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Mist still clung low to the ground as the three adventurers wound their way down the new cobbled roads, up and down long hills. The sun still lingering lazily on the horizon as if unwilling to get up. The town of Hommlet spreads out, a welcome sight for footsore travellers, cozy and rustic with its spread of farmland and thatched roof buildings. Two massive stone structures stand like bookends at either side--on the left a wide domed church, and on the right a low castle fort. The foundations for a city wall stretch perhaps 100 yards from against the castle wall across to the first few buildings, nothing more than a shallow ditch and some wooden supports.
The three adventurers had met upon the road, having shared little beyond names, friendly intentions, and the warmth of a shared campfire. Nonetheless travel in the Kron Hills fosters comraderie: having to hunker down in the high brush to avoid circling hungry griffons, one member sitting and watching the ruins of an old gnomish keep as the others pass through as quickly and quietly as possible. Despite the rigors of travel, the three have been able to learn a few clues about each other. Two are half-elves. Victor Valens-Bentleaf wears the thick scale of a paladin, but has the easy manner of a merchant's son from Highfolk. He seems anxoius about the journey, fresh and green from a regimen of training, and devoted to deity in long and fervent prayers to his patron Corellon Larethian. The other half-elf is a bard named Amergin, bright and charming but with a shade of some hidden pain that drives his flight from home. The last is a studious-looking, wiry human cleric of Pelor named Arnulf. In his eyes there's the spark of true devotion, and from around his head shines a corona of light. Where the others seem casual in their travels, "Brother" Arnulf is focused and travels with urgency, feeling that he's been called there to combat some great evil.
As they come to the edge of town, they see a number of guards milling about with polearms over their shoulders. One handsome dark haired man, nearly half the size of the others but still clearly a human, snaps from rigid attention, rights his helmet and rushes down to the road with a bit of a waddle to his step to meet the travellers.
"Greetings travellers! My name is Jinnerth of Burne's Badgers. Welcome to the village of Hommlet. Can I know your business sirs?" he holds his smaller polearm out in front of him, a polished smile on his face.
Further down the road a few of the other guards in similar Badger tabards laugh and murmer to each other about "...good ole' Jinnerth."