Berdusk, the Jewel of the Vale, shines against the winter dark. Three great bridges span the rushing Chionthar, their lanterns mirrored in the water below as waybarges lie quiet at their moorings. The city’s steep-roofed stone houses crowd the cobbled streets, leaning close as if to share warmth. Smoke rises from chimneys, mingling with the firelit haze above a city alive with celebration.
Berdusk is a place of trade and craft. Its wagonwrights and woolen mills serve all the Vale, and its famed Berduskan dark, a sweet sherry, is prized across the Heartlands. By day the streets echo with the rumble of wagons and the cries of merchants; by night, the sewers beneath flush away snowmelt and waste, keeping the city clear for business in all seasons. Six hundred well-trained guards, aided by seven rowing gauntlets, patrol with a vigilance that makes Berdusk one of the safest settlements along the Chionthar.
But tonight, trade and patrols give way to revelry. It is the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, when Berdusk turns its heart to fire, music, and stars.
Bonfires blaze across Castle Hill, Clearspring Tor, and the market square of Amberside, where the city’s beating heart gathers. Normally a tangle of tent-stalls and hawkers, Amberside has been cleared wide for the festival. Three great fires roar against the winter cold, musicians crowding the steps of shopfronts with flutes, fiddles, and drums. Masked dancers whirl in the firelight, their shadows leaping across the cobblestones, while poets duel in verse from a raised platform at the far end of the square.
The smell of roasted boar, honeyed bread, and mulled wine drifts thick through the air. Children dart laughing between the fires, faces painted with moons and stars, while families cluster over parchment star-charts to trace the constellations of their births. Every so often, a cheer rises as someone finds their star through the overcast clouds, and those who cannot only laugh and call it Tymora’s blessing.
Here, in Amberside's firelight and music, four old paths converge once more. Years have passed since you last stood together. Yet through the smoke and laughter, through the crush of the crowd, you glimpse familiar faces — changed perhaps, but unmistakable.
The market square square was a riot of bonfires and revelry with masked dancers spinning in the firelight, poets shouting their verses over the crash of drums, cups of ale and wine sloshed about until the cobbles ran sticky. Laughter clung to the air, but Arthurcarried himself apart from it, shoulders squared as if bracing against an unseen weight.
Even at the edge of the crowd, he didn't stick out much. His auburn hair was unruly as always, no matter what length he cut it to. It framed a face still caught between youth and hardening lines. Amber eyes gleamed in the shifting light, sharp and watchful, as though searching for something just beyond reach. The red coat he wore contrasted against the black garb beneath: practical, close-fitting clothes meant for travel rather than display. His armor, pack, and bow had been left behind in his room...Though these days he was never truly unarmed.
He continues to circle the Amberside square, gaze shifting over the crowd of revelers as he looks for the familiar faces he'd come to Berdusk for.
The square was packed. Bonfires threw heat into the winter air, dancers spun in masks, and the poets on their platform were shouting loud enough to be heard over the music
Zerilslipped through it all like water through cracks. He didn’t push, didn’t shove, just moved, sliding past shoulders and elbows with the ease of someone who knew how to disappear in plain sight. His blue skin and curling horns made him stand out, but the crowd’s eyes were elsewhere, fixed on the stars or each other. That suited him fine.
A cup of wine in one hand, the other brushing against the leather satchels and purses that jostled past. Habit. His eyes flicked from guard patrols to coin belts, to the exits and alleys at the edge of the square. All the little details someone learned to notice if he wanted to see morning. He wouldn't try to take anything, not tonight. But the instinct was there.
And then he saw it. A face. A stance. A figure he knew as well as his own reflection, even as two years stood between."Arthur!" He calls, raising his cup in the air as he pushes through the crowd to reach the redhead. As he makes it to the edge of the crowd, he bows mockingly before his old friend with a grin. "Or should I say, Lord Celebrine?"
Arthurturns towards the sound a familiar voice calling his name, though his excitement bleeds into annoyance as the roguish tiefling stops to give a mocking bow, poking fun at his station. "Oh shove it Zeril," he mutters, swatting at his friend's curved horns."Keep it up and I'll shove you into a guard, I'm sure they can find something on you worth arresting you over." Despite the indignation in his tone, when Zerilstraightens he throws an arm over his shoulder in a half-embrace, grinning. "It's good to see you, even if you are still an ass."
The bonfires were bright. Too bright. Light should guide, not distract. He watched the crowd cheer, drink, stumble in masks of moons and stars. Their joy had no root. Come morning, it would be gone.
Bastianstrode through the square. Black coat, black boots, clasp of the sunburst at his throat. Nothing else marked him, yet the crowd shifted subtly as he passed. They always did.
His hair is pale as ash. His eyes shine gold, steady, and unblinking. People met them once and looked away. It was not anger he carried, but weight. He had no patience for shadows, or for the night’s false comfort.
He thought of dawn. Of how light breaks without asking. Of how it burns away what cannot endure.
Then he saw them. Faces long absent, now here. Threads pulled taut again. Not accident. Not chance.
As he approached Arthur and Zeril, his voice cut through the revelry without effort. “It seems that even in the longest night, the Morninglord keeps his promises.”
The cleric tilts his head to the side, a faint smirk curving the corners of his mouth. "It warms me to find you well, old friends."
Zerilstumbles to the side a step as the redhead swats one of his horns. Likewise when Arthurthrows an arm around his shoulder he returns the gesture, speaking after lifting the cup of wine to his lips. "I'll have you know, I haven't nicked a single thing since I've gotten here. No sir. I came to this city with all of my coin pre-nicked." He says with a wink. His eyes light up when another familiar voice parts the sound of celebration. "HEYYYY! Our favorite priest!"Twisting out from underneath Arthur'sarm, the tiefling throws his arms open wide towards the angelic-looking man. "Bastian! How's the missionary mission coming along? Have you converted thousands upon thousands these past two years!?"
'By the Lady of Dreams, I've missed this.'The thought runs through her mind for perhaps the hundredth time today...She had been drifting through the city since dusk began, letting the chaos tug her from one street to the next. The clatter of drums, the rhythm of the dancers, the dancing light of the bonfires, all of it swept Selyne along like a current, and she gave herself over to it gladly. Two years on Evermeet had left her longing for whimsy of those who lived on the Sword Coast.
Her hair, the color of deep ocean, was braided and bound with silver thread. Sea-green eyes shone out from behind the festival mask she wore as she wove her way through a crowd of revelers. She looked nothing ethereal, dutiful daughter of House Nightstar tonight. This was the road-Selyne, the one who thrived on noise and motion, who found joy in slipping out of grasp just when someone thought they had her.
And then she saw them in the firelight. Shapes she knew too well to mistake. A red coat. A strip of white through black hair. The weight of an Aasimar's stare. Her grin spread wide, though she didn't call out or wave. Instead she slipped behind Arthur, light on her feet, and clapped her hands over his eyes in one swift motion.
"Guess who, en-ithar~" She sings, voice lilting as she slips in the elvish nickname she'd bestowed years ago: literally meaning 'autumn friend,' after the tone of his hair.
"Bastian, it's good to se-" The world goes dark for Arthurin the middle of greeting his godly friend, as slender fingers slide in front of his eyes. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, eyes rolling sarcastically against Selyne's palms. "Welcome back to the mainland Selyne. How was your trip home?"
"It..." A pair of gold eyes fixate on the tiefling, impassive as the man behind them decided on how seriously to take the jest. Finally, he says smoothly: "Many who dwell in the dark remain resistant to being illuminated by the Morninglord's holy dawn."
He thought of the many places he had visited over the past two years. Far away places. Faithless places. In simple terms, it had not gone well for him. Thankfully, the arrival of the last and most distracting of the four saved him from having to elaborate further.
Bastianregards the moon elf's antics with a pale eyebrow arched. "Many things remain unchanged it seems."
"We're not talking about that right now," the pale-skinned elf replies evenly, removing her hands from Arthur's eyes before skipping past him to throw her arms around the Aasimar and Tiefling in turn. "Bastian! Zeril!" After pulling back from the final embrace, Selyne takes a moment to study her friends with her hands on her hips. "None of you look particularly festive."She observes flatly, very obviously disappointed.
Then her face lights up again. "Fear not! I brought extras!" Digging into the satchel at her side, she pulls out three more festival masks, distributing them amongst the trio. "I also have star-charts, and sweet treats."
Turning back towards the crowd, she gestures broadly at the festivities, "we are going to drink wine! And find our birth stars! And dance! And not grumble about any of it until dawn!"
"That's sorry to hear Bastian, maybe if we worked on your charisma a little eh?"The tiefling says with a grin, the lights and sounds of the festival around them fading from his attention as all of his friends finally arrive. He returns Selyne's embrace with one arm, bowing mockingly to her as he had done Arthur, "Lady Nightstar, as always it's a pleasure to see you." As he straightens, he takes one of the offered masks, donning it with a shrug. "All of those sound like a fine time to me, you won't hear any grumbling on my end." From behind the mask, his silver eyes flick between Bastianand Arthur. "These two however..."
Reluctantly he takes the mask pressed into his palm, turning it over a few times before affixing it to his face with a sigh. "Two years gone and you're already bossing us around as if we were never apart." He looks over his shoulder towards the center of the Amberside market square, where the revelers dance. "Maybe the wine first...That isn't exactly ballroom dancing."
“Wine dulls the sense.” The words left him smooth, without hesitation. A simple truth, not a jest.
He watched the dancers in their masks, the firelight painting their steps. Disorder. No form. No discipline. Yet still, there was joy. Joy had its place.
Bastian’s eyes returned to Arthur. The mask on his face, the sigh before it. Old habits clung hard.
A moment of hesitation, followed by a faint twitch of his lips. “Still...you chose the safer road first. Some things do not change.”
"Call me that again and I'll pour that cup down your shirt!"Selyne says in a dangerously sweet tone to the tiefling as she begins to move, hands planted on Arthur's back to push him along.
"Now come on, it's decided, let's go! Wine, then dancing."
The press of revelers parts just enough for the four of you to move together, the current of the festival tugging you toward the line of stalls along the square’s edge. The smell hits first hot spiced wine, sharp and sweet, carried on the cold night air. Merchants stand over steaming cauldrons, ladles flashing as they fill clay cups and pass them off to waiting hands.
Around you, the Amberside market square is a riot of motion. Children chase each other between the fires, their faces painted with stars. A circle of dancers collapses in laughter before pulling itself back together with fresh volunteers. Somewhere nearby, a bard’s voice rises in a verse about heroes long dead, only to be drowned out by the crash of drums and jeers from his rival on the platform.
One of the wine-sellers shouts to you over the din, holding up a cup sloshing with dark red. “Berduskan Dark! Sweet and strong enough to warm your bones ‘til dawn!”
[ Just call it 1 CP a cup. We'll say you wander around for a bit sipping on the wine until you decide you have enough liquid courage to dance. If you end up having more than 2 tonight, you start rolling CON saves. >;) ]
OoC: Dice roller decided Arthur gets crunk tonight I guess.
As they wander around the festival, Arthurwarms himself against the cold with several cups of the spiced wine. He ends up going back to the wine-seller four more times, quickly draining the wine each time. By the time he's made it through the fifth, a faint flush brightens his cheeks, and he no longer feels the bite of the cool winter air.
"Unlike you two, I don't need an excuse for dancing." The tiefling says with a grin, finishing off the cup of wine he already had before getting another. This one he nurses for the rest of the time.
The wine was warm. Sweet. Strong. It would be enough.
That his friend returned again and again to the wine-seller as the evening went on did not escape his notice. A faint smirk touches the aasimar's face. Old habits. Old roles. Once his cup was emptied, he found a table to set it aside on. No more tonight.
Selyne downs her first cup in one go, immediately holding it out towards the wine seller for another with a wide grin on her face. The second and third she sips more slowly as they wander aimlessly around the square, grinning endlessly as the warm tingle starts to spread through her limbs.
Once the last cup is drained, she starts to usher the other three along towards the center of the square with the other dancers. "Come on, come on! It's time for the fun part!"
"Arthur don't fall over! Bastian no hiding! Zeril...no stealing!"
By the time the four of you begin to edge closer towards the heart of the festivities, Arthurand Selyne appear slightly swaying on their feet - mildly tipsy from the wine.
[ Arthur and Selyne have the poisoned condition until the next long rest. ]
The square heaves with motion as you push closer to the center. Drums pound loud enough to rattle in your chest, fiddles and pipes screaming over the beat. The air is thick with heat and sweat, the bonfires casting long, leaping shadows across the cobblestones.
Dancers spill into circles and lines, breaking apart and reforming without pattern, their steps more wild joy than practiced form. Cloaks whirl, boots stamp, and every misstep is met with laughter rather than scorn. As you step into the press, strangers reach out to grab your hands, pulling you into the current before you have time for second thoughts. One moment you're circling left, the next you're spun off to the right, shoulder to shoulder with revelers.
The dance whirls on, faster and faster, until laughter drowns even the drums. Sweat clings to brows despite the winter air, breath comes ragged between shouts, and the current of the crowd carries you until your legs ache. After what feels like an hour the circle breaks apart at last with a final cheer, most dancers spilling away from the bonfire in every direction while some remain. When the press finally lets you go, you find yourselves breathless on the far side of the square, opposite the wine stalls where the night began. The air is cooler here, less crowded. The square behind you is still alive with song and fire, but the flow of revelers is not contained to Amberside alone. The streets spill outward into the rest of Berdusk, lanterns strung between buildings and stalls lining the edges.
Berdusk, the Jewel of the Vale, shines against the winter dark. Three great bridges span the rushing Chionthar, their lanterns mirrored in the water below as waybarges lie quiet at their moorings. The city’s steep-roofed stone houses crowd the cobbled streets, leaning close as if to share warmth. Smoke rises from chimneys, mingling with the firelit haze above a city alive with celebration.
Berdusk is a place of trade and craft. Its wagonwrights and woolen mills serve all the Vale, and its famed Berduskan dark, a sweet sherry, is prized across the Heartlands. By day the streets echo with the rumble of wagons and the cries of merchants; by night, the sewers beneath flush away snowmelt and waste, keeping the city clear for business in all seasons. Six hundred well-trained guards, aided by seven rowing gauntlets, patrol with a vigilance that makes Berdusk one of the safest settlements along the Chionthar.
But tonight, trade and patrols give way to revelry. It is the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, when Berdusk turns its heart to fire, music, and stars.
Bonfires blaze across Castle Hill, Clearspring Tor, and the market square of Amberside, where the city’s beating heart gathers. Normally a tangle of tent-stalls and hawkers, Amberside has been cleared wide for the festival. Three great fires roar against the winter cold, musicians crowding the steps of shopfronts with flutes, fiddles, and drums. Masked dancers whirl in the firelight, their shadows leaping across the cobblestones, while poets duel in verse from a raised platform at the far end of the square.
The smell of roasted boar, honeyed bread, and mulled wine drifts thick through the air. Children dart laughing between the fires, faces painted with moons and stars, while families cluster over parchment star-charts to trace the constellations of their births. Every so often, a cheer rises as someone finds their star through the overcast clouds, and those who cannot only laugh and call it Tymora’s blessing.
Here, in Amberside's firelight and music, four old paths converge once more. Years have passed since you last stood together. Yet through the smoke and laughter, through the crush of the crowd, you glimpse familiar faces — changed perhaps, but unmistakable.
The market square square was a riot of bonfires and revelry with masked dancers spinning in the firelight, poets shouting their verses over the crash of drums, cups of ale and wine sloshed about until the cobbles ran sticky. Laughter clung to the air, but Arthur carried himself apart from it, shoulders squared as if bracing against an unseen weight.
Even at the edge of the crowd, he didn't stick out much. His auburn hair was unruly as always, no matter what length he cut it to. It framed a face still caught between youth and hardening lines. Amber eyes gleamed in the shifting light, sharp and watchful, as though searching for something just beyond reach. The red coat he wore contrasted against the black garb beneath: practical, close-fitting clothes meant for travel rather than display. His armor, pack, and bow had been left behind in his room...Though these days he was never truly unarmed.
He continues to circle the Amberside square, gaze shifting over the crowd of revelers as he looks for the familiar faces he'd come to Berdusk for.
The square was packed. Bonfires threw heat into the winter air, dancers spun in masks, and the poets on their platform were shouting loud enough to be heard over the music
Zeril slipped through it all like water through cracks. He didn’t push, didn’t shove, just moved, sliding past shoulders and elbows with the ease of someone who knew how to disappear in plain sight. His blue skin and curling horns made him stand out, but the crowd’s eyes were elsewhere, fixed on the stars or each other. That suited him fine.
A cup of wine in one hand, the other brushing against the leather satchels and purses that jostled past. Habit. His eyes flicked from guard patrols to coin belts, to the exits and alleys at the edge of the square. All the little details someone learned to notice if he wanted to see morning. He wouldn't try to take anything, not tonight. But the instinct was there.
And then he saw it. A face. A stance. A figure he knew as well as his own reflection, even as two years stood between. "Arthur!" He calls, raising his cup in the air as he pushes through the crowd to reach the redhead. As he makes it to the edge of the crowd, he bows mockingly before his old friend with a grin. "Or should I say, Lord Celebrine?"
Arthur turns towards the sound a familiar voice calling his name, though his excitement bleeds into annoyance as the roguish tiefling stops to give a mocking bow, poking fun at his station. "Oh shove it Zeril," he mutters, swatting at his friend's curved horns. "Keep it up and I'll shove you into a guard, I'm sure they can find something on you worth arresting you over." Despite the indignation in his tone, when Zeril straightens he throws an arm over his shoulder in a half-embrace, grinning. "It's good to see you, even if you are still an ass."
The bonfires were bright. Too bright. Light should guide, not distract. He watched the crowd cheer, drink, stumble in masks of moons and stars. Their joy had no root. Come morning, it would be gone.
Bastian strode through the square. Black coat, black boots, clasp of the sunburst at his throat. Nothing else marked him, yet the crowd shifted subtly as he passed. They always did.
His hair is pale as ash. His eyes shine gold, steady, and unblinking. People met them once and looked away. It was not anger he carried, but weight. He had no patience for shadows, or for the night’s false comfort.
He thought of dawn. Of how light breaks without asking. Of how it burns away what cannot endure.
Then he saw them. Faces long absent, now here. Threads pulled taut again. Not accident. Not chance.
As he approached Arthur and Zeril, his voice cut through the revelry without effort.
“It seems that even in the longest night, the Morninglord keeps his promises.”
The cleric tilts his head to the side, a faint smirk curving the corners of his mouth.
"It warms me to find you well, old friends."
Zeril stumbles to the side a step as the redhead swats one of his horns. Likewise when Arthur throws an arm around his shoulder he returns the gesture, speaking after lifting the cup of wine to his lips. "I'll have you know, I haven't nicked a single thing since I've gotten here. No sir. I came to this city with all of my coin pre-nicked." He says with a wink. His eyes light up when another familiar voice parts the sound of celebration. "HEYYYY! Our favorite priest!" Twisting out from underneath Arthur's arm, the tiefling throws his arms open wide towards the angelic-looking man. "Bastian! How's the missionary mission coming along? Have you converted thousands upon thousands these past two years!?"
'By the Lady of Dreams, I've missed this.' The thought runs through her mind for perhaps the hundredth time today...She had been drifting through the city since dusk began, letting the chaos tug her from one street to the next. The clatter of drums, the rhythm of the dancers, the dancing light of the bonfires, all of it swept Selyne along like a current, and she gave herself over to it gladly. Two years on Evermeet had left her longing for whimsy of those who lived on the Sword Coast.
Her hair, the color of deep ocean, was braided and bound with silver thread. Sea-green eyes shone out from behind the festival mask she wore as she wove her way through a crowd of revelers. She looked nothing ethereal, dutiful daughter of House Nightstar tonight. This was the road-Selyne, the one who thrived on noise and motion, who found joy in slipping out of grasp just when someone thought they had her.
And then she saw them in the firelight. Shapes she knew too well to mistake. A red coat. A strip of white through black hair. The weight of an Aasimar's stare. Her grin spread wide, though she didn't call out or wave. Instead she slipped behind Arthur, light on her feet, and clapped her hands over his eyes in one swift motion.
"Guess who, en-ithar~" She sings, voice lilting as she slips in the elvish nickname she'd bestowed years ago: literally meaning 'autumn friend,' after the tone of his hair.
"Bastian, it's good to se-" The world goes dark for Arthur in the middle of greeting his godly friend, as slender fingers slide in front of his eyes. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, eyes rolling sarcastically against Selyne's palms. "Welcome back to the mainland Selyne. How was your trip home?"
"It..."
A pair of gold eyes fixate on the tiefling, impassive as the man behind them decided on how seriously to take the jest. Finally, he says smoothly:
"Many who dwell in the dark remain resistant to being illuminated by the Morninglord's holy dawn."
He thought of the many places he had visited over the past two years. Far away places. Faithless places. In simple terms, it had not gone well for him. Thankfully, the arrival of the last and most distracting of the four saved him from having to elaborate further.
Bastian regards the moon elf's antics with a pale eyebrow arched.
"Many things remain unchanged it seems."
"We're not talking about that right now," the pale-skinned elf replies evenly, removing her hands from Arthur's eyes before skipping past him to throw her arms around the Aasimar and Tiefling in turn. "Bastian! Zeril!" After pulling back from the final embrace, Selyne takes a moment to study her friends with her hands on her hips. "None of you look particularly festive." She observes flatly, very obviously disappointed.
Then her face lights up again. "Fear not! I brought extras!" Digging into the satchel at her side, she pulls out three more festival masks, distributing them amongst the trio. "I also have star-charts, and sweet treats."
Turning back towards the crowd, she gestures broadly at the festivities, "we are going to drink wine! And find our birth stars! And dance! And not grumble about any of it until dawn!"
"That's sorry to hear Bastian, maybe if we worked on your charisma a little eh?" The tiefling says with a grin, the lights and sounds of the festival around them fading from his attention as all of his friends finally arrive. He returns Selyne's embrace with one arm, bowing mockingly to her as he had done Arthur, "Lady Nightstar, as always it's a pleasure to see you." As he straightens, he takes one of the offered masks, donning it with a shrug. "All of those sound like a fine time to me, you won't hear any grumbling on my end." From behind the mask, his silver eyes flick between Bastian and Arthur. "These two however..."
Reluctantly he takes the mask pressed into his palm, turning it over a few times before affixing it to his face with a sigh. "Two years gone and you're already bossing us around as if we were never apart." He looks over his shoulder towards the center of the Amberside market square, where the revelers dance. "Maybe the wine first...That isn't exactly ballroom dancing."
“Wine dulls the sense.”
The words left him smooth, without hesitation. A simple truth, not a jest.
He watched the dancers in their masks, the firelight painting their steps. Disorder. No form. No discipline. Yet still, there was joy. Joy had its place.
Bastian’s eyes returned to Arthur. The mask on his face, the sigh before it. Old habits clung hard.
A moment of hesitation, followed by a faint twitch of his lips.
“Still...you chose the safer road first. Some things do not change.”
"Call me that again and I'll pour that cup down your shirt!" Selyne says in a dangerously sweet tone to the tiefling as she begins to move, hands planted on Arthur's back to push him along.
"Now come on, it's decided, let's go! Wine, then dancing."
The press of revelers parts just enough for the four of you to move together, the current of the festival tugging you toward the line of stalls along the square’s edge. The smell hits first hot spiced wine, sharp and sweet, carried on the cold night air. Merchants stand over steaming cauldrons, ladles flashing as they fill clay cups and pass them off to waiting hands.
Around you, the Amberside market square is a riot of motion. Children chase each other between the fires, their faces painted with stars. A circle of dancers collapses in laughter before pulling itself back together with fresh volunteers. Somewhere nearby, a bard’s voice rises in a verse about heroes long dead, only to be drowned out by the crash of drums and jeers from his rival on the platform.
One of the wine-sellers shouts to you over the din, holding up a cup sloshing with dark red. “Berduskan Dark! Sweet and strong enough to warm your bones ‘til dawn!”
[ Just call it 1 CP a cup. We'll say you wander around for a bit sipping on the wine until you decide you have enough liquid courage to dance. If you end up having more than 2 tonight, you start rolling CON saves. >;) ]
OoC: Dice roller decided Arthur gets crunk tonight I guess.
As they wander around the festival, Arthur warms himself against the cold with several cups of the spiced wine. He ends up going back to the wine-seller four more times, quickly draining the wine each time. By the time he's made it through the fifth, a faint flush brightens his cheeks, and he no longer feels the bite of the cool winter air.
CON: 21
CON: 17
CON: 21
"Unlike you two, I don't need an excuse for dancing." The tiefling says with a grin, finishing off the cup of wine he already had before getting another. This one he nurses for the rest of the time.
Bastian took a cup. One.
The wine was warm. Sweet. Strong. It would be enough.
That his friend returned again and again to the wine-seller as the evening went on did not escape his notice. A faint smirk touches the aasimar's face. Old habits. Old roles. Once his cup was emptied, he found a table to set it aside on. No more tonight.
Selyne downs her first cup in one go, immediately holding it out towards the wine seller for another with a wide grin on her face. The second and third she sips more slowly as they wander aimlessly around the square, grinning endlessly as the warm tingle starts to spread through her limbs.
Once the last cup is drained, she starts to usher the other three along towards the center of the square with the other dancers. "Come on, come on! It's time for the fun part!"
"Arthur don't fall over! Bastian no hiding! Zeril...no stealing!"
Con Save: 5
By the time the four of you begin to edge closer towards the heart of the festivities, Arthur and Selyne appear slightly swaying on their feet - mildly tipsy from the wine.
[ Arthur and Selyne have the poisoned condition until the next long rest. ]
The square heaves with motion as you push closer to the center. Drums pound loud enough to rattle in your chest, fiddles and pipes screaming over the beat. The air is thick with heat and sweat, the bonfires casting long, leaping shadows across the cobblestones.
Dancers spill into circles and lines, breaking apart and reforming without pattern, their steps more wild joy than practiced form. Cloaks whirl, boots stamp, and every misstep is met with laughter rather than scorn. As you step into the press, strangers reach out to grab your hands, pulling you into the current before you have time for second thoughts. One moment you're circling left, the next you're spun off to the right, shoulder to shoulder with revelers.
The dance whirls on, faster and faster, until laughter drowns even the drums. Sweat clings to brows despite the winter air, breath comes ragged between shouts, and the current of the crowd carries you until your legs ache. After what feels like an hour the circle breaks apart at last with a final cheer, most dancers spilling away from the bonfire in every direction while some remain. When the press finally lets you go, you find yourselves breathless on the far side of the square, opposite the wine stalls where the night began. The air is cooler here, less crowded. The square behind you is still alive with song and fire, but the flow of revelers is not contained to Amberside alone. The streets spill outward into the rest of Berdusk, lanterns strung between buildings and stalls lining the edges.