20 Rova, 4707 Absalom Reckoning, Day Before the Equinox
As one approaches the town of Sandpoint, the footprint of civilization upon the Lost Coast grows more clear. Farmlands in the outlying moors and river valleys grow more numerous and more fishing vessels are seen in the waters of the Varisian Gulf to the West. The road widens just as it chokes with a motley assortment of Varisians, Shoanti, and Chelaxians headed to the Festival of Desna. Passages over river crossings become accomplished by wooden bridge rather than ford, that can only mean The Lost Coast Road is nearing Sandpoint!
Sight of the town is kept hidden by lightly forested hilltops and rocky outcroppings that rise to the east, but as the final bend is rounded, smoking chimneys and bustling streets greet travelers with open arms. The queue of folks lined up to enter town stretches back well away from the gate.
A low stone wall gives the town a bit of protection, as the road passes through the stone gatehouse, there are two bored looking guards at post, neither of which looks like they'd be much help in a real fight. The guards lean against their blunt spears, yawning, barely noticing, as the procession of festival-goers enters the town in slow single file.
As you approach the gate-house you see, hanging from a bent nail, a sign and a mirror --painted on the sign is this message: "Welcome to Sandpoint! Please stop to see yourself as we see you!"
The Lost Coast Road had inns strategically placed every 25 miles or so for the weary traveler to rest and recuperate, but, ever the traveler, Bruin eschewed such places for a night under the stars and the commune with his deity this afforded.
"How many nights have I spent looking up into the constellations by the firelight? Too many to count". Bruin had lost track weeks ago or more likely and just stopped counting. When you had no particular place to go, time didn’t matter as much, and the getting there seemed less important than the journey itself.
But today he did have somewhere to go: Sandpoint. That village on the Lost Coast, just a day’s walk from here. The new cathedral was to be dedicated tomorrow and the Desnan priest wanted to be there. A few weeks ago, the word of the new temple had reached him, and now he wanted to see it for himself.
Rounding the last bend in the road, he saw the gate in the town wall before him. To his left, he saw the rising spire of the Cathedral and watched as dozens of rowdy Varisians, stoic Chelaxians, and even a few barbarian Shoanti entered the town for what promised to be one heck of a festival.
Shouldering his pack, he joined the river of humanity and headed toward the gate.
He had found the beauty of nature; learned the ways of the Green Faith, and even became boon companions with a bear of all things. But still his anger burned. It burned deep and it burned bright.
Hearing the rumors that giants had come to this area, the druid left his life of solitude in the woods and set out to find the bastards where they lived and roust them from the Sandpoint environs.
A simple plan for a simple fellow, but now this cursed Festival was getting all in the way of his plans. First what used to be virgin forests, perfect for his lonely sojourn, had been chopped down and turned to farmland. This Lost Coast, well, it was almost civilized. That would never do.
Next, never had he seen some many longshanks lollygagging along a road. With all the noise and tramping about, the bright colors and boisterous songs of the Varisans, any giant worth his salt would be miles away, probably breaking into all these ninny-hammers’ homes while they were out here prancing around, talking about magical butterflies or some such foolishness.
Just wanting this parade of morons to end, Olywnn and his companion Mirain stood in line to enter the city.
"Please stop to see yourself as we see you," Bruin read aloud with a chuckle.
He shrugged. Why not?
He walked up to the mirror to get a good look at himself. His hair was a bit out of place, so he took a moment to brush it down with his palm. He straightened his vest and tugged at the sleeves of his favorite green shirt, the one with the mismatched buttons on the cuffs.
He smiled once, and then, for no particular reason, he started making faces at himself. He chuckled again and then finally walked past the guards, who never even noticed his antics in front of the mirror.
Bruin smiled as he looked about the throng of people traveling into Sandpoint. It did his heart good.
"Blessed be the long road, the destination, the homeward path, and all who make the journey," he prayed aloud.
He put his hands behind his head, and began whistling a jaunty little song he had picked up in Magnimar.
Glad to be outside the forbidding walls of the Academae for the first time in years, Loges took in the sights and sounds of the place like a stranger in a strange land. The brilliant colors of the Varisian wardrobe and their natural vibrancy and energy gave him a spring in his step.
Stopping just outside the city walls in the queue that formed there to enter the gate, he watched wonderingly as a group of Varisian acrobats and tumblers performed for the crowd. Looking around at the others, he noted a dour dwarf scowling at the foolishness, impatient to move along.
As the entertainers were providing a distraction, Loges saw out of the corner of his eye, a bruising brute of a fellow sneaking up on an unsuspecting Chelish youth. The brute had an iron pipe of some kind, and looked to be ready to bash the unaware youth.
The foolish humans had started some act, tumbling and rolling around in the grass, and the line had stopped to watch. Beromar stomped his foot grumpily, muttering more dwarvish curses under his breath.
He had come here to kill giants, not to watch a group of ninnyhammers make fools of themselves. If he couldn’t find giants, at least there was a good inn here. The White Stag had a reputation far outside the Lost Coast, and his journey, and irritation, had worked up a big thirst. He could already taste the first cold ale sliding down, if only these bloody Varisians would just get the line moving again. Suddenly, the noise of an altercation behind him, made him turn and look…
Now all he had to do was get the coins back to his Sczarni contact at Fatman’s Feedbag down by the wharf, and maybe they’d let him inside the inner circle. He’d done little errands for the thieves in Magnimar but he thought there was a real opportunity to get inside in Sandpoint. As inside as any non-Varisian could get, that is.
Cursing his own Chelish blood, Viroleth stood behind a stout dwarf with a brown bear companion. Behind him, another dwarf looked ready to burst, and farther on, a striking man, in wizard’s robes watched as a troupe of Varisians began to entertain the crowd. Leaping, tumbling and building human pyramids, the group was actually quite talented, and Viroleth began to clap along with the others, watching as the group did more and more complex and difficult stunts. Unfortunately, the distraction provided by the tumblers was about to pay serious consequences for the young rogue.
Bruin walks through the tunnel and out into the chaos that is Sandpoint. With the Festival of Desna beginning tomorrow, the place is a madhouse of activity.
From Varisian families greeting each other and making camp, to merchants unloading wagons and setting up stalls, to hungry townsfolk looking for a treat, the place is full of people, buzzing around creating a sense of excitement that made the young halfling's whistle end mid-note.
Suddenly a voice behind him startled Bruin:"An' jes wha' dae yeh think yer doin' bein' sae happy in this town, wee fella? Dae yeh have permission tae bae a'whistlin' like tha', do yeh ken?"
After finishing his business in the farmhouse, Viroleth traipses into Sandpoint and stops to admire himself in a mirror.
Gorgeous as always.
Viro is a slender, athletic man of average height with the pale skin and dark hair typical of Chelaxians. His face is long with high cheekbones, twinkling brown eyes, and a thin moustache. His speech is a bizarre mixture of a posh accent sprinkled with Varisian slang. Some inexpensive jewelry adorns his ears and fingers, and his clothing is bright and gaudy.
After making his way past the gate, Viro wanders through the town before arriving at the festival. He wades into the crowd and is delighted to see the Varisian players. Spying a couple of dwarves, he stands behind them to make sure he has a good view. He lets out a wolf-whistle before clapping along happily.
This town is far more fun than I thought. Think I'm going to like it here.
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Loges is 5'9 160 pounds. He appears to be a Human youth,
although he does have the making of a full beard;
a soft blond/white color. He has blond/white hair, blue eyes,
and the makings of a full beard. He wears pale blue robes,
trimmed in silver. He appears extremely neat and organized.
One would assume that being on the road all day would leave dust
and debris clinging to one's clothing. Looking at the youth in robes,
one will not see a single mark of dust, dirt, or debris.
He carries a wooden staff in his right hand and wears a pack over his shoulders.
The hood of his robes is down.
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Loges--appalled and shocked at this possible thuggery--
quickly waves his hand toward the brute,
making a clasping gesture at him.
School abjuration; Level inquisitor 1, sorcerer/wizard 1, witch 1
CASTING
Casting Time 1 standard action
Components S
EFFECT
Range close (25 ft. + 5 ft./2 levels)
Target one sheathed or slung weapon
Duration 1 minute/level
Saving Throw Will negates (object); Spell Resistance yes (object)
This content was created for the Pathfinder rules by Paizo Publishing LLC and is part of the Pathfinder RPG product line.
DESCRIPTION
You lock a weapon in place on its owner’s body, or within the weapon’s sheath or holster. Anyone who then tries to draw the weapon must spend a standard action and succeed at a Strength check (DC equal to the saving throw DC) to do so, provoking attacks of opportunity whether the attempt succeeds or fails.
Bruin grimaced. It could just be a blowhard. Plenty of them around, looking for someone smaller to bully. Most times they were harmless if you knew what to say.
Most times.
Bruin slowly brought his arms down, until they were hidden by his faded brown cloak.
It was funny the things folks didn't notice. Like the mace that clanged on his belt. His road worn studded leather armor poking out from beneath a vest and shabby shirt.
The bulge in his cloak that hid his trusty, well-oiled, and primed crossbow.
"Guide my path, my Lady," he whispered to himself.
"I'd sing, good sir, but I've never really had the voice for it."
The lean bearded Dwarf looked a bit scraggly. Not as scraggly as these annoying varisians but that was not a hard task for any Dwarf worth his salt. his armor was all dusty and dirty and after having lost his comb his hair was all ruffled. He'd definitely have to go to an Inn if they had any rooms amidst all these crazy longshanks...
Standing in front of a mirror for the first time in days he looked at himself and stroked his dark blond beard. His blue eyes squinted as they looked around the chaos. He'd thought Sandpoint might be a good place for Dwarf to purchase a new axe but he might be wrong.
It was then that things got loud and he turned on his heel one hand in his hip the other hefting his long shafted axe.
Hearing the skidding of a stone on the road behind him, Viroleth turns just in time to see a hulking half-Shoanti brute swinging a pipe behind him.
Ambushed! -Round 1
23 Viroleth
16 Thug
12 Beromar (if you choose to act)
8 Loges (going to have to retcon that spell, sorry)
Bruin -
"Are yeh bein' wise wit' mae, boyo?" the man said his voice hard. Bruin turned to see the speaker. It was a grizzled human man, holding the lead ropes of a half-dozen ponies. The man had a large scar running down his face from eye to cheek to the corner of his mouth. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, perhaps hand-cut with a knife, and his eyes, like his voice, were flat and hard, little flint lights in a weathered face. His mouth was a hard line.
A representative image of the man
"'Cause if yer bein' cheeky, lad, I'll bae forced tae drop t'leads fer mae sweet darlin's 'ere, and teach yeh a lesson about a'speakin' tae yer elders. Nae, dae yeh care tae try 'gain, wee laddy?"
He wears a longsword at his side and a dagger in his boot top. Clearly someone who could take care of themselves if it came to that. Not the friendlies welcome Bruin had ever had to a place, certainly.
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"What the..."
You're in a crowd, if there's a dead body, you're going to be blamed.
"Help I'm under attack and need to defend myself!"
With that Viro dances to the side and tries to skewer the brute's kidney.
If there's one thing Beromar can't stand it's uncalled for violence. The Dwarf darts forward muscling his way through the line of people and launches a kick at the aggressive brute's midsection.
Attack (+2 for flanking)
Damage Non Lethal
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Loges, seeing all the help arriving, decides to end the fight in the thug!
He reaches into his spell component pouch, bringing out a smudge of butter. He then pronounces some arcane words as he rubs his two fingers together with the butter.
School conjuration (creation); Level bard 1, magus 1, sorcerer/wizard 1, summoner 1
CASTING
Casting Time 1 standard action
Components V, S, M (butter)
EFFECT
Range close (25 ft. + 5 ft./2 levels)
Target one object or 10-ft. square
Duration 1 min./level (D)
Saving Throw see text; Spell Resistance no
FAQ
If an opponent casts grease on an item, and the wielder succeeds at the initial save, what happens?
The spell description says "an object wielded or employed by a creature requires its bearer to make a Reflex saving throw to avoid the effect," so succeeding the save means the wielder avoids the effect—in other words, the spell is negated and there is no grease on the item.[Source]
DESCRIPTION
A grease spell covers a solid surface with a layer of slippery grease. Any creature in the area when the spell is cast must make a successful Reflex save or fall. A creature can walk within or through the area of grease at half normal speed with a DC 10 Acrobatics check. Failure means it can't move that round (and must then make a Reflex save or fall), while failure by 5 or more means it falls (see the Acrobatics skill for details). Creatures that do not move on their turn do not need to make this check and are not considered flat-footed.
The spell can also be used to create a greasy coating on an item. Material objects not in use are always affected by this spell, while an object wielded or employed by a creature requires its bearer to make a Reflex saving throw to avoid the effect. If the initial saving throw fails, the creature immediately drops the item. A saving throw must be made in each round that the creature attempts to pick up or use the greased item. A creature wearing greased armor or clothing gains a +10 circumstance bonus on Escape Artist checks and combat maneuver checks made to escape a grapple, and to their CMD to avoid being grappled.
"I'm just indulging in a bit of song, good Sir. Surely there's no harm in that. It's a beautiful day and I've got the road in my toes and a song in my heart. My Lady Desna has blessed me overly today, and I can't help but want to spread the joy."
"And I mean no disrespect. I'm new in town and ignorant of its wonders. My only desires are for a soft bed, a warm meal, and a cold drink. It's been ages since I had either. In fact, I'd be in your debt and at your service if you can point me to a place where I can find all three."
Ambushed! - Round 1 - concluded
Despite the quick reflexes of Viroleth and the stabbing wound in the kidney he gave to the thug, the brute still swings on him with his rusty pipe, a killing blow, turned aside just enough to glance off Viroleth's skull, hurting him, but not crushing it.
As the pipe comes down on the young Chelish man's head, an unarmed and unarmored dwarf steps in, roundhouse kicking the brute in the belly, causing him to expel all his air, and collapsing him in a heap, unconscious on the ground.
Loges draws out his small cube of butter, but seeing the man slump to the ground, returns it to his component pouch, glad to not have to use up any arcane energy on this fight.
End of combat, such as it was.
@Bruin
The man laughs deep and hearty for a moment. "Well then, wee laddie, I cain dae moor than tha' an' bae'alf. I'll steer yeh tae the finest inn in Sandpoint, bar noon. An' it's a damn sight better'n tha' flophouse o'er yonder, I cain tell yae." He points at an Inn just inside the gate of the town, a place with a freshly painted split rail fence around it's dooryard which ends in an archway made by two rearing stags standing hoof to hoof. The sign reads The White Deer, and it appears to be clean and fresh, a crowd gathering in the open air ground floor common room. "If'n yeh'll jus' help mae wit' these wee ponies, wae cain make aur way doon to the Roosty Dragon, it's righ' next tae mae stables, dae yeh ken? It mae nae bae the bonniest place in toon, but it's b'far the best, eh? An' I meant nae harm, a'fore, yeh seem a goot lad tae mae, yeh dae. A right goot lad!"
He hands you three of the lead ropes and starts off, without looking back. He heads down Church Street past a few small homes, and you see the new Cathedral standing before you on the other. It is made of white stone and glass, the stained glass colored in a way you have never seen before, reflecting and refracting the light in a way that leaves you a bit dizzy.
Soon the hubbub of the churchyard draws your attention from the beautiful structure. There is much going on, with carpenters building a stage in the yard, to acolytes stringing up lanterns, to covered wagon laden with goods being backed into place near the building. The buzz of activity continues apace everywhere you look.
The man hurries past all this as if it were normal, lithely leading his ponies through the milling crowd avoiding any trouble as if by magic. More than once, you see him turn to the steeds and whisper strange words to them, they seem to nod their heads in agreement with whatever the hostler is saying.
The road past the churchyard descends a steep hill, heading along High Steet, as you hurry to keep up with the long-legged man.
Viro collapses to the ground, blood seeping from his head wound. He lets out a miserable groan and holds up a hand to keep others at baby before getting up to his knees.
"Ohh Gods my head feels like there's a goblin living in it." He smiles weakly up at the wizard and dwarf. "I think I owe the four of you a drink. And I'll be all right I think. Nothing that a little carousing won't fix? Eh fellas?"
After the world stops spinning Viro gets to his feet and then cleans his blade. He then crouches over the pipe-wielding thung and scowls.
This doesn't happen to random people. Somebody wants me uninvolved with the Sczarni. Really hope it's not the Sczarni.
"There's richer-looking people than me and others without swords," says Viro. "Simpleton must have -- ow -- been jealous."
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Olwynn approaches the long line of people waiting to enter the city and sighs looking at the menagerie. He hasn't had many dealing with Varisian Folk in many years but when he was compelled to make trades and buy goods he kept his dealings to the village of Wartle that bordered the southwest corner of the Sanos forest. Olwynn joins the line and waits patiently however eager to get away from the crowd due to Mirain growing steadily more restless. When we get inside friend ill take this confounded harness off. He leans down scratching the young bear behind the ear.
When he finally makes it to the mirror, He pauses staring blankly at the image before himself. Olwynn had changed much since he last seen his own reflection, His fiery red hair was now flowing wildly down past his shoulders and his beard nearly a foot long was slightly matted in spots. His face under layers of grime was tough and weather-beaten, describing a life hard lived in the wilds. [i]How long has it been Olwynn? How old are you these days?[/b] The slight nudges of Mirain breaks the dwarf's gaze and he continues into town. He approaches the White Deer Inn and enters the establishment hesitantly expecting to receive flack about his quadruped companion.
Bruin smiled and removed his hand from the trigger of his crossbow when The Big Man started to laugh. Any day he could avoid unneeded bloodshed was a good one.
When the Big Man gave him the reins, he took them gladly. He had never had much experience with ponies. He much preferred to rely on his own two feet. Still, a new experience was something to be savored.
As he stumbled with the animals he finally remembered his manners.
"The name's Bruin, good Sir. Bruin Greenleaf, traveling priest of the Starsong, Desna. And who might you be?"
The wiry Dwarf grunts. And mutters in broken common. "Well me be thinksin this here piece scum must be turned in to the authorities if he thinks he can goes round attackin hapless peoples!"
The Dwarf then brushes dust from his armor and hoists up the large pole axe he didn't need or want to use for this fight.
"One moment, maybe he has a note or something. Don't worry, I'm not robbing him."
Viro pats down the thug, looking for written instructions or anything else similar.
Viroleth finds two things of interest as he pats down the now-unconscious thug who used his head for a pinata. First, he finds a purse with 5 nearly new gold crown inside. Second, a greasy sandwich wrapper made from brown paper with a coating of wax on one side.
Beromar and Loges see the youth patting down the sleeping brute, and he retrieves a handful of gold coins and some greasy paper. Not much in the way of clues there.
Beromar sees a man in a uniform about 100 yards away through the milling crowd. He is a tall, broad dark-skinned man. The kind humans called Shoanti. (Although they all look the same to you). You have seen other Shoanti before, and they are wild-haired and tattooed bunch, but his man is shaven bald, and his face is unmarred with blue-black ink that generally marks his people. He wears a red tunic with the crest of Sandpoint on it, and seems to be giving orders to two youths who run off toward the town itself.
The crowd continues to pour into town and you all spy a rather grubby looking dwarf enter under the gate followed by a large brown bear. The bear appears to be in a harness of some kind, but looks like it could easily break free and wreak havoc. The bear and the dwarf head over to a nearby inn.
The inn is a well kept wooden building with a stone foundation. The wood planks are all painted white, and the dooryard is framed with a white-washed split rail fence that ends in a archway made of two rearing stags. The stags are appear to be painstakingly carved from white birch, and the sign hanging between them reads: The White Deer.
The Inn has an open air common room, with sliding louvered doors and windows that are opened to let the fresh air inside. A crowd is filling the place, and a line forms to get inside. Another large Shoanti man, this one with long braided hair and several facial tattooes, steps out of the Inn carrying a wooden sign and hammer.
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Loges watches the crowd mill about.
He follows with his eyes those that may mean more problems.
He notice the dwarf and bear. Loges pats his belt pouch.
Following their trajectory, Loges spies the The White Deer.
Looks like this town may be filling its lodgings up quickly.
Would you gentlemen like to visit that Inn there for a break from any more possible trouble?
He points to the Inn.
Looks to have been recently restored or some such.
I wonder how long ago was the fire?
@Olwynn
Although the streets inside Sandpoint are quite crowded, and activity is at a pace just short of lunacy, people seem to get out of your way quite quickly, for some reason. You think that perhaps the Varisians of Sandpoint are just plain polite...but then again, maybe it's your four-legged companion.
As you enter under the white birch sculpture of The White Deer you see a queue forming to enter the establishment which seems to have begun the celebration early. Brightly garbed Varisians scamper here and there throughtout the Inn, welcoming each other, and slapping each other on the back, as if they are all long lost relations (which they may be).
As you wait in the line, the patrons ahead and behind give you wary looks, both for the bear, and for your rather rugged appearance. The braided and tattooed man comes out of the Inn with his sign and hammer and stops looking at you.
"Heya, dwarf-man. You not come in. You scare away customers. And animal leave too!" The man starts tacking the sign up on the Inn doorpost. To your chagrin it reads: "NO ROOMS, NO EXCEPTIONS". He slams the hammer down on his thumb once and explodes in a shower of Shoanti words that must be epithet filled. The laughter and raucous behavior of those inside sounds like shards of glass in your ears, as you know you are not welcome here.
@Bruin
You guide the ponies as best you can, but it isn't long down the hill before the leads are all tangled and the ponies start to yank on your hand, trying to pull their heads free.
The man stops as you introduce yourself. "Sae, yer a priest o' Desna t'Dreamer, eh? Certainly noot a stable-hand I cain see tha' fer maeself." He turns back to you for a moment and says something you can't make out to the ponies who cease their struggling and actually unwind their leads a bit, stepping back into proper formation. He hands them each a sugar cube, and looks down at you, offering his scarred and weathered hand.
"The name's Hosk. Daviren Hosk, laddie. Mae mates jes' call mae Davy. An' yer welcome tae that tae, if yeh cotton tae it. I roon t'stable 'ere in toon, if'n yeh ken. These 'ere are mae fine lassies, jes' bringin' 'em in from pasture fer t'festival t'morree. Les' get oon doon tae t'Dragon, lad, afore sooper gets cold."
He picks up the pace once more, leading you through a maze of streets down to the stable. The sign out front shows a goblin being trod over by a shod stallion and reads: The Goblin Squash Stables. You think it may be the cleanest place you have ever seen. All the stalls are scrubbed, and the hay is fresh. The few horses already present nicker in greeting as Hosk enters and he calls to them softly. A black and white spotted barn cat mews at you, batting playfully as you enter. The ponies quietly head for their stalls, happy to be back home again. Soon, all are fed, watered, and put to right.
Looking around, you see whole strings of those funny shaped leaves hanging from the rafters of the place. You look a little closer at them, trying to think if you've seen that plant before.
"Viroleth Sastan. Or Virile Viro, as I am known to precisely nobody to my chagrin. Up around here ... uh ... looking for work!"
I suppose that's close enough to true.
Viro pats down the Shoanti and looks over the paper.
That ain't good. Okay, think Viro. So I have a price on my head or I don't. Do I go to the contact or not? Hrm. And why did he attack me in broad daylight? If they wanted me dead someone with a knife would show up in my sleep. It has to be have been some guy who overhead the exchange.
Tossing the paper aside, he also finds the coins. Viro neatly balances them on the man's chest.
"No sense in robbing a perfectly good hoodlum. Now what was that about an inn? Uhm, tell you what Lodges and... Mr. Dwarf. I have a pressing appointment to take care of right away. Should I survive it, I'll be pleased to pay to get you both very drunk at that inn, or wherever we do meet."
With that, Viro takes off from the festival at a dead run for the Fatman's Feedbag.
Loges and Beromar(?) have little trouble catching up with the other dwarf with a bear cub at his side, the unkempt dwarf having been turned away at The White Deer.
You all see the sign up now, warning that all the rooms at this Inn are taken. The burly Shoanti keeper looks down at you. "No rooms, no space. Go somewhere else!" he shouts shooing you away. Obviously, he's got more business than he can handle at the moment.
Varisian travelers are arriving by the moment, with wagons and farmcarts and on foot. They begin setting up brightly colored tents and camps on nearly every open space as far as you can see. A dozen stringed instruments begin at different parts of the camp, as the dancing and cheering among the fun-loving people begins.
Viroleth rushes off to the Feedbag, which along the harbor on the south side of town. He slows only briefly, as a wagon-load of "talent" from the Pixie's Kitten cruises past, the girls showing just the right amount of flesh to be interesting and making lewd and lascivious comments and gestures to the men camped along the road way. The girls call out at the handsome youth beckoning with a curled finger or a cocked hip at him. "Slow down, honey!" one cries. "You don't have to be in a hurry all the time. Come see me when you want to slow waaaaay down." she makes an imaginative pantomime with her hips in mid-air, then all the girls laugh outrageously and the wagon rolls on through town. Viroleth rushes at speed down into Low Town, dodging around a tiny hobbit badly leading a handful of ponies in the streets of lower Sandpoint.
Eventually, out of breath and sweating, head pounding where a goose-egg is slowly rising, he arrives at the Feedbag. He dodges to the side as an obviously drunken and overly rambunctious sailor is tossed out the door by two gorilla-sized bouncers. Ducking inside, he looks to the bar seeing the extra-large proprietor, Gressel Tenniwar, wipe a dirty mug with a not-too-clean cloth and fill it with watered-down grog for patrons at the bar.
Dimly lit, a permanent cloud of smoke hangs noxiously in the Feedbag, and the air is stale with the smell of old sweat and older beer. A small knot of Varisians play cards in a corner, while a boatload of Northern sailors sing sea-chanties lustily in the corner. A few other individuals keep their heads down and eyes to themselves as they drink their way into oblivion.
His contact, a swarthy fellow named Petrovski is not present as far as Viroleth can tell.
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Olwynn having his hopes crushed walks back into the street looks around for someone to approach he sees Loges eyeing him up so he walks up and begins: Sorry to bother you sir but can you tell me where another Inn might be? The staff here just turned me away and i need to get Mirain here off the street before she gets spooked
The young cubs eyes are darting back and forth as people walk past clinging close to Olwynn's leg.
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Loges inclines his head toward Olwynn.
Greeting Olwynn. My name is Loges Grey, graduate of The Acadamae in Korvosa. I--myself--have only just arrived in this fine town. My new acquaintance here..
He looks to Beromar with an expectant glance.
...excuse me but I didn't quite catch your name?
Loges then looks back to Olwynn.
We were nurturing the idea of finding a place to sit and eat perhaps.
It seems that we will need to continue that task.
There was a gentleman we met--briefly--who mentioned a place called Feedbag or some such.
Sounds like a place to dine to me.
Viro stops outside of the Feedbag to catch his breath and stop the world from spinning.
Cailean's balls I must look deranged. Let's... not bug those Varisians.
Doing his best to adjust his hair to cover the wound, Viro makes his way to the bar.
"Oi, Gressel. Petrovski been about? Bastard said he'd buy me a drink.'
Earlier: Beromar looked to get the Thug passed over to the authorities and then joins the other men at the inn.
Beromar looks up to the eloquent Mage with a grim visage then salutes the other Dwarf with what might pass as a smile.
Beromar's me name! Bermoar Copperkettle. Well Feedbag sounds quite inviting. As we have no place to stay fer the night we should least get sometin to eat me thinks!
Bruin nodded back. "Why, thank you, Davy. Always pleased to meet a new friend."
Bruin took a moment to look about the stable, when he noticed the foliage. He was curious for a moment. He couldn't quite guess what it was and then...
He chuckled nervously when he realized that they were in fact dried ears. It was probably best to pretend he hadn't noticed that.
"Soooo, I believe you said something about a tavern! he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Let's get going."
As Loges, Beromar, and Olywnn (and Mirain) stand together visiting, the uniformed, untattooed Shoanti official comes up to them. "Are you the fellows who knocked out that man over there? My watch officer pointed you two out." He looks at the unwashed dwarf and the bear cub. "Not sure that bear is safe on my streets. Find a place for it. And soon.". Turning back to Beromar and Loges, he says,"Just a question, what started that scuffle. We don't promote street fighting in Sandpoint. Bad for business. Just tell me what you saw."
The man carries a wide broadsword and is heavily muschled. He speaks a thickly accented Common tongue, and tries hard to hide his barbarian ancestry.
Here is a pic.
Viroleth
The eponymous Fatman, Gressel, shrugs and makes a gesture with his head as if to say 'he's back there' indicating the private room in the back, not really bothering to acknowledge the newcomer with a word or eye-contact.
The door to the private room was closed, and one of the bouncer's stood guard outside.
As you wait, the door opens, and Petrovski, your contact, emerges. He sees you and a look comes over his face, quickly replaced by a warm smile.
He hugs you and kisses both your cheeks in the traditional Varisian greeting. "Viro, my lad, how did things go outside the walls? I trust you traded the "seeds" we gave you?"
As you leave his embrace, your eyes cut to the closing door of the private room. You see 2 or 3 other Varisian men sitting at a small table eating and drinking, deep in discussion.
Petrovski snaps his fingers to get your attention back. "I said did you have any trouble? You have my investment?" He grins at you, two gold teeth in his mouth sparkling at you as he orders to pints from the extra-large barkeep, Gressel.
Bruin
Hosk slaps you on the back, probably a little harder than a halfling should be slapped, but with a merry twinkle in his eye. "Aye, laddie, nae tha' t'work is doon, let's gae an 'ave a pint er two at yonder inn, eh?"
He inclines his head at the building next door, The Rusty Dragon, which is three story brick monstrosity that seems to lean out over the street a bit. High atop the third story sits the namesake of the place. Perched over the edge so as to menace those entering is an enormous iron dragon, now covered with years of orange-red rust and corrosion. Inside the behemoth's head lies an ever-burning torch, making the iron beast's eyes glow and flicker with a blaze both enjoyable and slightly haunting.
As the door opens, the sound of laughter and music erupts from within.
The first thing you notice is the smell. Curry, pepper, and other exotic scents tickle your nose and make your stomach growl in anticipation of a meal well seasoned and delicious.
Next, the sound. Unlike the White Deer, which is filled with boisterous revelers and party-goers, this place is quiet and calm. The patrons who aren't alone are engaged in hushed conversation, their discussions obviously private. On the corner stage, illuminated by the only light in the place, stands a single Tian female. Her delicate fingers strum a foreign looking lute and she sings a soft, undulating melody in an unknown, but rather musical, tongue.
Looking around, the common room is awash with unmatched tables and chairs. A pall of smoke hangs heavy in the air. A well-polished mahogany bar with a shiny brass rail stands on the left of the door. A heavyset Ulfen man with a patch over an eye, and a large thick scar across his face stands behind the bar, wiping stoneware crockery with a dish towel. Two older Halfling servants, one man and one woman, scurry through the common room - slinging plates and re-filling mugs. Stairs leading both up and down stand in the back of the common room.
As you enter, a few of patrons eyes slide to you curiously, but most remain engaged in their secret dealings or their serious drinking. The scarred man behind the bar smiles, his lip twisted into a sneer by the pink-white scar, and says in a voice thick with Northman accent:"Velcome to da Rusty Dragon. Vhat ees jour pleazure?"
Awwww damnit. Okay, do I accuse him? I bet I can run faster scared than he can mad. Or do I play dumb? Hrm. Play dumb.
Viro grins back.
"Thanks Gressel, nothing like a pint to soothe a head wound. Yes, I've got your investment. And yes, I had trouble. Some brain-moron Shoanti with a bit of pipe tried to bash my skull in. I dealt with him."