We are going to have 5 cards laid out, eventually. It will look like a tic tac toe board, with nothing in the corners. This is the 9:00 position, or the position on your left.
Her face draws back in disgust. Nine of Glyphs. The Traitor. The image on the card is a heavyset man looking sideways, with papers in his pocket. Look for a wealthy woman. A staunch ally of the devil, she keeps the treasure under lock and key, with the bones of an ancient enemy.
She pauses, shudders a bit, and draws a breath. She holds her hand over the deck again. This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, a holy symbol of great hope.
She lays the card in the top position, or 12:00. What is it?
She places this card in the top position, and stifles a gasp. The Tax Collector! The image is a woman - all the cards appeal to be humans - studying a list, with a sack at her feet. The sack has splitting seams, and is spilling coins onto the road around her. The Visanti have what you seek. A missing child holds the key to the treasure's release.
The four of Glyphs, she says. The Shepherd. Another woman, this one standing on a hilltop. She has a staff, but curiously no animals around her. You've seen seer's decks before; they all seem to have these sort of wrinkles to them.
Find the mother - she who gave birth to evil.
These are the treasures that will help you defeat the devil.
She sets aside the Common Deck. Now, she explains, the High Deck. She prepares to draw the top card from the High Deck. This card sheds light on one who will help you greatly in the battle against darkness.
She lays a card in the 6:00 position, at the bottom. What is it?
The Executioner. A lean man stands on the gallows, looking up at the noose. Seek out the brother of the devil's bride. They call him "the lesser," but he has a powerful soul.
And now, she says, the final card. Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to him!
The Beast, she says, revealing the last card. Of course. The card depicts some sort of shadow monster, with clearly-defined eyes. The beast sits on his dark throne.
She looks up, slightly drained. She appears to be ready for questions.
I gathered up these posts explaining the cards into a single post, for future reference.
Daylight: Dawn is 7:00; Sunset begins at 5:30 and ends at 6:00.
Fope draws a deep breath and rushes down the stairs as fast as he can.
He reaches the bottom, lantern held high, and surveys the scene. Very little, unfortunately, is visible. The dense, pea green fog is obscuring everything beyond his reach. He hears nothing, for the moment, as he steps past the chair under which he found Revenge - it seems like ages ago - and moves further into the open hallway. After a few steps, nothing is around him anymore, except a green gloom. Fope's feels dizzy, just for a moment, in the darkness. He keeps his balance but his mind wanders to a dream or memory of his youth.
Gågor and Føpé were wrestling in the hills outside of the village, as they sometimes did when they were young. Before the Disaster. When they were young, and Føpé still loved his big brother.
It was a beautiful day, like almost every day on the Soft Plains. The brothers wrestled, and Gågor was a bit too rough - a sign of things to come - and Føpé endured his arm being bent behind his back. He was used to it. He twisted a bit to escape, untangling his arm and pulling at the same time. Twisting his wrist against Gågor's thumb, and free! Gågor looked mad.
Føpé ran, thinking he was having fun but maybe also a little worried, having seen his brother's vicious temper flash behind his brown eyes. Over the hill, down into the ditch, up the next hill. His brother was no match for his speed, but Føpé kept going. When he crested the next hill, though, he tripped on something. A root? There were no trees here; that would have been strange. Maybe an unlikely stone, or a large clump of grass. Whatever it was, Føpé went head over heels down the hill, the scent of grass filling his nose and his neck already aching from the bouncing of his head. He felt himself skip a bit and then fall, and suddenly he was slipping down a sort of vertical tunnel. Earth around him, on all sides, instead of grass. With a thump, he landed at the bottom. It must have been a drop of twenty feet or more, though he felt essentially unharmed.
Down at the bottom of the hole, Føpé looked up at the speck of blue above him, where the sky was visible. So cold, all of a sudden! He knew it was warm above, but in this deep hole, so narrow that he could almost touch both sides if he stretched out his arms, he could feel the cold earth all around him. The furthest he'd ever been underground was just his parents' root cellar. This was new, and scary.
Føpé waited some time for his brother's temper to subside -- Gågor was always fun again once he settled down -- and poked around a little. He wondered how this hole in the ground came to be, and searched for signs of its making in the darkness. After sufficient time had passed, he attempted to climb out. 'What a great story this'll make at tonight's gathering. I'll bet Barnaby and Kiff will want to see this.'
The thought of failure to climb out did not pass Føpé's mind, for this was before the dark fear ever laid a hand on him, and blackened all the horizon's of his world.
That's not right, Barnaby and Kiff are my friends now. Føpé wondered a little confusedly as he searched for the door in the fog.
Føpé pokes at his jaw, which is aching a bit, in the darkness. It's tender but seems ok; his teeth are all miraculously still in place. After a minute, his eyes adjust and he can see a little bit in the darkness.
Curiously, there are roots down here, though he is certain there are no trees on the hill above. One of the thicker roots near at hand forms a little arch, and Føpé observes a gap underneath. Curious, he crawls through the narrow space into pitch black. He is now reaching from one root to another, in the dark, and he realizes with some terror that this space is so narrow that he will not be able to turn around unless the space grows wider again.
Something breaks under his hand, and he pitches forward into the darkness. Falling again, into an open chamber. There is just a bit of light in here, strangely, considering Føpé cannot see any source. But it's a large room, maybe 30' around in a rough circle, and he can see he fell through a hole in the ceiling. There is no way to climb back up, unless he could cling to the walls as they curve overhead. And he cannot.
Time passes. Føpé fidgets nervously, and begins to wonder when it's time to eat, though he is not hungry. He is surprisingly at ease, being alone and isolated, so far from the world he'd known.
More time passes, and the room gets colder. Føpé feels prickles on his arms, and realizes the room has gotten misty. A fog appears to have descended in the chamber, and then the fog draws itself into the middle of the room, and takes the rough form of a massive sloth, maybe fifteen feet tall if it stood, though Føpé would not identify one as such. The massive fog sloth leans toward Føpé, slowly stretching its long neck. Its featureless head is sloped down at the halfling boy, as it appears to be studying him.
With a shudder, Fope awakens from this reverie. Was it a dream? Something that really happened? In the moment, he's not sure.
Kif, as Fope recovers from his injuries and Barnaby looks at all the loot, sits with his back to the wall and examines, for posterity's sake, his old axe.
As you run your finger along the blade you are reminded of a particularly bloody battle from several years earlier. Your mind wanders.
Citadel Felbarr was thought to be impregnable. Tens of thousands of dwarves lived within its spacious keep and in the mountain behind it. And yet, it had been breached in the Battle of Arrows.
Kif had been there, on that day. The main gate torn down with siege equipment; it groaned and split open, giving way to some battering ram that none inside the keep ever even saw coming. The forecourt, inside the gate, was already littered with bodies and boulders, and scorched with flame. The remnants of fumes and gas clouds - magic and otherwise - still clung to the wasted earth, as hundreds of orcs began climbing over the walls and pouring through the ravaged gate.
Deep in the underground, dwarven scouts are trying to lead survivors to safety through the bowels of the mountain. The paths are not safe, or fast, and it is slow going. They need time.
In the forecourt of the keep, four dozen dwarves hide in the wreckage, hoping to slow the progress of the orc invaders. It is the only way to protect those fleeing below.
Kif grips his axe tight. The noxious fumes of a lingering poison cloud, harmless but still irritating to the eyes, hang in the air. A gash above his ear is still oozing blood, and his legs and shoulders ache from the strain of two days of fighting from the castle walls. The orcs are coming.
Kif looks at the nicked edge of the old ax, scared from battle protecting his family and friends. Ahh my friend, we had some good times and you served well, and may yet serve again. As he stares off into the distance beyond the blade he remembers the last bits of fear fading away, replaced by a grim determination that, no matter what may come he will do his best to buy the folks below time to get away. As he waited for the moment to go he remembers seeing across the courtyard a young cousin, Fozoc, crushed under some fallen masonry, lifeless eyes looking forever into the sky. He promises himself the attacking orcs will pay dearly. He isn't sure how he survived the following attack, but the memory of the heaps of orcs and other vermin cut down on dwarf blades until they were fighting standing on the bodies of their green skinned foes will forever be there
As the vision clears and he returns to the basement room he sees, for a fleeting moment, the face of Føpé blends with the face of Fozoc. He shakes his head a bit, realizing that this party, for better or worse, is becoming closer than a group of adventurers and he's really starting to care for these folks.
He puts the old ax aside with reverence and inspects the blade of the new ax, Reejarim. Well done, new friend, let see if we can carve our way out of this shithouse and get Ireena where she needs to go
Kif chuckles to himself and with a few passes of the sharpening stone brings the edge of his new ax to a murderous shine
So, Føpé, that chain shirt anything you can use? Gives you a nice edge I might like to carry one of those healing potions...a little bactine goes a long way sometimes, and a lantern might be handy, does it have fuel in it...might be better than a candle on the forehead
Ireena, how are you doing...I don't thing any of us expected this sort of delay but it's hard to resist the call for help from children
Sure, the party members can carry on with their short rest, including you. And you can even talk to them, as you are, so that the group's story may go on.
But you are also here with me until I say otherwise.
Now, Kif. I ask you again. The smoke is swirling around you; the acrid fumes of poisonous fog still fill the air. You and four dozen of your comrades hide in this ruined battlefield, just trying to buy a little bit of time for the survivors down below to escape - maybe - into the Underdark, and hopefully come out the other side. Two hundred orcs, maybe more, are penetrating the forecourt; climbing over the walls and streaming through the broken gate.
You are bleeding and sore. You have spent one and a half days in this courtyard and on that breached wall defending this place.
What, Kif, is going through your mind, as you crouch behind this boulder?
As he stares off into the distance beyond the blade he remembers the last bits of fear fading away, replaced by a grim determination that, no matter what may come he will do his best to buy the folks below time to get away. As he waited for the moment to go he remembers seeing across the courtyard a young cousin, Fozoc, crushed under some fallen masonry, lifeless eyes looking forever into the sky. He promises himself the attacking orcs will pay dearly. He isn't sure how he survived the following attack, but the memory of the heaps of orcs and other vermin cut down on dwarf blades until they were fighting standing on the bodies of their green skinned foes will forever be there
Sorry, I overlooked that this was mixed in with the rest. This is what I was looking for, pretty much.
The pounding of armored feet comes closer. The gate is also getting torn down; Kif can hear it.
The orcs come pouring across the forecourt. With the blast of a warhorn, the dwarven commander - a young dwarf with a patchy black beard, named Rindenhar - signals it's time to fight. Kif, with the vision of Fozoc seared into his eyes, comes rushing out from behind the boulder with this same axe. Two, three, four, five orcs go down beneath him! He is fighting like a champion; his aches and pains forgotten. He is awash in blood; some of it his, some of it his enemies'. The iron smell of it fuels his spirit.
There are too many, though. Simply too many orcs. As Kif stands on the path between the gate and the keep, he sees the orcs have pulled open the gate far enough that they have gotten some kind of battle wagon through it. The keep walls behind him, and the keep's own gate, will surely fall sooner if this covered wagon gets through. Kif stands, waiting for the goblin slaves pulling the wagon to begin their approach. They do.
Kif swiftly circles around the boulder where he had been hiding, moments earlier. He rubs the sweat and blood from his eyes and waits. Once the wagon is close enough, he sprints the long way around the boulder and comes up behind it. He goes underneath the wagon, smashing at the rear axle until it finally cracks. The enormous underside gives way and collapses, faster than Kif expected, and he is not able to get out. The broken timbers groan and break all around him as he crouches and hopes for the best. Something snaps nearby, a crate from inside the cart tips over, and he is knocked unconscious inside the wreckage.
Hours later - after the keep has fallen; after some dwarves have escaped (perhaps) into the Underdark; after the orcs have already scoured the battlefield, and apparently overlooked him - Kif wakes up. He climbs out of the wreckage and slips through the shadows, still clinging to the axe, and he creeps away into the nearby hills. It was a terrible day, though what haunts him through that night, as he climbs over the ridges and down through the valleys, is something he has never disclosed to anyone since: Just at the last, under that cart, in the blink of an eye as he felt the blow that would knock him unconscious, he had a vision. In a field of charcoal gray smoke, two yellow eyes - catlike, maybe serpentlike; definitely not orcish or familiar from anywhere else - opened, and stared right into his soul.
Kif finds himself back in the room occupied by his companions and the erstwhile former Mr. Elisabeth Durst.
Barnaby looks towards the stairs...no time...the library...it is burning.... He turns his gaze to the flames. I am a hero. I can do this. Barnaby steps quickly and confidently forwards, removing his cloak as he goes. I will smother it quickly and all will be well. This is not a problem.
Barnaby's watch finished, he curls up in his bedroll, warm, dry, and safe. He thinks about just how far he has come, since his time in the library. His reflection on the day - full of struggle and triumph, exertion and conquest, chivalry and right - gives way to a quick passage into the realm of dreams.
He dreams of walking the narrow passages among the scrolls and tomes of the massive library of Waterdeep. It was such a place! Quiet and boring, to be sure, but so big. So many rows and rows of histories and stories, magic and wickedness. He walks the aisles, in his dreams, deep within the bowels of the massive stone structure. He is far underground now. Far underground. Familiar texts and scrolls give way to new, unfamiliar tomes; one of them bears the name "Van Zarovich" on the binding. In the dream it is starting to get cool, deep in the library. Then, a whiff of smoke. Smoke, in the library! Fire!
Barnaby sees the blaze. Still far away - maybe a hundred feet down this narrow aisle, past shelves and shelves of scrolls and tomes; past a few rickety ladders that librarians such as he use to reach the upper shelves. Selves where a person could find books a hundred years or more old. And now, a flame! It is yet small, but it could grow fast.
What does Barnaby do? Seek help? Try to put out the flame? Flee?
Barnaby looks towards the stairs...no time...the library...it is burning.... He turns his gaze to the flames. I am a hero. I can do this. Barnaby steps quickly and confidently forwards, removing his cloak as he goes. I will smother it quickly and all will be well. This is not a problem.
Dream-Barnaby hurries down the aisle, gathering his robe in his hands to snuff out the flame when he gets there. He realizes he is in a strange part of the library no, impossibly tall, with the flames so far away. He feels the ghostly presence of Dota, Chimmi, Rizz, and Bart nearby, though he cannot see them. Barnaby gets to the flame and pats at it with his robe, but the flame is growing beyond what his little gnome hands can reach. What does he do?
Barnaby's eyes grow wide. What to do? What to do? If only he were a mage like the ones in his stories, he could call upon arcane forces and smother the flames with a snap of his fingers. He shakes his head and starts stacking chairs, climbing shelves, whatever he can do to put out the flames. So many books, oh so many books. Help me children, help me my dear, help me save the library.
Barnaby tries and tries to douse the flames. He reaches further than he thought possible from his perch atop the rickety ladder; he pulls huge strips of fabric from his small robe, but it is not enough. Now, in this dream, his family is there, but not in the flesh. His children and wife are ghostly presences nearby, and they turn to look at him. Their expressions, though, are completely indifferent. They are present, as ghosts, but they look at him as if he is a stranger.
As the flame grow, Barnaby's vision once again returns to battling the blaze. He is using unburnt books to try to mash out the flames on those already on fire, but it is too late. All is being consumed as the library burns.
Barnaby wakes hours before dawn, sweating furiously. He remembers the dream, more or less, and cannot shake a most strange image from the moment before he woke up: A massive sloth, made of smoke and flame, peering down at him as he struggled.
Barnaby spends a few minutes wiping his brow and stilling his pounding heart. Perhaps he takes a few moments to make some notes about this strange and vivid dream; perhaps he stretches his legs a bit. He returns to his bedroll, and sleeps soundly the rest of the night.
Congratulations!
Duchess Elena Morena Morgan, the beloved guiding hand and - with the council - leader of Daggerford, has invited you to dine at the ducal castle. Tonight is the sixth of Mirtul, or "the Melting," and we are in the beautiful days of late spring. This invitation from Duchess Morgan is a rare honor, as well, in that it is only bestowed upon those who have performed some grand service to Daggerford or its inhabitants in the recent weeks.
You sit at the table, looking at those around you. What did they do, to deserve this honor? You sit and wonder.
The Duchess will not make her entry until later this evening. It is an honor, of course, just to be here, and some around the table begin to share the stories of what brought them to this table. A human man with a heavy brow and long, curly gray hair tells his story. He wears a peasant's clothing now, but you can tell at a glance that he is accustomed to the burdens of manual labor, and a heavy apron:
I am Bartholo, of the smith family named Delringer. Just this past week, I finally fashioned for the Duchess's nephews a special pair of shortswords. The two boys were kind enough, and the wizard who spent half a day every day for a month at my shop was also kind enough. But it took a month, with the wizard looking in and casting spells and muttering every other day, and finally I finished smithing two beautiful swords. Glowed, they did.
I do not know what the boys named the blades, if they named them at all. But the boys and the blades are in Waterdeep now, I'm told. For my trouble I've been paid more than what's fair, and the Duchess, may she be three times blessed, has also invited me here tonight with you fine folk. May the gods always bless us with such fine fortune!
Next to Bartholo, there is a young half-elf woman. She wears a peasant's clothes. She has fine lips and a dark complexion. Half wood elf, perhaps? Her eyes are emerald green, and she appears to have freckles from her human lineage. She is quite beautiful.
My name is Thia, she says. Thia Brokenbarrel. Well, I'm sure I did what any one of you would have done. I was working on the pier when I saw the two children fall into the river, one after the other. Splash splash, you know? So I jumped out into the water after them. The Duchess was incredibly kind to invite me. It was so nice of her! But I think any of you who could swim would have done what I did.
The four of you sit with Thia and Bartholo, with a space for the Duchess at the head of the long table. Please tell us all how you look, and what thing you did that, you think, led to your invitation to this special night at the ducal castle. How do you look to the others? How do you introduce yourself, and what do you say?
Use bold to indicate what you say. Narrate in plain text. Out of character commentary, like this, can be in blue. Your characters thoughts, if you choose to share them, can be in italics.
Well, this is awkward...quite the lengthy silence. I should never have let it go so long...they will think me a coward...
Err...ahem...It's ah...well...I'm glad you all could...no no no…
This stuttering intro comes from an older gnome of typically diminutive gnome stature, sitting with his legs straight out in front of him. One hand rests comfortably on his ample belly, while the other holds a smoldering pipe (in the style of Sherlock Holmes') to his lips which are hidden behind a thick mass of white mustache hair that falls in a neatly combed curtain down to the middle of his chest. Matching white hair grows in a ring from above each ear around the back of his head, pulled tightly into a short pony tail (ala older George Carlin). He is wearing round wire rimmed spectacles and bright red, very new looking robes with pink and purple tulips embroidered around the cuffs and hem. Against the arm of his chair rests a staff with a bauble on top made of what is clearly cheap glass. On his shoulder sits a very small, very bored looking owl.
He begins speaking again, this time with renewed vigor...
Hi! I am Barnaby Fizzlepop, but I am known throughout the lands as The Bold Mage...um no, Barnaby the Bold...well, how about Barnaby the Bold Mage? Too wordy?
Well, I am not entirely sure what earned me this invitation. Most likely it was that when I approached Daggerford, having left my home in Waterdeep, I noticed two quite fearsome looking rats in a drainage ditch fighting over a discarded chicken leg. With but a half dozen fire bolts shot from my powerful hands, I was able to put an end to their evil ne'er do well existence. It was but a trifle for me, but perhaps some onlooker was overwhelmed by my arcane prowess and reported the deed to her excellent highness, the blessed and divine, Duchess...erm...uhh...Helena?
With this, Barnaby rests back in his chair looking quite victorious and then glances around the table expectantly at the other guests.
When the halfling first entered, he left a shepherd's crook in the umbrella stand, and a heavy pack, scimitar sheathed to the side, with the butler, after a look that said, "be warned".
Now, he stands on a chair, eye level with the other guests. His dark eyes and tan stand out against his sun bleached hair, and well-worn, faded, clothing, a light weight whool shirt and loose pants, that match the color of distant planes. His slightly hawkish nose intimidates in spite of his stature.
In voice both quite and full of inner resolve, "Føpé."
He addresses Bartholo. "A true weapons master has no need of swords such as you describe, but it is right that someone who talks as much as you, engages in such activities, and that the master of a place such as this would value them."
Toward Barnapy, "I too do not understand why I am here."
Addressing Barnaby, speaking loudly so that the elder gentleman can hear, "Honored elder, my name is Føpé, Fø-pé. Tell me, Is it common in this land for pest-control fellows such as yourself to dine with nobels and command stangers?"
Bartholo stands and gazes down at the halfling sitting, unarmed, across from him.
Føpé realizes several things at once. First, Bartholo is an enormous man. Very heavily muscled. Second, he is wearing a short sword at his belt. Third, apparently it was not necessary or expected to check weapons at the door.
He gestures toward his sword, without drawing it. To draw it indoors, of course, would be terribly disrespectful to Duchess Morgan.
This blade's name is Ogresbane, because I have twice slain an ogre with it. Føpé, you have not seen an ogre yet in your travels, but you have heard of them. Mighty beasts, and formidable foes. If you will be in town long, young master, perhaps you will teach me to use it.
Attentive listeners might hear several of the servants exhale in relief, as Bartholo apparently did not take offense from Føpé's sharp words.
Some watching this encounter might have a sudden realization: actions have consequences. The universe is dangerous enough, without needlessly tempting fate. Others might not have the same realization.
Everybody use the dice roller feature on this message board to do a perception check.
If you rolled a 10 or higher, read the following:
There is no hidden danger here, as far as you can tell. It is just a dinner party. However, the house guards, you have no doubt, would have interceded on behalf of Bartholo if there had been a fight. They were a hair's breadth from doing so, but they relaxed when he did not take offense.
Sitting back, most uncomfortable in these surrounding is a ruddy dwarf, with a few scars including an ear that has a big chunk missing. His long auburn hair and beard have been braided and recently cleaned, and clothing made as presentable as possible. While he left his goods and great ax with the gate guards he still sports a recently polished and serviceable chain shirt and two well made hand axes in his belt.
He stands up at the halfling's declaration
Sit down and hear this man out, show some manners. It seems there is a story here and I'd like to hear it. A smith should measured by the quality of his work, not on the quality of his customers, although it sounds like they treated him right. I want to hear what the man has to say, as well as the lady rescuer of the two children, while we wait for our hostess.
He sits back down and grabs a cup of ale
Name's Kif Cragheart, I'm not about to tell you what the Kif is short for. I'm fresh in town, though I've passed through Daggerford a couple times, it's been many years. Some of the town guard sergeants are comrades from old days in the field of battle, perhaps they threw in a good word for me.
He swigs from a glass much more delicate than he is used to and grabs a tiny sandwich
"Mr. Bartholo, this ogre must have been terribly fierce that you had to slay it twice. But I wonder, was it unarmed, as I am, both times? Perhaps it was not an ogre at all, but simply a creature half your size with twice your wits and a penchant for making observations.”
No, Dov, your comments work, I'm just getting feel for this, there were posts done before mine that didn't show up until after I posted for some reason...it's about learning the mechanics of this process
Powder room is down the hall there and to the left
I'm waiting for our final party member to check in. Also, could people try the die roller, please, for that perception check? I want to see if people can get it to work. On a regular (non-mobile) display, it's the button all the way on the right above the text box for posting. Looks like a 3 on a 6-sided die.
16
edit: ^ It worked for me! On mobile, where that text box doesn't look the same, it's "[ roll ] 1d20 [ /roll ]" without the extra spaces, and with commands (including bonuses and penalties) for the die roll.
[b]Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cragheart. I quite admire what you’ve done with your beard, but, um, there seems to be a little bit of your little sandwich in it. [/b]
Edit:
Below are some quick reference links. Under that, there's a line. Under that, there's the original OP.
Table of Contents:
Current map of Barovia.
Inspiration Table:
Barnaby - 0
Kif - 1
Lucento - 1
Chubs - 1
Madam Eva's card reading:
Daylight: Dawn is 7:00; Sunset begins at 5:30 and ends at 6:00.
Visions:
Fope ~
Kif ~
Barnaby ~
Congratulations!
Duchess Elena Morena Morgan, the beloved guiding hand and - with the council - leader of Daggerford, has invited you to dine at the ducal castle. Tonight is the sixth of Mirtul, or "the Melting," and we are in the beautiful days of late spring. This invitation from Duchess Morgan is a rare honor, as well, in that it is only bestowed upon those who have performed some grand service to Daggerford or its inhabitants in the recent weeks.
You sit at the table, looking at those around you. What did they do, to deserve this honor? You sit and wonder.
The Duchess will not make her entry until later this evening. It is an honor, of course, just to be here, and some around the table begin to share the stories of what brought them to this table. A human man with a heavy brow and long, curly gray hair tells his story. He wears a peasant's clothing now, but you can tell at a glance that he is accustomed to the burdens of manual labor, and a heavy apron:
I am Bartholo, of the smith family named Delringer. Just this past week, I finally fashioned for the Duchess's nephews a special pair of shortswords. The two boys were kind enough, and the wizard who spent half a day every day for a month at my shop was also kind enough. But it took a month, with the wizard looking in and casting spells and muttering every other day, and finally I finished smithing two beautiful swords. Glowed, they did.
I do not know what the boys named the blades, if they named them at all. But the boys and the blades are in Waterdeep now, I'm told. For my trouble I've been paid more than what's fair, and the Duchess, may she be three times blessed, has also invited me here tonight with you fine folk. May the gods always bless us with such fine fortune!
Next to Bartholo, there is a young half-elf woman. She wears a peasant's clothes. She has fine lips and a dark complexion. Half wood elf, perhaps? Her eyes are emerald green, and she appears to have freckles from her human lineage. She is quite beautiful.
My name is Thia, she says. Thia Brokenbarrel. Well, I'm sure I did what any one of you would have done. I was working on the pier when I saw the two children fall into the river, one after the other. Splash splash, you know? So I jumped out into the water after them. The Duchess was incredibly kind to invite me. It was so nice of her! But I think any of you who could swim would have done what I did.
The four of you sit with Thia and Bartholo, with a space for the Duchess at the head of the long table. Please tell us all how you look, and what thing you did that, you think, led to your invitation to this special night at the ducal castle. How do you look to the others? How do you introduce yourself, and what do you say?
Use bold to indicate what you say. Narrate in plain text. Out of character commentary, like this, can be in blue. Your characters thoughts, if you choose to share them, can be in italics.
Well, this is awkward...quite the lengthy silence. I should never have let it go so long...they will think me a coward...
Err...ahem...It's ah...well...I'm glad you all could...no no no…
This stuttering intro comes from an older gnome of typically diminutive gnome stature, sitting with his legs straight out in front of him. One hand rests comfortably on his ample belly, while the other holds a smoldering pipe (in the style of Sherlock Holmes') to his lips which are hidden behind a thick mass of white mustache hair that falls in a neatly combed curtain down to the middle of his chest. Matching white hair grows in a ring from above each ear around the back of his head, pulled tightly into a short pony tail (ala older George Carlin). He is wearing round wire rimmed spectacles and bright red, very new looking robes with pink and purple tulips embroidered around the cuffs and hem. Against the arm of his chair rests a staff with a bauble on top made of what is clearly cheap glass. On his shoulder sits a very small, very bored looking owl.
He begins speaking again, this time with renewed vigor...
Hi! I am Barnaby Fizzlepop, but I am known throughout the lands as The Bold Mage...um no, Barnaby the Bold...well, how about Barnaby the Bold Mage? Too wordy?
Well, I am not entirely sure what earned me this invitation. Most likely it was that when I approached Daggerford, having left my home in Waterdeep, I noticed two quite fearsome looking rats in a drainage ditch fighting over a discarded chicken leg. With but a half dozen fire bolts shot from my powerful hands, I was able to put an end to their evil ne'er do well existence. It was but a trifle for me, but perhaps some onlooker was overwhelmed by my arcane prowess and reported the deed to her excellent highness, the blessed and divine, Duchess...erm...uhh...Helena?
With this, Barnaby rests back in his chair looking quite victorious and then glances around the table expectantly at the other guests.
When the halfling first entered, he left a shepherd's crook in the umbrella stand, and a heavy pack, scimitar sheathed to the side, with the butler, after a look that said, "be warned".
Now, he stands on a chair, eye level with the other guests. His dark eyes and tan stand out against his sun bleached hair, and well-worn, faded, clothing, a light weight whool shirt and loose pants, that match the color of distant planes. His slightly hawkish nose intimidates in spite of his stature.
In voice both quite and full of inner resolve, "Føpé."
He addresses Bartholo. "A true weapons master has no need of swords such as you describe, but it is right that someone who talks as much as you, engages in such activities, and that the master of a place such as this would value them."
Toward Barnapy, "I too do not understand why I am here."
“Well clearly sir, it is not because of your ability to make everyone feel welcome.”
*Apparently bold and italics are not options on the mobile site.
“Oh, and get your shoes off the chair. We’re you raised by horses?”
”Also, what’s your name shorty?”
Addressing Barnaby, speaking loudly so that the elder gentleman can hear, "Honored elder, my name is Føpé, Fø-pé. Tell me, Is it common in this land for pest-control fellows such as yourself to dine with nobels and command stangers?"
Bartholo stands and gazes down at the halfling sitting, unarmed, across from him.
Føpé realizes several things at once. First, Bartholo is an enormous man. Very heavily muscled. Second, he is wearing a short sword at his belt. Third, apparently it was not necessary or expected to check weapons at the door.
He gestures toward his sword, without drawing it. To draw it indoors, of course, would be terribly disrespectful to Duchess Morgan.
This blade's name is Ogresbane, because I have twice slain an ogre with it. Føpé, you have not seen an ogre yet in your travels, but you have heard of them. Mighty beasts, and formidable foes. If you will be in town long, young master, perhaps you will teach me to use it.
Attentive listeners might hear several of the servants exhale in relief, as Bartholo apparently did not take offense from Føpé's sharp words.
Some watching this encounter might have a sudden realization: actions have consequences. The universe is dangerous enough, without needlessly tempting fate. Others might not have the same realization.
Everybody use the dice roller feature on this message board to do a perception check.
If you rolled a 10 or higher, read the following:
There is no hidden danger here, as far as you can tell. It is just a dinner party. However, the house guards, you have no doubt, would have interceded on behalf of Bartholo if there had been a fight. They were a hair's breadth from doing so, but they relaxed when he did not take offense.
Sitting back, most uncomfortable in these surrounding is a ruddy dwarf, with a few scars including an ear that has a big chunk missing. His long auburn hair and beard have been braided and recently cleaned, and clothing made as presentable as possible. While he left his goods and great ax with the gate guards he still sports a recently polished and serviceable chain shirt and two well made hand axes in his belt.
He stands up at the halfling's declaration
Sit down and hear this man out, show some manners. It seems there is a story here and I'd like to hear it. A smith should measured by the quality of his work, not on the quality of his customers, although it sounds like they treated him right. I want to hear what the man has to say, as well as the lady rescuer of the two children, while we wait for our hostess.
He sits back down and grabs a cup of ale
Name's Kif Cragheart, I'm not about to tell you what the Kif is short for. I'm fresh in town, though I've passed through Daggerford a couple times, it's been many years. Some of the town guard sergeants are comrades from old days in the field of battle, perhaps they threw in a good word for me.
He swigs from a glass much more delicate than he is used to and grabs a tiny sandwich
"Mr. Bartholo, this ogre must have been terribly fierce that you had to slay it twice. But I wonder, was it unarmed, as I am, both times? Perhaps it was not an ogre at all, but simply a creature half your size with twice your wits and a penchant for making observations.”
Tom, it was a good comment, but I felt like responding to both of you would have been too much and untrue to real dialogue.
“Oh dear. Did anyone see where the powder room is?”
No, Dov, your comments work, I'm just getting feel for this, there were posts done before mine that didn't show up until after I posted for some reason...it's about learning the mechanics of this process
Powder room is down the hall there and to the left
In the din of several people speaking at once, Bartholo takes the opportunity to pretend he did not hear Fope's second jab.
Thia's interest is piqued. Battle, Kif? That's so exciting! Where did you fight? What kind of creatures did you fight against?
A servant appears at Barnaby's elbow and guides him toward the washroom.
Bartholo raises a glass to Kif, but says nothing.
Føpé attempts to sit, finds the lack of view frustraiting, and stands back up on the giant (human) sized chair.
I'm waiting for our final party member to check in. Also, could people try the die roller, please, for that perception check? I want to see if people can get it to work. On a regular (non-mobile) display, it's the button all the way on the right above the text box for posting. Looks like a 3 on a 6-sided die.
16
edit: ^ It worked for me! On mobile, where that text box doesn't look the same, it's "[ roll ] 1d20 [ /roll ]" without the extra spaces, and with commands (including bonuses and penalties) for the die roll.
Perception: 12
Die rolling is active.
Hmm. Fope, you want to give the die-rolling a shot again? I'd like to be able to call for perception checks & whatnot here in this thread.
edit: Just so it's clear, now that Barnaby has a 12 on a Perception roll, he can read that spoiler note I put above. That's how it works.
[b]Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cragheart. I quite admire what you’ve done with your beard, but, um, there seems to be a little bit of your little sandwich in it. [/b]
[edit] Apparently that did not make it bold. :P
[b]Testing text formatting commands as well. . .[/b]
Fascinating!
6
9
Die seems to work. Also, Ben, it's pronounced "Føpé." Fø, Fø and then pé.