Nme'an nods. "We killed half their number, but the leader and three of his pack fled north into the fog. Regretfully, we were not able to give chase as two of our party had been injured. I would place the attack a good half days ride towards Thaleniel," he estimates.
Maybe the young lad didn’t listen in at the right spot, or maybe the door was simply too thick, but either way, the mischievous Themp can hear two voices, one of them Mot’s, but he cannot pick out words.
"Deel!" Mot says with enthusiasm, setting the bag on a counter, to be divvied up later. Obligingly he lifts his arms and turns as the armorer takes his measurements. "Ets a nice leetle shop yoo haev heer. Yoo been ae smith loong?" He says as he wanders over to a display, hefting a long-handled battle-ax he gives it a few perfunctory swings before returning the weapon and wandering about the shop.
Commander Morgan nods slowly, a brief look of approval at the paladin’s summation. “Reports of this man-beast, the werewolf, increase every month. A most vexing and elusive creature. I will schedule more patrols through the area, and hope he is bold enough to confront our riders. Tonight I will write to Deeproot as well, to contract a few expert huntsmen to bring him down. The very first of those reports came from Axton, so it seems that the monster has expanded his territory.”
He gestures assuringly, “Soon he will not be able to escape us. That I will promise you.”
“Now if that is all, I bid you good night. May you reap tenfold your sowing.” the Commander intones before marching out into the hallway.
Commander Morgan’s parting word is a line from a benediction in the Erastil church.
The half-elves are alone in the mess hall, save for the soldier who escorted them inside. The soldier salutes as the Commander exits and follows a few moments after. He gestures that the two should follow him. "If that will be all, I'll show you to the gates."
Nme'an nods in reply, sure he has heard the commander's final words before, but can't quite remember where.
Beorae's pointed ears perk up when the Commander mentions Deeproot and she feels a bit of pride that huntsmen from her hometown would be held in such high regard.
Bidding Commander Morgan a good night, the druid simply takes his parting words at face value, considering it a friendly farewell, if a bit flowery. “You too!,” she calls after as the heavy door swings shut with a thud.
Beorae follows the guard, Shark in tow. “Axton,” she muses, “I have a bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of that beast if he's already ranging this far. I need to work on conjuring more fire spells…” her words trailing off as they make their way back to the street.
The soldier escorts them as far as the gates to the castle, and bids them farewell as they continue down the lantern-lit roads. After a turn, the two continue down a road without a tavern, that is to say, a mostly empty road where the nearest citizen walks a block of buildings away.
The sun is mostly obscured by the flat western horizon, though her rays pale the skies overhead, the day not quite ready to give in to that good night.
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The greataxe in Mot’s hands is superbly well-balanced, and the blade sings with every cut through the air. Truly, as much an instrument of war as a work of art.
“Since I could lift a hammer. Now get out. We will trade goods and coin in the morning.” He herds the highlander toward the door. Just before closing it, he pauses, considering. “If you liked that axe, come back when you’re filthy rich. I’ll entertain offers of twenty-three hundred gold coins, but no less. Good night. Be here tomorrow, at sunrise.”
The door to the smithy’s shop closes, the creaks of a turning key straining through the wood.
As Mot stumbles pass him and the smithy locks the door, Themp casually shouts out to the highlander:
"So, big man, what about I buy you a drink for keeping those pesky wolves off my back?"
Mot waves his hands over his head in mock surrender as he's ushered out the door. "Och aye! Och aye! Ah'll bea back tha morning!" He chuckles as he fixes his coin purse to his belt. Stepping into the street, he breathes deeply and looks to the sky. Themps voice jars him from his reverie, and he starts, no mean feat for his considerable mass. "Haha! Yoo sneaky blaggard! Oof coourse, ets just aboot dreenk oo clock!" He looks up and down the street. "Where's tha tavern wea saw earlier?"
"Well, it was halfway across town, so we better get going before they're all too drunk to notice us make our grand appearance!" suggests Themp, quickly following with a mischievous wink.
Beorae walks down the street at a deliberate pace without saying a word; her silence speaking volumes about her frustration. Halfway down the street and out of earshot of any passers-by, the druid stops short and faces the paladin with fire in her eyes.
“Why you… stuck-up, half-witted, shiny-looking… yak herder!”
Taking a deep breath, the druid regains her calm. “Look, I know what you were trying to do back there, but did you even bother to consider what Themp or I might want? Did you even think to ask us before tossing us aside like some… some rotten apples?” The druid's voice begins to falter and her eyes become glassy.
Holding back an outburst of emotion, she becomes much quieter. “Sure, maybe I'm not much help in hand-to-hand combat, but you'd have to think that Themp and I didn't exactly get through the trials by being complete slouches, right? This, our mission, this is the biggest thing that's ever happened to me, and I don't think that the Court Wizard would have put us on this quest if he didn't think we were at least somehow worthy. It's important; I don't know why, but somehow I feel it in my bones. And here you dare to take that away from us without even a consultation! I thought we had a pretty good friendship developing, but now…” her voice trails off, the anger from earlier turned to tired sadness.
After a few moments, she says, “Here, mind if I take a look at that ring?”
Mot and Themp follow the cheers of the patrons in the famous pub until they come upon a large crowd gathered around the building, threatening to completely block the width of the street. Through the windows, it is obvious that the large tavern is busy, but some of the drinkers carry their cups with them out into the darkening winter sky. The road-clogging crowd has its attention turned to its empty center, and looking over or between the heads of the spectators shows the source of their cheers to be a wrestling match on the dirt road. A handful of guards can be seen on the fringes of the throng, watching to make sure the playful contests do not get out of hand.
Belarandir’s Brewpub is etched high above the doorway, with a rusty greatsword mounted laterally between the two words. Inside, it is so loud the barkeep has to shout to confirm drinks of choice, and most of the tables are filled with drinkers and carousers.
"Yak herder?" Nme'an interjects, oddly more hurt by the end of Beorae's tirade than the beginning. He falls silent again as she speaks her peace then says, "I admit, I don't know everything about women yet, but one does not attempt to protect a rotten apple..."
"Still," Nme'an says, "your point is well made, especially when reinforced by Commander Morgan's wisdom. I do not apologize for attempting to keep you away from harm, but you have my most sincere regret at my lack of consultation and my lack of..."Nme'an searches for the correct word in common, but failing to find it instead says,"...of umahiri."
Nme'an looks down at the ground and continues, "And if our friendship has been... kukatwa... by my actions then I am all the more sorry, Bi Sevenstone."
The two are silent for a moment then Beorae asks for the ring Nme'an retrieved earlier. He looks at her questioningly for a brief moment but fishes it out of one of his pouches and, misunderstanding Beorae's intent, says, "I had hoped to sell it tomorrow, but if it will help to repair our friendship then it is yours."
tact
cut off
Taking the ring with a nod, Beorae turns it in her fingers, admiring the subtle sheen of the moonstone gem which seems to almost glow with iridescence. Without a word, she focuses her concentration, hoping to find some lingering magic within the trinket, and thereby some sort of desperate validation of her presence in the party.
The druid does not detect magical properties in the mundane, though finely crafted, jewelry.
Themp casually approaches the mildest of the closest cheerers and inquires him.
"Say, old chap, what is going on here, is there any action on it and, if so, how can I get in the action?"
“Geez, I'm not taking the ring. I was just checking to see if it was magical,” the druidess explains. Placing the jewelry back in Nme'an's palm, she continues, “It's not, in case you were wondering. Should be safe to wear if you like, but I imagine you could get a handsome sum for it. Now, I'm headed to the Feddick house to ask some questions about that berry plant we found yesterday. You can join if you like, otherwise I think we both know where to find Mot and Themp,” she says, with a slight smile.
Beorae gives Shark's leash a tug and continues down the road, headed for the Feddick house.
Mot looks on approvingly to the fight, the pub, and the milling throngs of drunken revelers. Stooping his head, the takes a closer look in through a window at the activity inside.
"No... I think maybe I have upset you enough for one day. I had better make sure the other two don't end up like they did a couple of nights ago. We need everyone awake and alert in the morning. I intend to take Donovan up on his offer of shelter for the night, though knowing Themp and Mot and the trouble they cause it may be some time before I am able to get there. Farewell for now, Bi Sevenstone," Nme'an says offering her a polite nod of his head before heading in the opposite direction.
Beorae finds a road that takes her closer toward Emestar’s edge, until that road turns unexpectedly and decidedly eastward. After a few turns on a few roads, the druid finds herself on the correct path, and it is not long before she needs to only follow her nose to find the Feddick house. A simple, two-story building of sturdy construction has a ramshackle addition to one side, a newer-looking open covering resembling a simple shop, hastily thrown together. Inside the shop, a child stirs a small cauldron with his back turned to the druid. Whatever is brewing smells strongly of bitter herbs -not offensive, but not exactly pleasant. On display are many small opened chests, each labeled and filled with stoppered potions. For Injuries says one label, To see at night and For poisons reads a couple more. In the same penmanship, Ronn’s Remedies hangs from a wooden sign at the entrance. Shark sneezes at the smell as they draw nearer.
As the druid nears, the boy angles his head, hearing her approach, and turns and greets her with an impish smile. By his handsome mutton chops and mature voice, Beorae realizes Ronn Feddick is an adult halfling. “Good evening, lass. Is there something I can help you with? I can cure all manner of ailment or sickness, even love sickness,” a smiling Ronn winks up at the half-elf before gesturing over the multitude of vials around him. “I can cure the common cold, bring sight to the blind, make you stronger, faster, smarter, prettier even -though you have no need of that, milady. I have a tonic that will let you speak with your furry friend there, and another that will make the harshest winter storm treat you like a midsummer night. Anything you desire, my dear, I can do.” He ends his pitch with another wink to Beorae.
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Nme’an’s armor clanks as he walks down the road, following the inescapable cheers of the crowd at the tavern. It is not long until he can hear them just on the other side of the buildings to his left, and up ahead an intersection looks like it will lead right to Belarandir’s Brewpub.
“Fine evening, yes?” says an amiable, but wholly unexpected male voice from behind Nme’an. While his armor is a bit loud, it couldn’t have been loud enough to mask the approach of this voice that is a little too close.
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“Action? I’ll say! I’ve got two silvers on the bloke with the red beard!” says one spectator, violently patting the friend beside him on the back, “and he’s got two on the moustache!”
Themp notices that the guards seem to be the only authority around -no bookies in sight. Like as not, the small bets are taking place at a one-on-one basis and are not official in any capacity.
Mot peers into a window to see the walls covered in large murals unmistakably depicting Brenan the Berserker, wielding his legendary greatsword aloft against various foes: orcs, goblins, a giant, kobolds, and even some strange tentacled creature half-obscured by a churning surface of water. Beside each of the large paintings, a length of parchment is filled with small handwriting, probably giving an account of Brenan’s exploits.
Surveying the attitude of the patrons, the brawlers, and the guards, the highlander suspects this to be a wrestling match brought on by a simple and likely unimportant disagreement, and bets were placed on the two once the tussle proved to take longer than expected. Since the fight isn’t being broken up by the guards, it is a safe guess that these disturbances are somewhat regular, and those involved usually walk away with a missing tooth or a broken rib at the worst.
A bit surprised and, though he might not readily admit it, looking to dole out a bit of justice after his earlier ill considered request he made to Commander Morgan, Nme'an allows himself to visibly jump at the man's unexpected speech.
"Woah, I did not see you there!" Nme'an says, stoping in his tracks. He turns to face the man and uses his innate ability to silently yet fully in a single object. "The evening seems well enough yes, though not my time in it..." he says disenheartedly, still referring to his previous blunder, even as he tries to sense the sneaky man's motive.
The suggestion of "love sickness" raises a listless eyebrow, but the druid maintains a friendly expression as Ronn boasts his wares. “Ronn Feddik, I presume? I am Beorae Sevenstone from Deeproot, nice to finally meet you. I spoke to your brother some time ago when he was passing through our town. He made quite the case for dropping by should I ever find my way to The Crossing,” she says with a smile.
Picking up a vial that reads Strong Like Bull, the Druidess holds it up to the light and swirls the contents briefly, noting the subtle colors and viscosity of the liquid within. “This could be interesting…,” she mutters before setting the vial back in its place.
“As it happens, I'm on my way north from Thaleniel and have a question relating to a plant we found along the way. I thought you might have some insight.” Fishing about in her pack for a moment, Beorae retrieves the two bundles of leaves and sets them on the table. “Kinnikinnick, I believe it's called. I know I can make an effective anti-poison tea from these leaves, but I also remember my old druid mentor making some sort of… incense concoction out of this, but I'm having trouble remembering what it did. I think it had powdered grizzly bear claws and maybe some thistle flower petals. It was many years ago, so I'm afraid I don't remember much more than that. Does that ring any bells?”
Mot slaps Themp on the shoulder and says: "Haev fun an ween loots oof money, Ahm goona go rest mah weary leeg." The highlander makes a show of limping into the brewpub, hamming up the mild discomfort from the mostly healed injury. But despite any apparent pain, the hulking fighter still shoves aside, gently, any who wander in between him and the pubs barfront. Catching the barkeeps eye he roars something suggesting "their most local ale" and "tab opened" before turning to consider the assembled crowd. Smiling and nodding at any friendly faces he elbows the closest patron and says. "Ah keeled ae woolf taday." Not paying attention to whether they listen, in fact not even caring, he continues. "Aye, aen frightened ooff ae wherewoolf too!" He smiles and nods again, almost to himself while he waits for his drink.
"Nah, big man, I did not manage it on the streets by throwing away my hard-earned money on people I don't even know! I'll just watch for a bit and join you shortly. Keep the tab open, will ya?"
After being sure the barbarian can make it by himself to the bar, Themp turns his attention back to the crowd. In no time, he blends in it and carefully rummages through.
Nme’an finds evil in the heart of the man before him.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
A man of about five feet tall and of slender build, wearing traveler’s garb stands fifteen feet from the knight. He angles his head, interested in Nme’an’s comment. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?”
This man is not sorry to hear of Nme’an’s difficult night. He does not care and is feigning interest.
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Beorae takes in the wide variety of tonics and salves, each just as handy as the next (if their labels tell it true, that is), and Ronn’s tools of the trade: mortar and pestle, measuring cups, small cauldron, and few handfuls of other implements of unknown purpose. So well supplied with raw materials and crafting instruments, and such was the confidence in the young halfing’s claims, that the druid knows that there was no lie in Ronn’s pitch. He raises a hand in caution as she inspects the vial marked Strong Like Bull, but says nothing.
When she produces the kinnikinnick, Feddick’s eyes widen and the gears in his little dirty blonde head begin to turn. “Kinnikinnick… grizzly claws… thistle pedals… as an incense? Hm...”
A smile creeps over his face again, like a hunter enjoying the hunt, and his eyes are distant as he continues thinking. He abruptly turns around to his cabinet of raw materials and begins wildly opening jars of various items, sniffing, then closing and replacing them, all the while muttering to himself, “No, no, no, maybe, no, no…”
His frantic search ends a few minutes later when he rises from under his workbench with an open book, already thumbing to a certain chapter. The frenzied page-turning continues for another minute as his enthusiasm threatens to tear out pages with each turn. “Aha!” He plants a small finger on a particular page. “Meditation incense. The claws threw me off. The recipe here calls for fine chips of crab chitin, which ought to act as a substitute for the grizzly claws. Or vice versa. Nature likes to reuse the same stuff for all manner of functions, she’s real efficient about that.”
He is quiet for a moment as he keeps reading, and then nods, explaining why it did not come to mind sooner. “Seems to only be useful for anyone who meditates on a god in the morning for spells. Not too useful for a genius like me. Anyway…” he runs a finger down the list of ingredients and stoops to double check his material cupboard, “I only have one of these things in stock, other than the kinnikinnick. Flint dust. It gets the fire to burn hotter, keeps it from dying. The recipe here calls for a thimbleful, I could part with that for ...a single gold coin.”
He pauses, but before the druid can answer, he adds, “and I can copy down the recipe for you for five more gold coins.”
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The barkeep quickly pours a great mug of heady red ale and sets it in front of Mot, gesturing the ale to be the tavern’s very own brew. The beer itself is fairly strong and tastes like toasted bread.
“Killin’ a wolf is bad luck, says I,” one man drunkenly replies, “I once killed a wolf too, and suffered marital strife for seven years. Nag, nag, nag, thank Caliean for this place.” He raises a corrective finger and squints at the big man, “I’m not an alcoholic, mind you. I just hate my wife and kids…” The drunkard drones on, the highlander catching snippets of wisdom though the wandering monologue of misfortune and misadventure, albeit tinged with spite.
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Themp’s sharp eyes spot an easy mark, a well-dressed couple watching the contest of strength with great interest. Probably too warm from the bodies nearby, the man has his coat draped over his arm, and the thief deftly finds an unwatched pocket and reaches inside. Pulling away cold metal tied to a cord, the pickpocket does not check his prize until he is well away from the couple: a bronze key the size of Themp’s finger. By the number of intricate teeth, a key to a well-made lock, and as any thief knows, well-made locks secure very nice things.
Nme'an's mood actually brightens when he senses the ill intent of the man before him, the irony of such a mood change is not lost on the armored half-elf and he can't help but laugh a little while replying with, "I don't know what your game is here, but I am not in the mood for mischief. You have one chance to explain yourself sir, or there will be trouble between us."
Nme'an takes a brief moment to check his surroundings with all his senses. One with ill intent does not usually confront a heavily armed and armored knight without some kind of backup.
&
The knight does not spot anyone in hiding. In fact, the road has very few travelers at this hour, and none of them seem to be interested in their conversation. Not expecting Nme’an’s straightforward reply, the small man raises his hands in a placating gesture as he steps back.
“No mischief, Sir. Just a curious citizen. Over a dozen knights come tromping through here a month ago with all their bluster and titles, and you’re the first one I’ve seen since then. And the king is still unwell. Is something going on?”
Now it makes sense: This man is curious about Nme’an’s mission. But what he will do about that information is still unclear.
Downing a third of the tankards contents Mot waves a big hand as if to banish the gloomy speech. "Baad luuk? Nae! Wha Ah oonce keeled FAHVE woolfs! And theen fahve hunnerd goold coins rained froom tha skah! And thet naught I pleasured tha moost bewtefull wooman..." At this his expressive blue eyes grow wistful as he thinks on the memory. Presently he snaps back to the, well, present. "Nae, et 'twas FAHVE bewtefull young nuubiles! How's thet fer 'baad' luuk!?" He quaffs more of the rich beverage while turning an appealing gaze on any within earshot of the conversation.
"Going on? Yes. But I do not like the way you snuck up on me, or your disposition. I suggest we both go on our way. I do not imagine anything good would come from furthering our conversation," Nme'an replies, stating the truth while not revealing anything to the ill intentioned stranger.
Beorae watches in amusement and wonder as Ronn flurries about his workshop, impressed by the halfling's drive and determination to find an answer to her query. “Meditation incense? What, exactly, would that do for a druid like myself?”
Taking in the plentiful stock, an idea dawns upon the druid. “My mother runs an apothecary in Deeproot, Elsbeth's Elixirs and Extracts,” she says, pantomiming sophisticated grandeur as she says the name. “You know, if you're looking for a distribution channel, I reckon she would be interested in carrying some Ronn's Remedies in her store. I bet this stuff would fly off the shelves, what with all the trappers and hunters passing through town.”
The highlander’s story is met with mixed opinions from those within earshot.
“Five isn’t a lucky number!”
“Wow, I wish I could kill five wolves!”
“Load of b*llocks, if you ask me.”
“Five women? Amatuer.”
“I didn’t understand a word he said.”
Either way, Mot’s corner of the bar is now abuzz with the logistics of managing a “five-some”, though there is some confusion if wolves are involved in this fantasy or not. Others continue on about what they would do with five hundred gold coins, and the barkeep chuckles to himself as he serves up a few more pints to Mot and those nearby.
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The man shakes his head and takes an argumentative tone. “Well I don’t like your disposition either, Sir. Besides, shouldn’t the public be warned about potential danger? Why should we trust your high and mighty assessment of whatever is going on?”
He voices the last question a bit louder, obviously trying to gather more ears.
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“It says here to inhale the incense as you meditate, and the fumes will help clear your mind of distraction, and your magic will brim with as much potency as you are capable of.”
A look of suspicion flashes over Ronn’s face for just a moment, before melting into an easy smile. He shakes his head politely. “You are too kind, but even if your mother was a saint, I would be uneasy about selling my wares without my supervision. Business is well enough here in Brenan’s Crossing, not to mention that it is my home. Maybe I’ll take a trip to Deeproot in spring and make the acquaintance myself. Who knows? We might come to an arrangement.”
He chuckles and reaches back to continue stirring the small cauldron, not completely turning away from the druid. “So, my dear, what’ll it be? Some flint? A recipe? An elixir perhaps?”
Grin growing wider by the minute Mot is lost in the many diverging lines of conversation. Nodding as he listens to the group discussing the logistical difficulty of pleasuring five at once, he is quick to point out that every man, not just such a majestic specimen as he, has two hands, a tongue, a flagpole, and feet! His ear catches the tail end of someone's money fantasy and, for a moment forgetting it was HIS story that spawned the conversation, he offers; "Och, ef Ah haad thet kind oof mooney Ah'd buy tha finest set oof pahps yoove evar seen! All gilt weeth goold an jewels!" To emphasize the point he slaps a meaty fist, still holding one of the two flagons now in his possession, against the instrument tied faithfully to his side. Once again staining the well worn bag, with the local brew.
Gears furiously grinding in his head, Themp forgets the rest of the crowd and concentrate on the couple. Still blended in, he cautiously move to a position slight in front to the right of the couple, right where there would be no way of lifting their pockets without them noticing it.
After throwing a casual glance over to them, he intentionally double-takes and exclaim in feigned surprise.
"Oh my, I can't believe it! No, what am I thinking, it can't be. Must be a mistake. You're not from Thaleniel are you, my good sir?"
“Understood, and I certainly respect the ownership of your trade. But if you do make your way to Deeproot, please be sure to drop by Elsbeth's and tell her that Beorae sent you. Who knows, perhaps I'll even see you there,” she adds with a smile, wondering for the first time exactly how long this journey of theirs might take.
“I'll take the flint and the recipe,” she says, counting out six gold coins and setting them on the table with a clink before collecting her kinnikinnick bundles.
Remembering the conversation with the Commander earlier, she adds, “We're supposed to be headed up north through kobold territory. What do you have in the way of Stealth potions, or anything else that might help?”
"The only danger to the public I am aware of is the werewolf lurking the road between here and Thaleniel. If it were otherwise I would not hesitate to warn them. I have spent some twenty years of my life in the service of towns such as this one, long before I even became a member of the Order of the Dawnflower. Never would I allow harm to come to its people. To suggest otherwise is the height of insults," Nme'an says angrily.
He begins walking towards the shorter man and says, "I do not know what you are after here, my coin purse, or to stir up trouble against me and my fellow knights, but it stops now."
“‘Pahps’?”
”What is that thing?”
“It looks like a bag ...of pipes?”
A handful of drinkers blink in confusion at the highlander’s unusual instrument at his side.
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The husband shakes his head amiably. “Afraid not, though my brother moved there with his brood a decade back. He was always shorter, and a bit fatter now I imagine,” He smiles at his own joke and his wife squeezes his arm. She glances over Themp’s garb, “Why? Do you know Matthew?” The wife offers the vacant smile reserved for acquaintances and unwelcome salesmen. Aside from a mere glance from those watching the match, Themp attracts little attention from anyone other than the couple before him.
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In the evening light the half-elf knight can see the man’s face blanche and he begins nodding before Nme’an finishes speaking.
“Yessir, it stops now, Sir,” he mumbles as he turns and walks as quickly as he can without openly running down the street. In only a few moments, the man turns down the first road he comes by and is gone.
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“I have a few things, just a moment,” Ronn Feddick busies himself with copying down the recipe on spare parchment, and then measures the proper amount of flint dust and seals it in a small vial and labels it. After a few minutes, he points to a chest labeled Competence. “These will slightly help the next thing you endeavor, but it might be what will make the difference. Those cost twenty-five in gold. Oh, and is effects will only last for a minute or so.”
He points to another chest, nearly lost among the others, labeled Soft of Foot. “This an oil you coat your boots and other noisy things like armor, and it dampens the noise. Just one vial will cover a man in platemail, for only the thinnest layer is needed in the application. It doesn’t make you absolutely silent, but it helps a great deal, and helps for no longer than four minutes. These I sell for one hundred gold coins, but for you? Ninety.” He smiles and winks at Beorae before taking on a serious look. He leans forward with a lowered voice. “I also have a few potions that grant four-minute invisibility, but they are very expensive so I have them locked away. Three hundred gold a piece, though I can’t go any lower than two-seventy. Shall I show you those, or is that out of your price range right now?”
Mots near ever-present smile deepens at their curious, and to him encouraging, tones. "Aye! Mea 'pipes!" The big fellow is careful to enunciate each word clearly so as to be understood. With gusto he makes as if to set down his flagons but, thinking better of it, he pauses. Downing first one, and then the other, he slams the now-empty containers on the bartop good-naturedly. Hefting the travel-stained tartan of his most constant companion he asks the bartender; "Woold yoo care for soome loovlay music ta soooth tha soul?" Mot waits, a lungful of air at the ready.
"Ah, I'm sorry, my dear sir, I was almost sure it couldn't be you, but the resemblance, as well as the incident, was so astonishing I couldn't help but approach you."
Nme'an sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly as the man all but runs away. 'This day has gone on long enough,' the Paladin muses, but there is still work to be done. He turns and heads back towards Belarandir’s Brewpub keeping an eye out for Themp or Mot.
“Invisibility does sound like fun,” she says in a hushed tone before raising her voice back to a normal level. “But you are correct that such things are out of my price range. And that oil sounds like it might be just the thing I'm looking for, but I'm afraid that even with your generous discount, I can't quite afford it at the moment, either. I'll need to talk with my companions.”
Collecting the vial of flint powder, the druid waits for Ronn to finish penning the recipe, “We may be back in the morning before we depart. Thank you very much, Mr. Feddik. Well met, and best wishes.” Beorae refits her pack and draws up Shark's leash before heading off down the road toward Belarandir's, but turns back at the last moment, “Oh, I almost forgot to mention that father Donovan at the temple sends his regards.”
The couple do not appear to have a reason to lie to the rogue. As far as he can tell, they are being as honest as they are comfortable with a complete stranger.
“Oh? Incident? What’s Matt gotten himself into this time?” the man smirks, pulling his eyes from the wrestling match for another moment.
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The barkeep eyes the strange instrument, but shrugs and nods to Mot. “Play away!”
The patrons bang their tankards on the tables in anticipation.
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“Father Donovan can mind his own business,” young Feddick snaps as he tends to the cauldron once more. He winces as the words leave his mouth. “Sorry, that was rude. Good night, my lady fair.”
With a sweeping bow, the halfling flings a few sizzling drops from his ladle off to the side. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
With a visible (perhaps a bit over-the-top) shrug of relief, Themp sets in a more comfortable stance.
"You see, my good sir, I believe it is your very brother who contracted me to find, perhaps, you here."
After a brief pause and a flash of confusion on his face, Themp explains better.
"You see, a recently-imprisioned man in Thaleniel's jail that looks very much like you assigned me the task of contacting his brother around these parts of Vyren. I wasn't expecting to find him on my first day around here! However, given the sensitive nature of the message, I can't even hint the contents of it without being sure you are indeed the expected recipient." *sigh* "Are you sure you live here?"
Grin fully affixed to face, Mots pair of bellows, where most men might have lungs, inflates the bag. Bringing a heavy arm down, he strikes the instrument and gets a good drone going before stomping to the beat and roaring out:
"Weeeeeeellll thaaaaaars
aneatbonnielassandherbameismerimac
makenomistakeshesthegirlimgonnatrack
lotsofotherfellowstrytogetheronherback
butithinktheyregonnahavetogetupearly!"
Following each verse he roars into the chorus on the pipes playing the lilting, bouncing melody while stomping his feet all the harder. Before too long he begins to hop and whirl around the room in some strange approximation of what might, possibly, have been considered a dance. At least in some corners of the realm.
The eyes of the couple widen at Themp’s news, and the wife begins to speak frantically. “What happened? Is Matthew -”
“Quiet Marie,” the husband interrupts, looking at the piqued ears in the crowd. He gives the rogue a hard look, his mood suddenly much more serious. “Matthew is my kin, and we are going to talk about this elsewhere.”
He reaches for Themp's collar, but the liar instinctively dodges the grab. "Sorry. Come on," he growls, urging his wife out of the cluster of spectators. He gestures that Themp should follow. His face is wrought with grim concern, while Marie pesters Themp with shrill questions. “Did he fall into debt? Are his children alright? Is he too sick to work? Oh, he’s hit the bottle too hard again and done something terrible, hasn’t he?!”
Some sort of ruckus familiar to Themp raises from the inside of Belarandir’s Brewpub as the trio stop in front of a few buildings away from the tavern and the crowd, where no ears stand a chance of eavesdropping. The husband rounds on Themp. “Yes, messenger, Matthew is my younger brother. And yes, I live here. My manor is over, near the castle, if you require proof with documents. Now what is this business about with my brother?”
It is clear that by his impatient tone, the man wants the important news straightaway.
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One third of the patrons, perhaps the more sober ones, press their palms into their ears at the blaring indoor pipes, and scramble for the exit. The rest of the drinkers, already well into their cups, cheer heartily at the performance. With some bodies rushing for the door and others rushing out of the way of the highlander’s whimsical path, the bar erupts into pandemonium. Those who know the shanty chime in, and the rest keep time with their boots, hands, and cups.
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Nme’an rounds the corner to see a large cheering crowd circled around what must be some sort of contest, likely a brawl, due to the level of the enthusiasm and readily available alcohol. A handful of guards watch the match and the crowd carefully, and appear to maintain some semblance of order, even though such a display of disorder would never stand in Thaleniel. The crowd is so large it nearly blocks the entire road.
The half-elf’s pointed ears suddenly pick up a familiar, musical whine: Mot’s pipes. The cheer of the crowd inside nearly drowns them out, all raised to common lyrics muddled by the distance and the slurring voices. Droves of people appear to be in frenzied escape from Belarandir’s Brewpub at the noise, joining the watchers of the fight. Mot’s performance draws many looks from outside the pub, and a few shouts and whoops, but nothing competes with the highlander, who Nme’an spots momentarily through a window, spinning wildly off a table and landing haphazardly among fellow revelers. Themp is nowhere to be seen, though the lanky rascal has quite a talent for disappearing in a crowd.
"I'm sorry, sir. I really need to be sure. He told me about the manor, so if you just describe its facade, it'd be enough for me to relay the message. Briefly, sir. If it is you, you have no time to waste with me. If it isn't, I have no time to waste with you."
Themp then crosses his arms in front of his chest, assuming his best and most theatrical ultimatum stance.
Nme'an, expecting to find Themp buying Mot his promised drink, reluctantly enters the pub. Upon entering, the tired Paladin takes in the sight of the twirling Mot and the jovial drunks and all but gives up on his plans to bring order and justice to Vyren.
'It's just not going to work... Not this evening anyway,' he tells himself.
Instead, he finds an empty table near the door and takes a seat. He sits there with his eyes closed, enduring the "music" coming from Mot's "insturment" and politely refuses to order food or a drink when a bar maid eventually comes by to wait on him.
Nme'an opens his eyes every now and then and scans the pub for the arrival of Themp. He'd rather the rogue be present along side the big man, but right now it's enough that he is able to keep an eye on one of his more rowdy traveling companions.
The man has a faraway look as he describes the manor, “Well, it’s red from the imported stone from Redstone, heh. And it has trimmed hedges along the walkway, and a large oak door-”
“Bear pillars,” Marie interjects, “Your brother visited when the manor was new and remarked on the pillars carved like standing bears. He really liked them.”
“Apple trees grow along the edge of the property, too,” the husband adds. “Will that suffice? Out with it, lad. What’s become of my brother?”