Quote from JulioEArrieta1776 >>

Is this still open?

 I meant to reply Yes to this last night, as I was closing this this morning. Sorry that the site ate my post.  I’m closing it now (9AM EDT) but will accept a submission from you in the next 4 hours. (1PM EDT)

Submissions are now closed.  I will make my decision today by 3pm EDT, and will inform the chosen party by PM.

I will post here when the party has been notified.

Thanks for all the submissions!

I have notified those selected, thanks, everyone!

Enjoy your game 

Threshold is new. These aren’t buildings that have stood the test of time. It’s bustling, thriving and growing, but it still has an air of impermanence. Seated right on the busy market square is the Wolf’s Clothing Inn. It is a towering 4-story structure festooned with gables, parapets, balconies and such. It has obviously been expanded several times, and the architecture does not quite match up. It is here you have been led, no matter the form of your invitation, you have answered the call to adventure.

The entrance to the inn leads into a large common room, with a modest stage, several large fireplaces and a sizable bar at one end, there are partial walls dividing the space into a few sections, but enough openings that it still feels connected. If you ask for Townmaster Burgos, as your invitation suggests, you will be led to a large table in a more secluded part of the room.

Arista steps through the Wolf’s Clothing Inn with the purposeful stride of a seasoned fighter, her splint armor creaking slightly as she moves. She stands a head taller than many patrons, broad-shouldered and clearly strong, though her motions are measured rather than graceful. Her hair, a striking grey-white, is braided close, framing a face marked by hard travel yet brightened by a confident glint in her eyes. Runes glimmer faintly along the edges of her armor.

Pausing in the bustling common room, she offers a polite nod to a nearby attendant. “I’m Arista,” she says, her voice warm despite her imposing stature. “I was told Townmaster Burgos is here. I’ve come in response to the Duke’s summons—how may I be of service?”

A pallid, somber elf steps into the Wolf’s Clothing Inn with quiet ease. His long white hair is loose and somewhat wild, pale violet eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation. His dark leather armor, reinforced with worn metal studs, bears faint scratches from travel. A longbow rests easily over his shoulder and a scimitar and shortsword are sheathed at his sides.

At the mention of Townmaster Burgos, he steps forward. “Kaelen Shadowstride. I was told to come as well.” He states simply. His gaze flickers toward the more secluded part of the room where others are being led, and without waiting, he follows.

After a long journey from his home, Mathias enters the nascent settlement of Threshold and looks around warily, somewhat suspicious of the bustling town. The elders were wise to send me to look into this place and the rumors of further expansion... the druid thinks to himself as he heads toward the center of Threshold and the Wolf's Clothing Inn.  Suspicious of the settlement he looks back down at his invitation to confirm that the building before him was the right place.  The Wolf's Clothing...hopefully that name isn't an augury of future events... he continues to think. 

The rugged, dark haired man steps into the inn, not bothering to brush the dust of his travels from his clothing.  Looking back at his invitation again and confirming the name written with the one mentioned by the female warrior moments earlier, Mathias approaches the innkeep and says, "Count me as another one here to see the Townmaster."

A frazzled looking but quick speaking woman whose manner and ears point to mixed elf and human ancestry leads you to a table sized for about 10, currently occupied only by a single figure. The half-elf informs you that the town is picking up your first round of drinks, at least until the Townmaster arrives.

The man at the table is a large, strong human man. His dark hair is slicked back, away from his face. He has a noticeable scar on his broad chin. “About time someone showed up,” he says with a sneer. “My names, Torban, bit of a local hero to these folks, looking to spread my legs for a little stroll to the old keep.” He says this without getting up from his pose of leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table.

Arista’s brow furrows as she notices only Torban occupying the table. She crosses her arms, armor jangling softly. “I was told the Townmaster would be here,” she says, a hint of disappointment in her voice. With a small shrug, she pulls out a chair, its wooden legs scraping the floor, and settles in while scanning over the other two arrivals acknowledging their presence with a simple nod. “Two pints of ale, please,” she calls to a passing server, then mutters under her breath, “Might as well make it count while it’s free.”

She glances at the so-called local hero, sizing him up. “Torban, was it?” Arista rests her elbows on the table, pointedly ignoring his casual sprawl and adopting a stance of practiced patience. “Guess you have tales aplenty to tell. Care to share one while we wait?”

Kelwin Thorne stepped through the doors of the Wolf’s Clothing Inn like he’d just won the place in a dice game and was here to collect. He barely cleared three feet, but he carried himself with the confidence of a man twice that—and the recklessness of someone who had long since stopped worrying about odds.

His hazel eyes flicked toward the secluded corner, where four individuals who looked like they belonged in epic ballads and cautionary tales sat waiting.

Objectively, this was a terrible table to walk up to.

Kel did it anyway.

With a flourish of his emerald cloak, he hopped up onto an empty chair—because sitting at the table like a normal person wouldn’t do at all. Resting one foot on the seat and an elbow on his knee, he flashed his most disarming grin. "Well now, aren’t you lot a picture o’ joy an’ sunshine?" His voice lilted with that light, playful cadence, carrying just enough bravado to imply he wasn’t remotely concerned about the fact that any one of them could snap him in half. He tilted his gaze over them all. "So let me guess—you’re the muscle," he nodded toward the warrior, "you’re the broody one," gesturing to the silent elf, "you’re the ‘I prefer the company o’ trees’ type," nodding at the druid, "an’ you—" he grinned at the human, "well, you’re here to provide us with a hearty dose o’ local bravado and questionable plans. I s’pose every group needs a dash o’ charm, a bit o’ quick thinkin’, an’ someone t’ talk us out o’ unnecessary scrapes. Lucky for you lot—" He spread his arms grandly. "That’s where I come in."

Leaning back slightly, balancing effortlessly on the chair, Kel declared in his unmistakable lilt, "If the town’s pickin’ up the first round, then shots all round to celebrate me new friends!"

“I’m surprised tales of my exploits haven’t spread further, whether driving off a dragon, to single-handedly taking down a Bugbear chief, my work will be told to the later generations in this town and beyond.” A barmaid drops off drinks during his arrogant spiel, rolling her eyes when he mentions the dragon.

Kelwin arches an eyebrow, first at Torban, then at the others, as if gauging whether they were as dazzled by his tales as Torban clearly thought they ought to be. He let the silence linger,  lips twitching at the corners. Catching the barmaid’s eye-roll, he takes that as all the proof he needs and turns back to Torban, fingers tapping idly against the table.

“Well now,"  his voice carrying that warm, rolling lilt. “A dragon, was it? Fair play, fair play. Bet it were a right terror—breathin’ fire, wings darkenin’ the skies, all that?” He picks up his drink, giving it a slow swirl. “Must’ve been some sight.”

Kel takes a sip, then leans in just a touch, like he is about to share a grand secret. “Thing is, see… dragons, they don’t get forgotten, do they? Folk remember ‘em, same way landlords remember who still owes ‘em coin.” He glances toward the barmaid, who is already walking away with her tray. “An’ yet, funny, isn’t it? Not a single song sung ‘bout this grand deed. Not even a wee tavern tune?” He gives an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “Tragic, that.”

Kelwin sits back, watching Torban with eyes of mischief. “Ah well. Guess I’ll just ‘ave to write one meself. No?"

Asariel strolls over to the table. He's been watching others arrive and forming some initial opinions on those who he is expected to work with, before going over to talk to them. As he pulls a chair back with a flourish of his long purple coat (intentionally a slightly bigger flourish than Kelwin did), setting down his fiddle he looks over at Kelwin. "You want to write a basic song? No no no. That won't do for something as grand as defeating a dragon. What you need is a beautifully choreographed dance piece." he has already listened to everyone else introducing themselves so is aware of their names. But as of yet has made no attempt of introducing himself. 

'Broody'? Hm...perhaps. Kaelen reaches into his pack as the two bards attempt to one up each other, pulling out a well-worn and earmarked tome and flipping through its pages silently. A dragon, eh? He looks for any mention of one in these parts that would have been recent enough for Torban to have been alive.

History: 9 + 5 from book = 14

Kelwin looks over to Kaelen as he reaches into his pack, producing a well-worn and earmarked tome and flips through it before turning his attention back to the newcomer.

He watches the strangers grand entrance with an appraising look, eyebrows creeping up ever so slightly. The extra flourish of the coat? Oh, this one’s going to be trouble. He grins, delighted.

But when the stranger mentions a dance, Kelwin lets out a theatrical gasp, clutching at his chest like he’s been wounded. “Oh, bach, you wound me! A basic song, was it? A simple ditty?” He shakes his head solemnly. “Nay, if we’re to honour the great Torban an’ his undeniable achievements, then it must be a tale worthy of ‘is name. An’ lucky for ‘im, I just so happen to be a master of the grand, the epic, an’ the deeply questionable.”

Kelwin pulls a small, battered shawm from his belt and hops onto the table in one fluid motion. He plants his feet wide, raises the instrument to his lips, and blows a triumphant, blaring note—loud enough to turn a few heads. He launches into a ballad, his lilting accent stretching each syllable with dramatic effect:

"Ohhh, Torban the Mighty, the Dragon did fear!
With a flick of his wrist and a tankard of beer!
He roared, he charged, the beast did fall—
Or so he claims, but we weren’t there at all!"

He points the shawm toward Torban, eyes twinkling. Then he launches into verse two, the music turning increasingly absurd:

"He slayed a Bugbear, with one mighty smack!
Or several, perhaps, ‘til it stopped hitting back!
He’s renowned, he’s feared, oh, he’s a sight!
Just ask him, he’ll tell you he’s always right!"

Kelwin, undeterred, breaks into an utterly ridiculous jig atop the table. His boots thump in perfect rhythm, arms swinging in wild, exaggerated movements. Then, just as the grand finale builds, he grabs the new comer's  fiddle and spins, shifting seamlessly into a new melody.

"Oh look, he approaches, all brooding an’ still!
His coat is dramatic, his gaze meant to chill!
He watches in silence, no name does he share—
But ohhh, how we tremble—oh wait, no one cares!"

He strums a final dramatic note, then immediately tosses the fiddle back to the stranger with a smirk. “Right then, cariad. Your turn to improve upon my basic song.” Settling back onto his chair with all the casual ease of a man utterly unbothered by the scene he’s just created.

History: You’ve heard there is an Adult(at least) Red in the mountains about 500 miles north, keeping other dragons away. Black Eagle Barony in the west of the Barony is rumored to have a young black chained in the dungeons. Oh, there is mention of a Copper dragon barely larger than a wyrmling that was rumored to be around somewhere of the borders of civilization.

"Hm, a copper dragon wyrmling...The timeline and location adds up," Kaelen murmurs, giving Torban an appraising look as he appears utterly unmoved by Kel's spectacular performance, "It seems possible you could scare something like that off with help. Is that how you got your scar?"

The room’s general reaction to the song is very positive. It’s got a good melody and rhythm, and you picked up some hints on your way in about the culture in the area letting it feel at home while retaining your style. There are a few snickering noises from individuals in the crowd when Torban’s exploits are mentioned.

As for Torban, he might be dumber that you feared, or way craftier, as he appears to enjoy the song immensely, as if having the attention he deserves for once. “Great song! You’re not so bad for a little guy,” he says to Kel, smiling . (Insight check DC 5: He’s super dumb.)

His joy is soon interrupted, as a strong, feminine voice cracks out a chastisement. “Get yer damn boots off the table! These are guests in our town.” A moderately tall, solidly built, almost dwarven thick human woman has appeared from the main part of the room. Her dark brown hair is shot through with streaks of grey, her eyes are dark pools drinking in the environment.

“I’m Townmaster Burgos”, she says, “Welcome to Threshold, I take it your travel went well? Although I was expecting more of you so maybe it didn’t go as well for everyone!”

[[OOC Note: For me, OOC comments will be enclosed in double brackets “[[ ]]” if it is in this thread. ]]

[[Townmaster Burgos will not be engaging with substantative answers about the mission until all PCs have shown up.]]

Arista lifts an eyebrow at Torban’s bombastic tales, her gaze flicking between the man and the amused onlookers. The way the crowd exchanges knowing grins tells her all she needs to know; still, it’s not her place to call him out if no one else objects. When Kelwin launches into his spirited ballad—managing to delight both the crowd and the target of his mockery—Arista can’t help a small smirk of approval. Yet when his playful barbs turn toward a newcomer, she senses how easily his sharp wit could spark trouble on the road ahead. She makes a mental note to keep one eye on him if they’re to travel together; he seems every bit as unpredictable as a sudden mountain storm.

The moment Townmaster Burgos strides in and demands Torban’s boots off the table, the room’s atmosphere shifts. Arista, who had begun to tense up at the dynamic between Torban and Kelwin, eases back in her chair, letting go of some of the caution that had settled over her. She gives the Townmaster a polite nod, taking in the woman’s imposing demeanor. “Townmaster,” she says with genuine respect, “thank you for the invitation—and the hospitality. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we appreciate a warm welcome after the travels we’ve had. I'm Arista.”