Only the Cold Remains - A Reign of Winter Rendition

Game Master Rasputin17

And so our story begins...

This one seems to work. Maybe someone else trying to post before you bugged it out?

Only the Cold Remains

-Principal Players in this Drama-

Ehron Ferron: Male Ifrit Oracle of Winter

Ilya Mxyzptlk: Male Sylph White-Haired Witch

Kaelifax: Male Human Savage Skald Bard

Kyrianna Idereen: Female Half-Elf Beast Rider Cavalier

Marina Mirna Tsetvanov: Female Changeling Cleric of Erastil

Doctor Matthew Montgomery: Male Human Musket-Master Gunslinger

Neela: Female Kobold Vivisectioning Mindchemist Alchemist

Vanya Kolavic: Male Human Witchguard Ranger

Date: Toliday the 15th of Erastus, 4714

Time: Evening
Weather: Growing slowly colder.
Place: The town of Heldren in southern Taldor, next to the Border Wood

The sun sets ominous over a Taldan summer. Fat, lead colored clouds loom over the vast, winding woods of southern Taldor, inching southward like the lazy gait of a predator that chases after dying prey. The echoes of far off thunder boom at the edge of hearing as the residents of the small towns bordering southern Quadira lock their wood houses and brace for what looks like a terrific storm. Such is the case in the town of Heldren.

Few have heard of the town of Heldren. Fewer still are those who have heard of it and would care enough to locate it on a map. As such, this small woodland town remains isolated, yet content in its removal from the sickening and deadly battleground of Taldan politics. The people here have taken it upon themselves to be good to one another, developing Heldren as a bastion of acceptance in their corner of the world. Run by a council of like-minded and conscientious individuals, Heldren has become a place of little complaint and simple contentment.

It was this contentment that made the sudden cold so nearly unbearable. The heat and jollity of what was once a proud and bountiful summer have been brutally edged aside in the last few weeks by the descent of an unnatural, bitter frost. Hands that a short time ago were dripping with sweat as they worked their farms on the edge of the Border Wood now grow chapped, frozen and idle as the work becomes fruitless and hazardous. Nights grow bitter and so do the residents of this small town. Farmers worry over their pitiful harvest and ruined fields while herders worry over their flock, hoping to support their survival through what seems to be a second winter.

And yet, as it seems, in spite of the unnatural phenomenon, life in Heldren goes on. People remain courteous to one another, though still on edge. Principal village leaders such as Councilor Ilonnia Teppen and Old Mother Theodora do their best to try and calm the fleeting nerves of their townsfolk, hoping these strange phenomena are just a passing fancy and that all will return to normalcy soon.

On the horizon can be seen a thick blanket of nigh-black clouds, hovering dangerously close to the ground. The barest hints of lightning arcs can be seen, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The clouds inch closer and will soon blot out the last vestiges of daylight. It’ll be another couple hours before the storm reaches here, but the citizens of Heldren, warned beforehand of the storm’s coming by traders coming from northern Taldor, have already prepared their houses with boarded windows and covered animal pens. Now all that’s left to do is wait for the coming storm.

And so we begin. Like I said, we’ll be starting out first with a round of “slice of life” posts. I want you guys to get a feeling of your surroundings and to illustrate your character’s place in this town.

"Dot!"

”I had dream once.” Ilya says. ”Woke up and garden was dying. Its grapes were frosted over, and no good, and I had to explain why 4714 wine would be a bitter wine.” he snaps a few good grapes from a vine for his basket, then walks to the next, tiptoeing when he can to avoid touching the cold ground with the whole of his feet. As he picks the few grapes not killed off by the cold snap, the bard rattles off an interpretation of his dream. Its a hand wavy tale of destiny and stars, something typical of Desna’s faithful, told in a way that made any other way of thinking about the dream feel silly at best. ”Interesting…” Ilya replies. To a comment about how beautiful his garden must be, Ilya replies ”It’s not mine”. To the inevitable follow up question he replies, smiling ”Vanya’s, but we pay him to share”.

As the day wears on and Ilya grows tired of hearing stories, or of walking around barefoot (both are equally exhausting by this point), he bids the bard farewell and happy journeys. The bard kisses both his cheeks and offers to paint his face. He refuses and offers her grapes. She insists and draws two brushes. He relents and takes one into his own hand. Through tickled, giggling fits they draw on each other. By evening his face and feet are covered in prints of butterflies, her cheek and neck are strewn with snowflakes. They share a long kiss and then an awkward moment as Ilya explains away the sudden silky bang that listlessly falls over his face. He bids her farewell again, this time wistfully as he tucks away several tiny scrolls that were gifted to him.

”Я люблю Десна.” he says to no one, trying out the faith in his native tongue. "Я люблю ее всей душой." He puts on his boots and starts one last sweep of the garden, hoping to save what grapes he can. He then sets off for the Stoat, thinking out loud "Probably should tell Vanya his good grapes are missing later."

Doctor Matthew Montgomery wrings the exhaustion out of himself, pushing and pulling the skin of his face with his weathered hands. His bloody gloves - made of a thin leather - sit in a pot of boiling water in his small preparation room. A hard lifetime of forced marches, uncomfortable cots, and lengthy deployments wear heavily on his slumped shoulders. Where had his youthful vigor gone? The strength began its flight from his muscles a few years ago. The doctor exercises daily, trying to slow the grip of age on his body, but today his body simply aches. Despite his exhaustion, Matthew must press on daily. There are people to heal.

Medicine was an accidental calling for him. Most of those who went into the healing arts did so intentionally and joined a faith to channel healing to those in need. Some learned alchemy to produce potions that could knit wounds and heal injuries in a mere moment's time. For Matthew, it was a desire not to see another soldier die in his arms. During the War of Independence from Cheliax, he was sent to snatch wounded men from the front lines. Too many of them died. He did all that he could to keep them alive long enough for the underfunded army's medics - usually just someone with a healer's wand and a bit of training - to save. He learned where to hold pressure and how to stitch up a wound. Over the years, he added more skills: how to set a bone, how to treat contagion, how to determine a cause of death, and how to improvise a solution to save lives.

But that life - a life spent in battles - is behind him now. Matthew's days consist of checking on expectant mothers, stitching up farm injuries, and treating minor childhood ailments. The bizarre cold snap has sent a half-dozen a day into his home with frostbite and broken bones from falls. He has just finished stitching up a nasty gouge in the leg of Jonah Carrington, the stable boy who assists Sophia Imirras. Doctor Montgomery uses tongs to remove the gloves from the water and hangs them up, enjoying the steamy heat from the boiling water as his hands pass over it. He removes the pot of water by the handle and takes it outside, carefully spilling out the boiling contents onto the ground. The uncharacteristic snow hisses as it melts under the water.

He boils another pot of water and methodically cleans his instruments. He found out the difficult way many years before that leaving blood or dirt on cutting tools - a very common state during a time of war - would often cause them to do more harm than good to his patients. Once his instruments are clean, he carefully washes his hands again in another set of water. Fortunately, Xanthippe - the blacksmith's daughter - drops off water from the well for him during her own trips there for her father. He and the blacksmith, Isker Euphram, get along quite well; they have spent many evenings swapping war stories in the tavern.

Doctor Montgomery puts on an extra layer of clothing before he pulls on the heaviest jacket he owns. He stops for a moment and looks at the uniform jacket and long-barreled firearm displayed in his bedroom. Myriad emotions flow through him - pride, anger, sadness, nostalgia. He shakes his head and closes his bedroom door. That life is behind him. He leaves his front door unlocked as he leaves for supper at the Silver Stoat. He trudges across the snow-covered roadway to the tavern in the town square from his modest home and office at the edge of town. He passes the statue in the town center, tipping his tricorn hat at the stone form of a beautiful woman. The six o'clock bell rings above him from the town hall as he passes.

He steps into the Stoat, letting the warmth of the homey place wash over him. He spends most of his evenings in here, as making a proper meal is not a skill that he possesses. He spent his entire adult life being handed his rations and food, and never learned beyond the basics of hunt-and-cook. Fortunately, he and the owners, Menander and Kale Garimos, had arranged a bartering arrangement of his care of her chronic health problems. He hangs up his coat and hat, smiling at the other villagers who have already arrived before him. He does his best to ignore the sour glare of Argus Goldtooth, the barber whose medical business he stole (according to the dwarf) upon his arrival nearly three years ago. Matthew sits at the large table in the center of the tavern, already beginning to fill up. The owner walks up to take his order. "Menander, how are you tonight?"

“Ready?” The half-elf grimaces as another gust whips coldly against her bare face. “One— two— THREE!”

The two women strain and tug at the rope, pulling the last tarp across the stable's breezeway. There’d been a prediction of more snow tonight, and the horses Sophia kept were already skittish from the unseasonal cold— about as skittish as the rest of us are, Kyrianna thinks. She’d journeyed vaguely south from her former home in the duchy, and winter had never come this early even there.

The tarp is tied off with a sturdy knot, and although the wind still howls, the animal pen feels much warmer already. “Thanks fer comin’,” Sophia sighs, slumping against one of the wooden beams holding up the roof. The woman runs a tired hand through her mussed brown hair and peers through the smudged window on the northern wall. “With Jonah’s leg out, I’m not sure I could’ve beaten the storm m’self.” She punches Kyrianna’s arm playfully. “Are you behind this, yeh little nobody from the north? Think yer ol’ pal Steriel is sendin’ yeh a warnin’? Maybe we need teh sacrifice yeh to the gods- ‘Take ‘er back; she’s more trouble’n she’s worth!’”

Kyrianna pretends to wince at Sophia’s jab, and smiles at the woman’s raucous laughter: “From thankfulness to wantin’ my blood? I’d expect no less from Sophia Immeras!” Yet her thoughts are as cloudy as the looming horizon- suppose it wasn’t a joke? Suppose the woman really did think there was a connection between the unseasonal weather and the runaway half-elf? What if the other townspeople put it together; would they burn her at the stake for warmth? What if this was all merely divine punishment for abandoning her post? What if—

“Kyrianna.” Sophia’s tone is light, her eyes now focused on her rope-burned palms as if carefully avoiding Kyrianna’s gaze- but it was clearly a word of caution. Sophia was her dearest friend in the town, and she’d seen her through the fits of panic that seemed to strike at the most unfortunate moments. And it works again, as usual: Kyrianna is suddenly brought through the cloud of doubt and fear, back to the stables in Heldren.

There is silence for a few moments, the relentless attack of wind on tarp the only sound. Sophia gradually lifts her gaze from her palms, studying the half-elf as she takes practiced, calming breaths. “All right then, yeh overgrown halfling?”

They make their way through the gale to the tavern next door- the Silver Stoat, home to Kyrianna’s other former employers. Upon their arrival, Sophia is nearly immediately beset by several townspeople whose horses she keeps, and several more asking to move their livestock to her sturdy pen. She waves Kyrianna on, with a roll of her eyes- I’ll just be a minute, go on and get comfortable. Kyrianna nods and smiles, her comfortable demeanor on display but for her hands knuckled white around the mug of ale she’s taken from Kale.

“Doctor Montgomery?” She smiles disarmingly, offering a hand to greet him. Her words unconsciously shift from the casual Taldane she uses with Sophia. “I heard about what happened to Jonah’s leg—terrible stuff. Really glad you’re around to patch him up.” She sits down, taking a drink from her tankard. “It looks like Sophia’s going to have her hands full with this awful weather. I suppose we all are, really. Have you had to take on more work than normal?”

Montgomery shakes the young woman's hand, giving her a grandfatherly smile as she takes a seat. "You ain't got to shake my hand every time like we're being introduced, Kyrianna." He lets out a brief chuckle at her formality towards him. "Jonah's a tough boy. You'll need to keep an eye on him. He needs at least three days of rest without straining his leg, but I know he'll be out trying to climb a tree or ride one of the horses in no time if you don't stop him." His Andoran accent seems slightly out of place here in Taldor, like an uncultured squire at court. It sounds homespun and from the frontier - which is how most Taldans considers Andorans anyway.

"I've been to the north before and experienced bitter cold firsthand. Folks get sick more often and are more prone to slips and aches and everything. I'll be lucky if I get a minute's rest. Have you heard if Isker is canceling the militia drills on account of the weather? I hope not. I like to watch you all practice."

"Stupid cold snap. How's a girl supposed to find herbs when they've all frozen?" Neela was returning from a journey to the Border Wood, tasked with collecting summer herbs and plants. She was normally pretty good at it. Her face was so close to the ground after all. But the winter frost meant that her basket was mostly empty. It was like being back in Irrisen again, only without all the fun.

Irrisen was fun. Back then, after dogged determination, she had made herself into an apprentice of a winter witch. And she had begun to learn witchcraft herself. She was becoming powerful - a somebody. But then she was murdered. She rubbed the scales on her face, reminding herself that she was a kobold, now. Less than a nobody. A pest. Oh sure, the folks in Heldren all acted nice and polite. But they didn't really know what to make of the blue and white scaly creature that went in and out of Old Mother Theodora's. If she had her way, Neela would be heading straight back home now - finish her chores and maybe busy herself studying another of the Old Mother's books. But she really needed just a few more herbs. So she pounded on the door.

"Vanya! Hey Vanya! Are you home? Old Mother Theodora wants some jasmine if you have any. And a few other things besides."

Vanya doesn't have to be home - just providing a possible hook.

Five years he had lived in Heldren. Five years, and it still made Vanya's day brighter every time he got Tessaraea to laugh. The elf woman had dark, somber eyes, and it hurt him to see them downcast like they had been recently.

The winter snap in the middle of summer had taken most by surprise. Vanya tried to imagine a scenario that didn't match his nightmares, but failed to do so every time. Even without the existential horror felt by her gardener, Tessaraea still had to deal with a shop that depended on plentiful herbs and ingredients; things not found during a sudden and precipitous drop in temperature during the growing season.

Vanya tried to take her mind off of the troubles, but today had been especially bad, and he had told her to take the night off and relax as he watched the store.

Five years. Heldren had become his new home, and its residents, his new family. The idea and its syrupy sweetness would have made him wretch in Irrisen, but, after ten years of horror and hard work, he had grown to allow joy into his heart.

That's why the suddenly frost-covered soil terrified him so much.

Thankfully, the knock at the door interrupted the gloom and Vanya put on his 'friendly shop-keeper' face that he was still working on after half a decade.

"Come in. Come in, little one," his voice drawled in a thick Irrisenian accent.

"Jasmine we have. Along with friendly service," the man finished as Neela walked in; his smile looking more like he had swallowed a bug than anything else.

He had always been better with plants.

Dot.

Neela was glad that both Vanya and Tessarea were people she could deal with. Since neither of them related well to anyone Neela didn't have to feel singled out.

Neela entered the shop, lingering close to the door and far from away from the fire warming up the store. She always eyed fires suspiciously ever since she had been reincarnated. Though she couldn't remember the details, she remembered the pain. Fire, ash, brimstone, all awaiting her in her afterlife unless she changed. It probably made Neela seem even more peculiar than she otherwise would, but she didn't have the courage to behave otherwise. Instead, she waived Vanya over and spoke in a quiet whisper.

"Listen, don't tell anyone about this, but Old Mother Theodora needs some special tea brewed. You know, the kind of tea that a woman might need after trying to stay warm on a cold winter night." One of the young girls in the village had come to see the Old Mother just this morning, weeping about how she was a good girl, but had gotten carried away. Such rubbish - the girl had probably been making love for months. But the Old Mother reassured her that everything would be just fine. Just fine until the rumors spread, thought Neela.

Then Neela spoke conversationally again, pretending if that whispered information never happened. "Another cold day out there! Any chance it'll stop?" She jangled a tidy sum of coins. "I know we're all short on supplies these days, but this oughta cover the jasmine!"

Dot

Ehren could not quite wrap his head around why everybody was raising such a stink over the weather. Or at least, it did not appear that he could. As others in the village wrapped themselves in layer after layer of fur, just yesterday he had been seen lounging about without a shirt on, as though it were just another hot summer day. While others grew cold and bitter, the ifrit just seemed to laugh and smile more than ever, bringing what little joy he could to the people of Heldren. His efforts were appreciated by plenty, but those farmers whose efforts had been spent for naught found his antics particularly frustrating. How could he make light of such dire straits? No, Ehren was not lacking in sympathy, but he could hardly resist his nature. In spite of the misery that the cold brought everyone else, he found himself filled by nothing but pure, inexplicable joy.

The Silver Stoat was his usual haunt, one of the few places in town that a bard-in-name-only could eke a living. Being a place where food and drink were freely available, silver and copper tended to change hands fairly often. It was Ehren’s job to provide everyone with a merry atmosphere, but even he had to admit that the townsfolk were uncharacteristically dreary. Perhaps it was this, and not the ridiculous weather, that gave him the impression that something was seriously wrong. Still, for what it was worth, he felt bound by duty to at least try to elicit some smiles. Seated on a chair set out in the open, his trusty old pan flute set to his lips, the ifrit did what he could to work his magic.

Performance: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (3) + 11 = 14

No, no, that’s not right… As always, he had poured his heart and soul into the music, but for some reason, he could not quite choose the right notes to express his feelings. It was not something he usually had a great deal of trouble with. A tough crowd was by all means something he could deal with, but the insufferable mediocrity of his own performance struck him where it really hurt. Lowering his pipes, for just a moment the fiery man frowned, a thoughtful look passing over his features. And just as quickly, he went right back to grinning like an idiot. Whatever seemed to have bothered him had apparently passed. Standing from the chair, he shrugs apologetically, before really receiving any criticism other than his own.

“My apologies, everyone. Must be having an off day – my lips might have gone numb.”

Ah, yes, a wisecrack at the weather. Making light of things indeed. But it was just an excuse in the end; they knew better. The cold never bothered Ehren Ferron. After taking an exaggerated bow, he saunters over to help himself to a flagon of ale. Still smiling, he sits down and takes a small sip, his mind floating off to gods know where.

The half-elf smiles, dipping her head slightly in deference, inwardly panicking over the trivial mistake. Her voice is steady as she tries again, but now her eyes wander the tavern. "Old habits die hard, Doc. I've always been told to respect a superior officer- and my elders!" She gives the man a jovial wink at the lighthearted dig. "I'll try for your sake, but no promises."

She nods at his medical assessment of Jonah and the community, grateful once again that Heldren had something besides leeches to turn to: she'd heard the frightening stories. "Isker didn't really cancel the drills so much as question our sanity. He insisted we get to work this morning getting the townspeople squared away for this awful squall- and a smart thing too. A lotta folks in my section still hadn't heard this one was coming."

Kyrianna sighs, and shrugs. "Even when I told 'em, a lotta people didn't believe me til they saw the clouds on the way. I can hardly believe it myself; it's like someone flipped a switch on the sun. Have you any ideas about why this thing's here? Have you seen cause for it before?"

She joins the half-hearted applause following Ehron's performance. He's usually so feisty. Sad to see the cold getting to him too...

Montgomery's face darkens momentarily when Kyrianna asks him about the dark clouds. It is a look they've seen before at times, when his mind slips to some bloody memory of years ago. "It isn't like anything I've ever seen before. Some powerful magicians can change the weather like this, but why would they do it here? Being a sleepy little hamlet is what drew me here in the first place." He shrugs hopefully as he sips his ale. "Maybe it will pass. My old bones don't care for the cold at all."

He gestures at the musician as he finishes. "Unlike this one, who looks like he could sleep in the snow without so much as a second thought."

Kaelifax throws another log on the fire with a shrug, Are all women so easily affected by the temperature? Maybe it's just my Ulfen blood, but this doesn't seem as bad to me as everyone's claiming... He pokes at the flame a few times to make sure that there are enough embers burning to ignite the log, allowing the flames and his own thoughts to capture his attention for a moment, before turning back to his charge, the poker still in his hand.

"There now, Violetta, now that it's no longer 'too cold to remember anything', as you put it, maybe we can return to your lesson before nightfall?" I'd really like to be off to my apartment before the storm traps me here...

Seeing Violetta's ...lovely... blue eyes darken, the bard realizes that his tone was harsher than he intended and quickly lunges forward, flourishing the poker as if it were a rapier, and says with a smile, "Or does milady have any other problems she needs me to kill before sunset?"

Kaelifax's smile widens as his antics are rewarded with not only a smile but a ...musical... laugh, and he adds in a more serious tone, "Though, seeing how daylight is fading, unless it's a quick kill, perhaps we should save that discussion -- and the discussion of the reasons behind the Great Purge -- for tomorrow morning.

He steps back from the young woman, ostensibly to return the poker to its proper place, while -- purely coincidentally -- creating a safe distance from which to say goodbye. He does so reflexively, trying to keep his tone and expression safe, friendly, and just a touch flirtatious... leaving him dancing on an edge narrower and sharper than the imagined rapier.

He watches her leave, trying very hard to ignore the flush of her cheek, the sparkle in her eye, and the catch in her voice that made it very clear that her affections were still very much his... ...and just how much that warms my heart... and just how much she looks like her mother. They have the same cheekbones, the same nose... and banishing the thoughts of what other features that they might share Beyond, depressingly, the same taste in men.... He shakes his head, chastising himself with a rather familiar litany as he starts to pack up his own gear. You've already clearly made a rather huge mess of things here... And it's not helping that the longer you stay, the more young Violetta's worming her way into your heart.... are you really so daft as to stay in this situation? Nothing good can come of this.... were you really so desperate for coin to fund your trip?

As usual, he puts the last of his gear in his pack almost exactly as he asks that question of himself.... and, as usual, he found that he still has no answers to those questions. He sighs, as if he could somehow expel the confusing thoughts and situation as easily as a breath, and then heads to the door. And, now, for the skulkery..., he thinks, sighing again, and then taking a moment to listen carefully for voices or footsteps before opening the door a small crack to take a look. He allows himself a grim smile when the coast is clear and begins to sneak down the hallway, moving silently in his well-made leather, desperate to avoid another invitation to dinner or to stay the night --because of the storm, of course.

He steps outside, ...almost there..., and picks up his pace, hoping to be wrapped in the darkness and cold wind before anyone could call his name... and lets out the breath he hadn't quite realized he'd been holding as he pushes open the door to the inn.

Menander Garimos shoots the doctor a beaming smile as he crosses over to his table.

"Doctor, Kyrianna," he says by way of greeting.

He nods appreciatively at Matthew's question.
"Fine, fine, can't complain, save for the buggering weather, which I think no man nor woman in their right mind could do nothing but complain about."

He looks over at Ehren as he finishes his rather lousy performance. "Save for the Quadiran. I don't know if it's that Ifrit blood but I haven't seen that man once look even slightly disturbed by it all."

Even against the din of the already filling bar the booming thunder of the oncoming storm breaches into the tavern.

Menander runs his meaty hand through his balding plate. "May have to close early tonight. Windows are all boarded up, but we can't have too many drunk sods wandering the streets with that bastard of a storm on its way."

He looks down at the doctor's empty hands and the half-filled flagon in Kyrianna's. "Want me to get Kale to top ya' off, Kyri? Drinks are on the house for the two of ya' tonight."

...

Ilya, you'll have probably arrived at the Silver Stoat by now. You see many different patrons, sauntering past you, holding on to hats and coats as the wind begins picking up. Amongst the numerous tables spread about there's Kyrianna and Doctor Montgomery at the table in the center and Ehren over at the bar's counter.

...

Kaelifax, you want to give me a stealth check?

Guilt gets the better of Ilya as he leaves the garden and he alters his route to head toward the shop. The dreamy after affects of his religious conversion play over him, and he finds himself sad that the few stars he sees are about about to be covered over by the approaching thunderhead. This distraction almost made him miss the light coming from Vanya's door as it opened, glimpsing the man but briefly as it closed again. "Ты избегаешь меня?" he asks quietly, brows furrowing.

He swings the basket to one side and opens the door, launching into a friendly rant before even seeing Vanya. "Ваня, я собрал все хорошие винограда из вашего сада. Я не знаю, почему вы были на заднице а не делать это самостоятельно, но ... О, привет." he pauses and speaks again in common, having only seen Vanya's guest after he'd already began speaking"Oh! Hello Neela how are you." It wasn't a question so much as it was a practiced statement, meant to be no less polite.

Thoroughly embarrassed and with his face almost matching of the butterfly markings on his cheek, he busies himself setting the basket on the table and finding a scale. He had not planned on Theodora's helper being there, and through his nervousness found himself preparing to weigh out the brewery's portion of grapes; something else he had not planned on when he opened the door. "Frost killed off most grapes. So portions will be small this season." he says not looking at them, "Continue talking! I will not interrupt much; lots to do over here."

Or maybe Kaelifax *doesn't* make it to the bar safely...

Stealth: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17

Vanya busied himself preparing the herbs needed for the tea as Neela spoke.

"The cold worries me. It is unnatural to say the least. But, we will survive. Tessaraea has gone through much worse. She will import what she needs if it continues. I will just find another job to do around town. Adjust and move on, my mother always said."

The words coming out of his mouth felt shallow and empty, but Vanya couldn't bear the thought of what would happen to him if Tessaraea no longer needed his help. Feeling needed was about the only thing that kept him going at times.

"As for your order, we charge for quality and this frost has taken some of that away. A quarter of the amount should be enough."

His hands worked quickly to wrap the package and hand it to Neela. Meanwhile, his thoughts were elsewhere and bleak.

"Optimism would tell me that this storm brought rain for our garden. Life experiences tell me otherwise. You'd do well to barricade yourself indoors and read a book for the rest of the night, little one. I should do the same, but I lack something... I believe the phrase is survival instinct."

As he prepared to send Neela off, Vanya turned to find Ilya had entered the shop.

"гатъэр аваи, фриэнд. тъэи вилл го бад иф лэфт он тъэ винэ дуринг тъис сторм и фэар."

Realizing he had slipped into his old language, the gardener frowns to himself.

"Ilya, what preparations has your family made for the storm tonight? I hope you will be safe and not out counting grapes. Leave that to the fool of a man before you."

Or maybe Kaelifax *doesn't* make it to the bar safely...

Kaelifax does make it to the bar undisturbed. You do not think the mistress of the house has seen your hasty exit.

Marina suppressed the urge to shiver, placing a hand on Gerr Bower's shoulder. "Do you think that he would be a good husband to her?"

Outside, as the sun fell, the cold became only worse. The snow was piled in the side-street with the haphazard designs of mother nature, half-melted icicles hanging from neglected gutters. They stood in an alley, packed with white powder, the wind whipping between them with vengeful force. Bower was too crushed to notice, but Marina was far and away well aware of the slowly growing numbness across her skin only made worse by the long exposure forced by Bower's tale of woe. Bower's wife had come into a suspicion that their daughter was engaging in extramarital behavior with a local boy. Call it mother's intuition or luck, but Mrs. Bower was under the assumption her daughter was late. Marina didn't know if that was true, but, her daughter had, after all, gone to Old Mother Theodora. Was that proof? Mrs. Bower acted like it was.

The whole debacle wasn't made better by Mr. Bower's discovery of his daughter, clotheless, sweating and... entangled with that very boy in their snow-drenched hayloft. Marina was both dismayed and impressed. Just the idea of being naked in the snow froze her to the bone. Some people would go to any length for what they wanted.

Bower had reacted in the most predictable way-- by slouching off, miserable, dejected and shocked. The chicken farmer let out a sigh that would have shook a forest and said in his nasal tones "I don't know. I am, on the other hand, considering strangling him." He rose up his hands, wringing an invisible neck, eyes filled with strange malice.

"No, Mr. Bower! No!" Marina shouted-- then whispered, aware of the possibility of passersby. "Murder is a sin, Mr. Bower. Don't ignore the signs Erastil puts before you. The most expert hunter always places an arrow where he wishes. Don't consider a stray arrow misfortune. Consider it, instead, opportunity."

"Opportunity?" he asked, defeated. His arms fell back to his sides where they hung thin and limp, like normal.

"Your daughter has always, well, been... aware of your expectations for a suitor."

Bower nodded. His wife and he were expecting a prince or a duke to come riding down on a white horse to offer to buy the girl from them for some time now. To be honest? They should have expected a baron or a merchant instead. Maybe a shepherd. Or a rat catcher.

"Do you think they would stop seeing eachother if you told them to, seeing as they met together to begin with without your permission?" Bower didn't rebut her statement, so she continued. "They may very well be in love. And what is love without marriage? Allow me to speak to the boy. If he loves your daughter, he'll do the right thing. I'm sure of it."

He shook his head. "I don't like it. What if you can't?"

Without pause, Marina leapt into an enthusiastic response. "Then I'll convince him!"

"If they're in love, Mr. Bower, you don't have to like it. You just have to accept it. If your daughter is forbidden from seeing the boy, she may have thoughts instead of eloping. And then, she'll leave your life." Taking a breath and trying to take on a countenance similar to Natharen Safander, she continued. "It's better to be stern to the boy and soft to your daughter. Have forgiveness in your heart, but also guide them back into Erastil's good grace with a firm hand. Encourage them to not sin, and to make their vows before Erastil. Your family will only grow larger. His family may not pay a bridal price, but the boy will no doubt pay you back tenfold through actions and deed."

Marina, pleased with herself and ready to get out of the freezing cold, looked to Bower. "Now, tell me who the boy is and I'll be off immediately."

Bower's face held a look of consternation for a moment and said "I didn't see his face. I only saw his--"

"Thank you, Mr. Bower," she interrupted. "I'll find you again shortly and we can work this out."

As Bower wandered off, no longer dejected but puzzled, Marina's words turning in his head, she slipped away back to the rear entrance of the Silver Stoat, stepping inside quietly. Back to warmth. Thank Deadeye.

The multicolored eyes of the petite cleric turned over the crowd of people within, focusing on several that drew her interest. Doctor Matthew Montgomery-- unmarried. Kyrianna Idereen-- unmarried. Ehren Ferron-- unmarried. As she looked over the people, eyes full of judgment, she caught a glimpse of a mirror just behind the bar, and saw the short changeling with a head of wild black hair blown wilder by the wind, fingernails twisted like animalistic claws.

Marina Mirna Tsetvanov-- unmarried.

In truth, she was here to see the drunken back to their homes safely. But for a moment, she dropped her burden as a servant to Erastil, and simply approaches Ehren. It made the most sense-- proximity to the ifrit would no doubt warm her like she was standing next to a fire. She sat down beside him with her arms crossed, suppressing a shiver. "You must be enjoying this," she says-- and hastily backtracks. "Not your struggles with the flute, I mean. The cold. You must be comfortable. I heard you didn't even wear a shirt yesterday."

"By that, I mean, hello and how are you?"

If it is warmth that Marina sought from Ehren, she could scarcely be disappointed. Heat radiated from him as it would from a cozy hearth. He was what he was, after all. And yet, it did not quite explain his apparent indifference to the strange weather. Even as she speaks to the ifrit, his dreamy stupor does not quite seem to fade right away. He looks off into the distance, a lazy grin on his face. A response does come however; it was not as though he were ignoring her.

“I am. Almost unbearably so. It’s strange… I don’t know if I can quite explain it. I know it’s been causing everybody trouble, but this winter snap just feels right,” Ehren in a cheery, casual tone. He seems glad that the changeling thought to mention it – everyone else always seemed to dance around what they perceived to be an issue. “My heart tells me that this is a momentous occasion, but my gut tells me that something is terribly wrong. Meanwhile, my head is busy trying to reconcile the two.”

Ehren blinks. “But none of that really answers your question,” he adds with a smile, his eyes finally finding their way to Marina. “I am doing well enough, thank you. Oh, and hello.” He gestures feebly, his treasured pan flute in hand. “As for my musical troubles, well, I’m sure I’ll regain my touch. The night is still young, after all.”

”Mister Gamiros is prepared like everyone else not from North.” he says flatly, ”I will return to help patch things but sounds not far from here that Stoat is full of people.”. As he prepares the scale a claw emerges from the basket of grapes, followed by a rather barbed leg. Ilya reaches into the basket and pulls a crab out by the leg. It snaps at him in a fit of annoyance but he smiles. ”Nap well, naughty boy?” he asks, and the creature’s efforts to maim him only intensify. As its set on the table it raises its claws in an open challenge to all present and Ilya watches it with dreamy eyes for a moment.

He continues to put grapes in the bowl of the scale as he speaks. ”That is all for my portion…” he looks to Neela then back to Vanya, brushing his hair onto his ear and displaying the butterfly markings more clearly. ”Am religious now.” he says softly, ”A bard told me about Desna and we walked in your garden. Was too good.” he nods shyly then gets back to work, jumping as the crab on the table tries to catch his finger. Having had enough of it, he takes the creature by its leg and throws it into his satchel where it lands with a soft dunk.

Gathering his basket once more, he starts toward the door. ”And you, Vanya and Neela? Will you be kept warm tonight?”

Marina nods, listening along and finding the numbness filling her fingers raising. Eventually, she's warm enough to pull off her cloak, folding it over her hands and keeping it in her lap-- better to hide her monstrous claws than keep them at the ready. The bard had a way of speaking that captivated her, and she was dazzled by his smile.

"Well enough would be like Beauford Himry in the corner, drunk enough to forget his debts but not enough to lose his footing. You sound troubled."

Hefting the burden of her evangelical self again, she begins: "Erastil says that the best path is what's simple-- the straight arrow flies quickest. I would say... just enjoy it. Don't stress yourself worrying about the town and the others, or some negligible looming doom. Enjoy this weird winter while it's here," the changeling says mirthfully, returning his smile and settling into her chair.

Even though she should probably get around the room to say hello to everyone, she lingers. "'This too shall pass', or something like that."

Kaelifax pauses in the doorway, allowing the smells and sounds that he associates with safety to wash over him, but he is quickly admonished for holding the door open and letting the cold in. He steps inside, mumbling an apology, and then chuckling at an all-too-familiar thought these last few days, I'd hate to see how these people deal with a proper winter...

He smiles at the cheery tune on the flute, though his practiced ear notes a few small technical issues. Ehren likely won't forgive himself for merely having a very good performance rather than an exceptional one... I've heard far worse from even the senior class at the Kitharodian. Amused by the thought, he almost laughs out loud when the Ifrit apologizes for the music.

The amusement quickly melts away, however, and the young bard heads for an empty table. No sense on imposing on anyone, especially with the mood that I'm in. Better to have some food, honour my god by raising a tankard or two, and see if I can figure out any way out of this that doesn't end up hurting Violetta... and, if I can manage that little miracle, maybe I can see if Desna truly does love the faithful of the Lucky Drunk, and try to pull it off without tearing myself apart in the process...

Ehren chuckles a bit at Beauford’s expense before minding himself, shaking his head slowly. “Well, nothing that a few more pints of ale wouldn’t fix,” he jests, referring more to himself than to the drunk. However, his smile wanes ever so slightly when Marina starts to wax evangelical. Sometimes I forget that she is a holy woman. The ifrit had never been particularly religious, even during his time in Qadira. His parents had paid their respects to the Dawnflower every now and then, but they had not exactly been devout followers either. Still, he could not deny that Marina’s words held wisdom.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says with a small sigh, running a hand through his fiery hair. His tone suggests that her wisdom might not have fully sunken in, though not dismissively so. It was definitely something to think about, at least. Ehren’s eyes glance about for a moment before he leans in a bit closer. “But I have a hard time imagining any arrow flying straight, what with this storm coming,” he adds in a hushed tone, his smile wearing thin. “Things always have a habit of being… not simple.”

Neela is quite startled by Ilya's arrival, especially as he came while she was discussing her secret mission. "Oh, um hello. Er... good to see you too." She tried to remain inconspicuous and not draw attention to the herbs in her basket. Ilya probably didn't know what they meant anyway, but still. Instead, she amused herself trying to pick up what was being said between the northerners. It was ironic. After spending so much time in Irrisen, she never picked up Skald. A word or two, sure, but she never cared enough to learn, getting by with common as best she could. Maybe one day she'd learn it properly.

"I'll be fine. I was born for this kind of weather." That was a lie - she was born in Taldor, in truth, and she didn't like this cold at all. But her blue and white scales suggested otherwise. "I've got to run back to the Old Mother and see if she needs anything else before the storm hits. See you all later. And Vanya, don't be such a downer. Maybe you should go to the tavern and cheer up." A rather hypocritical suggestion, since Neela wouldn't do such a thing. She had better things to do.

She takes her leave and looks for Old Mother Theodora.

"And yet this surely isn't natural. Ice doesn't come in summer, even the smallest child can tell you that- which begs the question of who and why..." The laughing duchess appears in her mind for a moment, and she forces the image away. "Heldren's not on any maps I've seen, for one thing. If this were magic from some powerful caster, do you suppose the real target is further south still?"

Her nervously drumming fingers fall still at the arrival of the boisterous Mereander. "Good to see you again, sir!" The unconscious formality makes her cheeks redden in embarrassment- I suppose I am a little too stiff here- as she cordially waves off the offer of a fresh drink. "Just the one tonight- need to stay sharp, or Isker'll have my head. He's got us on alert til the storm hits, but I'm sure I'll impose on your kindness another day."

She lowers her voice, glancing around the tavern for signs of merriment gone too far. "Ask Kale to let me know who'll need an escort home, huh? Rather help them tonight than find them tomorrow."

“She is right?” Ilya asks while catching the door behind Neela, “If you want to relax come to Stoat. I give you vodka from potato like in old country and have a pickle to chase it down if you want!” he squints as the wind hits him, blowing his hair wild. “But close and come over. Neela is last person to want to buy anything from your shop I bet.” He gives Vanya an awkward wave and closes the door behind him, opening it again to free his hair from its clutches and closing it once more.

Ilya arrives in the Stoat as determined as he’d arrived in Vanya’s shop. Breezily, he disappears into the back without greeting anyone, only to reemerge moments later barefoot and in a chemise that looks a tad too large for him. He straps on an apron and slings his cranky little friend into its front pocket. “Тихий, прежде чем я готовить вам ... снова.” he warns as the crab tries to catch his stomach through the apron. “Почему вы действовали так глупо в последнее время?” this question was playful, but he could tell Sevastjan was in no mood to be teased. Suddenly mindful that people were probably watching him talk to his front pocket he gets to work, stealing orphaned mugs from the counter and wiping clean the evidence that they were ever there.

The hungry storm clouds do not so much cover the sun as they seem to devour it, ensaring and enshrouding it. From there the clouds continue rolling onwards picking up speed as air currents come in to meet it from the east, moving further and closer until they too have cast Heldren in its thick, grey soup. With the heavy grey curtain comes rolling with it dense fog, sweeping into town from the north. It's not long before the entire town finds itself trapped in the soup.

Those of you sitting indoors begin to hear the precipitation rather than see it. It starts with a few knocks on the roof and the cobblestone paths outside. The pitter-patter crescendos, increasing in volume and soon becoming a humongous cacophony that drowns out all other conversation. Ice balls the size of a marble descend down from above, the larger ones sometimes striking with enough force to bruise and batter those unfortunate enough to be caught outside. With the hail comes periodic bursts of sleet, slickening up the cobblestone paths and making walking anywhere a dangerous ordeal.

With the sleet and hail comes a wind that shrieks lie a madwoman. Up and down alleyways it winds and twists, wrenching loose boards from the wooden houses and sending animals to mad flights of panic to escape its rage.

Thunder explodes from on high and echoes among the houses down below. Lightning strikes haphazardly, bursting from the clouds and illuminating the skies above for just a moment before the surroundings are immediately swallowed up by the fog.

And among this torrent of maddening ferocity, a lone rider shambles into town. The horse limps forward, panting and wheezing like a creature from the grave. Its rider slumps in its saddle, listing back and farward, clutching desperately at the reins with frostbite-blackened hands. In spite of storm, the horse trots slowly forward towards the statue at the center of town.
...

Kale nods at Kyrianna and begins walking to the bar's counter but stops when the sound of the storm seemingly explode around the tavern.

All conversation in the Silver Stoat begins to dwindle to a low murmur as the first taps begin sounding off the roof. It dies altogether as the sound grows deafeningly loud.

One man, standing a little tipsy, looking to investigate, goes over to the door, shuddering in place. The second he opens it, the force of the wind pushing against him knocks him flat on his backside, sending other patrons scrambling. The hail, snow and sleet come wafting in with their bitter cold embrace. The wind is enough to blow out the fire in the hearth and it takes several other men a few seconds of grunting effort to push the door closed and bolt it shut.

Menander puts a hand on Ilya's shoulder and quietly whispers into his ear.

Kale, sensing her husbands concern, comes forward and addresses the rest of the tavern's patrons. Far from being the only light in the tavern, the loss of its light warmth seemingly makes the whole hall feel more claustrophobic.

"Listen up everybody," she says. "Storms too bad out there for any of you fools to go wandering off. Until she passes, you'll be be staying here. Menander will be giving out soup..." She looks around at the many scared faces scattered about and cracks a smile. "But I don't want to see one of you asking about getting a crack at free spirits. The first one that does might just have to spend the night outside. Plenty of fun and adventure out there."

If you want to help keep the patrons of the bar secure and calm them, please tell me what you do. Some of the Stoat's patrons look highly concerned for their families that might still be out there.

Everybody in the bar, please give me perception checks.

Vanya, you too. Please give me a perception check. I'm assuming you're still in the apothecary.

...

Neela, you escape out of Tesserae's apothecary, noting with extreme trepidation the looming clouds above. You shamble hastily to Old Mother Theodora's cottage at the edge of town and reache the house just as the first few parcels of sleet begin making their way down. You make your way into the fower, calling out for the old woman, but hear no response. Becoming concerned, you search everywhere in the house, hoping to not find her sprawled out somewhere unconscious or worse, but you can't find a single trace of her.

Beginning to panic, you start knocking on people's doors, asking hurriedly if they had seen Old Mother Theodora recently. The residents, noting the increasing frequency that the hails seems to be falling, give curt responses all along the lines of 'no.'

Going down the line of houses, you find yourself in the town center, nervously glancing around. It feels as if the entire town were deserted. It looks as if not a single soul has deigned to step outside as the storm reached its newfound heights. The fog seems to envelop you, reaching almost up to your waist.

AS you stand there, wondering what you should do, a shape begins to manifest out of the darkness. It's difficult to make out. Night has come early, but even with your ability to see in the dark the fog obscures almost everything in front of you. The shape begins to take a certain form, that of a pale rider swaying uneasily in the saddle, mumbling to itself as its dark horse trots unsteadily forward.

Neela, please give me a perception check.

What do you do?

Marina listens to the sound of the coming storm with a fearful half-smile on her face, suddenly aware the ifrit is getting closer. "I-is that so? Not simple?"

And then... the hail drowns out everything else, making conversation impossible.

Thunder strikes. Marina jumps. She hears the screaming on the wind, and her hackles raise-- so shrill, so loud, so familiar.

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6

With concern in her eyes, she stands up, excusing herself from Ehren with a hurried apology before moving to Kale's side. Raising her hands and her voice, Marina quickly begins to try to help. "Everyone; listen. I know that it's difficult to believe that our loved ones are safe after hearing the sound of that storm. And it's even harder to believe they're safe when you aren't sure where they are."

"But this storm told us it was coming long before it got here, the way it stretched out all ominous like. It gave everyone ample warning of its arrive. I can safely say that I know that every single person in the town is alright; I have faith that the storm came slowly so that every person in the town could take their sweet ol' time getting ready for it, like we Heldren folk always do. So don't be afraid for them."

With a look of surprise, as if she forgot they too were in the thick of the storm, Marina adds "Or for us! The Silver Stoat has stood in Heldren for as long as I've lived here-- there are old stones in the forest who don't got nothin' on it's age, from what I hear. And it's still standing. And it'll be standin' after the storm, too. 'The faithful's bough is bent to shield the flock from harm'. I believe in that."

"Here, we're safe, because we're together. Just everyone keep calm, alright? Thank you."

Perception 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

Doctor Montgomery stands up and gets his coat when the hail starts to hammer the roof of the inn. The icy grip tightens around the town, but Montgtomery tries his best to be as comfortable as possible. He pulls it tightly around his body and places his hat on the table. When the door blows open, he shields himself from the cold blast of arctic wind. "Maybe we should..." he shouts over the din of the hail, only to stop when he hears the sound of hooves outisde. "Who would be out in this mess?" he asks no one in particular. He walks up to the window and wipes away some of the condensation to peek outside, half-listening to Marina's words as he does.

Heal (Diagnose) 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (9) + 12 = 21

He spots a man riding a horse in the town square. With his years of experience, he can tell just by looking at him that the rider is badly injured. The way that he slumps in the saddle, barely keeping his balance, is a telltale sign. "There's a man outside, and he's hurt!" He shouts as loudly as he can as he goes to grab his hat. "You!" He points at Ehren, who seems wholly inured to the cold. "We've got to get him out or he'll die of exposure in minutes. Come on!"

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6

"You've got to be kidding me," mumbles Neela, seeing the horse and rider. She backed away slowly, her fear making it hard to even look at the figure. What am I doing? I'm supposed to help strangers, right? Not be afraid? She pulls out her dagger, to bolster her courage, and finds a good hiding spot. Stealth: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (7) + 9 = 16.

Then she begins to speak. "Uh... you there! Who are you? Why are you outside?"

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (9) + 3 = 12

The sound of the hail is wretched, the wind whipping through the tavern is unpleasant, but as always, the chill against Kyrianna's skin seems only a slight annoyance. Nevertheless, the woman quickly joins the three other patrons struggling to close the door against the wind. It finally shuts, and she turns quickly to face the people of the tavern: We'll have to light the fire again, quickly; the alcohol will have made them cold already--

She hears a warm, unintelligible voice in the back of her mind- a voice that she recognizes vaguely, and can't quite place- but like trying to pin down a dream upon waking, the memory vanishes.

The familiar sound of hooves against stone startles her from her reverie, and the half-elf draws to the window alongside Doc. Did we not tighten the tarp well enough?, she wonders, but this horse has a rider. Her eyes snap to the doctor's form as he dictates a plan of action.

"With respect, sir, let the performer stay. He feels the only warm thing in the room, in temperament and temperature." Kyrianna attempts a lighthearted smile, but her eyes are determined. She explains herself hurriedly, her words coming out as rapidly and precisely as the sound of the ice hitting the roof. "The man is on a horse which will probably lash out at the first thing to come near; I might be able to calm it. Let me go with you instead of Mister Ferron- the cold doesn't bother me much, and I am able to carry the man if he cannot walk."

Ilya frowns as Menander instructs him to stop bartending, downing what he had poured in the mug before him. As he makes his way from behind the bar, he pauses for a moment to say "thanks for drink" to some already forgotten customer and disappears again into the back. By the time he returns, holding sheets and blankets, he hears the unusual coordinated shuffling that's often associated with everyone's attention being brought to bear on the same thing. As he drops them near the fireplace he hears the warning the doctor gives about dying of exposure and pauses. Only now he realizes something terrible is going on.

While everyone scrambles to either get in the thick of things or out of the way he shivers, for the first time this summer, and sighs as he notices his hair is now as white as snow.

"Bring him inside, and I can see what I can do for his wounds," Marina calls. "Everyone-- stay calm!"

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19

Vanya watched Ilya and Neela leave with every intention of heading out to check on the garden to try to save what he could before the storm. He appreciated the attempt by the two to get him to lighten up, but the empty pit in his stomach wouldn't allow it.

When the storm started only a few minutes later, the Irrisenian quickly moved to bar the door only to hear the feint clop of hooves on the cobblestone.

Unsure of who would be out in such weather, Vanya opened the door, wind and hail pounding against his upper body.

There, near the statue in the town square, a rider and his horse had wandered into Heldren in the middle of the horrific storm.

Looking back at the already ruined garden outside, Vanya muttered a silent growl of complaint before closing the door to the apothecary and launching himself into a run towards the rider.

"No offense, but you are insane to be out in such weather," the woodsman yells at the rider through the storm.

As he got closer, Vanya's skin began to crawl. The rider looked injured, and he had never been the best medic. His eyes quickly moved to the Stoat only to see the tavern sending its own party out to help the man.

Approaching the horse, Vanya reached out his hands in a placating motion.

"Easy now. We've got to help your master," the ranger said to the horse, calm oozing into his voice despite the harsh conditions around him.

Wild Empathy: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (11) + 1 = 12

The timing could not have possibly been any better; Ehren had an appreciable grasp on the concept of irony. As the roar of falling hailstones fills the Silver Stout, the ifrit’s glistening white eyes widen in an expression of awe and comprehension. The storm is here. He could hardly blame Marina and the others for being wary. And yet, as the cacophony of thunder and screaming winds hits a crescendo, the pounding in his chest intensifies not out of fear, but out of excitement. For a moment the worried murmurs blend together into an utterly unintelligible mess. Even the changeling’s inspiring words are muddled beyond comprehension – it takes Ehren a moment to realize that he cannot understand them. A minute or so passes, his heartbeat gradually slowing down, and just like that, the moment passes. Comprehension of the common tongue returns just in time for him to realize that he is being talked about.

Perception: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1

“I’m warm, true. But unless the lot of you plans on nuzzling me all at once, I daresay that it matters very little,” Ehren says aloud, hastily unseating himself and approaching the door. He was not exactly certain of what the good doctor had just volunteered him for, but there was someone apparently in need of help. He looks to Kyrianna with a smile of his own, with equal determination. Perhaps it would be a little apparent if his excitement were not so evident. “Besides, there might be other people out there that need help.”

As the storm begins, Kaelifax smiles, taking pleasure from the primal rhythm of the hailstones striking the rooftops, though his enjoyment is cut short by the arrival of the howling wind. Nature may be musical, but that's about as soothing as the wail of a banshee... He stands from his lone table, Well, at least this should shake me out of my dark spiral of thoughts.., starting to take a better measure of his fellow patrons, pausing only when Kale makes her generous offer.

He smiles and says, "It's most generous of you to offer shelter, soup and safety to all of us. I would be more than happy to repay that hospitality by sharing a few tales this evening, if only to give Ehren's fingers and lips a spot of rest and to take our minds off the howling winds...." ...and maybe a few coins to get a little liquid warmth into the rest of these folk who seem to be shivering already..

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

He begins to step toward the door when the old medic calls for aid, but then turns and chuckles at the Ifrit's comment, "I believe she was suggesting that you'd warm their spirits, actually, unless there's some sort of sign-up sheet being passed about that I know nothing about?"

He smirks at his own joke for a moment before turning a much more sober expression back at the doctor, "I think he has the right of it, though, there may be many that need our aid, and the more of us the better."

"Lifting their spirits was my meaning; the small warmth was just an additional--"

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (9) + 3 = 12

She hears more noise from out in the storm and turns again to the window. "Gods above, there's more people out there! Whoever's coming, let's go!"

Kyrianna steps out into the storm, wrenching the tavern door closed behind the last to follow. The wind is powerful, but true to her word, the chill seems rather mild against her skin.

As they approach, she recognizes Vanya, the gardener, trying to calm the horse she'd heard. She wrinkles her nose subconsciously when she spots Mother Theodora's pet kobold wandering around too- why has the old woman let her loose in the storm?

No matter. "Good work, Vanya. Easy there, easy! Down! There's a good girl."

Handle Animal: Down: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (6) + 5 = 11 Can this be an assist to Vanya's check?

She focuses on calming the beast, leaving the others to address its rider.

Montgomery rushes into the cold. Running into danger was his specialty for many years, so he feels a strange twinge of nostalgia in the adrenaline. The blast of icy air hits him like a wall, and the pelting of hail against his tired body feels like a half-dozen halflings with pin hammers. He makes it to the rider's side, shielding his face with his arm. "Get him off the saddle and into shelter! Kyrianna, keep the horse still." His voice carries over the howling wind, accustomed to shouting orders from inside the maw of chaos. He reaches up and grabs the rider by his ice-cold armor, trying to get him down.

Kyrianna, that second perception check was unnecessary, so I'll count it as looking around. With Neela's stealth check, you wouldn't be able to see her unless she makes herself known. If anybody else rolls perception they may be able to see her.

With Vanya's wild empathy, he'd need at least a fifteen. Although your assist would only net him a 14, I'll say the handle empathy will net a +5 to his check, which succeeds.

The horse, initially whinying and shying away at the unknown man's touch, becomes soothed by Vanya's and Kyrianna's handling.

The doctor, grabbing at the rider by his shoulders, can feel the chill radiating off the man. It seems it was taking the last few ounces of the man's energy to hold on to the saddle for with just one tug, the man comes crashing down on top of you.

Up close and personal now, you see the man is obviously of Ulfen origin, tall and bulky with long, fair blonde hair and a plated beard that drops down to his waist. Speckles of blood are spotted throughout the tangles of hair.

The man seems barely lucid, shaking violently and spouting a repeated mantra in a language most of you don't know.

"Móðir, móðir, móðir..."

It'll be a strength check of DC 12 to move the rather large man anywhere. Anybody can assist unless you're trying to bring the horse somewhere. If you succeed, I'll say you get him into wherever you're taking him quickly enough to not get affected by the cold and the wet. Failure means whoever's out there with the ulfen man and are not wearing a cold weather outfit must make a DC 10 Fortitude save or take 1d3 nonlethal damage.

Where are you taking him and where are you all taking the horse?

Strength check (DC 12) 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (8) + 0 = 8

Montgomery feels the weight of the man upon him. In his youth, he could throw an armored warrior over his shoulders and carry him miles to safety. Now, he struggles to keep his own balance as he tries to prevent the rider from hitting the icy pavement. He pulls one armored arm over a shoulder, grimacing at the man's ice cold body. "He has hypothermia. We need to get him to my house. I can treat him there. Ehren, take his other shoulder. Kaelifax, you too! Someone keep his legs from dragging." Matthew raises his voice to get Marina's attention. A cleric would supplement his healing very well. "Marina! We need your help! Come to my home!"

I need two assists!

Kaelifax says, "Wouldn't the Stout be closer -- it's shelter and we can get some warm soup into him.", and throws the man's thick arm over one of his shoulders. He looks at Kyrianna and Vanya and asks, "Can the two of you get the horse into a stable? I think bringing the beast with us would be stretching the limits of hospitality."

Strength: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13

He then straightens himself up, grateful for his own Ulfen blood making him tall enough to manage the man and grits through his teeth, "I've got him... if someone can direct me as to where I'm going.... and get the doors?"

For those of us with cold resistance, wouldn't that protect against the non-lethal damage?

Ninjaed by the Doctor.. Edited post to reflect that.

Montgomery repeats his instructions to Kaelifax, who may not have heard him over the wind. "Soup alone won't be enough. He needs treatment. Bring him to my house."

Looks like I snuck in a ninja post.

Kaelifax looks longingly at the nearer door, ...and the still half-full tankard of ale... and soup..... He then quickly nods, "Then lead on and get the door.", and begins to follow the doctor, slowed down by the additional weight he's carrying.

Sorry, missed the stealth check on Neela! Also the horse is randomly a girl horse I guess.

Kyrianna lets out a small sigh of relief as the beast allows Vanya to get close enough to grab the reins. "Shh, easy girl, that's right, let's get out of this cold.... We can take her to the stables and warm her up there." Wow, the tutor's much stronger than I would've guessed, she thinks, And good thing too, the rider looked like he would've crushed Doc.

Noting that the gardener can lead a horse just fine, she runs ahead to the stable next door to the tavern and begins undoing the tarp, mentally running over where Sophia keeps the buckets and grain and how quickly they can stoke up the fire to get warm water.

Neela stays hidden as the townsfolk descend upon the rider, who apparently is no threat. She's content to stay hidden, until the man starts to speak. Neela understood what he was saying. It didn't make much sense, but then again none of this made any sense.

"Hey folks," announces Neela, making her presence known. "So I don't know if you figured this out, but this guy keeps babbling "Mother, mother, mother" over and over, in Hallit. He's probably come a loooooooong way. Do you suppose he might want the Old Mother? I couldn't find her at home, but she must be around somewhere."

Neela will run ahead to the tavern and see if anyone knows where Old Mother Theodora might be.