The world of the Forgotten Realms is one of high fantasy, populated by elves, dwarves, halflings, humans, and other folk. In the Realms, knights dare to seek out the crypts of the fallen dwarf kings of Delzoun, looking for glory and treasure. Rogues prowl the dark alleyways of teeming cities such as Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate. Clerics wield mace and spell in the service of their gods, questing against the terrifying powers that threaten the land. Wizards plunder the ruins of the fallen Netherese empire, delving into secrets too dark for the light of day. Bards sing of kings, queens, tyrants, and heroes who died long ago.
On the roads and rivers of the Realms travel minstrels and peddlers, merchants and guards, soldiers and sailors. Steel-hearted adventurers from backcountry farmsteads and sleepy villages follow tales that take them to strange, glorious, faraway places. Good maps and clear trails can carry even an inexperienced youth with dreams of glory far across the world, but these paths are never safe. Fell magic and deadly monsters are among the perils one faces when traveling in the Realms. Even farms and freeholds within a day’s walk of a city can fall prey to monsters, and no place is safe from the sudden wrath of a dragon.
Icewind Dale, featured in this adventure, is located in a region called the Far North, which is dominated by the Spine of the World, a range of skyscraping, snow-covered peaks. These extend toward the Sword Coast, which forms the western edge of the great continent of Faerûn and stretches southward for thousands of miles. Ships and roads lead southbound travelers to a number of bustling ports along the Sword Coast, including the following strongholds of civilization: Luskan, Neverwinter, and Waterdeep.
(OPTIONAL) Character secret: This adventure is a horror story. Some of you might harbor a secret. Could be important, could be harmless - but you might have one. If you do wish to add an element to your personality/backstory, in addition to a subplot that would involve you, let me know in discord - i'll have you roll and tell you what it is.
Somehow, in some way, you're all familiar with Ten-Towns: the largest settlement in all of Icewind Dale - a collection of ten small towns.
Yup. All ten of 'em.
Like the famous drow Drizzt Do’Urden, many people who come to Ten-Towns are outcasts, fugitives, or pariahs in search of a place where they can be tolerated, if not accepted. Some came here determined to make their fortunes. Others come for the solitude, or to escape notice and stay out of the reach of the law of the southern cities. Today, four hundred years after the formation of Ten-Towns, most folk are here because they were born here, grew up here, and expect to die here. They’re fishers, loggers, miners, hunters, trappers, furriers, and traders accustomed to the harsh climate, the slow pace, and the isolation. Like the hardy lichens and determined reindeer of the tundra, residents endure and do what’s needed to survive.
Some of the people are adventurers, like yourselves.
It's cold here. Damn cold. Like, REALLY cold.
Icewind Dale has few trees, so lumber is cut from the slopes of the Spine of the World or the depths of the Lonelywood Forest. Stone from the hills and valleys surrounding Kelvin’s Cairn supplements wood as a building material in Ten-Towns. Homes have sharply pitched roofs to prevent snow from accumulating on them. The people of Ten-Towns wear layers of woolen clothing often topped off with fur cloaks. Under these heavy clothes and cloaks, one resident looks very much the same as another. Outdoors, it’s hard to tell the people of Ten-Towns apart—and easy for clever monsters to hide in their midst.
Even wearing bundles of fur your exposed skin still hurts. But yet, here you all are in Ten-Towns in Icewind Dale.
WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE?
Icewind Dale has become trapped in a perpetual winter. Ferocious blizzards make the mountain pass through the Spine of the World exceedingly treacherous, and this land has not felt the warmth of the sun in over two years. In fact, the sun no longer appears above the mountains, not even in what should be the height of summer. In this frozen tundra, darkness and bitter cold reign as king and queen. Most dale residents blame Auril the Frostmaiden, the god of winter’s wrath. The shimmering aurora that weaves across the sky each night is said to be her doing—a potent spell that keeps the sun at bay.
Dalefolk live in a scattering of settlements known as Ten-Towns. The drop-off in caravans coming from the south and travel between settlements in this never-ending winter has left everyone feeling isolated. Although each town has resolved to appease the Frostmaiden with sacrifices of one kind or another, no respite from winter’s fury seems forthcoming. For adventurers such as yourselves, Ten-Towns is a place to test one’s mettle and, in the spirit of heroes who have come before, leave one’s mark on this frigid, blighted land.
Here's the map below of Icewind Dale:
THE TOWN OF GOOD MEAD
Since Ten Towns is..well, ten towns, you arrive (or find yourselves all in) in the town of Good Mead. Some of you might live here. Some of you might know each other. Some of you may have came here. What matters now is that our story begins with all of you here, for one reason or another.
Founded by immigrants from Chult and the Vilhon Reach, Good Mead is nestled between Redwaters and a nearby evergreen forest. The town’s squat dwellings, adorned with carvings of dinosaurs and serpents, are overshadowed by the two-story structure of the mead hall, its eaves carved and painted to resemble wyverns. As honey is the key ingredient in mead, the town literally buzzes with the droning of bees. Every tavern in Icewind Dale is accustomed to receiving regular mead deliveries, and the town can’t produce or deliver its mead fast enough.
Four decades ago, this mead hall put an end to the town’s dependence on knucklehead trout fishing with its famous honey wine, which quickly became popular throughout Ten-Towns. The mead hall has a large, fire-heated space dedicated to bee husbandry and the nurturing of beehives. The droning bees can be heard throughout the town, though most residents are so accustomed to the buzzing that they pay it no mind.
Our adventure begins in Mead Hall - aching to get out of the cold, have some mead and a meal, and look for work.
So here we are. This adventure begins in Icewind Dale, in the town of Good Mead. If this were a movie, we're zooming into the scene here in Mead Hall, one of the Inns of this town. Look at the maps above. I've posted one of Icewind Dale, and of Good Mead. You can see Mead Hall on the second map.
This is where I let you guys take over. Here are some things to consider as a group in your first post to help you all out with a start. I'm not looking for a bullet list for a post, but simply mesh the answers to these questions in your post in your own way - your own words.
The first question is: WHO ARE YOU? Tell us something about your character to the players in a narrative way, from your character's point of view. What's your name? What do you look like? How do you speak? What are you wearing? Do you have any distinguishing marks?
Secondly: WHY ARE YOU HERE? What brought you to this terrible place? Money? Glory? Work? Adventure? Share it with everyone in your own way. Do you have family here? Did you grow up here? Where did you come from? Do you know anyone else in the party? Perhaps some of you are friends. If so, with whom? You are all adventurers looking for work. Perhaps there is strength in numbers.
Thirdly: PICTURE IT.It's freezing. It's so damn cold. Everywhere. All the time. This is the theme of this adventure. The population of Ten Towns have not seen the sun in two years - most likely Auril's doing. Can you imagine how you'd feel if that happened in real life? Thus, it's perpetually dusk here, and oh so cold. How would your character react to all this? Perhaps this is why you're here in the first place - to find out what happened to this land. Always put yourself in your character's shoes. Or claws. Or talons.
The door to the Mead Hall slams open, accompanied by a gust of icy wind and slush blasting into the warm confines. Through the haze of white, a shadow emerges, small, round and furry. At quick glance, it looks like someone's pile of spare pelts and furs suddenly took a liking to wearing boots or perhaps a wayward bear cub grew tired of the cold seeking refuge in the comfy confines of the hall. But no, the ball of furs makes its way toward the bar, slowly shedding one layer after another and revealing bright eyes and a smiling face under a mop of unruly brown hair. Like the animal some may once considered he to be, the halfling takes a big breath, his smile broadening as the air rushes into to his body.
"Is that bacon I'm a smellin'? Oi! Please let it be so," he calls out. "Barkeep, fetch me a tankard of that wonderful mead and a plate heaped with that succulent fare! I've made me way through this cursed cold from the Lonelywood by way of Termalaine, Targos and Bryn Shander to taste a wee bit of this here famous drink. I shant want to be dis'pointed. My toes are frozen, my belly rumblin' and I has coins ready to spend!"
With that, the Phineas Fairfinder makes his way to a table, climbing into a chair and haphazardly depositing his spare furs on the floor around him. Pulling a hefty pack up to sit in an accompanying chair, he opens it, practically disappearing inside of it as he sorts through it before erupting with a large leatherbound tome and writing utensils. Looking about the scene of the Mead Hall, he smiles broadly, nodding his head. "Ah, 'tis poetry in itself, it is," he mutters as he begins furiously writing in the book, only briefly raising his eyes and offering a hearty thanks as his meal and drink arrive. With each bite, he mutters something different to himself, quickly scratching out more commentary in his tome. "A fine fare, indeed! A fine fare!"
As the rest of the crowd resumes to its own business, the halfling continues his furious note-taking, pausing only now and then to stuff more scrumptious bacon into his gaping maw. To the uneducated eye, he appears nothing more than another of the gleeful wee folk, enjoying his food and fare. Those who take a closer look, though, realize the euphoric strongheart isn't what he seems. Each glance around the room appears to pause briefly on the various occupants, drinking in their appearances and manners. Each pause followed by furious note-taking in the well-worn, leatherbound book. More than once, his pause lingers longer than others. The notes taken more furiously.
"You comin', Kenku?" belts the ostentatiously dressed leader of the caravan set for Tentowns. "Don't see many of you around here." With that, Mica hops onto the last wagon of the dozen-odd vessels headed through the Spine of the World, along with dozens of other miscellaneous companions. He wasn't sure why he was feeling an unending draw to travel North; he had known mostly fire and turmoil. The sleepy, frigid wastelands were frightening to him, but at the same time, they were incredibly alluring, for reasons he could not tell. He should really stop listening to the voices in his head.
22 Months Ago
Ever since the travelers made their way into the snowy peaks and the temperature had gotten colder, it had not gone a day since Mica had a clear mind. Endless migraines and skull-splitting headaches wracked the Kenku's soul, leaving him mostly catatonic. The cold has made his right arm ache terribly, and the disfigured coloring of the feathers began to spread further up the wrist and into his chest. He felt an insane urge to do something - he does not know what, but it must be done, or he feels like he would die. There hasn't been a single moment where whispers haven't been speaking to him in his head since they crossed the first mountain. He says a quick, hopeful prayer to the small carving of a raven he had carved from stone that rests on his chest. Maybe someone will hear him. The voices certainly did.
20 Months Ago
Once again, Mica was alone in the world. But this time, he was cold. Dreadfully cold. Lost, too - his small pouch only had so much food, but he was used to hunting wild game. What he was not used to, however, was the snow and sleet; avian bodies weren't meant to be in the cold, and his clothes were nowhere near sufficient. He misses the caravan - come to think of it, what happened to the caravan? Mica remembers passing out, but after that it was a blur. His supplies were dwindling, and he was hopelessly lost. The snow had covered the trail, and he was somewhere in the world. But for now, he has hope. At least the voices had stopped talking to him.
18 Months Ago
Where was the sun? The caravan had set to travel when the winter was meant to abate. Where was it, thinks Mica, as he collapses near the base of some cliff he found in the wilderness. The air had gotten thinner, but Mica didn't know what a mountain was. He was scared. He takes the last stick of wood from his satchel, holds it to the air, and a small, purplish flame dances across the top. He cradles himself around the fire, trying to keep himself warm. He begins to piece together thoughts to it, like he did that one time in Waterdeep.
"Are you there?" he thinks. No response. "Please, are you there? Are you hearing me?"he projects, louder this time. Nothing. "I know you're there. Please, help me. I'm lost." Whatever entity that heard is calls last time didn't respond. His last branch burned out.
One Year Ago
"Why did you bring me here?" he yells to the blizzard. More like loudly thinks. He couldn't replicate what he hadn't heard, obviously. The numbing pain of the cold made his muscles stiff, and the aching pain of his wrist spread over to his chest, encompassing his gaunt arm. He hadn't eaten in two months. "There's nothing here for me. What did I do? I'm going to die out here," he says, imagining the flurries of snowflakes and dunes of snow to be faces speaking to him. He could have sworn they were moving. He collapses onto the ground. Whatever being he had spoken to had surely deserted him.
...
...
...
Now
An absolutely miserable figure drags itself to the front entrance of the first building that appeared on the horizon. Opening the door was tough - cold numbs the ability of muscles, especially for a figure so thin, and after fumbling for a moment, the door creaks ajar. Emerging from the grey slush is a rather tall Kenku; years of living above poverty was uncommon for his race, allowing him to grow to his full height, but that is offset by the absolute destitution of his frame. He's barely more than a skeleton; his skin is stretched taut over his feathered skin. He doesn't suppose Kenku are common in these areas at all, making it an especially disturbing sight for anyone who hasn't seen one before. The first thing you notice is that he is completely unprepared for the cold; he only carries a couple light clothes designed for ventures far south. Nearly all of them are wrapped around his right arm, but it does not appear injured in any way - it's more like he is covering something. On his belt lies two daggers, but besides that, he is unarmed. A small, jade-colored raven is hung around a necklace on his chest. His clothes are a mess - tattered, ripped, shredded, and soaked, with icicles clinging off every inch. Feathers aren't conducive to cold weather, and melted snow encases the figure in a shell of perpetually frozen water, clinging to the porous surfaces. Although his head jerks and bobs in the same manner of common birds elsewhere, he does it with such lethargy as he looks around the room that it's difficult not to feel sorry for the strange creature. He stiffly shuffles into the room, making his way directly towards the fire - he does not care about what people think, or what impressions he is having on the inn. Mud and melting water follows his steps as he crumples next to the fire. He was finally warm.
After he dries off slightly, he searches his pockets for spare change. He hadn't needed it for years. At last, his hand brushes across a small jumble of coins. He makes his way up to a table, calling towards a barkeep. He turns his head, wracking his brain for all the expressions he has heard. It has been years he has spoken to someone, and the phrases he knows take some thinking to resurface. He had forgotten how to speak. "I has coins ready to spend," he says, resorting to mimicing the words of the loud stranger near him. He could recall phrases later. "A wee bit of this little drink."
It has been a month since the Githyanki was found nearly frozen to death by a set of curious trappers. Lured towards the mountains by flames and smoke reaching up into the dark sky, they found Rak near the base of the mountains. The two men assumed he was some sort of strange elf when they first saw his pointed ears and elongated face. As he slowly healed over the course of the next week, he heard the townsfolk talk about him as rumors began to spread... "perhaps he is an elven soldier from a distant land..." "do you think he lost his nose to frostbite...." "He's got green skin, maybe he's part goblin"... Rak didn't bother to correct any of these misconceptions as he struggled to come to grips with his new cold hard reality...
This morning was like any other. He woke up early and asked his deity for the strength to overcome this new Icy prison before putting on his heavy chain armor. The armor was well crafted and fit perfectly to his tall slender body. Although many considered Rak to be an elf, the craftsmanship of his armor was not elven... or dwarven, or human for that matter. He was lean and muscular with pale green skin with dark spots on his cheeks and black eyes. The only visible hair on Rak was a small well kept patch of black hair on his chin. He wore a black cloak over his armor and kept his hood up at most times in an effort to keep his pointed ears and other strange features hidden from inquisitive eyes.
Once he was prepared, he would head to the Mead Hall for a bite to eat. Pushing open the door he would quickly step inside before slamming the door shut behind him. "Another frozen day with no sun.. Can't even see the stars in this damn weather." He would curse as he makes his way to the bar. "Give me a tankard of mead and plate of whatever meat you have cooking this morning." Rak would demand as he places a few coins on the counter. As he waited for his food he would look over towards the tall feathered creature and grin. When he was finally served his food he would take his mead and his plate to an empty table in the corner. Snow would fall from his cloak with every loud footstep before he dropped hard into his seat. The chair would creak loudly in protest as he starts to eat his meal. Rak would only pull back his hood as he started to dig into the pile of meat. Although the Githyanki ate at a rapid pace, he did so without making any kind of mess or getting any food on the table or his armor. After eating about half his plate of food in just a few minute, he would once again look up to the strange looking kenku and take a deep drink of mead. "Hey! You! Bird... thing..." Rak would shout. "Are you new to this forsaken frozen tundra of a town as well?"
One after another they run through their paces with scarcely anything to tell one from another.
The sun never rises, so it never sets.
The cold never breaks, it only goes from bone freezing to killing cold then back to merely unbearably cold again.
This is life in the Ten-Towns.
A far cry from his days tending his family's herd of redhorned sheep. He missed them. Furry, docile and happy to spend their days grazing away on the tundra, nosing through the permafrost to eke out nourishment from the lichen and artic grass hiding underneath. That's what Kilmus had become. A sheep, not a shepherd. Nosing through the ice hoping to get through another endless day into another indistinguishable night.
At least he was inside. The last tavern he had worked at had him stand outside, in the cold, to keep watch. Against what he was never sure - nothing much ever happened outside a tavern. The trouble was always on the inside. Where the people and the mead ran together and caused the problems.
Perched on his stool with a view of the door and the open mead hall, Kilmus' job was to make sure those problems never got bad enough to stop the flow of coins into the til. Mostly that meant keeping drunks from hurting each other, but every now and then it meant handling something more serious, which is why he wore the uncomfortable chain under his layers of wool and fur. It's also why he had swapped his Shepherd's Crook for the heavy hafted Locher Axe he leaned on now. Both of which he was grateful for as the green-skinned stranger barked at the even stranger bird thing that had stumbled in out of the cold.
Mead Hall has a roaring fire, good food, and the sounds of bees - because of their famous mead production - can even be heard. It's another typical day - if it could even be called that. Once again, the sun didn't rise. It's bone bitingly cold outside, but the food is warm and the drink is available. As you all converse, the locals mind their own business. It's almost as if the freezing cold has dulled personalities and spirits.
Perhaps the rumors of Auril are true? But, you wouldn't know.
Phineas glances up over his book and remnants of the pile of bacon as the birdling and odd green-skinned stranger entered the hall. Furious notes follow with a few quizzical looks as well. Eventually, curiosity overtook what few manners the over-eager strongheart had. Loudly clapping his book closed, he grabs his pack and his tankard (and a handful of bacon) and wanders over to the green-skinned newcomer.
"Oi, don't think I've been seeing you around these parts," he says to Rak, before extending a greasy, bacon-crumb encrusted hand. "Phineas. Phineas Fairfinder. What brings you to the Ten-Towns? And, if you don't mind me asking, from where are ya comin' as I've never seen the likes of a green elf?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Corrin Kettlewhistle: Halfling Life Cleric (Curse of Strahd) Kip Dalton: Human Lore Bard (Waterdeep Dragon Heist) Debauchery Dalliance: Half-Drow Oath of Conquest Paladin (White Plume Mountain)
The Kenku erratically swirls its long head towards the yellowish-green Warrior some ways away from him. He opens his beak before eking out a small creaking sound - his voice had failed him. Breathing for a second, he refocused himself on the task at hand, and reflects some of the words back at the Gith. “New to this forsaken frozen tundra,”He says. He cocks his head, scrambling his brains for a second, for anything he’s heard that could be useful. Suddenly, a shock of pain reverberates through his head, and he clutches it with his unwrapped arm, closing his eyes. He’s at a snowy mountaintop. Oddly, smoke seems to be rising in the distance, and there’s someone - Human - standing a ways away, speaking to him. With eyes closed, he repeats in the voice of a young woman - ”What happened to the wagon? Where are we? What are you-“ the Kenku seems to snap out of this flashback, clearly unnerved with his attempt to ask where he was. He didn’t remember that scene. Composing himself, he thinks back to better times. “What’s your name, little guy? Oh, you can’t say? Why, you’re mighty fine with a chisel. Let’s call you Mica. It fits you well,” he says in a kindly, elderly voice. It’s clearly just a memory of a better time, as the Kenku’s eyes sadden, and he clutches the carving on his chest.
Rak would turn from the approaching birdman and look to the halfling. The Githyanki would wait a few awkward seconds as though trying to decide if he wanted to touch the creatures hand before slowly extending his own hand to meet it. He would grip it tightly.. just on the verge of being painful before letting it go. "My name is Rak." He would reply simply as he leans back in his chair. "I came here on a... ship... and once I have the coin and the resources I hope to leave this frozen rock on a ship as well..." The greened skin figure would add before turning to get a better look at the Kenku. "OK... Mica.. I think that's your name. Why don't you take a seat and help yourself to the rest of my meal. I think you might just be strange enough looking that people might decide they'd rather stare at you than me." He would say casually before kicking out the chair on the opposite side of his table with his armored boot from underneath. "I Suppose you can sit as well Mr. Fairfinder... so long as you don't write anything else about me in your book here." Rak would say as he nods towards the halflings leather tome.
A cloaked figure stands on the deck of Red Waters, small puffs of white coming from an open mouth. They tasted the cold, realizing how very different it was from the heat of New Cyre. They had never realized, how in all of their journey it took to be here, the tundra would shift underneath their feet like glaciers in the frigid water.
They tugged the cloak lower over their face, swiftly moving down the road towards the boisterous drunken noise coming from the building that was Mead Hall. They rose a narrow arm, clad in dark red leather, towards their face blocking the biting wind that tore its way past facial bindings. With a heave they shoved the thick wooden door, shaking snow off of black boots. The door slammed shut in the low light of the room, barely audible over the roar of the room, except for the uncannily taller figure.
Cold eyes scanned the room, flint sharp before resting on a small seat in the back corner of the bar. They moved towards it with the gaunt of someone comfortable and use to chaotic surroundings. They placed two copper pieces on the bar table, sitting down with a loud thump. “Tall glass of mead is what I have the currency for, child.” They said in a voice with an unplaceable accent, much like the one of someone who spoke more then one language. A bloody and wrapped hand clutched the handle as they took a sip, the other clenched on a dagger under their weathered cloak, the trademark of a weary traveler.
They cast their gaze once more around the room, as if searching for a target before resting on the odd group in the middle, gaze landing on a stout halfling. They squinted, casually shifting for a better angel of the small gathering. They pushed back their hood, red, sandy hair pulled back to reveal a bony, wild face. Her skin is a milk white, bordering on an odd alabaster, different from the pale skin of these Northern people. Sparkling gold-green eyes, set gracefully within their sockets, watch warily over her pint, categorizing the behaviors of the ragtag group. Scars stretching from just under the left eye, first running towards thin lips and ending on her right cheek leaves a painful burden of a wrenched life. This is the face of Fintan Alasadiar, and she is here to hunt the very figures her eyes rest among, or so she thinks.
(OOC: Qila is out of town and will be joining us full swing on Sunday. I will kick off the adventure proper then. In the meantime, go ahead and get aquainted!)
Mica sits down and voraciously consumes the food he was offered. He wasn't quite sure what the green man meant by his comment, and wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not, but he wasn't one to judge - it was the first good meal he'd had in who knows how long. He had lost count of the seasonless days. What was more of a concern was the mead he'd ordered. It is difficult to drink from a mug with a beak, and he manages by tilting his head upwards and to the side, much like birds do to drink, but he still splashes mead everywhere. He doesn't seem to mind. In doing so, he takes a better look at the customers in the tavern. Given the reputation of Kenku, he'd been thrown out of a tavern or seen as a threat on more than one occasion, and any hostility was usually scapegoated on him. He wasn't worried about the average patron or the two seemingly friendly companions near him, but the watchful bouncer could prove problematic if the need to fight or flee ever arrived. What concerned him most was the hostile-looking woman staring the table down. He will place his uncovered hand into this pocket, resting his hand on a dagger, just in case. You never know.
(Edit: I'm going to assume a 7 isn't high enough to notice her look in a crowded bar, especially since Kilmus is focused on the table of strangers. @DM - feel free to tell me if I'm wrong.)
Kilmus watches from his perch on his stool as what was a single stranger turns into a table full of potential trouble. Fairfinder was a nice enough sort, but prone to rub people wrong from time to time - and the green-skinned one didn't look like he took kindly to being irritated. 'An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure' his mother's voice rang out clear as a bell. 'Easier to stop trouble before it starts than after it's begun...'
The voices didn't surprise him anymore and he long since learned that no one else could hear them. That fact didn't make them any less real, but he knew better than to talk back to them out loud - best case it confused people, worst case.... well there was a reason he'd been on the move so much.
Disconcerting as the voice was, the sentiment was right, as it generally was. He should try to intervene to make sure the table of strangers knew he was here - often the sight of the broad-chested young man with the angry-looking blade was enough to dissuade troublemakers before they even got started.
Levering himself of his stool with the haft of his weapon, he strides purposely towards the table with the strange newcomers and the talkative halfling. 'Evening folks, hope you all are enjoying the warmth of the fire and our famous mead. I trust everything is in order here? Everyone is in good spirits?' As he speaks he makes direct eye contact with each of them, moving from one set of eyes to another with the practiced ease of a performer. The smile on his face and warmth in his voice is genuine, sincerity flowing from him like the honey in the hives in this very hall. And yet the edge of his halberd is never quite out of sight, glinting and catching the light from the hearth - reminding each of the patrons of its deadly bite.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
perception 23
"That's right, gobble it up there big bird. Maybe We can find you a straw for your drink next time? Do you have straws on this frozen rock?." Rak would say with a smile as he places his hands behind the back of his head. As the githyanki leans farther back in his chair his eyes would scan the room. He was used to drawing the attention of people in town due to his appearance, but now that the kenku and halfling had joined him at his table, it seemed that some of the attention was not just curiosity. With his hands already behind his head, he would take his cloak and once again slide the hood up over his pointed ears and bald head. "So which one of you pissed off the woman at the bar. The bouncee doesnt look to happy with us either." Rak would add as he slides his hand towards the hilt if his great sword.
When the bouncer approaches the table rak would sit forward a bit... allowing all four legs of the chair to make contact with the floor again while leaving his hand on the hilt of the great sword next to him. "I think everyone is having a wonderful time. I think the only thing warmer than the fire over there is the warm fuzzy feeling I'm getting just knowing you are here looking over me. What's your name by the way? I'd like to know who should thank for making me feel so safe and secure." The githyanki would ask as his white teeth shimmer from under his dark hood. The smiling Rak would tap his fingers on the hilt on the great sword with one hand while stroking the hair on his chin with the other.
Phineas cringes a bit at Rak's comments, offering a quick look up at the bouncer. He offers a quick smile. "Well met, friend," he says to Kilmus. "Have you come to join us? That'd be great. I've been wanting to catch up on news since my last visit. The Ten-Towns rumble with tales of dark tidings. Have you heard the same?"
Quickly flipping open his tome, scratching down a few notes about his new companions, Phineas offers a "who me?" smile to Rak before closing the tome and sliding it back in his pack.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Perception: 17[ OOC: I assume an 11 is high enough to hear a bit of the conversation? I've never rolled before for these sort of things, please let me know if I am incorrect]
The elven woman strikes up a short conversation with the barmaid, glancing over her shoulder at the odd group. Slowly, her tense grip on the dagger loosens, wearily staying in place as she continues quietly observing the reactions of those around her. Fintan brushes a lock of sandy hair over the pointed tip of her right ear, quickly acknowledging with less fierce eyes the appearance of the human and halfling. She squints and tilts her head at the mention of New and Ten-Towns.''I reckon, that ragtag group be the quiet assemblage of uncanny adventurers. Perhaps they know of this dark thing hunting the lowly targets.'' She murmured, more to herself then anything, because only the subtle twinkle in her eyes give at the squalid life she endures. Fintan gave a firm nod to the barmaid before briskly standing to her full height, grip once again tightening on the dagger, just in case. You never know how the balky group of drunk patrons may be when a woman walks among them in the dim.
She slid her cloak once again over her shock of hair, the click of boots muffled by loud voices as she makes her way over to the semi-secluded table. Fintan stops just behind the left shoulder of Klimus, an often foreboding presence, before interrupting them in a stoic voice.''What is this talk I hear of news in relation to the town? Might you be fellow comrades looking for coin?''
Tentowns. So that is where they were. Mica couldn’t even remember why he set out for this forsaken area in the first place. Cold has always scared him. Alas, the Fiend he’d communicated with had worked in mysterious ways - he was certain that he wasn’t sent here for no reason, but wasn’t it strange that he hadn’t been able to communicate with his patron for years? Anyhow, his primary worry is finding a suitable set of clothes, lodging, and a reliable source of food. Even if that meant he had to steal for it. But for now, the talk of coin momentarily pulled him away from ravaging the meal in front of him. ”Wouldn’t call us comrades, exactly,” he mimics in the green-skinned man’s voice. He’s still clutching the dagger with one hand, clearly tensed, as if he is preparing to jump away at a moment’s notice. “Looking for coin,“ he reflects back at the woman he is still wary of. He is still having difficulty adjusting to the suddenness of his departure from the wilderness, especially social customs, as he appears to pick up spare scraps of meat that fell onto the floor and his light armor while he was eating, his wrapped arm lying motionless on the table.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
The world of the Forgotten Realms is one of high fantasy, populated by elves, dwarves, halflings, humans, and other folk. In the Realms, knights dare to seek out the crypts of the fallen dwarf kings of Delzoun, looking for glory and treasure. Rogues prowl the dark alleyways of teeming cities such as Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate. Clerics wield mace and spell in the service of their gods, questing against the terrifying powers that threaten the land. Wizards plunder the ruins of the fallen Netherese empire, delving into secrets too dark for the light of day. Bards sing of kings, queens, tyrants, and heroes who died long ago.
On the roads and rivers of the Realms travel minstrels and peddlers, merchants and guards, soldiers and sailors. Steel-hearted adventurers from backcountry farmsteads and sleepy villages follow tales that take them to strange, glorious, faraway places. Good maps and clear trails can carry even an inexperienced youth with dreams of glory far across the world, but these paths are never safe. Fell magic and deadly monsters are among the perils one faces when traveling in the Realms. Even farms and freeholds within a day’s walk of a city can fall prey to monsters, and no place is safe from the sudden wrath of a dragon.
Icewind Dale, featured in this adventure, is located in a region called the Far North, which is dominated by the Spine of the World, a range of skyscraping, snow-covered peaks. These extend toward the Sword Coast, which forms the western edge of the great continent of Faerûn and stretches southward for thousands of miles. Ships and roads lead southbound travelers to a number of bustling ports along the Sword Coast, including the following strongholds of civilization: Luskan, Neverwinter, and Waterdeep.
(OPTIONAL) Character secret: This adventure is a horror story. Some of you might harbor a secret. Could be important, could be harmless - but you might have one. If you do wish to add an element to your personality/backstory, in addition to a subplot that would involve you, let me know in discord - i'll have you roll and tell you what it is.
ADVENTURE START - YOU MAY POST ON FRIDAY
ICEWIND DALE AND TEN-TOWNS
Somehow, in some way, you're all familiar with Ten-Towns: the largest settlement in all of Icewind Dale - a collection of ten small towns.
Yup. All ten of 'em.
Like the famous drow Drizzt Do’Urden, many people who come to Ten-Towns are outcasts, fugitives, or pariahs in search of a place where they can be tolerated, if not accepted. Some came here determined to make their fortunes. Others come for the solitude, or to escape notice and stay out of the reach of the law of the southern cities. Today, four hundred years after the formation of Ten-Towns, most folk are here because they were born here, grew up here, and expect to die here. They’re fishers, loggers, miners, hunters, trappers, furriers, and traders accustomed to the harsh climate, the slow pace, and the isolation. Like the hardy lichens and determined reindeer of the tundra, residents endure and do what’s needed to survive.
Some of the people are adventurers, like yourselves.
It's cold here. Damn cold. Like, REALLY cold.
Icewind Dale has few trees, so lumber is cut from the slopes of the Spine of the World or the depths of the Lonelywood Forest. Stone from the hills and valleys surrounding Kelvin’s Cairn supplements wood as a building material in Ten-Towns. Homes have sharply pitched roofs to prevent snow from accumulating on them. The people of Ten-Towns wear layers of woolen clothing often topped off with fur cloaks. Under these heavy clothes and cloaks, one resident looks very much the same as another. Outdoors, it’s hard to tell the people of Ten-Towns apart—and easy for clever monsters to hide in their midst.
Even wearing bundles of fur your exposed skin still hurts. But yet, here you all are in Ten-Towns in Icewind Dale.
WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE?
Icewind Dale has become trapped in a perpetual winter. Ferocious blizzards make the mountain pass through the Spine of the World exceedingly treacherous, and this land has not felt the warmth of the sun in over two years. In fact, the sun no longer appears above the mountains, not even in what should be the height of summer. In this frozen tundra, darkness and bitter cold reign as king and queen. Most dale residents blame Auril the Frostmaiden, the god of winter’s wrath. The shimmering aurora that weaves across the sky each night is said to be her doing—a potent spell that keeps the sun at bay.
Dalefolk live in a scattering of settlements known as Ten-Towns. The drop-off in caravans coming from the south and travel between settlements in this never-ending winter has left everyone feeling isolated. Although each town has resolved to appease the Frostmaiden with sacrifices of one kind or another, no respite from winter’s fury seems forthcoming. For adventurers such as yourselves, Ten-Towns is a place to test one’s mettle and, in the spirit of heroes who have come before, leave one’s mark on this frigid, blighted land.
Here's the map below of Icewind Dale:
THE TOWN OF GOOD MEAD
Since Ten Towns is..well, ten towns, you arrive (or find yourselves all in) in the town of Good Mead. Some of you might live here. Some of you might know each other. Some of you may have came here. What matters now is that our story begins with all of you here, for one reason or another.
Founded by immigrants from Chult and the Vilhon Reach, Good Mead is nestled between Redwaters and a nearby evergreen forest. The town’s squat dwellings, adorned with carvings of dinosaurs and serpents, are overshadowed by the two-story structure of the mead hall, its eaves carved and painted to resemble wyverns. As honey is the key ingredient in mead, the town literally buzzes with the droning of bees. Every tavern in Icewind Dale is accustomed to receiving regular mead deliveries, and the town can’t produce or deliver its mead fast enough.
Four decades ago, this mead hall put an end to the town’s dependence on knucklehead trout fishing with its famous honey wine, which quickly became popular throughout Ten-Towns. The mead hall has a large, fire-heated space dedicated to bee husbandry and the nurturing of beehives. The droning bees can be heard throughout the town, though most residents are so accustomed to the buzzing that they pay it no mind.
Our adventure begins in Mead Hall - aching to get out of the cold, have some mead and a meal, and look for work.
Today, you think, just might be your lucky day.
YOUR FIRST POST
So here we are. This adventure begins in Icewind Dale, in the town of Good Mead. If this were a movie, we're zooming into the scene here in Mead Hall, one of the Inns of this town. Look at the maps above. I've posted one of Icewind Dale, and of Good Mead. You can see Mead Hall on the second map.
This is where I let you guys take over. Here are some things to consider as a group in your first post to help you all out with a start. I'm not looking for a bullet list for a post, but simply mesh the answers to these questions in your post in your own way - your own words.
The first question is:
WHO ARE YOU? Tell us something about your character to the players in a narrative way, from your character's point of view. What's your name? What do you look like? How do you speak? What are you wearing? Do you have any distinguishing marks?
Secondly:
WHY ARE YOU HERE? What brought you to this terrible place? Money? Glory? Work? Adventure? Share it with everyone in your own way. Do you have family here? Did you grow up here? Where did you come from? Do you know anyone else in the party? Perhaps some of you are friends. If so, with whom? You are all adventurers looking for work. Perhaps there is strength in numbers.
Thirdly:
PICTURE IT. It's freezing. It's so damn cold. Everywhere. All the time. This is the theme of this adventure. The population of Ten Towns have not seen the sun in two years - most likely Auril's doing. Can you imagine how you'd feel if that happened in real life? Thus, it's perpetually dusk here, and oh so cold. How would your character react to all this? Perhaps this is why you're here in the first place - to find out what happened to this land. Always put yourself in your character's shoes. Or claws. Or talons.
The door to the Mead Hall slams open, accompanied by a gust of icy wind and slush blasting into the warm confines. Through the haze of white, a shadow emerges, small, round and furry. At quick glance, it looks like someone's pile of spare pelts and furs suddenly took a liking to wearing boots or perhaps a wayward bear cub grew tired of the cold seeking refuge in the comfy confines of the hall. But no, the ball of furs makes its way toward the bar, slowly shedding one layer after another and revealing bright eyes and a smiling face under a mop of unruly brown hair. Like the animal some may once considered he to be, the halfling takes a big breath, his smile broadening as the air rushes into to his body.
"Is that bacon I'm a smellin'? Oi! Please let it be so," he calls out. "Barkeep, fetch me a tankard of that wonderful mead and a plate heaped with that succulent fare! I've made me way through this cursed cold from the Lonelywood by way of Termalaine, Targos and Bryn Shander to taste a wee bit of this here famous drink. I shant want to be dis'pointed. My toes are frozen, my belly rumblin' and I has coins ready to spend!"
With that, the Phineas Fairfinder makes his way to a table, climbing into a chair and haphazardly depositing his spare furs on the floor around him. Pulling a hefty pack up to sit in an accompanying chair, he opens it, practically disappearing inside of it as he sorts through it before erupting with a large leatherbound tome and writing utensils. Looking about the scene of the Mead Hall, he smiles broadly, nodding his head. "Ah, 'tis poetry in itself, it is," he mutters as he begins furiously writing in the book, only briefly raising his eyes and offering a hearty thanks as his meal and drink arrive. With each bite, he mutters something different to himself, quickly scratching out more commentary in his tome. "A fine fare, indeed! A fine fare!"
As the rest of the crowd resumes to its own business, the halfling continues his furious note-taking, pausing only now and then to stuff more scrumptious bacon into his gaping maw. To the uneducated eye, he appears nothing more than another of the gleeful wee folk, enjoying his food and fare. Those who take a closer look, though, realize the euphoric strongheart isn't what he seems. Each glance around the room appears to pause briefly on the various occupants, drinking in their appearances and manners. Each pause followed by furious note-taking in the well-worn, leatherbound book. More than once, his pause lingers longer than others. The notes taken more furiously.
Corrin Kettlewhistle: Halfling Life Cleric (Curse of Strahd)
Kip Dalton: Human Lore Bard (Waterdeep Dragon Heist)
Debauchery Dalliance: Half-Drow Oath of Conquest Paladin (White Plume Mountain)
2 Years Ago
"You comin', Kenku?" belts the ostentatiously dressed leader of the caravan set for Tentowns. "Don't see many of you around here." With that, Mica hops onto the last wagon of the dozen-odd vessels headed through the Spine of the World, along with dozens of other miscellaneous companions. He wasn't sure why he was feeling an unending draw to travel North; he had known mostly fire and turmoil. The sleepy, frigid wastelands were frightening to him, but at the same time, they were incredibly alluring, for reasons he could not tell. He should really stop listening to the voices in his head.
22 Months Ago
Ever since the travelers made their way into the snowy peaks and the temperature had gotten colder, it had not gone a day since Mica had a clear mind. Endless migraines and skull-splitting headaches wracked the Kenku's soul, leaving him mostly catatonic. The cold has made his right arm ache terribly, and the disfigured coloring of the feathers began to spread further up the wrist and into his chest. He felt an insane urge to do something - he does not know what, but it must be done, or he feels like he would die. There hasn't been a single moment where whispers haven't been speaking to him in his head since they crossed the first mountain. He says a quick, hopeful prayer to the small carving of a raven he had carved from stone that rests on his chest. Maybe someone will hear him. The voices certainly did.
20 Months Ago
Once again, Mica was alone in the world. But this time, he was cold. Dreadfully cold. Lost, too - his small pouch only had so much food, but he was used to hunting wild game. What he was not used to, however, was the snow and sleet; avian bodies weren't meant to be in the cold, and his clothes were nowhere near sufficient. He misses the caravan - come to think of it, what happened to the caravan? Mica remembers passing out, but after that it was a blur. His supplies were dwindling, and he was hopelessly lost. The snow had covered the trail, and he was somewhere in the world. But for now, he has hope. At least the voices had stopped talking to him.
18 Months Ago
Where was the sun? The caravan had set to travel when the winter was meant to abate. Where was it, thinks Mica, as he collapses near the base of some cliff he found in the wilderness. The air had gotten thinner, but Mica didn't know what a mountain was. He was scared. He takes the last stick of wood from his satchel, holds it to the air, and a small, purplish flame dances across the top. He cradles himself around the fire, trying to keep himself warm. He begins to piece together thoughts to it, like he did that one time in Waterdeep.
"Are you there?" he thinks. No response. "Please, are you there? Are you hearing me?" he projects, louder this time. Nothing. "I know you're there. Please, help me. I'm lost." Whatever entity that heard is calls last time didn't respond. His last branch burned out.
One Year Ago
"Why did you bring me here?" he yells to the blizzard. More like loudly thinks. He couldn't replicate what he hadn't heard, obviously. The numbing pain of the cold made his muscles stiff, and the aching pain of his wrist spread over to his chest, encompassing his gaunt arm. He hadn't eaten in two months. "There's nothing here for me. What did I do? I'm going to die out here," he says, imagining the flurries of snowflakes and dunes of snow to be faces speaking to him. He could have sworn they were moving. He collapses onto the ground. Whatever being he had spoken to had surely deserted him.
...
...
...
Now
An absolutely miserable figure drags itself to the front entrance of the first building that appeared on the horizon. Opening the door was tough - cold numbs the ability of muscles, especially for a figure so thin, and after fumbling for a moment, the door creaks ajar. Emerging from the grey slush is a rather tall Kenku; years of living above poverty was uncommon for his race, allowing him to grow to his full height, but that is offset by the absolute destitution of his frame. He's barely more than a skeleton; his skin is stretched taut over his feathered skin. He doesn't suppose Kenku are common in these areas at all, making it an especially disturbing sight for anyone who hasn't seen one before. The first thing you notice is that he is completely unprepared for the cold; he only carries a couple light clothes designed for ventures far south. Nearly all of them are wrapped around his right arm, but it does not appear injured in any way - it's more like he is covering something. On his belt lies two daggers, but besides that, he is unarmed. A small, jade-colored raven is hung around a necklace on his chest. His clothes are a mess - tattered, ripped, shredded, and soaked, with icicles clinging off every inch. Feathers aren't conducive to cold weather, and melted snow encases the figure in a shell of perpetually frozen water, clinging to the porous surfaces. Although his head jerks and bobs in the same manner of common birds elsewhere, he does it with such lethargy as he looks around the room that it's difficult not to feel sorry for the strange creature. He stiffly shuffles into the room, making his way directly towards the fire - he does not care about what people think, or what impressions he is having on the inn. Mud and melting water follows his steps as he crumples next to the fire. He was finally warm.
After he dries off slightly, he searches his pockets for spare change. He hadn't needed it for years. At last, his hand brushes across a small jumble of coins. He makes his way up to a table, calling towards a barkeep. He turns his head, wracking his brain for all the expressions he has heard. It has been years he has spoken to someone, and the phrases he knows take some thinking to resurface. He had forgotten how to speak. "I has coins ready to spend," he says, resorting to mimicing the words of the loud stranger near him. He could recall phrases later. "A wee bit of this little drink."
It has been a month since the Githyanki was found nearly frozen to death by a set of curious trappers. Lured towards the mountains by flames and smoke reaching up into the dark sky, they found Rak near the base of the mountains. The two men assumed he was some sort of strange elf when they first saw his pointed ears and elongated face. As he slowly healed over the course of the next week, he heard the townsfolk talk about him as rumors began to spread... "perhaps he is an elven soldier from a distant land..." "do you think he lost his nose to frostbite...." "He's got green skin, maybe he's part goblin"... Rak didn't bother to correct any of these misconceptions as he struggled to come to grips with his new cold hard reality...
This morning was like any other. He woke up early and asked his deity for the strength to overcome this new Icy prison before putting on his heavy chain armor. The armor was well crafted and fit perfectly to his tall slender body. Although many considered Rak to be an elf, the craftsmanship of his armor was not elven... or dwarven, or human for that matter. He was lean and muscular with pale green skin with dark spots on his cheeks and black eyes. The only visible hair on Rak was a small well kept patch of black hair on his chin. He wore a black cloak over his armor and kept his hood up at most times in an effort to keep his pointed ears and other strange features hidden from inquisitive eyes.
Once he was prepared, he would head to the Mead Hall for a bite to eat. Pushing open the door he would quickly step inside before slamming the door shut behind him. "Another frozen day with no sun.. Can't even see the stars in this damn weather." He would curse as he makes his way to the bar. "Give me a tankard of mead and plate of whatever meat you have cooking this morning." Rak would demand as he places a few coins on the counter. As he waited for his food he would look over towards the tall feathered creature and grin. When he was finally served his food he would take his mead and his plate to an empty table in the corner. Snow would fall from his cloak with every loud footstep before he dropped hard into his seat. The chair would creak loudly in protest as he starts to eat his meal. Rak would only pull back his hood as he started to dig into the pile of meat. Although the Githyanki ate at a rapid pace, he did so without making any kind of mess or getting any food on the table or his armor. After eating about half his plate of food in just a few minute, he would once again look up to the strange looking kenku and take a deep drink of mead. "Hey! You! Bird... thing..." Rak would shout. "Are you new to this forsaken frozen tundra of a town as well?"
The days are monotonous.
One after another they run through their paces with scarcely anything to tell one from another.
The sun never rises, so it never sets.
The cold never breaks, it only goes from bone freezing to killing cold then back to merely unbearably cold again.
This is life in the Ten-Towns.
A far cry from his days tending his family's herd of redhorned sheep. He missed them. Furry, docile and happy to spend their days grazing away on the tundra, nosing through the permafrost to eke out nourishment from the lichen and artic grass hiding underneath. That's what Kilmus had become. A sheep, not a shepherd. Nosing through the ice hoping to get through another endless day into another indistinguishable night.
At least he was inside. The last tavern he had worked at had him stand outside, in the cold, to keep watch. Against what he was never sure - nothing much ever happened outside a tavern. The trouble was always on the inside. Where the people and the mead ran together and caused the problems.
Perched on his stool with a view of the door and the open mead hall, Kilmus' job was to make sure those problems never got bad enough to stop the flow of coins into the til. Mostly that meant keeping drunks from hurting each other, but every now and then it meant handling something more serious, which is why he wore the uncomfortable chain under his layers of wool and fur. It's also why he had swapped his Shepherd's Crook for the heavy hafted Locher Axe he leaned on now. Both of which he was grateful for as the green-skinned stranger barked at the even stranger bird thing that had stumbled in out of the cold.
Mead Hall has a roaring fire, good food, and the sounds of bees - because of their famous mead production - can even be heard. It's another typical day - if it could even be called that. Once again, the sun didn't rise. It's bone bitingly cold outside, but the food is warm and the drink is available. As you all converse, the locals mind their own business. It's almost as if the freezing cold has dulled personalities and spirits.
Perhaps the rumors of Auril are true? But, you wouldn't know.
Phineas glances up over his book and remnants of the pile of bacon as the birdling and odd green-skinned stranger entered the hall. Furious notes follow with a few quizzical looks as well. Eventually, curiosity overtook what few manners the over-eager strongheart had. Loudly clapping his book closed, he grabs his pack and his tankard (and a handful of bacon) and wanders over to the green-skinned newcomer.
"Oi, don't think I've been seeing you around these parts," he says to Rak, before extending a greasy, bacon-crumb encrusted hand. "Phineas. Phineas Fairfinder. What brings you to the Ten-Towns? And, if you don't mind me asking, from where are ya comin' as I've never seen the likes of a green elf?"
Corrin Kettlewhistle: Halfling Life Cleric (Curse of Strahd)
Kip Dalton: Human Lore Bard (Waterdeep Dragon Heist)
Debauchery Dalliance: Half-Drow Oath of Conquest Paladin (White Plume Mountain)
The Kenku erratically swirls its long head towards the yellowish-green Warrior some ways away from him. He opens his beak before eking out a small creaking sound - his voice had failed him. Breathing for a second, he refocused himself on the task at hand, and reflects some of the words back at the Gith. “New to this forsaken frozen tundra,” He says. He cocks his head, scrambling his brains for a second, for anything he’s heard that could be useful. Suddenly, a shock of pain reverberates through his head, and he clutches it with his unwrapped arm, closing his eyes. He’s at a snowy mountaintop. Oddly, smoke seems to be rising in the distance, and there’s someone - Human - standing a ways away, speaking to him. With eyes closed, he repeats in the voice of a young woman - ”What happened to the wagon? Where are we? What are you-“ the Kenku seems to snap out of this flashback, clearly unnerved with his attempt to ask where he was. He didn’t remember that scene. Composing himself, he thinks back to better times. “What’s your name, little guy? Oh, you can’t say? Why, you’re mighty fine with a chisel. Let’s call you Mica. It fits you well,” he says in a kindly, elderly voice. It’s clearly just a memory of a better time, as the Kenku’s eyes sadden, and he clutches the carving on his chest.
Rak would turn from the approaching birdman and look to the halfling. The Githyanki would wait a few awkward seconds as though trying to decide if he wanted to touch the creatures hand before slowly extending his own hand to meet it. He would grip it tightly.. just on the verge of being painful before letting it go. "My name is Rak." He would reply simply as he leans back in his chair. "I came here on a... ship... and once I have the coin and the resources I hope to leave this frozen rock on a ship as well..." The greened skin figure would add before turning to get a better look at the Kenku. "OK... Mica.. I think that's your name. Why don't you take a seat and help yourself to the rest of my meal. I think you might just be strange enough looking that people might decide they'd rather stare at you than me." He would say casually before kicking out the chair on the opposite side of his table with his armored boot from underneath. "I Suppose you can sit as well Mr. Fairfinder... so long as you don't write anything else about me in your book here." Rak would say as he nods towards the halflings leather tome.
A cloaked figure stands on the deck of Red Waters, small puffs of white coming from an open mouth. They tasted the cold, realizing how very different it was from the heat of New Cyre. They had never realized, how in all of their journey it took to be here, the tundra would shift underneath their feet like glaciers in the frigid water.
They tugged the cloak lower over their face, swiftly moving down the road towards the boisterous drunken noise coming from the building that was Mead Hall. They rose a narrow arm, clad in dark red leather, towards their face blocking the biting wind that tore its way past facial bindings. With a heave they shoved the thick wooden door, shaking snow off of black boots. The door slammed shut in the low light of the room, barely audible over the roar of the room, except for the uncannily taller figure.
Cold eyes scanned the room, flint sharp before resting on a small seat in the back corner of the bar. They moved towards it with the gaunt of someone comfortable and use to chaotic surroundings. They placed two copper pieces on the bar table, sitting down with a loud thump. “Tall glass of mead is what I have the currency for, child.” They said in a voice with an unplaceable accent, much like the one of someone who spoke more then one language. A bloody and wrapped hand clutched the handle as they took a sip, the other clenched on a dagger under their weathered cloak, the trademark of a weary traveler.
They cast their gaze once more around the room, as if searching for a target before resting on the odd group in the middle, gaze landing on a stout halfling. They squinted, casually shifting for a better angel of the small gathering. They pushed back their hood, red, sandy hair pulled back to reveal a bony, wild face. Her skin is a milk white, bordering on an odd alabaster, different from the pale skin of these Northern people. Sparkling gold-green eyes, set gracefully within their sockets, watch warily over her pint, categorizing the behaviors of the ragtag group. Scars stretching from just under the left eye, first running towards thin lips and ending on her right cheek leaves a painful burden of a wrenched life. This is the face of Fintan Alasadiar, and she is here to hunt the very figures her eyes rest among, or so she thinks.
Fintan Alasadiar: |High (Moon) Elf|Fighter| Rime of the Frostmaiden|
Wafku Dyandriver:|Mountain Dwarf|Warlock|Fighter|
Errk:|Arakorca|Ranger|
DM: The Dragons of Icespire Peak Campaign, Frozen Sick
''I will serve injustice with justice.'' 𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖓𝕬𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝕼𝖎𝖑𝖆
(OOC: Qila is out of town and will be joining us full swing on Sunday. I will kick off the adventure proper then. In the meantime, go ahead and get aquainted!)
Mica sits down and voraciously consumes the food he was offered. He wasn't quite sure what the green man meant by his comment, and wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not, but he wasn't one to judge - it was the first good meal he'd had in who knows how long. He had lost count of the seasonless days. What was more of a concern was the mead he'd ordered. It is difficult to drink from a mug with a beak, and he manages by tilting his head upwards and to the side, much like birds do to drink, but he still splashes mead everywhere. He doesn't seem to mind. In doing so, he takes a better look at the customers in the tavern. Given the reputation of Kenku, he'd been thrown out of a tavern or seen as a threat on more than one occasion, and any hostility was usually scapegoated on him. He wasn't worried about the average patron or the two seemingly friendly companions near him, but the watchful bouncer could prove problematic if the need to fight or flee ever arrived. What concerned him most was the hostile-looking woman staring the table down. He will place his uncovered hand into this pocket, resting his hand on a dagger, just in case. You never know.
Perception to detect Qila's angry stare: 7
(Edit: I'm going to assume a 7 isn't high enough to notice her look in a crowded bar, especially since Kilmus is focused on the table of strangers. @DM - feel free to tell me if I'm wrong.)
Kilmus watches from his perch on his stool as what was a single stranger turns into a table full of potential trouble. Fairfinder was a nice enough sort, but prone to rub people wrong from time to time - and the green-skinned one didn't look like he took kindly to being irritated. 'An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure' his mother's voice rang out clear as a bell. 'Easier to stop trouble before it starts than after it's begun...'
The voices didn't surprise him anymore and he long since learned that no one else could hear them. That fact didn't make them any less real, but he knew better than to talk back to them out loud - best case it confused people, worst case.... well there was a reason he'd been on the move so much.
Disconcerting as the voice was, the sentiment was right, as it generally was. He should try to intervene to make sure the table of strangers knew he was here - often the sight of the broad-chested young man with the angry-looking blade was enough to dissuade troublemakers before they even got started.
Levering himself of his stool with the haft of his weapon, he strides purposely towards the table with the strange newcomers and the talkative halfling. 'Evening folks, hope you all are enjoying the warmth of the fire and our famous mead. I trust everything is in order here? Everyone is in good spirits?' As he speaks he makes direct eye contact with each of them, moving from one set of eyes to another with the practiced ease of a performer. The smile on his face and warmth in his voice is genuine, sincerity flowing from him like the honey in the hives in this very hall. And yet the edge of his halberd is never quite out of sight, glinting and catching the light from the hearth - reminding each of the patrons of its deadly bite.
perception 23
"That's right, gobble it up there big bird. Maybe We can find you a straw for your drink next time? Do you have straws on this frozen rock?." Rak would say with a smile as he places his hands behind the back of his head. As the githyanki leans farther back in his chair his eyes would scan the room. He was used to drawing the attention of people in town due to his appearance, but now that the kenku and halfling had joined him at his table, it seemed that some of the attention was not just curiosity. With his hands already behind his head, he would take his cloak and once again slide the hood up over his pointed ears and bald head. "So which one of you pissed off the woman at the bar. The bouncee doesnt look to happy with us either." Rak would add as he slides his hand towards the hilt if his great sword.
When the bouncer approaches the table rak would sit forward a bit... allowing all four legs of the chair to make contact with the floor again while leaving his hand on the hilt of the great sword next to him. "I think everyone is having a wonderful time. I think the only thing warmer than the fire over there is the warm fuzzy feeling I'm getting just knowing you are here looking over me. What's your name by the way? I'd like to know who should thank for making me feel so safe and secure." The githyanki would ask as his white teeth shimmer from under his dark hood. The smiling Rak would tap his fingers on the hilt on the great sword with one hand while stroking the hair on his chin with the other.
Phineas cringes a bit at Rak's comments, offering a quick look up at the bouncer. He offers a quick smile. "Well met, friend," he says to Kilmus. "Have you come to join us? That'd be great. I've been wanting to catch up on news since my last visit. The Ten-Towns rumble with tales of dark tidings. Have you heard the same?"
Quickly flipping open his tome, scratching down a few notes about his new companions, Phineas offers a "who me?" smile to Rak before closing the tome and sliding it back in his pack.
Corrin Kettlewhistle: Halfling Life Cleric (Curse of Strahd)
Kip Dalton: Human Lore Bard (Waterdeep Dragon Heist)
Debauchery Dalliance: Half-Drow Oath of Conquest Paladin (White Plume Mountain)
Perception: 17 [ OOC: I assume an 11 is high enough to hear a bit of the conversation? I've never rolled before for these sort of things, please let me know if I am incorrect]
The elven woman strikes up a short conversation with the barmaid, glancing over her shoulder at the odd group. Slowly, her tense grip on the dagger loosens, wearily staying in place as she continues quietly observing the reactions of those around her. Fintan brushes a lock of sandy hair over the pointed tip of her right ear, quickly acknowledging with less fierce eyes the appearance of the human and halfling. She squints and tilts her head at the mention of New and Ten-Towns. ''I reckon, that ragtag group be the quiet assemblage of uncanny adventurers. Perhaps they know of this dark thing hunting the lowly targets.'' She murmured, more to herself then anything, because only the subtle twinkle in her eyes give at the squalid life she endures. Fintan gave a firm nod to the barmaid before briskly standing to her full height, grip once again tightening on the dagger, just in case. You never know how the balky group of drunk patrons may be when a woman walks among them in the dim.
She slid her cloak once again over her shock of hair, the click of boots muffled by loud voices as she makes her way over to the semi-secluded table. Fintan stops just behind the left shoulder of Klimus, an often foreboding presence, before interrupting them in a stoic voice. ''What is this talk I hear of news in relation to the town? Might you be fellow comrades looking for coin?''
Fintan Alasadiar: |High (Moon) Elf|Fighter| Rime of the Frostmaiden|
Wafku Dyandriver:|Mountain Dwarf|Warlock|Fighter|
Errk:|Arakorca|Ranger|
DM: The Dragons of Icespire Peak Campaign, Frozen Sick
''I will serve injustice with justice.'' 𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖓𝕬𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖗𝕼𝖎𝖑𝖆
"Well I wouldnt call us comrades exactly, but I am looking for some coin" Rak would reply as he turns from the bouncer to rlvan woman.
Tentowns. So that is where they were. Mica couldn’t even remember why he set out for this forsaken area in the first place. Cold has always scared him. Alas, the Fiend he’d communicated with had worked in mysterious ways - he was certain that he wasn’t sent here for no reason, but wasn’t it strange that he hadn’t been able to communicate with his patron for years? Anyhow, his primary worry is finding a suitable set of clothes, lodging, and a reliable source of food. Even if that meant he had to steal for it. But for now, the talk of coin momentarily pulled him away from ravaging the meal in front of him. ”Wouldn’t call us comrades, exactly,” he mimics in the green-skinned man’s voice. He’s still clutching the dagger with one hand, clearly tensed, as if he is preparing to jump away at a moment’s notice. “Looking for coin,“ he reflects back at the woman he is still wary of. He is still having difficulty adjusting to the suddenness of his departure from the wilderness, especially social customs, as he appears to pick up spare scraps of meat that fell onto the floor and his light armor while he was eating, his wrapped arm lying motionless on the table.