You have traveled individually from diverse lands and from differing parts of Ustalav in response to your summons and the accompanying request to attend Lorrimors summons.
Bandits and worse are known to plague the roads, especially at night and rumours of a 'Great Beast' have delayed or cancelled coaches and trading caravans travelling the more commonly traveled way past Clovers Crossing.
This leaves you taking a more round about and less traveled about route to Ravengro - fate or perhaps a more divine providence, has placed you on the same one coach. One of you, who struggles for social assistance paid far more than a normal fare to for his seat, and if it weren't for your 5th passenger being a halfing you'd not have all fit at all.
On the road, some half day travel from Castle Andachi you have stopped the night at a very small collection of shacks, not worthy of the name of a village, and a roadside tavern. The inn is apparently served or owned by a mean looking dwarf who struggles to see over the bar and a single frumpy bar maid.
You can continue to talk and introduce yourselves, either roleplaying being on the wagon or stopped at the Inn.
Baradlon sits silent and still as an ice statue in the carriage. His tale narrow frame is wedged into one corner, and he grips the long hilt of the elven sword stashed between his legs with both hands to keep it from jostling. His right hand is covered in a leather glove covered with thick metal plates for use as a weapon. He still couldn't believe that Petros was really dead. The fact that he had to now endure days stuffed in a moving box with children was only making it worse. What did the professor's death mean for the continuance of his path as a hunter? There was no answer to the question, only patience would reveal the future. Baradlon closes his eyes and slips into a meditative trance, letting his mind go quiet and forcing it to simply experience the discomfort of the carriage without commentary or speculations on things not in the present moment. He was still alive, he still had his mission, that was all that mattered. He had endured much, and would endure more still before he was finished.
When they finally arrive at the "Inn", Baradlon is grateful simply for the chance to stretch his legs. He nearly leaps from the carriage, replacing his sword on his hip and adjusting his hide armor. He does some stretches before making his way inside. Baradlon sneers with open disdain at the state of the establishment. He withdraws a handful of silver coins from his purse, and walks right up to the frumpy barmaid. He thrusts the coins at her. "Your strongest liqour, girl. Immediately." he commands in an emotionless voice. He looms over her, staring, until she brings him his drink.
Right away sur, she says taking three silver coins and bustling back to the bar.
She returns with a bowl sized wooden cup filled with a colourless liquid that is the local moonshine. The measure is generous and you are sure that whatever pain you feel, enough of this will take the edge off it.
Simeon endured the carriage ride in silence, wedged between the stoic elf and another large framed individual, he read from Baradier's Comparitive Dissonances of the Metaphysical a dull, pedantic tome, useful only in diverting Simeon's mind from the drudgery of the journey; and quieting the questions whose answers hopefully lay at the end of said journey.
He'd , for politeness' sake, given nods of recognition to each of the other occupants, but had forsaken any other communication.
Streching his arms above his head he followed the tall elf into the common room. Hearing the warrior's request, Simeon had half a thought of joining but seeing the transfer of silver and weighing in his mind the lightness of his own purse...
"Common ale, and some soup." he says curtly taking a seat, where he could observe the elf and his other travelling companions.
The drudge moves but with less speed... Your fare is a measly 3 coppers. The ale is surprisingly good for its price. The broth is the opposite.
Lament sits next to the carriage window and watches as the dreary scenery passes by. She enjoys the view, fascinated by the gnarled, barren trees whose limbs grasp like dark fingers at the packed carriage as it passes in the dusk hours. A lone crow perched on a rotting fence screeches at the rude interruption of the horses hooves. What would appear drab and mundane to many is fancied by this queer little halfling girl. When suddenly one of the other travelers coughs, she is brought out of her daydreaming to the moment at hand. She looks around the carriage at the others and is shocked by their lack of attention to the here and now. They are so engrossed in their lack of physical comfort that they are letting this incredible moment pass by.
Tallulah, as her mother called her, had always been one to see the beauty in all aspects of life, even death. Most of the members of her former Varisian Caravan would see beauty in certain things, like flowers and butterflies, but not in other things like rotting and decayed wood. They would glory in the Spring and Summer, but she would even revel in the bareness of winter for she knew that without the death that accompanied winter that there would be no re-blossoming of Spring. Even in the death of companions, The Lady of Graves would direct each person to their next destination to blossom anew. She grins at the thought of the good professor blossoming at his new location. Speaking out loud to no one in particular, "Yes...that's right. The professor is blossoming."
Interrupted this time by her thoughts, she looks at the four men sharing the packed cabin with her. She takes time to inspect each one, staring longer than is socially acceptable to savor each detail. She leans over to sniff the shoulder of the tiefling in the seat next to her. As he looks at her peculiarly, she smiles and returns to enjoying the passing terrain.
As they arrive at the collection of shacks that will serve as their home for the night, she hops out of the carriage and follows her new companions into what appears to be a makeshift Inn. She bounces along behind the elf. As he orders, she giggles at his cold demeanor. After he receives his drink, she climbs up and sits on the bar in front of him attempting to be at eye level. "I noticed you at the station before we left. I was hoping we would travel together. I am Lament. You know you capture more maggots with rotten flesh right?"
The 4'2" halfling takes off her purple and black top hat and sits it on the bar next to her. It reveals a head full of black, greasy dreadlocks. The lining of her eyes and lips are tattooed jet black to match her snakelike hair. Her skin is gaunt and pale. Her demeanor though is a stark contrast. When she reaches out her hand to shake, her arm is covered in scary occult tattoos. "I play the drum. If you would like, I will play it for you later. Why don't you buy me a drink? Did you see what that man over there was reading when we were travelling? I like books."
She turns to the barmaid. "Hello sweety. May I have something to drink? Some tea or something? This guy is going to buy me a drink."
Simeon had successfully ignored the strange halfling's incessant fidgeting during the carriage ride, now however she has proven successful in gaining his attention.
Taking in details such as the tatoos on her arms, to the manic gleam in her eyes, Simeon found himself interested beside himself.
"I will buy you a drink...provided you do play your drum." he says motioning the barmaid over "Something for our diminutive friend, the same quality that I just partook, for my means are not vast.". The barmaid stared at the learned man without comprehension. With a sigh, "Give her the same fare you gave me"
The goth halfling leans sideways all the way onto her left elbow to be able to see the man speaking behind the tall elf. In the process, she knocks over a wooden shaker of salt. Instinctively, she picks up a small amount that ended up on table by pinching it between her thumb and index finger then tosses it over her shoulder to keep away the bad spirits. "Bad juju." A huge smile appears on Lament's face as the scholarly man asks her to play her drum for him. She stands up on the bar and touches the elf on the end of his nose gently before hopping down and heading over to the man's table. To the elf, "Come on grumpy. Let's go meet the book man."
Lament walks over and sits in one of the chairs and pulls her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on her knees and locks her arms around her shins. Both tattooed arm sleeves are plainly visible now. Skulls, monsters, and symbols of Pharasma litter the artwork. "What ya reading there? I like to read. I know I don't look like it, but I like to learn. You like music? I'll play this in a bit." She takes a small halfling skull that was attached to her belt. It has been carved into a small bongo drum. She sets it on the table. Upon inspection, it is made of exceptional quality and has precious stones embedded right below where the leather drum head is attached. "That's mom."
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The tall black robed foreigner sighs, Will this journey never end? He presses against the window a little harder so as not to touch the stale smelling scholarly fellow crowding him and watches the dismal countryside pass.
His dark eyes return to the coach's interior to gaze sharply at the strange little creature on the opposite bench. What did it say? "The professor is blossoming?" How strange. Could she mean Professor Lorrimor and what does that mean?
The Garundi opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates and looking glumly at the fiendish form beside her, turns back to the window.
******
Jaru is the last out of the coach, having to unfold himself and follow the tiefling. Avoiding the fiend and the glowering elf, he joins the little whatsit carefully taking the opposite side as the smelly old scholar. "I'll have tea as well."
He gazes down curiously at the strangely tattooed creature. "I am Jaru Toth. Pardon, but I heard you mention a 'professor' while we were traveling. That would not be Professor Lorrimor would it?"
Lament beams as she has managed to get two of her travelling companions to sit at the same table together with her. She looks over the bald newcomer one more time before speaking. You look like a holy man. I play my drum at funerals all the time with holy men. Are you a priest of Pharasma? The Lady of Graves? Your head is shiny. See this? She points to a tattoo on her arm that is an artistic interpretation of Pharasma's boneyard with her holy symbol on the most prominent grave stone. "See..there she is!" She continues, "Professor Lorrimor? Yes that's him. We were friends, but now he has been assigned to another place. I wonder what he looks like now...you think he is like some celestial being or something?...with wings...oo, oo, oo or maybe fangs?"
Jaru looks a bit uncomfortable with the "drum" prominently displayed on the table. He discreetly marks a proper two-fingered spiral over his heart and swallows a remark in the interest of polite conversation. "Um, yes. I am a priest of Pharasma."
His hand strays to his freshly shaved head and then he makes an appreciative sound at Lament's Pharasma inspired tattoo. He removes his hand from his head to look at it questioningly as he is suddenly uncertain what Lament is talking about.
"Um, pardon?"
As the....Garundi...yes, definately Garundi, approached, Simeon sat back and regarded him with the same intensity he'd previous reserved for the halfling.
Hmmm, Pharasmin I believe, interesting....what did he just say?
Simeon is jolted by his own memory of the Halfling's words on the carriage, somehow he'd not noticed their import. Damn contraption, bounced my mind senseless!
At Lament's answer, Simeon sat up straight and interuptted "You" he said pointing his finger at Lament "and you' then pointing his finger at the Jaru "are...were friends of Petros? And if I make the obvious connection , you have also been summoned forth for his untimely funeral?" his face astonished.
"Um, pardon?"
"You are excused." She smiles at the bald priest not understanding that he was trying to get her to explain herself.
To the book man, "Yes. I am friends with him. I have been summoned to his residence."
Jaru's somewhat glazed over eyes resolve to a scowl at the finger thrust in his face. "It is considered rude in my culture to point, but yes, I knew Professor Lorrimor. I am not certain that I could claim to be the Great Professor's friend. In fact, I was quite surprised to have been remembered by him after such a long time, but that is why I have come to this cold, dark land," the Garundi sighs.
Simeon snaps his finger back out of the Garundi's face, waving his hand at the man's objection. Sitting back in his chair, a smirk of admiration on his face "Oh, Petros, you subtle, subtle man."
Looking over at the brooding elf and the other passenger, "You two, may I presume that you also have some connection with our summoner from the grave, Professor Petros Lorrimor?"
After receiving his moonshine, Baradlon quirks an eyebrow at the overly exuberant halfling. He makes no offer to buy her a drink, but does follow her to the table. Seeing she's invited the rest of the carriage's passengers, he sighs inwardly and sits down. Will I never escape the company of these dullards?
When they begin to talk about Petros, Baradlon's considerable attention suddenly snaps into razor edged focus. "All of you knew Petros as well? But you're all so young...How did you know him, Lament?" he asks the eccentric little halfling. Baradlon seems incredulous that his friend could have considered so many other people that Baradlon had never met before important enough to invite to his funeral. Where had they been the last four decades? Why is she dressed as a shaman? Perhaps she can speak with the spirit world? That one was reading an arcane tome, he must be a wizard. At least he's smart enough to hide it decently well. We may as well be a troop of zombie clowns for the amount of welcome this group is going to draw in Ravengro. Baradlon takes a long draw on his moonshine. He exhales dryly as the liquid burns his throat. Though he's talking now at least, he still looks rather....forlorn?
Simeon snaps his finger back out of the Garundi's face, waving his hand at the man's objection. Sitting back in his chair, a smirk of admiration on his face "Oh, Petros, you subtle, subtle man."
Looking over at the brooding elf and the other passenger, "You two, may I presume that you also have some connection with our summoner from the grave, Professor Petros Lorrimor?"
Baradlon nods to Simeon's query. "We're...we were...colleagues."
Tea is heated and a very large well used clay teapot is placed on the table with 5 cups. She also gives the halfling an ale and the same weak and slightly unpleasant broth that Simeon received - costing Simeon another 3 copper. The tea she puts on the priests tab... Charging him but a single copper. Definitely cheaper than expected.
She waits by the priest expectantly... Likely for a benediction or blessing.
The night outside grows dark and very cold. It is early spring but winters chill coat still rests on Ustalav, and it is discarded slowly.
"How did you know him, Lament?"
"We are friends of course! He likes for me to read his cards and play my drum for him. He often sits at a table with dim lamplight for hours and writes furiously while I play my drum...That or he sits in his favorite chair and snores loudly!" She giggles at the thought. "Sometimes I play my drum to the beat of his snoring."
She stands up in her chair to pour herself a cup of tea. "I could read your cards you know. After I play my drum that is."
She waits by the priest expectantly... Likely for a benediction or blessing.
Jaru rises smiling at the respect directed toward his position. He sketches a spiral in the air before the barmaid and offers a benediction in proper Osiriani and then in the common Taldane tongue of the Avistani.
"Not this year...nor the next. May your judgement be far off."
He nods his head and sits to ponder what dealings the professor might have had with elves and fiend-blooded neither of which he has had any real experience with in his native Osirion.
"Are you a frequent visitor to Ravengro then?" Baradlon continues to Lament, sipping more of his bowl of moonshine. The wooden vessel is already about halfway empty, and Baradlon is showing signs of relaxing. A little bit anyway. The ramrod straightness of his back has slumped a few milimeters towards the more normal bad posture of the non-uptight.
"Not this year...nor the next. May your judgement be far off."
Lament pauses her conversation with the elf, takes off her hat, and places it over her chest as the priest gives his blessing. "Ayyyyyyy-men" She draws it out for emphasis.
"Are you a frequent visitor to Ravengro then?"
She puts her hat next to her back pack on the floor and continues. "Four or five times a year for a week or so. Usually when the professor is at home. What about you? What was your acquaintance with him? Do you play an instrument? You elves are musical people no? At least that is what I have read in books. Sing to the fey spirits in your spare time do you? What do fairies look like? Maybe you can sing while I play!
She sips her tea excitedly due to all of the attention she is receiving and awaits his response.
"I've known Petros since he was a student. We lived together for a time as young men. As I said, we were colleagues. He occasionally employed my services as a guard on his expeditions. Normally I work as an armorer. I doubt you would enjoy my singing," Baradlon replies to some of Lament's questions. This halfling is as scatterbrained as most gnomes I've known. Is she actually going to play the damned drum or just talk about it?
During the trip, the man known as Vigilance Hall stares out of the window, which is difficult as he is seated between two of his traveling companions. The effect is that the tiefling's eerie yellow eyes stare almost directly through the person to his left the.entire.trip.
As the group reaches the make-shift inn, Vigilance exits the carriage and pays his fee without comment. It didn't bother him that everyone charged him more for everything in this country. Prejudice was an unfortunate side effect of a place lacking culture and wealth. This was just another symptom for him to treat.
When the group enters the building, Vigilance turns to follow them. Fully intending on listening to their conversation for information and not especially taking part in it, he lags behind a few steps.
He sits at a nearby table, in no way stealthily, and listens in to the others begin to talk.
The group eventually turns to conversation about their connection with the Professor, and Vigilance takes this opportunity to approach.
"Questions are important. Answers even more so. Professor's death unfortunate, but not unexpected."
With this, the lanky man sits down in a chair he has pulled with him. His gaze meets everyone's at the table as he scoots the chair in.
"Worked with Professor for years. His questions darker than most. Hired me to find dark answers. Would play drum for him, but not paid for that service. Also, untrained in music."
Vigilance's hat falls off in his quick movement to scoot in, but is caught against one of his twisted horns and he smoothly moves it back into place.
"Professor interesting man. Makes sense that he collected interesting acquaintances. Hope none of you murdered him. Would hate to serve justice to possible allies," the tiefling says as if he was stating how unfortunate it would be to stub his toe on the way to bed.
As the final traveling companion speaks, Lament hops up from her chair and returns to sitting up on the bar. She places her hat on her head and her back pack beside her. She rests her drum in her lap with the eyes facing her new companions. For the first time since entering the Inn, she quietly sits with a solemn expression on her tattooed face. She mournfully begins playing her drum. The rhythm of the beat starts slow, but picks up in pace as each listener begins to feel themselves separate emotionally from their day of tiring travel. In an almost hypnotic trance, the listeners feel the sadness of the beat. It is as if their heartbeat rises and falls with the tempo of the halfling's hands.
Despite the somewhat blasphemous instrument, Jaru finds himself nodding along with the lovely rhythm. He gives a faint smile at the the end, "Well played, Lament. I can honestly say that your music would be welcomed at any of the great temples in Osirion. You are quite talented."
"It has certainly been interesting to meet you all, but I find myself weary from travel. I'm sure we will have more time for talk tomorrow." He rises and stops. "Oh and I would be most interested in seeing your Harrowing some time, Lament. The sisters of my order use more traditional means of divination, casting the bones. I would like to see northern traditions of foretelling. but perhaps tomorrow when my eyes are less heavy and I am more attentive."
Wishing the others goodnight, Jaru asks the attendant for an extra blanket before retiring for the evening.
In the process of asking for a blanket and being told there are no rooms - everyone must sleep in the common room, the door is thrown open roughly.
Five men enter - thugs would be a good way to describe them though weasel faced would likely apply to the one at their rear. With the exception of the weasel faced one, who carries a home made mace, they are all unarmed (though all have a knife or knives in belts or boots).
The front two look 'hard' - one a heavy set balding Ustalav, the other a Kellid. Both are large and well muscled. The two behind that could be farm hands - they too look large but don't seem to have that same 'edge'. The one at the rear? He doesn't seem to have same confidence of the warrior types but he has a viciousness in his expression that marks him as being different from the farm hands.
Right you runty grub! You've been told to leave the running of this Inn to decent types too often already - you need to go live among your own kind... And now? We're gonna make ya!, the burly Ustalav yells with a large smile.
The dwarf just grunts and pulls a mace of his own from under the counter.
And you, you whore!, the man says pointing at the woman, I know you've been liftin' your skirts for him when you should've been home taking care of your own man, the last word is spat with a venom that shows the speaker to be emotionally involved.
About to comment on Lament's performance, Simeon is inturrupted by the arrival of the men.
Looking over his shoulder with a look of annoyance, Simeon turns back to the others and says quietly "A lover's spat and some professional jealousy, plus a dearth of local constabulary, solidly places this in the are of 'none of our concern'. We after all must arrive safely at our destination should we wish to bid farewell to our shared friend." he then grabs his ale and pack and retreats to the side of the room where he can observe unmolested.
"Ooh, a show!" Baradlon says, smiling for the first time since the others met him. He continues to sip his moonshine, but loosens his curve blade in its scabbard should anyone be stupid enough to try to hit him with a mace. He then glowers imperiously, letting the full depth of his century old nihilism show in his cold dead eyes as a deterrent to the angry locals.
The Kellid makes a point of saying, None of your business here. You don't involve yourselves and we've no problem with you, though you can tell him and the others are rattled by your display. They can tell you are armed and dangerous, and for the moment? They don't want any fight with you.
Lament sighs as she sees the men enter the Inn looking for trouble. Performing in Caliphas regularly, she is used to this type of behavior. The only difference is that in small villages there is usually little authority involvement until the situation is finished. She grins as she sees the men's wills fail slightly at the elf's threats. She seizes the opportunity to give the men an out while saving face.
Good men...tonight is the wrong night for this. We are weary from travel and would prefer to have drinks with men like yourselves instead of getting involved in personal matters. How about I buy us a round of ale and you gentlemen listen to my drum playing. There are plenty of other nights this week to address these issues. For goodness sakes, there is a priest among us.
Lament smirks during her attempt as she calls them gentlemen and blows her attempt. I hope the offer of free ale is enough to cover up my disdain for these hillbillies.
Shut yer face half pint!, screams the lead man, Else we be stick in' yer an' not her. His face is red and his mouth flecked with spittle.
Your attempts at diplomacy has fallen flat and may have worsened things... It could be the elf's display was all that held back an attack.
"Did you just threaten to rape that woman?" Baradlon asks with narrowed eyes. "I could hardly differentiate your speech from the squealing of a hog, so perhaps I misheard you?" The tall elf stands up, but does not draw his sword.
Lament begins tapping her drum in a rhythmic fashion. The melody is haunting and hypnotic. She smiles at leader who threatened her and begins to stare into his eyes. Slowly drawing him in to her beats.
Vigilance stands and approaches the men calmly.
"Civilization requires sacrifices. Personal freedom ends at the freedom of another. Ask that you leave peacefully. Will make you do so otherwise."
The tiefling's eyes blaze with purpose as he stares the men down.
"Haven't broken law yet. Being mouthy, uneducated leech on society not against law... unfortunately."
Vigilance and his words are the straw that breaks the donkeys back. Laments drumming will happen in initative order. For simplicity this battle we'll have a party initiative - combined/averaged init gives +3. Your new "friends" have + 0
Standard action: Inspire Courage
Move action: Draw scorpion whip
Lament lets her drum rest over on the bar and starts taunting the men. "Weeeee. Weeeee. You bunch of hogs. You had your chance and now you have gone and messed up! Do you not know that we are the famous Night Watchmen? We hunt evil for the Church of Pharasma! You dare stand against us?"
She reaches down on her side and draws her scorpion whip. She waves it over her head and then snaps the end of it making a cracking sound.
Buffs:
Inspire Courage 1/7: +1 Attack Rolls/Damage Rolls/Saves vs fear & enchantment
Deceive Someone: Attempting to deceive someone takes at least 1 round, but can possibly take longer if the lie is elaborate (as determined by the GM on a case-by-case basis). Feint in Combat: Feinting in combat is a standard action.
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Deceive Someone: Attempting to deceive someone takes at least 1 round, but can possibly take longer if the lie is elaborate (as determined by the GM on a case-by-case basis). Feint in Combat: Feinting in combat is a standard action..
Jaru's sigh is heard once more. Ruffians are the same in any country, he silently commiserates. He visibly winces at Lament's liberal use of his Church's name and unfortunately insulting tone.
"Do not worry," he mumbles to the dwarf and barmaid, "It is Garundi tradition to defend our host. Perhaps you have something heavy to throw?"