Emory Moore's page

"This. This is a lot. It's so close to familiar, like I've walked a few minutes in any direction from my home town. But." He sighs, "The more closely I look at everything, the more I realize how strange the details I can see." He turns slowly in place, eyes roaming from his surroundings, to the newcomers, to the limited signs of human activity, and finally settling on the two standing next to him. Myriad questions fill his mind like a high tide, threatening to swamp his composure with sheer curiosity overload. He reflexively shakes his head to break the hold it has on him.

"Well. The best time to plan is previously. The second-best time is right now. I need a place to keep my things and lay my head at night." He pauses, "...is there night? Never mind. Later. I don't want to keep you too long from your duties just to babysit me, but if you have time to answer a few more questions, I'd be grateful. What do you two do for lodgings? Did you build something? A tree-house? Let's start there."

He gestures for them to walk and talk, while trying his best to watch his footing as they go.

Emory sighs and rolls over onto to his back, bemused and not a little overwhelmed. His heart is pounding with the strangeness of it all, but the leaves rustle around him, the roots cradle him, and the breeze tousles his hair like gentle fingers. Gradually the roaring in his ears fades to a slow throb. He lays there for a moment, just... existing on another plane, and grinning up at the amused woman from the ground. "No one saw that, right?" Way to impress the civilians, Sheriff Moore.

"I've seen how you move. I'll believe you tripped and fell if I ever see it with my own eyes. Are you sure you aren't just a healer with a balm for my poor, bruised ego?" He is careful, as he accepts her help, of how much weight he puts on her outstretched arm. Back on his feet he takes a few minutes to center himself, reveling in the sumptuousness of every sensation, and feeling tingles run up and down his spine like he's eating the most decadent food while listening to a siren's call. Every sensory experience impacts his brain as though delivered on velvet, and the chills are delicious.

It's magic. A whole magic land. Damn me if this doesn't go a-ways toward making everything worthwhile?

"Experience being a person tells me that you get used to this, and you even forget to feel it, but right now I can't believe." He hugs himself, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, knowing that despite the hardened leather plates sewn to his sleeves, every hair on his arms is standing straight up. For a moment he wants to take his shirt off and feel with more skin.

Eventually his duty, the nagging voice of professional concern, pesters him enough that he reluctantly begins searching the new arrivals for any signs of trouble. "I suppose that's enough being a looky-loo. Can one or both of you show me to whatever passes for housing, so I can start assessing what we'll need from a Sheriff's perspective?"

Emory makes his own way through the crowd as the settlers surge toward the portal, marveling at the strange goods, and unconsciously taking full advantage of his ability to navigate crowds. He wears a small, hopeful smile at Miallme's sentiment. He's ready to help create a home full of new potential. A place to use the lessons he hopes he's learned, and a community to be greater than the sum of its constituents. He's aware of his disadvantages here, with his cultural blindness and the missteps he's already made with their resident noble house gladhandler, but he has time to make a good second impression. Or maybe it's third now? None of that can bring his mood down.

I wonder what kind of nuts grow on trees in the magic tree world? Oh, and teas! They come from trees, don't they? I... I'm not sure. Where's Lysa when you need her? And apples. I do love a good cobbler. I must be certain to endear myself to a likely grandmother.

However, people remain people, and sheriffs need to sheriff. His eyes never stop roaming the crowd, which seems permanently segregated into its social hierarchy and class groups, searching for trouble. He helps pull a cart here and stabilizes a heavy sack before it can slip off an overloaded shoulder, moving on before anyone can acknowledge the help either way. Finally, he reaches the showdown between the patrol and the palanquin, and eyes the two groups with some amusement and some concern.

"Time's getting short, and I'm told there wasn't much of it to begin with. A lot of folks need to move through that stile before it closes. Master Gruiitsen, can you please allow the Lieutenant through so he and his troop can secure our landing? In fact, it's a rule for our new home that the Blackjackets and the Sheriff take priority for all of their duties. That includes first into an unknown situation. Thank you for your understanding, sir."

"Well, if you can get time away from doing whatever Sheriffs do, I can show you around."

Emory smiles, "Miss Clinne, I'd like that. It's not every day you get offered a guided tour of another plane. I hope you're patient with small town boys who don't do a lot of rambling in the woods."

As they walk quickly back toward the portal, he watches with approval the interactions Clinne has with those she comes across, and wonders how to become such a respected person amongst these practical people. Maybe he should spend some gold on nicer clothing? They do seem to put quite some value on appearance here. Or maybe it's something else? He'll have to watch more.

"'It's not like I'm leaving them out in the rain or the damp. The paper comes back to life..."

And then they come across an absolutely fascinating argument, and he stops to listen, his sense of whimsy immediately captured. He imagines pieces of paper growing little arms and legs and leading this poor harried man on a merry chase around a fine wood paneled office. He has a ridiculous grin on his face when he's caught out by Miallme, and it takes him a moment to recollect himself.

"I'm ready now, Miss Miallme. I'll bring them together and get us all marching toward the big door."

...And he marches off to do just that.

You are a smooth talker, Sheriff.

Emory grins, and nods attentively as for once in this mercenary country someone opens up about themselves a little. Suddenly he misses... belonging. Knowing everyone else since birth, and them knowing you too has its trials and difficulties, but there was such a sense of relationship that was pervasive and ubiquitous. Being the constable only compounded the problem, because he saw so much more deeply into certain things. He shakes off the sense of estrangement before it can really take hold. The fight against the wraiths has given him an accomplishment to hold onto, and being sworn in proveds a sense of sanction that he's absolutely needed without even knowing.

One thing strikes him as immediately important, right before they were to cross into a whole new world, requiring a new point of view. Spent a month on the Other Side. Hellish. Kandor's offhand remark has a new weight to it suddenly, and he finds himself woefully uninformed. Still. But he might be speaking with just the person to provide invaluable perspective.

"You said you came back here every chance you got, unless you were 'out ranging'. What does that mean? On the other side? Were you out scouting? Can you tell me about it?"

Emory watches the frustrated clerk march away, a thoughtful look on his weathered face. He's heard a variation of this argument throughout his life, Dun Hollow being on a minor trade route. Administrators and accountants are natural enemies, competing for the same resources in the wilds of mercantile exchange.

He scratches the back of his neck, a gesture designed to deal with the awkward tension, then turns back to Clinne and gives the woman his best friendly smile. It's been known to get a smile in return now and then. "How many times you made this crossing now? Haulin' riches outta the thickets of another world to be clucked over by some bean counters? Doesn't sound like your efforts get much appreciation." He watches Clinne, genuinely curious, but long habit has him also trying to get a read on the woman. He likes her show of boredom, but doubts it's as real as it looks given how fired up the woman was when she complained to Miallme about her clerk. "Hopefully you can introduce me around to the folks that keep the other side of the process moving along despite what must be some pretty serious logistical challenges bringing home goods from another plane of existence."

Emory is constantly looking for ways to build bridges and make allies. He knows he comes across as rustic to these people, but he's sensitive to his circumstances and capable of adjusting to his audience. Sometimes... most of the time if he's being honest with himself today, it seems like he'll be best served by being underestimated, which hasn't been a big ask of late. Here he wants to be seen as someone who can at least hold up their end of the conversation on technical matters. If someone is cooking the books somewhere in the process, Clinne is in a good position to help him should she be so inclined.

"Thanks to you I'm now officially on duty, so I owe you one already. And anyway, we're going to be neighbors. Where I'm from that means I've got your back, should you need a friend... or the sheriff. I think the latter's covered in my contract, but the language is a bit fancier in that."

"May my actions reflect the will of the people, and may justice always be served, fair and true."

The sun shines down on the three of them, and he can feel the warmth on the back of his neck, although it's at a much steeper angle than when he arrived. The bustle of the crowd seems distant, and the breeze from the lake is a blessing as it cools and dries the sweat from his frantic combat only minutes ago. A little shiver goes through him at the completion of the ceremony, a frisson of thrill, as jerry-rigged as it might have been. With these words, sworn to a woman who was a stranger until a few hours ago, he's taken a very real step toward leaving the past in the past. He's moving on to an almost ridiculous degree and finding something new. He's a little more hopeful, suddenly. Perhaps the spirit of the thing will hold him for a while.

Emory understands about oaths, although this one has some unusual concepts in it. Oaths are about the only real restrictions that his countrymen will accept, being self-imposed. They're used in formal business between people, in cases where something more than saying you'll do something is needed. Nirmathan children all learn an oath to Irgal Nirmath from before they're old enough to understand what the words mean. They promise him that the blood that he shed to grant them freedom from tyranny and oppression will not be in vain. Additionally, Emory has sworn to the Order of the Penitent. That was an easy choice. Much easier than walking away from his oath to Dun Hollow. He was released from that one, so he's not forsworn, but that's barely a comfort.

Emory used to take oaths very seriously. Now he acknowledges feeling a little more ambivalent. Still, oaths are important. This one isn't what he would choose to swear, with its focus on contracts and coin, and he wonders how often he'll need to interpret it creatively or outright ignore it to do good as he sees it. He's not going to be bound from helping his people by any magistrate's contracts.

"That was mostly painless. Thank you for your help Clinne. Do I have time to tag along for this conversation with Misiamy, or will the settlers be going through soon?"

And there is another matter to consider. You all signed contracts.

As they stand side by side, facing the recently misbehaving portal, Emory is both taken aback and forced to reconsider what he thinks he knows about Miallme. He side-eyes her for a moment, watching her green eyes, and reconsidering his assumptions about this strange place, only a few days travel from his home but so far from what he was expecting. False assumptions, after all, are what drove him out of his home. He's desperately trying to learn something from that.

"So, those things kept to this side of the fence, did they? That's... telling." He winces as he shrugs his shoulders, then carefully explores the damage from the bite, still feeling a little off, but it hasn't gotten any worse. "It might not be my place to say, but to a suspicious man that could suggest the existence of a suspect and a motive, couldn't it? If this wasn't just magic being ornery like a fly-bitten mule. I don't know much about Arcane stuff, but if this was enemy action, it makes sense they'd be located on this side." He gestures to the utilitarian structures that were clearly purpose built for storage, and rough dormitory boxes that are not much more than shelter. "This... enterprise you have here. It must have... competitors. I suppose you don't call them enemies," his voice turns wry, "it's probably just business. People who would like to think that they have much better uses for that big hole in the world than making you some money."

Frowning, he glances at the bustle of goods moving in and out of an entirely new world, but his eyes aren't tracking the motion, he's seeing something else. "I assume these terrifyingly effective soldiers here are meant to cross over with us, like the Mastiffs we used to keep against bears, to help keep the town safe. Will you hire another pack to guard this side? Those Astral Critters could have been wolves among the sheep here. Who knows what kind of damage they could have done."

"This place... it got a name, yet? Barring some other unforeseen complications I aim to leave with everyone else. Here and gone like a tinker with his pots. But when we're over there, well, you're our lifeline, plain as day. Seems a lifeline ought to have a proper name. Miallville." His mouth quirks in a smile, but he's studying her more carefully now, looking for signs of reaction to his teasing, either positive or negative.

I'm not sure if it's relevant, but seeing my badge provides my nearby allies with a morale bonus to fear effects. Come to think of it, a rational fear for the future probably doesn't count as magical fear. Also, I accidentally copied and pasted a second diplomacy check in. I have taken it out, and it kept the original roll the same, so I guess Paizo isn't all dumb.
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (13) + 10 = 23

Emory wipes the gore clinging to his blade on the grass and straightens from where he's crouched next to the corpse of the enormous planar slug. He studies the faces of the common folk nearest to him and can see the fear and uncertainty that he heard in their complaints. More than just their livelihoods, they're gambling with their lives. He feels a significant amount of that trepidation himself. What kind of unknowable challenges will there be on the other side of the portal? What dangers will there be that he won't even recognize as such? Is he up to the task of leading them into a potentially hostile place or will he fail them like he failed his hometown? Still, he doesn't want fear of the future and the unknown to destroy the potential that he can sense here, however remote.

This is a moment I can use. This could be the beginnings of the town right here.

He must be cautious in what he says. He knows that he doesn't yet understand these people. There's a fundamental misunderstanding that he has about their motivations and their cultural base. Thinking back about his minor diplomatic successes, they've all been related to wealth and material things. "We are not asking for charity...", and "To defend, to the last coin and account.", and most shocking to his own sensibilities, "These things are our lives!" He doesn't know how to take this seeming greed, this money obsession, but he's not willing to write off their dearly held beliefs as evidence that they don't love their children. He has a good feeling about Allader, and his own faith in the notion that no matter where you go, people are people. Well, except for nobles.

"Well, that was terrifying," his tone is wry with acerbic humor, and his voice is pitched to carry, "but look around you. No one is hurt, and nothing of value was damaged. Your Blackjackets were right where they needed to be, and they did the job. Those of you who listened to me were well out of danger, and none of the monsters got too close." He looks at them, willing them to see that the danger is passed.

"Listen to Miallme. Time is short, and we must be ready. We enter this new world because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the profit of all our people. Magic has no conscience of its own. Whether it will become a force for good or ill depends on us, and only if our new town is in position to reap the rewards can we help decide whether this new world will be a black or red mark on our ledgers. I do not say that we should or will go unprotected into the unknown, any more than we would travel unfamiliar trade routes without taking precautions, but I do say that the Plane of Wood can be explored and mastered without losing our lives or our loved ones, without repeating the mistakes that we make once in ignorance."

"We choose to go to this plane. We choose to go to the Plane of Wood now to build our town, not because it will be easy, but because with our eyes open and working together the risk is manageable, and because that goal will serve to enrich us in every way you can imagine, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win."

"I will be there with you, and together we can do this."

I'm Sheriff Moore, and I approved this message.

Sarenrae's scathing rebuke, what is happening to me?

For a moment, all he can think about is the sudden, sickening feeling of something fundamentally wrong with his body. Even the pain of the bite is secondary to the wrongness of the poison burning its way through him. He can feel his muscles convulsing, pulling and straining contrary to his wishes, and the sudden, horrible weakness.

Emory has always prided himself on his physical abilities, and this monster has struck right at the heart of that confidence. In a blind panic, he overcompensates for his perceived weakness, and strikes with both hands wrapped around the hilt of Contretemps. A brutal overhand chop with all of his remaining strength.

Two handed Power Attack. We regain the -2 ac from charging, and lose -2 to hit from power attack, and gain +4 bonus damage, and 1.5xstr bonus, which is still +3 thank goodness for that low roll.
2h Power attack w/ challenge: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 181d8 + 15 ⇒ (8) + 15 = 23

Bear, sure. Hawk, nice. Horse-slug, no thank you.

Emory stares at the creeping abomination with a mix of revulsion and fascination, wincing at the wet, gurgling splat of astral filth as it spatters against the vulnerable green grass of reality. As a young man he's spent countless evenings at the Red Stag, when he could escape his chores, or had a night off from his duties. The common room thick with laughter and sloshing steins, caravan guards packed onto stools and benches, spinning yarns between swigs. He'd go to see pretty Emma Vellen dancing through the room with her long, carmine locks and her skillfully balanced tray, but stay to hear their stories, challenging himself to separate fact from fiction stretched thin. Every guard, without exception, had claimed some misfortune or faded triumph; half-sheepish, half-proud tales from their true adventures, that they were working simply to fund their next foray, or recovering from their last disaster. As the ale flowed, so did their stories; increasingly unlikely as they swore on mothers and gods, their voices growing louder at the same rate as Emory's skepticism. Now, watching the alien ooze sizzle its way toward Lady Vanandl's party, Emory finds himself quietly offering a prayer of contrition to a few of the wilder story tellers. The proof was before him: the strange and terrible clearly do exist, drooling their planar sputum boldly beneath the sun.

Still, there are other concerns than satisfying his curiosity for appallingly loathsome portal monsters. He cranes his head around to reassure himself that Allader and his family were well away from the encroaching slug, and not being harassed by anything swift or stealthy enough to pass by him without being noticed. Seeing how much more progress toward safety anyone who's actually listened to his warnings has made, he feels a sense of relief that there aren't yet difficult decisions to be made, and falls back on what's worked in the past.

"Beware that giant snail before it turns your chair into it's shell! Fighting withdrawal!" With that he charges the monster to cut it off from the fleeing entourage.

Charge: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (7) + 12 = 191d8 + 9 ⇒ (7) + 9 = 16
Emory uses a swift action to use his last challenge for the day.
He charges the slug (+2 to hit, -2 to ac for the round)

How dare you? An unclean outsider-

Emory is taken aback by the Dwarf's vehemence, it seems apropos of nothing, but there's just no time to explore the cause of his outburst. The fog that has produced such startling magic is getting nearer to people he's already committed himself to defend, and in that vein the clearly magical soporific attack fills him with a good deal of horror when he considers the outcomes for people who don't manage to shake it off. He strains to take in the details of the figure that seems to be the origin of the attack as he approaches the fancy palanquin. To his consternation, it's still there.

Fly, you fools!

"Bearers! Lift the chair and move it away!" He yells at the remaining entourage, gesturing frantically to urge them along, "The rest of you, don't just stand there, draw your weapons and fight for your lives."

Finally he addresses the foggy intruder as his long legs eat up the ground between them. His sheriff's badge is back in its proper place, gleaming as it sits pinned to his hardened leather breastplate, "Back away from these people, they're under my protection."

Swift Action to Challenge the humanoid figure. Move action to close the distance, an easy 10 feet.
Longsword +1: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (10) + 10 = 201d8 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15

With that he moves into position and attacks the figure with his sword.

Well, that ain't natural. Too many eyes, not enough heads.

Emory's eyes go wide as he beholds the various otherworldly manifestations. Some of their forms are strangely familiar, in the case of the bear and the hawk, but the horrifying headless man and cloud of eyes are more than enough to make his skin crawl. He can feel his heart hammering, and the roar of blood rushing in his ears makes the panicked flight of his people sound oddly distant. Perhaps most strange of all, an unconscious grin of relief curves his lips all the while his muscles tense in readiness for action. There's a comfort in physicality that sweeps away the stress of the social maneuvering that he's been fumbling all day. The sudden peace of mind is palpable, and it puts him in a much better mood.

There's no way those abominations hold still long enough to be arrested for disturbing the peace, right? Suddenly he's relaxed and excited at the same time.

"The Lady is in danger Seneschal. Get her moving to safety." He gives the oddly beardless dwarf a helpful push in the right direction, as he too begins moving toward the noble entourage. As they walk he repeatedly barks at the families they pass, "Leave the carts, save your children first!" and, "Your things will be fine while we deal with these creatures. Get your kids to safety!" His hand on the dwarf's shoulder keeps the beardless major-domo moving toward the palanquin, which still sits on the ground instead of moving away from the danger. "Command the Lady's bearers, Gruiitsen, before they flee on their own." He looks longingly at his own packs where his heavier armor is stored, wishing he had the time to change. Sill, who knows if it would even protect him from these strange foes? He will rely on his lighter armor and increased mobility. Perhaps it will allow him to intercept the swifter looking monsters, should they threaten the families.

He confirms his own gear as they draw closer to the new front of what he feels certain is the coming battle. He runs his fingers in a practiced caress over his magic ring and belt to be sure they are in place, and fondly pats a reinforced case, containing his emergency potions, at the small of his back. His sword and buckler are already in hand, and he doesn't regret leaving the manacles in his pack. He's as ready as he can be.

Emory has taken some time to motivate those around him, and I'm not sure if that takes up all the time you granted him for not being surprised by the attack. If there's time left, Emory will Delay until he sees one of the beasts move to attack the entourage or the families. Then he will Challenge it as a swift action, and charge the creature.

Challenge: 2/day swift action +5 to dmg/+2 to CMD for one target, -2 to ac from all other foes.
Sheriff's Badge: +2 bonus to charm, compulsion, and fear effects Saves and +1 to Attack Rolls vs challenge targets for allies (includes Emory) within 30'

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (11) + 10 = 21

Quick Interrogator allows Emory to use Diplomacy to shift attitudes in 5 rounds instead of a minute. I'm hoping that means that a successful check in this crisis will leave people with a more positive impression of him then they've had before.

Damn it, who could have possibly guessed the magic world hole would go wrong? Figures, I've yet to meet a wizard that made me feel like he had his s~++ together.

Despite his rueful internal cursing, Emory has been peripheral to too many disasters to freeze or panic. There are townspeople at risk, and even though there wasn't a town yet, his duty is clear. One glance at the Blackjackets tells him the immediate threat will be contained better than he can manage, so it's up to him to see to his people's safety. He unpins his badge, and with it in one hand and his drawn sword in the other, holds them both in the air. He is facing the families and Lady Vanandl's group as he straightens his back, breathes with his stomach as he'd learned on his first day as Deputy, and bellows, "ATTENTION PLEASE." His voice, a veteran of crises, is deep, and crisp, and audible for quite a distance, "I AM SHERIFF MOORE. THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH THE PORTAL. PLEASE GRAB YOUR CHILDREN, LEAVE YOUR BELONGINGS, AND BACK AWAY FROM THE PORTAL TOWARD THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING." He waits a moment, seeing the surprise and confusion in the faces that have turned toward him. Crowds do not respond well to unexpected instructions, he knows this from experience. They need a bell-weather, someone to start the herd moving. "LADY VANANDL, YOU AND YOUR PEOPLE MIGHT BE IN DANGER. GRUIITSEN, PLEASE GET HER GROUP MOVING. ALLADER, PLEASE MOVE YOUR FAMILIES AND CHILDREN TO SAFETY. WALK. NOW." With that he moves toward the families and begins to walk toward them, arms spread, herding.

"Everything is going to be fine. Let's walk toward the buildings. There are soldiers here to contain the problem, and I will stand between you and the portal the whole time. Look around and be sure no one is left beind. We just need to move carefully with no delay."

...no matter the cost...

"I carry a sword that saw action in the Ironfang Invasion." Emory places his hand briefly on the pommel of Contretemps, the sword sheathed at his waist. He can feel a sharp escalation in tension and focus from the assembled troops, although none of them appear to be watching him directly other than their commander. He removes his hand, letting it fall back by his side and trying not to show anything on his face. "But it was left to me a year ago by the Ranger who carried it there. I've only ever drawn it in defense of my town. I've never marched to war, only seen its aftermath. Briar Hollow is even closer to the border of Molthune than my own hometown, and when Molthuni raiders set it on fire, I was there to help pull people out of burning buildings and... Well. I'm not a warrior or a soldier, Lieutenant. I'm a Sheriff."

Emory turns his head to look across the field at where the families stand, huddled together in small groups. Their constant motion and ragged appearance, the chatter and chaos of exuberant life are a sharp and vulnerable contrast to the Blackjackets. He continues watching them as he speaks, and his words are pitched to carry to all of the soldiers. "An army is a broadsword, not an herbalist's poultice or a midwife's scalpel. The purpose of an army is to remove the ability of the enemy to resist. The purpose of a Sheriff is to maintain law and order, because such things benefit the town and the people. Those are two entirely different goals, Lieutenant." He turns back to look at Spar, and his looks is serious, but contemplative, not challenging. "You have your place, and I have mine. Believe me, I recognize that."

He sighs, and his eyes grow less focused, no longer seeing the Lieutenant or the soldiers. "To answer your question, I've had some hard lessons recently, about digging in and the cost associated. I hope I've earned some wisdom, about being... practical, that will help me do my job better. My goal, after all, is for my town to be as safe and healthy as I can make it."

Good day.

Emory's eyebrows remain fully aloft as he stands before the palanquin, as fully dismissed as he's ever felt. Surprise, confusion, and a treacherous urge to giggle at his own circumstances are fighting to the death in his overtaxed brain, and are in clear contrast to the blank expression of shock on his face. What's worse, he can hear Maris's full bellied laugh echoing in his ears. It's a sound he's heard over and over as a deputy in Dun Hollow, a laugh that always came just before a lesson he didn't know he needed. Even its echo in his heart makes him flinch. It's a Pavlovian anticipation of her sharp wit, usually focused on his many shortcomings. I ain't never been looked down on by a dwarf, boy! He has never been able to hide any blunders from her network of gossip informants. The pain of missing her is sharp, all of a sudden, although it's an ache with which he's very familiar.

"Well met, Gruiitsen!" There's no trouble keeping his voice friendly and professional. This is all just too strange to be offensive, even though he's certain that is the seneschal's intent. Emory knows he probably lacks the breeding to fully grasp the layers and nuances of the slights he's just endured, and finds that he doesn't mind one bit. "Please let your lady know that my door is as open to her as anyone else, should she have need of assistance, or even just a friendly drink and chat." Hah, gottem. With that, he turns and walks toward the final group standing on the field, waiting their turn to enter the portal.

They stand out and apart, the Blackjackets, in more than their pristine uniforms. It's the air of readiness for anything that he knows comes from the rigor of their training, and the inherent menace, sort of like wasps crawling nearby. There's a good reason for their fame. As he strides toward them, Emory takes in their impressive appearance.

The Blackjackets stand in perfect formation on the grassy field. Their black lacquered armor gleams, as wet and shiny looking as obsidian under the sun. Their uniforms are immaculate. Tailored black coats, polished pauldrons etched with the sigil of Druma, and rank sigils that seem to glow with their own arcane potence. Even their boots, dark leather and steel-toed, bear no trace of dirt or mud, as though the soldiers were teleported to their position, bypassing the churned up ground through which regular mortals need to walk. Every piece of gear looks custom-fit and seems to be designed to intimidate as much as protect.

Emery has heard stories of them as a boy, tales whispered by caravan guards, and soldiers stopping to drink at the tavern in his town on their way to the border. The Blackjackets, the unstoppable mercenaries of Druma. Paid in platinum, trained from childhood, loyal only to the High Prophet Kelldor. He's grown up in a country that mocks them for being mercenaries, for selling their swords to the highest bidder, as though they would take any pay and perform any task. Behind the jokes is a quiet, bitter envy. Nirmathas has always fought tooth and nail to hold its borders, while Druma stands untouched, unbowed, and terrifyingly effective. More than once, Emery has heard someone mutter that Nirmathan gold spent as easily as Druman, as if wishing hard enough might buy their loyalty.

Now, standing just a few feet away, Emery feels that old awe stirring in his chest. They look every bit the legends he's imagined. But there is something else, too. Something colder. These aren't guardians. They're enforcers. Their loyalty isn't to justice or people. It belongs to Kelldor. And that kind of loyalty, Emery knows without having to think about it, can make monsters out of men.

Still, he's the Sheriff. He has a badge and everything. It doesn't take away the fear and awe inspired by facing people trained from childhood for war, but it's a solid patch of ground on which he can plant his boots and express the responsibility and authority granted to him by law. It's enough to keep his spine straight and his voice steady as he calls out, "Good afternoon, Commander. I'm Sheriff Moore, lawkeeper for the new settlement. I've read about the League, and your reputation is known far and wide. I'd like to coordinate with you or your representative, if you're open to it. I'd wager that we're both interested in keeping the peace."

A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. -Princess Irulan Corrino

Well... butter my boots and call me breakfast. -Sheriff Emory Moore

Emory has done his share of public speaking. Seems like being a deputy was all talk some days; taking charge in an emergency, getting both sides of the story after an altercation, and shouting down an angry crowd before they can become a mob. He’s never had trouble meeting people. He's never had a simple introduction go quite this wrong before.

What in the Nine Hells of Baator is wrong with these people?

He's good with his words, with people, and he genuinely enjoys the sharing and learning that comes with communicating. Lysa once shared her delight at seeing the spark of comprehension ignite in the eyes of her students, once they really got it, what she was trying to teach them. He knows that feeling, and loves it just the same. Seeing hard faces soften, or tension drain from a volatile situation, and knowing he is responsible. That clearly wasn’t happening on this field.

Somehow, inexplicably, he is the problem here. He has inflicted himself on these people whose lives are already clearly difficult. This is a familiar feeling, this inadequacy, and in a flash he’s right back there on the platform in the town square.

The crowd had stood in silence. Some had looked confused, and others looked away. Emory’s voice had rung out, measured, resolute, and full of truth, but it had landed like feathers on an anvil. He remembered the soft weight of Maris’s scarf in his hand and the ledger full of evidence, trembling as he gripped it too hard and held it aloft. He remembered the faces in the crowd. Friends who looked away. Neighbors who nodded along with the Thornharts’ false witnesses. The way the truth in his voice had been heard, and then quietly, collectively, dismissed.

A new spark of anger flickers for a moment, along with a sick roiling in his stomach; this man, right to his face, implying that he could be bought. With gold. He stares, his eyes burning into the man before him and having trouble seeing a new face with all of the old swimming before his eyes. Memories of criminal indifference superimposed on the nervous crowd before him. “No.” he grinds out through clenched teeth. And then- just like that he is back. His vision clears of revenants. He is again on the field, not the stage, and the past is in the past.

“I am newly come to Druma. I arrived what feels like moments ago, and I haven’t had much time to learn your ways.” He has dropped all of the comfortable folksy Nirmathan, and speaks as plainly as he can, like he has heard from Miallme, and now Allader. He tries hard to sound like a banker. “I am sorry, folks, I must appear as strange in manner and speech to you as you do to me.” He frowns, remembering the peculiar manner in which the man has spoken of charity, as though it was a sin. He reasons that they are proud and don’t want anything they haven’t earned. He can respect that.

“I am not here to offer you charity. My wages are already paid, and I won’t be asking you for more gold from you to be your Sheriff. Instead, you can pay me by keeping an open mind when you consider the differences between us, that I still have much to learn about your ways, and by extending me any trust that I earn from you in doing my job.” He smiles, "It is good to meet you Allader, and your family. And the rest of you, good people, I will meet in the coming days. My goal is to make your lives easier, safer, and your work more profitable, not less.” He turns, eyeing the noblewoman and the mercenary company, wondering how closely they were taking in his floundering around. “This is as good a beginning as we’re going to make for now, I reckon. Now, I think I’ll go and try my luck with the other two groups. I suspect that yours was the easy one.”

With that he turns and strides toward the expensive palanquin, trying on his best polite but firm smile, the one he reserves for visiting mayors and the like.

Alright, Emory, she’s just a person. She’s wearin’ a dress that probably costs more than your whole town and ridin’ in a box carried by four men who ain’t allowed to sweat too loud. Great thundering god gas, what do you even say to someone like that? ‘Howdy, ma’am, fine day for bein’ richer than a red dragon?’ No, don’t say that. Just… stand up straight, don’t fidget, and try not to sound like you were raised by owlbears.

Knowledge Local: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

Well, spit into the wind and call it Spring. Some working families, a noble and her entourage, sure... but the Blackjackets?

Emory works hard to continue his measured pace and confident expression, rather than grind to a halt right where he is. He knows little about Druma the nation, but everyone's heard about their strange, greedy military. He knows the 'hows and whys' of employing mercenaries in war, but Nirmathans alternately scorn the notion of an entire army that fights for anyone who can pay them without any regard to national pride and reluctantly admires just how effective they are at keeping their client country safe and profitable. Culturally, it's a very sore point. As a kid he's pretended to be a Blackjacket fighting Orcs as often as he'd played a Nirmathi Ranger, just like every other kid he knows. The old men in their ales grumble about 'soldiers for hire', but all along he's understood unspoken bitterness; if Nirmathas was rich enough, they'd have hired as many mercenaries as they could against Molthune. All of that background flashes through his mind as he approaches the field where the new settlers wait their turn, and he considers what their presence means, and how he will go about introducing himself.

He has mostly settled on a plan of tackling the two groups he thinks will be the most difficult to win over, the troops with who knows what orders, and the noble with her... nobility, when his eyes fall upon a small drama taking place in the third group. A little girl with wild, bushy hair, her homespun shift spattered in mud, was searching the sodden and churned up grass with eyes that were increasingly frantic. Trailing behind her at a slower, more relaxed pace, was a boy a year or two older, and Emory's keen gaze immediately picks up on a certain furtive smugness in the boy's attention on his quarry. His professional instincts aroused, Emory changes direction toward the families where they keep a watchful distance from the other two groups occupying their field, and he times his approach so that his hand falls on the boy's shoulder before the boy is aware of his presence. He can see the small bundle clutched behind the boy's back, always kept hidden from the little girl's gaze, and one hand tightens on the boy's shoulder while the other relieves him of his hidden prize, a small doll with hair and clothes a near match to the little girl's.

The boy is too startled to protest before Emory speaks, his voice pitched to carry to the little girl and nearby children in addition to the surrounding families, even over the nearby din of the portal day frenzy. "Pardon me Miss, did you lose your little sister in all of this confusion?"

The little girl freezes mid-step, her eyes flashing from his face, to the doll he holds, to the boy, and back toward Emory. She clutches her empty hands to her chest, the agony of uncertainty clear in her face, as if the doll might still be there without having to interact with strange men if she just believes hard enough. Emory kneels slowly, holding the doll out in both hands like it's something sacred. "She was in the care of a young gentleman here," he says, giving the boy a sidelong glance that's still serious, although it's a struggle to keep the corners of his mouth from misbehaving, "But it seemed to me that she was missin' you as much as you were missin' her."

The girl rushes forward, snatching the doll with a squeak of joy and hugging it tight. Emory watches her for a beat, then rises and turns to the families, some just beginning to quiet down to see what the disruption is, his voice carrying a little further to reach all of those who stood on the field.

"Good afternoon folks; name's Emory Moore. Sheriff, or will be, once we all step through that big, magic wrinkle in the world. I figured I'd best meet the people I'll be lookin' after before we're all knee-deep in roots and responsibilities." He scans the crowd, meeting eyes where he can, offering a nod here and there. "I know this ain't easy. Disrupting your entire lives, taking a huge risk steppin' into a place where maybe the trees talk more than the neighborhood gossips. But I've got good eyes and ears, a strong back, and a stubborn streak longer than the Winterwall Glacier. I'll do right by you the best that I can."

He pauses, then adds with a faint smile, "I'm not the kind to sit behind a desk and wait for trouble to knock. I'll be out there, knockin' first." Emory tips his hat to the little girl, who's now whispering secrets to her doll, and then to her parents. "You've got my word. And in Nirmathas we consider a man's word as good as gold in your pocket."

Test: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (15) + 1 = 16

Emory gestures to two heavy-duty bags left slumped against the wall near the door of the Settlers' office, and bids her to wait a moment as steps from her side to approach them. The bags were obviously newly purchased, although the tough, inexpensive fabric was already showing signs of wear and tear. While the pack he carried into her office looks as though it is stuffed with clothing or fabric and has survival gear attached to the outside, the bags look like they are crammed full of metal plate, as though an armorer's dummy has been kidnapped.

With an obvious but inaudible grunt of effort, he shoulders the pack onto his back and picks up a bag in each hand before rejoining Miallme on the road in front of the office. He moves easily despite the obvious weight of his belongings. As they walk through the streets the crowd parts before him and they pass through the thronging mass of people like sharks through a school of fish. (Crowds are not difficult terrain for Constables. I'm choosing to believe people unconsciously recognize his authority and avoid barring his path. Dunno when I'll get to use that again!)

Bearing every belonging he owns in the world, he now looks exited, the melancholy having slipped from his face the moment the mage Kandor had burst into the office so unexpectedly. Now that there were bags to be carried and ground to be covered, physical body challenges, Emory is clearly in his element. He looks around, taking in the chaos, trying to determine the method to the madness. He examines in the wooden platform, obviously the site where the portal will appear, and his mouth quirks into a smirk as he leans over to speak privately into her ear, the wild cacophony providing an unusual confidentiality to his comments, despite their being surrounded by people. "Don't think you've escaped answering my questions. I'm like a stubborn old boar in the cabbage patch. Once I get my snout in, I ain't leavin' until I've dug up the whole story. It's a professional flaw I'm sorry to say." Despite his words, he doesn't appear sorry. Then he straightens, his expression becoming more serious, and the small space around them grows gradually larger as the people rushing by them start to give him a wider berth. All of a sudden, he somehow looks more professional.

"What can I do to help? I can be responsible for a group or to watch over some equipment. Or do you need me to stand out of the way until called?"

Are you sure you are up for this job?

Emory sits back and sips at his wine, appreciating the moment it affords him more than the drink. For the first time in a while his shoulders relax, and he exhales in a long, contemplative sigh. It was decent, her wine, but he's never thought much of wine. They don't grow grapes in Dun Hollow or any of the surrounding towns, and it's not as well thought of by his people as a result. He knows he's guilty of hometown snobbery as much as anyone, but he's always preferred the grain alcohols, whiskey and malted rye and the like. His eyes slowly roam the room, touching on the spines of the books on her shelves, lingering on the sunlit patterns in the wood as the dust filled beams played on the surface of her simple desk, and finally back to her, appreciating the rich color of the robes she wore, and how well they contrasted with her eyes. He could hear the work going on outside, but dimly, the noise muffled by the thick walls of paper and storage he'd had to pass through to make it to her office, a momentary sanctuary from the world.

Meanwhile, he's thinking. It's not about whether he will accept the job. He's done that, and there's no going back. He knew it when only one person, Tomas Corvan, showed up to see him off at the crossroads. The town was out of sight around the hill, and a man he'd once arrested had walked with him down the road in silence, each man thinking their thoughts, though Emory's had been full of the cold practicality of extricating himself from the only place he's ever known. Eventually they'd stopped. The branching road before them led to the merchant docks and was the furthest he's ever been from home. Tomas had handed him his wood deputy's star, no doubt the man had stolen it from where Emory had left it on the surface of his shockingly clear desk. There was something complex in Tomas's eyes, when Emory had been able to look up from the star that he was holding, shocked to a momentary blankness of emotion. "Right don't always win." Then Tomas had turned and walked back to town while Emory watched and struggled not to call out to the man.

"Thank you, Ma'...Miallme." He's finished the wine without realizing, and when he tries to take another sip he's clearly startled to find the cup empty. He gives her a rueful grin and wonders how long they've sat in silence while he was thinking. "I didn't want to speak ill of your fellows in Kerese, but I think I was a bit like the goblin on the fence about this, until I arrived in your office." He puts his empty cup on the desk, and holds his hand up when she gestures to the wine. "I learned more about what's expected of me in the last few minutes of your speech then in all of the meetings I attended in town. You got a real challenge here. A town is more than all of the people and all of the houses." He visibly gathers his thoughts together and tries to get something complex across to this woman who seems like she comes from a world as strange to him as the one he's about to enter.

"I appreciate you giving me the choice. For asking. That means more than you know. And truth is, I’ve been thinkin about it... what it means to wear a badge again. Especially out there. I won't be enforcing the laws for their own sake, for company control, and executive order, and status and class. If that's what you're hiring me to do, you best find someone else.

"So thank you for asking me if I'll take the job. Yeah. Yes. I will. Not because I think I can keep everyone safe all the time. Not because I think I’ve got all the answers. It's because I think I’ve got something to give, and whether those people in Kerese know it or not, they need me."

He's gotten a little preachy, there in the middle, he's pretty sure. He's not feeling embarrassed about it though, because he is also certain that they need to hear it. Maybe not this woman, who's helped him feel like he's been really heard for the first time in a while, but the people he's going to be serving.

"Now, I am the man who knows how to be Sheriff, but not much else." He smiles at her, and it has some teasing quality to it; mutual conspiracy, and invitation to be allies. "You, Ms. Miallme, are the woman who knows things, and I am the man with the questions. Let's find out how many answers that little bottle of goodwill," he gestures to the open bottle of Wildgold, "and your own sweet nature will afford me. Tell me about your organization. Your order. The elbow length gloves, and what a Second Class Amber Clerk is, and what Kalistocrats dream about. Explain why 'The power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it'."

"Ma'am."

Emory is a still a little rattled. It's been a long journey by ship through the waters of Lake Encarthan, and being trapped aboard ship hasn't been as easy as he imagined it to be. He's emotionally exhausted from the tension and turmoil that seems to have become the totality of his emotional range. The six days of travel by ship felt like twice as long given his state of mind when boarding the Drumish trade pinnace, a mix of defeat, loneliness, apprehension, and just a smattering of hope. Sailing with warlike Molthune on one side and the Isle of Terror on the other hadn't done a lot for the quality of his rest. They'd been escorted by Molthuni cutters for most of the journey, and it had taken days for him to relax from a state of high alert, expecting at any moment for the sleek warships to turn toward the Silverfish like hungry sharks toward their prey. As soon as he'd stopped watching the south, he'd begun seeing the strange and unnerving lights that glittered in the nighttime sky over the island on the north side. The Drumish sailors hadn't paid any attention to either as far as he could tell, although he'd assured himself that the crow's nest was occupied at all times day and night.

Emory slips his pack off his shoulder as he takes the offered seat, cautiously relaxing into the sturdy looking chair, mostly certain that it will be able to support his weight. It is a quick evaluation that all large men learn to do as a matter of course, and when the wooden creaks and groans settle away and he doesn't end up on the floor, he leans gratefully against the comfortable back. Finally, he gives his host a friendly nod that is both greetings and thanks. His smile is warm on his honest and sun weathered face as he meets her green eyes directly with his dark brown, and there's a bit of mischief in the way the corners of his mouth are quirked. "That's mighty friendly of you. I don't mind saying that if this is the way you're greeting all your new people, I'm a bit in awe of your fortitude right from the start."

His voice is quiet and deep, with a smooth folksy burr and a soothing timbre. He leans toward her and holds a glass for her to pour from whichever bottle she chooses to share and can't quite stop himself from quickly scanning the papers spread out on the desk. The reflex of a lawman, not a spy, but he worries that she'll think it rude or invasive. He hurries by the moment, in the hopes that she hasn't noticed. "If you'd allow me to return your kindness, I brought a few bottles of Nirmathi Wildgold Mead to share, and I'd be honored if you let me leave one with you to for whenever your day is done." Without looking, he rummages through the large, worn leather pack that is straining to contain its contents as it leans against the side of his chair.

This is an excellent beginning, he assures himself. Somehow, she's hit just the right notes of welcome and acceptance. She pushed her work aside to show that she's making time for me, and offered me a drink before we've even exchanged names. I can work with this woman. I think I can work here.

His clever fingers retrieve a small, dark glass jug, and as he sets it on the desk before her, the crimson wax seal with the emblem of a thorny rose embossed into it is evident. "Around Dun Hollow we save Wildgold for special celebrations. Weddings, oaths, and treaties. I figure this occasion more than qualifies." He set the jug on the table with a solid clunk, the bottle obviously very full. "Emory Moore, at your service, Ms...?"