It is 3 Marpenoth 1489 DR, the season commonly known as Leafall. The weather is pleasantly warm as you gather together for a well-deserved break in the common room of the Laughing Goblin Inn. The inn has become a common backdrop for your downtime from adventuring over the last few months, your rooms reserved and an ordered meal laid before you.

The common room has two floors with a large, open space in the middle containing the bar, a stage, and a large fireplace. A number of booths line the walls, including the one you have gathered in today, and tables fill the rest of the room's open space. The only decoration in the common room is a large carved totem resembling the laughing goblin that gives the inn its namesake. The totem is clearly very old and well-worn.

Imizael, the human owner and bartender, is behind the bar reading a broadsheet, while Markoth, the human waiter known to the Laughing Goblin's regulars as Fat Mar rants to a table nearby about the tavern's famous cabbage soup - "...it's an old secret recipe that comes with freshly baked bread and a piece of cheese, but if you must pass it up, then we also serve a salty fish stew or today's catch of the day, blackened catfish straight from the Moonsea..." 

OOC: We have a moment here at the beginning of the adventure to catch up on any loose threads from the previous adventure or downtime, and allow the characters a chance to unwind for a moment before diving into any further events.

To the untrained eye, he might look like a child. But there on the edge of the wooden bench sits Hildigrim Goodbody, spectacles perched precariously on his nose, nearly lost behind the upright bulk of a strange, weathered book. The tome — familiar now to his companions from a couple idle moments over the last tenday — stands open before him, shielding him from at least two of the three tablemates he shares the booth with. Only the top of his head, his ink-smudged cheek, and his restless eyes peeking over the table’s edge offer proof of his presence.

His hair is a wild thicket, clearly unbrushed and made worse by anxious hands. Ink stains his fingers, and the quill clutched in his dominant hand hovers above a piece of parchment scrawled with what could generously be called notes. To anyone else, the marks look like gibberish — or perhaps arcane shorthand designed to keep out prying eyes.

This book isn’t the one they uncovered at King’s Pyre. It’s smaller, but no less inscrutable — its text tangled and dense, resisting interpretation.

Suddenly, a loud, frustrated sigh cuts through the table's conversation. Hildigrim slams the book shut with a flat thwack and pushes it aside as if it’s personally offended him. He drags both hands through his hair — only worsening the chaos — and mutters under his breath, “This book is going to drive me to madness.”

Then, without so much as a pause, his head lifts and he glances around the table and out into the common room proper. “Did I hear Fat Mar mention blackened catfish?”

After their last mess of a job, Hex is simply trying to enjoy the few moments of peace she and her companions so rarely get in the recent months. She's scrunched up against the wall in the corner of the booth, gnawing on a piece of dried meat and watching Hildigrim's frustration with amusement and curiosity. She jumps a bit as he suddenly slams the book shut on the table and raises a brow. "What exactly is that book? Doesn't look like Jeralla's one." Before she can even finish her question, he's immediately distracted by Fat Mar's blackened catfish. Her question seemingly ignored, she gives a glance to the rest of party and shrugs. 

Carl is sitting there at the table as well, across from Hex and Hildigrim.  He looks up as Fat Mar describes their truly delicious cabbage soup, he's had it before.  "Hey Mar, can you bring me a bowl of the soup?  You know, like I like it.  With some of the cheese sprinkled in, and some bread with it?   And a second pint of ale, please."  He looks up furtively at Hex and Hildigrim to see if there is any unspoken criticism of his order, then back down again at his books open on the table in front of him.  Through their travels together and trip back to King's Pyre, Carl has taken a liking to studying and reading alongside Hildigrim.  If there is an interesting passage of text, he'll call it out or listen to Hildigrim's theories, anything that he wishes to share with curiosity.  Every now and again, if he pauses in his usual studies to learn more about this current situation, he always goes back to a darkly covered book in his pack.  One that he studies late at night, making annotations in the side notes, in the margins and he is almost drawn into it from time to time as he leans over to study it.  He looks up to a vacant empty place on the floor beside him as if someone is standing there, and with frustration and impatience, he speaks to the air beside himself saying, "Go help ole Mar.  Bring me over that ale and a small rag to wipe up the water on this table.  Quick quick.  Shoo now, go give him some help, why don'tcha?"  Then he puts his head back down into his book.  Hex asks her question about the current book Hildigrim is studying and he nods, smiles and gives a knowing wink at her, waiting to hear Hildigrim's response.

Auriel is the last to arrive at the Laughing Goblin. Punctual to a fault, the paladin is rarely late—but the past few mornings, he has taken to early rides on his newfound steed. A gift from Tyr, like so many others, yet this one has brought him particular joy.

He's always loved riding, ever since the days when his family still resided on their estate in Mithrendain. To now be able to summon a steed of his own has brought a quiet, private gladness he hadn't realized he'd missed. This morning's ride along the outskirts of Phlan has simply lasted longer than intended—perhaps, deep down, Auriel sensed that their time for rest was nearing its end, and that was going to be his last chance to indulge in this activity for some time.

So it is that the Winter Eladrin arrives at the Laughing Goblin Inn, dismounting from a warhorse that has probably caused a few heads to turn. Together, the pair are an unusual sight: the tall Eladrin with his soft blue hair fading to white, tied neatly in a long ponytail; delicate threads of icy blue tracing across his face and neck, curling down to the backs of his hands, now visible as he pulls off his riding gloves. The frost that once clung to his armor had melted away, leaving his chainmail looking as it did in the other seasons.

Auriel's warhorse might appear as something torn from a dream—or a nightmare. Its kelp-green hide covered in faint yellow runes, its limbs trailing with ethereal tendrils that look like ribbons of water and shadow which drift on a breeze no one else can feel. The discerning might recognize it for what it resembles: a kelpie. A vision born of the boyhood dreams of an Elf who has long since grown.

Auriel dismounts with practiced ease, runs a hand along the steed's forehead, and murmurs in Sylvan, "Fan anseo, Aisling." The creature dips its head in acknowledgment—and she remains still, waiting.

The paladin then steps into the tavern—just in time to hear Fat Mar announcing the day's menu, Hex asking about the book Hildigrim seems to have just slammed shut, and Carl shooing away his invisible companion. "Greetings," he says, nodding briefly. He doesn't add anything else yet, except to ask Fat Mar for a cabbage soup for himself.

Fat Mar hands his rag offhandedly to Carl's unseen servant, having grown accustomed to the help in mopping up spilled drinks and wiping down tables over the last tenday. "Happy to, Mister Bigtoe!" the waiter booms. "Since you lot freed up the Iron Route we've had twice the business in the evenings. Everyone wants to come eat their cabbage soup and have the chance to see the heroes who rid the countryside of the Gray Patriots!" Having seen him wait tables for much longer than the others, Hex notices the difference in his demeanor having the extra assistance from the unseen servant, and the friendlier manner in which he addresses Carl than most others. "Fresh apple pie is also on the menu today," he adds when Auriel enters the inn and orders a cabbage soup.

As you sit in the Laughing Goblin, it is readily apparent that the large, dark, old tavern has seen better days. The woodwork is worn, the once-white plaster has yellowed, and the chandeliers are rusted and tarnished. The furniture shows the signs of heavy use and the scars of various brawls from the usual rough nighttime crowd of sailors, mariners, and mercenaries.

Its aesthetic shortcomings are easily overpowered by the strong smell of cabbage soup wafting from the kitchen. 

Hex can't help but smile as she notices Fat Mar's good mood. She gives Carl a look of appreciation. "Looks like you've become Mar's favourite, Carl. Ever since you and Squirt started helping him out, he's been in a much better mood." She takes a swig of her drink and mumbles into her cup. "Pretty sure he's giving you special treatment as well... you think you can get me that apple pie at a discount?"

She's momentarily distracted as the sound of the door opening catches her attention and she sees Auriel approaching. Over the past tenday, they hadn't spent much time together, busy dealing with their own things, but she has grown a little more accustomed to his winter form. It was pretty much impossible to not notice him riding around on his kelpie in town. "Hey Auriel, how was your morning ride?"

Hildigrim watches with mild interest as Carl places his order, then lifts a hand to beckon the barman. “I should very much like to sample the fish, if I may.” But before Fat Mar can retreat, the halfling’s expression sharpens — his mind clearly shifting tracks. “Might I inquire as to the provenance of said fish? Is your supplier by chance affiliated with the Thentian fisheries?”

He is, of course, curious as to whether he might be sampling the latest catch of his own family's offerings.

Once that exchange concludes, Hildigrim turns toward Hex, resting one ink-smudged hand upon the closed tome at his side. “It is, in essence, a mystery. I discovered this volume in a rather peculiar bookshop several years ago — one of those dusty, eccentric establishments with more cats than customers. It appears to be a diary of some sort, yet I’ve been unable to identify any known script or dialect. My working hypothesis is that it’s written in a cipher — an exceedingly intricate one, at that. I’ve devoted countless hours to decoding it, and thus far it remains thoroughly impenetrable. It is, frankly, infuriating.”

He gazes down at the cover with a mixture of frustration and reverence. “But I am convinced — utterly convinced — that it conceals something of importance. I can feel it in my marrow.”

Without delay, he pivots toward Auriel, his expression brightening considerably. Truth be told, Hildigrim appreciated Auriel’s new no-nonsense, straight-to-the-point demeanor. There’s a glint of genuine curiosity behind his spectacles as he leans in slightly. “Tell me, I’ve been mulling over your conjured steed, and I find myself positively brimming with questions. How much autonomy do you possess over its morphological parameters? Could you, for example, will it into the form of a pony? Or imbue it with wings, like a pegasus? What if one desired it to possess aquatic adaptations — fins rather than legs? Or perhaps six limbs instead of the conventional four? What, precisely, delineates the boundaries of the spell’s transmutational latitude?”

(ooc: edited the previous post. The kelpie-looking warhorse hasn't been dismissed. It's waiting outside.)

Auriel gives Fat Mar—and the cabbage soup he places in front of him—an appreciative look. It wasn't a dish he would have cared for before his time in Phlan, but he'd grown fond of its taste and the way it sat warmly in his stomach.

When Hex addresses him, he turns to regard her for a moment. "Good," he says. Then he corrects himself: "Great."

For a moment, it seems that's all he's going to say—but then he adds, "I used to ride on a daily basis, before. I hadn't realized how much I missed it." A pause. "It has brought back a small piece of what I lost for good." He returns his blue-and-silver gaze to his bowl, but Hex can the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

As he eats, Auriel listens in silence to the conversation about the Hildigrim's book. Though he says nothing, his brow furrows slightly. Another book becoming an obsession for one of them? He glances at Carlthuzad. The eladrin had hoped Hildigrim might help the dwarf untangle his connection to his strange tome, the axe, and those moments when the dwarf's eyes turned marble black. But now he wonders if the halfling will be pulled into his own fixation instead.

He finishes his soup, still silent, until Hildigrim turns to him with questions.

"Once the spirit is summoned, it retains the form it was first called in," he says, answering the first question. "The bond can be dismissed and forged anew with a different creature—like a pony, yes. Even a beast adapted for water. It's not unheard of."

From what Hildigrim knows of Auriel, though, it's easy to sense he wouldn't dissolve any bond—of any kind—lightly. Especially not one so newly formed.

"As paladins progress in their path, they may bind themselves to more powerful spirits—griffons, pegasi, perytons." He pauses, then adds, "I heard of paladin whose griffon shimmered like a constellation. But not matter how it looked, it was still a griffon. A paladin may reimagine the creature to an extent, but ultimately, it is a conjuration of the spirit of an existing creature, not a transmutation shaped at will to fit the paladin's desires."

OOC:

Carl brightens up when Auriel comes in and joins them at the table, clearing a spot at the table and making sure he has a comfy chair.   “Wow, a steed like that is amazing!  I want to see it, later of course.  And you have a bond with it, eh?  It hears your thoughts and commands?  That is amazing…”  He looks over to Fat Mar, saying to him “Hey Mar, we may wish to take you up on that apple pie as well, that sounds delicious!  Hey, I have an idea, Mar.  Of course it would be with your consent, but … what if ole Squirt helped you out a little with cleaning up the place, freshening it up, perhaps a new coat of paint or something?  While we’re talking, I can have him cleaning then painting the baseboard trim, clean the fixtures, you know, spruce up the place… whaddya say?  Would that be okay?  All we would ask for is some of that delightful pie to go with this soup..”. he gives Mar a big grin and a wink.  He goes back to studying his book but furtively looking up time to time and listening, participating in the conversation with Hildigrim, Hex and Auriel.  

“Might I inquire as to the provenance of said fish? Is your supplier by chance affiliated with the Thentian fisheries?”

Fat Mar shrugs and looks over to the bar where Imizael still leafs through a broadsheet. She doesn't miss a beat, or look up. "No, Thentia doesn't ship here, doesn't make any financial sense for them to do that, I expect, or for our fisheries to ship to Thentia, when they can fetch a much higher price shipping to cities that aren't also directly on the Moonsea," she answers. Fat Mar then turns to Hildigrim and nods, as if the answer had come from him and he was confident in it.

Hey, I have an idea, Mar.  Of course it would be with your consent, but … what if ole Squirt helped you out a little with cleaning up the place, freshening it up, perhaps a new coat of paint or something?  While we’re talking, I can have him cleaning then painting the baseboard trim, clean the fixtures, you know, spruce up the place… whaddya say?  Would that be okay?  All we would ask for is some of that delightful pie to go with this soup..”

Fat Mar again turns to Imizael for an answer. She chuckles and shakes her head as if she's used to this behavior. "I wouldn't mind," she says. "The place could use some sprucing up." Fat Mar retrieves the party's orders, and then pulls up a chair and converses for a few moments, ignoring his work in favor of storytelling and gossip.

A few moments later, a human woman in a Black Fist uniform walks through the open door, pointedy looking about. Grey-streaked blonde hair frames a familiar face with the hard-won lines of advancing age and a violent life. Aleyd Burral turns her stern gaze upon you and quickly moves closer. "Good. I was hoping to find you here," she says.

She casts a baleful eye at Fat Mar and Imizael until they scurry away to the kitchen, following Imizael's hint to "check on the soup".