Crypt of the Everflame (Inactive)

Game Master polyfrequencies

Race (with non-core): 4d100 ⇒ (61, 64, 83, 84) = 292 Human, Half-Elf, Elf, *Changeling
Race (only core): 3d100 ⇒ (89, 87, 17) = 193 *Human, Half-Elf, Elf

gender for Core: 2d4 ⇒ (2, 4) = 6 Female

Arriving at the Silvers he quickly moved through the front room to get an apron. There weren't any customers at this hour but Jiles expected everything cleaned up from last night's business. He spotted the usual broken glass swept into the corner and quickly dug out the dust pan to sweep it up. "You need to find a mage apprentice to 'mend' the glass back together Jiles. Melting it and re-casting it to mugs doesn't make the glass any stronger. Pity that we can't just have all pewter mugs, or steel! That might dent but wouldn't shatter." Dumping the glass shards into the 'recycle' bucket he puts the pan back on the shelf. He'd need it again later, for dirt.

Jiles poked his head out from the back of the inn. "Why are you speaking halfling boy? You think it's a secret language that others around here can't understand? What have I told you about that? Anger me that I taught you. Was that deliberate or did you just forget again? Don't stop working. Gather what shouldn't be on tables, then wipe them. Set the chairs up so you can sweep proper. Oh, those two broken ones need to be out on the front porch. I'm getting them fixed. Boys fighting.... Good thing they had coin to pay the damages, and even a few to go home with after I kicked them out. I hope they notice that their purses aren't empty once they wake up." Calaithes barely scowled at Jiles words. He hadn't stopped working. Hadn't even slowed down. Jiles had been very clear while training him. Act, don't react! Even a man barely awake from drink might feel a tug at his purse. But if he then sees you holding the plate that he'd 'accidentally' dumped on himself he might not realize what really happened. Jiles had also been very clear that nobody stole from his customers! You could help them pay their bar tab, and verify that they had funds to pay for the next round. But stealing would cost.... Well, it would cost everything.

While he swept he thought about Jiles. The man.... Yes, he was a halfling, but he was an adult and a highly respected citizen of the town. The man was the best thing that had ever happened to Calaithes. He might have been able to force himself to learn the ways of his mother. He certainly felt drawn to something beyond this world. Omira tried to explain once about 'the First World', but.... It was a druidic lesson. "So Jiles, that pile of glass looked like three mugs. How'd that happen? When I left here after dinner last night there wasn't one. How'd you let three get dumped? Was it those strangers in town? The half orc looked to be a warrior type but the others looked more like merchants. ??" Jiles had come out sometime while I was working and I got a surprise poke in the ribs for my question. "Right about the half orc. He was a nasty drunk. Wanted to fight a half dozen local men while he could barely stand straight. If he'd suggested it before he was in his cups I might have arranged something for him. Padded fists so none'd be killed and I might have been able to charge admittance to watch. And arranged some betting."

"Get the dust pan to finish with your sweeping. I didn't tell you to stop, just gave an answer. And once you're done with that get the bucket, some cold water and the rags. You had to have seen the dried blood over there on the wall. Don't want to upset a customer with a weak stomach! Oh, but you're wrong about the other men. The dandy probably is a merchant, much as he pretended to be a bard.... No bard would bend the strings of his instrument as poorly as he did though! And then think that he deserved some coin for his tunes. HAH! But that dark haired human? He put two men down swinging nothing but a belt pouch. It was weighted with a steel ball though so a pretty effective weapon. Those lads both had a nasty lump on their heads, but they're probably already awake. T'was them that broke two of the glass mugs, idiots threw their drinks at the half orc! I think he'd have killed them for that, waste of good ale, but that pouch put them both down in bare seconds. All in all, a good fight except for the stupidity. Pity that you missed it. I'd have had you 'accept' the payment from those boys!"

With the cleaning done Jiles led to the back of the inn. Calaithes saw the chest sitting on the preparation table. "More lock training? I didn't bring my tools with me, can I borrow yours?"

"Borrow mine? Never, and why do you keep asking? There's bent forks in the bin. They should do for this. That lock is pretty simple. But.... It might be trapped. Better be careful!" He grins and steps back to watch.

Calaithes opened the junk bin and picked through it. Yes, there were bent forks, and wire, and other junk that he could use. He approached the chest and examined it from all sides before even touching it. He talks to himself quietly while he examines it, "No oils or anything on the surface. Nothing indicating a dusting. Hmm...." He takes a long wire, dropping one end into the water in the sink and touching the lock and various points on the chest. "No shock traps then." Switching to a couple of thin wires he inserts them into the lock and feels around carefully. "Hmmm. Not sure how you thought I could open this with bent forks. One fork tine, and this wire though...." He almost laughs when the lock falls open. It had been easier than he expected. Much easier. He glances at Jiles.

Jiles shrugs, "The chest isn't open yet. I didn't tell you to open the lock. That isn't even a challenge. Now your friends are all standing around waiting for you. Are you going to have them open it? And maybe get roasted to ash? That's what I've trained you for. And the skill you lack. Keep your attention to the job or I'll need to find another apprentice. Now finish the work. You'll know if it kills you and then you can clean up the mess!"

Calaithes turns back to the chest. The lock hadn't been the test. He put the tools aside and remove the lock from the latch, setting it on the table. Examining the chest he takes two bent forks from the bin with a smile. Perhaps the words were a clue? He searches the entire chest again, scratching the edges with the forks but finding nothing. Jiles mocks, "Come on. Lunch crew will be here shortly and they don't need to see this lesson." Calaithes uses one fork and levers the lid up just enough to slide the other in. Sliding it around he still detects nothing. What was he missing? He lifts the lid a bit more and tries to look through the gap.

The blast of red powder blinded him and the surprise sets him onto his backside as Jiles howls with laughter. "Dead! And now you clean up the mess! Next time remember to check the latch before you open a chest." He hangs the lock back on the latch and pulled it down until an obvious 'click' was heard, then lifts the lid. "And why'd you put your face right in the blast path? Get yourself to the pump and wash the powder out of your eyes, and be glad I didn't decide to add anything but flour and color to it. A bit of black pepper might have taught you better!"

Once he had washed the red flour from his eyes, face, neck, and shirt, he returned to clean up the area around the test. The table would be needed for food prep before the cooking started. And they wouldn't want red colored flour messing up the food. Another failed test. Why did he have so much trouble with traps?

Garen was groomed to join the faith. At an early age he chose to pursue the family business. Garen's father was a monk at the temple of Iomedae. At the age of 12 Garen had to sit a midnight vigil before taking his oath as a priest in training. During his vigil he saw a vision of him being knighted by Sir Dramott. The next morning he departed the vigil but passed on the priesthood and went to pledge as a squire to Sir Dramott.

Paladin training seemed near impossible, particularly under the exacting eye of Sir Dramott. With grit and determination, along with a healthy dose of encouragement from his mother and father, he made it. Midway through his training he joined Sir Dramott in responding to an attack by ogres. The paladins, Sir Dramott and two others, arrived too late and what they found horrified Garen. The ogres had partially eaten some people, gutted others and merely left them for dead. The maiming and wanton slaughter made him sick. This scene stuck with him throughout the rest of his training so that when he took his oaths to become a full-fledged paladin he also took an oath of vengeance to better strike fear into the hearts of evil.

After having seen real evil, he found it easy to extend mercy to those with minor infractions of the law. Often he merely acted as an arbiter between disagreeing parties. He suspects at some point he will run into evil men or monsters of some sort and will work valiantly to dispatch them.

Many of the friars, lower brothers of the temple, had taken to brewing. It provided a modest income for the temple in addition to clerical services. Garen would spend his limited off time learning the trade. They always seemed to enjoy his friendly banter and lighthearted spirit. Even today, he prefers to settle a dispute over a fresh brew and discussion than resorting to the sword. Sadly, he felt the sword would be required far too often.

He now looks forward to the lantern lighting ceremony. Unlike some, he does not see it as an adventure as much as it is just recognition that he and the others are now adults. Then he hopes to join Sir Dramott on regular forays into the wild and on trips to Lastwall.

Notes:
Sir Dramott (male human paladin): The people of Lastwall, the militaristic nation to the north, take it as their responsibility to keep the orcs of Belkzen in check. Unfortunately, their forces are spread thin, so they rely on a number of scouts close to the border of Belkzen to keep watch. Sir Dramott is one such scout. Although he has no authority here in town, he regularly reports to his commanders in Lastwall, informing them of any orc activity. Mayor Uptal is grateful for Sir Dramott’s assistance whenever trouble is brewing, but he is concerned about a military officer from a foreign land stationed in his town. The people of Kassen respect Sir Dramott, but they would rather he go home and leave them to their own devices. As a mentor, Sir Dramott is capable and wise, if a bit harsh. Unfortunately, all of his lessons deal with service to Lastwall, and his pupils are taught to think of such service as a high honor.

It was after an unusual visitation to the local church of Erastil that Garth’s current lot in life occurred, the first lecture by the then new Father Rantal Prasst. So moved by his reading of scripture, his mother had attempted to court the young preacher. While the relationship led to nowhere, it did allow for Garth to become a young apprentice, moved in his own way in the tenants to nature that Erastil represented, and an ulterior motive, a chance to leave.

Personality:
Inquisitive, Garth grew up with a love for the natural world around him, spending most of his time outside in the farm fields. This time is usually spent in the study of botany. He secretly, even though he is often supportive to the town and its residents, hates life there. Garth harbors a disdain for the residents and is gradually suffering from a crisis of faith.

His own personal hobbies include collecting books, his botany projects, and hunting. Hunting is one of the few joys he has that relates to Kassen.

Description:
Somewhat below average in build, a lanky body that stands roughly at 5’10”. His hair is somewhat long, curly at the ends and dark brown. He typically stays clean shaven and keeping to simple clothing.

“She told me… she told me the year before you came to town. My father had come one day, a merchant. They had met in the market, courted for a week, and then he left,” he spoke, his hand scribbling down notes and observations, “My mother left the city all because of my birth.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Prasst asks, adjusting the bow that hung over his shoulder.

Garth stopped writing, “I don’t know father Prasst? I told her I was okay, that it didn’t matter, but I keep thinking about it. In my waking dreams, I try to leave the thought behind, but it still lingers in the morning.”

Prasst stood behind Garth, “Then why do you hate this town,” he spoke sincerely, an ounce of concern in his voice, “Do you hate Anna as well?”

Garth closed his journal and stood back up, placing it in his bag, “No, no I don’t, in fact, I lover her as much as a son could…. This town is my prison, I am her biggest shame, I feel trapped here.”

“Then you want to leave?” he looked to Garth, now turned around, his face melancholic as they stared at one another. As much as the young man tried to hide it, Garth gave a look of utter mental exhaustion as he grappled with information that it seemed he was more inclined to have never wanted to know in the first place. An issue of what to say to him arose, words forming but not coming out to mentor him before he finally found something.

“Erastil frowns upon such wedlock, but not the creation of life that is created from such a union. Such a child is for the community to help raise so that they may prosper as others do, something you have very well received here in town,” Prasst tried to smile, hoping to use teachings as a way of condolences, putting his rugged hand on the young man’s shoulder, “Seek a purpose in all life, from that of the deer to a stalk of wheat. All are important to our community here in Kassen.”

The young man seemed to confer with such a thought after a few moments, nodding his head before speaking again, “I suppose your right father, I should turn more to the book for some aide,” giving a small smile in return. He seemed to be fairly more receptive to it even if it was clear that there was a feeling that there was far more left on his mind.

"Dying's . . . not . . . so . . . bad . . ." responded Silvio, trying to catch his breath. "Means I get . . . to rest."

It'd been a long training session between running, shooting practice, and sparring. "You'd not be so tired if you kept the right form. You rely too much on your upper body." He shakes his head in mild disapproval. "Go grab yourself a drink."

Silvio went for his waterskin and downed the cool, refreshing water, before pouring some over his head to wash up. "Sir Dramott, have you ever thought about settling down here?"

"With who, lad? One of the merry tavern girls?" The paladin laughed, before turning his gaze northward, in the direction of Lastwall. "My heart belongs there, in the great nation of Lastwall, standing between civilization and the barbarians beyond. You should come with me the next time I go. You're a fearless spirit with a guardian's heart."

Silvio had gotten this offer more than once. But today, it was feeling tempting. Because today was the anniversary of Tolmir's death. The shame of his failure that day bubbled up once more. "Maybe I will go," he finally said. "I've always wanted to prove myself. Seems like there's no better place than Lastwall."

Sir Dramott was surprised. And then delighted. "No better place indeed, boy! I'll be going in a few weeks time, to report to my superiors. We can volunteer for a patrol or two, so you can get a real taste for adventure!" He gave Silvio a hearty slap on the back. "Come on, then. One last round."

Silvio went at it again, trying to put his legs into it. It felt awkward at first, but as the muscle memory developed, Silvio started feeling like he was making progress. It was a good feeling to end on, as he and Sir Dramott closed their session by kneeling in prayer. Silvio clutched the bow and arrow of Erastil around his neck, praying that he might redeem Tolly's death by being a guardian to others.

Khuvaan grimaces as yet another pebble strikes him in the back, more painful on an emotional level than physically. Arnama was hiding in the forest, near enough to throw small rocks at him, and even taunting him with her catcalls…and yet, he couldn’t find her.

Scowling, the half-orc drops down to a crouch…a hunter’s crawl, he called it, and breathes slowly. Quietly. He knew the direction from where the stone had come…or at least thought he did…but he also knew it was likely that his mentor had already moved from her hiding spot.

He was about to call out an insult of his own when another small pebble hit him in the back of his boot.

Khuvaan actually growled, his Orcish temper flaring, he almost lost control. Almost. But remembering his training and the many nights of scolding from Arnama, the half-orc tilts his head slightly, listening. To the wind. To the trees, and to the animals. Just like he’d been taught. But there was little help there.

Khuvaan starts to move, slowly, towards one of the larger trees in the hope of drawing her out or at least catching her unawares when he caught it. Not a sound, nor even a motion…but a scent. One of the few advantages to having a mix of Orcish and Elven blood was that his sense of smell was at times, ridiculously good. She was nearby. Very close. The smell of her sweat and her hide and leather armor was near enough he could almost touch it.

Anticipating another attack from his left flank, the half-orc ducks and rolls forward, just as another stone flew by, ricocheting off the bark of a thin tree. But Khuvaan’s victory was short-lived.

Even as the apprentice ranger chanced a grin, coming up to his knees in the soft forest floor, Arnama was there, colliding with him, driving him off his knees and onto his back, with her straddling his chest…and a dagger to his throat.

Khuvaan blinked. This was new.

”Yield?” the middle-aged ranger sneered, her eyes full of fury.

The half-orc considered flipping her over, or attempting some other physical defense. He as stronger than his mentor, to be true, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to free himself before she slit his throat…if that was what she was truly intending.

”Aye. Yield.” he mutters, his eyes never leaving hers.

Arnama simply nods, all signs of rage and bloodlust instantly gone, and then rolls off of her student. ”And what did we learn today, Boy?”

Pushing himself up, Khuvaan considers the question for a long moment, and then answers, ”Expect your foe to do the unexpected. Try to think how they think, and anticipate everything.” he pauses, "Know when to fight and when to run..."

”Bah.” the woman cuts him off, a strand of her salt and pepper hair escaping from her hood, ”You quote me something safe and insincere. What is the REAL lesson? What do you now know?”

The tall half-orc ponders for a moment, then grins, ”Never chase YOU into the woods?”

”Damn right!” Arnama cackles, then shakes her head before tossing yet another pebble at her apprentice, which he deftly dodges. She pause, then adds, ”Smart ass.”