The strands of fate are fickle indeed, and who can guess how the Nornir might pour the waters of wyrd across Yggdrasil's roots?
The lands of the Frozen North have been devastated by the Fimbulwinter,prelude to Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods. The sky has gone dark. The wind blows bitter and cold. Crops wither and fail in the half-light. It is a harsh time, a tribulation that only the strong might survive.
Your individual journeys have led you each to Drifsgaard, the crown city of Clan Gulleska. Wealthiest of the seven clans, the Gulleska ply their longships up and down the uneven shores and narrow fjords of the Jagged Coast. Their merchants, subtle as they are greedy, haggle with both human and non-human alike.
Drifsgaard lies at a natural crossroads, a well protected harbor allows safe access from the Half-moon Sea to the west, while mountain passes to the north and south funnel land traffic to the shelter of its walls. Both Alfheim and Svartalfheim lie to the East across the Wylding Way. The Way is long and treacherous, thick forrests and treacherous mountain passes provide ample hiding places for bandits and trolls, and the mists of Niflheim ever lurk at the edges...
Jarl Eluff Word-smith rules Drifsgaard with a keen eye and a steady hand. It takes a shrewd man to hold a city the size of Drisgaard together during Fimbulwinter, and many such settlements have long since fallen to disease and strife.
Even so, unrest prowls the city streets. Refugees from the east flood the alleys and gutters as the war between Alfheim and Svartalfheim escalates. Drifsgaard vikings grow ever bolder, claiming the riches of lesser settlements and their own, and the people as their thralls. Wolves howl from beyond the city walls at night, a grim omen.
Tensions run high as larders grow barren and thin. The city is perilously close to the edge, and hungry eyes watch from within and without...
Roondar stomps his foot hard on the wooden floor and quick to the beat of his lute as he belts out a harsh song, his voice baritone and rough despite his small stature: "Iron will – warrior skill And how far away they fought Set us free – destiny For the blood of heroes bought Iron will – warrior skill And how far away they fell Set us free – destiny For tonight we dine in Hel!"
The words ring loudly despite his tiny frame and chatting Inn-goers, the fingers of his right hand flying across the neck of the stringed instrument to the melody. As a skald he has entertained for years now, but changed his *ahem* tune recently to suit the darkened days. The coin increased a little though, as he now has folk reminiscing with him and shouting along to his raucous songs to keep spirits up. As he finishes the lyre solo he holds his left arm up with his index and pinky fingers raised. "Can I get some Ears of Fenris for the warriors of old?!" He shouts out to the patrons of the Blind-Goat Inn.
"Thank you all for your coin and cheers! Remember, the days may be dark, but our hearts are strong and by Odin we will survive as we always have! To Helheim with the great winter! We've had worse! Bring the end of days! Baldr was pretty, but what did he do anyway?!" He jeers, somewhat drunkenly to those listening. Setting down the lute he casts minor illusion to have a feathered cap on his head, only to remove it and hold it to his small chest. "But... we remember those in Valhalla and those who have fought for us. Cheers to the Blood of Heroes!"
Bowing low and sweeping the illusory hat about he strides over to the bar and orders a horn of mead, sipping it slowly as his eyes smile about the room that is now a bit warmer than it had been.
In a deep, raspy voice that sounds much too large for a Dwarf, Ragnar sang, "Oh trolls and orcs, oh chickens and porks...." Ragnar's horrible, drunken lyrics trail off as he stumbles up to the Blind-Goat Inn and throws his weight into the door. Entering the warm building with a crash and barely holding himself up on the door-handle, he hears a voice shout, "Cheers to the Blood of Heroes!" "Blood of Heroes!" He echoes, in a booming voice, raising his arms in the air and making the sign of Fenris wolf with both hands. "Ya ere dat Vahlen?! D'ere singin' ow bloddy song! Oi fink it's time to see which of us can drink dis Inn out dis time! Whaddya say?! Shawl we spend our hard-earned golds de ole' fashioned way...?" He looked back at the door expectingly, "Vahlen...? Ah well, hewl show up. Ee was roight behine me..."
Ragnar saunters his way up to the bar and sets his great warhammer down heavy on it in front of him, "Oi would like...de lahgest cup of mead...you 'ave to offah'; an' keep 'em comin' 'cause Oi aim to drink mahseff straight to dah gates of Valhalla, so dah Gods get dah pleashure of drinkin' wiff Ragnar Longhammah!"
By the time the dwarf stumbled to the bar, Vahlen had already finished most of his pint in the darkest corner of the room. Staring deeply into the froth coating his cup, he absentmindedly fingers the remaining coins in his purse. While Ragnar was enjoying himself, (much to the dismay of the other taverngoers,) Vahlen began thinking over potential avenues for work. Bounty on an orc raiding party? Easy to track, but his dislike of the green bastards aside, the pay wasn't nearly good enough. Second-story work? No easy way to cut the dwarf in, unless things went south. Extra city watch patrols could make that a near certainty. Too risky. Sod it, he thought, he'd figure out his next step in the morning.
"Ragnar." "Ragnar." "Ragnar!"
Unable to get his companion's attention over the din of the tavern, he hurls a peanut at the back of the dwarf's head. "Oi, half-pint!"
After a few years on the road with the dwarf, he had begun to tolerate the smell. He supposed the rest of the dwarf was alright too, (especially if you needed something crushed with a hammer.) Maybe the drink was making him sentimental; he was a bit warm. He raises his now empty glass halfheartedly in cheers to the gnomish bard. He draws back the hood of his tattered cloak to reveal an unkempt knot of black hair and restlessly shifts the buckles of his well-worn leather armor.
Vahlen couldn't wait for all of this "end of days" nonsense to blow over. Whatever the fates had in store for him, he'd find a way through it as he always had.
Hem fiddled absentmindedly with the smooth wood of the three interlocked triangles that hung across his brown robes. He didn't particular care for the Valknut - it really just got in the way most of the time - but having the symbol of Odin around his neck had it's advantages. The discounted horn of mead he was currently nursing at the bar was one such advantage.
He watched the gnome plucking out his tune with mild interest, but most of his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of impending doom. Odin's despondency and sadness as of late was turning his more devout disciples into a raving bunch of lunatics. Add to that the steady stream of refugees battered by marauding Vikings and cold winds, and Hem's job as a guard of the Muninn Temple (read: bouncer) had become very, very, busy. There wasn't an hour that went by where he didn't use his staff these days. He rubbed his sore arm muscles and took another sip of his mead, closing his eyes and listening to the bard sing his tunes, appreciating this brief respite from the impending doom. He almost didn't catch himself whispering in affirmation the words the bard spoke at the end of his song:
"By Odin we will survive."
This will be a long winter, he thought as he drained the last of his mead and signaled for another. He knew that to tolerate the stumbling, bellowing dwarf that just walked in he'd need to have at least a couple more.
Cerridwen’s auburn hair whipped across her face making her eyes water and causing her to involuntarily pull her hood tighter over her head. “These winds are the coldest I’ve ever felt.” She thought quietly to herself as she looked over the grey oceans surrounding Drifsgaard. She was thinking about the state of universe; unrest, famine, and death… Suddenly, with chapped cheeks and surprise in her gaze, she was jolted from her train of thought. As she turned around she saw a stout dwarf; singing drunkenly and disappearing behind the Inn’s tavern door with a stumble. As much as it displeased her she knew she would freeze standing outside and she begrudgingly entered tavern behind him. She scooted around him to take a seat and was nearly pelted by a peanut in the process. She settled in for the long haul.
Tracing the rim of her pint she wondered what the Fates had in store for her and her future. She could feel that there was a shift in the 9 realms, something dangerous, something unavoidable…
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"
“Let me tell yew,” Rangnar slurred at the bartender, “Oi’ve been out in dat cold wind fer nigh on foive days now. Moi pahnah, Vahlen, the ‘ole knife-eared bahstahd...should be ‘ere any moment now; eeh was trackeen a --” Ragnar’s story was cut short by a sharp tap on the back of his head. As he whipped around, hammer in hand, ready to tear the Inn apart to find out who in Odin’s name dared flick Ragnar Longhammer, he spotted the most beautiful woman he had seen.
“Boi moi beerd,” Ragnar whispered to no one in particular. Falling out of his bar seat and quickly springing back to his feet and brushing dust off of the bear pelt he wore, Ragnar approached the auburn-haired woman, breathing directly in her face (as she was sitting down, so was close to eye-level with the burly dwarf) he said, “H-hai ma’am. Moi name’s Ragnah. Ragnah Longhammah. And ‘dis,” He said, hefting his warhammer in one hand, “Ain’t the ‘longhammah’ oim named aftah.” He said with a smile and winked at her, tugging on his long, braided red beard.
Noticing her lack of amusement, he cleared his throat and changed his tone. *Ahem* “If you’d be innerested, Oi’d very much loike to buy you a flagon, of de foinest mead in town…” Ragnar smiled wide and bowed low, steadying himself on the back on the woman’s chair.
Heimdallr's horn it's cold, thought Halvar as he walked through the streets of Drifsgaard, gotta find a place to warm up for a little bit. He picked an inn at random, and went inside.
Looking around, he took in the scene: the usual rabble one would find in a common-room. Most in little groups, conversing over mugs of ale or horns of mead. A couple at the bar (or at least, a valiant effort on the obviously drunken dwarf's part). A monk. A few solitary drinkers scattered about. A bard, who looks like he just finished a set.
Halvar nodded respectfully to the monk as he passed him, and set his pack down at the bar. "A mug of heather ale, and some of whatever's hot in the kitchen, barkeep." The barkeep nodded, but didn't move until Halvar sighed, reached into his purse, and put a few coppers on the bartop. The bartender smiled as he deftly scooped up the coins, and went to fetch Halvar's drink.
He didn't expect to find out much about what was going on in the world here in Drifsgaard, but that's where his road had taken him, for now. So for now, he grabbed his mug, turned in his seat, and watched the people in the room, anticipating the bard's next set as he waited for his food.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Niels H.
Halvar Gunnarsson - Half-Elf Cleric - lvl 1 "Scourge of the North"
Ragnar, you feel a sharp tap on your shoulder. A tall sharp featured Svartalfari (dark elf) stands behind you, with coal grey skin and bright green eyes.
”You best watch where you’re going rock-sucker.” The Svartalf sneered. “Your kind aren’t welcome here. A trio of other dark elves spreads out behind him with menacing grins. “Why don’t you crawl back to your rat’s nest in Nidavellir and leave the surface to honest folk like us.”
one of his compatriots interjects in thickly accented Svartalf.
“He says he doesn’t like you.” The dark elf smiles, revealing sharpened teeth. “I don’t like you either.”
The room has gone oddly quiet, the roar and riot of the tavern ebbing to a grumbled murmur. Other patrons quickly down their beverages and edge away, eyes darting warily.
As Ragnar stumbles slightly during his handsome bow, he feels a tap on his shoulder. Trying to ignore the pest so he can continue to woo the lovely woman before him, he begins to say, “Would yew like—“ …. “Rock sucker…?!”
Ragnar turns slowly, looking up at the elf’s bright green eyes. “Wut...did yew...call me…? Oi fought yew said….rock sucker…”
Ragnar pulls his hammer over his shoulder and straps it to his back, cracking his knuckles and neck, he looks to the other elves who have made themselves visible. “If you wasn’t a knoife-eared, swamp-smelling, coward Oi’d try and be cahful, but since yew is a knoife-ear bahstahd who smells loike Volstagg’s sweaty codpiece, Oi’ll just make you wish yew was ded. Skahld, sing me somefing tah foight to.”
Ragnar’s tattooed arms tense as his meaty hands form fists and a glint of fire sparks in his eyes as he enters a Rage.
Noticing the unwanted attention his companion has drawn, Vahlen casually strides over leaving several feet of distance between him and the group of elves. He winks at the dwarf. Under his cloak, his hands rest on the hilts of his twin short swords. A wicked smile curls his lips as he speaks to them in elvish:
"Gentlemen. You have about 10 seconds before the dwarf breaks your faces. I've seen him kill far tougher than the likes of you with his bare hands. I suggest you apologize and buy him a flagon of mead to smooth things over."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Oh great, another light-dark spat, with a dwarf thrown in for good measure. At least they haven't noticed the half-breed, yet, Halvar thinks wryly to himself, as he shifts his attention towards the noise, and he makes a mental note of which pocket on his pack holds his crossbow bolts. You think they'd learn to drink in different establishments...
Initiative: 7 Perception: 6
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Niels H.
Halvar Gunnarsson - Half-Elf Cleric - lvl 1 "Scourge of the North"
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Roondar, upon hearing his trade called for a magnificent fight song, lightly hops up from his bar stool onto the bar and begins to play a song with his viol, singing to add to the melody!
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
"Yew shoulda listened to moi fren, ye swamp-crawler!" Ragnar's tense arms come together in front of him, hands clenched tight, as his shoulder muscles bulge beneath the bear-hide, showing even more tattoos and scars. His teeth clenched into a menacing half-smile half-snarl, he prepares for a fight.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Hem heard the whole exchange between the elves and the dwarf right behind him, sighing when he felt the dark elf’s cloak fall near his stool. The last thing he wanted was to get into a bar brawl during his day off, but this one was too close for comfort. The drunken dwarf would probably land one on the back of his head without realizing it. Hem quietly jumped down from his stool and pivoted, ready for whatever would come his way.
Cerridwen felt her ears being assaulted by belches and a poor excuse for a pick-up line as she was smattered with the mead flicking of the Dwarf’s mustache. She was seriously considering using her ability to produce fire to burn the mustache off his lips… She decided against it and looked up to find an escape route when she noticed three Dark Elves strolling straight for them.
The Dark Elves pair off, two of them approaching each of you, spinning their daggers with malicious intent. One Dark Elf lunges at Ragnar, but the Dwarf's armor turns the blade aside. The lead Svartalf raises his hand and a burning green rune erupts into life. In a heartbeat Ragnar is engulfed by a thick cloud of mites, fleas, and other vermin. The tiny creatures claw and nibble at your skin, venomous and cruel. Make a Constitution save against a DC of 13 or suffer 3 poison damage.
The other two Dark Elves face off against Vahlen. They dart in quickly, knives flashing in the greasy lamplight. One of the Dark Elves goes wide, his blade missing by a wide margin. However, the other dagger strikes home for 3 damage.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
Greetings friends! It's time to get Norse with it! I'm still getting things up and running, so bear with me there!
The strands of fate are fickle indeed, and who can guess how the Nornir might pour the waters of wyrd across Yggdrasil's roots?
The lands of the Frozen North have been devastated by the Fimbulwinter,prelude to Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods. The sky has gone dark. The wind blows bitter and cold. Crops wither and fail in the half-light. It is a harsh time, a tribulation that only the strong might survive.
Your individual journeys have led you each to Drifsgaard, the crown city of Clan Gulleska. Wealthiest of the seven clans, the Gulleska ply their longships up and down the uneven shores and narrow fjords of the Jagged Coast. Their merchants, subtle as they are greedy, haggle with both human and non-human alike.
Drifsgaard lies at a natural crossroads, a well protected harbor allows safe access from the Half-moon Sea to the west, while mountain passes to the north and south funnel land traffic to the shelter of its walls. Both Alfheim and Svartalfheim lie to the East across the Wylding Way. The Way is long and treacherous, thick forrests and treacherous mountain passes provide ample hiding places for bandits and trolls, and the mists of Niflheim ever lurk at the edges...
Jarl Eluff Word-smith rules Drifsgaard with a keen eye and a steady hand. It takes a shrewd man to hold a city the size of Drisgaard together during Fimbulwinter, and many such settlements have long since fallen to disease and strife.
Even so, unrest prowls the city streets. Refugees from the east flood the alleys and gutters as the war between Alfheim and Svartalfheim escalates. Drifsgaard vikings grow ever bolder, claiming the riches of lesser settlements and their own, and the people as their thralls. Wolves howl from beyond the city walls at night, a grim omen.
Tensions run high as larders grow barren and thin. The city is perilously close to the edge, and hungry eyes watch from within and without...
Roondar stomps his foot hard on the wooden floor and quick to the beat of his lute as he belts out a harsh song, his voice baritone and rough despite his small stature:
"Iron will – warrior skill
And how far away they fought
Set us free – destiny
For the blood of heroes bought
Iron will – warrior skill
And how far away they fell
Set us free – destiny
For tonight we dine in Hel!"
(OOC: source - Blood of Heroes - Tyr )
The words ring loudly despite his tiny frame and chatting Inn-goers, the fingers of his right hand flying across the neck of the stringed instrument to the melody. As a skald he has entertained for years now, but changed his *ahem* tune recently to suit the darkened days. The coin increased a little though, as he now has folk reminiscing with him and shouting along to his raucous songs to keep spirits up. As he finishes the lyre solo he holds his left arm up with his index and pinky fingers raised. "Can I get some Ears of Fenris for the warriors of old?!" He shouts out to the patrons of the Blind-Goat Inn.
"Thank you all for your coin and cheers! Remember, the days may be dark, but our hearts are strong and by Odin we will survive as we always have! To Helheim with the great winter! We've had worse! Bring the end of days! Baldr was pretty, but what did he do anyway?!" He jeers, somewhat drunkenly to those listening. Setting down the lute he casts minor illusion to have a feathered cap on his head, only to remove it and hold it to his small chest. "But... we remember those in Valhalla and those who have fought for us. Cheers to the Blood of Heroes!"
Bowing low and sweeping the illusory hat about he strides over to the bar and orders a horn of mead, sipping it slowly as his eyes smile about the room that is now a bit warmer than it had been.
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
In a deep, raspy voice that sounds much too large for a Dwarf, Ragnar sang, "Oh trolls and orcs, oh chickens and porks...." Ragnar's horrible, drunken lyrics trail off as he stumbles up to the Blind-Goat Inn and throws his weight into the door. Entering the warm building with a crash and barely holding himself up on the door-handle, he hears a voice shout, "Cheers to the Blood of Heroes!" "Blood of Heroes!" He echoes, in a booming voice, raising his arms in the air and making the sign of Fenris wolf with both hands. "Ya ere dat Vahlen?! D'ere singin' ow bloddy song! Oi fink it's time to see which of us can drink dis Inn out dis time! Whaddya say?! Shawl we spend our hard-earned golds de ole' fashioned way...?" He looked back at the door expectingly, "Vahlen...? Ah well, hewl show up. Ee was roight behine me..."
Ragnar saunters his way up to the bar and sets his great warhammer down heavy on it in front of him, "Oi would like...de lahgest cup of mead...you 'ave to offah'; an' keep 'em comin' 'cause Oi aim to drink mahseff straight to dah gates of Valhalla, so dah Gods get dah pleashure of drinkin' wiff Ragnar Longhammah!"
By the time the dwarf stumbled to the bar, Vahlen had already finished most of his pint in the darkest corner of the room. Staring deeply into the froth coating his cup, he absentmindedly fingers the remaining coins in his purse. While Ragnar was enjoying himself, (much to the dismay of the other taverngoers,) Vahlen began thinking over potential avenues for work. Bounty on an orc raiding party? Easy to track, but his dislike of the green bastards aside, the pay wasn't nearly good enough. Second-story work? No easy way to cut the dwarf in, unless things went south. Extra city watch patrols could make that a near certainty. Too risky. Sod it, he thought, he'd figure out his next step in the morning.
"Ragnar." "Ragnar." "Ragnar!"
Unable to get his companion's attention over the din of the tavern, he hurls a peanut at the back of the dwarf's head. "Oi, half-pint!"
After a few years on the road with the dwarf, he had begun to tolerate the smell. He supposed the rest of the dwarf was alright too, (especially if you needed something crushed with a hammer.) Maybe the drink was making him sentimental; he was a bit warm. He raises his now empty glass halfheartedly in cheers to the gnomish bard. He draws back the hood of his tattered cloak to reveal an unkempt knot of black hair and restlessly shifts the buckles of his well-worn leather armor.
Vahlen couldn't wait for all of this "end of days" nonsense to blow over. Whatever the fates had in store for him, he'd find a way through it as he always had.
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
Hem fiddled absentmindedly with the smooth wood of the three interlocked triangles that hung across his brown robes. He didn't particular care for the Valknut - it really just got in the way most of the time - but having the symbol of Odin around his neck had it's advantages. The discounted horn of mead he was currently nursing at the bar was one such advantage.
He watched the gnome plucking out his tune with mild interest, but most of his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of impending doom. Odin's despondency and sadness as of late was turning his more devout disciples into a raving bunch of lunatics. Add to that the steady stream of refugees battered by marauding Vikings and cold winds, and Hem's job as a guard of the Muninn Temple (read: bouncer) had become very, very, busy. There wasn't an hour that went by where he didn't use his staff these days. He rubbed his sore arm muscles and took another sip of his mead, closing his eyes and listening to the bard sing his tunes, appreciating this brief respite from the impending doom. He almost didn't catch himself whispering in affirmation the words the bard spoke at the end of his song:
"By Odin we will survive."
This will be a long winter, he thought as he drained the last of his mead and signaled for another. He knew that to tolerate the stumbling, bellowing dwarf that just walked in he'd need to have at least a couple more.
Cerridwen’s auburn hair whipped across her face making her eyes water and causing her to involuntarily pull her hood tighter over her head. “These winds are the coldest I’ve ever felt.” She thought quietly to herself as she looked over the grey oceans surrounding Drifsgaard. She was thinking about the state of universe; unrest, famine, and death… Suddenly, with chapped cheeks and surprise in her gaze, she was jolted from her train of thought. As she turned around she saw a stout dwarf; singing drunkenly and disappearing behind the Inn’s tavern door with a stumble. As much as it displeased her she knew she would freeze standing outside and she begrudgingly entered tavern behind him. She scooted around him to take a seat and was nearly pelted by a peanut in the process. She settled in for the long haul.
Tracing the rim of her pint she wondered what the Fates had in store for her and her future. She could feel that there was a shift in the 9 realms, something dangerous, something unavoidable…
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"
“Let me tell yew,” Rangnar slurred at the bartender, “Oi’ve been out in dat cold wind fer nigh on foive days now. Moi pahnah, Vahlen, the ‘ole knife-eared bahstahd...should be ‘ere any moment now; eeh was trackeen a --” Ragnar’s story was cut short by a sharp tap on the back of his head. As he whipped around, hammer in hand, ready to tear the Inn apart to find out who in Odin’s name dared flick Ragnar Longhammer, he spotted the most beautiful woman he had seen.
“Boi moi beerd,” Ragnar whispered to no one in particular. Falling out of his bar seat and quickly springing back to his feet and brushing dust off of the bear pelt he wore, Ragnar approached the auburn-haired woman, breathing directly in her face (as she was sitting down, so was close to eye-level with the burly dwarf) he said, “H-hai ma’am. Moi name’s Ragnah. Ragnah Longhammah. And ‘dis,” He said, hefting his warhammer in one hand, “Ain’t the ‘longhammah’ oim named aftah.” He said with a smile and winked at her, tugging on his long, braided red beard.
Noticing her lack of amusement, he cleared his throat and changed his tone. *Ahem* “If you’d be innerested, Oi’d very much loike to buy you a flagon, of de foinest mead in town…” Ragnar smiled wide and bowed low, steadying himself on the back on the woman’s chair.
Heimdallr's horn it's cold, thought Halvar as he walked through the streets of Drifsgaard, gotta find a place to warm up for a little bit. He picked an inn at random, and went inside.
Looking around, he took in the scene: the usual rabble one would find in a common-room. Most in little groups, conversing over mugs of ale or horns of mead. A couple at the bar (or at least, a valiant effort on the obviously drunken dwarf's part). A monk. A few solitary drinkers scattered about. A bard, who looks like he just finished a set.
Halvar nodded respectfully to the monk as he passed him, and set his pack down at the bar. "A mug of heather ale, and some of whatever's hot in the kitchen, barkeep." The barkeep nodded, but didn't move until Halvar sighed, reached into his purse, and put a few coppers on the bartop. The bartender smiled as he deftly scooped up the coins, and went to fetch Halvar's drink.
He didn't expect to find out much about what was going on in the world here in Drifsgaard, but that's where his road had taken him, for now. So for now, he grabbed his mug, turned in his seat, and watched the people in the room, anticipating the bard's next set as he waited for his food.
Niels H.
Halvar Gunnarsson - Half-Elf Cleric - lvl 1 "Scourge of the North"
Ragnar, you feel a sharp tap on your shoulder. A tall sharp featured Svartalfari (dark elf) stands behind you, with coal grey skin and bright green eyes.
”You best watch where you’re going rock-sucker.” The Svartalf sneered. “Your kind aren’t welcome here. A trio of other dark elves spreads out behind him with menacing grins. “Why don’t you crawl back to your rat’s nest in Nidavellir and leave the surface to honest folk like us.”
one of his compatriots interjects in thickly accented Svartalf.
“He says he doesn’t like you.” The dark elf smiles, revealing sharpened teeth. “I don’t like you either.”
The room has gone oddly quiet, the roar and riot of the tavern ebbing to a grumbled murmur. Other patrons quickly down their beverages and edge away, eyes darting warily.
As Ragnar stumbles slightly during his handsome bow, he feels a tap on his shoulder. Trying to ignore the pest so he can continue to woo the lovely woman before him, he begins to say, “Would yew like—“ …. “Rock sucker…?!”
Ragnar turns slowly, looking up at the elf’s bright green eyes. “Wut...did yew...call me…? Oi fought yew said….rock sucker…”
Ragnar pulls his hammer over his shoulder and straps it to his back, cracking his knuckles and neck, he looks to the other elves who have made themselves visible. “If you wasn’t a knoife-eared, swamp-smelling, coward Oi’d try and be cahful, but since yew is a knoife-ear bahstahd who smells loike Volstagg’s sweaty codpiece, Oi’ll just make you wish yew was ded. Skahld, sing me somefing tah foight to.”
Ragnar’s tattooed arms tense as his meaty hands form fists and a glint of fire sparks in his eyes as he enters a Rage.
Noticing the unwanted attention his companion has drawn, Vahlen casually strides over leaving several feet of distance between him and the group of elves. He winks at the dwarf. Under his cloak, his hands rest on the hilts of his twin short swords. A wicked smile curls his lips as he speaks to them in elvish:
"Gentlemen. You have about 10 seconds before the dwarf breaks your faces. I've seen him kill far tougher than the likes of you with his bare hands. I suggest you apologize and buy him a flagon of mead to smooth things over."
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
The Svartalfari smile with malicious glee. They reach into the folds of their cloaks, and torchlight gleams of viscous curved daggers.
“It is you who’ve erred this day Alvar (light elf), now you’ll die with the rock worm you love so much.”
The lead dark elf throws off his cloak and drops into a fighting stance.
*please roll both and initiative roll and a perception check!*
"No?", he asks rhetorically. "Pity."
Vahlen felt sorry for the mess that the barkeep would be left with.
Initiative: 13 Perception: 22
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
Oh great, another light-dark spat, with a dwarf thrown in for good measure. At least they haven't noticed the half-breed, yet, Halvar thinks wryly to himself, as he shifts his attention towards the noise, and he makes a mental note of which pocket on his pack holds his crossbow bolts. You think they'd learn to drink in different establishments...
Initiative: 7 Perception: 6
Niels H.
Halvar Gunnarsson - Half-Elf Cleric - lvl 1 "Scourge of the North"
Roondar, upon hearing his trade called for a magnificent fight song, lightly hops up from his bar stool onto the bar and begins to play a song with his viol, singing to add to the melody!
”Weather wild
Blackened blade
Angry eyes
Ruthless raid
Heathen heart
Pagan pride
Faring far
Sword by side
Hard and cold
Hold the heathen hammer high” (giving an inspiration die to Ragnar as a bonus action)
(OOC: source - "Hold the Heathen Hammer High" - Tyr)
Initiative: 22 (original 16)
Perception: 9 (original 17)
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
"Yew shoulda listened to moi fren, ye swamp-crawler!" Ragnar's tense arms come together in front of him, hands clenched tight, as his shoulder muscles bulge beneath the bear-hide, showing even more tattoos and scars. His teeth clenched into a menacing half-smile half-snarl, he prepares for a fight.
Initiative: 7 Inspiration: 5 (Total of 9)
Perception: 14
Hem heard the whole exchange between the elves and the dwarf right behind him, sighing when he felt the dark elf’s cloak fall near his stool. The last thing he wanted was to get into a bar brawl during his day off, but this one was too close for comfort. The drunken dwarf would probably land one on the back of his head without realizing it. Hem quietly jumped down from his stool and pivoted, ready for whatever would come his way.
Initiative: 7
Perception: 5
Cerridwen felt her ears being assaulted by belches and a poor excuse for a pick-up line as she was smattered with the mead flicking of the Dwarf’s mustache. She was seriously considering using her ability to produce fire to burn the mustache off his lips… She decided against it and looked up to find an escape route when she noticed three Dark Elves strolling straight for them.
Initiative: 21
Perception: 19
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"
Initiative will be as follows:
Svartalfari, Roodnar, Ragnar, Halvar, Vahlen, Hemingr, Cerridwen.
The Dark Elves pair off, two of them approaching each of you, spinning their daggers with malicious intent. One Dark Elf lunges at Ragnar, but the Dwarf's armor turns the blade aside. The lead Svartalf raises his hand and a burning green rune erupts into life. In a heartbeat Ragnar is engulfed by a thick cloud of mites, fleas, and other vermin. The tiny creatures claw and nibble at your skin, venomous and cruel. Make a Constitution save against a DC of 13 or suffer 3 poison damage.
The other two Dark Elves face off against Vahlen. They dart in quickly, knives flashing in the greasy lamplight. One of the Dark Elves goes wide, his blade missing by a wide margin. However, the other dagger strikes home for 3 damage.