NIGHT BELOW - Black Dow's C&C Underdark Campaign

Game Master Black Dow

Ulfbrecht listens respectfully to the Bard's performance, ne'er opposed to a good song. His rustiness with the common tongue keeps him from following the lyrical content too closely, but he enjoys the cadence and melody, albeit in the stoic way of someone wary of their surroundings. When the lad is finished he raps the table twice with the bottom of a closed fist to give a show of praise.

Upon being referenced by one of the travelers, Ulfbrecht turns to regard him, an eye traveling from the man's face to his feet back to his face again for what surely feels like an awkwardly long moment. The dwarf drums his fingertips once upon the tabletop and clears his throat.

"The preóst asce..ech, speaks the truth of it, top-wealcere," he says, inclining his head towards Lafayer. "The tunges of the sun-bless-ed lands sit hefeg..heavy on mine own. Many tīma-spanns have gone since come have I to make moots with sky-children."

He turns his posture slightly, angling his stance in the chair to invite Spiro and whatever tablemates he may have into his conversation with Lafayer, at this point wishing to cast a wide a net as he can for information on his quarry.

"Know do I some of these thrall-makers; little, but little is spann more than had I scoru-dæġs..days.. beforan. Four to their number, if the truth found mine ears. Three of human, one of them wīfmann, one hunch-ed of back as a knee-capped troll, one seolh..seal-ed in armour. Last of them an ælf." As he lists off each one, he puts a fingertip down on the table starting with his pinky. He then taps his thumb a few times as he orders his thoughts to continue. "The hunch-ed mann..told am I a preóst as well, of the dēaþ-god - him of murder and slahtr. A cult of the Rīpere God mite they be."

He looks intently at those gathered around, hopeful that such descriptions might be known to any of them, in passing at the very least.

@Mos: Give me a Challenge Rating 17 Int check please

Kennek accepts Zeebo's coin with n'er a second glance, then doffs his forelock toward the burly half-orc;

"Well I never! The Little Masters order ale by the bucket and you, the orcbludd sip tea... Seen it all now! Oh and a bottle of our finest fir the good Lady, of course, of course."

The innkeep shuffles off to the kitchen as discussions round the table continue - with Ulf making his case, Zeebo and Mos whispering in confidence.

The Dwarv's words cause the good Prestor to pause from his cups for a moment ands cause him to make a sign of protection;

"The God-Reapers faithful!? Ill tidings indeed..."

He nods towards Eireachdail;

"Yon Skald bears bones and sings of the risen dead... Perhaps we should hear his tale?", he takes a deep draught and addresses your party, eyeing the saddlebag and chest guarded by Hûƞidark;

"Such strange company I find myself drinking with this eve. I must ask - just what brings you all here?"

INT Challenge ROll (17): 1d20 + 1 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 1 + 2 = 20

Zeebo gives the good Prestor a warm smile even as Ping tries to remember if she's run across anyone matching the descriptions that Ulfbrecht gave. GM, do you need a roll here?

"Ah, good father, you see, we have been tasked with seeing the good lady and her luggage here safely home," Zeebo answers. "We ran across some goblins, one of which was a fell sort that cast a wicked spell at the cost of its life. Sadly they had waylaid several poor souls, including a messenger (which we now, being good subjects of the realm, endeavor to complete his task as well) afore we ended their wretched lives, and Eireachdail the Bold gave chase ended their continued existence after they fled from another of our company wielding the power of his deity to strike fear into monsters that believed themselves beyond fear."

"My large and stolid companion here," the halfling gestures to Hunidark, "only wishes to make certain that nothing untoward happens to any of the precious things we have taken upon ourselves to see to their destinations. I must say, after all of today's excitement, I am looking forward to filling my belly and hearing a tale or two before taking to bed and a long, restful sleep. Perhaps our good dwarven fellow here can tell us more of the dastards who seek to make freemen slaves for their own profits so that we may keep watch for them. Practicing the pondering subjects and the lifting objects which weigh heavily on mind and arm does make them lighter, and the same is true of languages I have been told. Do not fret, my good fellow. None shall judge you for the weight with which unfamiliar words lade your tongue if they are wise. No one is born a master of anything, after all, and mastery only comes with practice."

@Zeebo: Same Challenge check as Mos please - Int CL17 to see if anything pops to mind

@Eireachdail - give me a Legend Lore (Cha) attribute check please.

At Zeebo's recounting of their deeds, the jolly Prestor leans back on his chair;

"My my my. You have indeed all earned ale and stew this cold eve! Goblyns! The risen dead and a fallen messenger. Now I know the Count well enough that he will reward you bearing the missive. As for your original commission - I am sure the fair Lady Jenneleth and her effects are safe. As for me... Consider your bills covered by mine own coffers! You deserve to be celebr..."

He holds his tongue as one of the dour pilgrims approaches.

"Ah Mother Veil. Is our jocularity not becoming?"

The plain robed pilgrim shakes her head solemly, then addresses your collective;

"We overheard the Old One's words. Would one of your company direct us to the grave of the Messenger. We would collectively mourn their passing before continuing on our journey. We have little to trade, but one of our number was a map-maker in their life before service to Onjura. We could gift you a map of your destination... Haranshire."

"The God-Reapers faithful!? Ill tidings indeed..."

Ulfbrecht stifles a frown and nods. "Aye, that one..God-Rīpere...ye nay have herd of them, then? These ilk, or their wanderings?" He turns to 'Zeebo' and studies him for a moment, registering the features of the gnome to chisel to memory, as he does with all he interfaces with. "Nay ye, either, so seems it." Discouraged, the dwarf is nevertheless persistent. He pools his thoughts on the matter a bit more and speaks on. "Now not I much more...small details. The she-ælf is fæstes..by-chance..a mite wód. hēafod-mixd. Ech..what do ye say..head-touched? Mad - aye, mad. Insane. A devil-mouth ever on her lips, if the truth found mine ears. The steeled mann basalt-headed..black of hǣr. Ent-cyn - giant of a mann. The wīfmann (woman), cymlīċ is she - comly - fair of face, but a brocen nose." He pushes his own nose with his finger to the side that it mimics the description he has. "And of course the hunch-ed mann..unfæger (ugly); worse of face than I," he says with a half-chuckle, pointing at the withered patch of grey flesh on his cheek. "Dimm and dark, is he."

When the pilgrim approaches and makes her case, Ulf interjects when he is able to ask of her of the slavers as well. "What of you, græf-folgere? (grave-disciple) Have ye or your folc seen such as them?"

Psst, Ulfbrecht, just an FYI, Zeebo is supposed to be an aged halfling wizard. If you're seeing Gnome features, they would be, rather curiously, of a young gnomish woman. ;)

Int CL 17: 1d20 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 2 + 1 = 20

Cha CL 18 to hide Zeebo/Ping's reaction at the description of the woman: 1d20 ⇒ 18

Ping's heart skips a beat as she hears Ulfbrecht describe the woman. Not many pretty women with broken noses running about, much less running about slaving. Still, Zeebo twitches nary a whisker as he turns his attention to Mother Veil.

"Ah yes, we buried him by the ruined tower where we discovered the poor lad's remains. The grave is marked by his tabard. There were other victims of the goblins we routed, though we cannot name them, sadly," the halfling wizard answers, giving directions as best he is able to the leader of the pilgrims. "Best to be wary, my good dame. We routed some goblins and their leader, but that is no guarantee that we routed them all."

Want to see what Ping remembers before Zeebo answers Ulfbrecht.

Eireachdail accepts whatever acclaim he receives from the crowd with a bow and a smile.

He beams at Jennelth's praise, "My dear, you hale and hearty is all the reward I seek!"

Seeing that he'd somehow acquired a buxom patron at his hip, he smiles and gently says, "Off you go, dearie." spinning the woman off into the crowd.

He grabs a nearby tankard and takes a long pull of the local brew, bitter and dark, relishing as it sooths his vocal chords.

Smacking his lips , he listens as Zeebo tells the tale of their journey, slapping the little one on the shoulder, "Ah, that was well told, indeed!"

He then notices the Dwarf in Zeebo's audience and giving Prestor a companionable nod, addresses Ulfbrecht, "Ah, Master Dwarf, an honor! I had occasion to sup with some of your brethren earlier this year! A more honorable or duty bound folk I haven't had the good fortune to meet! I was so impressed that I took it upon myself to learn some traditional Dwarven songs! !"

He sits across from Ulfbrecht, his eyes gleaming with excitement, obviously dying to perform for his new Dwarven acquaintance!

Legend Lore(CHA): 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10

Ping bites down on a yelp as Eireachdail slaps Zeebo's shoulder. She wasn't expecting it, and she suspects that the bard doesn't know his own strength.

"Easy, my good fellow. Be gentle with an old halfling," Zeebo gasps. "My old bones don't handle blows as they used to."

And I'd rather not have you of all people find out about my secret!

After regaining some of his composure, Zeebo looks up at Eireachdail.

"Say, Master Eireachdail, did you happen to see Father Rannock? He went after you upon hearing that you had gone after the undead he had frightened off. I pray nothing untoward befell the good dwarf."

LOL....I never realized that Rannock was a dwarf!

Eireachdail smiles in sympathy as Zeebo winces and protests his over zealous encouragement, reaching out to gently pat the shoulder of the old wizard.

But then, he blinks in bewilderment at the revelation that Father Rannock was in fact a dwarf, "A dwarf you say? Amazing! I though he was just a shriveled up old man...such as yourself! "

Shacking his head in amazement, he sadly recounts, "Alas, no I din't see hide nor hair of the good Father. Though I led them walkin' bones a good distance away from our Fair Jenneleth, I doubt he'd have been able to keep up."

He ponders the predicament for a moment, before brightening, "I'm sure he's fine...having the regard of Grundergon....Gunderundergon...Grunrunrunderrun....ack...whomever he worshiped upon him! "

Mos leans over to Zeebo and whispers.

"The name Prentyss rings a bell. She is a young guilder rogue who fell from favour due to her violent nature ruining even the most mundane heist or job. The Guild expelled her and it was said she fell in with a ruinous band of mercenaries who called themselves Livsplövare ("The Plunderers of Hope" in the Old North Tongue). That is the last I had heard of her."

Rewinding a bit.
That explains the broken nose, Ping thinks mordantly.

"Wonderful," the gnomish mage mutters under her breath. Her voice is soft enough that even Mos has trouble hearing her. "I'm assuming the penalty for slaving here is the same as in Schöllenwald?"

Right after she has Mos' answer, Ping puts the proverbial mask back on and Zeebo calls out to the good dwarven priest.

Back in the present.
"Grunnundergön, the Hammerer, my dear fellow," Zeebo helpfully provides.

Last thing I need is the gods deciding I share your lackadaisical attitude when it comes to getting their names right, Ping very carefully does not say, but even she's surprised by the sourness of her mental voice. Oh dear gods, don't tell me I'm starting to think like a crotchety old man!

"You are a minstrel of some sort, are you not? I would have thought you better versed in the pronunciation of words and names from other tongues and peoples. You never know when one might find need to sing the epics of people unlike your own," Zeebo prattles on, smiling and chuckling even as Ping wants to scream at her alter-ego to shut up. "Say, what songs and tales do you know that may have never graced this inn's walls nor her patrons' ears? Maybe something fit to remember the departed and the heroic deeds of our fellows is in order."

Eireachdail smiles down at Zeebo, "Oh indeed, a minstrel of some sort indeed! " declares, laughing loudly, fully intending to pound the unfortunate halfling on the shoulder once more, but catching himself and just gently taps instead.

Then, tapping the side of his head, "Words, songs, names....whatever I hear goes in here and stays there! Grunnundergön! Grunnundergön! See? I've got it. Old Rannock was a bit of a mumbler, if you don't recall, never did hear the right name out of him! But, I've got it now....and forever!" he almost shouts, holding his tankard up, bringing down again for a deep pull, his throat working as he drank.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand, he looks slyly at Zeebo, "A song? Or a tale you ask? Hmm....let me ponder."

He leans back a bit in his chair, casting meaningful glances at Ulfbrecht.

At Ulf's question, Mother Veil stoically shakes her head.

"We mourn those who have passed. How they passed or what was their end is none of our concern. We merely seek to shepherd those souls to their destination and see that ritual and ceremony are enacted. As for the Cult of the God-Reaper... We have not encountered their ilk."

She affixes her eyes upon Zeebo and nods;

"Our thanks Old Master. Before we leave I will send over Mourner Muldrun. He knows maps and will sketch the road and route to this tower under your collective guidance. In return this map of the region is yours..."

As she hands the old halfling the scroll of vellum, her gaze affixes upon your tipsy host;

"We leave on the morrow Prestor. I trust you will be in fit state to chaperone our host to this site?"

The Prestor merely nods and waves her off with a wide grin.

"I am barely in my cups! And more than capable of watchin' o'er your dour flock! Hah!"

As The Weeper's faithful retire for the night, the atmosphere in the inn lifts as the drink flows and food is served.

Lafayer leans in to address your number as he finds himself less and less sober;

"So you lot are journeying to Haranshire, to deliver the fair Lady Jenneleth and her master's wares. Along the way you defeated goblyn's and the risen dead and discovered a messenger, killed before he could deliver his letter to the Count... Which you also plan to do..."

He whets his throat, then continues, nodding his drinking horn toward Ulf;

"Now he finds himself here searching for the blackhearted villains who have stolen one of his own... He ties them to the God-Reaper's faithful..."

Lafayer takes another deep draught and blinks;

"The Skald was one of your number, then wandered off... only to return with bones of the fallen dead once risen and quite the song..."

He blinks again, then nods towards the back of the inn and a figure in shadow;

"... and that aelf has been listening intently to every word... Come friend, join and know us better man!"

His address is to the cloaked figure sitting unnoticed nearby...

Enter Elyan :)

"No thanks are needed. I am just an old halfling wizard who's tongue likes to run amok," Zeebo says at Mother Veil's thanks. "I will gladly give as many details as I can so Master Muldrun can do his work, his fine work from the looks of the map you have so graciously gifted to us."

Zeebo gladly gives Muldrun as good of a description as he can manage of the area and the path to the ruined tower. He may look old and frail, but his mind is still rather sharp. When Muldrun has enough to make a serviceable map and retires, The wizened halfling slumps in his chair with a sigh of relief.

"It has truly been a long day," he mumbles to Mos as the revelry begins in earnest. "Luring out and fighting goblins, scaring off their skeletons, recovering a lost missive, and traveling several miles to boot while trying to keep good Lady Jenneleth safe, it's enough to make anyone tired."

The fatigue in his voice is not at all feigned, and Mos knows that Ping has a good number of reasons more to feel exhausted. Zeebo tries his best to keep up his good cheer, but it's proving difficult with everything that has happened over the past few hours. By the time Prestor Lafayer comes over, now well and truly into his cups, Zeebo, or to be more accurate, Ping, is feeling rather strung out.

"Indeed, it all does feel like we've been cursed to live in interesting times," Zeebo observes before turning his attention to . "Master Ulfbrecht, if you have not told Count Palfrey of your grim tidings, why do you not travel with us. There is safety in numbers, and as our tale evinces, the roads are far from safe. I hear he is a good lord to his people and I am certain would at least hear of your plight."

Zeebo was only half listening to the prestor as he drunkenly rambles on, but twitches as Ping feels a surge of panic at the news that an aelf has been listening in on their conversation the whole time. She wonders how much he has heard as she tries to retain her composure, or rather Zeebo's composure.

"Buttered crumpets and tea," Zeebo says rather testily. "If he is that interested in what we have to say, he could at least have the good manners to introduce himself, aelf or no!"

Psst, Ulfbrecht, just an FYI, Zeebo is supposed to be an aged halfling wizard. If you're seeing Gnome features, they would be, rather curiously, of a young gnomish woman. ;)

The dwarf gives a solemn nod to the pilgrim, but says nothing else.

Ulfbrecht regards Eireachdail as he sits before him and studies the man for a moment, his interest piqued at the mention of his kin. "Ay? A moot with mine cȳþþ (kith) ye had, drēam-bláwere? (music-blower)? Ech..wel, not mine own kin, recenian (reckon) I, but furþor nēahġebūrs (farther neighbors). The folc of Glorigirn do not make..myc..much upfærelds (journeys upward). I...ech..what is the word..appre-ciate the godnes of your words, yet ár-weorþnes...what you call honor..wel, be it an earning of the mann, not the kind. Dwarves there are that un-árian (dishonor) their deeds as wel. He ponders for a moment and shakes his had, tapping the table with his thumb.

"But wóþ-sanges (songs) of the deep-folc, say ye?" The ranger cracks a smile and nods. "If'n ye be of mind to give share, would be it god to feel a bite of home. If'n singan them ye can in mine own tung, all the better," he says with a laugh. "Tung of sky-children is slow a-scacan (to shake off) the rust."

To Zeebo, he gives a brief pensive look and shrugs. "This Haranshire was mine ende-ern (end-place/destination) beforan the cropp-takers and sheep-hierdes told me of this rest-house. Hope I to find word there of the thrall-makers. Ge-wuna (accustomed) with being án-stapa a lone wanderer am I, yet ye folc are better with the sky-lands than I, wisse (certainly)..and mayhap a fareld with ye will sharpen the tung. A..Count..say ye? Eorl-cund, yes? Ah, that is.. like an Earl? Wel, god-hlít (good-fortune) may be has at last cross-ed mine path."

At the mention of an ælf, Ulf's eyes shoot hard and fast into the direction Lafayer gestures to. He had not crossed path with any elves in his journey topside thus far, and the only gleaning of one he obtained was the description of the one in this group of slavers..yet upon quickly recognizing that this elf was assuredly well-removed from that description, he eases the sudden tension and returns to his interactions with those gathered at the table with a light clearing of his throat.

Spiro lamenting the unavailability of his favored pickled lamprey none-the-less makes do with the offered stew and bread. He rolls his eyes at the rejoined Bard's song but found himself tapping his feet along with the melody.

He strains to make sense of the dwarf's speech, but finds if he listens really closely, he can make out what he means if not what he's saying.

He stifles a yawn as he rises to his feet. "I'm thinking a copper for a warm spot in the common room will suffice for me, and...". he tapers off his speech as a new introduction is obviously imminent.

Spiro, Zeebo's paying for our rooms and meals, as well as a bottle of fine wine to share between our crew. (Still waiting on a total for that, by the way, UDM.) Mos, Huni, Eireachdail, and you will share one room while Lady Jenneleth and Zeebo/Ping share the other.

"Well, Master Ulfbrecht, allow me to offer my services as a translator should the need arise whilst you travel alongside us. It will be good to exercise my knowledge of the dwarven tongue and perhaps even build upon it if you would suffer an old halfling's troubling of you. I believe that would be an equitable trade. Perhaps Mos here could learn a thing or two as well in exchange for teaching you the halfling tongue." Zeebo laughs heartily before falling into a coughing fit and apologizing for the disturbance he causes.

Hearing Spiro is planning on taking a spot in the common room, the elderly halfling turns his attention to the young man while waiting for the aelf to introduce himself.

"What's this? My dear lad, I have already paid for a pair of rooms, one for you, Master Mos, Master Hunidark, and Master Eireachdail and the other for Lady Jenneleth and myself. No, no, I'll not hear of my coin going to waste. See the innkeeper and let him know that you are one of my companions. He should see to it that you find your proper bed."

@Zeebo: No bill to pay. The Good Prestor has you covered as per below

At Zeebo's recounting of their deeds, the jolly Prestor leans back on his chair;

"My my my. You have indeed all earned ale and stew this cold eve! Goblyns! The risen dead and a fallen messenger. Now I know the Count well enough that he will reward you bearing the missive. As for your original commission - I am sure the fair Lady Jenneleth and her effects are safe. As for me... Consider your bills covered by mine own coffers! You deserve to be celebr..."

Will give Elyan til tonight to post as I kinda threw him into the mix without much notice, so he may be busy.

Chalk up one reading comprehension fail for me. :P
Can we just pretend Zeebo said the Prestor paid for the rooms instead? Ping may be having one heck of an emotional day, but I don't think she's quite that rattled.

Mass apologies all, been struggling to sit a desk after an operation and yet sadly that's all I'm really allowed to do at work. So writing at a keyboard at home has been daunting. I'll get the edited backstory up soon I swear, for now the Strider-esque intro seems promisingly mysterious... And suits Elyan just fine tbh.

Elyan gathers himself standing smoothly, whisking with him a well-watered, well-nursed glass of wine. His elven grace subtly stiff yet truly only noticeable to the keenest of eyes if taken with the equally minute wrinkles reaching from his eyes and feathering his brow. This elf has seen more than a few winters if one takes the painting as a whole. Belying his age his steps are still as sure and light as a dancer, if not quite as graceful as they once were. The only other insinuation of his immutability fading are the temples of his shoulder length blonde hair turning nearly platinum, hinting at silver, assuredly not grey.

For all his gathered physical poise and in spite of the deep pools of wisdom reflected in his forest green eyes, his tavern manners seem truncated, inexperienced even, a jarring juxtaposition made obvious as he bows gracefully, yet awkwardly, to the group as he arrives at the table. As the half elf trails off he gestures to an empty chair nearby, barely waiting for any kind of acknowledgement before abruptly dragging it noisily to the table, half interrupting the elderly halfling, and sitting. He collects his well crafted but rough spun cloak about himself and pauses interminably, his jaw finally clenches into a grimace as he stiltedly states, "I am Elyan. Your stories intrigue me. I'd like to travel with you. I have knowledge of the area, particularly the woods." While he speaks he makes eye contact with everyone at the table just long enough to call it such, before eyeing the swirling wine in his cup.

Having said his piece to Spiro, Zeebo turns attention back to the surprisingly awkward aelf. His eyebrows rise and rise, threatening to knock off his hat at first his actions, then his request. The affable old halfling just stares at this Elyan as he looks about table, then down into his cups.

No. There is no way I'm falling for this. This is far, far too conveniently timed. This has to be a trap. There is no way this elf isn't planning on double-crossing us. There's just no way!

Then the eyebrows come down like thunderous clouds.

"Master Elyan, was it," the halfling wizard asks, his voice cold and just a little bit higher pitched than before. "Do you take us for fools?"

At Elyan's words, the good Prestor gives pause and frowns as Zeebo voices his concerns;

"Uh... Hold your concerns for a moment Master Softfeather..."

Swaying slightly, the cleric of the Green Man mulls the situation;

"El-yan... Elyan... Ah yes... I have heard the name before, Elyan Wynynore if I recall. An associate of auld Darlen Owlwise... One of the druids. Are you he sir? One of the Auld Faith, the Folk of the Worldheart?"

His voice, though tipsy is tinged with a hush of reverence as he describes the druidic folk.

Eireachdail beams at Ulfbrecht as he give his 'permission' to sing one of his people's songs.

He takes a few moments to mull over the optimal choice, mumbling to himself, "No..no..too somber, sad...hmm, no too political...ah yes!"

His performance's beginning is, however, interrupted by the introduction of the half-elvish fellow. Eireachdail is himself about to welcome the newcomer, recalling a few elvish ballads he has in his repertoire, before Zeebo's outburst.

Settling back in his chair, and eyebrow raised at the entertaining possibilities that have been introduced, he raises his tankard to his lips....watching what might unfold!

Until now the hulking half-orc had been content to enjoy his stew and tea in silence. But he casts a sidelong look at Zeebo and places his tea mug down loudly. ”That was rude… besides some of us may be fools. Most people are – one time or another.”

"A strange aelf comes from the shadows asking to join us right after we have heard tale of slavers being about, and you don't find that just a might bit queer," Zeebo asks Hunidark, his voice strained by incredulity. "Buttered crumpets and crumbled biscuits! You'd have to be a fool not to be suspicious of that! He may be as the good Prestor says, but everyone has a price, and how do we know his hasn't already been paid?"

While Mos has a very healthy level of skepticism, he looks worried at Ping's sudden outburst.

"Here now gaffer, be at ease. You heard Prestor give the aelf a fair shake. Let's not be borrowing trouble where there might not be any. I think a good night's rest and a refreshing breakfast will put things into a better light!"

He takes the old halfling by the elbow and begins to lead him from the room. Once out of hearing of the others, he whispers quietly to the gnome.

" What has gotten into you? Calling him out like that in front of everyone. If he is a plant, it's going to be much harder to catch him out now he knows at least one of us mistrust him. It's like fishing...let out the string and let the fish take the bait."

”My point is you don’t ferret out a man’s intent – specially a foul one – by jumping down his throat. If your method worked, so should this…” Hûnidark turns his attention to, and points a meaty green finger at, the aelf. ”Are you a slaver come to grab us?” While his tone is serious, there is a measure of humor in his dark eyes.

Before Zeebo can say anything else, Mos is dragging the elderly halfling from the room. Once the two of them are out of earshot, Ping can't bring herself to meet Mos' eyes.

"I--I've never been fishing," Ping whispers, the voice still sounding odd coming from someone that looks like an old halfling. She sighs and her shoulders slump. She really should have picked a better disguise, she realizes. One that didn't have her talking much, if the last couple of minutes are any indication.

"Godsdammit, Why am I screwing everything up today of all days?" Her frustrations boil over and it sounds as if she's on the verge of tears.

Spiro watches the encounter with a bemused expression. Boy. I'm glad my elven blood is not so obvious.

"Have a seat stranger. You'll have to forgive our suspicion as we have had several more... well... less than friendly encounters this day. Tell us more about yourself and let's see if we can build mutual trust".  

The elf's demeanor remains unfazed by the elderly halflings accusation. A slightly raised eyebrow is all the reaction he gives as he observes the chaos his introduction brings. He turns to Prestor as the smaller companions step aside, "Aye, that is me. I have maintained some contact with the Owlwise family, even some training by what must be several generations antecedent of any still roaming the woods. Yes, Darlen is, I believe, the latest of that line."

Turning to the half-orc, Elyan meets his eyes momentarily again, "I travel alone for now, as I have mostly lived for many centuries. Slavery is not... a harmonic way to interact with the world. I admit I have neglected mine own ability to interact harmonically with beings outside of my woods, but I would never care to inflict such dominance over another sapient being." His brow furrows slightly at the thought belying his avarice to such a discordant profession, but his tone remains awkwardly distant.

He turns to the table again, offering fleeting eye contact once more starting with the man he suspects with which he may share some elven blood, "I have upset some of you. I had no intention. I have only just recently left my woods in order to see more of this land. I have no ill intent, just a newfound curiosity of the world that has entered an aging elf later in life. As I said your stories sounded intriguing. I have some knowledge of the area that you plan to travel through. Perhaps we could share the path and you will learn that I can be a helpful observer, and perhaps I can learn more of how to be a relatable companion." He offers this as earnestly as he can, but for those listening carefully his tone suggests he thinks it more likely that he'll have aid to offer, and far less likely that he'll learn much of social relatability.

Hûnidark’s brow furrows as he parses through the elf’s lengthy response. ”So, that’s a ‘no’, should please Zeebo…” He glances around trying to spot where the ‘halfling’ has gone off to. Not spying his quarry, he returns his attention to the table. ”Aged people get bristly, I hear. Possibly the old halfling has piles making him so irritable.”

”I have upset some of you…”

”Not me – if that’s giving you a blister.” He adds with a note of humor, ”But if you are a slaver, put me in the harem of a tall woman with strong legs.”

Eireachdail frowns a little after the hoped-for confrontation fizzles out. Then with an easy going shrug, shoves a tankard over to the elven druid, "Drink up, my fine fellow and join us! No upset here. Old Zeebo's a bit of a cranky sort! Sit! Sit! I was just about to regale our companions with a rousing dwarfish song! "

Mos helps the "old halfling" to his room and pats her gently on the shoulder.
"Let's just through tonight and back on the road...your disguise is great, but we just need to make sure everyone is following the ruse. And again I tell you that I have your back!"

Zeebo looks up and down the hallway to make sure no one is watching before motioning for Mos to follow him through the door to their room and, if he chooses to do so, closing the door behind them.

Ulfbrecht largely remains a bystander during the inquiries of the aelf, listening but keeping out of it. Their kind and his had always had shaky relations, and while Ulfbrecht presently views anyone who isn't a slaver he is hunting as a potential ally (or at least source of information), he isn't sure how the aelf views things. Instead he takes the opportunity to quietly nurse a drink as he begins to assemble the new pieces of this puzzle in his mind, arranging and assessing all of these new folc he has met while he awaits the possibility of a Dwarven song.