Kynortas hearing talk of a tournament decided now was the time to walk over. "Some of us over-muscled brutes use those tournaments to put loud mouths who think they can fight in their place."
As he spoke he reached down to help the fallen elf up and steady him. "My name is Kynortas. I am a soldier and you look like you could use help dealing with that fat oaf."
He bade the dragonborn and the gnome to follow him as he helped the elf walk a few steps over to a bench that was nearby. Kynortas steadied the elf down to the bench and carefully set him down. "Who are all of you and what just happened there?"
"I am in pain and I just keep losing all of this blood. Nice to meet you." Tharin slips into something a little more unconscious. He is wearing black clothes, torn and ragged, with a very deep wound on his right lower back. Though now very pale, his skin is a soft tan and his black hair is matted with caked mud, twigs, and leaves.
My pet?! How barbaric!The vile thought offended him, and he stood distracted when the well armored man approached. The stranger introduced himself brusquely as Kynortas while retrieving the fallen Elf, and led him to a nearby bench, bidding Aracynth and Fizzbang to follow. That accent, Aracynth decided as Kynortas sat the Elf down and began questioning them; It's unmistakably Lysian. The soldier certainly carried himself with enough discipline to have been in the military, as all Lysians must. Aracynth leaned over the sitting Elf, and was finally close enough to recognize the heraldry on the man’s armor. “You’re a long way from your Post, Soldier.” he said cooly, with an edge of authority creeping into his voice. Though it felt natural to speak with command once again, Aracynth only heard the voice of a different man..
The Elf suddenly spasmed and mumbled something incoherent, before passing out and nearly falling to ground again. “Help me with him.” Aracynth demanded, catching the pale unconscious body. “Quickly!!” He repositioned the body so the leaking wound was exposed, and knelt beside the bench, withdrawing a stone pendant from beneath his cloak. Aracynth clenched the pendant in one silver claw as he closed his eyes and bowed in reverence. “Bahamut, Guide my Hands” he invoked solemnly as his free hand began emanating a soft white light. Aracynth pressed his glowing palm flat to the bloody wound, brushing away the caked on dirt and leaves that had held the wound closed thus far.
Lay On Hands : 5 HP
The deep wound closed instantly as the magic passed from the silvered claw into the Elf’s back. Aracynth sighed as he rose, once again stowing the pendant in his cloak, though it flashed in the bright sun for a moment; An embossed dragon’s head in profile, plated in gleaming platinum, with a brilliant sapphire inset as the dragon’s eye, hanging from a simple cord looped out of sight beneath the collar of Aracynth’s cloak.
Now visibly exhausted, Aracynth turned to face Kynortas once more, standing to his full height. “As for what happened earlier,” he glanced at Fizzbang, “Thankfully, nothing happened. You may call me Aracynth. And my small friend here, Fizzbang, was not wrong in his assertions regarding the Tournament. Too often such affairs only serve the conflate entertainment with wanton and excessive violence.” Aracynth sighed heavily and relaxed his posture, remembering where he was. “And though I may indeed look the part, I have no desire to partake in this upcoming contest. Now, will you please help me carry him to the Inn? He needs rest, and more medical attention than I can provide.” Aracynth gingerly hoisted the Elf up by one arm. And a bath...
Fizzbang, struggling to keep down the bile that rose in his throat at the sight of the elf's blood, looked away. The glow of healing magic emanating from the Dragonborn did pique his interest however. Always useful to have around, a healer. Granted they were usually the sanctimonious type, all devotion and bluster and rarely any fun at parties. Though he'd once known a dwarven cleric who could heal even the most deadly of hangovers...
He considered the Dragonborn's request. Normally 'help' was not especially high up on Fizzbang's priorities. However...this stranger had helped him with Jalud. Even a two-timing greedy self-centered little thief had some honor from time to time.
"Fine, fine, lug the Elf this way." Fizzbang made a show of heaving the elf up by the literal bootstrap, though he suspected the Dragonborn was doing the brunt of the heavy lifting.
There is but one open table as you enter The Crossroads Inn, with 4 chairs and a small candle. The room is boisterous, with other adventurers milling about, chatting, laughing, and drinking merrily. The atmosphere is cheery, and it seems as though the service is good, though you can see only 2 servers, one of which also acts as the barkeep. As you make your way through the throngs of leather-clad rangers and plate-mailed fighters and dashing rogues to your seats the barkeep smiles and waddles to your table from just outside to meet you.
A plump, rosy-cheeked Halfling stands before you, eye-level with you in your seats. His nose is red and his head a messy clump of dark brown ringlets.
"Good evening.” He smiles, stopping at Kynortas and nodding.
After an exaggerated clearing of his throat he announces: “I am Roderick Dulcimuss Oberon Nigel Pip! Your waiter, barkeep, and innkeeper! And over there is my wife Marcy.” He bows (again exaggerated.)
“Most just call me Rod,” He adds with a wink.
“What’ll it be, ale, wine or mead? The water’s awful, so I wouldn’t recommend it!” He laughs at the last part.
After taking your orders he nods his nose toward the door and the continuous stream of adventurers coming in and out. "I assume yer here for the Duke's tourney then? The Duke Oglethorn is hoping to offer the victors of the tourney a quest. He ha’nt said much about what it is he plans to ask them to do… but it must be important! I do know he's been rather upset and hardly seen of late. That's odd fer him. Even if he's not talkative he's usually at least about town." – Roderick adds.
He glances at Tharin and whistles to Marcy - "Oi, Marce, can you get us a bit o' leftover potion? This one's already seen action." which prompts the woman to whisk over with a small red flask. (Potion of Healing)
"Ye're all welcome to stay the night. Kynortas already has a room and I can throw some extra cots up there. The signup for the tourney is tomorrow should ye be interested. I know there's prize money involved along with the quest. Wish I could tell ya more! I'm sure they'll announce something tomorrow!" And with that Rod zips back into the crowd to continue serving.
Tharin takes this opportunity to truly sleep and recover from his wound. The healing received from the dragonborn had healed the wound most of the way, but the exhaustion of walking, the stress of trying to convince the guards to search the swamp, and the loss of his companions kept him from waking.
Ah the Crossroads Inn! Fizzbang breathed deep of the familiar scent of beer, body odor, and the faint yet inescapable aroma of piss. Back among his own kind! Rod was alright enough for a halfling, but damned if he didn't run the best shithole in all of Ibben.
As Rod so helpfully informed the others of local comings and going, a plot began to form in Fizzbang's head. It started as a little seed, watered regularly by greed and alcohol in equal measure (at 35lbs it didn't take much to get his head spinning). He eyed up the Dragonborn, all scales, edges and armor. He'd do just fine. Come to think of it, now that the elf had stopped bleeding everywhere he didn't look so incapable either. Kynortas, odd duck as he was, looked like he could hold his own.
"Say friends?" Fizzbang slurred before his first mug was empty. "I've got a crazy thought. What if WE enter the tournament?" Fizzbang held up his hands theatrically. "Now I know what you're thinking, 'Fizzbang', you'd say, 'what about the tourney being for thugs, savages, and such?'. Well friends, the chance to get in well with the Duke is a once in a lifetime opportunity! And you all look like a promising batch of ruffians! What say you? A little adventure and riches never hurt anyone!"
What Fizzbang neglected to mention is that gambling on the results of the Tournament was a lucrative side business in Ibben. Fizzbang's own reputation as somewhat of a weakling was well known around the city. Who would hesitate to bet against the eccentric gnome and a group of unknowns? Now he just had to place his bets before anyone noticed the Dragonborn...
Rod swings back by the table with more drinks and a quick count of his fingers.
"Just so's ye know. 'Tis 1 gold per night per person and I'll tally up your bar tab at the end! Looks like Fizz here is going to add to his ... *ahem* ... running tab, but ye can settle up anytime."
For Fizzbang:
A shady looking individual you recognize as a local bookie, nicknamed Tabbs, swings by and taps you on the shoulder. He looks like a regular in the bar so he seems inconspicuous to the others. "Hey, Moldy. Heard you mumble something about betting on the tourney tomorrow. Regular bets? You joining? I got you at -245 against this other party that's been boasting all day at +185. Since you're already in the drink I'll explain... you give me 10 gold and tomorrow you'll get 24 if you win. You lose... you owe me 19... Give me 100...? Win 245... you get it?"
He shifts around waiting for your reply or gold and then adds: "Oh, by the way, I heard the Duke may ... forget... some debts if the victors complete his tourney too. May be a good way for you to get out from under Jalud's thumb if you're pardoned... Your choice, Moldy."
Tharin gets a full rest (as do the others when they sleep) and with the potion will be fully healed by tomorrow. At least physically (HP).
"Fizzbang, I was already thinking of joining the tournament if more promising work didn't turn up. I am in need of funds. The crossing of the Sea of Tears and the journey here to Ibben has drained my coinpurse. As it sits I only have 2 more nights in the inn before my payment to Rod is through."
Kynortas wish to address Aracynth later, but there was an elf next to him passed out and it wasn't from drink. A wound earned in battle was something that deserved rest in his eyes.
"I will bring our friend here up to the room for some rest and we can continue our conversation in a moment. I especially wish to speak with you Aracynth. I see no rank or insignia on your armor but you know of my, former, posting. We'll talk some more in a few minutes."
With that Kynortas stood and carried the elf upstairs to lay him on a cot. While upstairs he shed his armor and his shield, but his sword never left his side. He came back downstairs and sat at the table.
"So Aracynth, I have heard of the dragonborn from my home and even seen a couple. Although, I have never interacted with your kin. Who are you to judge where I should be?"
Tharin mumbles of betrayal and horrors in his fitful sleep, but doesn't awaken as Kynortas hoists him to a cot. Tharin sleeps deeply for 3 more hours, then awakens in a strange room, apparently fully healed.
“Say friends? I’ve got a crazy thou-*hiccough*-ght. What if WE enter the tourna-ma-ment?” the Gnome slurred, flailing his small arms over his head. He elaborated further, proclaiming (with difficulty) that despite his earlier remarks, the tournament was a rare opportunity to impress oneself upon the local Duke, and that the quest Roderick had mentioned might be worthwhile in its own right. “A little adventure and ri-*hiccough*-ches never hurt anyone!” he exclaimed excitedly, though whether his grin was induced by the mischief in his eyes or the ale in his gut, Aracynth wasn’t sure.
Aracynth paused to consider the small man’s request while he ordered another brandy. He looked at the Gnome across the table, as the Inn bustled in the background. Kynortas had chimed in that he was indeed interested in participating before deciding the Elf deserved a more proper environ to rest, but informing them he would return shortly. Thus far the Elf had only been seen in a very rough state, and there was no telling if he could handle the trial of combat or not. Fizzbang, smiling drunkenly, seemed the least well equipped between the four of them for such an endeavor. Still, there was no knowing what the small Gnome might be capable of.
Aracynth looked up as Kynortas returned to his seat, requesting politely by what authority did Aracynth have to judge him. Aracynth paused a moment to stifle his past, lest it spurn the other soldier once more. “You are correct, Kynortas, that I am presently of no consequence and have no right to judge. My comment was poorly made, and out of line in this land far distant from our own.”Aracynth stared into his glass for a moment. “In truth, I know well the rigors of Military life. In a former time, I was a Captain of the Emperor’s Drakenfaust, The Dragonborn Corps, stationed in the north of Lysia, on the border of Kinyad.” Aracynth’s eyes swam out of focus. “But that was nearly twenty-five moons** ago, and now I am retired.” Aracynth took a long draught from his glass, and ordered a third drink as Roderick swung by. “This brandy is quite something. When I came across the Sea of Tears, by way of Piraeus, which is how I recognized your armor by the way.. But the deck hands, they insisted there was no better cure-all for my turbulent illness.” He gestured his glass towards the others in salute before finishing his drink.
**(OOC : Dragonborn of Aracynth's Clan not only mature fast as all Dragonborn do, but are conscripted into the Emperor's Army at the young age of 7. Due to the rigors of war, and their own inexperience, few live long enough to reach adulthood, so they have taken to measuring the passage of time in relative lunar cycles, or "moons". Lunar cycles on Altinus correlate roughly with lunar cycles in real-time, with approximately 13 transpiring over the course of each year.)
Fizzbang, not one to leave well enough alone, was deep into his second cup of ale. His bright eyes shone with glee. Clamor! Drink! Revelry! It made his heart sing!
He looked sideways at Aracynth. An idea formed itself from a primordial soup of beer fumes and greed.
”Say Silverscales, any chance you have some spare silver kicking around in those metal pantaloons of yours? I’ve got a business investment brewing that I think you’d be perfect for! What’dya say big guy? I’ll pay you back with interest!”
Aracynth stared at the Gnome quizzically as his third drink arrived. "..in my ..pantaloons?"Scoffing, Aracynth reached into his cloak and produced a small set of bone dice, the last physical remnant of his time as a recruit, and rolled them across the table. "This is all I have on me to spare, friend. Maybe they can assist you in your 'investment'. What little coin I have left is more of an emergency fund, so to speak." Aracynth deflected the Gnome's ribald query with a lift of his glass, before looking pointedly at Kynortas. "Though I doubt I would trust his promise of repayment. He seems to have a knack for misplacing the gold he owes other people." He grinned wolfishly, and took a drink. "I mean, first there was that brute, Jalud." He sneered the name. "A business partner he called himself, psshaw. And not to mention, the fine Owner of this Establishment." Aracynth's voice rose to match his glass in an impromptu toast. "How much do you actually owe the good Roderick anyways, Fizzbang?" He said, returning his glass to the well-worn tabletop, as he focused with difficulty on his small acquaintance.
Fizzbang inhaled deeply, preparing a scathing retort to fearsome, so insightfully cutting, so ruthlessly on-point, that the Dragonborn would sob himself to sleep from now until Tiamat’s flaming breasts began to sag.
On the other hand...he had to admit Aracynth had a point. He wasn’t known for being particularly fiscally responsible.
Fizzbang adopted a tone of exaggerated formality. ”keep your dice my noble reptilian friend. Your words have struck true this day.” He downed the rest of his drink and tottered to his feet. “Now if you fine gentlemen will excuse me, I know of a fine chicken coop that shall make a fine bed for a rapscallian such as I.”
Kynortas had seen the look on Aracynth's face before. A face he knew himself all too well. He would not press further.
"That brandy will do well for a short time. I fear the only real way to cure your illness is through action. Truth be told beating up some extortionist thugs feels like it won't hurt. If it leads to connections that get me to my goal then It does not bother me either. For now sleep will help us both. I bid you goodnight. We can talk more in the morning."
With his final words Kynortas headed upstairs to sleep.
Aracynth watched the laconic man head upstairs for the evening, relieved for some time slone with his thoughts. The Dragonborn then spent a time nursing the brandy in front of him as he considered the Gnome’s proposition in earnest.
He eventually reached the dregs of his glass, and found himself fast approaching sobriety, a boon of his ancient draconic heritage. Looking around the tavern, the bustling crowd was gone. Only a few stragglers remained at this late hour; Two men were talking quietly in the far corner, and a dwarf was snoring softly into his cup at the bar. Aracynth rose, pocketed his bone dice, and approached Roderick who stood behind the bar cleaning some dishware early into the morning. He reached into his purse and pulled out a small bag of 10 Gold pieces, the last of his own funds.
Aracynth dropped the bag in front of the exhausted halfling who beamed up with his never faltering smile, “Two pieces for the Elf and the Human for their room tonight. From the rest take what you need for our drinks. Any remainder you may keep as a tip or credit to Fizzbang’s tab, at your descretion. If that sum doesn’t pay our balance tonight, please find me on the morrow at the Temple.” Roderick nodded, his eyes lighting up briefly at the discussion of payment. Aracynth turned to leave, but paused. “..else I’ll be found at the Tourney. And Thanks again, Rod.” he added as an afterthought before proceeding out into the night.
The air outside was cool and crisp, and tasted of salt from the waves crashing behind and far below the Duke’s Estate. Stars glowed faintly overhead and the moon was barely a sliver, veiled in its own apprehension of what lay ahead. Black Moon’s were a great Omen, portending rigorous and possibly deadly trials yet to come. As he stood there inhaling the breadth of the clear night in Ibben, Aracynth resolved to meet those trials, bearing the Light as Bahamut had bade him to so long before. His spirit soared in response to his resolve, and divine grace blessed him with warmth, though any chill in the air was beneath his notice. The streets were empty at this hour, but for a few sentries keeping watch at regular patrols. Aracynth paused momentarily at the posters nearby to read one in the flickering lamplight.
The Duke’s Grand Tournament was all pomp and flair, promising prestige and renown to any who would claim victory. Though, even Aracynth had to admit that the purse was tempting. Tomorrow’s problems would wait though. He wandered wearily around the city looking for the Temple and found it easily. Finding a secluded corner inside, he peeled off his cloak, doffed his armor, and stacked his weapons and equipment in an orderly fashion. Setting down adjacent, Aracynth clasped the holy pendant around his neck, and began his nightly prayers. “Bahamut, Guide my steps.” he began, ss the nearby censers slowly lulled him to unconsciousness. Aracynth soon settled yet again into a restless sleep.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Tharin awoke in a place he had not been before. It was dark, and there was another person in the room that he did not recognize at first. Flashes of the previous day swam through his head, garbling themselves together into a slushy narrative. Though Tharin thought himself independent enough to take care of himself, he was grateful to the strangers who had cared for him so far. He would have to repay their kindness, but having no money, no weapons, and still no job prospects, the likelihood of repayment was slim. Tharin slips out of the room, careful not to awaken the other sleeping patron.
6 to Stealth
Tharin made his way out the front door onto the quiet, mist-blanketed street. He would need to find some weapons if he was to properly earn coin. But where to find them...
For DM:
Tharin detested the thought of stealing, even to satisfy his own needs. Why should one take what one cannot buy? But he still admitted that he needed weapons. Without arms, he was no match for the spies and henchmen that would no doubt be lurking around every corner. He briefly considered requisitioning equipment from the local garrison. A member of the Order of the Lion (well, near enough to full membership) should be welcome in all military outposts in the kingdom. But he was without insignia, or proof of his rank. At any rate, the outpost this size would not have weapons suitable for his needs. He would have to procure them some other way. Perhaps a local merchant would be able to assist? But that would have to wait until morning, still hours away.
Tharin spends this time following random people around, eavesdropping on their conversations and trying to gather as much information as possible on the local crime scene, to make his triumphant return even more potent.
Passing through the streets and eavesdropping, you hear most of the townsfolk talking excitedly about the tournament the following day. There seems to be no clear favorite, though you repeatedly hear "I wonder what the beasts will be this time?!". One small group of townsfolk, however, are very obviously betting on the matches, and you catch the name "Fizz" once or twice in the conversation. He is not present, but has connections to these folk... Jalud is not among them.
Outside the Crossroads Inn, you see the Dragonborn that healed you staring at the sky, his eyes half closed. He mumbles something about Bahamut and slowly moves off back to bed.
After a few rounds you notice the sign 'Kulgoth, Armorer' in big block letters over a shop on the northern side of Ibben. A sign attached to the door reads: "Closed tomorrow. Furnishing tournament weapons." Again in solid, large handwriting.
With the streets clear and the night waning, no one is wandering save the guards, who begin to eye you as the only other person. Sleep is probably the best option now.
The day of the tournament starts with great noise and bustle, as the townsfolk not entering all begin shouting about who will win, what they believe to be the Duke's Quest, and who's mother knows which tournament fighters intimately. Roderick greets the party as they make their way out the door, grinning and shaking his head in mock disdain at patrons still drinking form the night before.
"Good luck to ye, folks! I've never heard of anyone dying in the tourney, but 'tis usually a bit tough and there've been more than a few bruised egos! Thanks again for the coin, Aracynth! Definitely covers what you needed, though Fizz's tab will take more than a few bags like that..." he chuckled.
As the group leaves the Crossroads Inn it becomes obvious that the whole town is going to the tournament in some way or another. The streets are packed and moving steadily to the castle gates, the coliseum visible through the morning haze just up to the right once inside. Through the mass of bodies you make your way to the coliseum entrance, where the crowd finally parts and thins as the adventurers separate from the common folk. There are city watch guards standing at the gates and two men stationed at a table with a ledger and quill, their heads bowed in concentration as they worked through a list, glancing up at adventurers only momentarily to catch names and titles. When it is finally your turn to sign up the two men still do not look up as the four of you approach, though one of them clears his throat loudly.
"*cough* Aight. Answer these questions then state your names for the tourney listing. Fighting as a group? It's a discount entry fee for groups more than two. If you can't pay now we'll deduct it from your winnings, should you get any. Ok, then: One. Any crimes against the crown or Royalty that have been paid in full but not in this region? Two. What are your names and any relevant titles you wish the crowd to know? Three. Any need for refurbished weapons or replacement ammunition?" He pauses briefly after each question, waiting for responses in between.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!" DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen" Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Aracynth breathed easier, having finally extricated himself from the throng of excited townsfolk. Standing before the Tournament Registrars, he answered each of their queries simply.
“No Crimes to my name; Aracynth, no titles; I have my own weapons.”
He had examined his gear this morning already before donning it once more. Each piece was well maintained without blemish or mark, as he had been trained to keep them. The space inside the gate proper though spacious enough, was stifling in the crowded, bright, bustling morning. Up ahead Aracynth saw a host of entrants moving to ready and prepare themselves for the upcoming contest. As his new compatriots answered in turns, he was glad to at last learn Tharin’s name, among other details about them. Aracynth had only barely arrived at the Crossroads Inn before Fizzbang began them marching towards the Castle. Navigating the crowd had taken more effort than Aracynth had anticipated, and several times he had fully lost track of the sprightly Gnome. That was behind him though and with his course now set, Aracynth intended to see it through.
Kynortas hearing talk of a tournament decided now was the time to walk over. "Some of us over-muscled brutes use those tournaments to put loud mouths who think they can fight in their place."
As he spoke he reached down to help the fallen elf up and steady him. "My name is Kynortas. I am a soldier and you look like you could use help dealing with that fat oaf."
He bade the dragonborn and the gnome to follow him as he helped the elf walk a few steps over to a bench that was nearby. Kynortas steadied the elf down to the bench and carefully set him down. "Who are all of you and what just happened there?"
"I am in pain and I just keep losing all of this blood. Nice to meet you." Tharin slips into something a little more unconscious. He is wearing black clothes, torn and ragged, with a very deep wound on his right lower back. Though now very pale, his skin is a soft tan and his black hair is matted with caked mud, twigs, and leaves.
My pet?! How barbaric! The vile thought offended him, and he stood distracted when the well armored man approached. The stranger introduced himself brusquely as Kynortas while retrieving the fallen Elf, and led him to a nearby bench, bidding Aracynth and Fizzbang to follow. That accent, Aracynth decided as Kynortas sat the Elf down and began questioning them; It's unmistakably Lysian. The soldier certainly carried himself with enough discipline to have been in the military, as all Lysians must. Aracynth leaned over the sitting Elf, and was finally close enough to recognize the heraldry on the man’s armor. “You’re a long way from your Post, Soldier.” he said cooly, with an edge of authority creeping into his voice. Though it felt natural to speak with command once again, Aracynth only heard the voice of a different man..
The Elf suddenly spasmed and mumbled something incoherent, before passing out and nearly falling to ground again. “Help me with him.” Aracynth demanded, catching the pale unconscious body. “Quickly!!” He repositioned the body so the leaking wound was exposed, and knelt beside the bench, withdrawing a stone pendant from beneath his cloak. Aracynth clenched the pendant in one silver claw as he closed his eyes and bowed in reverence. “Bahamut, Guide my Hands” he invoked solemnly as his free hand began emanating a soft white light. Aracynth pressed his glowing palm flat to the bloody wound, brushing away the caked on dirt and leaves that had held the wound closed thus far.
Lay On Hands : 5 HP
The deep wound closed instantly as the magic passed from the silvered claw into the Elf’s back. Aracynth sighed as he rose, once again stowing the pendant in his cloak, though it flashed in the bright sun for a moment; An embossed dragon’s head in profile, plated in gleaming platinum, with a brilliant sapphire inset as the dragon’s eye, hanging from a simple cord looped out of sight beneath the collar of Aracynth’s cloak.
Now visibly exhausted, Aracynth turned to face Kynortas once more, standing to his full height. “As for what happened earlier,” he glanced at Fizzbang, “Thankfully, nothing happened. You may call me Aracynth. And my small friend here, Fizzbang, was not wrong in his assertions regarding the Tournament. Too often such affairs only serve the conflate entertainment with wanton and excessive violence.” Aracynth sighed heavily and relaxed his posture, remembering where he was. “And though I may indeed look the part, I have no desire to partake in this upcoming contest. Now, will you please help me carry him to the Inn? He needs rest, and more medical attention than I can provide.” Aracynth gingerly hoisted the Elf up by one arm. And a bath...
My Characters:
Aracynth - Level 2 Dragonborn Paladin - Wins : 4 - Journey Unto Chaos
Kyros - Level 1 Dragonborn Fighter - Wins : 9 - Unconscious : 1 - Hoard of the Dragon Queen
Fizzbang, struggling to keep down the bile that rose in his throat at the sight of the elf's blood, looked away. The glow of healing magic emanating from the Dragonborn did pique his interest however. Always useful to have around, a healer. Granted they were usually the sanctimonious type, all devotion and bluster and rarely any fun at parties. Though he'd once known a dwarven cleric who could heal even the most deadly of hangovers...
He considered the Dragonborn's request. Normally 'help' was not especially high up on Fizzbang's priorities. However...this stranger had helped him with Jalud. Even a two-timing greedy self-centered little thief had some honor from time to time.
"Fine, fine, lug the Elf this way." Fizzbang made a show of heaving the elf up by the literal bootstrap, though he suspected the Dragonborn was doing the brunt of the heavy lifting.
Leads the pair back to the inn
There is but one open table as you enter The Crossroads Inn, with 4 chairs and a small candle. The room is boisterous, with other adventurers milling about, chatting, laughing, and drinking merrily. The atmosphere is cheery, and it seems as though the service is good, though you can see only 2 servers, one of which also acts as the barkeep. As you make your way through the throngs of leather-clad rangers and plate-mailed fighters and dashing rogues to your seats the barkeep smiles and waddles to your table from just outside to meet you.
A plump, rosy-cheeked Halfling stands before you, eye-level with you in your seats. His nose is red and his head a messy clump of dark brown ringlets.
"Good evening.” He smiles, stopping at Kynortas and nodding.
After an exaggerated clearing of his throat he announces: “I am Roderick Dulcimuss Oberon Nigel Pip! Your waiter, barkeep, and innkeeper! And over there is my wife Marcy.” He bows (again exaggerated.)
“Most just call me Rod,” He adds with a wink.
“What’ll it be, ale, wine or mead? The water’s awful, so I wouldn’t recommend it!” He laughs at the last part.
After taking your orders he nods his nose toward the door and the continuous stream of adventurers coming in and out. "I assume yer here for the Duke's tourney then? The Duke Oglethorn is hoping to offer the victors of the tourney a quest. He ha’nt said much about what it is he plans to ask them to do… but it must be important! I do know he's been rather upset and hardly seen of late. That's odd fer him. Even if he's not talkative he's usually at least about town." – Roderick adds.
He glances at Tharin and whistles to Marcy - "Oi, Marce, can you get us a bit o' leftover potion? This one's already seen action." which prompts the woman to whisk over with a small red flask. (Potion of Healing)
"Ye're all welcome to stay the night. Kynortas already has a room and I can throw some extra cots up there. The signup for the tourney is tomorrow should ye be interested. I know there's prize money involved along with the quest. Wish I could tell ya more! I'm sure they'll announce something tomorrow!" And with that Rod zips back into the crowd to continue serving.
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Tharin takes this opportunity to truly sleep and recover from his wound. The healing received from the dragonborn had healed the wound most of the way, but the exhaustion of walking, the stress of trying to convince the guards to search the swamp, and the loss of his companions kept him from waking.
Ah the Crossroads Inn! Fizzbang breathed deep of the familiar scent of beer, body odor, and the faint yet inescapable aroma of piss. Back among his own kind! Rod was alright enough for a halfling, but damned if he didn't run the best shithole in all of Ibben.
As Rod so helpfully informed the others of local comings and going, a plot began to form in Fizzbang's head. It started as a little seed, watered regularly by greed and alcohol in equal measure (at 35lbs it didn't take much to get his head spinning). He eyed up the Dragonborn, all scales, edges and armor. He'd do just fine. Come to think of it, now that the elf had stopped bleeding everywhere he didn't look so incapable either. Kynortas, odd duck as he was, looked like he could hold his own.
"Say friends?" Fizzbang slurred before his first mug was empty. "I've got a crazy thought. What if WE enter the tournament?" Fizzbang held up his hands theatrically. "Now I know what you're thinking, 'Fizzbang', you'd say, 'what about the tourney being for thugs, savages, and such?'. Well friends, the chance to get in well with the Duke is a once in a lifetime opportunity! And you all look like a promising batch of ruffians! What say you? A little adventure and riches never hurt anyone!"
What Fizzbang neglected to mention is that gambling on the results of the Tournament was a lucrative side business in Ibben. Fizzbang's own reputation as somewhat of a weakling was well known around the city. Who would hesitate to bet against the eccentric gnome and a group of unknowns? Now he just had to place his bets before anyone noticed the Dragonborn...
Rod swings back by the table with more drinks and a quick count of his fingers.
"Just so's ye know. 'Tis 1 gold per night per person and I'll tally up your bar tab at the end! Looks like Fizz here is going to add to his ... *ahem* ... running tab, but ye can settle up anytime."
For Fizzbang:
A shady looking individual you recognize as a local bookie, nicknamed Tabbs, swings by and taps you on the shoulder. He looks like a regular in the bar so he seems inconspicuous to the others.
"Hey, Moldy. Heard you mumble something about betting on the tourney tomorrow. Regular bets? You joining? I got you at -245 against this other party that's been boasting all day at +185. Since you're already in the drink I'll explain... you give me 10 gold and tomorrow you'll get 24 if you win. You lose... you owe me 19... Give me 100...? Win 245... you get it?"
He shifts around waiting for your reply or gold and then adds: "Oh, by the way, I heard the Duke may ... forget... some debts if the victors complete his tourney too. May be a good way for you to get out from under Jalud's thumb if you're pardoned... Your choice, Moldy."
Tharin gets a full rest (as do the others when they sleep) and with the potion will be fully healed by tomorrow. At least physically (HP).
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
"Fizzbang, I was already thinking of joining the tournament if more promising work didn't turn up. I am in need of funds. The crossing of the Sea of Tears and the journey here to Ibben has drained my coinpurse. As it sits I only have 2 more nights in the inn before my payment to Rod is through."
Kynortas wish to address Aracynth later, but there was an elf next to him passed out and it wasn't from drink. A wound earned in battle was something that deserved rest in his eyes.
"I will bring our friend here up to the room for some rest and we can continue our conversation in a moment. I especially wish to speak with you Aracynth. I see no rank or insignia on your armor but you know of my, former, posting. We'll talk some more in a few minutes."
With that Kynortas stood and carried the elf upstairs to lay him on a cot. While upstairs he shed his armor and his shield, but his sword never left his side. He came back downstairs and sat at the table.
"So Aracynth, I have heard of the dragonborn from my home and even seen a couple. Although, I have never interacted with your kin. Who are you to judge where I should be?"
Tharin mumbles of betrayal and horrors in his fitful sleep, but doesn't awaken as Kynortas hoists him to a cot. Tharin sleeps deeply for 3 more hours, then awakens in a strange room, apparently fully healed.
“Say friends? I’ve got a crazy thou-*hiccough*-ght. What if WE enter the tourna-ma-ment?” the Gnome slurred, flailing his small arms over his head. He elaborated further, proclaiming (with difficulty) that despite his earlier remarks, the tournament was a rare opportunity to impress oneself upon the local Duke, and that the quest Roderick had mentioned might be worthwhile in its own right. “A little adventure and ri-*hiccough*-ches never hurt anyone!” he exclaimed excitedly, though whether his grin was induced by the mischief in his eyes or the ale in his gut, Aracynth wasn’t sure.
Aracynth paused to consider the small man’s request while he ordered another brandy. He looked at the Gnome across the table, as the Inn bustled in the background. Kynortas had chimed in that he was indeed interested in participating before deciding the Elf deserved a more proper environ to rest, but informing them he would return shortly. Thus far the Elf had only been seen in a very rough state, and there was no telling if he could handle the trial of combat or not. Fizzbang, smiling drunkenly, seemed the least well equipped between the four of them for such an endeavor. Still, there was no knowing what the small Gnome might be capable of.
Aracynth looked up as Kynortas returned to his seat, requesting politely by what authority did Aracynth have to judge him. Aracynth paused a moment to stifle his past, lest it spurn the other soldier once more. “You are correct, Kynortas, that I am presently of no consequence and have no right to judge. My comment was poorly made, and out of line in this land far distant from our own.” Aracynth stared into his glass for a moment. “In truth, I know well the rigors of Military life. In a former time, I was a Captain of the Emperor’s Drakenfaust, The Dragonborn Corps, stationed in the north of Lysia, on the border of Kinyad.” Aracynth’s eyes swam out of focus. “But that was nearly twenty-five moons** ago, and now I am retired.” Aracynth took a long draught from his glass, and ordered a third drink as Roderick swung by. “This brandy is quite something. When I came across the Sea of Tears, by way of Piraeus, which is how I recognized your armor by the way.. But the deck hands, they insisted there was no better cure-all for my turbulent illness.” He gestured his glass towards the others in salute before finishing his drink.
**(OOC : Dragonborn of Aracynth's Clan not only mature fast as all Dragonborn do, but are conscripted into the Emperor's Army at the young age of 7. Due to the rigors of war, and their own inexperience, few live long enough to reach adulthood, so they have taken to measuring the passage of time in relative lunar cycles, or "moons". Lunar cycles on Altinus correlate roughly with lunar cycles in real-time, with approximately 13 transpiring over the course of each year.)
My Characters:
Aracynth - Level 2 Dragonborn Paladin - Wins : 4 - Journey Unto Chaos
Kyros - Level 1 Dragonborn Fighter - Wins : 9 - Unconscious : 1 - Hoard of the Dragon Queen
Fizzbang, not one to leave well enough alone, was deep into his second cup of ale. His bright eyes shone with glee. Clamor! Drink! Revelry! It made his heart sing!
He looked sideways at Aracynth. An idea formed itself from a primordial soup of beer fumes and greed.
”Say Silverscales, any chance you have some spare silver kicking around in those metal pantaloons of yours? I’ve got a business investment brewing that I think you’d be perfect for! What’dya say big guy? I’ll pay you back with interest!”
Aracynth stared at the Gnome quizzically as his third drink arrived. "..in my ..pantaloons?" Scoffing, Aracynth reached into his cloak and produced a small set of bone dice, the last physical remnant of his time as a recruit, and rolled them across the table. "This is all I have on me to spare, friend. Maybe they can assist you in your 'investment'. What little coin I have left is more of an emergency fund, so to speak." Aracynth deflected the Gnome's ribald query with a lift of his glass, before looking pointedly at Kynortas. "Though I doubt I would trust his promise of repayment. He seems to have a knack for misplacing the gold he owes other people." He grinned wolfishly, and took a drink. "I mean, first there was that brute, Jalud." He sneered the name. "A business partner he called himself, psshaw. And not to mention, the fine Owner of this Establishment." Aracynth's voice rose to match his glass in an impromptu toast. "How much do you actually owe the good Roderick anyways, Fizzbang?" He said, returning his glass to the well-worn tabletop, as he focused with difficulty on his small acquaintance.
My Characters:
Aracynth - Level 2 Dragonborn Paladin - Wins : 4 - Journey Unto Chaos
Kyros - Level 1 Dragonborn Fighter - Wins : 9 - Unconscious : 1 - Hoard of the Dragon Queen
Fizzbang inhaled deeply, preparing a scathing retort to fearsome, so insightfully cutting, so ruthlessly on-point, that the Dragonborn would sob himself to sleep from now until Tiamat’s flaming breasts began to sag.
On the other hand...he had to admit Aracynth had a point. He wasn’t known for being particularly fiscally responsible.
Fizzbang adopted a tone of exaggerated formality. ”keep your dice my noble reptilian friend. Your words have struck true this day.” He downed the rest of his drink and tottered to his feet. “Now if you fine gentlemen will excuse me, I know of a fine chicken coop that shall make a fine bed for a rapscallian such as I.”
Kynortas had seen the look on Aracynth's face before. A face he knew himself all too well. He would not press further.
"That brandy will do well for a short time. I fear the only real way to cure your illness is through action. Truth be told beating up some extortionist thugs feels like it won't hurt. If it leads to connections that get me to my goal then It does not bother me either. For now sleep will help us both. I bid you goodnight. We can talk more in the morning."
With his final words Kynortas headed upstairs to sleep.
Aracynth watched the laconic man head upstairs for the evening, relieved for some time slone with his thoughts. The Dragonborn then spent a time nursing the brandy in front of him as he considered the Gnome’s proposition in earnest.
He eventually reached the dregs of his glass, and found himself fast approaching sobriety, a boon of his ancient draconic heritage. Looking around the tavern, the bustling crowd was gone. Only a few stragglers remained at this late hour; Two men were talking quietly in the far corner, and a dwarf was snoring softly into his cup at the bar. Aracynth rose, pocketed his bone dice, and approached Roderick who stood behind the bar cleaning some dishware early into the morning. He reached into his purse and pulled out a small bag of 10 Gold pieces, the last of his own funds.
Aracynth dropped the bag in front of the exhausted halfling who beamed up with his never faltering smile, “Two pieces for the Elf and the Human for their room tonight. From the rest take what you need for our drinks. Any remainder you may keep as a tip or credit to Fizzbang’s tab, at your descretion. If that sum doesn’t pay our balance tonight, please find me on the morrow at the Temple.” Roderick nodded, his eyes lighting up briefly at the discussion of payment. Aracynth turned to leave, but paused. “..else I’ll be found at the Tourney. And Thanks again, Rod.” he added as an afterthought before proceeding out into the night.
The air outside was cool and crisp, and tasted of salt from the waves crashing behind and far below the Duke’s Estate. Stars glowed faintly overhead and the moon was barely a sliver, veiled in its own apprehension of what lay ahead. Black Moon’s were a great Omen, portending rigorous and possibly deadly trials yet to come. As he stood there inhaling the breadth of the clear night in Ibben, Aracynth resolved to meet those trials, bearing the Light as Bahamut had bade him to so long before. His spirit soared in response to his resolve, and divine grace blessed him with warmth, though any chill in the air was beneath his notice. The streets were empty at this hour, but for a few sentries keeping watch at regular patrols. Aracynth paused momentarily at the posters nearby to read one in the flickering lamplight.
The Duke’s Grand Tournament was all pomp and flair, promising prestige and renown to any who would claim victory. Though, even Aracynth had to admit that the purse was tempting. Tomorrow’s problems would wait though. He wandered wearily around the city looking for the Temple and found it easily. Finding a secluded corner inside, he peeled off his cloak, doffed his armor, and stacked his weapons and equipment in an orderly fashion. Setting down adjacent, Aracynth clasped the holy pendant around his neck, and began his nightly prayers. “Bahamut, Guide my steps.” he began, ss the nearby censers slowly lulled him to unconsciousness. Aracynth soon settled yet again into a restless sleep.
My Characters:
Aracynth - Level 2 Dragonborn Paladin - Wins : 4 - Journey Unto Chaos
Kyros - Level 1 Dragonborn Fighter - Wins : 9 - Unconscious : 1 - Hoard of the Dragon Queen
Tharin awoke in a place he had not been before. It was dark, and there was another person in the room that he did not recognize at first. Flashes of the previous day swam through his head, garbling themselves together into a slushy narrative. Though Tharin thought himself independent enough to take care of himself, he was grateful to the strangers who had cared for him so far. He would have to repay their kindness, but having no money, no weapons, and still no job prospects, the likelihood of repayment was slim. Tharin slips out of the room, careful not to awaken the other sleeping patron.
6 to Stealth
Tharin made his way out the front door onto the quiet, mist-blanketed street. He would need to find some weapons if he was to properly earn coin. But where to find them...
For DM:
Tharin detested the thought of stealing, even to satisfy his own needs. Why should one take what one cannot buy? But he still admitted that he needed weapons. Without arms, he was no match for the spies and henchmen that would no doubt be lurking around every corner. He briefly considered requisitioning equipment from the local garrison. A member of the Order of the Lion (well, near enough to full membership) should be welcome in all military outposts in the kingdom. But he was without insignia, or proof of his rank. At any rate, the outpost this size would not have weapons suitable for his needs. He would have to procure them some other way. Perhaps a local merchant would be able to assist? But that would have to wait until morning, still hours away.
Tharin spends this time following random people around, eavesdropping on their conversations and trying to gather as much information as possible on the local crime scene, to make his triumphant return even more potent.
15 for Investigation.
Tharin:
Passing through the streets and eavesdropping, you hear most of the townsfolk talking excitedly about the tournament the following day. There seems to be no clear favorite, though you repeatedly hear "I wonder what the beasts will be this time?!". One small group of townsfolk, however, are very obviously betting on the matches, and you catch the name "Fizz" once or twice in the conversation. He is not present, but has connections to these folk... Jalud is not among them.
Outside the Crossroads Inn, you see the Dragonborn that healed you staring at the sky, his eyes half closed. He mumbles something about Bahamut and slowly moves off back to bed.
After a few rounds you notice the sign 'Kulgoth, Armorer' in big block letters over a shop on the northern side of Ibben. A sign attached to the door reads: "Closed tomorrow. Furnishing tournament weapons." Again in solid, large handwriting.
With the streets clear and the night waning, no one is wandering save the guards, who begin to eye you as the only other person. Sleep is probably the best option now.
The day of the tournament starts with great noise and bustle, as the townsfolk not entering all begin shouting about who will win, what they believe to be the Duke's Quest, and who's mother knows which tournament fighters intimately. Roderick greets the party as they make their way out the door, grinning and shaking his head in mock disdain at patrons still drinking form the night before.
"Good luck to ye, folks! I've never heard of anyone dying in the tourney, but 'tis usually a bit tough and there've been more than a few bruised egos! Thanks again for the coin, Aracynth! Definitely covers what you needed, though Fizz's tab will take more than a few bags like that..." he chuckled.
As the group leaves the Crossroads Inn it becomes obvious that the whole town is going to the tournament in some way or another. The streets are packed and moving steadily to the castle gates, the coliseum visible through the morning haze just up to the right once inside. Through the mass of bodies you make your way to the coliseum entrance, where the crowd finally parts and thins as the adventurers separate from the common folk. There are city watch guards standing at the gates and two men stationed at a table with a ledger and quill, their heads bowed in concentration as they worked through a list, glancing up at adventurers only momentarily to catch names and titles. When it is finally your turn to sign up the two men still do not look up as the four of you approach, though one of them clears his throat loudly.
"*cough* Aight. Answer these questions then state your names for the tourney listing. Fighting as a group? It's a discount entry fee for groups more than two. If you can't pay now we'll deduct it from your winnings, should you get any. Ok, then:
One. Any crimes against the crown or Royalty that have been paid in full but not in this region?
Two. What are your names and any relevant titles you wish the crowd to know?
Three. Any need for refurbished weapons or replacement ammunition?" He pauses briefly after each question, waiting for responses in between.
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Tharin replies curtly;
No
Tharin Endarin
I am in need of a bow and ammunition.
Aracynth breathed easier, having finally extricated himself from the throng of excited townsfolk. Standing before the Tournament Registrars, he answered each of their queries simply.
“No Crimes to my name; Aracynth, no titles; I have my own weapons.”
He had examined his gear this morning already before donning it once more. Each piece was well maintained without blemish or mark, as he had been trained to keep them. The space inside the gate proper though spacious enough, was stifling in the crowded, bright, bustling morning. Up ahead Aracynth saw a host of entrants moving to ready and prepare themselves for the upcoming contest. As his new compatriots answered in turns, he was glad to at last learn Tharin’s name, among other details about them. Aracynth had only barely arrived at the Crossroads Inn before Fizzbang began them marching towards the Castle. Navigating the crowd had taken more effort than Aracynth had anticipated, and several times he had fully lost track of the sprightly Gnome. That was behind him though and with his course now set, Aracynth intended to see it through.
My Characters:
Aracynth - Level 2 Dragonborn Paladin - Wins : 4 - Journey Unto Chaos
Kyros - Level 1 Dragonborn Fighter - Wins : 9 - Unconscious : 1 - Hoard of the Dragon Queen