On a sunny September afternoon you find yourselves around a sticky table at the Long Hall Inn of Donnersshed discussing the future of your troop. Previously known as Nibelung's Cohort, you've recently decided to change your name after Nibelung took a cannonball to the head while assaulting a tower last week.
The barroom of the inn has seen better days, and has had better company. A passive perception points to a high tension powder keg of patrons: Two men in leather dusters eye you from their table, hands never far from holsters, several young farm boys boost about who is the best with a knife, a dwarf drinks at he bar, his hand resting on the head of his battle ax, and a dark figure, face hidden in a deep cowl sits alone in the corner swirling his half empty mug while his light crossbow sits loaded in front of him. At the same time some seem to be lighthearted. Chadin the Barkeep has a smile and laughs periodically as if he'd just remembered a joke, and an older balding man seems to be having a wonderful time smoking his pipe with a much younger risque looking lass.