Aelin Varassë Farra's page

Round 2, Init 9

Aelin instinctively steps in front of Kalendra, uninterested in seeing the cinnamon imp in their midst. Watching each blow land and fail to really damage the clockwork, the half-elf huffs. The huff is cleansing, as Aelin begins to chant an old elven battle march. The sound isn't loud, and it occasionally huts, causing a little dissonance here and there. It's enough to fill the chamber.

1st Round of Inspired Rage- affected allies gain a +2 morale bonus to Strength and Constitution and a +1 morale bonus on Will saving throws, but also take a –1 penalty to AC. While under the effects, allies cannot use any Charisma-, Dexterity-, or Intelligence-based skills (except Acrobatics, Fly, Intimidate, and Ride) or any ability that requires patience or concentration.

"Yes, what Getrude said. Apologies, Kalendra, I've never seen one up close. It's so red..."

What a way to start the scuffle, and the campaign, for that matter lol

Surprise Round

Aelin frowns lightly, as his older brother disappears into the room beyond. The half-elf wordlessly follows, until he sets eyes on the red tea kettle.

Knowledge(Arcana) v DC 11: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 = 11

"Well, look at that. And just the other day, I had a run-in with a gnome. It may be small, but it'll be hard to pick apart, if it comes to that. Mix metal with magic, and you've got yourself a decent guard dog."

Aelin looks Oldon over, then takes the same stance, after moving into the room to allow room for others entering the fray.

Aelin smirks, watching his kin consider next steps. He continues to hang back, leaning against the wall, adjusting his horn armor. He feels a little overdressed for the occasion, but he's also versed in battlefield stories which account for soldiers caught outside their armor.

"Let's game this out. When we find the source of the smell, what next? Do we report it? And to whom? We're trespassers here, right?"

"Oh, right. Some really terrific terrain advantage and Odin or some other fantastic horse whisperer… there’s always something about that story that has troubled me. Has anyone ever been to Coventry Grove? Might be interesting to visit if it isn’t completely overrun by civilization by now. Or maybe even if it is completely overrun by civilization by now.”

Aelin smiles and nods. "I'd be up for that, as well. But first, a good night's rest, and a regathering at the Guild..."

...

Making sure you aren’t seen (which isn’t hard) Hamarr opens the secret panel. Oof. It does smell rank indeed. That old musty smell of water damage and rot. You’ll probably all come back with some disease or other for your troubles, don’t you doubt it.

Aelin gives Hamarr a look. "I've been told that smells like this are meant to warn you. Keep going, and you'll likely eat some rancid meat. Keep going, and your morning stream will burn for two weeks." The half-elf looks his younger brother over. "You really that interested in finding the corpses of a dead raccoon family down here?"

For the smell, Aelin lingers towards the rear, half-expecting his brothers to take a face-full of sour neglect billowing through the door frame.

"I'm all for spiced wine." Aelin turns to nod respectfully to Kalendra the Kind, before leaning his head in Hamarr's direction.

"It's good to see your spirit is still untamed. Spontaneity can lead to some really enjoyable moments in life." Aelin takes the next cup when it arrives. "Spontaneity can also lead to the need to think quickly, and some of us are better than others doing so."

"Now, an adventurers' band, that sounds like it has a pulse. A real beating heart beginning of something. I wouldn't mind talking with Volset. Sounds like a real go-getter. Even if it's just sending out our own tendrils..."

The half-elf stands, moving his hands above the table, motioning them as if the cups were battle tokens, the table becoming the Clarengrave Range.

"Can you imagine the blood flowing through your veins when you stumble into a cavalry unit, when you were just pursuing a scouting party? Odin had the Ravenguard's back that day. Full retreat, wounded wing, only to clip the cavalry's own wings once they lured them back into Coventry Grove..." Aelin thumps the table with his overturned cup, confident of its emptiness.

The half-elf calls to his older brother. "You know, Olf, we should plan a visit to the guild. Hamarr's champing at the bit, Halvar's willing, and when the rains aren't beating our backs, our lovely sisters might even supervise." Aelin turns his cup right side up, wondering if he'll let the vine-inspire continue to flow.

"What if we listen for the whispers of Bragi tonight, and conspire to challenge each other to write our next chapter together?"

Aelin collapses into his cushioned chair, undaunted by the table's lack of interest in wordplay and get-to-know-you-betters. That will come with time, and he's hopeful that they'll have more time together to deepen the ties that blood-bind them. He gives Hamarr a knowing wink.

The wedding rings hollow to Aelin, who considers such commitment more a burden than a blessing. He's been accepting enough of the obligation to become a Citizen, though he does wonder if or when his father will begin to encourage obligations more matrimonial. The half-elf looks around the table, considering which of his siblings are destined to wed and bare brood. Oooo, we who are Fidan's Brood... the Brood of Fidan... FidanBrood... The words weave playfully behind Aelin's eyes, which cause them to appear distant, perhaps a little glazed from the mead.

When the Ravenguard are brought up, Aelin returns to the room.

Knowledge(Local), Ravenguard: 1d20 + 8 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 8 + 1 = 26

He tries to square his sister's and brother's aversion to said strike force, but he wonders why they don't revere a potent support team during times of need. He dusts off the mental journals he's developed in his time listening to recuperating warriors, piecing together stories of the Ravenguard, antics and the like.

Also... Precognition: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8

Aelin looks a bit wounded when Skendere insists they take their reunion elsewhere. He doesn't say it aloud, because he can feel the pliability of his tongue under the influence of Kallie's silky pours. He does excuse himself from the table, so he may slip from his casual attire and back into his city garb. It's waiting for him in his old bedroom.

He lingers, taking deep breaths which remind him of old books and aging wood. I guess you can't really come home, not after home expects you to be gone once your belly is full... The fabric of his tunic slips from his shoulders, and finds its way into his very worn leather pack. Trousers too. For a moment, the half-elf regards himself in the small dress mirror in the corner. Everything where it should be, save the decent belly bulge. A python stretching out with a freshly consumed baboon in the middle of its length. He pats his stomach, knowing full well how well-defined his six-pack will be come morning constitutional, and continues to dress.

Before departing, Aelin finds his Second Mother, and kisses her on both cheeks. He allows as much embrace as Father takes, returning it in equal measure.

...

Aelin trades one creature comfort for another, once it's decided that the Scions are headed to one of his familiar haunts. Neither rogue nor imp, the half-elf follows his elder to the bar, and offers two free hands, should there be need. He encourages Hamarr to find a table where they can all sit and face each other, rather than barstool six seats in a row.

"If any of you have ideas on an activity for the evening that is not too disagreeable, I could find myself convinced.”

"Oh, so many ideas, Trudy. I'm interested to know which ones spark your interest." Aelin makes a silent snap of his fingers, grinning.

"We should aspire to amuse Bragi. Shall we ask questions in a circle, but only answer with another question, until Olf screws it up? Or should we play 'One of Three, A Fib it May Be?', and watch for Halvar to wrinkle his nose? Hmmm, or maybe 'Not Even Once', and try to get Hamarr to blush?"

Aelin recognizes the move to toast a little late, his senses lulled by the dinner at hand, and feels only a little irritated that Halvar beats him to stand at attention while his older brother finishes his honoring words, Halvar complements them, and Hamarr joins in.

"Well said, brothers. Let us never take for granted our origins, the houses that homed us, and the spouses that honed us."

The half-elf waits politely, should the sisters also stand.

Hand on platter, Aelin nods with a smile to kind Kallie, before it turns to pursed lips as Halvar nudges his wine glass arm. "Careful, brother, this is the good stuff." The wine manages to drip along a long hand, across-wrist onto a bare forearm which sports several criss-cross lines. Blue tunic, short sleeves, loose trousers, mismatched slippers, the half-elf brother takes full advantage of the intimacy of a family dinner, just this side of sufficient respect. He enjoys the food and drink well enough.

He just enjoys the company more. He is among childhood collaborators. Adolescent accomplices. He knows that his time in service was necessary thing, now. It taught him what life should never be- a spectator. Sure, in the cliche game of life, he's been privileged to visit the penalty box more than a couple of times. He has yet to decide if he would have avoided incarceration more earnestly if he didn't have such a discrete family to bail him out.

He brushes his long white hair out of his dusky grey eyes, at the same time assuring that a piece of pastry passing his lips won't betray him with a flaxen strand. Aelin relaxes back into his cushioned chair, his muscles truly unwound, as he recognizes that he can always come home. No debauchery here, no cannons loosened by tankards upon tankards. Granted, it also means there is no gristle here, no fodder for a tale or tune. He chides himself, for the evening is still young.