Oh boy, this will be fun!
We're just waiting on Elyan, right?
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Yeah, that was something that I started thinking about when Eireachdail posted about being suspicious of Carlanis. It's going to be a bad day for Ping and Jenneleth if the two behind the log decide to take hostages.
Some part of Ping had always known she was a coward. She never faced a problem head on if she could help it. She'd run away, nibble at it around the edges until she could get an advantage, just about anything that wouldn't put her at risk, her stunt against the goblins not withstanding. Against the goblins she'd at least had some control over her fate. There, it was deception and manipulation to get the goblins where they wanted them. She had chosen, however reluctantly, to walk into danger. Here? That is hardly the case. She has no plan, no clever schemes, no place to run, and worst of all, no place to hide. Sure, she could act the part of a hero, running up to one of archers then take an arrow to the gut as she tried to cast the one spell she has that might work on him. As soon as the initial shock of the ambush is over, she turns and runs, expecting an arrow in her back the whole way before diving behind the log next to Jenneleth and cowering beside the woman while trying not to whimper in terror. She doesn't succeed, and both Jenneleth and Eireachdail can hear her already begging for her life in a soft, frightened, gnomish woman's voice as she pulls the hat down low to block out her doom.
Well, I was totally wrong about that, and now I have to figure out how Ping's going to react.
Letting the dice tell a story:
Zeebo, not expecting Eireachdail's slap on the back nor the force with which it is delivered, stumbles a few steps as a rather feminine squeak of surprise escapes his lips then falls flat on his face. Surprisingly spritely for one so aged, the old halfling gets to his feet and dusts himself off. "Careful, good sir. I think you know not your own strength!" While there is an edge of tartness to his tone, it seems that the halfling wizard is not cross at the gregarious warrior-poet. At least everything's where it should be. That could have been a very awkward conversation.
Seems to be the latter with the archers providing support if things turn ugly.
Eager to get on with their journey yet still trying to play the affable, if sometimes curmudgeonly, elder halfling, Zeebo gives the men a gracious bow. "We take no offense. I assure you that we will heed your warning and see the fair Lady Jenneleth home and that Count Palfrey hears of your efforts to keep Haranshire safe," Zeebo says. Once they are a little ways down the road and out of earshot of the checkpoint and its men at the very least, Zeebo's confidence vanishes into finger-twiddling nervousness. "Oh, that does not sound good. That does not sound good at all. Every rumor has some kernel of truth to it and if such grim tidings have been spreading here, then something must be afoot. That we have seen such ourselves only gives their words more weight. I fear that the lords are gravely mistaken if they think the likes of us sufficient to stamp this out," he frets. Forget more work. If even half of what they say is true, then I need to find a way out of here and someplace a lot safer. I can't just go myself, though. A lone member of the small folk, halfling or gnome, would be too tempting an opportunity to pass up, but the others would never leave Haranshire while it's like this. Not if I understand their character. Ulfbrecht, Eireachdail, and Spiro least of all. What's a poor gnome to do?
Zeebo bristles at the implication that Lady Jenneleth dabbles in the dark arts. "I understand your caution, but there's a fine line between due diligence and paranoia," he says. The irony isn't lost on Ping as the old halfling mage continues. "I can assure you that the good lady here is no necromancer. As I said, we have been tasked with delivering her to Haranshire and we also must speak with the Count." He turns to the others and asks, "Did we not bring a letter of introduction or some other official document? Perhaps that will convince these men to let us pass and finish our business."
Thank you all. I appreciate it. We saw this coming, so it was no great surprise. In fact, we weren't sure she'd make it to Christmas at the end of November. It's funny, though. Six months ago, I'd only lost one grandparent. Now I only have one left. Best I can do is live a life that makes them proud.
For a moment, Ping feels as if she were about to have a repeat of yesterday when Ulfbrecht switches to the Halfling tongue. She recognizes it, but has no idea what the dwarf is saying. For a brief, terrible moment, she thinks that even more people will learn her secret. More likely to get caught or not, I cannot keep posing as a halfling if everyone's going to try talking to me using their tongue! Zeebo, however, smiles warmly at Ulfbrecht and pats the dwarven priest's arm. Ping does not know what Ulfbrecht said. She can hazard a guess, but if she's wrong, then it would only rouse suspicions. Hopefully not replying directly would avoid that. Instead of replying in the halfling tongue, Zeebo speaks fluently in the dwarven tongue. Dwarven:
"The halfling tongue may come more easily to you, Master Ulfbrecht, but as you can hear, I speak your native tongue. There's no need to worry with the tongue of my kind." Especially when I don't know any of the halfling tongue! The thought and the turmoil Ping feels never crosses Zeebo's expression as he keeps smiling at the dwarf. === Zeebo looks to Mos for a moment before stepping up and putting on his best, grandfatherly expression. "Greetings Master Carlanis," the elderly halfling says. "Zeebo Softfeather, at your service. I and my companions are currently escorting the good Lady Jenneleth to her home here in Haranshire. Unfortunately we have already encountered some of your dark folk just yesterday, a band of goblins that had assaulted several travelers on the road, including a courier bound for Count Palfrey. I'm afraid that we must also seek an audience with the Count to discuss more grim tidings and to complete the task the courier is no longer able to see done himself. As for what our business is after, I suppose it will depend on how our audience with Count Palfrey goes."
I just got the news a few minutes ago that she passed away. It hurts, but it's a bittersweet pain. We miss her, but she no longer suffers. Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers.
"Yes, yes. Onward and so forth."
I don't think she will. She suffered a heart attack, and all the docs can do is make her comfortable. We're just playing the waiting game now.
"Probably for the best. I hear horses hate goblins. Best not to rile up your charges," Zeebo says with a laugh. Jenneleth's pat draws Zeebo's gaze and a shrug. "Wisdom from experience, I suppose," he replies. "I am ready as I shall ever be, my lady. Let us hope that goblin highwaymen do not protend more ominous goings-on in hinterlands of your home."
"Ah, I see. Say no more, good sir," Zeebo says after Elyan hastily exits the conversation. Hunidark, I appreciate that you covered for me, but couldn't you have used some other explanation? === When the young stableboy starts pulling on cloaks, Zeebo shakes his head and looks to the armor and weapons they retrieved from the goblins. "Come here, lad," Zeebo says, "If you're really sure that you want one, I don't see the harm, other than you might wind up smelling like one." the halfling lets out a chuckle that doesn't have much humor behind it. The memories of the fight against them are too fresh for that. "Listen, being an adventurer isn't all fame, gold, and glory. We fought and beat the goblins, yes, but things could have gone very, very badly for us. Fighting is dangerous and you have to be willing to kill your opponent, whether they be monster, man, elf, dwarf, or what have you. Practice is one thing, actually turning your blade against another living, thinking being is another altogether. Even if you have the grit for it, you can still get in over your head. You can do everything right and still wind up dead, or worse." Zeebo's tone is grim. He couldn't say why he told the boy all of this, perhaps a misplaced sense of responsibility to get the lad to understand the bad as well as the good. Still, he has to say it, or rather Ping has to say it. Seeing death is one thing, being so close to violence was quiet the other. For all of Malver Ibbleting's dealings with seedy and violent criminals, it wasn't until yesterday that Ping had come face to face with the violence that marked so many tales of adventure and heroism. "So, whenever you do go out to find your fame and fortune, make sure you have good people at your side, people you can trust and who know enough to make up for what you don't," Zeebo adds, his tone more normal as he offers up some advice that he hopes will keep the young boy alive. Though why should I care? I don't know him. I'll likely never see him again, so why do I care enough to not want this boy to die?
Zeebo recoils as the smell of Eireachdail's breath reaches him. A night of drinking followed by a chaser of stale beer in the morning did no favors for the sweetness of one's breath. "Perhaps mint tea would be a better drink to go with the breaking of your fast, Master Eireachdail. I do not know how you can be so cheery with what must be a monster of a bottle-ache," the old halfling mage observes. At least the tea would spare us from your foul morning's breath if you're going to insist on being so damned cheerful all the time!
Happy New Year! And the same to you UDM. :D
Zeebo blinks as he tries to parse what he just heard. "I--I beg your pardon, Master Elyan, Master Hunidark said what, exactly?"
Jenneleth: Ping smiles, despite her disappointment and her doubts. Even she can see that Jenneleth is too pure-hearted to ever think of trying to deceive anyone. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the tiring day she has had, but Ping realizes she rather likes the apprentice mage. "Thank you, milady," she says as she hops of the chair. "You're a very kind person." She crawls under the covers and soon falls asleep.
Mos:
Ping isn't so sure that Mos is right. She remembers too many times when she was growing up where she'd gotten in trouble for trying to make friends. But for all that, she clings to that thought, that he did it protect her. That is the only thing that keeps her from completely breaking down when she pulls Mos into a hug. She needs those comforting words as much as she needs the physical contact. She calms down after a moment, too exhausted and drained for the powerful emotions to sustain themselves. She lets Mos go and looks ashamed as she stands back up. "I--I'm sorry, Mos. This day has been a trying one. Maybe I'll feel better after getting some sleep," she tells the halfling, though she doubts she'll feel better for a while after today. "And I'm sorry you had to go through that," she adds after a moment, though even she isn't sure if she's talking about being sold off to pay his father's debts or witnessing her trying to fall apart at the seams. She wishes him a good night before he leaves, an attempt at normalcy in a decidedly unnormal day.
Jenneleth, that evening:
When Lady Jenneleth enters the room, she finds Ping already changed into an nightshirt that's clearly too large for the slightly built gnome. Ping sits curled up in a chair that would be hidden by the opening door, and when she sees that it is the young apprentice wizard they are escorting, the tension eases in her shoulders, though it doesn't go away. "Lady Jenneleth," Ping says once the door is closed. "I'm--I'm sorry about the scene downstairs. I--I don't think I should be Zeebo anymore. Do--do you know how to dye hair? M-maybe I could be someone else if I knew how to do that."
The next morning, Zeebo arrives with Lady Jenneleth for breakfast in the common room. The old halfling is distracted by something and on more than one occasion, it takes a few attempts to get his attention before it is caught. The surliness from last night is gone, but it's clear the halfling is not his usual jolly self this morning. Whenever he sees Elyan, though, he hops up and toddles over to the elven druid. "Please, Master Elyan, forgive my rudeness last night. As you may have guessed, it was a rather stressful day for this old halfling. I may age like wine or fine cheese, but as I've gotten older I have found that I am almost as temperamental as them as well."
Thanks for the updated information. I've got it open in some tabs now to read over. :) I wanted to wait for Mos to post a reply to to my last post in game before posting again, but I don't want to hold up the game just for that.
Woo! And no worries. 'Tis the season to be really busy.
Mos: Ping doesn't resist as Mos sits her down. She listens, but it's clear that she's struggling to accept what Mos is telling her. "But I can hear him," she sobs as she grabs her arms. "He--He always told me that he was the only I could trust. He was always right. Everyone else would always try to use me. Our family abandoned us, he told me. Our clan abandoned us." The young gnomish woman weeps as she slips down on her knees as she curls up defensively against the maelstrom of emotions roaring through her. "D-did he lie to me," she asks again.
Mos: Ping shakes her head. "That's what I don't understand," she tells Mos, clearly frustrated. "You know I'm being hunted. You, any of you, could demand anything you wanted from me, but you promise to keep my secret, to protect me? Why?!" She stands, staring wide-eyed at Mos with her shoulders tense and hunched as she breaths heavily. After a moment, she slumps as her arms fall limp to her sides and she hangs her head. "D-did my father lie to me," she asks in a soft, broken voice.
Well, we already had a ready-made Noir plot with Ping. I don't see why a spy thriller would be that much more of a stretch. Turns out Elyan is in Her Immortal Majesty's Special Intelligence Service, her seventh agent in fact.
Turns out the moose is a trap.
Zeebo looks up and down the hallway to make sure no one is watching before motioning for Mos to follow him through the door to their room and, if he chooses to do so, closing the door behind them. Mos, if he chooses to follow Zeebo: Ping pulls the beard and wig away, revealing her red hair and gnomish features. She turns to look at Mos, her expression a mixture of frustrated anger and hopeless fear. "Y-you don't mean to tell Ulfbrecht and Elyan i-i-if th-they--if they join us, do you," she asks the halfling.
Thanks, both for the kind words and the donation. I couldn't do much else but spread the word as far as I am able.
Before Zeebo can say anything else, Mos is dragging the elderly halfling from the room. Once the two of them are out of earshot, Ping can't bring herself to meet Mos' eyes. "I--I've never been fishing," Ping whispers, the voice still sounding odd coming from someone that looks like an old halfling. She sighs and her shoulders slump. She really should have picked a better disguise, she realizes. One that didn't have her talking much, if the last couple of minutes are any indication. "Godsdammit, Why am I screwing everything up today of all days?" Her frustrations boil over and it sounds as if she's on the verge of tears.
Same! And yeah, this is definitely Ping's skewed worldview and paranoia coming through. She doesn't see the irony either considering that she was the one that offered Ulfbrecht and invitation to come with them to Count Palfrey's since they were heading that way anyway.
"A strange aelf comes from the shadows asking to join us right after we have heard tale of slavers being about, and you don't find that just a might bit queer," Zeebo asks Hunidark, his voice strained by incredulity. "Buttered crumpets and crumbled biscuits! You'd have to be a fool not to be suspicious of that! He may be as the good Prestor says, but everyone has a price, and how do we know his hasn't already been paid?"
Having said his piece to Spiro, Zeebo turns attention back to the surprisingly awkward aelf. His eyebrows rise and rise, threatening to knock off his hat at first his actions, then his request. The affable old halfling just stares at this Elyan as he looks about table, then down into his cups. No. There is no way I'm falling for this. This is far, far too conveniently timed. This has to be a trap. There is no way this elf isn't planning on double-crossing us. There's just no way! Then the eyebrows come down like thunderous clouds. "Master Elyan, was it," the halfling wizard asks, his voice cold and just a little bit higher pitched than before. "Do you take us for fools?"
Hey Elyan, just wanted to let you know that I love your character intro and I hope that you'll forgive me for the reaction it's about to receive from Ping/Zeebo.
"Well, Master Ulfbrecht, allow me to offer my services as a translator should the need arise whilst you travel alongside us. It will be good to exercise my knowledge of the dwarven tongue and perhaps even build upon it if you would suffer an old halfling's troubling of you. I believe that would be an equitable trade. Perhaps Mos here could learn a thing or two as well in exchange for teaching you the halfling tongue." Zeebo laughs heartily before falling into a coughing fit and apologizing for the disturbance he causes. Hearing Spiro is planning on taking a spot in the common room, the elderly halfling turns his attention to the young man while waiting for the aelf to introduce himself. "What's this? My dear lad, I have already paid for a pair of rooms, one for you, Master Mos, Master Hunidark, and Master Eireachdail and the other for Lady Jenneleth and myself. No, no, I'll not hear of my coin going to waste. See the innkeeper and let him know that you are one of my companions. He should see to it that you find your proper bed."
"No thanks are needed. I am just an old halfling wizard who's tongue likes to run amok," Zeebo says at Mother Veil's thanks. "I will gladly give as many details as I can so Master Muldrun can do his work, his fine work from the looks of the map you have so graciously gifted to us." Zeebo gladly gives Muldrun as good of a description as he can manage of the area and the path to the ruined tower. He may look old and frail, but his mind is still rather sharp. When Muldrun has enough to make a serviceable map and retires, The wizened halfling slumps in his chair with a sigh of relief. "It has truly been a long day," he mumbles to Mos as the revelry begins in earnest. "Luring out and fighting goblins, scaring off their skeletons, recovering a lost missive, and traveling several miles to boot while trying to keep good Lady Jenneleth safe, it's enough to make anyone tired." The fatigue in his voice is not at all feigned, and Mos knows that Ping has a good number of reasons more to feel exhausted. Zeebo tries his best to keep up his good cheer, but it's proving difficult with everything that has happened over the past few hours. By the time Prestor Lafayer comes over, now well and truly into his cups, Zeebo, or to be more accurate, Ping, is feeling rather strung out. "Indeed, it all does feel like we've been cursed to live in interesting times," Zeebo observes before turning his attention to . "Master Ulfbrecht, if you have not told Count Palfrey of your grim tidings, why do you not travel with us. There is safety in numbers, and as our tale evinces, the roads are far from safe. I hear he is a good lord to his people and I am certain would at least hear of your plight." Zeebo was only half listening to the prestor as he drunkenly rambles on, but twitches as Ping feels a surge of panic at the news that an aelf has been listening in on their conversation the whole time. She wonders how much he has heard as she tries to retain her composure, or rather Zeebo's composure. "Buttered crumpets and tea," Zeebo says rather testily. "If he is that interested in what we have to say, he could at least have the good manners to introduce himself, aelf or no!"
"Wonderful," the gnomish mage mutters under her breath. Her voice is soft enough that even Mos has trouble hearing her. "I'm assuming the penalty for slaving here is the same as in Schöllenwald?" Right after she has Mos' answer, Ping puts the proverbial mask back on and Zeebo calls out to the good dwarven priest.
Last thing I need is the gods deciding I share your lackadaisical attitude when it comes to getting their names right, Ping very carefully does not say, but even she's surprised by the sourness of her mental voice. Oh dear gods, don't tell me I'm starting to think like a crotchety old man! "You are a minstrel of some sort, are you not? I would have thought you better versed in the pronunciation of words and names from other tongues and peoples. You never know when one might find need to sing the epics of people unlike your own," Zeebo prattles on, smiling and chuckling even as Ping wants to scream at her alter-ego to shut up. "Say, what songs and tales do you know that may have never graced this inn's walls nor her patrons' ears? Maybe something fit to remember the departed and the heroic deeds of our fellows is in order."
Ping bites down on a yelp as Eireachdail slaps Zeebo's shoulder. She wasn't expecting it, and she suspects that the bard doesn't know his own strength. "Easy, my good fellow. Be gentle with an old halfling," Zeebo gasps. "My old bones don't handle blows as they used to." And I'd rather not have you of all people find out about my secret! After regaining some of his composure, Zeebo looks up at Eireachdail. "Say, Master Eireachdail, did you happen to see Father Rannock? He went after you upon hearing that you had gone after the undead he had frightened off. I pray nothing untoward befell the good dwarf."
Ping's heart skips a beat as she hears Ulfbrecht describe the woman. Not many pretty women with broken noses running about, much less running about slaving. Still, Zeebo twitches nary a whisker as he turns his attention to Mother Veil. "Ah yes, we buried him by the ruined tower where we discovered the poor lad's remains. The grave is marked by his tabard. There were other victims of the goblins we routed, though we cannot name them, sadly," the halfling wizard answers, giving directions as best he is able to the leader of the pilgrims. "Best to be wary, my good dame. We routed some goblins and their leader, but that is no guarantee that we routed them all."
Happy Birthday. May you age like a fine wine or a good cheese. ;)
Zeebo gives the good Prestor a warm smile even as Ping tries to remember if she's run across anyone matching the descriptions that Ulfbrecht gave. "Ah, good father, you see, we have been tasked with seeing the good lady and her luggage here safely home," Zeebo answers. "We ran across some goblins, one of which was a fell sort that cast a wicked spell at the cost of its life. Sadly they had waylaid several poor souls, including a messenger (which we now, being good subjects of the realm, endeavor to complete his task as well) afore we ended their wretched lives, and Eireachdail the Bold gave chase ended their continued existence after they fled from another of our company wielding the power of his deity to strike fear into monsters that believed themselves beyond fear." "My large and stolid companion here," the halfling gestures to Hunidark, "only wishes to make certain that nothing untoward happens to any of the precious things we have taken upon ourselves to see to their destinations. I must say, after all of today's excitement, I am looking forward to filling my belly and hearing a tale or two before taking to bed and a long, restful sleep. Perhaps our good dwarven fellow here can tell us more of the dastards who seek to make freemen slaves for their own profits so that we may keep watch for them. Practicing the pondering subjects and the lifting objects which weigh heavily on mind and arm does make them lighter, and the same is true of languages I have been told. Do not fret, my good fellow. None shall judge you for the weight with which unfamiliar words lade your tongue if they are wise. No one is born a master of anything, after all, and mastery only comes with practice."
@Adam: Glad to hear mate - Nana sounds like a tough ol' bird... must have some Scots in her :) Either way, you're right, she is tough, and tougher than she realizes, I think. She was red-haired before it turned white on her. Not sure about Scots in her line. Her maiden name was Fager, and I think that's actually Welsh from what I remember, unless I'm getting that mixed up with Powell, which is my other grandmother's maiden name. I, on the other hand, know I have some Scots in me from my dad's side, and my Papa James has a family tree stretching back into antiquity, with some Norman blood in there. I think we're related to William the Conqueror, somehow. I'd have to ask my sister or my aunt who was really into genealogy at least when we were little.
Thank you. I do have some good news. My nana should be leaving the hospital and heading to the rehab center. On a different note: Do any of the descriptions that Ulfbrecht gave ring any bells with Ping?
"Of course not, my good sir. I have coin enough to pay for our rooms and board," the elderly halfling says with a wheezy chuckle. He pulls out a gold crown and twelve silver shillings. "Will this cover the two rooms, supper, and breakfast on the morn for the Good Lady Jenneleth, my taller companions," he gestures to Hunidark, Spiro, and the returned minstrel, Eireachdail, who seems to have already begun a song, "my fellow halfling, and myself?" Thinking for a moment, he asks, "and how much for a fine bottle of drink for the good lady and my companions to share?" Though it pains Ping to part with the coin, she hopes that she might at least stay in their good graces. Besides, it helps sell the image of the gregarious elder halfling.
Zeebo motions for Mos to lean in closer while keeping an eye and an ear out for any eavesdroppers. "Does the name Prentyss ring any bells," Ping's voice asks in a whisper that's barely louder to Mos's ears than the crackling of the fire, but there is a weight of leaden dread in her tone that belies the elderly halfling's apparent calm. Ping knows at least a little, that's for certain.
Oh definitely. By the way, was Ping able to recall anything she may have picked up about slavers in the area or in general? I think I just roll an INT check vs. DC 12, since that's one of her prime attributes. Is that right?
Zeebo nods gratefully to Mos as he procures some food and drink for the both of them. Listening to the newly arrived dwarf's tale, the halfling wizard furrows his bushy brows. "Mos, have you heard tale of any slavers about," he asks the much younger halfling as Ping tries to recall any rumors she may have heard.
Ping manages to keep from wincing at the price of a private room. It makes sense, but she can't help but wish that the cost of a private room was a little cheaper. "Milady," Zeebo says in his creaky voice, "I would hate to impose on your hospitality, but I do not think we should overly tax our purses. If it is not too uncouth, might we share a room? I'm far too old to lust for anything besides a good cup of tea and a long nap." Ping at hopes that will deflect any aspersions on Jenneleth's honor as Zeebo waits for her answer. Whatever that may be, he dodders over to the space cleared by the fire with a grateful word of thanks to the drovers. He tells the innkeeper he'd like a bowl of stew and a cup of ale along with some bread when asked about what he wants for dinner.
"Thank you sirrah. It does get cold at night for these old bones," Zeebo says before taking the offered seat. He looks up as Ulfbrecht walks in and listens with mild interest as he and the priest talk. It's all Ping can do to not squirm as she feels the eyes of everyone in the tavern on her and the others. Her only two hopes were that her disguise holds up and that the others would remember to use the right name. Maybe I should have pretended to be a child, she thinks as she tries to keep an ear out for any gossip or whispers that she might use to glean any useful knowledge of what is going on and what other dangers she and her companions might face on the road on the morrow.
"Ah, but not as good as it is to see you, Miss Jenneleth," Zeebo says with a gracious half-bow. As the inn comes into view, there's nary a twitch of his whiskers to give away the roiling ball of snakes that has become Ping's innards. "And a good evening to you, my fine sir. Pray tell, how many rooms are available this eve," the aged mage asks. "I believe the good lady would like a room of her own and I am certain these fine fellows would not wish to be woken by an old dodderer like me in the middle of the night."
"Yes, yes. It'll be good to get off my old, aching feet," Zeebo creaks. "Pardon Miss Jenneleth, what may an old halfling find to whet his whistle at this fine establishment we are heading to," the wizard asks the woman they are escorting.
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