Well met, friends and welcome to Daggerdale. Indulge an old man for a few moments and let me tell you of a dangerous land, nestled as it is on the frontier and caught between harsh lands and harsher foes. Yet things are looking up in some ways for ‘twas but a few short years ago that Lord Randal Morn threw off the yoke of Zhentarim occupation and reclaimed the seat of his house.
The Black Network remains a persistent threat and Fzoul Chembryl, Manshoon and their minions in Zhentil Keep brood away to the north, biding their time and looking for an opportunity to seize the dale once more. Closer to home, the Border Forest is a wild place full of wilder fey, while away to the west the lost dwarven mines of Tethyamar nestle in the Desertmouth Mountains. Further west still lies the great desert of Anauroch, where the recent reappearance of the Shadovar, mighty mages of fallen Netheril warped by centuries spent dwelling in the Shadow Plane, look to rebuild their empire. Even the kingdom of Cormyr, usually a friend of the Dalelands, is recovering from its own years of strife, of legions of goblins, a gigantic red dragon of legend, and the death of their beloved monarch Azoun IV. The other Dales to the southeast offer some succour, a largely sturdy and calm presence filled with - in my not-so-humble opinion - some of the finest folk in the Realms. And yet even now there are whisperings of drow stalking the heart of the ancient elven forest of Cormanthor.
Yes friends, it is a wild land, with only the sturdy walls of Dagger Falls truly safe. Naturally many Daggerdarrans remain wary - hopeful too, mind - as they look to rebuild following the expulsion of their Zhent oppressors. With too many threats and too few heads to deal with them, Lord Morn has sent out a call for aid to those skilled in the Art or who know their way around a blade. Hard times require bold deeds and bright words, but there are opportunities here too for those who can seize them. Truly, this is a time for heroes. Who will answer the call?
27 Ches, Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)
It’s a bright spring day as you make your way into Dagger Falls, by some distance the largest settlement in Daggerdale and with its thick stone walls an oasis of safety amidst the rolling hills, farms and woodland that makes up the rest of the territory.
Following up on a call from Lord Randal Morn for experienced adventurers - a not uncommon request while the dale faces myriad challenges, even after its reclamation from the Zhentarim in the Year of the Gauntlet - you make your way across town to the Freedom Riders’ barracks. Alongside the soldiers’ accommodation sits the garrison, repurposed as the seat of government. It is dwarfed, however, by the fortress that lies beyond it. Looking up at it you see that it is in need of repair, though it looks to be far from an impossible restoration. There is a sudden muffled boom and a faint crackling sound from within the fortress, though if any of the townsfolk are surprised by the noise it doesn’t show.
After watching for a little while, and with no further explosions forthcoming, you head over to speak to one of the guards at the door. Stating your business you are admitted and escorted up a flight of stairs, down a long corridor and to where a heavy wooden door lies open. A woman garbed in embroidered robes of sea green, teal and aquamarine welcomes you into a large meeting room. Tall, with a long plait of caramel-coloured hair, a simple necklace carved into the shape of a waterfall plunging into a pool hangs around her neck.
”Well met, I’m Cariamma Stillwater, advisor to Lord Morn. Please make yourself comfortable and help yourself to refreshments - the mushroom and cheese tartlets are delicious.” She gestures towards a side table where pitchers of iced water and glasses, plus a stack of plates and a pile of the aforementioned tarts, still warm from the oven.
There are the best part of a dozen mismatched chairs in the room, ranging from squishy looking armchairs to high-backed chairs to one rickety old thing that doesn’t look like it would support the weight of a halfling child. Six of them are arranged around a large duskwood table, the remainder spread out against two of the walls. The walls themselves are hung with portraits, along with a sizeable map of the Dales and surrounding lands. Logs are piled in front of an unlit fireplace, the early spring weather currently warm enough to not require it, though there is a touch of cold to the building.
”Thank you for answering our call for aid,” Cariamma says, closing the door behind the last figure to enter. The woman’s eyes rove around the room, carefully sizing up the motley array of characters now gathered in the council chamber. ”Tunfer will be with us anon. In the meantime, perhaps you would care to share something of yourselves.”
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A strange sight befell the citizens of Dagger Falls at the North Gate. A large warrior in some exotic red scaled armor rode through the North Gate. A golden heavy mace attached to his weapon belt. This impressive warrior rode on a what looked a flawless warhorse, with a pelt that seemed to shine in the sunlight.
One of the more prepared gate guards asked the red scalled warrior to stop and pronounce his intentions. The red scaled warrior pulled his steed off the road to allow traffic. Then the warrior took off his helm, to unveil and handsome man of regal bearing with long red hair to match his armor.
"I am Lord Joreld Huntsilver of Cormyr, paladin of The Morninglord, Lathander. I am here at the request of Lord Randal Morn." The paladin unfolded a small piece of parchment from his belt and referred to it. "Can you direct me to Freedom Riders’ barracks?"
The other guards just stood with their mouths agape. The brave guard before straightened up and gave Lord Huntsilver excellent directions. Joreld thanks the guard, then directed his amazing steed toward the direction needed.
The Lathanderite looked up at booming structure. "So that must be Constable's Tower", Joreld said to himself. "Strange."
Lord Joreld dismounts his amazing steed, and whispers to the horse, his head next to his. "Sunrise. Rest. I shall call you if you are needed. You deserve some rest." At that, the magnificent horse disappears in a flash of light.
After being allowed entry to the barracks, the paladin meets the exotic woman with the caramel-coloured hair.
Joreld, ever the cultured gentleman, bows to advisor and states, "Thank you, Madam Stillwater. May the Blessing of The Goddess of Singing Waters continue to wash over you."
Instead of sitting, Joreld walks around the room, admiring the artwork, eating a tarlet.
”Thank you for answering our call for aid,” Cariamma says, closing the door behind the last figure to enter. The woman’s eyes rove around the room, carefully sizing up the motley array of characters now gathered in the council chamber. ”Tunfer will be with us anon. In the meantime, perhaps you would care to share something of yourselves.”
The large red scaled warrior nods. "Greetings, all. My name is Lord Joreld Huntsilver of Cormyr. I'm a paladin of Lathander." A gold symbol of The Morninglord rests on his chest over his armor. "I was a former member of The Purple Dragons. In truth, it was more of an administrative role."
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The curiously dressed woman notes the explosions and glances at the tower from behind her khimar (veil). She seems no more surprised by them than any of the locals. She had visited Dagger Falls twice before and information was her stock and trade (one way or another). So, she had heard the tales of the Constable’s Tower and its importance to Lord Morn. But that was not her business this day.
The slender woman walks gracefully into the meeting room, her white abaya (robe) and tan bisht (outer cloak) whispering across the floor. Little can be seen of her between her floor-length robe, the hood/scarf that wraps her head before trailing down her back, and the fine black veil covering her face. What can be seen are olive-skinned, sand-roughened hands and a hint of a long mane of wavy black hair peeking out from beneath the trailing end of her hijab (hood/scarf) somewhere near her knees – one would guess. With a bit of effort and patience, the contours beneath her veil can be seen. She has a pretty but unexceptional face marked by penetrating black eyes.
She debates sitting and then is drawn – like iron filings to a magnet – to the side table. She ignores the tartlets and hovers by the water pitchers. She carefully pours a glass then dips two fingers into her cup to pull out an ice cube. She regards it for a moment before her hand moves beneath her veil to place it in her mouth. She sucks on it like it is the first summer strawberry, relishing the experience. She takes a chair at the table and regards both their hostess and the red-armored warrior for a somewhat too long period of time.
She speaks in curiously accented Common, ”Hello. I am Samara, daughter of the Bedine. From Anauroch.” She continues, unused to speaking about herself, ”I am sahira and earaaf… a, hm, lizard, in your words?”
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Remaining gruff as he takes in the landscape, knowing nothing of this region of the Sword Coast. He looks up, high above as he spots his Owl, Lunaris flying high over head, thinking to himself, where have you brought me this time following up with a short prayer to Selûne, so as not to admonish her messenger.
Striding up to the booming castle, he tries to think of what monster must be trapped, or kept caged to make such a racket. Shaking his head and seeing his destination he strides into the Garrison/town Hall.
Unfamiliar with the backwater deity this woman worships, Calen tipped his wide-brimmed hat, his voice low and slow, with that ever-present drawl that seemed to linger in the air."Name’s Calen. Calen Derethor."
His gaze lingered on the others seated around the duskwood table for just a moment before continuing. "I reckon Selûne’s what brought me here—her light tends to lead folks like me into all sorts of trouble."
He shifted slightly, the sunlight from the windows catching the silver crescent at his neck. "Me and Lunaris, we handle what needs handlin'. Huntin’ things that don’t belong in the night. Keepin' the dark at bay."
With that, he stepped back toward one of the sturdier chairs, settling into it slowly, his eyes scanning the room
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Pick's entrance is the diametric opposite of Joreld. Where Joreld's striking red armor draws every eye, and the gleaming symbol of Lathander shines on his breast, drawing respectful and admiring nods, practically nobody notices a somewhat dusty and shabby dog that ambles through the yard, stopping occasionally to sniff at the ground.
However, the difficulty of not being able to knock with a paw becomes evident, and the dog pads off to a nook by the wall that seems unobserved. In the space a few breaths, the dog's legs thicken and its torso fills out. (The dust remains.) A dwarf is crouched on the ground on all fours where the dog previously was. He stands, brushes his hands off perfunctorily, and proceeds towards the door...
He enters the meeting room a few minutes later. Like most dwarves, he is bearded and armored, but his beard is a wild thing that barely tolerates being bound into a leather tie, and his thick red-blond hair reaches down to the middle of his back, with only a few perfunctory braids to suggest order. His armor is no gleaming masterpiece of steel but instead a leather surcoat sewn with thin horn plates, dull with road-dust, not appearing terribly well-maintained; the rest of his plain leather clothing is similarly dusty. His feet are bare on the stone floors. From beneath thick eyebrows a pair of bright green eyes gaze warily at the others already assembled on his entrance; he shifts uncomfortably from bare foot to bare foot at the eyes that have swiveled his own way.
"'M called Pick," he rasps after a few seconds of silence. With no further introduction he pads on into the room, hugging the walls on his way to the sidetable. A sniff of the table's bounty earns an approving grunt from the dwarf, and he picks up a mushroom-and-cheese tartlet before turning to keep an eye on the strangers again.
He eats his tart in silence observing the man in pristine red armor, the woman in her long robes, the man with his owl (ooh, owl)...
Only once his tart has disappeared into his mouth and he has brushed his hands off again does the dwarf say more-- a few words to the veiled woman.
"Lizard's an animal." This is said with a note of question to it, as if to say, you do not much look like a lizard to me but I'm open to being proven wrong.
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Traveling with The Red Silk had perks, but Ialia had to work for them, which she was happy to do. Dancing, for her, was similar to religion to some, and sex to others. She had little use for religion, finding a greater kinship with the natural order of the world and the magic endowed through her parents on both sides. As for sex, she had plenty of practice, having permitted herself to be sold into slavery and eagerly scooped up by a young aristocrat with peculiar fetishes in Selgaunt. What she had never experienced for herself was meaningful love with a partner. She had been used, and in turn she had learned much about the war plans of the consortium who ruled that city. There were times she confused attention for affection, but lessons were learned, and that was that.
For weeks the traveling company wound its way in a rough circle, winding along the south coast of Sembia during the winter where the Sea kept her ever warm in her heart. Her mother, being a particularly powerful hag of the storm, had left her with a kind of resistance to the extremes of weather, and when the other members of the troupe were hastened to secure their tents, Ialia would find a place to sit and watch the wind whip the sea into a mist of brine and ice.
Always she had the familiar companionship of Basil, her bat, the locus of her powers. She spent nights communing with the creature, and if ever the bat ventured too far, the young witch would feel a pull in her gut, a kind of longing that was reserved for this relationship only. If the other members of the dance troupe thought this was strange they made no mention of it, and anyway, Ialia's exotic appearance was the greater oddity, and they had long since overcome that.
With the early spring came a change of direction, and the caravan drove in more or less a northwesterly route that would eventually lead them out of Sembia altogether. It was partly Ialia's doing. She had requested passage at least part way to the Dalelands, and after the season of winter storms, The Red Silk, was equally eager to return to the forests and valleys in the Eastern Heartlands.
She arrives at Daggerdale well-learned of the local points of interests and particular goings-on, and notes the Constable’s Tower and the deadly magical storm raging within.
As is her custom, Ialia is dressed in fine clothing, including colorful silk ribbons which offset her remarkably pale skin tone. Expensive jewelry adorns her lavish outfit; she looks every bit the part of nobility and wealth. Her long white hair is wound up but spills from a thick knot down nearly to her knees; a cosmopolitan sort might venture to guess at her nature, especially given her different-colored eyes, insofar as one would presume her to be human but also a white-haired witch. Fortunately for Ialia, few knew well enough to make her out, though anyone could tell she was unusual.
Upon meeting Lord Morn's advisor, the young witch introduces herself. "Lady Stillwater, I am Ialia Frostmoon, of Saerloon, heeding the call." She tilts her head respectfully, noting the religious symbol adorning the woman's neck, and its relevance. Not having religion does not mean she is not familiar with it.
Ialia knows what is locally known about Cariamma Stillwater, and her reputation for kindness allows the witch to relax some. With Basil perched on her shoulder, she focuses her attention on the other adventurers already assembled.
There's the gruff sort of fellow with his eyes intent on everyone else in the room. Then there is the intriguing person veiled head to toe - mysterious! And finally there's the impressive warrior in his gleaming red armor. His powerful form and chiseled jaw send a shock of warmth through Ialia and she can't help but smile. She thinks she may enjoy this adventure very much.
She observes the symbol of Lathander and approaches him optimistically. "Your mace is quite impressive," she begins. Basil can't cough, but the bat makes a little hiss in her ear. She sends a thought its way to be quiet.
"It's appropriate that you're with us - a paladin of Lathander, unless I miss my guess. To new endeavors, then. I'm Ialia." She extends her hand, hopeful that he takes it in any custom that suits him.
"Lizard's an animal."
Samara weighs the dwarf’s words seriously, largely because of his appearance. A coat of dust, dirt, or sand indicated long days of travel or hardship. And while she knew it was a bias of her homeland… his choice of armor and clothing that matched his surroundings made sense to her.
However, none of this made his words any easier to fathom. Her reply is edged with confusion, ”Yes, we are animals.”
"Lizard's an animal."Samara weighs the dwarf’s words seriously, largely because of his appearance. A coat of dust, dirt, or sand indicated long days of travel or hardship. And while she knew it was a bias of her homeland… his choice of armor and clothing that matched his surroundings made sense to her.
However, none of this made his words any easier to fathom. Her reply is edged with confusion, ”Yes, we are animals.”
The dwarf pauses, with his own brow furrowed in turn. That's the trouble with words, with talking. Trying to clarify only leads to more confusion.
"You said... you're a lizard." His voice is deep and slightly raspy, as if little used. He uses his hands-- heavily callused and suntanned, with his fingernails rather more prominent and sharp than... well... most humanoids can boast, to indicate a distance a few inches apart. "Lizard. Small. Green. Or brown. Tail. Scales."
Another pause. "....There's bigger lizards too."
Calen leaned back slightly in his chair, observing the three newcomers as they entered. His silver eyes narrowed just a fraction as he took in each of them, his natural inclination to watch and wait before speaking coming to the forefront.
Pick, the dwarf, looked as though he had just crawled out of a cave somewhere, dust clinging to his clothes and hair like an old friend. Calen found something admirable in the wildness of his appearance—there was honesty in it.
Ialia Frostmoon, on the other hand, was striking in her beauty, with a regal air that reminded him of the high elves he'd crossed paths with in the past. He nodded politely when she introduced herself, though he kept his distance. Her demeanor suggested someone who was used to commanding attention, and Calen preferred to let others have the floor until it was absolutely necessary for him to speak.
Then there was Samara, whose oddness didn’t escape Calen’s notice. Something about her felt… off. He couldn’t quite place it, but there was a dissonance in her appearance, the way she moved, and how she carried herself.
Nodding to Pick, picking up on the strange conversation between him and Samara, "Aye, there are bigg-uh lizards out there, I reckon you've run into one or two of 'em, haven't ya?"
The robed woman silently mouths his words, thinking… Small. Green. Tail. Scales. It takes a moment before a smile breaks out beneath her veil. ”My word is wrong. A yizard? A worker of… of yatahajaa… spells?” She makes some magical gestures with her hands, hoping that helps.
The scarlet-armored man and the white-haired woman seem like two of a kind, Pick thinks as he glances at them. He understands little of what their garb signifies other than that it puts him in mind of some of the high fae, the ones that Dellabrynna had always cautioned him to steer clear of. They are beautiful as butterflies, my pebble, but the colors hide a sting. Mind yourself!
He is more or less aware that back here such richness of garb does not signify fae princes, but simply: the city. A foreign place, which is full of unknown dangers to him. The City. It might as well be some other country. Which city isn't even relevant, just... 'city.'
They are alien to him. They seem at ease with each other, judging by how the woman approaches the man. He tries to imagine how their clothing would survive a swamp or a cave and comes up blank.
But the man with the owl, he looks as though he knows how to move in the woods. That is promising. Pick gives him a fractional nod, and gazes longer at the bird. A magnificent example of the species, and it also puts him in mind of the otherworldly creatures of the Feywild. He studies the owl's size, the hints of the barring on the tail feathers, and nods slowly.
"Girl?" he asks Calen with a nod at the owl. "Pretty."
A small shrug of his broad shoulders at the question of bigger lizards. "Some. Yes. Worst have poison."
His expression clears at Samara's further explanation. "Wizard. Magic, spells... wizard."
He doesn't know many wizards. Or any, really. Pick falls silent again, thinking, then reaches to a pocket sewn on the side of his leather trousers and retrieves a stick about ten inches long, made of some sort of polished dark wood, with a chip of garnet embedded at the base and faint runes over all of it.
"What is it?" he asks Samara without ceremony, holding it out.
There's the gruff sort of fellow with his eyes intent on everyone else in the room. Then there is the intriguing person veiled head to toe - mysterious! And finally there's the impressive warrior in his gleaming red armor. His powerful form and chiseled jaw send a shock of warmth through Ialia and she can't help but smile. She thinks she may enjoy this adventure very much.
She observes the symbol of Lathander and approaches him optimistically. "Your mace is quite impressive," she begins. Basil can't cough, but the bat makes a little hiss in her ear. She sends a thought its way to be quiet.
"It's appropriate that you're with us - a paladin of Lathander, unless I miss my guess. To new endeavors, then. I'm Ialia." She extends her hand, hopeful that he takes it in any custom that suits him.
The exotic silken dancer introduces herself to the paladin. "Why, thank you", the red warrior smiled. Joreld nods at the acknowledgement of his calling. The paladin takes the offered hand delicately and bends down to kiss it. "Lovely to meet you, Miss Ialia."
The cormyrean lord observed everyone in the room.
The red warrior noticed the holy symbol of Moonmaiden immediately, and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Though Lathlander and Selune hang in different places in the sky, both are aware of each others deeds. One protected the day, the other the night. Lord Jareld gave a respectful nod to the selunite from across the room.
”My pleasure, Saer Huntsilver,” Cariamma dimples at the knight, finding it impossible not to be charmed by his courtly manner. ”It is always good to welcome a friend from Cormyr.” She scans the room, taking in the assembled group. Yes, quite the assortment we have here. Along with the nobleman and the Selûnite wanderer, she studies the Bedine woman, the white-haired beauty and, of course, Pick. ”Welcome, all. And thank you for making journeys that do not sound so short. I hope they were not arduous.”
She follows up on Pick’s words to Samara, saying kindly, ”Another way you might say this is that you are skilled in the Art. It is always well to travel alongside those who work spells so I am grateful for you travelling here.”
To the dwarf Cariamma says, ”Thank you for coming into town, Pick. Usually when we bump into each other it is in much wilder places.”
The priestess steps over to the door and sticks her head out to see if anybody else is joining them or if these five are it.
A wave of relaxation, and something else, flows through Ialia when the paladin kisses her hand. She feels her cheeks flush but remembers her manners. She follows his eyes around the room and notices a dwarf has arrived. The group seems to be getting on a bit awkwardly, which is perfect for Ialia. She'll fit right in.
The witch returns to pour herself a glass of water and try a tartlet. Basil hisses at her.
Not very subtle, says the bat.
When have I had the luxury of subtlety? Ialia counters in their secret language.
And there's nothing here for me to eat!
Go then, find a juicy wasp outside. And while you're at it, get a closer look at the storm inside the Manor. But not too close. Oh, and try not to get eaten by that owl.
Basil stretches its wings and flaps out of the chamber.
Joreld flinches to see the bat leave Ialia's person and fly out the door.
"Sorry. I didn't notice your friend. He..he was your familiar, correct?" The paladin asks with trepidation.
"Wizard. Magic, spells... wizard."
Pick falls silent again, thinking, then reaches to a pocket sewn on the side of his leather trousers and retrieves a stick about ten inches long, made of some sort of polished dark wood, with a chip of garnet embedded at the base and faint runes over all of it. ”What is it?”
Samara accepts the stick delicately, with a smile. This was well within her practiced skillset, even knowing many of the correct terms in the outlander tongue. She weaves a simple spell and regards the aura of the object briefly before returning it to Pick. ”This is wand of… wizard’s armor.”
She rests her right hand flat on the table before pulling a curiously-shaped blade from beneath her robes with her left. Samara expertly stabs at her hand. The blade is turned aside by an opaquing field of energy against her skin. She twists the blade away before it scratches the table. ”Wizard’s armor.” She taps the dwarf’s armor with a finger, ”Not work with this.” As an afterthought, Samara lays the blade down on the table. She had learned that holding a weapon at a dinner party was considered poor manners. ”Sorry.”
”Another way you might say this is that you are skilled in the Art. It is always well to travel alongside those who work spells so I am grateful for you travelling here.”
The sorceress considers. Art? There are many arts: music, sand-painting, carving, singing… ‘Art’ lacks concision. Still, being an ‘Artist’ in the Dales is better than being a ‘Hexbane’ in Anauroch. She nods, ”Thank you. I will remember this phrase.”
Joreld flinches to see the bat leave Ialia's person and fly out the door.
"Sorry. I didn't notice your friend. He..he was your familiar, correct?" The paladin asks with trepidation.
Ialia turns her attention back to the strikingly handsome paladin. "Yes, that's Basil. It's surprising how inconspicuous a bat can be when it's not complaining about something."
She takes a sip of water and changes the subject without a fluid segue. "Your armor is mesmerizing. If I may ask, by whose unmatched hands was it forged?"
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To the dwarf Cariamma says, ”Thank you for coming into town, Pick. Usually when we bump into each other it is in much wilder places.”
He nods once in acknowledgment of the priestess's words, a deeper nod than he gives most people-- not a bow, but what passes for a respectful gesture with him. She has always been pleasant to him in the past, accounting for at least half of why he was willing to answer Morn's call.
Samara accepts the stick delicately, with a smile. This was well within her practiced skillset, even knowing many of the correct terms in the outlander tongue. She weaves a simple spell and regards the aura of the object briefly before returning it to Pick. ”This is wand of… wizard’s armor.”
She rests her right hand flat on the table before pulling a curiously-shaped blade from beneath her robes with her left. Samara expertly stabs at her hand. The blade is turned aside by an opaquing field of energy against her skin. She twists the blade away before it scratches the table. ”Wizard’s armor.” She taps the dwarf’s armor with a finger, "Not work with this.” As an afterthought, Samara lays the blade down on the table. She had learned that holding a weapon at a dinner party was considered poor manners. "Sorry.”
Wizard's armor... Pick grunts once as he takes the stick back, turning it over in his hands with a frown. He is not a wizard, therefore: it's useless to him. Though at least it's clearer how the last bandit he had fought had seemed to have an unseen barrier around him, blunting the effect of Pick's own claws. Perhaps such wizard-armor could be useful when he wears beastskin, but he still cannot make the wizard-stick work, so: it is still useless to him. The dwarf puts the stick down on the table next to the curved blade, dismissing it from his further attention and his possessions. The knife looks well-made... for a human-forged blade, at any rate.
He misunderstands the woman's apology as being for the redundancy of the wizard armor with his own (somewhat nonsensical that she should apologize for that, yet it would much more nonsensical to Pick if she were apologizing for drawing the blade) and shrugs at her. "I am not wizard. Your steel is sharp."
The dwarf is distracted from further conversation by the sudden motion of the bat. He smiles a little to watch it go, smiles slightly more to see the red-armored man's reaction. A bat. An owl. There are two people* of interest in this group, then. That bodes well.
The dwarf purses his lips carefully before issuing a series of noises at the owl -- a soft clicking and hoo-hoo-ing at the magnificent owl-- general noises of 'I am also here, we can share this territory perhaps?' It is not actual bird-speech, but at least conveys general non-threat from the dwarf.
*by which he absolutely means the animals themselves
She takes a sip of water and changes the subject without a fluid segue. "Your armor is mesmerizing. If I may ask, by whose unmatched hands was it forged?"
"Ah. This red dragonscale armor was crafted by some of the finest armorsmith in Suzail", Jareld bowed slightly, opening his arms wide to showcase the craftsmanship.
"I was told it was taken from a wyrm who laired in The Stormhorn Mountains for a season. It was taken down by The Purple Dragons, with a small band of adventurers."The paladin looks at Ialia with an inquisitive gaze.
"So, Ialia? Do you have an arcane school preference? Or are you an universalist?"
Lunaris eyes the dwarf as he hoots at her, her head rotating sideways to stare at him. Her white almost silver feathers and eyes the same color silver as Calen's speaks of a deep magical bond. She spreads her wings, taking up the entirety of the window frame she sits perched on. Completely blocking the sun before settling back down, ruffling her feathers, before giving one chilly, "Hoot"
Calen watching the display, chuckling, "Don't mind her, she dislikes being awake during the day, you'll have to forgive her if she is a little grumpy,"
Standing up, he'll swipe some treats off the table, before continuing "We are more used to working at night, sadly these meetings often happen during the day,"
Lunaris eyes the dwarf as he hoots at her, her head rotating sideways to stare at him. Her white almost silver feathers and eyes the same color silver as Calen's speaks of a deep magical bond. She spreads her wings, taking up the entirety of the window frame she sits perched on. Completely blocking the sun before settling back down, ruffling her feathers, before giving one chilly, "Hoot"
Calen watching the display, chuckling, "Don't mind her, she dislikes being awake during the day, you'll have to forgive her if she is a little grumpy,"
Standing up, he'll swipe some treats off the table, before continuing "We are more used to working at night, sadly these meetings often happen during the day,"
Pick nods, unoffended. "Both owl and bat are not day creatures. This is not their time."
Calen seems to have the right idea of grabbing more food. Pick moves back to the table and takes another two savory tartlets, then settles down onto his haunches in a corner of the room, disdaining the chairs entirely as he eats. Free food is never to be passed up.
[dice=Knowledge (geography)]1d20 + 8
The paladin looks at Ialia with an inquisitive gaze.
"So, Ialia? Do you have an arcane school preference? Or are you an universalist?"
Absently, Ialia twists a rope of white hair between the fingers of her hand. She avoids answering the paladin directly. He was on the right track with her but better to not risk scaring him off too soon. And anyway she felt a little foolish for not having recognized his armor as dragonscale.
"Remarkable. I expect you and I have many complimentary talents."
Samara continues to enjoy the ice cubes as well as the cold water. She listens to the different conversations trying to understand all that is being said. Frustratingly, some phrases utterly elude her.
"We are more used to working at night, sadly these meetings often happen during the day,"
The Bedine nods her approval, ”Good. It is good to work in the dark hours.”
The paladin is aware of Ialia's deflection, but doesn't press the issue. For now.
"We can only hope. I prefer to get within melee. I've worked with different spellcasters, who have been key to victory from a distance."
The twisting of hair is often an unconscious sign of flirtation. or she is tense from hiding something. It could be either, Joreld thinks to himself.
"Hm."
Ialia considers the paladin. She has never fought her battles from a distance, but rather, close in, when the knife can be pressed directly into the soft tissue. Or perhaps a step away, strangling the life out of her abusive master with nothing but her hair.
Time will tell how things work out in the group. It is her first chance to work with others and it will take some getting used to. Perhaps Joreld is right and wise to suggest that she use her powers to aid and support and rely less on her limited, albeit effective martial skills. Pondering him one more time, that immaculate armor and deadly mace, she realized that whatever challenges lay before them would be considerably more dangerous than a band of ruffians or the personal guard of some fool noble in Selgaunt.
She takes another bite of the tartlet and observes the others in the room.
The other door in the room opens and a large middle-aged man enters. Bald-headed, with a mostly grey moustache, he not only tops six feet in height but is broad of shoulder and carries a lot of weight around his middle. Despite his bulk he moves with purpose and has an obvious military bearing. He wears a blue and white tabard adorned with a set of scales balanced on the head of a warhammer and a gold pendant around his neck is shaped into the same symbol.
”May I present Abbot Tunfer Prenscap,” Cariamma announces, moving to close the door you entered by. ”I think we’re all here but any latecomers can catch us up. We don’t want to take up too much of your time - I know you’re busy, Tunfer.” She then proceeds to introduce each of the assembled group in turn.
”Not too busy for this, Cariamma,” he smiles. ”So these are the respondents, eh?” His steely gaze passes over you each in turn. ”Well, none of you look like farm lads who don’t know which end of a sword to hold or tavern girls who have just discovered they can make sparks from their fingers. That’s just as well, there are always more of those to hammer into shape hunting kobolds or chasing after bandits.” Tunfer gestures for those of you still standing to take a seat before setting himself into a heavy chair at the table.
”To business, then. Let’s weigh the scales swiftly. Our best scout and tracker, Glanwyn Laetellier is missing.” He shoots Cariamma a look.
The priestess of Eldath picks up the thread of conversation. ”This isn’t like Glan,” she says. ”He can be out of town for weeks at a time but he’s an excellent woodsman and he isn’t stupid enough to tangle with anything he isn’t sure of defeating. And he keeps in touch reliably too,” she adds.
Tunfer nods in agreement. ”He’s good - very good, in fact. Proven himself time and again, may the Even-Handed protect him. If something has happened to him then whatever is responsible is almost certainly a problem. Which - as I assume you have figured out - is where you all come in.”
As the other large door opens, unveiling Abbot Prensca, Jareld inwardly breathes a sigh of relief, as further topics with Ialia were no longer tenable.
The paladin bows respectfully toward the Tyrran cleric, then joins the others at the table.
Jareld's brow furrowed to hear the main reason they were all called out to this remote location was to locate a woodsman. But the paladin reasoned Lathander wanted him in Daggerfalls for a good reason; he was here now.
"Do we know if Glanwyn had a set path he patrolled? Are you aware of any new developments in the wilds that would peak his interest enough to go on an extended absence?"
Ialia can't help but notice the paladin relax when the Abbott arrives. She's a little disappointed but not surprised; the play always begins the same for her.
She waits for Joreld's question to be answered before asking her own. As with Cariamma, The Red Silk provided Ialia with adequate information about Tunfer Prenscap, and if he is here to brief them then this is a serious matter indeed. Exactly the sort of situation that could call for outside help. Perhaps discretion is also necessary?
"Do you have concerns about specific groups operating in the Dalelands that might have something to do with Glanwyn's disappearance?"
Samara chuckles at the mention of ‘sparking tavern girls’, a joke she understands. Otherwise, she listens carefully to the words and the silences. She nods at the group’s questions, all reasonable. Her question isn’t pointed toward either speaker, but her eyes are on Cariamma. ”When did you… uh, expect words from him?”
The pendant around the large priest's neck is as meaningless to Pick as those that many others wear. He continues to eat a tartlet.
But when the name of the missing tracker is brought up, he looks up rather sharply. Glanwyn? They have met, a dozen times perhaps, in what the townsfolk call 'the wilds' and which Pick just thinks of as 'the majority of the world except for where people have built little towns.' They are each of longer-lived stock than the humans, and Glanwyn knows the woods as well as Pick if not better. It is worrying if the elf is missing.
His eyes dart briefly to Cariamma, noting her use of the shortened name with a bit of an internal Oh I see, and then he looks down to the floor again, chewing slowly and methodically on another bite of mushroom and cheese and pastry.
Where to look? he would ask, but Red Armor's question will suffice for that. No need to add extra, meaningless words.
He does say, from his crouch in the corner: "Elf. Woodsborn." Since the others don't know that.
Calen rested his forearms on the table, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He glanced briefly at Lunaris, who had settled into her watchful silence on the nearby perch, before turning his attention back to Tunfer. When he spoke, his voice was low and deliberate, the slow drawl giving weight to each word.
“Well, reckon if your best man’s gone missin', that’s trouble knockin’ on the door,” he said, his eyes calm but sharp, like a hunter sizing up his prey. “Ain’t one to jump to conclusions, but from the sound of it, Glanwyn didn’t just wander off. Could be somethin’ darker at play.”
He leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. “Question is, where was he last seen? And did he leave any sign of what he might’ve been trackin’? If we can pick up his trail, we might get a sense of what’s out there lurkin’.”
Taking the various questions in turn, Cariamma says, ”From town he headed south down the Tethyamar Trail, checking in at various villages and then into the Spiderhaunt Woods. He was then going to loop back up, broadly in the shadow of the Desertmouth Mountains and ultimately into the Border Forest.” She pauses, wondering how best to answer the next one. ”We’re in regular enough contact - mostly every other day - though not usually with a set pattern. Glan usually gives a warning if he thinks he might not be able to speak. It’s now been a tenday.” The concern in her voice here is obvious.
Tunfer backs this up. ”There aren’t many who know the Dale as well as Glanwyn. I doubt there are more than a hand’s worth in all Faerûn who know the Border Forest better. But we don’t know if he made it to that point. We do know he definitely came out of Spiderhaunt and crossed the Ashaba heading north. An exact location, however, is a prize we don’t possess. And it’s not a small area to go poking around in.” He mops his brow with a handkerchief.
”As for what’s happening in the Dale and who could be operating here,” he barks out a laugh in Ialia’s direction, ”take your pick, good lady. The Zhents itch to throw us in chains once more. There’s been no overt attacks of late but once you get away from the main roads we don’t have the men to run patrols. I’m sure there are probably pockets of Zhent scum gone to ground or turned rogue as bandits dotted around the Dale still. The law only extends so far out there, often only at the point of a sword.” The look of distaste on his face as he says this suggests he takes this a personal slight and an attack on his patron deity.
”The Zhentarim have got other problems too,” Cariamma adds. ”Despite its location many of their merchants now give Dagger Falls a wide berth and it’s something of an uneasy situation as they continue to pass through the Dale. No, they’ve got a bigger issue with the return of these shadovar,” she looks at the Bedine magician to see if this registers with her. ”They must have invested a huge amount of money in the Black Road as a trade route. Crossing Anaroch must already be hard enough but for it to now be through overtly hostile territory…” She lets the sentence trail off, before continuing. ”The volume of traffic heading out west has noticeably dropped and those caravan trains that are still running the route are increasingly heavily armed.”
”Increasingly desperate too,” Tunfer adds darkly and the two priests exchange a glance. They make an odd couple, the battle-worn Tyrran and the younger Eldathyn, but there is clearly mutual respect and both seem to have the interest of their people at heart.
Looking to Calen, Tunfer continues, ”Then we have the endless goblins that seem to pour out of the mountains. Since the troubles in Cormyr there have been more than ever, coupled with fewer Purple Dragons afforded to patrolling the area.”
”No slight to you or your countrymen intended, Lord Huntsilver,” Cariamma jumps in quickly with a mollifying tone, looking to neutralise any potential tension.
Tunfer shrugs. ”Facts. Can’t be helped and no blame to apportion. I’d make the same decision too if I were running the kingdom. But there are still more of the little blighters than usual.” He pauses a second, weighing his next words. ”There have also been rumours of a stone giant clan amassing some power in the mountains.”
”That is something Glan said he might look into,” Cariamma says softly. ”But we don’t know whether he did or not or where that might have been.”
Tunfer smiles tightly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ”And that is just a small sample of the daily challenges that Daggerdale faces. It is not a land for the faint of heart.” Although he doesn’t vocalise it, the words “but it’s home” are strongly implicit in the priest’s final utterance.
Likely the person in the room with the least knowledge of the Daggerdale, Ialia recognizes scant few of the locations mentioned by Cariamma and the Abbot. She waits to see how the more knowledgeable members of the party respond. If the moment presents itself, she may ask if there is any specific individual known to hold a grudge against Glanwyn.
”No, they’ve got a bigger issue with the return of these shadovar,” she looks at the Bedine magician to see if this registers with her. ”They must have invested a huge amount of money in the Black Road as a trade route. Crossing Anaroch must already be hard enough but for it to now be through overtly hostile territory…” She lets the sentence trail off, before continuing. ”The volume of traffic heading out west has noticeably dropped and those caravan trains that are still running the route are increasingly heavily armed.”
Samara nods, grimly. ”Soonly, I come from there. On Black Road. The desert, hard on weak, worse now. Hard for our tribes. Musafirun… travel-peoples, go with much weapons or go like... like shadow of wind.” The Bedine falls silent, trying to still her emotions.
”It is not a land for the faint of heart.”
Having roamed the Eastern Heartlands for about a year, Samara has become very familiar with the language of travel. ”So, we look north of southern river, west of travel road, maybe on hills near Desertmouth mountains, yes?”
”No, they’ve got a bigger issue with the return of these shadovar,” she looks at the Bedine magician to see if this registers with her. ”They must have invested a huge amount of money in the Black Road as a trade route. Crossing Anaroch must already be hard enough but for it to now be through overtly hostile territory…” She lets the sentence trail off, before continuing. ”The volume of traffic heading out west has noticeably dropped and those caravan trains that are still running the route are increasingly heavily armed.”Samara nods, grimly. ”Soonly, I come from there. On Black Road. The desert, hard on weak, worse now. Hard for our tribes. Musafirun… travel-peoples, go with much weapons or go like... like shadow of wind.” The Bedine falls silent, trying to still her emotions.
Joreld commanded with authority, snapping his fingers loudly to shake the desertwoman from her place of pain. "Be here. Now."
Turning to the two local clerics, the paladin folded his arms together, making the dragonscale armor stretch over his muscled arms.
"So. You have a voluntary search party, not familiar with the area, to find a missing ranger, who can likely disappear into any of the land's many secret places. Hopefully unharmed." The Lathanderite lets the gravity of the situation sink in for everyone. "May the Morninglord grant unfathomed Hope. For we shall have need of it."
The Cormyran knight stands. "Do you have the map of Glanwyn's route we may borrow. That is likely the best place to start."
Pick is silent a moment, envisioning the lands, envisioning Glan's route and mapping it onto his extensive knowledge of Daggerdale- he has only been wandering this area for some seventy years, after all.
The sharp finger-snapping and raised voice from Red Armor make his eyes dart up from the floor to the exchange.
...Humans. One wrestles with an old wound and the other barks like he thinks he is head of the pack...
Pick unfolds from his crouch.
"You captain in your own land?" he asks Red Armor, with a certain deadpan dryness. "Not captain here. You say no-one knows the land? Twice your years, I have lived here. Maybe talk less. Give less orders to strangers."
Off-hand, he says to the abbot and the priestess, "Dale-map good for outsiders, yes."
Calen leaned forward slightly, the weight of Tunfer's words sinking in. Goblins swarming the mountains, stone giants stirring—it was the kind of trouble that could turn a region into a battlefield real quick. His thumb absently rubbed the crescent moon symbol hanging from his neck as he considered the situation.
“Ain’t never heard of goblins bein’ shy about causin’ trouble,” Calen said, his voice as steady as ever. “They’re pests, sure, but if they’re pourin’ out of the mountains like you say, then somethin’ bigger’s stirrin’ ‘em up. Goblins don’t organize like that unless there’s somethin’ puttin’ a fire under ‘em.”
He paused, his silver eyes flicking to Cariamma at the mention of the stone giants. "Glan coulda gone pokin’ around their territory, tryin’ to see what’s amiss. Giants ain’t the most subtle, but they’re dangerous enough if they’ve got a mind to organize."
Calen scratched his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. "We got a couple angles to work here. First, see if we can pick up Glanwyn’s trail, figure out if he went after the giants. If not, we start checkin’ where the goblins are thickest. One way or another, somethin’s gonna give us a lead."
Calen notices the subtle change in demeanor of the shrouded sorceress, but chooses to not engage with her, yet. Filing away the information for later.
Joreld's thundering command causes Ialia to nearly flinch out of her designer riding boots, the red ones with the long white laces and completely impractical heels which make her seem taller than she is and give her backside a boost, not that she needs it.
Then the dwarf shoots back at the massive human paladin. Ooh, this is intense! She emotes for Basil to quit stuffing its little bat belly full of flying insects and return to her at once, and it better have something interesting to report on the storm in the Manor!
Whatever has caused the outburst and the stilted retort is beyond her ability to discern. Her career as a spy had less to do with divining motivations and more about inducing voluntary sexposition, and she was damn good at it.
When Calen speaks, his melodic drawl unflappable and seductive, she can't help but fall into a sort of trance, and everything he says makes the most sense in the whole wide world.
Samara’s eyes snap to the red warrior. She didn’t understand the nuances of Common but she got the gist of his outburst. She reviewed the conversation… The scout Glanwyn had been missing for ten days and he normally contacted Cariamma every two days or so. He was last in the southwestern portion of Daggerdale. There are many possible threats but goblins or stone giants are most likely... particularly as he may be in the foothills of the mountains. She had missed no useful details. The paladin’s outburst, it seemed, was as unfounded as it was rude.
She eyes him coldly, assessing. What to do about his rudeness was the question. Among the Bedine, nothing would be said initially. They were an indirect people when it came to such matters. The price would be paid later through frost, refusals, and shunning. But, in the last year, Samara had learned that Dale ways were different. And there was some merit in holding people to account immediately.
Samara weighs the matter a moment longer before speaking flatly, ”Your family teach you manners of a dog.” She turns to the druid and rests her right hand on the center of her chest before offering him a seated bow, ”Shukran jzylaan… great thanks for speaking for me.”
The red warrior just ignored the insult, instead turning to the two cleric, pleased with the knowledge the desertwoman returned to her senses.
Pick looks somewhat startled at the woman's thanks, then vaguely uncomfortable, and gives a small shrug of his broad shoulders. He had not considered it speaking FOR her so much as informing Red Armor that Pick does not consider him their chief, as they have none. He nods slowly at the veiled woman all the same.
Presuming a map is provided by Morn's people, Pick moves near to it to illustrate the route for those unfamiliar with the country. He starts to use a fingertip-- hesitates, then folds his extremely-fingernailed-finger (some might say a claw) back into his palm and instead picks up the wooden stick he had previously discarded, and uses that as his pointer to trace a line.
"From here," he taps Dagger Falls, "to Dagger River... western Ashaba River... is seventy miles. For this group..."
His bright green eyes sweep the assembled, lingering on Ialia's fancy boots briefly, then back to the map. "....three, maybe four days if trouble on road."
Pick clears his throat then continues in his rasping voice. "Then east. Follow river to hills. Another... hmn.... twenty miles to hills. But slower. Rough land. Upriver.... maybe boat, maybe not." Pick grunts thoughtfully.
"We take lots of food. Could be a seven-day before even find Glan's trail."
Samara considers the map and the druid's advice. "Three week of food?"
"This was never going to be a quick look-around, dear lady", Joreld mentions to the desertwoman.
"Where's a good place to get supplies in town, Pick?"
"At least," the dwarf grunts at the veiled woman.
Then he glances up at the red-armored man, blinks once, a second time, then shrugs.
"I do not... 'get supplies in town.'" Nature provides, one way or another. There are probably shops in Dagger Falls, he supposes, not that he's ever used them. Pick and shops do not really get along. Or Pick and towns. Or Pick and the concept of financial transactions in general. He looks to Cariamma.
"Shops for them?"
The darkwood stick is again discarded, its purpose as a pointer fulfilled. Pick chews on one of his sharp thumbnails a bit, his eyes once again studying this group.
"In morning, you all ready?"
”Yes, Lord Huntsliver, if it were an easy task I would probably have sent some of the trainee guards with a couple of temple novices,” Tunfer says. His tone remains even, though there is perhaps an edge to it or a touch of sarcasm.
Cariamma steps in, physically positioning herself in the centre of the room. ”Be at peace. You all bring many skills to this mission. Pick here knows these lands as well as any. And unless I’m much mistaken, Calen is also something of a tracker. While Glan may be able to melt away into the landscape when he wishes, it would take a mighty foe indeed to catch him unawares and leave no trace.” She lets the silence sit, hoping to diffuse any tension in the air, before continuing. ”Yes, you will be able to pick up any supplies in town. I can make some recommendations depending on—”
She is cut off abruptly by a loud keening screech from outside, followed by a bump and more readily identified human cries. Your two hosts are already moving towards the door leading further into the garrison before it flies open and a pale-faced young squire clad in the blue and white robes of a Tyrran rushes in. ”Wyverns!” he pants, dispelling the mystery surrounding the screech. ”A pair of them, Abbot Prenscap.”
Cariamma bows to the group, ”Pray excuse us a while,” before Tunfer counters with, ”Even better, follow. You’re here as soldiers so this may be a good chance to test your mettle.” Little about his tone suggests that this was anything other than an order given by one accustomed to being listened to. ”Fetch my hammer and mail and bring them up to the wall tower,” he instructs the squire.”[/b]
”Yes, Abbot Prenscap. Lord Morn—”
”Is not here, as you would know if you had been paying attention, Hurdan” Tunfer snaps. ”You will be on kitchen duty on the morrow. Now hurry up and retrieve my arms unless you want to to be serving food for the next tenday.”
The Tyrran priest moves his bulk with greater haste and grace than you may have guessed and leads you through the doors, down a short corridor with numerous other doors and up a flight of curving steps. You exit out of a guard tower, one of a number around the town walls. A flight of steps curves up the side of the tower to a higher vantage point.
There is a shriek and a blast of air as a huge draconic creature swoops in from your right, raking its claws down and knocking over a pair of guards further down the wall as they futilely fire arrows towards its mass. A third guard, less fortunate than his companions, is seized in its talons and then dropped down, almost certainly to his death.
The other wyvern is stood on the ground away off in front of you, stomping its feet and flapping its wings in an agitated manner.
”There’s a child down there!” Cariamma’s voice rises as her face pales, pointing to the wyvern is standing, apparently guarding something. Underneath one wing you can make out a small figure lying prone, a mop of blonde ringlets fanning out around her head. More ominous is the blood that also pools around her.
“Bane’s Black Hand!” Tunfer curses, not the oath you may have expected from one of Tyr’s clergy. ”Where did they snatch a child from?” He cuts off abruptly. ”That’s no child,” he continues, in the tone of one who has trodden in something unpleasant, ”that is Rissa. Of course that thrice-cursed gnome is somehow involved in this.”
”That doesn’t change anything,” the Eldathyn snaps, cheeks flushing, though she quickly regathers her composure. ”Sweet Mother of the Waters, keep her with us while I get to her,” she prays, quickly pulling out a slender willow-wood wand and chanting through arcane words to activate it. As she finishes, a number of tiny white feathers burst from the wand’s tip, one appearing over each of your heads and floating down gently before fading into nothingness just as they are about to make contact. With that she lifts the hem of her dress, scrambles over the battlement and jumps off the wall.
”You heard her,” Tunfer says, as the squire bursts out onto the wall holding a splendid iron warhammer, followed by another pair of soldiers carrying a well-worn suit of plate mail that they start to fasten around the priest’s ample torso. ”I will help cover the wall, including those who prefer to stay up here and sling spells or arrows. Otherwise get yourselves down there and fight.”
No sooner has he given this command than there is a shout of ”Incoming!” from further down the wall. Shielding your eyes from the sun, you can make out the silhouettes of two more wyverns rapidly bearing down towards you.
As Lord Huntsilver runs down the stairs after the Abbot, the paladin roars as he dons his redscale helm. "LATHANDER!!"
Jareld jumps from the battlements following Eldathyn, his heavy mace and shield in his hands.
Frantically, Ialia hastens for Basil to return, and the bat familiar arrives at her shoulder as the group is exiting the guard tower.
And you thought this would be dull! she says to her tiny friend.
It was dull, but now it's not, the bat replies, ignorant of wit.
While Cariamma uses her wand to cast Feather Fall on the group, Ialia casts Bless on the party and everyone in the area. And none too soon as Joreld quickly heads to battle the fearsome beasts.
Ialia knows what most adventurers know about wyverns, and not much more.
The Bedine takes her blade from the table and follows their patrons up to the battlement, matching them stride for stride. She notes the wand’s magic and weaves a spell of her own . Looking to her possible travel companions and unsure if they are familiar with Eldathyn’s spell, she gestures toward the edge of the parapet. ”Is safe for jump. Land slow.”
Samara considers the half-armored Abbot, the downed archers on the parapet, and the pair of dragon-kin coming in screaming from the sky. If the wyverns attacked the battlement, many might die. Better to lure them away. She smiles at the group, ”Got this.”
The desert ‘lizard’ saunters five paces toward the approaching wyverns before agilely dancing to the top of the nearest merlon. She brandishes her tiny blade at the dragonborn and yells in a language sibilant and ancient, the elder tongue:
When she has the wyverns' attention, she dives off the battlement in a swirl of robes.
2nd Spells (4):
1st Spells (8): xx
Dancing Lights (2):
Vest (1):
Versatile Spell:
CLW (1):
Stunning Fist (2):
Claws (8):
Effects:
Mage Armor = +4 AC/FF for 5 hrs
Shield = +4 AC/FF for 5 mins
Bless = +1 to Hit for x
“Wyverns,” Calen muttered under his breath. “Damn creatures are sure to cause a mess.” He looked to the others briefly, his face set with grim resolve.
Calen’s eyes darted between the two. The gnome needed immediate help, but if the other wyvern wasn’t dealt with, it could tear through the remaining soldiers. His mind raced, calculating the angles.
“Lunaris!” he barked, and the giant owl wheeled in midair, her keen eyes locking onto the wyvern carrying the gnome. “Go after the one with the gnome—knock it off balance. I’ll cover the guards.”
Reaching up one hand to his holy symbol, he utters a quick prayer to the Moonmaiden, filling with her divine favor.