To a party of seasoned adventurers such as yourselves, what you see is but another dull tavern, in another dull town in some nameless province. It is but another span of time between the challenges of true adventuring.
Please, introduce and describe your character. Give the others a bit of your character's background.
Vur is a very green colored half-orc, he is harrier than most other half-orcs, but that shows his life and training being part lycan.
Vur is wearing a brown/green scale armor set. His now is a little worn, and his sorry sword a little less so. From his wrist is a worthless bracelet, with a worthless coin hanging from it, but it would be the last thing Vur would allow to be taken from him, after all Terryn was the most important person in his life. The only reason he was only half lycan, the only reason he was really even alive. The man who trained him, and taught him to be a man.
Vur sits picking at one of his large teeth. Someone might recognize him for one of his feats. Minor on the larger scale of the world, but for Vur they were big, and just stepping stones.
'Perfection, I will find it.' Vur thanks to himself, as he does several times a day.
To a party of seasoned adventurers such as yourselves, what you see is but another dull tavern, in another dull town in some nameless province. It is but another span of time between the challenges of true adventuring.
Please, introduce and describe your character. Give the others a bit of your character's background.
Control the things you can. Let go of things you cannot.
They are loud, boisterous places full of people in need of entertainment. They are the perfect place to do a little spying, a little information gathering; make a little coin.
She tugs her cloak tighter around herself to hide the mottled green skin and sharp teeth; the mismatched red and blue eyes. It isn't that she's afraid of what will happen if some of these people see her for what she is, but it will break the magic. Settled on top of the table that amounts to a stage in this place, she pulls out her viol, studying the room. The place is too quiet, too dull; the only emotions wandering the room are those coming from a drunk crying in the corner. Inafi wants more. She slips into a sharp-toothed grin, testing the strings on her instrument, the string of the bow.
She's easy to see on top of the small table, dressed in a dark duster with purple trim, the jewelry on her face glinting in the light. The hand holding the viol - her right - looks to be a prosthetic, though the metal fingers seem to move as deftly as the mottled green ones of her real hand. She says nothing before she starts to play, teasing out a melancholic note, giving it an uplift, then chasing it with steep highs and deep lows. It's an almost playful tune - a little curious, a little wistful; a good fit for how Inafi herself was currently feeling. Perhaps this time, she might find the border; she'd heard rumors of mists and werewolf attacks in the area. The music turned more curious as she thought, her gaze sweeping over the tavern, wondering who might be brave enough to risk finding the place with her. Did they have missing loved ones? A curiosity akin to her own?
She played on, stopping only once it felt like the music wanted to end. What lay beyond the mists of Ravenloft, she wondered, some deep set desire to know filling her.
(A word about Backgrounds, and Ravenloft.) First, if havent done a Background please do one. Two paragraph max. If you put anything Ravenloft in your Background it will be sketchy at best as there is very little factual information on the demiplane. Those that have returned are very reluctant to speak, or write of their experiences among the dread domains.
Ravenloft: To put it mildly. Ravenloft Sucks! It is a deadly place where little by little your character's hope is shattered, and their soul crushed. With Hardcore mode it can be even more deadly than a standard game.
Gideon Blackburn was born and raised in Cormyr. His life was a relative study of mediocrity. Growing up on a farm, he couldn't wait to get away from his overbearing mother and quietly judgmental father. As the second son, he was expected to join the military or the church. He was elated to leave the farm and join the famed Purple Dragons, but he soon learned the military was nothing like the tales of battle and glory that he had grown up on. It was a lot of sitting around, following by short periods of intense fear and panic.
Unfortunately or fortunately--depending on how you looked at it--he was assigned as an assistant to the War Wizard Falthenaus. Falthenaus was and older higher ranking wizard. Gideon initially thought this meant good prospects for his career, but he found out soon that what this meant was that Falthenaus spent most of his time in strategic and operational planning meetings, leaving Gideon to try to keep from falling asleep while standing guard outside. Meanwhile, all of his peers from boot camp were getting experience on the battle field and gaining promotions--he always seemed to gloss over the ones who had died. One perk, though, of serving Falthenaus was exposure to magic and some small skill therein. He even learned how to summon his own familiar, in order to keep himself entertained. Eventually, Falthenaus retired, and Gideon was discharged. Gideon was eager to finally prove himself in the field, away from the headquarters tent; and set off to the West towards Neverwinter, finding himself in the small tavern of a nondescript town.
An older human warrior leans against the bar, his hair and short beard just starting to show speckles of gray. His armor and tabard, depicting the purple dragon of Cormyr, seem well cared for, but just starting to strain at his gut. While he still seems in fine fighting form, it's clear the last few years have been years of plenty. On one hip sits a longsword, while his shield and pack sit at his feet, resting against the bar. On his shoulder a raven preens itself with a mild croak, protesting if the fighter moves too much. The fighter glances around at the patrons of the bar, one hand resting near his sword, his thumb tucked into his belt. Not so much in a gesture of readiness or threat, but in the manner of a soldier who's spent many hours on the parade field finding the most comfortable position to wait for orders to come. With his other hand, he casually eats a handful of trail rations, occasionally feeding a choice morsel to the raven on his shoulder. He listened vaguely to the minstrel play her viol, himself mostly lost in thought.
A man with a gray cloak enters the tavern. His mouth is covered by a face mask with beast fangs. A pair of red eyes is peaking from his hood. Heavy and cold atmosphere follows him like a small rain cloud. The hooded man walks up to the young waiter, and hands the boy a fat copper pheasant which was almost drained of blood for cooking. The man orders the boy without waiting for his reply. " Give the bird to the cock. Tell him to roast it's legs and wings, use the rest to make stew. And give me a cup of milk." The waiter stares at the man as if he just demanded a block of fresh human meat. "…milk? What kind of milk,sir?" "Cow milk, goat milk, human milk, or dwarf, gnome… Any kind of milk you can get from the kitchen" The man heads to the bar with a look of annoyance. The waiter follows him and says. "But this is a tavern,sir!" "I know" "And you ordered milk!" "I did" "We don't sell milk!" "Oh do you?" The man and the boy look at each other as if they are deeply in love. The man assaults the boy with his dark and mysterious gaze. The waiter counters it with all the determination and professionalism that a peasant boy can possess. After a short while, the man admits his defeat. "…A cup of hot tea then" "We don't sell hot tea too,sir" "What kind of barbarian you… Fine. Fine. Just give me hot water. You don't tell me that you guys don't have hot water, don't you?" After seeing the boy disappear behind the counter, Salman Darkleaf lets out a deep and depressed sigh. A string of silver hair falls from his hood.
Outside the tavern, a fog lies over the town this evening. The damp, cobbled pavement glistens as the lights of street lanterns dance across the slick stones. The fog chills the bones and shivers the soul of anyone outside.
Yet inside these tavern walls the food is hearty, and the ale is warm and frothy. A fire blazes in the hearth, and the tavern is alive with the tumbling voices of country folk.
Suddenly, the tavern door swings open, and a hush falls over the room. Framed by the lamp-lit fog, a form strides through the doorway. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins shatter the silence. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him, and his hat hangs askew, hiding his eyes in shadows. Without hesitation, he walks up to your table and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.
In an accented voice he says, “I have been sent to you to deliver this message. If you be creatures of honor, you will come to my Master’s aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich Woods at night!” He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to all of you in beautiful flowing script. He drops the letter on the table. “Take the west road from here some five hours march down through the Svalich Woods. There you will find my master in Barovia.”
Amid the silent stares of the patronage, the man strides to the bar and says to the wary barkeep, “Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched.” He drops a purse heavy with gold on the bar. With that, he leaves.
The babble of tavern voices resumes, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying before you. The seal is in the shape of a crest you don’t recognize.
(Vur) You pick up the letter and begin to read aloud.
Hail to thee of might and valor.
I, a lowly servant of Barovia, send honor to thee. We plead for thy so desperately needed assistance.
The love of my life, Ireena Kolyana, has been afflicted by an evil so deadly that even the good people of our village cannot protect her. She languishes from her wound, and I would have her saved from this menace.
There is much wealth in this community. I offer all that might be had to thee and thy fellows if thou shalt but answer my desperate plea.
Come quickly, for her time is at hand! All that I have shall be thine!
A short-haired tabaxi moves into the tavern, scanning the room. "Ah yes, the game is afoot, time to search for clues," he says out loud, ignoring any patrons who may give him a weird look. Dressed in what appears to be fisherman's garb, Ray-my takes out his magnifying glass, one of the trusty tools of an investigator and begins to walk around the room. His movements haven't changed since he was a small cub living in the Ten-Towns. He was relieved not to see ghosts floating around the tavern, though he still kept a hand on his short sword in case a hostile spirit came this way. His abductions by the Mists had addled his brain a bit, though he was slowly regaining his footing.
"What mysteries does this town hold?" he asked himself before his eyes went to the table with the other adventurers as one of them read the letter. "This looks interesting."
Ray-my will walk over to the table and observe the action before saying," Hello, I'm Ray-my Holtson."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
I have an intelligence of six, I know what I'm doing.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Salman's eyes were fixed at the stranger until he disappeared from the tavern. Then the gloomy ranger rises from his chair and approaches the place where the messenger stood. "Honorable or not. As a creature, I have to live. And living demands many things including coins. But Barovia,Barovia…humm…" Holding a pheasant drumstick and eating it under his mask, the ranger starts to investigate the footprints on the floor. Or more precisely the mud on the stranger's boots. "Have you heard something about this Burgomaster?" He asks other adventurers.
Perception for observing the messenger:18
Survival for investigate the soil on messenger's boots: 20
To a party of seasoned adventurers such as yourselves, what you see is but another dull tavern, in another dull town in some nameless province. It is but another span of time between the challenges of true adventuring.
Please, introduce and describe your character. Give the others a bit of your character's background.
Vur is a very green colored half-orc, he is harrier than most other half-orcs, but that shows his life and training being part lycan.
Vur is wearing a brown/green scale armor set. His now is a little worn, and his sorry sword a little less so. From his wrist is a worthless bracelet, with a worthless coin hanging from it, but it would be the last thing Vur would allow to be taken from him, after all Terryn was the most important person in his life. The only reason he was only half lycan, the only reason he was really even alive. The man who trained him, and taught him to be a man.
Vur sits picking at one of his large teeth. Someone might recognize him for one of his feats. Minor on the larger scale of the world, but for Vur they were big, and just stepping stones.
'Perfection, I will find it.' Vur thanks to himself, as he does several times a day.
Thom Everyman- Midgard One Shots
DMing- The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Control the things you can. Let go of things you cannot.
Inafi loves taverns.
They are loud, boisterous places full of people in need of entertainment. They are the perfect place to do a little spying, a little information gathering; make a little coin.
She tugs her cloak tighter around herself to hide the mottled green skin and sharp teeth; the mismatched red and blue eyes. It isn't that she's afraid of what will happen if some of these people see her for what she is, but it will break the magic. Settled on top of the table that amounts to a stage in this place, she pulls out her viol, studying the room. The place is too quiet, too dull; the only emotions wandering the room are those coming from a drunk crying in the corner. Inafi wants more. She slips into a sharp-toothed grin, testing the strings on her instrument, the string of the bow.
She's easy to see on top of the small table, dressed in a dark duster with purple trim, the jewelry on her face glinting in the light. The hand holding the viol - her right - looks to be a prosthetic, though the metal fingers seem to move as deftly as the mottled green ones of her real hand. She says nothing before she starts to play, teasing out a melancholic note, giving it an uplift, then chasing it with steep highs and deep lows. It's an almost playful tune - a little curious, a little wistful; a good fit for how Inafi herself was currently feeling. Perhaps this time, she might find the border; she'd heard rumors of mists and werewolf attacks in the area. The music turned more curious as she thought, her gaze sweeping over the tavern, wondering who might be brave enough to risk finding the place with her. Did they have missing loved ones? A curiosity akin to her own?
She played on, stopping only once it felt like the music wanted to end. What lay beyond the mists of Ravenloft, she wondered, some deep set desire to know filling her.
No Longer ActiveI should have stated this earlier. The town that the party is currently located is about 40 miles east of Neverwinter on Faerun. Sorry for the omit.
Vur looks at Inafi "Please not the song about everyone in the tavern. How about something a little more cheerful."
Thom Everyman- Midgard One Shots
DMing- The Voyage of the Fallen Star
(A word about Backgrounds, and Ravenloft.) First, if havent done a Background please do one. Two paragraph max. If you put anything Ravenloft in your Background it will be sketchy at best as there is very little factual information on the demiplane. Those that have returned are very reluctant to speak, or write of their experiences among the dread domains.
Ravenloft: To put it mildly. Ravenloft Sucks! It is a deadly place where little by little your character's hope is shattered, and their soul crushed. With Hardcore mode it can be even more deadly than a standard game.
Background:
Gideon Blackburn was born and raised in Cormyr. His life was a relative study of mediocrity. Growing up on a farm, he couldn't wait to get away from his overbearing mother and quietly judgmental father. As the second son, he was expected to join the military or the church. He was elated to leave the farm and join the famed Purple Dragons, but he soon learned the military was nothing like the tales of battle and glory that he had grown up on. It was a lot of sitting around, following by short periods of intense fear and panic.
Unfortunately or fortunately--depending on how you looked at it--he was assigned as an assistant to the War Wizard Falthenaus. Falthenaus was and older higher ranking wizard. Gideon initially thought this meant good prospects for his career, but he found out soon that what this meant was that Falthenaus spent most of his time in strategic and operational planning meetings, leaving Gideon to try to keep from falling asleep while standing guard outside. Meanwhile, all of his peers from boot camp were getting experience on the battle field and gaining promotions--he always seemed to gloss over the ones who had died. One perk, though, of serving Falthenaus was exposure to magic and some small skill therein. He even learned how to summon his own familiar, in order to keep himself entertained. Eventually, Falthenaus retired, and Gideon was discharged. Gideon was eager to finally prove himself in the field, away from the headquarters tent; and set off to the West towards Neverwinter, finding himself in the small tavern of a nondescript town.
An older human warrior leans against the bar, his hair and short beard just starting to show speckles of gray. His armor and tabard, depicting the purple dragon of Cormyr, seem well cared for, but just starting to strain at his gut. While he still seems in fine fighting form, it's clear the last few years have been years of plenty. On one hip sits a longsword, while his shield and pack sit at his feet, resting against the bar. On his shoulder a raven preens itself with a mild croak, protesting if the fighter moves too much. The fighter glances around at the patrons of the bar, one hand resting near his sword, his thumb tucked into his belt. Not so much in a gesture of readiness or threat, but in the manner of a soldier who's spent many hours on the parade field finding the most comfortable position to wait for orders to come. With his other hand, he casually eats a handful of trail rations, occasionally feeding a choice morsel to the raven on his shoulder. He listened vaguely to the minstrel play her viol, himself mostly lost in thought.
**By the Light of the Sun, you will burn!**
Previously BENEFICENCE
DM: Storm Lord's Wrath || Syr Valor Dayne: Sleeping Gods || tooltips | guides | dice |
For those who haven't read the Hardcore rules, here's the link to the DDB site.
https://ddb.ac/campaigns/join/22091022231976175
A man with a gray cloak enters the tavern. His mouth is covered by a face mask with beast fangs. A pair of red eyes is peaking from his hood. Heavy and cold atmosphere follows him like a small rain cloud. The hooded man walks up to the young waiter, and hands the boy a fat copper pheasant which was almost drained of blood for cooking. The man orders the boy without waiting for his reply. " Give the bird to the cock. Tell him to roast it's legs and wings, use the rest to make stew. And give me a cup of milk." The waiter stares at the man as if he just demanded a block of fresh human meat. "…milk? What kind of milk,sir?" "Cow milk, goat milk, human milk, or dwarf, gnome… Any kind of milk you can get from the kitchen" The man heads to the bar with a look of annoyance. The waiter follows him and says. "But this is a tavern,sir!" "I know" "And you ordered milk!" "I did" "We don't sell milk!" "Oh do you?" The man and the boy look at each other as if they are deeply in love. The man assaults the boy with his dark and mysterious gaze. The waiter counters it with all the determination and professionalism that a peasant boy can possess. After a short while, the man admits his defeat. "…A cup of hot tea then" "We don't sell hot tea too,sir" "What kind of barbarian you… Fine. Fine. Just give me hot water. You don't tell me that you guys don't have hot water, don't you?" After seeing the boy disappear behind the counter, Salman Darkleaf lets out a deep and depressed sigh. A string of silver hair falls from his hood.
(OOC:The Background is still a work in progress.)
Outside the tavern, a fog lies over the town this evening. The damp, cobbled pavement glistens as the lights of street lanterns dance across the slick stones. The fog chills the bones and shivers the soul of anyone outside.
Yet inside these tavern walls the food is hearty, and the ale is warm and frothy. A fire blazes in the hearth, and the tavern is alive with the tumbling voices of country folk.
Suddenly, the tavern door swings open, and a hush falls over the room. Framed by the lamp-lit fog, a form strides through the doorway. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins shatter the silence. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him, and his hat hangs askew, hiding his eyes in shadows. Without hesitation, he walks up to your table and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.
In an accented voice he says, “I have been sent to you to deliver this message. If you be creatures of honor, you will come to my Master’s aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich Woods at night!” He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to all of you in beautiful flowing script. He drops the letter on the table. “Take the west road from here some five hours march down through the Svalich Woods. There you will find my master in Barovia.”
Amid the silent stares of the patronage, the man strides to the bar and says to the wary barkeep, “Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched.” He drops a purse heavy with gold on the bar. With that, he leaves.
The babble of tavern voices resumes, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying before you. The seal is in the shape of a crest you don’t recognize.
Vur will pick up the the letter (If it is closed he will open it), then reads the letter out loud to the rest of the party.
(OOC: reminder that we have all meet before and most likely adventured together.)
Thom Everyman- Midgard One Shots
DMing- The Voyage of the Fallen Star
(Vur) You pick up the letter and begin to read aloud.
Hail to thee of might and valor.
I, a lowly servant of Barovia, send honor to thee. We plead for thy so desperately needed assistance.
The love of my life, Ireena Kolyana, has been afflicted by an evil so deadly that even the good people of our village cannot protect her. She languishes from her wound, and I would have her saved from this menace.
There is much wealth in this community. I offer all that might be had to thee and thy fellows if thou shalt but answer my desperate plea.
Come quickly, for her time is at hand! All that I have shall be thine!
Kolyan Indirovich
Burgomaster
Would we know of Barovia? Or Kolyans?
Thom Everyman- Midgard One Shots
DMing- The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Gideon.
Gideon's raven will let out a croak in indignation as the middle-aged fighter leans over to inspect the letter over Vur's shoulder.
"Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'm think we should go."
**By the Light of the Sun, you will burn!**
Previously BENEFICENCE
DM: Storm Lord's Wrath || Syr Valor Dayne: Sleeping Gods || tooltips | guides | dice |
A short-haired tabaxi moves into the tavern, scanning the room. "Ah yes, the game is afoot, time to search for clues," he says out loud, ignoring any patrons who may give him a weird look. Dressed in what appears to be fisherman's garb, Ray-my takes out his magnifying glass, one of the trusty tools of an investigator and begins to walk around the room. His movements haven't changed since he was a small cub living in the Ten-Towns. He was relieved not to see ghosts floating around the tavern, though he still kept a hand on his short sword in case a hostile spirit came this way. His abductions by the Mists had addled his brain a bit, though he was slowly regaining his footing.
"What mysteries does this town hold?" he asked himself before his eyes went to the table with the other adventurers as one of them read the letter. "This looks interesting."
Ray-my will walk over to the table and observe the action before saying," Hello, I'm Ray-my Holtson."
I have an intelligence of six, I know what I'm doing.
(Note) Nobody has been abducted by the mists. please don't get ahead of yourselves.
Salman's eyes were fixed at the stranger until he disappeared from the tavern. Then the gloomy ranger rises from his chair and approaches the place where the messenger stood. "Honorable or not. As a creature, I have to live. And living demands many things including coins. But Barovia,Barovia…humm…" Holding a pheasant drumstick and eating it under his mask, the ranger starts to investigate the footprints on the floor. Or more precisely the mud on the stranger's boots. "Have you heard something about this Burgomaster?" He asks other adventurers.
Perception for observing the messenger:18
Survival for investigate the soil on messenger's boots: 20
(Salman) The messenger although more colorfully dressed than the other patrons seems normal, as does the mud left behind from his boots.