Frozen Sick (2) BE7

Snow gently falls from the sky and wind bites your cheeks as you stand in the graveyard of Palebank Village, a fishing outpost of Uthodurn that is home to several hundred dwarves and elves. The sun is low in the sky, sinking behind the fresh grave of Urgon Wenth, an old dwarf who caught a curse or disease that turned him into an ice statue. The folk of the village have gathered to pay their final respects to Urgon’s frozen remains.

Earlier that afternoon....

All who travel to Palebank Village inevitably find their way to the Jolly Dwarf Inn.  Word of Arl Bortock's fish chowder and fried potatoes has spread far and wide, and you wouldn't dream of missing out on a chance to find out for yourself.  

At the edge of the snow-covered harbor stands a stout, timber-framed inn known throughout the village as The Jolly Dwarf. Its roof is heavy with fresh snow, and thick beams darkened by years of sea air support the low structure. A carved wooden sign hangs from iron chains over the door, showing a round-bellied dwarf laughing with a tankard raised high while a fish leaps beside him. The sign sways slowly in the winter wind, creaking softly.

Lantern light glows through frost-laced windows, casting warm gold onto the snow-packed street. Outside the entrance, several fishing sleds lean against a post, their ropes stiff with ice. The faint smell of smoked fish and woodfire drifts from the chimney’s steady plume of smoke.

Inside, warmth and noise greet anyone who steps through the door.

The common room is crowded with fishermen shaking snow from their coats and stamping their boots on the worn wooden floor. Thick nets hang from the rafters beside old oars, cracked buoys, and the skull of a massive sea creature mounted proudly over the hearth. The fire itself roars in a broad stone fireplace large enough to roast an entire seal, its heat filling the room with the comforting scent of burning pine.

Long wooden tables are packed with villagers drinking dark ale and bowls of steaming fish chowder. Dice clatter across one table while a group of sailors argue loudly about whose boat nearly tipped while breaking through harbor ice earlier that day.

Behind the bar stands the innkeeper—a once fiery red-bearded dwarf, now a dwarf with a rusty, gray streaked beard that would touch the ground were it not tucked into his wide belt behind a well worn apron, with laugh lines deep enough to show he earned the inn’s name honestly. He pours drinks with quick practiced movements, occasionally booming out a laugh that cuts through the room like a drumbeat.

In a corner near the fire, standing atop a small barrel that serves as a stage, a female elf bard plays a lute. Her cloak of deep blue wool is dusted with melted snowflakes, and a thin silver circlet rests in her pale hair. Her music dances lightly through the tavern—bright and playful, with hints of sea shanties that the fishermen recognize.

A few patrons hum along between drinks. One old sailor taps the rhythm on the table with a pipe stem. Even the innkeeper occasionally glances her way with a grin when she slips a clever verse about dwarves and strong ale into the melody.

Outside, the harbor groans under shifting winter ice and the wind bites hard enough to freeze a man’s beard solid. But inside The Jolly Dwarf, the fire burns hot, the ale flows freely, and the elf’s music carries laughter through the long winter night.

***OoC:  Enter Cato.  Unless you have something else in mind @emjats, you could kick start it off on stage!  Where else would a bard want to be?  If you are just playing for room and board, no worries.  If you are trying to make coin, we will need to kick things off with a performance check!***

I, the elf bard Tori, stand atop the pseudo stage swaying back and forth slowly as I sing a folksy and bright, melodic song. I am simply playing for room and board at the moment. I am staying at the inn and working on my latest set of original songs by day. it is a lyrically observational group of songs about my time in the town with a folksy twang, catchy melodies and rhymes that stick with you. Sometimes I even come up with something wise. At night I play in the tavern to pay for my time here and workshop my songs. I skillfully play my lute and sing softly- 

"in all the raging storms 

and all the winters long

a dwarf will always find his warmth 

in his mug of grog"

Cato enters the tavern casually, he confidently strides, and his practiced soldier's eyes scan the room carefully. He takes note of possible exits and entrances and analyzes the patrons of the tavern to determine possible threats. He walks slowly to the bar to acquire ale and the famed fish chowder. Seeing that the barkeep is busy, Cato waves his hand to catch the dwarf's attention. "I would like an ale and fish chowder, sir." The dwarf gave a brief nod and supplies the ordered items and hurries off as Cato indicates to keep the tab open. Cato then locates a suitable empty table to enjoy his chowdah from the corner of the room.

***OOC Cato appears to be an out-of-work mercenary type with short gray hair cut like a soldier. His chainmail is well worn but maintained. His demeanor is wary but not entirely unfriendly.***

***OoC:  please indicate out of character stuff when posting in the IC thread.  We have an OoC group message thing for general above table talk.  I'll give you guys a sample post so you have an idea of how to structure your replies.

Aunt Rose opened the door to the Jolly Dwarf.  The warmth greeted her rosy cheeks at the same time a gust of wind blew the door out of her hand, sending it slamming into the wall.  A fisherman jumped out of his chair, send his table wobbling and his dwarven friend diving across it all to save the ale.  A server shrieked, dropping a tray of empty mugs.  The sound of shattering crockery added to the chaos.  "Oh my!  Dear, oh dear, so sorry lasses and laddies," she mumbled to the room as she fought a battle with her cloak, which the wind seemed to be playing a game with.  When she finally got ahold of the door and closed it, she was a disheveled mess.  She was about half way through sorting out her fabric prison, looking borderline presentable with head scarf tied back into place when the door opened up again.  Her cloak and hair immediately took to their old tricks.  "To the hells with it all then," she turned, summoning what dignity she had left, and marched straight to the bar for an ale.

The older gnome woman had a warm, welcoming smile.  Her attire was functional, and well worn from the road.  She walked with a staff, decorated with mistletoe and intricate carvings of various plants, gray of hair perhaps, but young in spirit.  At present her cheeks were flush with embarrassment and wind burn.

***OoC: Aunt Rose will order an ale, listen to the conversation around her for any interesting information, and just kinda take it all in.  Perception check : 12 (I rolled this in the character sheet in the app)***  

***OoC : You guys are now free to post, interact with the bartender, patrons, Aunt Rose, etc.  This is the introduce your character bit :) Your posts can be as short or long as you like.  Certain scenes and things lend themselves to wordy replies, some don't. Play your characted IC and above table in messages - starting now!  :) ***

Arl Bortock returned to Cato promptly, a heavy mug of dark, amber ale in his hand.  "Food'll be out in a bit.  Sit anywhere what suits ye," Arl says.  As you turn to find a table, the door flies open, somehow blowing in an older female forest gnome.  If she and the wind had been fighting, it is clear that the wind won.  She manages to work her way to the stool next to you, cheeks ablaze with embarrassment.  Despite her current state, she manages to offer Cato a friendly smile.  When Arl attends to her, she asks for a room for the night and also orders the ale and chowder.  She glances around, perhaps feeling a bit out of place.  She quickly looks to the bard, focusing in on the music instead of the large crowd of strangers. 

The place seems to be very busy, Arl and his serving staff are constantly on the go, filling mugs with rich amber ale and bowls with steaming hot chowder.  

Cato sees several empty tables, two near the door and one that just opened up near the make-shift stage. 

Some of the locals are really getting into the bard's song.  When she repeats the chorus, the tavern erupts in deep dwarven voices, all singing out together, "A dwarf will always find his warmth, in a mug of grog!"  As the song comes to an end, several of them walk over and drop silver into an upside down hat next to the "stage". 

***OoC:  this is generally where the PCs would do something.  :)  Em, feel free to IRL kick Candice in the butt, as another PC would likely be helpful.  Left to my own devices $hit can get all sortsa sideways.  You have been warned >:)  ***

After a short time, a young human woman delivers a steaming bowl of fish chowder to Cato.  The thick stew contained chunks of a tender white fish, potatoes, onions, scallops, diced bacon, course black pepper, and thyme.  The rich cream sauce had a savory flavor, and was complimented by a chunk of crusty bread.

During a break in the bard's performance you both overhear several dwarves talking at a table nearby.  They will be leaving soon for the funeral of a semi-famous local adventurer named Urgon Wenth.  There seems to be more to their hushed conversation than just grief.  They seem uneasy.  You hear one say, "Ice I says!  Poor  ba$tard ain't froze, he's a durned ice statue!"  They quickly glanced around and returned to their conversation more quietly.

Torwynn Quostrin strummed her lute softly, feeling the strings press into the well-formed calluses on her fingers. The faint sting was familiar, almost comforting, and the melody began to flow easily from her hands. The music moved through her as she slipped into that quiet state where the rhythm carried the thoughts along with it. Words rose naturally to meet the tune.

When she began to sing, the vibrato hummed warmly in her chest and throat. Each note drifted gently through the tavern, weaving through the murmur of voices and the clink of mugs. For a moment the music felt effortless, her body and soul moving together with the song as it filled the room.

The bar seemed fuller than usual that night. Travelers crowded the tables, laughter rising over the smell of ale and woodsmoke. Faces she half recognized looked up from their drinks while others barely noticed the music at all.

One face, however, stood out.

A man she had never seen before sat among the crowd. Something about him felt out of place in a room of regulars. Torwynn’s song carried on, almost on its own, while her eyes lingered on the stranger for a moment longer than they should have.

She later learned his name was Cato.

Even before the introduction, there had been something about him—something that didn’t quite belong to the easy rhythm of tavern laughter and spilled ale. He listened differently than the others, quieter, as though weighing the notes instead of merely hearing them.

The final notes faded beneath Torwynn’s fingers, the melody dissolving into the low rumble of tavern conversation. A few patrons offered polite claps while others quickly returned to their drinks.

Torwynn rose from her chair with a small bow, letting the lute rest comfortably against her hip.

“For those who haven’t yet had the pleasure,” she said with a warm, easy confidence, her voice carrying across the nearest tables, “the name is Torwynn Quostrin—traveler, collector of stories, and occasional troublemaker with a lute.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room.

“Should you ever find yourselves in need of a song, a tale, or perhaps someone to make a bad decision sound like a good one… I’m always happy to oblige.”

Her gaze drifted back through the crowd until it settled once again on the unfamiliar man.

Cato.

Curiosity tugged at her stronger than the lingering echo of the song. Slinging the lute comfortably over her shoulder, Torwynn stepped down from the small stage and wove her way through the crowded tavern.

When she reached his table, she rested a hand lightly on the back of the empty chair across from him.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked with a small, knowing smile.

“I couldn’t help but notice you listening. And I have a terrible habit of wanting to know the stories behind unfamiliar faces.”

As Galandria(given the nickname Gal by some of her first friends) approaches The Jolly Dwarf Inn, she hears music fade away into a stop. She sighs in relief for she’s had quite the pounding pain in her hair for many nights and is looking forward to a nice large ale to remedy it. Gal very slowly and as quietly as she possibly can opens the door to the Inn in hopes to not draw attention to herself. As she steps into the Inn, anyone looking towards the door would see a dark hair, sun kissed skinned Elven Ranger. Her robes and armor is as dark as the night and her hair is pulled back into a 5 strand plait, with many tangles and knots. It’s been almost 40 days and nights since Gal has seen the comfort of a roofed building for she’s been traveling for a long time. One thing that can be noted is the stains of blood along the edge of her cloak that is now dragging on the floor behind her as she approaches the bar. Gal did not stamp her feet to rid the snow when she walked in so the trail of snow-foot prints behind her is tinted with blood.

“Aye, an ale and some fried potatoes please. I haven’t had a drink in what feels like ages.”

She then slides a silver coin across the bar towards the bar keep and makes her way across the bar, sitting at an empty table next to two adventurers. While sitting down she adjusts her hood and scans the room, keeping her eyes and ears open and ready for any valuable information.

She hears murmurs of a funeral about to take place from a group of dwarves sitting not too far away and she becomes curious.

Perception: 16

Galandria perception: