"Town seems quaint enough." Pollo says as he takes a seat at the table reserved for the travelers. "Must be pretty hardy people to live out here though. Seems like everything is just straining at the edge of... possible? You gotta admire toughness like that."
Pollo leans back and takes one of the turnip ales as it comes out. He is expecting the oddly bitter taste this time and manages to take a drink without flinching.
Although it would be a push to describe the turnip ale as more-ish, there are worse-tasting things than turnips out there and it does get ya drunk.
The Feedmill continues to fill with people and soon Bort arrives, looking pleased with himself. He settles down and calls out another round irrespective of where your drinks are.
"A feast awaits us friends! I know some people may complain about the food here but I love a good turnip and Etran's Folly serves the best. The turnip porridge is to die for - speaking of dying, that reminds me..."
The first course is set out onto your table, a variety of wild game with roasted turnips. He grabs a big turnip and a piece of rabbit before starting onto a story.
"One day, back in my youth I was crossing the waters of the mighty Lake Encarthan." He meets all of your eyes to make sure he has your undivided attention. "Well Gozreh was irritated with us that day and a mighty storm hit our ship and we capsized! As the sea took my crew, I grabbed a hold of one of my treasured lock boxes before I sunk beneath the waves..."
He takes a huge bite of rabbit before washing it down with some turnip ale. "I was dead! I woke before the Lady of Graves herself to be judged for the life I had lived. But Pharasma was having a might awful time judging me fore the storm winds that brought me to the Boneyard were just tossing her hair back and forth - getting in her eyes and all, what a fright. I'm no inconsiderate dwarf, so I dug through that lockbox for a silver comb that I gave to the lady to tame her hair. So impressed was she by this gift, that she bid me farewell, and I awoke on the shores of Encarthan with my entire crew! Always keep a good lockbox with ye friends, ya never know when you may need it."
Milo had a feeling that Bort had a lot of wild stories about his exploits. At least the wild game was offered a non-turnip food alternative. He replied jokingly to the dwarf, "Now you just need a floating lock box, for future sea voyages!"
The soil here is not particularly good, being brown and rocky. The one thing Gigon can tell is although turnips can grow in this soil, it's odd for it or much of anything to thrive in it.
You all make your way back to the Feedmill, which is starting to fill up with people. The staff are bustling to serve out the turnip ales and you see that the caravan crew seem to be done. Delma waves over to you.
"Bort should be here any moment, he asked that a table be saved for all of you with him. Was the farm to your liking?"
"There were some interesting observations, to say the least. I have a quick question for you. If we wanted to burn an animal carcass, where would the best place be so as to not intrude on people?"
The Gnome listened to the Dwarfs tale, but something kept tugging at the back of his mind. Then, at the very edge of his hearing, Gigon thought her heard...........giggling? Like that of a small child. He shook it off and continued to listen.
Pollo nods along with Bort's story, entertained throughout. The man helps himself to rabbit as well, excited to eat some meat to at least help offset the taste of turnip.
"So you've brought your lockbox with you here then? I'll have to keep that in mind. A gift for Pharasma. How many times do you think she will allow me to come close to meeting her before she is tired of me and passes me through with hardly a thought?" he asks, mockingly serious as he picks at one of the scabs from his wicked acid burns.
Or perhaps they lack the means to move somewhere less bleak, she thinks to herself, sitting down opposite Pollo.
Anghariel proves a polite listener who allows herself to be entertained by their host’s outrageous claims rather than questioning them. She knows when to smile in amazement and when to let out a small, incredulous exclamation at an unexpected turn of events; it’s clear she has played this kind of game before.
One might even say that right here and now, in agreeable company and with no immediate worries, she is enjoying herself. The only small damper is that as she doesn’t eat meat, there is nothing for her to partake of but turnip. So much turnip. Still she soldiers on, nibbling on some roasted turnip and sipping turnip ale. After all, a lack of culinary variety hardly is the worst thing she has ever had to contend with.
Delma looks at Gigon with a completely confused expression. "Well there's a midden at the outskirts of town. Maybe there?"
The night gets into full swing as Bort finishes his story. He laughs and toasts Pollo. "We all get chance meetings with the Lady of Graves, as many as she wishes I'm afraid. But we'll all have a proper sitdown with her in due time. In due time."
Another course comes out and Bort turns the questions to you. [b]"So tell me of yourselves, where are you going? What lands you on my caravan? we've been on the road so much haven't had a chance to talk to you. Speaking of a chance to talk, remind me to tell you have a
The next course is a seed cake - perhaps a little burned but everyone seems to know not to remind Amora of that. Around you, more and more farmers are drinking -very- heavily as they pile in and the scene is pretty lively.
Milo had another sip of turnip ale. I suppose I owe them some explanation. He replied to Mort, "I'm on my way to visit a cousin in Almas — second cousin, actually. It's a long way to travel from Magnimar, where I come from, but there's a good reason. I recently left the Night Shades — that's the main thieves' guild. When I was young and foolish, it seemed like a glamorous life, but over time I lost the ability to justify the lifestyle to myself.
"So I left. I want to finally live an honest life, but I kept getting asked for 'favors'. And the people asking for those favors are not the type that it's easy to say no to! I decided I needed to get away from the city for a while. So now I'm here, travelling with you."
Osveta happily chows donw on the rabbit, absentmindedly listening to Bort's tall (or not) tale. She was more focused on the food, though she didn't try to tune him out either.
She raises a brow as Milo candidly reveals his previous workings and dealings, and then nods at his decisions.
"I'm... just wandering at the moment, you could say. I'm a former protector of Lastwall and well... you can't really protect something if it's gone." She looks down momentarily before raising her head up in thought. "Actually, let's go with knight errant, that sounds slightly more respectable than wanderer."
Clarifying what he said
"So tell me of yourselves, where are you going? What lands you on my caravan? we've been on the road so much haven't had a chance to talk to you. Speaking of a chance to talk, remind me to tell you about the time that I had to arm wrestle a fire giant to get my voice back!"
Gigon listened to the others, not really sure what to make of what was being said. Coming from a small village, he didn't get much other city/nation news.
When his turn came, the Gnome said, "I'm simply am on my way to meet my Father for the first time in my life."
The Gnome shrugged, "I wouldn't know. Mother never told me the story and then we received a letter from my Father asking me to meet him in Andoran. That's about it."
"You and I are opposite in more ways than one Gigon." Pollo adds to the conversation. "I was finally able to get away from mine. Pompous jackass never cared anyways. I'm on my way to visit a cousin as well. Like I mentioned back on the caravan, I want to be a dominus. I've got a long ways to go before I can start my own ring, so I just needed some time to work out how I was going to get started. Anywhere away from the thumb of my father and his incessant worry about his last name seemed better than staying."
Pollo snags another bit of roasted rabbit and begins munching on it, savoring the meat, even if it still has a hint of turnip flavor in it.
"Here is to hoping your father is a better man, or gnome, than mine!" Pollo raises his mug to Gigon with a smile.
The seed cake goes quickly enough and you're now well into the meal. The place is now packed with locals. Two people are serving tables, a somewhat reticent young man named Kolnral and a woman named Trin who seems be looking at all of you wistfully. The goblin Phinick is racing around the place doing odd jobs.
Beside you, a bard settles down beside the dais with a lute that is missing two strings. He smiles at you all endearingly. "Ah hah! A song for our fair guests!" He strums out a chord that sounds a little off. "Let's see... ah yes, this one."
Oh once, there was merry,
A sweet little lady,
Who traveled, and traveled, about and out oh!
Well, she went a court-in,
But he was a snort-in,
On his whiskey, being .. being...
"Uh... right. Yes!"
frisky, and free-he-he-ho!
So she wouldn't marry,
Nor would she tarry,
But she left him, berefit him,
All - a-a-lone!
His voice is thin, high and warbling and he loses the tune repeatedly as he tries to coordinate his singing and his strumming. Bort doesn't seem to mind. "Well I hope you find your father," he says gesturing to Gigon. "And you never see yours until you're ready for it. To our fathers, whether they be godly men or the biggest bas---"
There's suddenly a loud crash behind you. You turn around to see that one of the servers has just tripped over a very drunk father, and spilled ale all over him. The farmer roars to his feet.
"YEW STUPID NO-GOOD SON OF A--" stumbling around, he grabs a table before showing incredible strength he flips the table up, sending several people behind it flying to the ground!
Delma sighs and quickly ducks behind the bar while a mug goes flying and clocks the woman who was serving you in the head. Soon you see a few farmers headed right for your table!
Gigon: Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24
Anghariel: Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (9) + 5 = 14
Osveta: Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
Milo: Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16
Pollo: Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
Drunk Farmers: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10
BAR FIGHT. We're using theatre of the mind for this one. If you want to thump a farmer (they look aggressive) there's three that are within 10' of the table. Action to stand, and an action to close to melee. There are people all around you so if you want to interact with this scene in another way, feel free to let me know.
The elf is considering using prestidigitation to lend a less turnip-y flavour to her meal when the conversation turns to the travellers’ destinations and reasons for journeying.
“Well, ah,” Anghariel begins hesitantly when it is evidently her turn to speak, “because of something I did, my home is…lost to me. By which I don’t mean actually lost,” she adds with an almost apologetic nod to Osveta, “but I am not permitted to return.” She falls silent for a few moments, staring at her plate. “So I just…roam. See what the rest of the world is like, try to put what magic I know to good use. I’m going nowhere in particular, really.” She shrugs, a gesture that looks more indifferent than she feels, and resumes picking at the turnips in front of her.
It’s not too long afterwards, however, that ale both spilt and partaken of ends up plunging the Feedmill into chaos. Anghariel looks on in bafflement at first; she has heard of bar brawls, but thus far hasn’t found herself involved in one. Soon though, when a pack of rowdy farmers approaches the table she’s sitting at, she surges to her feet. “Really now!” she exclaims imperiously. “Look at yourselves! Is this what passes for hospitality in Etran’s Folly? Have all those turnips addled your minds? You should be ashamed!”
Almost as an afterthought, she murmurs a few arcane syllables to cast a simple shielding charm on herself – better be safe than sorry.
Action 1: stand up.
Action 2: yell at one of those farmers looking to harass us hapless outsiders! Intimidate/Demoralise: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (9) + 0 = 9
Action 3: cast Shield, gaining a +1 circumstance bonus to AC.
Milo said to Anghariel, "I could ask my cousin if she could put you up for a few days, when we get to Almas. You know, relax for a few days while you figure out your next move."
He listened to the off-key bard, considering whether he should sing something himself, when a fight broke out. It was an occurrence he was well acquainted with, in the rougher taverns in Magnimar. He'd joined in his share of them in his younger days. But he'd seen his share of people hurt in these types of brawls, and the violence wasn't as exhilarating as it used to be.
He jumped to his feet, and tried to intervene and calm things down. "Gentlemen, ladies, let's all just relax and enjoy the evening!" He stepped in between the warring parties, risking bringing their ire upon himself.
Stand, Stride, Diplomacy
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21
I know that Diplomacy is supposed to take one minute, but it's the closest thing to what he's trying to do, that I can think of. Using Nimble Dodge if attacked.
”Who threw that?” Osveta roars as she sees their waitress take a mug to the head. Getting up and seeing a group coming to attack them for no discernible reason she glares at the closest one. Then she shakes her head and cracks her knuckles, dark motes starting to swirl about them all the while. ”Fine, bring it bastards.”
Demoralize: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11
> Intimidating Glare
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Gigon gleefully hurls a tanglefoot bag which explodes over one of the farmers. Although it'd normally just slow a tougher opponent, he starts shrieking like he's been lit on fire and just gets more and more stuck until he's a whimpering, confused mess.
Osveta and Anghariel both stand and try to cow the farmers charging the group which just completely doesn't work. Milo is a little better as he walks right up to the farmers and starts tring to talk them out of it. One of the farmers looks at Milo and slowly nods. "Yeah, you're alright short guy!"
The one who isn't stuck howls incoherently. "WHARRGARBL!"
He charges up to Osveta and grabs a nearby chair before tring to break it over her head!
We chairish these precious moment: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9 Damage: 1d6 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4
Osveta easily blocks the blow. Meanwhile, a mug flies across the room right for poor Anghariel! However it jsut smashes off in the distance. You hear a cat yowl.
Mugging: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 1 = 3 Damage: 1d6 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5
All around you the fight continues. Bort stands up on his chair.
"Listen my friends why can't we--" and he's sent flying to the ground by a hurled chair. You hear him mutter under his breath and he emerges holding his own chair to smash some poor bastard.
You see Flonk running over the tables to escape, just screaming "EEEEEEEEEEE!" as he's pelted with turnips. The farmer who started the brawl is currently getting the tar beat out of him by Ulf and Olf who are having one hell of a time.
A few people get out of the fracas as Delma charges out, shouting about getting the sheriff. The goblin Phinick dodges a mug and flees into the stables. An older mustachioed man looks around with haunted eyes before he slinks out, followed by the server Trin who has a bleeding wound on her head.
Everyone is up! you've pacified two farmers but one is in melee range with the group now and swinging at Osveta.
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"Whoever threw that mug that hit our server is gunna pay for that!" Pollo looks over to heap some justice onto the idiots who started this mess, but Ulf and Olf seem to be taking care of that problem already.
"I'm going to do you favor bub and knock you out cold before Osveta pulls your balls out through your throat." Pollo smirks as he winds up and unleashes a jab followed by a haymaker.
Attack 1: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25 for damage 1: 1d4 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4
Attack 2: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (18) + 4 = 22 for damage 2: 1d4 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6
"Now crawl your sorry rear end over to Delma and apologize for messing up her bar!" he shouts, his face turning slightly red.
Intimidate: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (9) + 1 = 10
Milo resisted the temptation to join in the fun. He tried to urge another of the combatants to stand down, "Come over here and sit down. Best guard your drink in case someone knocks it over!"
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
Milo in his younger days: Saturday's Alright for Fighting.
Gigon looked at the situation, Maybe a little smoke could get everybody outside?
Ducking under the table, the Gnome tried slipping about unnoticed to get into position.
>> Sneak x2 to move full speed
All three are Secret Rolls, if you would please roll Mr GM.
Assuming chair guy is still up and agressive.
"What. In. The. F*%+. Is. Wrong with you?" Osveta growls as as she lays into her attacker.
Punch: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16 1d4 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 4 + 1 = 6
Punch: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (14) + 2 = 16 1d4 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 4 + 1 = 6
Punch: 1d20 - 2 ⇒ (8) - 2 = 6 1d4 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 4 + 1 = 9
The mug thrown at her might’ve been very badly aimed, but it still was thrown at her. Properly outraged now, Anghariel bears down on the nearest drunkard at hand and cuffs him smartly – though at the same time, she is careful to keep her magical shield up.
Action 1: Stride over to the closest unsubdued farmer!
Action 2: slap him around a bit! Unarmed attack: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (12) + 3 = 15 for Bludgeoning damage: 1d4 ⇒ 2
Action 3: cast Shield, gaining a +1 circumstance bonus to AC until the start of my next turn.
The group finally decide that polite diplomatic discussion is no longer the best option, and that it's best to just kick some hillbilly ass. Pollo puts up his fists to a guy who looks like his neck is made of ham before popping him twice. Osveta them follows in with an uppercut that sends him flying up into the air before crashing down on a table.
Anghariel also shows she is not a wizard to be trifled with before backhanding a farmer who just kind of stares at her in stunned silence.
Gigon has no issues finding cover, and he ducks under the table before she begins sneaking through the room. However, as Gigon is about to do something quite clever Delma bursts in through the door with a fat, stern-looking man in tow with a nice turnip badge.
"RIGHT YOU LOT THAT'S ENOUGH!"
The sheriff's voice rings out int he room and you see everyone slowly stop their chaotic brawling. Flonk's eyes poke out from behind the bar. Delma looks at everyone before settling her eyes on the farmer who started the brawl with Ulf and Olf.
End of Combat
"Eallom you and your troublemakers get themselves over to talk to Sheriff Rolth right now!"
You see the farmers who instigated the fight head over to pick their unconscious friend up from in front of Pollo and Osveta and gather the one that Anghariel just decked. The Sheriff has a kind of irritable, dull way of speaking as he starts going through some routine questions with the farmers.
Soon enough, the debris from the brawl is already being cleared up. Flonk gets back to playing his terrible music, and the feast is back on.
Bort sits back down with you all, laughing. As he does so, pink porridge is placed in front of all of you.
"My favorite thing about this town!" he cries. "Well, not the bar fights, but the turnip porridge is the last thing you'll ever wnat to eat, mark my words." He immediately begins demolishing his bowl. For those who try it, it's surprisingly good, well-spiced and sweetened with honey, and very turnip-forward.
Milo stared at the Sheriff. A badge in the shape of a turnip? Seriously?
He shook his head and started righting the chairs that had been knocked over, then went to check on the wounded.
Treat Wounds on all that are significantly hurt.
Once brawlers were patched up, he tried the turnip porridge; he nodded and commented, "This is actually not bad!"
Osveta sighs as she slumps back into her chair. "Wolves with bad acid reflux and now psychotic farmers."
Turning her attention to the porridge she mumbles "Bed. Bath. F@~$." before taking a bite. "Oh it's sweet!" she says with some delight.
Staring a few more daggers at the farmer she walloped, Anghariel picks up her chair and seats herself at the group’s table again. “Is everyone all right?” she asks, surreptitiously rubbing her slapping hand. “How it is that some people actually enjoy getting into such a fracas, I’m sure I’ll never understand.”
After trying the turnip porridge and being forced to conclude that it really isn’t all that bad, she turns to Milo. “You, ah, you made me an offer of sorts before the brawl broke out?” she says, sounding a little reluctant to be bringing it up again. “It’s very kind of you, truly, but I don’t know if…I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose on you or your cousin, and, well, there might not even be anything to figure out, really, so…” She falls silent, awkwardly focussing on her porridge.
Pollo's fists unclench as the fight disperses as quickly as it started. The adrenaline coursing through his veins doesn't, however stop that fast. Pollo's breathing and heart rate remain up and the man paces for a few moments before sitting down in front of the offered porridge.
With slightly trembling hands, Pollo flashes a smile at Anghariel. He holds up his spoon to demonstrate the shaking as the last vestiges of his adrenaline run out. "This." he answers simply. "There is a rush you can't get anywhere else, or any way else. It's like a drug." he winks. "Takes a special kind of A-hole to start it though, and even more special to attack innocent people minding their own business. That part I would prefer to do without."
"Heyo - More of this please!" he eagerly wolfs down the delicious meal.
Taking his seat after everything calmed down, Gigon started thinking. There has got to be a way to disperse a ruckus such as that without causing any harm to those involved. Hmm.....
An idea started to form in his mind. Pulling out his special book, he began scribbling some notes. He didn't even notice the porridge put in front of him for a couple minutes.
Finally setting his note aside, the Gnome tasted it. And loved it, "Wow. What kind of spices do they use here? Matter of fact, how do they grow those spices?"
Quickly finishing his bowl, he asked for another.
Bort's porridge is gone as quickly as it shows up in front of him. "Seconds!" he calls out, waving his empty bowl. While he waits for that he launches into another story.
"Speaking of a good fight, there was this one time.." he suddenly grimaces. "Oof, ate that porridge too fast. Nothing like some turnip ale to wash it down though. Where was I? Right, so I was traveling down a high mountain road in the Five Kings Mountains and my caravan was captured by mighty fire - hck hck - ahem sorry. Giants. They were gonna turn me into soup!"
He hammers a fist against his chest before going on. "So they strung us up and were gonna lower us into a kettle - I offered up a - hck hck rare plant I had on my caravan called 'frostbloom'. I called it firebloom, said it was spicy - hck hck - when the giant tasted the broth, it froze his mouth shu--"
Bort's face goes wide as his incessant coughing suddenly ceases. He begins scrabbling around wildly and froth starts bubbling at his lips.
Milo sprang from his chair and rushed over to Bort. He examined the dwarf, and tried to induce vomiting, suspecting some sort of poison.
Medicine: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
"Woah Bort! You ok buddy?" Pollo looks at the man who seems to be rapidly getting worse, clearly unable to breath.
"Help over here anyone?! He can't breath!" Pollo jumps up to help get the choking man away from the table and give him some space.
Medicine Aid Another: 1d20 ⇒ 9
Gigon scrambled over to the fallen Dwarf, grabbed several odd herbs from one of his bandoleers, threw them in a vial of water, shook it vigorously. Immediately afterwords the Gnome inserted a strange needle-type device and extracted the liquid contents into its reservoir.
"Hold him down," Gigon told Milo and Pollo.
Jamming the needle-like thing into the Dwarf's stomach, the Herbalist injected the liquid.
Due to my Chirugeon field, I can use Crafting in place of medicine.
Crafting (Treat Poison): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 20
She eyes Pollo’s trembling spoon. “I see,” the elf then says with a faintly bemused smile. “Well, to each their own. Personally I’ve found life to be…exciting enough as it is without going looking for more trouble like that.”
As Anghariel listens to Bort’s next tall tale, her expression changes from one of good-natured incredulity to confusion to outright panic when it becomes apparent that something is very much wrong with the dwarf. “Master Borgith!” she exclaims and leaps out of her chair, though with Gigon, Milo and Pollo already rushing to the caravan master’s aid she finds herself resigned to looking on in mute horror, her scarred face paler than ever.
Osveta promptly jumps out of her chair and post battle cooldown as something befalls Bort. Rushing over she does as the others instruct and tries her best to keep him steady without hurting him.
Fort: 1d20 + 2 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 2 + 4 = 21
Gigon is immediately on top of Bort and jams a syringe into him, hoping that his alchemical goodies will give Bort a chance against what Gigon presumes is poison. Unfortunately, it does not appear to have an impact. His face turns purple from lack of oxygen. Using all of your medical skill, you continue to try and help the dwarf, but his throat is closed, and within moments, Bort is dead.
You look up from the body to see the room has grown deathly quiet, and everyone is now looking nervously at each other, and their food. Tamli, who had been avoiding the fight in a corner, rushes to his body, grabbing at his shirt and sobbing.
Milo bowed his head, declaring, "He's dead."
After a few moments, he got up. "Gigon, can you tell if his porridge was poisoned?", he asked the gnome.
After some consideration, he said to those assembled, "I suppose we should examine his body, in case there was something like a snake bite that we don't know about. Delma, is there somewhere more private that we can move him to?"
Later on, he spoke to Anghariel, "With everything going on, I didn't get a chance to finish our conversation. All I meant is, you have friends, and friends help each other. If you prefer to keep your own company, that's perfectly OK. But it's also OK to reach out to a friend for support."
Her fingers digging into the palms of her hands Osveta turns to the turnip sheriff. "Can we get a roundup on those that started the fight and those that instigated after for no reason. Awfully convenient all hell breaks loose and everyone's distracted and then Bort gets poisoned." she states.
“No!” the elf gasps, wide-eyed and deathly white in the face, when Milo states that Bort Bargith has passed on. “No, no, no, he – it can’t be, he can’t just –”
Words fail Anghariel at this point. Her fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically, lips quivering with unheard, half-formed syllables, she trembles all over as she stares at the late caravan master. Eventually she staggers backwards and slumps into her chair, burying her face in her hands.
Still more than subdued, she nods slowly in response to the halfling’s words, looking not uncomfortable so much as out of her element. “I…I wasn’t looking at it like that. I’ll think about it.” Anghariel gives Milo a weak smile. “Thank you.”
Gigon was stunned as he sat there staring at his device. "That.....that should have worked. Why didn't it work?
Barely registering Milo's question snapped him out of it, "Yes yes, give me a moment."
Getting up and going over to Bort's bowl, the Gnome pulled out another tiny vial, crushed a little bit of some sort of powder, added some drops of water and a few drops of the porridge. After a couple of quick shakes, he observed the vial to see if there was a colour change. Purple means poison, clear means none. He remembered his master saying.
Not sure what check would be needed to determine the presence of poison.
Frustrated at how quickly things escalated, Pollo tilts Bort's head back and digs his fingers into his throat, looking for something that might have blocked it.
"We all at the same porridge, and Bort was the only one affected. What the..."
Pollo nods along as the request to talk to whomever started the brawl is asked. Something fishy is going on here. The last thing on his mind was how the caravan would keep moving on. This was a problem that needed to be solved.
Hey... This must be how Gigon feels all the time...