9 Rhaan, 998 YK
First Tower, Breland
The Festival of Boldrei's Feast
The sun hasn't shone this brightly since the war ended. At least, that's the way it seems. Everyone in First Tower is in high spirits as the festival begins promptly on schedule. The square before the new cathedral quickly becomes crowded as locals and travelers alike arrive in droves. Merchant tents featuring food, clothes, local crafts, and souvenirs from across Khorvaire (many of which one could not obtain during the war) are raised as the travelers arrive, and the festival of Boldrei's Feast begins in earnest.
Blythe sits outside an inn, in the shade of an awning. She eats a crumbly sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, her cheek stuffed. She takes a sip of her drink. "Ugh." she grimaces. "Disgusting."
She finishes her sandwich, but stays long after her setting is cleared, sipping from her drink. She pulls out a short cigar and lights it. Smoke drifts away in the warm breeze. She looks up at the tower, and mumbles. "That thing needs some back-stays to keep from toppling."
Aefre was settled in at a table that had been set up on the veranda of a local tavern, pleasantly telling something that spanned the gap between an extended joke and a short story to a small group of merchants. He occasionally glances at his currently empty cup, clearly hoping that someone at the table will consider the story entertaining enough to buy him a drink. As his mother always said Never buy your own drinks if you can get somebody with more money to do it for you.
His ears and his eyes betray his heritage, the slightly exotic features of the Valenar standing out on the rather pedestrian looks of a Brelish farmer. In his early thirties, his brown hair hangs to nearly his shoulders, and a week's worth of stubble covers his lower jaw. From his clothing, it is clear that he's been on the road a long while. The cloak that is folded over the bench underneath him, to provide some padding against the plain wood, was threadbare and even the patches on it had been patched in their own turn. His shirt might once have been a dark green, but constant exposure to the sun had changed that, leaving it pale and washed out. On his left hand there is a weathered steel gauntlet, covering his arm from about halfway to his elbow out to the first joint of his fingers. Just barely visible at the edges of it are scars that look like they might have been caused by burns.
"So, on the eighth day, early in the morning, everyone wakes up and the whole damn mountain is floating a couple hundred feet above them, meaning they can just walk right under it instead of over. As one of the carters is passing the priest he says 'Sir, don't you think it would have been easier just to get the donkey to move?' And the priest just looks him straight in the eye and says "What do you think I spent the first week praying for?"
Blythe snorts to herself as the Valenar nearby finishes his story. She makes eye contact with the elf and nods.
The tall young women arrives into town, her clothes dirty with travel dust, but she looks no worse for the wear one would expect with a long women traveling alone. She has a worn longbow strapped over her back. Her sharp blue eyes look around at the festival, as if it's not something she expected upon her arrival. "Interesting."
An armor clad figure leans againist the wall on the outside of a local inn. The hobgoblin is given a wide birth more out of distrust then intimidation, as he snacks on his cheap meat on a stick he looks onto the tower, wondering "Being this close to one of the Great Forges holy place, I thought maybe I could feel the connection again but nothing."
The orange skinned hobgoblin is clad in a older battered set of scale mail adorned with spikes in a variety of spikes. He keeps his open face helmet on, with his wolf like ears sticking out. His long black hair flows out the bottom and wraps around his broad chin. Peering at the people around him with his yellow eyes that match the color of his two fangs sticking out of his lower jaw. Dargeth always checking on his battle axe hooked onto his side, with his shield resting on his back.
As he bites into the grizzled meat, he grimaces and looks the opposite direction of the tower muttering "By Ghaal'Shaarat's warblade if any of these humans dare hurt Kiriin, I will spilt there skull." He looks over to a elf that made a joke trying to figure out the punchline.
Blythe's snort and nod receives a small grin in turn from Aefre, because like anyone he appreciates a receptive audience.
From the side alley near Dargeth, there is a groan before a voice mutters in common "It was a better joke when he was using 'I'm a miracle-worker, not a drover' at the end there. Or 'The name of the prayer is miracle, not move animal.' He really needs new material, but gets so defensive if you tell him that." The source of the voice once attention is drawn to it, was a creature lying most entirely concealed in the shadows on the side of the building."Hey, can I have that gristle, if you're done with it?" Close inspection of the creature reveals that it has the head and neck of a snake, mounted on the chest of a small pony, with the tail and legs of a large jungle cat. Its flesh is a dark grey color, with a twisting spiral of abstract designs running from it's forehead down the length of its spine in an ice blue contrast.
Upon hearing the voice, Dargeth replies while still looking at the direction of the comedian elf. ”Ha! much better punchline….” He pauses a moment as he sees the creature that is talking with him, for just a moment he debates drawing his blade but being hobgoblin in a sea of common races made him feel more of a kinship to this magical beast. He tosses the beast his gristle, ”Your wise creature, my name is Dargeth Atcha’Khaar may I ask you yours?”
It is a few moments before the creature replies, having been busy catching the gristle with a languid motion of its neck and jaws. As it chews on the hard deposits between teeth that look like they belong in a dragon, it finally answers. "Call me Cacostrum. It's about as close to my name as most folks can safely get. You might call Aefre there my keeper. Or you might call me his. Really depends on the day."
After it spends a few more minutes working the gristle around in it's mouth it swallows. "That's better. Had a bit of cat stuck behind a canine that was driving me crazy, but that's cleared it out."
While others lounged on the balcony of the inn, Elsbeth was working. A stall had been hastily constructed, and it was in danger of collapsing. For tunately for the stall-owner, Elsbeth was a rather skilled craftswoman. Being born to House Cannith will do that to a person.
With her walking cane and pack resting to one side, Elsbeth used a number of tools to shore up the hasty construction. Satisfied with the work, she nodded to the nervou-looking man who's stall it was. "Don't worry about the money, sir. The House won't come looking for payment, I promise you. I hope your selling goes well." She smiled at him as she packed away her tools and laboriously climbed the stairs with the aid of her cane and leg brace.
Slumping into the seat nearest the stairs she rolled her shoulders. She missed simple working with her hands. Thanks to the Mark on the inside of her right forearm, Elsbeth hadn't been left alone with her tools for years. So this was a welcome break. "Some wine, thanks. And is that stew I smell? I'll take a bowl if it's ready." She said, catching the attention of a waitress. She sighed. Yes, it was good to be out from under the thumb of the House, that was for sure.
Dargeth smirks at Cacostrum, "I couldn't say which of you is the true keeper, but I know your the funny one. Well I believe that meat completes the set, I think it was dire rat haha." Dargeth looks around and tries to get a waitress to serve him. As they closer ones ignore him, he looks back over to Cacostrum. "You want anything to drink, if I can get one of these blasted gaa'taats to get me one."
"What brings you and your pet here?" he chuckles.
The women walks into the town deeper, glancing around at what's going on, before heading towards the inn, walking in. "How much is a room?" She asks the innkeeper.
"Naw. Alcohol disagrees with me. I start dancing on tables and he starts charging admission and taking bets on when I'll fall, and then it all just goes to hell. So I keep to the watering trough." Cacostrum pulls back deeper into the shadows of the side of the building, lying down again. "You'd really have to ask him why we're here though. He always says I talk to strangers too much to be told sensitive things like that."
"Well I guess they don't much stranger then us, ha." The Hobgoblin follows his comment with a deep chuckle that makes a few of the patrons a little uneasy.
Giving up on a waitress getting him a drink, he pulls out his kukri and starts to sharpen it. "Wonder if this will make them more nervous." Giving a fang filled smile to his friend Cacostrum.
Blythe chuckles at the discussion, pulling on her cigar.
The child that comes up from behind the counter at the White Deer Inn stares in abject wonder at the woman before her. Not that there is anything wrong with her, but there is an aura of unearthly serenity about the woman that marks her as something more than human. The child then realizes she is staring and it's not polite to stare at customers just because they're strange. She shakes herself out of her daze before spitting out, "One room's five sovereigns a night, mam."
Meanwhile, outside, the party continues to run smoothly. All of the local restaurants are serving dinner, offering numerous decisions about what one could want to eat. As the sun begins to set, the excitement of the celebration only increases.
Taria smiles slightly at the child, nodding, reaching into her pouch, and handing her the price of the room. "One room then, for tonight, for now. Might end up staying a bit longer though." She waits for the room number and the key, before heading back outside, moving out of the inns doorway and watching the party going on, her arms crossed over her chest, her bow still strung over her back.
Blythe stands and stretches. She throws the butt of her cigar into the street. She looks at the half-elf and his creature. "What is...he?"
"Hmm?" Aefre looks up as the others that had been at his table depart, mingling with the crowds of the festival, and he catches the question and side drama. After a moment of glaring at Cacostrum, he rolls his eyes. "It is supposed to be under the porch, keeping a low profile. Because getting run out of town when it causes a panic is not enjoyable." Cacostrum mutters something that is halfway between an excuse and apology, but from the small smile that tugs at Aefre's face, it is clear that there's no real anger in what he is saying.
"Of course, if you mean like species and genus classification? Well, that all gets a bit... complex. Its unique, near as I can determine. Also asexual and gender-less, at least as we understand those concepts." He considers the hobgoblin and Blythe for a moment, then pushes out some chairs opposite him at the table, in invitation. "It is a pretty good judge of character though. Here, have a seat and I'll try to explain. I'm Aefre, junior Pathfinder, by the way. Folks sometimes call me the Wanderer."
"The Wanderer? Traveled a lot, then?" Blythe sits opposite him.
"Ah you must be Cacostrum's pet." The hobgoblin gives a slight chuckle. "Aefre is it, I'm Dargeth a son of Darguun." He puts away his kukri, and takes a seat. Dargeth grumbles, "Maybe now, I can get some service."
"Not likely. Unless you've got some cracked four pounders aimed at this inn-keep, I expect she'll keep ignoring us." Blythe leans in and whispers. "She's a racist. Can't stand a Lhazaaran long enough to toss him in chains." She leans back, looking around. "Seems to love the goblinoids, though. When she realized I was from the Principalities, she said 'Well screw me for a Dhakaani, a wretched Lhazaaran pirate." Blythe chuckles. "There's no accounting for some peoples romantic proclivities, is there, Dargeth?"
Aefre smiles at the interplay, before nodding to both of them. "Grew up with the nomads on the Talenta Plains, then got into directing caravans, before I joined the pathfinders. And pet is a little harsh. Sophonts really can't qualify for the term, I'm pretty sure." A small chuckle follows at Blythe's joke.
The Hobgoblin chuckles at Blythes remarks, "Chaat'oor's always think they be right." He looks to Aefre, "Yeah I was told you were the pet and he was your Master." He smirks towards the ediolin.
"So what's a girl gotta do for some fun on this island?"