The barkeep smiles, "Many thanks, I'd do anything for me tulip." He walks to the other end of the bar, collecting glasses and refilling them throughout the night.
Quinnil nods, "Born and raised, though I've had some travel to my years." He looks to her, seeing her lacking a drink, "Shall I grab you a drink, Lia?" He runs his hand through his beard. Across from them is a band of four boys, ranging in age; the eldest of which is a potmarked faced youth dressed in a fine tunic, who begins to wrestle with the second eldest boy.
"I tend to steer clear of drinks." Lia says with a shake of her head, white hair fluttering enough she has to tuck some back behind her ear. With a slightly cocked head she glances to the two wrestling boys, but figures it is just harmless messing around and turns back to the human at her table. "So anything unusual or interesting around these parts, aside from the day's festivities that is." She glances to the newlyweds dancing, then back to the human across from her.
“Many thanks.” He says to the barkeep and leaves 5 silver on the counter. He turns around leans against the bar to watch the party. “Senenir, right? Pleasure. Name’s Jinara.”
Quinnil gives a curt nod, "Understandable. Unusual or interesting around here, you say?" He runs his fingers through his beard for a moment, "Come to think about it, this rain seemed to come near out of nowhere." Across the way, the wrestling continues till the younger of the two boys gets pinned, a fat and bearded man scowls at them and they stand up, dusting off themselves.
The barkeep nods, "Thank you, me lord." He slids the silver off of the counter and into his pocket, "Letmee know if theres anythin I can do for you."
The door to the tavern opens as a stocky dark haired human in chainmail steps inside, soaked from head to toe, with a grimace that could freeze mercury. He makes his way over to the bar, each footstep accompanied by a wet slapping sound.
“Allright my man? Bit of a ruckus in here tonight I see. Those lads better be behaving themselves. Can I trouble you for a cup of hot water and any leftover offal you might have? Oh and maybe a towel” he points at himself as he drips all over the floor.
He gives a curt nod to those at the bar making conversation.
The barkeep nods, sliding a plate of food over, the plate holding a piping hot loaf of bread, slathered with sliced meat and coated with thick brown gravy. He pours him a glance of warmed mead,. "Best I can do at the momen, but should warm you up well. I'll fetch ye a tawel. Will you be stayin the night, sir?" He sets the tankard before him.
Senenir looks a bit pained in response to the attention but quickly recomposes himself, "I am Senenir. I am good tracker." He appears to be nice enough but his speech is broken as if he's not quite sure how to properly form sentences. Looking closer you both also see long scars running down his face, arms, and legs, disappearing into his shirt and pants. "Nice wedding, yes?" he asks Jinara and Strife. He notices the sopping man that just entered the room but isn't paying him much mind due to his new acquaintances.
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“The mark of a successful DM is when you have caused more player deaths with doors than dragons, demons, or devils.”
“Yes. Tracker you say? What’s your quarry usually? Beasts? Dragons?” Jinara says slightly nervous as he just noticed his booth had been taken. He takes a quick scan of the room for all exits.
"Storm is strange for these parts then?" Lia asks with a frown, glancing to the window again. "Just figured it was something that happened here, storms blowing out of no where..." She glances up as the door bangs open, a spray of water hitting the floor as someone new walked in from the downpour, sprinkling water as they made their way to the bar. She watched for a moment as the bartender got them a drink and food, then glanced back to the human at her table. "Has this type of storm happened before, or is it the first time now?"
"Bandits," he says to Jinara. He then turns to Strafe and asks, "What is minstrel?" The entire time, Jinara is nursing his drink and taking slow methodical sips.
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“The mark of a successful DM is when you have caused more player deaths with doors than dragons, demons, or devils.”
Ah! Well good sir, a minstrel is a singer of beautiful and thought provoking songs, or teller of tales both heroic and tragic. A minstrel is accomplished at many things, but rarely a master of any one thing. Most minstrels spend their time in one place or castle, while others like me are called by adventure. I not only want to recount the accomplishments of great heroes of old, but want to one day, have my own stories spread like wildfire. And if I have create them then so be it.
"Adventurer you say? What's the worst thing you've seen in your time?" Jinara asks taking a hefty swig of his drink.
Thankfully I haven't had much in the way of truly terrible. I did happen across a village who was recovering from a cult attack. They were the cannibalistic and necromancy type of cult. A group of adventures took them out, but the results and aftermath were pretty disgusting.
Senenir nods along, understanding very little of the big words that are being spoken. "Mhmm." He continues to drink and tries his best to understand what is being said.
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“The mark of a successful DM is when you have caused more player deaths with doors than dragons, demons, or devils.”
I forget the name of the village this was some years back now. But I will never forget a mother cradling her dead daughter next her half eaten husband's corpse... He gets a far off look for a second and shivers. Some days being an adventurer isn't want they make it out to be in the tales. What do you Jinara?
"Well for how early it is in the season, I'd expect snow rather than rain. But it was sunny not too long ago, only a few clouds in the sky. Now its pouring buckets." Quinnil speaks, surveying the room. The old man stands and walks out of the inn, the four boys trailing after him. When the door opens, a gust of wind catches it, forcing it off its hinges. A torrent of rain batters the outside of the inn and now finds its way onto the inn's floor. The barkeep sighs as the man and boys disappear into the rain.
"Sol..." Jinara begins before the door flies off it hinges. He quickly, but subtly, gauges the reaction of the room and locates all feasible exits to the establishment, then forgets to answer the question. He then begins again saying "This is a wicked storm. Odd weather for this time here. I'm going to step outside for a moment. it was a pleasure minstrel." Then Jinara exits out the closest exit with his drink. He only goes outside the door against the side of the building and looks around at the skies. Being engaged with people for that long unnerved him a bit more than he was comfortable with at this time.
*Do I notice anything odd about the weather outside? Cloud pattern? Central source of this storm? Lightning heavy?
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The barkeep smiles, "Many thanks, I'd do anything for me tulip." He walks to the other end of the bar, collecting glasses and refilling them throughout the night.
Quinnil nods, "Born and raised, though I've had some travel to my years." He looks to her, seeing her lacking a drink, "Shall I grab you a drink, Lia?" He runs his hand through his beard. Across from them is a band of four boys, ranging in age; the eldest of which is a potmarked faced youth dressed in a fine tunic, who begins to wrestle with the second eldest boy.
"I tend to steer clear of drinks." Lia says with a shake of her head, white hair fluttering enough she has to tuck some back behind her ear. With a slightly cocked head she glances to the two wrestling boys, but figures it is just harmless messing around and turns back to the human at her table. "So anything unusual or interesting around these parts, aside from the day's festivities that is." She glances to the newlyweds dancing, then back to the human across from her.
“Many thanks.” He says to the barkeep and leaves 5 silver on the counter. He turns around leans against the bar to watch the party. “Senenir, right? Pleasure. Name’s Jinara.”
Quinnil gives a curt nod, "Understandable. Unusual or interesting around here, you say?" He runs his fingers through his beard for a moment, "Come to think about it, this rain seemed to come near out of nowhere." Across the way, the wrestling continues till the younger of the two boys gets pinned, a fat and bearded man scowls at them and they stand up, dusting off themselves.
The barkeep nods, "Thank you, me lord." He slids the silver off of the counter and into his pocket, "Letmee know if theres anythin I can do for you."
The door to the tavern opens as a stocky dark haired human in chainmail steps inside, soaked from head to toe, with a grimace that could freeze mercury. He makes his way over to the bar, each footstep accompanied by a wet slapping sound.
“Allright my man? Bit of a ruckus in here tonight I see. Those lads better be behaving themselves. Can I trouble you for a cup of hot water and any leftover offal you might have? Oh and maybe a towel” he points at himself as he drips all over the floor.
He gives a curt nod to those at the bar making conversation.
Gilgin Hardhammer - Mountain Dwarf Cleric (Forge Domain) - Icewind Dale
Petal - Forest Gnome Druid (Circle of the Land - Forest) - Unsung Heroes of Embera
The barkeep nods, sliding a plate of food over, the plate holding a piping hot loaf of bread, slathered with sliced meat and coated with thick brown gravy. He pours him a glance of warmed mead,. "Best I can do at the momen, but should warm you up well. I'll fetch ye a tawel. Will you be stayin the night, sir?" He sets the tankard before him.
Senenir looks a bit pained in response to the attention but quickly recomposes himself, "I am Senenir. I am good tracker." He appears to be nice enough but his speech is broken as if he's not quite sure how to properly form sentences. Looking closer you both also see long scars running down his face, arms, and legs, disappearing into his shirt and pants. "Nice wedding, yes?" he asks Jinara and Strife. He notices the sopping man that just entered the room but isn't paying him much mind due to his new acquaintances.
“The mark of a successful DM is when you have caused more player deaths with doors than dragons, demons, or devils.”
“Yes. Tracker you say? What’s your quarry usually? Beasts? Dragons?” Jinara says slightly nervous as he just noticed his booth had been taken. He takes a quick scan of the room for all exits.
Strafe stretches his hand over to Jinara, Well met friend, name is Strafe. Traveling minstrel.
"Storm is strange for these parts then?" Lia asks with a frown, glancing to the window again. "Just figured it was something that happened here, storms blowing out of no where..." She glances up as the door bangs open, a spray of water hitting the floor as someone new walked in from the downpour, sprinkling water as they made their way to the bar. She watched for a moment as the bartender got them a drink and food, then glanced back to the human at her table. "Has this type of storm happened before, or is it the first time now?"
"Pleasure." he says.
"Bandits," he says to Jinara. He then turns to Strafe and asks, "What is minstrel?" The entire time, Jinara is nursing his drink and taking slow methodical sips.
“The mark of a successful DM is when you have caused more player deaths with doors than dragons, demons, or devils.”
Ah! Well good sir, a minstrel is a singer of beautiful and thought provoking songs, or teller of tales both heroic and tragic. A minstrel is accomplished at many things, but rarely a master of any one thing. Most minstrels spend their time in one place or castle, while others like me are called by adventure. I not only want to recount the accomplishments of great heroes of old, but want to one day, have my own stories spread like wildfire. And if I have create them then so be it.
"Adventurer you say? What's the worst thing you've seen in your time?" Jinara asks taking a hefty swig of his drink.
Thankfully I haven't had much in the way of truly terrible. I did happen across a village who was recovering from a cult attack. They were the cannibalistic and necromancy type of cult. A group of adventures took them out, but the results and aftermath were pretty disgusting.
Senenir nods along, understanding very little of the big words that are being spoken. "Mhmm." He continues to drink and tries his best to understand what is being said.
“The mark of a successful DM is when you have caused more player deaths with doors than dragons, demons, or devils.”
"Wild. Where did that happen?" Jinara slightly intrigued.
I forget the name of the village this was some years back now. But I will never forget a mother cradling her dead daughter next her half eaten husband's corpse... He gets a far off look for a second and shivers. Some days being an adventurer isn't want they make it out to be in the tales. What do you Jinara?
"Well for how early it is in the season, I'd expect snow rather than rain. But it was sunny not too long ago, only a few clouds in the sky. Now its pouring buckets." Quinnil speaks, surveying the room. The old man stands and walks out of the inn, the four boys trailing after him. When the door opens, a gust of wind catches it, forcing it off its hinges. A torrent of rain batters the outside of the inn and now finds its way onto the inn's floor. The barkeep sighs as the man and boys disappear into the rain.
"Sol..." Jinara begins before the door flies off it hinges. He quickly, but subtly, gauges the reaction of the room and locates all feasible exits to the establishment, then forgets to answer the question. He then begins again saying "This is a wicked storm. Odd weather for this time here. I'm going to step outside for a moment. it was a pleasure minstrel." Then Jinara exits out the closest exit with his drink. He only goes outside the door against the side of the building and looks around at the skies. Being engaged with people for that long unnerved him a bit more than he was comfortable with at this time.
*Do I notice anything odd about the weather outside? Cloud pattern? Central source of this storm? Lightning heavy?