Meanwhile, of the contents of the table: a veritable feast for the senses, laden with a sumptuous spread that speaks to both the wealth and hospitality of House Daggerford. At its center, a roasted boar glistens under the soft glow of candlelight, its skin crackling and golden, surrounded by an array of seasonal vegetables glazed with honey and herbs. Platters of fresh-baked bread, still warm from the ovens, sit alongside bowls of creamy butter and spiced fruit preserves. A tureen of rich, steaming venison stew offers a hearty option, its aroma mingling with the delicate scents of roasted pheasant and a platter of smoked trout garnished with lemon and dill. Bowls of vibrant salads, sprinkled with nuts and dried berries, provide a lighter fare, while a selection of cheeses and cured meats invites guests to build their own indulgent plates. For dessert, trays of honey cakes, sugared figs, and a towering trifle of layered custard, cream, and berries promise a sweet conclusion to the meal. Crystal decanters of wine, mead, and spiced cider gleam at intervals along the table, ensuring no goblet remains empty.
Drawing on his memories of etiquette from when he had been 'in' with the young nobility Geren enters and sketches a quick bow.
"A pleasure to meet you all. I am Geren Damkrach. I'd like to add a title there but unfortunately I currently lack one."
Hopefully if they know his name it's in connection to his mother the fencing instructor instead of the smear campaign Amrik Vanthampur came up with. Or the fallout of the Vanthampur's ties to Hell cast doubt on the legitimacy of their claims.
Taking a seat along with the others Geren's mouth waters at the feast on the table. He holds off on indulging to instead try to do as Morwen instructed.
"I'm unsure if you've all been informed of our current mission. There has been some disturbing activities in the marshland and we're being sent to investigate it. Unfortunately there are no maps of the area and the lizardfolk living there are determined to keep any intruders out. Or eat them. Our hope was we could find a guide who knew the local terrain but unfortunately there's only one person who fits that description and they're currently unable to fulfill that role."
He pauses there a moment before continuing.
"Fortunately you have the means to aid us in this at no cost to yourselves."
He leaves it there for them to respond. Rather than outright ask he'll let them guess. If they don't guess correctly he can spring it on them and this way they might offer more than they otherwise would. Plus them having to wait to answer before eating might make them agree more quickly so they can get to the meal.
Drawing on his memories of etiquette from when he had been 'in' with the young nobility Geren enters and sketches a quick bow.
"A pleasure to meet you all. I am Geren Damkrach. I'd like to add a title there but unfortunately I currently lack one."
Hopefully if they know his name it's in connection to his mother the fencing instructor instead of the smear campaign Amrik Vanthampur came up with. Or the fallout of the Vanthampur's ties to Hell cast doubt on the legitimacy of their claims.
Taking a seat along with the others Geren's mouth waters at the feast on the table. He holds off on indulging to instead try to do as Morwen instructed.
"I'm unsure if you've all been informed of our current mission. There has been some disturbing activities in the marshland and we're being sent to investigate it. Unfortunately there are no maps of the area and the lizardfolk living there are determined to keep any intruders out. Or eat them. Our hope was we could find a guide who knew the local terrain but unfortunately there's only one person who fits that description and they're currently unable to fulfill that role."
He pauses there a moment before continuing.
"Fortunately you have the means to aid us in this at no cost to yourselves."
He leaves it there for them to respond. Rather than outright ask he'll let them guess. If they don't guess correctly he can spring it on them and this way they might offer more than they otherwise would. Plus them having to wait to answer before eating might make them agree more quickly so they can get to the meal.
Before Geren is able to say the last part, his first statement seems to retrigger a conversation that had been in progress as the group had come into the room. Geren is about to point out they have the means to aid them when Kelson Darktreader stands, pushing his seat back a bit to place emphasis on his words, and to make sure that all at the table can hear him. “Indeed then. More reason I must finish my report - the signs are unmistakable,” he says, his words directed at Morwen but are clear for all to hear. “Tracks near the marsh, larger than any lizardfolk we’ve seen in years. Ritual sites, abandoned but recent, with symbols matching those we’ve attributed to Redeye’s followers. And there are whispers—travelers who swear they’ve seen his banner, the red, slitted eye, raised in the deep marshes. Last but not least, several of my own animal messengers have returned with reports of having seen a large, red skinned lizard in the adornments of a shaman, commanding upwards to a dozen other elder shamans, and an equal number of younger shamans. By my count, that many shaman must mean, as far as warriors and others go…”
“At least 60 warriors, and 180 tribals,” Sir Isteval finishes for him. A ripple of unease spreads among the guests. Sir Isteval, his silver armor glinting faintly, frowns deeply. “Whether or not Redeye has truly returned, those kinds of numbers could mean war—not just for Daggerford, but for the entire region, before long, at the rate they can expand.”
Darfin Floshin, the elder high elf, strokes his chin thoughtfully. “This Redeye is said to be immortal, is he not? A lich of some kind? If he’s back after having been defeated, again, it only confirms the case that a phylactery is involved. If so, the danger he poses is far greater than mere warbands.”
Reyna’s eyes widen, a gasp escaping her lips, but caught in time to curtail such that only the group could hear it. Something is clearly brewing in her mind, her expression is rapidly calculating. She looks at each of you, starting with Geren, managing the message “Phylactery jar!.”
“Immortal or not,” Cyndil Hawkwinter interjects as Reyna is messaging the group, her tone sharp, “we need to know his intentions. Maybe he does not intend to invade. Did he not make an offer of trade that you refused out of hand, dear Morwen?.”
Reyna Nydlar coughs once, adjusts her breast plate slightly and stands. “This is precisely why my employer has tasked the adventurers with investigating the Lizard Marsh. The ruins they seek may hold secrets of strategic importance, and their presence there could provide us with invaluable intelligence on Redeye’s movements.”
Morwen’s gaze shifts to Reyna, her voice cool. “And yet you brought a pirate—a murderer and thief—to my lands, Reyna, and instead of bringing him directly to my men, you tried to hide him so that you could use him for your Patriar’s mission without regard for justice, or the harm he’s caused.” Sir Lellwyn and Cyndil Hawkwinter glare at Reyna in response, scowling. They seem to have a personal vendetta against Feydon, especially Cyndil. The Floshins, on the other hand show interest, but much less obvious emotion. Jekk Ironfist begins to snore.
Reyna meets her gaze evenly, barely concealing a smile. Morwen took the bait, hook, line and sinker. She sits, feigning mock shame, but shoots an askance glance to Geren.
Bree uses subtle spell to cast guidance and taps Garen on the foot under the table. ( OOC Just noticed I must have accidently checked empowered spell instead of subtle spell for my metamagic. Can I retroactivly change that option on my charachter sheet? I had meant to have distant spell and subtle spell and thought that was what I chose)
Bree uses subtle spell to cast guidance and taps Garen on the foot under the table. ( OOC Just noticed I must have accidently checked empowered spell instead of subtle spell for my metamagic. Can I retroactivly change that option on my charachter sheet? I had meant to have distant spell and subtle spell and thought that was what I chose)
Yeah that's fine - you clearly stated your intent ahead of time.
Reyna Nydlar coughs once, adjusts her breast plate slightly and stands. “This is precisely why my employer has tasked the adventurers with investigating the Lizard Marsh. The ruins they seek may hold secrets of strategic importance, and their presence there could provide us with invaluable intelligence on Redeye’s movements.”
Morwen’s gaze shifts to Reyna, her voice cool. “And yet you brought a pirate—a murderer and thief—to my lands, Reyna, and instead of bringing him directly to my men, you tried to hide him so that you could use him for your Patriar’s mission without regard for justice, or the harm he’s caused.” Sir Lellwyn and Cyndil Hawkwinter glare at Reyna in response, scowling. They seem to have a personal vendetta against Feydon, especially Cyndil. The Floshins, on the other hand show interest, but much less obvious emotion. Jekk Ironfist begins to snore.
Reyna meets her gaze evenly, barely concealing a smile. Morwen took the bait, hook, line and sinker. She sits, feigning mock shame, but shoots an askance glance to Geren.
Geren smoothly interjects.
"Feydon's crimes are numerous. But executing him now would be a waste. Kill two birds with one stone, send him with us as our guide. Worst case scenario he ends up in a lizardfolk's stewpot or at the bottom of a bog. Best case we're able to complete our mission and his sentencing is delayed. With the help of your Wizard a Geas spell could keep him under control and in the unlikely event our mission takes longer than a month we can return with him to have the spell cast again. Either way you win."
Persuasion: I think I have advantage here? If not another character can pitch in to give Geren advantage. 14
Depending on how you phrase it (recall Reyna's wide-eyed remark), you may get advantage to your persuasion roll - so roll twice and give your first score in case you didn't, and then the best of two in case you did.
Reyna Nydlar coughs once, adjusts her breast plate slightly and stands. “This is precisely why my employer has tasked the adventurers with investigating the Lizard Marsh. The ruins they seek may hold secrets of strategic importance, and their presence there could provide us with invaluable intelligence on Redeye’s movements.”
Morwen’s gaze shifts to Reyna, her voice cool. “And yet you brought a pirate—a murderer and thief—to my lands, Reyna, and instead of bringing him directly to my men, you tried to hide him so that you could use him for your Patriar’s mission without regard for justice, or the harm he’s caused.” Sir Lellwyn and Cyndil Hawkwinter glare at Reyna in response, scowling. They seem to have a personal vendetta against Feydon, especially Cyndil. The Floshins, on the other hand show interest, but much less obvious emotion. Jekk Ironfist begins to snore.
Reyna meets her gaze evenly, barely concealing a smile. Morwen took the bait, hook, line and sinker. She sits, feigning mock shame, but shoots an askance glance to Geren.
Geren smoothly interjects.
"Feydon's crimes are numerous. But executing him now would be a waste. Kill two birds with one stone, send him with us as our guide. Worst case scenario he ends up in a lizardfolk's stewpot or at the bottom of a bog. Best case we're able to complete our mission and his sentencing is delayed. With the help of your Wizard a Geas spell could keep him under control and in the unlikely event our mission takes longer than a month we can return with him to have the spell cast again. Either way you win."
Persuasion: I think I have advantage here? If not another character can pitch in to give Geren advantage. 27
Reyna Nydlar coughs once, adjusts her breast plate slightly and stands. “This is precisely why my employer has tasked the adventurers with investigating the Lizard Marsh. The ruins they seek may hold secrets of strategic importance, and their presence there could provide us with invaluable intelligence on Redeye’s movements.”
Morwen’s gaze shifts to Reyna, her voice cool. “And yet you brought a pirate—a murderer and thief—to my lands, Reyna, and instead of bringing him directly to my men, you tried to hide him so that you could use him for your Patriar’s mission without regard for justice, or the harm he’s caused.” Sir Lellwyn and Cyndil Hawkwinter glare at Reyna in response, scowling. They seem to have a personal vendetta against Feydon, especially Cyndil. The Floshins, on the other hand show interest, but much less obvious emotion. Jekk Ironfist begins to snore.
Reyna meets her gaze evenly, barely concealing a smile. Morwen took the bait, hook, line and sinker. She sits, feigning mock shame, but shoots an askance glance to Geren.
Geren smoothly interjects.
"Feydon's crimes are numerous. But executing him now would be a waste. Kill two birds with one stone, send him with us as our guide. Worst case scenario he ends up in a lizardfolk's stewpot or at the bottom of a bog. Best case we're able to complete our mission and his sentencing is delayed. With the help of your Wizard a Geas spell could keep him under control and in the unlikely event our mission takes longer than a month we can return with him to have the spell cast again. Either way you win."
Persuasion: I think I have advantage here? If not another character can pitch in to give Geren advantage. 27
Add Guidance to result: 2
Bree adds "It is as Geren says. He could be of some use for once in his life. We could really use the help. As a guide myself, I can attest to the help a knowledgeable guide can be. And you can rest assured he would find no sympathy with us."
(Okay - because you teamed up I'll allow the advantage; you missed the phrasing way to get it without teamwork, but it doesn't matter, you blew it out of the water - that said, there are two people in the room that never can be convinced, just out voted, and Morwen needs to at least humor with regard to hesitation - plus there's still the matter of:)
Morwen is quiet for the moment.
Sir Llewellyn Longhand, his massive frame taking up more than his share of space at the table, grunts his obvious disapproval. “And what’s to stop him from betraying us the moment he’s free?”
Cyndal Hawkwinter shakes her head. "You can't be seriously considering this... nonsense!? He'll escape... AGAIN!" she nearly screams.
Reyna exchanges looks with the group as if asking "shall I, or do you want to?" Surprisingly, before anyone else can speak, Delfen clears his throat.
“That is where magic comes in,” Delfen “Yellowknife” Ondabarl suggests, his voice gravelly but measured. “A geas spell could bind him to the party’s will, ensuring his cooperation and preventing harm to Daggerford’s interests.”
Darfin nods slowly. “A reasonable safeguard. Feydon may have his uses, but only if we can guarantee he will not betray us.”
Morwen’s lips press into a thin line as she considers this. “And if the geas fails? Or if he twists his knowledge to his advantage?”
Kelson steps forward, his tone earnest. “My lady, Feydon’s knowledge could give the adventurers an edge, both in navigating the Marsh and in understanding Redeye’s forces. We need this information, and we need it quickly. If the adventurers are willing to shoulder the risk, it might be worth considering.”
The adventurers, seated at the far end of the table, exchange glances. The weight of the decision hangs in the air, and it is clear that their voices have tipped the balance. All that is needed now is a little more of a push.
“Feydon the Cold is a scoundrel, I admit, and perhaps my judgment was poor to leave you out of the loop, but he not only knows the Marsh better than any living soul - he has one other crucial piece of knowledge that can solve Daggerford’s problems, and my employer’s, at the same time,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I have reason to believe Feydon the Cold has seen where Redeye keeps his phylactery jar.”
At this, even Cyndil and Llewyn can think of no counter. Cyndil merely scoffs in dibelief, Sir Llewyn slowlys nods, and sits. "Even if he was lying, is it not worth the chance?"
“I’ve heard enough,” Morwen says at last. “I’ll not decide until I see this geas in action. I won’t be satisfied until it is demonstrably in effect.”
Reyna scoffs. “But, your grace, that will mean…”
“Hey may die, your grace,” Delfen finishes for her. “If not, he will at the least suffer an agony so terrible as to be indescribable.”
“Good,” Cyndil spits.
Morwen frowns. “I don’t care. He’s caused as much agony in those he has targeted and the families of those he has slain. Have him brought here while we determine the wording of the ritual.”
Several minutes go by while Delfen and Darfin discuss and strategize the best way to phrase it so that no harm can come to the group either by passive or active action, nor to Daggerford's interests, or its residents, and so that he cannot take advantage of his lack of restraints to remove himself from the group's custody. They ultimately decide to co-cast the spell, layering it upon him using a technique similar to the elven mythals of old, a skill not forgotten even today. The geas will not only last until the two of them both decide it so, it will allow for a greater complexity of restraints and commands.
Before long, a group of four guards enter from the opposite side of the room the group had entered, in their middle is once again the same shackled man as seen before, only now with numerous additional injuries. His eyes have begun to swell, one so much that it completely obscures his sight from it. Dried blood is caked across his mouth and lower jaw, and there even seems to be some coming from his ears. His feet are unbound now, but he moves no quicker than before, now because he is clearly exhausted, and has sustained an injury to one of his legs, forcing him to drag it behind him as if it were dead, making small hops with his good leg to move forward. Despite his condition, he maintains the same air of defiance and contempt as before, the fires in his spirit undimmed.
The elves in the mix gasp at his condition, horrified. Sir Isteval looks outraged. Even Sir Llewyn seems upset. The only guest that appears to be pleased by his deterioration is Cyndil.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sir Isteval demands. Morwen nods, echoing the sentiment toward the guards.
The guard captain, a sheepish look on his face, steps forward. “Eh,” he begins, his voice shaky. “He, um, well he tried to escape, your grace,” he explains. The statement sounded so much like a question that the deception wouldn’t have fooled a child.
Cyndil sighs. “Can we just move this along? He was to be executed anyway, let's not get overly sentimental about this ‘poor, poor’ man’s health,” she blurts.
Using the wording agreed on by the two most adept magicians at the table, and over the course of about a minute, the ritual is performed. It takes all of Feydon’s strength to remain standing during this time, let alone pay attention to what’s happening. He can clearly hear what is being said, however, as once the spell has finished there’s a sudden unnatural jerk made by his body.
“Tis done, your grace,” Delfen states at last.
Morwen nods. Then she sighs. “The proof?”
Delfen blinks. But seeing Morwen’s resolve in the matter, nods. He approaches the pirate, and withdraws small potion from a pouch. “Drink this, son. You’ll be glad you did.” Feydon cocks his head to consider the old mage with his good eye, then looks at the potion. Shrugging, he grabs it with his shackled hands and lifts it to his mouth, downing it in a single gulp. In trying to hand the bottle back, it slips from his grasp and shatters on the ground. He looks at the glass, then at the mage. Then he just sort of shrugs slightly as if to say, ‘oops’.
“Not to worry, not to worry,” Delfen says. “Sir Llewyn, might I see your sidearm?”
The knight blinks. “My what?”
Delfen sighs. “Your sword, Llewyn. The thing you use after all your lances have broken - ergo, your sidearm.”
The knight blinks again. “My- oh, yes, of course.” He draws the beautifully crafted rapier, gemstones glittering in its hilt. Handle first, he hands it to the mage. The mage bows slightly in thanks. Then he places it on the table right in front of Feydon. “The key?” he looks to the guard captain. The captain looks to Morwen, who nods, then he produces the same key that Reyna had given up earlier in the Tavern. Without concern or hesitation, he unshackles the pirate. Morwen’s husband begins to protest, being even closer to the potential danger than Morwen, but in truth, once picked up, there’d be nothing to stop Feydon from striking them both so fast that no one in the room would be able to stop him.
Morwen looks to Delfen. “I’m trusting you in this.”
Delfen nods. “I assure you, you are in no danger.”
She sighs. “Very well.” Exchanging seats with her husband, making herself even more vulnerable, Morwen leans over to the man and begins to insult him. “Such a weak, pathetic soul you must bear. That you need to take from others. That you don’t have wits enough to produce wealth of your own. That you put countless lives in danger. How did it feel when your own men betrayed you, hmm? Do you know who it was that raised your bounty this last time, tripling it from what it had been? Take a guess. It was me. And now you’re going to hang. How does that feel, little man? How does it feel that you will never amount to-”
As she speaks, Feydon begins to shake more and more visibly. The air of contempt grows into an unbridled rage. You can almost feel the heat of hellfire in waves coming from his eyes. Never before have any of you seen such fury. Before she can finish her last sentence, he suddenly grabs the rapier and makes a wild battle cry, saliva dripping from his mouth.
Just as he begins to make his attack his battle cry instantly transforms into a scream of anguish the likes of which none of you has ever heard. It seems to emanate from his very pores, his soul even, and it feels as though it is shaking the foundation of the castle itself. He drops the sword, clutching his head with his unshackled hands and continues to scream, collapsing to the ground and writhing in agony. His back arches so taught it looks like it might snap in half, and even after all the air from his lungs has been expelled from his ceaseless cry, his contorted expression still does not abate for what seems to be as long as it took to cast the spell. Finally, his expression eases slightly and he is able to draw in his first shaky breath since the pain began, only to begin screaming again, just slightly less loud. The process repeats until it has subsided into whimpers. He remains on the floor, clutching his head, and rocking back and forth, whimpering, every last vestige of his defiance and his contempt is gone. The person on the floor now bears almost no resemblance to the man that had entered the room. Feydon the Cold is entirely broken - there can be no doubt, no one is that good of an actor.
“Satisfied?” Delfen asks, looking to Morwen.
Morwen’s face is pale. She looks at the mage, and gives a slight nod, before collapsing back into her seat, unable to conceal her shame.
Sir Isteval shed a single tear as he watched the display; he now resumes facing forward again, but is unable to speak. The elves are likewise speechless, Floshin’s daughter turns and leaves the table. Darfin seems about to protest, but then stops, letting her go. Even Cyndil is quiet, though shows no signs of shame.
Reyna collapses in her seat, likewise unable to conceal her own shame. “What have I done?” she mumbles. It was, afterall, her idea.
“Is he…” Sir Llewyn begins to ask.
“Dead?” Delfen finishes for him. “Hard to say. He may recover fully. He may never be the same again. He may be a drooling vegetable. If he hadn’t drunk off the potion I had given him, which will wear off in about an hour, he almost certainly would have died - the effect would have been doubled.”
“Double…? Double that?” Cyndil balks. It seems even she has a limit for how much agony she wants to see Feydon endure.
Delfen simply nods. “Indeed. Though not to worry, he won’t be tempted to try anything again. If he recovers.”
“If he recovers??” Reyna nearly shouts.
Morwen raises her hand, cutting her off. Turning to the guards, she commands, “Fetch the healers, and quickly now.”
“I may be of some assistance in this,” Kelson offers. Morwen nods for him to go ahead. He approaches the man, still writhing on the ground quietly whimpering.
Bree looks at the broken man shaking her head. "I can help some, though my one healing spell would likely be insufficient." she offers
Reyna nods, as if to say, please, the same pleading expression she gave to Dawn now given to you. Kelson casts his own spell, Sir Isteval snaps out of his shock enough to lay on hands, and still he writhes.
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Eltra wobbles over to a chair and sits. When he hears eveyone introducing themselves he blurts out “Eltra Wibblerobble”
"Welcome and well met," Morwen says. She then looks to Geren and Hnefa.
Meanwhile, of the contents of the table: a veritable feast for the senses, laden with a sumptuous spread that speaks to both the wealth and hospitality of House Daggerford. At its center, a roasted boar glistens under the soft glow of candlelight, its skin crackling and golden, surrounded by an array of seasonal vegetables glazed with honey and herbs. Platters of fresh-baked bread, still warm from the ovens, sit alongside bowls of creamy butter and spiced fruit preserves. A tureen of rich, steaming venison stew offers a hearty option, its aroma mingling with the delicate scents of roasted pheasant and a platter of smoked trout garnished with lemon and dill. Bowls of vibrant salads, sprinkled with nuts and dried berries, provide a lighter fare, while a selection of cheeses and cured meats invites guests to build their own indulgent plates. For dessert, trays of honey cakes, sugared figs, and a towering trifle of layered custard, cream, and berries promise a sweet conclusion to the meal. Crystal decanters of wine, mead, and spiced cider gleam at intervals along the table, ensuring no goblet remains empty.
Drawing on his memories of etiquette from when he had been 'in' with the young nobility Geren enters and sketches a quick bow.
"A pleasure to meet you all. I am Geren Damkrach. I'd like to add a title there but unfortunately I currently lack one."
Hopefully if they know his name it's in connection to his mother the fencing instructor instead of the smear campaign Amrik Vanthampur came up with. Or the fallout of the Vanthampur's ties to Hell cast doubt on the legitimacy of their claims.
Taking a seat along with the others Geren's mouth waters at the feast on the table. He holds off on indulging to instead try to do as Morwen instructed.
"I'm unsure if you've all been informed of our current mission. There has been some disturbing activities in the marshland and we're being sent to investigate it. Unfortunately there are no maps of the area and the lizardfolk living there are determined to keep any intruders out. Or eat them. Our hope was we could find a guide who knew the local terrain but unfortunately there's only one person who fits that description and they're currently unable to fulfill that role."
He pauses there a moment before continuing.
"Fortunately you have the means to aid us in this at no cost to yourselves."
He leaves it there for them to respond. Rather than outright ask he'll let them guess. If they don't guess correctly he can spring it on them and this way they might offer more than they otherwise would. Plus them having to wait to answer before eating might make them agree more quickly so they can get to the meal.
Before Geren is able to say the last part, his first statement seems to retrigger a conversation that had been in progress as the group had come into the room. Geren is about to point out they have the means to aid them when Kelson Darktreader stands, pushing his seat back a bit to place emphasis on his words, and to make sure that all at the table can hear him. “Indeed then. More reason I must finish my report - the signs are unmistakable,” he says, his words directed at Morwen but are clear for all to hear. “Tracks near the marsh, larger than any lizardfolk we’ve seen in years. Ritual sites, abandoned but recent, with symbols matching those we’ve attributed to Redeye’s followers. And there are whispers—travelers who swear they’ve seen his banner, the red, slitted eye, raised in the deep marshes. Last but not least, several of my own animal messengers have returned with reports of having seen a large, red skinned lizard in the adornments of a shaman, commanding upwards to a dozen other elder shamans, and an equal number of younger shamans. By my count, that many shaman must mean, as far as warriors and others go…”
“At least 60 warriors, and 180 tribals,” Sir Isteval finishes for him. A ripple of unease spreads among the guests. Sir Isteval, his silver armor glinting faintly, frowns deeply. “Whether or not Redeye has truly returned, those kinds of numbers could mean war—not just for Daggerford, but for the entire region, before long, at the rate they can expand.”
Darfin Floshin, the elder high elf, strokes his chin thoughtfully. “This Redeye is said to be immortal, is he not? A lich of some kind? If he’s back after having been defeated, again, it only confirms the case that a phylactery is involved. If so, the danger he poses is far greater than mere warbands.”
Reyna’s eyes widen, a gasp escaping her lips, but caught in time to curtail such that only the group could hear it. Something is clearly brewing in her mind, her expression is rapidly calculating. She looks at each of you, starting with Geren, managing the message “Phylactery jar!.”
“Immortal or not,” Cyndil Hawkwinter interjects as Reyna is messaging the group, her tone sharp, “we need to know his intentions. Maybe he does not intend to invade. Did he not make an offer of trade that you refused out of hand, dear Morwen?.”
"I'll set it up for you," Reyna's voice is heard in Geren's mind.
Reyna Nydlar coughs once, adjusts her breast plate slightly and stands. “This is precisely why my employer has tasked the adventurers with investigating the Lizard Marsh. The ruins they seek may hold secrets of strategic importance, and their presence there could provide us with invaluable intelligence on Redeye’s movements.”
Morwen’s gaze shifts to Reyna, her voice cool. “And yet you brought a pirate—a murderer and thief—to my lands, Reyna, and instead of bringing him directly to my men, you tried to hide him so that you could use him for your Patriar’s mission without regard for justice, or the harm he’s caused.” Sir Lellwyn and Cyndil Hawkwinter glare at Reyna in response, scowling. They seem to have a personal vendetta against Feydon, especially Cyndil. The Floshins, on the other hand show interest, but much less obvious emotion. Jekk Ironfist begins to snore.
Reyna meets her gaze evenly, barely concealing a smile. Morwen took the bait, hook, line and sinker. She sits, feigning mock shame, but shoots an askance glance to Geren.
(I forgot Hnefa's intro - we'll just assume she introduced herself right before Geren, basically the same way she did to the group at the Tavern)
Bree uses subtle spell to cast guidance and taps Garen on the foot under the table. ( OOC Just noticed I must have accidently checked empowered spell instead of subtle spell for my metamagic. Can I retroactivly change that option on my charachter sheet? I had meant to have distant spell and subtle spell and thought that was what I chose)
Yeah that's fine - you clearly stated your intent ahead of time.
Geren smoothly interjects.
"Feydon's crimes are numerous. But executing him now would be a waste. Kill two birds with one stone, send him with us as our guide. Worst case scenario he ends up in a lizardfolk's stewpot or at the bottom of a bog. Best case we're able to complete our mission and his sentencing is delayed. With the help of your Wizard a Geas spell could keep him under control and in the unlikely event our mission takes longer than a month we can return with him to have the spell cast again. Either way you win."
Persuasion: I think I have advantage here? If not another character can pitch in to give Geren advantage. 14
Add Guidance to result: 2
Depending on how you phrase it (recall Reyna's wide-eyed remark), you may get advantage to your persuasion roll - so roll twice and give your first score in case you didn't, and then the best of two in case you did.
Bree adds "It is as Geren says. He could be of some use for once in his life. We could really use the help. As a guide myself, I can attest to the help a knowledgeable guide can be. And you can rest assured he would find no sympathy with us."
(Okay - because you teamed up I'll allow the advantage; you missed the phrasing way to get it without teamwork, but it doesn't matter, you blew it out of the water - that said, there are two people in the room that never can be convinced, just out voted, and Morwen needs to at least humor with regard to hesitation - plus there's still the matter of:)
Morwen is quiet for the moment.
Sir Llewellyn Longhand, his massive frame taking up more than his share of space at the table, grunts his obvious disapproval. “And what’s to stop him from betraying us the moment he’s free?”
Cyndal Hawkwinter shakes her head. "You can't be seriously considering this... nonsense!? He'll escape... AGAIN!" she nearly screams.
Reyna exchanges looks with the group as if asking "shall I, or do you want to?" Surprisingly, before anyone else can speak, Delfen clears his throat.
“That is where magic comes in,” Delfen “Yellowknife” Ondabarl suggests, his voice gravelly but measured. “A geas spell could bind him to the party’s will, ensuring his cooperation and preventing harm to Daggerford’s interests.”
Darfin nods slowly. “A reasonable safeguard. Feydon may have his uses, but only if we can guarantee he will not betray us.”
Morwen’s lips press into a thin line as she considers this. “And if the geas fails? Or if he twists his knowledge to his advantage?”
Kelson steps forward, his tone earnest. “My lady, Feydon’s knowledge could give the adventurers an edge, both in navigating the Marsh and in understanding Redeye’s forces. We need this information, and we need it quickly. If the adventurers are willing to shoulder the risk, it might be worth considering.”
The adventurers, seated at the far end of the table, exchange glances. The weight of the decision hangs in the air, and it is clear that their voices have tipped the balance. All that is needed now is a little more of a push.
Reyna clears her throat and stands.
“Feydon the Cold is a scoundrel, I admit, and perhaps my judgment was poor to leave you out of the loop, but he not only knows the Marsh better than any living soul - he has one other crucial piece of knowledge that can solve Daggerford’s problems, and my employer’s, at the same time,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I have reason to believe Feydon the Cold has seen where Redeye keeps his phylactery jar.”
At this, even Cyndil and Llewyn can think of no counter. Cyndil merely scoffs in dibelief, Sir Llewyn slowlys nods, and sits. "Even if he was lying, is it not worth the chance?"
“I’ve heard enough,” Morwen says at last. “I’ll not decide until I see this geas in action. I won’t be satisfied until it is demonstrably in effect.”
Reyna scoffs. “But, your grace, that will mean…”
“Hey may die, your grace,” Delfen finishes for her. “If not, he will at the least suffer an agony so terrible as to be indescribable.”
“Good,” Cyndil spits.
Morwen frowns. “I don’t care. He’s caused as much agony in those he has targeted and the families of those he has slain. Have him brought here while we determine the wording of the ritual.”
Several minutes go by while Delfen and Darfin discuss and strategize the best way to phrase it so that no harm can come to the group either by passive or active action, nor to Daggerford's interests, or its residents, and so that he cannot take advantage of his lack of restraints to remove himself from the group's custody. They ultimately decide to co-cast the spell, layering it upon him using a technique similar to the elven mythals of old, a skill not forgotten even today. The geas will not only last until the two of them both decide it so, it will allow for a greater complexity of restraints and commands.
Before long, a group of four guards enter from the opposite side of the room the group had entered, in their middle is once again the same shackled man as seen before, only now with numerous additional injuries. His eyes have begun to swell, one so much that it completely obscures his sight from it. Dried blood is caked across his mouth and lower jaw, and there even seems to be some coming from his ears. His feet are unbound now, but he moves no quicker than before, now because he is clearly exhausted, and has sustained an injury to one of his legs, forcing him to drag it behind him as if it were dead, making small hops with his good leg to move forward. Despite his condition, he maintains the same air of defiance and contempt as before, the fires in his spirit undimmed.
The elves in the mix gasp at his condition, horrified. Sir Isteval looks outraged. Even Sir Llewyn seems upset. The only guest that appears to be pleased by his deterioration is Cyndil.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sir Isteval demands. Morwen nods, echoing the sentiment toward the guards.
The guard captain, a sheepish look on his face, steps forward. “Eh,” he begins, his voice shaky. “He, um, well he tried to escape, your grace,” he explains. The statement sounded so much like a question that the deception wouldn’t have fooled a child.
Cyndil sighs. “Can we just move this along? He was to be executed anyway, let's not get overly sentimental about this ‘poor, poor’ man’s health,” she blurts.
Using the wording agreed on by the two most adept magicians at the table, and over the course of about a minute, the ritual is performed. It takes all of Feydon’s strength to remain standing during this time, let alone pay attention to what’s happening. He can clearly hear what is being said, however, as once the spell has finished there’s a sudden unnatural jerk made by his body.
“Tis done, your grace,” Delfen states at last.
Morwen nods. Then she sighs. “The proof?”
Delfen blinks. But seeing Morwen’s resolve in the matter, nods. He approaches the pirate, and withdraws small potion from a pouch. “Drink this, son. You’ll be glad you did.” Feydon cocks his head to consider the old mage with his good eye, then looks at the potion. Shrugging, he grabs it with his shackled hands and lifts it to his mouth, downing it in a single gulp. In trying to hand the bottle back, it slips from his grasp and shatters on the ground. He looks at the glass, then at the mage. Then he just sort of shrugs slightly as if to say, ‘oops’.
“Not to worry, not to worry,” Delfen says. “Sir Llewyn, might I see your sidearm?”
The knight blinks. “My what?”
Delfen sighs. “Your sword, Llewyn. The thing you use after all your lances have broken - ergo, your sidearm.”
The knight blinks again. “My- oh, yes, of course.” He draws the beautifully crafted rapier, gemstones glittering in its hilt. Handle first, he hands it to the mage. The mage bows slightly in thanks. Then he places it on the table right in front of Feydon. “The key?” he looks to the guard captain. The captain looks to Morwen, who nods, then he produces the same key that Reyna had given up earlier in the Tavern. Without concern or hesitation, he unshackles the pirate. Morwen’s husband begins to protest, being even closer to the potential danger than Morwen, but in truth, once picked up, there’d be nothing to stop Feydon from striking them both so fast that no one in the room would be able to stop him.
Morwen looks to Delfen. “I’m trusting you in this.”
Delfen nods. “I assure you, you are in no danger.”
She sighs. “Very well.” Exchanging seats with her husband, making herself even more vulnerable, Morwen leans over to the man and begins to insult him. “Such a weak, pathetic soul you must bear. That you need to take from others. That you don’t have wits enough to produce wealth of your own. That you put countless lives in danger. How did it feel when your own men betrayed you, hmm? Do you know who it was that raised your bounty this last time, tripling it from what it had been? Take a guess. It was me. And now you’re going to hang. How does that feel, little man? How does it feel that you will never amount to-”
As she speaks, Feydon begins to shake more and more visibly. The air of contempt grows into an unbridled rage. You can almost feel the heat of hellfire in waves coming from his eyes. Never before have any of you seen such fury. Before she can finish her last sentence, he suddenly grabs the rapier and makes a wild battle cry, saliva dripping from his mouth.
Just as he begins to make his attack his battle cry instantly transforms into a scream of anguish the likes of which none of you has ever heard. It seems to emanate from his very pores, his soul even, and it feels as though it is shaking the foundation of the castle itself. He drops the sword, clutching his head with his unshackled hands and continues to scream, collapsing to the ground and writhing in agony. His back arches so taught it looks like it might snap in half, and even after all the air from his lungs has been expelled from his ceaseless cry, his contorted expression still does not abate for what seems to be as long as it took to cast the spell. Finally, his expression eases slightly and he is able to draw in his first shaky breath since the pain began, only to begin screaming again, just slightly less loud. The process repeats until it has subsided into whimpers. He remains on the floor, clutching his head, and rocking back and forth, whimpering, every last vestige of his defiance and his contempt is gone. The person on the floor now bears almost no resemblance to the man that had entered the room. Feydon the Cold is entirely broken - there can be no doubt, no one is that good of an actor.
“Satisfied?” Delfen asks, looking to Morwen.
Morwen’s face is pale. She looks at the mage, and gives a slight nod, before collapsing back into her seat, unable to conceal her shame.
Sir Isteval shed a single tear as he watched the display; he now resumes facing forward again, but is unable to speak. The elves are likewise speechless, Floshin’s daughter turns and leaves the table. Darfin seems about to protest, but then stops, letting her go. Even Cyndil is quiet, though shows no signs of shame.
Reyna collapses in her seat, likewise unable to conceal her own shame. “What have I done?” she mumbles. It was, afterall, her idea.
“Is he…” Sir Llewyn begins to ask.
“Dead?” Delfen finishes for him. “Hard to say. He may recover fully. He may never be the same again. He may be a drooling vegetable. If he hadn’t drunk off the potion I had given him, which will wear off in about an hour, he almost certainly would have died - the effect would have been doubled.”
“Double…? Double that?” Cyndil balks. It seems even she has a limit for how much agony she wants to see Feydon endure.
Delfen simply nods. “Indeed. Though not to worry, he won’t be tempted to try anything again. If he recovers.”
“If he recovers??” Reyna nearly shouts.
Morwen raises her hand, cutting her off. Turning to the guards, she commands, “Fetch the healers, and quickly now.”
“I may be of some assistance in this,” Kelson offers. Morwen nods for him to go ahead. He approaches the man, still writhing on the ground quietly whimpering.
Reyna looks to Dawn, pleadingly.
Bree looks at the broken man shaking her head. "I can help some, though my one healing spell would likely be insufficient." she offers
(+100 XP for convincing Morwen to release Feydon into your custody, despite the presence of multiple naysayers - I'll add it).
Reyna nods, as if to say, please, the same pleading expression she gave to Dawn now given to you. Kelson casts his own spell, Sir Isteval snaps out of his shock enough to lay on hands, and still he writhes.