Remnants of Myth Lharast (IC)

[Languor]

19 Ches, Year of the Lost Keep (1379 DR)
Vernal Equinox
6 Bells in the Morning

LtPowers: A knock at the wooden door of your simple cell rouses you from your slumber as it echoes slightly off of the bare stone walls of your small chamber. The room could almost be a prison save for the large circular window set in the outer wall; when the sun has risen, bright light streams down through it onto your sleeping pad, but at present only the pale radiance of the stars shines through.

From the moment your eyes snap open you feel more than a little sore; the bedroll and blankets with which the temple provided you do almost nothing to soften the hard, uneven stone floor, which juts into your back. But your accommodations are no different from any of the priests at the Song of the Morning, the great fortress-temple to Lathander that watches over the town of Beregost. Besides, after many months of sleeping this way you've grown accustomed to a few muscle aches in the morning.

The door swings open, and you note with satisfaction that it does so silently; one of your duties at the temple has been to keep your room well organized and immaculately maintained, and you spent no small amount of time carefully oiling the aging hinges. The glow of a candle illuminates the chamber, though its bearer shields the flame with one hand to prevent the bright light from stinging your eyes, still accustomed to the dark and heavy with sleep. "Brother Jolan," a soft, uncertain voice whispers, "it's nearly dawn. Will you rise and pray with us?"

Though your Orcish blood has brought with it many hardships it is not without its advantages, and your eyes quickly adapt to see well even in the dimness. You behold Safiya, one of the acolytes, standing at the door. She is clad in the robes of the Lathanderites, their fabric streaked with the many colors that the rising sun scatters across the sky, but they are a little too large for her, and hang awkwardly from her lean frame; though nearing nineteen summers her figure is still slight and girlish, with none of the curves the robe is tailored to accommodate.

In all the winter months you spent in the Song of the Morning after your escape from the slavers you never heard Safia say more than a few sentences. The other priests, considerably more chatty (at times irritatingly so), told you that she hails from Dambrath, an oppressive kingdom far to the southeast, but other than that you know very little of her. More than anyone else she has always been uncomfortable around you, paladin or no.

You wonder at the fact that she of all people is here to wake you for the morning prayer; it seems likely that Erkimm, the grizzled but kindly senior priest who attends to daily affairs at the temple, sent her intentionally, for as you learned from Jela the Lathanderites believe in breaking down prejudices by forcing those who hold them to directly interact with those whom they discriminate against. In any case, you know you'd better get up and greet the rising sun with the others. Today is an important day, for the Vernal Equinox is a sacred time in the sight of the Morninglord, and there will be great festivals in both temple and town.

Mordae: "Look alive, lad! It'd be right embarrassin' if we'd be taken by highwaymen within sight a' town, na wouldn' it?" Mogun Granitefist, your employer, gives you a hearty slap on the back that nearly knocks you from your horse, reminding you for the millionth time how his ancestors must've earned the family name. Though it's not yet dawn, probably only six bells, he remains in good spirits; it probably has to do with the amount of beer he drank when you rose two hours ago to continue your journey after the sentries spotted a pack of worgs eyeing the sleeping caravan.

Short and possessed of enough gut for two men, and seated on a pony with the same dimensions, the Dwarf looks almost comical with his stubby fingers covered in ornate rings and his beard elaborately braided and threaded through silver ornaments. You think 'almost' because you've seen him pick up a full-grown Orc over his head and smash his foe straight through a solid oak table; most of that gut isn't fat but raw muscle.

Behind you, only dimly lit by carried torches and bouncing lanterns but clearly visible to you thanks to your Elven mother, Granitefist's caravan makes its way up the road, churning the ground dampened by last night's rainfall into thick mud. It was a fantastical array when you first beheld it after you were forced to flee Klive Disfall's collapsing criminal empire, and it remains an amazement to most who see it.

It's carried by an equal division of sturdy Cormyrian mules and camels from far Calimshan in the south; the latter beasts, unknown to you before the last few weeks, seem highly uncomfortable in the chill of the north, and are swaddled thickly in woven blankets. They bear baskets filled with what exotic wares they did not sell on their way through Amn, and since the definition of exotic becomes more broad with every mile they travel north they still carry a vast amount of exotic merchandise indeed.

Turning back to the road ahead, you see the spires of the Song of Morning, the great temple to Lathander in Beregost, rising up before you. If you've heard correctly, the church literally runs the town; the high priest is like the mayor, but with even more power and without any sort of popular election. Below the vast stone edifice, lit by lanterns that run the length of its mighty walls, the town itself hugs the path.

Built at the crossing of the road from Amn to Baldur's Gate and the road from Candlekeep into the Heartlands and the Sea of Fallen Stars beyond, it sees many caravans, though few so grand as the one with which you travel. After so many days on the road, sleeping on the ground and eating mostly dried fruit and stale biscuits, the thought of a hot meal and a soft bed is impossible to banish from your thoughts for even an instant now that the opportunity is right there in front of you. "So," Mogun says, pulling you from your thoughts, "I here ye be wantin' ta take yer leave 'f our merry band hereabouts. Don't suppose there's any way I can convince ye to stay on? Yer a good, reliable sort, lad, an' I hate ta lose ye."

Drogos: A rustling in the bushes nearby causes you to sit bolt upright, instantly awake and alert, though your head spins at the sudden transition from dreams to waking. Despite the light of the stars above, the night is oppressively dark, and your little campfire seems pitiful in comparison despite the work you've lavished on it; ever since you left your brother behind you've traveled alone, and you know the risks well.

Reflexively you throw a little more of the tinder you collected last night onto the diminishing flames, restoring them with a warm whoosh and a satisfying crackle. With no one to watch your back in these wild lands, fire has been your best (and at times your only) defense against the beasts that prowl at night, particularly while you sleep. Looking away from the fire, the little clearing in which you made camp seems far more menacing than it did when you laid down to rest; it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the fact that only a dim glow illuminates the bushes and tree trunks surrounding you.

The rustling comes again, and you tense, an invocation half-formed on your lips. But the source of the noise soon emerges, and your anxiety dies away: it's a plump rabbit, quivering nose tasting the air. In one fluid motion you draw your dagger and throw it, neatly skewering the animal and ending its life instantly and painlessly: breakfast.

Your parents, with their noses perpetually in books and their hands perpetually mixing potion vials or drawing esoteric formulae in chalk, never taught you how to live in the wild, and you still know precious little about it. But when the necessity arose you learned what you could, and you skin, gut, and clean your meal with practiced hands. This is, you hope, the last time you'll have to catch your own food for a while; the town of Beregost is close now, and you're sure you can find yourself an inn and play flute for a finer supper - and, perhaps, a chance to defame Carroway, which is equally appetizing.

You don't have the materials to assemble a spit, so you tie your breakfast onto a stick with bits of sinew and hold it over the fire, turning it to make sure that it cooks evenly; the last thing you need is to fall ill from undercooked food just before arriving in a good-sized town. Delicious smells arise from the roasting meat, causing your stomach to grumble; you imagine the spices your parents had easy access to with envy, imagining how much better they could make the meal, but you're too hungry to care too much.

Your westward journey has left you without trail rations, and you've lived off of what you've managed to forage for, which has almost always been less than you would've liked. Suddenly, you realize you're not alone; the succulent scent doesn't have only you enthralled. At the edge of the clearing a bright red-orange fox stands at attention, perfectly erect from its pointed ears to the tip of its raised tail. Its eyes never leave the roasting rabbit, though it makes no attempt to come closer, and after a moment it licks its muzzle hungrily.

Elves-as-People: You never understood why humans consider waking up so unpleasant. It's the first lucid thought that comes to mind as you break your restful trance, then stand and stretch limbs that have been sitting cross-legged for the past several hours. To you, waking up is an easy transition from pondering the thoughts of the old day to thinking the thoughts of the new one, and today is no exception.

You remember well the journeys that took you here, to Beregost; you came southwest, across Cormyr, past the hole in the ground that once marked the town of Tilverton, through the Sunset Mountains, all the way to the Sword Coast. You entered Beregost from the south, you remember; the Song of the Morning, the great fortified temple to Lathander that stands guard over the town below, amazed you, for you have long been accustomed to small towns with no wonders to boast of. And here you are, in Feldepost's Inn. The beds are soft, the food is good, and they even provide bathwater; it seems you chose well.

Reaching into your bags, you retrieve your spellbook, taking the time to study and prepare your spells for the day. You highly doubt that you'll actually need them; after all, you're in a civilized place with a vigilant town watch. Still, caution and force of habit compel you to memorize your spells regardless; nothing worrying has happened to you yet in all your journeys, but you'd like to be prepared if that suddenly changes.

With that accomplished, you wonder what to do with the day; it's only six bells in the morning or so, and the sun hasn't even risen yet. As you recall, today is the Vernal Equinox, and the clergy of Lathander considers it a high holy day. From what you heard at dinner last night, it seems that there'll be a huge festival in town all day, and folk come from all the neighboring villages to take part; perhaps there'll be something there to interest you.

A noise outside your window draws your attention: it sounds like an argument, and though that seems unlikely so early in the morning you become sure of it as you listen longer. "I don't know how you got in here, Orc, but you'll get no further! Stay back!" The voice has a note of panic in it, but also of resolve; you hear the sound of a sword being drawn.

A deep, guttural voice responds. "Please, calm yourself, human. I am not here to bring trouble. You can put away that little toy; you would already be dead if I willed it." "Is that a threat?" "No, a statement of fact. Now, you have no good reason to suspect me of any crime. Allow me to pass." "Never! Stand and fight, villain!" You're not sure how much longer the interchange can go on before someone's blood ends up on the street...

Nanoblack: The soft scratching sound of something sliding across the floor tears you from your sleep; in an instant you're out of bed, the sawtooth sabers you keep beside your pillow clutched in your hands, ready to dismember the intruder. But only silence greets you, and after a moment of listening and staring into the darkness of your small home, you relax. If there was an intruder, he or she is long gone, and if whoever it was had meant to kill you, you're almost certain you'd be dead.

Images of severed heads bearing the familiar faces of your parents, their countenances twisted in a mixture of pain, fear, and grief, leap to mind unbidden, and your fists clench so hard that the hilts of your swords leave discolorations on your palms when you finally force yourself to let go of the tension. Dead. Dead for no reason, like them. It angers you more than it frightens you, and you resolve to check your locks carefully; if someone got in, you want to know how, and how to stop them from doing it again. Blades still in hand, you examine the lone door and twin windows for any signs of forced entry.

To your relief, all the locks are still secure, and for a moment you think the sound was merely part of a half-remembered dream. But then you see it: a sheet of white parchment on the floor beside the front door. Someone must've slipped it through the doorframe. Picking it up, you light a candle and sit back on your bed to read it. It's folded in half and sealed with wax, forming an envelope out of itself. On the outside, written with red ink in an elegant, sloping hand, it reads, "Verraten".

Well, clearly it's addressed to you, though why they didn't use your given name you've no idea. Carefully breaking the seal, you a greeted by a longer message within. "He's nearby. One of us will meet you at the Equinox Festival at eleven bells, juggling and wearing a maroon sash. Be ready." At the bottom of the parchment, a coin with a distorted face is attached; you know instantly that it is the exact likeness of the one you received from the man in crimson leather five years ago.

Your heart beats faster. Could it finally be the promised day, the day you've awaited for five long years? Could the third man, the leader of the men who killed your mother and father, really be right here in Beregost, under your very nose? The Equinox Festival, sponsored by the priests of Lathander in the huge fortress-temple known as the Song of Morning that dominates the east side of town, is always a major event, drawing people from all the surrounding towns to dance and celebrate new life and the dawn of a new spring.

Finding anyone in the crowded festival will be difficult, but if you could take your vengeance at last... There's still several hours until eleven bells; the sun hasn't even risen yet. That gives you plenty of time to make whatever preparations you might need. But what will you need, and if you don't have it, where and how can you get it?

Calenestel: Beregost. Illuminated only by street lanterns and the vast but dim braziers of the huge fortress-temple known as the Song of the Morning that rises above it, the town is.. less than impressive in your sight. It's bigger, of course, than the little villages you've passed through, but after the splendors of Waterdeep, or even the bustling but carefully organized streets of Baldur's Gate, it seems little more than a stopover. Even the port of Daggerford had sturdy stone walls to defend it, but this place is little more than a jumble of roads, a cluster of stone buildings, and row upon row of simple thatched houses.

The temple stands on the other side of the road, as though its great stone majesty is edging away from the town below as a nobleman would from a dimwitted and embarrassing cousin. Still, your horse is weary, and so are you; you have ridden through the wee hours of the night in the hopes of finding a soft bed rather than sleeping another night on the cold, hard roadside.

"Well," your companion, Qoros, says matter-of-factly, "I never promised that the Sword Coast was all wonders." He brings his own horse up beside yours, the dim light of his travel lantern illuminating a jolly face dirtied by several days of travel. When you declared your intent to ride across the North rather than return to Calimshan by ship, the priestesses of Mystra insisted that you not go alone, telling you that the roads were plagued by bandits who would pick off lone travelers; for reasons too vile to think about, young ladies were preferred targets.

So they sent Qoros with you. The young man, a priest of Oghma, was traveling to Candlekeep to study there, and he agreed to go a little out of his way to see you safely to Beregost. Though you were initially disheartened by what seemed a restriction on your freedom of movement, you soon discovered that Qoros has much the same fascination with the Weave that you do, and the two of you often discussed the ways of magic late into the night.

"Well, you can get a caravan to pretty much anywhere from here, including back to Calimshan." The prospect sobers the normally cheerful cleric a bit, but he manages a smile. "Though I'm not leaving for Candlekeep until tomorrow, so... if you change your mind..." He smiles and shrugs, then digs his knees into his horse, bringing the tried animal to a trot. You follow, and after a moment the pace picks up to a canter; the horses smell stable hay and the prospect of rest.

For a while you simply ride, feeling the wet spring breeze against your face as the black sky to the east slowly turns to deep purple. It's well under a mile to the city limits when Qoros's horse slows, then stops. "What's the matter," he asks in a soothing tone, reaching down to pat the gray mare's neck. And then the animal rears, nearly throwing him from the saddle, and turns back from the road. When he looks at you, his face is suddenly pale, utterly devoid of his customary humor. As your horse stops as well, he simply points before dismounting; an elderly woman, still moaning feebly, lies in the middle of the road. The three foot shaft of a barbed spear protrudes from her back.

[Mordae]

Eloic smiles and offers his own slap on the back; it barely makes a dent on Mogun's jerkin, let alone causes him to move. "I appreciate the offer, boss, but I doubt you want to spare the coin to keep a master wizard on retainer just for the purpose of training me. Who knows, maybe I'll be back begging for a job after a couple of weeks of roughing it. But... right now, I've got to stretch my legs a bit. Thank you for everything." He reaches out his hand to say goodbye to a good friend.

[LtPowers]

"Brother Jolan," a soft, uncertain voice whispers, "it's nearly dawn. Will you rise and pray with us?"

"By the light, Sister, I would not dream of missing it," responds the half-Orc. Less formally, he confides, "I'm eager to see how the temple's celebrations differ from our Equinox back home." He's already up and gathering the supplies for his morning ablutions.


Jolan

[Languor]

Mordae: Mogun sighs, but nods. "T'was me pleasure, lad; I'll not find someone as good with a blade to replace ye on the whole rest of me way, I'll wager. If ye ever need a place to stay 'n be in friendly company, ask after me an' I'll see what I can do for ye." Taking your offered hand in one of his own thickly-calloused ones, he gives a quick, firm shake. When the gesture is broken, the you find a smooth, lustrous black pebble in his hand. "Keep it," Mogun advises, a twinkle in his eye. "It's helped me out 'a dark spots before, mayhap it'll do the same for ye. The word is 'radiance', so ye know. Good luck finding yer wizard." With one last, fatherly smile, he digs his knees into his pony and returns to the front of the caravan.

Soon you reach the outskirts of Beregost; the first rays of the rising sun illuminate the thatched roofs of the town as you arrive, but most of the populace is still sleeping, though the particularly devout have lined the streets to greet the dawn on this sacred day of the god Lathander. The quartermaster rides by to give you your pay of thirty gold before moving on to the next mercenary; it's generous enough, ten times what a commoner would make in the same period of time, and meals were provided free of charge during the northward trek. At any rate, you have what you have, and it's time to move on. Though only a few shops are open at this early hour, the local inns are probably accustomed to travelers at such an unusual time, and you could take time to rest if you wanted.

From your current position you can readily see the ruins of the school of magic that once stood on the hills just east of the town, at the very foot of the rise where the mighty Song of the Morning now stands. It is marked by leaning pillars and blackened stones eerily illuminated by flickering lights with no discernible source. The doorway leading down into the depths of the ruin is chained shut and secured with a heavy lock, though scratches all over the metal indicate that many have tried to gain unauthorized entry over the years. It's likely that the Lathanderites, as the official local government, control all access.

LtPowers: Safiya nods hesitantly, which is probably her best effort at conversing; when you finish gathering your supplies, she leads you through the stone corridors of the fortress-temple in silence, never making eye contact. The awkward period of travel ends when she opens an iron door to the ramparts, stepping back to allow you to go through. You are greeted by the chill breezes of early morning; the sky is only beginning to turn from absolute darkness to a deep purple, but already easily a hundred clerics of Lathander line the top of the wall, eagerly watching the eastern horizon. Erkimm stands at the front of the assembled throng, his wrinkled hands folded in front of him as he calmly waits for the sun to rise.

A light tap on your shoulder causes you to turn back to Safiya. She holds a silver handbell out to you, handle first. "It's customary to welcome the sun back after his long absence in winter," she mumbles, "with a gift of music." As you look out over the assembled crowd you see that every member bears a bell, though the instruments vary in shape, size, and material. You're not sure when they plan to sound the bells, though you can understand why they act as though the sun is gone in winter; even more so than in Waterdeep thick fog descends here during the cold months, weakening the sun's rays. It's only by around the time of the Equinox that the sun becomes commonly visible again, making this day doubly sacred.

[Nanoblack]

Messer

Messer heads out for a hearty breakfast, not wanting to spoil this evenings events by being forgetful. Afterwards he heads off to the tailor to purchase some holiday appropriate attire. If he has any time left, he'll head to the festival area to get a feel for where everything is located.

If appropriate, he'd like to get some entertainers attire and a mask. If something would be more suitable, he would get that instead, but also get something to conceal his face. Another important part of his attire will be a large cloak, enough to hide all if his equipment.

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Pulling at the reins to stop Zamira, as she called her black filly, Galilah takes in the new sights with hungry eyes. She's still not used to riding, but at least it's not a source of constant pain any more. She were so saddlesore when they reached Baldur's Gate that the only way she had been able to wander the city had been a healing spell, one of the most powerfull she could manage. It hadn't even made her feel guilty, to waste a spell on herself like that. Only relieved. Now, with her body growing accustomed to the rigors of travel she is much more capable of appreciating the new town than she would have been. And despite it being much, much less impressive than Calimport, or Waterdeep or Baldur's Gate, she still studied Beregost with a content smile on her face. "But it is, Qoros!" the priestess hesitates and then flashes the Oghmite a friendly grin before continuing. "Granted, it's not a wonderful wonder. It's a... commonplace wonder." And that was a truth in her eyes. She had never seen a town like this. For the Oghmite it might be so ordinary that it grew dull and tedious. But to her it was new and vibrant. And there was a feel in the air... of preparation and anticipation. She could somewhat feel it even at the distance. There was to be a feast today, of course it would. And the town prepared for it. Suddenly less interested in rest but all the more eager to see how these Northeners celebrated spring she quickly gets her mount in motion as the Oghman priest picks up the pace. She is actually a bit tempted to follow Qoros to Candlekeep. It was a place of magic and learning, she had known that much even before meeting the man. People mentioned it often in Waterdeep. Had she followed Azuth she probably would have. But the Lady of Mysteries, not the Lord of Spells, were her Mistress and she felt a duty to return home, where Her voice were seldom heard as much as Azuth's. And Qoros knows that by now.

When Qoros' horse starts acting up so does Zamira and for a short while Galilah's lack of riding experience shows clearly: all she can do is try and stay in the saddle even though the filly isn't bucking as much as Qoros' mare. When she finally finds her balance the Oghmite is already pointing at something. With a sinking feeling in her stomach Galilah turns in the direction indicated. What she sees makes her blanch considerably. "Mystra have mercy!" Struggling with reins and stirrups the priestess still does a fair job to dismount as fast as she can and hurries to the woman, already readying a prayer to the Lady to convert a divination spell she had requested into a minor spell of healing. Kneeling by the unfortunate she intones the correct words, almost singing them, moves her hands through the right gestures and then gently strokes the womans back, a small amount of healing magic settling into the woman, keeping her alive.
Of course, Galilah isn't done yet and with a grim face she reaches for the spear, a new spell already on her mind. This might hurt the elderly woman but she couldn't just leave the spear in her back. And with a second, more powerful spell ready it should be all right. "Qoros! Do you see anyone?" Anyone who might have done this... If bandits lay in waiting now she were woefully exposed.

Dismount check to see if I can get out of the saddle as a free action. If so: move action to the old woman and standard action to spontaneously cast Cure Minor Wounds, sacrificing Detect Magic.

[roll0]
Woot! Nat. 20! :smallbiggrin:

[LtPowers]

Jolan eagerly takes the handbell and, well aware of his height, finds a place among the congregants where he's certain not to block anyone's view of the sun. He makes sure Safiya is likewise in a position where she can see before turning to the east -- content, for today, to just be one of many celebrating the beginning of a new year, together.

In the back of his mind, however, remains the thought that perhaps this day of new beginnings should also be the beginning of the next leg of his personal journey. Perhaps today he would begin the preparations for returning home to Waterdeep.


Jolan

[Elves-as-People]

Ariel swiftly rises, graceful steps in an unfamiliar dance, and gathers her things with fluid, sweeping gestures. After quickly scanning the room to assure she's missed nothing, she rushes outside, with brisk, light steps. She searches for the arguing pair with a hand to her bow.
What's this, then?

[Drogos]

Seeing the healthy looking fox licking its lips, Morthos smiles and chuckles, despite his usual attitudes towards small, defenseless animals. Foxes were clever, cunning creatures, much like himself, and they lived well in the forest by not being the biggest, fiercest animal around but by outsmarting their foes and trusting their survival instincts. He could tell by looking at the animal that it was by no means starving for it had a fully, bright coat of fur and the movements of a well, oiled mechanism. Still, it came to his fire with its sad, little eyes and perked little ears, playing up its "cuteness" for a free meal that it could easily have caught on its own. Such boldness amused Morthos and he appreciated how the animal was trying to play him.

He tears off a chunk of cooked rabbit flesh and tosses it in the general direction of the fox.

Just so you know, you little scoundrel, I didn't fall for your little ruse. I reward you because I appreciate the work of a fellow con artist and applaud your boldness in approaching someone who could just as easily have fried you where you stood. Bravo...

With that he takes out his flute and starts to play. While he wasn't the natural musician his brother was, hard work and determination had made him decent enough with his instrument. If he was going to continue to use his brother's identity he would have to keep up the appearance that he was a Bard. And what Bard isn't proficient with an instrument? As he plays he wonders how far it is to the next town. Foraging was getting old.

[Languor]

OOC Note: ((Sorry for the delay, folks; to make a long story short, my weekend got a lot busier than I thought it would. I've posted for the characters whose stories I've advanced between crazinesses, but I'm a little too tired to continue with the others tonight; I'll get it done tomorrow. Again, my apologies.))

Nanoblack: What passes for a good breakfast in Beregost - baked turnips and rabbit stew - is easy enough to find; the town has several inns, and they never turn away paying customers, even ones who arrive this early in the morning. The Red Sheaf is known for its fast service, so you head there, hand over three silver coins, and scarf down your good-sized portion. Finding a tailor at this early hour proves more difficult; the sun is only just beginning to peek over the horizon, and most shopkeepers are still abed. It takes a while, but you eventually manage to search out an old peddler who's scouting out the festival grounds for a place to hawk his wares.

"Entertainer's attire, you say? Cutting it a little close, there, lad; the festival starts in an hour or so. But I can help you. What strikes your fancy?" The old man sets down his pack and withdraws several clean, neatly-folded sets of garments, along with several brass bangles and a pair of tambourines. "I tailored these myself; the fabric comes all the way from Narfell, the finest linen that place has to offer. They are mobile but elegant, and I must request the sum of five gold pieces for a set. The bangles are five silver a set, and a tambourine is the same low price." There are three sets of clothes in total, one black and embroidered in twisting patterns with silver thread, one red with a yellow sun embroidered on the chest, and one blue with intertwining red and yellow designs running all across it.

Calenestel: Perhaps all those days of hard riding are really beginning to pay off, because it's clear that you've learned a thing or two about horses in your time in the north; with one pull on the reigns and an assertive clenching of your feet in the stirrups you quiet Zamira, then leap lightly and easily from the saddle, ending up at the old woman's side in the blink of an eye. She's a terrible sight to behold, especially up close; her wrinkled skin is pallid, her breathing shallow, and a trickle of blood from one corner of her downturned mouth has become a small pool in the mud beside her head. She doesn't react to your presence at all; you suspect the fight for life is consuming all of her energy and occupying all of her awareness. She coughs violently at your gentle touch, but the trickle of blood ceases.

Though obviously shaken, Qoros is never one to lose his head, no matter the situation. Managing at last to quiet his horse, he removes the travel lantern hanging from her saddlebags and lifts it to eye level, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword. After a few tense moments of gazing at the trees and shrubs that flank the road, he lowers the light. "I don't see anyone," he murmurs, then kneels on the other side of the old woman to examine her wound. "It could've been worse," he says as levelly as he can manage, peering at the spear's entry point. "It missed her spine." A quizzical look comes over his features, and he gently moves the woman's arm aside. "It wasn't bandits," he says, face hardening again. "They left behind her coinpurse. This was sheer malice."

Swearing quietly at the thought of what kind of monster would impale someone's grandmother for the hell of it, the young Oghmite stands again to keep watch. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots, and the bushes along the roadside rustle in a cold wind; though the first rays of dawn are beginning to peek over the horizon, the path seems much more exposed and the wilderness much more frightening than either did a moment ago.

((OOC: Congratulations on your natural 20. It didn't do much due to the nature of the action, but every 20 should be special, so from now on you may apply a +2 bonus to any ride checks you make while riding Zamira; you've shown your horse who's boss, and she trusts you instinctively.))

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Breathing a sigh of relief the Mystran priestess relaxes a little. Hopefully the ambush would already have been sprung if the woman was only the bait. She had heard of bandits using tactics like that in Calimshan, taking people prisoners in raids or abducting them from the poorest quarters of a town, like the one where she was born in in Calimport, and leaving them greviously wounded along a caravan trail to fool good hearted travellers to stop and help, and making themselves into easier targets. "Good. Keep watch and I'll get her back to her feet."
Clenching her jaw the woman tries to steel herself in what would have to come next. Smaller objects, like an arrow head, would have been pushed out by a healing spell. But she wasn't sure about a spear. She would have to remove it by hand, possibly hurting the woman again. She keeps her face blank, devoid of emotions, but her blue, intelligent eyes are showing clearly her feelings: nausea and horror. Still Galilah keeps her hands steady as she tears a bit of the woman's skirts of and with slow and careful movements she pulls the weapon out, immediately putting the cloth firmly against the wound with one hand while she starts to trace the correct gestures in the air with the other. The spear falls to the ground, dropped like something unclean. These gestures are more complicated, not by much and nowhere near what a wizard would have to pull off, but still more complicated, her words are more singsong as she chants another spell. A prayer of healing as well as leniency that she would cast aside what she had prepared to complete something more urgent.

Move action: Carefully removing the spear.
Standard action: Spontaneously cast Cure Light Wounds, loosing Summon Monster I for it.

[roll0]

Edit: D'oh! I'm going to have to burn another spell next turn. :smallwink:

On another note: Yay for a riding bonus!! :smallbiggrin:

[Nanoblack]

Messer

"I've always preferred silver over gold, that one will do. I'll also be taking a pair of bangles and a tambourine, but I'd like a mask to go with everything. I'll hardly make a fool out of myself tonight just so everyone can mock me tomorrow." He lays the payment for his purchase on the counter, but his hand lingers next to his money pouch expectantly.

[Mordae]

Eloic looks down at his hand, shocked, and then back up at the dwarf. His green eyes are misty with gratitude, and he clutches the little black pearl tightly as he says, rather simply, "Thanks again. I won't forget you."

Then, having nothing else to say, he raises his empty hand in farewell and heads off into town. He collects his pay in passing, but spending the hard-earned coin is not on his mind at the moment. He simply wanders up the streets, iistening to the morning sights and sounds, his mind open to the new possibilities that surround him. It is a good day to be free...

[Languor]

((OOC: Will edit this tomorrow to include Mordae.))

LtPowers: You position yourself carefully, ending up along the back row, though your height allows you to easily see over the crowd of priests in front of you. It takes a moment, but you spy a good spot for Safiya as well. She gives you a little half-smile beneath her dark eyes, the biggest expression of emotion you've ever seen from her, before turning away to take her place. Though the night air is chilly, the bell is warm in your hands; it's tradition to warm them by one of the temple's many braziers before distributing them so that they can properly welcome the sun. But those braziers are now being extinguished, their lights flickering out one by one, so that you can see the full glory of the coming sunrise, undiluted by any other lights.

The sky has turned from starry darkness to a deep purple, and as you watch that fades to a dark pink. As the first orange rays break over the horizon the assembled congregation tenses, raising their stilled bells. And then the tiniest fraction of the sun's blinding disk inches above the distant trees of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. You know instantly and unconsciously that this is the time; every bell peals in perfect unison, yours among them, and their many notes blend into one moment of perfect harmony. And then it passes. The solemnity is broken; joyful laughter breaks out across the many suppliants of the Morninglord as they pass a golden chalice one to another, each taking a sip. After a moment you find the grizzled Erkimm beside you, offering the cup.

"Drink, brother Jolan; share in our joy for renewed life." He smiles, his mirthful eyes dancing, but after a moment they focus in on you intently. "And then we may discuss the journey I suspect you are contemplating."

Elves-as-People: You open the window and gaze down at the scene below, a question on your lips. In the alley just beside the inn, a young human dressed in chainmail bearing Beregost's colors clutches a drawn sword in both hands; he's no more than twenty summers, and the tip of the weapon quivers as he holds it. It's pointed at a hulking, grey-skinned Orc, who bears poorly-tanned leather armor and a pair of axes strapped to his back. "This... this... marauder thought he could just walk into town," the young man shouts in response to your question. The Orc, still calm, rolls his eyes. "Please," he says in his rough voice. "Where in your code of laws does it say you should attack on sight anyone you don't like the look of?"

Fed up with the delay, the musclebound nonhuman takes a step forward. The young guard, panic on his features, swipes clumsily at the approaching man. What happens next is almost too quick for the eye to follow. The Orc slaps the flat of the blade aside with the palm of his hand, throwing the downward strike away from him with such force that the sword flies from the human's sweat-slickened fingers, then twists under the raised arm, grabs it, and flips his attacker over without effort, armor and all. A great clatter-thunk echoes up from the alley, though next to the speed of the deed it seems almost late. "Tell me," the Orc says, looking up at you, "were I one of your kind, would I have come to all this trouble? I think not." The guard, winded, gasps for breath.

Drogos: The fox tilts its jaw upward ever so slightly, then opens wide and clamps shut on the thrown piece of meat within a single breath. With a casual flick of its tail it turns from you and vanishes back into the bushes, padding away on silent paws. By the time you remove your flute from its case you're sure it's long gone. It's eerie, playing the instrument out in the wild; the accompaniment to the soft, sweet notes that emanate from it is the swaying of the trees in the wind and the chirps of the first morning birds mixing with the last hoots of the owls. You cannot play as well as your brother, at least not consistently, but you soon become reasonably sure that small-town folk won't easily detect the different.

Turning your thoughts to the journey ahead of you, you wonder how far it is to Beregost; after a few moments of quick calculation, you determine that it will take perhaps an hour to walk there if you cut close to the Wood of Sharp Teeth, twice that if you stick to the road. Whatever you decide, you know that the town in well within reach, and your arrival couldn't be better timed; from what you've heard, Beregost is run by the local temple of Lathander, and they consider today (the Vernal Equinox) one of their high holy days. You're sure there will be huge celebrations, and a visiting entertainer would fit in perfectly with all the other visitors intending to take part in the festivities. As you contemplate your decision, the first rays of the rising sun peek over the horizon; soon night will have faded away entirely.

Calenestel: Qoros is silent as he keeps watch, his vigilant eyes scanning the area for any sign of who might've done this. He averts his eyes as you do your grisly work, but rests a steadying hand on your shoulder. The spear slides out with a wet, vile squelch, and only though the quick application of the cloth do you keep the bloody wound from bubbling up anew. Having cast your spell, you pull the cloth away; the wound has closed and bleeds no longer, but it's still an ugly mar on the flesh, and you suspect that internal damage still lingers. Unless you can heal her further, or quickly find someone who can, the old woman won't survive another hour. Bending down to try to give her a drink of water, Qoros discovers that she has passed out again, probably from the pain of the weapon being withdrawn.

Your eyes are drawn to the spear. It's heavy in both wood and blade, probably meant to be used from horseback. The two barbs on either side of the blade, as well as the thickness of the blade itself, indicate that it's a hunting spear; you'd guess it's for use against boar, but it's big enough to give a full-grown bear trouble. The old woman is only alive at all because the spear sank only partway in, not reaching the barbs; it's as if someone let go in the act of impaling her, or perhaps even threw the weapon, though that would require tremendous strength. Her head is bruised from where she hit the road, indicating that she fell hard after being struck, but you see no other marks on her. Then you notice it: the other side of the spear's blade bears a crest that probably denotes its owner, though you don't recognize it.

Nanoblack: "Excellent choice, sir, excellent choice." The peddler sweeps the offered payment into his hand, and the coins almost instantly disappear into one of his many pockets. He hands over the garments you selected, which are wonderfully soft and supple, then removes an ornate mask in matching black with silver trim from his pack. The tambourine, too, is of good quality, with a pleasing sound, and the bangles make a satisfying jangle when shaken. "I believe that's all you asked for, sir, though perhaps I can be of further service?" He smiles widely, revealing several missing teeth.

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Never hesitating one moment the mystran priestess sacrifices her second prepared spell of some power, a summoning spell to call a celestial animal to her side. It meant that she were getting awfully short on magic to aid her. But on the other hand, she wasn't even sure the old woman would survive the short journey into town without it. Again she sings her prayer to Mystra, moving her hands through the correct patterns, and is awarded with a new healing spell.
The spear she only casually looks at, but she does notice the crest on the spearhead. Well, that means that it's worth saving. She could hopefully ask about it in town. And hopefully the crest didn't belong to anyone too powerful. That would be problematic.

Another Cure Light Wounds then, Galilah wouldn't dream of moving the woman before she felt confident she would actually survive it and the trip. Sacrificing Summon Monster I for it.

[roll0] (Edit: D'oh. But now at least she'll hopefully have a hitpoint? Otherwise I guess it's down to the Cure Minor Wounds. :smallsigh:)

[LtPowers]

Jolan sips from the chalice, careful not to gulp more than his share. Passing the cup, he looks to the aging Lathanderite with wonder at his insight. "There is no hurry, Father Erkimm," he says respectfully. "Today is a day of celebration, after all. But it is true I have given thought to beginning something new, and I would be honored to receive your counsel on it."


Jolan

[Nanoblack]

Messer

"No that will be all, sir. Thank you" He takes his leave for the festival grounds now; hopefully this would give him an edge in tonights events. All of these years alone hadn't made him bitter like one would expect, but everyone has wants and needs, and he wanted to balance the scales from his past more than anything.

He dreamily imagined life without this brooding weight on his shoulders. Maybe he would open up a shop of his own, or instead tag along with the man in red. Who could possibly know what amazing things he did everyday? After all of this time, he truly admired that man and wanted to be like him. "Yeah, that's what I'll do..."

[Drogos]

Morthos was willing to deal with the wilderness for an hour or so long if it meant getting him to Beregost quicker. The fact that it is probably more dangerous than the road does not concern him, hes in the mood for a little violence after trudging through this blasted woods for so long. Next time he would be sure to buy (or steal) a map.

He gathers his possessions and gets ready to leave, making no real effort to make sure his fire is completely out, ignoring the traditional camper's etiquette. A little forest fire never hurt anyone, except for the forest itself and everything in it. Morthos chuckles to himself and walks towards the shorter path to the town.

[Languor]

Mordae: The sun is rising over the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and the lanterns of night are being extinguished everywhere you look as you make your way through the streets. You can already tell that the town is much busier than normal; there are too many people roaming its streets too early for them all to be normal inhabitants. Peddlers set up their shops on the main roads, hoping to catch the main rush of traffic, but most are too engrossed in their preparations to try and get you to buy anything. After several minutes you spy the central fairground. It's an open park just below the awe-inspiring bulk of the Song of the Morning, and it's already bustling with activity. Colorful tents and a wooden stage are rapidly rising into the early morning sky.

The swiftest peddlers have set up shop between the colorful tents, their wooden booths filled with everything from pots and pans to swords and shields. You spot a few agents of the caravan setting up shop; local peasants have already arrived to gawk at the fine Cali****e cloth you guarded on its journey north. Musicians strut around the park, preparing the instruments that will soon earn them their lunch. Delicious smells waft from handcarts laden with freshly-baked bread; one enterprising vendor loudly hawks honey-coated hazelnuts. As you watch the young woman stride across the street, singing her advertisement, you hear the dull thunder of hoofbeats behind you; turning, you spy a pair of riders trying to regain control of their mounts. One of them, a young man on a grey mare, is headed straight for the lady vendor...

((You are crossing paths with Calenestel, and should read her posts from now on.))

Calenestel: Your second healing spell closes the puckered wound completely, new skin appearing where only a thin scab had held before. Still, it hasn't done as much as you would've liked; a twisted scar will be left at the weapon's entry point, and you suspect weeks of rest will be required before the old woman is recovered enough to even move about. That's assuming you get her into town, for out in the wild she will still surely die. Knowing this as well as you do, Qoros gently lifts her onto the back of his horse. "We'll have to go slowly," he says, his face grim. "She's got no way to hold on, and I don't want to make any lingering internal damage any worse."

You lift the heavy spear and tie it to your saddlebags; there's no easier way to take it with you unless you want to ride into town looking ready for a joust. With nothing left for you on the road, you mount Zamira and prepare to head for town. Yet both horses are skittish again; perhaps the lingering smell of blood? And then you hear it: hoofbeats. Someone is coming towards you at a full gallop, not from the road but from amid the bushes by the roadside. The smell of old gore hits your nostrils, and you hear a sword clearing its sheath. Before you can react, Zamira plunges away toward Beregost, the whites of her eyes fully exposed; Qoros's mare is likewise dashing away from the mysterious rider, and it's all he can do to keep the old woman (and himself) from falling from the saddle.

As you reach the outskirts of town the hoofbeats behind you drop away, and you manage to regain control of Zamira; Qoros, trying to do more than he can handle, isn't so lucky. His mare plunges ahead through the streets, headed straight for an open part at the foot of the mighty Song of the Morning that must be the fairground. You've no time to examine the sight, for the first orange and gold rays of morning reveal that your companion's horse is headed straight for a young woman in the middle of crossing the street!

((You are crossing paths with Mordae, and should read his posts from now on.))

LtPowers: Ekrimm smiles even more broadly; though his teeth are worn, and several are missing, he still looks kindly and benevolent. "It is indeed a day to celebrate, and I would not rush you to any course of action. Come, will you walk with me?" As the chalice continues to make its rounds the aged priest turns to stride along the battlements of the Song of the Morning. Dawn has come indeed, and there is no more need for torches; even without your enhanced sight you suspect you could see fine by now. It's still chilly, especially with all the braziers extinguished, but the remembered frigidity of the ship's hold in which you were held prisoner not so long ago makes the morning feel positively balmy by comparison.

"Jolan," Ekrimm begins, "I doubt your journeys have ever been easy; people are quick to judge you no matter what is in your heart, and where the undeserving often receive trust freely, you, although deserving, must work for the same. That you have done these past months, and we are honored to have you among us." He halts, his wrinkled hands grasping the edge of the outer wall, and gazes out at Beregost. "Alas, the Morninglord does not call us to his service so that we may sit contently wherever our heart desires. There is much work to be done, much light to spread across the world, and I believe you have an important part in that grand mission." He turns back to you, his smile a little sad. "I can guide you no further; you sense this, I can see it in you."

Letting that sink in for a moment, the priest sweeps out a hand to encompass the town below. "This place is a gateway for you, and I don't know where it will lead you. Perhaps you will return to Waterdeep, or perhaps you will find a worthy cause to champion. What I can tell you is this: attend this festival this morning. I think it will give you guidance as to where next your journey should take you." He lays a hand on your shoulder. "Perhaps I will see you there, for my path leads that way also. But whatever happens, know this: you will always have a place here. If you should return, you will be greeted with open arms."

Nanoblack: Your garments purchased, you leave the vendor behind and wander the fairground, getting an idea of the layout. It's a large open park at the foot of the mighty Song of the Morning, filled with a jumble of colorful tents and wooden booths. A large wooden stage is being assembled just in front of the temple; musicians strut around it, preparing their instruments, as do dancers and acrobats clad in attire much like what you just bought. All sorts of goods are on display in the nearby booths, ranging from cooking supplies to arms and armor, and the festival hasn't even started in earnest yet. You're sure it'll start soon, though; the orange-gold rays of dawn have emerged from behind the Wood of Sharp Teeth, and the town watch is extinguishing the lanterns that light the town by night, for they are no longer needed.

It's a still a long time until eleven bells, but you see several options on which you could spend the remaining hours. Not far away, a gaudy sign in fancy print declares: "Knife-Throwing Contest! One Gold to Enter! Big Winnings Possible!" Next to it a middle-aged, completely bald Halfling casually juggles three knives, giving you a wink when you look his way. You're a fair hand with a knife; you might be able to make up the cost of breakfast and clothes if you entered. Then again, it might be wiser to thoroughly scout the fairground, committing the layout to memory; that would make it a lot easier to navigate when you start looking for the people you seek. Or you could try to integrate yourself among the performers; if you start now they won't be as suspicious as if you arrive late.

Drogos: The Wood of Sharp Teeth soon presses in on you from all sides; though you're not very far in, you already can't see the border. The forest is thick not only with trees but with hanging moss, though you find travel relatively easy going despite the lack of visibility; well-worn game trails ensure that there are no thorny bushes in your way, and though your occasionally stumble over a root you never have to slow down. The sun is rising behind you, but its weak rays, masked by the canopy of branches above, do little to warm your back. The forest is even colder than the road, though there's no good reason for it. It's also eerily quiet; birdsong is rarer than it should be, setting your nerves on edge. The bushes rustle frequently, and you feel a thousand eyes on you, but no creature crosses your path.

After some time of walking the game trail you're following widens into a clearing before continuing on the other side. One giant tree holds the center of the space, its gnarled roots stretching across the whole area and its thick branches, covered in new spring buds, blocking out the sun; the rest of the forest keeps to an even circle around it, as though fearful to trespass on the territory of this ancient giant. And then you see something else: a wiry Elf, dressed in leather armor, is standing in front of the tree. At least, that's what you think at first. An instant later you realize the grisly truth: the Elf has been run through with a serrated scimitar and pinned to the tree like a bug in a mage's study. Two crows perch on his shoulders, eagerly partaking of the grim feast set before them.

[Drogos]

Morthos approaches the impaled elf in the clearing with caution. He draws his knife knowing full well that it pales in comparison to the dark energies he wields. He walks up to the elf and inspects the body. He pokes through the layers of leather for anything useful as he does.

Spot: [roll0]

[Drogos]

OOC: Oops also does a search as well.

Search: [roll0]

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Eloic & Languor
Seeing Qoros' horse speed towards the young woman Galilah pales considerably. "Mystra Yḩmynā!" she cries at the sky, but The Lady of Mysteries have a tendency to let her followers solve their own problems. Especially mundane ones.
So Her priestess moves on to yell at the people ahead: "Look out! Wild horse!!" She finishes with a decidedly less pious: "Al-Lʻnh" before spurring Zamira on, trying to get up on the side of Qoros' mare. The side where she wasn't going to ride the other woman down herself. Hoping to catch up in time she stretches for the reins, ready to pull hard to the left and use Zamira's weight to force the other horse aside. Hopefully without toppling them all. That wouldn't be good for their patient.

Some ride checks then, if the DM wants to use them (probably in order). (She really gets some training here! :smalltongue:):
[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]

Edit: I don't think it's going to cut it. :smallannoyed:
It's all down to Eloic then. No pressure. There's only a life at the line. :smallbiggrin:

[LtPowers]

Jolan smiles broadly at the aged cleric, for once not worrying about the look of his prominent canines. He thanks Ekrimm genuinely for the counsel, wishes him a bright and warm day, and returns to his sparse quarters with a light heart.

He dresses in his sturdy traveling leathers, the only casual clothes he owns, and tries to make himself look as presentable as possible. He takes a long look at the finely crafted longsword hanging on the back of the chair before deciding that a festival is no place for weaponry. As an added advantage, an unarmed half-Orc would surely be less threatening than one with a sword.

Silently, he curses himself for once again letting the reactions of others control his behavior. Although not without justification, it's a habit he's been wanting to break, especially so since the residents of Beregost were mostly aware of his presence at the temple. Nonetheless, he leaves the sword, confident it will be unneeded during the course of a festival day in a well-guarded city.

He does, however, take his holy symbol, ensuring that the rising sun emblem is clearly visible on the outside of his leathers. He is proud of his faith, especially on a high holy day such as this, and an outward symbol of devotion will help spread the faith, even if just a little bit.

The fact that the townsfolk -- and the many visitors from outside Beregost, those who had not heard of the strange half-Orc residing at the temple -- would immediately recognize the symbol as one signifying benevolent intent was merely coincidental, he tells himself.

Any concerns fall away when Jolan emerges, squinting, from the temple and into the morning sun. The day is clear, and that bodes well both for the weather and as an omen for the year to come. The sounds of festival preparations greet his ears, and he makes his way down the hill to find a hearty breakfast.


Jolan

[Mordae]

Eloic turns to look at the sound and freezes as he sees the two horses bearing down. He spots the vendor out of the corner of his eye and realizes she is in far greater danger. Muscles coil and respond almost instantly, without thinking, the years of guard duty having trained him to react to this very situation when mounted bandits attack. "Look out!" he calls to the vendor and dives at her.


Intention is to grab the vendor and roll such that Eloic lands on the ground first to cushion the fall.

Tumble check: [roll0]

[Nanoblack]

Messer

He casually smiled when the halfling winked at him, but otherwise ignored him. He had better things to do than play carnival games, at least for now. Even with the lure of money, that wasn't something he was particularly short on. Instead he opted to search the grounds; knowledge of the surroundings would play a big part in tonights events.

[Languor]

Drogos: The crows abandon their perches as you approach, taking wing with indignant cries as they are forced to relinquish their feast. The Elf's short-cropped blond hair, matted with blood that is almost certainly his, moves ever so slightly in the cold morning wind. The wound around the scimitar is long dried and showing signs of rot; you'd guess the corpse has been here two or three days, though it's strange that no scavengers have made a meal of it given how many wolves haunt these woods. He was relatively young by Elven standards, under a hundred and fifty years old, and his well-kept armor and short hair indicate that he was probably a member of a military organization. A broken bow lies at his feet, and an empty scabbard at his side indicates that the sword with which he is pierced was his own.

Eyes alert for whoever might've done this deed, you rifle through his pockets; after all, it's not like he needs any of his possessions any more. A scabbard is sewn into the inside of his leather jacket, and still contains a sharp dagger devoid of any maker's mark. The same is true of the scimitar; whoever made the blades didn't want them to be easily traceable. The warrior carried a leather satchel containing a whetstone and several days worth of jerky, nuts, and dried fruit. His coinpurse, if he had one, is missing, though he bears a bronze band on his right index finger. As you bend down to look at it, you notice something else: there's a mark on his lolling head. Raising his dead gaze to meet your own with one hand, you see that the image of a curled claw has been carved into his forehead with grotesque precision.

A flicker of movement catches your eye, and you let the head drop, twisting to face whatever lurks at the edge of your vision. A regal man in black robes, easily half again as tall as your are, stands to the left of the tree, regarding you with wide, lidless eyes that are pits of utter blackness. A pair of antlers, each as long as your arm, reach straight up from his bald head. He opens his mouth, revealing double rows of pointed fangs, and speaks in a voice that makes the spring morning feel like the harshest night of midwinter.

"There is a thing that nothing is,
And yet it has a name,
It's something tall and something short,
Joins our sport, and plays at every game.
What do we call it?"

((OOC: You may make an INT check for a hint, if you wish to answer. PM the result to me.))

Calenestel: The morning hasn't been going well, you reflect grimly as you spur Zamira onward, trying to catch Qoros's runaway mare. Your prayer to the Goddess seems to go unanswered; you can only hope that she has heard you and will give you less overt aid. People scatter before your shout, but the young woman crossing the street, her arms occupied by a large basket over which she cannot easily see, isn't moving fast enough. Zamira, still swift and lent energy by the excitement of recent events, catches up to the runaway just before she's right on top of the vendor, and you manage to reach out and grab the reigns from Qoros, who has relinquished them in order to keep the old woman from rolling off the horse and dashing her head on the cobbles below.

You pull with all your might, but a sudden toss of the mare's head jerks you from the saddle. The horse deflects just enough that, in a blur, a man leaps across its path and tackles the young woman to the ground, putting her just out of range of descending ironshod hooves. You, of course, have other things to worry about; though you try to let go of the reigns you find that your wrists are caught in them. The horse, only beginning to slow, drags you roughly along the dirt road and smashes you into a barrel of what you judge by the smell to be salted cod; the painful impact dislodges you, leaving you with blurred vision and an aching bruise forming all down your right shoulder. Qoros manages to stop some distance away; his shout of "call for a healer!" reaches your ears muffled by a haze of pain.

((OOC: You have taken three points of subdual damage and one point of lethal damage; you hit your head on that last smack. LtPowers is about to arrive on the scene; please read his posts from now on.))

LtPowers: Exchanging a mutual smile, you leave Erkimm and return to your quarters. It feels strange to be putting on your traveling clothes again; you've not worn them in months, though strict temple discipline has compelled you to keep them washed, folded, and ready for use at any time. You smile at the sight of your well-crafted holy symbol; it's one of the few things you managed to keep when the slavers captured you, and with it in hand you truly became a paladin. You always feel steadied and reassured when you touch it, ready to face whatever challenges the new day throws your way. It makes it even easier to leave your sword behind, and telling yourself that it's a keepsake as well as a symbol... well, that helps things you're deliberately not thinking about.

Your preparations made, you descend from the spires of the Song of the Morning and pass through the mighty main gates, open to all in this time of peace and celebration for the town. Just in front of the temple is the fairground, an open park now filled with colorful tents and a large wooden stage that local craftsmen worked overnight to erect. Peddlers are staking their claims to spots among the tents, and many have already set up booths, selling everything from pots and pans to arms and armor. The delicious smell of cooking food reaches your nostrils, eliciting a rumble from your stomach, and you make your way across the road toward the awakening celebration.

Shouted curses and warnings make you look down the road. With shock and alarm you spy a runaway horse bearing down on a young woman crossing the street, the large basket she holds making her oblivious to the danger. Before your eyes another rider, a young woman you'd guess hails from Calimshan, comes up beside the first, tries to grab the reins and drag the horse from its deadly course, and is yanked from the saddle to be dragged along the dirt road. In the nick of time a young man jumps across the path of the oncoming mare, tackling the vendor and sending his basket flying. The second rider is dragged into a barrel with a solid *whump!*, and the runaway horse finally comes to a stop near where you stand.

The rider, a brown-haired man bearing the holy symbol of Oghma, quickly swings out of the saddle. "Oh, Binder," he swears, horror on his face. You notice that an elderly woman is slung over the back of his horse; she looks unconscious, and her garments and hair are covered in blood. "One thing into another," he whispers to himself. Pushing aside his fear and regret, he tries to take command of the situation. "Call for a healer!" With that he's off, running toward the second rider, who still lies slumped against the barrel that halted her unpleasant journey.

((OOC: You have encountered Mordae and Calenestel; please read their posts from now on.))

Mordae: There's no time to lose; the vendor isn't going to get out of the way in time, and you can't leave her to be trampled. Running at full tilt toward the street, you prepare to make a heroic (and dangerous) dive into the path of the oncoming horse. As you watch, a young woman rides up beside the out of control horse, shouting warnings and curses. Sme manages to grab the reigns of the runaway, pulling with all her might, but an unexpected toss of the horse's head drags her from the saddle. You can only hope she's alright; her intervention has bought you the time and distance you need to make your leap. Your coiled muscle propels you forward, hands outstretched as you sail through open space and ironshod hooves bear down on two skulls that suddenly seem very fragile.

It doesn't go exactly as planned. You meant to cushion the young woman's fall, but in accounting for the speed of the oncoming horse you're forced to throw that plan out the window. Your hands strike her basket first, sending it flying from her hands and causing cloth-wrapped bundles of nuts to erupt from within it. Your full weight comes down on her body, throwing her to the ground roughly but safely out of the horse's way. The grey mare continues onward, one hoof smashing a bundle of nuts into paste mere inches from your head; the woman dangling from its reigns is dashed into a barrel some distance away before the rider finally manages to stop it. You are left lying on top of the young vendor as she gasps for the breath knocked from her lungs; the position feels extremely awkward, and probably looks even more so.

"Thank you," she manages to pant, "Morninglord bless you."

((OOC: LtPowers is about to arrive on the scene; please read his posts from now on.))

Nanoblack: If the third man is truly here, you don't want to give him any chance to escape. You roam the festival as its activity slowly grows, taking note of the position of every booth and tent, memorizing the faces of merchants. After three times around you have committed them all carefully to memory, so you begin to watch those who come and go, taking note of their movements and interactions. Soon you know the general flow of the celebrations, though it will be much more crowded by the time eleven bells rolls around. Eventually a tall, gaunt man catches your eye; dressed in dark, fancy clothing and wearing a heavy gold necklace, he seems out of place amongst the peasant folk; the strangest contrast of all is his upturned nose, a sure sign of arrogance and noble breeding, combined with a wide smile as he observes the festival's goings on.

Suddenly a child pushes past him in the crowd. With lightning-fast reflexes one of his aged hands shoots out and grabs the boy, but he lacks the strength he no doubt once had, and the kid is able to shake him off and shove him to the ground. "Stop that thief!" he shouts from the ground, struggling back to his feet. "A rich reward to whoever catches the scoundrel!" He tries to struggle after the little robber, but he's much too slow and lanky to navigate the crowd easily. By his face he's very upset; you suspect more than simple money has been stolen from him.

((OOC: You gain a +2 bonus to Spot checks made at the festival, and you can easily find any tent or booth.))

[Mordae]

Eloic manages an awkward smile, his face mere inches from the lady's and his limbs and body intertwined with hers in what might be better termed a lovers' embrace were the situation not so dire. "Umm, think nothing of it. I do apologize for the roughness of my intrusion and will gladly recompense you for any losses or injuries you may have sustained."

Slowly, carefully, the young elf extricates himself from the unintended assault on the lady's person, being cautious not to place his hands anywhere that might be construed as scandalous. Once he is no longer pinning her rudely to the ground, he offers both his hands to help her to her feet. "Lady Goldheart preserve you from any more excitement this morn," he says kindly as he starts to gather the cloth bundles and return them to the vendor's basket.

[Nanoblack]

Messer

A moment of indecision strikes Messer. He was fairly sure that when someone stole, it was for a purpose, and not too many people the thief's age had much reason other than to eat. He was also fairly sure that despite the pompous noble's reaction to being stolen from, it was likely a knee-jerk and whatever was taken would be easily replaced. Despite all common sense telling him otherwise, that sense of right and wrong instilled in him by the man in red pushed him into pursuit.

He wasn't entirely sure what he would do once he got a hold on the child, but he suspected it involved pinning him to the ground and inspecting the stolen goods so that he would understand what roused that pomp so. Even as he gave chase, though, he hoped this wouldn't end poorly for the boy.

[LtPowers]

Heedless of appearances, for once, Jolan's instinct for helpfulness kicks in and he attempts to assess the situation as best he can.

As the Oghmite calls for a healer, Jolan realizes that there are a bevy of them back at the temple, and he looks back to see if any are within calling distance.

\\
CONDITIONALS

1. If any of the temple's clerics, priests, or acolytes are within 75 feet are so:
Jolan will fetch them as best he can, either by shouting for them from where he stands, or running closer until they can hear his shouts. If he manages to attract the attention of a healer, he grabs the horse's reins and ensures it stays put while he examines the poor woman draped over its haunches.

2. If the condition at 1 is not valid but Jolan is within 150 feet of the main temple building:
Jolan will make sure the horse is calmed and not about to bolt off elsewhere, then make a dash back toward the temple to fetch a healer.

3. If neither of the above conidtions hold:
Jolan, not wishing to take the time to return to the temple before he knows what everyone's condition is, takes care to steady the runaway horse. Securing the reins, he moves to examine the injured woman to see if it's safe to move her to a more secure location -- like the ground. Anything would be better than draped awkwardly on a skittish horse.

Heal check: [roll0]
//


Jolan

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Eloic, Jolan & Languor
Groaning softly the woman on the second horse sits up among the broken barrels. "By Ilmater's chesthair. That hurt..." Her head swimming slightly she remains seated while she tried to study her own symptoms. No queasines, no problem with bright lights... No headache further than being HIT on it to begin with. So hopefully no concussion. Her head still hurt, though. Gingerly she touches the sides of her head, feeling something wet and sticky on the right side. What had been in those barrels, really? she thinks to herself and looks to her hand. Ah. Blood. Figures. Well. It seemed to only be a scratch, if a deep one, in the scalp. Bracing herself against an unbroken barrel the blackhaired woman struggles to her feet. As soon as she gets to her feet, not feeling particularly worse for it thank Mystra, she looks to the old woman. If this mad dash had killed her... Worry plain on her face the younger woman hurries over to Qoros' horse, wobbling the first few steps, limping the rest but pressing on dodgedly. Well there she starts chanting a short prayer, moving her hands through a simple pattern before touching the old woman. And then she slumps to the ground again, prefering to sit for a while more.

The last of the spells for today: Another Spontaneous Cure Minor Wounds for 1 HP. If the rough end of the ride hurt her badly she won't die anyway.

[Princess]

Ariel turns to the orc, saying No, but I do get stared at. What's your name? And what's your trade, given that you're heavily armed and just threw a man? I'd like to know your business lest I get in your way.

[Languor]

Mordae, LtPowers, and Calenestel: As Eloic extricates himself from the young woman whose life he no doubt saved, even working to pick up her scattered merchandise and return it to the fallen basket, the vendor simply lies on the ground for a few moments, panting hard as she tries to recover her breath and merely nodding in response to the Half-Elf's words. She eventually manages to return to her feet, gratefully accepts her basket, and removes one of the bundles of honey-coated nuts, offering it to her savior. "I can't afford to give much," she says apologetically, her eyes downcast, "but please, take this at least. I owe you my life."

Just down the street, Galilah staggers to her feet, blood in her hair and the world spinning around her. Her companion abandons his runaway horse and hurries to her side, guiding her arm around his shoulders and helping her hobble toward the mare. "Gods," he mumbles. "I am so, so sorry. Bind me, this is all my fault." Casting a spell of his own with a few murmured words and a touch of three fingers to his holy symbol he closes the gash, then gently wipes the blood from the young woman's hair with his sleeve. The two of them arrive back at the horse, and the battered but conscious cleric of Mystra casts her spell; several of the old woman's bruises vanish, and her eyes flutter, though they don't open.

Nearby, Jolan of Lathander shakes the expectation of a relaxing morning from his consciousness and hurries back through the temple gates seeking one more skilled in the healing arts than he. The imposing Half-Orc meets a robed Lathanderite midway into the courtyard - shy, raven-haired Safiya. Seeing the look on his face she wastes no time, hurrying into the street. Taking the horse's reigns she leads the animal with a firm but gentle hand through the high walls of the Song of Morning, silently beckoning those with the old woman to come as well. With deft hands she hitches the horse to a post, then indicates that someone should carry the old woman and follow her before disappearing into a nearby chapel, never saying a word.

Nanoblack: The boy is swift of foot, and the festival is already crowded; you find even keeping track of him difficult, let alone pursuing him. You'll have to work hard if you want to catch him before he manages to give you the slip, for he already knows he's being followed.

((Tumble, Spot, Jump, and Balance checks can help or hinder you, depending on success or failure; choose as many as you want.))

Princess: The Orc sighs heavily. "More threats. So be it. I am called Bagak, once Bagak Eyegouger, and I come to sell hides at the fair; I'm a hunter and trapper whose days of man-slaying are long gone, though few believe it." He squints up at you, darkness-adapted eyes blinking as the light of the rising sun streams into them. "Now perhaps you will tell this lout," he says, planting a foot on the young guard as he attempts to rise, "that I mean him no further harm unless he continues to try to run me through with that little toy he calls a sword."

Drogos: The horned man nods his regal head as you answer, but keeps quiet and still as you speak the rest of your words. An uncomfortable silence passes as you simply look at one another, neither speaking; an icy cold invades your lungs, and you're certain you couldn't form words if you tried. But after a moment the cold fades. You blink, and an instant later you are staring at the horned figure's chest, for he's suddenly right in front of you. "A man will die this day by an avenging hand," the chilling voice promises, "and his fate will be undeserved, for he is not the true object of the vengeance. You will be nearby. If you should fill this phial with his blood, you will be greatly rewarded." You blink again and the strange apparition is gone; a crystal phial has been left in your hand, though you're not sure how it got there.

You take everything of value from the Elf's corpse, withdrawing the scimitar and letting the body slump to the ground. You leave him his armor; the elements and sword damage have rendered it useless. Between the well-crafted pair of blades, the whetstone, the ring, and the rations, you're fairly certain you could secure fifty gold pieces, perhaps more if you sought out the right sort of vendor. It's a good day to be selling such things, for the Equinox Festival in Beregost will draw many visiting merchants. Whether the strange creature's prediction comes true, and whether you want any part in its bargain, remains to be seen.

((You may roll a search, spot, or survival check to hasten your journey to Beregost.))

[Princess]

No threat intended, sir. I'll carry on your message to our edgy comrade there.

Ariel writes a note which reads "Please do not harass the orc, Bagak. He is only here to do business and means you no harm unless you try to slice through him again. Please try to remain more calm and observant in your future duties, and I'd also recommend that you clean your armor, as I suspect you may have soiled it in your panic. Your friend,
Ariel"

After finishing the note, Ariel packs up all her things and heads outside to inspect the fair.

[LtPowers]

The half-orc does his best to corral everyone involved in the incident and whom may be injured, although in the confusion, he never noticed Eloic and the vendor woman.

"Is this woman a relation?" Jolan asks of both the Mystran and the Oghmite as they follow Safiya and the horse up to the chapel. "How was she injured? And what of your own injuries? Are you all well?"

He carefully and expertly lifts the injured woman from the horse and follows Safiya into the chapel. "Please, come in and let the light of Lathander cleanse your wounds."


Jolan

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Jolan, Eloic & Languor
Giving Qoros a thankful smile she lets him help her up and over to the elderly woman. "It's not your fault, my friend. It really isn't. I suspect that whoever almost killed the old woman actually did lie in wait for us. We did as good as we could then." When he heals her she gives Qoros another grateful smile and even stretches a hand to touch his cheek in a gesture of affection and camaraderie. "Thank you, my friend. That wasn't necessary, I'm fine. But thank you." And feeling a little better she turns to help the old woman in turn.
After finishing her last spell for the day and subsequently sitting down again, she sends a prayer of thanks to Mystra that all seems to have gone well so far, that her spells had worked flawlessly and that she was still alive. Then suddenly two lathanderites from the great temple come hurrying and she struggles to her feet again, still accepting the help of Qoros. Carefully she studies the two. One seemed to be an ordinary priestess of any goodly god: quick and eager to help not really anything to single her out. Her half-orc friend though... She studies him openly, but without any apparent sign of prejudice, he is an accepted member of a Good faith, after all. He's not an ordinary cleric at all, and she's not thinking about his mixed heritage, he moves with like a warrior. Almost all priests and priestesses get a healthy dose of martial training, she had never been one of course, but this one moved like a true warrior, confidently and as if he expected a fight even if he wasn't aware of it himself. Either he was an old soldier who had turned to the church of Lathander after his career as a fighter. Or he was a paladin. Not able to say that without talking to the man she answers his concerned questions: "She is not known to us at all, actually. We found her horribly wounded on the road, just outside of town." With that she makes a quick gesture towards a barbed spear strapped to her saddlebag, blood still on it. "As for me I'm fine. Now. A bit bruised but that will heal up soon enough. I am Galilah. Galialh bint Tariq, daughter of Tariq that is. A servant of the Lady of Mysteries and with me is Qoros of the Oghman church."
More steady on her feet now Galilah hurries over to her Zamira, gathers the filly's reins and hurries after the rest as they proceed into the temple.

[LtPowers]

The young half-Orc looks troubled as he follows the Mystran's gesture to the large spear. "What is it that spooked your horses?" he asks as he takes the woman inside the chapel. "Was it related to the attack on this woman?"


Jolan

[Mordae]

Eloic murmurs his thanks to the young lady, just before he notices Galilah and the old lady. He tips his hat politely and tucks the cloth bundle into his pack, hurrying off after the horses and the unconscious passenger. "Pardon me," he says, inserting himself into the conversation without a proper introduction. "I also wonder at the urgency with which your mounts tore through the market. To save a life is a noble effort, provided one does not endanger others. 'Twas only by the grace of the goddess I was there to shove the poor nut-seller from your path."

[Drogos]

Morthos gathers his loot and packs it in his backpack as best he can.

He wonders just how many days worth of food he could squeeze out of what he had gathered.

He also picks up the crystal vial and slips it into a pocket where it wont be broken. Great rewards were always nice.

Morthos then leaves the grove and reorientates himself by Searching for a path through the underbrush.

Search:[roll0]

While he walks, he thinks back on who or what might that creature he just encountered was.
Knowledge(Arcana):[roll1]
Knowledge(The Planes):[roll2]

[Nanoblack]

Messer

I suppose I'll try my luck with all of them (except tumble).
Balance:[roll0]
Spot:[roll1]
Tumble:[roll2]

[Languor]

Princess: Leaving Bagak and the young sentry to go about their (hopefully separate) business, you leave the inn and head down to the fairground. It takes only a few minutes of winding through the dirt roads that crisscross Beregost to find it. At the foot of the huge stone walls of the Song of the Morning lies a large open park, and in that park the festival has taken shape. The delicious smells hit you even before the rest comes into sight, freshly-baked bread and roasting meat. As you round the bend you see the full chaos of the area; vast, colorful tents take up most of the space, with ramshackle merchants' booths filling the gaps between them. A large wooden stage has been erected right in front of the temple gates, and musicians walk circles around it, preparing their instruments.

A sizeable crowd mills about in the area, haggling with peddlers or pausing to watch the entertainers that've started early; the festival isn't nearly in full swing, and you can only imagine how the crowds will swell once all the expected travelers from other nearby towns arrive. As you ponder what to do next, you spot a mere boy, clad in ragged clothing, fleeing between the tents, a young man in hot pursuit. Before your very eyes the young man leaps forward, pouncing on the boy and bearing him to the ground in a heap mere feet away from where you stand. "Please, mister," the boy whines, "he didn' need it, an' I'm SO hungry!"

((OOC: You have encountered Nanoblack; please read his posts from now on.))

Calenestel, LtPowers, and Mordae: Qoros allows himself a slight smile at Galilah's reassurances, but worry still dominates his face; of everyone save perhaps the old woman he has had the most strenuous morning, and the combined guilt and stress weigh heavily on him. His smile grows a bit, mingling with a blush, when the young woman touches his cheek, but he focuses on keeping her well-supported for as long as she needs it. He gives a little bow and a terse "honored" to Jolan as he is introduced, then fills the Half-Orc in on the situation with the horses. "We'd healed this woman enough to move her, and laid her across my horse, when a rider swooped down on us from off the road. We couldn't get a good look at him (or her), but our horses went wild."

The Oghmite winces as Eloic reminds him of his near-fatal encounter with the nut-seller. "Thank you for saving her," he murmurs. "I couldn't..." he lapses into a brooding silence, taking a seat and focusing intently on the old woman's pained features. Meanwhile Safiya lowers one ear to the woman's chest, whispers something to herself, and walks around to behind her patient's head. She places two fingers on either side of the old woman's neck and closes her eyes; there is no sound, no flash of light, but the priestess's dark hair slips from its bonds and flows behind her in a breeze no one else can feel. A moment later the old woman sits bolt upright, terror on her features.

She tries to say something, or perhaps just to scream, but can't. Safiya appears at her side holding a pitcher of water, helping the woman to lift it to her lips, which the terrified crone seems to take as proof of your peaceful intent. "Who are you?" she manages to croak after a long draught.

Drogos: You wrack your brain for any indication of what the strange creature might've been, but you can't remember the slightest reference to such a being even in the thick tomes your parents tried to make you and your brother study. With it gone the unnatural chill lifts, and the morning chill is positively balmy by comparison. Turning your mind to other concerns you ponder how long the food will last; probably three days, five if you only eat twice a day, though you're so close to Beregost now that traveling concerns worry you little. You soon pick up the path and are on your way again, and though you continue to skirt the Wood of Sharp Teeth you encounter no further complications.

Two hours later the sun is fully over the forest behind you, warming your back, and you stand looking at the outermost buildings of Beregost. The town isn't much compared to the glory of the cities of Thay, just a cluster of buildings linked by a patchwork of dirt roads, but it boasts an impressive wonder nonetheless. Looming over the trading post is the massive fortified temple to Lathander known as the Song of the Morning, its great stone ramparts appearing entirely unassailable from where you stand so far below. At the foot of the temple, in an open park, you see the festival grounds; delicious aromas drift from colorful tents and ramshackle merchants' booths. A makeshift stage has been erected near the temple gates, and several musicians pace around it, readying their instruments.

Nanoblack: The boy is almost quicker than the eye, and several times you lose sight of him for a moment, but you are quick on your feet, moving easily even through the dense crowd and keeping your balance even as shoulder after shoulder batters at you. Your longer legs eventually make all the difference, and in one great leap you pounce on the little thief, pinning him to the ground right in front of a comely elven woman. The kid smells foul, as though he hasn't washed in weeks, and his clothing is ragged; the look he gives you is tremendously pitiful, the sort that a spanked kitten might give its master.

"Please, mister," the boy whines, "he didn' need it, an' I'm SO hungry!"

((OOC: You have encountered Princess; please read her posts from now on.))

[Princess]

Ariel breathes in the rich aroma of food, and turns to the man and the boy saying It's a lovely fair, don't you think? Shouldn't that hungry young lad be getting a belly full of delicious cuisines here? I know I'd like to try everything they have to eat here, if I might. With that, she rubs her belly and smiles warmly at them.

[Nanoblack]

Messer

Messer stuttered for a moment, not knowing whether to address the woman, or scold the boy. "You'd best show me what you took if you want to leave here without your arms and legs in shackles." He drags the thief off to the side so anyone else in pursuit doesn't see them. "Pardon me ma'am." He tips his tambourine in the elfs direction then turns back to the boy. Depending on what was in that pouch, he might have to distract the city guard long enough for the boy to get away. He only wanted to do what was right.

[Princess]

I'll be over here, then. she says before heading to a booth, still watching the man and the boy as she buys a pastry to nibble on.

[Drogos]

Ahah, finally! Civilization at last... grumbles Morrthos as he walks into town. He keeps his eye open for any weapons dealers to sell the scimitar and dagger to while walking in the general direction of the group of musicians. He takes his flute out and attempts talking to one of the musicians.

Greeting fellow artist! May name is Carroway Moldani.
As he talks Morthos puts on the dumb grin and takes on the typical mannerisms of his brother, trying to come off as dumwitted and innocent as possible.
I am a traveler from a distant realm. I am largely unaware of most things in the world and I would love to know the occasion for such hustle and bustle in this modest town. Is someone important in town or something?

Gather Information: [roll0]

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Jolan, Eloic & Languor
Weary and sore the woman opens her mouth to answer the men's probing questions just as Qoros speaks himself. Closing her mouth again she follows along as the oghmite explains the situation. His brooding however seems to give her a little more energy and she looks from Qoros to the others and back. "It wasn't your fault, Qoros," she says fiercly. "Not that I was hurt and not that she almost was. You did what you could and it could all be much worse. Now stop dwelling on it, all right?" Obviously she speaks to her travelling companion, but there's a bit of a message to the others as well. That Qoros had done what he could and shouldn't be blamed further. After that she takes a seat next to her friend and waits.

When the woman is finally healed she leans forward, a friendly smile on her dark features. "We haven't even properly introduced ourselves to each other yet, Old Mother. But I am Galilah and this is Qoros." As she says the oghmite's name she indicates him with a sweeping gesture of her left hand before continuing. "We found you on the road, just outside of town and took you to the lathanderites, with the help of those others you see here."

[LtPowers]

Jolan nods as Galilah speaks first, then turns to the crone. "I am Jolan, and this is Safiya. You are safe here in the temple, of that you have my personal guarantee. If you feel well enough to explain what happened, we might yet have a chance to catch the criminal who assaulted you." Anger glints in the half-Orc's eyes as the very idea of anyone so brutally attacking an old woman, especially so close to town, has him eager to exact justice. He is already calculating how long it would take to return to his quarters and don his armor and blade.


Jolan

[Mordae]

The young half-elf, meanwhile, is already fully armed; his chainshirt is well-hidden beneath a dun-brown traveling cloak and tabard, but it makes a tell-tale jingle whenever he walks. The longsword at his right side and the longbow across his back are typical for one of his heritage, but the fine craftsmanship of the latter speaks to one born in the interior, the lands where his kindred once dominated. When he hears the old woman's scream and the others tell of an assault on the road, his expression flattens and he almost instinctively reaches for the hilt of his blade. "Bandits, no doubt. They've been troubling my caravan for some time, but to pick out an elder to harry... they shall pay dearly."

[Languor]

Nanoblack and Princess: Under Messer's intimidating gaze, the boy slowly withdraws a locket from the folds of his filthy clothing. It's incredibly ornate, with a solid gold body on a silver chain. Inside, the profile of a young woman has been carved into an alabaster inset; flowing script beneath the cameo reads "Liaree". The boy holds it up only long enough for a quick look before pulling it back close to him. "Please, mister," he says, his tone still whiny, "I got nothin', and he don' need this thing. I just wanna buy some food, is all." The kid turns to Ariel, fixing pleading eyes on her. "You're not gonna let him hurt me, are you, miss?"

The vendor who sold the young elf her pastry quietly begins stacking the baked goods, his eyes down; he clearly doesn't want to get involved.

Drogos: The festival is packed with merchants, and you have no trouble at all finding one glad to buy the weapons you looted. A weatherbeaten, grey-haired woman with a selection of fine blades catches your eye. She runs her thumb along the edge of each blade with practiced caution, checks the scimitar's balance with one hand, and takes out a small crystal lens to examine the hilt engravings and the pattern of the steel. "Curious," she says after a moment. "No maker's mark, but much too fine to be a common bandit's weapon. I'll offer you fifty gold for the lot; don't waste time trying to haggle, I've been at this longer than you've been alive."

You approach a young man strumming a mandolin. He periodically twists one of the tightening pegs, and you realize that he is tuning it with his voice; he seems to have perfect pitch, a rare and much envied ability among the musicians of the Realms. He smiles and looks up at your approach, pushing a lock of dense chestnut hair out of his eyes. "Well met, oh good friend Carroway! It is indeed a special day. Around here 'tis the best of all; it is Lathander's festival. We celebrate this new Spring morn, and give thanks for the year reborn. Rejoice in Winter's ended sway, and may your cares be swept away!"

Calenestel, LtPowers, and Mordae: The fire in Galilah's tone seems to lift some of the weight from Qoros's shoulders, and he thanks her with a nod and an expression she knows to convey deep gratitude. Meanwhile, the old woman manages to nod feebly as those around her introduce themselves; she relaxes visibly when she learns where she is. Taking another swig of the water Safiya offers, she haltingly manages to speak. "Th-thank you," she croaks. "I... it's all very strange. I can't think why it happened." A puzzled expression comes over her face, and she furrows her brow in deep thought, as though trying to discern some reason for the fate that befell her on the road.

"My name is Agatha... Agatha Half-Elven," she begins. "I... I was visiting my grandson yesterday. He has a homestead a few miles north of town, a little ways from the road. I brought a basket of food to him, but I didn't... no, I'm sure, I didn't have anything visible on the way back." She checks the crudely-sewn pockets of her frock and withdraws a simple money pouch. "And they didn't take that either?" Disbelief is etched on her face. "Well... in any case, we got into an argument, and I decided to walk back on my own. It was getting late, but I was so angry I wasn't thinking straight. Besides, who would want to attack someone like me?"

She pauses and takes another sip of water. "I was close to town when I heard a..." she shudders. "A horrible yell behind me. There was... I'm not sure if it was a man or woman, but whoever it was was tall and riding a midnight-black horse... it had leather barding, I think. And then there was that horrible mask." She shudders again. "It was wooden, I think, and carved to look like... some demon, I don't know. And there was this big spear in his hand. He rode right at me, snarling and shouting something, and I turned to try to run, but my legs aren't what they used to be. And he... he speared me. I thought I was dead."

She seems to have withdrawn into herself in search of the memory, but returns fearful and confused eyes to the assembled group after a moment. "It couldn't have been a bandit; he didn't take anything. But why? Why me?" She chokes back a quiet sob, the emotional trauma of the near-death experience hitting her full force. Safiya, who slipped out during the tale, returns with an armful of straw-filled pillows and places them behind Agatha's back, allowing her to rest while still looking at you.

[Nanoblack]

Messer

His expression softens and he sighs as he reaches for his belt. "Look, I'll pay you for it. Ten gold pieces in exchange for the locket and you can walk free. Or I can drag you back to the noble who will more than likely take your hands for your crime." He picks himself off of the ground, taking the boy with him and keeping a firm grip on his arm. After swatting some dust from his freshly dirtied attire, he once more fiercely gazes toward the boy. "If you're honestly that desperate, apprentice yourself. There are plenty of craftsmen looking for cheap labor who could teach you a trade."

[Drogos]

Ahhh I see. I think I may have heard about that before, now that you mention it. Is this the one with the big parade and all the important people come out to wave? I haven't missed the best part have I?

[Calenestel]

Galilah bint Tariq

Jolan, Eloic & Languor
Nodding slowly the mystran listens to the old woman's tale. It fit. She had guessed this to be no work of a bandit even before finding out that the woman still had her money. No bandit would have left his spear like that and the weapon had that crest too. No, her own theory was that the woman had been used as bait. But for what ends she could not guess at the moment. Noone had any reason to attack her and Qoros either. And if it was simply to attack complete strangers then it was surely the work of a madman. An evil, systematic madman. "Do not trouble yourself with questions like that, Old Mother. Rest now, and get well." Rising from her chair the southern woman looks to the half-orc warrior. "Saer Jolan... Are you by any chance a paladin? Or a knight, maybe? I have questions that you might answer then. Outside of this room, preferably." Motioning for the man to follow she walks out, confident in her deduction.

[Mordae]

The half-elven warrior frowns at hearing the tale. "Has your grandson any enemies--ones that might wish him and his family harm? I must admit the behavior of your assailant confounds me, and that a would-be murderer still roams free in Beregost is a threat to us all, until he is found and brought to justice." He casually watches the priestess and half-orc depart, unconcerned--the Lathanderite mark upon the hulking warrior indicates he is not to be feared, and the woman's demeanor indicates that her incident with the horse, while clumsy and dangerous, was not malicious.

[LtPowers]

Jolan frowns slightly, not particularly pleased at being ordered around by this Southern stranger -- within Lathander's temple, no less! -- but he is willing to hear her out, especially after witnessing the personal sacrifices she made to protect others.

On his way out, he turns and nods assertively at the half-Elf's words. "He or she will be brought to justice, you may be sure of that."

Retreating to a more secluded area, he turns to the Mystran with his arms folded. "Speak, but do not keep me long from my duties. Time is of the essence."


Jolan

[Calenestel]

Galina bint Tariq

Curious. He didn't answer her question about whether he was a paladin or not. But she was willing to bet money on her being right. He had that mix of self-confidence, stability, kindness and stiffneckedness that she had seen in so many holy warriors, even those of her own faith. Undaunted by his somewhat curt tone she continues with a friendly, humble smile. "Time is indeed of the essence, saer Jolan. I didn't want to worry the poor woman too much but the spear was not a weapon of a brigand or bandit. It had a mark on the spearhead, a crest of some sort. I wondered if I might beseech you to take a look at it. Paladins and knights are commonly knowledgeable about such things and I am not. Especially not about northern nobility."

[LtPowers]

((Jolan thought the question rhetorical, since Galilah seemed so confident and didn't wait for an answer before exiting.))

"Yes, of course," Jolan responds. "That may provide a vital clue. Show me the mark."


Jolan

[Calenestel]

Galiah bint Tariq

OOC:
Heh. Oups. I feel like a darn idiot right now. :smallbiggrin:

So she had been right. With a grin she turns to walk back to where she left Zamira, with the still bloody spear tucked behind one of the saddlebags. She's careful not to put her hands in the smears of blood as she points out the crest on the weapon. "Now, I understand that this is hardly proof. A spear can be stolen easily, I guess. But this might warrant an investigation, no?"

[Princess]

Ariel nods approvingly at Messer, moving on to another booth for more treats as she maintains a careful watch on the boy.