As the music comes to a ear-blistering crescendo, Keane bellows with mirth, fueled by wine and song. He sees Mors poking his head up from the gathering crowd. He gestures to the man with his empty jug.
"Keep! Moor wain! Aulis joog plee iness meekin me thirs'y!"
Lureene looks at him, thinking for a moment. "Well, we could use a waiter, I guess. I'm the only waitress here, and any help is needed. But my boss has disappeared for the moment. Well he'll show up soon.
"In the meantime, have one on the house."
"I am indebted for your kindness, Mistress. A modest port would be appreciated almost as much as learning your name. And..." leaning in to speak more closely as if flirting, "if you could shed any light on the strange unease I sense here..."
Feldus blinks and stares where he thought the barkeep had been earlier. He was there! His nose kept twitching in response. Hmmm, maybe he was a master of illusions. Better see what is going on down there, if I know Lureene, she probably has the crowd charmed, literally. Wonder how I can turn this to my advantage.
He gathers his wits and washes his face with some scented water, but the smell still lingers, despite the best effort to get rid of it, the price he paid. He then slinks down the stairs to the common area, where the party was happening.
"I am indebted for your kindness, Mistress. A modest port would be appreciated almost as much as learning your name. And..." leaning in to speak more closely as if flirting, "if you could shed any light on the strange unease I sense here..."
Lureene leans in closer to him, allowing her fragrance to overwhelm his senses. She whispers in his ear, "I have a feeling you will find out shortly."
Lureene leans in closer to him, allowing her fragrance to overwhelm his senses. She whispers in his ear, "I have a feeling you will find out shortly."
Years of monk self-discipline (and the inescapable conclusion that she is way out of his league) enables Rath to turn his attention from the attractive barmaid to her ominous words. Although the... is that jasmine? scent of her reminds him of fall in Jalmeray.
"Thank you, again. I'll speak with the barkeep about that job." Rath ambles toward the bar, taking the opportunity to loosen up his muscles and scan the crowd for whatever 'trouble' is about to appear.
Feldus walks into the common area, and feels all the eyes turning towards him, some with hostility, and some with curiosity. He feels a sliver of fear in his gut, but it is nothing he hasn't felt before. He does notice Lureene talking to a mewcomer, a monk by the looks of him. The others, he believes he can handle, including the little goblin. As long as they did not gang up on him. He knows he has limited time before he needs to check in with his 'buddies'.
He causally saunters over to the bar, provoking a glare from the demon lady. Damn, even her glares were hot enough to stir the blood of a saint!
He ignores her and turns to the newcomer, asking, "So, you the new waiter? got any grub left?"
From jasmine to dead meat, this place has curious odors...
"No, friend. Actually, I'm looking for a meal myself and skint broke. That pretty maid suggested that I might be able to work here for a meal or two. I figure it will be drudge work - I'm not pretty enough to wait on folks." He plants a crooked smile on his ugly face but is evaluating if this character is 'trouble'.
Sense Motive:
Arryn notices that something is wrong, but has no idea where it's coming from or on whom the trouble is centred. He thinks about getting something more to drink, but thinks better of it for the time being. He sits down at his table and eats his food.
Biter watches Mors and the Bat Woman rush from the room, then turns and shrugs to Amber with the Goon. "Apparently we'sing being done talking. Biter is hoping Amber has'ings a nice rest."
And with that, he leaves, drawing the door closed behind him. With the horrible screeching coming from downstairs, Biter thinks about going down to investigate, his fatigue and wine haze get the best of him however, and he shuffles down to the end of the hall and finds his usual room. Not bothering to light a candle, he removes his backpack, pulls from within it a set of small bells wrapped in cloth. Biter carefully places the bells precariously on the edge of the door handle, and when he's confident they're in place appropriately, he staggers over to his cot and flops down, only managing to pull the long blade off his back before he is snoozing.
Olivier senses that the time for singing is winding down. He attempts to make a smooth decrescendo and segue into a nice ending - which, since he lacks any actual musical talent, ends up sounding like a screeching sudden stop.
"'Tis growin' late here in Limboooooooooooo.
The time for drinkin's at handddddddddddddddd.
But next time ye wanna get crazyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,
Just call for the Brave Limbo Banddddddddddddddddddddddd!
Thankee, thankee. And let's hear it for the boys," the old man then gestures to the washboard-wielding lad and the jug-blowing dwarf.
"We're here all week - and be kind to your servers... heeee heeee heeeeeeeee!"
Realizing eventually that most of the folks in the bar aren't laughing with him, Olivier finally stops giggling and looks around the room. Despite what he assumes was glorious entertainment, it seems clear that not everyone is relaxed.
Greatly relieved to discover that it wasn't his music that was the source of much of the heavy mood in the room, he reaches for his weathered old satchel and puts the squeezebox back inside.
"And to wrap a lovely and festive evening appropriately, it seems to me that one thing yet remains. Friend Mors, if you and your sublimely attentive staff would be so kind, I would like to purchase a round of drinks for all... my new friends, enjoy!"
Spoon a'flyin' and boots a'stompin', Thom lets the music carry his eyes around the room full of people abiding their impromptu symphony. His eyes come to light on the small social play at the entrance involving the beautiful Lureene, a thin pale man, and a new-comer in strange clothing. Something odd strikes him about the conversation, and his instincts take over. He reaches out with his emotions , searching for seeds of violence, fear, and hatred.
He'll try to keep all this concern from being apparent, but then again, he's always been a pretty transparent guy.
The joy of the moment ebbs from his face as he watches the three near the bar. And it is only then that he notices that the old codger has stopped singing, and he's the only one still playing.
Olivier leans over to Thomdril...
"Don't worry yourself overmuch, my young friend. With some practice, we'll tighten up those endings!"
A bright crimson blooming on the youth's suntanned cheeks, "No problem, Old Timer, some mighty fine caterwaulin', if i do say so myself." He slides the washboard back into his pack, tosses the spoon on the nearest table, shakes the old man's hand hard enough to shake his entire frame, then slides over to the table with the young Arryn, who he sees is also watching the three at the bar.
"How should I know? I just woke up!"
"Then let me buy ya breakfast. Two ales over here! Hair o' the dog that bit ya' and all that, eh?"
He rubs the nasty old scar that runs from hairline to jaw on his face, "Somethin' just don't feel right here."
With the acoustic abomination at an end, Keane returns to his wine. He leans back in his chair, feet propped up on the edge of the table, and begins hurling darts once again in the direction of the dartboard.
Two of the darts miss wildly, flying close to Olivier and Lureene (and anyone near them).
"Oooof! Soooree!"
The silly old man watches as the errant dart wanders past his head, his eyes following the missile all the way until its flight ends with a quivering thunk in the wall.
Suddenly, Olivier's eyes open wide and he starts frantically digging in his worn-out bag once again, muttering wildly...
"Balistic trajectory decay... why didn't I think of that before!?!?? If I factored in the gradient sloping of random catatonic splintering..."
The old man pulls out his charcoal stylus and starts scribbling again on his table top.
1d20 + 8
Spoon a'flyin' and boots a'stompin', Thom lets the music carry his eyes around the room full of people abiding their impromptu symphony. His eyes come to light on the small social play at the entrance involving the beautiful Lureene, a thin pale man, and a new-comer in strange clothing. Something odd strikes him about the conversation, and his instincts take over. He reaches out with his emotions , searching for seeds of violence, fear, and hatred.
** spoiler omitted **
Thomdril
Feldus, This mans emotions are considerably darker than Lureenes. he definitely feels more sinister, and threatening.
From jasmine to dead meat, this place has curious odors...
"No, friend. Actually, I'm looking for a meal myself and skint broke. That pretty maid suggested that I might be able to work here for a meal or two. I figure it will be drudge work - I'm not pretty enough to wait on folks." He plants a crooked smile on his ugly face but is evaluating if this character is 'trouble'.1d20+3
Ravarth you can easily tell he is hiding something and it is definitely related to Lureene.
Thom's senses reel from the filth he encounters in Feldus' soul, and his suspicions are confirmed.
"Pardon me," he mutters to Arryn. And without taking his eyes off Feldus, he makes his way over to where Mors is and engages him in a whispered conversation.
"Mister Mors, I got somethin' yer gonna wanna hear." He turns his back on Feldus for the first time and covertly indicates the smelly man with a nod of his head, "You see that skinny feller over there talkin' to the bald guy and yer beautiful barmaid? I have a really bad feelin' about him. And not just yer regular bad feelin'. Gorum has gifted me with certain… perceptions…," and he pulls a holy symbol out of his shirt, taps it to his forehead, then returns it, "… and that skinny, smelly feller is rotten to the core. I don't reckon anythin' but bad is gonna happen with the likes a' him around."
He takes a second to steal another glance in that direction.
"I'm yer man if ya wanna do somethin' about it… just say the word."
Then he waits to hear what Mors has to say, trying to keep a watchful eye on Feldus.
Feldus watches the human stare at him and then quickly turn away from what he sees. He thinks he has me where he wants me. We shall see about that.
He maintains an outwards calm appearance, though.
Lureene looks over at the man who wants to champion her, and gives him a small wave, and then winks at him.
"Pardon me," he mutters to Arryn. And without taking his eyes off Feldus, he makes his way over to where Mors is and engages him in a whispered conversation.
For Rath, it is a moment of snapshot vignettes:
- Thomdril looking a bit too intently at the thin, unpleasant man
- Followed by his hushed conversation with the 'keep
- The barmaid's warning and agitation
- The thin man's poorly hidden connection to the maid
- The barmaid offering a drink for free - a kindness and a debt to be paid
Having no skill at bluffing , Rath tries to surreptitiously square himself for the trouble which he feels will be short in coming...
How did I stumble into this hornet's nest? Ah, karma.
Havelock continues to watch the night's revelries unfold with vague interest. He perks up when he hears the conversation between the barkeep and the thin boy. He points at the two of them, pulls out a thin piece of copper wire and holds it to his mouth.
Feldus watches the spell cast with some interest, wondering what his motivations are.
Rath casts a furtive eye around the room to see how many other patrons are involved in this drama.
Lureene doesn't seem to notice the dart whizzing past her - she seems distracted by something. Several patrons seem to be tense, and the instigator seems to be a rancid-smelling cowled figure that just came down the stairs. Idly gripping is compound bow, he begins to inspect it, as to pass the time. He mumbles a tune under his breath.
"Een Leeembo, een leemboooooow, droon ullar keeerrrrrrrs..."
Thom gives an appreciative nod to Havelock.
Then he turns back to Thom with another whispered comment...
Finally, the old man notices everyone whispering... he lowers his stylus and looks around again, a bemused expression still on his face.
Lureene watches the tension building, and allows a small smile to play on her lips. If that bastard thinks he is going to try anything, my champions will save me.
The monk stills his mind and waits to see what unfolds. I suspect no one here needs my assistance. Nevertheless, there are no coincidences, and fate seems to have brought me here at this moment for some reason.
An older man suddenly bundles through the door, landing neatly on his rump! Standing up slowly, he shakes his fist at the door and hobbles towards it again.
"Bloody great lummox, you want to watch where you're go-," the man's tirade is cut off mid-flow as he opens the door and stares out into a market that he wasn't in ten seconds ago.
"What in the name of Abadar?" he utters, slowly turning around and taking in the rest of the patrons with his mouth agape. Thought returns slowly to him, as though trickling in through the top of his head until his hand suddenly snaps up with an accusatory finger pointed at the nearest patron.
"YOU!" he shrieks, "You kidnapped me! Brought me here to get at my gold, eh? Well, Obadiah Robert Vernon Menkel is not kidnapped by anyone! Guards!"
Mors walks over to Feldus, and addresses him. His voice takes on a strange vibrance – almost a recitation of grand performance.
“Your appearance tonight seems to have caused quite a stir. I'm afraid that violence might break out – perhaps it would be safer for you to make a tactful exit, before someone does something rash?”
Lureene realizes she forgot to deliver his drink, so she takes a bottle of the Port Amber was drinking earlier, pours a glass for him, and hands it to him."Sorry about that, hun."
Mors walks over to Feldus, and addresses him. His voice takes on a strange vibrance – almost a recitation of grand performance.
“Your appearance tonight seems to have caused quite a stir. I'm afraid that violence might break out – perhaps it would be safer for you to make a tactful exit, before someone does something rash?”
** spoiler omitted **
Feldus is distracted by the appearance of the old man screamimg about being kidnapped. This allows Mors to get dangerously close, and then he looks at him, finding something fascinating... He shrugs off the effects, and then jumps to his feet, drawing his rapier. "Not sure what you were trying to do there, but I think an apology is in order...don't you?"
Bob shrieks, for the second time in a span of seconds, and dives behind a nearby table as someone draws a rapier.
The hiss of Feldus' blade being drawn is echoed nearly instantly by the rasp of Thom's greatsword.
"Careful, feller. Yer next few words are gonna be mighty important, and yer a tad short on friends."
"Damn it." Havelock stands up and yells up the stairs. "Pythia! Get down here!"
"Not sure what you were trying to do there, but I think an apology is in order...don't you?"
"I most certainly do not," Mors says, defiantly. “I am offering you a chance to avoid conflict. It would appear that this is of no interest to you.”
Rath places his drink - regretfully - down and addresses Feldus quietly without threat, moving slowly, hoping to draw Feldus' aim towards himself, "Friend. I come from a distant place and maybe my ways are strange to you... but, in my land, it is... *struggling to find the right word in common*... inappropriate to draw a weapon on your host. It is bad manners."
Rath's hands remain at his side and he fingers no weapons.
Olivier gently adjusts his chair a bit to be sure he has a clear view...
“I would suggest you put that weapon away. There’s already been too much killing here today – I would prefer to not add your corpse to the butcher’s bill.”