Tyro patiently waits, blinking only once at the fur armor blanketing Togril's body, but doesn't say anything. Once he has re-emerged from his room, he shakes his head. "A problem of a different sort. I noted that the barkeep seemed somewhat anxious regarding the storm; it turns out there are some repairs that need to be handled to prevent damage to this structure, and he was anxious to find someone to help. There is some piping on the outside of the building which helps to prevent flooding, and he is concerned that it will break, given the force of this wind. I'm sure that should the sailors cause any trouble of their own sort, we can sort them out as well." Tyro grins and begins to move back down the stairs. "Sorry, but I think we're going to get quite wet in a moment."
The two Dwarves make their way down the steps to the main room and then the cellar. Retrieving the supplies left by Hamn they promptly make way to the front door, garnering not a few sideways glances of those curious at the sight.
Reaching for the latch Emberforge can hear the howling wind and pounding rain. As soon as he depresses the lever though, the door is ripped from his grip, slamming full open and revealing the true severity of the raging deluge. Several of the nearby patrons yell out in a spectrum of irritation, ranging from the mildly amused to the downright peeved (depending of proximity to the open door, and consequently amount of storm to the face).
Both the Knight and the Quaesitor are quick to exit the building, holding fast to the supplies and gear they set about their task. Instantly soaked to the bone, and with visibility down to mere meters, it is needless to say that the job was slow going.
Also, if it’s important, my Endurance feat gives me a +4 bonus on saves against adverse weather, among other things.
“Can’t see a blasted thing in this rain! I never have to deal with rain in a forge!”
HODOR
Fizkin raps his knuckles on the bar to get the old tavern keeper's attention.
"The key to your best room?"
He holds out his little hand palm up.
The Dwarf behind the bar squints at the little Gnome opposite him, before looking around the still-full hall to see who would front the money for the room. Shockingly, no one readily steps forward. It would seem a drink is one thing, but a room (a fancy room), quite another.
As the two Dwarves press into the maelstrom they find the going tough indeed. Moving to the first corner of the building they're able to make out the drainage pipes that Hamn spoke of. Placing the boards up against the wooden construction they attempt to hammer it into place. Hitting their fingers more than the nails they are nevertheless able to attach a couple lengths of wood to the building in a decent attempt at reinforcement.
Pressing on to the next corner they are able to use trial and error to help them do a slightly better job. Up to this point as the howling wind and drenching rain wash over them they are able to support one another, fighting through the storm one step at a time. However, as they move from the second to the third corner of the inn a particularly nasty gust knocks them both on their ass. The clinging mud finds purchase in their armor as their few remaining dry articles of clothing are thoroughly doused.
Whether from the weather making them increasingly wetter, or perhaps from finally figuring out which end of the hammer to use, the third pipe is fully and nearly expertly repaired. The woodwork solid as a rock.
Moving on to the fourth and final pipe the pair set to work. First Tyro lifts a support beam up to the pipe. Taking as careful aim as he can with the rain in his eyes, Emberforge lets fly a powerful swing of the mighty stone hammer, only at the last moment losing his footing in the slick slop of mud. Slamming the full weight of the hammer on the Quaesitors hand causes Bane-Edge to drop the heavy plank directly over the insole of Sir Togrils foot. Biting his tongue to stymie the pain the Knight makes a second attempt. Continuing the comedy of errors the two finally accomplish their task. Leaving half the building practically no better than before save a bevy of new birch-wood boards.
Tired, soaked, and smarting from their, admittedly minor, injuries the Dwarves head back towards the inns entrance. Along with the rain and general howl of the wind there seems to be, something else. It's hard to determine but both of them can definitely hear a sound above the bedlam. Is that, laughing? Oh well, it's probably nothing. Ringing in their ears from hitting each-other with wood or the like. Still, something gives pause to their steps and halts their hand on the doors latch. But seriously, it's probably nothing. They should just go inside and ignore it. The two are tired, and there's warm fluffy beds inside calling their name. Not literally calling their names, figuratively. No the only literal noise they hear is the tinkling sound of laughter that can now DEFINITELY be heard over the coursing of the storm.
Severely grumpy, satisfied that he has done the best job he's able to, Tyro trudges through the rain, muttering about the importance of fighting chaos, and pondering whether rain would technically be chaotic and therefore worthy of Abadar's wrath and destruction. As he begins to hear the laughter, he looks up, eyebrows deeply furrowed, trying to pinpoint it's origin.
Sir Togril sloshes into the tavern, trying to ignore the mud he tracks in as he finds Hamn. “Pardon me,” he harrumphs as he sidles up beside the playful gnome, waving down the squat dwarf. “Your piping should hold up, for now,” he says to the innkeep, “Could I borrow some dry rags to clean my armor? I would like to also hang my clothes near the fire, but perhaps after everyone has gone to bed to left for home.”
He is uncomfortably aware of the mud oozing from the scales in his armor and the brown water dripping from his kilt, and unfavorable looks his visage is likely drawing.
Fizkin frowns back at the crowd.
"Come now! Surely some of you will put up the cost of the drink you would have bought for the cost of a room for one night. I concede that the best room might be a bit extravagant. A normal room will suit me fine. Now please, pay the tavern master so I might get some sleep to better entertain you all tomorrow."
Seeing the soaking Dwarven Knight before him Hamns face takes on the visage of pure appreciation mingling with pity. "Oc' aye! Of certain lad! Muc' t'anks, muc' t'anks indeed! Fer yer servi-" He stops confused looking around the room. "Oy, w'ere be t'e ot'er une?" He says, searching for Tyro.
Outside the Quaesitor stands, one hand still on the doors latch. The laughter, like glass bells, continues to sound from down by the waters edge. The storm, seeing a golden opportunity to strike, redoubles it's efforts and drops even MORE rain down on the hapless inquisitor.
Back inside the Any Port a couple of the guests sheepishly look to their purses, trying to determine whether they had the coin to put the little Gnome up for the night, the others merely went back to their drinks. Save for one individual...
"DA BES! APPSLUTLTY DA BES!" Well past his tenth drink, sheets completely outrunning the wind, Dendoren son of Fen lifts the Gnomen bard up clear of his stool and spins him once through the air. Much like one would a child, if one had a complete disregard for the safety of children.
Signaling to Hamn, or rather to where Hamn was a minute ago, the dockworker loudly proclaims "AIYMAPAYROOOOM!" and drops a sizable purse on the bartop. "YU, STAY, HERE, TINIGHT." The big man says to Fizkin, over-emphasizing each word and pantomiming what one could only assume were directions to, well, here, the inn. Massive grin seating itself proudly on his face, he begins to sing the chorus again before promptly passing out and toppling over onto a nearby table.
Feeling the supporting weight of man beneath him begin to fall, the bard looks towards the fast-approaching floor.
Tyro stares into the rain, then sighs, calling to Togril. "There's a strange mocking laugh out in the rain, do we care to locate it's source?"
Half-curious, and half-concerned the Quaesitor was about to punish a wayward drunk, he nods affirmatively across the common room to Tyro. He politely asks Hamn to leave enough dry rags in his room for his return and steps to the door. Joining Tyro in the rain, he straps on his shield and double-checks his warhammer’s place on his belt. Sir Togril looks up, squinting against the wind and rain.
"Laughing, you say? From which direction?"
The young knight could already feel the rain weigh down his beard, and the raindrop splashes onto the metal scales were not helping his vision either.
Tyro grumpily sighs and gestures toward the docks. "Off that way. Bloody nuisance. Well, best we go find out what it is, can't have some fool spreading mischief." He squints out into the rain one last time, sighs deeply, then trudges out into the storm.
Wind and water continue to mix as the two Dwarves make their way down the dark, muddy streets. Occasionally passing by a closed shop-front here, a familiar land-mark there, their progress is steady if uncomfortable. Visibility is low, but having been in the city for a solid week, Togril feels comfortable in his heading, they soon arrive at the South-West border of town, the docks.
The laughter is quite loud now, easily heard above the heavy precipitation and occasional thunder-claps, but the source eludes them. Searching the piers and the decks of a few nearby ships Tyro and Togril are just about to call it quits when all of the sudden their eyes both alight on a rogue wave.
With the clarity one who realizes the answer was before him the whole time they realize where the laughter is originating from. A wave that moves of it's own volition, jumping and turning, occasionally blasting jets of water at various ships hulls, all the while laughing and giggling at some unknowable jest. The wave has the form of an attractive woman, an attractive woman that pays little head to the two muddied and drenched newcomers down on the shore below.
The Apprentice Guardian is momentarily taken aback by the primal display of raw, watery chaos.
“Well, I think we found the source of the laughter,” Togril states unnecessarily.
“I’ve heard of these, I think. She might be a water elemental. Or a nymph. Either way, she could be friendly, but dangerous.”
He looks to Tyro, unsure how to read him. “It might be a good idea to let her be.”
Tyro's brow furrows. He squints hard at the being, trying to decide how best to approach the situation. "Clearly a force for chaos, we must calm it somehow. However, I fear you are right, I lack the requisite skills to fight such a being in the water. We must find a way to calm her." His brow continues to furrow until it seems to bury itself in his mustache. He is clearly consternated by being unable to reach the creature.
The living wave continues its cheery jig. Disregarding the two Dwarves even more than before.
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Sir Togril pats the Quaesitor’s shoulder. “Perhaps she speaks our language.”
He steps up to the water edge and waves his shield arm to get the elemental’s attention. He tries to call out over the wind.
“Excuse me! Your, uh, Wetness? Might you be the one causing the storm?”
Pulling to a sudden stop the watery being appears to have heard the Dwarf. A puzzled look inhabits it's face it searches all around, under the docks, behind the ships, hiding beneath the crest of nearby waves, but can't seem to place where the voice is coming from.
"Put me down you fool! I am no clown to be handled so!"
Fizkin wrenches himself free of the drunken hands and slams into the floor.
"DAMN YOU!" Noblejinx shouts in indignation. "You will regret this mockery Dendoren the Dolt! I shall eviscerate you in fiction. You shall be the most damnable fool ever to trip on a pile of dung. Children and fathers alike will laugh at the very mention of your name!"
"Barkeep! I find I have the coin required. Give me your nicest room and be quick about it!"
The irate gnome slaps his hand to the bar and removes it, leaving behind a golden coin. He hold his hand out for the key.
"I expect one of your women to come and get my clothes in 10 minutes and have them cleaned and pressed by the time I want breakfast. Keep the change and make sure breakfast is good. I like rolled oats with butter and brown sugar. And bacon! Plenty of bacon..."
The young knight waves his shield arm, and calls, “Hello!” to get the water creature’s attention.
Tyro stands a pace back, watching the being closely. He keeps his hand casually near his weapon, but not so close as to draw attention or aggression to himself.
Noticing the flapping of the shield in the wind the strange water being at first recoils at the sight of the two dour Dwarves. Upon closer examination however, a look of curiosity takes her face and she approaches, though never leaving the protection of the bay.
A voice like waves crashing on rock sounds out from where one would assume her mouth would be.
"ທ່ານ, ທ່ານບໍ່ເຂົາ."
__________________________________________________________________________
Meanwhile, back at the Inn.
Hamn the bartender lets out a guffaw along with many of the taverns patrons. Seeing the little gnome stand in an uproar he addresses him. "Oy, calm yeself master Gnome. Ol' Dendoran is a gud sort, sure an 'e meant no 'arm. Yew'll 'ave yur room sure noug'." The Dwarf's surprisingly quick hand swipes up both the gold piece and Dendorans purse in one movement, placing one in his pocket and the other under the counter for safe keeping. Unhooking a stout iron key from his belt he sets it down before Fizkin. "Aye an' s'ould be t'e t'ird on t'e left. Sleep weall now Twinkle-Toes!" Turning from the Gnome he motions for the two serving girls to bring Dendoran, Son of Fen, back behind the bar to a small mat. Presumably kept on hand for just such an occasion.
Twinkle-Toes will find a comfortable human-sized room up the stairs and third on the left.
A fuming Fizkin fumbles up the oversized steps and disappears into his room.
The dwarf did not understand a word of the unusual language. Sir Togril smiles, but is unsure if the friendly expression is lost this strange creature. He nods, and turns to the Quaesitor. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
The young knight turns to leave.
Tyro tilts his head to the side as he listens, and then shakes his head. "We cannot understand your language." He turns to Togril. "She will damage those ships if left unchecked, we need to find someone who can speak... whatever that was."
Sir Togril nods in agreement. “True. I am reluctant to interfere with a force of nature, but she is a danger to everything dockside. You can try to find someone who knows more about these, and I’ll keep her occupied,” he shrugs, “maybe I can get the message across.”
The young knight steps back to the water spirit, slowly lowering his arms, enunciating his words. “Calm… down. Play… else… where.”
Tyro nods, and quickly begins to search around for anyone else, to see if he can find, or think of someone who can help.
Inquisitor Tyro knows that his best bet at finding someone who can speak esoteric languages would be a member of the local branch of the School of Scholars. Specifically Arnan Fletch, who he knows specializes in Elementals. He figures it's safe to assume that's what they are dealing with, and though Tyro is no expert on the species, thankfully Arnan is. Unfortunately given the hour, now nearing midnight, Scholar Fletch and the entire School are probably fast asleep. Tyro knows that the School should open a couple hours past dawn.
Knight Togril knows that ships are made of wood.
What can only be a curious expression plays across the face of the watery woman as she regards the discussing dwarves with interest. Holding up a liquid hand she says; "ຜ່ານຫຼາຍ?"
Tyro returns to Togril, having remembered who'd be able to help, and sighs heavily into his mustache. "The man who'd be able to help us is asleep. I... don't know how to proceed." He looks utterly flummoxed, and sigh once again.
The young knight’s frown is battered by the heavy rain. “Do not doubt yourself, Tyro. Find him, wake him, and bring him here. The captains and crews of these ships won’t have work at sunrise if we leave her be.”
Suddenly, an idea forms in Sir Togril’s mind as he regards the effeminate water. “Hang on…”
Hefting up his shield, he carefully approaches the elemental. When he is close enough, he taps the extended watery limb with his shield and then quicky shuffles back a few feet. He peers curiously over his shield, to watch the creature’s reaction.
The woman of the water watches Sir Togril approach. He lifts his shield and taps her upraised limb. She does nothing to stop him, but she also seems to not understand what he is doing. As the Dwarf backs up the creature begins to lose interest and returns to her jovialities in the bay.
The young knight relaxes behind his shield; a bit disappointed he could not keep the watery being away from the ships. He watches the creature bounce and bob playfully through the brine and timber, and shrugs. These ships would not be seaworthy if they could not withstand a bit of weather. Likewise, I will not be forge-worthy if I do not get my rest…
Sir Togril turns to Tyro. “Sorry friend, but I am of little use here. I must call it a night.”
And with that, the Paladin of Torag trundles back into the inn, safe from the thrashing storm. He removes his armor and fights to stay awake long enough to thoroughly clean it, softly chanting hymns as he does so. Not a moment too soon, the young dwarf goes to sleep.
Tyro nods and claps Togril on the shoulder. "Sleep well, friend. Thank you for your aid tonight, I will not forget it." He sighs, staring at the creature of water, then moves in the direction of the school.
Tyro first takes a look around the building to see if he can locate any sign of life within, then moves to the front door and pounds on it, trying to rouse someone. "Hello? Anyone? I must speak with Arnan Fletch. This is a highly important matter!"
Bane-Edge is able to find the School of Scholars without too much trouble, finding himself on their doorstep as the wind an rain whip at his hair and beard he pounds away at the door.
No lights shine in the windows and Tyro doesn't see anybody about the grounds. After a few moments he pounds again, but no one answers. Testing the latch he finds that the door is of course locked.
Tyro searches around for a reasonably sized rock, hefts it in his hand, then focuses on it, causing it to suddenly shine and emit a bright glow. He then begins to search for an open window through which to throw his glowing missile, not wanting to break or damage anything.
Tyro's sharp eyes are able to cut through the pounding rain and minor flying debris from the storm. He is, surprisingly, more than able to see that not only are all windows closed. But due to the raging storm are also shuttered, just like the windows of the Any Port.
In addition Tyro is able to deduce that, unfortunately, the only way to get inside, barring one of the scholars coming to the door, would be to force his way in. Quaesitor Bane-Edge is fairly certain how the local authorities would feel about that.
Tyro sighs deeply, looking at the glowing rock in his hand. It just isn't right to leave this... being out in the storm without any information on who or what she is. Harumph. He takes one more walk around the building, then closes his fist around the rock, extinguishing the light. Fairly grumpy, somewhat disgruntled, and quite sodden, he makes his way back to the inn. Pushing his way through the door, he sighs taking a look around the room, then makes his way up the stairs to his room.
Even more disgrutledly, he strips off his armor and hangs everything to dry, arranging it in the order in which it will be equipped in the morning. He then towels off, ensuring that he is completely dry to avoid risking further exposure to the elements. he lights a fire in the room to warm it, arranging the logs to maximize heat but minimize risk of uncontrolled blaze. He surveys the room one last time, then crawls into bed, murmuring a short prayer to Abadar requesting his continued health, and order in the city, then quickly slips into sleep.
The night progresses without incident. The storm continues unabated until morning but it's incessant pounding does not affect the sleepers, thanks in no small part to the repair work enacted by the Dwarves Tyro and Togril . The sun rises and with it the port of Ilan. The storms passing leaves the air crisp and clear as a bright sun shines down on shop keepers and stall owners as they all prepare for a day of money-making. The scent of fresh-baking bread fills the streets and mingles with the odors of day-old fish and wet, warming bales of hay. The sickly-sweet aroma ever present, and ever pervasive.
Young Ranger Sorn awakes on this, the first day of his proving. A good day for it as well, he can easily see the bright day-star through the muddied pane of his window, it is sure to be a warm pleasant day, the best for traveling the wild.
Fizkin, so dubbed Twinkle-Toes, blinks back the grublies from his eyes and brings to focus the room through his booze-influenced vision . There are songs to sing, people to entertain, and perhaps most importantly, money to be made on this fine day!
Togril, the staunch Paladin, rises with the knowledge that he will soon be missed at the forge if he delays. Copper rings and iron nails await his hammer before finding their way to the many ships docked awaiting re-fit. An honest hard-days work awaits him.
And Inquisitor Bane-Edge, having suffered defeat at the hands (knobs?) of a locked door in the middle of a wet night, sees the storm has passed with little true damage to property and person. Though the puzzle of the wet woman still nags at his mind. Perhaps the School of Scholars will be open soon? The day is young and full of possibilities.
Before beginning their day in ernest, those that did not pay for their rooms the night before would do well to visit with Hamn the Bartender ere too long.
Sir Togril Emberforge strides quickly to the forge, blinking through sleepy eyes with mild interest at the docks he passes to reach his workstation. He was relieved to see little or no damage from the night before, and wondered if Quaesitor Bane-Edge successfully deterred the water spirit.
Entering the smithy, he lays his shield aside, out of the way but near enough to avoid theft. He keeps his armor on, not only in the spirit of readiness, but also in hopes someone might notice his craftsmanship and commission the dwarf to craft something more challenging than nails and rings. Once between the anvil and kiln, the young dwarf soon finds himself in a trance-like state of labor. He mouths the words of one of Torag’s work-hymns to the rhythm of the clanging hammer, the roaring billows, and the hissing water.
The clink of hammer on anvil adds itself to the morning bedlam of commerce.
Fizkin fumbles down the oversized stairs, orders a breakfast of brown bread, blackened bacon, 2 eggs over medium, and a fried fish with lemon washed down with a good, dark stout.
The gnome eats quietly.
The food is bland but filling. As he eats Noblejinx notices that the main room is, predictably, far less full than the night before.