It is 1491 by the calendar of Dale Reckoning and for several years now the frontier town of Phandalin has forged itself atop the sharp foothills of the Sword Mountains, weathering the chaos unleashed upon the major powers of the Lords' Alliance by the mad actions of the Cult of Dragons, and the resultant war of the near-forgotten Giants.

Finally, after years of tenacious 'can-do', the rising tide that will define this decade swells up from the madness below to sink Phandalin and its good pioneering folk beneath a flood of ruin. That is, unless you can do something to prevent it. 

You are not the only adventurer to recently find your way to the mountains that score the sky. Almost two dozen of you remarkable people stick out between throngs of more usual villagers and guards, on the common between the Town Green and the Townmaster 's Hall. The past weeks for you have been filled with minor quests; aiding Ranchers, Loggers and Miners for mean prizes, and even more demeaning fights.

Tonight promises something more interesting. 

You find yourself standing next to five other adventurers, the only adventurers here who seem not to be part of some formal company or faction. In front of you, caged, sits the Wizard Iarno "Glass-staff" Albrek. Pointed crossbows and Town Guards give the prisoner their unblinking attention. Children rush up to within 10 feet of the bars of his cage in a game before shrieking and running back. Iarno says nothing. 

For hours now, the town council and law givers of Phandalin have been debating the Wizard's crimes and their verdict is due any minute now. 

A server from the Stonehill Inn offers you a range of simple hot foods and ale, or mead, or beer. Indistinct conversation surrounds you, punctuated occasionally by the odd shriek of delight or the rasp of rough laughter from the hardy folk of Phandalin. It seems almost more like a festival than a sentencing...

***** *****

Capone scans the scene, his eyes flickering with curiosity as he takes in the bustling atmosphere of Phandalin. Standing only 3ft among the group of larger adventurers, he straightens his cloak, ensuring his fake beard is in place to 'maintain his disguise'.

"Hello, fellow travelers!" he chirps, his voice metallic but friendly. "I am Capone, at your service!" He nods to each of the adventurers, his gaze lingering on their faces as if trying to glean something more about them. "What brings you all to this curious gathering?"

From the automated fellow's rear, a hollow metallic voice rings in return, the warm rich echo of a man within a metal helm distinguishable from Capone's own mechanical tone. "And a fellow greeting to you, ah, Capone was it?" The respondent is a peculiar man, dressed head to toe in a vibrant scale armor of cold cerulean. Twin orbs of soft light emanate from otherwise dark holes of his helm, giving the residual impression of eyes. "I am Broma, a researcher of the CRO progression, a vast testing lab in the far southern lands. It is a pleasure." 

  Rather than merely speak his greeting, the strange armored man kneels before the autognome, offering his gloved hand. His grip is surprisingly strong for a mere humanoid. He offers the same hand to those who come after, the same greeting. Even with how genuine he seems, his words are spoken the exact same way each time, giving his introduction an oddly... detached feel. Stranger yet, he appears to have no trace of skin visible on his person. He is nevertheless quite genial in his overall demeanor.

Standing nearby Jayson plays a note or two on his flute intermittently as he looks on and scans the crowd and listening for uncommon chat.

He stows his flute and says to Capone and the others obviously now part of the sentencing, "Hail to you Capone.  The name is Jayson.  It just seemed like a nice place to visit.  Seems I am right as there are some interesting events going on here it seems.  How about yourself."

He looks to Broma noting the name and occupation provided and also listens for any other responses.  Jayson offers his hand to Broma to shake.

"Hold on," says a brown-haired satyr, clad in half plate and holding a greataxe negligently in one hand. With the other, he flags down the server, takes a flagon of mead. "That's better," he says, taking a long drink. He surveys the scene, then turns to look at the other adventurers, taking in the curious appearances of Capone and Broma. "Lorken's the name. I was in the area, and smelled the food. Can't resist street food." He grinned at the others. "And I get the feeling, if I stand close enough to you folk, sooner or later something interesting is going to happen."

A human woman, shabbily dressed but possessed of a proud bearing stands nearby. "I've sensed some curious things in the area and am checking things out.  The name is Alaina."

Jayson flags down the server to get a flask of Ale and some food as well noting the assortment and type of folk gathered for the event.  He's wearing some very nice Studded Leather armor, a Rod sinched to his belt, a signet ring on his right Index finger, quarterstaff, and a very ornate bag.

"I wonder if this guy has anything up his sleeve.  I mean, do we want to be too close to this guy?"  

Jayson takes a good swig of his ale and wipes it on his leather sleeve.  Takes a bite to eat and ensures he finishes chewing before continuing, "The way I see it this guy's got nothing to lose right.  Did the guards make sure it was picked clean before putting him in there?  Did he hide something that he can use to help him escape they didn't notice.  What a spectacle.  Can you feel the energy of the crowd?"

Jayson gets another swig of his ale.  He alertly scans the area too as if to be just casually looking around.

Capone nods to Broma, acknowledging his introduction. "Broma, a pleasure," he says, his voice tinged with curiosity. "CRO progression, you say? That sounds like quite the venture. What is a CRO?"

Glancing around at the group, he takes a moment to gauge their introductions, his eyes like round panes, rimmed by a metalic frame, resembling glasses with nothing behind them. "It seems we're in for quite the spectacle," he says, addressing the adventurers. "I've never witnessed a trial like this! It's quite intriguing. Do you think we might need to get involved, or is this more of a spectator situation?"

Quote from Ravnodaus >>

Capone nods to Broma, acknowledging his introduction. "Broma, a pleasure," he says, his voice tinged with curiosity. "CRO progression, you say? That sounds like quite the venture. What is a CRO?"

He once more kneels before the autognome, his voice strong and deep, like a bow running a low rich note from a cello. "Ahh, CRO is merely an acronym. The Celsus Research Order is a development team led by my progenitor, in the pursuit of mortal progression; longer-lasting food, water that even a child could purify, medicine for every disease. We seek it all, and have already made several leaps of progress. Our founder seems to think whatever is happening here may yield fruit. As such, I come seeking knowledge." Though everything is obscured, his voice suggests a warm smile may lie across his face.

Two children, a fair halfling child and a dark-haired human boy stop an impromptu stick fight as they suddenly realise their play has brought them very close to you.

The human boy carries a wooden stick, while the other carries a little blunt wooden dagger which he tucks under his belt (though, to a halfing child, it must be as good as a sword). The halfling boy has a single eyepatch adorned with picture of a lion roaring, and he flicks it up onto his forehead once the play-fight stops. Inside the circle of space that the villagers have left around you, one now whispers to the other pointing first to the kneeling Broma Theophrastus in his cerulean armor then to ranger who they're nearest to. The whispering comes to an end and both look at Alaina with wide, awe-struck eyes.

The serving girl tuts at the children as she steps near again, clearing up any left food and empty tankards. "I hope Pip and Carp aren't bothering you again, Miss. It's that Owlbear cloak you wear. They've got it into their head that if they follow you for long enough they'll find their own great foes to vanquish and fashion into arrows and slippers." 

She jabs a finger at the two children, who fail to meet her eye. "The good ranger isn't here for you two. Don't be causing trouble, now, mind. Won't be long until it's serious business again, you hear." 

As if to add weight to her words, the clockface that sits atop the tower of the Townmaster's Hall rings out a short few bars of music. It is now only a quarter hour until dusk and if judgement is to be done tonight, it will be soon, while there is still light to witness justice's delivery. 

In his cage before the steps of the hall, Iarno turns his head to the clockface for a moment before he returns his gaze to the ground. Still he says nothing,  purposefully silent even as some in the crowd jeer and taunt him with insults some might find surprising in such an all-ages event.  

Capone listens intently to Broma's explanation, his curiosity piqued. "The Celsus Research Order sounds like a noble pursuit," he comments, impressed by the scope of their work. "Seeking knowledge is always a worthy endeavor!"

As Capone's thoughts drift briefly to his past. "It reminds me of the gnomish artificers back home," he muses aloud, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "They were always tinkering and experimenting, pushing the boundaries of what was possible."

In what seems a habitual gesture, he adjusts his beard. His eyes periodically look off to the side, monitoring the nearby activities. "What kind of progress do you hope to make here, and may I help?" There is a musical trill in his voice at the end, reminiscent of delicate bells or chimes.

A dwarf woman, built like a block of granite, with copper hair and midwinter eyes, nurses a Stonehill mug of beer and watches the faces of the Phandalin folk as they celebrate. The dwarf wears a suit of unpolished plate engraved with twisting banners of dwarvish script. She leans heavily on a battleaxe with two runes of a more brutal design carved into either face - runes in the elder language of the giants - “Stone” & “Fire”.

“Well met, Master Capone,” Gudrune says to odd fellow. “I am Gudrune Stonesight, a warrior from the North. I’ve come here to answer a summons from some old friends. It’s been quite the road to get here… What of you? What calls you here?”

Gudrune’s eyes flare with excitement as she tests her strength against Broma’s grip. “You are a stout fellow, Master Broma! That’s a fine handshake. And fine armor too. I’d like to hear more about this CRO progression later.”

"Well met, Master Jayson. You got some songs in you? You don't seem to helpless either. You a minstrel or something?"

Gudrune grins at Lorken and his greataxe. “If you can swing that there monstrosity, I’m sure interesting things are not far off.”

“Hail, Mistress Alaina,” Gudrune says with a respectful nod. “You got good intuition about you or are you magic? Either way, well met.”

As the clocktower chimes, Gudrune’s eyes return to the bound wizard. She downs the rest of her beer and stands ready to hear what fate awaits the hapless villain. 

"Ah, but that is the question, isn't it? What is to be gained here? The people seem well-fed, the town lively, water clean and potable, no obvious sign of illness, barring a test of blood, saliva, or urine. Yet the good doctor sees fit that I remain here, nonetheless! It's quite interesting, isn't it?" Broma stands straight once more, a sense of eagerness cast upon as a world of possibilities await. As a point of fact, he wishes he could collect blood and tissue from everyone here, maybe give reaction tests, and apply a base hypothesis with his findings. Alas, his allotted time would not allow such detailed work. 

So he regrettably abstains, in anticipation of this "judgement."

"Well met, then, all of you," says Lorken with a grin, sketching a courtly bow. As he straightens up, he aims a wink at Gudrune. "And that's not exactly a toothpick you're carrying there, eh? I bet you have some tales to tell."

Lorken turns back to the spectacle, then speaks to Jayson. "You're a cautious one, to fear a man boxed up like that." He smiles to show he means no criticism. "My mother always wanted me to be more cautious. Let's have a little look-see."

Taking a few steps on his cloven hooves to ensure that the prisoner's cage is wholly within 60 feet, Lorken closes his eyes for a moment, seeking the spark of the Feywild in his breast. Touching it with his awareness, he then opens his eyes once more. Now, to his eyes, his axe and armour have a corona reminiscent of sunset, indicating their magical nature. Lorken turns to look at the prisoner, seeking out any similar corona on or about his person.

Jayson kind of glances at Broma and thinks, "Mmmm, I think my head hurts after listening to Broma.  Good chap though."    He says out load, "Ahhhhh. Gudrune a pleasure to meet you. A pleasure to meet you all.  Why yes, I do play a bit of music. Folksongs and the like on my flute here.  I dabble in a few other things as well."  

Jayson eyes Larno in the cage.  Jayson thinks, "He's waiting for something, possibly more than the verdict."

Quote from MightyBruin >>

"Well met, then, all of you," says Lorken with a grin, sketching a courtly bow. As he straightens up, he aims a wink at Gudrune. "And that's not exactly a toothpick you're carrying there, eh? I bet you have some tales to tell."

Lorken turns back to the spectacle, then speaks to Jayson. "You're a cautious one, to fear a man boxed up like that." He smiles to show he means no criticism. "My mother always wanted me to be more cautious. Let's have a little look-see."

Taking a few steps on his cloven hooves to ensure that the prisoner's cage is wholly within 60 feet, Lorken closes his eyes for a moment, seeking the spark of the Feywild in his breast. Touching it with his awareness, he then opens his eyes once more. Now, to his eyes, his axe and armour have a corona reminiscent of sunset, indicating their magical nature. Lorken turns to look at the prisoner, seeking out any similar corona on or about his person.

The spark of his home plane flares in Lorken's chest as he turns his attention to the cage that imprisons the wizard Iarno. Around you on everyside, each of the five adventurers near Lorken bring to mind various odd impressions as each is suddenly enveloped in different colours of corona, and it takes a moment and a step closer to the prisoner to focus on what you meant to look at. Through, around, and above the floor of the cell a corona blooms to life, a scintillating aurora shimmering just above the base of the cage. It brings to mind cold ice and steel manacles. 

Whether it is your eyes tracing the circle of magic that surrounds him or whether it is some sense the wizard himself possesses, Iarno's head snaps up to lock his eyes on you. Some emotion burns in his eyes as he looks at Lorken and the adventurers next to him. He mouths nothing. He does not beckon you near, but suddenly there is a nervous energy about him, a contained tension, of a distinctly non-magical nature.

The guard nearest to the cage shakes his head at you. No.

Capone observes Lorken's focused attention on the prisoner, noting the intensity in the satyr's demeanor. As Lorken's gaze shifts to the cage, Capone's thoughts drift to the nature of criminals and their actions.

"Why don't we just insist criminals like this not to do bad things?" Capone muses aloud, his metallic voice tinged with curiosity. "If we insist hard enough, surely it will change their minds." To most, this might be mistaken as optimism or naivety.

Capone’s distinct voice carries far. The little halfling child nods emphatically, while the human boy seems aghast at the thought of no criminals and no trials. The two set to a furious whispered argument again. 

Despite himself, Lorken is taken aback by the sudden intensity in the prisoner, in the guard's silent warning. Looking back to other adventurers, Lorken finally asks: "Do any of you know what he did?"

To Gudrune, Alaina responds, "I have an intuition for certain energies that denote thinning between worlds, this isn't quite that, but there is something amiss."