Shae leans back slightly in her chair, studying the two newcomers with an unreadable expression. Her crimson eyes narrow just a fraction, though whether it’s skepticism or simple exhaustion is difficult to tell. With a slow breath, she sets down her tankard and finally speaks. “We set out earlier tonight for the lumberyard,” she begins, her voice calm and measured. “Simple enough plan—follow the path, get there, see what we could learn. But the Ravenswood doesn’t seem to take kindly to visitors.” She absently runs a thumb over the rim of her cup, her mind briefly replaying the events. “A creature attacked us on the way. Not one of the Jae, or so it claimed. It called itself a Selang—some outcast fey, more insect than man. It had its own magic and tricks, along with those cursed flies that sewed my companion’s lips shut mid-battle. We managed to kill it, but not without cost.”
She tilts her head, watching their reactions. “We’d been warned, of course. The mayor and constable both told us not to wander into the woods at night, but we disregarded that, thinking we knew better.” Her lips press into a thin line. “We paid for it. One of us almost died and then abandoned. Another decided that was enough and walked away, too. Then, just moments ago, another of our recruits heard enough of the mayor’s talk and made their exit as well after barely being with us for an hour.” She gestures vaguely to the remaining members of the group. “Now, it’s just the three of us.”
Her gaze shifts between Sabetha and Vaerion, assessing them in turn. “And you, Sabetha, if you still want to join after all that.” Then, with a slow glance toward Vaerion, she raises an eyebrow. “And a bounty hunter who claims he can help us find the innkeeper’s son. I had hoped the boy would simply turn up here on his own, but it seems I might have been mistaken." Her tone is even, giving nothing away, but there’s no mistaking the hint of curiosity in her gaze. “So tell me, hunter—are you offering your help out of professional interest, or something more personal?”
Vaerion regards Shae with an expression that is equal parts amusement and scrutiny, his ice-blue gaze lingering on her for just a moment too long before he finally speaks.
“Before I answer, shall we establish the rules of our engagement?”He tilts his head slightly, the movement precise, calculated.“Are we to address one another by profession—Rogue, Warrior, Mage—or do we use our given names? I am Vaerion.”The way he says his name carries an unshakable confidence, as though it should be known, should mean something.
Then, without ceremony, he continues.
“Murder Court.”
He lets the words hang in the air, taking his time to study each face, his sharp eyes flicking over them one by one, reading every subtle shift in their expressions. The tightening of a jaw, the flicker of hesitation, the way their shoulders react to the weight of that name. He absorbs it all, committing it to memory. Finally, with the faintest trace of a knowing smirk, he exhales, as if that moment of silent appraisal has given him some private satisfaction.
Insight check to gauge if the party recognize "Murder Court" Insight 16
“If this is the path you walk, then understand that obstacles—loss, failure, fear—are inevitable. A scattering of bodies, frayed nerves, and shaken resolve do not impress me.”He waves a gloved hand vaguely at her mention of the group’s dwindling numbers, as though dismissing the very idea that such losses would concern him.“Only those with the fortitude to see things through matter in the end. If your concern is whether I will also vanish into the night, I assure you—my commitments are not so easily severed.”
As for her question, he allows a deliberate pause before answering.
“My interests are my own,”he says smoothly.“What I seek is information, and if our goals align, so be it. I care little for sentiment.”He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the moment feel more intimate—more dangerous.“And you should care little for mine. You have a task before you. If I were you, I would be far more concerned about how I may serve your cause than why I choose to do so.”
His gaze flicks toward Geren then, regarding the half-elf with something between mild intrigue and vague condescension.“As for you,”he murmurs,“your enthusiasm is... noted.”The way he says it makes it impossible to tell if he considers this a compliment or an insult.
Vaerion straightens, rolling his shoulders slightly beneath his studded leather armor, as if the conversation itself is hardly worth the energy it requires. He shifts his attention back to Shae, his tone returning to its usual cool indifference.
“As for this Selang,”he muses, his voice light, almost dismissive. “An outcast fey?A creature of tricks and curses?”He lets out a soft scoff.“Hardly a concern. If it bled, then it died. That is all that matters.”
His gaze sharpens. “Jae, however… I have yet to determine if they warrant my attention. But let me be clear: I am not one to be deterred by whispers of creatures in the dark. If such things are what remain between us and our quarry, then I welcome them.”
Nature Check to determine if he knows what a Jae is
Nature 11
His expression settles into something colder, more certain. “The hunt continues, regardless.”
11 Nature will tell you only that you know nothing of such creatures thus far. You only reckon that perhaps they are some kin the Fey creatures by the name and descriptions you've heard discussed here.
Shae meets Vaerion’s gaze with a measured look, unshaken by his cold confidence. She does not flinch at his scrutiny, nor does she react to his posturing—she has seen his kind before. Those who thought themselves untouchable, too sharp to be caught off guard, too skilled to meet an early end. It wasn’t a fault, necessarily—just a lack of experience.
“Well met, Vaerion. I’m Shae.” Her tone is even, her expression unreadable. Then, with an easy motion, she gestures to an open seat. “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink? We’ve all had a long day.” There is no challenge in her voice, no provocation—just the simple acknowledgment that his presence, while intriguing, is not enough to rattle her.
She lets a small pause linger before continuing, picking her words carefully. “You don’t need to dance around it—we all know about the Murder Court. Or at least, we know as much as the mayor was willing to share. He wants them shut down. That’s the job.” She leans back slightly, watching him, gauging his response.
Shae is not impressed by the grand display of certainty, the way he dismisses concern as weakness. In her experience, being wary wasn’t a flaw—it was survival. Those who acted as if fear and caution were beneath them rarely lasted long in places like this. 'Knowing your limits is wisdom. Ignoring them is arrogance.'She would have to keep a watchful eye on this one. But she does not voice her thoughts. Instead, she simply offers a nod and says, “It’s a dangerous mission. We’ve seen that firsthand. So I won’t turn away any living soul willing to join us.” Her lips quirk slightly, though whether it’s amusement or quiet warning is unclear. “Just as long as they know what they’re walking into.”
"For the hunter and the hunted, Taking time to break the pace," Ely quotes to Sabetha. "Moonshadow. A fine and fitting name for a fox. Selûne is my calling, and the light of the moon often reveals more than the light of the sun. I prefer to use that light to ease hurt now, though in the past....I am told that people change."
Ely raises a hand. "I can't take credit for the fight with the Selang. I arrived in town to find my new friends here," and he gestures to the table, "a little worse for wear." He smiles. "But alive, which is always good at the end of the day. Alive is good."
"As for the Murder Court, I fear that we know about as much as you do, Vaerion. The Mayor and his Constable appear to enjoy beating about the bush and talking in enigmas. I don't think they are lying, but I'm certain there's a little more information that they are withholding." He places his hands on his chest. "Just my own feelings on the matter, but I take that to mean this whole caper is far more dangerous than anyone is willing to admit. But please sit and join us. I've spent so much time on the road, a simple convivial evening is just the tonic."
Vaerion absorbs Shae’s measured response with the same detached composure that has defined him thus far. There is no tension in his stance, no bristling at her words—only the quiet, unwavering certainty of one who has long since discarded the need for approval. If her lack of intimidation amuses him, he does not show it. If her silent scrutiny has placed him under some unspoken test, he does not acknowledge it.
Instead, he inclines his head ever so slightly.
“Well met, Shae.”
At her invitation, he moves without hesitation, claiming the open seat as though it was always meant for him. He does not thank her—that much is simply assumed.
His gaze lingers on her for a fraction of a second before shifting to Ely. The priest’s poetic musings are met with silent consideration, though Vaerion does not engage with them directly.
When Ely speaks of the Murder Court, there is no surprise in his expression, no indication that he had expected anything less. Instead, he listens in the same manner he always does—eyes sharp, absorbing every detail, every pause, every inflection.
“Then you know enough to be concerned,”he replies, his voice even, matter-of-fact.“But not enough to be prepared.”His fingers tap once against the table’s edge, a quiet punctuation to his words.“Your mayor wishes them shut down. A simple demand for a task that is anything but. Though I suspect you’ve already begun to see that.”
“Alive is good,”he acknowledges, though there is something in the way he says it—something that suggests it is not a sentiment he often indulges in.
Ely’s assessment of the mayor and constable earns a faint, knowing smirk.“Authorities who withhold information from those risking their lives on their behalf? Predictable.”His voice carries no frustration, only inevitability.“Either they think you will not press, or they believe you will not survive long enough for it to matter. Neither possibility inspires confidence in their leadership.”
He leans back slightly, allowing his posture to ease—not in comfort, but in the manner of one who sees little reason for tension.
Insight Check to determine if there is/are anyone in the surrounding tables who are taking a little too much interest in them. Insight 16
Sabetha's eyes widen as the priest of Selune quotes for her a song she had heard seemingly an age ago, when she still clung to innocence.
"Run with the Fox," she whispers with a smile. "A squire, garbed all in white, sung it to me when he saw me playing with Moonshadow on the eve his knight came to visit my master, an old friend. I think the boy fancied me and I know I fancied him. So long ago..." She puts a hand to her temple.
Her reverie is broken by Shae's account of the fraught sortie into the Ravenswood, and then by the arrival of the haughty eladrin. Sabetha blinks, then manages to extend her smile from Ely to Geren, Shae and even Vaerion. She quells a brief, irrational urge to rudely ask the latter what season he is in, remembering tales she had heard of eladrin as a youngster. Instead, she contemplates her own reasons for joining in such a harrowing quest.
To be the hand that stops the tyrant. To bring solace to the oppressed, and ask for nothing in return... I have run from my fears for long enough.
"We all may have our own reasons for joining such an obviously uncertain and perilous mission to help this town, despite not knowing the true purpose of its leaders nor the secrets they keep from us. Regardless of our disparate motives, I believe we are stronger together. For myself, topmost in my heart is that it is the right thing to do. To help these people. Speaking of which, perhaps we should approach some of the folk here before us in the inn. Unless one of you has already done so? I wonder what they think of all this darkness that presses in on them, and of our quest to defeat it."
Taking a small sip of her drink, Sabetha lifts her pale green eyes to study the crowd that surrounds them at the Olde Crowe, searching for a table of folk that seem as if they might be receptive to an outsider joining their conversation (without being so inebriated that such conversation might be fruitless).
Sabetha'sPerception or Insight (same bonus) to find a likely group of inn-going commoners to speak to: 20 (dirty)
Ely grins and chuckles. "That song has some sage advice too. "Beware of the Rocs"; I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment, and I have yet to meet one. I guess I took the advice to heart." His grin turns to a curious frown. "I wonder if it was the same Squire I heard it from, many years ago?"
He looks off into the distance, wistful. "Hold those memories dear, as they are part of the light that Selûne guides us by," The words, while spoken aloud, seem more introspective than anything else. Snapping back to the present, "but we wait for someone we think could help us. Pik, the son of the inkeep, who apparently has an uncanny ability to travel the lands around here without bother. If he doesn't appear tonight, then hopefully in the morning and then..." he shrugs, "I guess we cross that bridge when it happens."
Vaerion notes that many in the inn seem interested in the party; however, most don't seem openly eavesdropping. They cut glances toward the party's table from time to time as is fairly common in a village the size of Jaekin. Most of the locals likely know every single person that calls the village home.
Sabethadoescatch a group of possible lumberjacks (by their dress and the woodchips stuck in clothes and beards) who seem to be getting quiet intermittently as the group talks. They are seated at the table next to yours, and appear to be making comments amongst themselves as the adventurers talk about the woods, the Murder Court, and the innkeeper's son, Pik.
Sitting at a table unobtrusively, opposite from the group, a dwarf is sitting with a dirt-stained cloak, ratty appearing brown hair and a thick beard. If you look long enough, you might actually see movement in the beard, and a small segmented ? insect leg that appears from within, from time to time, then disappears. The dwarf is eating heartily something that crunches occasionally, drinking an ale and he has a pouch open on the table, next to him. He takes a bite of bread and then waves at the pouch. There is movement on the table and if you take another look again, you would almost swear that you see two little bees doing a conga line dance back into the pouch, waving their arms and wings in time. This amuses the dwarf, and he chuckles before picking up the pouch and affixing it to his waist. "Heh, back in ye go!" He finishes his meal, then swings his legs around, looking at the group of you as his feet don't quite touch the floor from the bench for the table. He grins at all of you and gives you a knowing wink.
"Yer all after it are ya? Dya need another hand? The Mayor sent me here and described the lot of ya, really unmistakable ifn you know what I mean. Name's Grymar. He called me a "replacement", I saids "What happened to the other feller?" He saids you don't wanna know. Hah! Made me sit in that blasted zone of truth as I spilled my guts and convinced the two of them I wasn't the boogeyman or somesuch. I would ah.. like to join up with youns. I wanna help these good people in this town, the lumberjacks, the miners, the folk who keep gettin crapped on, ya know? So, whas say there? I'm pretty good with my hammer here and I have the help of.... help of...." He trails off for a moment, stuttering, and then a flush comes to his face, eyes darting between you, he says in a softer voice "My bee frenz. They help me. They can do... lots of things. I'll show ya, sometime... if you want. So hows bout it?" He looks up at you all, locking eyes with each of you, looking hopeful.
Vaerion regards the dwarf with a curious expression. His ice-blue gaze sweeps over the stout figure, taking in the unkempt beard, the stocky build, the smell of ale that clings to him like an unwanted enchantment. He exhales slowly, his breath steady, measured.
Ah, a dwarf. Wonderful. He muses to himself.
Internally, his thoughts race like snow behind a storm cloud.
On the one hand, another blade—well, hammer—would not be unwelcome. I am not so proud as to deny simple arithmetic: more steel means fewer openings for our enemies. And yet…
His gaze turns to the dwarf’s hands—broad, calloused, capable. Then to his boots—thick, clumsy, undoubtedly loud. Then, reluctantly, back to his beard-why so much hair? Did it serve a purpose? What exactly IS nesting in there?
Still, the endurance of dwarves is well known. And they do hit things with remarkable efficiency. But the stubbornness, the lack of grace, the— he glances once more at the beard —alarming.
Vaerion could almost hear his ancestors howling in dismay. Somewhere in the celestial halls of elvenkind, an ancient forebear was surely clutching at their heart, whispering, Not like this...
And yet.
And yet.
There will be a fight this was to be sure, and he had fought alongside worse. And if nothing else, dwarves were infamously hard to kill. A fact that could be leveraged.They are a blunt instrument, yes, but even a blunt instrument has its uses. He reflects to himself.
His expression does not shift, his posture does not falter. At last, he inclines his head slightly.
"If you can use that hammer with purpose, then I can find a purpose for you."
“You bet I can, Mr…. elf. Whas your name? Didn’t catch it.” He points his fingers up to his head, hair in a mock salute, and he makes the motion, a bee is on the tip of his index finger. It buzzes lazily around and then lands back on the top of his head, then disappears. A big toothy grin with early to moderate periodontal decay follows, he wiggles to the edge of the bench, becoming even more excited. “What about the rest of ya? Bee you willin to take on ole Grymar to join yer group?” He pauses to scratch his flank for a moment, then looks to each face, with hope and a grin.
Sabetha grins at the dwarf with genuine warmth. From even her limited time in Waterdeep, she remembers those she had grown fond of, contacts and informants and assets, some of them dwarves, who had been nearly as smelly and hirsute, and supported perhaps... a quarter the arthropod biome that this one does. She attempts to ignore the little voice in her head which whispers... in the end, would it not have been less painful had you not grown fond?
"Grymar. I am Sabetha. Perhaps together we shall keep all of our guts from spilling out in the future, zone of truth or no. And just between us, I think you're growing on Vaerion here. You should introduce him to the friends in your beard."
The slender young half-elf hops out of her seat, pale-green eyes still twinkling, and takes her drink with her as she approaches her selected group of nearby lumberjacks. Wondering if she might get anything out of them that Mayor Brodenbuck and Constable Arlayana had chosen not to reveal.
All that practice, yet I was never much good at this part... not nearly subtle enough... oh well...
"Hello lads. What does a new girl in town have to do to talk to a local around here? Buy you the next round maybe?"
Shae exhales slowly, rubbing her temples before looking at Sabetha. “Good idea,” she says, though her tone lacks enthusiasm, weighed down by exhaustion. “Go see what you can dig up. These folk might know more than they’re willing to share with outsiders, especially ones recruited by the mayor.” She raises a hand and traces a subtle, unseen symbol in the air. “And take some guidance while you’re at it—use it wisely.” With a glance toward the bar, she mutters, “Pik is still our priority. See if you can find out when he’s usually here or where he wanders.”
Her crimson eyes flick back to the dwarf who had so enthusiastically inserted himself into their company, and she lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Seems there’s no end to volunteers eager to throw themselves at the Murder Court.” Her voice is laced with dry humor, though there’s an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. “I wonder if they even realize how much ire they’ve stirred up among the people—or if it’s just the mayor whipping everyone into a frenzy.” Her gaze lingers on Grymar for a moment longer, assessing him. The wild beard, the dirt-stained cloak, the... movement in said beard. She tilts her head, watching as a tiny insect leg peeks out and then vanishes. Ah. A druid. That explains the lack of hygiene. She barely refrains from grimacing when a bee buzzes too close, waving it away with a sharp motion before hesitating. 'Was that rude? He had called them his ‘friends,’ after all,' she thinks to herself. She eyes Grymar warily, wondering just how wild he was—even for a druid. “One would think I’ve suffered enough insects for one day,” she mutters under her breath, recalling the Selang’s cursed flies.
Still, she lets out a long sigh and straightens, nodding toward Grymar. “You’re welcome to join us but please keep those bees in check, at least for today, I'm a bit on edge specifically regarding insects after our encounter today. Look, every hand will be useful—the creatures in the forest made that very clear.” She gestures toward the others. “We’re the ones the mayor roped into dealing with the Murder Court. You know, the usual—walk into the dark, face death, hope we make it out in one piece.” As if summoned by the word ‘bee,’ a small mound rises on her clothed arm, shifting slightly before something tiny and winged emerges from beneath the fabric. Ekko, her familiar, peeks out with beady eyes, scanning the room, assessing the situation. His gaze locks onto the hovering bees, his tiny mouth parting as if in anticipation. Shae gives him a pointed look, and after a moment of hesitation, the bat lets out a barely audible sigh and slinks back under her sleeve, vanishing once more. She sighs and shakes her head. “That was Ekko. He’s... curious.” She gives the dwarf a measured look.
Her attention shifts back to the matter at hand. “Like I said, we need to find Pik. The boy seems to be one of the few people in this town who actually knows the land around here, and if anyone can point us toward the Court, it’s probably him.” She glances at Geren. “That, and your contact at the lumber yard. We were thinking of heading there tomorrow.” Leaning back in her chair, Shae lets out another weary sigh. “I just want to see what yields the conversation with the lumberjacks, and after that you will have to excuse me, I fully intend to sleep while I still have the chance.”
While she waits for the conclusion of Sabetha's conversation, Shae uses the opportunity to retrieve a small pouch from her belt, withdrawing a pinch of fine acorn dust between her fingers. With a practiced motion, she sprinkles it into a goblet, her voice a low murmur as she calls upon Kiaransalee’s favor. The liquid within shifts to a luminous green, casting faint reflections across the table. She gestures for the others. “It’s better to be prepared,” she states, her tone matter-of-fact. “I can still ask for this favor from my goddess, and I don’t intend to waste it.” She lifts the goblet slightly. “Emerald Goblet—it grants night vision, or extends what you already have. Lasts a full day.” She sets it down. “Drink if you want it. Given where we’re going, I’d say it’s worth having.”
Sabetha grins at the dwarf with genuine warmth. From even her limited time in Waterdeep, she remembers those she had grown fond of, contacts and informants and assets, some of them dwarves, who had been nearly as smelly and hirsute, and supported perhaps... a quarter the arthropod biome that this one does. She attempts to ignore the little voice in her head which whispers... in the end, would it not have been less painful had you not grown fond?
"Grymar. I am Sabetha. Perhaps together we shall keep all of our guts from spilling out in the future, zone of truth or no. And just between us, I think you're growing on Vaerion here. You should introduce him to the friends in your beard."
The slender young half-elf hops out of her seat, pale-green eyes still twinkling, and takes her drink with her as she approaches her selected group of nearby lumberjacks. Wondering if she might get anything out of them that Mayor Brodenbuck and Constable Arlayana had chosen not to reveal.
All that practice, yet I was never much good at this part... not nearly subtle enough... oh well...
"Hello lads. What does a new girl in town have to do to talk to a local around here? Buy you the next round maybe?"
The rough bunch of woodsmen tense up and grow more quiet at Sabetha's attentions. The group consists of five men - three likely younger than 30 and two at least in their 50's (though all look worn beyond the years they likely bear.) The group all appear to have not been in from their work in the forest or at the lumberyard for long, and their table hosts the remains of their dinner and half-drunk mugs of ale. The smell of wood and sweat permeates the air around their table.
One of the older ones frowns and leans forward on his elbows, "A round of drinks would be most welcome, stranger. If yer joinin' up with that lot there, then we know what yer take is. You'll do best to just leave this valley while ye still can." The man's weathered eyes stare at the half-elf with weariness and a touch of defiance.
One of the younger ones at the table scoffs and mutters under his breath, "Not everbudy wants that..." He sips at his ale and looks away from the table and the muttered comment that he'd tossed out while the older lumberjack cuts a scowl in his direction.
Sabetha can make a persuasion or intimidation check as she interacts with these men depending on what route of conversation she is having here.
One of the older ones frowns and leans forward on his elbows, "A round of drinks would be most welcome, stranger. If yer joinin' up with that lot there, then we know what yer take is. You'll do best to just leave this valley while ye still can." The man's weathered eyes stare at the half-elf with weariness and a touch of defiance.
Sabetha immediately signals for a round of drinks for the men she has joined. She counts out the coins needed to pay, adding a solid tip on top, as if to emphasize that she understood the bit about 'yer take'. Her pale green gaze meets the lumberjack's with both warmth and a hint of challenge.
I am not here for 'my take', though saying that and having these men believe me are different things...
"Truth be told, it warms my heart that you care about what happens to us. Even a little. Enough to warn us away. Far more than he Mayor or Constable would tell any of us with their vague handwaving and insisting we'd entered into a binding contract that I don't remember anything about."
Sabetha's expression becomes sincerely somber. Unless this man is telling me that the people of the town themselves are the reason we should leave...
"And I'd be a fool not to sense the danger here. The palpable menace out in those woods and mountains. So how is it you all are still drawing breath and drinking ale? Do the spirits of the wood not harry you while you are swinging your axe? How does Pik, the Innkeep's son, avoid the peril?"
One of the younger ones at the table scoffs and mutters under his breath, "Not everbudy wants that..." He sips at his ale and looks away from the table and the muttered comment that he'd tossed out while the older lumberjack cuts a scowl in his direction.
Sabetha favors the young lumberjack with a warm smile as if he weren't being a touch creepy. "Oh? What does 'not everybudy' want then? If your wise friend believes this valley is something to escape as fast as our feet can carry us, then you may as well share what you really think. I won't take offense."
Vaerion rises from his seat with unhurried grace, the motion fluid, deliberate—like ice cracking just before the under tow sweeps you away. He adjusts his dark studded leather with a slow tug at the edges, letting the movement speak in silence before his words ever need to. His boots, finely crafted yet eerily soundless, carry him across the tavern’s wooden floor, closing the distance between himself and the table of woodsmen.
The air around them tightens as he nears. Not by magic, not yet—but by presence alone. The younger men stiffen, the older ones set their jaws. Good. They understand that something has changed.
Without asking, without invitation, Vaerion pulls out a chair beside the older woodsman who spoke in defiance. He turns it slightly before sitting, angling himself just enough so that the man is forced to face him directly.
And then, Vaerion simply looks at him.
His ice-blue eyes, cold and unyielding as the deep frost of winter, study the man in silence. His gaze unwavering in the strained silence.
"You’ll do best to just leave this valley while ye still can."
The words echo in Vaerion’s mind. The warning does not surprise him, nor does the defiance. What does surprise him is the certainty behind it. This is not the vague fear of superstitious men but the conviction of someone who knows.
Vaerion smiles, but it is a thing without warmth, the mere gesture of a smile, designed to unnerve more than reassure.
"Many have warned me away before, woodsman. Bandits, convicts, men who thought their shadows loomed longer than their reach. They all had their reasons. They all believed they were certain. But I have never been one to turn back simply because a man with dirt under his nails tells me to."
He lets the words hang for a moment, studying the deep lines on the man's face.
"But I am a reasonable person," Vaerion continues smoothly, "so let us assume, for a moment, that your words come from concern rather than cowardice. That your warning is not simply the frightened muttering of men who wish to remain blind in the dark, but the wisdom of those who have seen."
His fingers twitch subtly, and a whispered incantation leaves his lips, barely audible. A flicker of unnatural frost traces the rim of the table of woodsman's mugs, ice creeping along its edge in thin, jagged lines before abruptly vanishing. A breath of winter where there should be none.
Vaerion tilts his head slightly, watching the man’s reaction. Is it fear? Annoyance? Defeat? All will indicate something he can use.
"Now," he says, his voice quiet but cutting, "why don’t you explain precisely what you meant?"
He lets the weight of expectation settle before, with the same calculated ease, he turns his gaze toward the younger woodsmen, fixing him with a sharp, knowing look.
"And you,"Vaerion adds, shifting ever so slightly to grant the boy his full attention, "I suggest you explain yourself to my associate, who has just recently shown you a courtesy of providing the table with ale. She is patient, but I have found that patience has limits."
The implication is left unstated, but the meaning is clear to the table. Speak. Before you lose the opportunity to do so willingly.
Vaerion attempts to intimidate the table into talking Intimidation 16 (advantage)
“Whooo weeee, you better bee listenin to that there elf mister. I can tell by his tone that he’s serious. Mayhaps you could tell us what we should be afeared of? This one (points to Shae) said that they ran afoul of some vicious insects earlier today. Shame they didn’t have me to deal with ‘em. Woulda put ‘em in my pouch and had ‘em join the show. So, what say you tell us what you’ve been seeing out in the woods? Or have you just been playin aroun with your wood? And don’t you go scowlin at that other one. He’s about to tell us something of use!”
Just then Grymar opens the little pouch on his waist and says a few words, then a big shimmering hand made out of ethereal bees floats up in the air, pointing at the man who was about to talk to them, pointing in finger gun pistol form toward the man.
Perhaps any help with intimidation… or persuasion to talk?
Shae observes the interaction in silence, her tired eyes sharp despite the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. Her new companions are relentless—Sabetha's charm, Vaerion's chilling presence, Grymar's unhinged antics—each pressing in on the woodsmen from different angles, like a well-practiced hunting pack cornering its prey. It is… impressive. Their energy contrasts with her own weariness, but perhaps that’s for the best. They might actually get something useful out of these men. The weight of the day has dulled her, but she recognizes a good team when she sees one. They are varied in approach, yet effective, and that counts for more than simple numbers.
She leans forward slightly, watching the lumberjacks’ reactions, gauging the tension in their shoulders, the way their eyes dart toward one another, toward the growing frost on their mugs, toward the unsettling spectacle of Grymar’s spectral bee-hand hovering in the air. This is working. Shae allows herself a faint smirk and clasps her hands loosely together on the table, letting the others take the lead. If there’s anything she’s learned, it’s that sometimes, the best way to extract the truth is to let the pressure build—until the only escape is through answers.
All of the men's expressions soften at the pressures applied to them, their eyes wide at the insect formation. One of the younger ones knocks over his chair as he tries to get away from the small small pointing at his apparent direction (or so he thinks). He very nearly lands on his backside but steadies himself on the overturned chair. The entire bar goes quiet at the racket and eyes turn toward your direction, some obvious and others peeked over mugs of ale and half-eaten plates of food. The other patrons seem to not wish involvement in what transpires at the lumberjacks' table, but their all curious now.
The younger of the two that Vaerion had spoken to blurts out first, "The Court needs shut down. Only old geysers like them wanna keep em 'round. We don't want no trouble though, honest!" His eyes dart between the elf, the dwarf and the bees before he takes a boxing of the ear from the older man.
"SHADDUP FOOL! This lot ain't in'trested in politics!" He looks back to Vaerion after cutting a nervous glance at the fistful of bees, "No threats intended. There's just likely more danger in them woods and rocks than the Mayor lets on. Those Old Ones been round here for centuries, from before Jaekin. The yungins round the village want change, but they dunno what they're askin for. Freedom ain't always what you bargain for in my opinion and I ain't the only one that thinks that way."
The other older man pipes in under his breath, "...but us old codgers is dying out anyways..." He looks back down to hopefully disappear into his staring at the new mug of ale delivered by the barkeeper.
Shae leans back slightly in her chair, studying the two newcomers with an unreadable expression. Her crimson eyes narrow just a fraction, though whether it’s skepticism or simple exhaustion is difficult to tell. With a slow breath, she sets down her tankard and finally speaks. “We set out earlier tonight for the lumberyard,” she begins, her voice calm and measured. “Simple enough plan—follow the path, get there, see what we could learn. But the Ravenswood doesn’t seem to take kindly to visitors.” She absently runs a thumb over the rim of her cup, her mind briefly replaying the events. “A creature attacked us on the way. Not one of the Jae, or so it claimed. It called itself a Selang—some outcast fey, more insect than man. It had its own magic and tricks, along with those cursed flies that sewed my companion’s lips shut mid-battle. We managed to kill it, but not without cost.”
She tilts her head, watching their reactions. “We’d been warned, of course. The mayor and constable both told us not to wander into the woods at night, but we disregarded that, thinking we knew better.” Her lips press into a thin line. “We paid for it. One of us almost died and then abandoned. Another decided that was enough and walked away, too. Then, just moments ago, another of our recruits heard enough of the mayor’s talk and made their exit as well after barely being with us for an hour.” She gestures vaguely to the remaining members of the group. “Now, it’s just the three of us.”
Her gaze shifts between Sabetha and Vaerion, assessing them in turn. “And you, Sabetha, if you still want to join after all that.” Then, with a slow glance toward Vaerion, she raises an eyebrow. “And a bounty hunter who claims he can help us find the innkeeper’s son. I had hoped the boy would simply turn up here on his own, but it seems I might have been mistaken." Her tone is even, giving nothing away, but there’s no mistaking the hint of curiosity in her gaze. “So tell me, hunter—are you offering your help out of professional interest, or something more personal?”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Vaerion regards Shae with an expression that is equal parts amusement and scrutiny, his ice-blue gaze lingering on her for just a moment too long before he finally speaks.
“Before I answer, shall we establish the rules of our engagement?” He tilts his head slightly, the movement precise, calculated. “Are we to address one another by profession—Rogue, Warrior, Mage—or do we use our given names? I am Vaerion.” The way he says his name carries an unshakable confidence, as though it should be known, should mean something.
Then, without ceremony, he continues.
“Murder Court.”
He lets the words hang in the air, taking his time to study each face, his sharp eyes flicking over them one by one, reading every subtle shift in their expressions. The tightening of a jaw, the flicker of hesitation, the way their shoulders react to the weight of that name. He absorbs it all, committing it to memory. Finally, with the faintest trace of a knowing smirk, he exhales, as if that moment of silent appraisal has given him some private satisfaction.
Insight check to gauge if the party recognize "Murder Court"
Insight 16
“If this is the path you walk, then understand that obstacles—loss, failure, fear—are inevitable. A scattering of bodies, frayed nerves, and shaken resolve do not impress me.” He waves a gloved hand vaguely at her mention of the group’s dwindling numbers, as though dismissing the very idea that such losses would concern him. “Only those with the fortitude to see things through matter in the end. If your concern is whether I will also vanish into the night, I assure you—my commitments are not so easily severed.”
As for her question, he allows a deliberate pause before answering.
“My interests are my own,” he says smoothly. “What I seek is information, and if our goals align, so be it. I care little for sentiment.” He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the moment feel more intimate—more dangerous. “And you should care little for mine. You have a task before you. If I were you, I would be far more concerned about how I may serve your cause than why I choose to do so.”
His gaze flicks toward Geren then, regarding the half-elf with something between mild intrigue and vague condescension. “As for you,” he murmurs, “your enthusiasm is... noted.” The way he says it makes it impossible to tell if he considers this a compliment or an insult.
Vaerion straightens, rolling his shoulders slightly beneath his studded leather armor, as if the conversation itself is hardly worth the energy it requires. He shifts his attention back to Shae, his tone returning to its usual cool indifference.
“As for this Selang,” he muses, his voice light, almost dismissive. “An outcast fey? A creature of tricks and curses?” He lets out a soft scoff. “Hardly a concern. If it bled, then it died. That is all that matters.”
His gaze sharpens. “Jae, however… I have yet to determine if they warrant my attention. But let me be clear: I am not one to be deterred by whispers of creatures in the dark. If such things are what remain between us and our quarry, then I welcome them.”
Nature Check to determine if he knows what a Jae is
Nature 11
His expression settles into something colder, more certain. “The hunt continues, regardless.”
11 Nature will tell you only that you know nothing of such creatures thus far. You only reckon that perhaps they are some kin the Fey creatures by the name and descriptions you've heard discussed here.
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
Shae meets Vaerion’s gaze with a measured look, unshaken by his cold confidence. She does not flinch at his scrutiny, nor does she react to his posturing—she has seen his kind before. Those who thought themselves untouchable, too sharp to be caught off guard, too skilled to meet an early end. It wasn’t a fault, necessarily—just a lack of experience.
“Well met, Vaerion. I’m Shae.” Her tone is even, her expression unreadable. Then, with an easy motion, she gestures to an open seat. “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink? We’ve all had a long day.” There is no challenge in her voice, no provocation—just the simple acknowledgment that his presence, while intriguing, is not enough to rattle her.
She lets a small pause linger before continuing, picking her words carefully. “You don’t need to dance around it—we all know about the Murder Court. Or at least, we know as much as the mayor was willing to share. He wants them shut down. That’s the job.” She leans back slightly, watching him, gauging his response.
Shae is not impressed by the grand display of certainty, the way he dismisses concern as weakness. In her experience, being wary wasn’t a flaw—it was survival. Those who acted as if fear and caution were beneath them rarely lasted long in places like this. 'Knowing your limits is wisdom. Ignoring them is arrogance.' She would have to keep a watchful eye on this one. But she does not voice her thoughts. Instead, she simply offers a nod and says, “It’s a dangerous mission. We’ve seen that firsthand. So I won’t turn away any living soul willing to join us.” Her lips quirk slightly, though whether it’s amusement or quiet warning is unclear. “Just as long as they know what they’re walking into.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
"For the hunter and the hunted, Taking time to break the pace," Ely quotes to Sabetha. "Moonshadow. A fine and fitting name for a fox. Selûne is my calling, and the light of the moon often reveals more than the light of the sun. I prefer to use that light to ease hurt now, though in the past....I am told that people change."
Ely raises a hand. "I can't take credit for the fight with the Selang. I arrived in town to find my new friends here," and he gestures to the table, "a little worse for wear." He smiles. "But alive, which is always good at the end of the day. Alive is good."
"As for the Murder Court, I fear that we know about as much as you do, Vaerion. The Mayor and his Constable appear to enjoy beating about the bush and talking in enigmas. I don't think they are lying, but I'm certain there's a little more information that they are withholding." He places his hands on his chest. "Just my own feelings on the matter, but I take that to mean this whole caper is far more dangerous than anyone is willing to admit. But please sit and join us. I've spent so much time on the road, a simple convivial evening is just the tonic."
Vaerion absorbs Shae’s measured response with the same detached composure that has defined him thus far. There is no tension in his stance, no bristling at her words—only the quiet, unwavering certainty of one who has long since discarded the need for approval. If her lack of intimidation amuses him, he does not show it. If her silent scrutiny has placed him under some unspoken test, he does not acknowledge it.
Instead, he inclines his head ever so slightly.
“Well met, Shae.”
At her invitation, he moves without hesitation, claiming the open seat as though it was always meant for him. He does not thank her—that much is simply assumed.
His gaze lingers on her for a fraction of a second before shifting to Ely. The priest’s poetic musings are met with silent consideration, though Vaerion does not engage with them directly.
When Ely speaks of the Murder Court, there is no surprise in his expression, no indication that he had expected anything less. Instead, he listens in the same manner he always does—eyes sharp, absorbing every detail, every pause, every inflection.
“Then you know enough to be concerned,” he replies, his voice even, matter-of-fact. “But not enough to be prepared.” His fingers tap once against the table’s edge, a quiet punctuation to his words. “Your mayor wishes them shut down. A simple demand for a task that is anything but. Though I suspect you’ve already begun to see that.”
“Alive is good,” he acknowledges, though there is something in the way he says it—something that suggests it is not a sentiment he often indulges in.
Ely’s assessment of the mayor and constable earns a faint, knowing smirk. “Authorities who withhold information from those risking their lives on their behalf? Predictable.” His voice carries no frustration, only inevitability. “Either they think you will not press, or they believe you will not survive long enough for it to matter. Neither possibility inspires confidence in their leadership.”
He leans back slightly, allowing his posture to ease—not in comfort, but in the manner of one who sees little reason for tension.
Insight Check to determine if there is/are anyone in the surrounding tables who are taking a little too much interest in them.
Insight 16
Sabetha's eyes widen as the priest of Selune quotes for her a song she had heard seemingly an age ago, when she still clung to innocence.
"Run with the Fox," she whispers with a smile. "A squire, garbed all in white, sung it to me when he saw me playing with Moonshadow on the eve his knight came to visit my master, an old friend. I think the boy fancied me and I know I fancied him. So long ago..." She puts a hand to her temple.
Her reverie is broken by Shae's account of the fraught sortie into the Ravenswood, and then by the arrival of the haughty eladrin. Sabetha blinks, then manages to extend her smile from Ely to Geren, Shae and even Vaerion. She quells a brief, irrational urge to rudely ask the latter what season he is in, remembering tales she had heard of eladrin as a youngster. Instead, she contemplates her own reasons for joining in such a harrowing quest.
To be the hand that stops the tyrant. To bring solace to the oppressed, and ask for nothing in return... I have run from my fears for long enough.
"We all may have our own reasons for joining such an obviously uncertain and perilous mission to help this town, despite not knowing the true purpose of its leaders nor the secrets they keep from us. Regardless of our disparate motives, I believe we are stronger together. For myself, topmost in my heart is that it is the right thing to do. To help these people. Speaking of which, perhaps we should approach some of the folk here before us in the inn. Unless one of you has already done so? I wonder what they think of all this darkness that presses in on them, and of our quest to defeat it."
Taking a small sip of her drink, Sabetha lifts her pale green eyes to study the crowd that surrounds them at the Olde Crowe, searching for a table of folk that seem as if they might be receptive to an outsider joining their conversation (without being so inebriated that such conversation might be fruitless).
Sabetha's Perception or Insight (same bonus) to find a likely group of inn-going commoners to speak to: 20 (dirty)
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall | Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles | Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil | Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft | Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return | Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Ely grins and chuckles. "That song has some sage advice too. "Beware of the Rocs"; I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment, and I have yet to meet one. I guess I took the advice to heart." His grin turns to a curious frown. "I wonder if it was the same Squire I heard it from, many years ago?"
He looks off into the distance, wistful. "Hold those memories dear, as they are part of the light that Selûne guides us by," The words, while spoken aloud, seem more introspective than anything else. Snapping back to the present, "but we wait for someone we think could help us. Pik, the son of the inkeep, who apparently has an uncanny ability to travel the lands around here without bother. If he doesn't appear tonight, then hopefully in the morning and then..." he shrugs, "I guess we cross that bridge when it happens."
Vaerion notes that many in the inn seem interested in the party; however, most don't seem openly eavesdropping. They cut glances toward the party's table from time to time as is fairly common in a village the size of Jaekin. Most of the locals likely know every single person that calls the village home.
Sabetha does catch a group of possible lumberjacks (by their dress and the woodchips stuck in clothes and beards) who seem to be getting quiet intermittently as the group talks. They are seated at the table next to yours, and appear to be making comments amongst themselves as the adventurers talk about the woods, the Murder Court, and the innkeeper's son, Pik.
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
Sitting at a table unobtrusively, opposite from the group, a dwarf is sitting with a dirt-stained cloak, ratty appearing brown hair and a thick beard. If you look long enough, you might actually see movement in the beard, and a small segmented ? insect leg that appears from within, from time to time, then disappears. The dwarf is eating heartily something that crunches occasionally, drinking an ale and he has a pouch open on the table, next to him. He takes a bite of bread and then waves at the pouch. There is movement on the table and if you take another look again, you would almost swear that you see two little bees doing a conga line dance back into the pouch, waving their arms and wings in time. This amuses the dwarf, and he chuckles before picking up the pouch and affixing it to his waist. "Heh, back in ye go!" He finishes his meal, then swings his legs around, looking at the group of you as his feet don't quite touch the floor from the bench for the table. He grins at all of you and gives you a knowing wink.
"Yer all after it are ya? Dya need another hand? The Mayor sent me here and described the lot of ya, really unmistakable ifn you know what I mean. Name's Grymar. He called me a "replacement", I saids "What happened to the other feller?" He saids you don't wanna know. Hah! Made me sit in that blasted zone of truth as I spilled my guts and convinced the two of them I wasn't the boogeyman or somesuch. I would ah.. like to join up with youns. I wanna help these good people in this town, the lumberjacks, the miners, the folk who keep gettin crapped on, ya know? So, whas say there? I'm pretty good with my hammer here and I have the help of.... help of.... " He trails off for a moment, stuttering, and then a flush comes to his face, eyes darting between you, he says in a softer voice "My bee frenz. They help me. They can do... lots of things. I'll show ya, sometime... if you want. So hows bout it?" He looks up at you all, locking eyes with each of you, looking hopeful.
Vaerion regards the dwarf with a curious expression. His ice-blue gaze sweeps over the stout figure, taking in the unkempt beard, the stocky build, the smell of ale that clings to him like an unwanted enchantment. He exhales slowly, his breath steady, measured.
Ah, a dwarf. Wonderful. He muses to himself.
Internally, his thoughts race like snow behind a storm cloud.
On the one hand, another blade—well, hammer—would not be unwelcome. I am not so proud as to deny simple arithmetic: more steel means fewer openings for our enemies. And yet…
His gaze turns to the dwarf’s hands—broad, calloused, capable. Then to his boots—thick, clumsy, undoubtedly loud. Then, reluctantly, back to his beard-why so much hair? Did it serve a purpose? What exactly IS nesting in there?
Still, the endurance of dwarves is well known. And they do hit things with remarkable efficiency. But the stubbornness, the lack of grace, the— he glances once more at the beard —alarming.
Vaerion could almost hear his ancestors howling in dismay. Somewhere in the celestial halls of elvenkind, an ancient forebear was surely clutching at their heart, whispering, Not like this...
And yet.
And yet.
There will be a fight this was to be sure, and he had fought alongside worse. And if nothing else, dwarves were infamously hard to kill. A fact that could be leveraged.They are a blunt instrument, yes, but even a blunt instrument has its uses. He reflects to himself.
His expression does not shift, his posture does not falter. At last, he inclines his head slightly.
"If you can use that hammer with purpose, then I can find a purpose for you."
“You bet I can, Mr…. elf. Whas your name? Didn’t catch it.” He points his fingers up to his head, hair in a mock salute, and he makes the motion, a bee is on the tip of his index finger. It buzzes lazily around and then lands back on the top of his head, then disappears. A big toothy grin with early to moderate periodontal decay follows, he wiggles to the edge of the bench, becoming even more excited. “What about the rest of ya? Bee you willin to take on ole Grymar to join yer group?” He pauses to scratch his flank for a moment, then looks to each face, with hope and a grin.
Sabetha grins at the dwarf with genuine warmth. From even her limited time in Waterdeep, she remembers those she had grown fond of, contacts and informants and assets, some of them dwarves, who had been nearly as smelly and hirsute, and supported perhaps... a quarter the arthropod biome that this one does. She attempts to ignore the little voice in her head which whispers... in the end, would it not have been less painful had you not grown fond?
"Grymar. I am Sabetha. Perhaps together we shall keep all of our guts from spilling out in the future, zone of truth or no. And just between us, I think you're growing on Vaerion here. You should introduce him to the friends in your beard."
The slender young half-elf hops out of her seat, pale-green eyes still twinkling, and takes her drink with her as she approaches her selected group of nearby lumberjacks. Wondering if she might get anything out of them that Mayor Brodenbuck and Constable Arlayana had chosen not to reveal.
All that practice, yet I was never much good at this part... not nearly subtle enough... oh well...
"Hello lads. What does a new girl in town have to do to talk to a local around here? Buy you the next round maybe?"
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall | Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles | Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil | Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft | Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return | Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Shae exhales slowly, rubbing her temples before looking at Sabetha. “Good idea,” she says, though her tone lacks enthusiasm, weighed down by exhaustion. “Go see what you can dig up. These folk might know more than they’re willing to share with outsiders, especially ones recruited by the mayor.” She raises a hand and traces a subtle, unseen symbol in the air. “And take some guidance while you’re at it—use it wisely.” With a glance toward the bar, she mutters, “Pik is still our priority. See if you can find out when he’s usually here or where he wanders.”
Her crimson eyes flick back to the dwarf who had so enthusiastically inserted himself into their company, and she lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Seems there’s no end to volunteers eager to throw themselves at the Murder Court.” Her voice is laced with dry humor, though there’s an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. “I wonder if they even realize how much ire they’ve stirred up among the people—or if it’s just the mayor whipping everyone into a frenzy.” Her gaze lingers on Grymar for a moment longer, assessing him. The wild beard, the dirt-stained cloak, the... movement in said beard. She tilts her head, watching as a tiny insect leg peeks out and then vanishes. Ah. A druid. That explains the lack of hygiene. She barely refrains from grimacing when a bee buzzes too close, waving it away with a sharp motion before hesitating. 'Was that rude? He had called them his ‘friends,’ after all,' she thinks to herself. She eyes Grymar warily, wondering just how wild he was—even for a druid. “One would think I’ve suffered enough insects for one day,” she mutters under her breath, recalling the Selang’s cursed flies.
Still, she lets out a long sigh and straightens, nodding toward Grymar. “You’re welcome to join us but please keep those bees in check, at least for today, I'm a bit on edge specifically regarding insects after our encounter today. Look, every hand will be useful—the creatures in the forest made that very clear.” She gestures toward the others. “We’re the ones the mayor roped into dealing with the Murder Court. You know, the usual—walk into the dark, face death, hope we make it out in one piece.” As if summoned by the word ‘bee,’ a small mound rises on her clothed arm, shifting slightly before something tiny and winged emerges from beneath the fabric. Ekko, her familiar, peeks out with beady eyes, scanning the room, assessing the situation. His gaze locks onto the hovering bees, his tiny mouth parting as if in anticipation. Shae gives him a pointed look, and after a moment of hesitation, the bat lets out a barely audible sigh and slinks back under her sleeve, vanishing once more. She sighs and shakes her head. “That was Ekko. He’s... curious.” She gives the dwarf a measured look.
Her attention shifts back to the matter at hand. “Like I said, we need to find Pik. The boy seems to be one of the few people in this town who actually knows the land around here, and if anyone can point us toward the Court, it’s probably him.” She glances at Geren. “That, and your contact at the lumber yard. We were thinking of heading there tomorrow.” Leaning back in her chair, Shae lets out another weary sigh. “I just want to see what yields the conversation with the lumberjacks, and after that you will have to excuse me, I fully intend to sleep while I still have the chance.”
While she waits for the conclusion of Sabetha's conversation, Shae uses the opportunity to retrieve a small pouch from her belt, withdrawing a pinch of fine acorn dust between her fingers. With a practiced motion, she sprinkles it into a goblet, her voice a low murmur as she calls upon Kiaransalee’s favor. The liquid within shifts to a luminous green, casting faint reflections across the table. She gestures for the others. “It’s better to be prepared,” she states, her tone matter-of-fact. “I can still ask for this favor from my goddess, and I don’t intend to waste it.” She lifts the goblet slightly. “Emerald Goblet—it grants night vision, or extends what you already have. Lasts a full day.” She sets it down. “Drink if you want it. Given where we’re going, I’d say it’s worth having.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
The rough bunch of woodsmen tense up and grow more quiet at Sabetha's attentions. The group consists of five men - three likely younger than 30 and two at least in their 50's (though all look worn beyond the years they likely bear.) The group all appear to have not been in from their work in the forest or at the lumberyard for long, and their table hosts the remains of their dinner and half-drunk mugs of ale. The smell of wood and sweat permeates the air around their table.
One of the older ones frowns and leans forward on his elbows, "A round of drinks would be most welcome, stranger. If yer joinin' up with that lot there, then we know what yer take is. You'll do best to just leave this valley while ye still can." The man's weathered eyes stare at the half-elf with weariness and a touch of defiance.
One of the younger ones at the table scoffs and mutters under his breath, "Not everbudy wants that..." He sips at his ale and looks away from the table and the muttered comment that he'd tossed out while the older lumberjack cuts a scowl in his direction.
Sabetha can make a persuasion or intimidation check as she interacts with these men depending on what route of conversation she is having here.
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
Sabetha immediately signals for a round of drinks for the men she has joined. She counts out the coins needed to pay, adding a solid tip on top, as if to emphasize that she understood the bit about 'yer take'. Her pale green gaze meets the lumberjack's with both warmth and a hint of challenge.
I am not here for 'my take', though saying that and having these men believe me are different things...
"Truth be told, it warms my heart that you care about what happens to us. Even a little. Enough to warn us away. Far more than he Mayor or Constable would tell any of us with their vague handwaving and insisting we'd entered into a binding contract that I don't remember anything about."
Sabetha's expression becomes sincerely somber. Unless this man is telling me that the people of the town themselves are the reason we should leave...
"And I'd be a fool not to sense the danger here. The palpable menace out in those woods and mountains. So how is it you all are still drawing breath and drinking ale? Do the spirits of the wood not harry you while you are swinging your axe? How does Pik, the Innkeep's son, avoid the peril?"
Sabetha favors the young lumberjack with a warm smile as if he weren't being a touch creepy. "Oh? What does 'not everybudy' want then? If your wise friend believes this valley is something to escape as fast as our feet can carry us, then you may as well share what you really think. I won't take offense."
Sabetha's Persuasion plus Guidance: 10 + 1 = 11
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall | Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles | Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil | Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft | Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return | Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Vaerion rises from his seat with unhurried grace, the motion fluid, deliberate—like ice cracking just before the under tow sweeps you away. He adjusts his dark studded leather with a slow tug at the edges, letting the movement speak in silence before his words ever need to. His boots, finely crafted yet eerily soundless, carry him across the tavern’s wooden floor, closing the distance between himself and the table of woodsmen.
The air around them tightens as he nears. Not by magic, not yet—but by presence alone. The younger men stiffen, the older ones set their jaws. Good. They understand that something has changed.
Without asking, without invitation, Vaerion pulls out a chair beside the older woodsman who spoke in defiance. He turns it slightly before sitting, angling himself just enough so that the man is forced to face him directly.
And then, Vaerion simply looks at him.
His ice-blue eyes, cold and unyielding as the deep frost of winter, study the man in silence. His gaze unwavering in the strained silence.
"You’ll do best to just leave this valley while ye still can."
The words echo in Vaerion’s mind. The warning does not surprise him, nor does the defiance. What does surprise him is the certainty behind it. This is not the vague fear of superstitious men but the conviction of someone who knows.
Vaerion smiles, but it is a thing without warmth, the mere gesture of a smile, designed to unnerve more than reassure.
"Many have warned me away before, woodsman. Bandits, convicts, men who thought their shadows loomed longer than their reach. They all had their reasons. They all believed they were certain. But I have never been one to turn back simply because a man with dirt under his nails tells me to."
He lets the words hang for a moment, studying the deep lines on the man's face.
"But I am a reasonable person," Vaerion continues smoothly, "so let us assume, for a moment, that your words come from concern rather than cowardice. That your warning is not simply the frightened muttering of men who wish to remain blind in the dark, but the wisdom of those who have seen."
His fingers twitch subtly, and a whispered incantation leaves his lips, barely audible. A flicker of unnatural frost traces the rim of the table of woodsman's mugs, ice creeping along its edge in thin, jagged lines before abruptly vanishing. A breath of winter where there should be none.
Vaerion tilts his head slightly, watching the man’s reaction. Is it fear? Annoyance? Defeat? All will indicate something he can use.
"Now," he says, his voice quiet but cutting, "why don’t you explain precisely what you meant?"
He lets the weight of expectation settle before, with the same calculated ease, he turns his gaze toward the younger woodsmen, fixing him with a sharp, knowing look.
"And you," Vaerion adds, shifting ever so slightly to grant the boy his full attention, "I suggest you explain yourself to my associate, who has just recently shown you a courtesy of providing the table with ale. She is patient, but I have found that patience has limits."
The implication is left unstated, but the meaning is clear to the table. Speak. Before you lose the opportunity to do so willingly.
Vaerion attempts to intimidate the table into talking
Intimidation 16 (advantage)
“Whooo weeee, you better bee listenin to that there elf mister. I can tell by his tone that he’s serious. Mayhaps you could tell us what we should be afeared of? This one (points to Shae) said that they ran afoul of some vicious insects earlier today. Shame they didn’t have me to deal with ‘em. Woulda put ‘em in my pouch and had ‘em join the show. So, what say you tell us what you’ve been seeing out in the woods? Or have you just been playin aroun with your wood? And don’t you go scowlin at that other one. He’s about to tell us something of use!”
Just then Grymar opens the little pouch on his waist and says a few words, then a big shimmering hand made out of ethereal bees floats up in the air, pointing at the man who was about to talk to them, pointing in finger gun pistol form toward the man.
Perhaps any help with intimidation… or persuasion to talk?
Shae observes the interaction in silence, her tired eyes sharp despite the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. Her new companions are relentless—Sabetha's charm, Vaerion's chilling presence, Grymar's unhinged antics—each pressing in on the woodsmen from different angles, like a well-practiced hunting pack cornering its prey. It is… impressive. Their energy contrasts with her own weariness, but perhaps that’s for the best. They might actually get something useful out of these men. The weight of the day has dulled her, but she recognizes a good team when she sees one. They are varied in approach, yet effective, and that counts for more than simple numbers.
She leans forward slightly, watching the lumberjacks’ reactions, gauging the tension in their shoulders, the way their eyes dart toward one another, toward the growing frost on their mugs, toward the unsettling spectacle of Grymar’s spectral bee-hand hovering in the air. This is working. Shae allows herself a faint smirk and clasps her hands loosely together on the table, letting the others take the lead. If there’s anything she’s learned, it’s that sometimes, the best way to extract the truth is to let the pressure build—until the only escape is through answers.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
All of the men's expressions soften at the pressures applied to them, their eyes wide at the insect formation. One of the younger ones knocks over his chair as he tries to get away from the small small pointing at his apparent direction (or so he thinks). He very nearly lands on his backside but steadies himself on the overturned chair. The entire bar goes quiet at the racket and eyes turn toward your direction, some obvious and others peeked over mugs of ale and half-eaten plates of food. The other patrons seem to not wish involvement in what transpires at the lumberjacks' table, but their all curious now.
The younger of the two that Vaerion had spoken to blurts out first, "The Court needs shut down. Only old geysers like them wanna keep em 'round. We don't want no trouble though, honest!" His eyes dart between the elf, the dwarf and the bees before he takes a boxing of the ear from the older man.
"SHADDUP FOOL! This lot ain't in'trested in politics!" He looks back to Vaerion after cutting a nervous glance at the fistful of bees, "No threats intended. There's just likely more danger in them woods and rocks than the Mayor lets on. Those Old Ones been round here for centuries, from before Jaekin. The yungins round the village want change, but they dunno what they're askin for. Freedom ain't always what you bargain for in my opinion and I ain't the only one that thinks that way."
The other older man pipes in under his breath, "...but us old codgers is dying out anyways..." He looks back down to hopefully disappear into his staring at the new mug of ale delivered by the barkeeper.
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC