"Songs of the dragonkind..." Harivaldr began stroking his beard in thought. He had met one or two wanderers from the far west in his time on the road, and he was certain one of them was a dragonborn from Aul... Aulwren? Aullow? Aulger? Aul-something, he was certain of it. "I must confess, I certainly don't know the lyrics for any 'songs of the dragonkind...'" he began as his fingers started to strum a lively tune on his dulcimer, "but I could've sworn there was a ditty about a western hero and his deeds that sounded something like this." And with that, he launched into an instrumental of a tune the dragonborn had been humming for all of the three days they'd shared the road. Seeing Sen and Phyllis making to dance, he adjusted his playing slightly, trying to keep the rhythm at one ideal for a lively jig. (Performance the Second = 28)
He would perform many more songs before he turned in that night, and at one point engaged in bombastic (and illusion assisted) recitations and retellings of the founding of the Hall of Lauriklanni, and a few choice passages the voyages of Egric Oceanborn. Still, even a singer and storyteller of his caliber couldn't perform forever, and eventually he wished all patrons still awake a good night, and turned in.
What even are these rolls.
Harivaldr will sleep like a log, and may or may not need someone to rouse him from his slumber.
“Nurkov. Sen Nurkov. Undoubtedly you may have read of my daring tales in many of the historical periodicals. I’m an acquirer of antiquities, some that glow and catch my eye. Sometimes things full of mystery or great beauty.” Send give her a wink. ”Things very much like yourself.” After the dance has finished he bows to the young lady. “Well it’s getting late for me I do believe. I shall be off to my room.” Sen looks at the key. “Looks like room 4.” Sen is a gentleman, in most respects. Sen collects his dusty jacket and throws it on before adjusting his hat.
On his way out, Sen will stop by the table of half elves. “Thanks for the drinks mates.” Sen leans over the table with both palms on top of the table, half squinting at this point. “Not sure what your play is here. Seems a bit suspicious sending drinks to folks who you know nothing of sorts about.”
The tune, however improvised for dance, was perfect to Phyllis. She let go of her prickly self and immersed herself in the familiar strings of home, and it only hit her when the song was finished how badly she missed it. It was only a half-year since she left home on the Arcana Collective's insistance to broaden her horizons and knowledge of the world, but as the final notes played, signaling the end of Oradorn and his quest, she found herself wishing she could hear her mother singing the song to her while she learned to speak.
"You flatter me Ser Nurkov," she returns to the present with a smile. "I hadn't realized we were in the company of someone so accomplished. Thank you for the dance."The surname held a hazy familiarity to it, but she couldn't truly say she knew of his trade. Perhaps her father had mentioned it once, knowing the man to hold a deep love of fascinating relics from a world long past. Phyllis, to her embarrassment, did not brush up on such things and instead her attentions were in persuit of perfecting the arcane arts and hearing court gossip. She made a mental note to inquire her father if he held any book detailing Nurkov's findings.
When the mood of the inn winding down, she also shares some of her childhood, obviously proud to indulge any who will listen how the Sovereign themselves elevated the Kyrkos name, who were once "simply" wealthy merchants at the top of the Merchant's Guild, to the status of nobility in gratitude of their continued financial support to the King's army. She also speaks, although somewhat guarded, of her time with the Arcana Collective and how she believes her eldest brother a foolish bafoon in a ruffled collar. However she pays close attention to the rest of the group and the details they spare, honestly enjoying their company and when Harivaldr pulled his illusions, Phyllis couldn't resist summoning Nyxtra, her familiar in the form of a black owl with brown flecks, to her shoulder to enjoy the story telling.
Tired after, she bids them all a good night and retires to her room for a full night's sleep.
Dathyra preferred listening to her newfound companions' tales to anything else. She felt a little small compared to some of her more adventurous travel companions. Sen is a bit secretive about his past, but still unable to resist bragging a bit about his exploits. Merric is very social and happy to share just about anything with anyone. Hm, she would have to be careful with any personal secrets around that one. Phyllis was certainly filled with interesting tales, and Dathyra couldn't help but wonder how someone of such a background ended up here. Although, she could sympathize with her views on her brother. Dathyra knew the feeling. Vaquen could be insufferable sometimes but was always looking out for her safety. And Harivaldr was just happy to entertain, though perhaps she would have liked to hear him tell just a little bit more about his own travels.
For the most part, Dathyra remained just a quiet listener. Only when goaded a little by Merric did she decide to share a little of her humble origins. She told them that she had been born to elven farmers in the north, which really was a pretty quiet life. She at least told them of how she, a couple of siblings, and her mother had survived the destructive raid of her village and were refugees taken in by a nearby temple to Lathander in a small, but well-guarded town. Since then, she had become a devoted member of their order, along with her siblings, and studied the healing arts, and that she was currently returning home from a charity mission.
Sen was probably the first to leave them that night, having chosen to not stick around for most of the stories and entertainment, but Dathyra left a little after. If she intended to be of any use tomorrow, she needed some rest.
Durven steps up rings the bell. "Last Call" Many of the patrons and the crew had already turned in for the evening. Showing some professionalism he thought with relief and approval, except for a few bird feathers here and there he grumbles about as he sweeps the floors. It hadn't been that busy in weeks and he felt satisfied with his exhaustion.
Expecting some exciting days ahead, Merric could not sleep after finding his room. No sense in worrying (not being the halfling way to fret about the unknown), he decided he might as well be prepared instead.
Setting out all his weapons and equipment on the floor (the bed being too high), Merric prepared everything as his Pa had taught him - bow string in good condition, arrow tips razor edged and fletchings aligned, knives and sword edges sharpened- everything in perfect condition. After repacking all his gear to be ready at a moments notice, Merric used a few drops of lamp oil to quiet his door hinges and then (Stealth : 27 ) cracked the room door open. Seeing or hearing no one about (Perception: 22 ), Merric slipped outside and padded his carefully pre-planned route around the inn, ensuring all his new found friends were safely locked in their rooms, no one had forgotten to lock their doors, and no one was skulking about that should not be.
Thinking back on the day, he could not help but smile to himself...
Dathyra...he could not help but feeling a strong trust for that one. He felt warm and safer whenever she was near. Something about the tone of her voice and her quiet presence. Almost like when he was around his Ma. Someone to protect and watch out for. Gentle...but with a power yet unseen methinks.
Sen. An interesting character that one. Likely to be able to look after himself and not likely needing me to look after him too much, but certainly a compliment for each other. Might even learn something from him. His ungainly height might be a serious detriment, but a worthy companion all the same.
Harivaldr! A shame he was born a dwarf! As a halfling, he could have gone far. But even so, was there anything he could not do? And such skill with that instrument. Sure hope he wields his sword as well as he strums a tune. A kindness he showed me I won't soon forget though.
Phyllis. Hmmm....Not sure what to think about her. Quite haughty - though I think she was "trying'" to be polite. A human!?! I could have sworn she was even an elf initially, most of them being precocious asses - but I guess the bits of her upbringing she let slip explains that a bit. If she was raised by a halfling Ma she would be more polite. Maybe I'll "accidentally" spill something on her fancy dress so she has to wear something a bit more practical. Anyways. I think there is more to her than meets the eye. She almost seems to know what is going on before it happens. Strange that one. But I like her. She dances with me. Not very skilled at it...but at least she tried. I'll try teach her some better steps later...
...strange. A week ago, I was fleeing Dragon's Reach for my life and now....how things have changed. A good time to be a halfling. Yes...I think I'll keep this bunch around. I like them.
Making his way back to his room and locking and trapping his door, he quickly fell asleep.
The air carries a chill to it, winter is not far behind. The sun is still below the horizon but light has made its way to Westport and the Dew Drop Inn. Behind the establishment in a cobble stoned courtyard, flanked by the rear of the tavern and a small stable, is a wagon hitched to two horses. The horses huff and their breath is visible in the air. The occasional clomping of their hooves sound against the cobble stones that are slick with morning frost. The wagon looks to have been previously loaded with several oaken casks. A tarp and rope are lay near the wagon. The gate of the wagon is down to serve as a table. There are mugs, a large tin coffee pot wrapped in oven mitts to keep the heat and medium sized crock.
The back door of the tavern opens and a slightly harried Durven steps out with Darla right behind him.
"Yes dear, I packed feed for the horses."
"Do you have your gauntlets?"
"Did you sharpen your sword and remember the bolts this time?"
"Yes, of course" he says patiently but tinged with exasperation.
Darla puts her large hands to each side of his and lifts him up to her, his toes barely scraping the ground, and gives him a savage kiss that turns almost tender. She releases him, turns him toward the courtyard and gives him a swat and a shove.
"Good, Don't die." She shuts the door behind him.
Durven stumbles a step to catch his footing. His cheeks flush. He stops to adjust his studded leather armor. Checks to see that he has his gauntlets tucked in his belt. He pats himself down for his sword and bolt case. He heads to the stable to get a bag of feed.
As he returns from the stable a cloaked figure gestures to him from the gate by the road. Durven throws the bag of feed onto the wagon and approaches. Durven listens to him a bit and makes a shrugging gesture. The figure produces a small bag. His other hand is held out to the side at about waist high as if he is indicating the height of something. Durven shakes his head and waves off the bag and makes an indication for the figure to move on down the road.
Durven makes his way back to the wagon and pours himself a cup of coffee. He blows on it a bit and grimaces slightly at the taste. "Ahhh, finally."
As far as you could tell they seemed sincere in their appreciation of the bard's song. They tried to explain the lyrics but were quite frightened by your intimidating presence. They apologized for sending drinks to your table and left the dew drop inn immediately.
“My apologies,” Sen says before leaving the table of half elves.
Sen makes his way to his room for the night. The bed becomes a shelf for all his possessions. Sen throws his pack, jacket, whip and crossbow onto the bed. Sen locks the door and moves the armchair across the room to face the door. Sen leans back in the chair, moves his hat over his eyes and takes his slumber. In the morning, Sen gets up early and heads down to the bar area. If no one is around, he will attempt to recover the small relic from the box.
Thieves tools: 22
After trying to recover the artifact, Sen will return to his room. He will pack up, get dressed and head downstairs to find the others.
The inn is silent, except for the usual noises of people sleeping in the same building. You don't see anyone up while you're moving through the halls and tavern. When you get behind the bar the lock box is locked and bolted to the shelf. You don't check it for traps as it seems a fairly simple affair. It has a sturdy lock that you manage to open without difficulty. Inside the box is the statue and a medium sized bag. Do you look in it or take it as well?
I'll most likely leave it where it is, but I'll pull the bag open where it sits to a least get a good look in the bag out of curiosity. I'm assuming its profits from the business. Coin does not really interest me. I only need enough to live on.
It's a bit ugly, but it's mine so I am taking my statue.
While you are padding silently through the inn and tavern you perceive that you are not the only one sneaking through the hallways. They are moving quietly but you are halfling and trained in stealth. You watch as Sen sneaks through the tavern and goes behind the bar. He returns with something in his hand. He looks around but doesn't see you. He returns to his room.
Much like her feathered familiar, Phyllis was not overly fond of mornings. However this day was different, and so to the visible dismay of the owl that simply wished to stay perched high in the room and sleep way the sunlit hours, Phyllis had managed to rouse early enough to begin preparing for the day. With little in her current possession, she opted out of wearing her floor-length robes from the previous day, deciding that she couldn't afford to dirty it or tear it in the day's tasks. Instead, she folded it neatly and placed it in her pack. Her clothing was still of fine make, however simple her attire now seemed in comparison to the elegant and sweeping robes she so loved. But, Phyllis rationalized as she began moving about, she would rather her long-sleeved tunic or tan breeches be dirtied than her precious robes.
Her spellbook laid open on her once occupied bed, the only thing in the wizard's possession that did not look immaculate. Tattered, worn brown leather bound loose fitted aged paper with small notes sticking out at random order. On the paper itself was the scratching of script that varied from purposeful penmanship to haphazard scribbles, of sketches of magic circles or the breakdown of them to explain each curve's description. This book of absolute chaos, so opposite of the owner, was Phyllis' most treasured item. If it came down to her book or her robes, she would scorch the fabric readily herself if it would save just a page from her book. It was this that commanded her attention now after she pulled on her boots, sitting cross legged on the floor before pulling the book to her lap.
Her routine was simple each day. Awake to the maddening need to write a note in her book, groom herself until she was presentable to the world, and come back to the book when she had fully awaken so that she could try and make sense of the mad notes. These notes were more often than not her dreams, yet there are times where these dreams turn out to be visions of events to come. The Arcana Collective told her that she was gifted with divination magic, and with time it stopped unnerving her when her dreams became reality. But this morning's notes...
Savage man doing savage dances. Avoid the bucket.
An arrow strikes true.
Affection in early morning fog.
Pretty pretty eyes but alas, the bucket
This took the proverbial cake in not making the least amount of sense. But study it she did.
Divination Portents of the Day: 13, 4
Phyllis will head down a tad bit later when she starts to hear more people rousing up. Not very perceptive, she may be one of the last people to join breakfast.
Alone in his room, Harivaldr was snoring uproariously as his body, tangled in the linen sheets, lay precariously close to the edge of the bed. In his sleep, he shifted, just a touch too far to the left... His head hit the wooden floor with a dull thump mid-snore, creating a noise that can best be written down as, "Snrr-"bang "-GAH!" After a panicked few moments spent righting himself on the floor, the skald sat up in the dark with a groan. He looked around, slowly but surely remembering where he'd gone to sleep last night. Right, he thought, it's been awhile since I last slept in a proper bed, guess I got too comfortable. He untangled himself from the sheets and took a peek out of his window. Just about dawn... his bleary eyes looked back and forth between the sun rising over the horizon and the comfortable bed he'd just fallen out of. He knew from experience that it was probably not wise to crawl back into bed, not after the sun was already rousing itself, so he sighed and began to prepare himself for the day ahead.
He'd undone his braids before he went to sleep the night before, so now he set about combing and braiding his wild mane of bedhead and beard into something proper for a skald of his caliber. Then he double- and triple-checked his kit. The whole process took another thirty minutes, but everything was accounted for. With a satisfied nod, the still sleepy, but now much more lucid dwarf stepped out and into the hall, then down to the main room to see if anyone else was awake. Or maybe see if there was any breakfast...
Morning comes too soon for Sen, but he wakes happy to have the relic back in his possession. (Was there anything good in the bag?) Sen packs up his belongings. Sen steals a handtowel and wraps up the relic, trying to hide it, before putting the relic in his satchel. After the items are packed. Sen will attempt to clean himself up a bit. He will wipe off his jacket and boots with a wet rag, shake out his pants and dig the dirt out from under his nails. Sen looks in the mirror debating to shave or not, he assumes he does not have time at this point to shave.
Cleary Sen is attempting to clean up to impress Phyliss, but will never say that to anyone. That wizard is not going to be the only dapper one in THIS party!
Sen adjusts his belt and straps on his pack. He begins to head toward the door of the inn. As he touches the knob, he remembers something he forgot. Sen grabs his hat from the bedpost, also giving it a shake, before putting it on.
Sen leaves the tavern after taking some bread from a table to chew on. Seeing the encounter between Darla and Durven, Sen is impressed by the affection between the two in such a world like this one. Sen watches Durven, unsure if he is still upset over last nights encounter. Upon Durven's return after speaking with the unknown person, Sen will ask him, "who's your friend there? Is he not coming?" Sen plays it coy with Durven for the time being.