Compass Rose's page

"What in the bloody blazes--!" Rydwen stumbled back at her cousin's approach, increased anger giving way to shock. "Di-Diarmal?!"

The hunter faltered about, ill at ease in such civilized civilization. Her hair whipped around as she suddenly took in the strange assortment of beings before her.

That her relative was there should hardly have been that surprising, nor his rush to intervene. Clans and kin were strong among the Drasbian highlands. Through the crowd she caught a quick glimpse of a pale and copper-haired individual that could have hailed from her homeland...though as they hadn't rushed in as well, Ryd instantly knew that they were just another foreigner.

Through stammers and stares she kept shooting back to the tiny frog man; it appeared he had fascinated her far more than on the boat. Truth to tell, she hadn't really paid much attention to anyone as she was so wrapped up in actively ignoring them and focusing on the shore, and stewing in her own juices. That she would miss someone or something such as that left a wound.

The tavern's assembled had exotic clothes with none of a strong kilt's camping functionality. They flapped their mouths with too many words and not enough meaning, and not nearly enough brogue.

"Hmph. City folk."

The woman approaching in the longboat appeared as annoyed as the other passengers, though not from the cold water sloshing over their ankles.

"Cannae believe they care 'bout that lout," Redwyn mutters, scratching roughly at her unkempt red hair like a dog with an itch. "Be sendin' me all this way, an' they've no proper sense o' the water line. An' the...smell." She breathed deeply, her face souring. "What's wrong with the smell here? I don't like this one bit."

She was out of the boat ten feet before is sensible, though she did not seem phased as she hopped into the lapping waves. She even used her rough hewn spear to vault herself part of the way. Rydwen was already trudging into the town before the boat is tied, without a single glance back or a grunt of recognition.

"Diarmal, ye thrice damned fool," she groans quietly to herself. "If it weren't fer the wanderin' I wouldnae even be here. I barely even remember ye. Damnation, why me?" Seeing activity at the tavern she strides there in a straight and unwavering line, knocking over a rubbish bin that happens to be in her way.

"Sooner I be gettin' back to me bog, the better."

Completely OOC dice test, since I don't know how to do them and want to figure it out before it's needed!

Perception: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 20

I see that roll's been a 20 the whole time I was correcting typos in preview. Does that mean we get that first set roll, and have the opporunity to write about our success or failure lower in that same post (as long as we preview?)