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A stone's throw from the southern Fangwood Forest, Phaendar is a small town nestled along the bank of the Marideth River. Trade comes through the town over Phaendar Bridge, the only suitable place to traverse the swift, rapid-coursed river for 50 miles in either direction. The town of 400 residents rarely sees any excitement, making the Market Festival a major source of news, entertainment, and revenue. The 2-day affair, held once every 3 months, gathers farmers and herders from across the Nesmian Plains, as well as woodcutters from the nearby Fangwood and prospectors from the Hollow Hills, to trade for supplies and raw materials. Even traders from the “big city” of Tamran make their way from hundreds of miles away to the event, swelling the town’s population to half again its normal size.
Indeed, many come solely to hear Aubrin the Green — the retired Chernasardo Ranger-turned-Caydenite cleric — recount bawdy tales of adventure from her youth. You find yourselves gathered for such a telling at the Taproot Inn, a two-story building built out of green-stained timber and capped with a pine shake roof. A wooden statue of a rearing grizzly bear guards the front door. Ownership of the Taproot changes often as proprietors struggle or grow bored. It currently belongs to Jet, a recent transplant to Phaendar of mixed Shoanti and Varisian descent, with twin black braids, black eyes, and a distinctive teal scarf worn around her waist.
Outside, the celebration continues, as raucous shouts carry on the night air. Warmed by the firelight after a long day, any levity comes as a welcome reward to the rough, earthy souls of this riverside trade town.
“So there I am, thinking, when will I ever be able to talk to a bear again? So before the grizzly can stand back up, I turn to it and say, ‘All I need is the honey. You can keep the bees!’” The room erupts into laughter as Aubrin finishes her winding story and takes another drink from her tankard. “But it’s fine now. All’s good. She named a cub after me. Someday I’m going to have to check in on little Ow Oh Gods That’s Too Many Bees.”
Aubrin gives a little mock bow before heading over to the bar. Other members of the crowd begin to share their own boasts and jokes.
Katyeva nods appreciatively as Aubrin's story comes to an end and threads her way through the crowd to the front of the bar, slipping past the patrons with a wink or a glare, in roughly equal amounts.
Some part of her is thinking on the ranger's missing leg, and how it happened (Katyeva's been in Phaendar long enough to have heard several different versions of Aubrin's story) - did she suffer? Was she conscious for the whole thing? How loudly do you think she screamed...? Katyeva doesn't very much like the part of her that thinks like that, but the ability to be ruthless when it matters has saved her more than once.
Reaching the bar, she does her best to dispel those thoughts by tucking a stray lock of hair back behind her ear and fixing Jet with her best friendly expression (Katyeva doesn't smile very much, but her eyes and face lose their usual hardness, softening into something more approachable and warmer). "Hey there, girl, looks like business is good! The usual for me, please." Her eyes rove over the innkeep's face, with its melding of Varisian and Shoanti features. "Don't suppose anyone here's been asking after me?"
Her tone is a mix of cautious and wistful: people asking after her might be seeking her on account of past work that she's done; but they might also be seeking her to offer her new work. She could do with the latter - she's down to her last few coins.
If a job hasn't found her by the time the Festival ends, she'll have to leave and find it for herself.
Olaf laughs with the rest of the crowd as the ranger's tale is completed. His laugh is somewhat faked as he missed some, apparently, important parts of the tales due to the ever present noise of the Whispers. Today the Whispers seemed to ve arguing whether or not he should stay in this happy town, or set off alone into the wood.
Ever since the ambush on the trail to Phaendar several days ago his head had been filled with a chorus of whispering ghosts. As best he could tell, half were his friends and companions who were slain, trying to help him; and the rest were the spirits of the goblinoids who helped kill his friends, trying to cause him harm.
He had no idea how the Whispers gor stuck in his head, or how he could understanf the goblin speech as if it were common. He wasn't even sure if he was sane, and if he was he was sure he wouldn't be for long.
He pushed the voices aside with an effort and reached for his tankard of ale only to find, as usual, it was not where he left it. The Whispers (both sides, he suspected) liked to move things around just to annoy him. At least he hoped so, since the other explanation was that he was, in fact, insane.
After reaching Phaendar several days prior, half dead, he had sought help in the temple and, after some rest, had felt up for a night at thr tavern. He had freshly braided his long blond hair and beard, proudly displaying his Ulfen heritage and even managed to cram his massive frame into this corner table bench. His ice blue eyes were no longer bloodshot, but remained too wide and more than a little crazy.
He wore his battered scale armor and had his pack at his feet, his beloved flail, never far from his hand, rested against his leg.
He had no idea what he was supposed to do next. The Call had urged him to this town, and he had followed. He didn't understand the thing he named The Call other than an inexplicable urge in the back of his head, when he heeded the urge he felt immense satisfaction, when he thought about leaving town (and ignoring The Call) he felt a sense of anxiety.
He wasn't sure id The Call was a god, some other presence, or simply a symptom of his growing insanity, but he did know that since he felt The Call he could wield magic. That had to mean something.
Until someone else sees my magic, maybe thats all in my mind too.
...its all in your head, you are simply crazy... give up ... wander Fangwood naked ... it will help...
Shut up!
Olaf figured he would stick around for another day or two, then if nothing happened he would find guard work for one of the many merchants here in town. With his size, finding paying work wouldn't be hard.
Otho sat cross legged amongst the children gathered on the floor listening to Aubrin’s tale. Being a halfling meant that he always had to sit with the children, or else he would never be able to see over the other patrons. He didn’t mind though; being underestimated often made life easier for him. In this instance, it got him closer to Aubrin. He idealized Aubrin and the Chernasardo Rangers. Since he arrived in Phaendar a week and a half ago, Otho has been trying to join their ranks. Aubrin has been training him to use a bow, and he has been doing quite well under her guidance. But as usual, Otho was beginning to become restless. He wanted to do more than shoot arrows at hay bales.
As Aubrin's story ended, Otho let out a half smile and a short laugh. He always enjoyed Aubrin's tales. Today however, his mind was busy with thoughts of the Chernasardo Rangers. A few days prior, he had spoken to Aubrin about going out on a mission with the rangers, but Aubrin had yet to give him an answer.
That is the kind of adventure I want. Why must I just sit here waiting; nothing exciting ever happens in this town. How long will I have to wait before I get my chance to go out with the rangers? Perhaps I should speak with her again and try to get a real answer from her.
Otho stood up, and made his way towards Aubrin. As he arrived beside Aubrin, he took a deep breath.
Here goes nothing...
”Umm, Aubrin… Hi. That was a great story… Hey, I’ve been wondering. Have you given any more thought about me going on a real mission with the Chernasardo Rangers? I’m ready! I know it!"
Otho stood at Aubrin’s side, waiting for her to answer him, and praying to any god that would listen that she would say yes.
Please, please, please…
RPG Superstar Season 9 Top 16
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The Phaendar jail sat just off of the main town square. It wasn't exactly high security, but the timbers were sturdy, as was the lock on the cell door. Through the single window in the cell, Rickus Vordayne had watched the people of Phaendar for months. The faces changed every day as traders, trappers, woodcutters, and farmers came into the village to trade. As a prisoner over the past couple of months, the Molthune soldier had plenty of time to watch them all.
The market festival at least was a big change in town, making the time pass faster. There were more travelers, more traders, and a sense of excitement in the town as the seasonal festival went on. If only I could be out there, meeting and greeting people instead of staring through a window and counting days and waiting. Waiting for what? A trial? An execution? If they didn't bring food and water every day, I'd be convinced they had forgotten me altogether in here. Every time a group of Chernasardo Ranger comes through, I expect them to drag me out of here and it will all be over, but they never pay any head, go about their business, and head back out to wherever they go.
Carthas laughed appreciably at Aubrin's tale. He'd arrived somewhat later than normal for the festival, since he'd had to wait until Eben's fever broke at the Clifwell farmhouse. Fortunately, Ned Clifwell had been willing to give him a ride into town afterwards, so he hadn't had to walk, but the few coins in his purse reminded him that by missing part of the market day meant less coin after this. He subsisted pretty heavily on bartering his skills for supplies, foraging, and hunting, but even he needed coin for some things. He hoped he'd make enough to get through the next year. Fortunately, he'd learned some carpentry since he began the route through the Nesmian Plains, so he could always help with building farms if no healing was needed.
He carefully sipped his mug of ale and ate his food, knowing he wouldn't be purchasing more than he already had tonight. He'd also probably be sleeping under a hedge tonight, since he suspected all the inns at the room were filled up.
Seeing his tankard is empty Olaf considers his nearly empty coin purse for a moment. Deciding on another drink, he drags his bulk from his table and, grabbing his pack, strides through the crowd to the bar.
Sidling up next to a nondescript woman, so nondescript that he initially does not notice her.
"Barkeep, another tankard of ale!" he thunders before starting, finally noticing the varisian woman beside him.
"My apologies, my lady, I did not notice you..." he halts almost in mid sentence as his eyes unfocus.
Shut up whispers, I'm trying to drink here. Talk all you like when I'm sleeping
Comimg back to the real world he refocuses his gaze on Katyeva, he continues.
"I hope I didn't startle you, it is hard to speak in this place tonight. I am Olaf, warrior from the far north.
Is such a festive atmosphere common in this town? I have only just arrived."
Katyeva winces as her quiet thoughts are shattered by a bellowing voice just behind her - and above. Turning warily to look at the speaker, she peers up at an apparent man-mountain with blond hair and braids; a Kellid, or some such. Well that explains the question. "Nah. This place is dead, mostly. Market festival now, though. Happens a couple times a year, everyone eating, drinking, buying, selling, drinking, eating... You know. A festival." She gives a quick smirk. "Watch your purse, or someone might lift it. Not me. I'm on good behaviour."
Katyeva has been tempted a time or two, but she likes this town so she has indeed behaved herself - once you get a reputation as a thief in a small town like this, it's time to leave. Besides, almost nobody here has what she considers to be real money; lifting purses for a flimsy handful of silver just isn't worth the risk of getting caught. There's a reason most thieves operate in the big cities.
Anyway. Time for some questions of her own. "So what brings a 'warrior from the far north' to this place? Looking for work?"
Olaf smiles at the woman's advice. "Thieves would undoubtedly be disappointed at what they would find in my coin purse. "
Hearing her question about travel he grunts.
"Many of the young warriors from my home travel, looking for action, honor and wealth. Something, perhaps the gods, told me to come east out of Varisia."
His jovial manner sobers somewhat as his eyes unfocus again, in a lower voice.
"They were right, the caravan I was travelling with was wiped out by hobgoblin raiders, Ironfang, they tell me. I... am still haunted by their ghosts.:
literally
...nah, you're just crazy.
Quiet!
Brightening up, he takes a pull on his ale and continues. "Now, I am still looking for work. Something tells me what I seek is here. Hard to believe it though."
Loolimg down at Katyeva, "Are you a local in this town, or are you just.. looking for work as well?"
she seems shifty, I'll have to watch her... I think she's pretty, I'LL have to watch her...
Whatever, and shut up.
Hearing a mention of hobgoblins from behind him, Otho is momentarily distracted from Aubrin and turns his head to see who is speaking. As he turns, Otho's gaze meets dead center at a man's thigh. Otho cranes his neck back further and further to try to see the man's face. Finally, Otho finds the man's heavily bearded face.
Otho's jaw drops slightly. I see why someone would hire a man like him to guard their caravan; he is more mountain than man. I wonder if giant runs in his blood. I am surprised that hobgoblins were willing to risk so much by attacking a caravan that was defended by such a big man. I wonder why.
Otho had heard other hobgoblins talk of the Iron Fang, or bir mici xayawaan as they were known in Goblin. The Iron Fang tended to be more aggressive, but they weren't as common in this area, and they usually travelled in larger groups. Something about the giant man's story made Otho feel slightly uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.
Once I am done talking to Aubrin, I will have to ask this man more about his encounter with the hobgoblins. Otho thought as he turned his attention back to Aubrin.
"Common Aubrin. You've seen how quickly I have learned to use my bow, and that was just in a week! I can do this!"
Katyeva's blood runs cold as Olaf describes the attack on the caravan he was travelling with; assailed by sudden, unwanted memories, her knuckles whiten as she grips her tankard. Lifting it to her lips, she drains its contents in one long swallow; faster than she intended to, but the numbing effect of the alcohol is needed right now. "Something - similar - happened to me," she admits. "Long time ago, though."
She shakes her head at his question. "Not a local." Caught up in the past, she doesn't elaborate.
Spotting Otho just behind the blond northerner, she's about to catch the halfling's eye when he turns his attention back to Aubrin. She makes a wry face, and waves a languid arm at Jet the bartender. "Nother one like that one, please, mizhni mir." Her Varisian is rusty as hell, but she doesn't get a chance to practice it very often.
Further down the bar...
Jet smirks as she pours Katyeva another drink. "Your Varisian is shit, Kat." She hands Olaf another tankard as well.
A single guard, a surly oaf named Umer reclines at his post, resting his feet on his desk. He looks angry, probably due to his missing the festival in order to keep an eye on the imperialist prisoner.
Somewhere near the center of town, thunder rumbles.
Katyeva tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugs in reply to Jet's comment: "No family to speak it with."
She accepts the drink with a nod. "Cheers." Aware that she drank the previous one faster than she intended, she nurses this one slowly, looking around the room thoughtfully.
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Rickus glances back towards the window. Well, at least the revelry broke things up for a while. Some music. Some new people. Better than most days in here by far. Maybe if I can just get to explain myself at a trial, I can actually even join the festivities some day. They don't seem to be in a hurry, and do they even do trials? Do they go straight to hanging? ...What was that?
Rickus turns towards the heavy wooden door looking through the larger window that looks to are the guard is. "Guard? Is there a storm coming tonight? I couldn't see signs of it from in here.
Finishing his ale and meal, Carthas gets up from his seat with a sigh. Maybe I'll skip sleeping under a hedge tonight. I think the stars will be quite nice. Still better find myself a place to go.
As he gets up, he spots what looks like a small child near Aubrin. Recognizing it as Otho, he begins to take a circuitous route away, as he strongly regrets his failure with the halfling's mother. A reminder I don't need. I thought I had the fever beat, but she just succumbed at the last minute. I need to refine my craft.
His route takes him close to the bar, where he spies Katyeva near a vaguely familiar looking Ulfen man. Stopping, he says, "Katyeva, it has been a while. Tell me, how is the leg holding up?"
Otho isn't suprised by Aubrin's answer; she had been telling him that she was no longer a ranger every day since they met. He doesn't believe her though. I don't think you could leave the Rangers once you have joined them. Besides, I am sure my chance will come sooner rather than later.
"Alright Aubrin, have it your way." Otho says as he turned to leave.
I wonder if the prisoner that the Chernasardo Rangers are keeping at the jailhouse knows when they will be back to deal with him? That could be my chance to join them. I'll go ask him.
Otho starts making his way towards the door. As he passes the giant man standing behind him, he notices Katyeva and Carthas standing at the bar.
"Katyeva?! Carthas?! I didn't know you guys were in town!" Otho stops beside them. "How have you two been?! It has been far too long since I have seen either of you!" Otho starts grinning from ear to ear. "Wait, do you two know each other?" Otho rambles on without letting either of them respond to his barrage of questions. "Oh.. Oh my... I, uh, I'm not interrupting anything am I? Oh, oh, I'm so sorry. I... I will um... I'll leave you two.." Otho's voice quietly fades away. Embarrassed with his intrusion, Otho turns to leave.
Taking a huge pull from his newly delivered ale, Olaf thanks the barkeep.
Noticing a man approach, he roars in delight.
"Bramblefoot! Well it is to see you again. Your help on the road to this small town was good! I am glad to see you again!"
Noticing the child speak, wait, halfling. Olaf roars with laughter at the uncomfortable situation.
"I like this little man and his questions!"
Then, eying Katyeva and Carthas with a raised eyebrow.
"Maybe we should give you two space" looking abourt the room, his mind wanders looking for other entertainments.
Maybe you should see how far you can drop kick the halfling? ... yeah!
Amusing as that would be, no. Also, stop agreeing on things.
"Katyeva, it has been a while. Tell me, how is the leg holding up?"
Katyeva gives the half-elf a guarded expression; on the one hand, he saved her life, and on the other hand, she owes him a life-debt. Better that than being dead, of course. She thaws slightly and gives him a warmer look. "Hey there, Doc. Leg's fine, not dripping black any more, which is good, right?" She signals Jet again. "One more for Doc here - many as he likes, in fact - and put 'em on my tab, 'kay?" All those lessons on gratitude that she received at the orphanage (care of the Iomedaean nuns who ran it) weren't entirely in vain, it seems. She grimaces at the memory and takes another swig of her drink. Yes, I'm drinking, Sister Agnes, in a bar, and how'd you like that, you shrivelled old prune?
"Katyeva?! Carthas?! I didn't know you guys were in town!" Otho stops beside them. "How have you two been?! It has been far too long since I have seen either of you!" Otho starts grinning from ear to ear. "Wait, do you two know each other?" Otho rambles on without letting either of them respond to his barrage of questions. "Oh.. Oh my... I, uh, I'm not interrupting anything am I? Oh, oh, I'm so sorry. I... I will um... I'll leave you two.." Otho's voice quietly fades away. Embarrassed with his intrusion, Otho turns to leave.
The halfling's arrival stirs her out of her thoughts, and she looks at him uncomprehendingly as he's about to leave. "No. Stay. Sit. Have a drink." A recollection stirs in her mind. "Sorry 'bout your ma." Not that she is sorry, exactly (she never even met the woman), but it's the sort of thing you're supposed to say.
"I like this little man and his questions!"
Otho quickly glances over at the giant man. Well that is good. I think... Hopefully that means he won't try to punt me down the road when he finishes his tankard of ale. I guess it couldn't be worse than the run-in with the half giant...
As Otho continues to walk away, he hears Katyeva's voice over the babel of the crowd.
"No. Stay. Sit. Have a drink."
Otho turns towards Katyeva and looks around slightly confused before climbing up onto a bar stool beside her. "Oh. ok..." he says as he climbs up. When he finally makes it onto the human-sized bar stool, he looks skeptically at Katyeva and Carthas and starts to grin slightly.
"Sorry 'bout your ma."
The slight smirk on Otho's face fades, and Otho's gaze shifts towards the dusty floor. "Thanks." Otho says in a lower tone than usual as his attention slips away and he becomes consumed with thoughts of his mother.
Since his mother's passing, Otho had gone to great lengths to try and put her out of his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, his mother had always been the linchpin holding him together. After her passing, Otho felt lost and broken. Perhaps the subconscious reason he wants to join the Chernasardo Rangers is to try and fill the void that his mother's death left.
That reminds me... Otho lifts his head up and leans over the bar in order to be able to see Carthas. "Carthas. You left so quickly after my mother's passing that my brothers and I never got a chance to speak with you." Otho looks deep into Carthas' eyes in order to make sure that Carthas feels the sincerity in his next statement. "Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you. We can never repay you for how you helped us."
"Hey there, Doc. Leg's fine, not dripping black any more, which is good, right?" She signals Jet again. "One more for Doc here - many as he likes, in fact - and put 'em on my tab, 'kay?"
"That is very good. And no loss of mobility? Pain in bad weather?" As Katyeva orders him a drink, surprise clearly shows on his face. "Thank you. I appreciate this." He takes a sip of the tankard Jet sets before him. Best not to order too many. I don't want to take advantage of such kindness.
As Otho came up, Carthas stiffened slightly. He'd been trying to avoid the halfling's notice, certain the other blamed him for failing to save his mother. He tries to make himself seem calm and collected, which he quickly loses at Otho's intimation. "Yes, absolutely pull up a seat. There is no reason for you to leave us alone. Nor you, Olaf. I'm glad I was able to help you recover from your wounds."
"Carthas. You left so quickly after my mother's passing that my brothers and I never got a chance to speak with you." Otho looks deep into Carthas' eyes in order to make sure that Carthas feels the sincerity in his next statement. "Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you. We can never repay you for how you helped us."
"Er, yes, well. I'm sorry for your loss. And that I wasn't able to do more. And thank you for your hospitality while I was there." Carthas clearly isn't sure how to handle someone who isn't mad at him for failing to save someone's life. Interacting with people clearly isn't his forte.
Olaf smiles contentedly as he eavesdrops on the conversations going around him. He was warm, dry,and had some...
Hey, where did my ale go this time!?!
He looks down the bar and finds his half full tankard several feet down the bar. The Whispers struck again, they were starting to become truly annoying.
Getting between a man and his ale is cruel even for evil head ghost-whispers
Suddenly, inspiration struck, almost as if another set of thoughts entered his head. He points his finger at the wayward tankard and mumbled something in a language he didn't understand. Instantly the tankard levitated and obediently floated to his hand.
"Well, at least the Whispers sometimes do nice things." he mutters as he takes a pull from his mug.
"Er, yes, well. I'm sorry for your loss. And that I wasn't able to do more. And thank you for your hospitality while I was there."
"Of course! You will always be welcome in our home." Otho smiles at Carthas then leans back onto his oversized bar stool.
Remembering overhearing the large man and Katyeva speaking about the hobgoblins, Otho tries to change the subject. "Hey, what was it you guys were talking about with the Hobgoblins? I thought I heard you say you ran into some Iron Fang. Is that true?" Olaf looks towards the giant man who seems to be muttering something to himself.
Hmm... He doesn't seem all there. I wonder if his memory is good or not. Maybe he imagined the whole thing. That would probably be the best case scenario, because if the Iron Fang are around here, that could mean a lot of trouble on the roads for the merchants when they leave after the festival. And it would also mean a lot of work for the Rangers, which would keep them out of town so that I wouldn't have a chance to join them. Besides, if the Iron Fang were around here, we would have had more reports of farmsteads in the area being attack. So far, this man is the only one to have mentioned them.
Otho looks eagerly at the large man, waiting for an answer.
Olaf looks up from drink at the little man's query.
"Aye, Tannos Harken's caravan hired me on out of Magnimar, heading... here I think. Truly I didn't care where we were going. Some distance west we were ambushed by hobgoblins and their like."
His eyes unfocus a bit as a feral grin creeps on his face.
"Such fighting was had that day, we fought back to back, surrounded and they just kept coming. Many skulls I crushed that day." his hand absently pats the haft of his heavy flail. The wood battered from swordstrokes, the flanged head suspiciously stained red brown.
"At some point I was struck in the head enough times to fall. Luckily for me, or perhaps it wad the will of the gods, I was still alive and left unmolested."
He pauses to make a motion with his hand. Perhaps thanking his gods, or warding evil.
"I awoke the following day. As far as I could tell all my companions were lost. I am not sure it was the Iron Fang, such was just suggested when I reached this town."
He stops his story abruptly before absently muttering in a low voice.
"If only their ghosts would leave me be"
After hearing the large man's story, Otho thinks for a few seconds.
"That does sound like the Iron Fang." Otho says. It is strange that he smiles when he describes such a gruesome scene. I will have to keep an eye on this one... "I can't think of another hobgoblin tribe from these parts that would be well enough organized and large enough to set up an ambush like you describe. And come to think of it, there have been reports of the Iron Fang quite a bit further to the west. How far away did you say the attack was... Mister..." Otho's voice trails off. "Hm... I just realized, I never caught your name Mister. I'm Otho Goodbarrel." Otho extends his small hand towards the man.
"That is very good. And no loss of mobility? Pain in bad weather?" As Katyeva orders him a drink, surprise clearly shows on his face. "Thank you. I appreciate this."
Katyeva blinks. "Least I can do - you saved my life, an' my leg; works just fine, thanks." Her mobility and flexibility are at least in part a legacy of her rakshasa heritage, although she is unaware of this fact.
As Otho and Olaf talk carelessly of hobgoblins, her knuckles again whiten around the grip of her tankard as past memories assail her. Without even realising it, the other hand finds the hilt of her dagger and her face goes flat, expressionless, as it does just before she kills...
The stern face of Sister Agnes surfaces in her mind's eye, and the moment passes. With a long, shuddering sigh she drains the tankard before slamming it heavily back down on the bar. "Guys? Do us a favour and talk of something else, yeah?"
"How far away did you say the attack was... Mister..." Otho's voice trails off. "Hm... I just realized, I never caught your name Mister. I'm Otho Goodbarrel." Otho extends his small hand towards the man.
Olaf smiles warmly as he carefully takes the tiny proffered hand.
"Well met Otho, I am Olaf Lodbrok, warrior from the Land of Linnorn Kings."
"Guys? Do us a favour and talk of something else, yeah?"
Olaf grunts noncommittally at the suggestion, yet changes the subject as asked.
Turning back to the halfling, he takes in the garb of the small demihuman.
"Are you a hunter small one? Perhaps one of those Rangers everyone talks about?"
Did you see how that woman's face changed while talking of hobgoblins? We must watch her... of course he didn't see, he's a half blind oaf who has totally gone insane...
Insane enough to kill you, goblin. Leave me be.
"Well met Otho, I am Olaf Lodbrok, warrior from the Land of Linnorn Kings."
"Pleased to meet..." Otho says before being cut off.
"Guys? Do us a favour and talk of something else, yeah?"
"...you." Otho finishes and as he raises an eyebrow towards Katyeva. "Very well Katyeva. We meant no offense." I wonder what's got her knickers in a knot. Probably best not to ask.
"Are you a hunter small one? Perhaps one of those Rangers everyone talks about?"
"Umm..." Otho begins. His face becomes flush as he searches for the best way to explain his situation. He doesn't want to lie about his position, but he wants to gain the respect of this obvious warrior. "Well... Not technically. You see, I just haven't gotten a chance to prove myself yet. But I am sure that as soon as I get a chance I will be able to join them." I think... Otho wasn't as sure as he made himself seem. "Speaking of the the Rangers, I need to speak to their prisoner. So, if you guys will excuse me..." Otho nods a farewell to the group, then gets down off his bar stool and starts walking towards the door.
Otho finishes and as he raises an eyebrow towards Katyeva. "Very well Katyeva. We meant no offense."
Katyeva carefully eases her hand off the hilt of her dagger. "I know that. None taken. I just... don't like talk of goblin attacks. Lost my family to 'em." It is hard - if not impossible - to explain to a non-Varisian the full extent of that loss: not merely her family members but the very family name itself, and therefore her own identity among her people; and Katyeva doesn't even try, settling instead for a nod, and a swig from her (now empty) flagon. She frowns. She hadn't intended to drink it that fast. She signals at Jet for another: "No hurry."
"Speaking of the the Rangers, I need to speak to their prisoner. So, if you guys will excuse me..."
Now it's Katyeva's turn to raise an eyebrow: "What - you think they're gonna let you talk to him just for the asking of it? He's a prisoner: you know, guards, isolation, that sort of thing..." Katyeva herself only got to see him by knowing which guard to bribe and parting with a few coins - and that got her barely a minute; just enough time to discover she'd wasted her "investment" (the prisoner had no wish to be broken out and returned to Molthune) and give the lock a quick once-over, just in case.
"C'mon. I'll get you another drink. Wotcha want to talk with him for, anyway?"
Carthas shakes his head at Otho's desire to see the prisoner. "I see no gain to it. He's been locked up for months, a prisoner of the fighting to the South. Even if the guard lets you see him, he is like as not to confuse you for a slave. Molthune has no issues with such practices."
"Well... Not technically. You see, I just haven't gotten a chance to prove myself yet. But I am sure that as soon as I get a chance I will be able to join them."
Olaf eyes the halfling with a critical eye.
Small, yes, inexperienced, perhaps but there is something abput him. A stout heart perhaps. I like this one.
In a serious tone, for battle was serious business. "I think they will do well to accept you, small one, you have a solid look to you."
Noticing his drink empty and caring little about prisoners or somesuch, Olaf turns to the barkeep for more ale.
"I think they will do well to accept you, small one, you have a solid look to you."
Otho gives Olaf an appreciative smile.
Hearing Katyeva and Carthas' comments, Otho stops. They are probably right. Otho returns to his stool.
"I was hoping he would know when the Rangers will be back in town to deal with him." Otho says, slightly defeated.
"He is like as not to confuse you for a slave. Molthune has no issues with such practices."
Upon hearing mention of slaves, Otho turns to Carthas. "Really?! I am starting to understand our war with them more and more every day. When I get my chance to join the Rangers, I will have no problem fighting against such... savages!" Otho says angrily, hoping that the front he was putting on was convincing. Otho wasn't sure he actually had the hatred inside him to be able to take another life. He didn't agree with the idea of slaves, but do the sins of a culture condemn every citizen? What about those within the culture who don't subscribe to the particular doctrine?
I hope I never have to find out if I am really capable of taking a life.
"Slavery in Molthune is different than slavery in Cheliax, but the idea of even owning another sentient creature does not sit well with me. Still, given the Rangers' goal of keeping Nirmathas free from the armies of Molthune, you would likely be expected to fight against them anyway, even if they didn't find the practice of slavery acceptable. Myself, I would just as soon avoid the war. I am no soldier, nor have I ever been."
Carthas is surprised by the vehemence in the generally easy-going halfling's tone at the mention of slavery. He decides it best not to mention he is originally from Molthune - though he bears the other country no love, and never fought in its army, he doesn't want Otho associating him with it.
Upon hearing mention of slaves, Otho turns to Carthas. "Really?! I am starting to understand our war with them more and more every day. When I get my chance to join the Rangers, I will have no problem fighting against such... savages!"
Katyeva would normally say nothing: she's not political, and she especially doesn't want to get drawn into the Nirmathi conflict - after all, this is where she stays when she needs to keep her head down. But the combination of drinking more than she intended to and the earlier talk of the goblinoids has torn (however briefly) the veil that she tries to draw around herself.
She gives the halfling a sardonic look. "'Our' war? Not mine, that's for damn sure. Met a lot of patriots, an' they all died making some rich fool richer. That border-" she waves an arm in approximately the direction of Molthune - "ain't gonna move more'n a mile in either direction for our whole lifetimes - an' how many people're gonna get killed along the way?"
She should shut up there, she really should. But it just comes spilling out: "Anyway, slaver money spends the same as everyone else's, yeah?"
Her brain belatedly catches up with her mouth, and she shuts it. Ducking her head down, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and is suddenly very interested in her empty tankard.
"So, anyway. What're people's plans for tomorrow?"
Otho's eyes go wide as Katyeva finishes her outburst.
Didn't see that coming. I guess I went a little over the top. I know she isn't a fan of being told what to do by anyone, but she doesn't usually have outbursts like that. I wonder what's got under her skin...
"Anyway, slaver money spends the same as everyone else's, yeah?"
Otho's experssion changes from surprise to anger. Just as he is about to say something he will regret, Katyeva changes the subject.
She is not herself right now... Otho reminds himself. "I thought you were better than that, Kat." Otho says in the same hushed tone as when Katyeva spoke of his mother.
Otho hops down off his stool and starts heading for the door. "I'm going to go talk to that prisoner. I'll see you guys around." Otho says as he pushes open the door.
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Before he can reach the door, a chant picks up through the Taproot. "Aubrin, Aubrin, Aubrin!" Soon, the gathered revelers cheer and pound their fists on the tables and stomp their feet to bring the Caydenite out for another tale. At first, the retired ranger waves them away with a rude gesture, but eventually her tankard is topped off and she is pushed back into the center of the inn.
"All right, all right," she begins, laughing. "Don't shove." She takes a pull from her mug, letting the crowd quiet down in anticipation for her story. "Okay, may Cayden strike me down if this isn't true--"
A woman screams somewhere outside, a cry of panic and fear that shatters the silence in the inn.
A look of concern crosses Aubrin's face, but before she can react, the front door explodes into splinters. Wooden shrapnel sprays through the room. Aubrin screams in agony and collapses to the floor, grasping and clutching at a bloody wound in her chest. A ballista bolt quivers in the wall behind her.
Two hobgoblins stand beyond the remains of the door, cruel-looking blades drawn. Both wear weathered, but well-maintained studded leather and hold shields painted with a dagger on a field of red and black stripes. Behind them, lit by the glow of burning homes, dozens - perhaps hundreds - of hobgoblin soldiers march through the street. Phaendar burns, shouts of celebration now replaced by the screams of the panicked and dying. Above the flames and the humble rooftops, rises a tower of black stone.
He pokes his head outside and ducks back in, panic across his face. "A-an army," he stammers. "There's an army out there and they're killin' and burnin'."
Olaf grows restless as his companions argue about slaves or slave owners or some such. He had little patience for small things like who could own slaves. Anyone worth their salt would stop another from enslaving them, or at least die trying. He had little empathy for those weak enough to allow themselves to be enslaved.
Needing further distraction and deciding his coinpurse could not support much more drinking, Olaf looks about and notices the former Ranger standing up for another story. Figuring listening to actual voices instead of the possibly real voices in his head, Olaf prepares to listen to Aubrin's tale.
Instead something far more interesting happens.
Upon seeing hobgoblins responsible for the tragic wounding of the good ranger, and the ruining of a perfectly good door, Olaf's face splits in a wide grin of joy.
Battle.
Olaf grabs up his heavy flail, never far from his hand, and prepares to enter battle. Unfortunately the press of fleeing patrons stop him from reaching his hated foes immediately. Growling in frustration he roars out a battle cry, insult and challenge in one mighty roar.
More surprisingly, he suddenly feels... better, stronger, faster.
1st level spells, 3/4
As soon as Otho finishes his sentence, he hears a woman outside the tavern scream. What's going on out th... Suddenly, the door in front of him explodes. As the shrapnel flies towards his face, Otho brings his arm up to shield himself.
What the ...?!
Otho lowers his arm and looks around the room to try to figure out what is happening. As he looks towards the center of the room, he sees Aubrin fall to the ground. Otho becomes so distracted by the sight of Aubrin that he doesn't look outside of the tavern and remains oblivious to the threat that lurks beyond.
"Aubrin! No!" Otho screams, and rushes towards her.
When he arrives beside her, he is astonished by the amount of blood and gore seeping from the giant wound in her chest. He hesitates for a moment, then kneels down beside her to try to assess the damage.
Otho mutters under his breath "Please please please please..."
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"I thought you were better than that, Kat."
It shouldn't sting - it's nothing Katyeva hasn't heard before, from others - but it does, this time. Otho is kind-hearted, and likeable, and good-humoured; the remark from an unexpected quarter gets past her guard.
She's about to open her mouth to bawl him out when the world (perhaps mercifully) explodes into combat and blood - her world.
Katyeva has planned for this. When you live in her world, there's always a risk of payback, and her escape route is drilled into her head so she doesn't have to think about it: up the stairs to her room, grab her pack, vault out the window and onto the roof, race along the shingles and be out of town and running before anyone can catch up.
Simple. It's time to go. It's the sensible thing to do.
I thought you were better than that, Kat.
She looks at Otho, the halfling's arms bloodied as he tries to save Aubrin's life, heedless of the hobgoblins at the door. She breathes in deeply, aware that she's about to do something stupid, and then out - and then explodes into a blur of movement, dashing past Olaf and out the door, daggers falling into her hands as she moves, her hair streaming behind her as she dives into a roll, tumbling to the left of the two goblinoids.
Enemy, meet knives - it's that simple.
It is not, however, sensible - but Katyeva doesn't do the sensible thing very often. She smiles coldly, wolfishly, at her opponent.
"Like it? There's more where that came from." She brings her daggers up again, weaving and ready to strike. "Let's dance."
He is surprised by Katyeva's sudden outburst regarding slavery - although given her reticence to explain how her leg wound had occurred, he shouldn't be surprised she was willing to engage in seedier elements of society.
He watches as the halfling prepares to leave, and turns to listen to Aubrin's next story.
Then everything goes to Hell.
The door bursts open and Aubrin goes down with a scream. The hobgoblins stand in the doorway, and Olaf and Kat go to attack them. Carthas yells to Jet, "Take cover!" He then draws his crossbow and moves over to Aubrin, asking Otho, "How is she?"
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Rickus goes to the window to see who is outside. Oh no, not them. Not another massacre. I have to get out of here. "Guard, I can't help fend them off if you leave me in here. I know these hobgoblins, and I know what they are capable of. They will kill everyone, whether we fight or not. If you have family, I pray to Erastil that you'll let me help in this fight before the hobgoblins reach them."
Bloodied by Katyeva's knives, the hobgoblin facing the rogue turns to her and swings its blade, cutting deep into her side. The tiefling feels a sharp pain as one of her ribs breaks from the impact.
Olaf is luckier, able to turn the hobgoblin warrior's sword aside with the haft of his flail.
Inside the inn, Otho is able to stop the Aubrin's breathing. Gasping in pain, the cleric's eyes flutter open. Her breathes are shallow and pained, but she manages to speak. "O-Otho? It sounds like an army out there."
Olaf grins as he parries the hobgoblin's blade, happy to be in the thick of battle. Strangely he was moving faster than normal, his coordination felt better, and would bet all his coin that his flail was gonna hurt this hobgoblin more.
...just give in, hobgoblins are your friend... grarrrahgh!
With an inarticulate roar, Olaf whirls his heavy flailhead once and slashes at his antagonist.
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"These hobgoblins will have your head if we don't get a defense set up quickly. Not to mention the heads of your family." Rickus takes one last look out the window before heading to the door to wait for the guard to finish with the lock, and starts looking around the room for possible weapons.
”Oh gods...” Otho winces as he looks at the damage that Aubrin has sustained. We need to get her out of here if we have any chance of saving her. And I owe her that. ”Stay with me Aubrin! We are going to get you out of here!” Otho looks over at Carthas. ”She’s alive, but I don’t know how much longer she can hold on. I think her lung has collapsed, and I don’t know if I can control this much bleeding. Do you have anything to help her?” Otho start to apply pressure to her wound using a napkin from a nearby table to try to soak up the blood.
Otho looks around to try to determine what did the damage, and notices the ballista bolt sticking into the wall. Where the hell did that come fr… Otho looks through the door and sees Olaf fighting off a hobgoblin. Otho’s eyes go wide with the realization that the situation is even more dire than he had thought.
Hobgoblins attacking a town? This makes no sense. We need to get out of here.
”Kat! We need to..." Otho looks around, trying to find Katyeva. ”KAT?! KAT!” Otho screams in confusion. This isn’t good. ”Carthas, take care of Aubrin. I need to find Katyeva." Otho says to Carthas, then gets up and moves towards the door looking around the tavern. As he moves, he takes the hand axe out of his belt . Aubrin’s instructions play over and over in his head. ”Feet further apart Otho. You don’t want to get pushed over in a fight. If you end up on the floor, you are as good as dead.” “Hit harder Otho! If you don’t kill them, they will kill you! You have to pick you or them.” Otho had never seen real combat before. His hands shook uncontrollably from the mix of adrenaline and nerves.
She’s not here… Otho thought as he continued his search for Katyeva, but his thoughts are interupted by Olaf’s roar. Otho turns around as Olaf brings his flail crashing down onto the hobgoblin. Otho hesitates for a moment "You have to pick you or them.”
”For Aubrin!" Otho yells and takes a step towards the goblinoid , and swings his axe .
Katyeva is a killer, not a fighter: there are few better at striking a target from stealth and vanishing before the corpse hits the ground; but in a straight-up fight she's seriously overmatched.
This thought hits her about the same time as the hobgoblin's sword enters her chest. Her eyes widen with the pain, but the shock brings it quickly under control. She knows better than to look at the injury. That's an amateur mistake. Still. She doesn't have much time before the pain becomes overwhelming.
And that's if she's lucky.
With a sudden flourish, she darts away from her foe, ending up behind the one in combat with Olaf. This is more like it. She flicks her daggers at the back of the thing's neck, aiming for vital blood vessels.
"I'll do what I can, Otho, but I don't have much left in the way of supplies," Carthas says, before getting together what he can. "Best I might be able to do is stabilize her so she stops bleeding."
Carthas begins going to work, using cloth to bandage and stifle the bleeding in the wound. "Aubrin, I'll need you to hold on as best you can. We'll try to stop the bleeding and get you out of here, but you have to hold on."
Provide First Aid
You usually use first aid to save a dying character. If a character has negative hit points and is losing hit points (at the rate of 1 per round, 1 per hour, or 1 per day), you can make him stable. A stable character regains no hit points but stops losing them. First aid also stops a character from losing hit points due to effects that cause bleed.
Action/Time: 1 standard action.
Retry? You can always retry a check to provide first aid, assuming the target of the previous attempt is still alive.
Looking at the remaining six people in the tavern, Carthas says, "I need two of you to get me two long poles roughly six feet in length. We can use those and a blanket to make a stretcher to carry her out of here. Jet, I need you to organize the rest in getting food and such together. There are hobgoblins out there, and we'll need to run into the wilderness to hide until they're gone. We'll need food while we're out there."
We need to run, and we need to get as many people out of here as we can.