When Chadwick first arrives in town he head over to the temple to visit with Bessie and make a 10pp donation to the temple.
After rejoining the group and noticing Ajax's condition he looks him over (not sure if there is a skill check for someone used to farm animals). "What's a matter little buddy, something have you down?" If he doesn't get a response, assuming Gneuman translates, he can help with (like being away from the Fey too long) he'll add "we'll maybe some healing from Tyr will help you if that's ok." He uses 5 points of LoH to heal poison if neither Gneuman or Ajax protests. If he is still not right Chadwick will prepare detect disease and poison over his next rest.
Upon discovering the ale from his village "Monstordrink Mist! It's been so long I almost forgot how incredible it is! Dwarven stout is great and all, but it'll never be able to replace my love for The Mist. He looks down dreamily into his bejeweled dwarven stein lost in thought of far away friends and family.
Starker:”Eldarion, salutations. I am Starker, this is Cyrus Magnus (take off your fez and bow, Cyrus). Do not be misled by the poetic license in the song you just heard, I seldom use Illusion and Cyrus, though willing, has yet to make use of the scalpel I keep for him to kill unconscious foes. Nil desperandum; he is quite young and can still perform the actions to earn his sobriquet.<starts to rummage through backpack> Would you like to see the preserved brain of a mindflayer or the preserved larval form of that interesting species?”
Eldarion listens to Starker’s logorrhea patiently. “Perhaps when you call upon Arnak tomorrow we can discuss such things? Tonight, we are here to relax with one of Jotrun’s fine beverages,” he says as he and Hanny raise their glasses. “Tomorrow is better suited for business,” he concludes.”
Starker, smiling:”Thank you, friend Chadwick. Can you believe that they did not want to examine my mindflayer brain or larva? <drinks> This is delicious. Much better than I expected. I do not drink much alcohol as I am concerned at what might happen were I to become careless or clumsy in attempting to bend reality to my will. <drinks again> Really delicious, thank you. I had best stop at one, but for that one I thank you.”
Xymox is making his way around the room, tankard in hand. He is working the crowd well. The night is lively at Jotrun's. After you bowls are cleared another round of Monstordrink Mist arrives at your table. You catch the drow bard raising his tankard towards your group.
Careful with that Monstordrink, Starker. Too much of it and not only will your spellcasting falter, but you might start eyeing these Shalecliff sloptarts the way Chadwick already seems at risk to do.
Winks at Chadwick and takes a more serious tone
Better still, we keep our wits about us- and our purses close. That bard knows our names, our strengths- I was waiting for the rhyme about the weight of our swords. Such familiarity from a drow is rarely a blessing- even when in a melody.
Still, we can not assume the worst. Perhaps we should meet this Xymox before forming judgement.
Seeing the bard raise his tankard. Trolkarl will meet his gaze, with deliberate calm, he lifts his hand, palm down, curling his fingers in a beckoning motion more appropriate for court than Jotrun's. Then waits with impeccable posture.
Assuming the drow approaches
You know our names, minstrel. And our deeds, it seems. Yet I do not recall introduction... nor granting audience for the tales you've gathered.
I am Trolkarl of House Ravenshield. Once of hall and hearth, now of the road. And though I wander, my station compels me to show courtesy and great with warmth the one who sings with such elegance of me and my companions... even if prudence bids me to learn why.
Seeing the bard raise his tankard. Trolkarl will meet his gaze, with deliberate calm, he lifts his hand, palm down, curling his fingers in a beckoning motion more appropriate for court than Jotrun's. Then waits with impeccable posture.
Assuming the drow approaches
You know our names, minstrel. And our deeds, it seems. Yet I do not recall introduction... nor granting audience for the tales you've gathered.
I am Trolkarl of House Ravenshield. Once of hall and hearth, now of the road. And though I wander, my station compels me to show courtesy and great with warmth the one who sings with such elegance of me and my companions... even if prudence bids me to learn why.
Xymox: "Greetings fabled adventurer!" the drow bows to Trolkarl deeply (and somewhat over-dramatically).
"As our esteemed hosts have indicated, in a somewhat too plain and ordinary fashion, I might add." Xymox displays a slight scowl at the tavern keep. "I am Xymox Xel' Mizzrym, Bard of a Hundred Ballads, Master of the Midnight Rhyme, and at your service — for a coin, a tale, or the promise of good company!”
Xymox drains his wine glass and grabs another from the bar maid as she slips past the group.
"And you must be Trolkarl! The Tamer of Titans!"The drow makes a gesture above Trolkarl's head, as if showing the words on a marquee.
"The whispers and rumors of The Company appear true! I must admit, I did provide a slightly altered rendition of your accounts, only for dramatic flair, I assure you." He mutters under his breath to the warlock.
Then stands again, raising his wine glass and proclaims a bit louder for those nearby to hear...
"Ahh, Trolkarl... So the tales were true — you do cast a longer shadow in person.
Let me try, just once, to give your legend the shape it deserves — though words may fracture under the weight of it.
You, who walked barefoot through the Ash-Wastes of Baator and left no footprint. You, who bartered not your soul, but your silence — and even the Outer Things respected the hush. They call you many names, oh yes —The Pact-Eater, Shadow's Vow, The Candle That Burns in Midnight —
But I’ve heard truer things in taverns and tombs.
They say you once spoke a truth so terrible it turned a lich to dust. They say the stars shift when you make camp beneath them.
Me? I say you’re the song we don’t dare sing — too bright, too dark, too real.
So welcome, Trolkarl.
May your enemies remain stories, and your allies remember which side they chose.
Now... shall I play something in a minor key?”
Then in one swift motion, the drow pulls a chair away from a neighboring table just as its owner was about to sit, spins it around and pulls himself up to The Company.
"May a sit and hear your true tales? I must admit, I'm intrigued."
Xymox. You’re more than welcome to join us. But maybe we should start with one of your hundred ballads that has yourself as the subject. One of the truer stories, if you please.
I know you’re a poet and don’t mind taking some creative liberties, but life’s experience has made me a bit more reserved when meeting… new company. I can assure you that some of my friends might be even less appreciative of creative storytelling. But we’re fair and honest, so please tell us honestly about yourself. For your story- I promise you no coin and but no shortage of good company.
Starker:”I seldom use illusion. I am an evoker. Our story is that we travel to different parts of this world and others, kill things, and take their stuff. It is a diverting lifestyle.”
Xymox glances at the group and catches the skeptical looks from the lot.
He takes a moment then returns his gaze to Trolkarl. The drow's demeanor seems just slightly more serious.
“Ah… don’t worry, I get that look often — wide eyes, cautious hands near hilts. The whole ‘Drow in the daylight’ thing tends to raise questions. Fair enough.
I’m Xymox of House Xel’Mizzryn — though, truth be told, the house is little more than ash and memory these days. Politics in the Underdark are... not for the faint of heart. Or the romantically inclined.
While others in my house carved their legacy in steel and poison, I found a different path. Music, stories, secrets whispered through song. Turns out a well-placed verse can be just as dangerous — and far more elegant.
I came to the surface through Indarkken, a shadowed little outpost buried deep beneath the hills of Cormyr — you might know it, Trolkarl. Not exactly a tourist destination, but it has its charms: fungus ale, whisper markets, the occasional knife in the back.
Since my less-than-celebrated departure, I’ve found footing among the surface folk, mostly thanks to The Gilded Veil — a delightfully slippery guild of illusionists, informants, and performers who prefer their truths wrapped in silk and misdirection. They taught me that laughter is sharper than steel — and much harder to trace back to you.
I’ve walked caverns where even shadows fear to linger. Played lullabies to beasts you'd rather not meet awake. Escaped... more than I deserved to. But I’m not here to impress you.
I’m here because I like the look of you. You’ve got the air of a tale unfolding — and I happen to collect those.
If you’ll have me, I offer melody in the madness, words when steel fails, and perhaps, just perhaps, a verse worthy of remembering.”
Starker:”I seldom use illusion. I am an evoker. Our story is that we travel to different parts of this world and others, kill things, and take their stuff. It is a diverting lifestyle.”
“Master Starker,
First and foremost, allow me to assure you — I hold your magical precision in the highest regard. Truly, the way you turned that ogre ...or whatever creature it may have been, into a smoldering memory was nothing short of art.
Xymox winks at Gnueman, then nudges Trolkarl.
Now, regarding the verse in question — yes, I may have implied that your fireball ‘obliterated half the hillside and singed a passing roc into legend.’ In retrospect, I see how that could be interpreted as... exaggerated. That is what I sang, isn't it? Perhaps I have had too much drink already this evening.
But you must understand — the audience loved it. There’s a rhythm to truth, and occasionally, a story needs a little flare to keep the crowd on the edge of their seats. Not everyone appreciates the subtle majesty of a well-measured area of effect.
So, with great respect (and mild theatrical regret), I offer my apology — and promise that in the next retelling, the roc will be entirely spared, and the hillside only lightly caramelized. Or perhaps it was a manticore?"
Xymox lifts his voice and falls back into his Bardic role once again.
"Ah, Jutrun's finest — all packed into this creaky tavern like it's the last candlelit haven before the world ends. Listen closely... hear that buzz? That’s not the mead talking — it’s them. They're talking about you.
Over there, that smith’s apprentice? Can’t stop asking if The Company really slew a hydra or if that was just a dramatic exaggeration — I stayed out of it. For once.
The old farmer by the hearth? Swears you saved his cousin’s village from a goblin swarm last winter — no one’s corrected him yet. Might not be true, but it’s comforting.
And that bardling in the corner? Practicing a ballad that rhymes ‘hero’ with ‘ale flow’ — she’s still learning. Bless her ambition.
See, you’re not just adventurers here. You’re myth in the making. The Company. Capital T, capital C. That’s what they call you — like you're something etched into old stone or whispered through ruins.
So order a drink, raise a toast, and try not to look too surprised when someone asks for your autograph… or your shoe.”
The dark elf then catches the eye of a bard maid and motions to her for more drinks for the table.
Starker will just be drinking water for the rest of the evening. Cyrus is having some reconsituted dried mango slices dripping with alcohol.
”On balance, Xymox, I would like notoriety. I would like for unfriendly sentient beings to fear us and choose other prey. Also, those who seek our services will pay us more if our reputation is accurate. If music be the food of intimidation, play on.”
The Monstordrink Mist flows freely tonight. Jotrun acquired two butts of it in trade with a merchant from Luskan you learn. The crowd is lively and spirits are high. The Stonejaw brothers are spending freely and celebrating their realization of taking control of the mountain, all with your help. Even Arnak joins in some light conversation with you before he, Hanny and their guest retire for the night.
As the Monstordrink Mist is finished, the last tankards all have an off taste to it. The best description you can give is that it is “corrupted” somehow.
When Chadwick first arrives in town he head over to the temple to visit with Bessie and make a 10pp donation to the temple.
After rejoining the group and noticing Ajax's condition he looks him over (not sure if there is a skill check for someone used to farm animals). "What's a matter little buddy, something have you down?" If he doesn't get a response, assuming Gneuman translates, he can help with (like being away from the Fey too long) he'll add "we'll maybe some healing from Tyr will help you if that's ok." He uses 5 points of LoH to heal poison if neither Gneuman or Ajax protests. If he is still not right Chadwick will prepare detect disease and poison over his next rest.
Upon discovering the ale from his village "Monstordrink Mist! It's been so long I almost forgot how incredible it is! Dwarven stout is great and all, but it'll never be able to replace my love for The Mist. He looks down dreamily into his bejeweled dwarven stein lost in thought of far away friends and family.
Starker:”Eldarion, salutations. I am Starker, this is Cyrus Magnus (take off your fez and bow, Cyrus). Do not be misled by the poetic license in the song you just heard, I seldom use Illusion and Cyrus, though willing, has yet to make use of the scalpel I keep for him to kill unconscious foes. Nil desperandum; he is quite young and can still perform the actions to earn his sobriquet.<starts to rummage through backpack> Would you like to see the preserved brain of a mindflayer or the preserved larval form of that interesting species?”
Eldarion listens to Starker’s logorrhea patiently. “Perhaps when you call upon Arnak tomorrow we can discuss such things? Tonight, we are here to relax with one of Jotrun’s fine beverages,” he says as he and Hanny raise their glasses. “Tomorrow is better suited for business,” he concludes.”
Chadwick’s investigations into Ajax are for naught. His attempts at curative measures do not seem to affect him.
Starker, hurt:”Very well. Enjoy your evening of companionable liquor induced temporary intellect obnubilation. I look forward to our meeting tomorrow. Come, Cyrus.”
Trudges back to The Company’s table and sits, slump-shouldered.
Seeing Staker looking glum Chadwick decides to help. "Friend Starker you must try this ale, it's from my village and will perk you right up!"
He grabs a mug for him then watches eagerly for his reaction.
Starker, smiling:”Thank you, friend Chadwick. Can you believe that they did not want to examine my mindflayer brain or larva? <drinks> This is delicious. Much better than I expected. I do not drink much alcohol as I am concerned at what might happen were I to become careless or clumsy in attempting to bend reality to my will. <drinks again> Really delicious, thank you. I had best stop at one, but for that one I thank you.”
Xymox is making his way around the room, tankard in hand. He is working the crowd well. The night is lively at Jotrun's. After you bowls are cleared another round of Monstordrink Mist arrives at your table. You catch the drow bard raising his tankard towards your group.
Hoid distrusts all Drow until they prove otherwise. This is based on his data set of two prior individuals in this group of elves.
Plus the ballad did not accurately reflect Hoid’s preferred tools of the trade. Seems like strike three for Drow.
Careful with that Monstordrink, Starker. Too much of it and not only will your spellcasting falter, but you might start eyeing these Shalecliff sloptarts the way Chadwick already seems at risk to do.
Winks at Chadwick and takes a more serious tone
Better still, we keep our wits about us- and our purses close. That bard knows our names, our strengths- I was waiting for the rhyme about the weight of our swords. Such familiarity from a drow is rarely a blessing- even when in a melody.
Still, we can not assume the worst. Perhaps we should meet this Xymox before forming judgement.
Sensing Hoid's concern also, Trolkarl will act.
Seeing the bard raise his tankard. Trolkarl will meet his gaze, with deliberate calm, he lifts his hand, palm down, curling his fingers in a beckoning motion more appropriate for court than Jotrun's. Then waits with impeccable posture.
Assuming the drow approaches
You know our names, minstrel. And our deeds, it seems. Yet I do not recall introduction... nor granting audience for the tales you've gathered.
I am Trolkarl of House Ravenshield. Once of hall and hearth, now of the road. And though I wander, my station compels me to show courtesy and great with warmth the one who sings with such elegance of me and my companions... even if prudence bids me to learn why.
Xymox: "Greetings fabled adventurer!" the drow bows to Trolkarl deeply (and somewhat over-dramatically).
"As our esteemed hosts have indicated, in a somewhat too plain and ordinary fashion, I might add." Xymox displays a slight scowl at the tavern keep. "I am Xymox Xel' Mizzrym, Bard of a Hundred Ballads, Master of the Midnight Rhyme, and at your service — for a coin, a tale, or the promise of good company!”
Xymox drains his wine glass and grabs another from the bar maid as she slips past the group.
"And you must be Trolkarl! The Tamer of Titans!" The drow makes a gesture above Trolkarl's head, as if showing the words on a marquee.
"The whispers and rumors of The Company appear true! I must admit, I did provide a slightly altered rendition of your accounts, only for dramatic flair, I assure you." He mutters under his breath to the warlock.
Then stands again, raising his wine glass and proclaims a bit louder for those nearby to hear...
"Ahh, Trolkarl... So the tales were true — you do cast a longer shadow in person.
Let me try, just once, to give your legend the shape it deserves — though words may fracture under the weight of it.
You, who walked barefoot through the Ash-Wastes of Baator and left no footprint. You, who bartered not your soul, but your silence — and even the Outer Things respected the hush. They call you many names, oh yes —The Pact-Eater, Shadow's Vow, The Candle That Burns in Midnight —
But I’ve heard truer things in taverns and tombs.
They say you once spoke a truth so terrible it turned a lich to dust.
They say the stars shift when you make camp beneath them.
Me? I say you’re the song we don’t dare sing — too bright, too dark, too real.
So welcome, Trolkarl.
May your enemies remain stories, and your allies remember which side they chose.
Now... shall I play something in a minor key?”
Then in one swift motion, the drow pulls a chair away from a neighboring table just as its owner was about to sit, spins it around and pulls himself up to The Company.
"May a sit and hear your true tales? I must admit, I'm intrigued."
Xymox smiles slightly at the group.
Xymox. You’re more than welcome to join us. But maybe we should start with one of your hundred ballads that has yourself as the subject. One of the truer stories, if you please.
I know you’re a poet and don’t mind taking some creative liberties, but life’s experience has made me a bit more reserved when meeting… new company. I can assure you that some of my friends might be even less appreciative of creative storytelling. But we’re fair and honest, so please tell us honestly about yourself. For your story- I promise you no coin and but no shortage of good company.
Starker:”I seldom use illusion. I am an evoker. Our story is that we travel to different parts of this world and others, kill things, and take their stuff. It is a diverting lifestyle.”
Xymox glances at the group and catches the skeptical looks from the lot.
He takes a moment then returns his gaze to Trolkarl. The drow's demeanor seems just slightly more serious.
“Ah… don’t worry, I get that look often — wide eyes, cautious hands near hilts. The whole ‘Drow in the daylight’ thing tends to raise questions. Fair enough.
I’m Xymox of House Xel’Mizzryn — though, truth be told, the house is little more than ash and memory these days. Politics in the Underdark are... not for the faint of heart. Or the romantically inclined.
While others in my house carved their legacy in steel and poison, I found a different path. Music, stories, secrets whispered through song. Turns out a well-placed verse can be just as dangerous — and far more elegant.
I came to the surface through Indarkken, a shadowed little outpost buried deep beneath the hills of Cormyr — you might know it, Trolkarl. Not exactly a tourist destination, but it has its charms: fungus ale, whisper markets, the occasional knife in the back.
Since my less-than-celebrated departure, I’ve found footing among the surface folk, mostly thanks to The Gilded Veil — a delightfully slippery guild of illusionists, informants, and performers who prefer their truths wrapped in silk and misdirection. They taught me that laughter is sharper than steel — and much harder to trace back to you.
I’ve walked caverns where even shadows fear to linger. Played lullabies to beasts you'd rather not meet awake. Escaped... more than I deserved to. But I’m not here to impress you.
I’m here because I like the look of you. You’ve got the air of a tale unfolding — and I happen to collect those.
If you’ll have me, I offer melody in the madness, words when steel fails, and perhaps, just perhaps, a verse worthy of remembering.”
“Master Starker,
First and foremost, allow me to assure you — I hold your magical precision in the highest regard. Truly, the way you turned that ogre ...or whatever creature it may have been, into a smoldering memory was nothing short of art.
Xymox winks at Gnueman, then nudges Trolkarl.
Now, regarding the verse in question — yes, I may have implied that your fireball ‘obliterated half the hillside and singed a passing roc into legend.’ In retrospect, I see how that could be interpreted as... exaggerated. That is what I sang, isn't it? Perhaps I have had too much drink already this evening.
But you must understand — the audience loved it. There’s a rhythm to truth, and occasionally, a story needs a little flare to keep the crowd on the edge of their seats. Not everyone appreciates the subtle majesty of a well-measured area of effect.
So, with great respect (and mild theatrical regret), I offer my apology — and promise that in the next retelling, the roc will be entirely spared, and the hillside only lightly caramelized. Or perhaps it was a manticore?"
Xymox lifts his voice and falls back into his Bardic role once again.
"Ah, Jutrun's finest — all packed into this creaky tavern like it's the last candlelit haven before the world ends. Listen closely... hear that buzz? That’s not the mead talking — it’s them. They're talking about you.
Over there, that smith’s apprentice? Can’t stop asking if The Company really slew a hydra or if that was just a dramatic exaggeration — I stayed out of it. For once.
The old farmer by the hearth? Swears you saved his cousin’s village from a goblin swarm last winter — no one’s corrected him yet. Might not be true, but it’s comforting.
And that bardling in the corner? Practicing a ballad that rhymes ‘hero’ with ‘ale flow’ — she’s still learning. Bless her ambition.
See, you’re not just adventurers here. You’re myth in the making. The Company. Capital T, capital C. That’s what they call you — like you're something etched into old stone or whispered through ruins.
So order a drink, raise a toast, and try not to look too surprised when someone asks for your autograph… or your shoe.”
The dark elf then catches the eye of a bard maid and motions to her for more drinks for the table.
Starker will just be drinking water for the rest of the evening. Cyrus is having some reconsituted dried mango slices dripping with alcohol.
”On balance, Xymox, I would like notoriety. I would like for unfriendly sentient beings to fear us and choose other prey. Also, those who seek our services will pay us more if our reputation is accurate. If music be the food of intimidation, play on.”
The Monstordrink Mist flows freely tonight. Jotrun acquired two butts of it in trade with a merchant from Luskan you learn. The crowd is lively and spirits are high. The Stonejaw brothers are spending freely and celebrating their realization of taking control of the mountain, all with your help. Even Arnak joins in some light conversation with you before he, Hanny and their guest retire for the night.
As the Monstordrink Mist is finished, the last tankards all have an off taste to it. The best description you can give is that it is “corrupted” somehow.
Gneuman looks around the room. "It appears that we are not the only ones that have noticed the foul taste."
He observes other townsfolk peering into their glasses and mugs. The gnome then turns to Xymox.
"Something tastes off, to be sure." The drow looks his mug perplexed.