Moving to the table and joining the others, albeit a little slower as he takes in the somewhat drastic changes from his last visit, Zarbyn places his order, "I'll take a bowl of stew, some bread and cheese, and a ale."
As he sits he remembers almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and can I get an order of your delicious buttermilk biscuits for the table."
Afterward when they have a moment to themselves at the table, "What do you think happened in just half a year to sap the life and vibrancy out of this place... these people?"
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"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
The hearth crackles low in the Hanging Party Inn. Frost laces the windowpanes from within, and despite the roaring fire, the air feels damp and heavy. The Inn is quiet tonight—too quiet—its regulars hunched over mugs and shadows. A tension hangs in the air like a breath held too long.
The innkeeper, Old Rannic, shakes his head "no" at Zarbyn's request. He points back at the menu, suggesting that that is all they have. The women continues to widdle something under a table. The northmen, lost in his ale. The strange ice-elf, takes out some tarot cards and idly shuffles them.
A thunderous knock startles the strange quiet in the room, followed by a voice from beyond the heavy oaken door:
“Open up! OPEN UP! This is Owen Carralif!”
Rannic’s, the innkeeper's eyes, widen. He hurries to the door, sliding back three thick iron bolts. The door swings open with a groan, and a gust of snow-laced wind follows in the wake of a portly, balding man in scarlet robes, his face pale and sweat-streaked. His entrance draws every eye in the inn except the ragged town guard, who seems to lower his eyes and puts his cloak further over his head, as if he does not want to be recognized.
The large man scans the room, then marches directly toward your group.
“My friends,” he pants, breath visible in the cold air, “it is imperative that I speak with you. Now.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turns to Rannic and snaps his fingers.
“Drinks. Food. The best you have, its all on me."
The barkeep makes a sort of grumbly sound but obeys. You notice the man’s signet ring, the seal of Silverton glinting on his hand. Clearly, he is someone of importance—though his face is a mask of anguish and fear.
You exchange glances and decide to hear him out.
He looks first to Zarbyn, then Lira, then Iolinder, seeing the cleric's holy symbols, and finally addresses you all.
“I am Owen Carralif, Mayor of Silverton. And my people… we are dying.”
The busy gnome women in the back room peaks her head out, looking at Iólinder. "I know the priestess Aisulu. I am Meknola."
The man looks at Meknola,"It seems this group may also require your services, Meknola. Please, if you could attend to them shortly, I would greatly be in your debt."
He leans in, lowering his voice, though every ear in the inn strains to listen.
“Ten days ago, two female messengers of evil rode into town on massive white weasels. Beasts with eyes like burning coals. The riders were cloaked in shadows—hooded figures with no faces, their voices like cracked ice, each word ending in a whispering hiss. Around their necks, each wore a necklace with a blue crystal.”
“They asked for me by name. And when I came to greet them, they demanded I hand over my daughter, Mirelle. They wanted to take her to their mistress: The Ice Queen.
“Of course, I refused. And without another word, they turned and rode slowly out of town—heads bowed, shoulders hunched.”
He swallows hard, then continues.
“That very night… our suffering began.”
He recounts the horrors with trembling hands.
“Six moondogs came. Each one the size of a bear, strong as four men, with fangs like daggers. They prowled the alleys, leapt through windows, and tore good people from their beds. We found blood on the snow the next morning. Since then, we’ve lost twenty-three souls.”
“And it grows worse. Ghostly wraiths now float through the streets, firing beams of frozen magic that turn their victims into glassy pillars of ice.”
“We’ve barred our doors, bolted our windows, but nothing holds them back forever. Every night, the attacks return. Every night, we pray we’ll see the dawn.”
He sighs deeply.
“Some now whisper that we should give Mirelle to the witch—to save ourselves. But I will not sacrifice my child. Not to them.”
He straightens, meeting your gaze with grim hope.
“There is but one hope—and it lies with you."
Before you show any hint of accepting, he continues.
“There is a man—Nicodemus—a wizard. Wise beyond reckoning. For reasons I’ll never understand, he has chosen to dwell in Port Blacksand—the City of Thieves.”
“Pirates, murderers, assassins, and worse fester in that place. But Nicodemus survives there, for none dare challenge his magic.”
“I believe he alone has the knowledge to defeat this Ice Queen. I beg you—travel to Port Blacksand, find him, and return with what is needed to save us all.”
The man who occasionally whistles to himself by the fire has now twice gestured in Thieves Cant, a greeting to see if any in the group are of the guild. She wasn't sure the first time, but definitely caught the gesture with his hand on the second. No one else seems to notice.
Zarbyn
The last time Zarbyn was here, the innkeeper, said to be a former executioner named Rannic, was able to speak and did not have a frostbitten jaw. The Northman, are very common in these parts and further North. (They are like Viking Barbarians).
"if all of that is true, and I believe your words, you will have work to do. It's too late Tonight, but when the sun rises and the creatures disperse you should consider putting people to work creating a Haven, or several, for the people. Instead of everyone hiding in whatever building they can, which doesn't seem to be working if you're still losing people nightly, you would have dedicated locations for everyone to be sent to well before sunset. These havens should be well fortified with whatever protections you can manage to protect their inhabitants... From the wolves at least..."
Iólinder pauses for a long moment painfully suppressing a coughing fit...
"The wraiths would be more difficult to prevent from entering buildings. What resources do you have in the way of silver, or clerics that may be able to provide holy water?"
The words fall from his mouth as if rehearsed. They weren't, of course, but the matter seemed uniquely fitting to his calling. It felt good to not need to force a response as he so often did when focused on the machinations of war.
Even distracted as he was by the disease and being close to finding help for themselves, he was finally feeling more like himself then the person he spent so long trying to become.
Lira leans against a nearby crate, her posture relaxed but deliberate. She scratches the side of her neck with three fingers, returning the sign subtly. Her gaze doesn’t linger on the man, but as she moves closer to the fire, her steps are quiet, her presence casual, like anyone seeking warmth.
“This is wise, we can gather here or at the church of all faiths at night beginning tomorrow.”
”I don’t have much to offer you in return. An amulet that will protect, 100 gold, a fine sword, and a letter that might get you past the gate guards of Blacksand.”
Amdaeng petted Nings head and whispered to her to act as dog-like as possible....she was beginning to feel the illness more now in her bones and joints whereas in Iolinder it seemed to sit in the lungs.
Spech about Moon Dogs and Ice Spectres was on her mind when they mentioned venturing to Port Blacksand, many leagues to the South....hell, she was closer to Fang currently than they were to Blacksand.
" Blacksand is weeks away on foot.....you'll likely all be dead before we get there...."
She knew nothing of Ice Ghosts or Wraiths or whatever they were but she had run in to Moon Dogs before, well...Moon Dog singular.....and never wanted to again....
" Arakor Nicodemus...I know of him....he was the son of a powerful foreign merchant prince in Kang.....does it need to be that particular wizard their must be a closer one? Yaztromo? Or Zaragan the Wrinkled?"
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Moving to the table and joining the others, albeit a little slower as he takes in the somewhat drastic changes from his last visit, Zarbyn places his order, "I'll take a bowl of stew, some bread and cheese, and a ale."
As he sits he remembers almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and can I get an order of your delicious buttermilk biscuits for the table."
Afterward when they have a moment to themselves at the table, "What do you think happened in just half a year to sap the life and vibrancy out of this place... these people?"
The hearth crackles low in the Hanging Party Inn. Frost laces the windowpanes from within, and despite the roaring fire, the air feels damp and heavy. The Inn is quiet tonight—too quiet—its regulars hunched over mugs and shadows. A tension hangs in the air like a breath held too long.
The innkeeper, Old Rannic, shakes his head "no" at Zarbyn's request. He points back at the menu, suggesting that that is all they have.
The women continues to widdle something under a table. The northmen, lost in his ale. The strange ice-elf, takes out some tarot cards and idly shuffles them.
A thunderous knock startles the strange quiet in the room, followed by a voice from beyond the heavy oaken door:
“Open up! OPEN UP! This is Owen Carralif!”
Rannic’s, the innkeeper's eyes, widen. He hurries to the door, sliding back three thick iron bolts. The door swings open with a groan, and a gust of snow-laced wind follows in the wake of a portly, balding man in scarlet robes, his face pale and sweat-streaked. His entrance draws every eye in the inn except the ragged town guard, who seems to lower his eyes and puts his cloak further over his head, as if he does not want to be recognized.
The large man scans the room, then marches directly toward your group.
“My friends,” he pants, breath visible in the cold air, “it is imperative that I speak with you. Now.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turns to Rannic and snaps his fingers.
“Drinks. Food. The best you have, its all on me."
The barkeep makes a sort of grumbly sound but obeys. You notice the man’s signet ring, the seal of Silverton glinting on his hand. Clearly, he is someone of importance—though his face is a mask of anguish and fear.
You exchange glances and decide to hear him out.
He looks first to Zarbyn, then Lira, then Iolinder, seeing the cleric's holy symbols, and finally addresses you all.
“I am Owen Carralif, Mayor of Silverton. And my people… we are dying.”
"As are we, I'm afraid, but don't let that concern you... Unless you know where we can find the High Priestess Aisulu."
Iólinder pauses for a moment to see if the panicked fellow recognizes the name before continuing...
"Regardless, as mayor you obviously have many duties to your people and their safety must be a priority. In what manner are they dying, sir?
The busy gnome women in the back room peaks her head out, looking at Iólinder. "I know the priestess Aisulu. I am Meknola."
The man looks at Meknola, "It seems this group may also require your services, Meknola. Please, if you could attend to them shortly, I would greatly be in your debt."
He leans in, lowering his voice, though every ear in the inn strains to listen.
“Ten days ago, two female messengers of evil rode into town on massive white weasels. Beasts with eyes like burning coals. The riders were cloaked in shadows—hooded figures with no faces, their voices like cracked ice, each word ending in a whispering hiss. Around their necks, each wore a necklace with a blue crystal.”
“They asked for me by name. And when I came to greet them, they demanded I hand over my daughter, Mirelle. They wanted to take her to their mistress: The Ice Queen.
“Of course, I refused. And without another word, they turned and rode slowly out of town—heads bowed, shoulders hunched.”
He swallows hard, then continues.
“That very night… our suffering began.”
He recounts the horrors with trembling hands.
“Six moondogs came. Each one the size of a bear, strong as four men, with fangs like daggers. They prowled the alleys, leapt through windows, and tore good people from their beds. We found blood on the snow the next morning. Since then, we’ve lost twenty-three souls.”
“And it grows worse. Ghostly wraiths now float through the streets, firing beams of frozen magic that turn their victims into glassy pillars of ice.”
“We’ve barred our doors, bolted our windows, but nothing holds them back forever. Every night, the attacks return. Every night, we pray we’ll see the dawn.”
He sighs deeply.
“Some now whisper that we should give Mirelle to the witch—to save ourselves. But I will not sacrifice my child. Not to them.”
He straightens, meeting your gaze with grim hope.
“There is but one hope—and it lies with you."
Before you show any hint of accepting, he continues.
“There is a man—Nicodemus—a wizard. Wise beyond reckoning. For reasons I’ll never understand, he has chosen to dwell in Port Blacksand—the City of Thieves.”
“Pirates, murderers, assassins, and worse fester in that place. But Nicodemus survives there, for none dare challenge his magic.”
“I believe he alone has the knowledge to defeat this Ice Queen. I beg you—travel to Port Blacksand, find him, and return with what is needed to save us all.”
Lira
The man who occasionally whistles to himself by the fire has now twice gestured in Thieves Cant, a greeting to see if any in the group are of the guild. She wasn't sure the first time, but definitely caught the gesture with his hand on the second. No one else seems to notice.
Zarbyn
The last time Zarbyn was here, the innkeeper, said to be a former executioner named Rannic, was able to speak and did not have a frostbitten jaw. The Northman, are very common in these parts and further North. (They are like Viking Barbarians).
"if all of that is true, and I believe your words, you will have work to do. It's too late Tonight, but when the sun rises and the creatures disperse you should consider putting people to work creating a Haven, or several, for the people. Instead of everyone hiding in whatever building they can, which doesn't seem to be working if you're still losing people nightly, you would have dedicated locations for everyone to be sent to well before sunset. These havens should be well fortified with whatever protections you can manage to protect their inhabitants... From the wolves at least..."
Iólinder pauses for a long moment painfully suppressing a coughing fit...
"The wraiths would be more difficult to prevent from entering buildings. What resources do you have in the way of silver, or clerics that may be able to provide holy water?"
The words fall from his mouth as if rehearsed. They weren't, of course, but the matter seemed uniquely fitting to his calling. It felt good to not need to force a response as he so often did when focused on the machinations of war.
Even distracted as he was by the disease and being close to finding help for themselves, he was finally feeling more like himself then the person he spent so long trying to become.
Lira leans against a nearby crate, her posture relaxed but deliberate. She scratches the side of her neck with three fingers, returning the sign subtly. Her gaze doesn’t linger on the man, but as she moves closer to the fire, her steps are quiet, her presence casual, like anyone seeking warmth.
Lira
The man hands something to the innkeeper. it is a parchment with ink that disappears with the oils of one’s hand. It reads in thieves Cant:
Lirael, we have been expecting you. How many artifacts can D.S. expect? Lira has the same ink if needed to respond.
The mayor thinks for a moment.
“This is wise, we can gather here or at the church of all faiths at night beginning tomorrow.”
”I don’t have much to offer you in return. An amulet that will protect, 100 gold, a fine sword, and a letter that might get you past the gate guards of Blacksand.”
Amdaeng petted Nings head and whispered to her to act as dog-like as possible....she was beginning to feel the illness more now in her bones and joints whereas in Iolinder it seemed to sit in the lungs.
Spech about Moon Dogs and Ice Spectres was on her mind when they mentioned venturing to Port Blacksand, many leagues to the South....hell, she was closer to Fang currently than they were to Blacksand.
" Blacksand is weeks away on foot.....you'll likely all be dead before we get there...."
She knew nothing of Ice Ghosts or Wraiths or whatever they were but she had run in to Moon Dogs before, well...Moon Dog singular.....and never wanted to again....
" Arakor Nicodemus...I know of him....he was the son of a powerful foreign merchant prince in Kang.....does it need to be that particular wizard their must be a closer one? Yaztromo? Or Zaragan the Wrinkled?"