Giu's cheeks puff up as he sees his companions struggling to get the cart out of the mud. "Really, you need me to fix this? Woe us! Groetus, take notice, for your pale light truly shines upon us today!"
"Show-off" Dar mutters as he attempts to get better footing and lift again.
"Ach, so sad, ist not, brother?"
"Ja, ja, brother, so very sad. Like watching children pretend to be grown-ups."
Two redhead identical twins (Olf and Ulf), the practical jokers of the wagon train, choose this moment to put in their appearance.
"We were fighting the wolves at the front of the convoy, badly hurt we were, ja, ja," one of them comments. He puts on a mock-injured expression (neither of them have any visible wounds).
The other finishes his sentence. "Ha, and then we thought what has happened to our Dear Leader, Bort? And we come all this way to the back, and we see the new hires wading in the mud."
They both peer at you with identical expressions. "Is it as fun as it looks?"
Tamli the half-orc overseer growls with annoyance. "You idiots! Get in here and help!"
With a grin, the two muscled Ulfen toughs lend their aid and between you all, the wagon lifts out of the mud and settles back on the road.
The horses have all been badly spooked by the wolves, but the caravan's resident beast-mistress (a wizened gnome call Glunda) whispers softly to them as they are harnessed once more to the wagons and you are soon moving on again.
Bort beams as it is clear that Desna still favours him and there have been no losses. "Ah, that was a memorable interval! Nothing like the time I bested a Fire Giant, though - remind me to tell you of that one." He laughs, his teeth gleaming white. "Dinner and drinks are on me once we reach Etran's Folly!"
The final member of the caravan, a lean rangy elf with one ear, spits and looks sourly at Bort. "Druther to be out in the cold and wet, with no food, then take shelter at Plaguestone."
Bort affects not to hear him, and returns to the head of the convoy. "Onward!"
"We were fighting the wolves at the front of the convoy, badly hurt we were, ja, ja," one of them comments. He puts on a mock-injured expression (neither of them have any visible wounds).
Dar attempts to keep his dignity as he tries to keep his footing in the mud.
"Well, we were back here also fighting wolves and not a single one of us was injured. I guess we know who the better warriors are, don't we?" he comments back and thinks for a moment as if considering the logic.
Shaumatiel rolls her eyes at Dar's posturing. "Boys. Always trying to prove who has the bigger dick." The elf lays down on the wagon's bench and dabs at the sweat on her brow with a perfumed handkerchief.
One of the pair (Olf?) grins at Dar: "Oh, ja, such a mighty warrior he can't get a wagon out of the mud."
The other (Ulf) chimes in: "We fought valiantly, many, many wolves, they threw themselves at us, and injured as we are we have come in search of healing."
Promptly ignoring the half-elf, the two of them dance in a circle around Shaumatiel: "Good cleric, pretty priest, she heals us, ja? She puts her hands on us and makes us feel good, ja, ja!"
Shaumatiel looks at the burly Ulfen men approvingly. "Perhaps. Twins have always been a personal fantasy of mine, assuming you boys don't mind sharing..."
Dar looks as if he's planning a biting retort, but at Shaumatiel's comment, he sighs. He tips his head in the priestess' direction and climbs out of the mud to scrap the stuff off his boots.
Fliss shakes her head wearily at this carnival of freaks and withdraws somewhere to clean her boots before the mud, like, totally destroys them.
Giuseffe grants Shaumatiel this one moment. After all, the poet wouldn't want to incur Calistria's wrath over what, helping a bunch of ingrates?! "T'is true, what you say. But do know that when the Gods give, sooner or later they'll come knocking to take that what's needed to get even. So when you do moan and groan, as flesh gets, eh, knitted, try to be stoic and keep a stiff upper lip."
With that said, it's time for Giu to leave. Where to? Does it even matter?
Dar leans over to Shaumatiel and with a nod towards Giuseffe, whispers, "There's a man that seriously needs to get laid. Would you care to, uh, ...?"
Shaumatiel shrugs languidly. "Sure. I've had worse before."
The twins look as though they're eager to take Shaumatiel up on her offer, but there's a creak as the caravan starts to move onward again and they are called back to their place a few wagons ahead of your own.
The rest of the journey takes only an hour, and the wagons roll into the town of Etran's Folly a few hours before dusk. All of the wagons head for the Feedmill, the only inn and tavern in the small community.
Most of the simple wood-and-thatch homes in the town look identical to one another and are in a similar state of disrepair. A number of the houses clearly look abandoned, their roofs collapsed. As you pass through the middle of town, the wagons go around an ancient stone, a large, flat, cylindrical rock standing 2 feet high, with a hole in its center and a bowl-shaped depression off to one side.
Upon arrival, the jocular Bort directs you (under Tamli's supervision) to secure the caravan for the night while he travels around town to conduct business with the crafters and families that call Etran’s Folly home. He takes the twins with him as porters, much to their evident displeasure.
Heading to the stables, you are greeted by a halfling who evidently knows the caravan well. She exchanges a nod with Tamli "Ah, you lot again, is it?" She fusses over the horses, evidently concerned about their condition after a long journey. "Go oh, I've got this."
With nothing else to do, you head for the taproom of the Feedmill. At this early evening hour, it is almost empty save for a giant of a man slumped by the bar, being supplied with food and drinks by a cringing goblin waiter. The only other occupant is a young woman, evidently the proprietor of the tavern. She greets you all with a curtsy. "You must be with Bort. I'm Delma. Glad to have you here."
Shaumatiel reruns the curtsy. "Charmed, I'm sure. This is our first time in Etran's Folly. What can you tell us of the town? How did it get such an ominous name?"
"And I understand that this probably isn't a common request, given the type of establishment you run here, but we get some ale?" Dar asks with a wink.
Giu but blinks when Shaumatiel makes inquiries about the gloomy nature of the town's name. It's as if his eyes are trying to say 'isn't it obvious?'. Luckily for the artiste, Dar is on the right track and so he follows suit. "If Dar provides coin, Delma may grant ale. Here, Giuseffe takes the first step into making this exchange take place," and he offers the young woman a couple of coins.
It's Giu's hope that the alcohol will wash away the day's dreariness.
Fliss takes off her hat as they enter, tucking it inside a fold of her cloak. She gives Delma a nod. "Good to be here, and have a roof over my head tonight!" She winces as she runs one hand through her straggled hair. "Is there, like, any chance of a bath before drinks and dinner?"
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Delma returns Dar's wink with a smile: "Of course. Kolnral!" At her call, the door behind the bar opens (allowing the sound of a woman singing - badly out of tune - to filter through) and a young man with a mop of sandy blonde hair arrives. At Delma's direction, he speedily pours several pints of watery turnip ale and sets them at one of the tables.
Leaving Kolnral to it, Delma addresses Shaumatiel's question: "The founder of the town, Etran Bolmere, wanted his house to have a suitably impressive location so he built it on a hill, too far from the river. It burned down one night, killing him and his family. If you're interested in history, my father knows more about this town than anyone."
The large man slouching at the bar gives a dirty laugh: "You should tell 'em he's forgotten more about this town than anyone. Man's not all there anymore, Delma, and you know it." He slams his tankard down on the bar, and puts his cloak back on. "Be seein' you, darlin'." He gives Delma a leer as he departs.
Pink spots appear in Delma's cheeks, but she gives the man a civil nod, presumably not wanting to lose a regular customer.
She brightens as Fliss requests a bath: "No problem, I can have Phinick and Trin bring you some hot water from the kitchen." She indicates the goblin and another server, a woman around Fliss' own age.
She leans in and drops her voice slightly: "You may be wondering how a goblin ended up on the staff, given that we're in Isger and it's barely 20 years since the Goblinblood Wars ended. I find it's best not to question these sorts of things. Oh, and mind your head on the way upstairs, dear." This last is addressed to Fliss. "The lamp there hangs rather low."
Shaumatiel inclines her head to Delma. "Thank you, dear. Perhaps I'll seek your father out shortly. I think I'll indulge in a bath myself, first."
She heads upstairs, ducking under the lamp, as she prepares to freshen up.
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Fliss makes her way upstairs, pausing briefly to admire the quality of the lampshade. At another time, she might luxuriate in the bathwater, but after a long journey she is hungry and ready for a hot meal and a drink. She therefore sloshes around enough to get clean, before pulling her clothes back on and making her way downstairs again.
"Do you have anything to drink that's, like, not made from turnips?"
If it weren't for the bumpy ride and his aching pancake of an arse, Giuseffe would've shown some interest in the town's history. Alas, the turnip ale has done little to improve his dour mood. But perhaps there's something that can help turn his mood around. "Say, Delma. That house, the burned one down on the hill, do you know of any poets or writers who have written about it? In a literary sense, I mean. It doesn't happen to be haunted by chance?"
Dar shakes his head as the large man leaves, recalling a snippet of a ditty that he recalls a whore in a different town who would sing.
~ A!#$&&@s abound in every city and town ... ~
He grins when the rest of the song begins echoing in his head and takes a drink of the so-called beverage set before him.
Putting his arm around the man's shoulder, Dar addresses the perpetually despondent bard in a quiet voice. "Giuseffe, we need to work on your game. I know that in the big cities, the 'cynical poet' bit may get the ladies, but in places like this," he gestures at the room around them, "a more ... positive approach is warranted. Observe ..."
He raises his voice at the Delma.
"So, M'lady; this may be a bold question, but is there a Mr. Delma?" He smiles in a friendly manner.
Giu tries to shrug off Dar's arm but it all ends with a terrible sigh as the shrug manages to neither remove the man's arm nor make his voice trail off into a black hole. Luckily, the man shifts his focus from poor Giu to the now pitiable Delma.
With a hushed voice, he answers the question. "No, but I know the face of regret when I see one." It isn't that Giu thinks lowly of Dar, he doesn't, but bar personnel, whether they be male or female, tend to have pretty witty answers to this sort of question.
Delma gives Dar a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes: the sort you give when you don't want to piss off a paying customer. "Between running this place and looking after my father, it doesn't leave me a lot of time for dalliances. Especially with people who will be leaving after breakfast tomorrow and most likely won't be coming back."
She winces as another burst of song filters through the door from the kitchen. It shouldn't be possible to butcher a Galtan folk-song that badly - by the law of averages, you'd think at least one note would be in tune.
But no.
"Sonnay lemon teener, sonnay lemon teener..."
Grateful for an excuse, Delma hurries away behind the door. A few moments later, the singing mercifully dies away.
Kolnral looks puzzled at Fliss' question, his brow furrowing under his mop of sandy hair. "Um, I'm not sure, Miss. Oh, hang on, there's this..." He rummages behind the bar for a few moments before producing a bottle of clear, viscous liquid, stoppered in place by a corroding cork.
"This is made from apples. Well. Mostly apples."
"Rejection stings, does it not?" Shaumatiel says, coming up behind Dar. She places her hands on the half-elf's broad shoulders and begins to massage them. "But no need to despair. If you are interested in a dalliance, my bed is large enough for the two of us to share, and I find the nights are warmer with somebody to snuggle up to."
"Aye, it stings, but only for a moment," Dar replies, leaning back into the elf's skilled hands. "But if you don't ask, they can't say 'Yes'."
He reaches to draw his mug in for a swallow of the liquid they label as drinkable. A thought occurs to him. "I must say, though," he continues with a laugh, "that if your intentions are truly just to snuggle, then you are a very cruel woman indeed."
Giuseffe's eyes narrow as a thought hits him. "I can sneak into the room and read you some proper romantic poetry, Dar, if that would take away the cruelty from the situation? How about an exotic poem? Ahem."
After clearing his throat, Giu starts to recite a strange poem that doesn't rhyme. "Perfect single grape. Clings tentatively to vine. Playing hard to get." And if Dar is expecting more, what with it being over before it started, disappointment will follow.
Dar frowns at the bard. "How is that a poem, much less exotic? It doesn't even rhyme." He shakes his head. "No, I think Shaumatiel's snuggly company will be more than enough."
"Snuggling is just the start, darling," Shaumatiel purrs. She gently nips at Dar's pointed ear.
The bard takes a sip from the disappointing ale and stares longingly into the distance - a wall, desperately in need of a lick of paint, not further away than three meters from his chair - wishing he had a quality bottle of wine at hand. "Perfect single grape, clings tentatively to vine, waits for gentle hands. Now, perhaps understanding how this is poetry is to understand you will never ever understand all there is to understand, and through this understanding, come to understand you might not understand. Alright, okay. Delma, t'is time for something stronger!"
Dar rolls his eyes at the bard's ponderings and looks at Shaumatiel as if to say, 'See? He needs sex.'
Shaumatiel smirks and touches her nose as if to say, 'Not it.'
"Alright, okay. Delma, t'is time for something stronger!"
"Well, there, I like the enthusiasm, but maybe hold up a bit - the night's only just started!" Bort returns from his various errands, chuckling at Giuseffe's enthusiasm, before deftly swiping from Kolnral's hands the bottle of liquor that Fliss is currently considering. "Ha, that's an old trick they play round here on newcomers. Trust me, girl, you don't want that."
He smiles at you all. "Anyway, join me for dinner - it's on me, by way of thanks for your help against those wolves earlier today."
The dwarf has reserved a table on the dais, next to what appears to be the town bard, whose lute is missing two strings and who - it seems - only knows parts of three different tunes. Fortunately as the tavern fills with the chatter of townsfolk arriving for drinks and food, the hubbub of rising noise more or less drowns him out. As the number of visitors increases, the bar-staff switch roles, with Delma tending behind the bar and Kolnral and Trin act as wait-staff, occasionally assisted by the goblin, Phinick; although he mostly stays in the kitchen.
As the first dishes come out (wild game and roasted turnips with a side of burnt seed cake, coupled with watery turnip ale), Bort has just finished regaling you with another of his improbable (but well-told) stories: "...Alas, the Lady of Graves could not decide on my fate because her hair was being tussled by the storm winds that brought me and my crew before her. Well, not wanting to be inconsiderate, I dug through my lockbox and found a silver comb that I gave to the Lady to tame her hair. So impressed was she by the gift, the she returned me and my entire crew to the shores of lake Encarthan, alive and well." He bangs his tankard on the table for emphasis. "And that's no word of a lie." He gives a big, beaming grin. "Now, how about you tell me a little of yourselves?"
Bort returns from his various errands, chuckling at Giuseffe's enthusiasm, before deftly swiping from Kolnral's hands the bottle of liquor that Fliss is currently considering. "Ha, that's an old trick they play round here on newcomers. Trust me, girl, you don't want that."
Fliss glares at the lad Kolnral who tried the trick on her: "That is, like, not cool." She stomps away from the bar, muttering to herself as she joins the others at the table.
She seems to shrink away almost to nothing as the dwarf asks them to talk about themselves: her life has been pretty uninteresting so far, and she follows a god who tends to frown on lying. Telling tall tales the way Bort seems to enjoy doing is very much not one of her strengths.
She looks around, hoping one of the others is more into this.
Bort returns from his various errands, chuckling at Giuseffe's enthusiasm, before deftly swiping from Kolnral's hands the bottle of liquor that Fliss is currently considering. "Ha, that's an old trick they play round here on newcomers. Trust me, girl, you don't want that."
"Now color me intrigued," Dal says with a raised eyebrow. "What, perchance, could that possibly be?" he asks.
"You want to know more about little old me?" Shaumatiel asks, batting her eyelashes. "I'm five foot, eleven inches. Slender but curvy. I was born under the sign of the Daughter. I enjoy long walks through the woods and a warm glass of cider on a cold night. Whips and chains excite me..."
"I am a missionary from the church of Calistria. I have left my home in Kyonin to spread the faith in the wider world and to seek allies for my fellow elves in the renewed fight against the Whispering Tyrant. Granted, this is an unlikely place to accomplish my goals, but everybody must start somewhere, I suppose."
Dar raises his mug of turnip ale in the elf's direction. "Well, you've found an ally in me, Lady Shaumatiel," the man says with a wink. "I'll always support the priesthood of the Savored Sting," he adds. His brow furrows for a moment. "Unless, of course, I've pissed off one of them in which case I'll be as far from them as possible."
He takes a sip from the mug and then puts it back down on the table quickly, holding his hands up defensively. "Not that I ever have, to my knowledge. No need for vengeance displayed in my direction."
Looking at the others, his trademark grin firmly in place, Dar nods. "As is obvious, I'm a sell-sword. I do my job and try not to let personal feelings get in the way. So I'll keep my past as my past, if you don't mind."
He takes another sip of the ale. It seems to be growing on him.
Bort nods appreciatively at your stories, and looks as though he's about to ask Fliss for her contribution; she is spared having to say anything by the arrival of dessert (warm turnip porridge). The dwarf beams as he gets an extra-large bowl, and is about to tuck in when Kolnral accidentally bumps into one of the farmers, causing the man to spill his ale over himself. Off-balance, and apologising profusely, Kolnral succeeds only in pouring a generous serving of turning porridge into the man's lap.
Purple with rage, the farmer stands, bawling drunken, angry profanities at the hapless barman - Kolnral backs away alarmed, causing the punch being thrown to catch another farmer in the back of the head. With a roar of anger, the man just punched gets to his feet (none too steadily) and hurls himself at the farmer; the two men sprawl backwards into the next table.
Within seconds, a bar fight erupts in the common area of the tavern as a dozen drunken farmers wind up in a gigantic brawl. This is evidently how the locals get their entertainment.
And entertained Dar seems to be. He slides his seat back up against one wall and watches the fracas with a smile and his mug of turnip ale in one hand. For all the world looking content to observe the locals knock the crap out of each other.
Shaumatiel reclines beside Dar and watches the festivities as well.
Dar leans his head casually towards Shaumatiel. "I've got a silver that says Baldy there is gonna deck No-neck ..." he begins quietly, but then grimaces in sympathy pain. "Never mind. He's gonna feel that when he sobers up."
Unlike her colleagues, Fliss' expression is one of dismay as the evening goes rapidly south. "Hey! Quit it!"
Quickly standing up, she marches towards the brawl, trying to separate the combatants and restore peace. She is a paladin of Abadar, after all.
She glances at the others, who seem more keen on watching. "Seriously, guys - a little help here?"
Shaumatiel rolls her eyes at Fliss's attempts to restore order. "Oh, very well." The elf stands up and lays a hand on the shoulder of the nearest brawler. "Hello there, friend. Why don't we talk about other ways to have fun besides kicking the stuffing out of somebody else?"
The poet is anything but impressed by the culinary turnip procession. It reminds Giu of a time he'd rather forget, namely a solid three months of having to share the dorm with a homesick halfling. Try as he might, he can't help but roll his eyes as yet another turnip creation makes its way to the dinner table. How positively dreadful all of this is!
But then things get interesting. Finally, something spicy got served!
"‘This is the way that Gorum sees life, from seedling-braird to snedder ...’", the bard starts as he leans back in his chair and makes himself scarce.
"... as the handle turned, and turnip-heads were let fall and fed...", the comment goes as a farmer's nose embraces a stiff blow.
"... to the juiced-up inner blades, ‘This is the turnip-cycle'...", when Fliss dives on in and invites a world of hurt onto herself.
"... as it dropped its raw sliced mess, bucketful by glistering bucketful."
As the fight escalates into a brawl, Delma runs out of the front door, presumably to fetch help. Bort stands up, trying to use his personable demeanour to calm things down, but ducks as a chair comes flying in his direction. He quickly stands down and looks to you to do something.
Kolnral manages to get to safety behind the bar, where he crouches down and waits for things to subside. Trin, the serving-girl, isn't so lucky: a mug catches her in the face. Clapping one hand to her cheek, she flees the building via the stables.
Olf and Ulf, the two redhead twins, laugh with glee and jump into the fray. They don't seem terribly concerned about restoring order or calm.
The farmer that Shaumatiel lays a hand on glazes over as his will succumbs to hers, and allows himself to be led out of the fray. The cleric gets a tankard of ale thrown at her for her troubles, which clonks her painfully on the back of the head and drips warm turnip beer down her back.
Fliss subdues another brawler but takes a punch to the face from one of the other combatants.
Another thrown mug bounces off Dar's forehead. Evidently people aren't being very discriminating in their choice of targets.
"Owwwww! I'm trying to like, be peaceful here!" Fliss reels back as the blow lands, more in annoyed surprise than in pain; although she feels her lip start to swell up.
She calls on her deity to protect Shaumatiel from the attack, before moving towards the man who threw the mug and punching him.
She then focuses her ire on the man who punched her, knocking him to the ground before trying to stamp on him, although without success.
Shaumatiel snarls angrily as the tankard strikes her, and while Fliss's intervention dulls the pain, the sheer indignity of being soaked with beer incites her rage. She whirls on her assailant, uncoiling her whip and lashing at him! "You will feel my sting!" she proclaims.
"Fine, then! Since you've asked so nicely," Dar calls out to whomever flung the mug in his direction. "I will join in the fun!"
With a laugh, he throws his mug into the melee and begins punching the nearest figure he doesn't recognize.