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The slight tension in the bar following the confrontation between Runzyl and the woman dissipates after Nox's cheerful toast. A few moments later, a human man enters through the door of the bar, swaddled in a cloak. He is a fairly unremarkable specimen, almost purposefully nondescript, with bland pudgy features and light brown, thinning hair. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have been noticed at all except that, after briefly looking about the room, he sidles towards the dark-haired woman and sits at her table. This is obviously whom she intended to meet, as they begin a quiet conversation, heads bowed close together as they talk in low voices.
Suddenly, three gnolls swagger in, their heads ducking under the lintel. The effect upon the bar clientele is dramatic. The hubbub of voices falters and the waiting staff halt in their tracks and stare fearfully. The hobgoblin singer’s voice cracks and dies, and the beggar cowers and heads for the exit surprisingly rapidly for a man supposedly crippled in the Last War. The goblin traders cease their highly vocal discussion and watch on warily. While the bugbear continues to rock in his seat, now his eyes are wide open. An uncertain whispering begins in a number of guttural languages, but one word can be heard emanating from several sources: “Daask”.
Knowledge (Local) checks please. As most of you know Sharn reasonably well, you can make this check untrained if you haven’t taken skill ranks in it.
The gnolls scan the bar, and then stride over towards the woman and man you noticed earlier, their weapon harnesses and armour clinking, unhooking heavy axes from their belts. The woman sits up straight in alarm but the man leans back and smiles unpleasantly, seeming to savour her dismay. Their voices are clear as the rest of the drinkers seem to hold their breath.
“What is the meaning of this, Heris?” says the woman, her voice shrill.
The man’s smile broadens. “Actually, I’m not Heris, he couldn’t make it tonight. No, he decided to go fishing instead.” He chuckles, and the gnolls join in with high-pitched yapping. “You’re coming with us, so don’t make a fuss. Someone wants to have a little chat with you.”
The gnolls grab her roughly and begin to drag her from the bar. The man follows close behind her, a dagger pressed against the small of he back. She gazes at Runzyl briefly in a silent plea as she is manhandled towards the door.
What are you going to do next? Don’t plan long term – just what you are going to do in the next few seconds or so.
Man, does no one know the difference between Search and Spot? Actually, that said, it can be tricky. My take is that Search is used when you are studying something you already know is there - like the woman. Spot is used to notice something that you don't know is there - like the assassin lurking behind Nox. Ha ha - only kidding.
Anyway, Lightbringer fails to notice anything - like a dragonmark or an assassin.
Yes, she is human.
She returns Runzyl's level gaze. "Not you. Please allow me some privacy, I'm not after anything you have to offer. I suggest you leave before I have you removed."
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I actually asked for a Search roll, so you really got 21. So sorry, you can see it and recognise it as a dragonmark, but not the type, which in any case requires an Knowledge (Arcana) check to definitively identify.
Both of those rolling notice this, and there isn't much need to worry about further rolls.
Both Runzyl and Trose notice a blue-back sigil seemingly inked into the skin of her wrist, her sleeve slipping up her arm slightly as she raises her cup to drink - definately a dragonmark, probably a "least" by its size, though which one you can't tell at this distance and in this relative gloom.
Nice to have you with us, Ezreal. :-) I'll leave it up to the three of you if you want to recognise eachother.
A slim, well-dressed woman enters the bar, her dark green cloak lightly spotted with drops of rain. She pushes back her hood, revealing striking dark-haired looks, and briefly scans the room. Evidently not seeing whoever she was looking for, she heads to an empty table by the kitchen door and sits down. A goblin serving wench wanders over to her and, after a brief conversation, returns with a small ceramic mug of some steaming liquid. The woman pays and, after lifting the mug to examine it carefully and sniffing its contents, takes an experimental sip. With a slight grimace she replaces the mug on the table, and turns to watch the door.
Search checks, please
OK, to keep the ball rolling, I'll give Ezreal another few hours to post (as I don't know what time zone he is in, he might be tucked up in bed right now). I'll probably get things moving again at about 10.00pm my time (it's about 3.00pm here now). As a rule of thumb, as I don't want this to go too adrift, I'll try and move things on once every couple of days as a minimum. I might take control of characters to do this, though I will avoid it as much as possible.
Just waiting for Ezreal....
Anyway.....
King of the Jakers wrote: Currently on a pilgrimage to the site of my clans massacre, and this quaint tavern seems to be one I have not visited on my frequent excursions through Sharn. OK, that's the "why". What's the "what", so to speak?
It’s a quiet night in the Spear of Dhakaan, a dark bar on the outskirts of the Bazaar in Middle Dura lit by the dim flickering of a few everburning torches . A group of goblin merchants yammer loudly at one another, shoving and shouting in the traditional goblin negotiating style. A bugbear bouncer sits on a stool and leans against a wall by the entrance, gently rocking with his eyes shut as a hobgoblin chanteuse belts out another dirge bewailing the fates of lost empires. Waitresses – human, shifter and goblinoid – yell orders at the bar and dodge groping hands from punters of all races, while a beggar, dressed in the tatterered remnants of a Brelish army uniform and presumably human under the filth, does the rounds of the tables. Pipes in the wall gurgle loudly, channelling away the water dumped on to the high towers of the city, while the storm hisses against the windows, rumbling and flashing with lightning. Gazing down aloofly on proceedings, a spire drake watches from its battered cage above the bar. It's hot, humid and smokey, and the smell of cheap goblin spirits, cooking food and too many unwashed bodies is almost overpowering.
Indeed, pretty quiet as these things go....
What are the PCs doing? Why are they here?
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