Roondar begins clapping from atop the bar and turns to the barkeep. "Ned, how about I toss you a gold coin or two for the trouble, but I'd take a horn of mead for the entertainment!"
He hops down from the bar, to the stool, to the floor, stowing his viol and producing a greatsword larger than he is tall...
DM:
It's actually a Minor Illusion, but we'll see who notices Deception: 11
"So..." he addresses the Svartalf, "What should we call you, Spider? I noticed the cobweb tattoo from the bar, and as sure as my Uncle Bubblegunk Hodr the Tall is a blind archer, then there's some significance to the fact that you all have the same markings..." He stands as tall as he can, a menacing 2' 3", and brandishes the blade with two hands, hovering it above himself as a headsman's axe. He's not used to looking down on people, but decides that a bound, prone Svartalf is a prime target for a threat! "You should apologize to everyone here, too. Ned is a fine barman and never does anyone a bad deal. Plus! You ruined my song! I was serenading the bestial dwarf here and you cut in without so much as a 'hail!'"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!" DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen" Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Hem cleared his throat as the battle cleric inquired about a hof. The poor barkeep was in shock, staring at the bloodied floor and the ragtag crew left standing.
"Ahem, Halvar, I may be able to assist in that," Hem said, and held up the symbol of Odin around his neck as he spoke. "Muninn Hof is not far from here, and I hold up residence there. The holy people there will give us a safe space to talk away from prying eyes. They may even be able to help with our wounds. Oh yes, and my name is Hemingr. Hem for short. Professional bar fighter."He said the last part with a faint smile, glancing at Vahlen in jest.
(OOC: This is a feature of mine, Shelter of the Faithful: "You might also have ties to a specific temple dedicated to your chosen deity or pantheon, and you have a residence there...While near your temple, you can call upon the priests for assistance, provided the assistance you ask for is not hazardous and you remain in good standing with your temple.")
Munnin - Old Norse, meaning "memory" or "mind." The name of one of the two messenger ravens of Odin.
The Svartalf looks up at Roondar. “My your a strange little dwarf aren’t you? And here I was thinking i’d Seem the ugliest that Nidavellir had to offer. By all means little man, strike me down!” He winks at Roondar. “But I think you’ll find your flaccid little...sword, isn’t up to the task.”
”I wouldn’t deign let a creature such as you pronounce my true name.” He thinks for a moment. “But I’ll allow you to refer to me as Algrim.” He inclines his head. “My tattoo? Why, just a simple decoration, nothing more.”
The sound of shouting can be heard from outside. Algrim’s calm demeanor drops momentarily. He whispers now, voice hushed and urgent. “Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but not here!”
Ned the Barkeep:
The older man stands still behind the bar, eyes wide at the carnage that unfolded. His hands work mechanically, wiping at the same smudged flagon repeatedly. “There’s uh...plenty of inns and temples in town.” He glances at your bloodstained clothes and weapons. “But...you might have a hard time finding lodging looking like that.”
he signs, running a hand through thinning silver hair. “I hope I don’t regret this but...I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ll clean up the mess. If you leave out the back through the kitchens the guards won’t see you. I won’t tell them nothing, but best you’re not here when those boys arrive.”
For Vahlen: On the Dark Elf you find 20 gold pieces, two pouches of odd green powder, and a dagger hidden in his boot.
"Ah, you're probably right, Algrim," Roondar feigns sadness. "I'm more of a lover than a fighter anyway," he lets the sword down and 'stows' it magically into his pouch.
Hearing the noise and recommendation from Ned he perks up, "Well! Seems like we exit stage left before the hook comes! Thanks again, Ned, I'll tip you real big next time and my new friends here will carry our package out the back door!" He skips to the back door and opens it, gesturing with his other hand and bowing, "Age before beauty, then!"
Addressing the party, and Cerridwen in the back, "We'll figure out where we can go once we're out of here. And... m'Lady, who's beauty doth shine brighter than Sif's Golden Hair, please, won't you join us? I'm sure the fine folk bursting through the door would love to ask you questions," he winks.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!" DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen" Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Coming out of his rage, Ragnar's muscles seem to relax slightly but are still very prominent. His demeanor seems to have sobered since the fight started and a look a of hatred and anger covers his face. As the cleric finishes his healing, and all the talk of Hofs and Gods has passed, Ragnar spits in the Elf's face, standing next to the Skald and looking the Svartalf in the eyes, in a slow, hushed tone he says, "Yew come in 'ere, innerupt moi drinkeen, innerupt moi convuhsation wid dis lovely lady," he gestures toward Cerridwen with the head of his hammer, "an you insult me, stab moi fren, an now yur ready to talk?! Yew've got a shahp tongue, Elf," he spits the word Elf as if it's the worst thing he's ever tasted, and presses the head of his hammer under his chin, not hard enough to do real damage, but hard enough that he hopes the Svartalf bites his lip or tongue a little, "so Oi suggess yew keep it in yore skull unless yew'd loike to paht with it pehmanently. Yew'll talk when we tell yew to talk." (Intimidation: 14)
Ragnar takes a step back from the captive and, without breaking eye contact, addresses the rest of the group, hearing the rising clamber outside and the barkeep's advice to head through the kitchens. "Yew lead tha way to yore Hof, bah-foightah, as long as yore Gods don't moind a little Elf blood on their shoiny floors. Vahlen and Oi will make shure our new fren don't step outta loin. First Oi'd like to see if 'is frens had anything else on 'em we moight want."
(OOC: I would like to loot the bodies of the other elves who lie dead on the floor, and then help lead the captive out the back door as suggested.)
As he heads toward the kitchens leading their prisoner with Vahlen by his side, Ragnar tosses some of the gold he recovered from the body of one of the elves onto the bar, "Cuhtesy of our sloimy guests on tha floor. Said they'd pick up tha tab fer tonoight." He grabs the closest mug of ale off the bar, drains it, and continues on his way.
As an attache to the Vanir, Cerridwen knew that those spider web tattoos were not just for decoration, she had questions for this Svartalf. She heard a small being addressing her, as she looked over she saw the gnome who had been playing his best bar fight music. Regardless of whether or not this newly formed motley crew wanted her along she was going to get the answers she wanted from the Dark Elf. Nodding at the Gnome she began to follow them through the rear exit with their captive in tow.
You exit the Blind-Goat out the back door that Ned indicated. The door leads you to an ill maintained alley stinking of rot and mold. As the door clicks shut behind you with an ominous thud, and you're left in the half-light and bitter cold.
Hemingr leads you out of the alley and to the street beyond. In truth, it's hardly better cared for than the alleyway. The merchant lords of Driftsgaard have little love for the poorer parts of the city, especially after they became overrun with refugees. The road is narrow, just wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. Ramshackle single-story houses line the street, old wood bleached by time and warped by wind and weather. Ragged tents have been pitched on the leeward side of buildings, desperately seeking out what little shelter they can. Refugees, man, dwarf, and dark elves, huddle in frigid misery.
Hof Munnin isn't far, less than a mile's walk from the Blind-Goat. Little better maintained than the hovels around it, the temple has clearly fallen on hard times. A pair of heavy wooden doors inlaid with wrought iron ravens mark the entryway. The inside of the temple presents itself far better. The priests within have clearly taken the time and effort to care for the aging building. Men and women with shaved heads and plain grey robes greet you, a tall wire-thin man at their head.
"Come in! Come in!" He beckons, closing the heavy door behind you. "Brother Hemingr! Who are these strangers? And who," He asks, indicated the bound Svartalf, "Is that?"
(When you loot the dead Svartalfari you find 3 daggers and a total of 60 gold pieces)
Hemingr rested his staff among a few others scattered to the right of the door, raising a hand in greeting to Birger, the head monk at Hof Munnin. He quickly dropped his hand down however, wincing in pain and remembering again the gash the Svartalf had left there.
"Brother Birger, these folk and I were jumped on with blades by a group of Svartalfari at the Blind-Goat just now." Hem gestured behind him with his good arm. "This fifl is the unlucky one that survived our defense. This group fought like true warriors of Odin along my side, so I lead them to our Hof for a quiet place to lick their wounds and question the survivor."
Glancing around, Hem saw his new friends still standing in the doorway. "Come, sit. Our Hof is yours now. And put that Svartalf somewhere we can all keep a close eye on him." Hem then sat down at one of the long tables in the hall and began to tend to his arm in the bright firelight of Hof Muninn.
As they walked into the Hof, Ragnar regarded the intricate, golden Valknut on the floor and scoffed, "Pah; Odin, forsaykah of is people." He shook his head and turned to the others, "Let's git dis Svartalf talkeen, Oi don' wanna stay 'ere longer than Oi 'ave to. Don' wanna scuff up Odin's shoiny floors..." Ragnar looked at the robed men and women scattered about the Hof and subconsciously curled the corner of his lip and one nostril. "It's a wundah anyone still follows tha Gods 'ese days," He found himself mumbling aloud to no one in particular before turning to the Svartalf, hammer in-hand. "Oraight, we got yew somewhere else. Talk."
As Hem led the way, Vahlen thought about the pouches of green powder he found on the svartalf. Alchemical ingredients? Spellcasting materials? Herbs for a healing poultice? He tried to think back to Ivar's lessons, and was reminded of how often he used to daydream when the old elf talked about anything other than fighting or hunting. Still, he tried hard to remember.
Nature: 11
"Brother Birger? The name's Vahlen. Is there a back room we could use?"
Roondar steps forward into the room, patting the Svartalf on the bottom as he walks past. "I saw the whole thing after my performance, Sir. The room was fairly calm and our Dwarf friend was trying to start a conversation with our lovely lady here and the Svartalfari started a fight and drew blades. He seems... nervous, though and wanted to skedaddle as soon as he could. We apologize for bringing hatred into your Hof, but it seemed the best place to be discreet."
Roondar looks about the room (Perception: 14) and adds "Ah, I am Roondar, by the way. Skald, lover, cousin of the Famous Namfoodle Tyrsson, recorder of histories, spinner of sagas, belter of ballads, and most humble servant of happiness for the people. Pleased to meet you," he turns to the large party he just met at the Blind Goat, "and you all as well!"
Brother Birger leads you past a spartan assortment of rooms. Priests in grey robes look curiously at your procession but say nothing to challenge your passage. Brother Birger stops before a nondescript door near the back of the temple.
"Bring him in here." The priest motions. "I'll see to it that you won't be disturbed." The room is bare, no tapestries, artwork, or even furniture to be found. An oil lamp mounted on the wall keeps the small space warm and well lit. "You may use this room for as long as you like." Brother Birger bows. "If you have need of anything please let us know."
For Hemingr
Brother Birger leans close to you and whispers as he walks out. "Keep a close eye on them all Brother. All-Father knows we've seen strange omens these past few nights. Be careful."
The Svartalf leans against the far wall and sinks to the floor. He glances around the room, eyes wary. "It's hardly Tyr's vault but it might do." He mutters.
For Vahlen
You discern little of the odd powder. It's natural in origin, likely derived from animal matter rather than plant. It gives off a distinct pungent odor that you can't quite place. Your instincts tell you its probably poisonous, but you can't be 100% sure.
For Roondar:
The priests hardly know what to make of an odd small dwarf with such a big mouth. By the way Brother Birger leads the party through the Hof you can tell he's probably the man in charge. A subtle air of tension hangs in the Hof, the priests look tired and harried. You catch a few glimpses of odd books relating to rituals and omens as you pass, priests pouring over them with the deepest concentration.
"Thank you brother." Beckoning the group in and closing and barring the door behind them, Vahlen looks around to the others in the room before his gaze falls sharply on the svartalf. "Right then, face down on the cobbles where we can all see your hands. Here's how we play this game: we ask you a question, and you answer. Give me an answer I don't like, and the dwarf breaks one of your legs. ...And, If we run out of legs, I'm sure he can find something else to smash." Vahlen flashes a devilish smile. "In any case, I suggest you cooperate." If they made this quick, he might have enough time to change clothes and make last call at the Cloistered Oyster.
"Let's start with a few simple ones: First, refugees don't carry that much coin on them. Neither do they go stirring up trouble and flinging clouds of insects about. What master do you serve, and what is your real business in Drifsgaard? Why is the watch after you, apart from the obvious?"
"And ...who was this poison intended for?" He asks, holding one of the bags of green powder aloft. He was only somewhat sure what the contents of the bag were, but he imagined the dark elf wouldn't risk getting kneecapped over it. Vahlen observes the elf's body language and speech patterns closely, looking for any obvious indications that he may be lying or omitting information.
The Svartalf glares at you. "I'm tied up, surrounded by a gang of ruffians sporting my warrior's blood on their clothes, AND locked in a small room. I think my face will stay where it is thank you very much." He coughs to clear his throat. His bright green eyes dart around the room as if looking for something. "But I'll tell you...what I can. There's several good reasons I can think of to keep my legs much as they are."
"I had orders to be there tonight. All of us did. She...they...we didn't have a choice. Don't have a choice." The dark elf flashed a false smile. "Nothing personal really. Just doing my job. As for the poison well...what Svartalf worth his salt would go on the hunt without a little extra insurance?" He spits on Ragnar's boots. "I only wish I'd gotten the chance to use it."
For Vahlen
You're a fairly good judge of character, but this dark elf is baffling. He's cavalier and obstinate, but underneath that facade you can't help but notice a growing degree of dread taking hold. He's taking great effort to hide it, but clearly the Svartalf is terrified of something.
Roondar struts forward and scrapes the Svartalf's spit off Ragnar's boot into a small vial produced from his pack. "Ah, yes... I, too am a fan of the non-answer... friend." At the last word he casts Friends on himself staring intently at the bound person. "So... who hired you, and what do you mean you don't have a choice? I'm friends with the big guy here (patting Ragnar's arm) and won't let anyone do anything to you that you don't deserve." Roondar holds up his right hand, palm toward the Svartalf and strokes his beard with the other, "On my great-great-grandmother Yolo-moon Groghip the Vast, I will remain passive in this room."
"I was not blessed with an abundance of patience, friend, and I'm starting to grow tired of your attitude." Vahlen's demeanor cracks, the anger in his voice becoming more evident. "And the part about you getting on the floor, that wasn't a question, that was an order." He turns to the dwarf. "Would you care to remind our friend that he's not in a position to negotiate."
"Yore bein' awful poloite, Vahlen. If yew remembah a few minutes ago, 'dis long-eared grey-back scum was troy'in tah kill us."
As the odd tiny dwarf scraped spit off of Ragnar's boot and patted his shoulder, he gave a sideways glance and growled at the strange Skald who was - much like everyone else in the room - being incredibly polite to the would-be murderer, and grumbled, "Touch me again, Skald, and Oi'll 'ave yore 'and as a necklace. Oi'm not in a mood tah be makin' frens."
As he finished his sentence his eyes met the Svartalf's once again and he kicked at the Elf's face with the boot that had been spit on. (Attack: 20 Damage: 3 - OOC: I'm using my "Unarmed Strike" here so it always does 1+ STR Mod, which is why I don't have to roll damage. I rolled a normal 1d20 with advantage to hit however)
"Unloike everyone else 'ere, Oi won' be so noice. Who. Sent. Yew? Oi don' cahe if yew 'ad a choice. Oi wan' a name."
The Svartalf's nose breaks beneath Ragnar's boot. Blood runs crimson down his ashen features and he coughs and sputters. "Hel's frozen bosom!" The Svartalf curses. Perhaps it was the sight of his own blood speckling the floor, or perhaps it was the half-dozen armed forms above him, but the reality of his situation seems to have finally set in. "Look...I'll...I'll tell you whatever I can alright? Troll-spawned bastards, I'll tell you whatever you want to hear!"
He spits out a glob of blood and maybe a tooth. "We HAD to be there alright? I didn't have a choice, none of us did! You Sol-buinn wouldn't understand! How could you?" He starts to rant, voice growing louder. The dark elf's eyes glaze over with a manic detachment, he starts to rave, words making little sense. Soon he's shouting. Something about the moon, caves, and spider webs. The dark elf is inconsolate, foaming at the mouth, his limbs jerk and spasm against his bonds.
"Well, that took a turn..." Roondar mumbles through a curled lip. "I've seen some things, but there aren't many that make a man's brains squibbly that fast... Can we fix him? Or at least ease him into rest so he's not flailing on the floor like a half-squashed spider? That's beyond my skills..." He proclaims, walking backwards slowly.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!" DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen" Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Cerridwen pushed her way through the bustle of masculinity to see a seizing Dark Elf with blood pouring from his mouth. Breaking through to the front of the group she kneels and casts cure wounds :3 on the Elf.
Roondar begins clapping from atop the bar and turns to the barkeep. "Ned, how about I toss you a gold coin or two for the trouble, but I'd take a horn of mead for the entertainment!"
He hops down from the bar, to the stool, to the floor, stowing his viol and producing a greatsword larger than he is tall...
DM:
It's actually a Minor Illusion, but we'll see who notices Deception: 11
"So..." he addresses the Svartalf, "What should we call you, Spider? I noticed the cobweb tattoo from the bar, and as sure as my Uncle Bubblegunk Hodr the Tall is a blind archer, then there's some significance to the fact that you all have the same markings..." He stands as tall as he can, a menacing 2' 3", and brandishes the blade with two hands, hovering it above himself as a headsman's axe. He's not used to looking down on people, but decides that a bound, prone Svartalf is a prime target for a threat! "You should apologize to everyone here, too. Ned is a fine barman and never does anyone a bad deal. Plus! You ruined my song! I was serenading the bestial dwarf here and you cut in without so much as a 'hail!'"
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Hem cleared his throat as the battle cleric inquired about a hof. The poor barkeep was in shock, staring at the bloodied floor and the ragtag crew left standing.
"Ahem, Halvar, I may be able to assist in that," Hem said, and held up the symbol of Odin around his neck as he spoke. "Muninn Hof is not far from here, and I hold up residence there. The holy people there will give us a safe space to talk away from prying eyes. They may even be able to help with our wounds. Oh yes, and my name is Hemingr. Hem for short. Professional bar fighter." He said the last part with a faint smile, glancing at Vahlen in jest.
(OOC: This is a feature of mine, Shelter of the Faithful: "You might also have ties to a specific temple dedicated to your chosen deity or pantheon, and you have a residence there...While near your temple, you can call upon the priests for assistance, provided the assistance you ask for is not hazardous and you remain in good standing with your temple.")
Munnin - Old Norse, meaning "memory" or "mind." The name of one of the two messenger ravens of Odin.
The Svartalf looks up at Roondar. “My your a strange little dwarf aren’t you? And here I was thinking i’d Seem the ugliest that Nidavellir had to offer. By all means little man, strike me down!” He winks at Roondar. “But I think you’ll find your flaccid little...sword, isn’t up to the task.”
”I wouldn’t deign let a creature such as you pronounce my true name.” He thinks for a moment. “But I’ll allow you to refer to me as Algrim.” He inclines his head. “My tattoo? Why, just a simple decoration, nothing more.”
The sound of shouting can be heard from outside. Algrim’s calm demeanor drops momentarily. He whispers now, voice hushed and urgent. “Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but not here!”
Ned the Barkeep:
The older man stands still behind the bar, eyes wide at the carnage that unfolded. His hands work mechanically, wiping at the same smudged flagon repeatedly. “There’s uh...plenty of inns and temples in town.” He glances at your bloodstained clothes and weapons. “But...you might have a hard time finding lodging looking like that.”
he signs, running a hand through thinning silver hair. “I hope I don’t regret this but...I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ll clean up the mess. If you leave out the back through the kitchens the guards won’t see you. I won’t tell them nothing, but best you’re not here when those boys arrive.”
For Vahlen: On the Dark Elf you find 20 gold pieces, two pouches of odd green powder, and a dagger hidden in his boot.
"Ah, you're probably right, Algrim," Roondar feigns sadness. "I'm more of a lover than a fighter anyway," he lets the sword down and 'stows' it magically into his pouch.
Hearing the noise and recommendation from Ned he perks up, "Well! Seems like we exit stage left before the hook comes! Thanks again, Ned, I'll tip you real big next time and my new friends here will carry our package out the back door!" He skips to the back door and opens it, gesturing with his other hand and bowing, "Age before beauty, then!"
Addressing the party, and Cerridwen in the back, "We'll figure out where we can go once we're out of here. And... m'Lady, who's beauty doth shine brighter than Sif's Golden Hair, please, won't you join us? I'm sure the fine folk bursting through the door would love to ask you questions," he winks.
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Coming out of his rage, Ragnar's muscles seem to relax slightly but are still very prominent. His demeanor seems to have sobered since the fight started and a look a of hatred and anger covers his face. As the cleric finishes his healing, and all the talk of Hofs and Gods has passed, Ragnar spits in the Elf's face, standing next to the Skald and looking the Svartalf in the eyes, in a slow, hushed tone he says, "Yew come in 'ere, innerupt moi drinkeen, innerupt moi convuhsation wid dis lovely lady," he gestures toward Cerridwen with the head of his hammer, "an you insult me, stab moi fren, an now yur ready to talk?! Yew've got a shahp tongue, Elf," he spits the word Elf as if it's the worst thing he's ever tasted, and presses the head of his hammer under his chin, not hard enough to do real damage, but hard enough that he hopes the Svartalf bites his lip or tongue a little, "so Oi suggess yew keep it in yore skull unless yew'd loike to paht with it pehmanently. Yew'll talk when we tell yew to talk." (Intimidation: 14)
Ragnar takes a step back from the captive and, without breaking eye contact, addresses the rest of the group, hearing the rising clamber outside and the barkeep's advice to head through the kitchens. "Yew lead tha way to yore Hof, bah-foightah, as long as yore Gods don't moind a little Elf blood on their shoiny floors. Vahlen and Oi will make shure our new fren don't step outta loin. First Oi'd like to see if 'is frens had anything else on 'em we moight want."
(OOC: I would like to loot the bodies of the other elves who lie dead on the floor, and then help lead the captive out the back door as suggested.)
As he heads toward the kitchens leading their prisoner with Vahlen by his side, Ragnar tosses some of the gold he recovered from the body of one of the elves onto the bar, "Cuhtesy of our sloimy guests on tha floor. Said they'd pick up tha tab fer tonoight." He grabs the closest mug of ale off the bar, drains it, and continues on his way.
As an attache to the Vanir, Cerridwen knew that those spider web tattoos were not just for decoration, she had questions for this Svartalf. She heard a small being addressing her, as she looked over she saw the gnome who had been playing his best bar fight music. Regardless of whether or not this newly formed motley crew wanted her along she was going to get the answers she wanted from the Dark Elf. Nodding at the Gnome she began to follow them through the rear exit with their captive in tow.
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"
You exit the Blind-Goat out the back door that Ned indicated. The door leads you to an ill maintained alley stinking of rot and mold. As the door clicks shut behind you with an ominous thud, and you're left in the half-light and bitter cold.
Hemingr leads you out of the alley and to the street beyond. In truth, it's hardly better cared for than the alleyway. The merchant lords of Driftsgaard have little love for the poorer parts of the city, especially after they became overrun with refugees. The road is narrow, just wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. Ramshackle single-story houses line the street, old wood bleached by time and warped by wind and weather. Ragged tents have been pitched on the leeward side of buildings, desperately seeking out what little shelter they can. Refugees, man, dwarf, and dark elves, huddle in frigid misery.
Hof Munnin isn't far, less than a mile's walk from the Blind-Goat. Little better maintained than the hovels around it, the temple has clearly fallen on hard times. A pair of heavy wooden doors inlaid with wrought iron ravens mark the entryway. The inside of the temple presents itself far better. The priests within have clearly taken the time and effort to care for the aging building. Men and women with shaved heads and plain grey robes greet you, a tall wire-thin man at their head.
"Come in! Come in!" He beckons, closing the heavy door behind you. "Brother Hemingr! Who are these strangers? And who," He asks, indicated the bound Svartalf, "Is that?"
(When you loot the dead Svartalfari you find 3 daggers and a total of 60 gold pieces)
Hemingr rested his staff among a few others scattered to the right of the door, raising a hand in greeting to Birger, the head monk at Hof Munnin. He quickly dropped his hand down however, wincing in pain and remembering again the gash the Svartalf had left there.
"Brother Birger, these folk and I were jumped on with blades by a group of Svartalfari at the Blind-Goat just now." Hem gestured behind him with his good arm. "This fifl is the unlucky one that survived our defense. This group fought like true warriors of Odin along my side, so I lead them to our Hof for a quiet place to lick their wounds and question the survivor."
Glancing around, Hem saw his new friends still standing in the doorway. "Come, sit. Our Hof is yours now. And put that Svartalf somewhere we can all keep a close eye on him." Hem then sat down at one of the long tables in the hall and began to tend to his arm in the bright firelight of Hof Muninn.
Fífl - fool, idiot, buffoon.
Birger - to help, to save, to protect
As they walked into the Hof, Ragnar regarded the intricate, golden Valknut on the floor and scoffed, "Pah; Odin, forsaykah of is people." He shook his head and turned to the others, "Let's git dis Svartalf talkeen, Oi don' wanna stay 'ere longer than Oi 'ave to. Don' wanna scuff up Odin's shoiny floors..." Ragnar looked at the robed men and women scattered about the Hof and subconsciously curled the corner of his lip and one nostril. "It's a wundah anyone still follows tha Gods 'ese days," He found himself mumbling aloud to no one in particular before turning to the Svartalf, hammer in-hand. "Oraight, we got yew somewhere else. Talk."
As Hem led the way, Vahlen thought about the pouches of green powder he found on the svartalf. Alchemical ingredients? Spellcasting materials? Herbs for a healing poultice? He tried to think back to Ivar's lessons, and was reminded of how often he used to daydream when the old elf talked about anything other than fighting or hunting. Still, he tried hard to remember.
Nature: 11
"Brother Birger? The name's Vahlen. Is there a back room we could use?"
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
Roondar steps forward into the room, patting the Svartalf on the bottom as he walks past. "I saw the whole thing after my performance, Sir. The room was fairly calm and our Dwarf friend was trying to start a conversation with our lovely lady here and the Svartalfari started a fight and drew blades. He seems... nervous, though and wanted to skedaddle as soon as he could. We apologize for bringing hatred into your Hof, but it seemed the best place to be discreet."
Roondar looks about the room (Perception: 14) and adds "Ah, I am Roondar, by the way. Skald, lover, cousin of the Famous Namfoodle Tyrsson, recorder of histories, spinner of sagas, belter of ballads, and most humble servant of happiness for the people. Pleased to meet you," he turns to the large party he just met at the Blind Goat, "and you all as well!"
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Brother Birger leads you past a spartan assortment of rooms. Priests in grey robes look curiously at your procession but say nothing to challenge your passage. Brother Birger stops before a nondescript door near the back of the temple.
"Bring him in here." The priest motions. "I'll see to it that you won't be disturbed." The room is bare, no tapestries, artwork, or even furniture to be found. An oil lamp mounted on the wall keeps the small space warm and well lit. "You may use this room for as long as you like." Brother Birger bows. "If you have need of anything please let us know."
For Hemingr
Brother Birger leans close to you and whispers as he walks out. "Keep a close eye on them all Brother. All-Father knows we've seen strange omens these past few nights. Be careful."
The Svartalf leans against the far wall and sinks to the floor. He glances around the room, eyes wary. "It's hardly Tyr's vault but it might do." He mutters.
For Vahlen
You discern little of the odd powder. It's natural in origin, likely derived from animal matter rather than plant. It gives off a distinct pungent odor that you can't quite place. Your instincts tell you its probably poisonous, but you can't be 100% sure.
For Roondar:
The priests hardly know what to make of an odd small dwarf with such a big mouth. By the way Brother Birger leads the party through the Hof you can tell he's probably the man in charge. A subtle air of tension hangs in the Hof, the priests look tired and harried. You catch a few glimpses of odd books relating to rituals and omens as you pass, priests pouring over them with the deepest concentration.
"Thank you brother." Beckoning the group in and closing and barring the door behind them, Vahlen looks around to the others in the room before his gaze falls sharply on the svartalf. "Right then, face down on the cobbles where we can all see your hands. Here's how we play this game: we ask you a question, and you answer. Give me an answer I don't like, and the dwarf breaks one of your legs. ...And, If we run out of legs, I'm sure he can find something else to smash." Vahlen flashes a devilish smile. "In any case, I suggest you cooperate." If they made this quick, he might have enough time to change clothes and make last call at the Cloistered Oyster.
"Let's start with a few simple ones: First, refugees don't carry that much coin on them. Neither do they go stirring up trouble and flinging clouds of insects about. What master do you serve, and what is your real business in Drifsgaard? Why is the watch after you, apart from the obvious?"
"And ...who was this poison intended for?" He asks, holding one of the bags of green powder aloft. He was only somewhat sure what the contents of the bag were, but he imagined the dark elf wouldn't risk getting kneecapped over it. Vahlen observes the elf's body language and speech patterns closely, looking for any obvious indications that he may be lying or omitting information.
Insight: 13
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
The Svartalf glares at you. "I'm tied up, surrounded by a gang of ruffians sporting my warrior's blood on their clothes, AND locked in a small room. I think my face will stay where it is thank you very much." He coughs to clear his throat. His bright green eyes dart around the room as if looking for something. "But I'll tell you...what I can. There's several good reasons I can think of to keep my legs much as they are."
"I had orders to be there tonight. All of us did. She...they...we didn't have a choice. Don't have a choice." The dark elf flashed a false smile. "Nothing personal really. Just doing my job. As for the poison well...what Svartalf worth his salt would go on the hunt without a little extra insurance?" He spits on Ragnar's boots. "I only wish I'd gotten the chance to use it."
For Vahlen
You're a fairly good judge of character, but this dark elf is baffling. He's cavalier and obstinate, but underneath that facade you can't help but notice a growing degree of dread taking hold. He's taking great effort to hide it, but clearly the Svartalf is terrified of something.
Roondar struts forward and scrapes the Svartalf's spit off Ragnar's boot into a small vial produced from his pack. "Ah, yes... I, too am a fan of the non-answer... friend." At the last word he casts Friends on himself staring intently at the bound person. "So... who hired you, and what do you mean you don't have a choice? I'm friends with the big guy here (patting Ragnar's arm) and won't let anyone do anything to you that you don't deserve." Roondar holds up his right hand, palm toward the Svartalf and strokes his beard with the other, "On my great-great-grandmother Yolo-moon Groghip the Vast, I will remain passive in this room."
Persuasion: 8
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
"I was not blessed with an abundance of patience, friend, and I'm starting to grow tired of your attitude." Vahlen's demeanor cracks, the anger in his voice becoming more evident. "And the part about you getting on the floor, that wasn't a question, that was an order." He turns to the dwarf. "Would you care to remind our friend that he's not in a position to negotiate."
Intimidate: 19
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
"Yore bein' awful poloite, Vahlen. If yew remembah a few minutes ago, 'dis long-eared grey-back scum was troy'in tah kill us."
As the odd tiny dwarf scraped spit off of Ragnar's boot and patted his shoulder, he gave a sideways glance and growled at the strange Skald who was - much like everyone else in the room - being incredibly polite to the would-be murderer, and grumbled, "Touch me again, Skald, and Oi'll 'ave yore 'and as a necklace. Oi'm not in a mood tah be makin' frens."
As he finished his sentence his eyes met the Svartalf's once again and he kicked at the Elf's face with the boot that had been spit on. (Attack: 20 Damage: 3 - OOC: I'm using my "Unarmed Strike" here so it always does 1+ STR Mod, which is why I don't have to roll damage. I rolled a normal 1d20 with advantage to hit however)
"Unloike everyone else 'ere, Oi won' be so noice. Who. Sent. Yew? Oi don' cahe if yew 'ad a choice. Oi wan' a name."
The Svartalf's nose breaks beneath Ragnar's boot. Blood runs crimson down his ashen features and he coughs and sputters. "Hel's frozen bosom!" The Svartalf curses. Perhaps it was the sight of his own blood speckling the floor, or perhaps it was the half-dozen armed forms above him, but the reality of his situation seems to have finally set in. "Look...I'll...I'll tell you whatever I can alright? Troll-spawned bastards, I'll tell you whatever you want to hear!"
He spits out a glob of blood and maybe a tooth. "We HAD to be there alright? I didn't have a choice, none of us did! You Sol-buinn wouldn't understand! How could you?" He starts to rant, voice growing louder. The dark elf's eyes glaze over with a manic detachment, he starts to rave, words making little sense. Soon he's shouting. Something about the moon, caves, and spider webs. The dark elf is inconsolate, foaming at the mouth, his limbs jerk and spasm against his bonds.
"Well, that took a turn..." Roondar mumbles through a curled lip. "I've seen some things, but there aren't many that make a man's brains squibbly that fast... Can we fix him? Or at least ease him into rest so he's not flailing on the floor like a half-squashed spider? That's beyond my skills..." He proclaims, walking backwards slowly.
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Cerridwen pushed her way through the bustle of masculinity to see a seizing Dark Elf with blood pouring from his mouth. Breaking through to the front of the group she kneels and casts cure wounds :3 on the Elf.
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"