It’s a beautiful morning in Daggermark - perfect for a MarketDay. It has been either too wet or too chilly the past few months to really draw a crowd, so it seems everyone is here today!
Farmers and small merchants bring their goods to the market and sell them from temporary booths, although they have become more permanent lately and would now take a full day to dismantle. Around the market place are the permanent establishments - Farrels’ Fine Jewels and Apparel, The Happy Cow tavern, Cromach’s Smithy, and the Guilmasters’ Hall.
Most of the buildings in Daggermark are made of wood and thatch; however, since Derval Ironeater’s family brought their stone working skills to town a decade ago, a number of people have built in stone. Most of the residences in the crowded living areas are still made of wood. Placement of these wooden buildings is sometimes rearranged due to the occasional fire. Fortunately, proximity to the river allows the Watermen’s Guild to quench fires quickly.
Please tell us what you are doing today - working / shopping / etc. Keep interacting with each other, but watch the posting of other's actions here!
Abigail shakes out the rag in the back of the tavern, casting a longing glance to her little one-room home standing just behind it. With a heavy, forlorn sigh, she steps back into the kitchen and puts the glass mask back on-- she smiles broadly, laughs and takes a tray of plates to one of the tables in the Happy Cow, which is actually fairly crowded this morning.
Setting out steins, glasses, plates, wooden cups, wooden utensils, taking orders, refilling drinks, chasing serving girls and tips and payment and thanking and talking and being friendy and ugh!
She takes a breather in the rear of the tavern again, sitting on the steps for a brief moment. A cat stretches out in front of her, staring her down for a moment before she says "What, looking for a hand-out?" and breaks her scowl to smile at it. She pets it once or twice before Ethan, the tavern-owner, steps through the door to beckon her back inside.
Abbi straightens her skirts and follows him back inside-- back into the madhouse.
|Brother Silas Benedictine|
"Youth live lives full of folly," Silas shakes his head in solemn agreement with Bertrand, the green grocer, the priest's lips pursed in sympathy. He carries a wicker basket laden with a small handsack of flour, a bundle of spring carrots, a jar of olives, a nest of arugula and an assortment of other small goods purchased at the open market. "I've known Daisy since she was a slip of a girl, still in pigtails. She has a good heart, Bertrand, and a strong head, too. One small spat between the two of you cannot overshadow the love between father and daughter."
A consoling hand upon the man's hairy shoulder, a comforting meeting of the eyes, and Silas smiles. "I'll keep my ear to the ground for you, too. See if she's put up with a neighbor. I'm absolutely sure she's all right."
He purchases a basket of ripe tomatoes from Bertrand and then continues on through the marketplace, looking for...cheese! Yes, cheese. While walking through the Marketplace, Silas lifts his hat many a time for the locals, giving greetings and smiles, all the while focused on the tart richness of yellowed cheddar. Mouselike, his lips pull back from his teeth in excited anticipation of luxurious cheese!
|Eve Valeria Abia|
Eve wakes up, in her home. She gets out of bed and starts her morning exercises. After that is done she'll bath in the pond outback, get dressed, make and finish her breakfast and then heads out into the town.
she talks to herself on the way there
"It was nice of the mayor to let me take first shot at the boar eating his apples and vegetable at his summer retreat. I hope this boar's hide will sell well with Job the tanner since he was looking for some tough hides.
Oh right, I also got those plants Abby wanted for her cooking."
Hugo slammed his hammer down on the anvil, starting the process of hammering out the shape for yet another horse shoe. He exhaled with a forlorn sigh, looking out from beneath the wooden overhang in front of the smithy. He could see the market from here, hear the buzzing of people talking. It made being stuck here all the worse.
Normally he would have been running errand for his father on a day like this, but there had been no special requests for smithing work today, only a steady stream of farmers coming in from the surrounding area to have their horses reshoed and tools fixed for another years work. So now he was here while his father was enjoying the market day.
"Hey Hugo, I aint payin ya father good money to be left waitin!"
Hugo looked over at the small crowd of farmers who were standing amongst their horses, smoking pipes and talking, while waiting for their turn.
Ya Mista Roland, I is on it! he yelled back, working with extra effort at the mention of his father.
|Eve Valeria Abia|
I have read through your crunches and equipment - please make these edits or reply to my question. Thanks!
Hugo - Between your blacksmithing gear and tough hide from years at the forge you have the equivalent of +2 AC. No leather armor or shield. I think that gives you an AC of 13, T 11, FF 12.
Brother Silas - You have no weapons/proficiencies listed. I'm OK with that if you are...
Eve - Hunting with a greatclub? Seems to me you're more likely to have a spear (especially if you're boar hunting) or a regular bow ('cause you can't afford those fancy composite ones!) Let me know which you'd prefer.
Doc - Replace your leather armor with leather apron, gloves, and chemical goggles for a +1 AC.
John - You're the constable - you need a weapon and armor :-) Recommend a short sword and leather armor.
Abigail - After a lifetime of dodging drunk and 'grabby' customers, you have a +1 bonus to AC (like the Dodge feat).
Zinny - You're good to go!
Everyone is proficient with, and carries, a dagger. The reason I've squished a lot of armor is leather and hide are specially made to fit an individual. Padded armor can be a bunch of cloth and parts from around that you tied together...
|Eve Valeria Abia|
|Brother Silas Benedictine|
The armor/weapon proficiencies are those that are standard for the rogue class. I edited them into the Feats section of the character sheet: Armor Proficiency (Light), Rogue Weapon Proficiencies & the Simple Weapon Proficiencies - All.
As for having no weapons listed in the inventory, the recruitment for this game did not list weapons as allowable in the starting equipment. Which in the grand scheme of things is fine with me as Brother Silas is not much of a fighter, but may have to become one if the crap hits the fan.
|Brother Silas Benedictine|
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With his basket full of goods from a morning tour to the marketplace, along with a nice unlabeled bottle of sherry he purchased from one of the vintner's near Daggermark (his special splurge along with the wheel of cheddar!), Brother Silas hums a tune on his way back to the chapel of Erastil which he calls home. Thirty feet from the doors to the narthex, he slows his pace and glances left and right. If anyone spies him, he smiles and waves.
Once in the narthex he runs his fingers along the guestbook and turns the page over to a fresh one, unstained with ink for the next service. He breathes a heavy sigh, slips out of his overcoat, hangs up his hat and paces the sanctuary in thoughtfulness. He pauses beneath the great antlers mounted upon the wall, antlers with small charms hanging from them, each one representing a secret promise made by the people of Daggermark to serve their god and their community faithfully; earrings, bracelet pieces, knit pieces, heirlooms of unknown families, a tiny doll of a soldier that looks more like a hanged traitor...
The locked door to his personal quarters creaks. With his brow creased in sudden anxiety, Silas looks sharply towards it. A young woman, only barely in her knickers, peeks out. She chews a bob of auburn hair in the corner of her mouth, eyes as wide as a widow's.
She giggles and beckons him hungrily into his quarters, starting to proclaim how wonderful it was last night. He hushes her quickly and tiptoes at a hasty speed across the sanctuary. His fingers splay across her smooth white bosom as he pushes himself bodily against her, if only to sequester her once again in his sitting room. Her lips struggle to find his, and they do, but only briefly, as his own curl into an unkissably awkward smile as he holds up the bottle of sherry.
Together they break bread, slice cheese, and pop cork in silence, still basking in thoughts clandestine. She giggles. He chuckles. She lowers her eyes, poutingly. He gulps, and moves to end this quickly.
"You were wrong. Your father is very worried about you."
Of course, she protests all of a sudden, why did he have to go and ruin such a moment. All men are like her father, but Silas, oh, he was different! A wise man, a holy man, a good man. Not that she was ready to marry or anything, but a man who wouldn't break her heart.
"In his eyes, there is no wrong you can do, Daisy. He loves you through and through, unconditionally. I, ah...I, of course, do as well. But though he can do no wrong in loving you, I am afraid the same cannot be said for me. I am a man wed to the faith. To the people. To my calling."
The sherry sours. The bread stales and the cheese, oh, the cheese suddenly tastes too Brevic for comfort.
"Are those tears of anger or hurt? I never meant to do either, Daisy," he says, taking her hands into his own and pressing his lips against them. "In your time of need, when you felt alone, I was there for you. Last night was a kind of miracle, you know. One of the oldest miracles. To have shared that with you is something I will never forget."
A choked sob, and he consoles her by patting her shoulder and once again kissing her hand just before putting her spotted bonnet into it. Her fingers curl around the headpiece.
"Go to your father, my child. Oh. Oh, no, you are right, yes, you are no child. You are a woman, a woman of good River stock. A woman who knows to hold her beloved family tight. And her beloved," he says, pressing his index finger against her lips before a final kiss, "even tighter."
She starts to head out into the sanctuary and he squeaks suddenly, waving her back and directing her out the rear entrance, where tall hedges have been hewn from the foliage and an overhang provides some shade from the sun and from prying eyes. When she is gone, he cuts another piece of cheese and eats it in silence while walking the sanctuary, staring again at the antlers mounted on the wall and the dozens of broken and unbroken promises hanging thereupon.
Mid-day is her own time-- come evening, the girls'll be dancin' and she'll be hauling kegs from the cellar or otherwise busy. But for now, Zinny is running the errands her mother has for her in the marketplace, which is kinda like havin' time to yourself, as long as she don't dawdle.
She stops by Hugo's to give the hulking man a nod and pick up some nails, and chat with him a bit though it's hard to do much conversation over the ringing blows of the hammer. She likes Hugo. He don't ever make her feel dumb, and he's so big she almost feels like a regular lass in comparison.
"Hey, Hugo! Your poppa left you all this sweatin' on your own? I'll bring you back somethin' cool from market," she calls over the sounds of the smithy.
After they chat, she heads on her way to the bright stalls. She lingers a few moments before Farrel's, lookin' at all the shinies on display. There's copper necklaces and silver rings, and even a few golden baubles. Her momma has pretty jewelry from Farrel's. Be wasted on Zinny, she reckons, but that pretty hair-pin with the butterfly on it is nice.... no, no, ain't like she got the money anyway.
She nods to Eve when she sees the taller woman striding along with a skinned pelt, and stops at the fruit stand to buy a some cut bits of fruit wrapped in a big leaf. Bits of melons and berries, sweet and tart on the tongue; taste awful good. She'll take Hugo some of the fruit juice they sell.
Zinnys visit brighted Hugos mood considerably. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if she did most of the talking, but that suited him just fine. He wasnt much good at thinking of something interesting to talk about anyway...unless you find horse shoes particularly interesting.
Ya Zinny, 'e only do da spechul stuff, I do da shoes an' rakes an' stuff like dat...an' aint nuttin spechul taday.
He slams the anvil harder as he speaks, the last mighty blow at the end ruining the horse shoe, flattening it completely against the anvils surface.
He is about to toss his hammer in anger when Zinny calls back about a cool drink. Lowering it, he waves after her.
Tanks Zinny, dat sounds good!
The serenity of the day is interrupted by a rider rapidly approaching from the Caravan Gate to the south. As he passes through the gate, he falls off his horse, extending an arm in your direction as if pleading for help. You quickly rush to the man’s side and hear him gasp, “Lizardfolk . . .Lizardfolk raided Cromm’s holding . . . need help . . . please . . . ” He then collapses into unconsciousness. The rider seems to have been in some kind of battle – his peasant’s shirt is soaked in blood and you notice there are several puncture wounds and claw marks on his arms and chest. The horse was also injured in their escape. Both rider and horse are taken into the care of other bystanders.
Cromm’s holding is one of the farming hamlets surrounding Daggermark, with five families of around 20-25 people. Although it is a 30 minute ride by horseback, you are likely the nearest help. The farmers and shopkeepers around the Marketplace are willing to loan you their draft horses to speed your trip.
Explain why you volunteer to ride to Cromm’s hold and what equipment you will grab within the 15 minutes you have before the group leaves.
Zinny stares at the bloodied man who topples off his horse, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of shock and horror at the sight of his injuries. Delivering a fist to the jaw of a fella who oughta know better is one thing. But it has by no means prepared for the signs of true violence.
She bites at her fingernails, white-faced, unable to look away as the man is tended to.
Should John Keel pick her out of the bystanders hanging on-- she's a sturdy girl, surely she'll be of some use-- her response will be a wide-eyed, barely audible, "M-me?"
Then she'll run home, rabbit-like, to grab whatever comes to hand-- her big heavy apron that she wears when tending bar, the stained leather gloves she wears when scrubbing the chamber pots. What else, she thinks worriedly? If folks are hurt she's no healer like Doc but she knows you gotta make sure the wounds don't get infected-- so she throws a few bottles of whiskey into her pack as well, and some clean dishcloths to wrap any injuries the poor folk at Cromm's might have.
Gods, what else you gonna need? Rope mayhap, if they need to make a sling for a broken arm... she hurriedly tosses everything into her rucksack. She still has the nails she picked up from Hugo's and in her frantic packing she just tosses them into the pack as well.
"Zinny? Zinny, dear, whatever are you doing-- where is the cloth I wanted you to pick up at the market?"
"I cain't talk right now, Momma! I been drafted as special deputee emergency aid!"
Verella appears in the doorway of the small room that serves as a general closet and Zinny's room. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Momma I ain't got TIME! They gotta get goin' now, I gotta run!"
"Zinnia Lucille Holbern, that is NOT how you talk to your mother. Now calm down and tell me what is-- Zinny-- ZINNY!"
But she's already snatched up the big stick from behind the bar and is running down the road, the open flap of the pack bouncing up and down as she goes.
Hope it's okay that I figured Keel might have 'drafted' Zinny as as a bystander. I can come up with a reason she'd volunteer if needed.
|Eve Valeria Abia|
Over hearing the problem
"Oh crap, looks like trouble is coming.
So I'll let you hold onto the pelt, until I get back.
I'll be helping them, because those darn lizards will also hunt in my hunting grounds if they take Crooms Holding."
She grasped the holy symbol of the lucky drunk inbetween her fingers and thought hard, praying to a fleeting image of the hero she wished would save her instead of letting her think they were dead in Cromm's Holding with their faces in the mud like when her parents had flipped the cart and... she took a deep breath. No one was going to swish a sword in the air and come to save her. She swallowed her fear and put on her resolve face. "Brave heart, Abby," she whispered to herself and ran back into the kitchen.
Abby hefted the cast-iron frying pan and slipped it into a sash wrapped around her waist. Guardsman Keel was looking for people to go to Cromm's Holding, they'd been attacked by lizardfolk, people were in danger, burial duty. These words jumped out at her. Time for action. She looked over the kitchen as quickly as she could, at Ethan's prized knife collection, at the skewers and tenderizing hammers, and decided to keep what she had-- what her hand was used to. Tilly, another serving girl, bustled through the doors to the kitchen with a tray of empty plates, wearing the same uniform as Abigail. Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, held back by a kerchief wrapped around her forehead and knotted in a bow. Tilly was younger than her-- time had flown since Abby had begun to wash dishes in the back room of the Happy Cow for Ethan, and now, Tilly had that job. She looked surprised.
"What're you doing?" Tilly asked, a drop of alarm in her voice. Abby knew that Tilly would understand after a moment, and realization dawned on her face. She drew a hand to her mouth, almost shocked. "You're going to go with Keel, aren't you? Are you mad?"
"I'm not mad," Abby replied, a sharpness to her words. She lifted up another, larger pan and looked it over, appraising it like a warrior would a weapon. "My aunt Mima and the kids are in Cromm's hold. There are probably hurt people, injured people--"
"You're not a warrior, Abby," Tilly interrupted, her tone of voice questioning, as if Abby didn't know. She took a step closer and put her hand on Abby's arm. "Don't-- you might get hurt."
Abby gave Tilly a smile. She hung the pan back on the hanging rack, and turned to face her. Touching her hand, she drew it into her own, holding it tightly. "Tilly," she said, and laughed a little, trying to be comforting. She hid the fear as best as she could. "I'll be fine. I need to be brave and do everything I can to help." Her holy symbol, a talisman with the image of a tankard emblazoned on it, glinted in the low-light of the kitchen. Tilly saw it and glanced up to Abby's face.
"What'll I tell Ethan?" she sputtered-- like she knew that Abigail wouldn't say anything. She was right-- Abigail would leave without saying a word. Better to avoid than confront.
"I dunno," Ethan rumbled from behind the door to the pantry, emerging carrying a half-sack of flour, "But, hopefully, he'll understand." He set the sack on an empty space of counter and stared purposefully down at Abigail. She met his gaze and held it, determination on her face mixed with uncertainty. Was he going to try to stop her? Finally, he rolled his shoulders into a shrug and said "I can't stop you, can I? Not with that kind of look on your face."
"I'll be fine," Abby said, not quite believing that herself.
"Better last words have been spoken," Ethan interjected.
"I need to help. I -need- to. I don't want to sit here and wait for a messenger to come to tell me that they're all dead or dying or hurt, if I can do something, anything to help."
"I understand, kid, believe me. Better than you'd know. Plus, what can I say to that kind of look?"
"Nothing," she said, and presented a steely expression. She felt more like sheet metal, wobbling and cracking in the breeze.
Ethan disappeared into his cellar and didn't return for several minutes, telling her to wait. Abigail paced back and forth in the kitchen, worried that Keel would leave without her, until he emerged, carrying a long, thin sword in a cobweb and dust covered sheathe. He handed it to her, letting it rest in her hands. Sitting down on a barrel, he drew his pipe from his breast pocket and struck a match to light it, puffing a cloud of smoke from his nose a moment later. Slowly, awkwardly, she drew it. It was almost as tall as she was, nearly three feet long. Looking at the shine of the metal in the dim light, she could make out nicks and scratches that showed it had been used before-- several times. The cage of the rapier handle felt at home wrapped around her hand. "Ethan... whose sword is this?"
He gave her a smirk. "Mine, when I was young enough and my hands were small enough to fit that handle." He dusted himself off and stood up. Ethan looked like he was going to say something else, but let it hang in the air, turning to leave. It was apparent to her how old he was, suddenly. Abigail felt like she knew everything from that statement alone-- she could feel the regret in the air, feel the loss and the guilt. She knew not to ask any questions.
She started to say goodbye but Ethan held up a hand to stop her. Tilly looked at him questioningly and he said, after a pause: "See you here for work tomorrow, yeah?"
After a moment's pause, Abby nodded. "Yeah!" She faked a smile.
Abigail Westbrook strode outside with purpose, Ethan's rapier hanging awkwardly from her hip, looking for John Keel.
Finding nothing but the open road, he hurried back to the man. As the man pleaded for assistance, a large inappropriate smile split Hugos face. Dis is wut yous been waitin for! Dis is your chance! With an excited jump he started running from one person to the next, putting his hands on their shoulders and shaking them vigorously.
"Dun just stand dere! We gots ta do sumthin!"
He suddenly stopped.
"Wat is I doin? I gots ta get ready maself!"
With that he ran around the back of the house to the shed where his backpack had been resting for years, waiting for this exact day. Rope, bedroll, flint and steel, and other things essential to a life of adventure. It had been a few years too many, and the backpack looked rather small on him, the straps digging into his massive shoulders.
On his way back he wandered through the house, raiding the kitchen for as much food as he could find in a hurry. He had just picked up a small sack of apples, when behind him he heard the front door slam open.
"Where in all da Hells do ya think youre goin boi!!?!?"
The bag of apples slipped from his grasp, falling on the floor as he turned to see the stocky shape of his father standing at the door. The man was fuming, wearing a face that could sour milk.
"But Papa, da Lizards, an'..an' Cromms..."
His father strode towards Hugo, grabbing the front of his apron and pulling him down to his own height.
"Ill have no backtalk from you boi! Ive got too many things around here that need doin for you to be running around playin a gods darned hero!! Hah!! You, a hero?! Look at ya!! You aint no hero boi, a hero is fast, clever, resourceful! You...yer slow, stupid and clumbsy!"
Letting go of Hugo he started pacing.
Ya couldnt get an idea if yer life depended on it. Whos putting thses rediculous thoughts in yer head hmm? Its one of those harlots yer always talkin to at the Cow isnt it? They filled yer head with all this nonsense. No wonder you aint never been worth a damn with anythin but shoes! How am I supposed to teach you anything when they are fillin what little room you have in that useless tiny brain of yours?!
Behind him, Hugo growled, the straps of his backpack groaning under the strain as every muscle in his body tensed with anger.
Wut yous mean by "harlot"? he said between clenched teeth.
Sluts, tramps, WHORES! Do ya really think they want anything to do with you!? HAH, They just want ya to feel all special so they can make you do things for them! That barwench especially, what her name, Gail? Got you running down to the Cow every night, spendin all our money on ale and repairs! Well ive had enough, theres gonna be some changes around here. You aint gonna be seen with those harlots again, and you sure as hell aint goin to Cromms Holding!!!
As he said the last words he spun around to face his son, just in time to take a chair squarely to the face, the chair and him both, crumbling to the floor in a heap.
Hugo stood there for a little while, chest heaving as his rage slowly subsided. Picking up the apple bag, he looked down at his father.
I is not afraid of you. Yous nuttin but a small man wit big words.
Then he left. slamming the door behind him.
Its a wonderful morning in Daggermark and slowly the heat of the day creeps up within Doc Ginley's Apothecary and Leeches. The smell of pine from the shelves mixes with honey,herbs and spices that are components to many of the wares. Doc spent his morning accomplishing his usual routine. He polished the counter and turned every little bottles so the label could be read. He watered the plants and cut away some fresh herbs. He was at that moment seated at the corner with two trays in front of him. One containing baskets and glass bottles filled with spices and herb and the other with little white envelopes. After carefully writing in a perfect calligraphy a score of little white packets, he was now filling them up with premade spice mix for roasted beef or chicken, lamb stew and mutton on the bone. An idea of Charity that quicly became a best seller at the shop
Doc almost fell off his stool when his door flew violently open, sending his door bell flying Gods knows where. Looking at the door frame Doc makes out the face of one of the Wembley's boys swimming in a sea of dust mites floating among the sun rays.
Doc they need you at the square He yells out.
Heaving oxygen, hands on his knees he says in between gasps.
Twas a rider from Cromm's holdings. He got attacked and now he's out of it. He said it was Lizardmen.
By then Doc has already taken off his leather apron in favor for a cotton one. He grabs a well worn leatherbag filled with bandages, scissors and other medical implement. Before he's out the door he stops at the stairs and yells up
I am heading to the square, close up the shop and come help me. Bring boiling wine!
With that said he takes off at a hurried pace, careful not to run as he would be no help if he got there winded. At the square the townsfolk quickly step out of his way. He gets to the man and, getting to his knees, starts analysing the situation all the while muttering to himself.
Breathing is ok, pulse is... fading. Skin is warm, much too warm. Fever? The boy said Lizardmen, could be poison. The wounds are, blood is clear and thin. Not good.
Calmly opening the leather case, he pulls out a pair of scissors and cuts away the shirt so he can inspect the wound. He asks for water and once a bucket has been brought he pours a liberal quantity. This shows him where the bleeding is at its worst. Doc checks for foreign objects within the sores and removes any fragments that might have remained within. He then starts applying pressure.
The sun bearing down on him he occasionnaly swipes at his brow leaving it smeared with blood. The sweat beads out into pinkish drops that cascade down his cheeks, flowing down his neck and finally staining his collar.
Charity gets there, a babe of nearly one in arm. a toddler of 5 clutching at her skirts and a boy of eight whos carrying a tin tea-kettle who's handle is lost in thick towel. The boy quicly rush to the physician and his patient.
Daddy i'm helping, im helping In his excitement the wine sloshes out of the spout, staining the dirt a darker shade of red.
Thats very good Amon. Now go see mommy. Daddy needs to do this alone now.
He checks the temperature of the kettle and, satisfied, pours some on all of the wounds. Trusting that this should take care of the infections he applies pressure once again. Once the bleeding has truly stopped, he sutures where he can and puts bandages where he cant.
Bring a stretcher please. We'll take him to the temple.
Doc Ginley gets up. Adrenaline starting to fade out, he suddenly feels woozy and tired. He looks at Charity, his wife, whose face is filled with anguish, she looks back at him and they exchange a long sorrowful look as they both think of the same thing. Charity's sister lives at Cromm's holding. Her, her husband and their 5 children.
Marcel has that old crossbow of his, they could still be okay. he says half heartedly.
Don't go she begs, her words choking in her throat. Lily, feeling all that tension, starts wailing.
I have to. They'll need me, they'll need my skills. There will be wounded that need tending too and... we need to know
What about me? What about Amon, and Rachi and Lily? What happens to us when the Lizardmen ambush you? We are your family, we need you. You are not a hero Doc, your an apothecary. You get winded when you go up the stairs three times in a row!.
I love you he says. As if this was enough of an answer.
She nods, a few tears rolling over her cheeks as she looks down, avoiding his eyes.
I'll get your things. I'll need the basement key. Yeah, i know what you've been doing down there. You think you where being subtle? We can feel the wall shake. I went to see for myself while you slept. I let you keep at it, your moods were better this way
Doc is flabbergasted, stunned he walks over to volunteer his services. Minutes later, his wife is back with the apron, gloves and goggles. She also carries a bandolier filled with flasks, another leather bag and a book along with the rest of his equipment.
They kiss and exchange soft words lost in the tumult around them.
Amon, Rachi, come here Crouching, he takes both of his sons in his arms. He kisses them on their heads and tells them that he will be back later. He takes Lily in his arms and kisses her little face.
She looks so much like her mother he thinks to himself,
Handing her back to his wife and gives her one last longing kiss before he is ready to go help the resident of Cromm's holding
My computer has the terrible tendency to randomly freeze up. Wich means that for long post such as this one, i have to "save it" by posting and editing a few times. Thanks for your patience
Hi all. Sorry for my late entrance. I am looking forward to joining you. Tomid's back story is bar tender at an Inn so Iam going to piggy back off of Abigail. Hope you are good with that.
Tomid stands on an empty behind the bar and taps a full. The common room is doing a brisk lunch at the Happy Cow. The sun is shining, tips are good, and his real currency, gossip, is flowing. Tomid knows the town. He knows who is who and what is what and prides himself on often knowing first. As the tap locks into the keg and the first foamy beer is poured from it Tomid teases a local with the nectar. Now now, Hovis. Its the top o' the barrel, and likely the best beer of the lot. It'll take more than coin to pry in from my mits. What you got for me? he leans in conspiratorially to the store keep and listens to a new rumor.
Instead of learning of a cheating farmer or a young girls first love Hovis informs the halfling that some rider has fallen from his mount in the street, just now, and right out side, and is ranting about lizards and Cromm’s holding. Well that could not be right, could it? Leaving the beer for the shop keep, Tomid wipes the brown foam from his hand on his apron and, looking to make sure Ethan is not around to see, hops up on the bar, runs half its length and vaults off at the end near the front door with the flourish the customers love.
Acrobatics: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (19) + 8 = 27
Not a word to Ethan, or I'll not do it again now. he warns the regulars who love to watch him do that trick. That one was pretty good. Maybe my best ever. he says to himself referring to his vaulting dismount of the bar.
Once outside Tomid is upset. He is upset party because Hovis was right, and partly at the crowd that had already gathered. Tomid liked to be first to know such things. But he grew more upset when the rider's story was announced. It was Cromm's holding having the problem all right and Cromm's mother was a friend of the family, damn it all. No since in trying to back out of it. His ma would have his hide if he did not go see about her. It wasn't all bad though. His regulars would tip well tonight to hear about what he saw over at Cromms. Who all is going? Tomid asks. I'll need a ride. Back in 5 with the gear I'll need. And with that he darts back into the inn to tell Ethan and his ma and to grab his pack.
As he shoulders his gear and heads back outside he pauses for a moment, a puzzled look on his face, and he ask good ol' Hovis, who is happily drinking that first beer of the keg, Hey Hovis, what's a lizardman?
"All right, people!" An authoritative voice calls out in the town square. "The response team is heading out for Cromm's Hold in just a few minutes. I'll need all volunteers out here as soon as possible. Thank you."
The speaker is a lean, wiry older man in his mid-30s with black hair and piercing blue eyes. A nasty scar runs over his right eye and down his cheek, and a lit cigar is clenched in his teeth as though he has all the time in the world. He wears a battered set of leather armor over his chest, but from its rather dull shine, battered appearance, and numerous dents and dings, the armor clearly isn't just for show. Over his left breast is pinned a bright brass badge in the shape of a dagger, with engraved letters above it saying [DAGGERMARK CONSTABLE] and below it saying [KEEL]. Underneath the breastplate, John wears a simple navy-blue tunic with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing calloused hands. His trousers are simple homespun black cotton, and his well-worn leather boots appear scuffed and truly ancient. The belt around his waist carries numerous tools of his trade, including a watchman's nightstick, a set of heavy manacles, a few belt pouches and a short sword.
Tilting back the battered iron helmet on his head, Constable John Keel consults the impromptu list he had started in a small notebook. Having swiftly returned to his home after issuing orders and getting the injured man to the attention of the militia and the local healers, Keel shuts the heavy door behind him with a sigh.
Lizardfolk at Cromm's Hold? It was possible, Keel supposed, but only just. Vicious, conniving, greedy bastards they were. But then again, Keel knew that ordinary Humans could be just as nasty. Just because people weren't holding spears didn't mean they couldn't stab you in the back.
Keel glances around his small hovel with a grimace of worry. The home is fairly small, and what little room it has is cluttered by a disheveled bed in the corner, a ramshackle mannequin for hoding his armor, a sturdy workbench in the corner, and a small cook-fire and cauldron along the wall.
A simple little hovel for a man who barely subsisted on a guardsman's pay. No, strike that, Keel wished he could get a proper Guard's pay. Instead, he got just ten silvers a month from the Daggermark governing council, whom Keel suspected did it more out of pity than any real need for his services. The true, proper Town Guard did all the real work in Daggermark, solving the rare crime and helping people like a good police force should.
Keel pushes his helmet back and sighs as he looks around, motes of dust filtering through the afternoon sunlight that seeps in through the cracks in the wall boarding. Going over to his workbench, John pulls out a battered old backpack, well-used and worn by years of service. With familiar ease, he begins packing. Foodstuffs such as bread, cheese, several shanks of meat, some biscuits and cooking spices are all wrapped into an individual bundle, which is then overlaid with a large leather-bound journal alongside a heavy tome bearing the inscription [LAWS AND ORDINANCES OF DAGGERMARK] in heavy, embossed type.
The Daggermark Guard seldom actually referred to the letter of the Law. If they cited it at someone during an arrest or in handing out a warning, who would call them out on it? Who even had a copy of the Law, let alone was able to interpret and apply it? Almost nobody, which is what the Daggermark Guard counted on.
Reading, writing and drawing were Keel's main pastimes during the hot, dull daylight hours when he wasn't asleep. Keel's duties required that he keep odd hours when the Guard "assigned" him to the scornful position of Night Watch. The Night Watch wasn't a place for people who were going anywhere, either in their careers or in life. The Night Watch was where the Guard funneled hopefuls and hedge cases, washouts and misfits alike.
"___ O'clock and all's well!" went the rote cry Keel was to give during his patrol rounds. Few things were really well in the world, much less in the washed-out ranks of the Night Watch, but the whole trick was not letting the rest of the villagers know that. No officer truly has as much power and authority as a citizen thinks he does. The moment the people realize that the officers of the law are just fellow Humans with shiny badges and helmets, those officers are smears on the pavement. The greatest trick the Law ever pulled was telling the People they were safe.
A warm blanket is packed around all of this for cushioning, followed by a solid spool of rope. Keel then takes the time to load up a few of the smaller side pouches with odds and ends like a set of eating utensils, spare quills and inkpots, a stove can and a few torches.
Glancing out the window at the gathering crowd, Keel dashes over to his workbench and sweeps a few tindertwigs into his belt pouch, double-checks his supply of cigars in his belt, and lastly grabs his multipurpose knife off the dinner table and sheaths it in his belt. Swinging the entire bundle onto his back, John closes his eyes and bounces on his heels for a moment, like a man trying to grind a bug into the ground with both feet at once.
Keel always bought cheap boots from the cobbler. It was all he could afford on his salary, but it never seemed to last. A really good pair of leather boots from a cobbler in the city cost five gold pieces. But an affordable pair of boots rom the local cobbler, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about one gold piece. Those were the kind of boots Keel always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Daggermark on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.
But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford five gold pieces had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while the poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent fifty gold pieces on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.
There really was no justice in the world.
Nodding to himself, John steps outside, swiftly locks his door and then thumps on it solidly to verify the latch holds. Satisfied, he swiftly strides off towards the marketplace again.
"Keel!" A voice calls out. John glances to the side as a scrawny man jogs out of the alley, wearing the same leather armor, badge and iron helmet as John. His limbs are gangly and his face is covered in old acne scars as a half-deflated cigarette smolders behind his ear. His scarred-up face makes him appear somewhere between 28 and 57, and has looked the same way for as long as Keel's known him. Keel's mouth twists in a wry grin. "Corso Jorgan!" Keel exclaims in relief at seeing his fellow Night Watch patrolman. "Thank Faradon, about damn time. You heard the news?"
Corso leans against a building and folds his arms. The man has a peculiar stance, like everything about him is trying to shift away from the viewer's attention while simultaneously remaining exactly in place. "Lizards at Cromm's," he nods. "Nasty. Heard you in the marketplace, too. Taking anyone with you?"
Keel purses his lips. "I'm taking whoever I can get. What I really want is to drag the idiot Daggermark Guard there by their collars so they actually do some good and help people for a change," he mutters.
Corso grunts and fishes the cigarette out from behind his ear. "Fat chance," he snorts. "You'd have a better time embarking on a grand quest to slay a dragon and free a princess, because then at least the princess would want to come back with you."
Keel rolls his eyes. "Don't bet on it," he grouses. "Something tells me I'm going to have my hands full managing this rescue team as it is. I think looking after a princess is a little above my pay grade."
"So why are you goin' out there?" Corso asks bluntly. "If this is true, you think your volunteer group is gonna go up against bona-fide monsterous Lizardfolk?"
"Faradin's Justice, I hope not," Keel mutters. "We're going out there so that nobody else has to. Daggermark Guard isn't taking this seriously. If this turns out to be the real deal, I don't want anybody else dying because the Guard was too stupid to recognize a threat." A burial detail, Keel reflects grimly. Captain didn't mention whose...
"Jorgan! Keel!" another voice exclaims, and a bright-eyed young man, still at the tail end of his teenage years by the look of him, walks up to the two patrolmen. He, too, wears a battered iron helmet and leather armor, though the too-large helmet keeps slipping down over his eyes and the armor hangs on his stork-limbed frame like a scarecrow's costume. "Boy, am I glad to see you two! Something happened! There's a guy who rode in, and he was banged up, and Brother Silas looked at him, but he said there's Lizardfolk in--"
"Yep," Keel interrupts.
"Heard it," Corso grunts.
The boy just sort of goggles at them.
"What did I tell you about a good patrolman, Eric?" Keel asks with a raised eyebrow.
The young man visibly deflates. "He....always keeps his eyes open?"
Corso blows a stream of smoke. "And? C'mon, Gault, I thought you said you paid attention."
Eric Gault bites his lip and pushes his helmet above his brow again. "And...He...He waits to make a judgement until he knows everything?" he responds with the cognitive effort of a guilty schoolboy.
Keel grins and slaps Eric on the shoulder, causing his helmet to fall down over his eyes again. "Right. I still don't know what we're getting into, but the Guard doesn't want to handle it, and in case this is actually serious they'll need someone to help organize things at Cromm's Hold. But in the meantime, I need people I can trust back here in Daggermark to keep walking the patrol and staying the course. Can you do that for me, Gault?" He gazes intently into the boy's eyes as Eric raises his helmet up again.
Eric nods hesitantly.
"Can you do that?" Keel prompts again.
"Y-Yes, sir!" The gangly teenager salutes.
Keel glances over to Corso, the unspoken question in his eyes. Corso just smirks and gives him a thumbs-up.
"All right," Keel returns to Eric. "Now, I've got some very brave people to go round up so we can put a stop to this. We've all got a job to do. Right? Let's get to it."
Keel and Corso share a nod, and Keel strides off towards the marketplace as Corso claps Eric on the shoulder. "C'mon, kid," he says to the gangly teenager. "Let's find a place to watch the crowd and old Corso'll tell you what's what...."
Meanwhile, Keel returns to the marketplace square, approaching the swiftly-gathering crowd. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he calls out, "All right, people! This is Constable Keel, and I'm leading the response team for Cromm's Hold! Any volunteers that come forward will be appreciated, but it isn't mandatory! We won't turn anybody away, but once you come with us, you'll be expected to see this thing through! Anyone who comes along will be possibly riding into danger! We don't know what's going on yet, but the people at Cromm's Hold need our help! If we can't even be good enough neighbors to help those who come to us in need, then what good are we? I don't know about the rest of you, but I won't ignore a cry for help no matter where it comes from.
Who's with me?!"
Zinny has nervously volunteered-- folk need help, don't they? And one of the girls who used to work at the Dancing Whip got herself married and moved on out to Cromm's Hold, and Zinny don't reckon she would sleep well if she didn't go check on her at least.
So she is one of those 'with' Mister Keel, rucksack over one shoulder and big fencepost over the other, shifting her weight foot to foot and hoping her momma don't come fetch her back before they get going.
Abigail pushes her way through the crowd, the rapier-blade shifting back and forth on her hip, and approaches Guardsman Keel directly. The frying pan in her sash on the left side of her body has a dangerous glint to it, like she was about to crack an egg and fry it right here, right now, and no one could tell her she couldn't.
"Mister Keel! I'm going with you," she said, determination in her voice. Her hands shook a little so she crossed her arms. "I can help," she replied to some sort of silent judgment, and it became obvious that perhaps she'd gone over this once before in her mind and was just belting off her script. "And you're not telling me no."
She then took the space besides Zinny, glaring at Keel for daring to have ever made her think that he might have protested in any way to her joining the response team.
"Good to have you, Miss Westbrook," Keel nods politely. "Denying you never crossed my mind. If you'll join Miss Holbern over here, we can wait for the others."
Inwardly, Keel quails. In his estimation, the young woman has the look about her of a woman with more fire in her veins than sense in her head. Keel doubts she knows what to do with the rapier on her hip, but as any survivor of a peasant mob can attest, in the hands of an angry housewife a cast-iron frying pan is more dangerous than a Dwarven warhammer. Keel eyes the blunt instrument and fishes out his cigar from under his helmet to calm his nerves.
|Eve Valeria Abia|
|Brother Silas Benedictine|
Silas' exclamation sounds choked as his reverie below the antlers is shattered when the double doors to the humble sanctuary burst open, flooding the interior with light. A wounded man in bandages is brought inside. The priest tilts his head, confused, until one of the young guards with a troubled dirty blond comb-over tells him the news.
"Oh. Oh! I see, yes. Thank you, Eric. Help me move this pew."
With Gault's help, Silas moves some of the pews further apart so that the wounded guard can be put somewhere other than the floor. "He will probably want some freshwater. You can go and pump some from behind the church. There's a bucket outside. Let me go and get the cot..."
Practically dance-stepping up to his pulpit, he passes it and scurries over to a small broom closet and from it removes a collapsible cot, the kind normally reserved for those women who get a touch of the vapors during a sermon. He brings it over, unfolds it, and then helps Eric get the wounded guard into the cot. "He's already been very well taken care of. Must be Doc Ginley's work."
Eric confirms it is so.
"Erastil has not seen fit to gift me with the healing arts. And yea though we need not derive the gift of magic from our lord in order to serve him well, nonetheless there are times when I wish it were otherwise. Then I could be of some use."
He who went to fetch water returns and douses a cloth to further clean the blood and sweat from the wounded soldier. Gault suggests that Brother Silas go and give his blessing to those about to depart for Cromm's Hold.
"An excellent notion, m'boy," Silas says, snatching his hat from the hatrack again and donning it. "The sanctuary here is open to any more refugees who come from Cromm's and are wounded."
One last glance at the antlers decked in promise charms and Brother Silas is out the door, headed to the gate, the source of all the commotion. When he arrives, Constable Keel is barking out for volunteers. Why aren't the Daggermark guards handling this? Why the need for conscripts? Though he has no answers, Brother Silas waits a brief moment and then, when he sees his opportunity, he moves forward to stand quite close to those who are volunteering. He turns to address the crowd that is gathered, feeling fortunate that so many of those with local produce are in town for market today.
"Until we know more about what is happening in Cromm's Hold, we do not know what to expect. But if one man comes here wounded, it stands to reason that there may be other refugees following. And looking around at those of us who are gathered, I can only see the hand of providence at work: there is extra produce on hand in the market, extra hands to assist them. A lot of people with good hearts. Daggermark is well-positioned today to open our doors to our neighbors in need. If someone should come, please, bring them to the sanctuary to take respite. These are people who may have lost their homes and have nothing by which to get by on..."
Silas suddenly searches the crowd for any of the town council, or perhaps the mayor, as well as any of the farmers in attendance who brought their food with them to sell. He glances at Bertrand, and then quickly away again.
"...I am sure the town council would be more than willing to purchase much of your surplus that you brought to market day, at a bulk discount, so that we have these supplies on hand to feed those who may be unable to feed themselves. Or to clothe those who have not but the shirts upon their backs. What Erastil gifts from the earth, he gifts not just for you and for me but for all."
He remains standing amidst the volunteers.
From behind Abby and Zinny
"So this is the volunteer line right?"
Abby turns and nods at Eve very seriously. "Yep," she confirms, and turns back away, keeping her arms crossed. Resolve! She was going to be useful, even if every giant in the community was coming with. She'd surprise them all by finding a narrow window to crawl through if she had to! The issue would be forced!
Abigail suddenly realized she had very little idea of what a lizardfolk looked like. She remembered the half-eaten goats out by the river, but... how big were they, really? Were they going to make Eve and Zinny look normal-sized?
After Brother Silas's speech, she noticed he's standing among the volunteers. A few moments go by and she turns to him with the same resolve. She asks "Are... you coming with us, Brother?" and touches her necklace. A real holy person on the journey with them would definitely help push back the doubt.
|Eve Valeria Abia|
The “response team” assembled, several farmers and craftsmen bring forward horses for the brave volunteers. The three draft horses go to the largest members of the party, and Abby and Tomid agree to double up on a single plow horse. These are sturdy beasts, used to hauling heavy loads or working the fields. It’s a good thing these are not high-spirited stallions – none of you have ever spent more than an hour or two in a saddle, and trepidation shows in some of your eyes. Still, your resolve is unwavering in the face of this crisis.
You set off at a walk, then John kicks his horse into a trot and the others follow. Make a single Ride check – if you roll below a 10 or a 5, check the spoilers below. Results are cumulative (meaning if you fail the 5, you also fail the 10!)
Tomid joins the recruits. You going too Abby? he asks Abigail. Ethan'll not be pleased to loose the both of us to this 'venture, but the sweet thing is he can't say nothin or the town will have it in for him. Tomid seems to enjoy this fact a lot. Hope we don't have to walk all the way. Are there horses?
Mr. Keel. tomid calls out. You have my scouting services. Likely you'll need them. Most folks around town are quite aware that Tomid can move quiet as a mouse when he wants to and gets a good part of his gossip by being around but unobserved. Uncanny. some call it.
You driving or taking back seat Abby? Thats a mighty big horse and I am not much of a rider.
Abigail tries several times to get up onto the saddle and finally succeeds, riding saddle-side like a proper lady. "I think this is how it works. Hop on!" she says, and holds out a hand to help Tomid up.
Mighty, mighty ride check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 1 = 15
Hugo had been stood silently next to everyone else who volunteered. As excited as he was about it all, he didnt have much to say. It didnt even occour to him that people might not even know he was joining them.
As the horses started moving, he set off into a jog next to them.
"Dun worry Cromms Holdin, Daggermark is on da case" he mumbled, loud enough for the others to hear, but mostly to himself.
Hugo can ignore Fatigue and Exhaustion twice pr day, so should be ok jogging all the way to Cromms. Lemme know if he uses one or both.
|Eve Valeria Abia|
1d20 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3
Oh crap, a nat 1!
Keel kicks his horse into a trot, leading the assembled party out of the village's front gates. The grizzled constable sits stiffly in his saddle, knowing that it's important to keep up appearances at least until the group gets out of sight. The massive, hairy beast between his legs gives a tremendous snort and rolls one eye backward to peer up at Keel. He grits his teeth as every shaking step of the animal seems to want to send him careening off into the sky. "What are you looking at, huh?" he mumbles under his breath to the stinky animal.
As the group trots out of sight, Keel feels his breakfast rising up in his throat again. Grimacing, Keel quickly slides down off his horse and hobbles to the side of the road, his stomach heaving. Fumbling at his belt, Keel pulls out a steel flask and takes a swig, the cheap whiskey burning like fire but thankfully washing the repugnant mess back down for now.
Wiping his mouth with a hand, Keel replaces his flask and strides to catch up with the group. "Never liked riding," he grumbles aloud by way of explanation.
Raising his voice, he calls out to the party, "So! I'm glad you've all decided to come with me on this. Now, I know some of you, but not everybody. I'd assume the same for the rest. How about we get to know each other a bit while we ride?
Like I said back there, I'm Constable John Keel. I'm a member of Daggermark's Night Watch along with the other two members of the force, Constables Jorgan and Gault.
How about yourselves?"
Hugo trotted along, his breath slightly ragged from exerting himself, but in no other way did he show signs of fatigue. "All dat hammerin an' liftin an' pushin an' pullin sure done yous good Hugo" He smiled contently and picked up the pace a little, moving to the front of their ragtag band.
At the constables question he looked puzzled for a bit, mostly because he had just realized how little there was to give as answer.
"Uhh, I is Hugo...Hugo Smith. I is, uhm, I is da smith?" The last was said almost as a question, as if he was unsure he had actually answered the question.
He looked at the ground for a moment, eyes flitting about as he searched the empty caverns of his skull for a conversation starter.
"I dun like ridin horses either Mista Keel. I dun like da way dey look at me. Papa always say I is chicken cuz I dun wanna shoe dem, but dat is not true. I is not afraid of anythin...just da horses."
He looked at the constable expectantly for a reply, oblivious to the contradiction of his last sentence.
The apothecary approaches John Keel, his steps are hesitant at first but determined in the end.
Constable Keel, I'll uh... i"ll go. There might be survivors who would need my skills. he says with a shaky voice before joining the others.
Standing near the others, Doc Ginley is dwarfed by the surrounding volunteers until Tomid makes his way next to Abi. Moments pass and what was a few minutes stretches into what seems an eternity to Doc. Intrinsically aware of the way air feels as he breaths it, hearing every chirping birds and the songs of cigalles. It seems everything about the world is vibrant and filled with a new intensity. All but the voices of those around him, who seem to be coming from a place far away, their meaning lost along the way.
Farmers bring horses to the volunteers and their smell and presence jar him out of his reverie. With eyes wide as saucers the Doc fixates the beast wich snorts at him and bobs its head in a manner Doc finds most aggressive.
Good gods they'll have me ride! On the horse? Where's the cart? I didnt think it would come to this!
Doc needs help to clamber up the animal, his arms lacking the strength to hoist his frail body onto it. Stretching his legs farther apart then he has ever done to fit them around the horses flank. When it comes time to dismount, Doc feels something stretch in a terrible way.
Riding the beast from hell: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 2 = 5
By all the gods what just happened.
By all the living saints!
He exclaims loudly as he almost topples from the horse, a hand darting just in time for the pommel of the saddle. He lands awkwardly by the side of the horse and keels over, his hands covering his groin in a position quickly turning into foetal.
"Doc, you okay?" Zinny asks very worriedly from atop her own horse, where she is sitting... surprisingly well, for someone who hasn't ridden horses in her life. Maybe it's just that she's heavy enough the horse mistakenly believes she knows what she's doing.
Ride: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 1 = 15
"You need a hand back up, sir?"
Seeing the Doc fall off his horse, Hugo hurried over and picked the man off the ground.
"Dun worry Zinny, I gots it."
"See Doc, dem horses is sneaky, throwin ya off any chance dey gets! Ya wanna take another chance, or want me ta carry ya?"
Some people might think his last statement a goodhearted joke, but Hugo was very serious about the offer.
|Eve Valeria Abia|
|Brother Silas Benedictine|
He lifts his eyebrows at Abigail questioningly.
Then he looks at the gathered people, staring at him and waiting for him to answer her question.
"Yes, Miss Westbrook," he answers quietly, instead of devising some elaborate excuse not to go traipsing into harm's way. Like he needed one! But at this exact moment in time, exposed as he was before the community, he could not afford to show a weakness that could be exploited. "Some of the people of Cromm's Hold are part of our parish. I must do what I can to bring them peace."
The horses are brought forward and Brother Silas doesn't waste much time getting mounted.
The priest takes a professional-looking couple of hops and springs forward onto the saddle, but lands on it with his belly down. It is a tragedy in slow motion. Without the necessary height and strength to pull himself up, he slides forward and falls in an awkward bundle of limbs on the other side of the horse, shouting in pain!
After unwravelling his tangled self, he struggles to his feet and immediately winces and seethes in pain at a searing heat in his ankle. A bit paler than he was moment ago, he leans against the horse, which is at no fault here, and mops at his brow. If anyone comes forward to help, he puts up a hand, worried they're going to jostle him enough to make the pain in his ankle flare up again. "I'm ok, I'm ok...just..." he hops a little, slowly secures his good foot in a brace, and then hoists the injured ankle up and over the saddle, mounting.
"I've got it," he says, taking the reins. He would like to say his pride was more injured than his body, but that wasn't the case. Even as he rides he can feel the pain in his leg with every bounce of the horse. It was definitely going to impede him...
Tomid - the check is not about guiding or controlling the horse. As you can read from previous posts, it's about staying on the beast and how much pain you will be in after the short ride. So far, the party is tied with the horses: 3 to 3, with one runner :-) So roll and let's see how well your tiny legs handle straddling a horse for 30-45 minutes at a trot!
Zinny will worriedly get back off her horse to help Hugo in helping people like Doc and Brother Silas back onto theirs. "Easy does it.... you just gotta.... kinda show 'em who's boss..."
She only thinks she knows what she's talking about.