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Gameplay thread A
Dot...and thank you for choosing Dai for this adventure!
22.44pm here in the UK and so I'll pick this up in the morning.
Cheers and thanks for choosing my witch.
22.44pm here in the UK
I know - I'm off to bed myself. The games will begin tomorrow.
Howdy! I'm happpy to have been selected. I look forward to developing our story together.
Checking in. Thanks for the invite!
"Finnick Lockwood and Mr Scruffles reporting FOAR DOOTY!!" Finn says as he and Mr Scrulffles salute.
"Mr Scruffles and I are honoured to be chosen for this mission. We will do our very best to not let anyone down."
As he finishes his sentence, the shaggy dog beside him lets out a "WOOF!" in acknowledgement.
It has been three days since you left the last of the nameless farming hamlets in western Molthune and took the crumbling Old Dwarven Road up towards the mountains.
Legends in those hamlets tells of the construction of the road, hundreds of years ago, by indefatigable bands of gruff dwarven labourers, but even dwarven stonework cannot endure the harsh elements without maintenance, and in many places the Old Dwarven Road is little more than a cart track, a rough scar across the landscape littered with crooked stones and deep potholes filled with muddy water from the last of the melting snows.
On the third day you crest the ridge and catch your first glimpse of the Valley through the drizzle. Wide, shallow, and densely forested with hardy broadleaf trees, it stretches for several miles to the east before taking a northward turn and being lost to view. The small streams of the western watershed, swollen with snowmelt, have quickly formed into a fast-flowing river that cuts through the centre of the valley, forming a broad marshy area of low trees and thicket at its centre, before continuing on its way.
At the head of the Valley, on a small spur of rock, almost like a part of the mountain itself, stands the Keep. No flag flies from its tower, no banners hang from its walls. A small side spur of track leads from the main road to its gate, where a portcullis stands open, like a gaping mouth.
The tall, slender man with close cropped black hair and in dire need of a shave was dressed in well-worn, functional clothing and a dark brown cloak.
He really didn't have much to say to those he traveled with, especially if it meant that he would be the on starting the conversation, that being said he really did not try to avoid those he was traveling with. Most of his his responses were short and too the point. As others would introduce themselves, he would simply respond "Lucian." and offer his hand.
Over the past few days it had not been unusual for Lucian to strike out a bit ahead of the caravan, doing his best to keep an open eye for anything or anyone attempting to waylay the caravan.
His mood grew particularly testy when the subject of bandits or raiders would come up as Lucian tried his best to avoid that sort of conversation.
Approaching the Keep, he looks up and matter-of-factly says, "Place doesn't look like much...but at least it looks like they're expecting us."
Ichabod started the trip, in a happy mood. It felt like he was finally doing something with his life... the his normal doldrums set in. He was constantly muttering under his breath about everything. The rain, the cold, the heat, his feet hurt, the sun was too bright and hurt his eyes, but especially the condition of the road. In fact he was just vocalizing one such observation, and kicking a bit of loose masonry, when he heard Lucian speak, and looked up at the keep.
"Just a little upkeep is all it takes. How hard can it be to keep all this hard work from deteriorating into this condition. My ancestors worked day in night to provide this fine road, but then in just a few hundred years, the surface dwellers let it get in this condition".
He then looks up at the Keep and rubs his chin in contemplation. Well be interesting to see what condition that things in up close.
Please dot the discussion thread if you haven't already.
If you have a familiar/animal companion/mount please make sure it is statted up at the bottom of your stat block.
If you are likely to summon anything, please be ready with its stat block in your profile the first time you do - especially if you have Augment summoning or similar shenanigans that force me to remember how it works.
Dai joins the caravan as it paused outside the small monastery to gather some supplies. He pays for his passage and takes his place near the end of the line with some other travellers. Not use to meeting new people, and a little shy, the boy says very little, and usually answers questions in the briefest manner.
Standing a little under 6 feet with a slim build, the boy tucks his medium-length dirty blonde hair up under the hood of his worn cloak. Dressed in sturdy, and new, travelling clothes, Dai is your average young farm boy, with one exception: a 6' long darkwood bow. It draws the eye, as the entire length is carved in a dizzying array of geometric patterns. The dark walnut-stained quiver that rides the youths hip is similarly decorated. An odd looking ax-like weapon is hung by a thong off his belt, and a relatively new pack is secured on his back. On a leather cord around the boy's neck, a shining silver medallion can be seen. It resembles a hand, with fingers splayed open. The craftsmanship is average, at best, but the boy displays it as if it were his most prised possession.
When they come upon the Keep in the distance, he give a shot prayer and readjusts the pack on his back, happy the long, wet journey will soon be over.
Tall and broad of shoulder, the young man who'd given his name as Garrun has the look of a warrior or perhaps a soldier about him. The breastplate beneath his long grey traveler's cloak appears new but he wears it almost as a second skin. The heater shield slung on his back seems well wrought but plain wood, bearing no crest or sigil. His lone sign of allegiance a scarred iron symbol to the war god Gorum slung around his neck by a simple leather cord.
Joining the caravan as it passed through a small town a week past, Garrun spoke little during the first days, preferring to keep company alone. He would awake each morning at days first light and leave the encampment for an hour or more but would always return before the wagons began to roll. Any who followed him would find him in a quiet spot, sword drawn as he worked himself to a lather working through a complex series of combat forms. Aside from his morning commitments, Garrun seemed a wary traveler, keeping his distance at any villages they happened to pass by and avoiding interaction with the locals as much as possible.
The last few days his disposition had changed somewhat. As the last hamlet faded into the horizon, the young traveler seemed to breath easier, a weight lifted from his shoulders. At night he had began eating around the fire with others and striking up pleasant conversation where he had shunned it before.
With the keep finally coming into view, Garrun strides up beside Lucian, squinting into the distance, "I rather like the look of it myself...seems quiet. I hope it's just the wagons and their supplies the residents wait for."
By day Opalia walks gently with her donkey. The animal has no name and she rarely talks to it, simply pushing the beast along when it becomes stubborn. That happens near water or even sometimes in rain.
By day, the elf maiden keeps a wary eye on the plant life as they travel together, occasionally plucking bunches of useful herbs and bright fungi to add to a pannier. Like some of the others, Opalia feels a sense of relief and anticipation at the open road.
By night, she meditates for a watch or so, but doesn't seem to need much sleep and spends the rest of the night chatting openly with whoever is on guard.
Dawn is a time of great importance, for that is when she feeds Sparratt her toad. A thin brown amphibian with several reddish warts on its back.
The only other time that she became involved in the caravan was when one of the young men, Coells, came to her for a horrible splint in his leg. He had been cutting wood and slipped as the trunk fell. By that evening, the man was right as rain, happier still when she declined payment for the service.
Lucian shrugs, hearing Garrun's and Ichabod's comments about the keep. "Don't get me wrong, I've seen worse....I guess I just expected more for some reason. Either way it'll be nice to be off the road and hopefully eat something other than these damned trail rations."
Garrun smiles, his eyes still on the keep ahead, "Aye, nothing like a hot meal to put strength in your arm.", pulling a small hip flask from his belt, he takes a quick sip before offering it to Lucian with a smirk, "And for strength of the heart there's this..."
If accepted, the offered flask smells sweetly of honey and spice.
Finnick and Mr Scruffles were already waiting on the side of the old dwarven road when the caravan came by. Finn knew that the supplies to the old keep pass by this way every so often.
The pair kept high spirits. Offering to help when possibly and taking play breaks to keep their reflexes sharp by playing a game of catch.
Finn and Mr Scruffles both wore studded leather armour and looked ready for a fight even if more of their equipment looked like they were already well used, or second hand perhaps.
The two were inseparable. Or you could say three if you counted Finn's Slingstaff which was made of a dark wood and in pretty immaculate condition. He also had a sword on his hip and a lance. At first people laughed at the idea of a lance being any effect from the back of a dog. But he was used to it so he didn't pay them any heed. ON his left arm he had a buckler as well which had the symbol of a blue paw on it. Needless to say that it had no peticular meaning to the tall folk.
Mr Scruffles was a shaggy dog with long fur. White with black spots, though after a few days travel he was more brown. Fin promised him a good bath once they got to the keep.
Once they got to the rise with the keep in site Finn said. "It's about time."
Lucian takes the flask from Garrun and sniffs at the contents before taking a drink.
"Thanks. Enough of that would certainly summon up a bit of false courage, that's for sure."
"Might I be able to have some of the spiced mead? It smells divine."
The elf maiden reaches out to Lucian for the flask.
"As for the road, it has taken a dozen generations of humans to end up with this condition. I doubt they remember the past the way we do, Ichabod."
Dai stands silently to one side listening to the group of travellers talk. He nods his head in agreement when Garrun speaks of a warm meal.
"Will be nice to be warm and dry again, too." he says quietly, mostly to himself.
Garrun nods his assent with a smile, foreign as the elf maiden might seem to one such as him, she had earned no small measure of goodwill from the young warrior with her expert treatment of the injured caravaner some nights past.
Frowning in thought at the conversation of the elder races, Garrun considers the broken road as it cuts through the hills, "Such a road was surely built by your ancestors to see heavy use.", he gazes back at the small caravan's half dozen wagons, "It would seem the time for such need is long past, no? As such, there would be little for anyone to gain in maintaining it beyond nostalgia. Else I imagine your brothers and sisters would be here still, laying stones. Wouldn't you agree master dwarf?"
The drizzle dies away as the caravan rumbles through the portcullis and into the courtyard of the Keep. The two guards at the gate, pressing themselves against the stonework in their heavy cloaks to avoid the wind, exchange short words of greeting with the caravan master as the wagons pass through. More guards can be seen on the walls above. The discipline and dress of the soldiers is pragmatic and efficient, but there is no sense of urgency. It seems that the Keep is not expecting trouble.
The outer courtyard is obviously home to the Keep’s civilian population, and resembles more a village square than a military base. Inside the walls are numerous two story buildings, mostly shops or workshops with quarters above. A stables and farrier, a blacksmith, a general store, a provisioners, a tailor, a carpenter’s workshop, and what appears to be a pawnbroker, as well as several storehouses. On one side of the square is a roofed well, and most of the other side is given up to animal pens, mostly empty. Chickens fuss underfoot. A narrow gate with another portcullis, guarded by two more soldiers, leads to the inner courtyard.
The caravan halts in front of the Bree-Yark Inn, the only three-storey building in the courtyard, whose shingled roof reaches almost the height of the Keep’s walls. The arrival of the caravan appears to be a big event for the Keep’s residents, many of whom come to the doors of their homes to watch. A few excited children look on in awe.
“Right, get the wagons unloaded and the horses stabled” shouts the caravan master to his drivers. “Then see me for your pay. Then you can get on with spending it on what passes for ale in this place – or other things if you’ve a fancy.”. He gestures with his thumb to the two obvious doxies loitering under the eaves of the inn, and there is ribald laughter from the men.
Turning to the seven travellers who had accompanied the caravan, he says “Right, well here ye are. We rest the horses for a day, and leave the morning after next. I’ll be back in a month, so if’n ye be wanting anything, make sure you places your order before then. Otherwise, good luck to ye. If ye be lookin to enlist, or to get a freesword’s charter, you’ll need to see the Officer in the morning.”
.
Nogrogomed does not mind at all being the last through the gates. He was proud that he worked up the courage to join the caravan, but despite the long travel has learned that earning scars is much easier than social interaction. Very tall, his black unmanaged hair spills from around his wooden mask. Appearing to be carved from a tree with dark colored flesh, the mask is in well-cared-for condition, save for a single rent in the middle of the forehead. Beneath this gap can be seen a bright red brand in the shape of a pentacle, itself surrounded by puckered flesh and scabs. Similar to the mask, Nogrogamed's armor also seems to be made of dark leaves and bark, which is overlapped by a bandolier containing flasks of different shape, size, and description. His arms, hands, and what can be seen of his legs are a covered in scars. Some obvious battle wounds, but others appearing ritualistic or intentional. With his falchion still slung casually over his shoulder, he approaches the caravan master master with a list.
"These supplies would be useful in my experiments. Please take care in transporting them, they can be volatile if handled carelessly."
"Thanks for the information." Lucian says to the caravan master.
Making a bee-line for the what appears the nearest inn or tavern, he says, "Now for a bit of drink and hopefully a hot meal. Anyone care to join me? It's never much fun to drink alone."
Garrun nods his assent with a smile, foreign as the elf maiden might seem to one such as him, she had earned no small measure of goodwill from the young warrior with her expert treatment of the injured caravaner some nights past.
Frowning in thought at the conversation of the elder races, Garrun considers the broken road as it cuts through the hills, "Such a road was surely built by your ancestors to see heavy use.", he gazes back at the small caravan's half dozen wagons, "It would seem the time for such need is long past, no? As such, there would be little for anyone to gain in maintaining it beyond nostalgia. Else I imagine your brothers and sisters would be here still, laying stones. Wouldn't you agree master dwarf?"
Ichabod seems aghast at the reasoning.
"We make stuff that lasts forever, and it's treated like this... oh never mind. If you're not a Dwarf, you wouldn't understand".
He then gives an exasperated sigh, and continues forward.
At the mention of hot food, warmth, and especially Ale, Ichabod's spirits lift immediately.
"Well then. Don't mind if I do. Lead the way".
Ichabod seems aghast at the reasoning.
"We make stuff that lasts forever, and it's treated like this... oh never mind. If you're not a Dwarf, you wouldn't understand".
He then gives an exasperated sigh, and continues forward.
Garrun hardly skips a beat before replying, "возможно, вы будете иметь время, чтобы объяснить это мне в один прекрасный день друг."
The slow smile spreads over the young warrior's face, "I was fortunate enough to apprentice under a dwarven smith for a time.", the tongs and a hammer of a blacksmith's tools can be seen poking out of Garrun's pack, "You and I should trade notes over a pint."
Once inside the keep, Garrun breathes deep, taking in the small village atmosphere with great pleasure. Finding himself staring overly long at the "ladies" gathered under the eaves, the young man shakes his head to clear it with an embarrassed look. Instead he turns back to the caravan master, something the man said piquing his interest, "Pardon? What exactly is a freesword's charter?"
Dai enters the Inn and immediately is overwhelmed by the smell of baked goods and fried meats. Drifting to an empty table the young man removes some coins from his pouch and signals to one of the servers.
HI..ummm...I would like some of that bread I can smell baking, as well as whatever meats you are cooking and a pint of small ale please."
He removes his wet cloak and shakes out his wet hair, letting the warmth of the room seep into his bones.
Finn thanks the caravan master and wishes him safe travels before dismounting and walking side by side with Mr Scruffles. "I really hope we don't have a problem with our usual lodging request hey boy. Whatcha think?" to which a Mr Scruffles groans before snapping at a chicken that wanders too close and chases it off.
With a casual wave and greetings to the people he passes by, Finn and Scruffles enter the inn.
The caravan master patiently answers the group's questions,
On the topic of 'what is a charter?'
"HA! It's a license to mint money for the Castellan, is what it is! Every season there's folk come up here, calling themselves 'freeswords' or 'adventurers' or somesuch. Looking to make their forture slaying monsters and taking their gold. Well, the Castellan will happily tax anything they bring back to the keep at thirty percent. But a charter will reduce that to ten percent for the whole company - up to ten folk! A snip at only five hundred gold - it'll save you thousands when you slay your first dragon, lad!"
On ordering items
"Cash up front for items I wouldn't normally carry. Just in case you gets yourself eaten by a goblin or something, and I can't sell the item.
The common room of the Bree-Yark Inn is dim and cozy, with many pleasant nooks and small tables. A bar stands in one corner, with a few tapped kegs on a shelf, and a dusty display of bottles of wine, various cordials, and flasks of dwarven whisky. Along one side wall a great fireplace blazes, with wooden racks beside it for drying cloaks. The air smells of bread, beer, and wet wool.
The inn is run by a couple - Doris and Joe. It soon becomes clear that there is a division of labour - Doris does pretty much everything, and Joe drinks away the profits behind the bar.
Doris fusses over the new arrivals, taking their cloaks and hanging them to dry, seating them with bowls of steaming stew and fresh bread, while Joe pours the drinks.
"Yes, yes" she flusters, "rooms for everyone, but I has to make them up first - put on fresh sheets and such. You all sit and fill your bellies first, and we'll sort you out rooms. I've only doubles mind, so decide who's sharin' with who."
The stew is terrible, and the ale isn't much better.
Doris views those with companion animals suspiciously. "Is that one o' them family-yars? Well you tell it to behave itself and not go causin' trouble. We had a feller here a few seasons back had one o' them - what did he call it Joe?"
"Soodydragon" calls Joe.
"That's it - soodydragon. Cheeky thing it were. Anyway, I don't want your beasties jumpin' out o' cupboards and scarin' decent folk."
Doris leans close to Nogrogomed. "When the off-duty soldiers start with their name-callin', you just ignore them. They'll be tryin' to get an excuse to start somethin'. We've seen a few soldiers like you comin' through, but there's wild tuskers - 'scue me, orc folk - out there, and a few o' the boys have lost friends to 'em."
"S'cuze me, sorry ma'am, pardon me." Finn says trying to get Doris's attention before she goes off to sort out their rooms. "But I'd like to request that my companion, friend AND advisor..." he says, motioning to Mr Scruffles "...be allowed to share my accommodation. I am willing to pay extra if need be." which he punctuates with a slight jingle to his purse.
If I've learned anything of the tall folk it's that gold speaks to them when words do not.
Doris pulls the sort of face you might expect when Finn suggests that a large, muddy, smelly dog take up residence in one of her rooms.
"I'll get you two pails o' warm water from the kitchen, master halfling, and you take him outside and give him a good wash first. And I better not be findin' any 'accidents' in the corners."
"May I share with you, Sir Lockwood? I'll try not to disturb your discussions with your furry advisor," smiles the high elf.
"..and my dear Mrs Doris could someone look after my donkey while I stay? Is there a useful stablemen here perhaps? Oh dear, all these questions, I have one more too. I wonder if there is an apothecary or herbalist here in the keep?" She finishes shyly.
One delicate hand rests on the counter and the other is straight down her side to keep some distance between herself and anyone nearby, coincidentally that is the scarred half orc at the moment.
Ichabod address the young Warpriest.
"Well since we've got at least a little in common, and you've probably experienced the sound of a drunk dwarf snoring... what say we share"?
"..and my dear Mrs Doris could someone look after my donkey while I stay? Is there a useful stablemen here perhaps? Oh dear, all these questions, I have one more too. I wonder if there is an apothecary or herbalist here in the keep?" She finishes shyly.
"Yes dear, just across the way. Tell the farrier you're lodgin' with me and I'll add the fee to your tab. Rachel at the Provisioner's store collects herbs for usin' in her cheese an' sausages an' pies - maybe she'll have what you want."
Lucian watches on as the travelers pair up for the stay's accomodations.
I'll let them all sort it out...doesn't really matter much I suppose... he thinks to himself as he imbibes another ale.
"I will refrain from starting trouble, ma'am. I'm happy to stay in the bunkhouse and to having a mug with my meal, thank you.
Nogrogamed is lost in thought as he eats
I wonder if there is a safe alchemical means by which a dog can be cleaned. Aromatics could mask the smell, but not remove the grime. Soap and water is not always available and is time consuming. Perhaps some manner of foam or unguent that can be applied that dries quickly, clinging to dirt and sweat, but is heavy enough in its dried state that the animals instinct to shake it off will disperse the agent, grime, and smells alike... if done outdoors, the process could be quick and not require additional clean up. Additional applications for horses and donkeys, with the finer coat and lack of 'shake it off' instinct it could be applied and brushed of by a stable hand. Must be made of reagents that are easy to find and inexpensive so that the convenience is not cost prohibitive to simply using soap and water...
Dai finishes his meal and pays Doris.(2 sp)
"I guess I will take one of the bunks for the night. Can you tell me, is the Castilian still hiring guards? I was told he was recruiting."
What if yur dog is all covered in bog?
Try Nobogadog™!
Stink on yur Purebread yur lookin' to shed?
See Nogrogomed!
Dai finishes his meal and pays Doris.(2 sp)
"I guess I will take one of the bunks for the night. Can you tell me, is the Castilian still hiring guards? I was told he was recruiting."
"Oh, I imagine so, dearie - but really - a young man like you? There's not much glory walking the walls out here. I thought you'd want to be finding glory and adventure to impress the girls?"
Blushing at the innkeepers words, nonetheless Dai's interest is piqued.
"What sort of adventure? I'm not really looking to...ah...impress girls or looking for glory, but if something needs to be done to help protect the people here abouts...well then I might be interested in helping!"
"Well dearie, there's usually one or two groups o' freeswords form up here each season. Most of 'em are lookin' for lost Quasqueton, hoping to find piles o' gold or magic swords or whatnot. They mostly go trampin' around the woods, get ambushed by the goblins, and come away with not much. Now, it seems to me that if they went after the goblins first, then they'd have much less trouble, but what does I know?"
She bustles around clearing tables.
"And if goblins isn't enough for you, there's bandits on the road leadin' up to the dwarven cities - that's why we don't get many dwarf caravans comin' down anymore. And one o' the groups brough back a dead spider from the woods - size of a cow it was - they said they'd seen many more. And Zeke the goatherd swears he saw a dragon down in the Valley. Probably been smokin' that dullweed again, but somethin's been carryin' off the odd goat and sheep."
Ichabod address the young Warpriest.
"Well since we've got at least a little in common, and you've probably experienced the sound of a drunk dwarf snoring... what say we share"?
Garrun nods back to the Cleric, "Aye, though we shall see which of us snores loudest. For now lets see about quieting our stomachs."
Following up on the man's previous offer, the young Gorumite takes a seat next to Lucian while Doris fetches the food and drink. Sighing gratefully as he settles in his chair, Garrun turns to the other man, "End of the road it seems. Staying long?"
When the food arrives, Garrun tucks in immediately, paying little care to the quality. Compared to the gruel he'd forced down in the siege camps, anything seemed palatable. The ale was another matter. The first sip brought a grimace to his angular face, "Ugh...hardly what we need to bring our journey to a close."
Standing, he strides to the bar with purpose, "Joe! Is that a bottle of blackberry cordial I see above the bar? Fetch it down would you. And six, wait, seven glasses if you would."
"I know what you mean - but he would be protecting you and your family. That sounds important to me....unless you know of something more than needs doing around here, Doris?" defends Opalia.
The blackberry cordial is really cheap gin flavoured with blackberries, but it's more palatable than the ale, and watered down will help the stew go down, even though it is expensive at 1 gold per bottle.