Phaendar’s Market Festival draws a crowd from all over Nirmathas, many solely to hear Aubrin the Green—the retired Chernasardo Ranger-turned-Caydenite cleric—recount bawdy tales of adventure from her youth. Outside, the celebration continues, as raucous shouts carry on the night air. Warmed by the crackling hearth and firelight after a long day, any levity comes as a welcome reward to the rough, earthy souls of this riverside trade town. As you sit among the tavern, drinking, eating, or perhaps filching to your hearts content you notice a half-elven woman being pushed onto a makeshift stage near the bar. She carries an overflowing mug and swats away hands.
Alright! Alright! But my drinks are free tonight! She shouts before turning about to face the larger section of the building. She goes on to recount her tales, whether all the stories she tells are truly from her travels, or even true, you are not sure, yet they manage to bring an even more jovial mood the tavern. Many long time residents have heard most if not all of these stories before, but, seem to enjoy them nonetheless.
Kurgan didn’t like the surface. It was too bright. The sky was too blue. The clouds too insubstantial. The noises were all wrong, and one would be advised not to get him started on the smells! But that day...that day it was alright. Sitting in the tavern, drinking and listening to stories, some of which were true...it was almost like being home.
He took one of his mugs and closed his eyes. He silently chanted in Dwarven, and the runes softly glowed. He chanted of the practice of brewing, going step by step through the process of How ale was made. When he was done his mug had filled itself. He raised it to his lips, being careful to not let the axe blades attached to them cut him. The mugs were heirlooms of his clan. Forged before his grandfather’s grandfather was even born. They were the ultimate test of a brewer, for they only worked when one had the skill of the craft.
He tasted the ale...and put the mug back down. Average. Mediocre. Probably worse than what the humans were selling. He sighed as he looked around, eager to hear a tale that might take his mind off of how far he still had to go if he was going to return home with his head up high.
"Come on, you know they won't let you inside!" Walking down the street towards the tavern came a young-looking elf leading a white horse - or perhaps being chased after by the horse - whinnying and whining with what could almost pass for a betrayed look in his eyes. "Just go home, you'll be safe there. I'll come back for you soon." Now outside the doors, Ori prepared to head in, but her horse wouldn't budge. "Oh, alright. Fine, you win. You stay here, though. Don't run off." She quickly tied the horse down to a post outside the tavern, petting his mane, and then headed in, and just in time. The tales had just begun, and Ori was quickly sitting and listening, enthralled. And, if you were to go outside, you could have sworn that Harael, the horse, was as well.
It certainly has been a good day. Griseo had a nice hunting early in the morning, and the butcher was happy today and paid well for the game, knowing he will more than recover his investment. The Market Festival attracts people from all the region, and so a nice piece of deer meat will be sold quickly and for a good chunk of coins.
After spending some time with the butcher, watching how he skins and eviscerates the dead animals and talking about the weather, Griseo walks back home, takes a bath and wears some smart clothes, thinking that spending some of the new earned coins at the Festival won't do any harm. After all, he's here to enjoy the Nirmathi way of living, so where you go, do as they do...
He arrives at the tavern with the sun already hiding behind the horizon, so he stops for a moment to appreciate the view. Once the night has completely fallen upon the village, he enters the warm and cozy place only to find a half-elf woman being literally harassed by the townsfolk, asking her to tell stories. "Oh, well, a story-teller. This could be amusing" he thinks, and tries to get a spot from where to listen.
"Alright! Alright! But my drinks are free tonight!" she says, and Griseo finds it quite fair. He gets one of the coins from his bag and tosses it at the bar, making it whirl a bit on the wooden surface before it stops, the frothing of metal still resounding to the ones close enough to hear.
"So, let the first one be on me!" he says. Then, to the woman, he winks and smiles. "I'm new here, so any story you tell will be tasted and enjoyed like a first time. Tell us all whatever you see fit!" he adds, giving her the chance to open up her show with whatever she thinks will captivate the audience best.
Mestin did not like visiting the village.
Every time they came his nose was assaulted by a clashing cacaphony of scents. Some were good, like all the prey animals. Farm animals, he corrected himself again--they belonged to people, he couldn't hunt them. Some were confusing, like the smoke that was not dangerous. And others were just bad, like the 'outhouses'. It had made sense when he learned how dull most two-leggers' noses were, since otherwise they would have driven themselves mad with the first month of village-ing.
But Lasaral wanted to come, and he was all the pack Mestin had left. Being in a pack sometimes meant not getting your way. Especially when you weren't one of the parents.
He pushed aside the vague memories of his former pack as they started to rise, instead trying to focus on where they were going. This was the tavern, right? Where the retired ranger was going to be speaking?
Stories, at least, he understood now. Perhaps he would hear one that was interesting.
Every few months, Lasaral left the protection of the Fangwood and made the journey down to Phaendar to sell what herbs he had gathered, and the minor potions he made. He also restocked on whatever he needed that the forest couldn't provide, which was very little.
Metsin *hated* the town, and always gave out a whine whenever his pack mate announced they needed to make the trip again. However, it had been this way for the last several years, so despite his reluctance, the wolf always accompanied Lasaral.
Tarsayn however, loved going to Phaendar. The hyperactive squirrel relished in the chance to steal small trinkets from the unwary. Baelther, as always, kept a close eye on the troublesome rodent, and did his best to reign her in.
The four companions thus made their way to town, and after Lasaral completed his transactions, stopped by the tavern for the night.
Smiling widely at the antics of the half-elf, the feytouched human takes a seat near the stage, with Metsin curled up underneath the table.
In a corner of the bar, Rasheeda sits alone, drinking just enough to enjoy the evening. She's been in the town long enough to know all of the locals, and all their old stories, the same one's she has heard year after year. A few of them (the ones involving fresh wounds) even involve her. She tries to grin through those, and ignore the eyes on her.
With the right amount of alcohol, she would tolerate the evening. With the right amount of alcohol, Phaendar didn't feel so boring. 'Penance isn't supposed to be pleasurable' She reminds herself. And really, it still wasn't. She was just doing the bare minimum to keep herself ingrained in the town.
It had been tough to build up her reputation of healer over the years. "If . you're really a healer, why aren't you at the Front?" They'd ask. And when they send their children off to fight, when they have to believe war is so glamorous, how do you tell them you've seen enough of it for a lifetime? "My Queen made me murder innocent civilians" clarifies things, but not in a way that people would ever want to speak to you again. So she'd had to be silent, and keep her secrets, and work even harder to earn their trust.
But, the Market Festival was safe. People would be passing through, and bringing some excitement, but aside from a drunken fall, there ought to be no wounds this day. A genuine grin spreads over her face as she sees Griseo enter. His recovery had been remarkable, and he seemed to really be taking to the town. She didn't know his story, but the wounds were not unfamiliar to her. As much as they were, in ways, an unwelcome reminder, it also pleased her to be mending, rather than inflicting, them. She glances around the bar at the newcomers, noting Lasaral and his wolf had come for their relatively uncommon visit as well. Plus, a bunch of people she didn't recognise.
Not recognising people was good. It was always a fear, even so many years later, that someone from Korvosa would wind up here, and bring the past back with them...
Mestin settled on the floor, content to play the pet for now. It brought less questions in town, even if his armor of lacquered leather 'scales' was unusual. Perhaps not so unusual for a companion of a forest hunter, given the danger.
He tried to focus on sorting through the scents in the room, attempting to identify people he'd met before. There were some he definitely recognized, though he couldn't say he remembered the names that went with them. Nor the faces--with so many people at once, recognizing scents was the best he could do.
While waiting for the half-elf woman to take a sip and gather her first story, Griseo has a look around to see which familiar faces are also attending. He recognizes Rasheeda and some others, to whom he nods or makes any other sign as a salute. Some others are new, or just familiar but vaguely enough that he can't tell who they are.
A wolf calls his attention - it seems to belong to a man with the aspect of a hunter, who also has other animals. Griseo contemplates the group, impressed at the attitude of the wolf, who seem perfectly comfortable in the company of so many humans. "That man must be the Hell of a pet trainer. This place never stops surprising me" he thinks.
Getting somewhat into his cups, Kurgan stood up. ”A tale then? I will share with ye lot the saga of Orick Ironfoot, as penned by Kragmyr Grudgekeeper! So drink hail!” Standing ‘tall’
”He hewed with the brand!
Long since he went to Linnorn-Land for the slaying of the Worm,
There he won glory and the name of Wyrm-doom,
Since he pierced that serpent through, with the blade of inlaid steel.
He hewed with the brand!
Young he was, when east of Oere-sound he made good breakfast for the wolves,
While his steel sang on the high-crest of the icing-death,
Blood-stained the sea, the ravens waded through.
He hewed with the brand!
Ere a hundred years has passed o'er us, we who shake our axes,
At wave-mouth was the hero laid low,
Warriors died! The crimson death colored the sea and ravens feasted.
He hewed with the brand!
The war-god loved him when he was sent to the mighty halls,
Keen was the raven feathered arrow that we sent ere his passing,
Dirge was the music of sword on scale and cleft was shield.
He hewed with the brand!
Great was his courage when he faced Icasarcht, 'mid his winged steed, died.
No jarl more fearless was sent o'er the main;
His stout heart drove him, fearless, by the ice-devil's haunt.
He hewed with the brand!
The brand bit sore, the sword flew from its sheath,
Crimson the borders of our mood-shields when he died,
Loud roared the spears of his kin, as low law the drake.
He hewed with the brand!
His life was well-nigh o'er; sharp is the pang that the serpent gives.
For the snakes nest deep in the heart. No more may his children rest
Great wrath will fly for the undoing of doom.
He hewed with the brand!
Full gladly did he go! See the Glory fly to Magrim's halls!
High-seated among the heroes shall he quaff the yellow-mead."
As kurgan finishes, there are cheers of toasts to him, then your attention is brought back to Aubrin as she finishes telling one of her more famous jokes.
So there I am, thinking, when will I ever be able to talk to a bear again? So before the grizzly can stand back up, I turn to it and say, All I need is the honey. You can keep the bees!’
The room erupts into laughter as Aubrin finishes her winding story and takes another drought from her tankard.
But it’s fine now. All’s good. She named a cub after me. Someday I’m going to have to check in on little Ole "Oh Gods That’s Too Many Bees.”
As the cheers die down, Aubrin gives a small bow. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I need to make room for more beer!
After about an hour of stories, Aubrin leaves the "impromtu stage" in-front of the hearth and heads toward the door.
Crowd members share their own boasts and jokes, some call for one more story and with a sigh and a smile, Aubrin turns around after she reaches the door.
All right, all right! Don’t shove, she slurs a bit. Okay, Caydean strike me down if this isn’t true—
She never finishes her sentence as there is a flash of light and suddenly The front door explodes into splinters. A cry of agony pierces the chaos. Aubrin, blasted to the back of the inn now lies on the floor, gasping and clutching at the blood gushing from a wound in her chest. A burning stake from the door remains embedded in the wall behind her. And hobgoblins in military dress stand beyond the shattered door, blades drawn. Behind them, lit by the glow of burning homes, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of hobgoblin soldiers march the street looting, killing, and captures as they see fit. Phaendar burns, shouts of celebration are now replaced by the panicked screams of the frightened and dying. Behind them, above the flames and humble rooftops, rises am ominous tower of black stone. One, that was not there earlier today.
As you all get your bearings and make sense of the situation through the confusion, the hobgoblins rush in, two drawing long swords to cut down any who resist and another providing cover with a bow. One of the hobgoblins (blue) issues a threat, while the other,(red) more bloodthirsty one gets to work immediately, putting a large hole in Lasaral's leg, as his blade finds purchase and drives into it.
Grovel, and you may live as slaves! Resist... and you die like dogs!
The bowman (green) takes aim, but does not fire.
Hobgoblin A (red)
Hobgoblin B (blue)
Hobgoblin C (green)
Lasaral -7hp
Kurgan got to his feet, a look of shock on his face. He grabbed his Tankards, which thanks to the blades attached to them, were quite dangerous. Unfortunately, either due to the explosion staggering him, the shock of the conflict, or the amount he had drunk, the best he could manage was to get to his feet and take up a fighting stance.
Something had been bothering Mestin, but it wasn't until the door blew in that he figured it out.
The smell of too much smoke.
Now his nose was assaulted with the scents of sweaty hobgoblins, death, and blood. He jumped to his feet, a low growl building in him as he turned just in time to see one attack Lasaral.
"I am not a dog," he snarled, then leaped at the hobgoblin.
Ausra had spent the evening ensconced in a chair toward the back of the crowded room, listening quietly. In part this was to learn a bit about tradecraft. While Ausra is mostly a singer, it never hurts to expand one's repertoire so learning a few things from Aubrin about storytelling is welcome. She finds the types of stories humans tend to respond well to quite different than those appreciated in Kyonin, especially where humor is involved.
Aubrin is used to a more oblique, dry, or mordant humor such as irony, situational dilemmas, or satire. The humor of humans is much more straightforward and slapstick. It was very hard for her to get such things right.
Besides, there was an elf there as well. It wasn't a big problem for her that this was so, but Ausra wasn't really in the mood to find out how she might react to her. Even forlorn elves could be difficult since they usually recognized she was from elven lands and they found that a bit intimidating, at she supposed that was it.
In any case, she was content to let the night go by as a learning experience. It might cost her a little bit in income if she didn't volunteer to sing, but it didn't seem to her like much of a paying crowd anyway.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When the door blows in it brings Ausra immediately to her feet in surprise. The hobgoblins' threat and immediate attack on a man by the door makes their intent clear, so Ausra acts. She hops her small table while drawing her rapier and moves up just past the end of the bar. Aubrin looks in a very bad way, and everyone else is in various stages of surprise.
We need just a little bit of time to ready ourselves, they need to be delayed.
She extends her arm to point at the hobgoblin who issued the threat and says "Järkyttää!" in a loud, clear voice, hoping to stop the marauder in his tracks for a few seconds.
Griseo grinds his teeth. He sweats through every bit of his skin. He can't believe they're here in such a short time. "Will this nightmare pursue me through all my life?" When he finally finds the courage to react, he quickly hops to the place where most weapons are gathered, in search of his bow. He nocks an arrow in haste, firing at the first hobgoblin he finds, not willing to let these brave villagers die without a chance to, at least, make the Legion pay high for the day.
As the night goes on, Ori starts to feel a bit uneasy, but the stories keep her mind off of it. Still, she starts to glance around the room more, noticing a half-elf in the corner and a human with a pack of animals nearby. All of a sudden, though, the door flies open and some ugly hobgoblins make a grand entrance. Jumping to her feet, she reaches for her bow, but stops - it's too crowded in the inn to risk that, enough innocents are dying outside. Instead, she pulls her spear from her back and moves up, hoping to see or hear a sign from outside that her trusty companion is safe while jabbing at the hobgoblin that issued the threat.
Rasheeda reaches for her sword, forgetting for a moment that she wasn't carrying it, that she hadn't carried one in years. Frowning, she leaps up, muttering a prayer and pumping her fist into the air. White light emanates, shining over the others, and as it fades, a single rose appears in Rasheeda's hand. "Milani is with us," She shouts to the others. "They may appear mighty, but will fall into the dirt."
Narrowing her eyes, she glares daggers at the red hobgoblin. "If you want to harm someone, start with me, cowardly beast." She claps her bracers together, standing as if ready to accept a blow, but with a threatening look all the same. The flames reflecting off her scars, and the expression on her face as someone who has known pain, who has known fear, and is experiencing neither.
Wincing in pain at his leg wound, Lasaral grabs his axe and slashes the hobgoblin who attacked him. But the pain messes up his aim.
As the chaos erupts in the inn, sprays of blood fly across the air as shouts of surprise, pain, and anger mix together in the air.
As kurgan moves to attack one of the hobgoblins, the archer lets fly an arrow however Kurgan easily catches it with one of his war mugs. However, the added weight of the arrow throws off his practiced balance and he misses the mark on the hobgoblin.
Mestin quickly retaliates for the harm of his companion, tearing a large chunk from the hobgoblins(red) leg and causing him to stumble and fall prone.
Ori easily gets inside the (blue) Hobgoblin's defense and lands a solid strike on its leg, drawing blood.
the hobgoblin shouts Then you will die like dogs! as Ori's strike lands home.
The prone hobgoblin tries to stand, giving easy strikes to both Mestin and Lasaral. Blue strikes out at Kurgan, but his strike is swatted aside easily by the dwarf.
outside you hear a whinny, and those near the door can see a white horse move threaten the archer who drops his bow and draws his blade turning to the animal with a sneer. However, he underestimates its agility and almost falls when his heavy swing is easily side-stepped by the beast.
conditions:
Hobgoblin red: prone -6hp
Bluehobgob: -4hp
Greenhobgob:
Lasaral: -7hp.
Kurgan frowned at the hobgoblin’s taunt. Stepping forward he gave a left hook, punching with his blade at the hobgoblin’s face. He followed up with a slash from his right, looking to slice low at the enemy’s stomach.
[ooc] AoO for
With his bow in hand, finally, Griseo moves to the center of the tavern to get nice lines of fire to every possible corner where anyone could be hiding. He picks an arrow and fires at one of the hobs, taking care not to wound any ally.
"No, you shall die as them," Mestin snarls back as he snaps his fangs at the rising hobgoblin.
He then attacks whichever hobgoblin remains standing.
Did that wolf just talk? Ori is momentarily distracted, but focuses back on the enemy before her - only to be distracted once again when she hears her faithful companion outside. "Harael! Keep it up, I'm coming for you!" Ori strikes again at whatever hobgoblins are in her way.
Ausra slips forward between the elf and the dwarf near the doorway, as she moves beyond them, she lunges at the hobgoblin she had targeted with her spell
in a flurry of strikes by both blade, claw, and tankard both hobgoblins in the tavern fall before the party. blood runs thick out the door to where the remaining hobgoblin and horse do battle.
Stupid filthy animal! The hobgoblin curses before cutting a large gash down the side of the animal. in return, the horse quite literally puts the goblin on its ass, and it is quickly finished off by Mestin as he rushes out and removes its throat.
As the rush of battle clears, and immeadeate danger subsides, you all take stock of the situation. Outside, hobgoblins loot in the streets by the score, inside the tavern you see several shocked and panicked faces, near the back wall you see the tavern owner trying to stem the blood flowing from Aubrins wound. While Aubrin seems to be fluttering on the edge of consciousness with ragged breath.
a masterwork backpack
a masterwork crossbow with 20 bolts
a wand of magic missile (11 charges)
3 potions of cure light wounds
scrolls of calm animals (1), cure light wounds (1), magic stone (1)
and 5 provision points.
With the fighting done, for now, Kurgan walked over to Aubrin. As he did so he closed his eyes and chanted, going over the steps of brewing fine dwarven ale.
What came out was distinctly mediocre of quality. It wouldn’t even be called fine human ale! A sure sign of how far he had to go in his profession. But it did heal the man’s wounds...somewhat.
Grumbling he did the same, and offered a drink from his Tankard to Hareal. This time the brew was up to standards, healing most of the harm, and tasting right to boot!
”Well, that’s all the healin’ I can do today. Need more practice, it seems.”
"No!" Ori begins to move outside as the hobgoblin draws blood on Harael, but the talking wolf is faster, and takes care of the threat. Instead, Ori runs up to her companion and cuts him loose. As Harael staggers down in pain, Ori hugs his neck while whispering comforting words in his ear. After a while, the dwarf from inside comes up and offers a drink which, though smelling suspiciously alcoholic, does manage to close up his wounds somewhat. "Say thanks to the kind dwarf, Harael", Ori says, and the horse offers a whinny to Kurgan. Ori gives her own thanks as well, with a small bow.
Kurgan nodded. ”Aye! Yer horse fought like a warrior so he’s to be treated like one. But I wonder, what would hobbos be doing here...?”
With all the mayhem outside, Griseo takes care of not being spotted so easily. He spots the streets through one of the windows, trying to decide what to do now.
"Is there a building in town that's not made of wood? We should bring children and those not able to fight to a place able to resist fire, at least for a while."
Mestin sniffs at the air.
"Too much smoke. Too many hobgoblins. Best to leave," he growls.
"Well, that tower up there might have something to do with this. Never seen that before." Miniel scans the surroundings constantly as she continues comforting Harael, glancing over her shoulder and into the tavern every few looks. "I don't think we can make it home. Good thing we brought everything we needed with us." She hesitates for a bit, then asks, to nobody in particular, quietly: "But where shall we go?"
Now that the fighting was over, Lasaral bandaged his wound as best he could, then took one of the healing potions over to Aubrin, and helps her drink it down.
”Let’s go then. Make our way from building to building, grab who and what we can. And make for the woods, ‘fore the hobgoblins close in on us.”
Mestin flicks an ear. "The woods are good. We know them better than the hobgoblins."
He trots over to the door. "Take what you can, you who have hands."
"But we cannot leave like that!" Griseo bursts. "There are a lot of civilians here, women, children!" He turns his head, looking at everyone, seeking support. "If we're to abandon the place, we need to help them, we cannot leave them to this horrible fate!"
"The dead can rescue no one. From the scent, the whole town burns," Mestin growls. "How many hobgoblins can you fight and win? What we can save as we leave we should, but we cannot linger."
Ori interjects, echoing the talking wolf. "We can't save everyone, and if we try we'll probably end up dead or enslaved - and I can't let that happen to us again. We'll do what we can to help, but we have to get out of here soon. There are just too many."
Kurgan was already moving. He felt that if he didn’t do something, their adventure might end here.
With the hobgoblins dealt with, Ausra turns her attention to helping Aubrin. Since of of the men gives Aubrin a healing potion, Aubrin waits to see how it affects it affects Aubrin's condition before using any magic of her own. If things are as bad as they sound outside, magical healing might soon be at a premium.