The Dessarin Valley stretches wide beneath a pale blue sky this afternoon, the wind dry and steady as it combs across the hills. It is the fourth day of Tarshak, and unseasonably warm. Golden grasses wave in the wind. The Long Road here is wide, but little more than packed dirt and ruts, worn down by hooves, wagons, and the boots of travelers. This is frontier country; quiet and open, but a hard living. Villages are scattered and far between. There are no standing armies, and outside of sheriffs and town militias, most live their lives fending for themselves.

At the intersection of the Long Road and the Cairn Road, where the Cairn Road becomes the Kheldell Path as it travels West, is Red Larch; a modest town of a few dozen buildings clustered around the intersection, framed by low hills and worn pastures. There are no walls, no gates, and no signs to alert travelers to the town they've just entered.

To your right as you enter the town is a sign set on two posts in a scrap of weedy lawn out front of this small house that reads “Mellikho Stoneworks.” A quarry pit begins just behind the house. Further down is a large, well-appointed home. Half-barrels planted with aromatic herbs and flowers flank the entrance, and the windows are decorated with flower-filled window boxes. Beyond that, the smell of freshly baked bread stands out starkly against the dusty air, emanating from a building with a hanging sign consisting of a carved and painted wooden round loaf the size of a small cart. Just as soon as it entered your nostrils, the pleasant scent is replaced by the pungent smell of tanned and oiled leather from some sort of workshop. 

Shortly before reaching the main intersection at the center of town, muffled conversation and laughter emanates from two separate buildings. On your right, a three story structure crowned by a steep slate roof bristles with many chimneys. A signboard juts out over the door, hanging from chains, that of a ten-foot-long carved wooden scimitar emblazoned with the inn's name in red paint on both sides: The Swinging Sword. An inn yard with stables and outbuildings lies behind the building. Across the street to your left stands a ramshackle two-story tavern. Rusty metal grills cover its small, dirty windows. The tavern's name is very clearly printed in large, simple letters on both sides of a jutting wooden sign: The Helm at Highsun. Atop the sign is a rusting, oversized adornment: a warrior's bucket helm with two eye slits.

The road stretches further into town, lined with other buildings and storefronts, with some additional clusters of buildings to the left. Peppered in among the larger structures are quaint residential homes.

OOC: Trying something different with this introduction, in true sandbox style. Your characters have all entered Red Larch on the same point of The Long Road, but at potentially different times. For your first post, describe your character for your fellow players, and then consider where they may be headed based on the description they have from the Northern entrance of town.

Aldric Harthstone trudges more than walks. Despite his slumped shoulders and clear fatigue, it is easy to identify him as a knight. He wears armor — complete with kettle helm — several visible weapons, a kite shield, and a regal cape. (Though the emblem upon his shield and cape are faint with age and hard to make out.) His chain mail — clean and well maintained, yet dulled by time — does not hide his physique so much as accentuate it.

He is tall — six and a half feet — and broad of neck, shoulders, chest, limbs and belly. His muscles are still large, but softer now. His face is lined. But those he meets do not notice his wrinkles or the white scruff on his temples and cheeks. They first see his build; next, the color of his skin — dark green — and last, his yellowed tusks. It is then that most avert their eyes.

Aldric is half orc, and he looks it. His mother was a human, and his father was the orc who raped her about 64 years ago.

Though some would say Aldric was destined to live a life of violence and chaos — that his heritage would dictate his countenance — Aldric has spent his entire life with civilized people — mostly humans. As such, he feels like a human, and he acts like a human. If it weren't for the color of his skin and his tusks, people might would treat him like a human. Very few do, however.

In fact, Aldric does not need all of his ten fingers to count the number of people who have treated him the way he feels he should be treated. Chief among them were his mother and grandfather — both of whom are dead now. There are a few in Westbridge — his home, if you really want to call it that — who smile at his presence, and they may be the only living souls in all of Faerûn who think of Aldric as more than a monster just waiting to pounce.

It has been almost two full days since Aldric left Westbridge, heading south on the Long Road for Red Larch. He is embarrassed by how out of shape he has become over his decades as marshal.

When he was first stationed in the sleepy little settlement located where the wagon road from the Stone Bridge meets the Long Road, Aldric worked to keep in shape. In fact, there was so little going on that required his attention, he had a lot of extra time to hone his skills.

The longer he stayed, however, the less motivated he felt, and the less he did. Now, even putting on his armor and weapons and marching is a chore.

Despite the work, Aldric is still a Knight of Samular, and so he always does his duty and is always properly prepared. (Even if Summit Hall doesn't acknowledge it.)

Aldric is glad to have finally arrived in Red Larch, but there isn't time to rest, no matter how much his old bones wish it. He needs to find the city's lawkeepers. He planned to stop the first person he encountered and ask for directions, but the unseasonable heat seems to have shuttered everyone inside. He doesn't blame them.

Stopping near the center of town, Aldric pushes back the brim of his helm and squints at the signs of the tavern and inn. Making up his mind, he turns and heads for the front door of the Swinging Sword.

Arkun Iridae walks down the Long Road toward Red Larch waving his hands, attempting to shoo something away.  After he crests the last rise as he makes his way toward town, you can see that the wood elf is talking animatedly to a squirrel which doesn’t seem to want to leave him alone.  “I tell you, go away, you are wearing me out!  I don’t care what you saw down the road I have important business to attend to!  And I don’t know where any great, massive stronghold of acorns and nuts are stored, what makes you think that I would?  Begone!  Sheesh… Most talkative squirrel I’ve ever spoken with..”.  And he keeps walking.  

He walks with a purpose, with well worn boots, wearing leather armor studded with thorns, and carrying a staff which has been shaped and carved, a heavy burned end that seems to be the business end of the staff.  He’s carrying a shield with multiple symbols carved in it, with shapes of the moon, crescents, wavy patterns of water and lightning, trees, bushes, birds and various other emblems.  He looks comfortable in his own skin, like he could walk for miles and miles before stopping to rest.  He does look a little more cautious as he enters town, looking all around as if someone will pop out of the shadows, frequently checking behind himself as well.  

Arkun is clearly more comfortable in the wood of his home in Kryptgarden Forest, and even though Red Larch could hardly be called a “city”, much less a town, a burb, or a village - - more of a wide spot in the road - - Arkun is uncomfortable nonetheless.  “At least I don’t have to worry about checking my backside for Old Gnawbone for a few days.  That’s a plus.  Now where would she be… and who here would know anything.   About anything other than trading or mining..”. He starts to walk into town and sees a few people walking around, but most look away from him, he’s used to the quickly diverted eyes, the uncomfortable feeling that he gives these “wide spot in the road” folks.  “Ah well.  Who’s this one?  He looks about as out of place as I do…”  He stands for a moment, leaning on his staff, regarding the helmed warrior standing at the crossroads, looking like he has seen better days.

Rylan Belabranta narrows his striking green eyes as he spots modest structures of Red Larch in the distance…

He flicks a fly off his olive-skinned nose and gives a loving pat on the neck of his regal-looking, bey-colored draft horse. The handsome human says with a smile, “Well, Brandy, my girl… It’s no country estate… but I imagine the oats are as fine and fresh here as they are back home.”

The mount blows a puff of exhalation in response, continuing to clomp patiently along the road.

As they approach the town, the well-adorned scion of Waterdavian nobility runs fingers through his shoulder-length caramel-colored hair. He adjusts his flawless polished chain armor and burnt orange cape, preparing to make an appropriate entrance.

On his left hip he carries a fine longsword that hasn’t seen battle since the days when his great uncle wielded it during his service with the Griffin Calvary of Waterdeep. Secured to his mount, he carries an impressive-looking heater shield marked with the heraldry of his noble house - a purple net and blue stream over a field of white. On his cloak he bears a pin - a golden crown emblem that marks him as a representative of the Lords’ Alliance.

Passing into town, Rylan takes a deep breath and adopts the practiced pose he uses whenever he presents himself publicly to the common folk. He keeps his gaze forward, offering a charming smile and a gentle nod to anyone who steps into his eye-line.

He tries not to let the stink of the place show on his face, but it requires no small amount of effort.

Brandy, the horse, meanwhile, has no such compunctions. She lets out her own huff of displeasure.

“I’m sorry, girl.” Rylan says, scratching her neck. “I do hate to bring you so far from home… but we do what we must for Little Sister, do we not?”

No reply from the mount.

As he moves through the streets Rylan does his best to survey the populace as covertly as he can, searching for a pin like his, or any other feature he might use to identify his contacts.

When he finally reaches the inn and the alehouse he studies both for a moment then drops his reins, looking to the horse. “Lady’s choice… How do we begin our stay in this charming little hamlet? Boarding or booze?”

After a moment, the horse starts to drift towards The Helm at Highsun, searching for water. He smiles and lets out a genuine chuckle, “I should have guessed. Afraid you've been spending a bit too much time around me, old girl. I’m rubbing off.”

With that, he dismounts, adjusts his look to get correct, and prepares to enter the tavern and look for his contacts.

Sylra Galeheart - Introduction Post

Introduction Post: Sylra Galeheart Enters Red Larch

The wind swept steadily across the rolling hills of the Dessarin Valley, dry and insistent as it combed through the golden grasses and pressed against the traveler’s cloak. Sylra Galeheart moved along the Long Road with quiet purpose, her boots landing softly in the ruts carved by countless wagons before her. Her robe, a layered weave of dusky blue and storm-gray fabric, fluttered at the hem but clung to her chain shirt beneath. Though plainly dressed by most standards, her appearance carried a calm gravity—a blend of weather-worn resilience and elemental poise that set her apart from the average traveler.

Tall and composed, Sylra bore the marks of her heritage with quiet pride. Her skin held the faint sheen of pale blue stone, veined subtly with lighter lines like mist curling through quartz. Her hair, silver and weightless, drifted faintly even in the stillest moments, never quite resting against her shoulders. A finely tooled leather pack was strapped securely to her back, its buckles worn but well-maintained. Beneath it hung a round shield marked with a stylized swirl—abstract enough to pass for decoration, but meaningful to those who recognized the signs of the Emerald Enclave. A simple but sturdy mace rested at her hip, its iron head dark with use and its grip wrapped tightly in pale leather.

As she approached the edge of town, Sylra slowed her pace to take in her surroundings. Red Larch had no gates, no guards, and no sign to mark the moment of arrival. It emerged from the road as naturally as a grove rising from the forest floor—unassuming, functional, and quietly alive. To her right stood a modest house with a sign reading “Mellikho Stoneworks,” where the scent of dust and fresh-cut stone carried on the breeze from a quarry pit just behind the structure. Farther along, a well-kept home flanked by half-barrels of aromatic herbs added a welcome touch of color, its window boxes brimming with vibrant flowers. The gentle perfume of rosemary and lavender lingered briefly before being overtaken by the sharp, familiar scent of tanned leather wafting from a nearby workshop.

The heart of town gradually unfolded as she continued. A building shaped by warmth and comfort announced itself with the scent of freshly baked bread, its hanging sign carved into a round loaf nearly the size of a cart wheel. The smell tugged at old memories—none unpleasant—but she walked on, attentive to the voices and patterns of this place. Before long, two prominent buildings flanked the road ahead. On her right rose a tall inn, three stories high, its steep slate roof bristling with chimneys and its wooden signboard swinging gently from iron chains. The image of a ten-foot-long scimitar carved in relief and painted red marked it as The Swinging Sword. A spacious inn yard and stables stretched behind it, suggesting that travelers were not uncommon here. Across the way, a more rugged and timeworn structure stood in contrast. The Helm at Highsun bore rusted window grilles and a battered wooden sign adorned with a dented warrior’s helm. Laughter and muffled conversation spilled from within, the sound easy and familiar.

Sylra paused for a moment, her gaze drifting from one building to the other. Both offered shelter, but that was not what had brought her here. She reached into a pouch at her belt and touched a small wooden token shaped like a feather, worn smooth with time and handling. It was the mark of her contact—Haeleeya Hanadroum—a name passed to her by the Emerald Enclave with quiet urgency. This was her true destination, the next point in the path she had been following since departing Stormwatch Spire weeks ago.

The town was quiet, but not lifeless. Its rhythms were subtle, its movements familiar. Here, in the spaces between the obvious, was where Sylra did her best work. She had not come to stir alarm or announce herself with ceremony. She was here to observe, to listen, and to find what others had overlooked. The Emerald Enclave trusted her to act when others might wait, and to understand what the land itself could not say aloud.

With her pack secure and her cloak gathered close, Sylra stepped deeper into Red Larch. She would find her contact, take the measure of the town, and begin the quiet work that had brought her here. Whatever answers the valley held, she intended to find them—one footstep, one conversation, and one sign at a time.

Rumble Siltskin might've started his journey from Summit Hill marching with a purpose, but several days of travel on the road have long since eroded even his otherwise normally tireless spirit. Now he could at best be described as trudging determinedly along with an all but blank expression. Yet, as his mind wandered, as was often its want, he couldn't help but think that arguably he had fared better than most of his fellow novices would've thus far, and even that of some senior knights. Granted, in the novice's hurry to see to the mission, much had been left behind for the sake of a swift journey.

Then again, the armor he was made to wear during training always felt superfluous at best, as his hide was living stone. Not the kind chiseled by any tool of trade or godly work, though some yet argued otherwise given his well-built physique and imposing height placing him just a little over six feet. But he was still human!

...ish. Not that he ever identified as solely human despite part of his parentage either way, but that was neither here or there.

The sallet helm, and the sole piece of armor he had taken with him yet served a purpose. As even well after a couple years spent on the prime material, a brain half-fried baking under it was worth keeping as much of Lathender's accursed blessing out of his eyes, even if only a little. A price he'd absentmindedly thought any earth genasi would pay after growing up caverns and tunnels lit largely by crystals and the rare magma tube.

Before his mind could wander onto some other tangent, the gurgles and groans of a hungry stomach both startled him to alertness and gave him pause in step long enough to not only take in his condition, but soon after truly drink in the settlement he half wandered/half purposeful traveled into for the sake of his mission. His boots were well worn and breeches only just hid the dust of the road well, but at some point, he'd forgotten to roll down the sleeves of his tunic from their cinched position at the elbow, revealing not only more of his stony hide but the moss that perpetually covered parts of it as if it were hair. "Well... ain't like I wasn't gonna attract some attention anyhow." He muttered as his eyes drifted to the various handaxes on his person and the great axe held slung over his shoulder. An unusual arsenal for a devotee of Tyr, but the rounded shield strapped to an arm was emblazoned with a faded iconography of a balance at rest on top of some kind of weapon, marking him just so.

In the wake of another gurgled complaint, Rumble softly sighed, rolled his shoulder and adjusted his backpack, then finally picked back up the pace with a gusto. Though in his haste he'd nearly missed the signs, both literally and metaphorically, that promised relief from hunger, a double take in passing spared the young man from a fruitless search elsewhere for sustenance beyond the trail mix rations in his pack. So, it was with a bit of a sheepish smile after stumbling to a stop that he made his way for Helm at Highnoon... or did that say Highsun? The uncertainty alone nearly gave him pause again, but quick was his stomach to assure him that such were the least of his concerns! First would come food, next the seeking of contacts, and finally -- FINALLY the mission itself. 

... Ideally, anyhow.

Seeing the helmed veteran start to walk toward the scimitar emblazoned sign of the Swinging Sword, Arkun straightens his pack giving a slight shrug and starts walking toward The Helm at Highsun, licking his lips absentmindedly.  It is hotter than normal, for this time of year!  Perhaps all of those lumberjacks cutting down trees may be making an impact, who knows.  Bastards.  Time for a little something to wet my whistle and put these feet up for a moment or two.  Arkun makes his way to the door of the Helm and enters, taking stock of who is inside for a moment before looking for a table.  

ALDRIC:

The door to The Swinging Sword creaks open with the sound of old wood moving against older hinges. The light shifts, sunlight from the road spilling in across the wooden flooring. Inside, it's fairly quiet; a spoon clinks against a bowl as a diminutive human woman with greasy black hair tied back into messy braids deposits a pair of soup bowls for some gruff-looking men, a human and a dwarf, at a corner table. The air has an interesting tang to it, a mixture of soot and stewed meat, but the inn looks surprisingly welcoming and luxurious for the area's rustic standards. 

A few heads turn toward Alric's entrance, only brief glances that quickly return to their tables. Behind the front counter, one of the sturdiest human women Aldric has ever seen offers a salute. "Heya! If you're here for food, grab yourself a seat and I'll be right with you. If you're here for a bed, you're a little early but you're certainly still in the right place." Fortyish, with a tangle of brown hair hanging loose and cut to her shoulders, she stands over six feet tall and has a firmness about her, but displays a friendly air.

RYLAN, RUMBLE & ARKUN:

The door opens to reveal to you a large, dimly lit, wood-paneled taproom. An open-tread wooden staircase climbs to the upper floor, which is just as dim and darkly paneled as the taproom, adding no light except that from outside creeping through windows. Across the back of the taproom is a long bar with three copper candle-lanterns hanging over it, and a stair leading down to the cellar is open beside it.

Clearly not a place for refined dining, two servers are bringing drinks and afternoon meals to tables. There are others in the tavern with you; it hasn't gotten too rowdy at this hour, but there are still locals relaxing and gossiping. Occasionally a burst of laughter from some jest made to a table erupts, but it's not so loud that you can't hear a normal conversation. Behind the bar, a human fellow with short, dark brown hair and a moderate mustache that is beginning to grey is wiping down glasses and pouring different drink orders. There are three stout cudgels with him behind the bar, and an old cloak hanging next to them. A halfling man in a brown cloak and tunic sits in a stool across the bar from him with an ale in hand.

OOC: Similar to the previous post, you're all entering at slightly different times, so you'll see each other in here as well. Feel free to determine that order however you please.

SYLRA:

Just past the inn and tavern, you reach the main intersection of Red Larch. On the near side of the intersection, to your right and just south of the inn's stable yard stands what looks like a grand stone mansion. Two wide wooden doors painted with the symbols of several different deities stand open, and a plain chapel with a stone altar sits just beyond the opening. On the opposite side of the street, a square two-story building displays a signboard painted with the images of a well-dressed lord and lady, one on each side of the board. Its windows are protected by ornate scrollwork iron bars.

A trio of children emerge from a building further into town and come to a halt in the intersection, scrambling away to play somewhere else. Just past the intersection ahead of you and to the left you see a cluttered, untidy shed surrounded by dozens of wagons shrouded in worn canvas tarpaulins. A crudely hand-lettered sign over the wide main door proclaims this to be "Waelvur's Wagonworks". Across the street from that is a long, narrow, and nondescript one-story building with the name of the business - Drouth Fine Poultry - painted above the double entry doors, which look wide enough for a wagon to enter.

There is not much more to the town down the Kheldell Path to your right, which looks to head past a large pond. The town continues to sprawl ahead of you on the Long Road, and also to your left where the Cairn Road joins this intersection.

And so the dance begins. Red Larch, like the rest of the Dessarin Valley settlements, will be a delicate balance of respect, loyalty, curiosity and suspicion. He needs to play the right cards in the right order, or it could be next week before he finally speaks to the right person.

Aldric crosses to the human woman, grateful for her cordiality. Dropping his sack and tucking his helm under his shield arm, he says, "Sir Aldric Harthstone, marshal of Westbridge." He attempts to sound cordial, though his voice is dry, and so it's more of a growl. "What I really need is to speak with your law keepers. The matter is pressing. Can you give me directions to where I might find them?"

He hopes he won't have to offer a bribe to this nice, young lady, but he is prepared to bring out his purse if needed.

Rylan steps casually into the bar, as if he’s stepped into it a million times before. He scans the room for anyone baring the mark of the Lords’ Alliance as he walks directly to the bar. He patiently waits for the mustachioed human’s attention before lifting a silver piece.

“A steady pour of whatever this will get me, if you please.” He says with a gentle smile.

Once the human returns with the beverage, Ryland clasps his hands in gratitude, “You are hospitality defined, good sir.” Before the barkeep has a chance to turn away, Rylan hastily adds, “Ehm. Forgive my rudeness, but the names Helvur and Maegla Tarnlar… are they, perhaps, known to you? They are compatriots of mine. Fellow deputies in service of The Lords’ Alliance. I’ve come to this humble settlement to discuss an important matter with them. A matter of great personal significance."

As he speaks, he searches the bartender's face for any sign of recognition.

Arkun walks up to the bar, leaning his quarterstaff against it and pulls out a seat.  He looks up at the mustached man behind the bar and side eyes the halfling with the ale sitting beside him.  “Uh.. awfully hot out there for this time of year.  Isn’t it?  I’d like a pint of your ale please, to cool me off.”  He looks back and forth between the two awkwardly, thinking rapidly, What else do these city folk like to talk about, when one is sitting at a bar… hurry!  That’s too long of a pause!

He finally gets out to the halfling beside him, “Come around here often?  What’re you drinking?”  As he does so, he eyes what he is carrying, his face, his hands, tries to get more of a sense about him.  And he spots the other fellow at the bar asking about the Lords Alliance… interesting.  Finally, he pulls out a small carved badger and sits him on the bar, raising his mug to him.  “Cheers.”  I can have a drink with Digby if nothing else.  

Rumble's heavy footfalls announces his presence well before he too eventually entered the Helm at High-something-or-other. He lingers at the door if but to take in the establishment while giving his eyes time to adjust to the change in lighting. But as soon as he sees one of the servers in the process of delivering a meal, he licks his chops, makes a show of taking a deep whiff of the air, and with a broad smile that lingered in his voice, whispered to himself, "Oh, we're in for a treat today boys."

As he carried on his way further inside to find a seat, he seems to finally clock the trio of patrons already at the bar, or more to his immediate concern being Rylan and Arkun. Though the latter had his curiosity, as it had been some time since Rumble last saw an elf of any flavor, it was the former in the well cared for get up that truly held his attention long enough to abandon any thought of finding a table. Instead, Rumble strode up to the bar, and had there been an open spot beside Rylan, planted himself in a seat with notably more care than one might expect a typical patron.

"Uh, Pardon me sir. But, you wouldn't happen to go by, uhh, Imdarr, would'ja? Priest of Tempus, yea?" He asks Rylan in rural drawl(think typical Southern drawl from an almost gravelly voice) soon as the man looked free to answer. "Or perhaps a, uh, friend of his by any chance? From yer, uh, get up I wouldn't mark ya as a local, and so wasn't he as, uh... well, as far I've been figuring."

Sylra came to a natural pause as the Long Road opened into the center of Red Larch. She stood at the intersection for a moment, taking in the buildings around her without lingering on any one detail. The open chapel with its painted double doors stood just to her right, plainly welcoming. Across from it, a square two-story building watched the crossroads through iron-barred windows beneath a signboard of painted nobility. Ahead, more structures lined the roads in three directions—an untidy wagonworks to the left, a poultry business across from it, and a scattering of homes and storefronts beyond. Children darted through the square and disappeared between buildings, leaving only echoes of laughter in their wake.

Though the day was warm and the breeze steady, Sylra’s thoughts were already turning inward. She had not come to Red Larch to admire its streets or pace its roads aimlessly. Her reason for being here had a name: Haeleeya Hanadroum. The Emerald Enclave had provided her with the contact's identity and assured her that this woman could be trusted, but they had not offered a precise location. That omission, while not unexpected, now left her with few options. If she wished to proceed with her mission, she would need to ask someone where Haeleeya might be found.

She adjusted the weight of the pack on her shoulders and shifted the position of her shield so it rested more comfortably against her back. Her travel had been steady since entering the valley, and her body welcomed the brief reprieve from motion. Without hesitation, she began walking toward the nearest place where information was likely to be offered freely—the tall, well-kept inn marked by the large carved scimitar. Its roof rose above the other buildings, its windows glinting faintly in the sun. It was the sort of establishment that served people coming and going, which meant its staff likely heard more names than most.

Crossing the short distance from the road to the inn’s entrance, Sylra stepped up to the door and took a moment to compose herself, brushing the edge of her cloak behind one shoulder. She stepped inside with quiet confidence, scanning for someone who appeared to be working, and approached with calm purpose. Her voice, when she spoke, was measured and direct—clear without being loud.

“Good day,” she said evenly. “I’m looking for someone by the name of Haeleeya Hanadroum. Would you happen to know where I might find her?”

She offered no further details, nor did she attempt to explain her reasons. If the name was known here, that would be enough. If not, she would ask elsewhere. For now, this was the first thread—and she intended to follow it wherever it led.

ALDRIC & SYLRA:

"Sir Aldric Harthstone, marshal of Westbridge."

"Kaylessa Irkell, proprietor of this fine establishment," the tall woman says with a smile. If she is at all affected by Alric's fierce stature, she's doing an excellent job of hiding it. "To what do we owe the pleasure of the constable of your fair village payin' us his respects?"

"What I really need is to speak with your law keepers. The matter is pressing. Can you give me directions to where I might find them?"

"Ah, well then you'd be lookin' for Sheriff Harburk and his trusties down past the intersection. Just head south 'til you see the four buildings back-to-back-to-back-to-back and unless they're out and about that's where you'll find 'em," Kaylessa answers. She lets out an "Oh!" of warning when Aldric turns around and nearly collides with Sylra, the air genasi entering the inn mid-conversation.

“Good day,” she said evenly. “I’m looking for someone by the name of Haeleeya Hanadroum. Would you happen to know where I might find her?”

"Haeleeya? Well if you're comin' from the North, you just missed 'er! And if you're comin' from the South, you just keep headin' North three buildings up and to your left and you'll find her shop. Can't miss it, what with all them pretty flowers she got out front," Kaylessa answers. She takes a moment to study the two interesting visitors in front of her and chews her lip. "Y'all know each other? You got the look of them adventurin' types, if you don't mind me sayin'. Y'all here about these disturbances we been gettin' lately?" 

ARKUN, RUMBLE & RYLAN:

“A steady pour of whatever this will get me, if you please.”

"Aye sir, that'll get you a couple mugs if that's what you're after," the barkeep says, a jovial smile poking through his mustache. "And if you stick around a minute I'll bet you that Stannor over there'll keep you good company," he chuckles, looking over to see Arkun chatting up the halfling. "Hey, no animals on the bar!" he calls over to the pair in jest, then looks back to Rylan with a smile.

“Ehm. Forgive my rudeness, but the names Helvur and Maegla Tarnlar… are they, perhaps, known to you? They are compatriots of mine. Fellow deputies in service of The Lords’ Alliance. I’ve come to this humble settlement to discuss an important matter with them. A matter of great personal significance."

"Ah yes, the Tarnlars aren't far. They run a fancy clothier just before the intersection, you can't miss it. Just look for the lordy and lady and the little sign they got out front," he answers.

“Uh.. awfully hot out there for this time of year.  Isn’t it?  I’d like a pint of your ale please, to cool me off.”

"Toss me four copper and you got yourself an ale, an extra for a tip if you want a clean glass," the barkeep jokes to Arkun.

“Come around here often?  What’re you drinking?”

"Only when I want a break from the Wagonworks. Piss off," the dour halfling tells Arkun, waving his arms as if to shoo him away.

"Uh, Pardon me sir. But, you wouldn't happen to go by, uhh, Imdarr, would'ja? Priest of Tempus, yea?" He asks Rylan in rural drawl(think typical Southern drawl from an almost gravelly voice) soon as the man looked free to answer. "Or perhaps a, uh, friend of his by any chance? From yer, uh, get up I wouldn't mark ya as a local, and so wasn't he as, uh... well, as far I've been figuring."

After Rylan's answer, the barkeep interjects, "If you're lookin' for a priest you're like to want the building next to the inn. That's the Allfaiths Shrine, and it ain't any different than what it's soundin' like."

He sets down the glass he's cleaning and extends a hand. "Name's Garlen by the way, Harlathurl if you're into surnames. You're all first-timers, yeah? Stick around a bit, grab yourselves a table over there. We got the best food in town if you've got a silver piece handy. Or better yet, keep bothering Stannor. He's behind on his tab," he says with a wink before filling some glasses with ale for Rylan and Arkun.

Rylan lifts his drink in response to Garlen's intel about the Tarnlars. "Cheers."

The word is barely out of his mouth when Rumble approaches in with his queary. The paladin leans back, struck by the size of the rock-man and unsure what he might do. Rylan holds a placating smile on his face as he responds. "It saddens me to say that I am not... but... May the Foehammer guide you to him with all appropriate haste."

Unable to stop himself he quickly adds, eying the genasi's stone skin, "What manner of being are you, if you'll fogive such an imprudent query? You have a very impressive sort of complexion there..."

Arkun's face lights up in a grin at Garlen, tossing him a silver piece for the pint of ale.  "Some of the good stuff.  Frothy like.  Really hot out there."  He turns towards the rude Stannor, flailing his arms.  Arkun's right arm reaches behind the halfling and makes a subtle twirl, and then the sound of a crisp toot and the smell of one starts to emanate from the vicinity of Stannor's backside.  "Oh, and he's gassy too, Garlen!  I would charge him double."  A grin comes on his face and he clinks his class to the carving of Digby, preferring the company of the carved badger to the rude halfling anyday.  He leans back in his barstool, looking down the bar at the Earth Genasi and the Law Man... a sight you don't see every day.  

He turns back to Garlen, saying to him in a lower voice, "Harlathurl... that sounds similar to a name of a person I'm looking for.  Haeleeya Hanadroum, have you ever heard that name?  Know where I could find them?"  then he leans back and says, "I'd be curious to hear what you have for dinner here.  But for all of our sakes," hand gesture encompassing everyone at the bar, including Stannor, "please tell me that it does not involve beans..."

Aldric gives a quick nod of apology when he comes face to face with the ... genasi? Like the innkeeper, he is trained to watch for adventurers who sometimes cause more trouble than they're worth. A glance at this one doesn't set off any internal alarm bells.

Either way, she isn't Aldric's concern.

He slips his helm back on his big, shaved head and growls a "Thank you" over his shoulder to the inn woman, ignoring her comment and questions. Hunching his shoulders, he makes curious eye contact with the newcomer one last time before walking around her, his mail and weapons jingling with his movements.

Sylra gets a whiff of sweat, earth and vinegar as the large, green man angles around her and then exits the building.

Once outside, Aldric gathers himself and squares his shoulders. Something about the near collision with the blue lady unnerved him. It wasn't necessarily an unpleasant meeting. In fact, if he wasn't in such a hurry, he might have lingered. Unfortunately, he didn't have time for any distractions.

He replays what the woman inside said about finding the sheriff: "Just head south 'til you see the four buildings back-to-back-to-back-to-back and unless they're out and about that's where you'll find 'em,"

The half-orc turns right and marches south, sizing up each building in an attempt to find Sheriff Harburk as quickly as possible.

Sylra took a measured step back as the large half-orc turned toward the door, narrowly avoiding a collision. She met his glance calmly, studying him for the brief moment before he passed. The scent of sweat, steel, and something sharply astringent clung to him—a soldier’s scent, one she had encountered before. His armor and weapons marked him as someone accustomed to conflict, and his bearing confirmed it. She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of his brief apology, even though his focus had already shifted back to his own business.

Once the door shut behind him, she turned back toward the woman behind the counter. “Three buildings north and on the left,” Sylra repeated quietly, committing the directions to memory. “Thank you.”

Kaylessa’s lingering gaze and follow-up question, however, gave her pause. Sylra caught the careful curiosity in the innkeeper’s tone, the practiced read of a woman who’d seen all manner of strangers come and go. It wasn’t just idle chatter; there was something more beneath it. This was a local who paid attention.

Sylra didn’t answer right away. She studied Kaylessa for a moment, weighing whether the question was simply social or carried substance. The line between the two was often thin in places like this. Eventually, she let out a slow breath and nodded.

“I don’t know what’s brought the others,” she said, her voice low but thoughtful, “but I was sent here by those with a vested interest in the health of the land. I’ve heard some whispers already. Strange weather, odd signs.” She tilted her head slightly. “You mentioned disturbances. What kind?”

There was no suspicion in her tone, only interest. She made no effort to conceal her intent. Sylra had learned long ago that listening often revealed more than pressing. If there was trouble stirring in Red Larch—or in the lands beyond it—then the people who lived here would feel it long before any outsider could name it.

She kept her pack shouldered and her stance light, prepared to move on when the moment passed. But she remained where she stood, giving Kaylessa space to speak. If there was insight to be gained from a local who watched the town’s comings and goings with an innkeeper’s precision, Sylra was in no hurry to walk away from it.

"Aww shucks. I was -- huh? Complexion?" It's at that moment Rumble finally takes off his helm and held it under an arm pit, revealing in the process what was either short cropped moss green hair, or at literal moss trimmed into a military cut. Either way, he then turned his head as if to try and listen to Rylan better, before having his attention stolen by the barkeep. "Mn! Now don't that be all. Thank you, Mr. Harlathurl. Name's Rumble, Rumble Siltskin, if you too are into surnames." He gives a wink, and temporarily set his helm on the bar to shake the barkeep's hand.

Notably for Garlen if he shook barehand, Rumble's skin felt like stone, but felt almost as pliable as callused flesh. He then turns back to Rylan while Arkun distracted Garlen and said, "Sorry 'bout that. You were ask'n me something about what I am, yeah? Well, how bout we take Mr. Harlathurl's advice and I tell you all about that and maybe more over-..." He paused, looking askance while rubbing his chin. "-would it be lunch at this point, or breakfast -- I could never tell too well." He said with a snort thrown out towards the end. "Anyhow, if yer not in too much a hurry, please do join." He then looks past Rylan to Arkun, and offered around by the time Garlen had just finished answering the elf, "Same goes for you sir. My treat."

With that, he grabs his helm and made his way over to one of the nearby tables. There he rests the haft of his great axe against the table, deadly side down, and after setting his helm down on the table, flagged down one of the servers. If Rylan at least should join him, Rumble smiled and first offered a hand to shake. "Name's Rumble, though you sorta know that by now, and... 'fore I answer your question, mind answering my own? It's related, I assure you." He paused to give the man time to reply, and if willing to entertain Rumble's question, he sorta chuffed in appreciation. "Ever heard of a Dao? Or perhaps better yet, ever heard of a wish granting genie?"

ALDRIC:

Moving southward, Aldric passes by the town's shrine and the two-story house with the sign of a lord and lady hanging out front, reaching the main intersection, then passing Drouth Fine Poultry and the wagon shop across from it. Next door to the poultry shop stands four identical single-story stone buildings, running back from the street in a line. The front building has a painted sign of a ham being carved by a cleaver, accompanied by no words. The three buildings behind it are unmarked, but the third building has clothes hanging from a clothesline in front. The Long Road continues further south through the town.

SYLRA:

Kaylessa is already nodding her head when Sylra mentions strange weather and odd signs. "Yep, fell magic about if you ask me. I hear all sorts of talk runnin' this place. Heard a lot of tales about fogs that stick around in the Sumber Hills even in the bright of day, sudden gusts o' hot wind sweepin' out west o' the hills where the breeze is usually cold. More violent sights too, like lightnin' bolts stabbin' up from the hills into a clear blue sky," she explains.

"Folks 'round here have started lookin' frightened and furtive of late. Folks that usually wanna talk ain't wantin' to talk. I got a theory about it, but our constable and town elders ain't for listenin' to it. I won't lie, I was hopin' you folks might be willin' to take me up on an offer to investigate. Maybe that grumpy fella'll be back once he realizes Sheriff Harburk and his trusties ain't got enough time for all our woes." 

ARKUN, RUMBLE & RYLAN:

Stannor glares daggers at Arkun's humor, grabbing his mug and situating himself further down the bar, but the act gets a chuckle out of Garlen.

"Harlathurl... that sounds similar to a name of a person I'm looking for.  Haeleeya Hanadroum, have you ever heard that name?  Know where I could find them?"

"Ah yeah, believe she runs the bathhouse up the street from the inn," Garlen answers. "Beggin' your pardon though, you don't look much to me like the bathhouse type."

Garlen pours a mug for Arkun and overhears the conversation. "Feel free to grab a table anywhere you'd like," he says, "I'll have a server bring you two another ale when you're empty." He calls to one of the servers, "Have Justran bring up another keg, will you?"

OOC: Subtracted 1 sp from Arkun and Rylan's character sheets for the ales.