It’s a cold and rather miserable night in Waterdeep, deeply contrasting with the bright, busy, cheery, and rather auspicious Hog’s Belly Brewery & Tavern. It’s just dusk outside amidst a downpour of rain, slightly hinting towards upcoming season of Winter, when a stocky Dwarf barges in the front entrance of the establishment.
He loudly announces in a thick, guttural accent; ”Hear ye, year ye! The name’s Cramer, an I’m ‘ere to collect all adventurers who gathered ‘round after viewing the papers, or pemp, pamph, ah-“ He furrows his brow in concentration - ”Whatev’r they are. Anyways - anyone interested, come ‘round to this table over’ ere!” He proceeds to motion towards a circular table near the back of the room.
The populace of the bar briefly pauses to turn their heads toward Cramer, and promptly resumes their bargoing activities. It’s rather crowded with all sorts of faces and figures, with various rather stressed-looking barmaids continuing their business amidst the hustle and bustle of the brewery.
You, my adventurers, have for some reason ended up in the tavern - or are just making your entry - when you hear the announcement. Please, make your first post of the game! Describe your character’s appearance (the more detail the better), and what they are doing at the moment. Feel free to interact with each other and make your way to the table Cramer is promptly downing mugs of Ale at as I finish setting up the rest of the game.
A note for efficiency: for any damage rolls, please roll accuracy and damage in the same roll. If you’d like to make a check, feel free to make it - if it’s not specifically the one I wanted, I’ll apply modifiers myself from the character sheets provided & I’ll let you know what I did.
Arnold, the tall 6'5" barbarian, is sitting alone at a table. His red eyes and the scratches on his metal plates deter most of the customers from going over to him. He doesn't seem to mind, however. He's just enjoying the music and dance from the stage. 'The music player with the strange music stick is really good, although i have never seen anyone with a similar strange music stick.' he analyzes to himself, referring to Ciradyl the flute player (although he does not know her name, or what a flute is.) Unlike many of the patrons, he has no drink or food at his table, and has denied the workers many times when they asked if he needed anything. He even denied them when they asked if he wanted water.
But he's not here for the tavern. As pleasant as the music and dance is, it's not necessary for him. 'I hope that the monster isn't too hard, and i hope that there will be other adventurers like myself to take it down!' he thinks to himself, thinking that the reason for the pamphlet is that the quest giver needs a monster killed - and that the adventurers must thus risk their lives to kill it.
Oranrubs his eyes and finishes his twelfth pint of ale. He's been drowning himself with drinks this afternoon -- he clearly wants to forget about today. His deep blue eyes drift over to Arnold, the warforged, sitting alone, then he just begins to muse to himself while he listens to the sounds of the flute, trying to clear his mind. The first thing you notice about Oran is that his light tan skin is dotted with faded pock marks, possibly the mark of an old illness. He brushes his jet black hair out of his eyes; it's usually neatly kept, but he's not worrying about it right now. The sound of the flute soothes him, and he rests his head on his elbow.
Upon hearing Cramer's announcement, Oran hesitantly rises from his seat and stumbles over in Cramer's direction. He stops by the bar counter and says groggily, "Manks for the decithin," his words fumbling. He is clearly wasted. Looking back at Arnold, he calls, "You coming, robot man?"Oran rubs his eyes again and sits down in a seat next to Cramer, hoping that at this point the dwarf is as drunk as he is.
A dark-skinned human sits in the far corner watching the crowd, waiting for the old gnome from his visions to appear. The tatoo on his forehead seems to gleam with purpose in the wavering candle light. A pamphlet is folded in one hand as he sits and watches, letting the music and jabber from the crowd wash over him like a muddy stream. His frame is adorned with layers of tanned leathers and furs, cut to be worn lightly in the summer sun, but still clearly more naturalist garb than something bought from one of the stalls of the city.
A mug of ale sits in front of him, accepted but untouched during the time he has been waiting in the pub for the first step of his journey to arrive.
As Cramer enters the establishment and makes his announcement, a momentary flash of disappointment and annoyance crosses the man's face; he had hoped to confront the gnome immediately about what he had done, repair the damage, and return home promptly. It would appear this hunt would take more time.
Leaving the ale sitting at his table, Doe'Tana strides confidently across the hall to the table where the elf and warforged have already begun to settle themselves. Producing the pamphlet he holds it forward. "My name is Doe'Tana. I seek the man that advertises this need. Will you take me to him Cramer?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Founding Member of the High Roller Society.(Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Some time soon after the Dwarf walked in, a strange creature entered the bar. Those that are knowledgeable of races in distant lands would be able to identify the lion headed humanoid as a Leonin, who are united in their "heathen" ways and rule their own savanna in tight knit prides. To see one this far from home is a rare sight indeed. This particular Leonin is well over 6 feet, likely somewhere around the mark of 7 feet. Among the largest of his own race. As he walks in, the floor boards creak in protest to the extra weight.
He's wearing a travel-worn cloak (likely meant for humans as it only reaches down to the base of his slowly swishing tail) with chain mail underneath. Its shine of steel is dull with light scratches, having performed its role in more than one confrontation. On his back is a two-handed war hammer and on his neck, a symbol of a foreign god, a four-winged helm. His mane ends in intricate braids with foreign trinkets worked into each braid. Spots of dried mud from a day of travel are caked onto his mane which he is idly picking off with surprisingly dexterous claws. His bestial eyes glint like rich amber in the light of the hearth fire as he scans the room, undisturbed by the few patrons who gawk and stare.
Evidently satisfied with whatever he saw, he makes his way across the bar to the counter, orders a mug of knee-cracker and comes to the Dwarf's table. He offers a curt nod to each of the current occupants and gingerly eases his weight onto the chair as if afraid it would collapse if he sat down too fast. Having settled himself at the table, he pulls out a piece of folded paper (the pamphlet) and speaks in a reverberating baritone voice. "I am here to take this job. You as well, I assume?" He directs his gaze at the others at the table.
An elven woman as pale as the moon itself dances and plays a flute that glows with a soft blue light on stage. She has long straight blonde white hair that sways with her as she dances. She is dressed in a light blue skirt and bodice layered with gossamer scarves that catch the light from the flute. Her eyes are a pale blue, a bit larger than that of what you would call normal eyes, but they fit her small heart-shaped face beautifully. There is an iridescent crystal that sits in an ornate silver cage that hangs from a chain necklace around her neck. She dances lightly to lively tune hoping to make people smile and keep drinking so that her tips at the end of the night are worth it. She eyes a few people in the crowd getting a sense of who might be here for the same reason she is tonight. The dark-skinned man in the corner, the drunken elf clearly drowning something away with all that ale.Curiously, there is a metal man here alone with no food or drink. She keeps her eyes open and patiently waits for something to happen.
As Cramer enters she stops playing and listens to his words. When he goes on his way she takes the flute back up to her lips and finishes her song. She gives a flourishing twirl and a bow. With a jovial tone to her voice to keep things light "It has been fun everyone, but I do think my time is done. I do hope you enjoyed the music. My name is Ciradyl and I hope you get the pleasure of hearing my songs again someday. Don't forget to tip your barmaids, and please get yourselves home in one piece." She takes another bow to any applause or cheering that may be happening and slips off stage. She grabs a dark blue embroidered cloak and her things from her hiding place by the stage and packs her flute away and puts her 2 daggers in her skirt pockets, just in case. She grabs her staff and heads to the bar and settles up her earnings for the night and also grabbing herself a drink. Donning the cloak and hood over her head she melds into the crowd and heads to the table where Cramer and the others she saw earlier are gathered.
She takes a seat next to the giant metal man, she takes down her hood and takes a long drink of her ale and sets it down with a smile. "Hello everyone, how are we doing this evening?"
The Leonin nods as he finishes picking off most of the dried mud from his mane. "Days of travel have made me weary. However, having gotten here in time, I am well. Your melodies were rather soothing, it's a shame I only caught one tune." He pauses for a moment to look at her, then as if suddenly remembering himself, he adds, "I am Baragon Starfeller."
"Yes, your lunes were tovely,"Oran nods in agreement with Baragon, then turns to the Leonin. "I've never man a lion seen before. Tell me, am I hasullinating?... No, please, I'm not as think as you drunk I am." It seems that his goal of trying to forget today has been (or at least, will be) accomplished -- with all the ale he's drunk, he's totally out of it. "Mame's Noran. Noran Shoonadow. Meet to nice you." He extends his hand to Ciradyl. "I am a man of your fusic. Can you more some play for me?... On second thought--take me drunk. I'm home."
Responding to Ciradyl, Arnold says "Hi! I am currently undergoing too many emotions to process efficiently! Are you the one who was playing the strange music stick on stage?" in a extremely cheerful voice.
Baragon seems to almost ignore the drunken wood elf, only responding with a half hearted "Well met, Noran Shoonadow." Instead he focuses his attention on Arnold. He examines the warforged for a few moments and takes a large gulp from his mug of knee-cracker, then speaks. "I have traveled far to get here, and I feel as though we will travel further still for this task. Still, I have only heard stories of men made entirely of metal, yet never seen one. Are you one of the so-called forged-of-war?"
He looks surprised at this comment. "I... Thank you?" He takes a moment to pause. If not for the earnest tone he would think the Warforged is mocking him... After all, he has only gotten such direct comments about his eyes from women in a particular mood. He shakes his head to himself. "It is a common color among my people. What do you go by, Warforged?"
"Arnold!" the warforged eagerly replies, "What about you? And what do you mean by, 'your people'? I apologize, i'm still learning!"
(OOC: Arnold doesn't know what a Leonin is, so he's assuming that your hair/eyes/look are just very unique among some race he does know - like human or something. Infact, considering his whole story and his 8 in intelligence, i'm not even sure he knows what a lion is, as he's unlikely to have met one.)
Ciradyl nods her head lightly to everyone "Yes, thank you very much. I'm glad you all enjoyed it. I'm sure you will hear much more on this quest it seems we all are here to go on." She looks at the wood elf with a bit of concern, but more frustration than pity. "You my friend" she gestures toward 'Noran' "have had too much." She's not a fan of drunken fools, in her mind they will be the weak link that gets the party killed. She watches the dark-skinned man, his outstreatched hand to Cramer, he seems mystical.
She turns to the Leonin "Very nice to meet you Baragon. We don't see much of your kind out this way....well in my 220 years I don't think I've seen but a handful of your kind. Is it this task that brings you out this far?"
OOC: I'm on the east coast and work 8-5. I will probably only be posting once maybe twice a day in the evenings at the moment. I'll try to catch all conversations within my post if anyone directs anything towards me.
"As you heard then Arnold, I am Baragon Starfeller." He nods at the Warforged. "My kind are similar to me in appearance. Most males have manes and most females do not. We are indeed not from this land. It is as you say, Ciradyl, the reason I am so far from pride and home is this task. More specifically, the Gnome requesting it. I owe him a life debt from when I was a cub and this may be the only chance I have of repaying it. The gold... is just an afterthought."
He looks up at the other two at the table while taking another swig from his mug. "And what of you, Noran Shoonadow and... Doe'Tana, was it? What brings you to this task?"
Oran is shaken by Baragon's question. He doesn't actually know why he's there -- or at least in his drunken mind, he's forgotten. "Friend's my Cramer," he blurts out.
The bar cheers and whoops at Ciradyl's performance, falling into the regular banter after she has left the stage.
Cramer finishes downing a pitcher and loudly slams the tankard onto the table. Wiping the stray drops of ale from his bushy beard, he glances around at the small band of rather unusually eccentric travelers that have gathered.
Gesturing to Ciradyl, he exclaims; "You have a way with music, there, ma'am," while raising his empty flask in her direction. Now turning his shrewd, piercing eyes toward Oran; "Id've hoped a prospect've adventurer woulda' kept his liquor ter we get to the point of 'er travels. No worries, 'ol Gard can fix you right up."
"Speaking of - now that you've acquainted with yer future allies a bit, may as well get into the point of this gatherin'. As you may or may not be aware, Ser Morphin has asked me to collect the advent'rers who've responded to the, ah, pamphlets passed 'round. He has not told me the nat're of the journeys ahead, but only that they are per'lous."
Furrowing his brow enough so that his bushy eyebrows touch, he continues. "He promised 5,000 GP each for everyone willing to risk death. It's apparently urgent, and he'd give more detail upon the advent'rers agreeing to venture on the jer'ney. Say - it's getting late! If you are ready and prepared, I'll waste no time taking whoever volunteers to where he asked to meet."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
The dark skinned man nods his assent, the tattoo on his forehead again glinting in the light. "Yes, let us not keep our prospective employer waiting. We can become more acquainted with each other on the way."
He lifts a arm to signify the dwarf leading them forward to the exit and falls in behind, responding to the conversation about him, inclining his head towards the lion-headed man. "You heard my name correctly. I am a travelling magician and came upon the advertisement when I came to make my rest at an inn not far from here. It seemed a worthy cause as my destination on the Web is not currently a set point."
12
//Will edit in more once I see how this roll goes against everyone's passive insight.
To most of you, and especially Oran (if he isn't too drunk to notice) it is clear that the man is holding something back, but perhaps that is not too surprising given that you just met. It certainly isn't the whole story. One thing is clear though, he does not seem entirely human. He holds himself more poised and rigorous than most humans, almost more like some of the elven kinds although his bald head doing nothing to cover his ears and the close shorn beard along his jawline definitely dissuade any possibility of elven blood in his veins.
(OOC: If your character has encountered the Kalashtar before then you likely recognize the not-quite human/not-quite alien nature of the species in him. Otherwise he just strikes you as strange).
Oran checks to see that he has all his belongings, then gives the thumbs-up to Cramer. He just goes along with what Doe'Tana is saying, too wasted to really discern whether he's telling the truth, and too out of it to care. "Question... who's Gard?"Oran says groggily, hoping to get out of his drunk stupor. He wanted to get drunk to forget today, not to be handicapped in the forthcoming adventure.
"Yay! So who is Gard? And who's the gnome that's requested us for this task? Is the gnome..." Arnold quickly takes out a ripped pamphlet, then puts it back in his backpack, and takes out another - not ripped pamphlet. He then carefully opens it and reads; "Gardeldorf Morphin?"
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It’s a cold and rather miserable night in Waterdeep, deeply contrasting with the bright, busy, cheery, and rather auspicious Hog’s Belly Brewery & Tavern. It’s just dusk outside amidst a downpour of rain, slightly hinting towards upcoming season of Winter, when a stocky Dwarf barges in the front entrance of the establishment.
He loudly announces in a thick, guttural accent; ”Hear ye, year ye! The name’s Cramer, an I’m ‘ere to collect all adventurers who gathered ‘round after viewing the papers, or pemp, pamph, ah-“ He furrows his brow in concentration - ”Whatev’r they are. Anyways - anyone interested, come ‘round to this table over’ ere!” He proceeds to motion towards a circular table near the back of the room.
The populace of the bar briefly pauses to turn their heads toward Cramer, and promptly resumes their bargoing activities. It’s rather crowded with all sorts of faces and figures, with various rather stressed-looking barmaids continuing their business amidst the hustle and bustle of the brewery.
You, my adventurers, have for some reason ended up in the tavern - or are just making your entry - when you hear the announcement. Please, make your first post of the game! Describe your character’s appearance (the more detail the better), and what they are doing at the moment. Feel free to interact with each other and make your way to the table Cramer is promptly downing mugs of Ale at as I finish setting up the rest of the game.
A note for efficiency: for any damage rolls, please roll accuracy and damage in the same roll. If you’d like to make a check, feel free to make it - if it’s not specifically the one I wanted, I’ll apply modifiers myself from the character sheets provided & I’ll let you know what I did.
Enjoy, and welcome to the Hog’s Belly.
Arnold, the tall 6'5" barbarian, is sitting alone at a table. His red eyes and the scratches on his metal plates deter most of the customers from going over to him. He doesn't seem to mind, however. He's just enjoying the music and dance from the stage. 'The music player with the strange music stick is really good, although i have never seen anyone with a similar strange music stick.' he analyzes to himself, referring to Ciradyl the flute player (although he does not know her name, or what a flute is.) Unlike many of the patrons, he has no drink or food at his table, and has denied the workers many times when they asked if he needed anything. He even denied them when they asked if he wanted water.
But he's not here for the tavern. As pleasant as the music and dance is, it's not necessary for him. 'I hope that the monster isn't too hard, and i hope that there will be other adventurers like myself to take it down!' he thinks to himself, thinking that the reason for the pamphlet is that the quest giver needs a monster killed - and that the adventurers must thus risk their lives to kill it.
Oran rubs his eyes and finishes his twelfth pint of ale. He's been drowning himself with drinks this afternoon -- he clearly wants to forget about today. His deep blue eyes drift over to Arnold, the warforged, sitting alone, then he just begins to muse to himself while he listens to the sounds of the flute, trying to clear his mind. The first thing you notice about Oran is that his light tan skin is dotted with faded pock marks, possibly the mark of an old illness. He brushes his jet black hair out of his eyes; it's usually neatly kept, but he's not worrying about it right now. The sound of the flute soothes him, and he rests his head on his elbow.
Upon hearing Cramer's announcement, Oran hesitantly rises from his seat and stumbles over in Cramer's direction. He stops by the bar counter and says groggily, "Manks for the decithin," his words fumbling. He is clearly wasted. Looking back at Arnold, he calls, "You coming, robot man?" Oran rubs his eyes again and sits down in a seat next to Cramer, hoping that at this point the dwarf is as drunk as he is.
A dark-skinned human sits in the far corner watching the crowd, waiting for the old gnome from his visions to appear. The tatoo on his forehead seems to gleam with purpose in the wavering candle light. A pamphlet is folded in one hand as he sits and watches, letting the music and jabber from the crowd wash over him like a muddy stream. His frame is adorned with layers of tanned leathers and furs, cut to be worn lightly in the summer sun, but still clearly more naturalist garb than something bought from one of the stalls of the city.
A mug of ale sits in front of him, accepted but untouched during the time he has been waiting in the pub for the first step of his journey to arrive.
As Cramer enters the establishment and makes his announcement, a momentary flash of disappointment and annoyance crosses the man's face; he had hoped to confront the gnome immediately about what he had done, repair the damage, and return home promptly. It would appear this hunt would take more time.
Leaving the ale sitting at his table, Doe'Tana strides confidently across the hall to the table where the elf and warforged have already begun to settle themselves. Producing the pamphlet he holds it forward. "My name is Doe'Tana. I seek the man that advertises this need. Will you take me to him Cramer?"
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Some time soon after the Dwarf walked in, a strange creature entered the bar. Those that are knowledgeable of races in distant lands would be able to identify the lion headed humanoid as a Leonin, who are united in their "heathen" ways and rule their own savanna in tight knit prides. To see one this far from home is a rare sight indeed. This particular Leonin is well over 6 feet, likely somewhere around the mark of 7 feet. Among the largest of his own race. As he walks in, the floor boards creak in protest to the extra weight.
He's wearing a travel-worn cloak (likely meant for humans as it only reaches down to the base of his slowly swishing tail) with chain mail underneath. Its shine of steel is dull with light scratches, having performed its role in more than one confrontation. On his back is a two-handed war hammer and on his neck, a symbol of a foreign god, a four-winged helm. His mane ends in intricate braids with foreign trinkets worked into each braid. Spots of dried mud from a day of travel are caked onto his mane which he is idly picking off with surprisingly dexterous claws. His bestial eyes glint like rich amber in the light of the hearth fire as he scans the room, undisturbed by the few patrons who gawk and stare.
Evidently satisfied with whatever he saw, he makes his way across the bar to the counter, orders a mug of knee-cracker and comes to the Dwarf's table. He offers a curt nod to each of the current occupants and gingerly eases his weight onto the chair as if afraid it would collapse if he sat down too fast. Having settled himself at the table, he pulls out a piece of folded paper (the pamphlet) and speaks in a reverberating baritone voice. "I am here to take this job. You as well, I assume?" He directs his gaze at the others at the table.
Lost In Time: An Interdimensional Escapade: Baragon Starfeller - Level 2 Leonin Paladin
Out of Elysium: Rhaecus, of the Raving Drums - Level 1 Satyr Rogue
Dungeonverse: Weizol L'varr - Level 1 Eladrin Wizard
An elven woman as pale as the moon itself dances and plays a flute that glows with a soft blue light on stage. She has long straight blonde white hair that sways with her as she dances. She is dressed in a light blue skirt and bodice layered with gossamer scarves that catch the light from the flute. Her eyes are a pale blue, a bit larger than that of what you would call normal eyes, but they fit her small heart-shaped face beautifully. There is an iridescent crystal that sits in an ornate silver cage that hangs from a chain necklace around her neck. She dances lightly to lively tune hoping to make people smile and keep drinking so that her tips at the end of the night are worth it. She eyes a few people in the crowd getting a sense of who might be here for the same reason she is tonight. The dark-skinned man in the corner, the drunken elf clearly drowning something away with all that ale. Curiously, there is a metal man here alone with no food or drink. She keeps her eyes open and patiently waits for something to happen.
As Cramer enters she stops playing and listens to his words. When he goes on his way she takes the flute back up to her lips and finishes her song. She gives a flourishing twirl and a bow. With a jovial tone to her voice to keep things light "It has been fun everyone, but I do think my time is done. I do hope you enjoyed the music. My name is Ciradyl and I hope you get the pleasure of hearing my songs again someday. Don't forget to tip your barmaids, and please get yourselves home in one piece." She takes another bow to any applause or cheering that may be happening and slips off stage. She grabs a dark blue embroidered cloak and her things from her hiding place by the stage and packs her flute away and puts her 2 daggers in her skirt pockets, just in case. She grabs her staff and heads to the bar and settles up her earnings for the night and also grabbing herself a drink. Donning the cloak and hood over her head she melds into the crowd and heads to the table where Cramer and the others she saw earlier are gathered.
She takes a seat next to the giant metal man, she takes down her hood and takes a long drink of her ale and sets it down with a smile. "Hello everyone, how are we doing this evening?"
Perkas Brightmoon | Rhanloi's Romp Through the Sword Coast
Ciradyl | Lost In Time
The Leonin nods as he finishes picking off most of the dried mud from his mane. "Days of travel have made me weary. However, having gotten here in time, I am well. Your melodies were rather soothing, it's a shame I only caught one tune." He pauses for a moment to look at her, then as if suddenly remembering himself, he adds, "I am Baragon Starfeller."
Lost In Time: An Interdimensional Escapade: Baragon Starfeller - Level 2 Leonin Paladin
Out of Elysium: Rhaecus, of the Raving Drums - Level 1 Satyr Rogue
Dungeonverse: Weizol L'varr - Level 1 Eladrin Wizard
"Yes, your lunes were tovely," Oran nods in agreement with Baragon, then turns to the Leonin. "I've never man a lion seen before. Tell me, am I hasullinating?... No, please, I'm not as think as you drunk I am." It seems that his goal of trying to forget today has been (or at least, will be) accomplished -- with all the ale he's drunk, he's totally out of it. "Mame's Noran. Noran Shoonadow. Meet to nice you." He extends his hand to Ciradyl. "I am a man of your fusic. Can you more some play for me?... On second thought--take me drunk. I'm home."
Responding to Ciradyl, Arnold says "Hi! I am currently undergoing too many emotions to process efficiently! Are you the one who was playing the strange music stick on stage?" in a extremely cheerful voice.
Baragon seems to almost ignore the drunken wood elf, only responding with a half hearted "Well met, Noran Shoonadow." Instead he focuses his attention on Arnold. He examines the warforged for a few moments and takes a large gulp from his mug of knee-cracker, then speaks. "I have traveled far to get here, and I feel as though we will travel further still for this task. Still, I have only heard stories of men made entirely of metal, yet never seen one. Are you one of the so-called forged-of-war?"
(OCC: Iirc Warforged were pretty rare...)
Lost In Time: An Interdimensional Escapade: Baragon Starfeller - Level 2 Leonin Paladin
Out of Elysium: Rhaecus, of the Raving Drums - Level 1 Satyr Rogue
Dungeonverse: Weizol L'varr - Level 1 Eladrin Wizard
Responding to Baragon, Arnold says; "Yes! I'm a Warforged! And you have pretty eyes and hair!"
He looks surprised at this comment. "I... Thank you?" He takes a moment to pause. If not for the earnest tone he would think the Warforged is mocking him... After all, he has only gotten such direct comments about his eyes from women in a particular mood. He shakes his head to himself. "It is a common color among my people. What do you go by, Warforged?"
Lost In Time: An Interdimensional Escapade: Baragon Starfeller - Level 2 Leonin Paladin
Out of Elysium: Rhaecus, of the Raving Drums - Level 1 Satyr Rogue
Dungeonverse: Weizol L'varr - Level 1 Eladrin Wizard
"Arnold!" the warforged eagerly replies, "What about you? And what do you mean by, 'your people'? I apologize, i'm still learning!"
(OOC: Arnold doesn't know what a Leonin is, so he's assuming that your hair/eyes/look are just very unique among some race he does know - like human or something. Infact, considering his whole story and his 8 in intelligence, i'm not even sure he knows what a lion is, as he's unlikely to have met one.)
Ciradyl nods her head lightly to everyone "Yes, thank you very much. I'm glad you all enjoyed it. I'm sure you will hear much more on this quest it seems we all are here to go on." She looks at the wood elf with a bit of concern, but more frustration than pity. "You my friend" she gestures toward 'Noran' "have had too much." She's not a fan of drunken fools, in her mind they will be the weak link that gets the party killed. She watches the dark-skinned man, his outstreatched hand to Cramer, he seems mystical.
She turns to the Leonin "Very nice to meet you Baragon. We don't see much of your kind out this way....well in my 220 years I don't think I've seen but a handful of your kind. Is it this task that brings you out this far?"
OOC: I'm on the east coast and work 8-5. I will probably only be posting once maybe twice a day in the evenings at the moment. I'll try to catch all conversations within my post if anyone directs anything towards me.
Perkas Brightmoon | Rhanloi's Romp Through the Sword Coast
Ciradyl | Lost In Time
"As you heard then Arnold, I am Baragon Starfeller." He nods at the Warforged. "My kind are similar to me in appearance. Most males have manes and most females do not. We are indeed not from this land. It is as you say, Ciradyl, the reason I am so far from pride and home is this task. More specifically, the Gnome requesting it. I owe him a life debt from when I was a cub and this may be the only chance I have of repaying it. The gold... is just an afterthought."
He looks up at the other two at the table while taking another swig from his mug. "And what of you, Noran Shoonadow and... Doe'Tana, was it? What brings you to this task?"
Lost In Time: An Interdimensional Escapade: Baragon Starfeller - Level 2 Leonin Paladin
Out of Elysium: Rhaecus, of the Raving Drums - Level 1 Satyr Rogue
Dungeonverse: Weizol L'varr - Level 1 Eladrin Wizard
Oran is shaken by Baragon's question. He doesn't actually know why he's there -- or at least in his drunken mind, he's forgotten. "Friend's my Cramer," he blurts out.
The bar cheers and whoops at Ciradyl's performance, falling into the regular banter after she has left the stage.
Cramer finishes downing a pitcher and loudly slams the tankard onto the table. Wiping the stray drops of ale from his bushy beard, he glances around at the small band of rather unusually eccentric travelers that have gathered.
Gesturing to Ciradyl, he exclaims; "You have a way with music, there, ma'am," while raising his empty flask in her direction. Now turning his shrewd, piercing eyes toward Oran; "Id've hoped a prospect've adventurer woulda' kept his liquor ter we get to the point of 'er travels. No worries, 'ol Gard can fix you right up."
"Speaking of - now that you've acquainted with yer future allies a bit, may as well get into the point of this gatherin'. As you may or may not be aware, Ser Morphin has asked me to collect the advent'rers who've responded to the, ah, pamphlets passed 'round. He has not told me the nat're of the journeys ahead, but only that they are per'lous."
Furrowing his brow enough so that his bushy eyebrows touch, he continues. "He promised 5,000 GP each for everyone willing to risk death. It's apparently urgent, and he'd give more detail upon the advent'rers agreeing to venture on the jer'ney. Say - it's getting late! If you are ready and prepared, I'll waste no time taking whoever volunteers to where he asked to meet."
The dark skinned man nods his assent, the tattoo on his forehead again glinting in the light. "Yes, let us not keep our prospective employer waiting. We can become more acquainted with each other on the way."
He lifts a arm to signify the dwarf leading them forward to the exit and falls in behind, responding to the conversation about him, inclining his head towards the lion-headed man. "You heard my name correctly. I am a travelling magician and came upon the advertisement when I came to make my rest at an inn not far from here. It seemed a worthy cause as my destination on the Web is not currently a set point."
12
//Will edit in more once I see how this roll goes against everyone's passive insight.
To most of you, and especially Oran (if he isn't too drunk to notice) it is clear that the man is holding something back, but perhaps that is not too surprising given that you just met. It certainly isn't the whole story. One thing is clear though, he does not seem entirely human. He holds himself more poised and rigorous than most humans, almost more like some of the elven kinds although his bald head doing nothing to cover his ears and the close shorn beard along his jawline definitely dissuade any possibility of elven blood in his veins.
(OOC: If your character has encountered the Kalashtar before then you likely recognize the not-quite human/not-quite alien nature of the species in him. Otherwise he just strikes you as strange).
Founding Member of the High Roller Society. (Currently trying to roll max on 4d6)
Oran checks to see that he has all his belongings, then gives the thumbs-up to Cramer. He just goes along with what Doe'Tana is saying, too wasted to really discern whether he's telling the truth, and too out of it to care. "Question... who's Gard?" Oran says groggily, hoping to get out of his drunk stupor. He wanted to get drunk to forget today, not to be handicapped in the forthcoming adventure.
"Yay! So who is Gard? And who's the gnome that's requested us for this task? Is the gnome..." Arnold quickly takes out a ripped pamphlet, then puts it back in his backpack, and takes out another - not ripped pamphlet. He then carefully opens it and reads; "Gardeldorf Morphin?"