Athelwyn Hemwallow's page

From their hidden vantage, Athelwyn intones "Spar'le aen deith!" and unleashes an orb of pure fire on the goblin preoccupied with the bug on the ground. The fiery projectile hisses through the air, dispersing smaller motes and embers as it goes before ending its flight. She steps back from the rest of the group immediately after, still half-crouched, to give the others room to advance while she watches the aftermath of her attack (somewhat uncomfortably and awkwardly in her muck-stained waders).

"Don't suppose any of you are capable of producing goblinoid speech?" Athelwyn asks, doubtful to the point of being rhetorical. "Never had to wade through a goblin-infested muck before. They don't seem to be very interested in maintaining their vigil, however, so maybe we can overpower them quickly—and quietly."

Athelwyn's eyes flit inquisitively between the pair of dwarves and Siann. Dwarves and goblins were supposedly natural enemies, so she hopes Dorin or Grommund have some experience dealing with—even should dealing mean slaying—the diminutive creatures. Whatever the case might be, her spells would be at the ready. She doesn't relish the thought of effectively exterminating a den of the creatures, but by most accounts she's ever heard they were unlikely to be open to a friendly discussion.

"What make you of this?" Athelwyn asks the others, indicating the playing children. "I don't know that I'm ready to stake our investigative efforts on the fanciful tale of a youth, but if there's a kernel of truth to his story it could be worthwhile." She makes ready to approach the children, but waits to hear where everyone else stands.

I'm not sure what a toothy-mawed, blue, fire-spitting almost-giant is, but I suppose there are stranger things lurking in the wilds of Faerun.

Athelwyn politely accepts Darius' outstretched hand by way of sealing the deal, as it were. She spends much of the remainder of the evening in her room making sure all of her effects are prepared and well secured for the journey ahead. At some point she manages a jaunt to the general store to procure some thigh-high boots (If they have any, that is) to aid with traversing a water-logged terrain. It is not foolproof likely, but a measure to prevent her belongings from becoming soaked or mud-coated nonetheless.

"Perhaps we should have some of your local rangers arrange some adequate maps of the surrounding region, then. With orcs and bandits active in the area, sparing a guide might be a taller order than usual, I'm guessing. Regardless, we are strangers to these climes, so anything that would aid in our not becoming lost in a bog would be greatly appreciated." Athelwyn inclines her head in a slight nod to Darius by way of thanks for the provisions being offered already.

"Do we need to draw up contracts, or shall this be a more informal bargain?"

Athelwyn helps herself to the rare cuisine being offered, but politely turns down the dwarven spirit. She inwardly beams at the prospect of earning such a large sum of coinage. One thousand gold pieces would be enough to set her up comfortably for quite some time; perhaps even fuel a trip further east into the interior of the Heartlands.

"How long ago did the New Mire appear and begin spreading? There is actually a similar phenomenon in Halruaa. An entire swamp that encroaches further with each passing tenday." Athelwyn's brow furrows a bit at her recollection. "Sad to say the combined knowledge and power of the various arcanists therein have thus far failed to find a means of halting, abating, or otherwise thwarting the mire's spread. That does not speak well of our own hopes should the situation here be borne of the same malady."

Looking around the table, it dawns on her that she's not making a terribly great sales pitch for the four of them as investigative adventurers, so Athelwyn adds, "I very much doubt the two, distances so vast between, are related directly of course! Perhaps there's some manner of gateway to the elemental plane of water that has been opened and unmitigated. Or perhaps some seismic shift in the region, natural or otherwise, has yielded a new surface route for some underground reservoir. Have there been any tremors in the area surrounding the mire's appearance?"

Athelwyn disappears into the town proper for some time, eventually managing to acquire and follow directions to what might pass as a tailoring shop. Predictably, they have nothing to offer that would even begin to approach satisfying what sense of fashion she has brought with her from Halruaa. Most of the women--and men--in the area seemed to tend towards drab and subdued garments, however, so the usual gaudy affair she is familiar with likely wouldn't fit well. She peruses the shop's offerings for a time, before eventually approaching the clerk with a request for modifications.

---

As the time for the dinner approaches, Athelwyn emerges a bit tardy, though attempting to appear more presentable than her usual affair. A dull, green cloak clings about her shoulders like a shawl, tapering to a narrow point at mid-back, matching a slightly more vibrant simple green sleeveless dress that appears little more than a bodice and a split skirt. Her lower body is otherwise covered in her usual wear: knee-high boots and crimson pants. Beyond her raiment, little differs from her usual appearance, save for a meager application of kohl to her eyelids (a decidedly Mulhorandi choice).

Unlike the rest, she casually sips and enjoys the wine being proffered. It is immediately apparent that the niceties to which everyone is currently exposed are not foreign to Athelwyn. Her etiquette is well honed, and her physical presence graceful.

"We probably shouldn't get too far ahead of ourselves with the host's designs. He may simply be wishing to size up the cadre of adventurers moving about the region." Athelwyn cautions, though secretly hoping for a decent payoff herself from the ordeal. "They seem to have a firm grasp on fashionable lateness, at the very least."

Something that has worked in the past in another game is to include a little footnote after a large write-up post with some specific points of interest. Not necessarily a full manifesto covering every possible plot-point and thread available, but some of the more pertinent things the characters would pick up on at a glance (that the players may miss).

As it stands, social butterflying on our own steam is unlikely. What's left of our party is made up of a dour pair of dwarves, a magocratic outsider, and a no-nonsense ex-mercenary monk. Our well meaning priest and jovial warlock have apparently dropped out, so we don't really have a "face" any more. We've got a quartet of the secretive hooded guys in the corner of the tavern to work with. Puts us at the impasse of breaking character for the sake of plot progression/development absent a strong provided path forward. A little leading by the nose might be warranted, or maybe even seeing if we can pick up a fifth player?

"We haven't given up on the girl yet, magis--master Tauster," Athelwyn bumbles out. "Absent a desire to do so and perhaps a penchant for illusory dweomers, someone up and disappearing without a single trace--and without choice personal effects--is too bizarre. Eventually we will find a leaf or stone that, when upturned, reveals what's actually going on."

Athelwyn spends much of the remainder of the evening pestering Tauster with questions dealing with the arcane. While supposing her own tutelage superior to a veritable hedge-wizard, she still can appreciate what experience provides.

Athelwyn says, "Coin always spends, after all. At the moment we're merely waiting on news from other exploits, so there's the question of if we've the time to commit to another leg of guard duty, paid or otherwise."

Then, turning to the rest of her companions, she says somewhat more privately, "If we're just resting on our laurels for the time being, maybe a little extra coin and the opportunity to keep a traveler safe in the area isn't such a bad idea. If there are more orcish warbands in the area, a lone merchant isn't likely to fare well."

"I'm ready for the tavern, myself. When we've got word back from this Shiraz, we can plan out our next steps. In the mean time, Garyld, I don't suppose you've had any more luck with the prisoner we left behind? Has he been any more forthcoming in our absence?"

Athelwyn nods at Grommund's summary, recalling the nearly lethal encounter all too well. "Most of the orcs carried the same symbol upon the fore of their shields: an axe splitting a skull with an arrow lodged in both eye sockets. I don't know if that would be of any significance to the region, or merely a new tribe staking claim on the territory."

Recalling Kuiper's instruction, Athelwyn adds, "Kuiper advised us to seek you out, Garyld. Since we found no sign of Jelleneth in Hog's Branch or Thurmaster, he suggested you put us in touch with someone named Shiraz. He reckoned the ranger's affinity with avian creatures might lend itself well to finding her."

I support initiative blocks as well. 5E combat is very fast-paced round to round (which is a big part of why I prefer it) so it should complement it well.

"That's not a whole lot to go on, but it's better than nothing. Thank you for the assistance, Kuiper. And for helping out the boy afflicted with lycanthropy. Not everyone would have taken such a delicate approach to dealing with such a situation," Athelwyn offers up as some measure of silver lining to the current, somewhat fruitless situation. "Milbourne's a fair shake better destination than Thurmaster, too, so there's that."

Pausing a moment she considers their dilemma. More specifically, she wonders at where the path leads next if the mystery of the girl's disappearance remains unanswered. Would everyone return to Waterdeep? She's not entirely sure that's an idea that interests her, given how poorly she managed previously. For now, she turns her attention to the prospect of an actual, comfortable room in Milbourne.

"Well. . . s$+#," Athelwyn curses to herself as the bear rouses to anger. Extending her right hand before her, she intones "Spar'le aen deith!" A small orb of flame takes form and streaks towards the bear advancing towards them from the ruin of Siann's net.

Not wishing to be caught under the animal's advance, Athelwyn then retreats behind those more likely to survive a swipe of its deadly claws.

Athelwyn has no wish to attack the bear up unless necessary, so attempts a distracting tactic instead. She summons an illusion of one of the orcs they had faced the night prior next to the bear's right flank. It is an immobile reproduction, but aimed only at holding the animal's attention until others can formulate a more worthwhile strategy.

"I think I'm as ready to depart as I will ever be. And well done with the nets, everyone—far less difficulty than I'd expected." Athelwyn falls into line as they begin their trek back to Kuiper's stead.

Following Grommund's lead, Athelwyn attempts to distract the creature from Siann to give her a better opening to exploit. She beams a small candle into its flank, but doesn't stray too far from the relative safety of the nearby tree trunk.

Athelwyn retreats behind cover of the thickest trunked tree in the immediate vicinity. That there is blood along the trail is a bit troubling, but she elects to trust in Kuiper's s savviness in the matter at hand.

Athelwyn offers the shield up to any one that can make use of it, explaining the magical properties of the object briefly before doing so. She quickly bundles the rest of her belongings in relative silence, shifting between apprehension and excitement at the thought of delving further into a woodland possibly teeming with orcs.

Her eyes go wide a bit as they take in the various pieces about Kuiper's person, but Athelwyn allows her attention to remain primarily on the shield.

"Pass me the chieftain's shield while we make preparations. It seems silvered weapons are not the only unexpected thing the orcs were carrying. This is enchanted." She spends several moments going over out-of-practice formulae in her head—and some under her breath—before eventually piecing together what, exactly, she was looking at.

Athelwyn spends several minutes reading over her grimoire and tracing intricate, arcane sigils in the dirt around where she sits. Soon, her eyes begin to thrum with a soft blue glow as they turn to regard the collection of goods being gathered from the fallen orcs. After concluding this task, she asks "Didn't the old one at the inn say the orcs had been driven out by the local ruler? Or does the marking on their shields imply a new tribe has settled the region?"

HP: 4 + CON = 6

New Spells: magic missile and comprehend languages

Other:

Won't be able to level until I get home tonight. Been trying to theraflu-sleep through being sick for the past four or five days as well, so apologies for being sluggish on updating. Seems like I'm through the worst of it though.

"Do we want to risk another fire, then? It could be what lured them here in the first place." Athelwyn asks, mostly to Kuiper. She eases herself down into a reclined position against a nearby tree with an audible groan, fumbling through her packs for her waterskin, which she begins nursing steadily.

Seeing the last, and deadliest, of the orcs dispatched, Athelwyn turns her attention to their fallen forms. She holds out hope that some of them might have borne some curative tinctures on their persons to aid in getting her fallen companions back on their feet.

Athelwyn's adrenaline begins to thrum low, as forming even a basic cantrip becomes more strain than she can manage. Fire forms once more above her head, wavering and flying wide of its target before flickering out of existence.

Athelwyn chides herself under her breath for allowing important reagents to have been relinquished during the course of her northward travails. Putting down the chief might have been a simple matter were she able to bring the full weight of her grimoire's secrets to bear. She continues making due with simple pyromancy. If they survived the scrap, perhaps she could seek replacements in lieu of payment from the local wizard upon return.

"Spar'le aen deithwen!" she cries once more, sending another firebolt sailing at the orcish brute. She hisses immediately upon completing the spell, realizing she botched the incantation horribly.

From her position near the flickering image of a fire elemental at the rear, Athelwyn attempts to find her second wind long enough to see the remaining menace brought low. Sadly, she has little to offer but a continual stream of pyromantic cantrips, but she hopes it will be enough to get the job done.

Not fully appreciating the tenacity of their foe until this moment, Athelwyn stifles her labored breathing and focuses on another evocation. Once more she wills fire into being to continue her volley of attacks.

Athelwyn continues conjuring and hurling motes of fire at the orcish chieftain, but the grisly wound in her side seems to be impacting her ability to do so with any measure of accuracy.

Pain isn't a sensation Athelwyn is familiar with; at least, not the physical kind. She seems momentarily stunned at the ruin inflicted on her upper abdomen, not realizing that the pained cry she hear is her own. Her knees buckle and her vision blurs. . . and then there is rage. She matches the frenzy of the orc in front of her with an ear-piercing battlecry of her own. Flames swirl around her hand, and her evocation is managed through sheer willpower alone. Fire trails her swiping fist, and Athelwyn does not relinquish the dweomer until the burst of flame is inches away from the orc's face.

Turning to face the nearest of the newcomer orcs, Athelwyn continues weaving fiery magics to bring down the brutes. She sends another flaming projectile streaking across the battlefield.

"Azuth's gnarled staff! How many of these ugly things are there?"

Following Siann's lead, Athelwyn attempts to eliminate the sole remaining orc that threatens to harry the group's flank. She intones, "Spar'le an deith!" and evokes another pyrotechnic blast to briefly illuminate the surroundings before zipping overhead and towards the orc.

A flicker of orange emanates from within the false tower, followed by Athelwyn incanting "Spar'le an deith!"

A swirling orb of fire streaks through the air—and through the walls of her illusion itself—to explode on one of the approaching orcs. It dissipates into motes of spark and orange cinders after impacting, at which point Athelwyn has already began retreating back into the safety of numbers.

I'll move to H7 on the map. Site went down for several hours before I could edit my post.

Hearing the threat approaching from all sides, Athelwyn hopes to deceive the advancing host with a simple glamour. She crouches low and traces strange patterns in the air with her right hand. Her left index finger traces a circular pattern along the ground all around her. Finally, she utters several arcane syllables: "An ensh'eass carn"

Where she had been crouching, the crumbling remains of a small tower's base now stands. It reaches just under five feet in both height and diameter. It isn't the most convincing facade she's managed, but she hopes it will be enough to fool the dull orcs that draw nearer.

"Count me in for the last, I suppose. Need plenty of time to study my grimoire if I'm to be effective, after all." Athelwyn adds.

Six people for ten shifts. Who's going to be pulling double duty?

Athelwyn remains motionless as the nets are passed around. Looking to Kuiper, she asks, "Maybe we can catch him when he's sleeping? Might be more frightening for him that way, but we'd probably stand a better chance of subduing him without any real bloodshed."

"Unless we can find any other leads, it wouldn't hurt to at least take a look. There seem to be a few mysteries creeping up at the same time in this area—around the same time. Perhaps it is all somehow related," Athelwyn says for all to hear. She spares a wary glance to Oleanne, then turns once more to Grommund. "Could be the father would be keen on rewarding those who see his boy safely returned, right?"

Athelwyn stands at the relative rear of the gathering, wanting no part of the aggravated pair of wolves at the druid's flanks. Hearing Grommund's questions, she adds, somewhat meekly, "And Jelenneth as well—Tauster's apprentice. We were hoping to find signs of her passage hereabouts as well."

"It is worth mentioning that the girl left her component pouch behind in Milborne. Perhaps a forgetful mistake, perhaps not, but it would render her training under Tauster nearly pointless in the face of real adversity." Athelwyn pauses in thought for a moment, then muses aloud, "I would think that points to her being intent on returning to Tauster's residence unlikely. Although, maybe she was far enough along before she realized they were missing that she decided to borrow Tauster's supplies in Thurmaster."

No worries. Let me know how Curse of Strahd shakes out. Haven't dabbled in Ravenloft in a long while, but was considering picking it up.

Before leaving for tavern, Athelwyn steals a quick glance at Siann, already trudging towards the flea-ridden dive, and shoots what might pass for a reprimanding look to the gnome. "More likely she'll break your fingers to stop you, next time, I think. Besides, she's got a point. Cantankerous as Marlen was, attempting so overtly to rip him off with a simple glamour was an ill-conceived idea. We're lucky he was content with throwing us out."

She was glad to leave the tavern behind them, even for an unkempt and unfinished mage's tower. Better still is the prospect of putting the little hamlet behind them entirely. With any luck, they'd find Jelenneth in short order. A tinge of worry gnaws at Athelwyn's mind, however. Those bandits on they had encountered on the road just a couple days prior seemed a bit too much of a coincidence given the missing apprentice's choice of profession. Were the brigands looking for her particularly? Or were they targeting those with a knack for the Weave without prejudice?

"A moment before we away. Might I have a moment more of your time, Tauster? I am a recent transplant from Halruaa, and would not mind a chance to compare notes with one of you Northern mages." Athelwyn puts a little too much emphasis on Halruaa, hoping to impress the man with her place of origin.

Athelwyn sets to helping with collecting the scattered coinage from out of the muck of the street, though aggravation bordering on rage is evident in her features. "Let's just get our stuff and head to the tavern before I decide to burn down someone's mansion-bank."

"Let's go see Marlen then, and collect on our earnings. We can turn our attention to other pressing concerns after we've got fuller bellies and coinpurses." Athelwyn turns to eye the building Tauster indicated in reference to Squire Marlen. Truth be told, the tavern didn't seem like the sort to offer cuisine worth exploring, but any opportunity to venture away from the trail rations they had been provided was still a hard bargain to pass up—especially when the meal was being provided for free.

"Do you think we should introduce ourselves to Count Parlfray while we're in the vicinity? Maybe he would know more about the goings-on around here if they are his lands?" Athelwyn asks hopefully. "Might be worth asking the squire if that would be acceptable, at least."

Athelwyn finds the sudden turn to suspicion strange, but trusts that her companions are a bit more savvy about such interactions than she is. She watches silently—almost meekly—while the exchange continues to unfold.

Confused by the wonderment in Fronar's exclamations, Athelwyn looks on at the paltry "mage tower" before them. She had grown up among no shortage of derisive remarks about those magic-users that dwelt further north, but thought them more jest than truth. What stood before her seemed less a wizard's bastion and more a miller's abode. "Let's see if any one answers the knock before we try barging in."

Athelwyn saunters into The Hound and Tails as some of the others volunteer to remain behind and spare some vigilant eyes for the cargo they are hauling. She is half-startled when the waitress lurches to life from an apparent nap in the dismal establishment. Athelwyn considers the others in her company, then slowly nods in response the waitress's query.

"I hope so. We may need to make arrangements here shortly, but for the moment what's important is that we locate Tauster. We are to deliver something to him. Would you happen to know where his abode is located?" She allows the question to hang for a moment before abruptly recalling their time in Milborne and the perhaps-missing person. "Oh! And Jelenneth—Tauster's apprentice. Has she been around?"