The sound of rain beat the rickety wooden roof of the shoddy roadside inn. Water poured off of the building as it came down. A man, 6'6, walks outside to look down the road, putting his hands under the water falling off the roof and washing his face.
He returns inside to the silence of no customers, empty seats, and depression. The inn is falling apart, barely on it's last legs, but is the last building before Carrion Hill. He stands at the bar, washing broken glasses with a stern expression on his face. Rain beats him down, just like it does everything else.
"No customers again, today... I see..." He says with a sigh that just seems to carry a part of his soul out of his body. Suddenly, to his surprise, the door behind him swings open. He isn't surprised, and he doesn't turn around. Weird folk always do come through here.
With his back to the door, and a grim shadow cast over him, he speaks. "Be right with you...
And so our story begins...
Dalton felt excitement buoying him up against the rain as he strode confidently down the dirt road, his sandals not having time to sink into the deepening mud on every step. He raises a hand in greeting to the barkeep when he stepped outside, but it was through a small copse of trees and he wasn't surprised when the barkeep didn't notice him. He quickened his pace and quickly found himself at the front door. Without slowing his stride he throws the door open, hoping his entrance looks dramatic rather than obnoxious.
He stands in the doorway, rain running off his loose robe in heavy rivulets, and looks around for somewhere to place his traveling coat before smiling and taking a seat at the bar. His temple sword is clearly visible, and his stance is relaxed. He takes in the surrounding atmosphere, the run-down setting doing little to dampen his enthusiasm. He wiggles his leg in an unconscious tic before he catches himself and goes still again, resting his chin on his fist.
Dalton is a huge human, standing at a healthy 6'5" with physique to match reflecting his long hours training at the monastery. His face is plain, with eyes spaced slightly too far apart, but his expression is open and honest.
The door slowly creaks open as a short figure walks through the door. What appears to be a gnome pops its head in the door, nervously peeking around for anything that might attack. Slowly, the silhouette of the gnomish silhouette comes into view.
He dons a pair of goggles, and a bandolier, filled with liquids--possibly volatile. The short man goes from a slow creep to a stumble. He comes in close contact with the floor, nearly breaking one of the flasks on his chest. He picks himself up, and makes his way over to a barstool. Not stopping to take in the atmosphere, he throws his backpack on the ground, lying next to the stool.
"Hey keeps!" He yells in a scratchy, nervous voice. "This gnome's a thirsty fellow. What ales ya got?"
The bartender turned around slowly, eyeballing the Gnome, and the newly arrived monk in the corner. He retrieved a rag from a droor. It was long, and wet with rain water. There weren't any bowls in it from what you could tell, so it's safe to assume it's just recycled rain water.
He opens a small swing-door on the side of the table, walking out and beginning to wash the tables, almost ignoring the gnome for a few moments. Getting done with 1 table, he moves to the one near the monk, completely unintimidated by the monk there, and begins to wash the table he is at.
Looking at him you notice a bushy moustache and no chin hair accompanied by a big nose and a rather meaty figure. He has a stern look in his eyes, but he seems to have a lot on his mind.
Eventually he returns to a table near the gnome, finally answering the question.
"We've got a small bit of ale from the south without a name to it, milk, and rain water. Plenty of the last one. What do you want?" He says rather quickly, almost sounding irritated despite having customers.
"Get me some of that ale." He says, as if screeching at the bartender. "And this time, serve it in something that doesn't smell like wet dog."
The twitchy gnome turns to the tall man at the bar."Hey, buddy." He barked at him. "You don't look like you're from around here." Teagan lifts his goggles to inspect the monk further.
He groans, standing back up and going for another table. He washes it hard and quick, making sure to get whatever he can off. Bits of wood tend to chip off as well, but he doesn't complain. The inn is so old that it's about to fall apart from just the rain, anyway.
The sound of a slamming door heralds the entry of another stranger into the roadside tavern. Garbed in a weather-beaten cloak and worn, broad-brimmed hat, the weary looking traveler settles into a corner-side table with an exasperated sigh. After spending a few moments rubbing his aching joints and cursing the weather, he removes his rain-soaked covering and allows it to drop to the floor in a drenched, crumpled heap. His hat, however, remains on his head to cover his lined, craggy face as he surveys the room and its inhabitants.
With a sniffle, the man then crosses his arms while kicking out his buckled leather boots before doing the same at his ankles. The dim lighting in the tavern does little to hint at his purpose or features save for the gleam of a pendant bearing the goddess Iomedae's crest that hangs above the open collar of his tunic. A crossbow sits at his hip while a pouch full of bolts keep it company on the other side of his belt. Several notches cut along the upper portion of the weapon serve as a grim sense of record-keeping for the inquisitor's work. The count seems to be somewhere between two and three dozen.
This man of vague intentions does not talk as he sits by himself, only watches. He does not attempt to give off a flair of mystery, nor does he feign to be intimidating. If you were caught in a rainstorm, wouldn't you want to get somewhere warm?
Dalton recognizes the symbol of Iomedae and nods respectfully at the crossbow-wielding man, knowing worshipers of that deity to be good neighbors in general. Turning to the gnome, he smiles and holds out his large hand. "Indeed I am not from around here - in fact, I only just arrived, from Rahadoum. And you? I haven't seen a gnome in my travels in almost four months. Where are you from?"
When the barkeep comes by again with the gnome's drink, Dalton will turn to him and quietly say "Ale please."
The bartender slowly makes his way around the bar, cleaning tables again and again, brews in hand. He eventually makes his way to the gnome and Dalton both with their brew.
The brew isn't the greatest in the world, but it isn't terrible. The taste can't exactly be placed, but it probably won't be the worst thing you've ever drank. He eyeballs the man with the crossbow that just walked in. Certainly out of the 3, he seemed more gruff.
The gnome takes a swig of his brew. "Not the most vile thing I've ever drank." "Not bad," says the gnome, acknowledging the bartender. With a twinge of sympathy for the run-down establishment and its proprietor, he gives the barkeeper an extra gold piece. "Maybe this'll help fix your roof," the gnome says with mild condescension.
"You asked where I'm from? I'm from wherever you need me to be." He laughs, not sure if he amused this tall man. "But if you're asking where I was born? That would be Calpihas. Not many gnomes there, but we made do. Worked in Hyannis for a long time." He takes another swig of his ale. "How I ended up here? I barely remember! What about you? How'd you end up here?"
Dalton wraps his large hand around the wooden mug he was handed, lifting it and beginning to drink heavily. His mouth opens wide as he gulps down the whole mug in seconds, slamming it back down onto the bar's top with a clank and a satisfied sigh. Wiping his chin with his sleeve, he turns back to the gnome and grins, happy to have met someone garrulous and boisterous in this desolate, quiet country.
"By ship, first, and then on foot. It has been quite a journey since I left my home, searching for some great test upon which I can test my mettle." He burps politely, covering his mouth with his fist before exhaling, and uses his other hand to lift a finger and gesture at the barkeep for another ale. "Would you happen to know how much further it is to..." his voice trails off, and he glances at the dusky crossbowman and the barkeep. He finishes his sentence in a quieter tone. "Carrion Hill? I have been traveling there for some time now. I must be getting close..."
As he speaks quietly to you the word "Carrion" in "carrion hill", you notice his Garundi accent tinging his voice.
At first, Garenth obliges the monk, tipping his hat in turn to his greeting. However, as the two sitting at the table begin to talk, his eyes narrow as their conversation continues. When the other man looks about and his voice begins to lower, the inquisitor naturally leans forward a bit in his chair.
Surprised that the monk gave him a straight answer after all of his odd answers, he drinks the rest of his ale, swiping the foam with the sleeve of his coat. A loud belch and a sigh later, he responds to the strange man. "No need to whisper! Let me see if I've got a map for you."
Teagan digs through his satchel. "Mess kit? No. Trail rations? No. Gunpowder? Very no. It seems that he was missing his map. "Wouldn't you know, can't find it today." He looks around the ruddy, sodden tavern. "No map on the walls." Looking around, the twitchy gnome turned to the man with the crossbow.
"You there, at the table. D'you have a map of Ustalav? This man's looking for Carrion Hill."
Dalton peers curiously at the bag of gunpowder on the table. He'd seen pyrotechnic displays using similar materials for entertainment in the city streets of Manaket, but he doubted this establishment could take the excitement of such a thing.
He glances up at the other seated human after Teagan asks his question.
A that moment a tall, stout man enters the inn. For but a moment is as if a ghost from the battlefields of the old civil wars had drifted in from the past. Clad head to toe in armor, cloaked in the livery of a bygone army and carrying an Ax taller than most women. His eyes peer the scene from behind the chain Aventail that hides his face and then he strides forward. Droplets of water falling from the rims of his kettle helm as he moves.
http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2012/222/a/9/varangian_guard_by_fr0stm0ur ne-d5alysy.jpg
"Blimey! It's like the Gods be pissin' down out there!"
Getting to a more central location in the inn he removes his head armor, revealing a fully bald head and bearded face.
http://fr0stm0urne.deviantart.com/art/Varangian-Guard-320151922
The armored man now makes his way to barkeep.
"Hot mulled wine guvner! Or if ye have none...Ale"
A round of ales touches the bar as soon as Varan asks for it, as the bartender is fully prepared for customers now, unlike when everyone started to come in. He looks at the man in the armor, wondering why he has so much metal on.
Afraid we only have ale. The lot of you going to Carrion, hey? I'd be careful... some of the people that left came down this road.
He flicks an unidentifiable chunk out of a glass and proceeds to clean the rest of it. A cleric was with one of em... Lad mentioned something about the "Dark Tapestry" but the room seemed to chill when he said it. I don't know what it means though.
The man stands aloft, still washing his glasses.
Dalton leans forward on his stool, toying with the cup on the bartop. "Yes, I'm heading to Carrion Hill. How far am I? Am I getting close? And...what was the cleric discussing when he mentioned that Dark Tapestry?"
Dalton scrutinizes the bartender carefully, trying to get a measure of his character and whether he is sharing everything he knows about the previous passersby. The inn isn't exactly in tip-top condition, after all - can't be certain of the proprietor either.
Sense Motive:
Teagan looks back at the man with the crossbow. His silence is stiffening. Teagan, a little insulted, turns to the stout man in armor. He sits next to him, leaning into his line of sight. "This man is looking for a map of Ustalav. Do you happen to have something to show him?"
Despite the mediocre flavor and the weak alcohol content, Teagan--against his better judgement--hails down the bartender, waving his arms around. "Another ale over here! Got anything to eat? His belly grumbled at the thought of a warm, tender, bloody steak, covered in onions, mushrooms, and sauces. I haven't eaten that well since I left Caliphas. He thought. He doubted this ruddy establishment would have such rustic, homey cuisine, considering the walls barely kept the cold out. Still, the thought entertained him.
"...A cleric was with one of 'em... Lad mentioned something about the "Dark Tapestry," but the room seemed to chill when he said it. I don't know what it means though." Teagan caught the tail end of what the bartender was saying, having been distracted by the thought of tender meat from home. "What kind of cleric? The kind you wouldn't want to meet in a back alley?"
The bartender listens to both questions attentively, but turns to answer the monk's main question first.
Carrion hill is just 2 hours up the road, and not very far from here at all. It's half the reason I don't have customers.
He grumbled for a moment...
The cleric didn't come off as the dark type to me, but I don't know much about clerics. He mentioned cultists and a few things about some... E word. Spawn, though, was a word he definitely said. He said as he scratched his lack of chin hair.
Oh, right. Sorry, no food. Couldn't preserve anything in here if I wanted ta'.
Teagan looks back at the man with the crossbow. His silence is stiffening. Teagan, a little insulted, turns to the stout man in armor. He sits next to him, leaning into his line of sight. "This man is looking for a map of Ustalav. Do you happen to have something to show him?"
Varan stops taking a drought from his drink and looks at the gnome.
"I have nay need for maps, little one. I be born in this land. Like the barkeep says, Carrion Hill's nearby and just down the road. Fancy doin' some expedition there?"
Dalton looked lost in thought as he contemplated what the cleric could have meant by "E word," when he heard what the armored man asked and a grin spread across his face once more. He turned in the stool to face him, balancing carefully against the weakening support holding him up from below.
He taps the bottom of his cup against the bar top firmly, and clears his throat. Count me in. I've been traveling for months to get there, and I have had little luck finding suitable companions in my journey. You look more than capable of handling yourself. Are you a knight? Should I address you as sir? I am not very familiar with the customs of this land.
He stands, taking a small step away from the bar, and bows. You may call me Dalton Thorpe.
Teagan sneers at the bartender No food? That means trail rations. Again. His sneer turned downwards at the thought of nuts and berries. Again. Taking this job might get him a better meal, he thought. Maybe I can make things go boom... His grimace turned upward quickly, bursting into manic laughter. "If I come, please let me make the booms!" He jumped up and down on his barstool eagerly.
Realizing he's making a scene, he calms down. He runs his hands through his messy hair in an attempt to straighten it. Comparatively calmly, he says "Teagan Payne, Exterminator Extraordinaire! Good to meet you, Sir Thorpe."
Dalton shakes his head quickly. Oh no, Mister Payne, I am not a sir - merely a humble monk of the Way of Mankind. Just Dalton will suffice. I look forward to seeing what exactly you mean by "exterminator extraordinaire."
(Assuming he sees an affirmative coming from the fighter regarding the prospect of traveling with me, Dalton continues.)
Dalton turns his head to look over his shoulder at the quiet stranger sitting off by himself. Raising his voice slightly, he calls, What about you, stranger? Are you passing through here on your way to the Hill as well, and would you join our impromptu company?
Garenth uncrosses his legs, spreads a hand out from beneath his coat and drags the chair he was seated upon to the table of the nearby group. He places it, backrest forward, near to the table and sits on it with leg outstretched. He then measures the group as he looks over them.
"The Hill is indeed my mark and I'm sure that a number of others about might benefit. What calls the lot of you to the Hill, I ask ye plainly?"
The inquisitor's question comes with a look of suspicion shared equally around the table. One of his hands goes to grasp at the sigil of his goddess that hangs close to his heart.
"A knight, Me?" Varan says looking at the monk, "Hardly...I'm one of the bloody infantry, we be those that cut the high lords' horses from under'em, ha ha! Address me by me name and not a title that isn't mine, Varangian Smirza. Be well met Dalton, ye too have the looks of a warrior. And G'day to ye, Mr. Exterminator."
In answer to both Dalton and Garenth's questions about Carrion Hill he says:
"Rumors said there's riches to be found at Carrion Hill, if a man's courage and luck both hold. And that so many dangers lurk there I'd be a rich man a'ready had I a gold piece for each tale so told. I'd heard about the place's reputation for summonin' adventurers like flies to dung and so took to mind that gatherin' like-minded souls for a trek there should nay be a problem...it seems the tales told truth and I thought well. I be willin' to set out there with any company that don't look too inclined to slit me throat right after nightfall, ha ha ha! And none of ye seem of the untrustworthy sort."
His gaze falls on Garenth for awhile. "Thine name, traveler, I know yet not. I take it ye be some sort of priest?"
Dalton turns to the crossbowman and regards him as Smirza asks his question. A sun-worshiper... he muses to himself inwardly. This one looks darker, more weatherbeaten than most others of his faith that I've seen, though. Ustalav truly paints its population with a grim brush. I wonder how well he handles himself in a fight...
After Garenth gives his name, or if he waits for us to answer his question first, Dalton replies, I come from the desert monastery of Manaket, the port town of Rahadoum. I left to become a traveler, to visit the most perilous locations that I may and test myself upon them, in pursuit of mastery of my Way. I was drawn to Carrion Hill by rumor and story. Dalton will then lean against the bar, drinking from his mug if he has any ale in it, and looking around at the other three.
"Something like that," the man replies while tugging at the brim of his hat, "...and the name is Garenth, humble and faithful servant of the lady in honor. I've come to scourge the Hill of any foulness it contains...and the taint which I may encounter along the road there," he embellishes this last point by running a finger along the notches drawn upon his weapon's handle.
Blinking at the monk as he finishes his words and drink, he leans against the chair, tilting his head to the side.
"Ye come from the godless lands, I ken. Was it their faithlessness that made you leave? Have the gods finally visited their wrath upon thos that think themselves more mighty?"
Garenth's eyes seem to light with a fire of their own as he asks the former questions. When he finishes he's somewhat standing with his hands rested on the back of his chair. Giving a light sigh, he rests himself again and shakes his head, his fingers spread open before him in the air.
"Forgive me, I do not know the place as intimately as you might have. I will not judge for it is not my place to."
Dalton lowers his mug slowly back down to the bartop, the smile fading from his lips somewhat. Sister Meridia warned me of this attitude. I should have been more careful in disclosing my homeland to a member of a faith.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he clears his throat and forces a smile. Well, I've never taken much to the idea of a religious path, Garenth, and neither has the ruling council of my country... he nods resolutely, but I'll work with you, to harness our strength he makes a fist, and cleanse Carrion Hill of the evil that pervades it. He pauses, leaning back against the bar in a more relaxed pose once more. Perhaps we will earn respect for one another properly, in combat, the state of my eternal soul notwithstanding. I have no intention of getting between a good deity and what she wants her follower to do.
Teagan grumbled They talk too much, he thought to himself. "So is it settled? We're going to see what's been disturbing Carrion Hill?" He tapped his foot impatiently. Teagan turned to the bartender, washing glasses. "Keeps! What can you tell us about Carrion Hill? Is there anything that might want to tear us apart limb-from-limb, waiting in the shadows, or anything that might want us dead for some reason or another?"
The bartender scratches his glorious mutton chops for a moment, thinking back to what the cleric had told him along with a myriad of other people.
Apparently, earlier this week when they all decided to... leave. Something apparently destroyed an entire building, but, no one got eyes on it. It killed some people, and a few hours later, it repeated the process. No one's actually laid eyes on it though.
He shrugs, prior to "No one's laid eyes on it though"
Dalton raises one eyebrow quizzically. It killed some people, and then repeated the process? He looks confused. Repeated what process?
Surfacing and destroying another structure. It seems random, but, who knows?
Dalton nods his understanding, one hand unconsciously resting on the pommel of his sword. As he rubs his chin, his gaze falls down to the excitable gnome, and he smiles again. Sound like fun, master exterminator? Feel up to exterminating a building-destroyer?
"The bigger they are, the bigger the boom!" Teagan jumps up and down in his stool. He nearly falls off, collecting himself. "Do we know what might have caused this to attack Carrion Hill? Some sort of mining operation gone awry?"
Varan finishes his ale and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "I'd nay worry much about it, master gnome" he tells Teagan "If it bleeds, it can be killed. And I'd wager 'teen your powders and our blades it'll have plenty a chance for it. And we got the blessin' of the Gods to call upon thanks to friend Garenth yonder if the task proves harder."
Dalton thumps down two gold pieces on the bartop to pay for his ale as Smirza finishes speaking. Let us get moving then, while there is still daylight. I do not mind a little rain on our journey. We can share what we know of the place on our way. Dalton adjusts the fit of his scabbarded belt that ties his robe together, and turns to the barkeep. Thank you for the ale. The extra gold's for the information. Keep it, and may your bar see sunnier days in the future.
Turning to his newfound comrades, Dalton states, I have a foul beast of a pack-horse tied outside, named Shogg. I'll get him prepared for the road. And with that, the monk strides outside.
The inquisitor makes it a point to agree with the monk despite their differences and goes to fetch his cloak on the tavern floor a few feet away. From its bundled form, he draws out a longsword still held in its catch and then promptly begins to tie it to his belt. After checking his crossbow and turning his wide-brimmed hat he follows after the others.
Pressing his lips to his necklace, he whispers a solemn oath for the journey ahead, "You will be avenged, my dear. Let us hope this is the one!"
Varan imitates the monk and pays his tab, then he follows him out of the inn.
As the group enters the hill, the rain had never let up, however, it's heavier than ever. Almost deafening, but the sound of thunder wasn't there, simply rain accompanied by a murder of crows cawing as they circled the city in the air. They had passed the gate to the city early, and surprisingly, the crows, the city guard, were all absent.
As your group slowly walks through the city of Carrion Hill, there are no bystanders anywhere for a long time. There are no homeless in the streets, and in the gutters, water is simply surging out of the area, hell-bent on escaping such a lonely town. The rain slows, just long enough for you to hear the sound of someone nearby, a guard dressed in black, obviously a higher official in the area.
Through the rain you hear him say, “Carrion Hill needs heroes! Men of stout heart and bravery are asked to come to Crown Manor with all haste, there to receive a task worthy of their skill and talents and a reward of suitable magnificence. Make haste to Crown Manor! Make haste!”
His voice lingers on every word, sounding rather melancholy. But just as soon as you'd heard it, his image is lost in the rain rather quickly, as well as the tone.
http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8390/8639409680_929baf0348_b.jpg
((Ladies and gentlemen, your map. It'll be updated on every single post from here-on. That'll be fun. I'm gonna have to ask you guys to designate colors, but, as a group, you're red. I'll "Name" every single spot you've been/know about.))
The inquisitor draws his heavily saturated cloak closer about him still as the deluge intensifies. Scowling out from beneath his drooping cover, he turns to the rest of the party and points to where the guard was recently seen.
Raising his voice to be heard over the downpour, he says, "Does anyone find that suspicious? For better or for ill, I suppose our destination has been pointed out to us!"
Teagan sniffs the air. After two hours of walking in the rain, Teagan's body quivers with the chill of the rain, and his teeth chatter, trying to keep any inkling of warmth in his body. "This even smells eerie. I can't be the only one unsettled by this," Teagan says, between chattering teeth.