Arikon steals a glance at the blonde barmaid standing infront of them and it took him a little effort to keep him from staring. 'Quite attractive.', he thinks to himself. Truth be told, he always had a thing for blondes. "I'll also take an ale, good lady. Just one though, to make sure there is enough left for our dwarven friend here.", he says smiling.

As Jeb approaches the shrine, he notices that the nun is an elf, who chants in her ancient language while the villagers behind her pray in Common. As the shrine of stones doesn’t seem to have an offering plate, Jeb drops the coin on one of the rocks. The nun smiles and says, “May fortune smile on your fate, traveler.” She continues leading the prayers as Jeb returns to the Inn.

The barmaid seems to enjoy the attention she gets from Arikon, giggling as he compliments her.

“Call me Elsa. I’ll get your drinks right now- anything for a handsome man like yourself.”

 She calls out to the bartender, “Dad, ales for these folks. Pour three for the dwarf.”

The bartender gazes back with weary eyes, his face creased in countless wrinkles despite his age. He nods silently and begins pouring drinks. Meanwhile, laughter roars from the card table in back as one of the miners seems to have won a round. Coins change hands and a new deck is shuffled. 

Elsa sets the ales at your table before leaving to serve other patrons. An old toothless farmer sits by the fireplace, playing a shoddy lute. The dwarf miner at the bar drinks her ale in a single gulp. She locks eyes with Murmen and waves for him to come over.

The night is going strong in the Stonehill Inn. 

Murmen blinks, then stands up and shuffles over awkwardly.

"Er . . .ken I do somethin’ for ye?"

Jeb saunters into the tavern he joins his companions at their table. As he takes his seat, he leans his bow and quiver of arrows on the back of his chair. Jeb breaths a sigh of relieve as he takes his seat. He makes note of the game in the back and that Murmen is meeting a dwarven lass. 

As Jeb is enjoying being inside and out of the road, he flags down the barmaid. He flashes his rakish smile at her as he asks, “My dear may I have an ale as well please. And do you have anything left from the kitchen? I know it is dreadfully late; but anything will be better then trail rations.” Jeb takes her hand and presses a gold coin in her hand as he says with a wink, “Do let me know when my gold friend is in need of more company to cover our tab.” 

Drink in hand Jeb makes his way over to the game in progress in the back of the room. He gets comfortable as he observes the game. At an opportune moment he inquires on sitting in on the next hand.

The barmaid flashes a smile as she pockets the gold coin from Jeb, worth twice the party's tab. 

"That's worth more than all the tips I received today! Thank you, kind sir. Rest assured, your dwarf friend will have plenty to drink."

The miners are already quite drunk when Jeb asks to join the game. "Come on in! You look like you have plenty of coin to lose," one says. 

(Roll a d20, an Insight check, and a Deception check. Add them up- your final total determines your results).

Murmen shuffles over to the dwarf miner, a statue-like woman who wears rough spun clothes. She scoffs and says, "Help me? Is that how ye greet a dwarf?The time you spend with these human folk must have addled your mind. I'm Moriam, daughter of Gostaht, clan Barthak. You look like you need a drink. Bartender, get him some Throatburn!"

The weary bartender silently pours a bubbling drink into a small thimble for Murmen. Moriam switches to Dwarvish and continues.

"It's rare when I get to see another dwarf around these parts. What brings an acolyte of Moradin here?" 

Quote from RazorDawn89 >>

The barmaid flashes a smile as she pockets the gold coin from Jeb, worth twice the party's tab. 

"That's worth more than all the tips I received today! Thank you, kind sir. Rest assured, your dwarf friend will have plenty to drink."

The miners are already quite drunk when Jeb asks to join the game. "Come on in! You look like you have plenty of coin to lose," one says. 

(Roll a d20, an Insight check, and a Deception check. Add them up- your final total determines your results).

 42

Jeb settles into a friendly game. He is simply passing the time and engaging the locals in conversation. He notes anything useful to share with the others. He also keeps an eye out for those who are attempting to cheat.

Jeb settles into the card game. Despite his card-shark skills, luck is just not on his side. He bluffs his way to victory a few rounds, but otherwise his performance tonight is relatively average.

The miners seem to enjoy his presence, mostly talking about their recent findings in the mountains. 

"So, eh, what you do'in in Phandalin? You look'in for gold too?"

However, another person walks up to the table. A human woman with jet black hair, she strides with cat-like grace. Her face partially covered by her cloak, she tosses a few gold pieces into the pot. The miners seem to recognize her and immediately scatter from the table. She sits down across from Jeb and deftly shuffles the deck, staring at him with piercing amber eyes. 

"Play, gambler," is all she says. 

Jeb looks about the table as the other players scatter. He raises an eyebrow as the woman takes a seat at the table and throws the gold in to the pot. He smiles at her as he says, "Greetings! The name's Jeb. And may I inquire on your name?" Jeb throws his gold into the pot as he watches her shuffle and reads what can be seen of her face, if she responds.

Insight to read her: 15, Passive 16

Perception to see of she is cheating: 5, Passive 12

The woman is stony-faced and incredibly difficult to read. She shuffles too quickly for Jeb to discern any cheating. He's rarely had a gambling opponent like this one. 

She nimbly deals out two hands. "Play."

(Repeat the same process as last time). 

Murmen shrugs.

"Ah, ye know.  Got the wanderlust, wanted to go out an’ explore a bit.  Me name’s Murmen Bloodkith."

In response to the second:

"Eh, it’s alright.  Few rumors o’ corruption and banditry and whatnot, but where aren’t there?"

Quote from RazorDawn89 >>

The woman is stony-faced and incredibly difficult to read. She shuffles too quickly for Jeb to discern any cheating. He's rarely had a gambling opponent like this one. 

She nimbly deals out two hands. "Play."

(Repeat the same process as last time). 

 Game play: 38

Moriam points at Murmen's ruined hand.

"The wander lust eh? That doesn't look like a hand which could swing a pickaxe or hammer at the forge. With such an injury...it would be hard for a dwarf to do anything of note for his clan."

A melancholic expression is on her face. "It's hard life, living in a human town. Makes me want to go home. Not that they will ever let me."

Moriam takes the thimble of "Throatburn" and hands it Murmen. "Drink. It's a regional specialty; you'll enjoy it." 

Jeb is immediately thrust into a high-stakes game of poker. The pot of coins keep getting bigger as each round passes. The woman is an incredible gambler, and Jeb and her trade victories back and forth. Finally, on his last hand Jeb draws a royal flush, ending the game in his favor. 

(Jeb earns six gold from the game).

The woman leans back and raises an eyebrow. "Lucky one, aren't you? I hope that luck serves you in the future. Meet me at the Miner's Exchange at dusk tomorrow."

She abruptly stands from her seat and pulls a card from her sleeve, setting it on the table before walking towards the exit. The card is a red king of spades; a standard component of a deck. However, Jeb's knows there is a hidden significance in the card.

Often, people with less...scrupulous careers use gambling houses to congregate with each other, exchanging information about the local crime scene and available jobs. Cards are a way to communicate without words. In this case, the king would indicate the involvement of a crime boss; red signifying blood is about to be spilled. The spades can be interpreted in two different ways. It could mean work is available in the area. However, the circumstances suggest the alternate, more insidious implication. 

The spades mean that a new grave will need to be dug. It appears Jeb's past has finally caught up with him...

Murmen down the thimble in one swift gulp, leaning back and sighing as the fiery liquid courses down his throat.

"Aye, well, the hand's part o' it.  Forge accident, completely out o' nowhere.  Me clan still 'preciated me work, but . . .I didn't anymore.  Figured a change of scenery might provide some . . .inspritation."

He frowns, registering the last part of her words.

"Eh?  And why can't ye, lass?"

Jeb collects his winnings along with her calling card. He absently plays with the card for a few moments before drawing it before his face. He whispers to it, "My aren't you a handsome devil." He then casts Prestidigitation to incinerate the troublesome message. He nurses his drink in silent reflection for a few moments before rejoining his party.

Arikon savored his ale while he tried to keep an eye on the Elsa the barmaid moving around the inn. He had already forgotten that their were things to do in this life besides traveling and  adventuring. He waited for an opportune moment to beckon her to come over to him. He gave her an easy smile and said, "Elsa, tell me something about Phalandin. I'm new to the town and ask myself what to do around here?"

Jeb takes the opportunity to slip into the crowd as the two disheveled strangers arrive. He keeps to the back to observe the duo and more importantly the reactions of the locals to their startling arrival.

Murmen swivels around.

"What in a duergar’s shit encrusted beard is going on?"

Maglath lies still for a moment, one of his legs pinned under the collapsed horse. Then he looks to the night sky and shouts an oath into the darkness, the words in the dialect of the giant language his people use echoing through the small town.

Then he pushes against the still horse, massive muscles bulging and straining until he moves it enough to get his leg out from underneath.

He quickly moves to Lyre to make sure he is okay. Pauses for a moment. A hand resting on the kenku’s shoulder.

Then he kneels beside the horse and lays both hands on its still neck. Nothing happens. He removes his hands, shakes them, touches a small leather pouch that hangs from his neck, and then places his hands back on the horse. Again nothing. He rests his hand on the horse for a moment then brushes his forehead against the horse’s head.

Maglath then stands, drawing his frame up to its full 7’10” height. Even in the darkness, it is plain for everyone to see the dark stripes and patches on his mottled-grey-green skin. He pulls the hood back on his dark blue cloak revealing a bald head and bright, sky-blue eyes.

Chainmail glints, catching the flicker of lantern and torch light. A large warhammer hangs at his waist, next to what looks like a bunch of goblin ears tied together.

He turns and takes in the crowd.

“Wake your garrison,” he shouts. “Hobgoblins in Sindaein Wood. A war party preparing for invasion.”

Seeing no one move, he shouts again.

“Who leads your militia? They must get ready.”

With that he staggers slightly, his shoulders sagging.

Ejected from a rather panicked horse, a bedraggled figure tumbles for a moment before ending up face-down in front of the Stonehall Inn. Turning over with a mimicked groan, the small Kenku reaches over his left shoulder and pulls out a crossbow bolt lodged into it with a sickening squelch before collapsing onto his back.

Maglath was right, he thinks. Phandalin was their best bet, and they made it to civilization, but that might not be any better; Kenkus only really existed in the outskirts of civilization, and most of the townspeople Lyre has run into had been at the very least apprehensive. Some had outright considered him to be of the very same monsters that threatened the city. Peering around with gleaming yellow eyes, in much the same head bobs and swivels that are accustomed to small birds, he glances at the gathering of strangers. He was afraid of their whispering, desperately hoping someone would be able to heal him or hear what he has to say as opposed to take his head to the Elven proctors and sell it for spare gold. Attempting not to appear as a threat, he slightly sits up, pries his shortbow away from the sticky mess of his blood-dried feathers, unslings several daggers that are nestled within his cloak, and throws his weaponry at his side. Propping himself on one elbow, he opens his beak and looks to be attempting to say something, but instead coughs out a glot of blood, falls again onto his back, and begins to wheeze, short of breath - partly due to injury, and partly due to panic.