DM Dancing Wind -- Hooligans At Home (And On The Road)

Game Master Dancing Wind

"Yes, anything in particular we need he'll fetch from Almas or Elidir. Most folks around here don't have much extra though, for fancy stuff."
Delma turns to re-enter the tavern, "Let me know if you see anything you want."

The two women follow Delma into the taproom. As they enter the tavern, they notice Phinick removing empty plates from the table of a gigantic, brutish man. At each growled demand from the man, Phinick squeaks and cowers, hurrying to carry out the commands. "He's a bit of a bully, that Hallod," says Delma quietly, "but it's simple enough to stay out of his way."
Delma enters the kitchen as Rosalind and Alihana sit at a table next to a small stage.

Looking around they see rustic tables and stools, with a few wooden chairs as well. There is a bar, which opens into the kitchen where Amora can be heard singing off-key. A young man and woman are chatting as he straightens the shelves and runs a cloth over the taps.

The young woman comes over. "What can I get you?" she asks. "You're part of Bort's caravan, aren't you. I saw you pull in earlier."

"Well, we're traveling with him. But only as far as Almas, and only as caravan guards."

Trin's face lights up. "I'd love to go to Almas. It sounds so exciting. And exotic. And thrilling. Just imagine being able to travel like that!"

"Well, yes, we can imagine that. Have you ever considered arranging with Bort to take you to Almas?"

Trin looks even more excited and is obviously turning the idea over in her mind.

"How about a mug of ale? "What do you have?"

"Well, there's turnip ale. And we've got a drink called wagon-grease. That's made from turnips too," Trin says helpfully.

Rosalind and Alihana look at each other.
"We'll stick with the ale,"

As they wait for Trin to return, the street door swings open and Bressaldyn steps in. Seeing them, she heads for their table.

"One of those for me, too" she says to Trin.

"Kolnral, one more," Trin yells to the man behind the bar.

As Rosalind takes her first sip, she glances at Alihana, whose face quickly registers disgust and just as quickly smoothes to a polite facade. Bressaldyn's eyebrows raise and she shakes his head. Pale, watery, slightly sour, this is not what any of them would label 'ale'.

It's wet, and washes away the dust, but they finish quickly and rise to leave.

They walk out into the street in front of the tavern, eying the moss and ivy covering the Plaguestone. "That seems like a heartless way to treat neighbors who are ill."

"But keeping healthy people safe seems sensible. And it allowed people who were well to provide for those who were ill without as much risk for the village as a whole."

Rosalind peers down at the stone, a silent witness to those grim months. It barely reaches her knees. There is a small crack in the top, but otherwise it seems like it's been untouched since the last plague victim died. The town folk walking by pay no heed to this moss-covered relic.

As the afternoon sun falls behind the treetops, Rosalind watches a trickle of men and women enter the tavern.

Hallod comes out, brushing past them carelessly, and walks toward the north end of the village.
"I think I'm going to go clean up a bit. Some warm water and a cloth might remove the final evidence of those wolves, and the dust from traveling."

Both nod.
"I see Bort headed this way. We all could use a bit of tidying."

The three of them walk through the gate and walk over to Cooky's wagon. After collecting a basin of warm water, they climb the stairs to their 'rooms'.

In the main room of the tavern, tables have been shoved together at the far end, next to the platform. An older half-elf is sitting there on a stool, holding a lute with only two strings.

The tavern has filled since the afternoon emptiness. A dozen or more farmers are drinking and chatting as Trin and Kolnral move from table to table refilling mugs and depositing plates of food. Phinick scurries through the room removing dirty plates and mugs, clattering them loudly into the sink in the kitchen.

At one table, a man in a tattered uniform drinks morosely. At another Ulf and Olf seem to have lured a drunken local into a dice game. Delma oversees everything from behind the bar. The odor of stale alcohol, sweaty bodies, and the hint of burnt food seems a fitting perfume for the setting.

Bort waves. "Join us!" he shouts. Eydis and Kaesera are already at the table, as are Rosalind and Alihana, but no other members of the caravan are there.

"Where's Tamli?"

Bort leans toward her, "I think they prefer Cooky's meals," he says in a loud whisper, with an eye toward the kitchen. "Amora gets pretty furious if anyone criticizes her cooking."

Rosalind and Kaesera sit across from each other, surveying the taproom. Eydis and Alihana, looking much cleaner than they did this afternoon, bend toward each other. From the gestures and strange words, it appears that they are quite actively discussing some obscure magical thesis.

Bressaldyn sits at the only empty seat. The bard on stage announces, "I'm Flonk, and I'll be taking your requests tonight." He starts tuning his instrument.

Motions to Trin
"Who is that man in the uniform there in the corner?"

"That's Sir Lawren."
Trin shakes her head sadly.
"He was so drunk when the caravan he was with was ready to leave town, that he was left behind.

That poor man saw things at Lastwall that he can't forget. I think some of his ghosts followed him here."

Kolnral brings the first course. Wild game, roasted. Good. Turnips, roasted. Meh. Seed cake, burnt. Ale, watery. But Bort is off on another story-telling streak and doesn't seem to notice. While Phinick clears the plates, Trin places a bowl of warm turnip porridge before each person, apparently the sweet to end the meal.

"One day," Bort says, "I was crossing the waters of Lake Encarthan. A mighty storm blew up and the ship capsized."

"I was able to grab hold of one of my lock boxes as I slid beneath the wave, but I awoke in front of Pharasma, about to be judged."

"Alas, the Lady of Death kept getting distracted from passing judgment because her hair was being tussled by the storm winds that had brought me before her. I quickly dug through the lockbox and found a silver comb that I gave to her to tame her hair. "

"She was so impressed by the gift that she....." Bort's tale is interrupted by a scraping of chairs, and loud yelling from Ulf and Olf's table.

The farmer there stands up, "You stupid idiot. Look what you've done!" he shouts at Kolnral. Spilled ale drips off his shirt, and he drunkenly swipes at the server, but instead hits the back of the head of another farmer at the table next to him.

A table is overturned. Dice, cards, plates, and crumbs scatter across the floor. A mug flies through the air and hits Trin, who, too late, turns up her serving tray as a shield.

Soon the entire common area is filled with brawling locals. Delma leaves through the front door shouting for her cousin, the sheriff, "Rolth. Rolth!!"

Bort stands and walks between two men, shoving them apart. "Enough!"

Olf and Ulf grab at Eallum, and shove him back down into his chair. "Don't move," they warn.

A chair hits the stage where Flonk had been playing.

Rosalind stands up and moves beside Bort. She shoves one of the farmers back toward his seat.

The farmer looks at her and sneers. With a quick motion he throws a fist at her.

[spoiler=3 Actions]
Fist: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13
Fist: 1d20 + 5 - 4 ⇒ (12) + 5 - 4 = 13
Fist: 1d20 + 5 - 8 ⇒ (8) + 5 - 8 = 5
[spoiler]

But he's too drunk to land a solid punch.