Though he does not leave his seat, Falshen's gaze sharpens and his posture shifts. While he still appears relaxed, his feet have come back as if ready to spring from the chair. He continues to sip his wine.
"A gold says the rest of the louts attacking the Half-orc lose." Gregor says mildly, "If anyone's interested."
Akai suddenly cackles at the suggestion.
"Kahaha! A contest of strength with fortune on the line, very exciting! But you make theft, not wager - that lot is weak, they no challenge at all!" He growls in brief contemplation. "Hrmm, Akai wagers a gold that they all run like cowards, and half-orc woman lays out hammer-man Irma instead! Kahah!"
Ian steps forward and addresses the hooligans, "You lads ever notice how once in a while you come across someone you shouldn't have messed with? That's her. So unless you desire the lady’s attentions, you would best make haste and take your floored friend with you.”
The thugs glance from the half-orc, to Ian, to Irma, to Meloon Wardragon lounging by the door picking his teeth, to Durnan behind the bar, casually wiping an already gleaming greatsword. Then, all at once, the fight goes out of them. They scramble to hoist the limp body of Krentz onto their shoulders and scurry out of the inn with their heads down. Meloon waves them out graciously as they stumble through the door, but not before one of them turns and cries.
“We ain’t done Yagra! You hear me? You’re gonna scream for this!”
Meloon gives the man a hearty cuff across the face, the alleyblade spits a curse, and then they’re gone.
Yagra cricks her neck one way, then another. She picks a tankard up off the nearest table, swills it down, and belches.“Coupla heroes huh?” she says, quirking an eye at the bard and the paladin, and casting a quick glance at the rest of the table behind them. “You here to challenge the Undermountain? Or you lookin’ for something a little more - heh - profitable?” He lips curl, and a fang gleams in the firelight. “I know a guy. You want an introduction?”
Ian grins widely and says, "I'm always agreeable to shoot twixt wind and water. Our paladin makes good counsel, I believe our table would be open to hearing more about your 'guy' and this opportunity. We're here on business as well, but our contact has been a no show so far this evening. Perhaps you could give us something of a background of this character and I'll buy you a drink."
Yagra begins to answer, when the inn door swings open and admits a flamboyantly dressed human man of indeterminate age, every inch of whom seems to poof - his floppy hat poofs, his slashed sleeves poof, his baggy trousers poof, his waxed and curled whiskers poof. Even his stride is poofy, as he bobs across the floor like a small gaudy cloud. He calls out a jovial greeting to the house, and is answered from various quarters with “Volo! Holla Volo! How’s the scribbling?” He sweeps past Ian and Irma and heads for the table where the others are waiting.
Yagra shrugs.
“Another time maybe, kid,” she says, “good luck with the job. You remember me, I’ll remember you. Deal?” She gives Ian a slap on the shoulder that almost knocks him over, and heads for the door.
While most of the voices that address Volo are amicable, there is one that does not even try to hide his irritation.
"Kaah! You late, job-giver! What take you so long? Destiny moves fast, yet you drag your feet! You keep Akai-" the kobold glances around, as if remembering that he's not the only one at the table. "You keep all of us waiting! Almost leave, look for better chances elsewhere!"
“My most sincere apologies for my tardiness!” exclaims Volothamp in a blithe and utterly unconcerned tone, bounding into his seat with a thump and waving a pudgy, much-ringed hand to Bonnie. “Ran into a spot of trouble doing research for my latest work, Volo’s Guide to Spirits and Specters - an absolutely indispensable manual on all things ghastly and phantasmal! Be sure to check with your local bookseller to reserve your copy. Signatures are a mere ten shards!”
He accepts a mug from the barmaid and buries his well-waxed whiskers in the foam, as Ian and Irma return to the table.
"Ah, well, as to that..." the scholar swallows, clears his throat, and busily wipes his mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. "I'm afraid I've hit a bit of a dead-end. Very promising lead, an old property sworn to be haunted, all the neighbors quite certain the place had a poltergeist - alas, nothing to be found! Nothing but cobwebs, anyway, and splinters, and a positively sinful quantity of dust. My throat parches just thinking of it!"
He guzzles another long draught of his beer before continuing, in a more somber tone,
“But right now I don’t need researchers, I need rescuers! A dear friend of mine, bless his heart, he…”
At this Volo trails off, looking around the company as if really noticing for the first time the character of the five figures he is faced with.
“I say, you are an adventuring party, aren’t you?” he asks. “Doughty do-gooders? Dauntless daredevils? Dashing deeds of derring-do? In short, uh...the usual sort of thing?
With a friendly grin, Falshen agrees, "All of that and more, I'm sure. Pray tell, master Geddarm, what sorry soul requires saving by so singular a set of sellswords such as ourselves?"
“My unfortunate friend’s name is Floon Blagmaar. More beauty than brains, I'm sorry to say, and I worry he took a bad way home a couple nights ago and was kidnapped — or worse. If you agree to track him down with all due haste, I can offer you ten dragons apiece now, and I can give you each ten times that when you find the poor fellow. May I prevail upon you in my hour of need?”
Ian says, “You spin a tale and tease us with another. A bad way home, you say? I think we need details more concrete if we’re to help you and your friend. Where’s our lead?”
The foppish fabulist twists his whiskers, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his manner.
"To tell the truth there is, ah, little to tell. All I can say is that two nights ago, he and I were enjoying a, uh, a good deal of refreshment at the Skewered Dragon, a public house in the Dock Ward of...less than sterling reputation, I will admit. I departed the establishment sometime in the wee hours - inspiration returning to me after a dreadful spell of writer's block - and that was the last I saw of Floon. Haven't been able to turn him up anywhere, and he's a hard man to miss, given his creative taste in accouterment. The fine people of the Skewered Dragon assure me that he left shortly after I did, and nobody's heard a peep or caught a whiff of him since. The Watch has taken a shamefully desultory interest, let me tell you. Shameful! An upstanding citizen, a social pillar like Floon Blagmaar, is not one to be classed with any alley drunk who might drop in the drink without a tear being shed. Bah!"
He takes another long swill of his drink, eyeballs the now-empty mug critically, and waves for Bonnie once more.
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Though he does not leave his seat, Falshen's gaze sharpens and his posture shifts. While he still appears relaxed, his feet have come back as if ready to spring from the chair. He continues to sip his wine.
"A gold says the rest of the louts attacking the Half-orc lose." Gregor says mildly, "If anyone's interested."
Cocking a brow in Gregor's direction, Falshen grins and shakes his head, "It would be foolish to bet against a half-orc in a brawl."
Akai suddenly cackles at the suggestion.
"Kahaha! A contest of strength with fortune on the line, very exciting! But you make theft, not wager - that lot is weak, they no challenge at all!" He growls in brief contemplation. "Hrmm, Akai wagers a gold that they all run like cowards, and half-orc woman lays out hammer-man Irma instead! Kahah!"
Ian steps forward and addresses the hooligans, "You lads ever notice how once in a while you come across someone you shouldn't have messed with? That's her. So unless you desire the lady’s attentions, you would best make haste and take your floored friend with you.”
Please make an Intimidation check.
16
The thugs glance from the half-orc, to Ian, to Irma, to Meloon Wardragon lounging by the door picking his teeth, to Durnan behind the bar, casually wiping an already gleaming greatsword. Then, all at once, the fight goes out of them. They scramble to hoist the limp body of Krentz onto their shoulders and scurry out of the inn with their heads down. Meloon waves them out graciously as they stumble through the door, but not before one of them turns and cries.
“We ain’t done Yagra! You hear me? You’re gonna scream for this!”
Meloon gives the man a hearty cuff across the face, the alleyblade spits a curse, and then they’re gone.
Yagra cricks her neck one way, then another. She picks a tankard up off the nearest table, swills it down, and belches.“Coupla heroes huh?” she says, quirking an eye at the bard and the paladin, and casting a quick glance at the rest of the table behind them. “You here to challenge the Undermountain? Or you lookin’ for something a little more - heh - profitable?” He lips curl, and a fang gleams in the firelight. “I know a guy. You want an introduction?”
"I would like the introduction, of course I do not speak for this group." Irma glances back at the table.
Yagra looks at Ian.
"What about you blue-boy? You want in on some action?"
Ian grins widely and says, "I'm always agreeable to shoot twixt wind and water. Our paladin makes good counsel, I believe our table would be open to hearing more about your 'guy' and this opportunity. We're here on business as well, but our contact has been a no show so far this evening. Perhaps you could give us something of a background of this character and I'll buy you a drink."
Yagra begins to answer, when the inn door swings open and admits a flamboyantly dressed human man of indeterminate age, every inch of whom seems to poof - his floppy hat poofs, his slashed sleeves poof, his baggy trousers poof, his waxed and curled whiskers poof. Even his stride is poofy, as he bobs across the floor like a small gaudy cloud. He calls out a jovial greeting to the house, and is answered from various quarters with “Volo! Holla Volo! How’s the scribbling?” He sweeps past Ian and Irma and heads for the table where the others are waiting.
Yagra shrugs.
“Another time maybe, kid,” she says, “good luck with the job. You remember me, I’ll remember you. Deal?” She gives Ian a slap on the shoulder that almost knocks him over, and heads for the door.
While most of the voices that address Volo are amicable, there is one that does not even try to hide his irritation.
"Kaah! You late, job-giver! What take you so long? Destiny moves fast, yet you drag your feet! You keep Akai-" the kobold glances around, as if remembering that he's not the only one at the table. "You keep all of us waiting! Almost leave, look for better chances elsewhere!"
“My most sincere apologies for my tardiness!” exclaims Volothamp in a blithe and utterly unconcerned tone, bounding into his seat with a thump and waving a pudgy, much-ringed hand to Bonnie. “Ran into a spot of trouble doing research for my latest work, Volo’s Guide to Spirits and Specters - an absolutely indispensable manual on all things ghastly and phantasmal! Be sure to check with your local bookseller to reserve your copy. Signatures are a mere ten shards!”
He accepts a mug from the barmaid and buries his well-waxed whiskers in the foam, as Ian and Irma return to the table.
Gregor cocks an eyebrow, "Really? What seems to be the sticking point on the research?"
"Ah, well, as to that..." the scholar swallows, clears his throat, and busily wipes his mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. "I'm afraid I've hit a bit of a dead-end. Very promising lead, an old property sworn to be haunted, all the neighbors quite certain the place had a poltergeist - alas, nothing to be found! Nothing but cobwebs, anyway, and splinters, and a positively sinful quantity of dust. My throat parches just thinking of it!"
He guzzles another long draught of his beer before continuing, in a more somber tone,
“But right now I don’t need researchers, I need rescuers! A dear friend of mine, bless his heart, he…”
At this Volo trails off, looking around the company as if really noticing for the first time the character of the five figures he is faced with.
“I say, you are an adventuring party, aren’t you?” he asks. “Doughty do-gooders? Dauntless daredevils? Dashing deeds of derring-do? In short, uh...the usual sort of thing?
With a friendly grin, Falshen agrees, "All of that and more, I'm sure. Pray tell, master Geddarm, what sorry soul requires saving by so singular a set of sellswords such as ourselves?"
Encouraged, Volothamp goes on.
“My unfortunate friend’s name is Floon Blagmaar. More beauty than brains, I'm sorry to say, and I worry he took a bad way home a couple nights ago and was kidnapped — or worse. If you agree to track him down with all due haste, I can offer you ten dragons apiece now, and I can give you each ten times that when you find the poor fellow. May I prevail upon you in my hour of need?”
Ian says, “You spin a tale and tease us with another. A bad way home, you say? I think we need details more concrete if we’re to help you and your friend. Where’s our lead?”
"Ah, hm, well, a pertinent question."
The foppish fabulist twists his whiskers, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his manner.
"To tell the truth there is, ah, little to tell. All I can say is that two nights ago, he and I were enjoying a, uh, a good deal of refreshment at the Skewered Dragon, a public house in the Dock Ward of...less than sterling reputation, I will admit. I departed the establishment sometime in the wee hours - inspiration returning to me after a dreadful spell of writer's block - and that was the last I saw of Floon. Haven't been able to turn him up anywhere, and he's a hard man to miss, given his creative taste in accouterment. The fine people of the Skewered Dragon assure me that he left shortly after I did, and nobody's heard a peep or caught a whiff of him since. The Watch has taken a shamefully desultory interest, let me tell you. Shameful! An upstanding citizen, a social pillar like Floon Blagmaar, is not one to be classed with any alley drunk who might drop in the drink without a tear being shed. Bah!"
He takes another long swill of his drink, eyeballs the now-empty mug critically, and waves for Bonnie once more.