Happy New Year.
Ready to go.
Checking in.
A hardy group of adventurers have arrived at a crossroads inn in the far north. THEY HAVE NEVER MET PRIOR TO THIS DAY. Their motivation for being here and traveling north towards the major city of Ferraburg are diverse and interesting.
It is a dark and stormy night and you're glad for the warmth and company of a local tavern. Outside the winds howl through the narrow avenues and the rain looks like curtains blown along the trees.
The door opens and a stranger stumbles in. The robed figure leaves a trail of blood as it staggers into the backroom.
Tavar stands up and stares at the door putting one hand to his dagger and checking to see if the bleeding man brought company. His other hand stroking the hawk sitting on his thin shoulders.
What now dammit.
Lamriel subtly shifts the hood of his cloak back from his brow as it was interfering with his peripheral vision. Otherwise, he appears unmoved.
This fellow elf is difficult to judge. I had thought him a conjurer or enchanter of some sort, by the arcane air about him and the unnatural gleam of intelligence in the eyes of his feathered companion.
But he is swift to reach for his dagger. Now, I am not so sure.
As the cold blast of air rushes into the tavern, Durahl removes his arm from the waist of the wench he was fondling and scowls at the bedraggled figure who stumbles into the room.
By the Nine Hells and all the infernal beasts who inhabit them! Can't a fellow enjoy a nice mug of warm, mulled wine and an even warmer trollop in peace?!? If Trelayne steered me wrong as to the prospects in this dark corner of the world, I'll have his hide!
OK, you all get to move over to the main game.
We will go with one big group!
I used to run groups of ten all the time! This would only make 9!