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The town of Ilsurian in Varisia was established by Ilsur, a First Sword ofthe Knights of Aroden in the city of Korvosa. With the crumbling of the Chelish Empire, Ilsur wanted a militant-leaning meritocracy to replace noble rule in Korvosa, but had to eventually concede defeat roughly 80 years ago. He marched his troops to the west bank of the Skull River where it empties into Lake Syrantula, and awaited a chance to return and seize Korvosa by military force. He died waiting for the opportunity, and his army gradually transformed into a strong community of independent fishers and foresters owing loyalty to neither Korvosa nor Magnimar. The soldiers brought by Ilsur and their descendants are ethnic Chelaxians, and most of them have the strong features, pale skin, and dark hair of that group. Most of them also harbor prejudice against the native Varisians, and believe the stereotypes that Varisians are thieves and layabouts. Since very few permanent residents of Ilsurian are ethnic Varisians, this racism has rarely been a problem. Yet all that changed when Ilsurian became the latest stopping point for a traveling circus known as the Umbra Carnival.
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A fleet of circus wagons arrives in a large empty field a few miles outside of Ilsurian. They mostly go unnoticed -- other than by the occasional traveler on the road -- while they set up their tents, attractions, games, and the famous big top. It is not until a few days later, when a contingent from the carnival arrives in Ilsurian to restock its store of food and supplies and hang up colorful posters, that the general populace realizes that a carnival will be starting in a few short days.
Given the stereotypes and reputation that carnivals and their employees carry, the rumor mill is in full swing in Ilsurian as the people wait for their chance to confirm their prejudices with their own eyes.
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Opening Day of the Umbra Carnival is here! Circus folk hold a parade that marches through town in a spectacle of sights, music, and drumming. Banners and streamers herald a procession of clowns, stilt walkers, and tumbling acrobats, all of whom wave to the townspeople. Carnival barkers call out to people on the streets, promising thrills, chills, and delights for people of all ages (at the modest price of a few copper coins). The entire procession is a formal declaration of the carnival's opening, and seeks to draw out the curious and idle to follow along to the procession's end, the parade grounds.
Among the spectators of the parade are Draegoth and Tormund.
One might thing the young Ulfen man in little more than a vest and baggy fur-lined pants to be a decade younger than he is, the way he reacts to the circus procession. His eyes are alight with wonder, and he squeezes his companion's arm excitedly. "Nine Hells, Torg!" he practically squeals. "It's the Umbra Carnival! This is amazing! We have to go. I've heard so much about it. Did you know they have a sphinx? A real live sphinx, Torg! Even you have to think that's interesting!" He gives his partner his trademark goofy, lopsided grin to let him know he's only teasing--not that it will matter to Torg, of course. Dray has never met another human so vigilantly grumpy in his life. Torg could give the surliest dwarf a run for his money. He gently rubs the tiefling's left bicep (Torg hates getting touched on his right arm) and gives him his best puppy dog eyes. "Can we go? Please? I'll pay!"
While Draegoth has the lean, tight muscles of a swimmer, his companion is significantly bulkier. Part of the reason is clothing: Torgmund wears a drab brown padded shirt over his chain shirt, both to hide the glimmer of master-worked metal and to hide his slightly misshapen form. The hood of his dark green traveling cloak hides two long ridges of dark bone that run along either side of his head, and his right arm is wrapped in gauze that has faded and discolored over the last few months since he replaced it, to the point where his entire right arm is a mottled brown. A sturdy leather gauntlet covers his right hand. Somewhere under all that padding, his arm is a bright, angry red that is clearly inhuman. He can't hide his lineage entirely, however: his eyes are a strange golden hue with cat's-eye slits for pupils, and his dark red tail swishes almost of its own volition behind him. Torg was never very good at hiding what he is.
He scowls at his partner's words and crosses his arms. "Come on, Dray. What are you, ten? It's a carnival. Half-naked women galavanting about and some games. Besides, these backwoods yokels hate humans who are different than them. What will they do to a tiefling? Hm? I say we restock and get the Hells out of here before they try to burn me at the stake again."
"Oh, stop it, you old fuddy duddy," Dray says, slapping Torg's bicep playfully. "We're going and that's that. Besides, trying to burn you at the stake literally did nothing but burn your clothes off. They got an ass-kicking, and I got a show. Win-win."
The summoner always gets a little edgy when his eidolon isn't around. Dray tries not to get jealous, but sometimes... He sighs. Sometimes I wish he was that way when I'm not around. "Come on, let's go check it out. Besides, you like seeing the naked girls. Don't worry, I won't get too jealous." He winks at Torg, takes him by the hand and practically drags the summoner behind him.
Growling his displeasure, Torg sighs and finally relents, letting the monk lead him toward the carnival. At least I'll fit in with the rest of the freaks there, he thinks sourly. Not for the first--or even hundredth--time, he wonders what Dray sees in him. They are a study in opposites. He's large, bulky, and deformed, while Dray is compact, toned, and handsome. Torg knows Dray doesn't mean to make him feel constantly self-conscious, but there's no getting around it. Torg is a monster, and Dray... Dray is an Adonis.
Let him have his fun, he thinks. But... perhaps you should call Yggni before going to the carnival, in case things get dicey. He ponders the idea as they walk. Best wait until we're outside of town, at least. Doubt these hicks will react any more positively to a Shaitan than to me.
Draegoth and a reluctant Torgmund watch the rest of the parade and then join the throng of townspeople heading east out of town towards the carnival. It is easily an hour's walk, but the weather is pleasant and the circus folk provide near constant entertainment along the route. Clowns make at mischief and delight children; a magician performs simple illusions and card tricks; animal trainers show off their exotic creatures; fortune tellers make promises of wealth and love.
Eventually the brightly colored big top rises in the distance. A few short minutes later, Draegoth and Torgmund reach the midway and their senses are immediately assaulted. A cacophany of barkers and merchants compete for carnivalgoers' attention (and their money). The aromas of foods both familiar and exotic make mouths water. No color goes unrepresented among the tents, costumes, banners, and signs.
A path runs east here from the midway toward the traveling zoo. To the south are booths with pavilion tent tops that provide shade for the games of skill and chance played beneath. Behind them are circus wagons, some clearly only for transportation and equipment, while others are attractions and portable shops for merchants. To the north is a giant tent erected on tall poles with a stage curtain pulled shut across its front.
In this area, there are barkers at four distinct carnival games. There is a test of strength called King of the Carnival, one of observation called The Lovely Madame Masque, one of finesse called The Labyrinth, and finally a test of memory called Card Seer. Each game's barker competes desperately for Draegoth and Torgmund's attention.
Dray excitedly runs over to The Lovely Madame Masque, eager to try his sense of observation.
Torg, after some prodding from Dray, reluctantly finds himself in front of King of the Carnival.
Three raised runways meet at a point like an arrow beneath a brightly colored pavilion tent. Where the runways meet sits a tall, rectangular box covered in mirrors. Off to one side is a raised speaker's podium. Posters on makeshift signs depicts an attractive woman in a provocative gown and silver mask, with the words [color=red]The Lovely Madame Masque[/color] in bold print.
As Draegoth approaches, a shirtless thin man in red and orange striped pants with a megaphone calls out to the crowd. "Ah! It looks like we have our final player for this round! Please, sir, step up! For one small copper, you have the chance to win as much as a silver!" He holds out a hand for a copper piece and Draegoth joins six or seven other people crowded around the runways.
The man yells to the crowd. "No more players! And now! It is my distinct pleasure to introduce The Lovely Madame Masque!" A curtain opens and a shapely woman in a provocative Varisian costume gown of red and black silk held together by ribbons struts out. She is adorned with all manner of scarves, necklaces, earrings, and other decorative costume pieces, but her face is concealed by a finely crafted silver mask showing only her playful brown eyes. She remains mute, but nods and waves to the crowd.
"Pay close attention to Madame Masque! Study her every move! Her every look! Her clothes, such as they are!" Madame Masque struts down the center runway and poses for around a minute, flirting silently with the crowd. She then saunters to the mirrored cabinet, steps inside, and closes it behind her.
The barker walks to center stage again. "What do you remember? Was she wearing a blue scarf? Or was it red? Was the flower in her hair a rose or a carnation? Do you remember?" Draegoth feels like the man directed the question specifically at him. "Let's find out! Test your skill!" With a flourish, he opens the mirrored cabinet to reveal three Madame Masques! Each figure walks down a different runway. The runways themselves are flanked by guards, presumably to prevent handsy carnival-goers.
"As if one Madame Masque wasn't enough, tonight you are lucky enough to see three! Surely by now all of you have noticed that none of these Madame Masques is wearing the same outfit as the original. If only that were what you had to notice! You'd all be winners! No no, my friends, this contest requires a greater display of skill! Only one of these Madame Masques is wearing a single accessory that the original was wearing. Is it a piece of jewelry? A flower? A brooch? The first one in the crowd to shout it out wins the pot! If no one answers correctly in one minute, the house keeps the pot and the next pot increases by 2 copper! The pot for this contest is 1 silver 3 copper!"
He takes a pregnant pause, looks at the contestants and the crowd with a smile, and shouts, "One minute! Starting now!"
Each of the contestants starts yelling things out. "Number One's bracelet!" "Number Three's scarf!"
Draegoth considers carefully.
Dray claps and laughs as the three women burst onto the stage and strut the runways. Damn, he thinks, I'd like to steal number three's scarf. I love that color!
Unfortunately it distracted him, so he isn't as perceptive as he aught to be, but he tries to recall as best he can what the original Madame Masque was wearing.
Draegoth studies the three women, trying to drown out the shouts of the people near him. They are just guessing and shouting. No one is thinking. Except one. Directly next to Draegoth is a teenage girl, also studying the three women intently. Just as Draegoth realizes the answer -- the middle woman is wearing the same hoop earrings as the original -- the girl shouts it out. "Number Two's earrings!" Draegoth looks to his right and nods. He had it, but he was a split second too slow.
"We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen!" At this, two of the women disappear into thin air, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the gathered crowd. The mirrored cabinet opens, and the original Madame Masque walks out. Both women point out the earrings, confirming that they are indeed identical, and then the final illusory Madame Masque also disappears. The crowd cheers. The man strides over to the girl and hands her several coins. "Congratulations, my dear!"
And just like that, the game is over. The man immediately begins recruiting for the next round, a clear sign that the contestants from the previous game should disperse.
Torgmund reluctantly approaches the sign proclaiming [color=red]KING OF THE CARNIVAL[/color]. A heavy, long-handled mallet leans against a 3-foot-wide and 12-foot-high wooden tower crowned with a stuffed lion's head. At the base is a lever attached to a puck that slides up and down a pole running the length of the tower up to the lion's head.
A short, barrel-chested man, biceps straining the sleeves of his shirt, notices Torgmund's approach and shouts. "Gather 'round, folks! Look at this beast of a man! Can he become king of the carnival?" He picks up the mallet effortlessly with one hand and hands it to you. "Make the lion roar, friend! One copper for one swing, two copper for three!"
Torg looks uncertainly at the man, then hefts the mallet in his hands a few times, then hands the barker two copper before he hauls off and swings at the lever.
Torgmund hoists the hammer above his head and brings it down onto the target with a grunt. The puck zips up the slide and strikes the lion's head with incredible force. The lion opens its mouth and lets out a bellowing roar, surprising Torgmund. Every man, woman, and child that Torgmund can see, including those halfway across the carnival grounds, whips their heads around. When the roar completes, a beat of silence follows, and then everyone in the vicinity cheers raucously. The strongman laughs and claps Torg on the back. "My my, what a blow, my friend!" He then turns his attention to the crowd and shouts. "Ladies and gentlemen! We have a new king of the carnival!" Even more cheers.
The man turns and retrieves a small object. When he turns back, Torgmund can see that it is a crown. It is made of paper but is clearly well-made by a talented artist. He motions for Torg to bend down. "A king requires a crown! Wear this with pride so that everyone may know how you conquered the mighty beast!" He also hands Torgmund back his two coppers.
His cheeks beet red, Torg hunches down awkwardly in order for the crown to be placed on his head, feeling infinitely silly. As he does, the hood of his cloak slips off his head, revealing the dark bone ridges on the shaved sides of his head. Too late, he realizes what has happened, and closes his eyes in expectation of the first screams.
I knew I should have Called Yggni before we came in here, he thinks miserably.
At the announcement of the winner of [color=red]The Lovely Madame Masque[/color], Dray laughs and claps with the rest of the crowd. He waves to the young woman who won and offers his hand. "Not just clever but quick! Well done! I'm Draegoth, miss...?"
The woman next to Draegoth laughs and accepts her winnings from the barker. She has olive skin, black hair, and gray eyes, and is dressed in colorful, long, flowing robes that cover most of her skin. Scarves of the deepest red, blue, and purple encircle her neck and cover her head.
When Draegoth addresses her, she turns, her smile quickly fading. A blush rises in her cheeks. She offers her hand in return, maybe somewhat hesitantly. When she speaks, any doubt that this woman is Varisian immediately fades; her accent is thick and clipped. "Thank you. My name is Emilianna." Her hand lingers a moment in Draegoth's, then she pulls it away. "Excuse me. I must go." She turns and hurries off into the carnival grounds.
Seeing Torgmund's reaction to his hood sliding off, the strongman leans in and says, "You are at the carnival, friend. You are far from the strangest thing here." He admires the crown on Torg's head and shouts, "Long live the king!" Another chorus of cheers erupts from the crowd.
Dray blinks in surprise at the woman's words, then shrugs. "Takes all kinds, I suppose," he mutters, before hurrying over to Torg and taking his arm in his own and giving the surly tiefling a peck on the cheek. "Long live the king!" he says cheerfully. "Come on, I want to play some more games."
Torg grunts absently at Dray's affection, lost in thought. The barker's words have him looking at the carnival in a new light.
You are not the strangest thing here.
It's such a novel concept that he doesn't know how to process it. At Dray's request, he shrugs. "Yeah. Yeah okay." The younger man seems surprised at his partner's acquiescence, but grins happily and pulls Torg toward The Labyrinth.
After a short wait for other players, Torgmund and Draegoth reach the front of the line for [color=red]The Labyrinth[/color]. The attendant hands Draegoth what looks like a mummified hand. "Welcome! This is called a Hand of the Mage. It allows you to control small objects using only your mind!" He gives Draegoth a few moments to practice using it by placing small balls in cups. Once the practice session is over, he removes a large tarp from a table to reveal a maze. "This is The Labyrinth! It changes every time you play it! You will use the Hand of the Mage to control a ball. If you reach the end of the maze without touching any walls, you win the prize! If you get stuck, you can shout 'AGAIN!' to reset the maze, but it will get harder each time. And if you touch a wall at any point, you lose. One copper for one try, two coppers for three!"
Dray cheerfully hands over two copper and sets to work trying to sort out the maze.
Halfway through, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth and his eyes narrowed in concentration, he twitches a little too hard and the ball pops against the nearest wall. "Drats," he says, his eyes dancing. He leans over, concentrates, and takes his second try.
With one last painstaking turn of the ball, he drops it into the end of the maze and thrusts his fist into the air triumphantly. "Yes! Call me the Minotaur, because I am the master of the Labyrinth!"
He nudges Torg. "Come on, see if you can beat my time!"
Torg scowls at Dray's egging, but without any real malice behind it. "Fine, fine. One and done." He hands the barker a copper and tries his luck.
While he can see the path through the Labyrinth clearly, his self-consciousness forces him to use his un-bandaged left hand, which is nowhere near as dexterous as his dominant right hand, and he jerks so hard trying to control the ball that it practically flies off the table. He thrusts the Hand of the Mage back to the barker, beet-red, and mutters a barely-audible apology.
Dray, as usual, seems not to notice Torg's supreme embarrassment and laughs at the fiasco, much to Torg's chagrin.
Seeing Torg start to turtle, Draegoth drapes his arm around the tiefling's shoulders and gives a reassuring squeeze. "It's alright, dearest. You're still king!" He leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "And remember, the king gets all the booty."
He can't help but laugh when Torg's ears start burning. "Come on, you prude. Let's find some food, I'm starving."
Torg grunts in acknowledgement, and Dray takes his arm in his and leads him toward the nearest food stall. "By the way, there was a striking young lady at the Madame Masque game, beat me out by a split second. She was quite fetching, I think you'd have liked her. Dark and mysterious, just like you." He nudges his partner playfully in the ribs. "Ooh, kebabs! I wonder if there's kebabs here somewhere? It's been ages since I had a good kebab."
The barker claps his hands. "Well done, sir! And a minotaur you shall be!" He reaches into a bin next to him and hands Draegoth a small minotaur head on a length of twine. "The Minotaur and the King! You two are quite the picture of skill! Wear it proudly." He gives the couple a smile and then turns his attention to the next person in line.
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Draegoth and Torgmund travel further into the carnival grounds. Eventually they reach an enormous tent dwarfed only by the big top itself. The southern side has no wall, just a tall curtain pulled across its front. A sign posted outside advertises that this area has been set aside for meeting the sphinx at limited times throughout the day. Just inside is a large metal cage with no floor and bars running across the top. A single large door is set on the north corner of the west face, secured by a heavy lock. Strewn about the grass beneath the cage are silk sheets and piles of cushions and satin pillows.
The neatly painted sign indicates that the sphinx's name is Jherizhana and, as luck would have it, she is available for viewing now.
As you enter the tent, a guard looks you up and down and mumbles a warning. "You may look and you may speak with Jherizhana, but do not attempt to touch her. You have two minutes." As if to punctuate the warning, he nods to three more guards inside the tent.
And then you see her. She lounges in the center area of the tent with no regard for humanoid taboos concerning her state of undress. She has an enormous lion's body with eagle's wings, and a human torso and head, which is stunningly beautiful by any standard. She smiles as you enter and in a silky smooth, sultry voice, addresses you. "Welcome. My name is Jherizhana. And you are...?"
Torg, ever the minstrel of words, stutters, "H-hello. Uh. Torg. Torgmund. Or... just. Just Torg. Is fine." He realizes he's staring at the more human parts of her anatomy and looks down, blushing furiously.
Dray, apparently unaware of his partner's embarrassment, launches into a tirade that isn't quite a series of questions as it is a series of near-finished questions that get trampled by the next one in line before the sphinx could possibly have time to answer. It's enough to make a gnome blush.
"Hi! I'm Draegoth. My friends call me Dray. You're beautiful! What's it like being a sphinx? Are you a prisoner? Or is the cage to protect you from everyone else? I bet people try to prod you a lot, so I get it if that's the case. Where are you from? Do you get to see a lot of cool places traveling with a carnival? Do they treat you well? I hope they treat you well. What do sphinxes eat? Is it true you only speak in riddles? How do you ma--"
Torg gently but reprovingly squeezes Dray's arm, and the younger man stops. "Hah, sorry. I get carried away when I'm excited."
Jherizhana smiles patiently at Draegoth's questions, and barely seems to notice Torgmund's stare. "Aren't you a sweet one? I can't say what it's like being a sphinx because it's all I've ever been. And I am not a prisoner here. You are correct that the cage is for my protection, not yours. I am treated as an equal in the carnival, as we all are." She notes Draegoth's necklace and Torgmund's crown. "And it seems like you two are quite skilled! Perhaps you should join the carnival and answer all of your own questions!" She smiles again.
At this, the guards gesture to the exit, indicating the others waiting behind you. It was a short visit, but a fascinating one. Jherizhana calls as you exit, "A pleasure, boys. I hope to see you again."
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Torg and Dray continue walking through the carnival grounds. They pass merchants hocking cheap and knick-knacky wares. Draegoth manages to find a kebab stand that makes a variety of common and exotic kebabs. You pass the big top, but it is still curtained off; the main show doesn't happen until nighttime.
Next you come to the traveling zoo. A portable fence of wooden posts and rope cordon off this section of the circus. Several wagons constructed to serve as animal cages line the perimeter, with an occasional haystack piled between them. In the center of the area is a large tent whose wall flaps have been lifted up and tied off to allow easy viewing.
Inside the tent, there is a white tiger, a manticore (whose tail spikes have been surgically removed), and other various animals and monsters. The main attraction is a large green reptilian creature; the sign by its cage is labeled "Baby Dragon".
Dray snorts at the sign. "Doubt it," he mutters. He moves through the crowd, Torg's left hand in his, searching for the vendor stalls. "That was absolutely amazing. Best part of the whole carnival so far. What a fascinating creature! Don't you think Torg?" He pauses, and glances back, mildly irritated. "Torg? Hellooo?" He waves a hand in front of the summoner's face.
Torg, lost in thought and chewing fretfully at his thumbnail, blinks in surprise. "Huh? Oh. Yes. Fascinating." He looks behind them, the familiar itch starting between his shoulder blades. "Listen, Dray..." He fidgets again, supremely uncomfortable before the conversation has even begun.
Draegoth waves dismissively, failing utterly to hide the irritation on his face. "Fine, fine. I get it. Let's find somewhere out-of-the-way so you can do your... thing." His afternoon slightly soured, he follows Torg somewhere quiet and away from prying eyes.
Torgmund exhales heavily. "Thank you, love." He gives Dray a kiss on the cheek, which the monk begrudgingly accepts, before they head off.
Torg finds a quiet spot amidst some thick trees and bushes just outside the carnival and gets down on his knees, resting his hands palm-down on his thighs and muttering steadily in a slow, musical cadence. The True Name of Yggni is long and complex, and calling him takes no mere seconds like his other Summoning spells. Yggni is special, and required time.
Moments pass, and Torgmund's chanting quickens its rhythm, until it reaches a short crescendo, and a thunderous final syllable, and then... silence. No bright flash of light, no great storm of planar energy, just a quiet pop! and a purple-hued genie in loose-fitting clothing, muscular with spikey hair reminiscent of amethysts, stands before Torgmund, arms crossed in irritation.
[color=purple]"Left me hangin' long enough. Jeez. You know how boring the Elemental Plane of Earth is? Like, super boring. There are no hot chicks on the Elemental Plane of Earth. There are xorns. You ever seen a xorn? Ya won't wanna have sex for like a week."[/color]
Yggni glances up at Dray. [color=purple]"Oh. You. Hey."[/color]
"Yggni," Draegoth says coolly. He turns back to Torg. "At least put a cloak on him or something. He sort of stands out, even at a carnival."
While Torg sees to a makeshift disguise, Dray starts heading back toward the carnival morosely.
Torg watches Dray go with a sigh. He turns back to the shaitan, scowling. "Do try to behave yourself this time."
Yggni "harrumphs" but doesn't respond otherwise. Torg throws a makeshift cloak over him and pins it in place with a sigh and a shrug. "Good enough, I guess."
With that, he catches up to Dray and heads back into the carnival, looking for kebabs. Maybe it will lighten the monk's mood...
It is approaching dusk, and the carnival has opened admissions to the big top show. Normal admission is 2cp each, but the ticket seller notices Draegoth's necklace and Torgmund's crown and admits them for free. The three of you enter and find some seats with a good view.
Over the next twenty minutes, people continue to file into the tent, until it is full to bursting. The din of anticipation fills the place; not much happens out in this part of Varisia, so this carnival is a welcome diversion from the monotony of daily life.
The chattering begins to die down and Draegoth and Torgmund notice that a man has walked to the center of the tent. He is wearing a long red coat over a ruffled white shirt, black pants with a red stripe down the side, shiny black shoes, and a tall top hat; this is clearly the ringmaster of the entire circus. The crowd falls to a hush when he raises his hands. When he speaks, it is with such power and force that he requires no amplification to be heard in any seat in the house; Torgmund wonders if his voice is magically augmented.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Ilsurian! Welcome to the Umbra Carnival!" The crowd cheers. "It has been an exciting and successful opening day! I hope that you have all had as much fun as we have!" More cheers.
"What you are about to experience is a spectacle unlike any you have ..." He trails off and cocks his head. The audience begins to look around, wondering what is going on, and that is when Draegoth, Torgmund, and Yggni hear the screams and commotion coming from outside. People's faces change from bewilderment to fear as it becomes clear that there is something alarming happening on the carnival grounds.
The ringmaster tries to calm the crowd down. "Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. I assure you that everything is under control." He looks at several carnival workers standing near doors meaningfully, pointing with his chin to check out whatever is going on. "Please stay here and we will resume the show after a short intermission." Despite his words, people are in various states of alarm and panic.
If you intend to do anything, you must act quickly, because it is clear that it won't be long before the herd panic sets in and you will be swept up in the throng.
Face hard, Torgmund's earlier apprehension and sullenness are completely vanished. "Dray, Yig. Follow me. We need to move before these people trample us to death. If you wouldn't mind clearing us a path, darling?"
Draegoth nods firmly and begins shouldering his way through the crowd to make a path for the other two. Despite his narrower frame, Dray has surprising strength, and with the shaitan's aid, starts to make a beeline for the exit as best he can.
You exit the big top into chaos. People are screaming and running by. They all seem to be running away from the traveling zoo section of the carnival. Turning that direction, you see the cause for the hubbub: the baby dragon has escaped! It is spinning every which way, hissing and snapping its jaws at passersby, and moving about in a crouch.
Everyone is running away from the creature. Except one. A bald humanoid man with exceedingly large and long ears is standing near the dragon's cage, pleading with it, but not approaching. He sees you coming and immediately notices your intimidating nature. "Oh! Please! Help me! Someone let him free! He isn't a dragon! He won't hurt anyone! Can you subdue him before someone kills him?! Please!"
Draegoth
Lizard
Torgmund
Bold may act.
Dray glances back at Torg, who shrugs. Dray shakes his head; if only he knew anything about animals! "Sorry little guy," he mutters. "This won't kill you, but it isn't going to tickle."
With a couple quick breaths, he feels the wild mix of fey and draconic power surge through his blood, filling him with a ferocious glee. He bellows joyfully and charges at the creature, hoping to give it a solid falcon-punch to the jaw and knock it out before it can injure anyone.
Draegoth rushes up to the creature and lands a vicious blow across the head. The lizard reels back and shakes its head, clearly quite hurt by the strike, but it stays up.
Suddenly, a familiar streak of color comes running from the other side of the big top. She carries a longspear, on which several more flowing, silken scarves are tied. She has flipped the spear around so the blunt end is facing forward. With a yell, she thrusts it at the lizard. As it is currently distracted by Draegoth and didn't even see her coming, her blow lands true.
The lizard reels. It doesn't fall unconscious, but it lays down on the ground, its aggressive stance completely forgotten. You hear Phaedren yell, "He is submitting! Stop attacking him!"
Just as Torgmund and Yggni arrive on the scene, you see a half-elf man with a whip on his belt, carrying a rope attached to a leash, run in from the other direction. He is flushed and winded, clearly having been unprepared for the trouble. He throws the leash around the lizard's neck and waves over several workers from the zoo tent. They carry off the lizard, back to his cage.
Several other workers approach the large eared man and speak to him calmly. After a few moments, he allows them to lead him away.
The half-elf takes a moment to catch his breath, then looks at you. "Thank you. I have no idea how he got out. His cage is the most secure one we have. In any case, he is my pride and joy, so I am grateful that you did not kill him. Here, please take this." He pulls 50gp from his pouch and hands it to you. "Please excuse me. I need to find out what happened."
Emilianna looks at Draegoth and smiles. "We meet again. You have strong, ehm..." She makes a fist and points at it, struggling for the word. "Punch. Strong punch."
Torgmund nods to the half-elf. "Oh. Uh. Sure. Glad we could help." He absently hands the pouch of gold to Yggni, who rolls his eyes and stuffs it in a pocket.
[color=purple]"Sure, chief, just let your multi-dimensional pack mule take care of that for ya."[/color]
Torgmund eyes the shaitan sideways. "I'm sorry, being of pure gemstone, stronger than most mortal men, is a one-pound pouch stretching the limits of your capacity?"
Yggni gives him the finger, but otherwise remains silent, arms crossed as the Varisian woman approaches.
Dray pants heavily, one hand on his belly as he goes through a series of breathing exercises to lower his heart rate. He waves cheerfully at Emilianna's approach through his panting.
"Hi! Yeah. I..." He wheezes a bit, then stands up straight and takes another deep breath. "I practice a lot on Torg." He jerks his head back toward the summoner with a wink.
He waves Torgmund up. "Torg, sweetie. This is the lady I mentioned. The one that kicked my ass at the memory game." He turns back to her. "I don't think I ever caught your name?"
”Yes. I am Emilianna.” She eyes Yggni. ”And who is this? He was not with you before.”
She looks after the workers carrying away the lizard. ”Come. We talk while we walk.”
She turns and follows the men, who are just finishing locking up the lizard’s cage. You notice that she favors her right leg heavily as she walks. You all reach the cage and peer in. It doesn’t take an animal expert to see that the lizard is still woozy from the blows to the head. She looks at the half-elf beastmaster. ”I am healer. Permit me to heal?”
The man hesitates, but then looks at the state of his beloved lizard. ”Yes, please do. Hold one minute please.” He walks to the back of the tent and comes back carrying an armful of potatoes. ”I will distract him with food. Go ahead.”
Emilianna reaches through the cage to touch the lizard on the back. She closes her eyes and concentrates, mumbling under her breath. After a moment, her hand begins to glow faintly with a white light. Another moment passes, and the glow transfers from her hand into the lizard’s body.
She opens her eyes and looks at the lizard. She pats him a few times and looks at the beastmaster. ”He will be fine. Will heal the rest… er… naturally.”
She then looks back at Draegoth and Torgmund and wrinkles her nose. ”Smells bad. Talk outside?” She limps back outside. ”Thank you. I feel bad for animal. Just being animal! Thank you for helping.”