Located in the foothills of the Five Kings Mountains in eastern Isger, Breachill is a thriving town of about 1,300 inhabitants; most are humans, although there are notable populations of dwarves, half-elves, and gnomes here as well. The town predates its most notable landmark, which sits about 1 mile to the northeast, high on low-rising Hellknight Hill: Citadel Altaerein, the foreboding but now-abandoned fortress that was once the home of the Hellknight Order of the Nail.
In years past, Breachill gladly served as a supply source for the Hellknights, who commended the well-ordered peace the town enjoyed. But 8 years ago, when the Order of the Nail fully retreated from Citadel Altaerein in favor of the order’s new home in Varisia, Breachill’s inhabitants simply shrugged, continuing the agriculture, crafting, and bartering that has always sustained them. Now, common wisdom generally recommends avoiding the citadel, which serves as an isolated haven for peaceful groups that don’t want to be disturbed but is also rumored to be overrun with dangerous monsters.
You have all arrived in the town of Breachill, eager to participate in the town's monthly "Call For Heroes," a formal meeting aimed at helping the local populace tackle problems that fall outside the responsibilities or capabilities of the town guard, and help provide a launch for burgeoning adventurers.
The meeting is scheduled to start soon, but you've gathered in the Wizards Grace, a popular nearby tavern, before the proceedings begin. The room is full of local town folk, chatting, eating and mingling cheerfully. Today, the tavern is particularly full. As is tradition, there are numerous toasts to adventurers and residents alike, and a hearty meal of boar stew with lentils is being served - a practice owner Trinil Uskwold highly encourages, as her grandfather, himself a prominent local adventurer, loved eating that meal before embarking on his own many daring journeys.
Rizz has made herself comfortable in a corner booth at the Wizards Grace. She's eaten her fill of boar stew and has her nose buried in a book titled "Dahak's prophecies," a musty, red leather-bound tome. Her face wrinkles in frustration, as this is the same cultist nonsense she's been finding since she found the link between her dreams and the dragon god of destruction. She puts the book in her bag and looks over to her small plant pet, pumpkaboo. The tiny gourd was tracing its leaves through a glass of water, sharing Rizz's anxiety and excitement.
I hope being part of this 'Call For Heroes' helps me keep our town safe.. That vision...
Rizz is snapped back to her surroundings as a toast goes around the room to adventurers, past and future. Realizing her drink was long gone, she put pumpkaboo on her shoulder and approached the bar.
"Could I get another mug of honeyed Dwarven mead and a cup of coffee?" She settled on getting her nose out of the book and enjoying the celebration before she tried her hand at adventuring. After all, all her studying so far had led to the same rantings of lunatics. Better she faces her destiny head on.
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Ranzak trudged through the town near to her home, the bright windows of the Wizard's Grace a welcome sight after weeks of walking every day. This last trip had been just as useless as the other dozen. With no signs of a dragon, or even a Wyvern. Just some oversized crocodile some villagers had talked themselves in to thinking was a god.
Her pack was heavy, her feet hurt. She just wanted her comfey corner of the nest back up in the castle. But first she wanted to see the call for heroes.
The air in the inn was warm, and the noise exciting. She was drawn to the fire in the hearth and the smell of food, but she remembered her manners long enough to order food and drink first, then found a space at a table near one of the only people as small as her.
The gnome was colourful, and was reading a book, something Ranzak still felt was vaguely wrong, despite needing to herself from time to time. She still thought maybe the words would steal part of her soul. But then, she couldn't make bombs without words, or the pretty fire flasks, so she had to take the risk.
As her food arrived, she dug into it, turning a little to watch the flames dancing in the hearth.
"And then she turns around and looks behind her and she says to me: 'What tail?!'" he says, bursting out in hearty laughter, slapping the nearest patron hard upon his shoulder as he and those that were listening joined him in laughter before returning to their own merriment. He then drinks down the rest of his ale in one fell swoop and slams his empty glass down upon the bar. "Another! This is going to be a grand night tonight! Good ol' Joran can just feel it! Yessir! Oh, and I'll take a good portion of some of that boar stew. You know, odds are it's probably one of those boars 'Mean' Narine had us hunt and kill," he tells him, winking.
Turing around in his bar stool he leans back against the bar and relaxes with his arms crossed. Possessing long black hair, a chiseled jaw, and a million dollar smile, he scans the crowd, curious as to who might get chosen this month. Let's see, let's see. There are a lot of folks here tonight. Good crowd. Maybe that fella. Probably that one. Not really sold on that guy. And definitely not THAT guy. He could stand to miss a meal or two. Or possibly twelve. He then notices a small gnome? halfling? in the far corner. Hard for him to tell at this distance especially considering he doesn't really care. Is that one reading a book? The large man bursts out laughing once again. "Not that one to be sure! Far too 'booky' that one. That one and ol' stuffy Voz would get along great," he speaks under his breath, grinning. Continuing his scan, he checks off a few more that might or might not make until he catches sight of a goblin. Crazy enough, the goblin wasn't too far from the other small creature but for some reason Joran just didn't see it. Grinning, Small folk. They're so hard to see. Sorry little goblin person, but you're probably not going to make it either. You know, I'm not even sure what goblins do, he thinks, shrugging.
As the bartender brings him his stew and another mead, he turns back around and proceeds to eat and drink up, grinning all the while.
Aerel is new to Breachill, but it was easy to recognize the Wizard's Grace as a tavern and likely a gathering place for the public, adventurers especially. Adventurers. Never thought I would ever consider myself one, but I guess that's what I am now.
Aerel heads inside and orders a bowl of the boar stew, then finds himself a seat with a wall to put his back to and a clear view of the door. He eats his meal slowly, while his eyes take in the scene before him. He takes note of a few people who look like adventuring types, probably here for the Call for Heroes like himself.
"You can, of course" came a dry, familiar voice inside his mind. "If you only knew how." As if the words were a torch setting a bonfire ablaze, a fire ignited in his blood, surging forward and erupting outward, fury barely contained...
And then Rory woke from his daydream, feeling the Dragon's Fire still burning within his veins. He had needed to "teach a lesson" to a pair of brigands a few hours ago as he was completing his journey to Breachill; they had evidently thought that a lone man walking unarmed and unarmored would be easy prey. This tavern was the first moment he'd been able to focus on the Dance of Dragons and reclaim their power.
The large man runs a hand through his gold-red hair as he stretches, thinking ruefully about how the Iroran monks that had raised him would be scandalized his current appearance. Still, it had been a long way from the monastery. He grips his mug of ale and winds through the crowd towards a small knot of conversation, picking up a few words of interest before leaning against the wall. "I too am here for this 'Call of Heroes', though I know little of it. I was hoping to learn more." It would be possible to mistake him as a farmer or laborer given his common clothing, but there was a readiness for action in his stance from years of training.
Nokfijit picks up the last spicecake from his plate and walks over to Rizz to ask "Whatcha readin?"
Rizz's dark blue cheeks turn fire red at the attention. She stammers as she speaks. "I-I-I was just reading up on some religious texts." She makes sure the book is shoved down to the bottom of her bag in case any of these folks can read Draconic. "I've been having s-s-strange dreams lately, and haven't been able to find any answers. I'm Rizz, and I am indeed here for the Call For Heroes." Rizz grabs her mug and takes two long, slow gulps to compose herself, focusing on changing her coloration back to the dark blues she wears so proudly.
Rizz is a fairly pretty Gnome. Her skin and hair are complimenting tones of blue, reminiscent of the waters of Breach Creek. Her leshy familiar is a gourd that looks as if someone shrunk a jack-o'-lantern and dyed it purple. "I'm actually really glad to be here, and hope to make the cut myself for this month's meeting. Are you two hoping to help Breachill too?" Her voice has smoothed out, she no doubt was just taken by surprise having so much attention on her so quickly.
"Here you go, dear," Trinil says, sliding a tankard of the deep amber mead across the bar, before grabbing a mug and pouring in coffee. "You know, I think we've got a respectable group gathered here today. You here for the Call?" she says, handing over the warm mug.
At that moment, a group of men and women gathered around the tall, loud man burst out laughing. Hearing the request for the stew, Trinil moves swiftly to grab a bowl and ladle in the thick, steaming soup. She hands it over. "Nah - this boar's been dead for a while. My husband ran him through a week back," she adds with a wink. "No - we'll get much bigger victories from you in the future, I am sure."
Moments later, a tall, but quite portly man with a bushy mustache clears his throat and his voice booms across the room. He raises his tankard high and says, "To the heroes who have come before, to the heroes who have gathered today, and to the heroes who have yet to come, Breachill is your debt. May the tasks be straightforward, the resolution swift, and the small pointy things few. And once your renown spreads across Golarion, may you never forget from whence you got your start!" he concludes raising his tankard higher. Cheers of Hear! Hear! spread throughout the room.
"Hear! Hear!" The gnome cheers and finishes her tankard of mead, clearly fond of her hometown's traditions.
"A religious text, huh? Can I have a look? I love books!" The other gnome says excitedly as he shoves his glasses back up his nose.
His brightly colored hair sticks in all directions, as he never combs it down. His limbs and fingers are more spindly than a typical gnome, enhancing his alien and feylike appearance.
Rizz groans and fishes the book out of her bag. In Draconic, the title Dahak's Prophecies & What They Mean For You shines in gold lettering on the red leather. "Not just dragons, but the dragon god of destruction. I've been trying to find actual information on it, but this is just cult propaganda." She frowns. "I didn't used to be such an.. academic scholar. My learning mostly comes from the forest. But I swear Dahak has got to have something to do with my nightmares!"
Rizz hands the book to Fuzbizle. "What's your name? I don't believe I've seen either of you around Breachill before." Rizz begins sipping on her coffee, feeling like she will need to have her wits about her soon.
"Bah! When the other gods sought to create, Dahak sought to destroy. He may be powerful, but not at all worthy of worship." Rizz wrinkles her face for a moment, then puts on a smile. "Either way, it's nice to meet you Ranzak. You both are free to look at it, but it's on loan from the Reliant Book Company."
At that moment, a group of men and women gathered around the tall, loud man burst out laughing. Hearing the request for the stew, Trinil moves swiftly to grab a bowl and ladle in the thick, steaming soup. She hands it over. "Nah - this boar's been dead for a while. My husband ran him through a week back," she adds with a wink. "No - we'll get much bigger victories from you in the future, I am sure."
Grinning mightily, "You got that right, darlin'," he winks. His attention then turns to the man speaking...
Moments later, a tall, but quite portly man with a bushy mustache clears his throat and his voice booms across the room. He raises his tankard high and says, "To the heroes who have come before, to the heroes who have gathered today, and to the heroes who have yet to come, Breachill is your debt. May the tasks be straightforward, the resolution swift, and the small pointy things few. And once your renown spreads across Golarion, may you never forget from whence you got your start!" he concludes raising his tankard higher. Cheers of Hear! Hear! spread throughout the room.
The big man raises his own glass in toast and drinks deeply. He then catches sight of three short folk at the table. Grinning, "What is this, a convention? What are they doing?" he mutters to himself as he watches the one - who consists of mostly blues and purples - hand over a book to one whose hair is quite colorful and unkempt. He then notices the goblin getting in the act. "You know, somewhere in there is a great joke. Three short folk walk into a bar...," he says, chuckling.
"You know, somewhere in there is a great joke. Three short folk walk into a bar...," he says, chuckling.
"While the human with them merely stepped over it?" Rory says with a small smirk. "I believe I've heard one like that before." He glances around while sizing up the crowd. "Rizz, Ranzak? Well, add 'Rory' to the list of 'r' names floating about. Small world." He stops for a moment. "No joke intended with that one."
"Dragons?! I *love* dragons! They are so interesting! Dahak's followers are quite a bunch, aren't they? Can you imagine seeking destruction? What a strange lot!"
"Ah yes, of course, of course. Fuzbizle Nokfijit Bramblequalmy, at your service." He says with a bow. "I come in search of knowledge! And adventure, too, I suppose."
"Now, you must tell me about your nightmares. They sound very interesting!" He adds. He realizes his glasses fell off when he bowed, so he bends over and puts them back on.
Aerel hears the Call for Heroes mentioned, and turns his attention to the conversation growing around Rizz's table. If these people are here for the Call too, I might be working with them. Might as well introduce myself. He finishes the last of his stew, then heads toward the table. Knowing from experience how many people react negatively to half-orcs, he does his best to appear friendly.
"It's a bit of a stretch, but you might add another to that list. Name's Aerel. Is anyone here from Breachill or know how this Call for Heroes works?"
Rizz sighs in relief, glad someone else sees wanton destruction as bad. "Tell you what Fuzbizle, if we end up adventuring together, I'll be happy to share." The druid smiles.
The gnome beams. "I'm from Breachill! The Call For Heroes is a proud tradition where the government hires adventurers to take on things outside of the normal duties of the town's guard. It's where our government really looks out of the little guys!" She pauses for a moment and puts her forehead in her palm at the terrible pun she just opened herself up for. "Not like that. Anyway! The people of the town come to the government with problems ranging from missing merchant shipments, mysterious livestock deaths, and other strange happenings. The council then hires a group of adventurers to take care of these odd problems!" Rizz is almost bouncing out of her seat with excitement. She takes another drink of her coffee, hoping to ensure she's sobered up before the Call. "It's a pleasure to meet you all. I'm not used to anyone paying me any mind, so I'm happy for the change of pace."
As the morning wears on, more toasts are made and more people crowd in.
In one corner of the room, a large human male with tattoos covering his arms and neck - and presumably his body below his clothing - is challenging any and all to an arm wrestling contest. He’s offering double or nothing - he’s put 10 sliver pieces as a wager that he will win. He appears to have already ammassed a fair amount of coin from unsuccessful participants.
In another part of the room, a smartly dressed halfling man is swiftly moving small cups across a table, asking on-lookers to find the ball beneath one of the cups. Should someone succeed, he’ll offer up one shiny gold piece.
Outside of the tavern, several people are lined up, preparing for a foot race. A slender, dark-skinned man is boasting loudly. ”I’ve come a long way to be here today - I’ll not be bested by you lot. 5 silver says I’ll cross the finish line first.”
Finally, a remarkably large woman at the bar challenges the room to a stew-eating contest. The corners of her mouth are already stained with the stew, but she looks ready to consume more. The tavern keeper, Trinil, offers up free stew for a month - and considerable bragging rights - to anyone who can best the woman.
Rizz pardons herself politely from the small gathering, making sure to put her book back in her bag, upon seeing someone playing a game of attention. She makes a point of bumping Joran with her bag for his crude jokes before disappearing into the crowd.
"I'll take your challenge!" Says the gnome, walking up to the halfling with the cups. She flashes one gold coin to the halfling before watching carefully what he does.
"Oho! Excellent!," the halfling says, tipping his hat. He makes a show of placing a bright red ball beneath one of the brown cups. "Keep your eyes on the cups, my dear!"
Your eyes follow the blur of the cups sliding back and forth across the table. A few seconds after beginning, you spot the cup with the ball underneath sliding towards the edge of the table - far enough off the edge for the ball to fall out, though you don't actually see that happen. The cups continue to move swiftly, but as you watch your cup, a small piece of carrot from the boar stew decides now is the time to dislodge from your teeth, and you cough in surprise as you accidentally swallow. You lose which cup the ball is in.
The cups stop, and the man asks you to pick your cup.
The halfling grins mischievously before lifting the cup, revealing nothing but the table below. "Sorry love, you lost the ball." He lifts the middle cup, revealing the bright red ball. "Not all is lost! Stop by Quarters and Bits when you're able. I'll take care of you. Just ask for Crink," he says with a wink.
The Gnome walks away from the halfling's game with a smirk on her face, shaking her head. She takes her failure as a sign she needs more coffee and heads to the bar.
Rory opts to join in for the foot-race; it would be a good way to stretch his legs and maybe distance himself from the crowd that had gathered and make it more likely that he would be chosen for the Call. Knowing that he might need to be ready for action at a moment's notice, he decides not to fatigue himself. "I'm in."
He takes a slow start, then gets up to speed, his natural athleticism and long days of training making up for less than stellar luck.
As the morning wears on, more toasts are made and more people crowd in.
In one corner of the room, a large human male with tattoos covering his arms and neck - and presumably his body below his clothing - is challenging any and all to an arm wrestling contest. He’s offering double or nothing - he’s put 10 sliver pieces as a wager that he will win. He appears to have already ammassed a fair amount of coin from unsuccessful participants.
Joran grins confidently and cracks his knuckles before taking his place at the table opposite the tattoo man. "I'll take you up on that, friend." As the duo lock hands, Joran gives him a not-a-care-in-the-world look. Tightening his grip to where the muscles within his arm along with a myriad of veins show clearly, he nods he's ready.
Beaten fair and square, "You got me this time, friend, but there will be a next time," he tells him, giving a wink as he gives him a pat on the shoulder and takes his leave.
In another part of the room, a smartly dressed halfling man is swiftly moving small cups across a table, asking on-lookers to find the ball beneath one of the cups. Should someone succeed, he’ll offer up one shiny gold piece.
Watching a couple of others attempt the game, Joran finds himself intrigued. "I'll give it a go, little man," he tells him. He then does his best to keep an eye on the cup where the halfling initially placed the ball under.
Shaking his head, "Well done, little man. I just can't keep up with you," he says, grinning, giving the halfling a nod before taking his leave.
Making his way outside, he sees the making of a race and gets over there in a hurry.
Outside of the tavern, several people are lined up, preparing for a foot race. A slender, dark-skinned man is boasting loudly. ”I’ve come a long way to be here today - I’ll not be bested by you lot. 5 silver says I’ll cross the finish line first.”
"I want in on this one!" Stretching one leg and then the other before jogging in place a moment, "Let's do this." He then prepares to run with everything he's got and then some.
Finally, a remarkably large woman at the bar challenges the room to a stew-eating contest. The corners of her mouth are already stained with the stew, but she looks ready to consume more. The tavern keeper, Trinil, offers up free stew for a month - and considerable bragging rights - to anyone who can best the woman.
Winded after a brutal race, Joran heads back into the tavern to grab a drink and hears the woman's offer. "Trinil's stew free for a month! You can count me in." He takes a few more moments to catch his breath before, "Alright! Let's eat!"
Aerel surveys the games and festivities, and decides the cup game would likely be the only one he was any good at. Granted, he'd seen several such games before in Korvosa, and in none of them the player had a fair chance at winning, but since there was no price this time, there was no harm in playing.
Aerel walks over to the halfling and his cups. "These games are always interesting. Let's see what I can do."
Nokfijit decides to try his hand at the cup game.
You step up to the table and sit across from the man. Gripping his hand tightly in yours, you press your elbow against the table. Unfortunately, something wet and slightly sticky is on the table, causing you to lose your focus for the most pivotal point of the contest - its beginning. The man easily pins your hand to the table, and a loud cheer goes up from the small crowd gathered around your table.
You fare no better at the cups game - but the halfling male gives you a smile, and invites you to visit him at Quarters and Bits.
Exhausted after the race, you step to the bar and attempt to best the woman with the robust appetite.
The first two bowls of soup go down, if not easily, remarkably well. You are well ahead of the woman as you begin the final bowl. However, the moment that you tip the bowl to your lips, another arm-wrestling contestant is bested by the large man, and a large cheer echoes off the walls, startling you. Hot soup spills down your chin and into your throat. You cough and sputter, losing valuable ground. The innkeeper hastily fills another bowl for you, which you manage to polish off only moments before the large woman.
”By the gods, you did it!” Trinil says with surprise. ”I never thought I’d see the day! Well a promise is a promise - you get free stew for a month! And should you be in town for the next Call of Heroes, we’ll buy a round in your honor!”
"Oho! Excellent!," the halfling says, tipping his hat. He makes a show of placing a bright red ball beneath one of the brown cups. "Keep your eyes on the cups, my good man!”
Your eyes follow the blur of the cups sliding back and forth across the table. He makes a few false moves, but you’re able to catch every one. The cups continue to move swiftly, but as you watch your cup, you begin to doubt yourself. You think the ball is either under cup two or three, but you can’t be sure.
The cups stop, and the man asks you to pick your cup.
“Another taker! Excellent!” the halfling says, tipping his hat. He makes a show of placing a bright red ball beneath one of the brown cups. "Keep your eyes on the cups, my colorful man!”
Your eyes follow the blur of the cups sliding back and forth across the table. He makes a few false moves, but you think you catch most of them. The cups continue to move swiftly, but as you watch your cup, it becomes difficult to be sure you know where it is. As the cups stop, and the man asks you to pick your cup. You are fairly sure it is not under #2.
The Race
A crowd has gathered outside, eager to watch the spectacle. A crooked starting line has been drawn in the sand, the course has been set (heading east from Wizard’s Grace, turning south at the bend, then turning back north at the small road headed towards Town Hall), and four contestants step to the line. The dark-skinned man stands in the middle. To his left is Rory, to his right is a rotund halfling man - the crowd favorite, though not much of a physical threat - and to the halfling’s right, Joran. A half-elf female raises a piece of white fabric high in the air, and then lowers it with a flourish.
From the start, it’s clear that Joran wants to win. He takes a lead that only seems to widen. The halfling stops running before making it to the intersection - much to the feigned disappointment of the spectators - but the dark-skinned man pulls ahead of rounding the corner. Joran continues to pull ahead, while the other two maintain their pace. Rory gains on the man, but struggles to overtake him until they near the final turn. He finally manages to squeeze past the man and cross the finish line behind a panting, wheezing Joran.
”You both bested me?!” the man says, breathing hard. ”Well…I didn’t expect that. But I’m a man of my word. Pay them both, Trivage. But throw in two extra for the big fella. He ran a hell of a race.” Another, rounder dark-skinned man steps forward and passes over five silver to Rory and 7 to Joran.
As the race concludes, people begin queuing up outside of Town Hall. It is almost noon, and time for the Call to begin. As it gets closer to time, a crowd of roughly 40 townsfolk are gathered, all chatting amiably. Children are excitedly running through the crowd, gawking at the heroes gathered today. The large, tattooed man has a gaggle of women around him, swooning and trying to catch his eye. The dark-skinned man looks annoyed, but is attempting to hide his frustration.
But of particular notice is a well-dressed goblin woman who seems to be distraught. She is pacing outside the front doors fo the building, hands clasped behind her back, and mumbling to herself.
You recognize the goblin as Warbal Bumblebrasher, the ambassador to the Bumblebrasher tribe.
Rizz wanders through the crowd, taking in the sights of both the townsfolk here to witness, and the would-be heroes gathered for the call. Wow... stiff competition. I hope they don't just need strong hands this month... Rizz is absolutely convinced that the best way she can ensure Breachill doesn't burn to the ground is through the Call of Heroes. In recent months, she's tried the approach from a normal townfolk asking for help, but without an active disaster, there's nothing the council can do. So, she made up her mind she would try to be on the heroic side, ready to stop it when it happens.
The folks that sat with me at the bar... they all seem a little different than the rest. That loud human fellow that won the race stands out too. Maybe...
She's snapped from her thinking hearing a familiar voice worrying over someone else. Rizz approaches Ranzak and the goblin woman she is talking to, listening, but keeping several paces distance.
The goblin's head pops up at Ranzak's voice. "Oh Ranzak! It's good to see you!" she says, wrapping her arms around Ranzak's neck in a quick embrace. "How did your last travels go? Have you been home? Have you heard from anyone in the tribe? I'm worried sick."
Warbal notices Rizz standing nearby. "Well hello there, Rizz. Good to see you. Is your father well? Have you come to see who will answer the Call of Heroes?"
"Good morning Warbal! I have indeed come to heed the Call." Rizz rolls her eyes at the mention of her father. "The man is stubborn as ever. I swear, he's just making his bleaching worse, stuck in those bad logging practices." She sighs. Pumpkaboo lays a leaf on the top of Rizz's head. "Enough about me, what brings you to the Town Hall for this Call of Heroes?"
"Also, well met once again Ranzak. Are you a member of the Bumblebrasher tribe?" She asks curiously. Then immediately stammers. "I-I-I don't mean to assume! I just see you know each other..."
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"Not been home yet, too exhausted. Last trip went same as others. Lots of walking, no Dragon." She sighs. "Not heard from the tribe, but didn't think to either. What has happend?"
As Rizz speaks up Ranzak cocks her head to one side in confusion. She nods at the question though, even before Rizz is finished asking it. "Yes, I'm from the Bumblebrasher tribe. Am proud to be." She grins, obviously not the least offended.
Fuzbizzle hesitates, then points at the third cup.
--
After the race, Fuzbizzle heads over to hear the call for heroes.
The halfling's smile fades for just a moment before he lifts the cup. It's back almost as quickly as it disappeared.
"Oho! Well done, sir. Well done. Here you go, as promised! Make sure you stop by Quarter and Bit to spend it - your coins will go further there than anywhere in town!"
"Oho, so you'd like to go again? How about we make things interesting. Double or nothing this time?" the halfling says, pulling out two more cups.
Aerel points at cup two.
--
Once the hour approaches noon and the townsfolk begin to gather around the Town Hall, Aerel follows them.
As the Joran crosses the finish line first, "YES!" he exclaims and does a fist pump. "Nice race, gentlemen. And thank you for the coin, friend," he tells the dark-skinned man through labored breathing, nodding. Bending over with his hands on his knees, he takes a moment to catch his breath before rising and heading back into the tavern.
Nearly losing it there in the end, Joran raises a fist in the air when he's declared the winner and nods triumphantly. Looking to Trinil, "I'll be looking forward to my next bowl, Trin. Only it will not be today," he says with a wink, putting a hand to his stomach as if that will help stem the uneasy feeling. He then realizes the time for the Call is nearing. "Oh I better get out there. Time for me to get chosen," he declares, grinning confidently, as he rises and makes his way outside, albeit somewhat slowly.
The big fella makes his way outside and gathers near the back. He notices the tattooed fellow again with a number of women around him. That's it? Rookie. I should've beaten you easy, he thinks to himself, shaking his head. Ah well, next time.
He turns and walks away to the race.
The halfling smiles with faux sadness. "Ah, my friend. Sadly you have lost," he says, lifting cup two to reveal only the table below. He picks up cup three, and the red ball sits below it.
"Please do come see me at Quarters & Bits - we'll take care of you!" he says warmly.
Stepping outside, you force yourself to retch up the warm stew. While unpleasant, you do feel a little better than you did before.
"Oh...that's unfortunate. I'm sorry to hear there were no dragons, and especially that you haven't been home yet," the well-dressed goblin says, her head hanging down. "Typically, every two weeks I meet with Helba, the tribe’s chieftain, on the road outside the keep. We discuss news, and I convey the town’s interests and hear any concerns that the tribe might wish me to bring before the council. It is a relationship of utmost importance, and Helba is normally punctual."
She looks in the direction of the camp before continuing. "But she has missed our previous two meetings, and I have seen plumes of smoke coming from the top of the citadel. The smoke is a chalky red in color—the tribe’s traditional color of distress.I fear that the Bumblebrashers are in danger, or that something dire has befallen them. It has sickened me with worry."
"Warbal, have you brought this up with the council? Perhaps you're here to enlist this month's heroes from The Call to aid you?"
"That's exactly why I'm here today!" she says excitedly. "I plan to present this information to the council and ask them to hire adventurers to contact my tribe."
"It looks like an...adequate...group has gathered this morning," she says, surveying the gathered group. "Come with me into the meeting and listen to my petition. If you are up for my task, I beg you to offer your services to the council. You might be my tribe’s only hope!”