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Topic: City of the Spider Queen Roleplay Forum (Read 191 times) |
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Tarridus
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Randal Morn stared grimly at the tattered map that lay upon his desk. The years had not been kind, as the Lord of Daggerdale struggled for close to 30 years to fight off the Zhentarim from the lands that was rightfully his. His hair had begun to gray and the weariness had crept onto his face like a river that had ceased flowing. And now, his current predicament boggled even his closest advisors into making bold assumptions.
His pacing had quickened a bit since the last status report and his mind wandered as a silver haired female stared at him from a bench not 5 feet away. She had other thoughts on her mind, and knew that she would have to have Lord Morn focus on the task at hand if he were to secure Daggerdale in time.
"Focus Randal, what will you do now?" speaking to him on a first name basis as between friends for a long number of years.
"I can't expend any more of my freedom riders to investigate this matter. I sent a small patrol to investigate and that was almost a week ago..."
"And what did they find?" the silver haired maiden said in worn elven chainmail that wrapped around her body closely. Her features looked as delicate as a young elven maiden entering her prime, but one could not mistake that she was human. In fact, although she looked young to most, only those close to her would know that she was in fact older than every person in Daggerdale.
"..They haven't returned. Nor has anyone seen any sign of them in that time..." Randal Morn said as his voice trailed off. Letting the other female hear sign of worry in his voice for a moment.
The two remained silent for a moment. Until the silver haired female grew frustrated, "As much as this must worry you Randal, there are bigger concerns on your doorstep. First, there is an army of elves entering the eastern wood near Cormanthor. They are confirmed to be the same elves that were spotted among the High Forest only a couple of months ago fighting alongside my sisters troops. Second, the appearance of these elves, have stirred up the Zhents and Sembians in the process. Patrols belonging to both armies have grown bold and scouts have been sighted all along the daleland borders..."
"Curses. My resources are already at there limit however. That is why it looks like I'm going to have to look outside of Daggerdale for any willing to aid us. I fear these murders are only a precursor to something more...dangerous."
"The Drow?" Storm Silverhand answered with a more skeptical tone to her voice. "Its been hundreds of years since the drow disturbed this specific land. If it is them, they don't sound too much like those that infest Cormanthor."
"These murders were horrific. The bodies left in utter pieces for some." Lord Morn replied with disgust. "If it is the Drow, we need to do something quickly before the murders spread to Dagger Falls even."
Storm nodded. "But like I said, we have bigger issues at the moment to consider. I have to return to Shadowdale to help fortify. I suggest you do the same here..."
Randal Morn gave her a grimace.
"Whatever is happening in Daggerdale is only a sidenote for something bigger festering in Cormanthor. And I intend to find out why these elves have come out of the woodwork to visit their old 'home'. I know your resources are stretched thin, so leave the 'help' to me. I'm going to ask my sister for aid.
"Alustrial?"
Storm nodded. "The harpers are scattered all around the north, so I can't expend anymore agents. We'll have to look elsewhere."
"You have my thanks Storm, as always..."
Storm smirked briefly, "Then you owe me another bottle of wine upon my next visit. Hopefully it will be during better times for us both."
With the last word, she turned her back and strode toward the door to the tower. Lord Morn could almost hear a series of words mutter from her mouth.
"Alustrial, it's Storm..."
The Lord of Daggerdale knew that with a single utterance of her name, Storm could communicate with her sister. The fact that she needed to contact her troubled him. The recent murders were more than just random raids by Drow to the surface and the lord knew it.
He also knew that Storm suspected more as well. It was only a matter of waiting for whatever aid Alustrial could muster...
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| « Last Edit: on: Oct 5, 2006, 8:35PM » |
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Flmngo
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Name: Felek “Stonebreaker”, Blood of Faern Sharpaxe, of the Steinhammer Clan, of Ice Cavern
Class: Cleric of Clangeddin and Defender of the Way of Battle
Type: Shield Dwarf
Felek’s back-story: This is OOC information. Felek would never have spoken of this incident. He is generally good-natured, even somewhat boisterous, for a dwarf. However, his actions over the past years would be symptomatic of this shame…an unreasoned hatred of ogres, a long absence from the dwarf-lands, and periodic drinking binges where he falls into dark and morose mutterings.
Friendly eyes shifted uncomfortably to the dark-haired dwarf. His companions sighed collectively...it was starting again. Felek fell curiously silent as he sat at the table with his old companions, waiting as Mina filled his mug once again. How many this time...? Ever so often, it all came back to him and the only way to forget was to drown the memories in mead. How many mugs…? He'd lost count. For a moment, the table swam. The dwarf braced his dark, beefy hands on the table and closed his eyes.
Then...a distant bleat. Felek heard it ring in his ears and shook his head to get rid of it. 'Nae agin,' he thought, 'Ah dinnae hear ye.'
The bleat got louder. A small sound. A childish sound. One that would haunt him to the end of his days. In his mind’s eye, he saw once more the massive ogre he was fighting. Saw the ice-covered mountain, the rocks, the trees, the swirling snow, and the ogre’s blood upon the frozen ground. He heard the bleat again, louder and closer. Saw the wounded ogre lunge past him into the trees, its arms outstretched for something. Saw himself spin quickly with the force of that passage, blinking as a young ogre swam into sight…a cubling…bleating in the swirling snow. For a long moment, an eternity, he watched the adult ogre stand before the young one…and then slowly back into the gloom, dragging the cub. Saw himself stand, axe lowered in tacit agreement, in unforeseen mercy, as the enemy female faded into the mountain.
Then, behind him…a dwarf’s throat cleared. Felek heard it like the drop of a battle axe. He felt the fall of the heavily-mailed glove on the back of his head. He staggered into the snow, falling to one knee, barely hanging onto his own axe as his head rang.
“Felek! Ye mis-begotten son o’ a she-elf! Whut in Clangeddin’s name ur ye doin’? Ye fight, ye heal ye companions, an’ ye smite ye foes wi’ th’ might o’ Clangeddin’s axe! Ye dinnae…let….’em…GO!” A mighty blow punctuated each word. Felek stoically received each blow, knowing, by all that was holy to the Father of Battle, that he should now die in shame. What twist of fate had stayed his hand? What foreign, unlookedfor compassion had take hold of his heart that he would let a giant go free? Yet somehow, the blows did not kill him. He heard Ressik panting behind him, a note of surprise creeping into the dwarven cleric’s voice that the young alaghor did not lay before him with a cracked head. “Ye be banished, tha’ be clear. Bar it be tae th’ High Cleric tae name ye punishment.” the dwarf said softly. “Iffin Ah be ye…Ah be wishin’ fer death, be bettern tha' whur ye goes...”
“There you go, dear.” Mina’s laughter brought Felek back to the inn. “Honestly, I don’t know where you put all that meade.” A full mug came into focus before his eyes.
Felek grabbed the mug and took a long pull. He needed this. He needed every task set before him. He had to prove himself. While he’d convinced his companions that he was on a mission for Clangeddin, they would never know the real reason for his focused determination. If they won enough, fought enough, perhaps his banishment, his atonement, would be done. Perhaps he could return home. After so many years, perhaps he could finally return home.
Felek muttered his mantra as he downed the rest of the mug, “Nae pity, nae sorrow, nae quarter.”
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Tarridus
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OOC: Please ignore the 2nd post in this thread.
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Posted by the Dude, Man
Penel didn't mind the pay.
He rather enjoyed it, after all, pay is what kept him where he was - a scout for a merchant caravan. He whistled slightly, stepping away from the caravan's paymaster's tent.
He took another deep breath of air.
"... getting used to the clean dale air, can't be good for me." he mused, doing his best not to smirk - a fresh scar from a rather uncouth bandit did well to remind him he'd earned his pay.
"Such is life." he thought aloud - meandering over to the Inn, the caravan was leaving the next day; he didn't really care, no desire to go back to the city right now, too crowded, too hectic.
Clearly, it was time for a drink of wine and some rest...
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Posted by Kerio
... watching the near disserted common room of the tavern as he partakes in a short recess from his evenings recital, Kerio muses that it is hard to imagine that while he can recall with perfect clarity dozens of epic poems or tragic tales that he cannot remember the name of this near forgotten outpost of civilization. Then again considering how far he has traveled over the last several years, he reflects that perhaps the blurred and distorted memories of similar evenings in comparable places would naturally tend to blend together without the sparkling hint of excitement exposing the potential of buried treasure and adventure therein.
Alas like the numerous villages and towns before, nothing of much significance is likely to happen here that could affect directly or indirectly either Lady Cylyria Dragonbreast or the city of Berdusk which all reside many hundreds of miles away deep in the Western Heartlands. Although, he has to admit that there are many strange rumors traversing across the Dalelands – monstrous flights of crimson dragons soaring above the Semberholme and beneath the starry sky and silvery moon, scores of elven archers and warriors returning to the fabled city of Myth Drannor, the brief return of the renown halfling bard Olive Ruskettle to Shadowdale, and countless grizzly and gruesome murders within Daggerdale each more horrific than the next and all perpetrated by persons unknown.
Most, reasons Kerio as he continues to surreptitiously both observe and scrutinize the remaining tavern patrons while slowly sipping from his goblet of extremely watered wine, are not but the exaggerated yarns of serfs and peasants whom wantonly transform their hopes and fears into stunning dreams and dreadful nightmares. For instance dragons are, from the accounts in myths and legends, generally solitary creatures so while it might be theoretically possible to discretely watch several fly under the night sky; it is highly unlikely to have seen a dozen in similar circumstances let alone the number that some have claimed. Of all these other rumors, the only one based with an ounce of truth beneath the multiple layers of distortion and deception is probably concerning the mysterious deaths in the region.
Having just noticed the individual that brazenly entered the tavern moments before, he thinks to himself, if there is anyone whom seems suspicious hereabouts that might be a murderer ... he is the one. Kerio continues pretending to savor his wine as he secretly watches the scarred faced halfling through the distorted reflection of his silvered chalice.
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Posted by Frozen Snowy
Magic.
Magic is the power that defies all the rest. It can shatter worlds. Destroy gods, temporarily as it is. Relieve and grant pain. Summon the most powerful of beings into existence... sometimes for a price, and sometimes for the cause itself, for "free".
But what magic really is... is a tool. And in cases like the Zhents - it's a nail in the butt of Faerun, that needs to be wrenched out with the backside of the hammer that is magic.
"So many hours in the library with these mages have made me nearly as bombastic and annoying as the old men. Not a single gnome to speak with in the largest library of Shadowdale, and only a few pathetic orcs to blast from the tower with a flick of my wrist! it could make even the most tight Helmite cry in fear of aging and dying faster than he can say 'BORING'. Is this, indeed, what Shwhibelzing awaits? around two hundred years of pure dullness due to his magical power?"
A flicker of hope in the form of an arcane message caused a magical surge to ignite his apprentice's hand. Rolling his eyes in frustration and slapping his forehead, the sorcerer's other hand makes a complicated gesture in the air, freezing the hand entirely and then forcing the ice to thaw in a matter of seconds. The hand remains unharmed, of course, but the apprentice is quick to leave his master's study. It is not the first time this happens; Shwhibelzing's power is so considerate, that even his vast knowledge and concentration is not enough, sometimes having outbursts of power when he tries to do things like divination or seeing into the weave itself... like he did moments ago.
It seemed someone in the Alliance is sending a message; and by the echo of it, both of the contacts seem quite powerful. It would be a major risk trying to delve into whatever was said, yet it could mean something is stirring. And then, it seemed the message also reached the gnome himself. Surprised only slightly after hearing the contents of the message, the gnome gave the magical face on his study's wall a smug smile and a slow nod of pure understanding.
"Vince! get back here and remove my crossbow from the rack. I believe there will be a need for it, very soon..."
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Posted by Mogney
The sending had been aggravatingly brief, but that was the nature of magic, never quite powerful enough to do exactly what you want. "Take the road to Daggerdale, stop at The Stagger Inn, meet with other Alliance agents, report to Daggerford". Decidedly cryptic, but Griffon had grown to expect that from Alustriels aging spymaster. No matter how many times he turned that message over in his mind he could not discern any hint about the nature of his mission. Put a blindfold on me and send me off to battle he thought. The sending came nearly a week ago and he had been traveling at best speed since.
Griffon emerged from the wooded road into an abundant clearing with a small cottage perched just beside the well worn path. The cottage had a faded wooden sign dangling lazily above the opaque window, the sign read 'The Stagger Inn.' Griffon wondered if that was a remark about how great the distance he has traveled since encountering the last roadside Inn, or a comment on the quality of mead, he desperately hoped for the latter. After motioning his companion to remain out of site he made his way towards the cottage.
After quickly deciding to play it straight and leave his alter ego out of things for the moment he opened the door to the Inn and stepped inside. As usual when he entered a room conversation momentarily ceased as everyone took a moment to decide what exactly has just darkened their doorway. Griffon made an imposing figure anywhere that half-orcs are not common. Which is pretty much everywhere. Standing a full head taller than most pure-blooded humans, and with a girth to match his green-tinged skin offset by his inky black hair left no doubt as to his monstrous lineage. His all too human eyes and mouth lacked the ferocity of his orcish parentage, and served him well when he was inclined to converse with skittish humans. He had dyed his armor and cloak a deep forest green, that combined with the twin blades on his hips and the finely made composite bow over his shoulder also served to convince the locals that he was a civilized member of the half-breeds. Little did they know…
Griffon quickly scanned the room and made a mental note of every person in the building, every weapon in the building, and noted all possible exits and places where cover be found in the unfortunate event of bloodshed. Attempting to mask the real purpose of his visual inspection he made a face of satisfactory delight as he sat down at an unoccupied table and loudly slapped a silver coin down on the table with one hand while motioning to the tavern wench with the other. Now how to figure out which of these folks are his fellow alliance agents?
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| « Last Edit: on: Oct 5, 2006, 9:01PM » |
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Tarridus
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Posted by Swashbuckler
Name: Keegan Axecaster, Son of Beorin Axecaster, Clan Deepaxe of Mithril Hall
Race: Shield Dwarf
Class: Fighter, Paladin of Moradin, Defender of Moradin’s Children
His name is Keegan Axecaster - a righteous dwarf who takes his mission from Moradin as protector of His people *very* seriously. He stands 5'2" tall, weighs a heavily-muscled 180lbs, and has a red beard complimented by slate-grey eyes.
Keegan is a surly, dour dwarf, even more than is typically attributed to the race. His military training has given him the insight into all things tough and tactical, and he has no problem educating those around him who "lack" in battle training. He is specialized in the use of the Dwarven WarAxe, and his amazingly-disciplined mind keeps him at the forefront of combat, always on his toes.
He is always seeking to understand magic better, whether divine or arcane - but not for casting purposes. His sole drive is to be able to understand enemy mages, and the spells they can cast, in order to destroy them the faster. He absolutely cannot stand mages, but grudgingly accepts the fact that they can turn the tide of battle very quickly.
As of late, he has been attached to a multi-racial unit serving Mithril Hall's commitment to the Lord's Alliance, both training soldiers and providing Dwarven insight into orc and Zhent troop movements. He currently holds the rank of Sergeant Major.
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“Suck yer flabby, turnip-farmin’, mud-lovin’ guts in, ye lot!!” bellowed the massive dwarf, stomping up and down the line of new recruits, grunting and snarling the whole way. Some 30 or so humans – Moradin take the lot of the breedin’ devils – stood with their pikes and tried to do as the surly dwarven commander had ordered. Many of the recruits had come straight off of their family farms in the dalelands, at a time when the work was plentiful. However, the ever-encroaching Zhents had made defense a necessity.
Keegan Axecaster – or Sergeant Major, as he was known to the recruits – had been assigned the task of whipping the farm boys into shape, and making them into a fighting militia unit. Deep rothe gots mer’ sense’n these do, he thought as he surveyed the two lines the recruits had formed. Zhent’s’ll ‘ave ‘em fer snacks, if’n I dinnae whup’m intae shape! As he stomped around the lines, his snarling and grumbling increased in volume.
“BAH! Ye bloody nae-good trough-lickin’ nut-hooks! Shoulder tha’ pike! Stand tall like ye mean it, ‘r I’ll mop the dirt ye standin’ on with yer carcass!” And on and on it continued, teaching the recruits proper form, how to carry the pike, how to go from parade-rest to combat stance, and back again, how to march with the pike, how to fight with the pike, and over and over. After he drilled them for four hours, he had them stack their pikes in a military fashion and then took them on a grueling run over rough terrain. More than once, his assistants had to pick up a straggler and get them back into line, having succumbed to fatigue.
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Keegan had balked at his assignment at first – he, a decorated veteran of the battle to reclaim Mithril Hall from the duergar Clan Bukbukken, had been ordered to the surface and to the Dalelands, assisting in the training of troops for the Lord’s Alliance. He protested the assignment, protested the surface-duty, protested the training of the smelly humans and their ilk, and protested their participation in allying with surfacers of any race. His protests fell on deaf, dwarven ears. General Dagna himself told Keegan to get his sorry arse to his assignment, and to travel light to get him there the quicker! (which meant that he only brought seven kegs of his favorite holy water with him, instead of the twelve he had planned)
The recruits he had trained over the past several months came to call him “Iron-arse”, not only for the gruff and constantly-demeaning way in which he treated every last non-dwarf he came across, but also due to the episode shortly after his arrival. He had plopped down on a large helm, frustrated at his charges’ lack of discipline, when he noticed that the troops were all completely silent, staring at him with faces white with shock. When he stood to berate them, intent on slaying the lot of them with his very voice, he realized the helm was … stuck … to his backside. With no effort, his burly hand grabbed the helm and brought it up before his squinted eyes. It was only then that Keegan noticed the large, now-deformed iron spike on the top of the helm, only the tip of which remained upright, and what had stuck to his mailed shirt. The main shaft of the spike was bent and twisted, as if had been rammed into a castle wall. Mumbling a curse, Keegan tossed the helm away and drilled the recruits all the harder.
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The surly dwarf, massively muscled and wearing only his undershirt, sat on the edge of his cot in his tent in the middle of the makeshift training camp. It was well after midnight, but he could not find rest. He had heard whispers of growing fears in the dales; rumors of dark, wicked murders and mutilations. It was partially because of these rumors that he’d pushed the recruits harder today. The long run followed by hand-to-hand combat drills had left the men with heaving chests and sore limbs.
One of the recruits, worn out and exhausted from the long hours and intense training, dared to whisper a curse under his breath, directed at the object of all of their collective angst – their commander. Keegan smirked a broken half-grin, almost relishing the chastisement to come, until he heard someone else mumble, “the Zhents don’t even have it this bad.”
His rage building inside him, Keegan had calmly walked over to the crouched forms engaged in labored breathing and idle talk. His first instinct had been to choke the life out of the recruit – an instinct which he quickly, thankfully sublimated. Keegan was a warrior, tried and true, but he knew well the value of getting the troops to understand the reasons for the harsh training. Rather than berating the troops for their callous and dangerous gossip, he merely stood above their hunched forms, now gone silent at his approach.
“Is tha’ wha’ ye think, lad?” he spoke, and every head in the small company of trainees suddenly snapped up and paid heed to his every word. It was the first – and might be the only – time that they had heard their dwarven drill sergeant speak in anything less than a deafening scream.
“Ye think tha’ th’Zhents have got it better, eh?” His measured tones were not condescending in the least – the other rarity – but had the tone of a father explaining some great truth to his child. “Unnerstan’ this, lads … e’ry one o’ ye. Th’ Zhents’ve been fighting for years, mest o’ their soldiers’ve had more time killin’ an' murderin’ tha’ ye’ve had behind the plow … ‘r pullin’ yer mother’s apron-strings. Th’ only reason I push ye hard … harder th’n ye’ve ever e’n heard’o … is because I knae wha’ be waitin’ fer ye. I knae th’ kind’o fightin’ tha’ yer all headed fer. I push ye hard an’ I train ye harder, so tha’ when yer in th’ thick o’ it, ye won’t wet yer pants a’fer a Zhent blade takes yer short life f’erm ye.”
Keegan reached down, and with his massive arm, raised the loose-lipped farm-boy to his feet. He was shorter than most of the others, but he still stood a good six inches taller than his dwarven commander. Keegan grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him down to the dwarf’s eye-level, and calmly, directly berated the soldier-in-training:
“While ye sit here on yer arse, boy, th’ Zhents are either killin’ some innocent folk, takin’ their hard-worked crops, ‘r trainin’ to do it to you’n’your’n.” The gruff dwarf paused for effect, and it was not lost on any who heard him. “While ye sleep, whinin’ about yer achin’ backs an’ yer too-tall sticks tha’ ye call yer achin’ legs, th’ Zhents’r trainin’. Trainin’ and fightin’. An’ when they ain’t doin’ the one, they’re doin’ the o’er. So ye hear me, boyo … ye, an’ all yer lads ‘ere. Ye kin sit here an’ whine day a’ter day, ‘r ye can learn ye th’ ways o’ war. Ye mark me words, lads … it be comin’ fer ye. An’ when it comes … yer either ready, an’ fight it wi’all yer worth … ‘r yer standin’ in the long gray line, waitin’ ta beg eternity f’erm wha’e’er ye call yer gods by.”
With that, Keegan had let go of the man’s neck, saw him slump back to the ground, and then dismissed the men for the night.
Back in his tent, the warrior-turned-trainer mused to himself, Oh Father Moradin ... I gotsta git meself out’o her’n ... it be makin' me soft!
He spent the rest of the night in meditative prayer to his god, waiting for deliverance from this latest assignment.
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Posted by Kerio
Lost in contemplation about the sudden appearance of the mysterious stranger, his sometimes dangerous journeys over the last several years, and his as yet undecided destination for the immediate future; Kerio remains obliviously starring into the remaining dregs at the bottom of his cup while the typical tavern banter rapidly decrescendos into a prolonged silence. It is only when the echoing reverberations from the crackling fire pierce through the deadly silence that he realizes the abnormality and raises his gaze into the frozen scowling face of the innkeeper looming over him.
Momentarily confounded, he begins to formulate a sincere apology for his prolonged respite between performances and his intention to begrudgingly accept a decrease in the previously agreed upon wages; however, the first syllables die on his lips as he realizes that the man’s icy stare and surly snarl isn’t directed at him but over his shoulder at someone or something beyond. Slowly glancing towards the entry, there stands the giant of an individual, nearly seven feet tall by Kerio’s estimation, and undoubtedly a stranger due to both his unusual genealogical amalgamation of orc and man and the reactions of the other patrons. While it isn’t exceedingly uncommon to encounter blessed (or cursed) individuals of mixed ancestry, relatively few choose to exist within the pseudo-civilization of the small villages and towns which inhabit this region – many prefer the larger cities where they can seamlessly blend into their own communities and others desire the solitary exile of the wilderness where nature remains unbiased towards all.
From the natural camouflaging hues of his apparel, Kerio easily deduced that the stranger was probably one of the latter which, unfortunately, added yet another complication to his contemplations – what purpose could he, the half-orc, have here and was it related to either the unsettling rumors or the disfigured halfling. However such musings will have to wait for, unless the glacial emotions of the usual tavern clientele are quickly thawed, he fears that the outsider’s dark jade attire will be stained a complementary scarlet. Therefore, after pulling the set of panpipes from within a pocket of his cloak, Kerio launches into a lively sequence of music for galliards and bransles with the hope that the patrons would commence dancing and disregard the half-orc.
Soon he thought to himself as he increased the tempo of the melody ... very soon, he will have no other option but to journey onward as the deadline for the latest rendezvous with his relayed instructions from Lady Cylyria had already expired several days ago and he can not easily remain in this insignificant village abusing the hospitality of the local hunters and farmers for very much longer. Tomorrow; tomorrow he must make the fatal decisions – his next destination and how to discretely report back to Lady Cylyria as, unless his contact arrives almost immediately, this will be the third consecutive month without either submitting encoded reports or receiving encrypted directions -- far too long.
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Posted by the Dude, Man
Taking a few minutes to situate himself, sliding his bow off of his shoulder and propping it up against his stool, but leaving his blade strapped to his belt, he removed his cloak, and sat down in a well-lit corner adjascent to the fire; Penel put in his request for a goblet, and something hot to eat.
During the course of his meal he listened to the locals chat over recent events, news of Zhents wasn't unusual for this region, so he mainly ignored it, some talk of an overbearing, bellowing dwarf was nothing unusual coming from humans either, so he ignored it, however, fleetingly, the word "murder" was quietly spoken, so he pricked his ears and listened in.
It was while he was listening that he noticed he was being watched, he grinned slightly, causing the scar on his cheek some discomfort, and considered raising his cup in a toast, but decided against it, "... must be the wine ..." he mused as he gathered his wits "... not too shabby ...", it put him in a good mood to say the least.
Any further thoughts of how he would address his newfound "friend" were interrputed when he caught notice of the hulking half-orc walking into the inn, he didn't mind the large fellow so much as the unnerving calm that followed, it was the loudest silence he'd ever heard.
He watched as his ocular assailant quickly shifted his orbs to the newcomer, to the innkeep, then the patrons, before quickly jumping up, and procuring an instrument to play a song. "At least he can blow out a decent tune, either that, or it's just the wine..." he thought aloud, as he let a smile slight enough to keep his cheek happy make it's way across his face.
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Posted by FrozenSnowy
"This is simply great. Just great. Gods damn it."
Screams, yelps, angry yellings and other unsettling sounds came from the ladies' room. It was followed by a barely audiable shout, and the sound of something being pushed and rammed gently into a wooden object, possibly the tavern wall. This was, of course, a common happening to most clumsy mages - but Shwhibelzing considered it a random, single, one-time mishap. It was a direct result of the Teleport scroll, and it was by pure luck that the scroll worked; even with arcane enchantments to ensure the worst mishap will only teleport him a single mile away and not the Abyss, Shwhibelzing knew the spell was much more fickle than the legendary Teleport Without Error that was used by the mightiest archmages.
But by hell's guardians, it was expensive.
Nevertheless, the gnome reached the possibly correct spot he was asked to with mild embarrassment only, bordering someone calling the guards. None such thing happened luckily, as it seemed the tavern was more lively and focused on other things.
One of them was a huge figure. No time was needed to figure out it was a half-orc. But perhaps it was the singing of the preformer, that was oh-so beautiful and delicate, mightily price and without doubt enhanced by the Weave itself, that drew most of the crowd from the magical mishap made by the tall gnome.
Shwhibelzing took the opportunity to straighten his purple-and-gold silken robe, and use a quick telekinesis spell to draw a chair under his form, followed by a spell to minimize it to prevent the extremely annoying dangling-feet problem (although it seemed might less troubling, since he was taller than most of his kin, with longer legs). The final spell the grass-green-eyed gnome did before resting on the seat was conjuring a food pack out of nowhere, followed by a mass of dim sparkles around the table.
Now, to wait. Or inquire, after calming down his grumbling stomach. Whatever reason that brought him here was, the sorcerer thought, it can wait.
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Tarridus
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Posted by Tarridus
Putting quill to parchment was easier said than done. Being exhausted as it was, her hand just would not obey her mind and she shrugged as she pondered if her silver fire could 'write' what she intended. Next to her parchment, she glanced over at six Lords Alliance reports. Six agents which had been recommended to her that were stationed in and around the Dales area or were willing to travel to the region. She let out another exhausted breath and let her long flowing silver hair settle over her eyes.
"Alustrial, its Storm.
"Well met, sister. You call with dangerous tidings I feel."
"No doubt as dangerous as any your son encountered in the High Forest these last weeks. But I'm calling you to ask for a favor."
"Aww, and I was hoping you would visit Storm..."
"Alas I wish, but more trouble has come to the Dales and unfortunately at a very bad time. What I wish to ask you about is more of a personal matter affecting our friend Randall Morn"
"Dear Randall, how is he doing these days?"
"Well enough for a man who has suddenly needed to deal with the drow in his land..."
"Drow?!?"
"Yes, a series of murders, gruesome in nature and involving kidnapped local folk. At first I thought it might stem from these Jaerle Drow in Cormanthor but it isn't their style.."
"So you think that its another group of drow harassing the surface folk?"
"Perhaps, but something about the murders and the kidnappings worries me, these drow mutilate these bodies and destroy everything in their path. And as much I hate to admit it, they don't bear resemblance to any that worship Lolth..."
"...I see...so what is it you need of me sister?"
"Randall is stretched thin with Zhent marchings and gathering elves in Cormanthor. And the harpers are monitoring the situation but cannot risk sending anymore agents with the present 'chaos' in the area...What I need is perhaps some Lords Alliance agents, a small group, to aid Randall in investigating his current situation..."
"..Indeed sister. Whatever you feel can be felt here as well. Perhaps Mystra herself wishes this task to be done so I'll do the best I can. I'll contact you again after I meet with my advisors."
"Much thanks Sister. When this is all over, I'll make sure and visit Silverymoon. Fare thee well..."
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Lady Alustrial of Silverymoon stood looking out the overhanging window of her personal quarters looking over the very city she had spent countless years building and securing for peace in a troubled region. The Jeweled Gem of the North as many bards had called it is where she dwelled these days but her presense and power had always stretched well beyond the borders of the Silver Marches. Here, now, she would extend her hand far across the Heartlands toward her sisters home. And aid her in any way she could.
Being exhausted after a long day of meetings and councils, Alustrial let the quill roll off her work desk and stared at the agents that were recommended to her. Instead of sending a message by traditional means, she would do so by using the gifts bestowed by Mystra herself.
Waving her hand in front her, Alustrial recited a low incantation and then lowered her eyes and concentrated on the six agents. Depending on the agent's own capacity for magic and intelligence, the message would either appear to be faint or be as clear as day. She would have to hope that they got some semblence of the message she would send, either that or she would send it to one that the agent could securely converse with. Either way, she would impart her task to them...
With her voice like a melodic harmony and her words well thought out, she sent out the message in an impressive spout of magic that was sent clear across the north to the agents directly. At first notice, the agents automatically knew that it was the Shining Lady herself speaking:
"Greetings and well met agents of the Lords Alliance. If you are receiving this message, then you have been chosen for a very important mission that I must 'ask' you to partake in. This mission of grave importance centers around the small area of Daggerdale and its leader, Lord Randall Morn. Please meet at the Stagger Inn, south of Daggerfalls where you will sojourn and then leave for Daggerfalls at first light. Your contact will be Randall Morn who makes his station at the Freedom Riders tower of that city...
I wanted to take this opportunity to explain that you were chosen for your loyalty and ability. My apologies, if this becomes an inconvenience but I would not have asked you of this if I didn't have full confidence in your success. I look forward to hearing your report here in Silvermoon personally. May Mystra protect you.
-Alustrial of Silvermoon.
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Posted by Kerio
As if by magic, with the first notes from his pipes the modest crowd seems to instantly double then triple then quadruple in size; most of them clapping hands, stamping feet or dancing wildly to the lively tunes. Beyond the chaotically heaving hordes, Kerio occasional catches the briefest glimpses of the other mysterious patrons – the halfling with a ragged scar down his left cheek is mischievously smirking for some unknown reason; the half-orc is gesturing intensely towards one of the buxom wenches that is frantically weaving through the throng balancing a heavily loaded serving tray high above her head; and nearer the kitchens and towards the corridor leading off to the private guest chambers is an extremely brief commotion of indeterminate origin though probably involving the noble-looking gnome whom just occupied a table in that part of the tavern.
The feared disaster seemingly diverted at least for the moment, Kerio switches to some pavanes and more graceful dance music which allows him to again calmly reflect upon the bizarre rumors in the Dalelands, the questionable status of his current mission, the bewildering appearance of the two outsiders, and the inexplicable behavior of the local villagers. For four nights – four long lonely nights, the tavern has remained nearly abandoned with few travelers and no more than a handful of villagers partaking in the nightly ritual to quench their thirst; making it nearly impossible to earn a living as the struggling performer he is pretending to be. What has changed – why tonight have all these residents suddenly appeared as if by magic -- has the dark shadow of fear on their souls been pierced by the enlightening rays of hope?
An enigma that may never have a satisfactory solution; he believes just like the two – no wait, three mysterious strangers; for upon further reflection he is positive that no noble gnome has been staying here at the Stagger Inn during the last week – so when did he arrive and from where did he come. However when compared to Kerio’s other dilemmas, these are exceptionally trivial and, to be completely honest, relatively unimportant for neither is likely to have any lasting impact on him. The ambiguous state of his quest whether he should continue wandering the Dalelands and surrounding regions while learning the local rumors and eventually report back to Lady Cylyria those that might have any impact on Berdusk, assuming that he can ever find someone to relay such messages, or he should immediately traverse the hundreds of miles in person just to reestablish contact. Neither holds much promise – thrice already has one of his relays gone missing which implies that it might be better if he returned; on the other hand, rumors of murder, mayhem and more traverse the Dalelands on the softest winds meaning that his presence here might be critically important should these rumors prove true.
If only there were a way to …
… a mental vision of beautiful human female with a commanding presence interrupts Kerio’s musings but luckily doesn’t astonish him to the point where he noticeably falters playing. An aura of pure pale light surrounds her face while her seductive whispers quietly impart their urgent missive before they fade into nothingness from whence they came. Although having never seen her before, he immediately knows whom she must be and, from her short message even though she didn’t elaborate, that the events which are transpiring here in the Dalelands are more dire than he originally believed.
Even after the image has long departed, several of her words echo deep within the recesses of his mind – “agents”, “Stagger Inn”, “sojourn”, and “tomorrow”. Was it halfling luck or blind fate that he already happens to be within the Stagger Inn? How many and whom are the other agents of the Lords Alliance and whom do they serve? Where are the other agents – they must be close by if she expects them to sojourn here tonight and journey out a dawn tomorrow – but how close?
Shifting back into music suitable for galliards and bransles, Kerio continues playing his pipes while surreptitiously scanning the tavern horde searching for some indication of whom, if any, could be among these unknown agents.
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Posted by the Dude, Man
If his good mood was butter, the message was a Baatorian green steel kitchen knife that had been held over an open flame for hours.
"Damn, damn, damn. Of all the luck, of all the places to be..." He quietly spoke into his goblet, "... not twenty minutes into some peace and quiet, not even ten minutes into my cups, to boot." still speaking aimlessly to the last few droplets of red liquid condensing at the bottom of the chalice.
He tried to will himself to forget he'd heard what he did. He told himself he was drunk, he was delusional. He must have misheard it, he was miles away from the destination and could never make it. No. No such luck.
"Fine then, if there's work to be done, then there's work to be done... He thought to himself, sitting up slightly "... if we're meeting here tomorrow, a few are bound to be here tonight." But who? He caught glimpse of the gnome who'd made a ruckus earlier "Maybe, it's too convienient not to be... the half-orc? Possibly, he looks civilized enough... maybe." giving the room another scan, he couldn't make out anyone else that would either fit the bill of an agent, or anyone he might recognize, losing any desire to out any more effort into looking about, he slowly allowed his throughts to trail off into the music.
Besides, it was no matter, he'd find out tomorrow. Until then... "Throw another goblet of the spiced wine this way..." catching a serving wench by the arm as she passed "... and see if you can't make arrangements for a room for the night, preferably a clean one, it needn't be large, obviously." With a nod and an "aye guv'nor, half a minute..." she was off.
Penel decided to spend the rest of the night taking it easy. With that conclusion, he allowed himself to slump forward again, and wondered what could be so important that it would merit Alustrial herself sending him a message.
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Posted by Mogney
Show off. Thought Griffon as the message floated through his head. The spymaster’s sendings were always short and to the point. He had been told that it was a restriction of the magic. Either those rules don’t apply to the chosen, or that grouchy spymaster was just toying with him. He would have to find out, and maybe show the old goat what an orc thinks is funny.
Griffon noted the entrance of the gnome with some amusement, and watched the minstrel’s music slowly fill the tavern with locals. He was not pleased to note that most of the locals were of the toothless variety. He wasn’t terribly worried that they would bother him, but he was a little worried for the gnome. He hoped they would have the good sense not take their rhabdophobia out on the diminutive spellcaster.
Griffon’s analysis of the room told him that the hin in the corner was probably the most dangerous person here, although it’s possible that the gnome is in fact a powerful wizard as well, the way he used magic so casually indicated that he has either lived with it his entire life, or he had just learned his first couple of tricks and was eager to show off. The minstrel might be a bard, but bard or minstrel, he was more likely to talk his way out of a fight and pick one. The inn keeper casually cleaned a mug behind the bar. Ever since the arrival of the gnome he had been right there, Griffon suspect there was a loaded heavy crossbow behind the bar just in case the locals got a little too drunk.
Griffon decided that now was a good time to cause a little commotion, maybe this will provide some clue as to who his contacts are.
Griffon pulled a small pouch that hung from a thong around his neck out from under his armor. When he pulled the pouch free another amulet containing the his holy symbol to Mielikki also fell out in plain view. He reached into his pouch and plucked out a platinum coin, with a smile he flipped it over to land at the bards feet. No one tips like that unless they can expense it. Replacing his pouch he then rested his head on the palm of his hand with his elbow propped on the table. This had the double effect of making him look as though he were casually enjoying the music, and it showed the considerable bulk of his upper arm off. This should deter the locals from getting themselves killed. He also kept a casual eye on the hin in the corner.
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Tarridus
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Posted by FrozenSnowy
As the only gnome in the inn continues his eating calmly, several glances were turned towards the bard. As a platinum coin dropped near the singer's feet, a single thought shot up the sorcerer's mind, his eyes following the direction it was thrown from.
An adventurer, no doubt. Excellent.
He was less into inquisitive deduction than the common mage, preferring gut-feelings and common sense, but this was an obvious matter. A silver piece was the best sort of coin a good bard can get, while gold pieces come as a rarity. A platinum piece is something that commoners earn in the period of - if lucky - half a year or more... so the half-orc was certainly not a regular man. In fact, the gnome could swear several colors on the amulet the half-orc wore resembled quite closely another symbol he saw in a recent temple, back when the Stormlords attacked a village near Aglarond: Mielikki.
It was, perhaps, the most logic conclusion the gnome could set. The half-orc was possibly one of the other Agents, and suited the look quite visibly. If not, then one who intercepted the message and was going to try and foil whatever plans Alustriel set for the gnome and his allies.
But Shwhibelzing never saw pessimism as a merit.
He shoved a hand into one of his purple robe, with golden linings, removing a small piece of platinum from inside. This one was his most common one of coins: the one he recieved from a particularly annoying mage in a sojourn back in Deepdale. This will suit both to honor the preformer, and perhaps manage a silent message to the half orc.
The gnome flickered the coin towards the bard. After a bit of tumbling, spinning and rolling, the coin reached its destination - a stone or two from the other platinum coin, closer to the bard.
The gnome shifted on his chair, finishing his good meal and wiping his mouth. A sip from a large clay mug followed closely to drown the food. All remained was... the wait.
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Posted by Mogney
Griffon raised his mug to the gnome and gave him a big toothy cheerful grin.
That's one.
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Posted by Kerio
A platinum coin – the last thing he expected to see, let alone earn, in a small village such as this; numerous copper coins, a handful of silver, and the rare gold piece were more the norm. Even in the larger cities and towns through which he had traveled during the last several years he had never made more than a handful or two of gold a night above and beyond the negotiated wage with the tavern master. Not that he needed it; his employer always ensured that he was both well funded and compensated for his real discrete work.
Just when he was about to shift positions by a few feet to hide the lonely coin beneath his foot, it was joined by a twin which rolled to a stop mere inches away from his boot. Tymora’s luck … if only they were a bit closer together, Kerio could quickly and easily protect both valuable coins by standing upon them without drawing too much attention from the local patrons. Usually he would have hired an agile youth for a couple of copper coins an hour to collect those which failed to reach the designated performance area; however, the dismal crowds on the first few nights after he arrived meant that he was actually loosing money doing this as none were giving tips. Therefore, to keep up the appearance of a struggling performer, he was regrettably forced to abandon the practice.
Worse yet, his fear that the appearance of the half-orc would ignite a bloody brawl had caused him to begin playing his pipes far removed from the cleared corner that represented this tavern’s stage. The result being that he was in a very vulnerable position should a fight suddenly breakout due to the relatively immense wealth which had been unexpectedly thrown at his feet. Deal with one problem at a time, he reminded himself – first, securing the coins; second, acknowledging the more than generous donations; third, determining their true intent; and fourth, defusing a potentially violent altercation … well hopefully there wouldn’t be one, but it was exceedingly foolish not to be prepared for every eventuality.
Kerio quickly shifted the ball of his left foot to cover the nearest coin while simultaneously, but gracefully, lunging forward with the opposite leg in order to acquire the second one with his right hand. A feat further complicated by both his continual pipe playing and his intent to match his movements to the rhythm of the music as though he was performing choreographed dance steps and not spontaneously actions born out of pure desperation. To further the illusion, he evolved the single motion to secure the coin into a complete and complex routine including swirling capes, swift kicks, lofty leaps, back flips, and wild vocalizations whilst surreptitiously acquiring the other coin in the process. Once finished, he gave the slightest of nods to the two generous patrons before bowing deeply before a somewhat astonished audience.
Returning towards his vacant chair, he gestures at one of the buxom serving wenches to refill his chalice, slips his panpipes back into the pocket of the cloak from whence they came, and ponders to himself – do the two know each other and are they intentionally trying to start a riot?
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Posted by Swashbuckler
Keegan sat straight up in his rack, tossing what skins he'd had draped across his form to the floor. His face was bathed in perspiration, and his mouth dry like a cotton box.
It kinnae been a dream, he thought. The Lady ... nae, there's nae mistakin' it. She spoke directly tae me, in a message meant fer me.
Keegan moved off of the cot then, tossing his nightshirt aside with one hand, whilst grabbing his chain undergarment with the other. Donning it, his mind whirling with the implications and ... commands ... the Lady Alustriel had given him, he dressed as fast as he could into his plate armor, stuffing what little possessions he owned into a durable, hefty backpack.
Less than five minutes after waking from the vision, Keegan Axecaster of the Deepaxe Clan stood ready for departure to places unknown. He gazed around at his tent - he hadn't forgotten anything. With a grunt and an early morning belch (for indeed it was after midnight, and not yet dawn), he swiped up his backpack, slung shield and waraxe over his back, and batted aside the tentflap that served as his door.
The firewatch sentry, to his credit, was wide awake and alert when Keegan walked quietly up to him, much more silent than a dwarven warrior clad in platemail should have been able to do.
"Lad, ye've an important task ahead o' ye this marn," he barked. "Ye be tellin' his lairdship Havill tha' me time 'ereaboots be at an end. Her Ladyship, Alustriel, has bade me into service, an' to tha' service, I be goin'."
The human sentry, raw recruit or not, was keenly aware that the absence of the Sergeant Major was likely to cause no small stir over the next tenday. As such, he dared to ask the gruff dwarf for evidence of his new orders.
The result of that particular line of questioning netted the sentry a strong blow to the gut, taking the wind from him. He dropped to his knees, gasping for air that did not seem to want to come.
"Are ye doubtin' the word o' a dwarf, ye stupid sot? If a paladin o' Moradin tells ye a thing is so, it be so, an' there be no two ways aboot it!"
Leaving the sentry a moment later, who was only then beginning to recover, the surly but determined dwarf stomped off to the west, in the direction of the Stagger Inn. He'd heard of the place from the idle talk amongst his recruits from time to time, and thus had a fairly decent idea where it was located.
"Finally, me duty calls me elsewhere. Thank ye fer yer provision, mighty Moradin, father of yer peoples. May me service tae this noble Lady be pleasin' in yer sight ..." Keegan mumbled as he made his way down the road. Soon, he was over hill and dale, and the inn not all that far off.
"... an' may there be many orcies tae lay me axe in'ta along th' way, if it be yer divine and perfect will ..."
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Posted by the Dude, Man
It was tragedy.
Not having an assignment, not the vacation that wasn't to be. It was the wine. It stopped working.
Each sip, every mouthful, every single drop seemed to dry his mouth, and make him sober up ever faster, his mind began darting from scenario to scenario, thinking up every possible reason that several agents would be called together.
Immediately he ruled out the Zhentarim, that was a job for Lords Alliance regulars (or irregulars, depending on the region), so, then bandits? Not very likely he thought "... not on the roads leading to and from Hillsfar, leastwise." rubbing his scar slightly. Elves? Why would Elves march on humans? "Not if Alustrial had anything to say about it. Which she would."
"Murder."
The thought echoed in his head for some time. He'd head about the gristly killings around Daggerdale, heard about the bodies, or the parts of bodies, that were found. He even knew that a small band of freedom riders had dissappeared recently. Penel trusted his gut, and his gut told him that his summons concerned the recent string of butchered people. He'd heard a bit here and there, and an earful tonight.
"So we're hunting an incredibly powerful individual, maybe a group of madmen, maybe a wild beast..." and thus the thoughts ticked off one by one.
Moments later, fatigue finally hit him, caushing him to yawn loudly (though, considering the noise in the place, not loud enough to be heard).
Taking a moment to look over the half-breed and gnome one last time, he was now certain (considering the stunt they just pulled) of their origins and intentions, they looked capable "For the sake of this mission, they'd better be.", he felt what was left of his slight grin dissolve, his face became staccato and focused. He quietly slipped off of his stool, grabbed his hear, and quietly made his way towards the stairs leading to his room.
Halfway up the flight, he stopped, reached into his coinpurse, pulled out a platinum coin, and, taking careful aim, lightly tossed it at the performer. The coin made a distinct "ping-plop" sound as it bounced off of the glass and into the pipe player's drink.
Whispering a quick prayer to Yondalla (and Brandobaris, for good measure), Penel turned back around and made his way to his room.
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Tarridus
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Posted by Kerio
The facts are like random notes on a staff; each one pure in itself yet the melody and harmony of the situation remains elusive. Without the score, the instruments and voices create for the audience naught but dissonance with their irregular rhythms and eclectic keys. Even knowing that some of the other players of the ensemble are nearby perhaps even in the same room, he continues to wonder whom might be the ultimate conductor of this orchestration and in what style it will be performed.
A trio … *Ping* - *Plop* … a quartet? However, these would only be one section of the orchestra under the experienced guidance of Lady Alustriel and the other operatives in the Lords’ Alliance for undoubtedly they are but bit players in this orchestration and, while they can help solidify the section by plucking strings in unison, they aren’t conducting the entire ensemble.
Beat by beat, measure by measure, the semblance of order will slowly evolve from the chaos; the question of the moment is whether Kerio should wisely retire and rest until dawn’s enlightened theme or continue playing a harmonic voice throughout the present refrain.
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Posted by Mogney
After Griffon completed his meal, he picked up the two remaining chops he had not eaten, waved to the gnome, and went out the door. Inn’s made him nervous, and he would rather sleep under the stars. Besides he had a present for his traveling companion. He would return at first light and speak to the gnome and the hin. Maybe there would be others as well.
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Posted by FrozenSnowy
The gnome gave a pleasant, genuine smile to the orc and waved in return. He had a strange feeling that the large individual will return in the morning, or close enough to that.
Noting he is not particularly tired, the gnome still preferred a place somewhat more quiet than the inn for several hours to meditate and relax (something he could not do due to the Lady's short notice message). He packed his things about, adjusting a silver-golden wand secured to his belt, and went to the innkeeper.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The innkeeper took a few moments before coming towards the gnome, serving another customer. A few more moments passed before he noticed the gnome's lowered self.
"Aye?" the innkeeper said, trying to look as used to gnomes well-dressed stepping into his inn without being seen every thursday and monday.
"Sir, would you kindly tell me if you have any rooms left for anyone to spend the rest of the night?"
The innkeeper glanced briefly over the keys on his wall. There were a very few; it seemed the inn was not crowded only with people in the tavern part, but also the rooms were being snatched in a tremendous rate.
"Aye, wull, ya got a fine room fer the most common of kind fer a gold piece, a slightly larga' room fer three. Noble section's all caught."
The gnome nodded, handing in three gold pieces. He did not need anything beyond a simple room, yet one with a sane, non-petrified bed. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow as the coins reached his side of the table - it seemed he was not used to customers merely giving the payment with a bargain or seeing if it was clean first, at least. Nevertheless, he took the coins, smiling to the gnome.
"Enjoy yer sleep. Our fine beds be the best ones ye'll ever lay yer eyes on." the innkeeper pulled out a simple brass key from the wall, tossing to the gnome. Mildly surprised by the gesture, the gnome still manages to catch the key before it reaches his eye.
"Erh, surely so, surely so. Good night."
The gnome nodded to the innkeeper, looking around the inn for a few more moments before going up the stairs to his room.
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Posted by Kerio
Seemingly everyone of interest has left; the other halfling wandered up the stairs and into the unknown but not before tossing the third platinum coin of the evening at Kerio, the imposing half-orc disappeared out the door and into the darkness of the night but not without taking the remains of his feast, and the noble gnome just secured one of the few rooms left at the inn but after exchanging friendly waves with the departing half-orc. A few of the locals remain buried deep within their cups but soon even they will be forced to vacate by the tavern master when he eventually closes down for the evening.
As the silence continues to linger, Kerio wonders if this is just the sudden calm before the storm – a brief reprieve before the four elements combine into a colossal hurricane of raw power and emotion inflicting tremendous casualties both physical and mental on those that inadvertently wind up in its path. Fortunately, he isn’t gifted with true foresight; knowing exactly what is your destiny and all the irreversible steps you take along the path to reach it would be more of a curse than a blessing. However, there are some forms of divination that allow a glimpse into the future which he has frequently utilized in the past with moderate success that might give a hint as to what will transpire.
Reaching into his cloak he pulls a well-worn Talis deck from inside one of the numerous pockets hidden therein and begins thoroughly shuffling the cards. Once it was a tradition to perform a reading before any critical stage of a mission; however, that was long long ago before his extended expedition into these distant lands far from his beloved home in Berdusk. Absentmindedly, he twiddles with the silver ring on his finger while wondering when, if ever, he will have the opportunity to visit there again.
“Enough of this!” he berates himself for his unwarranted procrastination after having taken a prolonged slip of wine from the silvered chalice. Quickly slamming the goblet down on the table in disgust, he then splits the deck several times with his left hand before restacking them in a different order and immediately flips over the top card … the eighth of the air elementals; a very ominous and prophetic card representing total fear. Fear of decision, fear of action, fear of the unknown – ironic in a sense as here he is turning to the Talis deck for advice on how to respond to his emotional paralysis and all the first card does is reflect his current predicament.
Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, he turns the next several cards over to gain more insight into his fear and how to overcome it – they are Strength, the sixth of the earth elementals, The Star, and an upside-down seventh of the fire elementals. Alas nothing too enlightening, the cards indicate that he has the courage to face his fears and that with some faith and hope eventually they will fall away into nothingness leaving behind an unexpected bonus. The details of exactly how, what, when, and where remain obscured and perhaps, for now at least, that is for the better.
Kerio finishes drinking the remaining wine from his goblet, gathers up the cards and returns them to the pocket in his cloak from whence they came, retrieves the platinum coin and tucks it secretly away into a small pouch on his belt, and traverses across the tavern to climb the stairs towards his reserved room to catch a few hours sleep before the coming of the dawn.
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Posted by Swashbuckler
Dawn was scant moments away as the dwarf, who had chugged along tirelessly all night, crested a small hillock and came within sight of the Stagger Inn. Never pausing, he kept his brisk pace going right up until the tavern door stood before him.
With a shove, the door opened. Silence greeted him, the silence of early morning ... the silence of drunks sleeping off their overindulgences of the night past. The dwarf clomped noisily into the place and straight up to the bar. It was during those few moments of traversing the tavern room that a slightly-disheveled maiden poked her head through the curtain that separated the kitchen from the main taproom. Obviously wakened from hearing the none-to-quiet dwarf's approach, she inquired in a sleepy tone, "Up early, good sir? I'll be with ya in a moment."
Keegan waited patiently for the serving girl to rub the sleep from her eyes and make herself more presentable. He quietly thanked Moradin for his safe journey, and removed the helm from his head, setting it atop the haft of his battleaxe. Presently the maid returned, bearing a small basket of cheeses and fruits, which she placed in front of the stout patron.
"Thankee, lass. I'll be needin' a small tun o' mead tae wash down th' chow 'ere ... so jest keep it comin'. Oh, an' some bread." To insure his requests were met, he slid three gold coins across the bar to the maid, who stood wide-eyed and staring for just a moment too long.
"Well, git ye goin' maid. I ain' payin' ye tae gawk," slurped the dwarf in between bites. Gathering up the generous sum, she hurried to bring as much mead as she could carry to the famished dwarf.
As he ate, Keegan looked about, wondering if any others had arrived yet. He consumed a good quantity of mead while surveying the inside area of the inn.
Dinnae tell me I be aloon in dis ...
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Swashbuckler
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The dwarf sat on his small bed - arguably much nicer than the cot he'd been spending the past few arcs sleeping in - and reflected on the recent events.
After meeting up with other agents of the Lord's Alliance, also all contacted by the Lady Alustriel's sending, they set out for Dagger Falls. Their arrival was greeted with suspicion, but after chatty halflings and the odd human word-crafted the party into gaining an audience with Lord Morn, things seemed to go better.
Until Keegan gave the inattentive half-elf's desk a good boot. If it was one thing the dwarf wouldn't tolerate, it was a lack of attention to details. When six well-armed Alliance agents are standing in front of you, you'd better hop to it, to his thinking.
After things settled down, they were briefed on the reason they'd been gathered - murder. And not just a simple murder that the local guard could deal with, no. All signs pointed to one of two things - drow activity, or someone wanting to make it look like drow activity.
Keegan had been in battles with the dark-elves before, under his new homeland in Mithril Hall some years back. He knew the level of treachery and wickedness that the creatures were capable of, and he actually took a small amount of joy that he might be able to rid the realms of more of the foul beings.
But now, as they rested before setting out - a move which Keegan protested against, but was overruled - he could not help but think of the diverse group, and the need for sound tactics that they would need to apply in short order.
His reflection time gave way to prayer time to Moradin. He besought his lord and god for the strength and wisdom he would need in the morning, and he prayed for victory over whatever forces the band of agents might uncover.
After two hours of fervent whispers and oaths sworn, he drifted off into a restless sleep. Even in rest, he could not wait to be under way ...
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| « Last Edit: on: Oct 13, 2006, 6:09PM » |
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The Dude, Man
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Putting his head to the pillow, Penel lay in bed for a solid thirty minutes in quiet contemplation.
Mainly hsi thoughts trailed towards his allies, he had no doubts about their capabilities, each of them was as strong and skilled as they looked, it was evident that they had been hand-picked due to their specialties, he was bound to be the token rogue, small, lithe, and able to go places and do things the others couldn't, he'd probably be working in close proximity to the Half-Orc, Griffon. It didn't bother him one bit, the big fellow looked well suited to open combat, it would be good to have him around... a tinge of sweat stung his scar as the thoughts crossed his mind.
Thoughts of his mission, however, were far less comforting. He was right, it was murder alright, though he didn't expect to be dealing with Drow. "Never met a Drow..." he muttered, shivering a bit, he couldn't say he was looking forward to it.
Tugging on the collar of his dark, frame-hugging clothing, he rolled himself over and looked Matter's Heart over closely, the shortbow leaned on the bedbost lazily, eyeing it up and down, looking for any damage or flaws, a loose string, a notch in the body, nothing.
Feeling satisfied, and licking the last of the wine from his lips, he let himself drift off into sleep, knowing full well it would probably be a long time before he would be allowed the comforts of a bed and a roof for a long while.
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FrozenSnowy
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The dark held whispers so wrong.
Shwhibelzing's calm manner and disposition changed into instincts and frantic pacing as the group settled down to rest.
Bebilith. So relatively close to the surface... Mystra, aid us!
The sorcerer was lost in thought, not even paying attention to the numerous cuts on his robe. He was once again adventuring, but this adventure has gone to hell. For a few moments, he doubted his ability to complete this mission - after all, if he could barely deal with a group of vampires and two bebiliths on the very entrance of the Underdark, how could he deal with the thing causing the murders?
No. It is not done until he is dead. He was given a second chance in life, Warblast reckons - and if he falls for a cause, he'd furfil at least some of his debt to his goddess and his friends.
Shwhibelzing finally noticed the cuts on his robe and tears in everyone's armor, and turned to each, using minor spells to mend their armors and torn cloth together. He could spare this much to strengthen their equipment back to their toppest shape and magical quality. It'd at least put his mind to focusing the energies, and not the thousands of lurking shadows hiding at every corner, prepared to (try and) rip the entire party to pieces.
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The Dude, Man
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He leant there in the shadows, quiet contemplation settled once Keegan had ceased his almost-endless stream of curses and cussing. Penel's gaunt face seemed to reflect their surroundings, stone and cold. He wasn't prepared for this. Not in the slightest.
To find a dead party of drow, burned and mutilated. Then the Bebiliths. His mind was racing. On top of all that had passed recently, his two foolish mistakes, weighed heavily on his mind. The first was his over-eagerness to make sure the dead stayed that way and nearly getting himself and his companions killed in the process, and then to trip over Underdark mushrooms in a pile of stones... no, he wasn't prepared.
He was used to being a scout, to working with others, and he was no stranger to combat, but to face the undead... were he positioned properly, normally he could drop a large man with a few twangs of his bowstring, but these weren't men, not anymore, and the dead don't mind arrows in their spines or vital organs. Furthermore, he was a man who worked the shadows, but what good was being able to move about in shadows when you were in a world of shadow? It only took the Bebeliths a few moments to spot him, he shuddered to think what else he might encounter while he was scouting ahead.
He stepped out of the shadows and looked himself over, outside of a small cut or two from a vampire that he deftly dodged and rolled away from in a narrow hallway, he was relatively unharmed. He waited a bit while everyone tended to their wounds and equipment, after they appeared to be done he spoke up...
"Alright gents, we may need to change our strategy up a bit..."
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| « Last Edit: on: Oct 17, 2006, 3:44AM » |
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Kerio
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An allegedly wise halfling once emphatically stated that “The only thing to fear is fear itself.”; how wrong they were.
Originally Kerio believed that his interpretation of the eighth air elemental within the tableau of Talis cards at the Stagger Inn represented his fear of the unknown mission and mysterious strangers whom would be accompanying him. Perhaps, to some extent, it did as he can vividly recall the dreaded decent down the tavern stairs relatively early the next morning wondering whom, if any, would be waiting below. At the time, he clearly expected that the noble gnome, disfigured halfling or naturalist half-orc would be amongst these unknown agents given their actions of the previous evening – what he couldn’t possibly have anticipated was entering the nearly deserted room to the sounds of a surly dwarf half shouting mumbled orders at one of the serving wenches.
Not the most auspicious start to the potentially long day; fortunately, as it turned out, the journey northward from the remote village to the large town of Dagger Falls was relatively uneventful as few bandits and marauders are foolish enough to engage such a large group. Furthermore, due to the grueling pace that the dwarven commander established, the fortified walls of the town were sighted a few hours before dusk; even though such a distance would normally be a three or four inn trek as the minstrels march. During the course of that day, the uneasy companions had little opportunity to learn more than the barest of information about the others beyond whom they claimed to be and what they chose to share about their pasts. Bonded only by the unknown mission and the knowledge that these few were other agents of the Lord’s Alliance, we essentially remained strangers and, thought Kerio, to some extent we still are.
The brief meeting with Lord Morn and his associate confirmed that at least one of the rumors Kerio had heard over the last few weeks was true … someone was murdering the citizens around Dagger Falls in the most grotesque of manners. In addition, from the limited amount of information they had collected, the most likely suspects were a radical faction of dark elves – their true purpose, location and numbers is what our mission is to discover. Our best lead, according to Lord Morn, was the Dordrien Crypts where he had nearly a week before sent a similar investigation team without success as none ever returned to report their findings. Therefore, our unstated second objective during the mission is to discover what actually happened to these other individuals and, assuming that they haven’t been killed or murdered, rescue them from the evil drow.
Though the surly dwarf, Keegan by name, wished to immediately journey into the wilds beyond the walls of Dagger Falls in search of the culprits even though the sun was setting; many including Kerio wished for some rest after the torturous pace Keegan had maintained over the day’s travels. Furthermore, it was hoped that some locals or travelers at the Red Rock Inn would be able to shed more illumination on the rumors of the dark elves and the murders … alas in vain for beyond ourselves and the proprietors of the establishment; it was deserted. This provided an opportunity for the companions to discuss general strategies and tactics concerning what they might encounter during the following day and how they should utilize the funds that Lord Morn had entrusted to them for supplies. While the talks and drinking went late into the night, nothing of real consequence was established about either what horrors they might face or how to be prepared for the unknown.
However, who knows exactly what happened during the rest of that night; for the next morning as we were preparing for the journey ahead, we were informed by the tavern master that Silartan, our otherworldly cleric, was indisposed and would not be immediately joining us, if ever. Strange that a mysterious illness would strike down upon the one critical person within the company right before we were due to depart; had we been betrayed and if so by whom? Regardless it was decided that, even with the limited skills he possessed, Kerio would temporarily replace Silartan as the group’s healer strongly supplemented by whatever scrolls and potions we could acquire before venturing out. How little did we know then exactly what awaited and how desperately one blessed by the gods would have benefited our mission. With little choice, we left him in the Red Rock Inn hoping beyond hope that the ailment was nothing worse than an upset stomach but secretly dreading something significantly worse.
The cool breeze and brilliant sunshine banished such dark thoughts from our minds as we traveled from Dagger Falls towards the Dordrien Crypts. It is only natural in crypts to find the remains of the dead but we had scarcely gone more than a few paces from the entranceway before discovering the partially charred and mutilated remains of a war band of dark elves – confirmation that, in Kerio’s mind at least, the murders were perpetrated by an unknown drow faction and not, as it had been suggested, by someone or something that just wanted the crimes to be attributed to the drow. Still, there was no visible evidence of what slaughtered these elves and if it was the original investigation party, as he hoped, there was no explanation why drow threat hadn’t been immediately reported back to Lord Morn or where they might now be.
How he wished that he hadn’t agreed that the only logical course of action was to further explore the crypts searching for the missing clues – it was only Tymora’s Luck that, while many temporarily fell during the chaotic conflicts between our small group and the coven of vampires or the unholy demons, none of the living died. Still he didn’t really have much of a choice for Lady Cylyria would never have forgiven him if he refused to assist another of the Lord’s Alliance and, unfortunately, the only way to learn what was and is transpiring here near Dagger Falls is to delve deeper into the crypts and the realms beneath. Once again, he is immensely thankful for her token of appreciation as he slowly and discretely brings it to his lips and briefly kisses it; the minor enchantment of regeneration on his signet ring probably saved his life more than once in the last few days than it had in the countless years before.
Wishing that there was more time to perform a comprehensive divination of the perils and challenges ahead while awaiting the others to recover from the latest battle between his comrades and several Bebilith from the Abyss, he understands completely their current position is highly exposed and extremely vulnerable. Therefore he discretely extracts his Talis deck from the pocket within his cloak and quickly shuffles it before cutting it twice with the left hand and turning over the top card – The Chariot. While the investigation has but yet begun, it is comforting to know as indicated by this card that eventually they will be victorious even though there may and probably will be numerous obstacles along the way. Slipping the deck back into a pocket of the cloak, he hears Penel state the obvious “Alright gents, we may need to change our strategy up a bit..."
“Agreed, we’ve been extremely lucky so far but luck doesn’t last forever. Perhaps we need to perform a more defensive exploration considering the unknown dangers that might await. To that end, I’m willing to depart with the ring enchanted with a minor protective spell which we found in the vampires’ lair to either of you m’lord Griffon or m’lord Keegan if you believe that it could be of assistance.”, states Kerio.
“Furthermore,” he continues “a defensive posture while exploring the unknown would mean less of a risk of loosing an individual to the afterlife as others wouldn’t have to risk their own lives trying to reach them through swarms of enemies because you are on death’s threshold. On the other hand, the closer group formation would involve some risk as intelligent opponents could utilize it against us. Thoughts?”
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The Dude, Man
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Penel let his words hang in the air, allowing his companions to think it over, and, hopefully, offer a solution. He watched them move about tending to their various needs, he caught a glimpse of a flash of hands and cards from Kerio, gone as quick as they had appeared; suddenly Kerio was speaking, nodding his head every so often.
After Kerio finished his say, Penel spoke again...
"Sound enough. Somewhat general, but refined it'll do. How about we divide our, ahem, assets, but keep them relatively close? That way we cou-" he stopped suddenly, tilting his head to the side and listening down a corridor, after roughly ten seconds he seemed satisfied "... anyway, we'd be better prepared, if not positioned to deal, come what may."
He paused a moment and forced a cough, "On top of that, I'm not seeing much benefit to my sneaking around down here for reconnaissance purposes, I'm a scout, and a skirmisher, not a tracker or pathfinder..." he took a quick look at Griffon before going on "... so, what I had in mind, specifically, was me and the big guy here were always a few steps aheead of the main group, looking out for immediate dangers such as, say, traps, vampires, or spiders from hell. You know, the usual..." he adds with no lack of sarcasm "... adventuring perils."
As he was saying the last few words, he pulled a bottle of red wine that he'd procured from the inn at Daggerfall, and took a quick, small swig before going on.
"I suppose you'd need to work out a marching order." He said casually regarding Keegan, "Warblast", and Kerio. "Given enough warning, you can get into position should anything hostile come at us, Griffon can fall back and stand his ground with Keegan, and if there's enough room, and whatever we're fighting isn't already, dead or some form of it, and given I have the room to maneuver, I'll just move along the sides and send 'em the love of Brandobaris as best I can... as for the spellcasters, I really couldn't say as to how to figure you in, I've never really worked with your type before, though I figure once all is said and done, I'll come out of this knowing a bit more than I used to. Your thoughts?"
Having said his peace, and left the floor open, he took another glance around, and moved back towards a shadowed corner and, keeping his bow in hand, kept a close watch on the corner that led down the next corridor.
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FrozenSnowy
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The gnomish sorcerer, quietly amazed at his ability to withstand so much exhaustion and fatigue without openly showing it, gave Penel and the group the best, fullest attention he could. It would be an unfitting time to openly say he requires his weekly massage.
"I cannot speak for good sir Woodhands, but I use my crossbow also, usually staying behind. I usually cast all spells from the middle or the back, perhaps using my wand to transform into something more befitting in battle. If I see the situation is dire," Shwhibelzing stopped, darting to the sound of several falling rocks from the entrance, but kept talking. "I shall help you, Keegan and whoever else will be in the front line. Note that even in a shapeshifted form, my offensive skills are not as superior as yours and the rest of the warriors - but I can serve as a... "meat-shield"."
Shwhibelzing grinned slightly at the last pair of words. It was actually an exaggeration, since the Wand's power might be too dangerous to use in its higher forms, and lesser forms are much less effective in resisting attacks. But this would at least give the group a few precious seconds to heal in the heat of battle, and in case something happens, he can always retreat and turn invisible.
Or, at least, he could try.
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FrozenSnowy
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The nigh-exhausted gnome wheezed and panted heavily, holding his chest. The swarm of spells released almost simultaneously exhausted him, at least for the moment. As he tried to regain back his energy and grasping of the Weave, his eyes lookd over the bloody field of battle.
Shaking his head slowly at the massacare, his eyes turned to the companions, and then slowly to the newest addition.
"Is this really... what you want? more and more blood? more and more dead drow? until none of them is left?'
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Pearce
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Val Larren, cleric of Shevarash, looked at the small one and said in a clear but low voice, "Yes, it is my charge in life, to see that all drow die. I was not always so... harsh." She sighed a deep sigh and told them her story...
Val Larren grew up a happy, carefree elf child. She spent her days learning the ways of the elf folk and playing hide and seek with her friends... until one night... It was the darkest of nights and there wasn't a sound to be heard. Stealthily, a band of drow slipped into the small village and quietly slaughtered every living creature... men, women, old and young, even pets. Val had been playing hide and seek earlier and had grown tired whilst waiting for the seeker to find her. She had fallen asleep in a barn under the hay. She woke up the next morning to the horror of what had happened while she had slept. Drow arrows lay all about and in everything that had not been touched by the morning sun. She ran home to find her father, mother and baby brother dead... her father had put up a heroic fight defending his wife and son... but in the end had fallen. Val sat on the floor in her house ... she didn't know how long, until the a patrol from a neighboring village had come to to see why no one had been heard from in days. They found Val just sitting, not speaking, her tears had long been exhausted... she was empty inside. The patrol gathered her up and took her to an aunt in another village. Val had grown up... haunted and silent, rarely talking and never laughing. She joined the temple of the Black Archer when she learned of its tenets... Redemption and revenge may be achieved through the utter destruction of the drow and the dark deities they serve...
Val looked up into the faces of her rescuers. "I did not kill the man you found me with... he had been injured and I went back to bandage his wounds so he could continue with us... in the end my ministrations were for naught and he died... So...I did not directly kill him, but in a way I did because I could not save him. He was afraid.. he didn't want me to help him because he didn't want to face the drow again... but I told him he had to... but in the end he won. His battle was over and I was left to face a new horror when we discovered the entire party had been killed. So... yes... to answer your question... This is what I want... to kill the drow until none of them is left."
Val stood there looking into their faces... trying to read their expressions...
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FrozenSnowy
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Shwhibelzing's mind was trying to convince itself to believe the elf. But something told him trusting her would be a mistake if done without any care or caution.
Then again, he's a gnome, and Cloakshadow never forgets to watch the lonesome gnomes of Garl Glittergold's flock. Perhaps it would be better to trust the drow-slayer. Nevertheless, Shwhibelzing decided on throwing caution into the air... without being too suspicious.
The gnome finally nodded to the elf after the glum, sad story. "Very well. Each of us follows his own ways, I suppose, although you should understand I do not like it."
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