply with a grin as raindrops drip from his hair and nose. "I grew up around this town... and we're just looking ot get out of the rain. Preferably somewhere that has some food and ale as well... Just like the lady said. No one here's looking for trouble." he would add as he kept his hand on his whip. the end of it laying in a small puddle at his feet.
Sturma pulls her hat down low, and turns her face towards the ground.
"Beg yur pardon, sir," she says. She walks to place herself on the far side of the rest of the party from the hobgoblin and his band, head bowed deferentially. The red tip of her father's broken wand remains in her hand, partially obscured within her sleeve. Her walk is that of a serving girl. Her posture endeavours to look harmless and small. Worn down by life. It requires less acting than she might prefer.
Slowly gravitating towards the flank of the hobgoblin, Myrla keeps a watchful eye on the rider's companions without drawing or even touching her own weapon. There's nothing to be added to her friend's words, in her mind the hobgoblin should explain why they would ride up on them like they did.
|| Tryncaryn - Halfling Monk/Wizard - Dragon of Icespire Peak || Berry - Fairy Barbarian - Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver || Taya - Mysterious Fighter - Echoes of Empire || Myrla Stardust - Wood Elf Rogue - After the Fall ||