Reaper calls for a tankard of stout, which appears in his hand. He walks cordially to the group of people. "Seems we have grown. Does anyone have an idea as to what our next move is?"
Tarn steps into the dining car like prophecy written sideways. His beard is full of what might be twigs or very small bones—or both.Craghoof’s hooves clicking soft as regret behind him,Tarnpauses—mid-step, mid-thought, mid-something—his eyes full of leaf light and lunacy. He raises a finger, utterly delighted.
“A rhyme, for the rails!”he declares before clearing his throat with ceremony and he then throws his arms wide as though addressing the train itself.
“Hallooo, you stitched-up stories and death-dressed dandies! Root-born riddlers and plague-draped pantries!”
A beat passes, then he spins, as if expecting applause from the wallpaper. It does not arrive. He licks his finger. Pokes the wall. Hums at its reply. Then, with a sudden clap and a twirl—dashing forward suddenly—he skids to a halt atop a chair, nearly toppling, but somehow… doesn’t. Instead, Tarn bows with a sweeping flourish:
“Good, even, odd friends, and crooked-be cousins! I !” he declares with a wild-eyed gleam, “am Tarn Quickroot, By vine and vein and verdant vow, Last tongue of a god who choked on moss. A Map-mumbler, Goat-whisperer, and Grand Duke of Mossy Things Unseen and once mistaken for a god by a very confused vine.” “Right then. All of you stitched and stitched different. Good! Normal folk smell too clean. So, what now? You speak your names, what do the worms call you when they gossip in the dirt? I’ll take riddles, grunts, or interpretive hoof dance!”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead eyes going wide with delight, like a squirrel spotting a god in a teacup. He leans forward—whispers to the floor.
“Mmhm. Yes. Crumbs. Very good.”
He straightens suddenly, scanning the assembled—eyes darting to each face with curious precision. Then Tarnsmiles, wide and warm and just a little wrong, as he continues:
“Drusknevald’s called us—yes, yes… so now we will feast, flinch, or follow! In Time we shall find out if the train’s takin’ us backward, or under. Because trains like this don’t go forward. They fold. Like maps with blood on both sides.”
“Well then!” Tarn Claps. Spinning in place once before sitting backwards in the chair.
“Shall we toast to the end, or the middle pretending it’s clever?”
He raises an invisible glass. It clinks loudly anyway. {Minor Illusion}
“Let’s eat, speak, and possibly decay in poetic harmony.Craghoof’llstomp if anyone lies too loud.”Craghoof raises a hoof. Slowly.
“Oh yes.Craghoof'swith me.”Tarn waves to the rune-covered goat. “Don’t pet him unless you’re fireproof in spirit.”
Mirella laughs politely at the new member of this party. She enjoys watching the Pomp and Circumstance.
She stands from the table "Good day to you sir Torn. My name is Mirella Tallow. It is a pleasure to meet you." Seating back into her chair and petting Whisper, like a purring cat.
She looks to the others and says "Yes. Yes, this will be a very interesting time. I am quite glad they called for me for this adventure."
Willem cocks an eyebrow at the newest arrivals curious way of speechifying but otherwise let's them go on. He does mumble to those around him "He does what to goats?" When this Tarn Quickroot fella asks for names the Whistler tips his hat back a bit and starts to rise but the little fella is already rambling on again.
"Ah, yes then," Willem says and once again rises once Mirella has introduced herself without interruption. "I don't know what the worms call me, as they gossip or anything else, but you may call me Whistler." He considers offering his hand but then thinks better of it, unsure if this new addition would misconstrue the offer and think the hand was indeed his now. Instead Willem gives him a short bow and then returns to his sitting position.
"When exactly is a lie too loud?" Whistler inquires. "If we are going to be working together on this little adventure, whatever it is, it may prove useful to know how not to let others know we are untruthing..."
Reaper calls for a tankard of stout, which appears in his hand. He walks cordially to the group of people. "Seems we have grown. Does anyone have an idea as to what our next move is?"
Out of my mind, be back shortly.
Tarn steps into the dining car like prophecy written sideways. His beard is full of what might be twigs or very small bones—or both. Craghoof’s hooves clicking soft as regret behind him, Tarn pauses—mid-step, mid-thought, mid-something—his eyes full of leaf light and lunacy. He raises a finger, utterly delighted.
“A rhyme, for the rails!” he declares before clearing his throat with ceremony and he then throws his arms wide as though addressing the train itself.
“Hallooo, you stitched-up stories and death-dressed dandies! Root-born riddlers and plague-draped pantries!”
A beat passes, then he spins, as if expecting applause from the wallpaper. It does not arrive. He licks his finger. Pokes the wall. Hums at its reply. Then, with a sudden clap and a twirl—dashing forward suddenly—he skids to a halt atop a chair, nearly toppling, but somehow… doesn’t. Instead, Tarn bows with a sweeping flourish:
“Good, even, odd friends, and crooked-be cousins! I !” he declares with a wild-eyed gleam, “am Tarn Quickroot, By vine and vein and verdant vow, Last tongue of a god who choked on moss. A Map-mumbler, Goat-whisperer, and Grand Duke of Mossy Things Unseen and once mistaken for a god by a very confused vine.” “Right then. All of you stitched and stitched different. Good! Normal folk smell too clean. So, what now? You speak your names, what do the worms call you when they gossip in the dirt? I’ll take riddles, grunts, or interpretive hoof dance!”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead eyes going wide with delight, like a squirrel spotting a god in a teacup. He leans forward—whispers to the floor.
“Mmhm. Yes. Crumbs. Very good.”
He straightens suddenly, scanning the assembled—eyes darting to each face with curious precision. Then Tarn smiles, wide and warm and just a little wrong, as he continues:
“Drusknevald’s called us—yes, yes… so now we will feast, flinch, or follow! In Time we shall find out if the train’s takin’ us backward, or under. Because trains like this don’t go forward. They fold. Like maps with blood on both sides.”
“Well then!” Tarn Claps. Spinning in place once before sitting backwards in the chair.
“Shall we toast to the end, or the middle pretending it’s clever?”
He raises an invisible glass. It clinks loudly anyway. {Minor Illusion}
“Let’s eat, speak, and possibly decay in poetic harmony. Craghoof’ll stomp if anyone lies too loud.” Craghoof raises a hoof. Slowly.
“Oh yes. Craghoof's with me.” Tarn waves to the rune-covered goat. “Don’t pet him unless you’re fireproof in spirit.”
Craghoof snorts, polite but ominous.
Mirella laughs politely at the new member of this party. She enjoys watching the Pomp and Circumstance.
She stands from the table "Good day to you sir Torn. My name is Mirella Tallow. It is a pleasure to meet you." Seating back into her chair and petting Whisper, like a purring cat.
She looks to the others and says "Yes. Yes, this will be a very interesting time. I am quite glad they called for me for this adventure."
D&D since 1984
Willem cocks an eyebrow at the newest arrivals curious way of speechifying but otherwise let's them go on. He does mumble to those around him "He does what to goats?" When this Tarn Quickroot fella asks for names the Whistler tips his hat back a bit and starts to rise but the little fella is already rambling on again.
"Ah, yes then," Willem says and once again rises once Mirella has introduced herself without interruption. "I don't know what the worms call me, as they gossip or anything else, but you may call me Whistler." He considers offering his hand but then thinks better of it, unsure if this new addition would misconstrue the offer and think the hand was indeed his now. Instead Willem gives him a short bow and then returns to his sitting position.
"When exactly is a lie too loud?" Whistler inquires. "If we are going to be working together on this little adventure, whatever it is, it may prove useful to know how not to let others know we are untruthing..."
Greel turns to the Vagabond.
"So now what? Is the train taking us to our employers or are they already on it?"
Game is over.