Heroes of Augera

Tymorday, 13 Lannust 500ATK
1 week from Sunstir (20 Lannust)
1 month from Lantern Day (17 Ceiron)

It isn’t only goods and services which are traded in Fort Imma. The once stalwart castle, now flourishing trade town, is also a hotbed of rumour. Much of the gossip is political in nature – who will the Justiciars choose to be Baron of Leistmoor since the last one disappeared? Will the Talithans ever return Quilgard to Osmial? Should Fairstop fall under the auspices of Fort Imma, or Roodacre?

But these days, strange occurrences have been providing grist for the rumour mill – did you hear about the creature that washed up in the harbour? What, the dead man that came to life? No no, the fish man! Did you hear about the giant spider things that attacked ol’ Wulf Makepeace’s farm? Did you hear about that house they found where they’d done sacrifices to some demon lord? Did you hear about that toy owl that went mad in the market, scratched a bunch of people up? Did you hear, did you hear?

Little do the chatterers in the market square know that these occurrences have also reached the ears of Commander Rannulf Landgrave, leader of the meagre forces of the town guard in Imma, and de facto leader of Imma while Baron Idris Housta is out of town, which he currently is. The Colonel has done some investigating, and these investigations have led to a certain group of strangers facing each other across a long, solid oak table located in the Conference Room of the Commander’s House, a large stone building right in the centre of the Old Fort on top of the Cliffs of Soft. The chairs are old – the wood is worn to a high polish, and the seat cushions are faded and threadbare – and there is a faint layer of dust over most of the room. It clearly hasn’t been used for its primary purpose in a long time.

An empty chair sits at the head of the table, back towards the window which looks over the training yard. These strangers will have passed the Yard on the way here, and noted how empty it is – two guards hacking weakly at straw figures in one corner, a few more practicing their bow skills in another, and a whole lot of dirty sand slowly becoming overgrown with crabgrass and thistle.

A dwarf in chainmail stands next to the empty chair, nervously whistling. He has introduced himself, in a voice which retains a slight Dharbesh accent, as Captain Jakub Crystalson, right hand to the Commander. He’s a jovial sort, but he wasn’t expecting to be here by himself, and this many armed strangers in a room has made him anxious. He keeps glancing at one tall, hairy figure at the table, but doesn’t address them.

Just as he looks like he’s made a decision and clears his throat, saying “I’m sure the…”, the door to the room bursts open, and a human male in his late 40s enters. He wears a dull steel cuirass, a close cropped beard without moustache, and a grumpy, tired expression on his face. He makes his way down the table to the chair, sits down in it heavily, and glances around the table, taking the time to look at each individual there.

His expression softens a little, and he sighs. “I’m Commander Landgrave,” he says. “Thank you all for answering my summons. I’ll cut to the chase – you might have noticed that we’re a little thin on the ground here. Whitebridge thinks that because there’s no war on, we can get by on a skeleton crew. But this town gets bigger and busier all the time. Especially with Sunstir next week, and the anniversary next month. There’s no possible way we can deal with everything that needs doing here and in the Soft Downs area. So things get missed, or we can’t get anywhere quick enough.” He lays his hands flat on the table, leaning forward. “People are suffering because some bloody bean-counters think we’re surplus to requirements.” His hands clench in their leather gloves, gone soft through long use.

He pauses, as if reluctant to say what he has to say next. “So, I’m putting together a unit to handle the tougher call-outs. And I’m asking you all to be that unit. You’ve all proved your worth since you got to Imma. You’re all capable. This hasn’t been cleared with Cliffside,” he emphasises. Most of you will know by this that he is referring to the top level government structure located in Whitebridge which supports the Justiciars, the joint rulers of Lindost. “You’ll answer directly to me. You’ll get a base stipend of 50 gold stars a month, you’d have freedom to do the jobs the way you want, and you may keep whatever spoils you find, so long as it isn’t obviously private property.” He lets that last point sink in for a few seconds, before wrapping up.

“There's no contract, just this chat right here, so you're free to walk out when you like. If you’re in, introduce yourself to the table. I know who you all are, but it’s good to know who you’re working with.”

 Could everyone please introduce themselves, and describe your PC as much as you like, or even include a picture if you have one.

A tall bugbear, somewhere around 7', fidgets uncomfortably on one of the chairs at the table. While lean for his size, it's still hard to make 300 pounds and those long limbs work with chairs designed for smaller humanoids. His coppery red fur is shaggy but clean. His white flecked, green eyes scan the room with curiosity. Where many of his kind exude aggression and seemed to have coiled violence built in, this one has muscle and weapons to spare but the default resting face is one of a small smile. A small black cat followed the giant into the room and now wraps its body in repeated figure eights, walking around and through the legs of the bugbear and around the shaft of a heavy glaive resting against the table next to the straining chair.

"I am Ghurr the Green," the bugbear says in a loud bass that is probably his attempt at an inside voice. He looks down at his own fur that shows through his armor. "My fur not green. My name is. I am happy helping town. But have many questions."

He reaches down idly to scratch the head of the cat.

"This Hoppy, Lord of the Night. She is my friend. Sometimes she follows me. Sometimes she does not."

He watches the cat for a few seconds before remembering his questions.

"What are bloody-beans? Do they taste good. My mother growed beans but none bloody. Why count them? And what is stipend? Like pig sty and pig pen?"

He nods to himself making sure he has asked his questions. Then smiles broadly.

"Yes. Ghurr happy to help."

Sitting at one end of the table sits a woman seemingly in her mid-twenties. Her skin is a pale blue color, and shoulder length white and blue hair that appears to be covered in frost at the ends. Stone grey eyes had looked over everyone at least once. Despite the water genasi's icy appearance, her expression and posture is casual, if a bit friendly. She leans back in her chair, seeming to not mind the worn if uncomfortable nature of it. A dark blue cloak covers most of her frame, with dark studded leather chestpiece and arm guards over a light green shirt underneath. Dirt covers her boots, though they seem to be well taken care of otherwise. Like most in the room, the genasi owns several weapons. A shortbow and quiver have been tied to her pack, along with a sheathed rapier resting against the side of the table.

The woman sits silently for several moments, contemplating the offer given to them. Finally she sits up straighter with a friendly smile, and speaks up. "I'm Heran Galreth. You can call me just Heran, or you can come up with a nickname if you'd like. We all have our own differing goals no doubt, but I'm sure we'll work well together helping others."

The cat being introduced seems to surprise her a bit, blinking as she realizes it's real. "Nice to meet y'all. And uh.. stipend's basically a way of saying payment. An agreed upon amount to be paid, y'know?"

Across from the smiling bugbear sits a nearly as tall half-orc with a more dour expression to his blackbearded face, seemingly a bit restless as he takes another gulp from a tankard clearly of dwarven make before speaking. "I am Thurodim, Thurodim Stormbreaker." He says a bit proudly. "I'm a sailor and I'm looking for a new crew, but sure, I can do this work while looking." He grunts, taking another gulp of dwarven ale. The half-orc has dark green short-cropped hair and dark eyes with a promise of violence. One of his tusks are broken and he has a small sharktooth in an earring. The green skin of his heavily muscled body is covered with various sea motif tattoos and he has a brown cloth draped across his muscled chest. By his side, leaning against his chair is a massive, clearly well-made, axe which he constantly checks on.

The half-orc gives the cat worried look before continuing. "This is Mr. Bleeches." He says, his big green hand surprisingly nimbly picking up a small grey mouse from his pocket, showing it to the others at the table as it sits in his hand, giving everyone a curious glance. "You'd better talk to Hoppy about not hunting for this one." He says, giving Ghurr a stern look as he pockets the pocketmouse again. "And stipend is a fancy word for gold and the other thing is an insult." He grunts before leaning back in his chair again, emptying his tankard with one big gulp.

"I've told you carrying vermin around is a bad idea!" a deep woman's voice says matter-of-factly from beside the hulking figure of Thurodim.

The woman speaking has an elf-like appearance, although her skin is distinctly green.  Except for the patches of what almost seem to be small, smooth, grayish-green pebbles. There are spots running along the bridge of her nose,  her right cheek, and also the left side of her neck. Her long hair is a dark green and even her eyes are bright green color. 

She wears a long sea-green sailor's jacket, showing hints of a dark purple lining. Beneath she's dressed in studded leather armor.  She has two long knives sheathed at her side.

The woman has been watching the others with a serious expression. And listens attentively when Commander Landgrave speaks. She listens closely to the others as well.

"I am Mala Fogwillow. Previously of the Barnacled Mermaid and former crewmate of this little fellow here."  She pats Thurodim on the shoulder. 

"And I accept the offer. Sounds like a pretty decent gig for now," she says, looking back at Commander Landgrave. "I'm guessing you have something particular for us to start looking at already."

A young elf with a smallish stature, pale skin and long auburn hair sits quietly next to the water genasi.   Her large violet eyes have a hard time leaving the bugbear or the half-orc.  Unsure as to why they were summoned, she breathes a small sigh of relief when she hears what the Commander has to say.  As he talks, she continues to steal glimpses at the others around the table, wondering what they are all about. 

She wears her brown studded leather under a dark green cloak that almost appears a bit too large for her.  The backpack at her side is positively bulging, and at first glance there are no weapons to see.  But as she shifts in her uncomfortable chair, a rapier makes itself known within the folds of her cloak.  It is sheathed in a scabbard decorated with moons.   

"So many different races, and animals to boot.  Quite the menagerie you've pulled together here, Commander.  Direct to you?  That is good and yes, so is the freedom."  she pauses, remembering what the request actually was, "ah yes, I'm in and my name is Faera Amakiir."  smiling towards the bugbear, "I wouldn't recommend eating bloody bean-counters.. I'm sure they'd give you some bad indigestion."

As the light of the morning poured through the slits of the windows, Ilithir raised from the bed and walked on the direction of his gear. It sat on the ground, over the roll he used to sleep while on the road. His shield was a simple thing, heater, made of oak and steel, with a center painted black, but his armor and longsword were tings of beauty. The breastplate was slim, as if tailor made to his body, and from the center of its placard mirrored engravings of vines descended all the way to the fold where they circled the waistline. From its shoulders a white pelt unfurled, covering part of the pauldrons. The blade was mounted atop of a cross guard arched upward and decorated with tracery to a third of its extension, then once again by its tip.  Its grip was covered in back shagreen and the pommel was akin in form to the head of a royal scepter.

Spotless. The elf confirmed studying the metal pieces. He had everything cleaned as the night before but making sure it was all in pristine condition was a necessity since he would be meeting with Landgrave. First impressions were important as far mercenary contracts went and the commander of the city guard had the potential of being a source of many jobs.

“Let’s hope he is.” He said starting to get dressed. Between doning the armor and readying his bags, it took him half a dozen minutes to leave the room. Downstairs he had a boiled egg, some bacon and freshly baked bread with a mug of ale. Satisfied, he big his farewells to the innkeeper and later made his way to the Commander’s house.

There he met a peculiar group, so to speak, and with them waited for Rannulf. The wait was brief, or at least briefer than what a noble could have subjected them to. Ilithir had dealt with a few clients of high birth before.

“My name is Ilithir and I work as a caravan escort or bodyguard.” Said the man. His skin was copper, his hair and eyes silver. “Some patrons called me the Argent…” He said pointing to his face. “Which almost makes me believe there is another elf with the same name as me on the same business. And I share Mala’s question."

"Oh, it wasn't a question, just a statement," Mala says, turning to the elf after hearing Ilithir's last comment. "He," she nods towards Landgrave, "wouldn't have brought us here if he didn't have something for us here and now." 

Commander Rannulf Landgrave                                           Captain Jakub Crystalson

"No," says the Commander to Mala, with a slight smile, though not a happy one. "He wouldn't. Captain?" He beckons his Dwarf Captain over with a tilt of the head. 

"Ah, me now is it?" says the Dwarf, bustling forward to the table. "Okie dokie. Seems like we got a bit of a situation up in Soft's Rest, folks. Some people up there have been uh, dying, rather horribly, and Johan Blackbarrel, the Mayor there, has sent us an urgent request to figure out who or what is killing these poor folks. He didn't say much more than that, it was a pretty short letter, but his writing was awful shaky so it seems like he's pretty ruffled by the whole thing." He pulls a piece of paper from a pouch and unfolds it, scanning the words written there. "Says some stuff about, uh, torn apart, something something, all the blood, etcetera etcetera. I don't think he's handling this real well..."

"Thank you, Captain," the Commander interjects. "So that's your first job. Get up to Soft's Rest, talk to Blackbarrel, figure out what's going on, and stop it. If it's a person doing this, I want them back here for trial. If it's a beast, put it down. Any questions?"

As the others around the table speaks, Thurodim watches them in turn. Looking at Ghurr, the half-orc was almost relieved not being the most hulking figure in his company, which otherwise most often was the case. He had never been one seeking attention as it was mostly the bad kind of attention he got. He barely meets the eyes of the two small and to him very pretty women at the end of the table, his black beard hiding his heated cheeks as one of them briefly looks his way. He couldn't think of a nickname for Heran, and if he did he would certainly not dare to suggest it.

He slouches a bit, almost seeming like a boy berated by his mother as Mala comments on him bringing Mr. Bleeches around. It saddened him a bit that his only two friends didn't seem to get along. "Hey, I'm not small!" He grunts as Mala mentions being a former crewmate of his. "Oh, a joke, yes, very funny then." He mutters after a moment, looking away in embarrassment. He knew he wasn't stupid, he simply didn't get the fancy talk and jokes all the time, most of the time actually.

As the young pale-skinned elf with the long auburn hair mentions something about a menagerie Thurodim slouches again, a brief sadness crossing his face, convinced that she was referring to him being more beast than man. She was right though, he couldn't deny that he thought as his hand went to the Wolf's head cloak clasp in his pocket, both an inheritance and a sign of his true heritage.

Thurodim doesn't understand what the copper-skinned elf means when he points to his face but he was used to not understand everything around him, especially when people spoke in unclear words. Fortunately he mostly had Mala around to explain what people around them really meant when they spoke.

As the commander gives his orders Thurodim nods and smiles briefly. He appreciated the clarity of orders such as this and couldn't think of any questions to ask. "No questions. Let's go!" He says more impatiently than intended he realizes as he got up to stand, quickly strapping his tankard to his belt and grabbing his huge axe, hoisting it over his broad muscled shoulder.

The frost covered woman's expression darkens at mention of murders, brutal ones at that. She shakes her head with a sigh, shooing away her thoughts for the time being.

"Just one from me, actually." Heran comments, raising a hand partially after Thurodim speaks. "Will we be walking the way to Soft's Rest, or will we be taking mounts? This seems like something we should be taking care of fast."

And with that the half-orc sits heavily back down on his chair with a deep grunt. Of course there was questions, good ones, that he would not think of. He glanced over at the frost covered woman with a quick apologetic smile before staring down in the table in front of him, waiting for the details of the job to be sorted out by those better inclined to planning.

Ghurr, reaches a big hairy hand back down to pet the cat at his ankles.

"Hoppy is cat. She is not pet. Ghurr owns not her.," Ghurr the bugbear says to Thurodim. "I can ask her not eat mouse. But I think she not speak talk I know. Maybe keep mouse in pocket. But Hoppy not leave town. Mouse safe once leave town."

As they learn of the death's in Soft's Rest, Ghurr frowns and his smile disappears.

He rises as Thurodim does saying "If beast is doing killing they get taste for the blood. Best to kill it. Not put down. Can run away if just put down on the ground."

Unlike Thurodim though, when Heran asks her question, he doesn't sit back down. He keeps getting his gear sorted out and hefts his glaive in his hand and then he heads to the door.

"If horses, need big horses for Ghurr and big man," he says nodding at Thurodim. 

Faera turns to Heran and smiles, "Oh yes, good question."  Looking back to the Captain, "Sounds like killed is a better word than dying, but at any rate, sooner rather than later is definitely needed here."  As the half-orc plops back in his chair, she can't help but smile at him, "Hey, I'm ready to go too, whenever the rest of these cats are.  Oh yes, and the one called Hoppy." giving the bugbear a glance as she does.  Having no other questions that come to mind, she waits to see if any one else does.

"I can speak talk to Hoppy when needed." Thurodim mutters, nodding at the bugbear.

"Put down means kill Ghurr." Thurodim explains to Ghurr, then looking to Mala beside him to get that statement confirmed as the bugbear heads for the door. "And my name is Thurodim." He mutters quietly.

He then notices the young pale-skinned elf with the long auburn hair smiling at him, and he quickly looks down into the table again, finding something there very interesting it seems.

“A matter of rhetoric.” The elf said to Mala before the dwarf started to speak. Years of negotiating contracts had taught that not every question needed to be thought as one, or said in an inquisitive tone. Jakub started explaining the situation at hand with a jovial tone, something particular strange considering the matter.

Ilithir had since long decided he liked the informality of the dwarf. It was direct and a break from empty courtesies and endless bargaining. Yet, on this matter, it was less than ideal. Thurodim shows himself eager to go while Heran voiced a question he himself was about to make.

“I have some more of my own to add.” He said after Faera. “Just to make sure, but the letter does not give further characterization of the victims? Things like their sex, age, race, size or line of work?” All things that could speak to the culprit’s preference. “Is there any mention of the date and or time of their deaths?” That could suggest when the killer would strike again. “Or in which kind of places they were found?” That would say in which conditions an attack could happen. “Also, just for precaution, Commander, do you think it would be necessary for us to carry some letter of introduction to the mayor? He may ask for a proof of our identity.”

Specially considering the man was not handling things really well, he thought remembering Cystalson’s words. It would be of no surprise if Johan Blackbarrel were to act suspicious of strangers.

As Thurodim explains 'put down' to Ghurr, Mala just rolls her eyes.  She hopes that was before the half-orc looks back to her for confirmation. When he did, she gives him a brief affirmative nod.

"Unless the Captain has a stack of letters he's not sharing, I'll bet we aren't getting more information until we get to Soft's Rest. A letter of introduction to the mayor is a good idea though."  She gives a nod towards Ilithir, and a little smile.

Seeing others departing or collecting their gear, Mala does much the same. She picks up her pack from where she'd left it against the wall. Grabbing the longbow beside it, she attaches it to her backpack then turns to check on the others. 

As she readies herself, and as she now waits, she listens to any response the Captain may have.  Her eyes though scan each of her other soon to be companions. Pushing a hand absently through her long hair, anyone watching would notice its less hair-like than expected.  There seem to be distinct stands, almost like ropes of clay. But the surface seems harder and more smooth. A couple strands are decorated with what seem to be gold colored beads that must have been pulled up along the strand.

"Seems everyone is of a mind, and eager to get moving," Landgrave says approvingly. "And of a mind with me too." He moves to a small bureau on the side and, lifting the lid, removes a sheet of parchment.

"Your introductory letter. Don't lose it." He lays it down flat on the table for someone to claim. "I wish I had more information to give you, but Blackbarrel wasn't exactly descriptive." He breathes gently from his nose, not in an angry huff, but the patient sigh of pity. "Truth be told, I don't think poor Johan wanted to put whatever it is in writing, which tells me it must be pretty bad. So go easy on him, he's not used to dealing with, well, anything like this."

The bells on the Temple of Tymora down in the town tinkle out a brief tune to signal a quarter hour past nine. "Be at the High Gate at midday, there'll be a cart waiting for you to use. It's about a two day journey to Soft's Rest from here. For now, finish up whatever business you have in town. I'm glad to have you..." 

The very end of his sentence is interrupted by a frantic knocking on the door. "What?!" The Commander shouts. "Gods, man, come in already!" A nervous looking half elf enters the room, starts to open his mouth but leaves it hanging in shock at the sight of you all, especially the large half orc and even larger bugbear. "Spit it out Heian, what's going on?"

"Uh, the Angel Tower, sir!" the soldier manages. "It's under attack sir!" 

"Attack?! By who?" the Commander demands, his hand automatically going to his sheathed sword.

The soldier shrinks back a little at the focussed glare of his Commander, but says "Birds, sir. I think... Looked like feathers anyway, but it's a long way up sir, and you know my long distance vision isn't great..." His voice fades to a whisper as Landgrave stares at him.

"Bloody birds is it? Right then, follow me you lot. Soft's Rest will have to be your second job. Let's see what birds have got Corporal Siannodel so worked up." Without stopping to check you're following, he pushes past the soldier, and out into the corridor beyond.

As the interruption unfolds near the door, the rest of them are stunned in silence.  As the Commander charges out of the room, Faera leaps up, heads over to the letter the man laid flatly on the table.  Picking it up, she folds it quickly and tucks it away in her pack.

"Alrighty, off we go then!" and she runs after the Commander wondering what birds the half-elf could be talking about?