The sun is just cresting the Eastern sky as you head out the gates and cross the river Neverwinter from the small town of Abiershire. You look up to judge the character of the day, disappointed to find thin striations of cloud like a smear of grey the color of a corpse.
The road south to Phandalin takes a good three days. Not good in relation to the distance, but in the weather and conditions. Spring rains and storms are known to whip off the coast, rising without warning and scouring the land clean. The thick covering of heather and scrub has few trees blotting its horizon. At least for the first few miles inland from the coast, until the thick dense line of ‘The Wood’ is encountered.
So early in the spring ‘The Way’ is nothing but a track of muck and mire. You stick to the shoulder where the mud doesn't suck at your boots with every step. Tufts and hollows however trip you up, making the walking dangerous. Around midday you stop, the clouds thinning to a serene blue. A thin trail, overgrown and barely noticeable winds off the main road. The track leads to Helms Hold. Once a temple of justice and righteousness it has long been abandoned. The Wood has crept up and over its crumbling walls, perhaps it is best left to the past.
You push on, even past the settling of the day. Knowing the first turnaround is just up ahead, a small flat camp used by many passing caravans and travelers. Many of them exist along ‘The Way’ if not a town or a fortified Inn. Each is about a day's travel from the last. This one is nothing more than a 10’ long log wall and a two story, rickety old tower. The obvious repairs beg the question, is it still the original tower?
Darkness cloaks the land like a gentle glove, the sounds of predators in the dark join your crunching steps, as you top a rise in the road. About a mile before you is the camp, and as luck would have it, there are others here, spending their night. A caravan of 6 or 7 wagons has pulled defensively into a circle, a fire burns hot and large, warming the entire area.
The caravan is swarming with at least two dozen people, from a distance it appears there are more children than adults. A guard in the tower is staring pensively in your direction. He probably saw your silhouettes as you crested the last hill. He is searching the darkness, trying to find you again in the gloom.
Only time will tell if that luck is good and comes from Tymora? Or Beshaba’s ill fortune?
There is plenty of travel that may occur. Please set a pattern as to how your character would react and what they tend to spend their travel time doing. Scouting, navigating, helping others do their tasks, foraging etc. I will use this narratively to determine what happens during travel.
Please open with your backstory, keeping in mid the end of the story must coincide with the beginning of this one. You are all familiar with each other, but only as acquantances, colleagues, it is up to you if it is more than that.
The whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk of Rusty's footfalls becomes a monotonous and yet not unpleasant backdrop to the day's travel. Except for that, the strange man (if you can call him that) has been entirely silent. No small talk. No sounds of breathing. No heartbeat. Of course, there is none to be heard. For this is no flesh-and-blood creature. He is metal and wood and magic. Not that you'd mistake him for anything else. His form — huge arms and legs and a torso bent forward almost horizontal — only resembles typical humanoids when counting arms, legs and heads. The exposed "bones, muscles or organs" of the creature leave very little to the imagination. Unless you're just that sort of being — one that is fascinated by spinning gears, expanding and contracting sacks, the faint glow of something hidden away at his core, and the like.
It's clear why he is called Rusty: Most of him is rust-colored — from his triangular feet; to his thick, yet careful fingers; to his furnace-shaped head. The shine has long been lost, replaced by stains and dents, and wear and tear. But he is clean and in fine working order. At his normal "hunched-over" size, where his fingertips almost brush the ground, he stands at about five feet tall. If he were ever to straighten up, it's hard to know how many more feet he'd claim. Despite all of that, one of the first things people notice about him is that he is decorated with buckets in a variety of sizes. Some jingle. One or two slosh. These receptacles are just that: places for Rusty to keep his "finds": trinkets, novelties and unknowns. In they go to be cherished and admired later.
It was less than six years ago that Rusty — then called Ziggle — first "woke up". His creator, an incredibly smart and impatient gnome by the name of Adolpholees Crackenbreak, had designed and built Ziggle as an assistant to help him perform delicate maneuvers and to handle potentially dangerous materials. The gnome was a fantastic inventor and alchemist, and Ziggle was everything he had hoped he would be. Unfortunately, Adolpholees was an addict, and after only a few months, Ziggle was wagered and lost in a card game. The winner, a human entertainer who called himself "The Blade" became Ziggle's new master. The Blade renamed the automaton Rusty and integrated him into his act.
The Blade traveled up and down the Sword Coast, stopping in every town and settlement to perform his act and join in on any card games. He did a number of tricks with knives and swords, such as throwing, swallowing and juggling, and Rusty was a quick study, performing admirably beside the talented human. The added attraction of a man made of metal made The Blade's act a sensation. He began doing very well for himself. The added security of a 300-pound bodyguard strengthened his courage.
Unfortunately, a card game started his fortunate circumstances, and a card game ended them as well. A little over five years together, The Blade met his end when a card game went bad, and the illusion of his invulnerability was shattered. As Rusty removed the dagger that had stopped his master's heart from The Blade's chest, the murderer made off with their horses and carriage: the "spoils", leaving Rusty alone and with no purpose in the cold and heartless city of Neverwinter.
Not needing to eat or sleep to survive, at first, Rusty didn't do anything. Some may have seen him and thought he had broken down there in the mouth of the alley by the home where The Blade had died. But after a few days of ruminating on his situation, Rusty decided he needed a new master. The problem is he has no idea how to find one. But he decided he needed to do something — anything — before it could happen.
Rusty began participating in the goings-on in the Shattered Quarter. He became familiar with a few of the others including Captain Ides Harven. Rusty responded to the Captain's recent summons. Despite how others spoke of the Captain, Rusty appreciated how he had never treated him any differently than the others. He accepted the new task and met the others at the predetermined place and time to leave.
A natural helper — strong and yet careful, Rusty is usually first to offer aid to any task that needs to be done. The longer they are on the road, the more he knows what needs to be done without having to be told. He had some camping skills learned from his time with The Blade, but the entertainer preferred a warm bed, and so as few nights were spent on the road as possible. Rusty's inability to express (and many times understand) emotion is off-putting, so he only speaks when spoken to.
And here they are, almost to the next checkpoint. Whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk. Rusty sees no need to break his silence just to voice knowledge they all share. They need to make some kind of contact to assure those ahead that they aren't a threat. He begins to wonder what they might could do.
The sky darkened as Wren Frostwhisper continued over the trail, thankful his wings could carry him above the muck beneath; entirely unsure of what the path ahead held in store. It didn't matter, though, because this time it was his turn. He was finally on his own, attempting to make a name for himself after years of being the face of a title, the soulless face behind a surname. He didn't want that life anymore, he wanted to be a titleless Fairy, out to prove his own worth in a world driven by power.
Born into a family with seven other brothers, Wren was the youngest of eight. Standing just over two feet tall, Wren was a smaller Fairy, weighing only 38 pounds. He wears a circlet of twigs around his head that's intertwined with the chaotic mess he calls hair, and he is draped in tight fitting, tanned animal hide clothing. His light brown, insect-like wings protrude from his back, counterbalanced by the various pendants and necklaces that adorn his front. Leather wrist wraps and anklets bookend the ensemble that is finished off with a pair of animal hide sandals. His tan skin sets the stage upon which his brown hair masterfully contrasts his deeply set, glowing, silver eyes.
As is common among nobles, being the youngest, he felt overlooked, unimportant. Throughout his childhood, Wren witnessed the favoritism shown to his older brothers and the constant pain associated with feeling like nothing more than wasted space. His brothers attended town meetings and planned militias, met with local dignitaries and entertained foreign diplomats. Meanwhile, Wren was left with meaningless tasks like preparing the parchment for sessions in the meeting halls, 'guarding' the weapons room - the storage area where all visitors' arms were checked before entering the keep, and of course, entertaining guests with his pan flute, drum, and lute.
Because his father and brothers were often engaged in official business, Wren found himself chumming it up with the local village children almost daily. It was through these relationships that he developed a profound appreciation for the common folk and nature. Not that he denounced his nobility, or even thought unbecoming thoughts of it, he just learned to appreciate life from a different perspective and truly appreciated how those children were able to find happiness without much to show for it. Inspired by their will to lead fulfilling lives despite the challenges faced by their class status, Wren's sense for adventure started growing. For the first time, he was starting to realize that there was nothing for him in the village, noble or not, and that he wanted something more, regardless. Something a title couldn't afford.
Not finding an acceptable path in his family's future, and with his father's blessing, Wren left home in search of honor not tied to a house; in search of something more than a name, something more than a title...
New to the road, after arriving in the area, he cut his teeth by traveling for months in and around Neverwinter, spending a disproportionate amount of time in the shattered quarter, honing his combat skills by hunting the dead. When traveling in groups, he often spent most of his time scouting the road ahead for interesting people to talk to, foraging, and helping others with any tasks they were working on. Having spent his formative years being trained in diplomacy, negotiation, and eloquence, he met every traveler with hearty conversation, often using the opportunity to gather news of recent events, information about nearby cities and resources, and general gossip throughout the area. Occasionally, he'd pull out one of three instruments to serenade a group, selecting songs to demonstrate any number of moods or emotions. Not often were his conversations purely innocent.
Developing both street smarts and combat prowess during this time on the road, he felt called to something more; to something powerful. He's paired a silver-tongue with quick wits and harnesses that combination to write safe passage all over the land. Seeking direction for the next chapter of his own story, he answered a missive from Captain Ides Harven which summoned him to discuss a mission in Phandalin. Not overly concerned with the payout, Wren instead latched onto a diplomatic angle to the captain’s request and agreed to aid in the effort in hopes of finding good favor with the captain. This was not unusual with Wren and had become something he eventually began to rely on by attempting to use any newfound favor to his own advantage. This proved immensely beneficial to survival on the road for the new adventurer.
"Even if can't gain the captain's favor, it'd be nice to find a few worthy companions. I'd enjoy some friends to share in this adventure," thought Wren, longing for the time he spent sharing pretend adventures with the village children back home.
His time on the road, while educational, has been drastically different than his upbringing. Long gone are the sights and sounds of the courtyard, weapons training, and small markets in the city center. They've since been replaced with solitude, silence, and a relentless string of thoughts. Wren was ready for friends. Oddly, Wren felt like he needed friends.
He now finds himself on the road to Phandalin, approaching a caravan of 6-7 wagons that appear to have gathered in a defensive circle. Children are laughing and dancing around a large, warm fire in the middle of the circle while the adults attempt to unwind for the day; two pulling guard duty. The smell of roasted meat and ale warm the air, and Wren decides to approach the circled wagons to see if he can enjoy their warmth and camaraderie for the evening. As is customary for the Fairy, his smiling face and bright eyes are usually upstaged only by the whimsical music echoing from his pan flute, cheerfully announcing his arrival. However, on this night, far too strange are those who venture the roads, so secrecy is paramount. Just as he is about to move into the light to get a better look and address the group inside the circled wagons, he hears a faint "whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk" sound on the path below...
Mud underfoot. Check. Town lights at his back. Check. Coin purse fuller than when he left the last town. Check.Everything seems to be right in the world. Krikas smiles at the thought as he trudges through the mud and muck. Shin high leather boots over crimson pants push through the mud. An elegantly curved scimitar swings from the right side of his belt with numerous pouches offsetting the weight on his right. Simple emerald shirt sleeves extend out from under a stiff leather tunic. His pack slung, relaxed, over one shoulder. The path moves under him as it always has.
Too long had he spent in Neverwinter. Far too long. It had been more than 20 seasons since Krikas spent so long in one place. For more than a decade the half elf had travelled the Sword Coast. The bronze of his skin and the bleached look of his once dark hair testament to his time spent on the road. No city dweller would look so weathered with their cushy indoor life, their constant time flitting about the mundane tasks of existence. He, on the other hand, had chosen a life on the road. One of freedom and open space, of doing what he wanted when he wanted. That wasn't to say he didn't enjoy his time in populated areas. On the contrary - he relished it. But usually only in small doses. The cities is where he'd feel most empowered. People would cheer his name and buy him drinks. Good times were had, on most occasions, but he had learnt when to call it quits and move on. If it wasn't for the Nobles on offer from Captin Harven, Krikas is sure he would have left the Jewel of the North long ago.
His smile disappears when mud flicks from the heel of the thing in front of him. "Hey! Watch it. These pantaloons set me back a princely sum." A quick whip of the wrist and a kerchief is at his fingertips. Moistening it with spittle, he wipes at the brown stain growing on his thigh. He skips for several meters whilst patting at his pants. He gives up as number of smaller mud droplets continue to spray back at him. "Whoa. Hey, hey" twisting and dodging, he runs to fall in beside the metal man he soon catches the hulking machine. "No offence Rusty, but you need to do something about that splatter". He waits for a response from his travelling companion. When one doesn't come in timely fashion, Krikas looks to Rustys face. The behemoths furnace like head seemed to be staring straight ahead. Krikas follows the gaze and soon sees what has caught Rustys attention - a firelit camp up ahead.
Felmar just wanted to hit something. He took to this road because he was expecting danger. He wanted to use his hammer, that he had named "Squelch" to smack away some hostile creatures and, if he was lucky, smack away the memories too, at least for a moment. His mind travels backwards. He remembers his uncle handing him his own prized hammer as Felmar fled from Mirabar. He remembers staggering home after a night of heaving drinking to find his father murdered in the parlor of their home, and the Axe (the police force of Mirabar) dragging a him away from the house. He remembers the loud argument that he'd had with his father the previous night. He remembers begging his father to release him from the family business so he could join the Axe, under the command of his uncle, and his father's blunt refusal. Felmar can't really blame the authorities for suspecting him, the argument had gotten quite heated and was heard by many neighbors. Felmar also can't seem to recall much after the argument, but knows in his heart that he wouldn't have harmed his father. But who did? HIs father was a very wealthy and respected merchant, so money seemed to be the most obvious motive, but who would have taken those steps. Felmar can't make sense of it, this sort of thing really wasn't his mug of mead. He wasn't stupid, but his expertise lay in fighting, not murder investigation. As his mind continues to spiral over these thoughts, anyone around him can clearly see that he's not paying as much attention as he should be to his surroundings. He absently strokes his auburn beard as he trudges forward, right into Rusty's metallic frame. As he prepares to berate the Warforged when he finally notices the firelight that everyone else has already been looking at. At this time he remembers where he is and that he had met this group on the road. They were all going the same way, so he figured he'd tag along. Why not right?
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
OOC: Proceeding as if it's just the four of us. If more arrive, please forgive the exclusion so far. Also, I'm going to take some liberties with "relationships", and I hope you're all OK with it. If not, please speak up!
Rusty looks down at Krikas, back at Felmar, and up at Wren. Perhaps it is time to activate his voice box. "Exc-c-c-cuse the mud," the mechanical voice announces. Nothing about his head indicates that Rusty is speaking, but his monotone voice and customary stutter is unmistakable as it emanates from the slanted grate that makes up the lower half of his face. It's something the three of them could easily recognize, even in a busy tavern. Not that they've ever seen him in any of Neverwinter's taverns. "And m-m-m-my pause," he continues. His black eyes with their twin pinpricks of yellow light stare at the tower and its circle of wagons ahead. "Perha-ha-ha-haps Wren should fly ahead and announce our arrival in a congenial way. Kill t-t-t-two birds with a hard place."
Rusty was familiar with each of his traveling companions. Wren more than the others. The fairy had been more open with Rusty. His questions had led Rusty to divulge much of his short life at one time or another. Likewise, Rusty had tried to return what he had been taught was friendship and asked his own questions. The questions sometimes elicited excitement from Wren, sometimes reluctance. But with no emotion to cloud his ability to relate to another, both responses were equally welcomed by the metal man. He looked forward to developing a similar friendship with Krikas and Felmar now that he will have more opportunity. So far, the drudgery of walking was keeping talking to a minimum, but if Rusty was one thing, it was patient.
"Might just walk beside you. Probably cleaner" replies Krikas to Rusty. The automatons voice was still a little unnerving to him, but the machine had shown no hostility. In fact, Krikas couldn't recall any emotion from the thing. "If we're to mingle with these folk you might want to stay quiet big man. I've travelled this land for 10 year and I've never seen the likes of your kind before. It might be a little....scary for the childrens".
OOC: Welcome to the party, Grummash. Jump right in!
Something in Rusty's neck makes a noise — like leather being flapped — as his head turns to look at the half-elf. The former entertainer's assistant has had very little contact with children since the demise of The Blade. Despite the supposed danger of a blade-wielding performer and a magical metal man, parents were surprisingly excited to bring their little ones to watch. From what he can remember, young humanoids didn't appear afraid of him when he was part of the show. In fact, The Blade used to integrate a little comedy into the show, and Rusty was quite often the butt of his jokes. This made him appear trustworthy and harmless. But in this situation — out in the open and at night — perhaps Krikas is right. "I wi-wi-wi-will remain here for the night. I d-d-d-do not require the comforts of a fire." He twists in a way that would probably not be possible if he were flesh and blood and pokes one hand into one of his buckets. Turning back to Krakis, Rusty hands the bard a tiny music box made of metal and glass. "A g-g-g-gift for the children."
Dropping down to eye level with the rest of the group, just above Felmar's head, Wren motions to Krikas and Felmar, suggesting the two of them stay here and wait on Grummash while he flies ahead to announce their arrival. He welcomed the opportunity to get out in front of the group and into the crisp air on his own for a few minutes. He hadn't yet grown entirely comfortable traveling with such an odd lot; but to Wren, nearly everything had changed after leaving home, so why should this be any different? Every day was a new horizon and home was just a distant memory, now. So why should he bother with the rules and customs of his people? If he wanted to write his own destiny, he should start by writing his own rules! Why shouldn't he travel with a Dwarf, a Half-Elf, an Orc, and whatever the hell Rusty was? Truth be told, none of them were convincingly certain as to exactly what Rusty was. While the others were still in the process of warming up to Rusty and trying to figure him out, Wren had spent several days in conversation with him and still wasn't quite sure. Regardless, these were the closest things to a group of friends that he'd had since he roamed the streets with the local village kids as a child. With renewed vigor driven by his newfound motivation to claim this group of ruffians as his own, he floated away, smiling, and offering a last bit of review to the group while departing:
"Okay, Rusty, I'll sneak up ahead and have a friendly chat with them, offer to play them some music, and try to get a read on the situation. Just like last time, if you hear my lute, there's no danger and you guys can advance at your leisure. If you hear my pan flute, cautiously advance, but be wary. And, if you hear my drum..."
But in his haste to go meet the group of travelers, Wren flew off before the group heard the rest of his plan...
The camp, and the fire where further in the distance than first suspected as you topped the rise. Faint sounds of a fiddle and a constant steady beat of a drum, or perhaps just a log could be heard from some distance. Yet as you drew closer the sound seemed to fade as if into the background. The camp growing quieter as you approached, the night descending thick and starless.
Wolves howled in the distance, joined by the sound of fouler predators on the hunt. The guard continued to peer into the inky blackness, clear in his knowledge that you were there but still not certain of your location. The constant whir-thump, whir-thump of the automatons stride comes to an end. the silence deafening as the camp hushes stillness. You realize it was the rhythm of everybody holding their breath.
Wren buzzes in just off the road and above the nearest wagon, the horses, tethered in the safety of the circle whinny at his presence. A child, no, a halfling, staring towards the road and the entrance to the circle hushes the skittish beast. Most of the troupe were halflings, a few gnomes and a handful of humans, all dressed brightly in flowing loose cloth, layers to keep the cold out. The smell of something roasting on a spit, a large cauldron suspended over the fire. Several sit with instruments in their hands, others held mid pose. Halted in there dance as they await the strangers presence. The troubadours do not look threatening...any more than a pickpocket is a thief before it slips your purse.
Upon getting a closer look at the group of mixed travelers while hovering quietly above the nearest wagon, Wren decided the folks were safe enough and hatched a plan. Regardless, the group, although primarily halflings, outnumbered their own group some four to one. So, Wren still thought it best to proceed with caution. Not specifically confident with his decision, but with no other option in sight, Wren commits to the plan and engages the band of travelers:
"Good evening, fellow travelers. My companions and I have traveled far this day. I wonder if we might join you for the evening - we, too, have a few who carry instruments, and we'd love to share songs and tales with you if you'd have us..."
After this quick salutation, Wren pulls out his pan flute and begins playing a cheerful tone at a volume that, although imperceptible to most, was ever so slightly louder than usual. Cautiously, and attempting to allow as much time as possible for his new friends to hear his call and start moving, Wren slowly begins descending and flying over towards the group...
At the sound of Wren's pan flute, something in Rusty exhales similarly to a sigh, yet also not at all like a sigh. Clearly, the fairy was not in any immediate danger, or he would be playing his drum instead of his pan flute. But the idea that tonight would proceed without incident is fading along with the last of the day's light.
In situations like this, there is a decision to be made. Should Rusty and Felmar, the loudest pair of the group, hang back in order for the others to move first more stealthily? Or should the metal man lead in order to make a statement of strength? Though he was not particularly tall — in fact, he was shorter than most adult humans, elves, and other similar humanoids — his bulky physique and unusual makeup was still intimidating to those who didn't know him.
But he decides to wait to see what the others do and say.
“Mayhaps I should go in next and warn’em ’bout ye. Just so they aren’t startled ye know? Ye may not know this, but ye have a tendency to catch some folk off guard.”
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
The Halfling tending the horses turns with a start, a short gasp of surprise that compresses and cuts off a hasty "Who...". The word hangs, a dagger cocked back, ready to throw as his eyes, set into a wrinkled and weathered face dart back and forth.
As the Fairy continues his introduction the Halfling glances up, spotting the Fey darting quickly so as to appear that he hovers. "Oh, a Fey, hmm if those are friends of yours, out in the gloom and dark of the night, tell them to come forth, quit skulking in the shadows. If the intent is good, the fire is warm." He pauses as the Fey pulls pipes forth and whistles a little tune. "Come out of the dark, show yourselves" the Halfling hollers. Many in the troupe turn to find the speaker, and his audience but never let their guard slip, eyes still search the night, more intently now, knowing the strangers are at the edge of the light.
Another Halfling, a large set, not big boned but clearly rippled with strength and grace. Huffing his chest in a comfortable almost unnoticed authority steps towards the opening in the circle, closest to the road. "We have stew and roast lamb, and stories to share of the Southern road." He pauses, listening for any response, "We welcome news of the City, and further if you've traveled that way"
While usually more calculating and risk-averse, Wren had spent nearly the entire day in the air because of how nasty the trail was. Cold, tired, and nearly starving, Wren forgot all about the dagger aiming Halfling who'd been tending the horses upon his arrival the moment the words 'roast lamb' were muttered.
"As for me and mine, we'll take the roast lamb, stew, and warm fires over a tussle every day of the week, we will..."
...he said, using the last bit of the fading darkness to hide a cheeky grin while he flew forward, into the light of the fire. Wren was well aware that not all that glitters is gold. Moving closer to the large set Halfling, Wren did his best to make out as much detail in the surroundings as possible without seeming distrusting. Deciding to stay aloft while talking with his newly met audience, he suddenly realized that he'd inadvertently used his pan flute to summon a group of friends, one of whom may look unlike anything these folks have ever seen. Making a point not to forget to offer a word of caution on that topic, he continued,
"I'm called Wren Frostwhisper and I travel south with a group of allies; the group I called over, approaching from the shadows over there..."
...he said, motioning towards the direction from which his friends were approaching. He went on...
"We've come from The City just this day and would be glad to share all that we know about it. Although, my new friends, as I think about all of us gathered around your warm fire, sharing food and exchanging information, it occurs to me that there's proooooooooobably something we should discuss. I'll be clear - I do not mean to insult - I make no attempt at guessing your collective experience nor how well-versed you are in the beings of this land; however, one of my group is called Rusty, and, the thing about Rusty is..."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Krikas
The trill of Wrens pan flute floats gently to Krikas' ears moments before the harsher bark from the halfling. "OK! We're headed down" he shouts back. The scent of fire roasted meat guides his way just as much as the glow from the fire.
Krikas had seen similar groups in his travels though the years - nomads, family groups, whole villages that had uprooted due to who knows what. Mostly they were harmless, good natured folk but occasionally there was a group that turned out to be raiders or theives. He approaches the camp cautiously, looking for a sign either way.
Felmar is also going to head down. He’s not making any move to conceal himself and hopes everyone can see him clearly.
“We mean ye no harm friends. Just lookin’ fer a warm fire and Mayhaps some o’ that meat that smells so good. I warn ye though. One of our companions is quite large and unusual lookin’. But rest assured they’re harmless. An’ don’t worry about feedin’ ‘em. They don’t eat er sleep. Good one te have on yer side methinks.”
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
Rusty follows not far behind the others as they proceed toward the camp. The fact that they have been welcomed is a good sign that perhaps there will be no unwanted trouble. His compact legs continue their muddy journey.
When he is close enough, he will survey the area to see if he can find a way to enter the ring without getting too close to any of the horses. He has no idea how they might react, and he doesn't want to cause any trouble in that regard. If it doesn't look as if that's possible, he will just wait outside of the ring.
The large Halfling grins, a smile of greeting. "Come, come. There is room enough around the fire. We were just settling in after a long road.". The rest of the troupe settles, many turning to watch the construct trudge to the entrance. Soon enough instruments have been pulled a youngster looking to wren with his pipes.
"You play, would love to join you in a tune" He pulls a small hand harp, only 6 strings that trill when stroked. There are a few actual children, the halfling kids barely reach the thigh of a human. A gaggle of them, wielding sticks giggle as they rush towards Rusty. They circle and poke at him with sticks before a strong rebuke from the group causes them to scamper in a hail of laughter.
Your group is welcomed in, the troupe quickly returning to thier typical act. A group of men and woman, those not easting or dancing retrieve instruments. They are Acrobat's, entertainers, Troubadours. "Please, we are interested in Neverwinter. Any rumors or knowing you have, it be mighty kind. He continues by offering his own knowing.
"Coming from the Deep, three weeks ago. Spring comes a little earlier down the coast. Made good time till we hit North of the Westwood. The Sword mountains ahead of us were covered in snow. The season was out of whack, should be the pass is open by now." He points at the oversized wheels on the carts, thick and coated in a tarry substance. " Still shouldn't a mattered right, see Cairin made them wheels special. But blizzards kept coming fer nearly a week it did."
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The Lost Mine of Phandelver
A Remix
The sun is just cresting the Eastern sky as you head out the gates and cross the river Neverwinter from the small town of Abiershire. You look up to judge the character of the day, disappointed to find thin striations of cloud like a smear of grey the color of a corpse.
The road south to Phandalin takes a good three days. Not good in relation to the distance, but in the weather and conditions. Spring rains and storms are known to whip off the coast, rising without warning and scouring the land clean. The thick covering of heather and scrub has few trees blotting its horizon. At least for the first few miles inland from the coast, until the thick dense line of ‘The Wood’ is encountered.
So early in the spring ‘The Way’ is nothing but a track of muck and mire. You stick to the shoulder where the mud doesn't suck at your boots with every step. Tufts and hollows however trip you up, making the walking dangerous. Around midday you stop, the clouds thinning to a serene blue. A thin trail, overgrown and barely noticeable winds off the main road. The track leads to Helms Hold. Once a temple of justice and righteousness it has long been abandoned. The Wood has crept up and over its crumbling walls, perhaps it is best left to the past.
You push on, even past the settling of the day. Knowing the first turnaround is just up ahead, a small flat camp used by many passing caravans and travelers. Many of them exist along ‘The Way’ if not a town or a fortified Inn. Each is about a day's travel from the last. This one is nothing more than a 10’ long log wall and a two story, rickety old tower. The obvious repairs beg the question, is it still the original tower?
Darkness cloaks the land like a gentle glove, the sounds of predators in the dark join your crunching steps, as you top a rise in the road. About a mile before you is the camp, and as luck would have it, there are others here, spending their night. A caravan of 6 or 7 wagons has pulled defensively into a circle, a fire burns hot and large, warming the entire area.
The caravan is swarming with at least two dozen people, from a distance it appears there are more children than adults. A guard in the tower is staring pensively in your direction. He probably saw your silhouettes as you crested the last hill. He is searching the darkness, trying to find you again in the gloom.
Only time will tell if that luck is good and comes from Tymora? Or Beshaba’s ill fortune?
There is plenty of travel that may occur. Please set a pattern as to how your character would react and what they tend to spend their travel time doing. Scouting, navigating, helping others do their tasks, foraging etc. I will use this narratively to determine what happens during travel.
Please open with your backstory, keeping in mid the end of the story must coincide with the beginning of this one. You are all familiar with each other, but only as acquantances, colleagues, it is up to you if it is more than that.
The whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk of Rusty's footfalls becomes a monotonous and yet not unpleasant backdrop to the day's travel. Except for that, the strange man (if you can call him that) has been entirely silent. No small talk. No sounds of breathing. No heartbeat. Of course, there is none to be heard. For this is no flesh-and-blood creature. He is metal and wood and magic. Not that you'd mistake him for anything else. His form — huge arms and legs and a torso bent forward almost horizontal — only resembles typical humanoids when counting arms, legs and heads. The exposed "bones, muscles or organs" of the creature leave very little to the imagination. Unless you're just that sort of being — one that is fascinated by spinning gears, expanding and contracting sacks, the faint glow of something hidden away at his core, and the like.
It's clear why he is called Rusty: Most of him is rust-colored — from his triangular feet; to his thick, yet careful fingers; to his furnace-shaped head. The shine has long been lost, replaced by stains and dents, and wear and tear. But he is clean and in fine working order. At his normal "hunched-over" size, where his fingertips almost brush the ground, he stands at about five feet tall. If he were ever to straighten up, it's hard to know how many more feet he'd claim. Despite all of that, one of the first things people notice about him is that he is decorated with buckets in a variety of sizes. Some jingle. One or two slosh. These receptacles are just that: places for Rusty to keep his "finds": trinkets, novelties and unknowns. In they go to be cherished and admired later.
It was less than six years ago that Rusty — then called Ziggle — first "woke up". His creator, an incredibly smart and impatient gnome by the name of Adolpholees Crackenbreak, had designed and built Ziggle as an assistant to help him perform delicate maneuvers and to handle potentially dangerous materials. The gnome was a fantastic inventor and alchemist, and Ziggle was everything he had hoped he would be. Unfortunately, Adolpholees was an addict, and after only a few months, Ziggle was wagered and lost in a card game. The winner, a human entertainer who called himself "The Blade" became Ziggle's new master. The Blade renamed the automaton Rusty and integrated him into his act.
The Blade traveled up and down the Sword Coast, stopping in every town and settlement to perform his act and join in on any card games. He did a number of tricks with knives and swords, such as throwing, swallowing and juggling, and Rusty was a quick study, performing admirably beside the talented human. The added attraction of a man made of metal made The Blade's act a sensation. He began doing very well for himself. The added security of a 300-pound bodyguard strengthened his courage.
Unfortunately, a card game started his fortunate circumstances, and a card game ended them as well. A little over five years together, The Blade met his end when a card game went bad, and the illusion of his invulnerability was shattered. As Rusty removed the dagger that had stopped his master's heart from The Blade's chest, the murderer made off with their horses and carriage: the "spoils", leaving Rusty alone and with no purpose in the cold and heartless city of Neverwinter.
Not needing to eat or sleep to survive, at first, Rusty didn't do anything. Some may have seen him and thought he had broken down there in the mouth of the alley by the home where The Blade had died. But after a few days of ruminating on his situation, Rusty decided he needed a new master. The problem is he has no idea how to find one. But he decided he needed to do something — anything — before it could happen.
Rusty began participating in the goings-on in the Shattered Quarter. He became familiar with a few of the others including Captain Ides Harven. Rusty responded to the Captain's recent summons. Despite how others spoke of the Captain, Rusty appreciated how he had never treated him any differently than the others. He accepted the new task and met the others at the predetermined place and time to leave.
A natural helper — strong and yet careful, Rusty is usually first to offer aid to any task that needs to be done. The longer they are on the road, the more he knows what needs to be done without having to be told. He had some camping skills learned from his time with The Blade, but the entertainer preferred a warm bed, and so as few nights were spent on the road as possible. Rusty's inability to express (and many times understand) emotion is off-putting, so he only speaks when spoken to.
And here they are, almost to the next checkpoint. Whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk. Rusty sees no need to break his silence just to voice knowledge they all share. They need to make some kind of contact to assure those ahead that they aren't a threat. He begins to wonder what they might could do.
The sky darkened as Wren Frostwhisper continued over the trail, thankful his wings could carry him above the muck beneath; entirely unsure of what the path ahead held in store. It didn't matter, though, because this time it was his turn. He was finally on his own, attempting to make a name for himself after years of being the face of a title, the soulless face behind a surname. He didn't want that life anymore, he wanted to be a titleless Fairy, out to prove his own worth in a world driven by power.
Born into a family with seven other brothers, Wren was the youngest of eight. Standing just over two feet tall, Wren was a smaller Fairy, weighing only 38 pounds. He wears a circlet of twigs around his head that's intertwined with the chaotic mess he calls hair, and he is draped in tight fitting, tanned animal hide clothing. His light brown, insect-like wings protrude from his back, counterbalanced by the various pendants and necklaces that adorn his front. Leather wrist wraps and anklets bookend the ensemble that is finished off with a pair of animal hide sandals. His tan skin sets the stage upon which his brown hair masterfully contrasts his deeply set, glowing, silver eyes.
As is common among nobles, being the youngest, he felt overlooked, unimportant. Throughout his childhood, Wren witnessed the favoritism shown to his older brothers and the constant pain associated with feeling like nothing more than wasted space. His brothers attended town meetings and planned militias, met with local dignitaries and entertained foreign diplomats. Meanwhile, Wren was left with meaningless tasks like preparing the parchment for sessions in the meeting halls, 'guarding' the weapons room - the storage area where all visitors' arms were checked before entering the keep, and of course, entertaining guests with his pan flute, drum, and lute.
Because his father and brothers were often engaged in official business, Wren found himself chumming it up with the local village children almost daily. It was through these relationships that he developed a profound appreciation for the common folk and nature. Not that he denounced his nobility, or even thought unbecoming thoughts of it, he just learned to appreciate life from a different perspective and truly appreciated how those children were able to find happiness without much to show for it. Inspired by their will to lead fulfilling lives despite the challenges faced by their class status, Wren's sense for adventure started growing. For the first time, he was starting to realize that there was nothing for him in the village, noble or not, and that he wanted something more, regardless. Something a title couldn't afford.
Not finding an acceptable path in his family's future, and with his father's blessing, Wren left home in search of honor not tied to a house; in search of something more than a name, something more than a title...
New to the road, after arriving in the area, he cut his teeth by traveling for months in and around Neverwinter, spending a disproportionate amount of time in the shattered quarter, honing his combat skills by hunting the dead. When traveling in groups, he often spent most of his time scouting the road ahead for interesting people to talk to, foraging, and helping others with any tasks they were working on. Having spent his formative years being trained in diplomacy, negotiation, and eloquence, he met every traveler with hearty conversation, often using the opportunity to gather news of recent events, information about nearby cities and resources, and general gossip throughout the area. Occasionally, he'd pull out one of three instruments to serenade a group, selecting songs to demonstrate any number of moods or emotions. Not often were his conversations purely innocent.
Developing both street smarts and combat prowess during this time on the road, he felt called to something more; to something powerful. He's paired a silver-tongue with quick wits and harnesses that combination to write safe passage all over the land. Seeking direction for the next chapter of his own story, he answered a missive from Captain Ides Harven which summoned him to discuss a mission in Phandalin. Not overly concerned with the payout, Wren instead latched onto a diplomatic angle to the captain’s request and agreed to aid in the effort in hopes of finding good favor with the captain. This was not unusual with Wren and had become something he eventually began to rely on by attempting to use any newfound favor to his own advantage. This proved immensely beneficial to survival on the road for the new adventurer.
"Even if can't gain the captain's favor, it'd be nice to find a few worthy companions. I'd enjoy some friends to share in this adventure," thought Wren, longing for the time he spent sharing pretend adventures with the village children back home.
His time on the road, while educational, has been drastically different than his upbringing. Long gone are the sights and sounds of the courtyard, weapons training, and small markets in the city center. They've since been replaced with solitude, silence, and a relentless string of thoughts. Wren was ready for friends. Oddly, Wren felt like he needed friends.
He now finds himself on the road to Phandalin, approaching a caravan of 6-7 wagons that appear to have gathered in a defensive circle. Children are laughing and dancing around a large, warm fire in the middle of the circle while the adults attempt to unwind for the day; two pulling guard duty. The smell of roasted meat and ale warm the air, and Wren decides to approach the circled wagons to see if he can enjoy their warmth and camaraderie for the evening. As is customary for the Fairy, his smiling face and bright eyes are usually upstaged only by the whimsical music echoing from his pan flute, cheerfully announcing his arrival. However, on this night, far too strange are those who venture the roads, so secrecy is paramount. Just as he is about to move into the light to get a better look and address the group inside the circled wagons, he hears a faint "whirr-clunk, whirr-clunk" sound on the path below...
Krikas
Mud underfoot. Check. Town lights at his back. Check. Coin purse fuller than when he left the last town. Check. Everything seems to be right in the world. Krikas smiles at the thought as he trudges through the mud and muck. Shin high leather boots over crimson pants push through the mud. An elegantly curved scimitar swings from the right side of his belt with numerous pouches offsetting the weight on his right. Simple emerald shirt sleeves extend out from under a stiff leather tunic. His pack slung, relaxed, over one shoulder. The path moves under him as it always has.
Too long had he spent in Neverwinter. Far too long. It had been more than 20 seasons since Krikas spent so long in one place. For more than a decade the half elf had travelled the Sword Coast. The bronze of his skin and the bleached look of his once dark hair testament to his time spent on the road. No city dweller would look so weathered with their cushy indoor life, their constant time flitting about the mundane tasks of existence. He, on the other hand, had chosen a life on the road. One of freedom and open space, of doing what he wanted when he wanted. That wasn't to say he didn't enjoy his time in populated areas. On the contrary - he relished it. But usually only in small doses. The cities is where he'd feel most empowered. People would cheer his name and buy him drinks. Good times were had, on most occasions, but he had learnt when to call it quits and move on. If it wasn't for the Nobles on offer from Captin Harven, Krikas is sure he would have left the Jewel of the North long ago.
His smile disappears when mud flicks from the heel of the thing in front of him. "Hey! Watch it. These pantaloons set me back a princely sum." A quick whip of the wrist and a kerchief is at his fingertips. Moistening it with spittle, he wipes at the brown stain growing on his thigh. He skips for several meters whilst patting at his pants. He gives up as number of smaller mud droplets continue to spray back at him. "Whoa. Hey, hey" twisting and dodging, he runs to fall in beside the metal man he soon catches the hulking machine. "No offence Rusty, but you need to do something about that splatter". He waits for a response from his travelling companion. When one doesn't come in timely fashion, Krikas looks to Rustys face. The behemoths furnace like head seemed to be staring straight ahead. Krikas follows the gaze and soon sees what has caught Rustys attention - a firelit camp up ahead.
Felmar just wanted to hit something. He took to this road because he was expecting danger. He wanted to use his hammer, that he had named "Squelch" to smack away some hostile creatures and, if he was lucky, smack away the memories too, at least for a moment. His mind travels backwards. He remembers his uncle handing him his own prized hammer as Felmar fled from Mirabar. He remembers staggering home after a night of heaving drinking to find his father murdered in the parlor of their home, and the Axe (the police force of Mirabar) dragging a him away from the house. He remembers the loud argument that he'd had with his father the previous night. He remembers begging his father to release him from the family business so he could join the Axe, under the command of his uncle, and his father's blunt refusal. Felmar can't really blame the authorities for suspecting him, the argument had gotten quite heated and was heard by many neighbors. Felmar also can't seem to recall much after the argument, but knows in his heart that he wouldn't have harmed his father. But who did? HIs father was a very wealthy and respected merchant, so money seemed to be the most obvious motive, but who would have taken those steps. Felmar can't make sense of it, this sort of thing really wasn't his mug of mead. He wasn't stupid, but his expertise lay in fighting, not murder investigation. As his mind continues to spiral over these thoughts, anyone around him can clearly see that he's not paying as much attention as he should be to his surroundings. He absently strokes his auburn beard as he trudges forward, right into Rusty's metallic frame. As he prepares to berate the Warforged when he finally notices the firelight that everyone else has already been looking at. At this time he remembers where he is and that he had met this group on the road. They were all going the same way, so he figured he'd tag along. Why not right?
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
Solstice Nightchill - Winter Eladrin Hunter Ranger - The Yawning Portal
Captain Duskstar - Human Hex "Gun" Warlock - Airships and Whiskey
OOC: Proceeding as if it's just the four of us. If more arrive, please forgive the exclusion so far. Also, I'm going to take some liberties with "relationships", and I hope you're all OK with it. If not, please speak up!
Rusty looks down at Krikas, back at Felmar, and up at Wren. Perhaps it is time to activate his voice box. "Exc-c-c-cuse the mud," the mechanical voice announces. Nothing about his head indicates that Rusty is speaking, but his monotone voice and customary stutter is unmistakable as it emanates from the slanted grate that makes up the lower half of his face. It's something the three of them could easily recognize, even in a busy tavern. Not that they've ever seen him in any of Neverwinter's taverns. "And m-m-m-my pause," he continues. His black eyes with their twin pinpricks of yellow light stare at the tower and its circle of wagons ahead. "Perha-ha-ha-haps Wren should fly ahead and announce our arrival in a congenial way. Kill t-t-t-two birds with a hard place."
Rusty was familiar with each of his traveling companions. Wren more than the others. The fairy had been more open with Rusty. His questions had led Rusty to divulge much of his short life at one time or another. Likewise, Rusty had tried to return what he had been taught was friendship and asked his own questions. The questions sometimes elicited excitement from Wren, sometimes reluctance. But with no emotion to cloud his ability to relate to another, both responses were equally welcomed by the metal man. He looked forward to developing a similar friendship with Krikas and Felmar now that he will have more opportunity. So far, the drudgery of walking was keeping talking to a minimum, but if Rusty was one thing, it was patient.
“Fine b’ me. If they’re hostile, a’ least our road would be quieter…”
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
Solstice Nightchill - Winter Eladrin Hunter Ranger - The Yawning Portal
Captain Duskstar - Human Hex "Gun" Warlock - Airships and Whiskey
Krikas
"Might just walk beside you. Probably cleaner" replies Krikas to Rusty. The automatons voice was still a little unnerving to him, but the machine had shown no hostility. In fact, Krikas couldn't recall any emotion from the thing. "If we're to mingle with these folk you might want to stay quiet big man. I've travelled this land for 10 year and I've never seen the likes of your kind before. It might be a little....scary for the childrens".
OOC: Welcome to the party, Grummash. Jump right in!
Something in Rusty's neck makes a noise — like leather being flapped — as his head turns to look at the half-elf. The former entertainer's assistant has had very little contact with children since the demise of The Blade. Despite the supposed danger of a blade-wielding performer and a magical metal man, parents were surprisingly excited to bring their little ones to watch. From what he can remember, young humanoids didn't appear afraid of him when he was part of the show. In fact, The Blade used to integrate a little comedy into the show, and Rusty was quite often the butt of his jokes. This made him appear trustworthy and harmless. But in this situation — out in the open and at night — perhaps Krikas is right. "I wi-wi-wi-will remain here for the night. I d-d-d-do not require the comforts of a fire." He twists in a way that would probably not be possible if he were flesh and blood and pokes one hand into one of his buckets. Turning back to Krakis, Rusty hands the bard a tiny music box made of metal and glass. "A g-g-g-gift for the children."
Wren
Dropping down to eye level with the rest of the group, just above Felmar's head, Wren motions to Krikas and Felmar, suggesting the two of them stay here and wait on Grummash while he flies ahead to announce their arrival. He welcomed the opportunity to get out in front of the group and into the crisp air on his own for a few minutes. He hadn't yet grown entirely comfortable traveling with such an odd lot; but to Wren, nearly everything had changed after leaving home, so why should this be any different? Every day was a new horizon and home was just a distant memory, now. So why should he bother with the rules and customs of his people? If he wanted to write his own destiny, he should start by writing his own rules! Why shouldn't he travel with a Dwarf, a Half-Elf, an Orc, and whatever the hell Rusty was? Truth be told, none of them were convincingly certain as to exactly what Rusty was. While the others were still in the process of warming up to Rusty and trying to figure him out, Wren had spent several days in conversation with him and still wasn't quite sure. Regardless, these were the closest things to a group of friends that he'd had since he roamed the streets with the local village kids as a child. With renewed vigor driven by his newfound motivation to claim this group of ruffians as his own, he floated away, smiling, and offering a last bit of review to the group while departing:
"Okay, Rusty, I'll sneak up ahead and have a friendly chat with them, offer to play them some music, and try to get a read on the situation. Just like last time, if you hear my lute, there's no danger and you guys can advance at your leisure. If you hear my pan flute, cautiously advance, but be wary. And, if you hear my drum..."
But in his haste to go meet the group of travelers, Wren flew off before the group heard the rest of his plan...
The camp, and the fire where further in the distance than first suspected as you topped the rise. Faint sounds of a fiddle and a constant steady beat of a drum, or perhaps just a log could be heard from some distance. Yet as you drew closer the sound seemed to fade as if into the background. The camp growing quieter as you approached, the night descending thick and starless.
Wolves howled in the distance, joined by the sound of fouler predators on the hunt. The guard continued to peer into the inky blackness, clear in his knowledge that you were there but still not certain of your location. The constant whir-thump, whir-thump of the automatons stride comes to an end. the silence deafening as the camp hushes stillness. You realize it was the rhythm of everybody holding their breath.
Wren buzzes in just off the road and above the nearest wagon, the horses, tethered in the safety of the circle whinny at his presence. A child, no, a halfling, staring towards the road and the entrance to the circle hushes the skittish beast. Most of the troupe were halflings, a few gnomes and a handful of humans, all dressed brightly in flowing loose cloth, layers to keep the cold out. The smell of something roasting on a spit, a large cauldron suspended over the fire. Several sit with instruments in their hands, others held mid pose. Halted in there dance as they await the strangers presence. The troubadours do not look threatening...any more than a pickpocket is a thief before it slips your purse.
Wren
Upon getting a closer look at the group of mixed travelers while hovering quietly above the nearest wagon, Wren decided the folks were safe enough and hatched a plan. Regardless, the group, although primarily halflings, outnumbered their own group some four to one. So, Wren still thought it best to proceed with caution. Not specifically confident with his decision, but with no other option in sight, Wren commits to the plan and engages the band of travelers:
"Good evening, fellow travelers. My companions and I have traveled far this day. I wonder if we might join you for the evening - we, too, have a few who carry instruments, and we'd love to share songs and tales with you if you'd have us..."
After this quick salutation, Wren pulls out his pan flute and begins playing a cheerful tone at a volume that, although imperceptible to most, was ever so slightly louder than usual. Cautiously, and attempting to allow as much time as possible for his new friends to hear his call and start moving, Wren slowly begins descending and flying over towards the group...
At the sound of Wren's pan flute, something in Rusty exhales similarly to a sigh, yet also not at all like a sigh. Clearly, the fairy was not in any immediate danger, or he would be playing his drum instead of his pan flute. But the idea that tonight would proceed without incident is fading along with the last of the day's light.
In situations like this, there is a decision to be made. Should Rusty and Felmar, the loudest pair of the group, hang back in order for the others to move first more stealthily? Or should the metal man lead in order to make a statement of strength? Though he was not particularly tall — in fact, he was shorter than most adult humans, elves, and other similar humanoids — his bulky physique and unusual makeup was still intimidating to those who didn't know him.
But he decides to wait to see what the others do and say.
“Mayhaps I should go in next and warn’em ’bout ye. Just so they aren’t startled ye know? Ye may not know this, but ye have a tendency to catch some folk off guard.”
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
Solstice Nightchill - Winter Eladrin Hunter Ranger - The Yawning Portal
Captain Duskstar - Human Hex "Gun" Warlock - Airships and Whiskey
The Halfling tending the horses turns with a start, a short gasp of surprise that compresses and cuts off a hasty "Who...". The word hangs, a dagger cocked back, ready to throw as his eyes, set into a wrinkled and weathered face dart back and forth.
As the Fairy continues his introduction the Halfling glances up, spotting the Fey darting quickly so as to appear that he hovers. "Oh, a Fey, hmm if those are friends of yours, out in the gloom and dark of the night, tell them to come forth, quit skulking in the shadows. If the intent is good, the fire is warm." He pauses as the Fey pulls pipes forth and whistles a little tune. "Come out of the dark, show yourselves" the Halfling hollers. Many in the troupe turn to find the speaker, and his audience but never let their guard slip, eyes still search the night, more intently now, knowing the strangers are at the edge of the light.
Another Halfling, a large set, not big boned but clearly rippled with strength and grace. Huffing his chest in a comfortable almost unnoticed authority steps towards the opening in the circle, closest to the road. "We have stew and roast lamb, and stories to share of the Southern road." He pauses, listening for any response, "We welcome news of the City, and further if you've traveled that way"
Wren
While usually more calculating and risk-averse, Wren had spent nearly the entire day in the air because of how nasty the trail was. Cold, tired, and nearly starving, Wren forgot all about the dagger aiming Halfling who'd been tending the horses upon his arrival the moment the words 'roast lamb' were muttered.
"As for me and mine, we'll take the roast lamb, stew, and warm fires over a tussle every day of the week, we will..."
...he said, using the last bit of the fading darkness to hide a cheeky grin while he flew forward, into the light of the fire. Wren was well aware that not all that glitters is gold. Moving closer to the large set Halfling, Wren did his best to make out as much detail in the surroundings as possible without seeming distrusting. Deciding to stay aloft while talking with his newly met audience, he suddenly realized that he'd inadvertently used his pan flute to summon a group of friends, one of whom may look unlike anything these folks have ever seen. Making a point not to forget to offer a word of caution on that topic, he continued,
"I'm called Wren Frostwhisper and I travel south with a group of allies; the group I called over, approaching from the shadows over there..."
...he said, motioning towards the direction from which his friends were approaching. He went on...
"We've come from The City just this day and would be glad to share all that we know about it. Although, my new friends, as I think about all of us gathered around your warm fire, sharing food and exchanging information, it occurs to me that there's proooooooooobably something we should discuss. I'll be clear - I do not mean to insult - I make no attempt at guessing your collective experience nor how well-versed you are in the beings of this land; however, one of my group is called Rusty, and, the thing about Rusty is..."
Krikas
The trill of Wrens pan flute floats gently to Krikas' ears moments before the harsher bark from the halfling. "OK! We're headed down" he shouts back. The scent of fire roasted meat guides his way just as much as the glow from the fire.
Krikas had seen similar groups in his travels though the years - nomads, family groups, whole villages that had uprooted due to who knows what. Mostly they were harmless, good natured folk but occasionally there was a group that turned out to be raiders or theives. He approaches the camp cautiously, looking for a sign either way.
Insight 20
Felmar is also going to head down. He’s not making any move to conceal himself and hopes everyone can see him clearly.
“We mean ye no harm friends. Just lookin’ fer a warm fire and Mayhaps some o’ that meat that smells so good. I warn ye though. One of our companions is quite large and unusual lookin’. But rest assured they’re harmless. An’ don’t worry about feedin’ ‘em. They don’t eat er sleep. Good one te have on yer side methinks.”
Kaelan Thornfell - Wildhunt Shifter Beast Barbarian - Horde of the Dragon Queen
Gustuck "Grumpy Gus" Clayshaper - Deep Gnome Astral Self Monk - Malady of Minarrh
Shelmo Sherrinford - Fairy Inquisitive Rogue - Vae Victus
Solstice Nightchill - Winter Eladrin Hunter Ranger - The Yawning Portal
Captain Duskstar - Human Hex "Gun" Warlock - Airships and Whiskey
Rusty follows not far behind the others as they proceed toward the camp. The fact that they have been welcomed is a good sign that perhaps there will be no unwanted trouble. His compact legs continue their muddy journey.
When he is close enough, he will survey the area to see if he can find a way to enter the ring without getting too close to any of the horses. He has no idea how they might react, and he doesn't want to cause any trouble in that regard. If it doesn't look as if that's possible, he will just wait outside of the ring.
The large Halfling grins, a smile of greeting. "Come, come. There is room enough around the fire. We were just settling in after a long road.". The rest of the troupe settles, many turning to watch the construct trudge to the entrance. Soon enough instruments have been pulled a youngster looking to wren with his pipes.
"You play, would love to join you in a tune" He pulls a small hand harp, only 6 strings that trill when stroked. There are a few actual children, the halfling kids barely reach the thigh of a human. A gaggle of them, wielding sticks giggle as they rush towards Rusty. They circle and poke at him with sticks before a strong rebuke from the group causes them to scamper in a hail of laughter.
Your group is welcomed in, the troupe quickly returning to thier typical act. A group of men and woman, those not easting or dancing retrieve instruments. They are Acrobat's, entertainers, Troubadours. "Please, we are interested in Neverwinter. Any rumors or knowing you have, it be mighty kind. He continues by offering his own knowing.
"Coming from the Deep, three weeks ago. Spring comes a little earlier down the coast. Made good time till we hit North of the Westwood. The Sword mountains ahead of us were covered in snow. The season was out of whack, should be the pass is open by now." He points at the oversized wheels on the carts, thick and coated in a tarry substance. " Still shouldn't a mattered right, see Cairin made them wheels special. But blizzards kept coming fer nearly a week it did."