Rae listens to the others, but has nothing much to add, distracted as she is by the distant squawking of the bearowlthing.
"I really just want the boy to be at peace."
Solrisa smiles in agreement.
"Me too. And the only way he is going to be at peace is after we bury his bones...then he will be in Pharasma's grace and will no longer worry about this mortal realm. This is the only way to get him his peace. After the bones are buried, they cease to have power over him," Solrisa says confidently.
"Oh, if our souls were tied to our bones forever, that would mean a lot more ghosts and restless spirits, I would think. But thankfully, not," Sol smiles and nods at Tynan.
She begins to dig a new grave. She passes the shovel on to anyone who will take a turn. When the hole is dug, she will lay in the bones, sing her prayer.
Sol finishes her prayer, tossing the last of the dirt upon the grave. She tamps down the soil in a few spots, wondering which kind of flower would best bloom here if she knew anything about flowers.
"Rae, look! We did it!"
With that done, Sol wonders if there is any reason not to return to town as Ascaria wished. She returns the shovel...wondering what to do with the body of the 'bear.
Rae watches, almost pacing as Sol buries the poor boy's bones. She even helps dig the hole when necessary, though she's far from sure this is going to help. "I was sure he said buried with his family, and well, they're not here." She mumbles.
"I don't know much about those bearowl things," she says, as she stalks back towards Feathers. Don't name, it you idiot. You can't keep it.
"Does anyone know what they eat. Besides men, of course."
"I know the chick is worth something, but I don't know to who. Surely there must be someone in town who will pay something for it so we don't need to kill it. We should bring it with. I suppose I can carry it..."
Returning up the path to the farmstead, the processional stumbles upon Feathers resting alongside the dead owlbear on the east side of the building.
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
"[ ... ] After the bones are buried, they cease to have power over him."
... ' guess I'll have to trust her. She seems to know more about this Life/Death thing than me.
"Does anyone know what they eat."
"I don't recall seeing such a Thing before... best to maybe keep Thistle away from It. Maybe we can comfortably slip It into the Mule Cords and I can carry It?"
[ ... ] the processional stumbles upon Feathers resting alongside the dead owlbear on the east side of the building.
Is It mourning, or just hungry?!
He approaches cautiously.
Unless her sister needs help with the 'bear, Sol returns to town. She is unwilling to take on yet another pet at this time and her sister already has two more wolf puppies than jobs.
If Mort needs help, Rae approaches Feathers the baby owlbear cautiously, trying to convince it to come along quietly.
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
"Maybe we can comfortably slip It into the Mule Cords and I can carry It?"
Mort tries to pick the Thing up.
It's reach surprises him, and he drops It as It flails at him.
He instead opts to play "Bad Human" in trying to herd It in the direction "Good Human" Rae is gently coaxing It.
As Mortimer reaches down to pick up Feathers, its large eyes open at the giant's hands, and it focuses on the human now touching it. As Mortimer lifts it from the ground, it does, in fact, flail. Not at Mortimer directly, but more to secure itself on its own two rear paws.
With Raella's guidance, she handles Mortimer quickly enough to avoid irritating the fledgling-cub a second time, indicating its desire for independent ambulation.
It becomes apparent, after a short while, that shooing the creature fails to produce the desired effect of herding it. When Mortimer begins to step back, Feathers follows. Where Mortimer goes, so does Feathers. The fledgling-cub does so quietly, occasionally screeching when Mortimer moves too quickly for it to keep its closeness.
The young owlbear Feathers has imprinted on Mortimer.
The trip back to Diamond Lake is otherwise uneventful, as such things can be with a young owlbear in-tow.
"Awwww... it likes you, Mort. Just walk slow enough for it to follow and it should be ok." Rae chortles at Mort's new role as Mama bird. Poor man, doesn't know what he's in for.
Sol walks with her sister back to Diamond Lake, wondering what she is going to do with the 'bear.
When Sol gets back, she visits the smith (hopefully with Mort) to discern the value of the iron balls and a potential market for 128k of them.
"So..." Sol says with a brilliant smile and a heave of her impossibly perfect breasts. "...how much are iron balls like this worth? I have come into a LOT of them and wish to sell."
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AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
Why me? Don't turn around. Don't look. There's nothing to see. Surely it's wandered off.
Screeeeeeech!
Foo. Dance, right, right, duck left, right to kidney, stay outside the hook -- left left left jab to jaw, duck.
As Mortimer walks with the others back to Diamond lake, he shows zero interest in the creature that is following him. He does however, pause to practice boxing moves everytime It screeches at him for getting too far ahead -- which allows It to catch up with the group.
When the arrive in town, he looks behind him and is appalled to see the creature still there, scratching and pecking at the small stones in the road.
He shifts the Mule Cords around his shoulders for maximum effect, then turns to Rae -- unable to hide the look of sad helplessness on his face.
"Uh..."
He scratches the back of his head, his ears burning from embarrassment.
"Unless you have any better idea, I guess I'll go see if I can secure this uh... Thing at Faraday's stables."
His expression morphs into one of profound regret and sorrow at the potential prospect of having to spend all night with It at the stables.
Damnit. This isn't at all what I had in mind for this evening.
"I'd really rather check in at the Smith's -- with Sol, then maybe accompany Ascaria around town, maybe visit the Emporium if there's time. Do you know about these Rae?" he says, gesturing in the general direction of the Owlbear. "Why is it following me? Do you think I can just leave It for awhile with ground up food, jerky and bedding?"
He checks his pockets for money, but they are clearly empty.
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Rae shakes her head ruefully, though more than a little humor dances in her eyes, "I would offer to do it for you, Mort, but it seems pretty tied to you. If you tried to leave it, it might throw a temper tantrum. I would hate to see it killed before we can find a buyer for it. Maybe you can dance walk it on up to the Smith's with you. " she offers helpfully. "I'll even go with you, to watch the mayhem unfold to help, if it gets upset."
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
Bring It with?! I guess I'll have to since I have no coin anyway.
"I'll even go with you, to help, if it gets upset."
"Ok, Rae. Thanks."
He looks at Feathers dejectedly, trying to determine if It's getting at all sleepy or hungry. With Its huge eyes, the young Owlbear stares back vacuously providing Mortimer with no insight whatsoever.
...I'm not cut out for this.
He gauges the diameter of the Owlbear's neck and ties a well proportioned loop into a rope. He then gently slips the rope around Feather's head, keeping it loose with a fair amount of slack.
Hopefully this will at least give people the impression that It's docile.
"Osgood's. This way."
He leads the way to the Smithy.
As they approach, he tries to hand the end of the rope "attached" to Feathers to Rae.
"I'll stay near It, but if something spooks It, I think you might have a better chance of handling It than I."
Through the door is a large open space with a high ceiling. Dotted around the space are eight workspaces. In the center is one large forge. In one corner is a second smaller but much brighter forge. There are several people here working, and Mort points them out one by one.
"Sol, Rae -- everyone -- that's Teth, Simon, Ernaut, Wyon, Esobel, Danyll and that -- ", he gestures with his head to the young man in front of the forge in the corner, "-- that's Aesur. Mr. Osgood is the proprietor behind the counter there with the other customers."
He brings everyone to the counter.
"Hello Mr. Osgood, I've brought some customers. They've found something that might be of use to us." No, don't look at the BirdThing. It's not the BirdThing.
"Sol, show Mr. Osgood what you found!" he says enthusiastically, making his way to his workspace, which luckily isn't too far away from Feathers. He scatters some things around with his good arm and pretends to look busy while keeping his attention on the Owlbear and the transaction that is about to take place.
Tynan falls back from the others on the return trip, as he attempts to follow the tracks of the grave-robbers after they fled from the farmstead.
"I'll meet up with you all tomorrow morning, ideally with more information."
"Sol, show Mr. Osgood...
Sol smiles at the introduction from Mort.
"So..." Sol says with a brilliant smile and a heave of her impossibly perfect breasts. "...how much are iron balls like this worth? I have come into a LOT of them and wish to sell."
As the group approaches Diamond Lake, the east branch of the Vein comes into view, and Osgood's is the first focus encountered, separating Raella, Solrisa, Mortimer, and Feathers from the rest.
Tynan excuses himself, trying to separate a specific set of wheelbarrow tracks from an ever-complicating road linking the smelting house to the various mine transports.
Ascaria escorts Pillette to Memorial Square, where he also excuses himself to begin several hours' worth of gathering information. Pillette nods politely, and enters Lazare's only after straightening her attire.
The tracks almost fade from detection, as you pass Osgood's. As you approach the first intersection beyond the smithy, you find the task a little more difficult, as you slow your pace. You can sense folks looking you over as you continue your studies.
The indoor temperature changes abruptly, as you filter into the smithy. It's not wholly uncomfortable, and those present seem well within their element, workers and customers alike.
As Mortimer makes introductions, the various apprentices make their gestures of acknowledgment, all save Aesur, who continues his work without giving into distraction. The apprentice Wyon breaks away from his work, meeting Solrisa at the counter with a missing-toothy grin.
"Osgood gives us permission to step away from our work when we need a drink, and my aren't you something for my eyes to drink up!" His eyes flick over to Osgood, but he seems to find cocky reassurance in Osgood's current preoccupation with a red-bearded man and his gangly son.
At this moment, Feathers finds its stride, tugging away from Mortimer, and using its already-pronounced claws to climb the support beams to take up roost on the rafters. It occasionally wanders along a rafter to keep Mort in its line-of-sight.
Osgood finishes his sale, the father and son leaving with several household items, as well as a breastplate that seems to make the son smile, but looks more likely to fit the father.
The smithy owner takes in Mortimer with a raised eyebrow, pointing soundlessly at the thing up in the rafters, currently defecating onto a brazier. The hissing and unmistakable smell begins to gain strength.
"I see you've been... busy." The bushy mustache conceals all lip movement. "So. You're Rae, and you're Sol. Nice to meet you."
"So... how much are iron balls like this worth? I have come into a LOT of them and wish to sell."
Osgood hefts the iron with a meaty hand, then hands it back. "That's... certainly well-crafted. Feels like it's been polished for purpose. And you have a good amount, eh?" Osgood looks over at Mort, then continues. "Could pay you a silver for this and the rest of what you've got. How much you got, exactly?" He looks over the counter, expecting to see a backpack or something similar.
As you make your way around town, you find it easier to run down information regarding the names on the wall of the cairn, largely from the taverns, and the General Store. The initial reactions all share a tinge of suspicion, as you echo names of children long considered missing/dead. You are waved off several times out of disgust for your lack of respect, in the eyes of much older citizens of Diamond Lake, for it is they alone who make the connections for you. 'Tabitha' is easy enough, as her recent disappearance is confirmed by several sources, roughly six years ago. 'Bridgette', fourteen years ago. 'Mel' or 'Melver' as is deduced by Taggin, owner of the General Store, who happens to have been a classmate of Melver's up until he disappeared twenty-five years ago. 'Stevie''s name almost gets you thrown out of the Spinning Giant, as you upset Rosalee, his mother and head server. You don't get a number of years missing for him.
It takes you well into the evening before you gain traction with the miners themselves, as they begin to populate the taverns. Considering the Spinning Giant is largely a garrison haunt, you eventually find yourself among a better concentration of miners in the Feral Dog. As you begin your inquiry, you rouse several tables into laughter, as the drinkers picture a one-armed miner. That quickly degenerates into jokes about names for poor souls without legs and arms... "What do you call a man without arms and legs, left outside your door...? Matt! Har Har Har!!!" That continues painfully for quite a while.
An hour or so into your conversations, you feel a rough tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you find yourself face-to-face with Kullen, an albino half-orc with a reputation for a dark temper. He leans in, to make sure you hear him above the raucous sounds of the bar. "One-armed, you say? Stop talking to the drunks, I'll introduce you. Follow me." The tattoo on his forehead is very familiar.
He waves you towards the back, past the bar, and he starts to head downstairs into the basement.
Tynan mutters, just loud enough to be heard "Lazare will have my head if I don't find it...", and feigns that he doesn't notice the attention. He continues to scour the roadway for any sign of the wheelbarrow's passage.
Well, i guess I shouldn't be surprised that I lost track of a wheelbarrow in a mining town...
Tynan decides to spend his evening visiting the Rusty Bucket, Hungry Gar, and the Feral Dog.
Perhaps if I'm lucky I'll overhear someone talking about an owlbeast attack... the scene certainly looked likely to lead to a bout of drinking and forgetting.
"Could pay you a silver for this..."
Solrisa arches an eyebrow matched by a crooked smile.
"*A* silver? One? For this?" Solrisa smiles, her personality oozing forth. "Each one of these could be crafted into a longsword true, or a falcata...each worth 80 to 180 times the value. And you would offer me *a* silver each?"
Sol smiles.
"We might have enough for you to clad his city in such iron. But not for *a* silver. It's hardly worth my time to bring them to you."
Diplomacy
- - -
Ascaria sees the symbol on the half orcs forehead and alarm bells start ringing...
...and are quickly silenced.
He must've been a part of the organization we seek back in the day. Surely he'll know something!
Ascaria gets excited as he walks past the bar to go down the dark stairwell. As he passes the bartender, he shouts loudly enough to be heard over the din,
Happily Ascaria continues on.
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
The smithy owner takes in Mortimer with a raised eyebrow, pointing soundlessly at the thing up in the rafters [...]
Mortimer immediately dons mitts and grabs the brazier the Owlbear cub defecated into, flinging the contents that aren't completely incinerated into the forge Aesur is working. He then replaces the soiled brazier with a fresh brazier and hurls the soiled brazier into the laydown yard almost simultaneously.
He nonchalantly returns to his "work", pausing only to surpress a gag reflex as Wyon makes his move.
"I see you've been... busy." The bushy mustache conceals all lip movement.
Is Oh Esobel! What do you see in him? Why do you even ... even want to be with him? He feels an almost uncontrollable urge to shave again. He momentarily gets lost in a daydream, woken by the sound of claws on wood -- the painful reminder of the existence of his latest charge.
"...And you have a good amount, eh?" Osgood looks over at Mort,
Mortimer meets his gaze and nods gravely once.
"*A* silver? One? For this? [...]"
Mortimer quietly approaches the counter subtlely hip-checking Wyon, ejecting him out back toward his station.
"Actually, Mr. Osgood said for that -- and the rest."He picks up one of the iron balls and examines it.
"*A* silver? What is it, Mr. Osgood? Is it not pure enough? Would it cost more for us -- or anyone else -- to refine it for actual use? The rest isn't exactly easy to get to, either. We'd have to take the cost of that into consideration as well."
He looks at Sol apologetically. "Maybe it is more work than it's worth."
You find the Rusty Bucket charming enough. Within, green stained-glass windows filter eerie light into the main dining room, where the intertwining melodies of a trio of pipers enhance an ethereal atmosphere. Guests dine in a large common room, with a handful of nicer tables situated in a roped-off area beside the main dining hall. The far table, on a raised platform overlooking the private room. In short, the Rusty Bucket is hardly the congregation site of Diamond Lake miners.
The Hungry Gar hosts a number of miners, although none sport the one-armed tattoo from your initial studies. The miners here seem genuine in their desire for a good meal, and keep their conversations to an acceptable level. No one speaks on owlbear or amputation.
The Feral Dog, well... As your final destination, the festivities are quite raucous by the time you arrive. The dog pit is still quiet, as it usually ends the evening most nights. A slapping contest is underway at the bar, the goal to swallow a huge gulp before the blow can force it from the mouth in a burst of spew. A sleek elf challenges all comers to best her in a dagger toss, going so far as to flirt and pout to engage those hesistant to be bested. She lets stand a goodly stack of coin on a stool by her side, and wiggles her finger at those eyeing it too long. Here, like elsewhere, the conversations fail to yield speak on your topic of interest. But the night is still young.
"It's hardly worth my time to bring them to you."
"Maybe it is more work than it's worth."
Osgood looks back and forth between the two, debating how to continue. "Well, I already told you that iron is well-crafted. I can't figure how you'd come by it. Sol here seems to know well enough about blacksmithing to tell me my job, so tell me, what would you say is a fair trade for your balls? I have a steady supply from the smelting house, so I'd hope your iron is cheaper, of course." The stocky man has smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he seems interested to continue the conversation.
Ernaut cuffs Wyon as the younger one returns to the bellows, while Esobel snorts derisively.
The basement of the Feral Dog is considered premium seating for the dogfights, but at present, it hosts only two- you and Kullen. The noise of the floorboards above forces you to concentrate a little on the low, growling voice of the half-orc. The light shining from the first floor through the dogpit circle observation hole is enough for your eyes to adjust to the darker environs.
"Huh. Look at that. And I was sure he was down here. Oh well, while we're here, why don't you tell me why you're asking around, eh?" A tear drips down the half-orc's face, from the eye that doesn't seem to blink.
"Well, we were out at this farm when we heard some screeching. Turns out it was a big damn owl bear. Have you seen them! They're huge! Bigger even then you, if you don't mind me saying so sir. Yep, bigger than you."
"Where was I, oh yeah, so anyway, we kill the thing, nasty fight, and we're checking out the farmhouse. Mort, he's a big guy like you, well good old Mort finds some bloody tracks leading off into a little wooded copse.”
”We found an arm there dude. Can you imagine it?! An arm! Looks like a few other folk ran into a PAIR of owlbears. Two! They killed one and ran off - or were pushed off - by the other. Anyway, we killed it, so the dude could go back and get his arm if he wanted it for something.”
”I’m a healer you know, but I couldn’t hope to put the man’s arm back on. That’s beyond my skills you know? But I thought he’d want to know that the critter that might’ve just taken it is dead.”
”Oh, and they took some bones from a little graveyard there. Just a family that died a few years back of the plague. But we’d like those bones back you know? Be willing to pay for ‘em we would - we just want to see the folks buried with their kin and all.”
”Say… why do you care so much?”
Sol smiles, understanding. She believes the man in his entirety.
"Oh! Oh, okay! If you can get good iron like this for 1sp per 4lbs or so, that's pretty good. No wonder you're able to hire so many workers!" Sol flashes a sincere smile. "Forgive my interruption. I'll just forget the entire thing. I'll keep this one as a souvenir."
Sol thanks the man and readies to depart.
Kullen frowns for most of the soliloquy. His facial expressions shift. As you elaborate, he attempts to look stoic, and he is mostly successful. When you mention willingness to pay, he begins to raise his hand, almost in a hushing gesture.
"Say... why do you care so much?"
"I don't like folks asking around on my friends. You're talking about Skutch. Pharasma bring him peace. Never should have set out for that farm. You need to stop asking your questions. Not good for your health."
[ooc]Diplomacy Roll, please.[ooc]
”Look, I’ll stop asking around about Skutch, may he rest in peace, but what of the bones they stole? Do you know where they might be? I really want to bury them back where they came from. I don’t like the restless dead…”
Tynan passes the time at the Feral Dog with a drink, and studying the elven woman who seems to be garnering a great deal of attention.
To determine who she is.
To determine if she is somehow cheating.
To spot anything out of the ordinary about her or her daggers.
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
As Sol turns from the counter readying to depart and Rae glowers, Mortimer can't help but slam the counter in frustration with his hand palm down.
He whispers to Osgood:
"Balls! Sorry Mr. Osgood. As enthusiastic as they are about them, they're busting mine."
Aloud he says: "Excuse us Mr. Osgood, just give us a little bit to talk." He motions to Rae to follow and swiftly crosses the room to intercept the leaving Sol.
Trying to gather them into a huddle around him, he whispers:
"He's offered 1sp per item -- which is ridiculous. The going rate is 2sp per pound of iron. Mr. Osgood probably pays more because the smelting house -- with all of its overhead -- needs to make a bigger profit. So what do you ladies think is a fair price for what we found? Just make him a counter offer if you like!"
He adds, sheepishly pulling on his cowlick, "I'd do it, but I'm still trying to sort out if it's some sort of conflict of interest for me to barter in this manner with my employer."
Sol smiles at Mort.
"Oh Mort! Don't worry about it. He said what he'll pay...there are other smiths around to whom I can see if they want the iron. Maybe I'll take it to the smelting house! They can pass it off at cost to whomever buys it!"
Her name is Tirra, a beautiful elven woman, second only to Purple Prose in the elven community of Diamond Lake. She is one of two companions of Khellek, recent patron of Lazare's House. The Feral Dog seems much more suited to her entertainment. You're able to study her without drawing her attention. Then again, all of her attention seems lavished on those who step up to challenge her in the dagger toss. She seems to wave off all offers of drink.
She seems quite proficient with her blades, hitting her mark with ease. The daggers are symmetrical, and all black, both the metal and the handle.
"Oh! Oh, okay! If you can get good iron like this for 1sp per 4lbs or so, that's pretty good. No wonder you're able to hire so many workers!"
Osgood frowns briefly. "Well, now. I never said I'm supplied with iron like this for a price like that. But a man can dream, can't he, and I can certainly start my offers as I desire. When you're willing to share with me your asking price, I'll listen to you, sweetie."
"It does sound like the man already has his own supply. This is good. We can wait until his supply runs out, and then bring these back when the demand is greater. That saves my back anyway."
As Raella steps up alongside her sister, Osgood smiles uncomfortably at her, and the rope dangling listlessly at her side. "As long as Vulgan runs a tight ship, that's unlikely." He pats his hands awkwardly, then turns to his apprentices and barks out encouragement.
"Maybe I'll take it to the smelting house! They can pass it off at cost to whomever buys it!"
Osgood looks over, and points in the direction of the Smelting House. "Tell Benazel I said hello, would you?"
The words. You can almost see the moment when your side of the conversation tips a scale behind Kullen's eyes. As his brows furrow, his fist clenches, then slams into the bridge of your nose, snapping bone.
"You're gonna stop asking questions. You're gonna forget about Skutch, forget about bones. I hear you keep asking around, I won't be so civil next time."
Kullen leaps the stairs to the landing, then slows his pace to walk the rest of the stairs casually enough. Just outside your sight, you hear a chuckle from across the room.
Sol thanks the man for his time again and appreciates his words of support. She leaves the shop a'whistle.
"Oh Rae, I thought I had some good coin for you, but I was wrong. No worries, though. We'll find you a job that you can do soon enough."
Sol places the iron ball in her pouch.
Unless there is further need for her with Feathers or other, she returns home to bathe and tend to her armor and weapons.
He casts Light on his hairpin and looks to the darkness. ”Kullen doesn’t know me very well. I’m going to have to get a helmet. Who are you?”
He wrenches his nose back into place.
A wiry man, brown flat-top and angry acne, slips into your sight as he passes you to gain the stairs. He pauses before he ascends to follow Kullen.
"Who me? Aw, just Kullen's guardian angel. You know, in case you knew the Weaves. We know about your healing, just didn't know what you'd do if cornered. Should have warned you about that last step. Folks are falling on their face all the time. You should get that looked at."
The man snorts to himself, and is gone shortly thereafter.
The man's face is hard to forget, as well as his association with Kullen and several others. His name is Todrik. The names Rastophan and Merovinn come to mind as well.
You eventually see Kullen, the albino half-orc, and his associate come up from the basement. A short time later, Ascaria joins the rest of you on the first floor, looking a little worse for wear with an obvious reddened nose.
Ascaria gingerly touches his nose to ensure it's in the right spot.
"Yeah. Thanks." he says without guile or sarcasm.
He follows him up the stairs, careful to dispel his light before reaching the main bar so as not to brighten the room.
He walks up to the publican and orders a drink to sooth his painful face.
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
"When you're willing to share with me your asking price, I'll listen to you, sweetie."
Assuming the ladies are far too insulted by the initial "offer" to continue negotiating, Mortimer doesn't interfere with their departure. As Sol and Rae leave, Mortimer slowly turns his head toward Osgood and looks at him reproachfully.
Idiot. Why'd you have to lowball it like that? Maybe that overzealous moustache actually sprouts from an organ in your head that qualifies for actual brains in real people.
Wordlessly, he retrieves the rope "attached" to Feathers, and takes his leave.
~
Now what? he wonders, with a very large chickcub, empty stomach and empty pockets.
He slowly makes his way across town along The Vein toward Faraday's.
Manlin seems relieved when you gather Feathers, who glides down from the rafters with little encouragement.
The walk to the Lakeside Stables, or Faraday's on the casual reference, you are treated to several gasps and sidelong stares. The gasps are new, and likely directly related to Feathers's presence.
Arryn, one of the stable hands, approaches the big man, a weary look on her face. Her eyes dart quickly to Feathers as the creature screeches upon entrance to the musky interior of the stables.
"Afternoon, sir. Are you in need of our... 'second-to-none stable services' today? I don't see any horses with you."
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
Mortimer turns to Feathers as it squawks and gently says "Hush."
"I don't see any horses with you."
"Aw, are the stables just for horses? See -- I work down over at the Smith's, but I ran into this -- uh -- creature, and It won't stop following me. I was looking for temporary housing for It until I can find a buyer and proper home for It. Would it be possible for me to work here -- cleaning the stables or whatever's needed -- for a bit of space tonight? I intend to stay with It to keep It from bothering anything or anyone."
He pretends to stretch in order to flex and show off a little muscle, but frowns slightly when his stomach takes the opportunity to growl, sounding not too much unlike a leopard.
...Probably gonna have to "borrow" some food, too.
Tynan gestures at Canary to join him away from the bar.
"What happened to you?"
He tries to look down at his nose, crossing his eyes and screwing up his face for a better look. "Does it look bad? I'm pretty sure I broke it so I'll likely be all black and blue tomorrow. It throbs a little, but only really hurts if I touch it, so I've been avoiding that."
"I met Kullen. He's just in mourning and I caught him at a bad time. Made kind-of a mess of my face though. I hope to hunt him down tomorrow and see about making amends if I can."
"Enough about me though - what'd you find in your hunt? Anything to talk about? Where are the others? Too late for them? I was just about to head off to bed myself."
He orders another round for himself and Tynan.
"I had no luck trying to track the wheelbarrow... I lost it amongst all the cart tracks here in town. I've not heard anyone talking about a owlbeast attack in the several places I've stopped."
Tynan takes a drink, and studies Ascaria's bruised nose. "Did Kullen do that to you? What did you say to him to make him attack you? I haven't seen the others since they headed off to the smithy to try and sell Sol's balls."
"I'll find something else to do, Sol. Have you considered making something out of the balls? You could cast some of your sculptures in iron. If only you knew someone who knew about such things."
She arches a brow at Mort. "What about you, Mort. You know anything about working in iron?"
Rae continues on with Mort to the stable, interested in seeing how they handle Feathers.
Arryn listens as Mortimer lays out his proposition. "I, uh, don't think I'm the one you should be asking, since it's no horse you're holding. Hold on." She excuses herself, and returns a short while later with a portly half-elf, who is walking and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You had best not be wasting my time, Arryn..."
The man pulls up short, as he rounds the partition fully. "Well, what do we have here? Arryn, you done your job here, now make sure the spayed mare is fed. Off with ya, now." Arryn makes her way with a brief nod, allowing the man to pay full attention.
"Name's Lanch. I understand you're trying to sell it? I can help. I'll need to bring it with me, so leave it here, and you can collect what I can get for it, less my small fee, in the morning. Sound good?"
"I think he sort of wanted me to stop asking around about it. And for now I'll respect his wishes, poor guy. He's really hurting. It's late anyway and we've had a very long day. I think I'm gonna turn in." he finishes his small beer with a last swig.
"We should meet somewhere for breakfast and sort out what we're doing next. How about the Hungry Gar again? We can meet, say at 10am. I want to sleep in."
In a hushed tone, as he studies Kullen across the room, Tynan whispers to Ascaria. "Wait... you're saying he KNEW the graverobbers? I'm starting to have very bad feelings about this whole situation."
Tynan downs the rest of his drink, and recalls all he can about the people involved.
"I think you're right about heading home. I'll walk you back to your place, in case Kullen isn't finished beating on you, and we can meet in the morning to talk more."
"Have you considered making something out of balls?"
Sol smiles, considering with wide open eyes.
"Oh, I dunno, Rae. You know how you feel about banging...I don't expect you'll like a forge and an anvil in the room any more than you like the sound of chisel on stone. At least there I can minimize the clanking. Are you sure you want me to explore the iron ball medium?" Sol asks, thinking things through very carefully.
"Mort? How much do anvils cost? Because I'm going to need one if I'm going to be banging about in our room, I think."
"Ugh! No, I didn't think of that. I doubt the Kilterfesche's are going to appreciate the banging much either." Rae grimaces, imaging the reaction of the crabby couple that own their rented rooms.
"We would have to find somewhere else for you to work." With every word her glower grows darker. The Smith's would have been perfect.
She looks at Mort with a frown, "I don't suppose you know somewhere else that might work?"
AC 17, 21 on AoO; 10/19 HP
BAB = +3 (level 2)
ToHit = 1d20+7
RHit = 1d20+7-2
LHit = 1d20+7-2
Fort+3 Reflex+4 Will+1
Initiative+2
CMD = 18, 17 if flat footed
"What about you, Mort. You know anything about working in iron?"
Surprised to find the Twins still just outside the Smith's, he stares at Rae and Sol blankly for a few seconds -- his mind still sorting through the disasterous encounter they just left. He shrugs and says simply, "Of course," and starts heading for the stables.
"Mort? How much do anvils cost?"
"I don't suppose you know somewhere that might work?"
Banging? Balls? I do hope they're enjoying themselves. Why me? What could I have done to deserve this?
He looks at Sol and decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. Again.
"With enough iron -- you could make one. I know where to find some. Maybe that should be your first project. Make an anvil. You'll also need a forge. I know where to find one or two of those too. It needs to be hot -- super hot. Hot enough that your hair on your back will singe when you're not facing the forge and your face will become so parched it'll bleed from the cracks that form because of the inferno before you,"his eyes start to get a little misty,"--and water evaporates before it ever hits your tongue when you try to relieve your skin and quench your thirst."
He looks at her shaking his head and pointing to her various golden braids, "This will not do. This'll go up in flames instantly."
Under the assumption Sol has an imagination, he pauses a second to let all of that imagery ripen.
"Unless of course -- you're already hardened to the extremes. It takes years to build up the endurance, and most apprentices don't last."
Shooting a apologetic look at Rae, he resumes his forward mobility toward the stables adding, "Your sister said you should work with balls. Maybe you could just leave them as balls and do something with balls."
~
Mortimer's stomach growls again as the portly half-elf swings into view.
"Name's Lanch. I understand you're trying to sell it? I can help."
An uncomfortable feeling settles down on Mort as he sizes up the stable proprietor.
"Really? Lanch -- because I thought it was Lance. It is Lance, isn't it?"
Has he been drinking?
"Anyway -- have you dealt with these before? I'm not sure I can just walk away from the Thing without It throwing a tantrum. No one wants that. Do you know anything about avoiding that? I am indeed interested in selling It. How much did you say you can get for It, and how much is your fee?" He tries to conceal his wavering distrust fully aware that the man has not disclosed any information about the potential transaction over the young Owlbear.
Sol smiles at Mort as he explains things she doesn't understand.
"Oh, build an anvil? I'll think about that. Rae and I will need to discuss more. Sounds like fun, doesn't it, Rae?"
Sol touches her hair as Mort mentions it vanishing.
"My hair is my hair and it will grow back, not that I need it if I'm doing art," Sol says seriously, as if her looks mattered to her more than her work. They don't.
"Sounds like my hair would just be in the way anyway, what with the clanking and the ringing and all," Sol agrees.
"This will be something for my sister and I to discuss tonight!"
Unless Sol is needed, she will return home to bathe and clean and begin work on a new dragonchess set: of owlbears.