When everyone has a full cup, Trinil leads off. "To Granddad," she raises her glass to a portrait in pride of place on the wall. "May today's heroes measure up to the standard you set us."
Everyone drinks to the tavern keeper's grandfather.
Jonagher politely takes his leave of Mr. Posandi as the last call is announced. He returns to his cup at the table of newfound friends so he can get it topped off, fully prepared to honor the toast. With Trinil's words, he nods, takes a sip, and then adds for the benefit of those nearby, "And may Cayden and Desna bless our efforts..."
As Trinil makes the last call, Shaserai excuses himself to Alak and returns to the table, his cup in hand.
After taking his seat he relates "The traveler is Alak Stagram, and he's looking for an heirloom that was stashed around here. He was looking for information but he was convinced to petition to the council to make finding it part of the Call. It would be interesting helping him, connecting with one's past is important."
Before taking a drink he toasts "To mistress Uskwold's grandfather, may Torag smile upon his spirit and upon us."
Ranga makes her way towards Neven Deckard and the crowd gathered around him. He'd done a good thing, dealing with those wolves, but he'd been more insufferable than usual since. Vanity is not a heroic trait and a little teasing would do him some good. "Hail, Deckard. What are you doing here?" She asks, looking around in mock confusion and leaning on his table. "Have you come to return your little medal?""Have I ...? What? Return?" he scoffs in derision, never having had much of a sense of humor. "Why would I do that?"
"Never mind her, Neven," Bella Hooper replies from his side, shooting Ragna an unfriendly look. "She's just jealous you're a hero and she's not." She gets to her feet. "To homegrown heroes," she toasts, "those citizens brave enough to step up and serve their own community."
"Homegrown heroes!" Neven's table loudly echoes, drinking to the new local celebrity. Neven merely smiles modestly.
Jonagher's and Shaserai's toasts catch the ear of the nearby patrons, and the religious sentiment spreads.
"To Desna," a woman toasts. "Let her give us dreams to chase, and may she forever smile on Breachill!"
"Cayden's favor, friends!" a young man cries. "To grog, grub, and glory!" Deckard's table cheers.
An older man at the side of the room rises to his feet and wishes, "May we command success by deserving it," in what might be a swipe at the rowdy lumberjacks, who drink desultorily.
One of Deckard's compatriots leaps to his feet. "Here's to doing and drinking, not sitting and thinking," he jeers back at the older man, to the applause of his entourage.
As Irenaeus joins in the all around toasting, albeit in silence, Shaserai's words get his attention. "Heirloom? A ring maybe? Such as the one Calmont, Voz Lirayne's assistant, is looking for under some building or other?"
Jonagher looks sidelong at Ren after draining his cup. "What's this about heirloom rings?" he whispers, "Don't tell me you're already finding adventure before the Call is even made? If so...count me in..."
He's then pleasantly surprised that his toast to the gods of luck have spread. But, as the local lumberjack faction and newcomer supporters start to get into a bit of one-upmanship, he grows a bit more cautious. Giving a gentle nudge with his elbow, he calls Ren's attention to the rest of the room. "It appears all this ale might be going to a few heads. I've seen tavern fights break out over less. So, watch yourself in case things turn rowdy."
"Perhaps cooler heads may still prevail," Ren remarks as he takes note of the situation in the room.
"Still, if a fight does break out, I can assure you that I have no intention in joining the... festivities," the mage reassures the half-elf quite honestly and -it should be said- more than a little drily. "Besides, it has been quite some time since the last time I had to use my fists to defend myself. I have a few better tricks now in case I need to defend myself."
"Gentlefolk, gentlefolk," Quentino Posandi puts in insistently, rising to his feet and waiting for the tension in the room to die down. When the crowd eventually grows silent, he goes on, "Gentlefolk, may I remind you that this is Breachill? I give you, Lamond Breachton and the kindness of strangers."
"The kindness of strangers!" is echoed around the room, clearly a familiar toast; however, Neven Deckard's entourage still looks a little sullen, and their repetition of the rote words lacks enthusiasm.
"Now then," Posandi goes on, setting his glass down on the bar with a decisive rap, "let's cross the street and get down to business!"
"Hear, hear!" Jonagher mutters under his breath so only his newfound friends can hear him. "There's a councilor with good sense. I spoke with Posandi before the toast and put in a good word for us. Let's see if he's willing to sponsor our team for the Call."
The half-elf gathers himself, settles any remaining debts at the tavern, and then follows the crowd.
"I hope we caused a good impression on Breachill's people" Shaserai says softly before standing up. He takes his satchel and follows Jonagher out of the tavern.
With everyone moving over to the town hall, Ragna decides not to pursue her teasing of Deckard. It would be embarrassing for everyone if he decides he wants to brawl and she has to put him down in front of his friends. "You're cleaner and better educated than most of the people that live here." She says as she rejoins the others. "Two strikes against you already."
From the Wizard's Grace, it is only a short stroll down the road to the town hall. The late summer sun is beating directly down on the town, sparkling off the surface of Breach Creek, bleaching blond the grass, and wilting the flowers in the windowboxes and beds along the road, despite the best efforts of gardeners pumping water up from Breach Creek at the towers behind Town Hall morning and evening.
Two sets of double doors lead into a large rotunda, one hundred feet in diameter. Concentric arcs of chairs face a raised round stage in the center of the room, lit by large braziers at its lip. A half-dozen children are seated on the stage. At its foot, a long, rectangular table is set up with five chairs. Four of them are already occupied by two human women, a male dwarf, and a female gnome; Quentino Posandi strolls up the right aisle and takes the last chair.
Everyone else starts to file into the rows of seats. A double-stairway between the doors at the back of the room leads up to more seating in a second-story gallery, but it seems more convenient for those seeking employment to be on the main floor; Neven Deckard and his crew fill in a row at the front on the left.
Behind the stage, a wall separates the rotunda from the rest of the building, a short flight of stairs on either side of the stage leading to open doorways to another hallway.
"Wow. I haven't seen this place in awhile," Jonagher comments as he looks from the floor of the rotunda up toward the stage and then the balconies. "It seemed...bigger...when I was a lad. Now, it's...quaint. Not small, mind you. Still a pretty impressive structure for a town like Breachill. I guess it's true what they say. You can never really go home again. If you do, everything seems just a little different from how you remembered it."
He waves to the seats for the others to proceed him. "I'll be along in a moment," he explains, "I want to check the view from upstairs. Me and my friends used to chase each other up there when we were away from the watchful eyes of our parents. I'll come back down when the Call starts." The half-elf smiles and then does a nimble half-sprint up the stairs to the balcony, looking about to see if anyone else has ventured there ahead of him.
Shaserai admires the construction of the building as he enters, and sees the councilors at the foot of the stage. "Let's sit at the front." he suggests after Joagher's words.
Jonagher climbs the stairs to the gallery. There are only two rows of seating up here. A group of boys have claimed the front row on the left side, giggling and standing on tiptoes to look over the railing; if his own misspent youth is any guide, they're planning on shooting spitballs or dropping beetles over the edge onto the spectators below.
As he stands overlooking the room, a half-elf woman comes up the stairs behind him and takes a seat on the back row in the center. Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and she wears somewhat dusty robes and a pair of wire spectacles perched on the end of her nose.
"That's Greta Gardania." Ragna says, nudging Shaserai with an elbow and nodding towards the woman seated at the head of the table. "She's the head of the town council. I guess she's the one we'd have to impress." She hooks an ankle around an aisle-side seat in the front row and pulls it into the isle few inches before sitting.
Jonagher climbs the stairs to the gallery. There are only two rows of seating up here. A group of boys have claimed the front row on the left side, giggling and standing on tiptoes to look over the railing; if his own misspent youth is any guide, they're planning on shooting spitballs or dropping beetles over the edge onto the spectators below.
Jonagher grins when he spots the boys and surmises their plans. 'A pair of mischief makers, if ever I saw one,' he thinks to himself, 'And I suppose I've seen one in the mirror as often as not...' He half-imagines having a word with the rascals, but then figures there's no harm in letting them have a bit of fun, as long as he doesn't see anything too dangerous about their preparations.
As he stands overlooking the room, a half-elf woman comes up the stairs behind him and takes a seat on the back row in the center. Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and she wears somewhat dusty robes and a pair of wire spectacles perched on the end of her nose.
As Jonagher turns to head back down and rejoin his friends, he spots the newcomer and pauses. There were a fair number of half-elves in Breachill even in his youth. And, quite honestly, that had always helped him feel more at home...to know there were others of his kind around. But, there were harder days, too, seeing those without elven blood age a little differently. It could be an odd path being a half-breed. Perhaps this lady felt the same and would welcome a word with someone who'd lived it as well?
With that in mind, he carefully approaches the woman with a friendly smile. "Jonagher Witt," he introduces himself, "Have you come to witness the Call, request a service from such adventurers, or volunteer yourself? I'd assume it's not the latter if you've chosen to come all the way up here. As for me, I'm headed back down to the floor in a bit...planning to offer my services if they'll have me and my friends. What's your name, miss?"
"Jonagher Witt," he introduces himself, "Have you come to witness the Call, request a service from such adventurers, or volunteer yourself? I'd assume it's not the latter if you've chosen to come all the way up here. As for me, I'm headed back down to the floor in a bit...planning to offer my services if they'll have me and my friends. What's...
"V-Voz Lirayne," the woman replies in a voice so soft he has to strain to catch it above the hum of conversation echoing around the rotunda. She timidly offers Jonagher one hand to shake, while she pushes her sliding spectacles back up her nose with the other. "I run the bookstore. I-- I just came to watch. The meeting, I mean." She seems extremely shy, barely making eye contact with Jonagher before her gaze drops to the floor.
Once the party has taken their seats, they have the time to look around them -- and look up. The interior of the dome of the rotunda is divided into sections like the spokes of a wheel, each section telling a portion of a story. In one, a group of humans shivers in a collection of ramshackle hovels; in the next, a man in golden robes has arrived on the scene, his very presence giving off a warm glow that limns nearby objects with light; in the next, spring has arrived, and the robed man is holding a sheaf of parchments and pointing as around him busy, happy people build sturdy houses and sow grain; in the next, the robed man is leaving what is now a prosperous little town, its citizens massed to wave him a farewell; and in the last, a statue in the likeness of the robed man has been erected, as humans with small children in their arms gather around, along with a dwarf, an elf, and a gnome.
Shaserai takes a seat next to Ragna and nods at her words. "That's true. Jonagher put a good word to Quentino Posandi and I met councilor Trini Sprizzlegig the other day and we had a bit of a chat." He pauses. "I hope I made a good impression. I don't know the other councilors though."
He looks around at the building and sees the ceiling. That's some impressive craftsmanship and artwork."
"V-Voz Lirayne," the woman replies in a voice so soft he has to strain to catch it above the hum of conversation echoing around the rotunda. She timidly offers Jonagher one hand to shake, while she pushes her sliding spectacles back up her nose with the other. "I run the bookstore. I-- I just came to watch. The meeting, I mean." She seems extremely shy, barely making eye contact with Jonagher before her gaze drops to the floor.
"Pleased to meet you," Jonagher gently takes the proffered hand for a brief moment, "I didn't mean to intrude. You say you run the bookstore? My mother once worked at the archives. She had a love for books, as well...and passed it on to me. Perhaps I'll visit your store sometime, Miss Lirayne. Enjoy the Call. I'd better head down and join my friends." With another smile, he takes his leave, casting one more look at the boys to ensure they're not about to cause a scene down below. He then heads back down the stairs to seek Ren, Ragna, and the others.
"The older of the two women is Melma Ann Sendari," the mage helpfully informs Shaserai. "She comes from old Chelish nobility, but her family had to flee the country after the Thrune Ascendancy. Opposite sides during the civil war, you see."
"And the dwarven gentleman over there is Jorsk Hinterclaw. An appropriately dwarven name I must say. Not much I can tell you about him though."
Deciding that the boys won't get it too much trouble in the schoolmarmish presence of the bookseller, Jonagher returns back down the stairs and locates the rest of the party near the front. As he joins them, the party notices a familiar face: Alak Stagram is seated near the front, gazing up at the mural on the ceiling with a quizzical air. Next to him, a tall man with a wide-brimmed straw hat perched on his balding head slumps much more casually, blinking around the rapidly-filling room without any particular interest.
"Pomp and circumstance!" Jonagher greets his friends again with a smile as he takes a seat next to them, "This place always reminds me of a pious gathering on temple days. Not that I'm one to eschew the divine, mind you. It's just the ceremony of it all. I'm sure there's plenty of symbology and philosophy and meaning behind it...at least for whoever dreamed up these kinds of proceedings. But, for me, I get kind of impatient with it. I'd prefer to cut to the chase and get down to the business of what we're all here for rather than drawing it out just for the sake of making it last longer for whoever's in the public eye."
He idly draws a small knife from his boot and begins cleaning his fingernails as he waits for the Call to begin. "One thing's for sure, though," he comments as much to himself as anyone else, "These things sure do draw out the citizens of Breachill. It's like a who's who in here. You can almost sense the pecking order, so to speak, on who carries the most clout as well as the most respect. They're not always the same, you know? In times like this, I prefer to observe who speaks versus those who listen. It can give you a lot of insight into who's got an agenda and who's got a genuine heart for the people and their troubles."
He flips the knife and catches it a couple of times with practiced ease, nimbly twirling it along his fingers and back into his hand again. "I prefer the latter, honestly. People need help. We can provide it. And, if we make a name for ourselves in the process, all the better. A man...or woman...could do worse than go down in history as a legend...just like that old wizard there on the rotunda dome. See?" He gestures with his knife at the last image of the statue honoring the man. "He did something that caused a whole lot of people to remember him. And now we've got a chance to leave a legacy like that ourselves...or so I hope. Surely, these councilors will see that we've got what it takes, right? And, as long as we're pure of heart, it should be plainly evident that we're the right choice..."
Ragna leans back in her chair, fingers interlaced behind her head, and stares blankly up at the mural. She hasn't ever really studied it, and she isn't studying it now. While she is eager to get things started, these kinds of ceremonies do serve a purpose. "These frontier towns survive on unity." She responds to Jonagher. "Isger is a lot less tame than its geographical importance would suggest. This kind of buildup helps rally the town around a cause."
Shaserai turns around on his seat to watch Jonagher descend the stairs to join them when he sees Alak near them. He salutes the man, but he seems distracted by the images on the dome.
At Jonagher's words and Ragna's response he shifts in his seat, "I agree with Ragnhild, I think the ceremony is important. It brings the people together and strengthens the sense of community. I quite like this kind of gathering." He pauses "We have the numbers and quite varied skills to make a prodigious adventuring group and the councilors have judged many applicants before, so I'm sure they'll see our worth."
"It may be a marketplace," Jonagher nods at Abigail, "But an honorable one, I think. Heroes and their heroic deeds...fairly compensated by the grateful. We give of ourselves in the course of a job we willingly apply for...and yet, as they say, if you find a job doing what you love, you'll never really work a day in your life. So, here's to hoping we're all in it for the right reasons, yeah? And that we have fun along the way..."
The woman at the center of the table -- Greta Gardania -- rises to gavel the meeting to order. Easily the youngest member of the council, she doesn't appear to have seen her thirtieth summer yet and is dressed in traditional Qadiran fashion. "Friends, citizens, honored guests," she begins, "the council welcomes you to the Erastus Call for Heroes. As always, we open our gathering with a reminder why Breachill exists and why we meet here every month to allow people to petition for assistance. This month's perfomers are...," she glances at a paper on the table before her, "Odith Sone, Ambald Beagmann, Geoffrey Eger, Reyny Hewe, and Cece Gare."
The children on the high stage get to their feet, and excited murmurs from among the spectators indicate which are their mothers. "We are lost and cold and hungry," intones one apple-cheeked youngster, theatrically shivering despite the many people fanning themselves in the warm room. "Who will help us? Who would ever help a stranger?"
"I will," a boy nearly tripping over too-large golden robes announces. "I am Lamond Breachton, and I will help you strangers."
The whole skit can't last longer than five minutes, but it feels much longer. Having seen it many times before, the councilors quietly look over some of their papers without turning their heads to crane up at the stage behind them, with the notable exception of Trini Sprizzlegig who appears to be enjoying the spectacle immensely. She leads the applause when the children take a bow and sit down again on the stage, seemingly every bit as enthusiastic as the young thespians' relatives in the audience. The rest of the citizens display no more than polite boredom. Alak Stagram is staring incredulously, only managing to rouse himself to join in with a few half-hearted claps as the applause is dying down.
"As I said..." Jonagher mutters just loud enough for his friends, "Pomp and circumstance." He puts away his knife so he can free his hands to politely clap along with everyone else. "You know I once played a part in that same skit," he shares, "I always wanted to wear the golden robes, but they had me in the role of a desperate villager. To this day, I still prefer the hero. Maybe that's why I turned out like I did?"
"A hero in the making?"
Irenaeus' question is not really a question, more like an echo of the half-elf's words. The mage is not quite sure if he would say the same about himself, but then again he is not quite sure if he would be actually interested in doing so anyway. Knowledge and experience and, if he is being truthful to himself, power -real power, not the power of wealth or station- are more to his liking as far as rewards are concerned. If fame and recognition and being called a hero come along with the former, so be it.
"Those robes seem impractical," he then casually remarks. His own attire of choice appears to be fitted and comfortable and includes a hood -which he usually keeps pulled back, revealing sharp Chelish features, fair almost pale skin, steel gray eyes and shoulder-length black hair- and a pair of calf-length soft leather boots. Of mostly deep blue hues with golden markings and trimmings, his clothes do more than vaguely resemble wizard robes, but far more on the practical side, given how the more traditional long flowing ones might prove quite cumbersome and unwieldy when adventuring.
'What a cheery bunch.' Ragna thinks, frowning as she joins the applause. 'Let the children have their fun.'
"Now," Greta goes on, getting to her feet once more, "on to the business at hand. We have two petitions on the docket today. The petitioners will present their cases, and the council will decide whether or not to expend public funds to hire heroes on their behalf. If the petition is approved, the floor will be open for prospective heroes to present their qualifications. First, we will hear from a stranger to our town." (At the word 'stranger,' a murmur of interest travels through the crowd, and the children on stage scoot to the edge to look over.) "Alak Stagram, from Korvosa."
Stagram rises to his feet, bows to the council, then turns toward the room. He stands rigidly upright and seems to have a military bearing. "I thank Breachill for its welcome, but I hope I can claim not to be a complete stranger to the area, though this is my first visit. My great-uncle Alceister Stagram was a Hellknight stationed at Citadel Altaerein many years ago. He had in his possession a family heirloom, a signet ring that had been passed down from father to son for several generations. Unfortunately, my great-uncle was slain in the line of duty, and the ring was, apparently, lost. Looking through old family letters and journals, I believe that my great-uncle may have hidden the ring in the citadel before his death. I have traveled to Breachill to attempt to locate Uncle Alceister's ring and would be grateful to Breachill for any assistance the town may provide." With a click of his heels and a nod of his head, he retakes his seat.
Shaserai joins in the applause as soon as the little ones are done with their performance "After all, one has to encourage the little ones whenever possible. The next great actor or dramaturge may come from this simple play."
"I have a feeling today we'll get the chance to become proper heroes." After Alak's explanation of his business in town Shaserai turns to Irenaeus "The missing heirloom was indeed a ring, maybe Calmont knows something about it."
Searching for a lost ring in a dusty old castle doesn't sound like something from a tale of heroes to Ragna. Why does this stranger need to get the whole town involved in his lost property? He could just hire people to search the keep.
"Thank you, Mr. Stagram," Greta Gardania responds to the petition. "The council will now confer."
The older human woman on the council purses her lips doubtfully. "With due respect to Mr. Stagram, I'm not sure his family's loss is of direct concern to the citizens of Breachill. I question whether we ought to approve municipal funds for a personal matter."
"The Hellknights were good neighbors to Breachill for many years, Melma Ann," Quentino Posandi counters. "Consider this a debt repaid for the many years of protection they provided us in the past."
"I don't know about Hellknights," Trini Sprizzlegig sniffs, "but a treasure hunt?" she goes on with much more enthusiasm. "That sounds exciting!"
"Members of the council, if I may," Alak puts in, rising halfway to his feet once more, "the esteemed councilmember is correct in saying that my personal matters have no effect on the well-being of the town. As such, I stand ready to make a donation to the town coffers equal to any costs incurred on the part of the citizenry toward the end of recovering my family ring."
Alak's promise seems to decide the dwarf. "Family is important," he nods. "If the young man is prepared to cover the cost of hiring adventurers, I say we obtain some for him."
Greta glances at the older woman who seems to consider a moment, then shrugs and nods. "Very well, Mr. Stagram, your petition is approved. The council will now open the floor to any adventurers who wish to present their credentials to perform the job. The task in question," she specifies, writing on a sheet of parchment as she does so, "is Search for a Missing Object, and the standard pay for such a task when completed, if Mr. Stagram does not object, is ten gold coins, to be divided among the party, as well as official recognition of the members thereof as Heroes of Breachill, assuming they do not already possess that qualification."
She looks across the room expectantly.
After hearing the councilors and Alak's words, Shaserai turns to the others, speaking in a soft voice. "What do you think? In my opinion it would be wise to take Alak's task. It doesn't sound too complicated, and it would be a good opportunity to test our teamwork without much in play. Also, should we succeed, we'd be Heroes of Breachill which I assume would come in handy to obtain more quests."
Ragna frowns, unconvinced that this is an appropriate use of the Call for Heroes. Still, she had never been inside citadel Altaerein and it was better coin than she made cutting down trees. She shifts in her chair, facing towards her companions. "The citadel is only a few minutes walk away. If Mister Stagram knows where the ring is this should only take an hour. That's a better rate of pay than anything around here that I can think of. Besides, goblins are cute." She stands to address the council and Mr. Stagram. "What if the Bumblebrasher goblins that live there now have already found the ring? Goblins are keen-eyed and fit easily into small spaces."
Jonagher also rises to stand next to Ragna. "Of course, if the goblins have found the ring, we'll do our best to deal diplomatically with them so we can secure it for Mister Stagram here. And, if they haven't, perhaps we can persuade them to assist us?" He looks around at the rest of the team and then back to the front of the room. "Esteemed councilors, I believe we're more than capable of dealing with this task. If you commission us to address the matter, we won't let you...or Mister Stagram...down."
"Even goblins can be reasoned with, yes," Irenaeus answers Abigail's question in a low voice. "Admittedly, their reputation of being... unpleasant is hardly unjustified, but from what I know there are certain groups or tribes of goblins that are trying to coexist with other races without, say, eating their pets or loved ones, so to speak."
The mage shrugs. "Even so, I would certainly advise caution when trying to deal with them diplomatically."
Jonagher also rises to stand next to Ragna. "Of course, if the goblins have found the ring, we'll do our best to deal diplomatically with them so we can secure it for Mister Stagram here. And, if they haven't, perhaps we can persuade them to assist us?"
"Indeed," Greta nods. "Diplomacy is always preferable to violence. The goblins are outside the town's legal jurisdiction, but it is in Breachill's best interests to maintain friendly relations with them, if at all possible."
She then turns around, curious to see if another team will challenge their pledge.
Indeed, even as she looks around, Neven Deckard is on his feet. "Councilors, my group of adventurers dealt with those dangerous wolves preying on our local farmers' livestock last month. I am authorized to offer our services -- proven services -- to the town again in finding this ring the fellow lost."