Adventurers of Gladden Vale (Inactive)

Game Master Syrus Terrigan

It seems the RNG is telling us a whole lotta "No!" right now!

Still frustrated by his limited access to the coach, Durr tries to visualize the dimensions available and finally concludes that there wasn't enough room for a person-sized concealed compartment.

As Fitz walks a wide perimeter around the site, he spots a succession of rings of some pale substance on the gray rock. Just as he begins to follow these strange signs, Gillian jumps up from his crouch and blurts out: It's wood! It's like wood shavings . . . I think. And the two young men communicate with a gesture or three to find that they're both examining the same thing.

Hafnor leads Blizzard to the spot he's noticed, and gesticulates to give the human a better perspective. All I'm pointing out, sir, is that this patch of stone is essentially just as level as the roadway itself. You can tell by the lack of wheel marks (iron-clad wagon wheel rims grinding on stone) that this area isn't used, really, but it wouldn't be any rougher on a wagon or cart than the road proper. . . . . In fact, . . . , The dwarf peers about a moment. If you drove onto this spot, you could turn out onto the roadway easily. Do you see now how smooth the stone is here? No pits or dips that would knock a wheel out of true or make an axle break. Maybe nothing to it, but it's damned odd, I say.

Blizzard begins to nod at Hafnor's description, noting the subtle differences in the rocky surface. The pair are looking back at the wagon, the gaggle of initiates and Rangers mostly to their left, a handful of the youngsters moving about, . . . and then Fitz steps across the road to their right hand -- directly along one edge of the space Hafnor noticed, peering intently at the ground. Very quickly, the two find the same pattern of rings of "shaved" wood, almost exactly in line with Hafnor's patch of level rock.

As the investigators collaborate, they bring these strange pieces of information together: The patches of wood "shavings" form a shape rather like a teardrop. The only gaps in this outline are where the road cuts through, and at the "point" of the teardrop. Every part of the attack site is contained within its boundaries.

And . . .

. . . as Daenara wanders about rather lackadaisically, she finds a broken length of iron chain about four feet long, its metallic glint concealed by the pile of . . . ash? . . . surrounding it. I got lucky. These . . . ashes . . . or whatever . . . blend in perfectly with the stone up here!

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Okay, folks -- we're gonna give this location just one more day before I advance us to Last Rest. If I haven't directly engaged your characters at this point, know that I will do so in tomorrow's post -- it's most likely that the dice didn't give you high enough results to divulge any information. Anyway, though, we're going to move ahead quickly over the next several days -- Last Rest is going to have quite a bit of exposition and character opportunity, but I know we all want to get the harder parts of the Trial going!

I'm not quite sure how much leeway we as characters have here or the like...

Albion:
Interesting... but I mean, what are we supposed to do about this?, he whines slightly, and keeping distance from the site. Do we move on with our quest and leave this to the rangers?.

[i]I don't want to be a damn apprentice for another 5 years![/b], he thought anxious to be on his way to completing the challenge that would see him become a full citizen.

Purity:
The young woman shoots the alchemist apprentice a glare. She too had hung back... but more to try to get the big picture while others gathered clues.

Valentine: lies in a fever back in the village.

Blizzard: He was trying hard to put up a good image but he'd been a drunk for years and the lack of booze was still wearing on him despite his best efforts to conceal it. He satisfied himself with pointing at areas of presumed interest and grunting... hoping it would either come off as encouragement or instruction...

That said the strange outline of wood shavings, the oddness of the wagon itself and then Hafnor's observed nature of the stone had his 'f$@! this shit' sense tingling. This seemed a bit, well, eldritch and fairy tale-ish to him. That meant dangerous.

But he didn't want to spook anyone, not yet.

The long breath of perplexed reflection is suddenly dissolved.

Hey! Kid! Stop right there!!

Two of the guards spring forward, longspears brandished, and move to hem Daniel in between their weapons and the ruin of the carriage. Heads crane in that general direction as the crowd gapes. Blizzard, sensing that things are close to going sideways, hustles around to the north side of the scene to find one of his charges pincered amidst drawn blades. The sergeant rolls forward with smooth steps and braces the youth with a cold, no-nonsense glare as Blizzard and the initiates look on helplessly.

All right, runt. Show me whatcha found, and do it quick and quiet-like, the veteran orders.

Daniel, rather sulkily, reaches out his closed fist and uncurls his grasp from a small silver ring with a deep blue gem in its setting, the fine crafting dappled with blood. He points to a broken chunk of panelling at his feet and murmurs, It was right under that. Spotted it when the sun reflected off the band. . . . . Umm. Sir.

There is a quiet gasp from within the gaggle of onlookers as a young woman's voice exclaims, Her favorite ring!

The sergeant glances over his shoulder for a split-second at the outburst, and then turns back to the young man. His hand moves very obviously to the grip of his sword, still sheathed. For the moment. Sharp eye, lad. But unless you wanna spend th' next few days strapped to a tree coated in yer own night soil while ye wait for the Count and the regional c'mmander, you'll set it ri' back down next to that block o' wood where ya nabbed it. The veteran sets his feet, and all of his men visibly tense. Or -- ye c'n make a fuss of it, and we'll add your body t' the pile back down in the trees yonder, he threatens, pointing in the direction where the road descends the other side of the mesa.

At this point, I'm going to leave Daniel the chance to make his decision, but we'll process the results in a flashback scene. We're moving this forward!

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Even the tread of the initiates' feet seems muted as they begin to descend the mesa's eastern end, the shade of the forest rising up to meet them. An almost audible sigh of relief whispers through the group as the ruined carriage passes out of sight at last. But then the smell of burned meat makes itself known, like a pig farm put to the torch, with no survivors. There is a tang of something other -- something wronger -- in the fumes, and some of the youngsters audibly gag as they finally reach the forest floor. Some twenty yards away from the base of the mesa, a still-smoldering heap gives last testimony to the slaughter behind them.

With only the most cursory of looks at the pyre's remains, another grisly detail becomes clear: the word "skeleton" cannot apply to what is left of these people. Even amidst the bits of boot leather and fabrics burned to husks, not a single body is whole. Radii and ulnas are snapped in halves, femurs shattered just above the knee, ribcages separated from spines and sternums (where they aren't totally picked apart). What few skulls peek out from the charred remains aren't intact. The victims were somehow . . . shredded . . . into clumps of so much meat.

It is only through a massive, and likely last-for-the-day, effort of will that Blizzard doesn't spill his guts on Adric's boots. Keep movin', little ones! Nothing to see here!

Steps stuttering, the novices heed his words as best they can.

There is much more road ahead.

Always in shadow. The air was alive with darkness down here. But that had more to do with the "guest" than the weight of stone overhead, surely.

From out of the black, You were successful?

Yes.

A smug, satisfied grunt?

Good. Your first steps toward righting that wrong have been taken. I trust your day of reckoning will approach swiftly.

Despite no light with which to see, a nod.

It will. The finishing touches are being put in place.

A hesitant pause.

But we may have . . . an issue.

Another hesitation.

One got out.

WHAT??!! The air vibrated, pummeling the ears.

The apparatus . . . snagged, somehow. It closed too late. "It" lost part of an arm, I think.

You. FOOL!! The voice assaulted once more.

A contemplative growl.

It will go back. And it will leave a trail behind it. One such as the Gladden has not seen in generations unknown. . . . . A weakness. For each of us. . . . . And yet, . . . it ought not disrupt our efforts overmuch. How do your people say it? "Collateral damage"?

Mmmmm. An assent.

I trust, in future, that you will be more vigilant with what I have provided you. Further clumsiness will not be tolerated. Your desires aligned with mine, and as a matter of convenience I gave you the means to see it through. No. More. Errors.

A retort.

I would have found a way with or without you, you know.

A bone-grinding laugh.

Perhaps. But without me, your aims would have taken decades more to accomplish. And you have fewer years ahead than behind. This was your best chance. Your only chance.

An unsettled silence.

In the sable solace, the quiet tolled its empty echoes.

The miles pass by beneath the travelers' feet, and eventually the land descends to the river plain. As the group emerges from the vastness of the forest, the foothills of the mountain range come into view, the snow-capped peaks beyond rising majestically. As the going becomes easier, Blizzard and his charges see clusters of farmhouses along the roadway, the tiny figures of farmers working plows or herding livestock scattered amid the green fields.

The road wends its way northeast, and soon the blue streak of the River Gladden appears. Commonfolk wave welcomingly, ushering the bunch on toward the town proper and the feast that awaits. The bustle of springtime business swirls about them as they draw nearer to Last Rest.

Last Rest is a rare place, by its construction. Its wardpost boundary is a Vale commonplace, but it is a fortified town, ringed about with a fifteen-foot-high wall of stone upon which three people can walk abreast. Within the wall, irrigated fields dedicated to staple crops occupy the majority of available real estate. A second wall encircles the town center, a match of the outer wall in every way. Clustered about this wall's gates are a host of inns, stables, alehouses, and other service-oriented businesses. The heart of this town consists of a few residential districts, assorted mercantile zones, and the keep -- a generations-old fortress built up around a tall spire of rock outthrust from the nearby mountain. Stonemasonry and mining make up the lion's share of industry here, but the ready supply of metal ores sustain the greatest part of the Vale's metalsmithing as well.

The guardsmen on duty allow the initiates to pass with no comment into the township, and walking the city streets brings them to the festhall quickly. The great meal is but a handful of hours from commencing, and the hubbub of preparations lends a noisome clatter to the area.

What to do in the meantime?

Check the discussion thread!

Blizzard is tempted... SORELY tempted, to hit the bottle again. But for now? He holds true to his word to his old, and perhaps, only friend. He keeps an eye on the youngsters for the moment, and thinks on the event of the slaughter, trying to puzzle it out in a head that still screamed at him for booze.

Albion feels happy, a sense of relief of cobbles (however sparse) under feet, and the prospect of a good meal does not go unthought of. Hells, maybe a bit of dalliance if he could manage it but one thing he was sure of, he was sure he'd keep his wits about him, eyes peeled and ears open. Rumour had it that hints for those more favoured than he were occasionally dropped at such events... and he meant to grab every advantage possible.

Purity was still troubled by the carnage she witnessed but took comfort in the sights and sounds like a drowning man clinging to an old barrel or spar.

These snippets are not in chronological order.

I’ll get my stuff in later today, adulting is difficult

earlier

now

Caraya doesn't find Vic Ferren at Eagle's Roost, nor The Wine Garden, but at The Black Draught. Easily bypassing the line outside with her sealed message in hand, she asks one of the barkeeps where Vic might be found. Following the pointed finger, Caraya realizes that she needn't have asked -- the Count's young relative does . . . stand out.

Seated all alone at a table meant for four or five patrons, Vic Ferren gazes into the hearth fire, his eyebrows pinched close as he broods. Both hands clasp a large tankard (one of five that are neatly arrayed before him), and his fingers idly spin the container in a circle as thoughts wander. His features are strong, and "clean", one might say -- sandy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and the lean build of an active man just entering his prime. His clothing and gear are of fine quality, and balance both function and appearance in equal measure. The pommel of his sheathed blade rests in easy reach against the table's edge, and his kite shield is propped against the weapon.

As Caraya moves closer, she is able to take in the heraldry upon the enameled shield -- a black triple-peaked mountain superimposed upon a bright blue field, with a circlet of gold ringing the tallest, center summit . . . and a purple border around the shield's edge. Her steps falter for a split-second as she processes the implications of this imagery, quite different from that of Count Ferren's house. The Lord of the Vale's sigil matches with the black mountain and the blue field, but has a silver circlet around the central spire, and no border at all. The young man before her is making a very clear statement here -- that he is descended from royalty, and that he has the highest of political ambitions.

Taking a breath, Caraya clears her throat and moves next to Vic's seat, proffering the sealed scroll. The young warrior shifts from quiet musings to intense focus in an eyeblink, scanning the girl before him to assess whether she is a threat or not. But as quickly as he notices the wax seal, his stern expression softens to one of smirking self-assurance.

My thanks, young woman. If you would be so kind to wait for my reply, it would be much appreciated.

With smooth motions the parchment is opened, and Vic begins reading. The dancing firelight in the room allows Caraya to read his face clearly as he takes in the words. Shock. Dismay. Unadulterated rage. And, at last, steely resolve.

A complete and undisguised insult. Very well, then.

Vic turns once more to the slightly apprehensive Caraya and smiles, though it does not reach his eyes -- as polite and false as a smile can be. Again, thank you for your patience. And here is my reply: White-knuckled fists rend the parchment in two, and the shredded halves are crushed together in a useless lump. If you will bear this message back to the keep for me, I would count it as a favor. And for your trouble -- Five silver coins are drawn from a belt pouch and placed gently in her hand. I believe you have a party to attend, young woman, Vic comments, nodding toward her ritual waterskin. Once you've finished the Trial, should our paths cross again, I may be able to return that favor. Till then, go safely!

And his gaze returns to the hearth's red-orange glow.

The dismissal, which it obviously is, doesn't rankle overmuch because Caraya knows that her time is short if she wishes to bear Vic's "answer" to the keep and arrive at the feast in timely fashion. With quickened steps, she dashes out of The Black Draught and into the encroaching dusk.

As this particular moment will have some import into the mood and motives at the feast, I'm going to hold off on posting that piece until tomorrow morning. And since Dfsearles is feeling the pressure of real life (and I truly want you to stick with us, searles!), I will not delay putting that post up in the interest of getting our body count lower (or higher, if you count it the other way) more rapidly.

Assuming the other two's time before the feast is spent doing their shenanigans.

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The Fairgrounds Festhall, Last Rest

The finishing touches fall into place in near-perfect synchronicity with the commencement. The chamberlain, quite at his wits' end for most of the last thirty minutes, noisily gulps down the largest tankard of ale he can find, meanders to a cozy seat near one of the hearths, and promptly collapses into a relieved, catatonic sleep. Food and drink are abundant, and the crowd of guests (initiates and locals, both) is cheerful as they mix and mingle.

Music and dance carry on all the while as the meal continues. Toasts and boasts are shouted back and forth over the tables, to cheers and jeers alike. The fun is well-done: not too lowbrow for the nobles presiding over the event, nor too snooty for the most commonborn attendee to feel out of place -- it's good to be alive; it's good to grow up; it's good to have friends.

Great rolls for a change

And here . . . we . . . GO!!

The "party crasher" duo of Clem and Daniel starts putting the moves on the women present, moving among the revelers with focus. Though it soon becomes obvious that Daniel is making the metaphorical sacrificial charge, the partygoers take it with good grace -- after all, tomorrow is the beginning of the truly perilous part of the Trial. Enjoying the moment is paramount!

The womanizing pair turns out to be so intent on their goal that Daenara's subtle tip-off goes unnoticed, and she watches Brel start to eye their suspect like a hawk. That's going to be interesting, later, she muses. But then she turns to more discussion with Celia, and spends the rest of the evening having a good time.

Durr's doting on the younglings does garner the attention of one merchant's daughter in particular, and she whisks him away for a walk through the fairgrounds' conservatory -- the moonlight and starlight accenting the night-blooming flowers wonderfully. There are more than enough quiet places to sit and . . . "converse" . . . , even with the handful of others finding their way to pleasant trysts of their own . . . .

Albion's working the better-appointed attendees proves fruitful: some of the more homely yet well-meaning ladies supply him with a well-crafted winter blanket ("Just in case you get tired."), a full healer's kit ("I remember my Trial! There was some fighting a few times, and a cragcat attack, and -- by the Light! -- a gang of goblins, too!"), and a lantern with some oil ("It gets terribly dark in that thicket! You'll want this!')!

As Allvin attempts to make some potential business connections and look for new avenues to expand the carpentry business, he does learn that scaffolding supplies will soon be in demand in Last Rest -- a major building project is in the works, to be launched during the summer. The general attitude toward transportation costs from Cutters' Wash is met with a certain amount of grumbling, but Allvin reminds the masons: the Wash provides the best timber in the Vale!

Purity's excesses make for great entertainment, both for herself and onlookers. As she flits from one handsome-looking fellow to the next, sundry mementos find their way into her pockets and belt pouch, to be inspected later . . . . Because suddenly the ale and the stomach acid come roaring back up her throat, and things stay pretty blurry for a time. But in that weird moment of drunken clarity, she has an epiphany concerning her bow-work . . . . That's it!! Just that little adjustment and . . . !

Caraya listens intently to the discussions about others' past Trial experiences, and she finds out that all the previous word about the cragcats and razorhawks are just the tip of the iceberg. Things get much more interesting during the ascent of the rock face near the waterfall: the Boreholes, the Twenty-three Stairs, and the Broken Shoulders make up the greatest part of actually getting to the Greywicker Vast.

The 236-foot ascent into the mountains proper is the most demanding portion of the Trial of Naming, by nearly all accounts. And yet . . . .

. . . Caraya does hear an unnerving tale or two concerning the fact that something or somethings actually live in the greywicker itself . . . . Getting lost in the weird tunnels the "bonecreep" naturally winds itself into is easy enough. But sometimes people just . . . disappear . . . . Turn around, and look for your companion just a few feet away, . . . and now no one is there. The very idea prompts shivers from some of the older townsfolk -- and Caraya can't help but feel a foreboding chill . . . .

I'm tapped out for the day. Fitz and Blizzard will get their segments tomorrow, folks. Till then, take everything -- and I do mean everything -- to the Discussion thread!

Fitz takes to working the crowd as thoroughly as he can, inquiring about how people have taken the news of the killings on the mesa. There is a great deal of sadness, and nearly as much outrage. And there are rumblings about the political significance of the deed -- young Lady Ferren's trip to Last Rest was an opening of negotiations between the Count and Lord Mactus (ruler of Last Rest) for a betrothal. The failure of both families to keep Dawn safe may have powerful consequences for both the Vale and the kingdom at large, some think.

The "bigger picture" seems too far outside Fitz's scope, though, and he keeps the conversation focused on the physical details of what and the other initiates saw on the way here. The strange clumps of torn wood, the weird outline they formed, the relative neatness within the carriage and the slaughter without . . . and everyone he asks is just as puzzled!

However, once Fitz mentions his "friend" (who has continued to make a distraction of himself, if only to help Fitz seem more socially awkward than he is), most folk begin to trade looks of Is this kid serious? before polite yet forced efforts are made to turn the discussion to other things. However! Eventually Fitz does indeed manage to mention the faeling to someone with a bit more open-mindedness, and he is directed to speak to an elder seated at the very end of the masters' table.

Proceeding with all the proper deference he should, Fitz approaches Lord Mactus' great table and asks to speak with Sage Harsyd concerning the Trial. The ruler of Last Rest graciously allows Fitz to approach the aged historian, and periodically glances their way as the two speak.

Old Harsyd is old. So old that his robes are threadbare, motheaten in a few places, and faded from blue and brown to dull gray and tan. His back is hunched with age so that his narrow shoulders and the bald crown of his head, wreathed with a fantail of frazzled, curly white hairs, are all that can be seen of him, at first. Ice-blue eyes, clouded to near-blindness by cataracts, peer up at Fitz as he approaches. Fitz's greeting is met by a hail of phlegmatic coughing that sets all nearby on edge, as though they expect the wizened old man to fall to pieces and die with each rattling explosion. But the tremors subside, and Fitz makes his pitch.

It is swiftly apparent that though Harsyd is physically fragile in the most intense ways, the old man has not lost a step mentally. At all. Within moments, Fitz is fielding a barrage of questions, unrelenting and intense. As the youth offers his replies, Harsyd's titanic eyebrows twitch in sequence, every answer effecting a visual similar to two children playing at seesaw. And as the old-timer analyzes the details, his demeanor changes dramatically, as though something vital and near-forgotten had wakened within him after a too-long sleep.

It takes a couple of minutes, some labored breathing, and several shooing motions, but Harsyd rises to his feet, leaning on his staff. Fitz cannot help but notice that in his prime, Old Harsyd had to have stood over seven feet tall. A whipcord arm shoots out and grabs Fitz's wrist, wrenching his hand toward the sage's eyes for inspection. The calluses and scars the young man has earned in his short life are examined, and suddenly those blue-milk eyes are boring into Fitz's.

You've been picked, boy! Harsyd whispers. And I don't know whether to pity you or applaud. I don't think it has anything all to do with what happened to young Dawn directly, but this "ouphe" has been keeping close to you for a reason. At Fitz's confused expression, Yes, boy -- an "ouphe"! Muddy brown skin, long pointed ears, golden-yellow eyes, a too-big mouth, and laughing at everything? An ouphe. I'll wager the ugly bugger is right over my shoulder as we speak! (Fitz doesn't have the heart to tell the wise man that the creature was actually seated on his shoulder.) Harsyd continues: Fourscore and ten years and more I've been alive, young fellow, and never has anything like this happened in living memory. Have a care about what that little beast asks of you. If you ever agree to a favor with it, you should know that it will have to be paid back in full -- and not according to convenience! A favor granted is a debt owed, with their kind. Best not to accept, though the tales say they have ways of leveraging circumstances to get what they want out of you. The geezer's near-sightless eyes take on a mixture of dreadful knowledge, bone-deep fear, and the faintest glimmer of hope as the lorekeeper concludes. They can give you power, boy -- power like the old legends say, the stuff the minstrels sing about in their tavern halls. But the cost! . . . . Walk wisely, young man. I wish you well in the Trial. But if the fae are at last stirring, I have work to do. Enjoy the party.

Harsyd dodders up to Lord Mactus' seat, leaving Fitz . . . well, . . . possibly even more confused than before. The historian begs his lord's leave with wild gesticulations, and then stumps off into the night. And the weight of the Lord of Last Rest's gaze rests solely upon young Fitz for many seconds, before a grave nod lets him know that he is free to carry on with the party.

Closer and closer, Fitzy! That walking skeleton of yours told truth . . . but he was terribly rude about it. Anyway! See you tomorrow!! Maybe you can meet a friend!

Blizzard tomorrow. This took more than I thought it would!!

Feeling more free than he has in days, Blizzard loiters around the festhall (carefully keeping out of line of sight of the chamberlain) until all of his charges arrive for the meal. And then he eases away from the fairgrounds and back into the town proper, starting to make the rounds with some of the old hands from the Company. And though the first couple of welcomes were rather chilly, it didn't take long for the former Rangers to realize that Blizzard was more sober than they had seen him in years. Perhaps not stone-cold clear of it, yet, but less gruff and foul-mannered. Doors were opened . . . and it wasn't long before a gathering of five of the 'old guard' were huddled together at a table in a nice house in the merchants' district on the south side of Last Rest.

The conversation isn't very lively, but it is full of good memories. The friendly grousing and anecdotes of off-duty shenanigans carries on for a good while. But, very naturally, the discussion turns to current events -- the state of things, the Trial, and the tragedy of Dawn Ferren. The retirees ask about Kadmin and his plans*, trying to gauge what the wily officer has in the works -- they've been unusually starved for information lately, even from their own old job contacts, so they look to Blizzard to help break that silence.

One thing that is mentioned, almost in passing, is that the old hands have heard that Vic Ferren has been seen in town, and that he came to Last Rest via the South Road. Rumor has it that the Count's nephew has just completed his training at the prestigious military academy in the kingdom's capital, but he seems to have taken a very direct interest in what happened to his cousin.

As the evening wraps up, Blizzard's old acquaintances give him a lantern, four flasks of oil, a winter blanket, an extra length of rope (50 feet), a climbing hammer, and ten pitons -- just a few things that might prove to be of help. You take care now, Blizz. Glad to see you getting back into form, chap. Keep on your toes!

------------------

. . . back at the party

Eventually, Lord Mactus calls for quiet throughout the festhall. The music stops, and the cadence of dance steps stills. He makes a speech somewhat like the one the initiates heard from Count Ferren at the outset of the Trial, reminding everyone present of the importance of tradition, and the sense of community the Trial is meant to build. His words are brief, and to the point, and the gathering realizes that he will soon retire to the keep for the night, even though the festivities will continue for as long as the people desire.

Into that waiting silence, a voice calls clearly. My Lord Mactus! I have business on behalf of the Three Waters Guard! May I approach? Daenara's attention is snatched away from Celia's whisperings, and she sees the smooth-talking guardsman draw near to the masters' table. This is it! She scans the crowd and quickly finds Brel staring daggers at Daniel, who has a comely young lass in his lap and a tankard in his fist.

My associate and I have been sent to apprehend one Daniel, as part of an investigation into a theft in the County capital that took place the day before the Trial began. Have we your leave to finish our task?

Mactus replies, As you well know, guardsman, the Trial has begun. And its participants are to be unrestrained once they reach the boundary of this town after the feast. I will not stand in your way, but, . . . here the nobleman offers a wickedly merry smile, . . . I will not turn my men to support you. If you can catch the youngster before he reaches the wardposts, then the capture is legitimate; but if he eludes you, then you can address this infraction after his part in the Trial is done. The Lord of Last Rest's voice rises loudly: Daniel! Daniel of Three Waters! Your accusers have come to take you before the law!! Unless you wish to wait for five years more to become a man, then now is your time to RUN!!!

Belatedly realizing that his name is being called, and in the context of "accusers" and "law", Daniel springs to his feet, unceremoniously dumping his would-be paramour on her teakettle. His expression is wholly dumbfounded -- his mouth opens and closes a few times in silence, and his legs shimmy beneath him, as though he cannot decide what direction to run. He shakes his head furiously, blurts out I DIDN'T DO IT!, and begins rushing toward the exit.

Brel's Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14
Unnamed Guard's Initiative: 1d20 ⇒ 20

For any and all concerned: make your initiative rolls, and we'll make this a turn-based skill challenge! Let's do this as quickly as we can -- at least one post a day (adjusted for the holiday here in the States)! Remember: creativity will be rewarded!

Well... crap, says Blizzard. Flexing again, Mactus ain't a patch on his Old Man. Bugger it. Chasing youngsters ain't fer me. I'll track him if I need to but good luck to him getting out of town in the meantime, Blizzard says.

Purity is a sloppy mess. She barely registers the speech given by Lord Mactus.

Albion on the other hand sees this as a way to ingratiate himself to his betters. He had nothing against Daniel but if Lord Mactus wanted him? Why then it definitely wouldn't hurt to at least show willing. He made to rise then thought a second... IF I do grab him? The other aspiriants are probably gonna do me dirty... I need this trial more than the Lords famous 'temporary' favour.

Daenara had fulfilled her end of the bargain - she'd pointed out Daniel to the guards. She wasn't going to try and chase him down in this crowded feast hall, so she remained still, sitting in her seat, looking to see what the others did.

Allvin wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he knew it wouldn't help him open a carpentry business. He decided he was going to stay put and watch what the others do.

Caraya had spent all afternoon running messages, and she was a bit tired, so she, too, decided to take it easy tonight. Besides, if she ran off now, she might not be able to learn more about the obstacles on the Trial, and those were far more important than any pickpocket.

Clem init: 1d20 - 2 ⇒ (14) - 2 = 12 Daniel has been so helpful that Clem will fall against the guard spilling his drink as Daniel starts running away.

Fitz takes the distraction as a good way to bow to the lord at the table and say Your lordship, didn't mean to interrupt but with everything going on I have some firewood and torches along with my axe and climbing gear, but I don't have coin for the journey and the wizard says things are gonna be hard. May I beg for some gear from you to help me and the others to succeed?

Durr watches the whole thing with an eye towards the whole mess but will take up some soup and pour it out of his bowl to make it harder for the guards to get anywhere since he grew up on the wrong end of the street init: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14

The Fitz/Mactus Interlude

As the tumult reaches a crescendo behind him (and threatens to become even louder), Fitz's address to Lord Mactus is met with a chilly smile. Young man, I and my people have organized and held this night's feast and offer of safe rest for each and every one of you. It seems to me that you and the other initiates have had four days to acquire more gear -- and coin will likely be completely useless to you until after the Trial's conclusion . . . . Unless you use it for sling bullets, that is. But as it stands, if you have firewood, climbing gear, torches, and a hatchet, you're far better off than some have been before traveling into the canyon and beyond. So to answer your question: I have nothing further to provide you or your companions. But I appreciate the fortitude it required to ask for more aid. What is your name, initiate?

--------------------

We'll wait one more day before I start adjudicating actions en absentia, and we'll see what the checks that have already been made will contribute! I must say: I love the attitudes the characters are presenting, and I look forward to seeing how the Three Waters guardsmen perform against your interference!!

the Fitz interlude

Fitz has no social graces at all being from the woods and says I am Fitz called Wolf by my friends and I am a logger from Northferry, your lordship. My pop is a logger foreman named Halfhand in account he lost a couple of fingers fighting off a wild boar so that's my last name Fitz Halfhandson and my mother is a beauty, Yeoman representing the court here who fell for my gruff old father and her name is Candace Fitz stops and takes a breath and realizes he is babbling.

Daniel's Initiative: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (19) - 1 = 18

Fitz's Social Grace(less): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (20) + 3 = 23 Okay. Yeah. A natural 20!! And so I'm going to invert his normal Charisma penalty, just because this is priceless!

As a chorus of muffled guffaws rises from either end of the masters' table at Fitz's declaration of name and family, and his intrepidity at even petitioning Lord Mactus for "More", the Three Waters guardsman next to him gapes at the younger man, dumbfounded. Being clubbed in the face with a corner post would evoke a similar expression; the addled law officer does not wear it well. He's just gonna flat-out Lose A Turn.

And so it is, in spite of his shock, and oblivious to the dumped lass at his feet, Daniel begins to spring away, showing an uncanny awareness of the moment. Not too distant, Brel has begun to prowl forward, callused hands reaching forward, intent on grabbing the suspect as quick as a wink.

Brel's Shoulder-check Fortitude: 1d20 ⇒ 20
Brel's Soup-er-swamper Reflexes: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 17

He's so intent on nabbing the adolescent culprit that he bowls through Clem's splashing ale, and glides over the splattered soup that Durr dropped, as though nothing at all is in his way.

Watching all of this, Mactus roars with laughter, putting his discourse with Fitz on pause so that he can savor the shenanigans of this game of 'Constables and Robbers'.

Nice

Both Blizzard and Purity laugh heartily, though Purity has more of a drunken guffaw sound and Blizzards is more weazy.

The ambitious young Albion tries to keep a neutral expression... laughing along with Lord Mactus did not always end well, or so it was rumoured.

The guard "spokesman" finally shakes off his befuddlement and sees that Brel hasn't gained much ground on their quarry, so he bolts between the tables, heading toward the outer wall of the festhall. He begins to shout as his boots pound the stone floor: Move, people! Move!! Grab that brat!!

Talker's Talking Check (Cha): 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7

Daniel shrieks over his shoulder: They're liars!! I didn't steal anything!! He notices that every walkway away from the guardsmen is gummed up with aghast onlookers, so he decides it's time to risk something a bit tricksy.

Stop Drop and Roll (Dex): 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1

Brel dashes to the place he last noticed Daniel and attempts to shove the whole table away, hoping the uncover his target.

Yeah, He Can Flex (Str): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (5) + 3 = 8

Durr and Clem are up! After their actions are posted, I'll resolve all the rolls!

When the table gets shoved Clem sits on the other end trying to bury the table right into the guards stomach.
1d20 - 2 ⇒ (4) - 2 = 2

Meanwhile Durr "slips" and hits a chair and tries to slide it into the guard as he flops he coughs out and spits a bunch of food into the guards face with an oof!

clutz: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (10) + 1 = 11

Hilariously disgusting! I'm going to ask for a Constitution check for the "projectile upchucking"!

Durr disgusting maneuver con check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

As the Three Waters guard shouts to the bystanders for aid, he is disgusted that no one moves to help -- it would seem that Lord Mactus' decree that he wouldn't lend a hand has carried over to most everyone present, too. Still, he is able to start making up the ground he lost earlier.

It appears that the plentiful ale and his womanizing efforts haven't done much for Daniel's coordination -- he plops onto the floor and scoots under the built-in bench seat, but doesn't get much farther. Which is convenient, in way, because at least he's still out of
Brel's reach: whether because of Clem's mass or the squelching soup clinging to his boots, he is unable to budge Daniel's cover more than a few inches. And then Brel takes a sliding chair to his left knee, followed almost instantly by a spray of stomach acid and chewed food. The cries of horror and disgust from the womenfolk are just as loud as the gales of laughter from the men.

Brel's Knee-Jerk Reactions (Dex): 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 = 11
Brel's Intestinal Fortitude (Con): 1d20 ⇒ 13

The guard quickly bends his knee to avoid risking a sprain (or worse), but the blast of vomit proves to be too much for him, and he winds up emptying his own stomach directly onto his own boots. And unfortunately for Daniel, the young man is entirely too close to this stuff of healers' nightmares, and has to try to keep his own guts under control . . . .

Daniel's Keeping it Down (Con): 1d20 ⇒ 10

. . . and he straightaway adds the contents of his own stomach to the growing puddle of wretched digestion.

At this point Clem is a big sea sick from this whole thing as the rank smell of vomit wafts across the room. He puts his hand down and flips a hunk of the nastiest cheese into a guard who didn't get sick!

cheese flip maneuver: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (7) - 1 = 6

Durr at this point looks bad and smells worse so he grabs some poor unsuspecting lady near him to hold himself up and aims her at a guard as he breathes on her saying so sorry ma'am didn't mean to fall over here his rancid breath right in her face as he then quickly points her at a guard close by.

sick lady maneuver: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (8) + 1 = 9

The older more experienced Blizzard moves with his old comrades to the far side of the room from the vomiting.

Albion, well removed from the chunder thunder by his position at the far end of the high table has smelt worse in his alchemical preparations.

Purity really has no idea what is going on, just that whatever is happening is funny.

This is starting to resemble a Three Stooges episode, starring the Garbage Pail Kids . . . .

Smooth Talker Dodging Cheese: 1d20 ⇒ 4

Having rounded the row of tables to advance on Daniel's whereabouts in a pincer maneuver with Brel, the other guardsman catches a hunk of some pungent dairy with his nose, courtesy of Clem. A balding teamster glares at Clem for stealing his favorite cheese, and it's unclear whether or not the townie is actually going go after him!

How Well Can Daniel Crawl?: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12

Throat burning, nostrils burning, ears burning, Daniel has enough sense to keep making efforts to get away, and he starts to crawl along the floor under the row of tables. With any luck, his pursuers won't know which way he went.

Can She Hold Her Food Down?: 1d20 - 2 ⇒ (14) - 2 = 12

Durr manages to "deflect" a thirtysomething woman toward Brel, by the power of both his reflexes and his aroma. But it would appear that she has dealt with her fair share of ghastly bodily (dys)functions, and she shakes off the impulse of sympathetic regurgitation.

Brel's Dodge the Pick: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12

Once again, Brel moves with eerie grace or dumb luck and the stumbling woman coasts past him. He leans down to peer between the tabletop and the built-in bench seat, trying to locate his quarry.

Gosh, it's dark under there!: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (9) - 1 = 8

And while Durr's quick wits may be serving to cause the lawmen some issues in nabbing their man, he's also drawing some attention that might not go so well for him . . . .

Did he lay hands on you, darling?: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14