Looking to the rest of the crew as they walked up to the Rudder, Ragnar's lips curved into a huge smile, "Yew'll nevah foind a more wretched hoive of scum 'am villiany. Welcome to dah Ruddah! Vahlen, yew may wanna take dah lead on 'dis one. Lass toime Oi spoke wiff Noine-Fingahs he was allmoss Eight-Fingahs...”
As the crew entered the aptly named establishment, Ragnar caught sight of the women working the join with Nine-Fingers and let out an audible gasp with a quick intake of air. "Bragi's balls, they've certainly....changed...since lass we saw 'dem, eh Vahlen? They're more beautiful 'dan Oi remembah.." With this, Ragnar begins slicking his long red hair back and out of his face and tightening his greying red braids in his beard. Dropping the bear hide armor to just his waist, exposing his full chest covered in scars and various knot-work tattoos, he puffs up to his full stature - which is impressive for a Dwarf, though not as impressive as Nine-Fingers - and looks at Vahlen with an eager look in his eye asking, "Ready for roun' two Vahlen?!"
Vahlen surveyed they room, taking extra care to look for sneering Svartalfari thugs with spider web tattoos, or any other manner of lowlife that likely wanted him dead. He did not care to be caught off guard again. Perception check:24
"Heh. Should probably try to keep my pelvis intact until after we figure out why someone wants us dead. Remember, we're here on business. I'm only getting a little drunk."
Making his way to the bar, he slaps down a handful of coppers. "Pitcher." Exchanging a knowing glance with Tara, the youngest daughter, he smiles sheepishly.
"Oroight...but once we're done 'ere Oi make no promises..." Ragnar followed his Elven friend to the bar, placed 3 gold onto the counter with a wink to Cäzilie...or was it Vinkhelehd...? "Two pitchahs 'ere, luv." He said, sliding two gold her way, and another in front of Vahlen in anticipation of Nine-Fingers' arrival. Turning his head away from the large Dwarf, Ragnar pretended not to notice him.
As Hem entered the bar with his companions he surreptitiously hid the Valknut talisman under his shirt. His devoutness was entirely reliant on how useful it was in any given situation, and Hem had a feeling that the people that attended this grimy hole would not be very respectful of the gods.
Though he'd never been here, he'd heard a lot about it. Victims of Rudder bar fights frequently collapsed at the doorstep of Hof Munnin, drunk and bleeding from multiple places. With the mead from before still buzzing in his system and the activities of the evening fresh in his mind, part of him wanted to experience one of these infamous fights. He felt his hands clench into fists as he looked around for some likely candidates, but then a memory flashed through his mind:
Master Amund was sitting in a large wooden chair at the back of a small Hof, clutching the bottom of his long white beard, watching a young Hem spar with his older brother Hagen. Hagen and Hem stood in the center of the Hof, firelight flickering on the walls and the tables that had been pushed to the walls to make a large space in the center. The two brothers dug their heels into the dirt and straw covered floor. Hagen, who was much bigger, stronger, and faster than Hem, swung a large fist directly towards Hem's face. He tried to dodge it, but was too late. Hagen's fist clipped the corner of his jaw, sending him to the floor with a copper taste bursting in his mouth. He tried to rise, but Hagen sent a kick to his chest, keeping him down. Hem screamed with rage and pushed to his feet, seeing nothing but red and rushing directly at his brother. Hagen easily pushed him aside and to the ground again, grabbing his arms and pushing him down.
"Stop!" Master Amund rose from his chair, belly swinging. "Hem, rise." Hem pushed himself off the floor, wiping blood away from his mouth. "You are a smart warrior with a tendency for rage. Using that rage makes you stupid. A truly smart warrior uses their rage as a tool for the battle. Don't let it drive your decisions."
Hem nodded with an exhausted sigh. Hagen opened his arms “little fífl, let’s go again! Or are you too scared? My fists make Odin himself shake in his boots.” Hem laughed, and readied himself for another match.
Hem unclenched his fists. Don't let it drive your decisions. He was sure a fight would come his way soon enough anyways. He walked quietly up to the bar and laid down a copper. "A pint, please!" He cautiously looked around the bar, wise from his last experience, trying to find anyone or anything that might be of suspicion.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Although Cerridwen could feel her sense of humor returning to life she still wasn't to the point where she could enjoy the bar scene. After retrieving a pint and nudging the Dawf, giving him a know wink and nod at the bar tenders, she finds a solitary seat in the back corner of the tavern. Eavesdropping and people watching wasn't hard to do in a room of drunks and loose lipped strangers. Cerridwen took a sip of her brew and scanned the crowd.
Logan Nine-fingers looks up from the beer he was pouring and scowls. "Son of a sow, Vahlen, what's your trouble-making behind doing here?" His bright eyes quickly scan the room. "That faen scumstain Ragnar best not be here with you. If that mongrel so much as looks at one of my daughters again..." He notices Ragnar and his face grows scarlet, rough short fingers digging powerfully into the bar.
Tara, the dwarf's youngest daughter, steps behind the bar and elbows her father, not gently either, in the ribcage. "Father!" She complains. "Play nice would you? Vahlen and Ragnar and good and noble young men, aren't you Vahlen?" Tara flashes you a smile.
Nine-fingers grumbles something unintelligible and certainly expletive-ridden under his breath. He sighs. Despite his gruff demeanor it's easy to see that Nine-fingers adores his daughters, especially Tara, his youngest. Despite his protestations, Nine-fingers slides you two beers, scowling as he does so.
"Drink up, Ragnar, you faen hellspawn." He shouts over the din. He leans in towards Vahlen. "Now, what brings you knuckleheads back in here? I didn't expect to see your grimy faces for at least another month."
For Vahlen:
You don't notice any spider tattoos, or any Svartalf's at all for that matter. You do notice a number of rougher types in the bar, not unusual at this time of night. But none of them seem to wish you any immediate harm.
"Oh! Logan!" Ragnar exclaims as he turns his head back toward the barkeep, who was now passing him a drink. "Good tah see yew too! Oi 'ope you at least spit in 'dis before yah gave it to me. Yew know Oi love a little extra flavah!" Ragnar takes a big swig of the drink before him, shooting a quick wink at the closest daughter behind the bar. "Go on Vahlen, why don' you tell 'ole Noine-Fingahs why we're 'ere."
Vahlen gives the youngest daughter a toothy grin. "We try our damnedest." They in fact did nothing of the sort.
"We're in the market for information, so we decided to call upon the great Nine-Fingers himself." Vahlen pauses, deciding how much to share. "We've had one hell of a night. Got jumped by four greyback thugs in the middle of a crowded inn, the lot of them covered in spiderweb tattoos. They pulled knives and started flinging spells about without even so much as a 'how d'you do.' The leader went on about some caves before we...took care of him. Do the names Algrim or Hecatrix ring any bells? "
Leaning in further, and quieting his voice so that the daughters cannot hear, Vahlen adds: "... And if I must remind you, that last job we took from you had a lot of, erm....surprises." With that, he pulls his cloak to the side and indicates several small ragged puncture holes in the thick fabric. Luckily, these projectiles seemed to have largely missed their intended mark. "You know I don't care for surprises. Ragnar here doesn't care for 'em neither. ...And that paltry sum barely covered our expenses." Turning to his companion, he grumbles, "If I wanted to die penniless in a gutter, I would have stayed in Bÿtarskal."
"...Anyway, in light of all that, we'd greatly appreciate your cooperation. So look, tell us what you know about all this, and as far as I'm concerned, we're even."
Persuasion check: 18
Insight check: 21 (OOC: to see specifically if he is lying or withholding information)
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
As the pint slid down the table into Hem's hands, he decided to retreat from the bar. After tonight's events, he'd prefer to have a wall to his back. Spotting Cerridwen lurking in a shadowy corner, Hem walked over to her, weaving his way through swaying legs and sloshing ale.
After sitting quietly in a wooden chair with it's back to the wall, he took a large gulp of his beer and looked around at the mass of drunkards. "Thor's biceps, half of this rabble look like they crawled up from Helheim itself. Spot anything of interest, druid? I can't make much out through all the vomit and yelling." He looked around the room, trying to spot anything resembling the spider tattoo, or anyone that wore garb similar to that of the svartalfs; it just might be possibly that people of their ilk could do business in a bar like this.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Nodding her head in acknowledgement of the Monk Cerridwen takes another sip from her glass; “it’s hard to make out who here is just drunk riff raff and who is a real threat...” she scans the room again looking for anything suspicious
Taking a swill directly from one of the pitchers he requested, placed before him by one of the daughters (whose names he still can't remember), and draining all but the foam at the bottom, Ragnar pipes up, " *belch* 'Das roight, Logan, Oi ain't a big fan o' suproises. 'An we was juss' jumped in plain soight. Now, Oi no 'dat me 'an Vahlen ain't da cheeriest pair, but 'dass a bold move. Even 'fer a sloimy spoida. If yew know anythin' now'd be dah toime tah let us know." Remembering the fine ladies behind the bar, Ragnar's mood shifted, "Not only was we jumped," He steals a glance and a quick wink at one of the women, "but Oi took out three of 'em at once. Shook 'em off loike day was nuffin'. Yew see 'dis scar 'ere?" Ragnar points to his bare chest, completely turning his attention to the daughters, "'Dis scar is frum Jörmungandr hisself, 'an dose greybacks thought they could take Ragnah Longhammah! Pah!" Ragnar continues on, wooing the daughters with battle scars and tales of the Jomsvikings, seemingly forgetting their information gathering for the moment.
Ragnar, in his boasting, manages to slosh a great deal of ale on his face and down the very scarred chest he was so proudly displaying. The daughters recoil from the spill, clearly unimpressed. Still, Tara sneaks you a smile as she goes about her business. "Oh Ragnar, you're a terrible drunk, but you're brave, and you're strong, which some women find very appealing." She winks and walks off.
Nine-fingers scoffs. "It was only a few kobolds, how was I supposed to know they'd have a troll with them? Faen idiots. Surprises or not, you made it out alive didn't you? We made a deal and I kept my end of the bargain. No way in Helheim I was paying you extra for that. Say one thing for Logan Nine-fingers, say that he's a man of his word." The dwarf drums his nine remaining fingers on the bar. His hands are rough and calloused from years of hard labor. "But since there's a few less Svartalf's in the world thanks to you..." He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. "I fought the faen web-worms in the border wars back in Nidavellir. Cunning, ruthless, and honorless to boot. It's a Cabal that's after you, that's for certain." He snaps his fingers. "Auvryndar! That's the one! Cabal Auvryndar! Cruel bastards too. I don't know what you've done to run afoul of them, but I suggest you watch your backs."
He slides a beer to Roodnar, giving him a curious expression. "My, you're an odd little one aren't you? Still, a cousin is a cousin no matter how strange! All sons and daughters of Nidavellir are welcome in the Rudder! He glares at Ragnar. "Even faen idiots like you."
For Hem and Cerridwen: From your seats at the back of the back you get a good view of its occupants. Mostly male, though with a few hardy women who look like they can hold their own. A mix of humans, dwarves and the occasional light elf. No patrons look to intend you immediate harm, but the night is growing late and the patrons growing increasing inebriated. The Rudder has a reputation for violence and seedy behavior. You get the distinct impression that staying alert was a wise choice.
For Vahlen:
Your words hold little sway over the gruff dwarf, and he doesn't budge an inch. Yet, you've gotten to know him well enough that you sense only honesty in his words. He may not like you, but he's being upfront.
Roondar catches the beer, recoiling as it sloshes from the violent push the barman gave it. "My thanks, cousin. I have taken a liking to your brazen 'faen idiots' here and plan to aid them in any way I can. If I may ask, whereabouts should we begin looking for this Cabal? I assume they must have a post or branch nearby if they're so familiar... I'd rather not travel all the way to Svartalfheim tonight! I also wonder, is there any word on any activity of the Jarl and the Gulleska clan on tackling this? Surely we can't be the only folks in town who've been attacked by these knaves... And for your information this evening, I will gladly grace you with a song! I see no stage, but it looks as though this bar has seen feet before, so if you wouldn't mind I would love to regale you, your patrons, and your daughters before we leave!" With that Roondar drains his drink, grimacing at the stench and slightly skunky flavor, and eagerly waits for Logan to respond.
OOC: My plan is to hold an action until we have the info we want and then begin a performance. I'd like to try and direct most of the room's attention to me on the bar to occupy the crowd so we can either have a private conversation with Logan about the cabal or distract the drunken fools long enough for us to leave unscathed. Depending on party wishes.
Taking a large gulp directly from his pitcher, Vahlen's eyes widen slightly upon receiving the news. He elbows his companion to get his attention and interrupt the drunken boasting. "A cabal is after us, eh? I suppose we should be flattered. Certainly a cut above the usual lot that want us dead." He still had absolutely no idea as to why, but he didn't intend to share that bit with Nine-Fingers. Turning back to Logan, he smiles, trying to play the dwarf's hatred to his advantage. "You should have seen the way we had their leader groveling and begging for mercy. Had him pissing his breeches in front of the whole inn. I was going to have a bit of fun with him but Ragnar here kicked him so hard, he put his nose into his brain." Vahlen tried to look disappointed. "Nothing would bring me more pleasure than putting the lot of those swamp crawling bastards in the ground, and I intend to make them suffer first. Like the skald here says, we aim to take the fight to them. From what we know so far, it sounds like they might be holed up in a cave system. No idea where though."
"Look, help us figure out what stinking pit they call their home, and either we kill a bunch of the filthy scums, or we die in the process. Maybe both?" Vahlen chuckles. "Either way it's a win for you, right?"
Nine-fingers scowls thoughtfully. "Auvryndar has been moving its Svartalf's into Driftsgaard for years. Ever since the Border Wars starting going south for them. But a web-sucker is a web-sucker through and through, so they mostly keep to themselves. I won't allow those snakes in the Rudder at all!" He scowls again. "There's been rumors they have a base of some kind in the Shallows though. Faen lowlifes don't even bother with a front business, just selling poisons and myrr smokes (a powerful narcotic) as openly as you please. The city watch leaves 'em alone as long as they stay here with the rest of us undesirables." He spits.
Nine-fingers gives Roodnar a look, clearly understanding your intentions. "Well, strange cousin, if its a stage you need the Rudder might be lacking, but don't say I never did anything for you." He waves and shouts something to his daughters, who deftly clear a swathe through the gathered drunks. The other two daughters heave out a set of tall wooden tables, worn gray and splintered by time and use. They set the tables next to each other at the back of the room, forming a makeshift stage.
Nine-fingers nods his head in an exaggerated farce of a bow. "Your stage, small cousin."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Skipping gleefully over to the makeshift stage of tables, Roondar dodges long legs and drunken hips before hopping atop the tables and clearing his throat loudly. He whips out is viol and begins stomping his foot quickly, attempting to catch some ears with the snappy melody. He fiddles for a short time, creating an introduction to the song, and begins the verses in earnest, singing along with his playing. Seeing that the patrons are mostly drunken riff-raff from the town he decides a jaunty, perhaps raucous, tune may be in order to hold their attention!
"One more drink at the Sunk'n Norwegian One more drink before we have to die One more drink at the Sunk'n Norwegian Raise up your tankards of ale to the sky One more drink, at the Sunk'n Norwegian One more drink, before we have to die One more drink, at the Sunk'n Norwegian Raise up your tankards of ale to the sky
Scoundrels and brigands and ne'er-do-wells And creatures dragged up from the black pits of hel You'll find the relief in a tankard of ale So the Sunk'n Norwegian is where we will sail!"
Hem winced as the gnome scrambled onto the tables and began to play. The tune was slightly off key, nowhere near the level of prowess Roondar possessed in the Blind-Goat. "The events of tonight must be getting to our gnome friend. This tune leaves something to be desired..." he trailed off, speaking to no one in particular. Judging by the drunken nature of the crowd, none of them seemed to care at first glance. They screamed and sloshed their ale just the same.
He called for another ale and slammed it back, grimacing at the taste of bitter dishwater and getting up from his seat. He turned to Cerridwen. "I'm going to go see what our friends are speaking to this Nine-Fingers about. They've been talking over there for awhile, and this whole situation smells of trouble. I want to make sure it's the fun kind of trouble, and not the kind that has us jumped by a group of assassins."
He then slowly walked over to the bar, having to steady himself from the ale and the swaying waves of drunks. Once there, he hopped up onto a stool next to Vahlen. "So, what kind of trouble are we getting into next? Find anything interesting from our gracious host? Ah, no thank you miss. They may call us stout but my tiny halfling heart can only handle so much of this establishment's...fine ale."
A strained warble not unlike a drowning rooster emerges from Roondar’s throat. Clearly not the odd dwarf’s finest performance, but it had the intended effect. Conversations died and went silent as stunned bar patrons couldn’t help but gaze in fascination at quite possibly the worst performance the Muddy Rudder had ever see .
Logan shuddered at the sounds that could only charitably be called music. “Remind me never to hire that one.” Logan grumbles. He leans in close across the bar. “Listen up chumps, I won’t advise going toe-to-toe with the spider bites, but you look like a right stubborn bunch of fools. Their base is here in the Shallows, a mile or so west. A big gray warehouse with an image of Sleipnir on the side. Bet they thought that was cute.”
he takes a deep drink from a nearby tankard. “You’re on your own here. I’ll not get mixed up in it, and the Watch couldn’t care less about what happens in the Shallows. For what it’s worth, have another drink and come back alive if ye can.”
Vahlen drains the last of his pitcher, feeling the warmth slowly spreading to his limbs and face. "Right. Warehouse full of scum suckers. Horse with too many legs. Got it." Vahlen nods his head in thanks. "I don't care what they say about you, you're alright Logan." With that he turns to Ragnar and Hem and motions the other members of the group over, stifling a yawn. "I don't know about you lot, but I could use some shut-eye. We can scout the warehouse out tomorrow. Let's get out of here."
The sounds coming from the Skald were less than savory, even for Ragnar's uncultured ears. Oi guess that's one way tah do it.
Looking back to Vahlen with surprise after catching some of what Logan was saying, between the awful noises, 2 empty pitchers of ale, and distracting barmaids. "Shut oi?! Vahlen, it's dahk out now. Oi say we go tonoight 'an scope it out. Git a sense of wut we're dealin' with before they got toime tah realoize a few of 'em ain't comin' back...."
Anothah pitchah 'ere, luv, eets a cold noight." With one meaty hand gripping the fresh pitcher, and another sliding some gold to the barmaids, Ragnar looks to his companions in hopes of a late night venture to catch some murderers.
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Looking to the rest of the crew as they walked up to the Rudder, Ragnar's lips curved into a huge smile, "Yew'll nevah foind a more wretched hoive of scum 'am villiany. Welcome to dah Ruddah! Vahlen, yew may wanna take dah lead on 'dis one. Lass toime Oi spoke wiff Noine-Fingahs he was allmoss Eight-Fingahs...”
As the crew entered the aptly named establishment, Ragnar caught sight of the women working the join with Nine-Fingers and let out an audible gasp with a quick intake of air. "Bragi's balls, they've certainly....changed...since lass we saw 'dem, eh Vahlen? They're more beautiful 'dan Oi remembah.." With this, Ragnar begins slicking his long red hair back and out of his face and tightening his greying red braids in his beard. Dropping the bear hide armor to just his waist, exposing his full chest covered in scars and various knot-work tattoos, he puffs up to his full stature - which is impressive for a Dwarf, though not as impressive as Nine-Fingers - and looks at Vahlen with an eager look in his eye asking, "Ready for roun' two Vahlen?!"
Vahlen surveyed they room, taking extra care to look for sneering Svartalfari thugs with spider web tattoos, or any other manner of lowlife that likely wanted him dead. He did not care to be caught off guard again. Perception check: 24
"Heh. Should probably try to keep my pelvis intact until after we figure out why someone wants us dead. Remember, we're here on business. I'm only getting a little drunk."
Making his way to the bar, he slaps down a handful of coppers. "Pitcher." Exchanging a knowing glance with Tara, the youngest daughter, he smiles sheepishly.
"Logan, you old codpiece, how've you been?"
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
"Oroight...but once we're done 'ere Oi make no promises..." Ragnar followed his Elven friend to the bar, placed 3 gold onto the counter with a wink to Cäzilie...or was it Vinkhelehd...? "Two pitchahs 'ere, luv." He said, sliding two gold her way, and another in front of Vahlen in anticipation of Nine-Fingers' arrival. Turning his head away from the large Dwarf, Ragnar pretended not to notice him.
As Hem entered the bar with his companions he surreptitiously hid the Valknut talisman under his shirt. His devoutness was entirely reliant on how useful it was in any given situation, and Hem had a feeling that the people that attended this grimy hole would not be very respectful of the gods.
Though he'd never been here, he'd heard a lot about it. Victims of Rudder bar fights frequently collapsed at the doorstep of Hof Munnin, drunk and bleeding from multiple places. With the mead from before still buzzing in his system and the activities of the evening fresh in his mind, part of him wanted to experience one of these infamous fights. He felt his hands clench into fists as he looked around for some likely candidates, but then a memory flashed through his mind:
Master Amund was sitting in a large wooden chair at the back of a small Hof, clutching the bottom of his long white beard, watching a young Hem spar with his older brother Hagen. Hagen and Hem stood in the center of the Hof, firelight flickering on the walls and the tables that had been pushed to the walls to make a large space in the center. The two brothers dug their heels into the dirt and straw covered floor. Hagen, who was much bigger, stronger, and faster than Hem, swung a large fist directly towards Hem's face. He tried to dodge it, but was too late. Hagen's fist clipped the corner of his jaw, sending him to the floor with a copper taste bursting in his mouth. He tried to rise, but Hagen sent a kick to his chest, keeping him down. Hem screamed with rage and pushed to his feet, seeing nothing but red and rushing directly at his brother. Hagen easily pushed him aside and to the ground again, grabbing his arms and pushing him down.
"Stop!" Master Amund rose from his chair, belly swinging. "Hem, rise." Hem pushed himself off the floor, wiping blood away from his mouth. "You are a smart warrior with a tendency for rage. Using that rage makes you stupid. A truly smart warrior uses their rage as a tool for the battle. Don't let it drive your decisions."
Hem nodded with an exhausted sigh. Hagen opened his arms “little fífl, let’s go again! Or are you too scared? My fists make Odin himself shake in his boots.” Hem laughed, and readied himself for another match.
Hem unclenched his fists. Don't let it drive your decisions. He was sure a fight would come his way soon enough anyways. He walked quietly up to the bar and laid down a copper. "A pint, please!" He cautiously looked around the bar, wise from his last experience, trying to find anyone or anything that might be of suspicion.
Perception check: 9
Although Cerridwen could feel her sense of humor returning to life she still wasn't to the point where she could enjoy the bar scene. After retrieving a pint and nudging the Dawf, giving him a know wink and nod at the bar tenders, she finds a solitary seat in the back corner of the tavern. Eavesdropping and people watching wasn't hard to do in a room of drunks and loose lipped strangers. Cerridwen took a sip of her brew and scanned the crowd.
Perception: 17
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"
Logan Nine-fingers looks up from the beer he was pouring and scowls. "Son of a sow, Vahlen, what's your trouble-making behind doing here?" His bright eyes quickly scan the room. "That faen scumstain Ragnar best not be here with you. If that mongrel so much as looks at one of my daughters again..." He notices Ragnar and his face grows scarlet, rough short fingers digging powerfully into the bar.
Tara, the dwarf's youngest daughter, steps behind the bar and elbows her father, not gently either, in the ribcage. "Father!" She complains. "Play nice would you? Vahlen and Ragnar and good and noble young men, aren't you Vahlen?" Tara flashes you a smile.
Nine-fingers grumbles something unintelligible and certainly expletive-ridden under his breath. He sighs. Despite his gruff demeanor it's easy to see that Nine-fingers adores his daughters, especially Tara, his youngest. Despite his protestations, Nine-fingers slides you two beers, scowling as he does so.
"Drink up, Ragnar, you faen hellspawn." He shouts over the din. He leans in towards Vahlen. "Now, what brings you knuckleheads back in here? I didn't expect to see your grimy faces for at least another month."
For Vahlen:
You don't notice any spider tattoos, or any Svartalf's at all for that matter. You do notice a number of rougher types in the bar, not unusual at this time of night. But none of them seem to wish you any immediate harm.
"Oh! Logan!" Ragnar exclaims as he turns his head back toward the barkeep, who was now passing him a drink. "Good tah see yew too! Oi 'ope you at least spit in 'dis before yah gave it to me. Yew know Oi love a little extra flavah!" Ragnar takes a big swig of the drink before him, shooting a quick wink at the closest daughter behind the bar. "Go on Vahlen, why don' you tell 'ole Noine-Fingahs why we're 'ere."
Vahlen gives the youngest daughter a toothy grin. "We try our damnedest." They in fact did nothing of the sort.
"We're in the market for information, so we decided to call upon the great Nine-Fingers himself." Vahlen pauses, deciding how much to share. "We've had one hell of a night. Got jumped by four greyback thugs in the middle of a crowded inn, the lot of them covered in spiderweb tattoos. They pulled knives and started flinging spells about without even so much as a 'how d'you do.' The leader went on about some caves before we...took care of him. Do the names Algrim or Hecatrix ring any bells? "
Leaning in further, and quieting his voice so that the daughters cannot hear, Vahlen adds: "... And if I must remind you, that last job we took from you had a lot of, erm....surprises." With that, he pulls his cloak to the side and indicates several small ragged puncture holes in the thick fabric. Luckily, these projectiles seemed to have largely missed their intended mark. "You know I don't care for surprises. Ragnar here doesn't care for 'em neither. ...And that paltry sum barely covered our expenses." Turning to his companion, he grumbles, "If I wanted to die penniless in a gutter, I would have stayed in Bÿtarskal."
"...Anyway, in light of all that, we'd greatly appreciate your cooperation. So look, tell us what you know about all this, and as far as I'm concerned, we're even."
Persuasion check: 18
Insight check: 21 (OOC: to see specifically if he is lying or withholding information)
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
As the pint slid down the table into Hem's hands, he decided to retreat from the bar. After tonight's events, he'd prefer to have a wall to his back. Spotting Cerridwen lurking in a shadowy corner, Hem walked over to her, weaving his way through swaying legs and sloshing ale.
After sitting quietly in a wooden chair with it's back to the wall, he took a large gulp of his beer and looked around at the mass of drunkards. "Thor's biceps, half of this rabble look like they crawled up from Helheim itself. Spot anything of interest, druid? I can't make much out through all the vomit and yelling." He looked around the room, trying to spot anything resembling the spider tattoo, or anyone that wore garb similar to that of the svartalfs; it just might be possibly that people of their ilk could do business in a bar like this.
Perception check: 10
Nodding her head in acknowledgement of the Monk Cerridwen takes another sip from her glass; “it’s hard to make out who here is just drunk riff raff and who is a real threat...” she scans the room again looking for anything suspicious
Perception check: 9
Bronwyn M.
Cerridwen Ebbenflow- Human Variant Druid- lvl1 "Scourge of the North"
Azrial- Half Elf Cleric- lvl1 "Horde of the Dragon Queen"
Taking a swill directly from one of the pitchers he requested, placed before him by one of the daughters (whose names he still can't remember), and draining all but the foam at the bottom, Ragnar pipes up, " *belch* 'Das roight, Logan, Oi ain't a big fan o' suproises. 'An we was juss' jumped in plain soight. Now, Oi no 'dat me 'an Vahlen ain't da cheeriest pair, but 'dass a bold move. Even 'fer a sloimy spoida. If yew know anythin' now'd be dah toime tah let us know." Remembering the fine ladies behind the bar, Ragnar's mood shifted, "Not only was we jumped," He steals a glance and a quick wink at one of the women, "but Oi took out three of 'em at once. Shook 'em off loike day was nuffin'. Yew see 'dis scar 'ere?" Ragnar points to his bare chest, completely turning his attention to the daughters, "'Dis scar is frum Jörmungandr hisself, 'an dose greybacks thought they could take Ragnah Longhammah! Pah!" Ragnar continues on, wooing the daughters with battle scars and tales of the Jomsvikings, seemingly forgetting their information gathering for the moment.
(Performace: 7 Deception: 22)
Ragnar, in his boasting, manages to slosh a great deal of ale on his face and down the very scarred chest he was so proudly displaying. The daughters recoil from the spill, clearly unimpressed. Still, Tara sneaks you a smile as she goes about her business. "Oh Ragnar, you're a terrible drunk, but you're brave, and you're strong, which some women find very appealing." She winks and walks off.
Nine-fingers scoffs. "It was only a few kobolds, how was I supposed to know they'd have a troll with them? Faen idiots. Surprises or not, you made it out alive didn't you? We made a deal and I kept my end of the bargain. No way in Helheim I was paying you extra for that. Say one thing for Logan Nine-fingers, say that he's a man of his word." The dwarf drums his nine remaining fingers on the bar. His hands are rough and calloused from years of hard labor. "But since there's a few less Svartalf's in the world thanks to you..." He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. "I fought the faen web-worms in the border wars back in Nidavellir. Cunning, ruthless, and honorless to boot. It's a Cabal that's after you, that's for certain." He snaps his fingers. "Auvryndar! That's the one! Cabal Auvryndar! Cruel bastards too. I don't know what you've done to run afoul of them, but I suggest you watch your backs."
He slides a beer to Roodnar, giving him a curious expression. "My, you're an odd little one aren't you? Still, a cousin is a cousin no matter how strange! All sons and daughters of Nidavellir are welcome in the Rudder! He glares at Ragnar. "Even faen idiots like you."
For Hem and Cerridwen: From your seats at the back of the back you get a good view of its occupants. Mostly male, though with a few hardy women who look like they can hold their own. A mix of humans, dwarves and the occasional light elf. No patrons look to intend you immediate harm, but the night is growing late and the patrons growing increasing inebriated. The Rudder has a reputation for violence and seedy behavior. You get the distinct impression that staying alert was a wise choice.
For Vahlen:
Your words hold little sway over the gruff dwarf, and he doesn't budge an inch. Yet, you've gotten to know him well enough that you sense only honesty in his words. He may not like you, but he's being upfront.
Roondar catches the beer, recoiling as it sloshes from the violent push the barman gave it. "My thanks, cousin. I have taken a liking to your brazen 'faen idiots' here and plan to aid them in any way I can. If I may ask, whereabouts should we begin looking for this Cabal? I assume they must have a post or branch nearby if they're so familiar... I'd rather not travel all the way to Svartalfheim tonight! I also wonder, is there any word on any activity of the Jarl and the Gulleska clan on tackling this? Surely we can't be the only folks in town who've been attacked by these knaves... And for your information this evening, I will gladly grace you with a song! I see no stage, but it looks as though this bar has seen feet before, so if you wouldn't mind I would love to regale you, your patrons, and your daughters before we leave!" With that Roondar drains his drink, grimacing at the stench and slightly skunky flavor, and eagerly waits for Logan to respond.
OOC: My plan is to hold an action until we have the info we want and then begin a performance. I'd like to try and direct most of the room's attention to me on the bar to occupy the crowd so we can either have a private conversation with Logan about the cabal or distract the drunken fools long enough for us to leave unscathed. Depending on party wishes.
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Taking a large gulp directly from his pitcher, Vahlen's eyes widen slightly upon receiving the news. He elbows his companion to get his attention and interrupt the drunken boasting. "A cabal is after us, eh? I suppose we should be flattered. Certainly a cut above the usual lot that want us dead." He still had absolutely no idea as to why, but he didn't intend to share that bit with Nine-Fingers. Turning back to Logan, he smiles, trying to play the dwarf's hatred to his advantage. "You should have seen the way we had their leader groveling and begging for mercy. Had him pissing his breeches in front of the whole inn. I was going to have a bit of fun with him but Ragnar here kicked him so hard, he put his nose into his brain." Vahlen tried to look disappointed. "Nothing would bring me more pleasure than putting the lot of those swamp crawling bastards in the ground, and I intend to make them suffer first. Like the skald here says, we aim to take the fight to them. From what we know so far, it sounds like they might be holed up in a cave system. No idea where though."
"Look, help us figure out what stinking pit they call their home, and either we kill a bunch of the filthy scums, or we die in the process. Maybe both?" Vahlen chuckles. "Either way it's a win for you, right?"
Persuasion Check: 4
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
Nine-fingers scowls thoughtfully. "Auvryndar has been moving its Svartalf's into Driftsgaard for years. Ever since the Border Wars starting going south for them. But a web-sucker is a web-sucker through and through, so they mostly keep to themselves. I won't allow those snakes in the Rudder at all!" He scowls again. "There's been rumors they have a base of some kind in the Shallows though. Faen lowlifes don't even bother with a front business, just selling poisons and myrr smokes (a powerful narcotic) as openly as you please. The city watch leaves 'em alone as long as they stay here with the rest of us undesirables." He spits.
Nine-fingers gives Roodnar a look, clearly understanding your intentions. "Well, strange cousin, if its a stage you need the Rudder might be lacking, but don't say I never did anything for you." He waves and shouts something to his daughters, who deftly clear a swathe through the gathered drunks. The other two daughters heave out a set of tall wooden tables, worn gray and splintered by time and use. They set the tables next to each other at the back of the room, forming a makeshift stage.
Nine-fingers nods his head in an exaggerated farce of a bow. "Your stage, small cousin."
Skipping gleefully over to the makeshift stage of tables, Roondar dodges long legs and drunken hips before hopping atop the tables and clearing his throat loudly. He whips out is viol and begins stomping his foot quickly, attempting to catch some ears with the snappy melody. He fiddles for a short time, creating an introduction to the song, and begins the verses in earnest, singing along with his playing. Seeing that the patrons are mostly drunken riff-raff from the town he decides a jaunty, perhaps raucous, tune may be in order to hold their attention!
"One more drink at the Sunk'n Norwegian
One more drink before we have to die
One more drink at the Sunk'n Norwegian
Raise up your tankards of ale to the sky
One more drink, at the Sunk'n Norwegian
One more drink, before we have to die
One more drink, at the Sunk'n Norwegian
Raise up your tankards of ale to the sky
Scoundrels and brigands and ne'er-do-wells
And creatures dragged up from the black pits of hel
You'll find the relief in a tankard of ale
So the Sunk'n Norwegian is where we will sail!"
The Sunk'n Norwegian - Alestorm
Performance roll: 5
DM "Journey Unto Chaos!"
DM "Hoard of the Dragon Queen"
Roondar Stumbleduck Ningel - Gnome Bard lv 1 "Scourge of the North"
Hem winced as the gnome scrambled onto the tables and began to play. The tune was slightly off key, nowhere near the level of prowess Roondar possessed in the Blind-Goat. "The events of tonight must be getting to our gnome friend. This tune leaves something to be desired..." he trailed off, speaking to no one in particular. Judging by the drunken nature of the crowd, none of them seemed to care at first glance. They screamed and sloshed their ale just the same.
He called for another ale and slammed it back, grimacing at the taste of bitter dishwater and getting up from his seat. He turned to Cerridwen. "I'm going to go see what our friends are speaking to this Nine-Fingers about. They've been talking over there for awhile, and this whole situation smells of trouble. I want to make sure it's the fun kind of trouble, and not the kind that has us jumped by a group of assassins."
He then slowly walked over to the bar, having to steady himself from the ale and the swaying waves of drunks. Once there, he hopped up onto a stool next to Vahlen. "So, what kind of trouble are we getting into next? Find anything interesting from our gracious host? Ah, no thank you miss. They may call us stout but my tiny halfling heart can only handle so much of this establishment's...fine ale."
A strained warble not unlike a drowning rooster emerges from Roondar’s throat. Clearly not the odd dwarf’s finest performance, but it had the intended effect. Conversations died and went silent as stunned bar patrons couldn’t help but gaze in fascination at quite possibly the worst performance the Muddy Rudder had ever see .
Logan shuddered at the sounds that could only charitably be called music. “Remind me never to hire that one.” Logan grumbles. He leans in close across the bar. “Listen up chumps, I won’t advise going toe-to-toe with the spider bites, but you look like a right stubborn bunch of fools. Their base is here in the Shallows, a mile or so west. A big gray warehouse with an image of Sleipnir on the side. Bet they thought that was cute.”
he takes a deep drink from a nearby tankard. “You’re on your own here. I’ll not get mixed up in it, and the Watch couldn’t care less about what happens in the Shallows. For what it’s worth, have another drink and come back alive if ye can.”
Vahlen drains the last of his pitcher, feeling the warmth slowly spreading to his limbs and face. "Right. Warehouse full of scum suckers. Horse with too many legs. Got it." Vahlen nods his head in thanks. "I don't care what they say about you, you're alright Logan." With that he turns to Ragnar and Hem and motions the other members of the group over, stifling a yawn. "I don't know about you lot, but I could use some shut-eye. We can scout the warehouse out tomorrow. Let's get out of here."
Vahlen Rimewind - Elf Ranger LVL 1 - Scourge of the North
Jesse M.
The sounds coming from the Skald were less than savory, even for Ragnar's uncultured ears. Oi guess that's one way tah do it.
Looking back to Vahlen with surprise after catching some of what Logan was saying, between the awful noises, 2 empty pitchers of ale, and distracting barmaids. "Shut oi?! Vahlen, it's dahk out now. Oi say we go tonoight 'an scope it out. Git a sense of wut we're dealin' with before they got toime tah realoize a few of 'em ain't comin' back...."
Anothah pitchah 'ere, luv, eets a cold noight." With one meaty hand gripping the fresh pitcher, and another sliding some gold to the barmaids, Ragnar looks to his companions in hopes of a late night venture to catch some murderers.