For fun times...
On the road north of Gelberg, heading towards Zobeck, Just after sunset.
The carriage bounced on the well traveled road, the driver setting a fast pace as even the normally safe Southern Road was sometimes dangerous after sunset. The man and dwarf outside in the driving seat of the carriage intensely watched the surroundings for any sign of danger. Inside the wagon sit only two individuals; A hulking hooded individual with striking amber eyes with square pupils, much like a goat, and a smaller figure with the unmistakable build and features of a Kobold.
"Well Krif. I'd hoped to make it back to the City before dark. Curse our misfortune at that broken wheel".
The Kobold then spoke. "You worry overmuch Destin. They won't start without us, and the event is to...important... to not continue. The group looks rather promising this year I think".
"I suppose you're right. You know how I worry. It's important to gather power and influence without being obvious... Ah. There are the lights of the city now".
The Tiefling, and Kobold both settle back to think before their arrival at the Welcoming Event.
Five days earlier in the back office of "The Stormy Pegasus" in the Temple District of Zobeck.
Sitting behind the desk was the proprietor of the Tavern Anthony "Slim" Porkins. The immense Dark skinned owner seemed frustrated by the efforts of the two seated across from him to ensure he made as little profit as possible from the coming event.
The well dressed human with slicked back hair, and a pencil thin mustache that he constantly twirled addressed him with a frown. "You know you're not the only place in town with a private dining room. The 'Fall of Stross' festival ended a little over a week ago, and you made a fortune as did everyone else in town. With winter fast approaching it's time you made this tavern useful to our group. I assure you it won't be the only event we hold".
His large Obviously Orc companion snorted in, his large fangs causing his speech to be somewhat rough. "Yeah! What Leereon said, Oakgu almost shouted. And besides that I'm going to have to hire extra security. You're place has too many entrances to guard alone... especially with the recent unrest in the city. I know they'll be at least one Kobold here, and you know how the current in the city flows at the moment".
The tavern owner finally slammed both hands on his desk in frustration. "Fine! I'll throw in a desert of sugared apricots, and an extra pony of Ale... that's my final offer".
The two on the other side of the desk looked at each other and nodded, both speaking in unison... deal. Leereon reached out his hand to shake, followed shortly by Oakgu, who first spit in his palm. The innkeeper made no move to shake either hand. "Now if one of you will just sign right here".
Slim noticed as the human reached out to sign the document a small tattoo of a blue pair of broken shackles on the inner left wrist of the man. The two rose to leave when Slim cleared his throat..."Ahem... Aren't you forgetting something... the deposit...".
"Oh! Right! Sorry". And with a bow the Orc known as Oakgu pulled forth a pouch of coins and placed it on the desk as they left the room.
Two days before the events at the tavern
The beautiful human female smiled at the thin older woman seated across from her in a pew of the Church of Rava. It was early morning on a Torsday, and the temple was empty but for the two. The giant gears on display behind the alter continued their movement, and the ticking and tell-tale release of steam from behind the walls gave away their source of movement.
"I promise you Lena. We're not intending to take worshipers from Rava. St. Helba is indeed a reverent worshiper of the Goddess of Gears... we just are able to move along beneath the surface and accomplish things that the Church of Rava is either too large to move quickly enough on, or wish to be disassociated from. We don't even have a holy book, or a temple of our own". The younger woman then rose and began to pace.
"We're not asking for your support either spiritually or financially, just the ability to operate without your interference... and of course any endorsement would be welcome. You know the memory of the Stross family is too fresh for a member of the family to be embraced".
The older woman finally sighs and raises grabbing the young woman by the shoulders to stop her pacing. "Sylira. You know you have always been one of my favorites, and I could never tell you no. Just be wary, with increased power comes increased responsibility... and danger. You're group of Heralds has the blessing of the Church of Rava in Zobeck. In fact there is one I would have assist you. He asks far too many questions, and would probably be best served in another capacity, other than the Church".
With that the two embraced and went their separate ways.
The common room of the Stormy Pegasus was almost empty. The aftereffects of the Festival had everyone in for the most part, but the back party room was a hive of activity. Outside the door several individuals gathered, with the printed invitations from this "Heralds of St. Helba". in hand. Most didn't know the others, but they were all here for a common cause. Excitement at the opportunity of adventure for some, and the possibility of coin for others hung in the air. Finally the door to the main room opened.
At the front of the room was a long table with (5) Individuals seated at it. I tall female tiefling wearing a hood, immediately to her right were a small Kobold wearing blue robes, and a Hulking Orc eyeing the arrivals with an intense glare. To her left were a dandily dressed human male with a fantastic mustache, and a gorgeous redheaded female resplendent in gleaming chain armor.
Two tables at the front had a mixture of people who obviously knew each other, but turned as the new recruits entered the room. Four empty tables were further back in the room, with placards announcing the seating arrangement. The table in the far right corner listed the following names.
Grion Spelleater
Croker Windancer
Snorri Svensson
Nik'olo Graczi
Khanoi Treefall
A barmaid walked up the group of 5, and asked for your drink orders. "Ale, Wine, or Mead"? The buxom woman with acne asked in a strongly accented voice. Her badly rotted teeth and accompanying compromised breath soured appetites, but her manner encouraged participation.
Finally, Snorri is at the verge of emerging the Heralds' ranks. It's been two years since he left the cold North, trading and raiding here and there, and joining this group will ease the task of forging his legend.
"Mead, of course" he replies, taking his place in the table while everyone else is watching him and the other rookies. One would swear his occupation lies far away from the battlefield, judging from his slender build, but nothing further from truth. Snorri, instead of brute force or quickness, uses his own instinct and force of will, and certainly to a deadly extent.
He will turn into a myth. He will go back to his father and make him proud. He will leave the stakes high for his own son to do the same, and his family's saga will last through the ages.
Heart racing and breathing heavily, Croaker ran down the street. Barely avoiding a small rat-kabob stand and its cursing kobold vendor, he swings his eyes behind him to see the dozen or so northerners still closing. His grimy robes flutter in the wind along with his feathers as his rather scrawny legs churn as fast as they can down another alley and around yet another corner gathering the enthusiastic curses of three bums and one rather world worn lady of the evening. The smell of sweat, dust, and days upon days of long weary travel drifts along behind the fleeing Huginn along with the faint, but distinct, odor of the grave.
How was I to know?! Croaker shouts within his own mind and to whichever god the Soaring Wind thought he should speak with this week. It wasn't his fault that his vision showed the young bride with a young man who was clearly not her betrothed. And really once that information was out there, then the groom clearly wasn't going to have any need for that bauble of a wedding ring. His thought race along like his body while his eyes search for any sign or hope that might offer escape.
Taking advantage of his narrow frame, he slips down another narrow alley between two rickety buildings. Popping out the other side he manages to spot the swinging sign of the Stormy Pegasus. Ahhhh...a sign from the divine wind herself.
A quick look in either direction reveals the pursuit hasn't made it around the block yet so the ravenfolk dashes across the street and into the door of the waiting tavern. Lingering near the entrance he watches until the group of burly, bearded, cudgel wielding northmen get a few doors away. When the moment is right, he leans just a bit out the door and shouts. Oddly his voice is the perfect match for one of the grim looking northmen, even down to the barrel chested growl and accent, which would seem quite impossible coming from the thin feathered frame of the huginn.
"Aye! There he is!" Croaker shouts, throwing his mimicked voice just enough so that it appeared to come from the middle of the street rather than the stoop of the Pegasus. "The lil' feathered bastard just ran past that taxidermy shop. I'll see his hide stuffed for good once I catch 'im."
Quickly ducking back, Croaker watches as the words have the desired effect and the big men go dashing up the street. Slipping the crystal ring into his pouch, he turns and looks about the dimly lit tavern. Seeing little of interest, he starts to turn only to have the choir fill his head once again. A great multitude of voices singing the praises for a St. Helba and her growing need. He shakes his head from side to side, but like every time before the motion does not dislodge the voices from his poor addled mind. Instead a slight breeze ruffles his feathers and whirls toward the back of the tavern, generating more than a few odd or disgruntled looks from the handful of semi-drunk patrons with its passage.
"Order something or take your trickery and thieving ways elsewhere, blackbird." Mutters the barkeep as the waitress walk into a private room in the back, her tray filled with drinks.
"Ah...well...yes. You see, by the divine guidance of the Scouring Wind herself, I believe I'm to meet some folk..." He stops letting the rest hang in the air for just a moment.
"Rrriiight...." The barkeep drawls skeptically before pointing a finger toward the backroom. "If you're with that Helba lot, they're in the back." The barkeep says, his nose wrinkling and face twisting as Croaker steps closer. "And if you're the type they'll be bringing in, I'll have to remember to charge double for the use of the room next time."
"Yes! That's it for certain. St. Helba. All praise her glories and wonders." Croaker says walking past the bartender and into the room. The holy choir is louder and more boisterous within his mind than it ever has been. Stepping into the room he sees the waitress, the group of gathered folk and the empty seats with the placards. His eyes spot the one with his name upon it and the roaring chorus in his mind crescedos. Accepting a mead from the offerings on the tray, Croaker takes his seat at the table.
"Croaker Winddancer." He says pointing at the card on the table and looking around at the others present. Downing the drink in one great gulp, his black eyes whirl wildly for a moment. "Does anyone else hear that choir singing?"
A wild, blonde-haired halfling swaggers into the backroom for the gathering of the Heralds of Saint Helba. With a height and facial features of a three-year-old human, his eyes show much more wisdom and tragedy. He wears new fur-trimmed traveling gear with an emblem of the Lodge of the Dancing Bear Guides, and his weapons' belt carries a shortsword and handaxe.
Along the way to the table, he passes a wooden stool which is about as tall as he is and easily grabs it one-handed. In front of the placard of Khanol Treefall, he sets the stool down and lays a paper invitation with the wax seal broken. He unshoulders a crossbow again about as large as he is and leans it on the human-sized chair that he appears not to want to use. That is confirmed, when he shrugs out of a rucksack with a coil of rope and leather quiver attached and positions in its seat.
While he climbs on to the stool, the halfling replies to the server, ”mead, lass,” echoing the northerner who he nods to. Turning to the Huginn, he replies, ”Don’t hear a choir. How’d you get here?”
While he waited and listened to the stories of his new companions, he reflected on how he got here. He arrived in Zobeck two days ago delivering a merchant from the Kingdom of Vidim after three months traveling along unworn paths to bring specialties of the north to the Crossroads. He smiled remembering his first night with a hot bath and company, a fine meal, and a soft bed and more company. He genuinely enjoyed what money could buy in cities.
Yesterday, he received his final payment of ten platinum pieces, because the merchant highly valued her relationship with the Guides of the Dancing Bear. And, if you want to drink all day, you need to start in the morning. He pub-crawled through Zobeck collecting an entourage. He started rich, became good-looking, and eventually finished the evening thoroughly invincible. Along the way, he remembered a vague conversation with a good-looking lady who he thought her name was Helba. He thought they discussed a potential job guiding a crew from Zobeck, but the specifics were quite fuzzy.
Khanol woke up this morning buried in face full of goulash surrounded by his passed out entourage in a dive. He was stained from hair to boot in food, drink, and vomit. After extracting himself from the mass of imminent hangovers, the one-eyed proprietor gave him the wax-sealed invitation to this gathering of the Heralds of St-Helba. He scrounged for his remaining coins that he used to buy new traveling gear, another bath, and a huge meal. He needed to be cleaned up to meet a potential client. He learned a couple years ago that he got paid more after a bath, but he did not really understand why… other than it worked every time.
Another blue robed kobold hops onto one of the remaining chairs and freezes, standing on the chair and scowling at the placard. He grabs it up in his little ink-stained claws and squints at it grimacing with annoyance. He turns on the barmaid pointing at the writing on the placard.
"Who wrote this? My name is Gree-oh, spelled G-R-I-O-T, not Groin. Is this a joke? Do you enjoy mocking kobolds? This will not stand! I will not be oppressed by a gawking, yellow-toothed bovine." He drops the placard on the floor and scowls at the barmaid.
In the alley near the Stormy Pegasus, Nik'olo slaps himself with his cape with great gusto. A cloud of fragrant dust, half dried mud, half dried cow dung, lifts from his clothes, filling the alley.
Once satisfied that he's left the long road from the Ironcrags behind, well, around, him, Nik'olo straightens and proceeds to fix his once immaculate white shirt. He is careful to cover the long scar that runs red across his neck. The thing stung still, and he winces as the dirty silk scrapes ever so slightly against the tender skin. He then uses his hands as makeshift irons to straighten his tunic and his cape, keeping his rapier well out of sight. Finally, his long silver hair he licks to the side. He feels his hair sticking to his scalp. He knows he needs a bath, but first he needs coin!
He gives the piece of paper a last look and checks he has the right place before carefully folding it and putting the paper back in his bag. Right he thinks, to new beginnings! Again...
And he steps through.
He tries not to smile when the barkeep gives him a long, curious look. He feels special, all of a sudden, and he feels a bit of courage flow back through his veins.
Going through the portal and into the filled room, he pouts as he is mostly ignored. He feels the energy in the air. So much hope! he thinks. He tries to spot a mark, but everyone here seems just as desperate as he is.
He spots the most downtrodden of the lot, making sure to give them a wide berth, only to come around and realize they're all at his table... For a moment, he contemplates leaving, then the vision of his friend swinging lifelessly fills his eyes with tears, or perhaps it that barkeep's breath? Anyhow, he owed it to the fervent priest to at least sit through this...
He walks over and takes a seat away from the dirty Halfling. With a voice coarse like a fork scratched against a plate, he greets everyone at the table: "Well met everyone! My name is Nik'olo. I am here seeking fame and fortune in the service of St. Helba- What? Oh, wine pleas- no wait! What kind of wine do you carry? Anything from South Septime? Why are you looking at me like that? Red only? Well, red then... Wait! Would you be so kind as to clean the glass before you fill it. Use my handkerchief... Where was I? Yes! Nik'olo, pleased to meet you Groin, Croaker, and... I didn't catch your names?"
The halfling adjusts to make his perch on the stool more comfortable. At least, his waist is table high, so he looks the elf in the eyes for his question and replies, "It's Treefall. Khanol Treefall." He moves his name placard to face the elf to emphasize.
"What fame and fortune is there to be had here? Who knows what the Heralds of St. Helba do? I can't remember the introduction."
The put upon kobold turns his withering gaze to the newcomer. "Et tu, elf? Ho-ho-ho, it is to laugh."
So saying, the kobold retrieves the placard and waves off the waitress as he carefully selects a small pot of ink and quill from his pouch to cross out the provocation on the placard and correctly write out GRIOT SPELLEATER (pronounced GREE-OH)
Sighing loudly, he focuses his attention on the other tables pointedly ignoring the elf at his own table.
"Snorri" he answers, letting his eyes evaluate his companions. An elf, a kobold, a halfling... A quite disparate group. Hopefully they are going to be assigned to different posts, or else any monster they face will have a big chance of dying due to laughter.
Snorri takes a long sip of mead, not because he's really thirsty but to let his nostrils rest from the awful stink of literally cowshit. "Man, you guys couldn't reach the bathroom on time?" he laughs.
After any response to his question about fame, fortune, and St. Helba, the halfling looks at Snorri and toasts with his mead and speaks in the Northern Tongue, "Skål, Snorri. Hvor i nord kommer du fra? Hva førte deg til Zobeck? Og her? Berømmelse og formue også?"
"Griot! My apologies. Though, come to think of it, Groin would be an apt war name nevertheless... And Snorri, well met!"
He ignores the reference to the smell, hoping the Kobold or the Halfling will get charged for the sin.
"Fame and fortune. Bah!" Croaker waves his feathered hand in the air, barely missing Nik'olo's glass as the elf tries to take another drink.
"What are those compared to serving the most holy. Knowing you have unburdened your soul for the betterment of the world." He leans in toward the table, the smell of the grave accompanying him with every inch as his feverish eyes take in everyone. "Tell me....who among you wishes to be saved by the holy word of the Scouring Wind?" He leans back, a puzzled look suddenly crossing his features. "Or was it the word of Saint Helba?" He taps a finger along his beak. "Or was it that boisterous thunder fellow, what was his name, Bore...no...Thor. Yes, that's it. Hmmm....."
Tilting his head to one side, he jams a finger in his ear and swirls it around. "Really...no one else hears the choir? They're rather good. Lively beat, got a lot of soul to it, not like that usual dreary stuff you hear in most temples."
He turns to the kobold a hopeful look in his eyes. "Kobolds usually have excellent hearing, do they not. Surely you hear it sir...errr...what was it...Gloin?"
Another blue robed kobold hops onto one of the remaining chairs and freezes, standing on the chair and scowling at the placard. He grabs it up in his little ink-stained claws and squints at it grimacing with annoyance. He turns on the barmaid pointing at the writing on the placard.
"Who wrote this? My name is Gree-oh, spelled G-R-I-O-T, not Groin. Is this a joke? Do you enjoy mocking kobolds? This will not stand! I will not be oppressed by a gawking, yellow-toothed bovine." He drops the placard on the floor and scowls at the barmaid.
The barmaid steps back almost upsetting her tray of drinks...
"I'm sorry... I... they were already placed when I came on shift. Twasn't I...I I don't know my letters squire
All>> Perception (DC16)
At one of the tables in the front of the people who were already present when you arrived sits a small figure with their back to you. A a hood pulled over their head. You're pretty sure you saw the character shake a bit with laughter when Griot had his outburst.
"Fame and Fortune can also come along 'Ze Greater Good' no? I recall a treaty from an arcanist, specialist in the transmutation of gold, Adamus Semithus Magnus or something, who in fact posited that every individual adventurer, by seeking personal fortune, participated, overall, towards 'Ze Greater Good.' Selfishness, when summed, amounted to selflessness... So there you go! As for joining the Scouring Wind... sounds a little too... scouring for my taste. I'd like to give Helba a fair shake first." Nik'olo replies to Croaker.
He turns to the kobold a hopeful look in his eyes. "Kobolds usually have excellent hearing, do they not. Surely you hear it sir...errr...what was it...Gloin?"
"Excellent hearing, smell, AND vision." Griot clarifies as he impatiently taps his corrected placard. "Which is to say, I'm wondering what sense you ravenfolk rely on. Not vision, I see and as to choirs, all I hear is your wheezing. Furthermore, my delicate sense of smell has been under constant assault since I sat down. First by yon hostess of halitosis and now carrion crow stink and a waft of manure emanating from the human who marked it, I would guess." Griot looks smugly around before giving a cluck of annoyance and peering venomously at the hooded chuckler.
"Common sense. My friend. A sense of self preservation. Good solid horse sense. Those are the ones my people most often rely on, oh kobold of the thousand names." Croaker replies. "As for that intoxicating aroma of death and doom, well it is a simple after effect of finding oneself buried alive by a hoard of angry Khazzaks. Nothing to worry about if you've found the proper salvation."
Intrigued by Nik'olo's philosophizing about the value and impact of adventurers upon the world at large, Croaker turns back to the elf.
"Ah...an interesting concept. All adventuring by adventurers will simply accumulate to a better world." The ravenfolk taps his finger upon the table, sneezes causing several loose feathers to leap from his robe and drift about the table where they inevitably end up floating in drinks or sitting perched atop dinner rolls. Obliviously continuing he gestures from elf to kobold to northern reaver. "Now if one considered killing off goblins and kobolds like Sirloin over here adding to the greater good, then I suppose your Magnus might have a point. But eventually the world will run out of kobolds then what? Halflings? Gnomes? But more importantly...for I doubt the world will ever run out of gnomes...is all that fortune ends up in the hands of a few burly adventurers. People who by their very nature, deem the sword mightier than the pen. You've created vast income inequality my good elf. Inequality that is protected by a bloody minded few who typically end up with powers boarding on godhood. Why...." He pauses for a moment, looks thoughtful.
"But I suppose, new adventurers would crop up to pilfer, kill, defeat, or otherwise remove from power those previous adventurers. Thus a life cycle is born."
"Ingenious! The gods truly are amazing." His eyes squint in continued thought. "But then again...does that mean all others are just here to serve the whim of adventurers?!" His eyes narrow as he looks around the room suspiciously wondering who the master mind of such an atrocity might be.
Khanol listens to the back and forth. He's heard his share of sword-measuring and philosophizing, so he carefully listens to their words, like a trapper surveying the ecosystem.
He sips his mead, listening to any disrespectful slight cast toward his direction. He hadn't been in a fight, since... uh... last night. And he wonders anyone dared to treat him like that kobold. Otherwise, he'd have to teach this philosophers some manners.
Nik'olo ponders the Ravenfolk's words for a moment then says: "If it were so, would it not turn the whole enterprise of adventuring moot, as there is no adventuring without adventure. Our world only teaches us through resistance. Thus the struggle is the heart of the balance. It keeps us... adventuring!"
He goes to take a gulp of wine but the state of the glass turns it into a chaste sip.
Griot fumes. "Nonsense is the only sense I've heard from bird brains here. Why does your proposition for the greater good only include killing peoples that are smaller than you? Bah!"
Griot hops down from his seat and walks over to a cloaked chuckler at a nearby table. He taps the figure on the shoulder and loudly asks, "What are you laughing about, Stranger?"
When the kobold leaves, Croaker snorts and pulls out a small tattered book, from some pocket within his ragged robes. The brown (at least it looks like the original color was brown) leather cover is stained, blood splattered, worn, weathered, dusty, and wrinkled from use and travel. It is embossed with a rather remedial blowing cloud and forked lightning symbol. Flipping to a tattered page only a short way into the book, he points to what looks like a partially filled in crossword puzzle.
"Says right here." He mutters while jabbing a finger along one of the few completed lines of the crossword. Each letter written in a ragged, shaking, scrawl. It is mostly surrounded by several empty boxes. "Divine Precept of Piety number thirteen. Never trust those smaller than you." He flips forward three pages. Another partially completed crossword. "Not to be confused with Divine Precept of Piety number twenty-six. Never trust those larger than you." He shakes his head sadly and starts to close the book. "That kobold will never find the true path to divine enlightenment with his attitude."
Suddenly he stops. Looks back to the elf. "Wait a minute..." He says his eyes brightening like a morning sunrise. "I say. I do say, my good elven friend." He slaps Nik'olo on the shoulder. "Wham-a-doodle, but you've struck a truth with that whole struggle line of thinking. Of course that's it. Without struggle and its associated pains and suffering, there can't be any growth. No expanding of the spirit or mind. Haha!"
He pulls out a tiny stub of charcoal and turns to yet another page in the book. "Yep, there. Divine Precept of Piety number thirty-two." He pauses, counting out the boxes of a line in yet another piece of what seems to be the same crossword that stretches across multiple pages. "Oh bother. Doesn't fit. Too long. Hmmm....that's no trouble we'll just trim it down a bit. After all Divine Precepts are supposed to be short and pithy. Something a person can remember. That's especially important since there are two hundred and eighty five of them." He says writing in the letters. With a flourish he finishes and leans back to admire his work, completely ignoring the fact that the last two letters are jammed into one box. "There you have it. Divine Precept of Piety number thirty-two. No pain, no gain."
He claps the elf on the shoulder again. "I've been working on that for months. Many thanks for your keen assistance with that. How about we celebrate with another drink?" He swivels his head around. "Now where was that beauty of a waitress with her rather intoxicating smile?"
Laughing at the others attempts to pee further away than each other, Snorri notices the kobold engaging someone from another table. He focuses his attention on this, wandering whether the stranger has mispronounced the kobold's name.
"Shhh, pump it down for a second, guys, I want to listen to what's happening over there..."
Nik'olo turns to Snorri, follows his gaze, then nods: "Quite right. I think Act 1, Scene 1: 'No pain, no pain' is just about to unfold!"
"Eh? What's that? Over where? Oh...there. Curious." The ravenfolk's eyes swivel around until they land on the kobold accosting the cloaked stranger. "Good man...errr kobold...that Grion, taking the bull by the whatsits and scouting ahead like that."
Griot steps up to the chuckling individual who turns at his beckon... and Griot sees it is not a stranger, but his nemesis at the shrine... Clotch. "Groin is it now! Ha ha ha! Got you".
Groit
Glotch started studying at the temple of Rava about the same time that you did. For some reason he has decided to torment you with non-stop gags, pranks, and downright dirty tricks. He seems to outdo you in almost every contest, mostly by cheating, but seems to never get caught... sneaky indeed... In fact you started leaning towards St. Helba in a large part to get away from him.
Just about the same time that Groit makes his discovery, you hear some hubbub from outside the room. The large Orc at the main table rises to his feet, and makes a beeline for the door, opening it, stepping through, and closing the sturdy oak door behind him.
Perception - DC13
"I'm telling you the barkeep told me that blasted elf went in here, and I intend to go in after him".
"Oh? I don't think you are sir. This is a private party, and I will not allow those within to be disturbed".
"Well we'lljust see about that. I'm going to go get the city guard, and get to the bottom of this. I tell you he's a thief, and must be punished".
You here boot steps leaving the door, and the big Orc steps through, glaring at Nik'olo.
"No dinner for you and your gang. There is another way out of here through a trap door under the carpet here. Clotch... since you seem to have interest in this group, lead them to safehold 3. You know where it is". He then walks to the table, and pulls forth a scroll tube. "Read them this when you get there".
He then take in the rest of the party before speaking again. "It's out of the ordinary, but we had intended your group to serve as a cell of the Heralds. You must learn to work together if you are to succeed. Now is your chance to leave if you have no interest in joining the Heralds. Now make haste".
Croaker watches the kobold with keen interest until he hears the stranger blurt out the kobold's name. Seeing that it is simply two good friends reuniting after some trying absence, the huginn quickly looses interest. Instead he is distracted by the sudden turn of events and the words of the rather large Orc. Having just recalled the wisdom laid out in precept number twenty-six, Croaker hesitates for just a moment. A moment punctuated by the music in his head reaching a pulse pounding apex that clearly says follow Groin's friend.
With the decision made in his mind, the music finally, blessedly, starts to drift away leaving him mostly at peace within the confines of his own rather muddled mind. With the choir fading, a righteous decision made, Croaker finds himself ready for action.
"Aha! Absconding through the secret trapdoor." The ravenfolk says, eyes alight with excitement and anticipation. "A fine struggling start to our mighty adventure. Surely the Scouring Wind wishes to learn more of the fine St. Helba, so let us away and follow the path put before us by Groin's fine friend." He adds bowing and waving a gesture to lead the way toward the two kobolds.
"Clotch! I should have known. What are you doing here?" His jaw drops when his nemesis is directed to lead the group to Safehold 3. GRIOT follows, but looks very dismayed. "You aren't part of the Heralds, are you Clotch?"
"What's it pay?" The halfling asks the big orc before shooting the last of his mead. He hops off the stool and starts to shoulder his gear.
"I'm not saying no yet, just want to know what the going to rate to protecting elven thieves here." He nods toward Nik'olo. "Otherwise, I'll pick up another ticket to guide for the Lodge."
He slings his crossbow over his shoulder ready to go. Either way, he thought his free meal was a bust, and it was time to depart whichever exit.
"You had me at 'secret trapdoor.' I'm sure it'll pay plenty. I'm in! Let's go down!" replies the Elf, seeing the stars align before his eyes.
Plus, that at least meant he wouldn't have to come up with some excuse not to pay for his drink, he thinks as he smiles and takes whatever glass his companions leave behind and sufficiently full.
Going down, he says: "So now I'm a cell in a cellar... Makes sense."
Snorri gets a hint of the conversation behind the door, and when the orc comes and tells them to go, he mostly puts it all together.
"Okay... it seems some friends of you want to greet you" he says to Nik'olo. "Let's get outta here and hope there's a bath in this Safehold."
He stands up, summons his blade to his hand and starts slowly retiring, waiting for the rest.
"Me! That can't be!? I served my time, and then some!" the Elf replies with his coarse voice. He pulls the collar of his once-white silk shirt to reveal a deep and fresh scar around his neck, like a burn. "I died already..."
"Whoever" Snorri says sharply. He might have missheard the references - after all, the conversation happened at the opther side of a door. "They're coming after one of you, I don't care who." With his movements he states clear that they should go now.
The immense half-Orc (Oakgu) hastens to the corner of the room, effortlessly moves aside a trunk full of linens, pulls back the carpet and opens a yawning portal into the darkness beneath the tavern. A ladder leads into the darkness.
Clotch looking at the crowd full of obvious pomp and importance and accepts the scroll from Krif, with a smile and a nod.
He then beckons the group of five to follow him towards the tunnel.
@Griot>> "Of course I'm not one of these heralds. I hold a much superior position. I am the official High and Mighty Grande Ambassador between the Illustrious Church of Rava and this little start up support organization. I'm to make sure you don't get to big for your britches and keep your order in the scheme of things appropriate. Now follow me and try to keep up".
Oaku grabs Khanol by the shoulder as he starts to descend. "You need to better understand what the Heralds do and stand for. Unfortunately this discussion will have to wait for another time. We only lead you to possible jobs. Some will pay better than you can imagine, all will enrich your soul. It's up to you to negotiate with whoever hires you... so I'd talk to the dirty bird if you want pay to escort him".
The almost unbearably arrogant Kobold leads the party 30' down the ladder, then down a short passage to a closed door. He opens this door to a room full of barrels, kegs and boxes. He walks to a section of the wall and pulls a lever and a secret panel along wall opens up to a small closet, with yet another trap door, and a ladder leading down. At about the same time the trapdoor above slams shut, plunging the scene into darkness. Suddenly Clotch hums a few lines to some unknown tune, and the room fills with light from a bobble on the hood of his cloak. "Good thing at least you have me to lead you for a while, so you don't stumble around in the darkness".
The ladder descends another 30' to a long hallway with doors on either side. He walks to the third door down on the left, and motions for you all to stand back a bit. He traces a rune on the door, and it unlocks with a click. He steps inside, and motions you all forward.
Religion DC8
The rune he is the iconic gear pattern of the church of Rava.
"Please enter".
Clotch then steps into the room uncovering a torch on the wall which illuminates the 20' square room. There is an alter to Rava in the corner, as well as a round table with 10-chairs. Clotch sits in the largest chair, his eyes barely above table letter, and spreads out the scroll. He then sighs in annoyance and stands in the chair to read the scroll, taking a couple of books off the table to hold the corners of the scroll.
"Sit!
GRIOT is right behind Clotch looking very unhappy that his rival is now his minder. "When did that happen?" he mutters to himself.
Griot almost quips that he doesn't need any light, but then realizes that the others following them are not so fortunate as to be born kobolds. He sits next to Clotch and peers over his shoulder to read the scroll for himself.
"Let's see now. Hmmm..." He then looks up from the scroll and stares at all of you.
"As you may or may not be aware, there have been a recent string of disappearances in the district south of Crown Square. As is typical we Kobolds have been implicated in these disappearances".
He scratches his chin and pauses for a moment. "Groin... be a good boy, and fetch me a glass of wine from that cabinet over there".
He then resumes his speech. "It seem that a good, honest Kobold restaurant owner by the name of Skirtal has a nephew that is in some trouble, and needs protection. For some reason the Heralds think that you might be of some assistance. You must go to his establishment... 'The Rampant Roach' and speak with him for more details".
"It might be better to wait till daylight for this meeting. There are some bedrolls and cots in that cabinet over there. I'll lead you out in the morning... since I'm sure you'd be lost in the Cartways without my guidance".
"Now leave me be". With that Clotch, takes the remainder of the bottle of wine to a corner of the room, and pulls out a flute and begins playing a series of scales quietly to himself.
GRIOT is right behind Clotch looking very unhappy that his rival is now his minder. "When did that happen?" he mutters to himself.
The halfling glares at the big orc when his hand grabs his shoulder until the orc releases him. Khanol follows the orc down the trap door saying, "Well, if the pay isn't as good as the Guides, I can always step out. Don't know what this enriching my soul is worth, though. The cup of mead is worth a few hours of my time." The Dancing Bear Guide follows the orc.
One of the first to arrive in the safe room, Khanol starts opening every cabinet looking for food and drink, while listening to the disrespectful kobold. Without free room and board, his patience will run very thin with this potential client, St. Helba.
After the rush and bustle of the walk through the tunnels, Croaker barely pays attention to the rune on the door or Clutch. The nattering kobold's ramblings about some missing folk apparently whisked away by rabid kobolds didn't seem to concern him overmuch. The kobold's probably did do it. Now they're just trying to cover it up and point the scaly finger toward some innocent ravenfolk. He thinks. What intrigues him more and causes his eyes to continuously loom toward Nik'olo is the elf's fascinating scar.
"So you've traveled in Charun's boat only to have the bone faced scoundrel kick you out and make you swim back to shore as well eh?!" He says to Nik'olo. "How was being hung? Were you stealing cattle? Bah! What's the reason matter, you've paid the price. Still, it was probably better than being buried alive. That was not a pleasant experience, let me just say. Sometimes I think I still have grave sand in my nose." He adds with a chuckling snort, before growing suddenly serious and thoughtful. "But perhaps this would explain our meeting. Something more than simple Kismet, Fate, or even The Divine Nudge of Calipha herself. Maybe we've all come together because we've beaten death at his own clever game? An experience that has granted us unknowable insights and wonderous powers. Powers that will free the world from the bonds of evil and darkness." His gaze whirls to Snorri, Khanol, and Griot. "Have any of you died and lived to tell the tale? Surely you must have, for that would be a glorious..." He stops mid-sentence and jams a finger in his ear.
"Blast and Bother! The cursed music is back." He says. "Really, now it's some shabbily played flute. Gods! What is the burden you've placed upon me to listen to such repetitive nonsense. And for the love of...it's E...F......A for a minor harmonic scale!" He adds shaking his head wildly.
At first, Nik'olo listens to the Ravenfolk, but after a bit, he gets it and tunes Croaker off.
He is impressed by the network of tunnels and pays little attention to the rest.
"His name is Groit, and let me get the wine." the Elf says, then proceeds to pour everyone a glass, finishing with Clotch.
He just nods when told they'd sleep here. He was hoping for a place to lay his head down. This was perfect.
"We have wine, we can tell stories. Reborn as well, eh Croaker!? That's just amazing!"
Griot reluctantly moves to get the wine, but gladly defers to the elf. "Griot." he protests feebly.