“I can’t say that I have,” says Morund. “From down here I can’t say I recognise the style of idol. A stunning likeness to a true mortal man, yet angular in great strokes. It baffles me. Intrigues me, fierce.”
Morund turns his bearded face to the energetic companion. “What brings you to Dragon’s Rest?”
“I come from my family farm, I always got into trouble so they quite forcefully recommended that I go somewhere else for an adventure so I boarded the first ship I could find. This is quite the place isn’t it.” He looks up happily, “What brang you hear sir?”
Sergei closes the book he just spent the entire voyage reading before clasping it on his belt, its leather bound protects the parchment from sea water as he climbs down towards the small boat.
The green skinned half-orc is cleanly shaven, his black hair cut short and slicked back giving the air of discipline. He wears an old reinforced leather coat, the emblem on its chest has faded away, obscuring its loyalty. The red military garb had seen some battle although its clean visage give away the fact that it hasn’t been used for some time.
As the two sailor row them to shore, he lights up a pipe and takes a deep puff of smoke while his mind remembers a haiku he read from the book.
Wisdom of the wind
Sea breeze clashed against the rocks
The wind is winning
As they arrived on the dock, he climbs it with ease. The years he endured as a navy shows in his movement. Three months agohowever he can’t even walk straight, but much is improved in between then and now.
He walks down the pier with the others, his left hand idly checks on the exotic looking sword hanging from his belt. It’s a habit he got from being in the navy, always checking on his equipment every time they land ashore. His eyes scanning the mountainous terrain and the large open air temple above.
‘So you send me into a monastery eh, Igor. How thoughtful of him. Well perhaps this is the way for me to find peace and purpose.’ He thinks to himself before addressing the man beside him.
“Blessing.” He replied to Morund’s greetings. “Name’s Sergei Vassileiv, nice to meet you Morund Bund.”
“I never saw anything like this, used to be in the navy far south in Baldur’s Gate. Never been sailing this up north before.” He says to the excited halfling.
“I never saw anything like this, used to be in the navy far south in Baldur’s Gate. Never been sailing this up north before.” He says to the excited halfling.
“You should get one of these pipes. Maybe the town ahead has one in store. I need to top up the tobacco too.” He said, still smoking his pipe, waiting for everyone to get their stuff ready for the trek to the monastery up ahead.
"Sounds good to me." says a gruff looking dwarf in chain mail. "The name's Gardain Blackfeast. I'm looking to head to the cloister here on the island, but I'd love to join ranks with you all if you'll have an old soldier."
“Ah, a fellow soldier. Where do you hail from, old man?” He greets the dwarf.
”I used to served in the Flaming Fist Navy, back in Baldur’s Gate. It’s been three years since I’m discharged.”He taps the faded insignia on his chest, a smudge of orange and red color instead of a closed fist, set aflame.
“What left is this old leather jacket. Sturdy things, saves me a couple of times.”
"Aye. Trained as a soldier on the island of Mintarn and joined a mercenary company. We traveled to the city of Neverwinter to serve in both the army and city watches."
Patting him on the shoulder "That is a nice jacket. Good material."
He moves a little closer and says "One military goober to another. Do you ever get a feeling that something is coming; and not a good way? I'm sure I'm just a crazy old man, but I can feel it gnawing at me."
“It already did came for me. Lost half my squad on a scouting mission, almost lost my foot too.” He says to the old soldier, probably misinterpreted the question.
”Do you feel an impending doom haunting you back in the army? Is that why you resigned?” He asks.
"Sounds good to me." says a gruff looking dwarf in chain mail. "The name's Gardain Blackfeast. I'm looking to head to the cloister here on the island, but I'd love to join ranks with you all if you'll have an old soldier."
“Nice to meet you! The names Merryl.” The halfling says from behind Gardain
Morund listens and nods along as the others introduce themselves, shaking hands as offered, bowing his head as others nod theirs.
The twang of a fellow Balduran is pleasing, even if they are a flaming fist, and, outside the confines of city enforcement, Morund can begrudgingly admit he feels a little at ease for having two soldiers join them. The mystery of his friend’s always-worn ring and ominous letter bode poorly.
“An ill feeling,” he says, as the conversation grows serious. “Yes. Yes. Indeed. An ill feeling drew me here as it did you. Beautiful though the first impression makes, I admit, I come here uneasy and wary of lurking misfortune.”
Secrecy serves him little so he continues, “A friend travelled here before me, a fellow scholar. I’ve not heard from him in five ten-days now, and when in the field that is most irregular for him. I fear to voice it, but I worry the worst.”
“Well it depends. An Arcane Theorist,” Morund points to himself, “A medically minded mercenary, and a flaming fist’s flotilla fighter. Whyever you might be sorry rather depends on what’s brought you to the island, and the wherefore for that why, too.”
At that moment a chill wind chooses to gust across Morund and the jetty, cutting through his clothes and beard and making him shiver.
“Perhaps, however, we might have your answer on the move,” he suggests. “I might be a bit older than you three, but I doubt you could mind making for the temple and seeing about some hot food.”
“I’ll certainly be happy to have hot food in my tummy and a nights sleep beside a warm hearth out of the bitter cold won’t do me any bad!” He says. The halfling smiles, “I’m sure it’ll be amazing! In the morning I might take a quick look around as well.”
“I can’t say that I have,” says Morund. “From down here I can’t say I recognise the style of idol. A stunning likeness to a true mortal man, yet angular in great strokes. It baffles me. Intrigues me, fierce.”
Morund turns his bearded face to the energetic companion. “What brings you to Dragon’s Rest?”
“I come from my family farm, I always got into trouble so they quite forcefully recommended that I go somewhere else for an adventure so I boarded the first ship I could find. This is quite the place isn’t it.” He looks up happily, “What brang you hear sir?”
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
Sergei closes the book he just spent the entire voyage reading before clasping it on his belt, its leather bound protects the parchment from sea water as he climbs down towards the small boat.
The green skinned half-orc is cleanly shaven, his black hair cut short and slicked back giving the air of discipline. He wears an old reinforced leather coat, the emblem on its chest has faded away, obscuring its loyalty. The red military garb had seen some battle although its clean visage give away the fact that it hasn’t been used for some time.
As the two sailor row them to shore, he lights up a pipe and takes a deep puff of smoke while his mind remembers a haiku he read from the book.
Wisdom of the wind
Sea breeze clashed against the rocks
The wind is winning
As they arrived on the dock, he climbs it with ease. The years he endured as a navy shows in his movement. Three months ago however he can’t even walk straight, but much is improved in between then and now.
He walks down the pier with the others, his left hand idly checks on the exotic looking sword hanging from his belt. It’s a habit he got from being in the navy, always checking on his equipment every time they land ashore. His eyes scanning the mountainous terrain and the large open air temple above.
‘So you send me into a monastery eh, Igor. How thoughtful of him. Well perhaps this is the way for me to find peace and purpose.’ He thinks to himself before addressing the man beside him.
“Blessing.” He replied to Morund’s greetings. “Name’s Sergei Vassileiv, nice to meet you Morund Bund.”
“I never saw anything like this, used to be in the navy far south in Baldur’s Gate. Never been sailing this up north before.” He says to the excited halfling.
”Me neither, the names Merryl.”
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
“Nice to meet you, Merryl.” He replied. “I’m Sergei.”
The half-orc takes a sip from his pipe and blows a puff of smoke towards the sea, clearly enjoying their surroundings.
“Very nice to meet you Sergei. Also nice pipe, can you do a smoke ring?” He extends a small hand for a hand shake.
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
He shakes hand with the halfling, and chuckles at the question , “Well, let me try.” He says before he sips and tries to blow a smoke ring.
”Pheew.” The smoke appears from his mouth, not quite a circular ring, it is skewed and misshapen but a ring nonetheless.
The halfling claps in joy with wide eyes before chattering on, “That was amazing! Can you do other tricks with it? Should I get one? Can I try?”
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
“You should get one of these pipes. Maybe the town ahead has one in store. I need to top up the tobacco too.” He said, still smoking his pipe, waiting for everyone to get their stuff ready for the trek to the monastery up ahead.
"Sounds good to me." says a gruff looking dwarf in chain mail. "The name's Gardain Blackfeast. I'm looking to head to the cloister here on the island, but I'd love to join ranks with you all if you'll have an old soldier."
D&D since 1984
“Ah, a fellow soldier. Where do you hail from, old man?” He greets the dwarf.
”I used to served in the Flaming Fist Navy, back in Baldur’s Gate. It’s been three years since I’m discharged.” He taps the faded insignia on his chest, a smudge of orange and red color instead of a closed fist, set aflame.
“What left is this old leather jacket. Sturdy things, saves me a couple of times.”
"Aye. Trained as a soldier on the island of Mintarn and joined a mercenary company. We traveled to the city of Neverwinter to serve in both the army and city watches."
Patting him on the shoulder "That is a nice jacket. Good material."
He moves a little closer and says "One military goober to another. Do you ever get a feeling that something is coming; and not a good way? I'm sure I'm just a crazy old man, but I can feel it gnawing at me."
D&D since 1984
“It already did came for me. Lost half my squad on a scouting mission, almost lost my foot too.” He says to the old soldier, probably misinterpreted the question.
”Do you feel an impending doom haunting you back in the army? Is that why you resigned?” He asks.
“Nice to meet you! The names Merryl.” The halfling says from behind Gardain
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
Morund listens and nods along as the others introduce themselves, shaking hands as offered, bowing his head as others nod theirs.
The twang of a fellow Balduran is pleasing, even if they are a flaming fist, and, outside the confines of city enforcement, Morund can begrudgingly admit he feels a little at ease for having two soldiers join them. The mystery of his friend’s always-worn ring and ominous letter bode poorly.
“An ill feeling,” he says, as the conversation grows serious. “Yes. Yes. Indeed. An ill feeling drew me here as it did you. Beautiful though the first impression makes, I admit, I come here uneasy and wary of lurking misfortune.”
Secrecy serves him little so he continues, “A friend travelled here before me, a fellow scholar. I’ve not heard from him in five ten-days now, and when in the field that is most irregular for him. I fear to voice it, but I worry the worst.”
“Another scholar? Can you do magic tricks? Very sorry to hear that.” The halfling says bobbing his head sadly.
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
He nods and turns to the others. "Yeah, I'm the medic that patches up your sorry... self"
D&D since 1984
“Oooooo medics, do you have any mints? Wait… Why will we be sorry? What’s happening?”
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn
“Well it depends. An Arcane Theorist,” Morund points to himself, “A medically minded mercenary, and a flaming fist’s flotilla fighter. Whyever you might be sorry rather depends on what’s brought you to the island, and the wherefore for that why, too.”
At that moment a chill wind chooses to gust across Morund and the jetty, cutting through his clothes and beard and making him shiver.
“Perhaps, however, we might have your answer on the move,” he suggests. “I might be a bit older than you three, but I doubt you could mind making for the temple and seeing about some hot food.”
“I’ll certainly be happy to have hot food in my tummy and a nights sleep beside a warm hearth out of the bitter cold won’t do me any bad!” He says. The halfling smiles, “I’m sure it’ll be amazing! In the morning I might take a quick look around as well.”
Characters (Links!):
Faelin Nighthollow - 7th Sojourn