Tural hears the request for spices and finally has to reply with a negative. "I haven't any spices. I have coffee as I occasionally want it to help wake in the morning. But no spices. Guys? I don't know what personal stuff you all carry. ??
"Guys? I don't know what personal stuff you all carry. ??
Dripping with manly sweat after his juggling exertions, Borracho notes the salty rivulets pouring down his long dark curls. He bows, and returns his juggling keepsakes to his pouch.
"Borracho only carries the only spice he needs: the zest for life and for adventure! That is the way of Borracho!" he says grandly, casting prestidigitation not to clean the sweat from his body, but to add a light manly musk to his personal scent.
"Now that Borracho has entertained you, Borracho desires food and drink...for not even Borracho performs for free," he moves to get some food and drink.
He moves to the kitchen area and start clattering around, then his head pokes out. ”Did you mention something about having spices with you? It’s been years since a trader has visited these parts, even a pinch of pepper would do us all well.”
"Hey, Borracho, take a moment away from your fans to spruce up supper for us won't you? Please?"
The lack of spices just brings a shrug and the innkeeper heads back into the kitchen to continue his work. However the tobacco is more than welcomed and each man seems to relish a draw on the cigarette. ”Ah, haven’t had a good smoke in years”, William comments, and again the troupe is surprised by the complete lack of things that seems normal in the cities they frequent; healing supplies, pepper, tobacco, items that even small towns have readily available. The innkeeper mentioned that it had been years since a trader visited and the isolation has left them wanting.
To Flemming’s surprise, the pipe from the gnome slowly refills the tobacco he removed, and as he removes more it continues to do so. It’s an eversmoking pipe, somehow Horatio has crossed the magics involved with an eversmoking bottle and a sustaining spoon to create something truly marvelous, especially in a realm that lacks trade. Through the evening you can keep passing the pipe around and soon the sweet smoke of gnomish tobacco hangs in the air.
The innkeeper emerges from the kitchen with shepherd’s pies, caramelized carrots, and honey buns. The food is good and filling, though not amazing to the troupe, yet the locals Ohh and Ahh over it in delight, yet another example of the limited resources.
With full bellies, full mugs, and the pipe passing about, the chairs are pulled closer to the hearth and the patrons of the inn start telling the story of their sad fate. ”Must be a century now since the mists closed in on us, as the elders would tell it. They said at first it was just a change in weather, seemed it was always foggy, but no travelers arrived on the roads, and those that tried to leave found the roads led right back to where they started. The seasons all blended into one, stuff would grow, vegetables still ripened, but everything struggled in the lack of sunlight. Then folks started disappearing. Every month another person would go missing, usually farmers or woodcutters, mostly happened to families that lived in the woods. And the lord in the castle on the hill had shut his gate and no one saw or heard from him or his servants anymore. The people went to plead with the lord to do something, but he wasn’t there. Instead a count answered their cries, saying he was family of Lord Raven and the lord was away, but no one ever heard of him having family outside of the castle. The count made folk uncomfortable and offered no help, and the people suspected something sinister had befallen Lord Raven. As the years passed and the disappearances continued, people moved to the only town, Barovia, and huddled together at night for safety. The church became a sanctuary and the folks pleaded to the gods to deliver them from this nightmare. When it burned with the priests inside we felt forsaken and little hope has existed since. Seeing William’s leg healed like that is the first good omen we had since that terrible day.” The men look somber, yet a strength and determination remains in these hardy folk. You wonder again at the strange words of Madam Eva and consider whether this cursed realm is part of your destiny. Could it be that instead of telling the tales of other’s adventures, Borracho will soon tell the tale of his own noble quest?
The evening draws late and the innkeeper shows you a humble, but warm and cozy room upstairs with four beds. You notice the other patrons either take rooms of their own or bed down near the fire hearth. No one ventures from the inn to make the trek home at night.
Flemming is surprised by the pipe. Pleased indeed is he to have something to share that does not deplete his resources. Sure, he planned ahead, knowing how lonely some stretches of road were. He had plenty of his own, plus the gnome’s stash, and now this! It was truly wonderful. He felt very indebted to the gnome.
Ahhh, there’s their story. Flemming thinks as the tale is told. Well s#%#.
He lets it go for the moment as everyone seems to be turning in. He joins his companions in the privacy of their comfy chambers. Once they’re alone, he turns to the others, ”We need to help these people. Hell, we have no choice. I bet that mist circles us back in here if we try to leave. We’ve got to see what this count is up to and free these people - and ourselves.”
Tural nods to Flemming's words. "No follower of The Dawnflower would abandon any in need. There is a sickness here that is draining this community. We have to try and help them. In the morning we will go and meet this Count."
"Yes, Flem, and yes my good friend Tural, we must do something," Borracho agrees. "You both share in Borracho's noble and generous spirit." He stands up, taking a roasted potato with him as he thinks about what to say. He’s deep in thought and he might have forgotten something asked of him.
"We know the mists cannot contain Borracho, his friends, or these kind people who have welcomed them. We will rid this town of the mists and hold the count to account if he is the cause of their sorrow and hopelessness. Only lesser men do not strive to show compassion to others, and we are not lesser men," he takes a bite of the potato.
"Not to mention, if we don’t do something and are stuck here, we’d be depriving future townsfolk, specifically womensfolk, of the pleasure of beholding Borracho in adoration," he continues.
"Tomorrow, we shall try to figure out why Sarenrae's light has such a hard time shining on Borracho here," he adds solemnly. "Sarenrae longs to shine on Borracho much like all of you need to see Borracho."
Yep, he forgot something.