“No riders I encountered, Miss.” Was Reg’s reply to Cloths’s question. He left a couple of Silver on the table anyways.
The trapper listened to everything that was said. As the group began to coalesce, he pondered what each of them would bring and how best he could ‘fit-in’, although fitting in wasn’t what he normally did.
Ereworn’s troubles were many, and the land was being affected just as bad. His own village had its own share of problems. But why had he come here? What was the draw? He wasn’t sure himself, but it didn’t feel wrong either.
He needed the rest and room for the night. In the morning, he’d see what the group was made of. All of them promised hope, he could place some respect on that.
After the free drink, and the music by Oengus, he sought the bed. He felt a little more at peace. And the coins were still on the table as he departed the room.
Jack headed home, and grabbed his pack he normally takes when he leaves town. Jack is glad his adoptive father taught him to always repack when you get back as you never know when you have to leave quickly. He opens the pack up and ensures everything has a place and he knows where everything is. He grabs a piece of paper and a quill. Realizes he needs ink, and goes into his dad's room, finding he ink, he also sees his dad's rapier, well maintained, but covered in a cobweb or two. He wipes it clean and grabs that weapon as well. Then sitting down, he writes.
Dear Dad,
Oengus was at the tavern, and Eldrond offered up a bounty to find Ned. Oengus volunteered and then I did as well. A few other did as well. Some people I knew some people I have heard of. I know if you were standing next to me, you would probably stop me as you are now my dad, but I need to go. The towen need to be helped. I know the duke has said that to trespass in Gallows Wood is to risk death. I know he means it as well, look at Eodmund out there hanging dead and fit for crow feed among a couple of other bodies. I guess the Riders got him before he made it back to his village Aobh. I am not sure how much I will get for my share, but I plan to give it back to the orphanage you rescued me from. If I never come back, please send my share there.
Your Son Jack
PS Based on your tales, your sword sounds so magical, I am borrowing it for luck. I am sure with your magical sword, I shall return.
Jack seals the Ink and returns it, then puts this letter on the top of a stack of other letters. He grabs the pack, sheathes the Rapier, and heads back to the tavern. Figuring he has a little bit more then enough time before Sunrise, enough time to sit against a wall and sleep. (OOC trick he learned on wagon trains to sleep sitting up)
Barn strives to remember the last time he slept in a cot, let alone an actual bed, rather than upon his bedroll. He fails.
Gratefully thanking Gond for the gift of a roof over his head for the night, the big man absently accepts a drink but takes no more than a few sips. Once Oengus plays his melancholy melody, Barn closes his eyes and hums along tonelessly, the hint of a distant smile crossing his lips.
Before going to bed, he steps outside and goes through his drills with his halberd in the darkness for a good half hour. When done, he remains standing, breathing hard and staring out in the direction of Gallows Wood for long moments which stretch into minutes. Wondering.
Caelan accepted Gond’s nod with a quiet inclination of his head. “You have my thanks,” he said simply, meaning more than the words carried. In a land like this, a roof freely given was worth more than coin. When the drinks came, he lifted the cup in a small, solemn gesture toward the others gathered, no toast, no bravado, then took a measured swallow and set it aside. He’d learned long ago not to dull his senses on the eve of bad ground. Barn’s reaction to the Black Riders did not go unnoticed. Caelan watched the big man’s hands fly to his halberd, the fear there sharp and honest, and when Barn finally spoke, Caelan gave a slow nod. “Aye. I’ve seen them too,” he said quietly. “Ride hard, speak not at all. And you’re right—there’s something wrong about them. Like the woods after a fire, when nothing living will go near the ash.” His gaze hardened for a moment. “If they’re hunting men now, then Ereworn’s troubles run deeper than any hob.” When Barn declared his intent to go, Caelan met his eyes squarely. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “If the trail leads into Gallows Wood, then we walk it together. No one goes in alone.” There was no romance in his tone, only resolve. He glanced briefly at the untouched bag of coins on the table and then away again. “Coin can stay where it is. If we come back, we’ll decide then what it’s worth.”
As the night thinned and folk drifted away, to beds, to letters half-written by firelight, to drills beneath the stars, Caelan lingered a while longer in the common room. He listened to Óengus’s song with his eyes half-lidded, fingers resting on the rowan charm at his chest, feeling the weight of old wards and older failures in the melody. When the music faded, he rose and made his way to the door, pausing to look once more at the dark beyond the village. Later, in the small hours, he lay on his borrowed cot fully dressed, bow within reach. Sleep came lightly, as it always did. Before it took him, he murmured to the darkness, not a prayer, exactly, but an acknowledgment. “Tomorrow, then,” he whispered. “Let’s see what still walks in the wood…and what should have stayed buried.”
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Óengus will play a melancholy song about how the wards of Ereworn came down, and then retire for the night.
"I cast Fireball."
"Are you sure you want to do that?"
"I cast Fireball."
"It's a 15 by 15 room."
"I said I cast Fireball."
“No riders I encountered, Miss.” Was Reg’s reply to Cloths’s question. He left a couple of Silver on the table anyways.
The trapper listened to everything that was said. As the group began to coalesce, he pondered what each of them would bring and how best he could ‘fit-in’, although fitting in wasn’t what he normally did.
Ereworn’s troubles were many, and the land was being affected just as bad. His own village had its own share of problems. But why had he come here? What was the draw? He wasn’t sure himself, but it didn’t feel wrong either.
He needed the rest and room for the night. In the morning, he’d see what the group was made of. All of them promised hope, he could place some respect on that.
After the free drink, and the music by Oengus, he sought the bed. He felt a little more at peace. And the coins were still on the table as he departed the room.
Smiling Jack
Jack headed home, and grabbed his pack he normally takes when he leaves town. Jack is glad his adoptive father taught him to always repack when you get back as you never know when you have to leave quickly. He opens the pack up and ensures everything has a place and he knows where everything is. He grabs a piece of paper and a quill. Realizes he needs ink, and goes into his dad's room, finding he ink, he also sees his dad's rapier, well maintained, but covered in a cobweb or two. He wipes it clean and grabs that weapon as well. Then sitting down, he writes.
Dear Dad,
Oengus was at the tavern, and Eldrond offered up a bounty to find Ned. Oengus volunteered and then I did as well. A few other did as well. Some people I knew some people I have heard of. I know if you were standing next to me, you would probably stop me as you are now my dad, but I need to go. The towen need to be helped. I know the duke has said that to trespass in Gallows Wood is to risk death. I know he means it as well, look at Eodmund out there hanging dead and fit for crow feed among a couple of other bodies. I guess the Riders got him before he made it back to his village Aobh. I am not sure how much I will get for my share, but I plan to give it back to the orphanage you rescued me from. If I never come back, please send my share there.
Your Son Jack
PS Based on your tales, your sword sounds so magical, I am borrowing it for luck. I am sure with your magical sword, I shall return.
Jack seals the Ink and returns it, then puts this letter on the top of a stack of other letters. He grabs the pack, sheathes the Rapier, and heads back to the tavern. Figuring he has a little bit more then enough time before Sunrise, enough time to sit against a wall and sleep. (OOC trick he learned on wagon trains to sleep sitting up)
Barn strives to remember the last time he slept in a cot, let alone an actual bed, rather than upon his bedroll. He fails.
Gratefully thanking Gond for the gift of a roof over his head for the night, the big man absently accepts a drink but takes no more than a few sips. Once Oengus plays his melancholy melody, Barn closes his eyes and hums along tonelessly, the hint of a distant smile crossing his lips.
Before going to bed, he steps outside and goes through his drills with his halberd in the darkness for a good half hour. When done, he remains standing, breathing hard and staring out in the direction of Gallows Wood for long moments which stretch into minutes. Wondering.
Tanis(Ranger1): Shiverquill's Tempest City | Barn(Paladin1): Damian_May's Ereworn Under the Shadow | Lyra(Warlock2/Bard4): VitusW's Silverwood Forest
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil | Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft | Ophelia(Sorcerer4): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court | Seri(Cleric3/Sorcerer1): Bartjeebus' Greyhawk
Caelan accepted Gond’s nod with a quiet inclination of his head. “You have my thanks,” he said simply, meaning more than the words carried. In a land like this, a roof freely given was worth more than coin. When the drinks came, he lifted the cup in a small, solemn gesture toward the others gathered, no toast, no bravado, then took a measured swallow and set it aside. He’d learned long ago not to dull his senses on the eve of bad ground. Barn’s reaction to the Black Riders did not go unnoticed. Caelan watched the big man’s hands fly to his halberd, the fear there sharp and honest, and when Barn finally spoke, Caelan gave a slow nod. “Aye. I’ve seen them too,” he said quietly. “Ride hard, speak not at all. And you’re right—there’s something wrong about them. Like the woods after a fire, when nothing living will go near the ash.” His gaze hardened for a moment. “If they’re hunting men now, then Ereworn’s troubles run deeper than any hob.” When Barn declared his intent to go, Caelan met his eyes squarely. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “If the trail leads into Gallows Wood, then we walk it together. No one goes in alone.” There was no romance in his tone, only resolve. He glanced briefly at the untouched bag of coins on the table and then away again. “Coin can stay where it is. If we come back, we’ll decide then what it’s worth.”
As the night thinned and folk drifted away, to beds, to letters half-written by firelight, to drills beneath the stars, Caelan lingered a while longer in the common room. He listened to Óengus’s song with his eyes half-lidded, fingers resting on the rowan charm at his chest, feeling the weight of old wards and older failures in the melody. When the music faded, he rose and made his way to the door, pausing to look once more at the dark beyond the village. Later, in the small hours, he lay on his borrowed cot fully dressed, bow within reach. Sleep came lightly, as it always did. Before it took him, he murmured to the darkness, not a prayer, exactly, but an acknowledgment. “Tomorrow, then,” he whispered. “Let’s see what still walks in the wood…and what should have stayed buried.”