"It is perhaps not the most conventional of requests, but if the horse needs it it is not wrong... and besides, a healthy horse makes for better travels."
Moira is a little taken aback by her messmates' casual acceptance of the potentially dangerous maniac at their table, but as the disturbing halfling seems to be biding quietly as the tavern continues to flood with new arrivals, she takes a moment to applaud Euphemia's sense of compassion. "It's real nice of you to be looking out for a horse like that, Ms. Blaithe. Not all clerics would think of the poor creature... not even all so-called good clerics."
She introduces herself to Hartwell, giving him one of her cards and explaining her profession in a few quick words suitable to the tension of the moment. The fact that the young man might have money in the family piques her interest--young heirs being especially prone to "mourn" their tragic accession to their inheritances through lavish celebrations.
Euphemia pulls her bag into her lap and opens it up, retrieving from it a clean rag to begin dabbing away at the excess blood on Oscar's arm if the young noble would let her.
"Delighted to meet you" he hesitates a moment, question in his voice over title "sister Blaithe?"
"You may call me Sister Blaithe if you wish, but I am fine with just Euphemia if it pleases you."
"What brings you to Wicken? [...] If you're on pilgrimage you are more than welcome to stay at the manor tomorrow night if you like. It's about 8 miles that way."
She shakes her head and chuckles. "Ah, would only I was. Nay. I live over on the edge of town with my mother; there's enough locals and travelers who come through here in need of mending that I stay. But your generosity is quite admirable, sir. Even flattering."
"It's real nice of you to be looking out for a horse like that, Ms. Blaithe. Not all clerics would think of the poor creature... not even all so-called good clerics."
The false cleric looks up, flashing a warm smile to Moira. "Aw, you flatter me too, Ms. Keening. What'd I do right to get surrounded with so many sweethearts tonight?" She pauses, chuckling quietly again. "But it is nothing special. I merely devote myself to live by my ideals, and there's nothing that says an injured horse doesn't deserve the same attention and care that an injured human does just because it's a horse. We all have our travels and journies to make in life, after all."
She introduces herself to Hartwell, giving him one of her cards and explaining her profession in a few quick words suitable to the tension of the moment. The fact that the young man might have money in the family piques her interest--young heirs being especially prone to "mourn" their tragic accession to their inheritances through lavish celebrations.
"That must be an awful job, Ms. Keening." Oscar sympathises. "I'm afraid I've not much family left. Just my mother and I - and a few servants of course. I pray mother still has a long life ahead of her, but should she pass I would indeed be in desperate need of your services."
"You may call me Sister Blaithe if you wish, but I am fine with just Euphemia if it pleases you."
She shakes her head and chuckles. "Ah, would only I was. Nay. I live over on the edge of town with my mother; there's enough locals and travelers who come through here in need of mending that I stay. But your generosity is quite admirable, sir. Even flattering."
Oscar blushes a little "Oh, that's... Please, call me Oscar then... Euphemia.". Gladly he lets Euphemia tend his wounds, bearing the treatment stoically.
"I'm afraid my generosity is somewhat selfish." he confesses "There's little enough to do at the manor. My tutors ensure my time is consumed with" his accent changes to a caricature of an uptight upper class older man "Scholarship, Socialisation, Strategy, Stewardship and Sorcery. That's all a young noble need concern himself with!"
He swallows another mouthful of cider, all but emptying the pint "We've few visitors, especially any as interesting as yourself!" he pauses, apparently hesitating at his words, and his eyes flick around the table - especially at the halfling "Er - any of you, really. Uh..."
Quickly - apparently afeared he might be about to be forced by etiquette to invite all and sundry to stay - he drops the topic, lurching on to another "Er - will you need someone to escort you home tonight, Euphemia? I note a lot of people travelling armed..."
"Aw, you flatter me too, Ms. Keening. What'd I do right to get surrounded with so many sweethearts tonight?"
"I think it's th' ale, Euphemia," Salom says as he tiptoes away from the feral little halfling. Horrid creature. "Master Redmane has brewed a particularly potent brew this evening, it seems. I shall have to try some, as it appears my mood is singularly acidic."
"We've few visitors, especially any as interesting as yourself!"
"Would that we could truly blame a beverage on Mme. Blaithe's ubiquitous bonhomie," he adds with a smile, propping his fist under his chin as he leans against the bar. "But, I fear the young woman is cursed with a case of chronic agreeability. The doctors are baffled, her fellow priests: confounded. It seems there is no cure."
He signals the barkeep. "Another brandy, please, and place it on my tab."
Pleased the nobleman joined them, Ascaria’s head is none the less on a swivel as so many strangers are coming in tonight.
He admires Oscar’s cleanliness. ”Nice trick that, keeps the road grime off well doesn’t it? I yearn for such magics, but my mind isn’t keen enough. You must study hard.” he smiles somewhat wistfully.
He nods with Moira, ”Too true. Often so called beasts of burden get the short end of the stick. I drive wagons for a living, or did anyway, and you’d be amazed at how poorly the animals are sometimes treated. I never worked long for those men, for bosses who treat animals like that tend not to be too good with us thinking folk either.”
”You’ve a good heart Euphemia.”
He laughs aloud as Salom’s musings. ”Well said good sir, well said. I’ve not heard such dry wit in a while. It’s refreshing!”
”So!” he asks the table, ”Who do we think will come through those doors next? A northman with bulging muscles? A poor intellectual with few social skills? A sneak perhaps? Or maybe they’ve already snuck in?” he casts his eyes about the room hoping to invite any other strangers to their table, he tries to catch their eye and motions them over with his head. Join the fun!
"That must be an awful job, Ms. Keening." Oscar sympathises. "I'm afraid I've not much family left. Just my mother and I - and a few servants of course. I pray mother still has a long life ahead of her, but should she pass I would indeed be in desperate need of your services."
Never one to miss a chance to talk about her work, Moira eagerly explains to Oscar, “Hardly an awful job, Mr. Hartwell—while I never grow truly accustomed to grief in the way of some of my more desensitized fellow practitioners, and sometimes find myself quite inundated by their sadness, I also find that openness to the sufferings of others can fuel their healing. That can be its own reward. And your mother’s lucky to have a loving son—I hope that you’ll find my talents superfluous for a long, long time.”
He admires Oscar’s cleanliness. ”Nice trick that, keeps the road grime off well doesn’t it? I yearn for such magics, but my mind isn’t keen enough. You must study hard.” he smiles somewhat wistfully.
Moira understands Aishe's wistfulness, thinking about her days of training, remembering how happy her father was once she could use her cantrips to assist him in his funerary parlour. "Life changes so much once you can cast sweet Presti." “Ah yes, cantrips have many benefits, not the least of which is the effortless cleanliness of Prestidigitation. I tend to use it for all sorts of things, from keeping my clothes nice to, well, life’s many minor messes. It’s a shame, Mr. Danior that everyone can’t have access to this most convenient of arcane magics.”
"I think it's th' ale, Euphemia,"... "Master Redmane has brewed a particularly potent brew this evening, it seems. I shall have to try some, as it appears my mood is singularly acidic."
…"Would that we could truly blame a beverage on Mme. Blaithe's ubiquitous bonhomie," he adds with a smile, propping his fist under his chin as he leans against the bar. "But, I fear the young woman is cursed with a case of chronic agreeability. The doctors are baffled, her fellow priests: confounded. It seems there is no cure."
He signals the barkeep. "Another brandy, please, and place it on my tab."
Moira’s simple smile pulls wryly thin as she turns to Salom in turn, arching one eyebrow as she responds to his needlings:
“Let’s hope that Ms. Blaithe’s illness is virulently contagious and we all find ourselves racked with paroxysms of compassion and cardiomegalic palpitations of grace. I suspect it would take more than ale to neutralize the mordant Mr. Mortara. Perhaps a teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda and half a glass of water would prove more efficacious than brandy? I have my doubts. May I ask what is your trade or occupation, Mr. Mortara, if you care to tell us about it?” "I wonder if your wit extends to self-mortification?" Moira thinks to herself.
"I think it's th' ale, Euphemia. [...] Master Redmane has brewed a particularly potent brew this evening, it seems. I shall have to try some, as it appears my mood is singularly acidic."
"If it is the drink, then we ought dump it into the town's water supply and get everyone so cheery and good-spirited." Euphemia looks over to Salom as she speaks, lightly shrugging a shoulder.
Once Oscar's arm is adequately cleaned, Euphemia applies a small bit of herbal smelling salve to the wound which stings briefly, before finishing with a wrapping of bandages to keep it covered.
She giggles quietly at his words as she finishes up and begins returning her supplies to her satchel. As he sips his cider, she drawls, "All work and no play makes for a dull life, don't you think, Oscar? It's good that you've come out here."
"Er - will you need someone to escort you home tonight, Euphemia? I note a lot of people travelling armed..."
Those big blue eyes blink and more giggling sounds from her. "I do not normally encounter many troubles on the way, but if you're offering... we do have many new faces passing through town tonight."
She adjusts her position in her seat and takes another sip of cider, seeming to have enjoyed her brief moment in the spotlight of the Smiling Pig.
Salom's dark eyes brighten when Aishe laughs at his little jest, though eclipse to their usual murkiness as he suspects he's wearing on Euphemia's and Moira's nerves. He knows he has this effect on people, and it bothers him to no end.
Has the entire world lost its sense of humour?
Of course, it's possible that the world hasn't changed, but only himself. There were days he could make anyone laugh, even that foul-mouthed cemetary watchmen down the way. Once he had delighted in riddles and jokes, even in civilized conversation, or the closest thing to it that could be found in this provincial backwater village. But then, well... Everything seemed less funny. Except his own life. That, suddenly, became a tragic comedy. But his life, now, is a dusty attic full of ghosts and whispers. And that is a door he'd rather not open. Certainly not tonight.
"May I ask what is your trade or occupation, Mr. Mortara, if you care to tell us about it?”
"Ah!" he cries, pointering his finger toward the ceiling before slapping his knee. "Th' lady is determined, and so this mysterious facade must yield! I am a triviality, a trifling tyro, a tinkerer, and toymaker. I fear I've no official papers to share with you, but only a name: Timeless Treasures. It is my shop, down th' lonely road from which you saw me enter Wicken. If you dare to venture a visit during your stay here, I can promise you will never return. Few ever do. In fact, no one does. My aesthetic..." He squints and waves his hand, suggesting his frustration. ...It isn't for th' common person, you see. But something tells me that Moira Keening isn't th' common lady. So visit me on the morrow before you depart for that wicked city. You may find something memorable to commemorate your stay."
Oscare blinks at Salom's comment - as if trying to decide whether the jest is a jibe - and falls behind in both the conversation and drinking.
She giggles quietly at his words as she finishes up and begins returning her supplies to her satchel. As he sips his cider, she drawls, "All work and no play makes for a dull life, don't you think, Oscar? It's good that you've come out here."
"I could not agree more, Euphemia. Perhaps one of the divines lamed poor Ignis and brought me to this door, because my prayers for deliverance for boredom seem to have been answered!" Oscar smiles.
"Er - will you need someone to escort you home tonight, Euphemia? I note a lot of people travelling armed..."Those big blue eyes blink and more giggling sounds from her. "I do not normally encounter many troubles on the way, but if you're offering... we do have many new faces passing through town tonight."
"Then I shall moderate my drinking so as to provide a more competent travelling companion.' Oscar pauses "So this is not a 'usual crowd' then?"
He admires Oscar’s cleanliness. ”Nice trick that, keeps the road grime off well doesn’t it? I yearn for such magics, but my mind isn’t keen enough. You must study hard.” he smiles somewhat wistfully.Moira understands Aishe's wistfulness, thinking about her days of training, remembering how happy her father was once she could use her cantrips to assist him in his funerary parlour. "Life changes so much once you can cast sweet Presti." “Ah yes, cantrips have many benefits, not the least of which is the effortless cleanliness of Prestidigitation. I tend to use it for all sorts of things, from keeping my clothes nice to, well, life’s many minor messes. It’s a shame, Mr. Danior that everyone can’t have access to this most convenient of arcane magics.”
Oscar answers Aishe carefully. "I seriously misdoubt your mind is insufficient to the task, sir. There is, however, a great deal of native talent required. The Hartwells have magic in their blood - renowned for it in fact. I myself cast my fist cantrip when I was seven, and barely able to read and write Taldane. I have studied to control my native talent - lest it control me."
Careful not to look at Moira he continues "It is a shame everyone cannot have access to Prestidigitation - a lifesaver when roughing it - but Prestidigitiation is not the issue. Once the first spell is cast the 'wall is breached', and from that moment each new spell comes more easily than the last. There is little danger in Prestidigitation, but the other spells are not so benign. I learned a spell from one of the family spellbooks as a precocious young man that allowed me to compel the hearts of the weak willed. I used it to avoid studying on gorgeous summer days. When my mother found out she told me of the spell's provenance. It had been confiscated from a commoner who used it to assist in, er, bedding the unwilling and selling narcotics. I've not used it since. Such corrupt temptation is inherent in certain, darker spells. I feel sometimes the majority of my study has been in understanding how to use magic in the service of good, rather than evil."Oscar sighs "I wonder how many of these stories of evil witches started with someone of pure intentions? But without moral training - whether noble or, I allow, one of the reputable guilds - magic, like all power, is inherently corrupting."
Lecture done Oscar looks over to the woman sitting by herself. "Speaking of which, do you see the lady over there with the strange creature that looks like a miniature Lord of the Outer Dark? Is she known to any of you? I'm surprised she's not been accosted."
"Then I shall moderate my drinking so as to provide a more competent travelling companion.' Oscar pauses "So this is not a 'usual crowd' then?"
"'tis not, no. Many new faces. A few familiar ones, however."
She watches the following exchange between Aishe, Oscar, and Moira silently, save for taking a sip or two from her drink. At the musing on evil witches, however, she brings a hand up to gently fidget with her holy symbol— catching herself after a second and redirecting that hand to fix her hair.
"Speaking of which, do you see the lady over there with the strange creature that looks like a miniature Lord of the Outer Dark? Is she known to any of you? I'm surprised she's not been accosted."
"I've noticed her. Don't think I've ever seen her before... and I think she prefers sitting in the corner all by her lonesome."
Oscar notes Euphemia touch her holy symbol, but misinterprets. "Oh! Holy magic is fine of course. The gods imbue only those of pure heart - like Desna with Euphemia here - with magic. Such power is inherently incorruptible."
"As for the young lady. I note she's of Elven blood. I suppose, as the only representative of the craft, I should enquire as to her particulars." Oscar's comment all but screams for someone to disagree.
"Ah!" he cries, pointering his finger toward the ceiling before slapping his knee. "Th' lady is determined, and so this mysterious facade must yield! I am a triviality, a trifling tyro, a tinkerer, and toymaker. I fear I've no official papers to share with you, but only a name: Timeless Treasures. It is my shop, down th' lonely road from which you saw me enter Wicken. If you dare to venture a visit during your stay here, I can promise you will never return. Few ever do. In fact, no one does. My aesthetic..." He squints and waves his hand, suggesting his frustration. ...It isn't for th' common person, you see. But something tells me that Moira Keening isn't th' common lady. So visit me on the morrow before you depart for that wicked city. You may find something memorable to commemorate your stay."
“A toymaker! Really? But that’s positively delightful!” Moira is a woman of many smiles, but her tablemates now witness one that's rather rare these days, the unadulterated smile of a child startled and intrigued by some new and fascinating possibility. “Our Mr. Mortara, a toymaker! That--that is aesthetically pleasing. And an invitation in spite of my teasing! Though that might explain why the invitation is accompanied by warnings that I will never return. Do you mean I will never return to Timeless Treasures, or that I will never return to the world of the living? Either way, I recklessly accept the adventure, whether I be common or not.”
“I suppose, as the only representative of the craft..."
“I suppose you don’t suppose bardic magic qualifies as craft, then, Mr. Hartwell? Not that I know, as it’s all that I know, but I do know that it was no simple thing to learn. Coming from a small village as I do, I also tend to think that magic is safest when put to work. That sounds like craft, and not art, to me--beware of those who speak of magic as an art, as too often the art is dark. From that early age when I cast my cantrips, the good women of my village sought me out as laundress, scullery, emergency lantern, facilitator of many gossips, and reader of any scraps of magic that found their way into that blessed little hole of a place. One neighbor traded half his crop for a scroll that he’d been convinced contained ‘Masterwork Transformation’ only for it to fall to me to execute the delicate task of revealing that it contained merely ‘Drench.’”
After chuckling at the happy memory of the sodden aftermath of the peasant’s insistence that she activate the scroll immediately, Moira realizes she’s wandered far afield from Oscar’s worthy point.
"I wonder how many of these stories of evil witches started with someone of pure intentions? But without moral training - whether noble or, I allow, one of the reputable guilds - magic, like all power, is inherently corrupting.""
“That's a position I understand, if you grant that moral training can come in many forms, and that sometimes training that calls itself moral is already corrupt. I don’t mean that as a slight on you or your tutors, Mr. Hartwell, you seem like an earnest sort—just that in my travels I’ve met many a caster devoted to The Good and few that deign to assist the truly needy, and few I’d care to share a cider with—present company notably excepted.”
“As for the woman in the corner—tonight seems a night of convivial hospitality. Do speak to her, invite her over, perhaps she will come. Maybe she will bring her interesting friend. Maybe see if the woman and man at the bar want to join us as well?” She casts glance Gillian and Velrun.
How does bardic magic intersect with the "non-divine magic bad"?
I'm guessing bards are relatively welcome, given their magic is subtle and they're masters of public relations.
I've lost track of who the man by the bar is, sorry. I've handed the question off to others!
"Indeed I do not, Ms. Keening. Bardic magic is Art - as much as painting, literature or music. My magic is a Craft - creation via defined steps. All too often the craft is that of war. Artists are independent. Craftsmen have a duty to their craft." Oscar sighed "Still, your point is valid. I daresay your Art is more useful to the common man than my Craft will ever be."
He pauses "Those such as the charlatan who sold that scroll are traitors to that craft. Someone must deal with such."
Reluctant - for some reason - to leave his seat between Euphemia and Aishe he decides to demonstrate his Craft. "In this case, however, my Craft may be useful after all. Rather than shout over the hubbub..."
He states a word that burns in the ear, and then his lips move soundlessly as he points at the targets in turn and waves.
Casting Message. CL 3.
Words fill Luriel's ears. Elven words, with excellent grammar - even the seasonal declensions - but a Taldane accent thick enough it suggests the speaker has never spoken to a real elf.
"Please excuse me madame, and the manner of our conversation. Would you care to join our table?" Oscar waves at this point "I fear a discussion on the local attitude towards the occult is necessary before unfortunate circumstances develop."
Words fill Gillian's ears at the same time as the young man at the far side of the one of the tables waves furiously.
"Please excuse me madame, and the manner of our conversation." the strange rote quality to the voice vanishes "My companions and I wonder if you would care to join our table? Possibly invite the gentleman with you?"
Words fill the gnome's ears as Oscar's long wave - and longer grin - turns to him.
"I appear to have found convivial company, Master Redmayne! When you bring the round of drinks could I trouble you to bring some snacks as well? Bread and cheese perhaps? Whatever you feel best accompanies this exceptional cider that is the talk of the tavern! Have one for yourself on me!"
Velrun continues to nurse his wine while observing those entering the bar, paying more attention to the females. Every time one walks in his eyes would rove over them briefly before returning back to nursing his wine. It is of little wonder he fails to hear any of the whispering words that echoes in several of the patron's ears, including the redheaded woman who by chance ended up sitting next to him.
The woman with the wide-brimmed hat sitting next to the nobleman does manage to catch his eye longer, as he does a double-take before again turning away.
I fear she will not show here...she would be...SHOULD be here by now! Perhaps...
Seeing the woman again looking at him, this time he returns her gaze with a frank one of his own. The invitation to join her is readily apparent and he stands up, motioning to the red-haired woman next to him, "It seems Miss...we have been invited to share their table."
Perhaps she will know of who I seek?
Clasping his wine glass in his hand he makes his way over to the table, deftly weaving his way through the crowd. "May I sit here?" His voice is soft and raspy but still audible over the chatter around him. "Velrun...Velrun Rivertongue, a mere entertainer...much like yourself. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss..." He extends his hand in greeting as he takes a seat opposite her.
"Craft... Art... I think that is a very interesting way to look at it all. Not a way I am familiar with, but it has a certain sense of poetry to it. The craft of one magic and the art of another magic; all the ways in which they are different, yet also all the ways in which they are the same," Euphemia muses, idly curling a lock of hair around her finger as she speaks. "I am quite used to people considering magic as simply a craft or a gift, never as art."
She looks up and over to Moira, pausing only briefly in toying with her hair as she spoke, "That is not to belittle your work, of course. Art has its own place and importance in the world... there was a Shelynite who passed through town a few weeks ago; he'd very gladly extol the virtues of being an artist."
"Eh, it might just be the cider, but the more I think about it, the less difference it seems to make whether one calls it art or craft. The village carpenter would carve the lintels with intricate designs based on the plants that thrived in those parts--morning glories, hop vines, and even blackberries painted with their white blossoms. Was he less an artist because his work was simple craft? I wonder if magic is analogous to that at all..."
Moira sees newcomers heading to the table, and scoots closer to the center of the bench--the artistic-philosophical bent of the conversation (and the cider) have mostly dispelled her caution. "Good welcome to you, fellow musician! Tell us about yourself, we're all sharing tales tonight."
Oscar nods past Moira to Velrun "Mr Rivertongue. I'm Hartwell. This is Ms Blaithe, Ms Keening and of course our nihilistic comedian Mr Mortara." Oscar turned to Aishe "I apologise sir, but I didn't catch your name, nor the others at the table."
"We were just discussing the difference between craft and art vis-à-vis magical activity." Oscar explains "But I fear I've bored poor Ms Keening with my ontological arguments. Would you care to lighten the mood?"
More quietly he adds "Don't upset the halfling."
Ahhh, the ladies get all the attention. Aishe smiles. He makes room at the table, borrowing a chair from a nearby empty one and generally trying to expand the group without being too rude to the nearby folk.
"Welcome!"
Oscar nods past Moira to Velrun "Mr Rivertongue. I'm Hartwell. This is Ms Blaithe, Ms Keening and of course our nihilistic comedian Mr Mortara." Oscar turned to Aishe "I apologise sir, but I didn't catch your name, nor the others at the table."
”OH! My apologies, I’m Aishe Danior.” he goes on to introduce the others whose names he recently learned around the table.
He nods and agrees that magic can be dangerous, but adds, ”At the end of the day is there really so much difference between the arcane and the divine? I’ve heard on the road of priests summoning undead to their service. And wizards doing what they can to save a town from an orc incursion.” he glances at the silent halfling.
”Seems to me, it depends more on the wielder than the source, but what do I know - I can’t even clean myself with a word!” he chuckles, and pines again for the simplicity of a prestidigitation.
”But yes, let’s lighten the mood! Come friend, what songs do you know to regale us with? Though I’m a man of the road, I’m afraid my voice cracks at the slightest effort, and my stories devolve into minutiae boring everyone for miles around.”
He chuckles.
Tired of being harried by his sister Drin sought refuge in his favorite hiding spot. The small and wiry halfling walked into the Smiling Pig with a large crooked smile on his own face. The smile quickly disappeared from the simple looking halfling's face as he took a half of a step forward and tipped his hat back on his head. He shook his head, letting out a low whistle, confused by the gathered crowd.
Drin stood there frozen, his puzzlement clearly displayed on his face, as he searched his feeble memory for an answer to this riddle, T'aint no holiday or festival. The halfling continued to stand there looking at the crowd, Wedding? He leaned forward, his green eyes squinting, while he took a closer look at the crowd, Nope, I don't be seein' no brides. Frustrated he finally concluded, Maybe, they all be tryin' to get away from their sisters.
Happy that he solved the riddle the diminutive halfling sauntered in, crooked smile plastered on his face again. He nods to Hevel and take a seat at the crowded table hoping to find out the latest rumors and gossip. He recognizes a few faces but there are just as many he doesn't and said, Howdy all, don't mind me, I just be stoppin' in for a pint or two. He wiggles his way into a prime space at the table, Any news from round about?
The halfling looks around as more and more people come into the dwelling and then looks on with confusion as the old man quickly turns his attention away from him.
He sits back down slowly and listens to the strange sounds coming from all these people.
'Too many sounds. They make my head buzz.' He would not get what he wanted with any show of force here. He watched on as they so easily formed their sounds into words. He shakes his head vigorously trying to clear his mind.
"Lost? City has many lost? The City it calls to the lost. That is why I must go. The orc-blooded must be there. He hoped I would be food for the Ogre. But he taught me too well. I feed the ogre." the halfling looks at his hands and stares at them with detest before dropping his head. "I. I feed ogre. But I paid with other blood. " With the last part you hear his voice return and as he pounds his fist against the table you watch his eyes staring at the charms hanging about his axe.
Oscar's smile becomes a rictus as the halfling pounds on the table. He looks at Aishe and nods his head slightly to the halfling with a quizzical look.
"Howdy all, don't mind me, I just be stoppin' in for a pint or two. [...] Any news from round about?"
"Make yourself comfortable and have a few drinks, for I'm sure the stories will be flowing soon enough," Euphemia says, lifting her (rapidly approaching empty) drink up in a half-toast before having another sip.
"Lost? City has many lost? The City it calls to the lost. That is why I must go. The orc-blooded must be there. He hoped I would be food for the Ogre. But he taught me too well. I feed the ogre." the halfling looks at his hands and stares at them with detest before dropping his head. "I. I feed ogre. But I paid with other blood. Now orc-blooded will pay price. He made me. Now I will unmake him."
Euphemia's attention slips back over to Methilius, concern etching over her features as she blinks slowly. His words sound suspiciously like the plannings of a murder. But it was an orc. This is concerning...
After staring for a moment, glancing over to her companions in the interim, she finds her voice, "I believe that can all wait until tomorrow, sir," she begins, keeping her gaze fixed on the murderous halfling. "Why don't you settle down and have a nice drink with the rest of us? Ease your troubles with this fabulous cider and some stories."
"Make yourself comfortable and have a few drinks, for I'm sure the stories will be flowing soon enough," Euphemia says, lifting her (rapidly approaching empty) drink up in a half-toast before having another sip.
Don't be mindin' if I do," he replied with his customary lopsided grin as he waved for a pint of ale.
The willowy halfling's head swiveled from side to side as he tried to follow the various conversations at the table. Lively bunch, He thought as the other halfling pounded the table. Confused by this out burst he asked, "You lost what in which city." Drin shrugged his narrow shoulders confused hoping someone can shed some light on what the agitated halfling just said.
Drin listened Euphemia try to reason with the agitated halfling and offered, "A drink always be good at helpin' ye forget about ye worries."
Luriel surprisingly walks to the table on the messaged invitation, with her misshapen creature slinking along. 'There may be some use to these pawns afterall...it will provide me with a cover to gather information.'
"I'm Luriel. We're on the lookout for...opportunities."'That is, opportunities for Azathoth to feed'
She then turns to the man, "If you are looking for your son - I can help you. Afterall - you don't have much where else to turn too, do you?"
Redmane, before Oscar makes his way towards, muses a little about the church and the priest - Father Gromwell - who painted the frescoes that now adorn the humble building, "The work, if you've got an appreciation for that kind of stuff - you know, Angels and the like - has got to be seen to believed. There's folks come all the way out from Castorhage just to see it... if you're going to stay around, maybe you should go and take a look tomorrow?" ...as Oscar drifts away, Redmane pours a drink for Velrun, "Can't say I remember the name Mister... Elsie? Could you describe her? Not that there's really been that many folks coming round these parts", he takes a look around the rapidly filling bar, "At least until tonight..."
The man with the lost son, seems intrigued by Luriel's offer, "You would do that for me? Why?"
The door crashes open once again and a flustered looking man, red-faced and tousle-haired, storms in. He looks around the bar with some disdain before shouting towards the barman, "Damned beast took another of my flock last night... I've been out hunting for him all day. Line me up a couple... I'm down a couple of shekels on that creature's hunger!!!"
The man with the lost son, seems intrigued by Luriel's offer, "You would do that for me? Why?"
Drin overheard and thought, "I be lost once. Wonder if his lad be fallin' down a well too.
The door crashes open once again and a flustered looking man, red-faced and tousle-haired, storms in. He looks around the bar with some disdain before shouting towards the barman, "Damned beast took another of my flock last night... I've been out hunting for him all day. Line me up a couple... I'm down a couple of shekels on that creature's hunger!!!"
Probably jumpin' at shadows again. Any man who be spendin his time in this place just ain't payin' enough attention to his flock, Drin hastily concluded. Playfully he asked, "What be troublin' ye flock now?" Sensing an opportunity to earn some real coin he more seriously added, "Ye know I be the best trapper and hunter in these parts."
"For coin."Luriel answers curtly. 'He doesn't need to know the real reasons. Besides with the coin...there might be ways to create a longer lasting link between here and the Dark Tapestry...'
Luriel isn't one to beat around the bush. The faster they got to it...the faster he could feed. "Tell me how your son looks like, distinguishing features, and which district you last heard about him."
Aishe nods at the new mans suggestion, "Absolutely, we have a man here who's lost someone dear to him, but is far away. Perhaps we can help you more easily!"
He takes another drink, "Not tonight of course..." he mumbles knowing full well his aim will be awful with the beer he's had.
This has been a long day, such a long day. Trailing the caravan for days very different than trailing someone in a city. Oh but there is a little town and there will be food there. Following her nose to the smell of roast meat and ale brings her to the Smiling Pig. Hmm, small towns have no dignity."
Shifting the weight of her backpack and not even bothering to suppress the grin on her dirty face at the wondrous smells that fill her lunges when the door opens.
A thin to the point of being gaunt human girl stands in the doorway. A travel stained dark blue cloak is pulled tight around her with a bit of bright green poking out around her neck. Shifting to pull her backpack to hold it in front of her with both arms briefly revealing a dark pants, a blue shirt, a grey vest, and a thin blade at her side.
Quickly moving to the bar and grinning, "Food please?"
Oscar looks askance at 'Luriel' and launches into Elven. "Er, Luriel, correct? I must say, your Taldane is excellent. I understand elven culture is significantly different from ours, and I feel I should inform you that there are certain... protocols followed hereabouts as part of etiquette. As the use of a first name conveys a certain intimacy, introductions are typically made with first and last names. Additionally there is a distrust of magic, especially in the countryside, that means Outsiders - and I feel I should clarify here that I refer to Outsiders with a capital 'O' - are traditionally kept hidden lest they trigger a disproportionate response."
To the gentlemen with the lost son he adds - in Taldane - "I am sorry to hear of your trouble, sir. I fear I have never been to Castorhage, and - sadly - am unlikely to be allowed to head there until I reach my majority and my entailment is settled." He sighs "Still, I don't doubt someone in the throng here tonight must be headed there, and can perhaps be induced to act as your agent."
Oscar turns to the red faced man and speaks loudly "Was it a Hound? There's a ferocious looking beast out there, looked to be a fighting dog mongrel. Spooked my horse! He ran off when I threw light at him, but I feared I'd be forced to kill him for a moment."
...as Oscar drifts away, Redmane pours a drink for Velrun, "Can't say I remember the name Mister... Elsie? Could you describe her? Not that there's really been that many folks coming round these parts", he takes a look around the rapidly filling bar, "At least until tonight..."
Velrun reaches into his pouch and pulls out a scroll case, unfurling the parchment therein. A portrait of an attractive brown haired woman is painted thereupon. "This is a recent portrait of her. I...I have been trying to reach her...None of my messages have been responded to..." There is a small note of desperation in his voice as he passes the portrait around to the others at the table. He sips at the wine, nervously watching the other for any flashes of recognition.
"Elven?" Luriel gives a dark chuckle. "Maybe once, not any longer."
"And it is the fools that do not recognize the greater beings that walk among them, to show disrespect to the true masters of this place." She sniffs disdainfully.
"I am but his vessel," She looks at the mishappen creature puddled at her feet, as her eyes glow with religious zeal. "Should I be successful, he will reward me beyond all imagining. Should I fall, another will take my place. As it should be until Golarion is delivered unto him."
When spellcasters are seen in the street who do not clearly represent a recognised god, their presence creates a spectacle. Any members of the Watch report such matters or may even try to capture such casters for a reward - as a result of this, many arcane spellcasters take to donning ecclesiastic attire to disguise their abilities from the ignorant masses, playing their magical abilities off as divine in nature.
Euphemia looks up to the flockherder at his outburst, but the newer, less homicidal halfling seems to have that situation under control so her attention quickly wanders back to Oscar and his exchanges with the others, at least until...
There is a small note of desperation in his voice as he passes the portrait around to the others at the table. He sips at the wine, nervously watching the other for any flashes of recognition.
... Euphemia eyes the portrait as it reaches her spot on the table, but after a moment she shakes her head and passes the picture along. "No sir, I can't say I've seen her. Sorry to disappoint."
The false cleric looks incredibly alarmed at Luriel's words, even scooting to the side in her seat to put as much distance between her and the half-elf as possible without leaving her spot. She shoots a worried look to Oscar, frowning, and reaches out to protectively set a hand against his arm.
Aishe nods at the new mans suggestion, "Absolutely, we have a man here who's lost someone dear to him, but is far away. Perhaps we can help you more easily!"
He takes another drink, "Not tonight of course..." he mumbles knowing full well his aim will be awful with the beer he's had.
Drin enthusiastically nodded his head in agreement appreciating the man's bargaining skills, "Yep, t'wud be a hard thing to be doin' tonight. His grin got wider as he raised his mug.
There is a small note of desperation in his voice as he passes the portrait around to the others at the table. He sips at the wine, nervously watching the other for any flashes of recognition.
The simple little halfling shakes his head in disappointment and asked, "Nope never seen the lass. What she do? Owe you some coin or such?"
He sits there listening to Oscar and Luriel, not understanding either language, and commented, "Boy you all talk fancy and such but we simple folk prefer outsiders be speekin' the common tongue. It's right down impolite."
Oscar cast a dubious, questioning look at the creature Luriel calls the 'greater being'. Desperately his mind sank into lessons on learning the taxonomy of Outsiders. 'Tentacles... eyes...' he thought desperately, but no answer came 'If that boring prig Mr Simons ever finds out his stupid lessons would have been useful after all I'll never hear the end of it!'
Oscar's title carried with it certain privileges, and certain duties. A more worldly noble would have learned that while the privileges were to be enjoyed at all times, the duties were something to be seen to on a more discretionary basis. Still, with the hand of a pretty priestess on his arm and a pint of potent cider in an empty stomach, Oscar's sense of civic responsibility easily overpowered his more common sense.
Oscar stepped back from the bench seat, drawing himself up.
"Madame. I fear there has been some confusion. My name is Baron Oscar Hartwell." Oscar flashes his signet.
The Hartwells are a family recently fallen from power. Indeed rumour had them all dead. They were, technically, of baronial rank though. Technically. Though even if this is Baron Hartwell, Wicken is not in his lands, so he is way outside his jurisdiction.
"I, Baron Hartwell, by virtue of the judicial tenure I hold from the crown do hereby charge you to lay down your arms and await trial on the charge of suspected witchcraft." Oscar tenses, but becomes less formal "Cooperate and I promise to do whatever I can to get you a fair trial. Resist and I will burn you as a witch where you stand."
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Drin listened to Oscar's words and lowly groaned, "A bloody noble." As the young Baron continued he groaned again, "A bloody witch." He grabbed onto his tankard a little tighter and thought that perhaps he didn't mind being berated by is sister that much as he eyed the door.
In the end he decided that he wouldn't let these two ruin his evening and pointed out, Master Baron Sir.... I be hatin' to be impolite... and be interrupting a good witch burning and all," He looks apologetically at Luriel, "But well... I don't be thinkin' it be a good idea... to be burning her here," he paused and took a deep breath, "You see this being me favorite hiding spot ... I don't want it begin' burnt down and such."
He shrugged his shoulders and sipped his ale and asked hopefully, "Perhaps ye be mistaken about her being a witch and all considering how much ye might of drunk. You might just be confused. I didn't be seein' any witchy stuff.... although she be a might creepy... and talkin' that foreign talk and all" Getting a little bolder he pointed out, "Here in the country we tend to be mindin' our own business and anyway the constables be hours away."
He turned back to the new comer at the bar and hoped he hadn't run away in all this commotion, "Please be tellin' about this beasty that be eatin' ye flock."
Seeing Oscar's pronouncement, Redmane calls across the room to him, "Hey!!! This is a friendly place... folks come here to relax after a day in the fields, in the saddle or at the mill... I don't know what jurisdiction you think you have sir!!! But this isn't Castorhage... Wicken is a welcoming place... We don't judge".
His voice remains, despite the atmosphere, jovial, "I think we could use a song? ...and maybe crack open a fresh cask of 'Autumnal Bronze'".
His voice remains, despite the atmosphere, jovial, "I think we could use a song? ...and maybe crack open a fresh cask of 'Autumnal Bronze'".
The skinny halfling raises his mug in agreement, "Hear, hear, a song and Autumnal Bronze it be!" And thought selfishly, I'll start accusing more people of bein' witches if it be gettin' old Renmane to crack open the good stuff.
Euphemia, after a moment of hesitation, decides to join in with the growing crowd that is attempting to defuse the situation between the strange elven woman and the noble; using the hand she's practically glued to Oscar's arm, she attempts to urge him back down onto the bench with a gentle tug.
"It's not worth it," she implores. "If this... fanatic causes any problems... a militia will deal with her. But so far all she's done is be..." A vague gesture is made with her free hand and she trails off, trying to find the right term. After a moment, she settles for adding, "Bizarre and cultish."
The last thing I need is a witch-hunt.
She even pulls out the metaphorical 'big guns' and gives him a puppy-eyed look, those big blues staring up at him.
Oscar reconsiders as the locals unite. "True. I am outside my fief, and therefore also my jurisdiction." he glances from Drin to Redmane, Euphemia and back "I confess this is my first journey outside Hartwell lands. If I have misunderstood local mores, you have my apologies, Ms Luriel, and I withdraw the accusation. If you're a traveller, however, I do caution you; speech like that, especially when accompanied by a... whatever that is, is dangerous in places less tolerant than Wicken."
Stiffly the young noble sits down, though he remains tense and seems preoccupied.
Yeah, he would - he's innocent enough to believe in the Law.
Nobles are (per the third of the Seven Prayers) allowed to use magic. However my interpretation of the first of the Seven Unspoken Prayers ("Magic is power, and power in the wrong hands is folly. Only those of high caste know how to use it wisely; the lowborn who dabble with it must be taught a lesson and cleansed as an example to others.") was that Oscar had a duty to do something.
"Fool me for trusting you enough to come to your table when you were just looking for an excuse to start a witch hunt."Luriel snarls back at Oscar, her eyes blazing. For a moment, the lights in the backdrop seem to dim.
"Mark my words, boy, your biggotted, holier then thou attitude will be your undoing. HE does not forgive, nor does HE forget." With that, she rises from the table and leaves the tavern, Azathoth following her into the night... never to be seen again...
After the creepy woman's speech Drin thought, We might just wind up burnin' her. He turns to Oscar, "That be the right o' it lad... er .. I be meanin' good master lordship sir.... have ye self a drink and relax."
Oscar sighs, seeming to deflate. "Autumnal Bronze, then. And a Song." he agrees.
Once attention starts to shift back to the gentleman with the missing son he stares at his empty glass and mutters - perhaps to himself, but probably to Euphemia. "Am I so bigoted? I know the tenants say mother is strict... I've heard the tales of the suffering they cause - but I've never actually met a witch."
At this last he looks up beseechingly into Euphemia's eyes.
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Glancing back at the noise with a grin, "Hmm, small towns do seem to have some of the same issues as home. Seems like I have missed all the fun."
When spellcasters are seen in the street who do not clearly represent a recognised god, their presence creates a spectacle. Any members of the Watch report such matters or may even try to capture such casters for a reward - as a result of this, many arcane spellcasters take to donning ecclesiastic attire to disguise their abilities from the ignorant masses, playing their magical abilities off as divine in nature.
Moira, eyes wide, has been following Oscar’s… conversation… with Luriel attentively, but as the door slams behind the tentacled mass, she realizes that for once in her life, she was tongue-tied at the crucial moment. Drat this beautiful Autumnal Bronze! Good thing Redmanes is so tolerant, what with me casting bardic healing on that sweet man Aishe Danior's battered hands without knowing the local legal code. And I’m going to have to figure out how Oscar fits into all this. Nobility... Yan-Gant-y-Tan on the marsh path, if you ask me. But he seems like a good kid under all that.
Redmanes’ call for a song snaps her out of her thoughts. Moira asks those who’ve sat down at the table to make a little room so she can rise: “ ‘scuse me Mr. Drin, good to meet you, I need a lil’ elevation to belt out this tune…” . She perches on the edge of the table, calling out in a clear, performer’s voice, “Feel free to drop that pretty paper lady and accompany me, Mr. Rivertounge, if you please! Let’s play these fine people that good ol’ tune the Dwarves love so much, “Dark as a Dungeon.”
"It’s dark as a dungeon, and damp as the dew,
Where danger is doubled, and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls, and the sun never shines,
It’s dark as a dungeon waaaaay down in the mine!"
Moira's thumping at her hand drum, perched up on the table with back straight and one leg crossed to support the instrument (though the observant will note that it's fastened to her belt in a way that makes this mostly superfluous), the other nearly reaching the floor. She makes eye contact with everyone at the bar who cares to watch the performance--her well-worn but formal black garb of mourning contrasting with the heavy, still slightly mud-caked, eminently practical brown leather ankle boots (somewhat down in the heel, but holding) that dangle conspicuously from the table. She's not one of these adventurers who wears riding boots to walk.