Finishing off the last of her bread and soup, Shay sits back with a far less clouded mind than when she’d first arrived at the Károly Restaurant. Across from her, Nash as per usual is engaged in very obvious people watching, his own meal long gone. Even after years of knowing him, it still sometimes surprises Shay that he understands, almost intuitively when she was due for a break. They both knew firsthand of the frazzled state Shay usually worked herself into when becoming too focused on achieving her idolized version of “just right”.
She had to admit that his unbreakably confident approach to most things going on in life had eased her own more frantic habits down from the rapidly boiling pot they had once been to something closer to a light simmer over time. While Shay was aware of her part with her willingness to take his advice and focus on individual things inside of her control instead of chasing everything just outside of her reach, she appreciated him all the same. She naturally wasn’t able to express this vocally with his stubborn elf pride getting in the way of receiving simple compliments, so she settled for smaller gestures, which tended to go over much better.
Shay nods politely at the occasional government official that walks by their small table, noting each passers’ fine clothing and general way of holding themselves. She couldn’t help but sit up straighter and hope to pass off as someone equally as professional from sight alone. The following taunting quip that should’ve come from Nash at her “tacked on haughtiness” as he put it never comes, causing her to take notice of his unusual silence. On a normal day she needed to fit herself into one of their conversations.
Studying her friend closer, Shay realizes as she tracks Nash’s gaze that his eyes aren’t truly taking in anything he’s staring at. Curiosity tugs at the corner of her mind at the brushing of his fingers across his chin, a thoughtless habit he never could break, and something he did while in deep thought. Smiling playfully, Shay reaches out and shakes his arm just hard enough to give Nash a jolt with his head snapping in her direction as his eyes finally focus again as he faces her.
Nash’s familiar blue eyes appear darkened for one reason or another. “You aren’t completely here with me right now, are you? What’s on your mind?”
Rastrin raises a hand to shield his eyes from the dust that was kicked up as an odd gust of wind helped the man to his feet. He had seen this man stumbling around town drunkenly a few times before, but he never had any interactions with him up until this point.
Rubbing his arm in embarrassment, Rastrin growls out in his rumbling voice, “I’m really sorry about that.” With a shrug and a sheepish smile, he adds, “Guess I should pay attention to where I’m going.” Yenword can see Rastrin’s telltale light and heat at the back of the dragonborn’s mouth as he speaks. It almost looks like he had swallowed a campfire or something.
Rastrin reaches for his coin pouch at his side. “Can I pay you for the bottle I broke? Or could I buy you some dinner or something?” He had to do something to compensate the stranger. His sense of honor and ethics pounded into him by the teachings of Bahumat demanded such action on his behalf.
“You aren’t completely here with me right now, are you? What’s on your mind?”
Nash’s first response comes as no surprise to Shay. A smirk, its shape reminiscent of the slanted red quill marks he used years ago on her research drafts. ‘No. I am not so easily read.’ But its meaning to Shay is different from what it would be, aimed at anyone else. Behind the smirk lies deep respect, and even, love.
“There you go again, thinking yourself a reader of minds. I am here, Feather, in all of my glory.” Despite the barb – Nash knows he’s intruding where he’s not wanted by calling her by Kara’s pet name for her – his tone is not unkind. He takes a quiet breath before continuing, his voice softer, almost contrite.
“You’ll hear about it tonight, if you haven’t already. The details are boring. And, not. A group of envoys left Waterdeep last month, headed north. They were to pass near to Yartar before continuing on their journey. I had made arrangements with one of their number to carry a missive. Their goal was Mirabar, you see.” Shay knows Mirabar as a conduit for information regarding points north.
“The plan was, after the mountain passes through the Spine of the World had cleared, the message was to be carried even farther north into the icy wastes. Yes, of course. I see the question forming behind that line on your brow, and why wouldn’t it? The communique is relevant to our research.”
Nash sighs. Unusual.
“I had… hoped that the message would result in happy returns. And to present you with a gift of something new to stoke the fires of scholarship, to put it in the stodgy, bookish way that appeals to some people…,” ‘some people’ meaning Shay.
“But unfortunately… not this year, it seems. The envoys never made it to Yartar. I fear they were lost in the floods.”
He turns away for a moment, hiding a new expression. But when he faces her again, grim-faced, he sees himself through Shay’s eyes and his demeanor adjusts quickly. He stretches, stifling a yawn.
“Well. Imre has been twisting my arm. His load is a heavy one. I will help him get organized.” Imre, Shay knows, is a city official, usually a bursar, who has been tasked with tracking losses from the floods and dealing with matters of estate law.
“Enjoy the council. And relax, Shay. They are lucky to have you there.”
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DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver// Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever//Dev Horndin Curious Critters//Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
Once Bajnok was gone, Harold locked the door once more before making his way back behind the counter of his shop. He refilled his glass with wine from the jug under the counter before swirling it slowly in his hand. Taking a seat in nearby worn leather chair, he slowly sips the drink . between sips he continues to swirl the crimson liquid within by gently rotating his wrist. Harold finds himself staring into the red liquid as his mind begins to wander and his mood begins to sour. "The Hand knew how he felt about unexpected visits... especially after business hours." He thought to himself as a scowl spread across his face. His slowly rotating hand begins to shake slightly as his mind continues to wander... replaying memories that he wishes he could forget. The crimson liquid continues to swirl faster and faster within the glass before eventually splashing out on to his hand.
"Damn" Harold grumbles as he moves to clean the red liquid from his hands. spilling his drink is enough to bring him back to reality. Shaking his head as though trying to force the thoughts from his mind he tips his head back quickly and finishes his drink. After placing the glass on the counter, he pulls out the jug and inspects it. With a quick twist of his wrist, Harold turns a small dial on the top of the container before pulling out a couple of empty vials from a box on a nearby shelf. After turning the dial, the merchant is much more carful with how he handles the jug... Gently pouring its contents into the two vials before securing them with cork stoppers. Instead of the crimson liquid the had just produced from the jug moments ago... it was now a green liquid that seemed to hiss and bubble as it filled the two vials with acid.
Harold was going to be prepared for anything... When Father called, it was always best to listen. He had always been loyal to The Hand... and over the years they both benefitted greatly from the relationship. This was the first time he had been asked to attend a council meeting however... and he was not about to mess this up. He then moved through the shop and his bedroom upstairs, collecting tools that he could easily conceal on himself before heading out into the darkness. He made sure to lock the doors of his shop before making his way to the citadel.
The journey to the Citadel was fairly uneventful. Because of this, Harold spent the journey worrying about what he was getting himself into as he found himself in front of large brass gates of the Citadel....
Yenword takes a moment to comprehend what Rastrin was saying, the alcohol dulling his senses. "Umm...broken bottle...?" Yenword asks, spinning around to try and see what Rastrin was talking about. His eyes fell on the broken bottle, staring at it for a moment. "Oooooh. That bottle..." He says, a smile growing across his face as he looks back to Rastrin. "It's not a problem...That wasn't my bottle anyway..." he replies, the scent of wine thick on his breath. "I think that was one from my family's cellar...I forgot what year it was, but...it was a biiiiiig number..." Yenword added with a chuckle, letting out a sigh. "Sorry...I might have had a drink too much. Whatever you wanna do, I suppose," he says, a slight clarity coming to him after his sigh.
Miss Samitha stands straight as a pillar, arms crossed behind her in a formal stance. Her eyes hold Marcos’ when he speaks, then shift aside in deference when she answers.
“Mister Varixx. A note from Captain Umbershaam,” she begins, producing a single leaf of parchment folded and sealed with the captain’s stamp, handing it to Marcos, then resuming her stiff posture.
“Your cargo has been unloaded and transported with citadel guards in attendance to your lodgings. There will be a meeting of the River Baron’s Council tonight, at which ‘your presence is requested’ — the Captain’s words. I am to act as your Steward starting immediately, and I have been instructed to comply with your requests as far as my responsibilities extend, Mister Varixx.”
Opening the sealed note, the wax still warm and sticky, Marcus finds the captain’s scrawl. As usual, few words, their meaning as knotty as the penmanship.
“Do not enjoy her too much.”— U
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DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver// Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever//Dev Horndin Curious Critters//Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
Questions rushed through Shay’s head at a nearly alarming rate as her previously one track mind held tightly to the newest piece of fascination placed before it. A fresh set of unknown details content to pester her endlessly right until the meeting took hold of her remaining focus. As Shay turned Nash’s words over in her head for another time, she took particular interest in the careful way her friend had chosen to reveal the possible fate of the envoy group. With anyone else Shay was certain he’d have been far less hesitant tonally, but whether she cared to admit it or not, Nash was well aware of Shay’s tendency to as he put it ‘make lakes out of puddles’.
Shay decides to set aside her feelings about being so delicately treated for the time being and chooses to instead place more emphasis on what had been said as well. ‘The communique is relevant to our research.’ Leaning back in her seat, her hair finally put up the way her mother liked despite Shay living on her own for some time, she continued on with her trail of thought, wondering just what had been lost to this unforeseen circumstance. In an idle sort of way she knows it’s a strange thing to hone in on when lives could very well be lost, but it hardly stops her from carrying on just the same. By the time Shay is presentable in her favorite red and black formal attire, she can just imagine the things Kara would say if the two of them could talk extensively about this topic that won’t leave her alone.
Putting as much of a seal on her overworked brain as she can, Shay heads in the direction of the council meeting, new thoughts only on the task at hand with just enough left over to remind her to school her expression so she isn’t unintentionally setting her jaw as she passes people. She decides to spare time and write her theories down that night just so that her head could clear away some space to make way for her latest token of interest.
As Rastrin ponders on how he could repay the man, his stomach grumbles grumpily, reminding him how hungry he was. He had thought about going out to get some dinner at a tavern tonight, and it now appeared that he even more reason to do so. Making up his mind on what do to do, he says to Yenword, "I'll buy you some dinner to make up for the bottle. Is that alright with you?"
He hesitates for a moment, just realizing he hadn't introduced himself yet. He could almost hear Maira, his adoptive human mother, scolding him. If she were still alive, she would have fixed him with one of her infamous stern glares as she wagged a finger in his face while saying something like, "It's terribly rude not to introduce yourself when meeting someone for the first time." The thought brought a hint of a wistful smile to his lips, but the smile quickly fades. Memories of that fateful night when Maira and Vadran Barrows both died flashed through Rastrin's mind in that brief moment: tongues of flame lapping at the walls of their home. Thick smoke choking the air out of his lungs. The cries of panic rending the air. The feeling of his own powerlessness as his powers ran rampant about him, consuming all that he loved in an incredible conflagration.
Stop! he thinks forcefully, forcing the scenes of carnage out of his mind. He couldn't think about that fateful night right now. He had other things to worry about at the moment.
Painting a friendly smile on his draconic face, he proffers an introductory scaled hand to Yenword, "I'm Rastrin, by the way," he says in what he hopes is a cheery tone. If Yenword shakes Rastrin’s hand, he feels that the dragonborn’s scales are uncomfortably hot, but not painfully so.
Yenword ponders the offer for a moment, trying to make sure everything that Rastrin said made sense in his mind. The wine was making everything feel a bit slow now, but he feels like he still has a grasp on reality. Eventually, he nods in agreement, shaking Rastrin's hand. "That's more than alright. I did not have much else to do this evening, so dinner sounds great," he replies, turning his head as he felt a slight burp coming up. He then looked back to Rastrin, giving a slightly apologetic smile. "Sorry about that," Yenword said, the smell of wine almost strong enough for someone to become drunk off of it. "I am Yenword, though I prefer people just leave it at Yen. Lead on, Rastrin!"
Plume-helmed guards with ornate halberds and bright red breastplates stand at the wide brass gates of the citadel. Various persons enter and leave the gate, carriages on the plaza outside spilling out or filling up with occupants while others pass them on foot, while one woman unfurls her wings and flaps briskly to gain altitude before banking south away from the plaza the citadel overlooks.
When Harold passes through the aperture, he is met immediately by an imposing form — a goliath with marbled sandy complexion slashed by black and white striations — whom he recognizes as Kavea Olatahe, captain of the guard. The goliath’s resonant basso rolls out at Harold asking his name and business in the citadel.
A scroll, ink blotched where it was quickly drawn up, which Olatahe consults following Harold’s answer, seems to offer a satisfactory confirmation of Harold’s business at the citadel, and the shopkeeper is sent within to the castle proper, where a page boy leads him up stairs and through a maze of rooms to the chamber where he, among others may find a seat around a heavy, oblong table and wait for the meeting to begin.
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DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver// Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever//Dev Horndin Curious Critters//Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
The deep gruff voice of one of the citadel guards momentarily takes Shay by surprise as he asks her business there. Wordlessly, she hands over the Enclave sealed parchment holding the short explanation as to her reason for being at the citadel. His stern eyes only skim over the words as they quickly land on the official seal and stay there for a moment as he verifies that everything is legitimate. Shay gratefully takes the parchment back as she’s waved further inside, blowing out a relieved breath despite herself, and following the awaiting page boy to a long spiral staircase that let out near one in a continuous series of rooms.
They make it to the chamber after a somewhat content silence and after parting ways, Shay glances around the long oval table for a free space to sit at (while very discreetly stealing looks at what nobles she spies). Before she can stand around for too long, Shay spots an open seat beside a human girl she recognizes as Malia Front, someone she was reasonably acquainted with and knew as a temple acolyte. She gestures Shay over and the two share a friendly greeting, Malia’s blonde hair nearly alight in the rays casting from a nearby lamp.
They engage in casual conversation about nothing in particular, each pointing out notable names known to them while waiting for the meeting to officially begin. While talking, Shay admits to herself that having someone close to a friend around helps take some of her concern away from what would certainly be some interesting talking points later.
‘They are lucky to have you there.’
Malia was no Nash and definitely no Kara by any means, but for the moment she sufficed. Keeping an ear out for any higher names entering the room, Shay let herself partially relax for the first time in hours.
“There will be a meeting of the River Baron’s Council tonight, at which ‘your presence is requested’ — the Captain’s words. I am to act as your Steward starting immediately, and I have been instructed to comply with your requests as far as my responsibilities extend, Mister Varixx.”
Marcos breaks out into a broad grin. 'I look forward to exploring the extent of those responsibilities together Samitha. In the meantime, we had best prepare for the council. Will you escort me to my quarters?'
He arranges his plate armour over his cot. Each piece looked brand new. Marcos had some skill in smithing. He preferred to hammer dents out of his armor rather than use a mending cantrip. He is meticulous in in the care and maintenance of each piece and takes great pride in its appearance. On his breastplate is the golden sword on a fiery background. The holy symbol of Tempus. On the right spaulder, a strange rune that had an intermittent rutilant glow.
With a practiced hand, Marcos straps on his armor. As he did so, his thoughts drifted to the council. He did not enjoy such things. He was no orator. He had little inclination towards politics. He was certain that he would not impress with the Baron with loquacious speeches. His wit (such as is it) tends to the jocular and bawdy - he is out of place in a council. At least he cuts an impressive figure. The plate mail is skillfully smithed and perfectly fitted. Careful trial and error and constant communication with the local battleforge allowed for a surprising degree of movement. He stepped back outside.
'Did you forget your helm?'
‘No - we priests of Tempus never wear helms. The Foehammer always wears a helm. We eschew the helm as a sign of respect... shall we?’
Marcos' disquiet slowly increases as they walk towards the citadel and show their papers to the guard. As they climb the stairs to the meeting chamber, Marcos briefly wonders if he should use his ‘Giant’s might’ to make an impression. He discounts the idea as earnest and overstriving. He forces himself to relax as they enter the chamber.
After introductions have been made, Rastrin begins leading Yenword to one of his favorite taverns: The Lucky Trout. The modest tavern earned its name when the owner, a human woman by the name of Ilona Balogh, once caught a trout that had swallowed a platinum piece. She used the rare coin to start up her tavern business, and it has been fairly successful ever since then. As they make their way to the tavern, Rastrin engages in small talk, though he seems a tad bit distracted about something.
Once they finally arrive, the Lucky Trout appears to be a cozy tavern towards the center of town. It appears neither lavish or shoddy, but has a homey feel about it. Rastrin heads inside and finds them a table to sit at. Once a waiter comes around, he orders the day's special. He had never been disappointed by what he had eaten here before, so he was fine with trying whatever the cooks decided to whip up in their kitchen.
While they wait for their food to come, he begins absentmindedly running his hand along the wood of the table, feeling the smooth grain of the wood under his fingertips. As he does, he says to Yenword, "So tell me a bit about yourself if you would. Do you live here? Do you have family nearby?'' A part of him thought that Yenword might just be one of the town's drunks, but he didn't look as disheveled as the others that tended to wander around, so he quickly cast the thought aside.
Being surrounded by guards always left Harold feeling a bit nervous. He was fully aware that he would spend the rest of his life in a prison cell if the true source of his income was ever revealed. "My name is Harold Goldweaver. Normally I am nothing more than a humble businessman..." The well dressed merchant replied with a smile. " But tonight, I am acting as a representative of the guildsman" He adds with a nod.
After being permitted inside, Harold lets out a small sigh of relief. Strolling inside the castle, he tries his best to appear as though he belongs there. Moving slowly but walking work purpose, he slowly follows the young page boy. His leisurely pace prompts the page to slow down and stop on occasion as the noble business gives off an aura of indifference. The true purpose for his slow pace was to give him time to create a mental map of the castle. During his stroll, his eyes dart to each door, window, and guard along his path. He slides a leather gloved hand up under his beard and runs his finger along his scar while taking note of every possible escape route on their way to the meeting chamber.
As he approached the doors to the chamber, a smile spreads across his face as he recognized a particularly well maintained set of plate mail armor standing before him. "AHH! Marcus Varixx! It is good to see you again. It has been a while since our last meeting..." Harold says with a wide smile as he places a gloved left hand on the mans shoulder from behind. Moving beside the cleric, the merchant would offer his right hand for a handshake. "You know that your business and your company are BOTH greatly appreciated... It has been too long since you've last visited my shop friend." He adds with nod before gesturing towards the table with his head. "Come! Sit with me... perhaps you can tell me about your latest adventure... and maybe even discuss placing an order with my shop to prepare for your next one?" He finishes with a wink and a grin before attempting to guide Marcus to the table with his hand on the mans shoulder.
If Marcus does not shake his hand or refuses his invitation to sit next to him at the table, Harold simply smiles and takes a seat... content to listen in on the conversations taking place around the room.
Although Harold and Marcos had only interacted a handful of times, the merchant didn't immediately recognize anyone else in the room. "Good! Good! We've been very busy latley... having problems keeping items on the shelves to be honest" Harold replied, with a smile before stroking his beard with his gloved hand. "How have you been? Have you gone on any dangerous missions recently? You know I'm always interested in buying any rare treasures that adventuring types like you may come across in your travels... I have to keep my shelves stocked you know."
Harold casually looks Marcos up and down as they talk, taking note of any weapons he happens to be wearing. His eyes then wander to the other people making their way into the chamber. There were many men and women starting to gather in the room... most of them wearing jewelry or accompanied by the sound of jingling coin in their pockets. Although he could, Harold didn't steal from others directly... but he knew many people that would love a chance to rob these folks blind.
Marcos is distracted. He wonders why Pantos would send him here. He is neither a diplomat nor a governor. What does he care for mercantile issues and politics? This is a waste of his time and talents. Is this the Gauntlet’s involvement? He spends the next few moments cataloging his most recent assignments. All required a strong arm…
Yenword waits for Rastrin to finish his order before he goes about his own order. His food requests were rather simple, sticking to some bread, cheeses, and fruits, while his drink order was a complex cocktail of young wine, honey, and citrus. As Rastrin asks his questions, Yenword’s eyes fall onto the table. He ponders over if and how to respond. ‘If he knew of my family…then we probably would not be here…’ he thought to himself.
After a minute or so of silence, Yenword smiles softly, shrugging. “I do live in town, yes. My family estate is nearby, but I would prefer not to go too deep into them nor their affairs. Matters between myself and them can get…complicated, at least from my point of view. They would call me lazy and a waste, but that was even before I began to enjoy spirits a bit too much.”
Two dozen council members arrange themselves toward one end of the table, to either side of a stern, high-backed and gold leaf-embellished wing chair which at first remains empty. Lining the walls – embedded with tilework in the colors of the Dessarin people – stand another two dozen numeraries, clerks, retainers, and attendants. In one corner, a recessed alcove behind a lattice holding a small table and chair half a dozen stair steps up from floor level is occupied by an old gnome woman with an enormous nose and grizzled eyebrows who sits before a small slanted table upon which a ledger lies open. The space is lit by a chandelier of one hundred candles suspended over the long table, and the room smells of candle wax, and of leather, with which all of the seats are upholstered.
Guards with ceremonial rapiers and unnecessarily tall helms stand to either side of the entry. When all seats are full save for the wing chair and its immediate neighbor, and a third seat not too far from where Shay is seated, a few minutes before the meeting is scheduled to begin, one may notice many eyes ricocheting from that empty seat to the door, then to the eye-owner’s neighbor, followed by whispered queries, a few wooden chuckles, and a general heightened tension. This notches upwards until bells begin to ring from the nearby temple, signaling the hour. One, two, three… and suddenly, as the fourth bell strikes, a man dressed in fine coat and leggings, perspiration streaming down face, leaps into the room to find the lone empty chair, just as the eighth bell tolls. He gasps for breath, but stifles the gasping though he seems close to fainting, as the guards raise their blades in a salute and the River Baron enters, followed at her heel by the Exchequer.
River Baron Nestra Ruthiol stands at her seat for a moment, and all at the council at the table now stand as well in a sudden rush of movement. Her eyes, quick and smart, are striking, at least for a human: gray irises edged with dark green. An elfin chin and delicate nose and mouth give her face a youthful beauty, and her hair, sandy-colored, with many strands of gray lending the effect not of age, but of silver highlights or burnishing, is pulled back in a tight knot, though a few rebellious frizzled strands frame her features capriciously. She wears the vestments of her office, a high collar, delicately embroidered, covered by vests and robes of gray, green, and black.
She sits in the wing chair as the Exchequer lowers himself rather glaringly beside her, and all at the table likewise sit as attendance is taken by the alcoved gnome, who then reads the minutes of the previous meeting.
The River Baron now speaks.
“Our first order of business,” she says in a voice which is steady and unforced, causing many to have to strain to hear her, “is the introduction of our new River Master. Marcus Varixx comes to us from Waterdeep, the temple of Tempus, the House of Heroes, the Order of the Gauntlet. Mister Varixx, I am sorry I was unable to greet you in person – or indeed, at all – until now. You come to us in a time of need, and I am confident that you will not disappoint the people of Yartar in maintaining the safety of our waterways. They are the blood that flows through the veins of our great city and our people.”
Though her tone is subtle and bright, in her eyes Marcus sees not a welcome, but a challenge, almost a threat. As if to disappoint her confidence would beckon swift retaliation. All eyes on Marcus seem to expect a response to the River Baron.
DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver// Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever//Dev Horndin Curious Critters//Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
Harold listens to Marcus as he describes his recent jobs, nodding along and listening to hear any mention of men wearing stony armor... When the river baron makes her entrance however, the merchant quickly focuses all of his attention on her. He is sure to stand up quickly and follows along with the other nobles at the table who had undoubtedly done this many times before.
A look of shock spreads across his face when the man next to him is declaired the new river master. The look of shock is quickly replaced with a wide smile and he gives Marcus a gentle clap on the shoulder. "Congratulations lad" He whispers with a smile.
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SHAY
Finishing off the last of her bread and soup, Shay sits back with a far less clouded mind than when she’d first arrived at the Károly Restaurant. Across from her, Nash as per usual is engaged in very obvious people watching, his own meal long gone. Even after years of knowing him, it still sometimes surprises Shay that he understands, almost intuitively when she was due for a break. They both knew firsthand of the frazzled state Shay usually worked herself into when becoming too focused on achieving her idolized version of “just right”.
She had to admit that his unbreakably confident approach to most things going on in life had eased her own more frantic habits down from the rapidly boiling pot they had once been to something closer to a light simmer over time. While Shay was aware of her part with her willingness to take his advice and focus on individual things inside of her control instead of chasing everything just outside of her reach, she appreciated him all the same. She naturally wasn’t able to express this vocally with his stubborn elf pride getting in the way of receiving simple compliments, so she settled for smaller gestures, which tended to go over much better.
Shay nods politely at the occasional government official that walks by their small table, noting each passers’ fine clothing and general way of holding themselves. She couldn’t help but sit up straighter and hope to pass off as someone equally as professional from sight alone. The following taunting quip that should’ve come from Nash at her “tacked on haughtiness” as he put it never comes, causing her to take notice of his unusual silence. On a normal day she needed to fit herself into one of their conversations.
Studying her friend closer, Shay realizes as she tracks Nash’s gaze that his eyes aren’t truly taking in anything he’s staring at. Curiosity tugs at the corner of her mind at the brushing of his fingers across his chin, a thoughtless habit he never could break, and something he did while in deep thought. Smiling playfully, Shay reaches out and shakes his arm just hard enough to give Nash a jolt with his head snapping in her direction as his eyes finally focus again as he faces her.
Nash’s familiar blue eyes appear darkened for one reason or another. “You aren’t completely here with me right now, are you? What’s on your mind?”
RASTRIN
Rastrin raises a hand to shield his eyes from the dust that was kicked up as an odd gust of wind helped the man to his feet. He had seen this man stumbling around town drunkenly a few times before, but he never had any interactions with him up until this point.
Rubbing his arm in embarrassment, Rastrin growls out in his rumbling voice, “I’m really sorry about that.” With a shrug and a sheepish smile, he adds, “Guess I should pay attention to where I’m going.” Yenword can see Rastrin’s telltale light and heat at the back of the dragonborn’s mouth as he speaks. It almost looks like he had swallowed a campfire or something.
Rastrin reaches for his coin pouch at his side. “Can I pay you for the bottle I broke? Or could I buy you some dinner or something?” He had to do something to compensate the stranger. His sense of honor and ethics pounded into him by the teachings of Bahumat demanded such action on his behalf.
SHAY
“You aren’t completely here with me right now, are you? What’s on your mind?”
Nash’s first response comes as no surprise to Shay. A smirk, its shape reminiscent of the slanted red quill marks he used years ago on her research drafts. ‘No. I am not so easily read.’ But its meaning to Shay is different from what it would be, aimed at anyone else. Behind the smirk lies deep respect, and even, love.
“There you go again, thinking yourself a reader of minds. I am here, Feather, in all of my glory.” Despite the barb – Nash knows he’s intruding where he’s not wanted by calling her by Kara’s pet name for her – his tone is not unkind. He takes a quiet breath before continuing, his voice softer, almost contrite.
“You’ll hear about it tonight, if you haven’t already. The details are boring. And, not. A group of envoys left Waterdeep last month, headed north. They were to pass near to Yartar before continuing on their journey. I had made arrangements with one of their number to carry a missive. Their goal was Mirabar, you see.” Shay knows Mirabar as a conduit for information regarding points north.
“The plan was, after the mountain passes through the Spine of the World had cleared, the message was to be carried even farther north into the icy wastes. Yes, of course. I see the question forming behind that line on your brow, and why wouldn’t it? The communique is relevant to our research.”
Nash sighs. Unusual.
“I had… hoped that the message would result in happy returns. And to present you with a gift of something new to stoke the fires of scholarship, to put it in the stodgy, bookish way that appeals to some people…,” ‘some people’ meaning Shay.
“But unfortunately… not this year, it seems. The envoys never made it to Yartar. I fear they were lost in the floods.”
He turns away for a moment, hiding a new expression. But when he faces her again, grim-faced, he sees himself through Shay’s eyes and his demeanor adjusts quickly. He stretches, stifling a yawn.
“Well. Imre has been twisting my arm. His load is a heavy one. I will help him get organized.” Imre, Shay knows, is a city official, usually a bursar, who has been tasked with tracking losses from the floods and dealing with matters of estate law.
“Enjoy the council. And relax, Shay. They are lucky to have you there.”
DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver // Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
Harold
Once Bajnok was gone, Harold locked the door once more before making his way back behind the counter of his shop. He refilled his glass with wine from the jug under the counter before swirling it slowly in his hand. Taking a seat in nearby worn leather chair, he slowly sips the drink . between sips he continues to swirl the crimson liquid within by gently rotating his wrist. Harold finds himself staring into the red liquid as his mind begins to wander and his mood begins to sour. "The Hand knew how he felt about unexpected visits... especially after business hours." He thought to himself as a scowl spread across his face. His slowly rotating hand begins to shake slightly as his mind continues to wander... replaying memories that he wishes he could forget. The crimson liquid continues to swirl faster and faster within the glass before eventually splashing out on to his hand.
"Damn" Harold grumbles as he moves to clean the red liquid from his hands. spilling his drink is enough to bring him back to reality. Shaking his head as though trying to force the thoughts from his mind he tips his head back quickly and finishes his drink. After placing the glass on the counter, he pulls out the jug and inspects it. With a quick twist of his wrist, Harold turns a small dial on the top of the container before pulling out a couple of empty vials from a box on a nearby shelf. After turning the dial, the merchant is much more carful with how he handles the jug... Gently pouring its contents into the two vials before securing them with cork stoppers. Instead of the crimson liquid the had just produced from the jug moments ago... it was now a green liquid that seemed to hiss and bubble as it filled the two vials with acid.
Harold was going to be prepared for anything... When Father called, it was always best to listen. He had always been loyal to The Hand... and over the years they both benefitted greatly from the relationship. This was the first time he had been asked to attend a council meeting however... and he was not about to mess this up. He then moved through the shop and his bedroom upstairs, collecting tools that he could easily conceal on himself before heading out into the darkness. He made sure to lock the doors of his shop before making his way to the citadel.
The journey to the Citadel was fairly uneventful. Because of this, Harold spent the journey worrying about what he was getting himself into as he found himself in front of large brass gates of the Citadel....
Yenword takes a moment to comprehend what Rastrin was saying, the alcohol dulling his senses. "Umm...broken bottle...?" Yenword asks, spinning around to try and see what Rastrin was talking about. His eyes fell on the broken bottle, staring at it for a moment. "Oooooh. That bottle..." He says, a smile growing across his face as he looks back to Rastrin. "It's not a problem...That wasn't my bottle anyway..." he replies, the scent of wine thick on his breath. "I think that was one from my family's cellar...I forgot what year it was, but...it was a biiiiiig number..." Yenword added with a chuckle, letting out a sigh. "Sorry...I might have had a drink too much. Whatever you wanna do, I suppose," he says, a slight clarity coming to him after his sigh.
MARCUS
Miss Samitha stands straight as a pillar, arms crossed behind her in a formal stance. Her eyes hold Marcos’ when he speaks, then shift aside in deference when she answers.
“Mister Varixx. A note from Captain Umbershaam,” she begins, producing a single leaf of parchment folded and sealed with the captain’s stamp, handing it to Marcos, then resuming her stiff posture.
“Your cargo has been unloaded and transported with citadel guards in attendance to your lodgings. There will be a meeting of the River Baron’s Council tonight, at which ‘your presence is requested’ — the Captain’s words. I am to act as your Steward starting immediately, and I have been instructed to comply with your requests as far as my responsibilities extend, Mister Varixx.”
Opening the sealed note, the wax still warm and sticky, Marcus finds the captain’s scrawl. As usual, few words, their meaning as knotty as the penmanship.
“Do not enjoy her too much.”— U
DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver // Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
SHAY
Questions rushed through Shay’s head at a nearly alarming rate as her previously one track mind held tightly to the newest piece of fascination placed before it. A fresh set of unknown details content to pester her endlessly right until the meeting took hold of her remaining focus. As Shay turned Nash’s words over in her head for another time, she took particular interest in the careful way her friend had chosen to reveal the possible fate of the envoy group. With anyone else Shay was certain he’d have been far less hesitant tonally, but whether she cared to admit it or not, Nash was well aware of Shay’s tendency to as he put it ‘make lakes out of puddles’.
Shay decides to set aside her feelings about being so delicately treated for the time being and chooses to instead place more emphasis on what had been said as well. ‘The communique is relevant to our research.’ Leaning back in her seat, her hair finally put up the way her mother liked despite Shay living on her own for some time, she continued on with her trail of thought, wondering just what had been lost to this unforeseen circumstance. In an idle sort of way she knows it’s a strange thing to hone in on when lives could very well be lost, but it hardly stops her from carrying on just the same. By the time Shay is presentable in her favorite red and black formal attire, she can just imagine the things Kara would say if the two of them could talk extensively about this topic that won’t leave her alone.
Putting as much of a seal on her overworked brain as she can, Shay heads in the direction of the council meeting, new thoughts only on the task at hand with just enough left over to remind her to school her expression so she isn’t unintentionally setting her jaw as she passes people. She decides to spare time and write her theories down that night just so that her head could clear away some space to make way for her latest token of interest.
RASTRIN
As Rastrin ponders on how he could repay the man, his stomach grumbles grumpily, reminding him how hungry he was. He had thought about going out to get some dinner at a tavern tonight, and it now appeared that he even more reason to do so. Making up his mind on what do to do, he says to Yenword, "I'll buy you some dinner to make up for the bottle. Is that alright with you?"
He hesitates for a moment, just realizing he hadn't introduced himself yet. He could almost hear Maira, his adoptive human mother, scolding him. If she were still alive, she would have fixed him with one of her infamous stern glares as she wagged a finger in his face while saying something like, "It's terribly rude not to introduce yourself when meeting someone for the first time." The thought brought a hint of a wistful smile to his lips, but the smile quickly fades. Memories of that fateful night when Maira and Vadran Barrows both died flashed through Rastrin's mind in that brief moment: tongues of flame lapping at the walls of their home. Thick smoke choking the air out of his lungs. The cries of panic rending the air. The feeling of his own powerlessness as his powers ran rampant about him, consuming all that he loved in an incredible conflagration.
Stop! he thinks forcefully, forcing the scenes of carnage out of his mind. He couldn't think about that fateful night right now. He had other things to worry about at the moment.
Painting a friendly smile on his draconic face, he proffers an introductory scaled hand to Yenword, "I'm Rastrin, by the way," he says in what he hopes is a cheery tone. If Yenword shakes Rastrin’s hand, he feels that the dragonborn’s scales are uncomfortably hot, but not painfully so.
Yenword ponders the offer for a moment, trying to make sure everything that Rastrin said made sense in his mind. The wine was making everything feel a bit slow now, but he feels like he still has a grasp on reality. Eventually, he nods in agreement, shaking Rastrin's hand. "That's more than alright. I did not have much else to do this evening, so dinner sounds great," he replies, turning his head as he felt a slight burp coming up. He then looked back to Rastrin, giving a slightly apologetic smile. "Sorry about that," Yenword said, the smell of wine almost strong enough for someone to become drunk off of it. "I am Yenword, though I prefer people just leave it at Yen. Lead on, Rastrin!"
HAROLD
later that evening
Plume-helmed guards with ornate halberds and bright red breastplates stand at the wide brass gates of the citadel. Various persons enter and leave the gate, carriages on the plaza outside spilling out or filling up with occupants while others pass them on foot, while one woman unfurls her wings and flaps briskly to gain altitude before banking south away from the plaza the citadel overlooks.
When Harold passes through the aperture, he is met immediately by an imposing form — a goliath with marbled sandy complexion slashed by black and white striations — whom he recognizes as Kavea Olatahe, captain of the guard. The goliath’s resonant basso rolls out at Harold asking his name and business in the citadel.
A scroll, ink blotched where it was quickly drawn up, which Olatahe consults following Harold’s answer, seems to offer a satisfactory confirmation of Harold’s business at the citadel, and the shopkeeper is sent within to the castle proper, where a page boy leads him up stairs and through a maze of rooms to the chamber where he, among others may find a seat around a heavy, oblong table and wait for the meeting to begin.
DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver // Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
SHAY
The deep gruff voice of one of the citadel guards momentarily takes Shay by surprise as he asks her business there. Wordlessly, she hands over the Enclave sealed parchment holding the short explanation as to her reason for being at the citadel. His stern eyes only skim over the words as they quickly land on the official seal and stay there for a moment as he verifies that everything is legitimate. Shay gratefully takes the parchment back as she’s waved further inside, blowing out a relieved breath despite herself, and following the awaiting page boy to a long spiral staircase that let out near one in a continuous series of rooms.
They make it to the chamber after a somewhat content silence and after parting ways, Shay glances around the long oval table for a free space to sit at (while very discreetly stealing looks at what nobles she spies). Before she can stand around for too long, Shay spots an open seat beside a human girl she recognizes as Malia Front, someone she was reasonably acquainted with and knew as a temple acolyte. She gestures Shay over and the two share a friendly greeting, Malia’s blonde hair nearly alight in the rays casting from a nearby lamp.
They engage in casual conversation about nothing in particular, each pointing out notable names known to them while waiting for the meeting to officially begin. While talking, Shay admits to herself that having someone close to a friend around helps take some of her concern away from what would certainly be some interesting talking points later.
‘They are lucky to have you there.’
Malia was no Nash and definitely no Kara by any means, but for the moment she sufficed. Keeping an ear out for any higher names entering the room, Shay let herself partially relax for the first time in hours.
MARCOS
“There will be a meeting of the River Baron’s Council tonight, at which ‘your presence is requested’ — the Captain’s words. I am to act as your Steward starting immediately, and I have been instructed to comply with your requests as far as my responsibilities extend, Mister Varixx.”
Marcos breaks out into a broad grin. 'I look forward to exploring the extent of those responsibilities together Samitha. In the meantime, we had best prepare for the council. Will you escort me to my quarters?'
He arranges his plate armour over his cot. Each piece looked brand new. Marcos had some skill in smithing. He preferred to hammer dents out of his armor rather than use a mending cantrip. He is meticulous in in the care and maintenance of each piece and takes great pride in its appearance. On his breastplate is the golden sword on a fiery background. The holy symbol of Tempus. On the right spaulder, a strange rune that had an intermittent rutilant glow.
With a practiced hand, Marcos straps on his armor. As he did so, his thoughts drifted to the council. He did not enjoy such things. He was no orator. He had little inclination towards politics. He was certain that he would not impress with the Baron with loquacious speeches. His wit (such as is it) tends to the jocular and bawdy - he is out of place in a council. At least he cuts an impressive figure. The plate mail is skillfully smithed and perfectly fitted. Careful trial and error and constant communication with the local battleforge allowed for a surprising degree of movement. He stepped back outside.
'Did you forget your helm?'
‘No - we priests of Tempus never wear helms. The Foehammer always wears a helm. We eschew the helm as a sign of respect... shall we?’
Marcos' disquiet slowly increases as they walk towards the citadel and show their papers to the guard. As they climb the stairs to the meeting chamber, Marcos briefly wonders if he should use his ‘Giant’s might’ to make an impression. He discounts the idea as earnest and overstriving. He forces himself to relax as they enter the chamber.
RASTRIN
After introductions have been made, Rastrin begins leading Yenword to one of his favorite taverns: The Lucky Trout. The modest tavern earned its name when the owner, a human woman by the name of Ilona Balogh, once caught a trout that had swallowed a platinum piece. She used the rare coin to start up her tavern business, and it has been fairly successful ever since then. As they make their way to the tavern, Rastrin engages in small talk, though he seems a tad bit distracted about something.
Once they finally arrive, the Lucky Trout appears to be a cozy tavern towards the center of town. It appears neither lavish or shoddy, but has a homey feel about it. Rastrin heads inside and finds them a table to sit at. Once a waiter comes around, he orders the day's special. He had never been disappointed by what he had eaten here before, so he was fine with trying whatever the cooks decided to whip up in their kitchen.
While they wait for their food to come, he begins absentmindedly running his hand along the wood of the table, feeling the smooth grain of the wood under his fingertips. As he does, he says to Yenword, "So tell me a bit about yourself if you would. Do you live here? Do you have family nearby?'' A part of him thought that Yenword might just be one of the town's drunks, but he didn't look as disheveled as the others that tended to wander around, so he quickly cast the thought aside.
Harold
Being surrounded by guards always left Harold feeling a bit nervous. He was fully aware that he would spend the rest of his life in a prison cell if the true source of his income was ever revealed. "My name is Harold Goldweaver. Normally I am nothing more than a humble businessman..." The well dressed merchant replied with a smile. " But tonight, I am acting as a representative of the guildsman" He adds with a nod.
After being permitted inside, Harold lets out a small sigh of relief. Strolling inside the castle, he tries his best to appear as though he belongs there. Moving slowly but walking work purpose, he slowly follows the young page boy. His leisurely pace prompts the page to slow down and stop on occasion as the noble business gives off an aura of indifference. The true purpose for his slow pace was to give him time to create a mental map of the castle. During his stroll, his eyes dart to each door, window, and guard along his path. He slides a leather gloved hand up under his beard and runs his finger along his scar while taking note of every possible escape route on their way to the meeting chamber.
As he approached the doors to the chamber, a smile spreads across his face as he recognized a particularly well maintained set of plate mail armor standing before him. "AHH! Marcus Varixx! It is good to see you again. It has been a while since our last meeting..." Harold says with a wide smile as he places a gloved left hand on the mans shoulder from behind. Moving beside the cleric, the merchant would offer his right hand for a handshake. "You know that your business and your company are BOTH greatly appreciated... It has been too long since you've last visited my shop friend." He adds with nod before gesturing towards the table with his head. "Come! Sit with me... perhaps you can tell me about your latest adventure... and maybe even discuss placing an order with my shop to prepare for your next one?" He finishes with a wink and a grin before attempting to guide Marcus to the table with his hand on the mans shoulder.
If Marcus does not shake his hand or refuses his invitation to sit next to him at the table, Harold simply smiles and takes a seat... content to listen in on the conversations taking place around the room.
MARCOS
Marcos is relieved to see a friendly face. He shakes the proferred hand.
‘Good to see you again’
He takes a seat next to the merchant
‘How is business?’…….
Although Harold and Marcos had only interacted a handful of times, the merchant didn't immediately recognize anyone else in the room. "Good! Good! We've been very busy latley... having problems keeping items on the shelves to be honest" Harold replied, with a smile before stroking his beard with his gloved hand. "How have you been? Have you gone on any dangerous missions recently? You know I'm always interested in buying any rare treasures that adventuring types like you may come across in your travels... I have to keep my shelves stocked you know."
Harold casually looks Marcos up and down as they talk, taking note of any weapons he happens to be wearing. His eyes then wander to the other people making their way into the chamber. There were many men and women starting to gather in the room... most of them wearing jewelry or accompanied by the sound of jingling coin in their pockets. Although he could, Harold didn't steal from others directly... but he knew many people that would love a chance to rob these folks blind.
Marcos is distracted.
He wonders why Pantos would send him here. He is neither a diplomat nor a governor. What does he care for mercantile issues and politics? This is a waste of his time and talents. Is this the Gauntlet’s involvement? He spends the next few moments cataloging his most recent assignments. All required a strong arm…
Yenword waits for Rastrin to finish his order before he goes about his own order. His food requests were rather simple, sticking to some bread, cheeses, and fruits, while his drink order was a complex cocktail of young wine, honey, and citrus. As Rastrin asks his questions, Yenword’s eyes fall onto the table. He ponders over if and how to respond. ‘If he knew of my family…then we probably would not be here…’ he thought to himself.
After a minute or so of silence, Yenword smiles softly, shrugging. “I do live in town, yes. My family estate is nearby, but I would prefer not to go too deep into them nor their affairs. Matters between myself and them can get…complicated, at least from my point of view. They would call me lazy and a waste, but that was even before I began to enjoy spirits a bit too much.”
MARCUS, SHAY, and HAROLD
Two dozen council members arrange themselves toward one end of the table, to either side of a stern, high-backed and gold leaf-embellished wing chair which at first remains empty. Lining the walls – embedded with tilework in the colors of the Dessarin people – stand another two dozen numeraries, clerks, retainers, and attendants. In one corner, a recessed alcove behind a lattice holding a small table and chair half a dozen stair steps up from floor level is occupied by an old gnome woman with an enormous nose and grizzled eyebrows who sits before a small slanted table upon which a ledger lies open. The space is lit by a chandelier of one hundred candles suspended over the long table, and the room smells of candle wax, and of leather, with which all of the seats are upholstered.
Guards with ceremonial rapiers and unnecessarily tall helms stand to either side of the entry. When all seats are full save for the wing chair and its immediate neighbor, and a third seat not too far from where Shay is seated, a few minutes before the meeting is scheduled to begin, one may notice many eyes ricocheting from that empty seat to the door, then to the eye-owner’s neighbor, followed by whispered queries, a few wooden chuckles, and a general heightened tension. This notches upwards until bells begin to ring from the nearby temple, signaling the hour. One, two, three… and suddenly, as the fourth bell strikes, a man dressed in fine coat and leggings, perspiration streaming down face, leaps into the room to find the lone empty chair, just as the eighth bell tolls. He gasps for breath, but stifles the gasping though he seems close to fainting, as the guards raise their blades in a salute and the River Baron enters, followed at her heel by the Exchequer.
River Baron Nestra Ruthiol stands at her seat for a moment, and all at the council at the table now stand as well in a sudden rush of movement. Her eyes, quick and smart, are striking, at least for a human: gray irises edged with dark green. An elfin chin and delicate nose and mouth give her face a youthful beauty, and her hair, sandy-colored, with many strands of gray lending the effect not of age, but of silver highlights or burnishing, is pulled back in a tight knot, though a few rebellious frizzled strands frame her features capriciously. She wears the vestments of her office, a high collar, delicately embroidered, covered by vests and robes of gray, green, and black.
She sits in the wing chair as the Exchequer lowers himself rather glaringly beside her, and all at the table likewise sit as attendance is taken by the alcoved gnome, who then reads the minutes of the previous meeting.
The River Baron now speaks.
“Our first order of business,” she says in a voice which is steady and unforced, causing many to have to strain to hear her, “is the introduction of our new River Master. Marcus Varixx comes to us from Waterdeep, the temple of Tempus, the House of Heroes, the Order of the Gauntlet. Mister Varixx, I am sorry I was unable to greet you in person – or indeed, at all – until now. You come to us in a time of need, and I am confident that you will not disappoint the people of Yartar in maintaining the safety of our waterways. They are the blood that flows through the veins of our great city and our people.”
Though her tone is subtle and bright, in her eyes Marcus sees not a welcome, but a challenge, almost a threat. As if to disappoint her confidence would beckon swift retaliation. All eyes on Marcus seem to expect a response to the River Baron.
DM for Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver // Story Guide for COYOTE and CROW: Cahokia Forever // Dev Hornd in Curious Critters // Co-creator: Princes of the Apocalypse - A DnD Story
Harold
Harold listens to Marcus as he describes his recent jobs, nodding along and listening to hear any mention of men wearing stony armor... When the river baron makes her entrance however, the merchant quickly focuses all of his attention on her. He is sure to stand up quickly and follows along with the other nobles at the table who had undoubtedly done this many times before.
A look of shock spreads across his face when the man next to him is declaired the new river master. The look of shock is quickly replaced with a wide smile and he gives Marcus a gentle clap on the shoulder. "Congratulations lad" He whispers with a smile.