Here is the gameplay thread, will give an intro Tomorrow or later tonight.
The city of Minstrix is one of the most important cities in the world. It is both the capital city for the Alliance and one of the most busy trade hubs in the world. It is also where many guilds choose to place their head quarters and so Minstrix is home to many of the most influential people in the Alliance.
However, this is not the reason for your appearance in the city today. Some time ago, all of you found an unsigned letter that requested you appear in the backroom of the one Skysong Tavern. A Tavern which doubled as an Adventuer’s guild location in the lower districts. The letter makes mention that you will be meeting others who are in the same situation as you and that once you have gotten together, an opportunity for you to prove yourself who emerge.
The letter is mundane on its own but whoever sent it is very persistent. You will find a new copy of it somewhere close to you even if you destroy it, some copies even emerging seconds after the last was destroyed. One way or another, you decide to make your way to Skysong Tavern just to see what the sender wanted.
Entering Skysong Tavern, you are met with loud chatter and the sounds of merriment as people eat and drink themselves excessively. You ask the staff of the tavern about the letter but it seems no one has any idea what you are talking about. When you tell them you are expecting a group though, the staff lead you to a large table close to the bar and let you get yourselves comfortable.
From your seat, you have a clear view of the Tavern itself, which allow you to notice something strange, the patrons of the tavern seem to have split into two distinct groups. One group of ordinary civilians and another group of adventurers, if their weapons and esoteric items are anything to go by. You are all seated in the adventurer’s section. At the other end of the tavern there is a counter with elvish woman seated at the desk. Behind her is a list of jobs that the guild presumably needs someone to go handle.
For now though, you decide to do as the letter asks. So you wait for others like you to join you at the table
Duegar were rare on the surface. Usually if one was seen it would be at night, and the unfortunate would never be seen again. Rarer still were merchants, who braved the harshness of the sun to bring below that which was out of their reach. They paid a premium price for surface goods that could not easily be taken, and sold the rarest of ores. The duegar who sat at the bar was, in many ways, the epitome of what a duegar might look like. He appeared to be as strong as the mountains themselves, his musculature being enough to be put an ogre to shame. A thick, white beard fell down past his chest, and a bushy mustache finished his facial hair. Like all of his kin he was otherwise bald. He wore a comparatively simple outfit, with naught but a hooded cloak, a leather jerkin, and simple traveling clothes. Even his jewelry was spartan in the extreme. A torc around his neck and a band on his finger were mere iron, devoid of any artistry or beauty. His clothing was as drab as his skin, giving his entire appearance a muted tone. That is…except for his right arm. It appeared to have been made out of some sort of green-ish glass. Only the glass was was more akin to water than a solid, for it seemed to flow with a life of its own. If the Duegar thought this out of the ordinary he gave no sign. Rather, he remained focused on the task at hand.
At the moment he was drinking, a thoughtful look on his face as he tried the glass in front of him. It was pale ale. Not nearly as strong as the drink of his homeland in the deeps, but it had more flavor to it than anything else he had drunk before. Strictly speaking he did not need to eat or drink, but he had come to try the taste of the surface. At the moment, he judged it like he did the surface as a whole: chaotic, wild, and filled with far too much flavor to take in all at once.
It was probably a good thing he did not start with the mead.
By the Gods! Wow, Cayden! I finally made to Ministrix! The tall blonde young man thought to himself as he walked the bustling streets of the famed metropolis. This is a place to make your NAME! His iridescent aasimar eyes darting around, taking in all the sights!
Occasionally, Oswald Overton, young bard just starting out, had to lean up against a building to catch his bearing. And look at 'The Letter' from time to time, reminding him that this was all too real.
Through his own local navigation and occasionally asking for directions, 'Oszy' made his way through the busy city to Skysong Tavern.
Entering Skysong Tavern, you are met with loud chatter and the sounds of merriment as people eat and drink themselves excessively. You ask the staff of the tavern about the letter but it seems no one has any idea what you are talking about. When you tell them you are expecting a group though, the staff lead you to a large table close to the bar and let you get yourselves comfortable.
From your seat, you have a clear view of the Tavern itself, which allow you to notice something strange, the patrons of the tavern seem to have split into two distinct groups. One group of ordinary civilians and another group of adventurers, if their weapons and esoteric items are anything to go by. You are all seated in the adventurer’s section. At the other end of the tavern there is a counter with elvish woman seated at the desk. Behind her is a list of jobs that the guild presumably needs someone to go handle.
A pretty barmaid walks over and the aasimar visibly smiles brighter.
Well. Hello, Bright Eyes." The red-haired says as she walks over to the aasimar at the table. "Welcome to the Skysong Tavern. Can I start you out with a drink?"
"What do you have on tap?" The young man asked, looking almost too tall for his seat.
"We have most of the large names. Ale. Mead. Whiskey. Applejack. Whiskey. We even have a wine selection, with some elven wine from last year."
"I'll start off with an applejack, please." The aasimar said.
"Sure thing, I'll be right back. I'll bring a basket of biscuits as well." The barmaid turned and walked back toward the bar.
Oszy looked around the bar, and saw he was sitting next to a a table away from a grey skinned dwarf.
Oszy's bardic knowledge tells him he's in the presence of a druegar! The young man catches the grey dwarf's eye.
"Welcome to the surface." The hale skinned blonde human-like man said from the other table. His mithril shield is strapped to his back, and a silver symbol of a tankard hangs from his neck.
The duegar turned to look at the Aasimar, confusion written on his face. He looked the man over, thoughts racing through his mind. The first one being, if the man attacked him, could he kill him? It would have been comical given the duegar’s sheer size, if it was not so serious. In his judgement, the man seemed to be, physically, almost ideal from the point of view of a slaver. He was obviously hale and hearty, and had a healthy radiance about him which told the duegar that the man wouldn’t be worked to death nearly as soon as the vast majority of people. He also recognized that the man seemed strong enough to have required the attention of many a guard, as he doubted that any but the most elite of duegar could have hoped to stand before him. The only thing that he failed to account for was Oswald’s aura of charisma that surrounded him. It was like a field of energy that drew people towards him, from the condense of his body language to the easiness of his smile. The two of them were like the sun and the moon, where the paleness of the duegar only served to highlight the warmth of the Aasimar. Gazul just did not have the language needed to quantify the quality. Where he was from, such soft power was as alien as the sun itself.
However, his quick judgement told him that, at the present, the man did not appear to be capable of causing immediate harm to Gazul’s person. If there was magic involved that was a different story, but there was no point adding in unseen layers.
Only after deciding that, physically at least, he felt secure, did his mind move on from that line of thought, to judging the newcomer. He looked at the Aasimar that way he might have looked at unrefined ore, judging its value and potential purpose. These were habits that all came to him unbidden. Methods of survival drilled into him from a young age, by a society that expected no less from those who survived it.
Unsure of how to respond, he looked at the bard and said ”What do you want?” It was a question asked without malice, and it said without any barbs. Rather, he asked as if though it was the most neutral statement one could make, as he honestly did not understand the idea of engaging in conversation when it was not in the purpose of pursuing something. Already, merely sitting at the bar and drinking, was leaving him feeling unsettled, because he had no idea what he was supposed to do afterwards, and the concept of being idle was a foreign concept. Adding casual social interaction merely pushed him deeper into unfamiliar water.
"Nothing, good sir!" The aasimar smiled, as the barmaid returned with his applejack and a large basket of biscuits.
"Oh! Thank you!" The young aasimar said to the retreating server.
"I have read of the druegar. No, the duegar. Yes. That's it. I never thought I would meet one such as you here on the surface.
I hope you are welcome, and without..", the young man seemed to search for the right word, "..adversity."
The aasimar then toasted the gray dwarf with a friendly tip of his glass.
Gazul did not smile, though he did reflexively raise his glass, recognizing the symbol of bargaining. To make a toast indicated that negotiations were occurring, and that he understood, including the subtext.
”I understand.” He said, his face severe. ”You wish to learn about my people. I wish to drink. Therefore, you will pay for my drinks and I shall answer your questions.” It was, he decided, a reasonable accord. One where both sides got what they were after and no blood was shed. All that was left, though, was to determine why the man who gave off such a radiant aura, saw profit in this. Was he a seeking rare ore? Was he selling flesh? He seemed like a leader of men, so perhaps he sought to further his interests with well forged steel? The duegar listened intently, seeking to figure out what angle the Aasimar had.
The young man seemed to shrink a little. "If the Legends of Dwarven Constitution are correct, I don't have the available funds to keep a dwarf well hydrated. My apologies, sir."
The aasimar took a biscuit and tossed it to the duegar, then quickly shoved another in his mouth in hopes to further stop his self-embarrassment.
Gazul caught the biscuit and regarded it carefully. It seemed he had driven too hard a bargain.
”Yes. The drinks here are inefficient. Though I assure you I do not seek to become inebriated.” Seeing that the man’s shield, blade, and visible chain appeared to be Mithril, he decided that it would not be pragmatic to cause offense. ”This is sufficient payment for my time.” He said, holding up the biscuit. His face was hard, like a rock that might crack and break if there was a smile. ”You have no need to apologize.” He added, stating it as a truth, rather than a meaningless platitude.
”I shall buy you a drink.” He said after a moment’s thought. ”And you shall explain to me why this tavern attracts so many armed men. Is there purpose here beyond the food and drink?”
In his mind this seemed like a fair trade. And despite the difficulty he was attempting to be as close to friendly as he knew how.
The young man blinked in surprise by the duegar's understanding.
"Um, thank you sir. It appears introductions are in order. My name is Oswald Overton. But most people shorten it to 'Oszy'."
"As for the armed men, I imagine it is the same for you in the ..Underdark, I believe it's called. You are city of Minstrix. Culturally, economically, socially, Minstrix is one of the most important cities on the surface. One of it's largest, as well. I imagine there are a lot of opportunities for those with martial skill to find employment or just a good fight in Minstrix. I understand some parts of the city are very rough, as it makes sense to be armed and ready for a conflict."
"I try to avoid conflict when I can", Oswald explains. "I'm a bard by trade. Places such as Minstrix have a rich social density where new musics are learned, new tales being told, new dances being practiced. A surface saying says that if you can succeed here in Minstrix, you can succeed anywhere!"
Pleased with himself, Oszy takes a good drink of his applejack to wash down the biscuit.
In one of the corners, Laere keeps her silence. It's not hard, when looking from a certain angle; she's quite small, almost tiny, and across the adventurers with their opulent larger armors she almost disappears. Yet, she's also outworldly beautiful, and exotic even for a Ghoran - having her skin (which would be traditionally fey) looking more like smooth bark with slightly sprouting leaves.
Ever since she's been "back", she has been feeling more and more like a plant - almost as if desiring to be left alone as a decoration, rather than her previous artistic roots. She misses the stage, it's true; however, this isn't her world, as familiar as it may look sometimes, and the looks from the patrons make it fairly evident.
She adjusts herself in the chair and lets her wings retract a bit - they were big for her size, but her mycelian muscles learned to swiftly fold to look more like a colorful, butterfly wings-looking cape. The bard closes her eyes and breathes deeply, feeling the air fills up with pollen, then repeats to herself the lessons she learned from her training. "Listen...", it rings, and as her eyes open so does her ears and interest in the nearby conversations.
Gazul listened, intently. "Two questions." He said. "Answer if you feel the drink was sufficient payment." It was important, in his experience, too ensure that one did not accidentally fall into debt with another. Ignorance of the law was no excuse for breaking it, after all. "First. What is a bard? Specifically, what does your trade produce?" Never breaking eye contact, he continued "Is the phrase 'You are not the only one who will be reborn' familiar to you?"
If he was not mistaken, the humanoid-fey creature in the corner was also one of the chosen. But he did not want to make any assumptions.
Kharl reads through the letter a couple of times. Meeting others 'like you', and an opportunity to prove yourself? He nods and carefully stows the letter. He knew of the location. He'd never been there though. It should prove rather interesting.
He gathers his equipment, checking that everything was secure then springing into the air. He still really enjoyed that, and allowed himself to float upward for several seconds before changing into an eagle and rapidly flying toward the city of Minstrix, and the Skysong Tavern.
When he got to the Tavern he changes back to his human form as he floats to the ground. Striding in he looks around the room. Noticing the obvious division of 'normal' patrons and adventurers he strides over to the table by the bar. A duegar, and a young man? No, a young celestial, aasimar, were talking at the table. He calls out to the barmaid, "A bourbon please. Neat."
Then he takes a seat at the table pulling out the letter. "Do you both happen to have an invitation here as well? Oh, pardon my lack of manners. I'm Kharl, priest of The Wyrd."
Hearing the duegar's question he smiles. "Although I know that question wasn't directed at me, my answer would be, Yes. I am one of the reborn as well."
Walking in the Skysong Tavern was almost an out of body experience for Yasmin. She had never even step foot into a city before now, much less one as important as Minstrix. She had no idea what to even expect. Luckily, it seemed that the people here were no strangers to the exotic races of the world. Yasmin's new form was an esoteric one, her skin was as green as the leaves of a lush tree, instead of hair she had vines growing from under her scald and her body's texture was more bark than skin. She was as tall as her old body was, only slightly taller than the average human. Though the branch-like growths adorning her head certainly made her stand out more. Though she did adore the flowers that adorned the branches, since they were exactly like those found on lotuses, her favorite plant.
Skysong Tavern was buzzing with activity and she was surprised her entrance seemed to draw no more than a few passing glances. Her eyes scan the tables looking for signs of the others mentioned by the letter. The Aasimar and Duergar were the ones who immediately caught her eye. The aasimar almost glowed in the tavern's light and spotting a Duergar Tyrant casually drinking in a tavern on the surface was certainly odd. Not to mention the creature of wind and ice that approached them. Perhaps they were similar to her.
She strides towards the table, a curious expression on her face as she reaches the table. "Pardon my intrusion you three, but would this table be the meeting place for the...unique adventurers? I had received some instruction to come here for a meeting but the information was rather vague so i had to rely on my intuition. Did you receive a similar request?"
Oszy chuckled. "Sure. Can we make it an Dwarven Ale?"
"Oh! A Bard is a repository of knowledge, musician, entertainer, seducer, teacher, student..." The assimar stopped. "I'm likely not doing a good job of explaining myself."
Oszy wiggles his finger and casts summon instrument. A decent-looking acoustic guitar materializes in Oswald's hands.
Oszy begins laying down a funky riff as he talks.
"Bards are used by Kings to Common Folk as advisers, entertainers, healers, and idols. Sometimes not in that order."
Never breaking eye contact, he continued "Is the phrase 'You are not the only one who will be reborn' familiar to you?"
"What?!"
Oszy is stymied by the sudden question of an secret he's held inside himself inside we was a baby. Then a human warrior in full plate and a strange plant person called a Ghoran walk up to the tables.
"Um. I too have gotten a special request to be here at The Skysong Tavern."
Yasmin nods to Oswald as she takes a seat, "Ah i see, good to know i came to the right place then." She taps her wooden nails against the table for a moment before saying, "So if the letter is to be believed then we are all in the same boat so to speak."
She then looks at each of the creatures at the table, "So any guesses on why our...mutual benefactor would call us here?"
Kharl shrugs, a movement that is somewhat shrouded by his armor, and folds the letter to tuck it away. "I'm hoping to find the answer to that question as well. Perhaps a grand quest to stop mayhem and destruction...." His smile belies any concern over that statement.
He looks over the tall, interesting plant-lady and smiles. "Pardon my rude curiosity. I don't believe I've ever met one of your race before. What is your species called? And where are you from?"
The Duegar frowned. He was just getting somewhere with finding out what a bard was, when suddenly the table had become full of newcomers. What confused him was the sheet breadth of tasks as towards what it meant to be a bard. How could someone master any of them, if there was that much to do? He had just been about to ask if there were specializations that individual bards chosen, or were assigned to. This one, he assumed, was a musician, given the skill that played his instrument. The feeling of which, he still wasn't sure how to feel about. It left a strange sensation inside him. It was like...how to put it? Eating when one didn't realize that they were hungry. Only he saw no practical benefit from the music, which made the sensation odd. Food, at least, had a purpose. But what purpose did music have? And if it had none, why did it make him want more? Not that he had the chance to explore such a line of reasoning, as the topic had changed.
Looking at those who had arrived, he had to admit that they looked the part. That is, at the very least they were ideal specimens of their respective races, the kinds which would fetch a very high price. The man seemed to be some sort of holy warrior, while the woman had a book on her, which if he had to guess, was a tome of some sort.
Having no answers to the questions, he decided that the only prudent course of action was to remain silent.
Yasmin nods to kharl as she replies, "Worth a shot. I expect there will be more people coming so i suppose we can only hope someone will have some idea of what this being wants."
She smiles at Kharl as she explains, "This body is from a race of plant creatures called Ghorans. Supposedly they were created by some renegade druid long ago. They are native to lands blighted by death since they can draw nutrients from almost dead land." She then points towards her head, "As for me i was once a simple human witch. Before my death i had read about this race of plant creatures and heard rumors that plants are ideal candidates for hosting spirits so i asked to have my spirit put into this body. It seemed the being who resurrected me knew what i was trying to do and helped me along, so to speak."
She will then speak telepathically to Kharl saying, 'Now one of my new powers is that i am telepathic'
She will then speak telepathically to Kharl saying, 'Now one of my new powers is that i am telepathic'
SONOVAB|TCH! Now I have talking in my head that's not me!! Oswald exclaimed mentally.
"For the love of Cayden!" The dematerialized guitar fades back to nothing. "Please sit down and lower your voices! We don't want some overly-academic wizard or over-zealous Iomedaean cracking our skulls open to document our souls.!"
Kharl takes a sip from his bourbon and smiles at Oswald. "I'd fear more from an over-zealous Pharasman. We must have created at least a minor swirl in the River of Souls. Unless we weren't supposed to be there in the first place? But that is more a question for planar powers than for us!"
He adds to Yasmin, "Telepathy? Useful ability. I assume we all got some interesting powers added to ourselves."
Yasmin tilts her head before she replies, "Your concern is unnecessary Oswald. Resurrections and reincarnations are relatively common for people in this world. I resurrected my parents recently and they moved back into our village with no issue. The only question the neighbors asked was how i got the gold for two resurrection spells. One quick excuse later and the matter was forgotten. The only particular thing about us is we seem to be stronger after coming back. As long as we keep that amongst the group, i doubt any would question it too much."
Yasmin nods to Kharl, "Yes i believe we all have some new abilities"
In walks a halfling, who definitely doesn't seem like city folk. You can see that he had the potential to be truly beautiful, but is skin is cratered and scarred. His leather coat shows signs of years of wear, but still manages to hold up. A bandolier of bullets crosses his chest, though his holster is empty.
A slight glow surrounds his head. It tended to make things go a little smoother. Or at least keep the riff-raff away.
As he enters, he notices a flash of telepathy and it draws him to a group that seems odd even for adventurers.
"Nice Gibson, " he says to Oszy as he walks up. "I'm guessing that you all got very persistent letters. Oh and some of you may have died already." He pulls up a chair. "I'm Anathiel."
He brushes a passing waitress. "Whisky. Bring the bottle."
Oszy blinked as the Peter Dinklage halfling walke dup to the tabe and dropped some Earth lore.
"You know what a Gibson guitar is? You're from Earth?"
The aasimar quickly composes himself. "Em. I'm Oswald Overton. But my friends call me 'Oszy'", the bard grinned knowingly at the halfling.
Yasmin turns to the newcomer and offers a wave. She does look at you curiously before asking, "What's a Gibson? But yes it seems we are all in the same predicament. Do you have any idea why we were called to this city?"
"I'm from California. The other me comes from the twice-blasted lands. " he responds. "But I suppose that the quest-giver will be along shortly to tell us what's what. Though probably without a hovering exclamation mark."
An almost complete opposite of the dour, mountain-hewn duergar came to the table. Where the dwarf was a study in monochromatic iron and dense muscle, the man who took the opposite seat was a fluid, shifting spectrum of color. Pale hair, shoulder lenght framed triangular face with a sharp nose. The eyes were vibrant green, but they seemed to change colors between almost gray-green subdued and deep green of the old forests.
Tavik nodded to himself. His features were not hidden, but obscured - a sheer veil of gossamer silk draped across the lower half of his face, thin enough to see through, barely obscuring the expression beneath. It did not conceal; it distanced. What remained visible - sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and eyes too focused to belong to a mere dabbler - only deepened the effect.
He wore no armor. Instead, layers of silks and brocades flowed around him, precise in their chaos - deep cobalt, muted violet, threads of gold and dusk-orange - each fold and wrap less decoration than structure, a lattice for contained chaos. His presence was controlled, not flamboyant.
Polished leather boots, practical and grounded were visible under the layers. Etched metal bracers over silk-wrapped wrists. And a single gold ring - plain, simply adorned rested on his left hand like a quiet constant.
He ordered a good fruity liquer and poured it into a crystal tumbler he pulled out somewhere from his silks. Each motion was exact. No excess. No waste. Through the veil, his gaze moved across the tavern - the clear divide between common patrons and adventurers, between noise and intent. He did not judge it. He mapped it.
He approached the table where the group already gathered.
Where the duergar imposed himself through weight and solidity, and Aasimar by his outward positive energy, Tavik occupied space by composition and small, precise movement.
He nodded to both creature from below and creature from above, one dour, one bubbling. To one small plant and one big. And at least one normal human, as much as anyone here could be called normal.
"Hello all. I couldn't help but overhear 'Earth'. I am from Cairo. Well, I was. The fates are pulling us all to this place and time by simple letters. I am Tavik Lorr Ramil ben Kaelen ibn Tharion Athar al-Harir. You can call me Tavik."
The figure sits down quietly, observing the rest of the tavern.
"Busy place. Good trade. Good meet place."
Evangelia folds her wings after landing in front of the tavern. She thinks it a quaint place to meet, but there is no denying she hungers to know more about she came to be more than she was. She does love its name "Skysong" - it could be a hymn dedicated to her goddess.
As she enters, she instinctively sends a pulse of power through the assembly and, whether or not they turn to acknowledge her, all present sense that she has arrived, and that she is a worthy friend to have.
She's about to call out her purpose here when she notices the gathering of odd and powerful beings. It's not hard to guess that they are her peers, so she heads there. She looks like an angel, with pure white wings, yellow hair whose glow ebbs and flows like a breath, and a golden scimitar sheathed at her waste; the kind of angel that can either exalt you or smite you.
She bows shallowly, then: "Greetings, I am Evangelia, Divine Herald of Sarenrae. I hope that I'm not too late to the party, and that I have not missed the big reveal about how the 'reborn' came to be, and what we are meant for."
She's about to call out her purpose here when she notices the gathering of odd and powerful beings. It's not hard to guess that they are her peers, so she heads there. She looks like an angel, with pure white wings, yellow hair whose glow ebbs and flows like a breath, and a golden scimitar sheathed at her waste; the kind of angel that can either exalt you or smite you.
She bows shallowly, then: "Greetings, I am Evangelia, Divine Herald of Sarenrae. I hope that I'm not too late to the party, and that I have not missed the big reveal about how the 'reborn' came to be, and what we are meant for."
Oswald squinted at the radiance of Evangelia as she joined other. "Mr. Duegar! Close your eyes! You might go blind!"
The aasimar sighed loudly. "So much for subtlety..."
Kharl looks at the group and listens. Some of the words though.... "Earth? the Gibson, California? and Cairo? What are these? They have the sound of.... another plane?"
He feels the pulse and turns to greet another. "Greetings Evangelia. Herald of Sarenrae? Interesting. No big reveal yet, but sit and have a drink with us. I'm Kharl."
"I suppose Earth is another plane. One with very different laws of nature." He says with a knowing look. "Not what you might expect."
A nondescript man who appears to be in his late twenties enters the tavern. He wears a cloak of dour homespun over understated traveler's robes, and looks about quickly, his movements somehow almost too sudden and rapid, like one of the members of Irori's monasteries. Something in his posture suggests understated confidence, but overt wariness. After a moment, his eyes alight on the table where many and varied beings sit, and he strides over, somehow both quick and unhurried. He reaches for opposite arms with his hands, and with a quick pull in opposite directions, comes away with two tubes of colorless material, and an almost entirely changed appearance; he now stands in plain but well-made plate armor, with a short but colorful cape. Over his shoulder, the finely-wrought (if unadorned) hilt of a longsword sticks from a quiver. Only his face is unchanged, brown hair and eyes as unremarkable as before. "It seems that subtlety is not the order of the day." he says, tucking the fabric into a pouch. "But I suspect I am in the right place." He looks around, meeting the gaze of those who meet his. "I am Lysander." He then takes an open seat.
"And I am Durandal." says a voice from the longsword's hilt. "A pleasure to meet such an...eclectic lot. Have we a task?"
Lysander shakes his head and smiles ruefully. "Please forgive my associate, he is...driven. A bit of a taskmaster."
"Life without purpose is pointless. How many times have I told you that?"
Lysander shrugs, more for the benefit of the beings around the table than the sword.
It was obvious to Laere at this point that she was really in the presence of others like her. Not like, like her, but similar in the fact they also seemed to be misplaced souls in this new lands. They were obvious, blatant, powerful, and seemingly eager to show their abilities and overall capacity; this was intriguing, of course.
"Could it be, besides the gift of still being alive, that there was any extra joy in this new chance?", she considered. Regardless of any answers to come to her head, though, she approached the others with a more subtle tone, waving in greetings.
"And I'm Laere... Laere Milav. Nice to meet you all!" - she said with an easy smile, leaving little sparky dusts of apparent pollen in every move - "It seems I'm likely here for the same reason."
And as she pronounced the last phrase, her sense of awareness rang like an alarm, pulling her attention towards the fact something way too big was going on there; way beyond her simple desire for answers, with a little dip of revenge.
The aasimar sighed loudly. "So much for subtlety..."
"I know, right?" newcomer who remained silent except for Earth comment earlier nods and replies equally quietly to the bard.
"Not that we're inconspicuous even when we try to be. This is...tempting fate. We don't know why we're here, but there are always opposing and balancing forces. This might get us into a fight we know nothing about.But such are divine pushers always."
"Greetings, Lysander..", Oswald looks to the fighter's hilt, "..hello, Durandal.." The bard then turns in his chair to address the gathlain.
"Greetings, Laere."
Oswald pounds back the rest of his applejack. "Clearly, I'm going to need more of these." Said the bard as he stares down at his empty glass.
The aasimar looks around the gathered reincarnates to see how the rest of the tavern is perceiving the group.
Tavik monitors the general feel of the tavern, in case anyone is NOT helpful after the angelic entrance.
He also considers what he knows or feels about the local culture, how will they be treated if they cause trouble here...the taverns are usually more tolerant of the adventurers, but still, they are capable of quite a mayhem, and if some unknown enemies make a move...
Anyone looking around in the tavern will notice that following Evangelia's Commanding entrance, most of the staff and patron seem to be more relaxed around your group with the wait staff becoming more helpful towards you. Those of you who order drinks from now on will have them paid for by some helpful member of the public. In addition, you also notice the following individuals who stand out from the crowd or who don't seem to react to Evangelia's commanding presence:
1. The Bartender is a very Lithe looking Catfolk, casually and skillfully mixing and serving drinks. Unlike most of the staff in the tavern, he appears to be armed as you can just barely make out the hilt of a sword as he moves around. Most of his attention seem to be on chatting with the people seated at the bar and he doesn't pay your table much mind beyond a slight eyebrow raised when Evangelia entered.
2. The Elvish receptionist seated at the far end of the tavern seems to have her eyes glued on something hidden beneath the desk. When she does look up at the tavern, her gaze is indifferent and calculating. She is very clearly a spellcaster of some sort but something about her looks off.
3. A particular loud and carefree looking group of adventurer's sit just 2 tables away from you. They are a group consisting of a human, an orc, a halfing and a Samasaran. They seem to be the midsts of discussing their next plans when Evangelia entered. They seem understand that the commotion was caused by Evangelia using some sort of ability and they appear slightly annoyed.
4. By the Window of a Skysong Tavern is a strange pair of humans. One is a withered and ancient looking lady while the other is a slightly younger, but still clearly aged, fit gentleman. Next to them is an erratic looking chicken the old woman feeds every once in a while. They appear to each be carrying a whole host of trinkets and nick-nacks. Most strangely, they are drinking tea out of ornately designed cups rather than alochol. They do not react much to the noise around them, engrossed in their own conversation, except when Evangelia used her mythic power. The man only spares her a slight glance but the woman looks at Evangelia with a mix of disdain and annoyance.
Evangelia smiled benignly as two of the beings dissed her just 4 feet away from her. She nods along with Tavik's comment: "indeed; if you think you're inconspicuous, think again. The wealth you exhibit through the , the make of your weapons and sheaths, the way you bear yourselves... You stand out, whether you want it or not." She politely does not mention the exotic races present around the table. Shrugging, she pulls a chair and sits down. She scans the mundane crowd, and smiles at anybody who is looking at her and smiling.
Anybody not smiling however, would be rather worthy of notice, since most people should be thinking good thoughts about her right now. She whispers to the table: "now seems a good time if any of you is more of a cloak & dagger type, to find out what you can".
After ordering a mild drink, she heads for the table with the adventurers. "I hope my companions and I are not bothering you - i know we are many. Are you regulars here, or just passing by? I'm Evangelia, by the way."
The human looks at Evangelia and waves her hands dismissively before saying, "Its a bit too late for that wouldn't you say? I would say you are simply asking for attention with an entrance like that. I noticed the mood in the tavern shifted when you entered, what did you do? some sort of novel spell?"
The samsaran raised her to stop her companion before saying, "Pardon my party mate, he just gets rather worked up whenever someone uses an spell her can't identify. Whatever that was it was impressive to change the minds of almost everyone here. My name is Evefan." she points to the orc "this is Tuska Ironfang" the halfing "Eve trickfoot" and finally the human, " and this is our mage Jasper. We are regulars here since the adventurer's guild tends to post some of the more challenging quests here." Evefan points to the job board behind the Elven receptionist. "We are in the midst of planning our next job so unless we can help you with something, we would like to go back to it"
Tavik notices easily the mage at the reception with senses as attuned to reality variations as his are. And the old couple...he is a stranger in Minstrix, but there was something familiar about them...
Tavik as you take a closer look of the receptionist you notice that small wisps of snow and ice appears to be coming off her and her clothes look like they are a part of her body rather than something she put on. You identify that she appears to be a simulacrum.
As you look at the old couple the old man doesn’t look familiar to you but the woman looks remarkably similar to a typical depiction of the Russian folk witch Baba Yaga. You also identify that her patchwork blouse looks to be an ancient version of some Russian traditional garbs
The situation was becoming...overwhelming. From the luminosity of Evangelia, to the sheer crowd that was forming, this was not something that Gazul was used to. While fairly used to bright light, given that the majority of his life was spent working in metallurgy, he was not used this kind. He looked away, finding it uncomfortable.
Heeding Oswald's warning, he looked for something to distract himself, he focused on the elven receptionist. He recognized the gaze as being indifferent and calculating...but something about her felt off, and she was clearly a spell caster. He focused on her, trying to pinpoint what felt so off...
Gazul you too also notice that the receptionist seems to have small wisps of snow flying off her body and how her clothes seem to be apart of her form not something she worn. You would likely also guess that she is a simulacrum
Anathiel looks to see if anything looks different with his new senses.
With your eyes it is very clear that the elven woman is a simulacrum but you do not notice anything else different about the people in the room. So it seems no one is hiding behind a veil of illusions.
Laere notices something strange about the receptionist, but everything about that place (and the people in it) was so already weird that maybe she wouldn't be able to pinpoint exactly what.
The fungal fey is used to deception, however; she has been a spy for most of her life, and ever since she sprouted anew in Golarion, this seems to be even more accentuated. Maybe it's just her luck, or maybe it's how entropy insists on following her steps, but for a moment she isn't sure if she's not in danger - or even if she's really where she thinks she is.
Kharl watches and listens as more people arrive. They were certainly a strange lot, but he guesses that is to be accepted.
Hearing another human, and his sword?, introduce himself he raises his glass. "Hello Lysander and Durandal. I've never had a person's weapon introduce itself before. Interesting. Is it proper to refer to your sword as 'it'? Or is there a different pronoun that should be used?"
He finishes his drink and considers ordering another. After a moment of consideration he decides against it though. He is fairly certain that most if not all of the people present no longer need food or drink, like him, but just do so since it seems normal? Otherwise it is a pointless waste of resources. He settles back to watch the room, still wondering about the invitation.
She watches as Evangelica greets the people at another table. Maybe she's working the crowd for information? Might be a good idea.... He listens to the replies. Or, maybe check pout the 'job board'?
He gets up and strolls over to the job board. Glancing at the woman sitting there he asks, "So what's the process with the posted jobs? Do we just pick whatever looks good? And all the necessary details are on the posting? I'm pretty new at this, as I'm sure you can tell."
Lysander hesitates, then shrugs. ”I tend to default to he, but, well…” he says, pausing for a moment.
”Swords do not reproduce. I have no need of your organic conceits of gender.” Durandal says.
”There you go.” Lysander says.